in the end I hope it’s you and me

May 25, 2028

I don’t know where to start. Maybe with the truth. I’m sorry. Not for kissing you. Not for wanting you. But for every time I stayed quiet when you needed me to speak. For every night I pretended friendship was enough. For letting you walk away thinking you weren’t everything to me.

I used to think love was supposed to be easy. But what I felt for you was never easy. Loving you meant that there was the possibility of losing you and at the time I wasn’t brave enough to risk that. Joke’s on me.

I should’ve fought for you. I should have fought for us. I should’ve said, “I love you. Be with me.” But, I didn’t. I watched you walk away. I let you build a life without me.

Now I’m left with scraps. I’m haunted by the distant echo of your laugh in my kitchen. The phantom touch of your palm against my beard. 

The way you looked at me tonight will forever be ingrained in my head.

You’re not mine. Maybe you never were. 

But, I think I’ll love you until there’s nothing left of me and I hate myself for ever letting you think you weren’t enough.

Lucien

November 2026

The group had squeezed into the usual corner booth at the bar, too small for six people, which meant that you and Lucien were pressed thigh-to-thigh with nowhere to go. He was leaning on his hand, elbow on the table, watching you with that lazy half-smile you adored while you idly twirled the straw in his old-fashioned rather than the one in your own drink. One of your mutual friends was in the middle of telling some chaotic story about a disastrous location shoot in Prague, but you were only partially listening, the low hum of laughter and clinking glasses fading into nothing but background noise. 

Your gaze dropped to the patchy stubble along Lucien’s jaw. The salt and pepper was coming in thicker these days, especially around that little heart-shaped patch you’d always found unfairly charming. You didn’t even realize you were moving until your thumb lightly brushed across his dimpled cheek. Your palm followed, cradling the sharp line of his jaw, fingers slipping lazily into the short, coarse hair of his beard as Lucien leaned into your touch. The texture was addictive, soft when you stroked with the grain, rough when you dragged your fingertips back the other way. You moved without thought, back and forth until you couldn’t focus on anything else. 

Lucien turns his head a fraction, not enough to break contact, but enough so that he could glance over at you, allowing you to feel the faint flex in his jaw. “You do that a lot,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it makes your heart do that fluttery, traitorous thing that reminds you that whatever you’re feeling is definitely not platonic. 

“Do what?” you ask, quieter than intended.

He tilts his head, almost imperceptibly, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile he doesn’t quite want to let escape. The usual playful glint in his eyes has darkened into something deeper – something that makes your stomach tighten and your breath catch in your throat. “That thing. With my face,” he says, his breath ghosting across the inside of your wrist.

The tension between you suddenly feels electric. You still your movements, only to feel the steady thrum of his pulse change pace under your palm, causing a shiver to race down your spine. You’re suddenly painfully aware of how close you are, your bodies angled toward each, knees knocking together under the table. His eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second before returning to yours and the charged space between you feels like it could spark if either of you so much as breathe too deeply. 

Before you can come up with any kind of response, one of your friends, who is tipsy and far too loud, leans across the table with a grin. “How have you two not fucked yet? You’re practically all over each other right now.” 

Heat floods your face and you pull your hand back from Lucien’s jaw quickly as if it had burned you. The moment suddenly feels too exposed under the scrutiny of your friends. The comment lingers in the air, impossible to ignore even though you both try. The table erupts into laughter and someone else chimes in with a sarcastic comment, “Seriously, Lucien, you look like you’re two seconds away from sticking your tongue down her throat.” Lucien lets out a soft chuckle and shakes his head, but you notice the way his ears have gone slightly pink. 

The rest of the night passes in a haze of forced conversation and stolen glances. Every time your knees brush under the table, your stomach flips. Every time he laughs, he checks to see if you are as well. You can still feel the ghost of his beard against your palm just as he can feel the weight of your touch.

When your friends finally start to disperse, you step out into the cool night air and lean against the passenger door of Lucien’s car, arms loosely crossed and heart still hammering as you wait for him to wrap up. He doesn’t unlock the car right away, but instead walks straight up to you, crowding you gently against the door. The heat of his body cuts through the night’s chill. He’s close enough that you can smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the bourbon he’d nursed earlier. “You comin’ to mine?” he asks. 

You stare at him for a second, lost in his chocolate brown eyes. There’s something different in the way he’s looking at you tonight. The streetlight catches the silver in his beard and your heart stutters deep in your chest. You nod, shaking your head with a small, shy movement. Lucien’s mouth curves into that slow, devastating smile that always makes something unfurl low in your belly. He doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t need to.  He simply unlocks the car and reaches behind you, opening the door while making a dramatic motion for you to get in.

The drive to his place is thick with a different kind of tension from what you’re used to. Lucien keeps one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shifter, dangerously close to where your thigh presses against the center console. Every few seconds his fingers tap restlessly making small, unconscious movements that cause his knuckles to just barely brush against the side of your leg. You don’t dare move. You’re hyper-aware of every inch of space separating you, noting how little there actually is. Lucien’s jaw is tight, his eyes fixed on the road, but you catch the way his throat works when he swallows. You look out the window, the city lights streaking past as you both sit, content with listening only to the low rumble of the engine, as he takes the exit ramp off the 101 leading to his studio in Los Feliz. 

Stepping inside Lucien’s apartment, you silently toe off your shoes by the door and hang your jacket off the doorknob to the coat closet before flopping down onto his sectional. Lucien locks the door behind him, shrugging off his own coat and hangs both up properly. He takes his place seated next to you and gently maneuvers you until your head rests on his thigh. You look up at him, the position intimate and familiar, yet tonight it feels brand new.

For a long beat, neither of you speak. His hand rests lightly on your arm, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against your skin. You reach up without thinking, letting your fingers find his jaw again, just like they had at the bar. You trace the heart-shaped patch of his beard, indulging in the delicious scrape of the coarse hair against your fingertips. “Again with that, huh?”

Your fingers still from embarrassment. “Do you hate it?” Your stomach twists with a sharp spike of worry. The thought of losing him – your constant, your safe place, the one person who makes the world feel steady – makes you sick. What are you doing? 

You start to pull your hand back, heart pounding with sudden panic, but Lucien catches it gently, pressing your palm back against his jaw. His eyes meet yours, dark and unwavering, giving you the confidence to continue your lazy exploration, trailing from his jaw, down his neck, then back up to where his hair curls against his nape. Lucien tips his head down, giving you more space to touch him and lets out a hum. “No,” he admits, his eyes half-lidded, “I don’t hate it.”

The relief that floods through you is dizzying. You stare at your hand pressed to his cheek, noticing the way the salt-and-pepper fades into his sideburns as you continue to stroke through his beard. “How do you not know you're the most attractive man in every room?”

Lucien’s eyes flutter open, his gaze softening as he looks at you with something akin to endearment. The silence is deafening and you wish you could take it back or just laugh it off. His jaw clenches under your touch, his lips parting as he exhales. You feel the way his chest rises and the way his thumb grazes over your knuckles, where he’s still pressed to your hand. 

You don’t make any effort to move, caught up in the way that he looks to be focused solely on you. You whisper his name and his mouth twitches, the corners of his lips fighting a smile. Lucien closes his eyes, leaning further into your touch and lets out a steady exhale. When his eyes open again, his pupils are noticeably darker. “God help me,” he says, “but I want to kiss you.”

You feel the air leave your lungs. All you can do is stare up at him, your hand still trapped against his cheek. You can feel his jaw move as he speaks but you don’t hear what he says, your pulse thundering in your ears. Lucien taps your arm, signaling you to lift up from his lap and he helps you to sit up next to him. He slides closer to you, his hand finding the back of your neck as he leans in, resting his forehead gently against yours. Time stops and everything moves in slow motion. The heat of his breath ghosts over your lips as the world narrows to the tiny sliver of space between the two of you. 

Every nerve in your body is vibrating with an unbearable awareness. You can feel the heat rolling off his skin, the subtle tremor in the hand cradling your neck, and the way his pulse hammers in time with yours. His scent surrounds you, something uniquely Lucien that you’ve always associated with home. The years of careful boundaries – of pretending these touches were innocent, of swallowing down every ache and plea for him to be yours – have all collapsed in on themselves in this singular suspended moment. Terror and longing twist together so fiercely you can barely breathe. You can sense the gravity of him pulling at you, tugging at some invisible thread between your bodies. Every fiber of your being is screaming at you to close the distance that would only take a tilt of your chin. “Lucien,” you whisper.

Lucien’s mouth finds yours, hesitant at first, his lips barely making contact. They’re warm, softer than you ever imagined they would be, and the tentative pressure makes your stomach drop straight through the floor. For a long, suspended beat, neither of you moves. The world holds its breath right along with you. Lucien’s stubble rasps lightly against the edge of your thumb where your hand cups his jaw, and you shiver at the scratch of it, a sharp reminder that this is real. That this is happening. That this is happening with Lucien. Your Lucien.

Your fingers curl against his jaw, urging him closer, and he takes that as a sign to deepen the kiss. His mouth moves against yours with a slow, devastating hunger, as if he’s been starving for this for just as long as you have. It’s warm and wet and messy in the best way. His tongue brushes yours, the taste of him flooding your mouth, causing you to part your lips a little wider in invitation. When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest against yours again. His breathing is ragged, matching your own, hot little puffs against your kiss-swollen lips. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes, voice wrecked and barely there.

You do the exact opposite, chasing his lips and grabbing a fistful of his shirt so that he can’t go far. Your other hand finds purchase in his hair, fingers twisting as your mouths meet again in a frantic, dizzying drag. Lucien groans into your mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head despite already being closed. His free hand slides around your waist, palm spanning wide like he wants to pull you right into his lap. Instead, he leans forward, urging you down onto the cushions until he’s over you, braced on one arm, his chest pressed into yours. He continues his assault on your mouth, your tongues colliding until your lips are slick and swollen, your lungs screaming for air. He lets out another groan that’s swallowed between you as his tongue pushes deeper, sweeping slowly before retreating, coaxing you to chase him. 

You expect him to come right back, but his lips begin a trail along the hinge of your jaw, down to the hollow beneath your ear, and finally to the column of your neck. The kisses he leaves are featherlight, a brief press of his mouth against the beat of your pulse. The scrape of Lucien’s stubble burns deliciously against your skin, sending sparks racing down your spine with every shift of his jaw. He groans low, his tongue dragging over the heat of your flesh, making you gasp. The sound seems to snap something inside him and he shifts closer, slotting himself between your thighs. He sucks at the curve of your throat until your skin throbs, leaving a mark in its wake.

“Fuck,” he mumbles against you. Your head falls back, granting him further access which he greedily takes, his mouth nipping over every inch of available skin until you’re trembling beneath him. His mouth drags higher until he’s right against the shell of your ear and he whispers, “You have any idea what you’re doing to me?” His lips close over your pulse again as if to prove his point and you can’t help but arch your back until your hips meet his. He lifts his head, his nose brushing along your cheek, his mouth grazing the corner of your lips. “Tell me you want this,” he pleads.

You answer him with a desperate clash of your mouth against his, another groan tumbling from his lips in surprise. His weight presses you deeper into the couch, bearing down onto you like he’s trying to erase the space between your bodies. His hips shift without thought and you can feel the unmistakable press of him straining against the seam of his pants, nudging against your thigh. Lucien’s mouth doesn’t stray, his tongue slides against yours until you’re dizzy from it. The weight of him keeps you pinned, caged beneath him as every subtle shift of his hips grinds him more firmly into you. He swallows every sound you make, greedily groaning into your mouth as he takes more.

His hand dips to your waist, fingers digging into your side before sliding beneath your shirt. The rough pads of his fingertips skate against the bare skin of your ribs, his thumb stroking circles just beneath the swell of your breast. You breathe out his name and his hips roll before he can stop himself, the pressure making you keen upwards in response. His hand slips higher and he brushes his fingers over your nipple through the fabric of your bra. You claw at his shirt, dragging the material up his back, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin. The feeling of your nails drives his hips forward, the friction so precise that you writhe helplessly underneath him. “Yeah,” he mutters, “just like that.”

A broken moan is ripped from your throat, your fingers digging deeper into Lucien’s back, as he eggs you on. He curses under his breath, the word muffled against your skin, before his mouth finds yours again. The couch creaks as his hips rut harder, abandoning any pretense of restraint. You can feel the growing ache between your thighs every time his cock lines up perfectly with the seam of your jeans. “Fuck–”

Lucien pulls back and leans back on his haunches, taking only a second to yank his shirt fully over his head in one impatient motion. The sight of his bare torso above you makes your breath hitch as you take in his heaving chest, the muscles of his shoulders flexing as he tosses the shirt aside.

Before you can blink, his hands are on you again, shoving your shirt up past your ribs with a rough urgency. He pauses just long enough to search your face, eyes dark in a way you’ve only dreamt about. You lift your arms for him and he strips the shirt off of you in a blur, dragging your bra straps down in the process.  “Jesus,” he mumbles, his gaze dropping to your breasts. He cups them fully, rough palms kneading, thumb flicking over the peaked bud of your nipple in a way that makes your hips buck. The calluses on his fingers send little shocks through you with every pass. His lips blaze a path over the newly revealed skin of your chest until he reaches the swell of your breast. His mouth closes over your nipple, tongue flicking in teasing strokes that have you arching your back. 

You whimper, completely under his spell, lost in the overwhelming feeling of being wanted so desperately.  He squeezes your other breast in his hand, thumb brushing across the tight bud until it pebbles even harder under his touch. Your fingers twist tighter into his hair, holding him exactly where you need him. His teeth graze lightly over the swollen peak – a sharp, delicious scrape that rips a gasp from your throat – and he immediately soothes it with a broad sweep of his tongue. 

He switches to your other breast, pinching the nipple he just abandoned while his mouth devours the new one. His beard burns against your skin, the coarse scratch of it contrasting perfectly with the velvet heat of his tongue. Every time you arch into him, he lets out another broken groan that goes straight between your legs. “Lucien,” you breathe, as his hips grind harder into yours, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh. His mouth leaves your nipple and he starts to make his way back up to your lips, leaving a trail up your sternum and over your neck until he’s kissing you again. 

Lucien shifts his weight onto one elbow, his free hand skimming down your stomach, fingers brushing over your ribs, making the muscles in your stomach jump. He fumbles with the waistband of your jeans before the button pops open under his deft fingers. The slow hiss of your zipper lowering cuts through the heavy breathing, sending a fresh wave of heat rushing through you. His hand dips beneath the denim, searing hot as he cups you firmly over your underwear. Your moan is immediate, your hips bucking into his palm like you have no control left. His thumb drags lazily over the damp fabric, circling over your clit with just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble and your toes curl. The soaked cotton clings to you, the friction maddening. “Don’t stop,” you beg, fingers desperately grasping at the couch cushions.

He presses harder, grinding the heel of his hand against you through the thin cotton while his mouth crashes back to yours, swallowing every desperate little sound you make. “You want my fingers?”

You nod frantically, beyond words, your heart hammering so hard it feels like it might crack your chest open. Every inch of your skin is burning, hypersensitive and alive in a way you’ve never experienced before. The weight of Lucien’s hand between your thighs is all too much and not nearly enough at the same time. You need him so badly it hurts. “Please.”

Lucien kisses you again, his hand sliding lower. The elastic of your underwear stretches under his fingers, then gives way as he slips beneath the fabric. His middle finger drags through your slick folds and the sound you make is broken as your entire body jerks against him. “Lucien–” you exclaim, hand grasping at his shoulder as his finger circles your clit. He finds your entrance, pressing the tip of his finger inside and your nails dig in harder into the skin of his back. Lucien pants against your mouth, pushing his finger in deeper and swallowing every sound falling from your lips. 

He withdraws halfway, then slides back in slowly, his thumb brushing over your clit at the same time. “Just like that.” His mouth crashes back to yours, tongues thrusting in time with his hand, kissing you while you moan into him. He adds a second finger, curling them inside you and your eyes flutter shut, gasping as he finds that perfect spot inside you. 

You tremble beneath him, hips rolling to meet every thrust of his fingers, chasing the pleasure that’s building in your core. The familiar heat coils tighter and tighter, your thighs starting to shake as his thumb keeps relentlessly circling over your swollen clit. “Lucien, I–” you start, letting out a small whimper as he continues to pump his fingers inside you. 

“You gonna come for me already?” he asks, holding back a smirk. 

You don’t even have it in you to respond, not even a shake of your head. Your orgasm crashes over you with warning, a broken cry falling from your lips as you arch your back off the couch, your pussy clamping around him. Pleasure floods your body in waves, your entire body seizing as your vision goes white. 

You’ve barely come down when he withdraws his fingers and makes quick work of the rest of your clothes, jeans and underwear shoved down and kicked away. He tugs down the zipper of his own pants and shucks his boxer briefs down past his thighs. The brief glimpse you get of his cock makes your mouth pool with saliva – he’s a little bigger than average, the tip flushed and already welling with a drop of precome. You barely have time to appreciate the sight as he rolls on a condom and settles between your thighs, the blunt head of him nudging against your entrance. 

Lucien looks down at you and presses a singular kiss to your lips, soft and sweet. “You sure?” You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing him back. He pushes in slowly, the stretch of him stealing the air from your lungs. When he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, you both shudder. He remains there, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed against yours as he tries to catch his breath. “You feel…oh fuck–”. 

His movements are slow at first, grinding the length of his cock along every sensitive inch of you as he finds a rhythm that has you whispering his name over and over. Every withdrawal has you aching and empty before he presses back in, filling you completely. The slick, wet sound of him moving inside you is obscene and intimate all at once, echoing softly in the otherwise quiet room. Every roll of his hips grinds his pelvis against your already overstimulated clit. You whimper his name again, your legs looping around his waist as if to pull him closer. Lucien’s mouth latches onto your neck as he starts to suck a second mark right over your pulse point. “Fuck–feel so good,” he groans against your throat. 

The praise makes you clench around him, drawing another broken sound as his rhythm falters, aching for a way to somehow be buried deeper inside you. His hips snap a little harder, the slow grind giving way to something more urgent. Sweat beads along his spine under your hands as you touch him for what feels like the first time. 

You’re drowning in everything Lucien. The slow drag of his cock inside you, the way he fills you so perfectly with every roll of his hips, the scrape of his beard against your skin – it’s all too much. The familiar pleasure coils tight in your belly. “Lucien–please–” You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore, you just need him close in every way possible. He moans your name, hips stuttering as he drives into you deeper, grinding against your clit with every thrust.

“Come on, baby,” he rasps against your mouth. “Let me feel you. Please–fuck, I need to feel you come around me.”

Your orgasm crashes over you hard, ripping a sharp cry from your throat as pleasure explodes through every nerve ending in your body. Your back arches off the couch, thighs shaking violently around his hips as your walls clamp down around his cock, pulsing and fluttering as wave after wave washes over you. You gasp his name, tears finally slipping from the corners of your eyes just from the sheer intensity of it all – the pleasure, the emotion, the years of wanting finally coming to a head. 

Lucien follows you with a guttural moan, burying himself as deep as he can go. His hips jerk against yours as he spills inside you. He shudders hard, breathing ragged and shaky as he rides out his orgasm, holding you through every aftershock.

For a long moment afterwards, the only sounds are your shared breaths and the rapid thud of your heart. There is a definite shift in the air, but neither of you speaks. The weight of what just happened settles over you both and it’s utterly terrifying. 

Lucien finally lifts his head slowly and when his eyes meet yours, you feel a sense of dread sink into your bones. Anxiety, panic, and what you can only interpret as regret is written plain as day on his face. His brow is pulled together tight, his mouth parted like he wants to say something but just can’t find the words. He turns his head, averting his eyes as quickly as he found yours.

You can’t do this. You can practically hear his thoughts in the silence – eight years of friendship only makes everything worse because you know him. He’s spiraling already, convincing himself this was a mistake. The thought of losing him, of going back to a life where he’s not your person anymore, makes your throat close up. 

You can’t breathe. You can’t stay here and watch the regret settle into something permanent. So, you do the only thing you can think of. You push gently at his chest, murmuring something about needing to use the bathroom. Lucien moves back immediately, slipping out of you with a quiet hiss that makes your stomach twist. You don’t trust yourself to look at him as you sit up. 

Your legs feel unsteady as you gather your clothes and your phone and rush to the bathroom where you pull them on with trembling hands. You order yourself an Uber and splash your face with water until you receive a notification the driver is on their way. When you step out, Lucien is sitting on the edge of the couch, watching you, but not stopping you from leaving. He doesn’t say anything. The absence of his voice hurts worse than anything he could have said. You slip out the door without another word, the soft click of it shutting behind you sounding final. 

You don’t talk to Lucien for three days. No texts, no calls, no silly little reels sent on Instagram. It’s pure torture. You’ve never gone this long without hearing from him. Not in all the years you’ve known each other. Time creeps by in slow motion. You find yourself checking your phone obsessively and hating yourself for it when you find nothing. You replay that night on an endless loop – the way he looked at you, the stupid feeling of his beard against your palm, the sound of your name in his mouth as he came, and then the devastating shift in his demeanor afterwards. You wonder if by pulling away he thinks he’s protecting the friendship by pretending that it never happened. The thought makes your chest ache so sharply. 

Your phone wakes you on the fourth day with a notification, just a small get together with friends. You almost don’t go, attempting to muster up a half-decent excuse to explain your absence, but you force yourself to show up, hoping that the smile pasted on your face looks real enough. You didn’t know if Lucien would be there or not as he had mentioned having overlapping plans weeks ago, back when things were still normal. Part of you hoped that he would come. Another bigger part of you was terrified that he wouldn’t.

The moment you spot him across the room, your stomach drops. He looks good – too good. His hair is a little messy, just the way he likes it. He’s wearing a colorful button down with the top two buttons undone, enough that you can see the definition of his chest and the gold chain that hangs from his neck. He’s talking to a girl, a pretty one – no one you’re familiar with – and he laughs at something she says, head tilted back, and the sound hits you like a punch to the gut. 

The night seems to drag on forever. No one notices the way your shoulders tense every time he speaks a little too animatedly, drawing the attention of everyone around him. No one, including yourself, sees the way his eyes keep drifting to your mouth when you sip your drink, lingering a second too long before he forces them away. When your eyes do accidentally meet, the air crackles with tension, widening the chasm between you.

When the group spills outside for air, you both end up on the same end of the rooftop. It’s just the two of you. The others are scattered about, laughing and smoking, leaving you in an uncomfortable silence. Lucien leans with his back against the edge, facing away from you as you peer down at the city lights glittering below. 

“Are you just planning on ignoring me forever?” you ask, voice quiet so nobody can overhear.

Lucien’s shoulders stiffen, his hands gripping the brick edge until his knuckles turn white. He doesn’t look at you, he can’t. Inside he feels like he’s drowning. He fucked up. He knows it. You’re the only thing that has ever made sense in his chaotic life, the one person who keeps him grounded when everything else spins out, and now he’s terrified that he ruined it. One night of giving in, one moment of weakness, and he might lose the one person who has ever truly known him. The thought of going back to a life without the easy way you fit into every part of his world is unbearable.

“I–” he croaks, his throat gone dry all of a sudden. Neither of you knows where to start, and when the host stumbles over and grabs Lucien’s elbow, begging him to tell everyone about his latest film, he lets her.

“Sweetheart, come on, she’s just being nice,” Joel laughs.

You know better, though. Patricia is not just being nice.

She’s been very much hitting on Joel since the first day she arrived in Jackson.

Always asking him for some repairs, checking him out all the way across the Tipsy Bison or the dining hall, smiling and touching his bicep every time she speaks to him, laughing at his every joke.

It’s so obvious you’re surprised to say the least that Joel has never realized how much Patricia is into him.

He’s totally clueless even after what she’s just done.

She came over, bringing him a whiskey, leaned over the table to show off her cleavage, all flirty and coy, saying it was “to thank you for the hard work”. She barely acknowledged you, while you were sitting right in front of him, only giving you a nod and a fake smile.

Ugh, you hate Patricia.

Of course, you trust Joel with all your heart, he never gave you any reason to think badly of him.

Joel is like a faithful dog, the most reliable and loving person you’ve ever met, he would do anything to see you happy.

But damn, Patricia is really testing your patience and your ability to think straight.

Every time she’s in your peripheral vision, you feel your blood pressure rising and your hands itching with the need to slap her.

You’re generally a very calm, peaceful person and you’ve behaved like you don’t care but enough is enough. The way she always acts around Joel, being all coy and sweet, is so annoying you don't know how much longer you can remain calm.

You look at Joel sitting there without a single ounce of worry, his deep brown eyes softly staring at you, a little amused smile on his lips, and you scoff, “Yeah, of course, keep on thinking that…”

Joel takes your hand over the table and squeezes it in his huge, meaty palm, reassuring you, “Darling, you know I’m not interested, right? So why are you bothered? Forget about her, I’m with you. There’s no other person I’d rather be with.”

His thick thumb runs gently over the back of your hand, soothing you, making your heart warm.

He’s amazing, and he’s done nothing wrong.

It’s just you and your silly brain.

Gnawing jealousy doesn’t leave you, though. It keeps fogging your mind as you think of the way Patricia dares to put her hands on your man anytime she can.

“It’s just the fact that you don’t see that, I mean…she couldn’t be throwing herself at you any harder!” you whine.

“Aw, jealous bunny…” he coos, his lips softly curved into that crooked smile that always makes your knees buckle.

“I’m not jealous…” you try to say, but he chuckles, “Oh yes, you are. Which is cute…but I’m still pretty sure she’s not into me. It’s just her personality, you know. She’s like that with Tommy as well.”

“Yeah, she would love to fuck him too,” you spit out and his jaw drops.

“Baby…” he starts, but a thought suddenly runs through your mind, and you smirk, interrupting him, “Wanna bet?”

“What?” Eyebrows raised, he looks at you puzzled.

“Yeah, let’s bet. Go over there and ask her out.”

Patricia is sitting at the counter, sipping her drink, casually shooting very lustful looks at Joel, biting her lower lip.

“I would never do that!” He protests.

“You’re scared to lose, aren’t you?” You tease him, happy to have finally found a safe method to open his eyes.

“‘M not scared, it’s ridiculous. Honey, we don’t need to do that.”

He tries to put some reason back into you, but to no avail.

“Joel…” you purr with that tone of yours you know always works on him, “you’ll win something if she says no,” batting your eyelashes for good measure.

Joel immediately takes the bait, “mmm, and what will my reward be?” both arms stretched out on the table as if he couldn't stand having it between you.

The bet doesn't seem appealing to Joel but the prize on the other hand seems to interest him.

“If I’m wrong…which I’m not, by the way, I’ll give you head every night, for a month straight.”

His crooked smile makes its appearance again. “This doesn’t sound like a loss…you love to do that.”

It’s true, you love to suck him dry. Even deepthroating him.

Your boyfriend has the nicest cock you’ve ever laid your eyes on and never fails to make you hungry and needy.

You snort, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Ok, so…is free use an adequate reward for you?”

Joel stays silent for a moment, processing what you just said, before asking, “Is that what I think it is?”

You smile, nodding “Yes…whenever you want, wherever you want…as many times as you want.”

His gaze lights up at the realization, a satisfied expression spreads across his face as he replies “Now we’re talking.”

This isn’t a punishment to either of you. Only the thought of him using you whenever he pleases makes your pussy throb.

You’re almost on the verge of backtracking on your bet.

Who cares about Patricia when this hunk of a man is all yours?

You should call it a day and move on.

You don’t, though, and add,

“But if she says yes…you’re going to wear a condom tonight, sir.”

His smirk immediately disappears.

“Aw, damn…it’s not fair, you know how much I hate that.”

Oh yes, you know it very well. And you never want him to wear one, actually, you love to fuck him raw, feeling every throbbing vein rubbing against your walls, his thick shaft hitting your special spot and making you as wet as a damn lake.

You love the intimacy of it all, flesh against flesh, a beautiful merging of your bodies and souls.

You also love feeling his cum deep inside of you.

You haven't talked about it in depth yet and many years ago a doctor told you that it would be difficult for you to have one but you would love to have Joel’s child. He’s already the best uncle, Benji absolutely adores him and you know how much he loves Ellie, like she was his own daughter. He would be the best dad, for sure.

“Yes, I’m aware of that, Joel. That shouldn't worry you since you're so sure she doesn't like you,” you quip. “So what are you waiting for? Go there and win your prize.”

He reluctantly gets up, sighing, and walks over the counter where Patricia is sitting.

You can read how much he doesn’t want to do that all over his body.

His shoulders tense, his steps comically slow, he’s walking like a man sentenced to jail time.

You watch the scene from the table, sipping your drink, ready to be entertained.

Joel scratches his beard while he’s talking, like he always does when he’s nervous. Patricia giggles like a teenager with her first crush, her eyes basically devouring Joel’s lips.

Ugh, you almost walk over there to tell her to stop hitting on your man.

You see Joel blushing, head tilted to the side, big paw on his neck, you can’t hear a single word but you’re pretty sure he’s asking her out.

Patricia’s face lights up like she saw a miracle happening right before her eyes; she almost falls from her stool in surprise.

Her lips are rapidly moving; she’s 100% saying yes to him.

Joel freezes, his ears red and his lower lip trembles slightly.

He doesn't know what to say, he's completely taken aback.

Yet you warned him, you knew it would happen.

Something begins to grow inside you, something you hadn't expected. The unfounded and foolish fear that he'll accept and Patricia will take him away from you. For a moment, the image of the two of them walking through the streets of Jackson flashes before your eyes, her breasts pressed against his arm, his rapt, dreamy eyes looking at her the way he's been looking at you.

And what would you do if that happened? Why did you make this stupid bet? What if you lost Joel forever? You could have spoken to Patricia privately, told it straight to her face that Joel is yours, yours alone, told her to find someone else to swoon over. But no, first you tried to act superior, and then you got into this stupid game with the person you loved most in the world. What an idiot.

It’s irrational and unmotivated, but terror rises from the walls of your stomach, all the way to your throat, knotting there, making you want to cry.

“Please, please, please don't say yes,” the voice in your head screams like an echo.

Joel takes a step back and responds, his face serious as he speaks, his body rigid. You think you see disappointment on his face, even disapproval; you just hope you know your man as well as you think.

He comes back a couple of minutes later, which to you seemed like an eternity.

He sits back down and stares at you silently.

“Well?” Your voice is shaking more than you'd like, the smirk you were sporting earlier has completely disappeared from your face.

Joel rolls his eyes, admitting, “You were right, dammit. She said yes.”

You're stunned for a moment, unable to shake the thought that maybe he might prefer Patricia to you. After all, you have to admit she's pretty, her tits are big enough to turn heads, she has a nice ass, nice hair, beautiful eyes.

You'd imagined you'd laugh, yelling at Joel, "I told you so," with enormous satisfaction, but now you're not in the mood for joking around.

“I told her that was a stupid bet between me and you.”

You think you’re dreaming.

“What?” You utter.

“Of course! I couldn't lie. I made sure she understood that I was crazy about my woman and could never cheat on her.”

His voice raises a little when he says he’s crazy about you and your heart instantly flutters.

You feel your face on fire, relief flooding through you.

Joel is so damn serious, his eyes fixed on you, glowing with love.

“I wouldn’t want her in a million years, is that clear?”

“Yeah,” you softly reply, feeling your heart drumming behind your ribcage.

THANK GOD.

“You think we’re done with this bet? Can we forget about this?”

You nod, feeling the need to hug and kiss him growing stronger in your chest, a loving warmth that is spreading from your tummy.

You get up from your chair and sit on his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. You no longer care about people around you, the indistinct chatter, the clinking of glasses, and even less about Patricia, who is still staring at you with a clearly disappointed expression on her face.

Joel drapes his arm around your waist, pulling you close and kissing you right there in front of everyone. He'd never done it so openly before; Joel is reserved and very protective of his private moments, he doesn’t like people gossiping about him or prying into his life. But now, he doesn’t care. His tongue gently pushes between your lips, silently begging for entrance. He grunts when your mouth opens and his tongue meets yours.

Your hand tightens on the back of his neck, while the other curls into a fist on his shirt.

Your breath runs short and your panties get wet.

All your stupid fears are so far away from you now.

You love him so much the sole idea of him getting with someone else is the most terrifying thing you could think of and as much as you know he would never do that sometimes your insecurities win and creep down on you badly. It’s a tough job to keep your self-esteem up, especially when your ex-husband left you and your mum was not exactly the most loving.

When he pulls away from you, rasping “let’s go home” you can only nod.

You can feel every person in the room looking at you, and you don’t give a fuck.

Walking home, holding Joel's hand tightly in yours, he asks you, "Do you still want me to wear a condom?"

You weren't even thinking about it anymore, honestly, and you didn't care anymore that you won the stupid bet.

“No,” you reply, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“Good,” he leans over you, whispering in your ear “Can’t wait to fuck your little pussy raw.”

Your cheeks heat up and a shiver of pleasure runs down your spine.

He’s a man of action and you know that. Joel is the type of guy who proves his love building stuff for you, fixing stuff for you, using gestures and caresses instead of words. He talks very little but you’re pretty sure he was very clear with Patricia because he never says anything he doesn’t mean when he speaks to you.

Feeling his warmth right into your palm spreading around in your whole body along with his filthy mouth is just a little too much now.

And apparently it's the same for him.

He pulls you towards the back of a house under construction, and he reaches the wall in the dim light.

You don’t resist, only squeal, "What are you doing?" but you follow him. Of course you do.

He pushes you against the wall, facing you.

"I can't wait," he whispers, his voice low, filled with desire.

"Our house is just around the corner," you object, searching for his horny eyes, lingering on his lips curved into a smirk. "Can't you wait another five minutes?"

"No. I can't," he replies firmly, his hands on the buttons of your jacket, one after the other being undone by his impatient fingers.

"They might see us..."

"No one's coming here this late."

You’re still surprised, but you don’t have to be told twice.

Joel smiles at your awkwardness as you try to shed his jacket as quickly as possible, and helps you by pulling it out of the sleeves and letting it fall on the ground. Yours follows shortly after.

“You always surprise me,” you say softly as he fiddles with your shirt.

He pulls it from your pants and rips it open, popping buttons everywhere, revealing your bra underneath.

You gasp, fresh air hitting your hot skin and making your nipples harden against the fabric.

“Jesus, honey, did you have to do that?”

“I’ll get you another one,” he replies, taking a handful of your tits.

“You’re nasty, Mr Miller,” you coo, moaning at his big paws kneading your breasts over your bra.

“Do you like me like this?”

“You bet I do, in every sense possible.”

“Good,” he growls, “all that talk about free use inspired me.”

You giggle softly. Of course, it stayed in the back of his mind all this time, and you couldn’t be more glad.

Your lips meet, and the kiss is messy, wet, and sloppy, his tongue eagerly licking everything it can while you moan and slide yours over his, tasting whisky and minty candies he likes to carry in his pocket all the time.

Your fingers reach for one of his nipples over his shirt, and you pinch it, making him growl into your mouth. A low baritone sound sends goosebumps all over your skin.

“Talking about nasty…” he breathes, detaching from you, his eyes dark and hazy.

“Mmm, couldn’t resist…” you smile softly, sliding your hands under his shirt, over his soft belly, resting on his sides.

His low grumbles ring in your ear like the most delicious sound. He pins you to the wall, caging you with his arms, his leg between yours.

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want, Mr Miller.”

“All this calling me Mr Miller is indecent, honey, you know what it’s doing to me…”

“Yeah, I know…”

His leg presses on the seam of your jeans, right where your clit is, a rush of dizziness washing over you.

“Your little pussy crying? Does she need Mr. Miller to help her?“

You moan “yes”, your voice faint and your breath labored.

“Ask nicely, hun.”

“Please, Joel… Mr Miller… please.”

“Good girl. I bet you’re dripping wet, huh? I haven't even started with you.”

“I…”

“Shhh baby… let me feel her.”

He unzips your jeans in a flash and his hand slides inside, over your panties.

His fingers caress your folds from above the fabric, slowly, until his index finger slips between them.

He's right, of course, you're soaked, your panties completely ruined. You moan at the feeling of the fabric sticking to your skin, his finger moving up and down your slit, pausing only to apply pressure to your hole. Your clit is hard, you feel it twitching and crying for attention, but he's avoiding it.

“Yeah, just like I thought… you’re drenched.”

Your voice comes out all shaking and hoarse when you beg for him to give you more.

“You know, it’s a shame your eyeliner looks so good today…” he grins. You’re a bit puzzled, not really sure what he means, until he adds “on your knees, baby.”

You cry at the loss of his fingers down your pants as he pulls away from you to give you enough room to kneel.

You do so, your legs feeling like jelly, a hand on his arm to keep you from falling, your pulse hammering into your ears. Your knees touch the ground as he undoes his jeans. He lowers them just enough to pull out his cock.

You haven’t done anything like this outside before. You willingly and happily sucked him in the privacy of your home, kneeling at any given occasion, slurping on his cock like the most delicious ice cream.

But being there, out in the wild, where anyone could potentially stepping and seeing you on your knees, his cock deep in your throat it’s a whole new experience. Dangerous, filthy… arousing to the point your head is just a mess of lust and your heart is drumming in your chest so loudly you can hear it in your ears.

His cock bobs right in front of your eyes, hard, gorgeous, veins throbbing along his length, his tip leaking out a few drops of his yummy and sticky precum.

You swoon at the sight, embarrassed to be so exposed but eager to give your man what he asked for.

“No one is gonna see you, darlin’, they’re all home or at the Tipsy” Joel reassures you, guessing your thoughts. His voice is gentle and low but also firm in a way that sends you into a rapture.

You quickly learned that Joel was more than okay with being submissive, letting you play along with your dominant side and you loved that so much. Hearing your strong, broad man begging you, his voice cracking and shaking was a delight.

But you also enjoyed him taking matters in his own hands, giving you orders and praising you when you carried them out well.

You lick his tip, his unmistakable flavor spreading on your tastebuds, making you hungry.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, his dark eyes looming over you.

His voice is a whisper, but no less commanding “it’s your cock, am I right? Not Patricia's, nor anyone else's. Suck it good, darlin’”

The smile that twists your lips is wide, ear to ear. You welcome his shaft, feeling it slide over your tongue, your hand closing around his base.

Enveloping his cock in your spit, feeling him throbbing against your palate is divine.

You always enjoyed giving head, even before meeting Joel. But the way you do it with him, the way he praises you, the way his cock reacts, his eyes glued to yours, taking in your every expression, feeling his hips buck, silently asking for more, it’s all new and exciting, it makes you all giddy and proud.

Reality is, you’ve never been so in love before with anyone else, not even your ex husband that you married only because you thought it was the right thing to do.

You took different paths long before the outbreak happened, both of you unhappy and frustrated. At least he'd been honest enough to sit down with you and talk. You were more like roommates than husband and wife. There was no passion or sex anymore, just a quiet coexistence that was becoming detrimental to both of you. In the back of your head this always felt like a failure and you thought you would never meet the right person. Maybe you were unlovable and inadequate like your dear mommy was always so ready to remind you.

You chose to be with Joel, you craved him long before he asked you out, watching him work and carry heavy planks and give out orders to other men.

You'd always loved watching people work with their hands; as a child, you'd sit for hours watching your grandfather do woodwork or build the birdbath you'd insisted on. Joel gave it a whole new meaning, though, making it dreamy and hot.

You started bringing everyone hot coffee as an excuse, then moved on to sandwiches, until you worked up the courage to talk to him. You chatted while sitting on the porch of a house he was helping build, in a mess of dust and debris you didn't care about in the slightest, happy just to talk to him. He was so gentle, you’d say a little bit shy at the beginning.

You realized he was not so used to sharing his feelings or talking about his personal life. He opened up to you a little more everyday and you were so grateful he trusted you enough to talk about Sarah. You talked about your failed marriage and the way your mum always treated you and he was so sweet, telling you didn’t deserve any of that. And finally, one day he nervously asked you out. You felt your whole being come back to life, rekindled with a new enthusiasm.

That night, after a drink at Tipsy, you'd sucked his cock for the first time. You could hear the voices of your old friends in the back of your head, yelling at you "never on a first date," but you didn't care, you'd wanted him since the first time you'd seen him. And you knew Joel wouldn't dump you like trash after getting what he wanted.

You were right. Joel never fails to treat you with respect and consideration, he’s always there when you need him, he listens to you, dotes on you and gives you lots of love. You don’t even know why you doubted him before. It’s been almost a year since you got together and you’ve never been so happy.

You start sucking him, stroking the rest with your hand, bobbing your head up and down in slow calculated motion, grazing his veins with your tongue the way he likes.

His musky scent fills your nostrils, the tip of him almost hitting the back of your throat when you lower yourself more, making yourself weep, hot tears streaming down your face, but you don’t stop. You want this, you need this, all of him inside your mouth, your spit coating his entire shape, marking him, making him yours and only yours.

“Just like that, darlin’,” he growls, his big hand clenches into a fist in your hair, a soft mischievous smile dancing on his lips.

Looking at him, his forehead beading in sweat, his face flushed and his arm tensed, prominent veins bulging on his forearm, you feel a new wave of arousal dampening your underwear, heat rushing through you like a burning fire.

You gurgle a little bit, coming up and licking at his tip like a kitten, sliding your tongue on the underside of his cock, a move that never fails to make him twitch.

“Fuck, honey, I won’t last long…”

You smile, tip brushing on your lips before taking him back in.

You suck more, hollowing your cheeks, the length of him filling your mouth just right.

When he bursts out, long streaks of sticky white cum hitting your palate, dripping down your throat you make sure to swallow every drop.

It’s lewd and filthy, wet obscene sounds rising from the back of your throat.

You stay there, licking him clean until he comes back down from his peak and his cock begins to soften in your mouth.

You don’t even know how much time has passed, everything is shrouded in darkness now, silent, your shallow breaths and the crackling of wind are the only things you hear around you.

When you stand up, your jeans are stained with grass and dirt from knee to ankle, green and brown streaks spreading across the fabric. The makeup you'd applied before leaving the house is a distant memory, smeared across your face and dripping down your cheeks. Joel doesn't stop gazing at you adoringly, whispering, "You're so pretty like this, all messed up for me," wiping a drop of his cum from your lower lip and slipping his finger into your mouth. You suck it greedily, humming sweet moans. You still feel a rush of your shared maddening desire invading your body and cloud your brain.

“‘M not done with you, baby,” Joel drawls in that southern accent that never fails to make you all needy.

“Mmm Mr Miller, what else do you have in store?” you purr, gently stroking his cheek, his beard deliciously prickling under the pad of your fingers.

“Give me a minute, and I’ll show you, darlin’”.

You wait, patiently, wrapped in his arms, right where you want to be, stealing kisses from his lips.

Until another idea comes up to you, far more clever and pleasant than the one you had before involving Patricia.

“Let me help,” you whisper, gently moving from him a little.

Joel looks confused but no less enthralled.

You look at him, lowering your jeans and ruined panties, exposing your pussy for his gaze to feast on.

Your fingers slowly approach your little button, barely touching it, attentive to Joel's reactions.

“Jesus, honey, you’ll get me hard again in no time,” he whispers, almost hissing, desire coating his every word.

His eyes are fixed on you in a way that makes your skin crawl with pleasure.

Joel takes a step back to look at you better, ecstatic. You begin to draw tight circles on your clit, a temping smile dancing on your lips, your body leaning on the wall to keep you steady, your back arched, while you’re giving a little show to your man. The man you hope to have next to you for the rest of your life, the man you care about so much that you’re happy to do things you’ve never expected from yourself.

“That’s what I want…” you rasp, your breath shallowing, growing heavier with every touch, with the look that made you change your mind about love devouring every second of you.

You move lower, collecting more of your juice, returning to your clit continuing the dance of your fingers.

“Joel…” you call softly, “would you like to fill me up? Because I want it so much…”

Joel clears his throat but the words fail him. “And she wants it so much…” you coo, looking down “you don’t want to disappoint her, do you?”

Joel clenches his jaw, fidgeting on the spot, his gaze spellbound, his cock starting to get hard again.

“Jesus, the effect you have on me…” he grumbles and you giggle, tight circles on your bundle of nerves, your fingers coated in your juices.

You lower them again, prodding at your entrance. “She feels so empty…” you whisper and you know it’s enough to make Joel snap.

One of your hands goes up to one of your tits, lowering your bra, playing with your nipple.

“Show me, baby. Show me how you please yourself,” he orders.

You don't care about the still-pungent, yet dry, smell of paint, you don't even care about how hard the wood feels against your back, or how your filthy jeans are bunched around your ankles, just above your boots. Only Joel exists.

It's tingling all over you, your body burns under his gaze, desire, awareness and security that those dark, deep, delicious and lustful eyes are yours alone invading every single part of your soul.

Your middle and ring finger slide inside of you and a moan escapes your lips.

“Good girl…just like that,” he praises you.

Your thumb is still flicking your clit as you start thrusting into your little hole, whimpering against the wall, reaching for that tender spot that always makes you see stars.

It's not like when Joel does it—nothing compares to his hand cupping your sex, two of his thick fingers sliding inside you, while his thumb works on your clit—but it's still nice. Especially now that he's watching you.

He takes his cock in his hand, stroking it gently, his arm outstretched, his cheeks flushed, beaded with a sheen of sweat.

Your fingers keep filling you up, scissoring your hole, juices flowing down your palm. You moan louder and arch your back some more for him to see.

Joel is stunned, his pupils blown, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His cock is hard as a rock again, heavy in his palm as he strokes it up and down, gathering precum from his leaking tip and smearing it along his length.

He curses under his breath, a low and raspy “fuck” rumbling between his lips.

You’re a mess of lust and sweat but you’ve never felt sexier in your life.

“I’m so close…” you whine, your eyes fixed into his, drowning in that warm brown coffee.

“Cum for me, baby,” he urges

One last bucking of your hips against your hand and you come biting down on your lower lip, moans escaping from the back of your throat no matter how hard you try.

Joel walks over to you, grabs your wrist, and pulls your fingers out of you, watching your pussy flutter and quiver right in front of his eyes.

“Fuck, this is so good, look at her, all puffy and cute for me.”

You cry out incoherently like a child, your orgasm washing over you, head dizzy and weightless, your whole body shaking against the wall.

Joel leans even closer, you can feel his breath on your skin. His cock is still in his hand. As soon as you come down from your high a little, he brushes the tip of his cock against your entrance. You try to pull back, overstimulated and sensitive.

"Joel!" you moan, but his hand cups your cheek, the pad of his fingers tracing your cheekbone. "Shh, you're okay.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can, baby” he gently admonishes you, wiping a tear from your face.

He pushes against your entrance, his swollen tip stretching you much wider than your fingers.

You cry and beg, your voice cracking in your chest, but he whispers softly, "You're okay, baby, you're okay,” so gently you can do nothing other than melt. He waits for the rawness and the feeling of invasion to subside, for them to evolve into the satisfying feeling of fullness you've been craving.

You calm down, your pussy adjusting to his thickness, growing hungry again for him.

He trails kisses down your neck, his beard brushing against your skin, tickling you. He feels you slowly relax, your whole body unwinding.

“Ready?”

“Yeah…,” you whisper, almost giggling, almost surprised he was right. Joel knows you better than anyone.

He pushes in a little more, reaching about halfway, one hand gripping your hip, his gaze searching yours. A smile spreads across your lips, you're intoxicated by him, and it's a feeling so sweet you wouldn't trade it for anything.

“Fill me up to the brim, Joel,” you beg, one of your hands raking through his salt and pepper hair that you love so much, grasping the soft curls at the base of his neck.

“Whatever my darling wants…” he exhales, thrusting deep inside you. His bush brushes against your pussy as he begins to move slowly, testing how much you can handle. You moan, tugging on his hair, bucking your hips, throwing your head back against the wooden slats. He’s thick and throbbing inside you. You’ve always loved it, and maybe you love it even more now, you feel him so deeply you could say you two are the same.

He's still almost fully clothed against your practically naked body and the contrast sends you into ecstasy, the soft fabric of his shirt brushing against you, hitting your nipples and making you see stars before your eyes.

“You’re so big…,” you sigh.

“I know baby, you’re doin’ so well for me.”

He lifts your leg with his hand, thrusting faster into you hitting that gummy spot again and again as you moan so loudly, anyone could hear.

You don’t even think about that, though, so lost in your pleasure your head isn’t coherent or reasonable anymore.

“So full…” you mumble “so close…” but Joel is not done with you already, he bends to your uncovered nipple and takes it between his lips, his tongue swirling around your bud before he starts sucking on it.

He knows you love it and his mouth is more than eager to please you.

Mouth full of your tit, hands grabbing tightly on your hips, his cock drowning into you like it was made for your soaking wet pussy, he whimpers against your skin, his sticky white warm cum making a mess against your walls.

He lets go of your nipple, hiding his face in the hollow of your neck chanting “I love you’s.”

You come undone again, as soon as you feel it hitting your little hole, your lips shaping into an “o”, your eyes hazy and clouded, your whole body shaking against him and your voice stammering his and God’s name.

His chest rising and falling rapidly, he’s panting, trying to regain his breath.

You’re completely out of words, still trying to fathom the incredibly risky and yet ridiculously exciting way he just fucked you.

“My Gosh, this was fucking great,” you murmur.

He chuckles into your neck, softly biting on the tender skin right under your ear.

“Yeah, it really was, baby…enough to make you not want to have other weird bets?”

“I promise,” you say, taking his chin between two of your fingers, kissing him right on that heart shaped patch on his beard that you love and then on his swollen, delicious lips “no more stupid bets.”

“I love you more than anything, you know that, right?” Joel says, caressing your hair, holding you tightly in his arms.

“I love you, too,” you whisper, completely wrapped into his arms, the safest place you know.

Absolutely npt for the people who showed interest in this wip: @milla-frenchy , @shadowqueen2024 , @baronessvonglitter , @peepawmiller , @mcthsman , @broad-shouldrs , @joelmillerspnk , @balhoneysweetstuff

It was the worst storm in years. Living in California, you were used to some of the extreme heat and wildfires, but true thunderstorms were less common. You hadn’t been prepared as you were making the trek back home to the Los Angeles area from your friend’s place in San Diego. The rain was coming down so hard that you had your windshield wipers on full blast and still could hardly see the road ahead of you. 

When changing lanes almost caused you to slide right off the highway, you decided the drive just wasn’t going to work and followed the exit signs to a hotel nearby - Fairmont Grand Del Mar. The Mediterranean-style resort that you pulled up to felt way more luxurious than you had been looking for. You wondered briefly about driving back out on the road and going to another hotel, but the storm was worse than ever and you figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least see how much a room would run you. 

As you pulled up further to the circle drive, you could see the lush gardens and sweeping estates. A valet hurried out from the large palatial doors and walked around to your driver’s side window. You rolled it down, relieved to be under an awning. 

“Hello, ma’am. Welcome to Fairmont Grand Del Mar. I’d be happy to take your keys for you... May I?” He glanced down at the door handle, his hand hovering while he awaited your confirmation. 

Not sure how to explain that you just wanted to check the price of a room, you simply nodded your head and stepped out of the car when he opened the door. After handing him your keys, you stepped through the large doors, smiling briefly at the bellmen as they ushered you in. 

The hotel receptionist smiled at you as you crossed the expanse of the ornate lobby. You walked underneath the concave ceiling with golden chandeliers hanging above you. Your wet shoes squeaked against the black and white tiled floor as you passed by a series of sleek couches and armchairs. Other guests sat in some of them, snacking on warm nuts or sipping a fancy cocktail. A fireplace burned off to the side and you were relieved when you finally stepped onto the rug leading up to the large check-in desk.

The receptionist didn’t greet you until you moved closer, an animated smile plastered on her face. “Welcome! Do you have a reservation with us?” 

“No, I was hoping you might have a room left.” You had your bag slung over your shoulder, only containing your clothes from the previous day and some of your toiletries. 

You hadn’t heard another guest step up behind you as you waited for the receptionist to check on the availability of a room. Her nails clicked against the keyboard and she looked up at you with that same smile on her face. “Looks like our only room left is the paseo suite with two queen beds.” 

“Okay, and…how much is that?” You tried to not sound apprehensive, but you figured a suite in a place like this would be a pretty penny. 

“$2,900, ma’am.” 

“A night?!” An involuntary gasp left your mouth and you heard the snicker of a man behind you. You turned to look at him, ready to tell whoever it was off, but there was something strangely familiar about the man in front of you. 

He was wearing a loose flannel that was only half-buttoned, revealing his bare chest. His hair was wild, as though he had run his fingers through it without taming it at all. He wore jeans that hung low on his hips, his round tummy pronounced overtop. He had a playful smirk as he acknowledged you. 

“Split the cost?” His playful smirk almost turned more smug as he cocked his head to the side and spoke with a slight slur. 

“What?” You furrowed your brow, trying to understand what he was getting at. 

“The room.” He nodded his head toward the receptionist then looked back at you. “I need one. Seems you do, too. We could share.” 

“Share?” Your voice conveyed your surprise as you held back a scoff. You shook your head. “No, I-”

“Raining even harder than before,” he cut you off. “Everyone’s gonna be filling up every hotel in the area.” He shrugged his shoulders, stepping in front of you and pulling his credit card out from his back pocket. “You wanna take your chances, be my guest. But I’m staying here.” He held out his card to the woman who was nervously looking back and forth between the two of you.

There was no point in arguing it, even though it came across as completely entitled. You had no intention of paying for that room yourself, so you simply shrugged at the receptionist as she took his card and ran the payment for the suite. She confirmed your suspicion as she asked the man for his information and he gave his name - Dieter Bravo. She pulled out two room keys, handing them to the man. “Here you are, Mr. Bravo. Please don’t hesitate to let the concierge know anything you might need.” Her eyes were apologetic, but she still wore a professional smile as she looked at you. 

You were about to give up on the whole ordeal as you readjusted your backpack over your shoulder and turned around, not at all surprised that yet another Hollywood A-list actor was haughty and chauvinistic. You’d only taken a couple steps in the other direction when you heard his voice again. 

“Don’t wanna share?” When you turned around, he was holding a room key out towards you. His posture was casual, almost slumped, as though he was truly indifferent as to whether you accepted his invitation or not. There was something about his ambivalence that allowed you to feel a little more safe, so you sighed, reaching out and taking the room key from him. 

“I uh…don’t think I can pay you quite half, though. Or, I could, it would just need to be in install-”

He interrupted you again, this time with a shake of his head as well as his hand raised in the air to signal you to stop. The audacity caught you off guard and you froze, your eyes wide as you watched him. 

“It’s on me. Just don’t clear out the mini bar, and we’ll call it even.” He picked up his duffle bag and headed in the direction of the luxe elevators. You walked after him. 

“Even? What is that I’m giving you?” Your stomach knotted at the idea that he might expect sexual favors from you. Dieter wasn’t unattractive. On the contrary, you’d seen him in a movie last year with one of your girlfriends and had giggled most of the time about how cute he was. You’d always had a thing for dad bods and even now found yourself averting your eyes to keep yourself from checking him out. But you were not into one night stands, even with celebrities. And the idea that he might expect that from you gave you the ick. 

“Company,” he said with a shrug, stepping onto the elevator as the doors opened. He held his hand out, keeping the doors ajar for you to follow him in. 

You only hesitated for the briefest of moments before following suit, standing on the opposite side of the elevator as you responded, “Company?” 

“Yeah.” He pressed the button for the second floor. “I’m between gigs right now, been traveling solo for the past couple weeks.” He looked in your direction, an unassuming expression on his face. “It’s been nice, but I wouldn't mind the company of a pretty lady like yourself.” He smiled as he finished his sentence. 

Your mouth opened, but the words didn’t come readily, and before you could figure out what to say, Dieter’s expression shifted into one of concern. 

“Oh, not like that. Not like that. We don’t have to have sex.” The way he just said it so bluntly had you surprised, but he sounded truthful. “We could just watch a movie or something. Not one of mine, though,” his voice became dry and serious, “I don’t watch my own shit. Just wipe, flush, and move on.” 

“O-okay.” You exhaled and stepped off the elevator when the doors opened. You glanced down at the room key to see the number. 211. Dieter walked behind you as you moved toward the room and used your key to enter. He reached out, propping the door open as you walked in. Your jaw dropped, astonished at the size and opulence of the room. 

There was a living area with a fireplace, a couch, and two sofa chairs. A flat-screen television was mounted above the fireplace with an ornate gold frame surrounding it. Built-in bookshelves bracketed the lit, crackling fireplace. Behind the couch was a dining area with a mahogany table and tufted chairs surrounding it. A bowl of fresh fruit sat in the center. Running along the dining area were two large glass doors that opened out onto a private balcony. 

You looked back at Dieter, clearly appearing awe-struck. “This is insane. Do you regularly stay in rooms like this?” 

Dieter nonchalantly closed the door behind him, dropping his bag onto the floor and stepping into the room to explore it with you. He looked around and shrugged. “Usually, yeah.” 

You shook your head at his lack of a reaction and moved toward the glass doors, gently pushing them open to take in the view. It was dark and rainy still, so you couldn’t adequately appreciate the gardens that were down below. The balcony had an awning that covered a firepit and two chairs. The wind and rain still wouldn’t make it suitable for an outside fire, but you were sure that it would be a lovely place to hang out. 

Dieter stayed inside while you explored the balcony. He took his bag into the bedroom, and by the time you came back inside, he was exiting the bedroom, now wearing striped pajama pants, a loose grey t-shirt, and a green fluffy robe. 

You couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous sight. “Those look…comfortable.” You covered your mouth with your hand to fight a second snicker. 

Dieter tilted his head to the side and then down, peering up at you over his brow as he remarked, “Since when is being comfortable a crime?” 

You chuckled, “It’s not. I just…didn’t expect to see you like this. That’s all.” You shut the doors to the balcony and walked past him into the bedroom. 

“I’ll let you get dressed in peace, but I expect some pretty impressive pajamas for how hoity-toity you’re being right now.” He walked over to the couch, plopping down lengthwise and lazily reaching for the remote as you closed the bedroom door. 

Of course, the bedroom was just as beautiful as the rest of the room. Two ornamental queen beds were separated by a mahogany nightstand. There was a dresser with another television mounted above it, as well as a work desk. Another set of double glass doors were on the far wall, leading out to the same private balcony. 

You shrugged off your backpack, pulling out your pajamas from the night before. They were unremarkable, but at least a matching set. You stepped into the bathroom connected to the bedroom. It had a huge, deep tub with jets, and a variety of bath salts and soaps lined the edge. You stood in front of one of the sinks, checking your makeup and hair. When you walked out to the bedroom to grab your toiletry bag from your backpack to freshen up, you could hear Dieter on the phone in the other room. 

“Yeah, she’s cute…I dunno…Nah, she didn’t seem interested…I’m so horny, thank god there’s two beds…”

You couldn't get over how brash he was. Still, part of you felt flattered hearing his lewd statements. Tiptoeing back into the bathroom, you touched up your makeup and brushed through your hair. Part of you felt a little silly for doing your makeup at this hour, knowing you would likely be going to bed soon, but being in the presence of a celebrity felt like an appropriate reason. After brushing through your hair, you put it up in a ponytail and then went back out to where Dieter was.

He was flipping through channels as you emerged from the bedroom. He lifted his head, glancing over the back of the couch at you. “Ohh, fancy with your matching jammies.”

When you walked around, able to see him fully, you saw that he had his pant legs pushed up, revealing his tall grey heather socks as he rubbed at his shin. His back was propped against the armrest and he had a gleam in his eye as he watched you take a seat on one of the sofa chairs. He removed his hand from his leg, instead tucking his arm up and behind his head as he continued leaning back. 

“What do you wanna do?” He asked as he lifted his head, looking back toward the bar cart and mini fridge. “You drink?”

“Sometimes,” you responded, glancing over at the bar cart yourself. 

“Well,” Dieter sat up on the couch, swinging his legs to the side and jumping up. “Let’s make tonight one of those times.” 

You watched as he poured two tequila shots, bringing them over with an eager smile on his face. He set one on the table in front of you, sitting down on the end of the couch nearest you and holding out his own glass. 

“To unexpected evenings,” he said, his eyes focused on you. 

You smiled with a small huff of a laugh and picked up your glass, clinking it against his as you mirrored his sentiment. 

“So,” he said as he set his glass down. “You live around here?” 

You playfully responded, “If I did, I don’t think I’d be crashing at an overpriced hotel.”

Dieter laughed, standing up with the glasses and carrying them back over to the bar cart. “I suppose that’s true.” 

You elaborated, “I was leaving my friend’s place in San Diego, trying to get back up to Los Angeles. I’m assuming that’s where you live, too?” 

“One of the places,” he said as he poured two more shots. 

You scoffed, “Oh, right.” Moving your head side-to-side and in a faintly sarcastic voice you continued, “Famous actor and all…I’m sure you have houses all over the place.” 

He chuckled as he carried the probably-too-expensive glasses back over. He shook his head, “It’s not like that. Just have a place in my hometown and also on the east coast.” He handed the glass back to you. “And it’s not as glamorous as it seems.” 

You laughed at that, really laughed. “I don’t believe that. Celebrities say that, but if I had enough money for a place on both coasts, I think I’d be pretty happy.” 

“The money’s nice, sure,” he answered with a shrug, leaning back against the couch as he held his glass propped on his raised knee. “But when you don’t have someone to share it with, shit kinda sucks.” 

There was a pause between the two of you. The shared eye contact turned to a downcast look at the floor as you took in what he said. You realized how presumptuous and callous you came across. 

“I’m sorry, I just assumed with all the movies and stuff you did, that you were sort of always with people…” You looked back at him. He was tilting his glass back and forth, watching how the clear liquid sloshed. 

“When I’m filming, sure. But it’s usually pretty quiet between filming…everyone’s busy, you know? I still manage to find…company…from time to time.” He smiled, and it was obvious what he was hinting at. “But it’s not the same as having a companion or some shit.” 

You nodded and gave a slightly nervous laugh, “So uh…is that what I am? Company?” 

He didn’t answer you directly. Instead, Dieter sat up, both feet on the floor as he leaned towards you with his glass in hand. “To company.” 

“To company.” 

After the second shots were drunk, you started to feel the buzz. You put your hand up as you said, “I think that’s it for me. Not looking for a hangover tomorrow.” 

“Aww, that’s no fun!” Dieter stood up, walking over to the mini bar and picking up a KitKat. “Want anything?” 

You leaned to the side, getting a look at the goodies lined up neatly. “Umm, I’ll take the peanut M&M’s.” 

He snatched them up, bringing them over to you then plopping down and ripping into his chocolate bar. “Well,” he said, taking a big bite of the chocolate, “you know what will help the hangover?” 

You didn’t respond, just continued watching him apprehensively as you popped a candy into your mouth. 

Dieter set his chocolate bar on the table and walked into the bedroom. You heard the zip of his duffle bag and then watched as he returned with a small container, popping it open to show you an array of joints. 

“You live in Cali, so I’m assuming you smoke.” He watched for your reaction, and when he saw you smile, he nearly jumped for joy. Pulling out a lighter from his pocket, he nodded toward the double glass doors. “Let’s go!” 

The rain had seemed to die down a bit. It felt like more of a sprinkle now, as the wind carried the occasional light mist over the two of you. You stood huddled under the awning, separated by just a couple inches as Dieter lit the joint, taking two large drags, and then handing it to you. 

It was good weed. The heat of it warmed your chest and you watched the bubble of smoke drift off as you exhaled. The first hit was already helping to calm some of your leftover nerves as you handed it back to Dieter. 

“Waddya think?” He took another puff, blowing the smoke away from you before looking back at you. There was a friendly twinkle in his eyes and it made you feel comfortable around him. 

“It’s good,” you remarked, taking it as he handed it to you and inhaling deeply. “My friend had some at her place, but it was kinda shitty.” 

Dieter laughed, taking the joint back. “Yeah, well. I don’t waste my time with shitty weed.” He took a drag. “Life’s too short.” 

With the rain clearing up, you could see the gardens better. They were beautiful. The two of you enjoyed a moment of silence, just listening to the rain and the burning of the joint with each puff. Nerves started to churn within you again and you looked over at Dieter. 

“I, uh, should probably mention that I don’t really do one night stands.” The words hung in the air for a moment. Dieter took the last drag of the joint, stomping it out on the patio. 

He shrugged his shoulders, turning to open the door. “Sure.” He walked inside without another word. His response had you hesitating. It seemed so nonchalant that you couldn’t tell if he was annoyed, or truly just did not care. 

But when you walked back inside and saw that he was casually eating his KitKat again, it seemed that he had simply moved on from the whole thing. You were grateful to be past the awkward moment. 

“Wanna watch a movie?” He was pouring himself another drink. He hardly seemed to be feeling the alcohol or the weed, and it had you wondering for a moment how often he partook in substances.

“Sure, but uh,” you glanced toward the bedroom and back at him. “Could we watch in the bedroom?” 

Dieter looked up after pouring his drink with a raised eyebrow. 

“Oh! Not-not for…just-” You took a breath, realizing how awkward you sounded. “It just sounds more comfortable and weed makes me sleepy.” 

He laughed softly and nodded. “Sounds fine by me.” 

The two of you got situated in your separate beds. The table dividing them was fairly narrow, leaving the beds only a couple of feet apart from each other. Dieter had the remote, switching through the different movie options. It was easy for the two of you to agree on a comedy to watch, and you pulled the blanket around you, settling in and noticing how your high made you feel heavy against the mattress. 

Your body felt relaxed, including your mind, and it was only about half an hour into the movie before you felt yourself starting to drift. You didn’t hear when Dieter turned the television off, or when he got up to go to the bathroom, turning off all the lights and returning to bed. 

You hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep until you woke up a couple hours later, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. The room was mostly dark, except for the glow of the moon through the large glass doors as well as a small light emanating from the alarm clock. You looked over at Dieter who seemed to be sleeping. He was turned on his side facing away from you. 

Settling back down in bed, you noticed the persistent pull between your legs. When you turned on your side, your thighs closing together, the tingly sensation only worsened. Fuck. It wasn’t uncommon for you to become insatiably horny after smoking weed, but you were hindered by the fact that you were sharing a room with someone who was practically a stranger.

You lowered your hand down your torso, slipping it between your legs and pressing gently. The slight pressure both offered some relief, as well as made you want more. You glanced over at the bed beside you again. He wasn’t moving aside from the gentle rise and fall of the blanket draped over him. 

Closing your eyes and moving onto your back, you let your legs fall open as your fingers started to explore. You slid your middle finger through your folds and down to your aching core. You sighed at the continued relief as you used your fingers to gather some of your slick and move it up to your perked clit. 

Rubbing small circles, you hadn’t noticed that you were softly whimpering until you heard the bed beside you creak. You froze, afraid to even look over. The seconds dragged on as you waited to see if you heard anything else. Your hand was still between your legs that were now slightly closed. You bit your lip, pressing down again and then gasping at the throbbing that you felt. 

Then you heard it again, the sound of fabric moving, as if a blanket was being moved, or an article of clothing. And then, it was quiet, but you were sure you heard it, the sound of a man exhaling. 

Your body was frozen again, but you still managed to glance over. Your eyes widened, both in an attempt to see better in the dark, but also because you were shocked at what you did manage to make out. 

The blanket was pushed down around Dieter’s thighs and there was a noticeable tent in his pants. You watched the rhythmic movement as his hand moved up and down, restrained from the fabric. Your eyes finally traveled up and you saw that he was looking back at you, also with your blanket pushed down and your hand between your legs, slipped underneath your satin pajama pants. His pupils were blown out, desperation etched into his features as his eyes moved up and down your body, then back to your face, as if seeking permission. 

You bit your lip again, rubbing another circle on your clit and this time allowing an audible whimper to slip out. Dieter groaned at your noises, clearly turned on by the scene in front of him. It spurred you on to continue your movements, even using firmer pressure so that your back arched and your legs clamped together. 

“Fuck,” you heard Dieter whisper. It looked like he was trying to pick up the pace of his movements, but his pants were preventing him from jerking off in the way that he would like to. 

In hopes he would follow suit, you removed your hand so that you could push down your pants and underwear, kicking them off and letting them fall to the ground. You kept the blanket pushed down as well, completely revealing your soaked cunt in the moonlight as you returned to touching yourself. 

It took nearly no time at all for Dieter to eagerly shuck off his pants, allowing his thick cock to bounce up and lay erect against his torso. He took it back in his grip, holding it firmly as he twisted his hand up and down. You could see the precum glisten in the ray of moonlight that shone across the room.

His satisfied groan from the feel of his hand wrapped around his cock made you squeeze your thighs even tighter. You didn’t want to come yet, so you slowed the movements of your fingers, just keeping yourself on the brink. You could feel his gaze on you, and you looked over at him again. 

The low rumble of his voice cut through the quiet night as he spoke, “Push inside, baby.” His features were soft, but there was still a crease between his brows as he focused on his pleasure. He was watching you tentatively, not sure if he had crossed a line. 

You reassured him by whimpering as you pushed your middle finger inside of your tight pussy, feeling the velvet slick of your walls. Closing your eyes and tilting your head back, you began to slowly finger yourself. The silence in the room allowed for the sounds of your wet cunt to travel, and Dieter moaned, stroking his cock quicker. 

You watched as he moved the precum around the tip of his cock with his thumb, then resumed his firm strokes. His balls lifted up with every pump of his cock and you could practically feel yourself salivating. His cock was beautiful and you could only imagine what it would feel like inside of you. 

“Another one,” Dieter managed to rasp out as he fucked his fist. 

Obeying, you slipped a second finger into your pussy. “Oh my god,” you moaned as you fucked yourself quicker. “Dieter…”

“That’s it, baby, say my name. Oh, shit.” His jaw was tense as he squeezed his cock, trying to stave off his own orgasm. 

“Dieter, Dieter…” The palm of your hand rubbed against your clit as you fingered yourself. Your hips were grinding up into the air, seeking as much friction and sensation as possible. “Ohh, I’m getting close…”

“You can do it, come on, come on baby, fuck!” You could hear the rhythmic slapping as Dieter fucked his fist. His balls were tightening as he neared his peak. “Let me hear you come, wanna hear all those pretty sounds.” 

“Ohhh!” You moaned and whimpered as your orgasm crashed over you. It was a strong one, wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you as your walls clamped around your soaked fingers. 

Dieter came with a loud grunt as his cum shot out, coating his chest and stomach and then dribbling over his knuckles. You watched, continuing to pulse and clench at the delicious sight. Your pussy was still throbbing and because of the weed, you still didn’t feel satiated. 

He exhaled, looking over at you and noticing your fucked out yet still needy expression. Your chest was rising and falling as you bit your lip, looking at all of the cum decorating his torso. 

He didn’t say anything, just nodded with his head, an invitation for you to join him. There was only a split moment of hesitation before you pushed off from the bed, slinking across the floor and crawling up onto his plush mattress. He smiled warmly, his eyes wide and seeking as they traveled across your body and then down between your legs. 

Without any more direction, you decided to take matters into your own hands and straddle him. Swinging one leg over his and climbing up his body, your wet cunt pressed down against his tummy. He groaned, feeling just how soaked you were.

“Damn…” he exhaled with a smirk. 

Your cheeks reddened just slightly, but then you moved your hips. The sensation was overwhelming as you felt your own arousal combined with his slick. “Oh fuck…” you gasped out as you continued grinding on his stomach. The coarse hairs of his happy trail tickled your clit each time you pulled your hips back, and when you moved them forward, you felt your hole clenching around nothing. Your hands were planted on his chest as you looked down at him desperately.

“Fuck, you’re hot.” His hands came to rest on your hips as he looked at you. 

You could feel his spend coating your pussy as you continued to grind against him. The added slickness felt incredible and goosebumps arose across your body, hardening your nipples into two peaks that were now visible underneath your thin satin pajama top. 

Dieter’s eyes moved there immediately and his hands traveled up. His fingers gently tugged at the hem of your shirt. “This okay?” 

You nodded eagerly and then he gripped the bottom of your top, pulling it up and over your head. He looked at you one more time as he started to lean forward toward your tits. You nodded again, but this time with a whimper as you slowed your movements against his tummy. 

He moved his hands to your lower back, supporting you as he sat up slightly so that he could take one of your nipples in his mouth. The warmth of his mouth had you moaning again as your hands moved to the back of his head, running through his curls. 

“Mmm…that feels so good…” Your hips were slowly moving in circles against his tummy. Dieter leaned back, pulling you down with him so you could continue grinding as your tits hung in his face. He sucked on them eagerly, switching back and forth as his hands accompanied the movement of your hips. 

You finally got the angle just right, tilting your hips and feeling the plush of his lower tummy rubbing repeatedly on your clit. “Ohhh…oh I think..I think I’m-” 

You stopped talking, focusing on the overpowering feeling of your second orgasm that was beginning to take shape. Your fingers pressed against his chest as you began to quiver against him. You could feel his half-hard cock nudging your ass as you continued to ride him through your waves of pleasure.

“Oh, just like that…god, you look incredible…” Dieter’s eyes were glued to you, watching your mouth drop open and your eyes squeeze shut as you released your arousal all over his stomach. He reached a hand down, dipping it between your bodies and then bringing his fingers back up. They were shiny with your combined wetness and your mouth stayed open as he slipped his two middle fingers inside of your mouth, wiping them against your tongue. 

“Mmm,” you moaned, swallowing down the salty and sweet taste. 

When you finally composed yourself enough to slide off of him and look at him, he was giving you a dopey smile, still laying back against the pillow. “Feel good?,” he asked. 

You nodded and laid down beside him. He moved his arm out, allowing you to sidle up to him and rest your head on his shoulder. He smelled good, and the warmth he offered had you closing your eyes again already. 

He chuckled, “Hey sleepyhead, I think I’m gonna need a shower after all that.” You opened your eyes and looked down at his chest and stomach that were glossy from your combined arousals. 

Blushing, you looked up at him and asked, “Can I join you?” 

“Hell yeah.” He got out of the bed, taking your hand and walking with you to the luxurious bathroom. His cock was slowly coming back to life and you didn’t miss the mischievous smile on his face as he turned the water on and looked back at you. You decided that maybe you could be flexible about your one night stand rule. 

He set his beer aside and stood, hip protesting as he crossed to the door and checked the peephole. Through the distorted fish-eye lens he saw a figure leaning against the wall, shoulders hunched, water streaming off the worn leather duster in rivulets. When the figure lifted his head just enough for the dim hall light to catch his face, Tim’s stomach dropped.

Shane.

He looked like a drowned cat. Hair plastered to his forehead, blood mixing with rainwater running down the side of his face. His bottom lip was split, fat and dark. He looked smaller than Tim remembered, like the last couple months had carved more out of him.

Tim opened the door. Shane didn’t step forward right away; just stood there dripping on the worn welcome mat. His good eye found Tim’s, steady despite the damage.

“Got in a serious jam,” he said, voice rough, cracked from cold or pain or both. “Guess I needed a fucking cop.”

Tim stared for a second longer, then wordlessly stepped aside.

Shane moved past him carefully, like every step hurt. Water puddled on the tile as he shrugged out of the drenched duster and let it fall in a sodden heap just inside the door. Underneath, he wore a thin black shirt, soaked through, clinging to narrow ribs and sharp shoulders. He shivered hard, teeth chattering, but tried to lock it down.

Tim closed the door, locked it, then turned the deadbolt for good measure. The apartment was suddenly too small, the air too thick, reeking of coppery blood, leather, and urban rain.

“Jesus, kid.” Tim’s voice came out gruff. “What the hell happened?”

Shane wiped blood and rain from his face with the back of his hand, smearing it worse. “Got jumped a couple of blocks from the shelter. Three guys. I–I owed somebody money.” He tried for a shrug; it turned into a wince. “Didn’t have it. They didn’t like that.”

Tim’s jaw tightened. He crossed to the kitchenette, grabbed a clean dish towel from the drawer, ran it under cold water, then wrung it out. When he turned back, Shane was still standing in the entryway, arms wrapped around himself, looking like he might bolt if Tim made any sudden move.

“Sit,” Tim said, nodding toward the couch.

Shane hesitated half a second before he limped over and dropped onto the lumpy cushions. He hissed through his teeth when his back hit the upholstery.

“Hold that on your eye and your lip.” Tim handed him the damp towel. “Stay.”

Not a dog…” He heard him murmur as he moved down the hall to the bathroom.

Tim grabbed his first-aid kit and pain meds from the cupboard. When he returned, the kid was where he’d left him, head tilted back against the cushion, good eye staring glassily at the ceiling. He looked as if he were trying to steady his breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly, but couldn’t manage it. It kept catching on the inhale. He pressed a careful hand to his ribs.

“Good boy.”

Shane shifted his gaze to glare at him. “Fuck you,” he muttered, but there was no real animosity in it. And was that a blush? Or just the cold?

He sat on the coffee table in front of him, close enough their knees brushed, close enough to smell the copper tang of blood mixed with leather, damp cotton, and fear-sweat. He held out the Advil and a cup of water.

Shane glanced at it, then at the beer on the side table. “One of those would take the edge off better.”

Tim’s lips twitched, but his tone held firm. “No.”

“Man, how old do you think I am? I’ll be 23 in a month!”

“I know how old you are, Shane. Alcohol and head injuries don’t mix.”

“I’m fine.” He said automatically, defensively.

“Uh-huh.” Tim guided the towel aside, his knuckles grazing Shane’s too-cold cheek. “Let me have a look…”

The gash over his eyebrow was ugly, jagged, still dripping, but manageable. Most of the blood was coming from his earlobe; someone had ripped one of the heavy-gauge rings out, leaving the soft flesh torn, ragged.

“Damn.” Tim poured antiseptic onto a gauze pad. “Guess they got a souvenir.”

“I’m gonna kill that motherfucker next time.”

“Oh yeah?” He cupped Shane’s jaw with his free hand, thumb resting just under his pulse point. The contact was small; it shouldn’t have felt so intimate. “You think it’ll go better next time?”

Shane’s good eye flicked up, meeting his in brief defiance. “Three against one, I told you. If I got him alone…”

Tim pressed the pad to the wound over his eye. Shane sucked in a breath, but didn’t pull away. Their faces were inches apart; Tim could feel his breath, warm and tinged with cigarette smoke.

“Maybe don’t discuss premeditated murder with a police officer, Shane.”

Shane’s split lip curved, almost a grin. “Whatcha gonna do? Arrest me?”

Tim rolled his eyes, pulling the pad away to smooth butterfly closures over the deepest part of the cut. He reached into his shirt pocket for his glasses, slipping them on so he could see the torn earlobe properly.

“Well, shit…” Shane said.

Tim paused, eyebrows lifting. “What?”

Shane didn’t say anything, but his good eye glinted with…was it amusement or something else?

“Oh fuck off,” He pressed an antiseptic-soaked pad to it, applying steady pressure. Shane flinched, hands clenching into fists against the cushion. Blood soaked through almost instantly, but after a bit the flow ebbed, and he removed it.

“This needs stitches,” Tim said flatly. “I’ll do what I can, but you’re gonna have a nice little notch if it isn’t properly treated.”

Shane huffed a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well. ER’s gonna want a name, a permanent address, and a magic insurance card I don’t have.”

Tim didn't argue. Just did his best with liquid bandage and steri-strips, hoping it would hold. “Three, right? You know any of ‘em? Get a good look at their faces?”

Shane’s gaze slid away. “It was dark, raining. …One had a shitty neck tattoo. I wasn’t exactly taking notes while they were introducing my face to the pavement.”

“You said you owed money. To who?”

“Someone impatient, clearly.” Shane’s tone stayed light, but the tremor in his hands hadn’t stopped. “Does it matter?”

Tim sat back, studying him. “How’d you find my place, anyway? I gave you my number, not an address.”

Shane’s good eye came back to him, and that sly look returned.

Tim held up a hand. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”

“Smart man.” Shane’s smile thinned. “Guess I should’ve called first…you said call.”

Tim began gathering the bandage packaging and bloodied gauze.  “It’s okay, kid.”

Silence fell. Rain drummed harder against the windows. When Shane spoke again, his voice had dropped lower. “Been thinking about that night. The holding cell. You, staying.” His throat worked, words coming out tight, “I keep replaying it, more than I should...”

Tim stilled for half a second. “You’ve had a rough night,” he said quietly, “not exactly the time for confessions.”

“Maybe. But I’m not high, so I mean what I’m saying.”

Tim exhaled slowly. The space between them felt charged, like the air just before lightning. Shane’s soaked shirt clung like a second skin, every sharp line of him visible. His good eye kept drifting to Tim’s mouth, then back–a silent dare.

“Let's get you out of those wet clothes,” Tim said finally, standing.

Shane’s smile returned, smug now. “Pervy old man…”

Tim ignored this, offering him a hand. “You want to catch pneumonia on top of everything else?”

Shane didn’t move right away. He watched him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Come on, kid.” He pulled him upright.

Shane staggered, catching himself against Tim’s chest for a second. “Sorry,” he murmured, straightening.

Tim guided him down the short hallway to the bedroom. It was sparse, bed made with military corners out of habit, the dresser scarred from years of use, a single lamp on the nightstand throwing warm amber across the walls. He crossed to the dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and took out a pair of soft gray sweats and an old, faded Smashing Pumpkins concert tee. He held them out. “Here, these might fit.”

Shane eyed the shirt, then Tim, smirking faintly. “Still just a rat in a cage, huh?”

“Saw ‘em live at the Garden in ‘96, you wish you’d been there.”

When Shane still didn’t take them, Tim set the clothes on the bed and turned, moving toward the door. “I’ll wait in the hall.”

Shane’s hand caught his wrist, light, tentative, fingers cold. “Don’t.”

Tim froze. Looked down at the grip, then up at Shane’s face. The soft, more open expression he found there made his throat tight.

“Stay, please… Don’t want to be alone.”

Tim stifled a sigh. This kid was trouble. Big trouble. But he stayed anyway, back against the doorframe, arms crossed like it could keep some distance between them.

Shane worked the rings off his fingers one by one, dropping them onto the dresser with soft little clunks. A thick silver band, a thinner one with some kind of carved sigil, another with an oversized skull. When he turned his left hand to tug free the last ring, the pentagram inked across his palm caught the lamplight–crude, a little faded, the lines uneven.

He pulled the long heavy chain necklace off over his head, then another thinner cord one, wrapping it around the pendant before setting it down, last the chunky ball-chain. The jewelry made a small, glittering pile on the scarred wood.

Only then did he reach for the hem of his shirt. He peeled it off slowly, wincing as the wet fabric dragged, revealing pale skin, stretched taut over ribs that showed too clearly, a constellation of old scars and new–bruises, cuts, faded track marks on the insides of his arms–and those goddamn pierced nipples, soft pink against cold steel.

Tim tried not to look. Tried to keep his gaze on the wall, on the rain-streaked window, anywhere else. But Shane moved like he was half-asleep, in slow motion. Chest rising and falling shallowly, collarbone sharp under lamplight, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing below the waistband of drenched jeans.

It was impossible not to notice. Impossible not to feel the heat pooling low in his gut. Shane wasn’t posturing, wasn’t performing. He was just… letting Tim see him. Raw and unguarded. It felt like surrender.

His sodden shirt hit the floor with a heavy slap. He undid the fly of his baggy jeans and slid out of them. Naked now except for black boxer briefs clinging to narrow hips, his eyes met Tim’s, a question in them he didn’t know how to answer, or wasn’t ready to.

As he bent to tug the sweats on, the lamplight caught the worst of the damage, deep bruising along his left ribs, mottled purple spreading down his abdomen, a nasty scrape across the crest of his hip where it’d met cement.

Tim’s jaw locked so tight his molars crunched. Protective anger surged hot and useless under his sternum. Three against one, on a kid who already looked like a strong wind could knock him over. The desire that came with the anger, hot and shameful and impossible to kill, only made it worse.

Shane straightened, catching the shift in Tim’s expression. He glanced down at himself, then back up. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. “It looks worse than it is.”

“Bullshit.” Tim’s voice came out rough, edged. He forced his fists to unclench. “Motherfuckers didn’t hold back.”

Shane’s mouth curved, small, crooked. “Well, look at you.”

“What?”

“All protective and shit.” Shane closed the distance between them, stopping just short of touch. “It’s kinda cute, Detective.”

Tim snorted, but the sound lacked humor. Shane was shirtless, damp-haired, smelling faintly of rain and antiseptic, close enough that the warmth coming off his skin was impossible to ignore. Shit.

“Not cute,” he managed at last, “pissed.”

Shane’s smile deepened, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “You gonna go all vigilante?” he teased, voice dropping, playful. “Hunt down three random assholes in the rain? For little old me?”

Tim met his gaze. “If I knew who they were.”

Shane reached out, fingertips brushing Tim’s forearm, testing, daring. “You’re sweet when you’re murderous.”

“Shut up.”

Shane laughed. “Make me.”

He wanted to, fucking hell, did he want to. It would’ve been so easy. Pull him in and kiss that stupid smirk off his face, the defiance from his eyes. But there were about a million reasons why that was a terrible idea. Instead, he leaned past the kid, picked up the tee, and pulled it gently down over Shane’s head. The faded cotton swallowed him a second before he pushed his arms through the sleeves. It was still too big, hanging off one shoulder. He looked suddenly younger, more vulnerable. The urge to track those bastards down flared again, but he forced it down, buried it, at least for now.

“Bed,” Tim said, nodding to it, “under the covers. You’re still shaking.”

“Yes, Sir,” he murmured sarcastically, but climbed in anyway, curling up cat-like. Tim pulled the blankets over him.

Shane stared up at him, chewing his lower lip.

“What?”

“Your bed’s big enough for two.”

“That–I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Shane’s dark brown eyes turned puppy-dog-ish, pouty. “I’m freezing, and I feel like shit…please?”

How could he say no? Tim discarded his glasses on the dresser and slid in beside him, pulling the covers up over them both. He tried to keep a buffer of space between them, but Shane shifted without hesitation, curling into him, drawn in by the heat.

“Thank you,” Shane murmured against his chest, voice already thickening with exhaustion.

“Sure, kid.”

Shane’s eyes drifted closed. Within minutes, his breathing evened, the last fine tremors fading as he pressed closer, small weight trusting Tim completely. One hand had fisted loosely in the front of Tim’s shirt, as if even in sleep he needed something to hold onto. His knees were drawn up, body folded in on itself the way a much younger kid might sleep when the world had been too hard for too long.

Tim lay awake a long time after, listening to the rain, feeling the slow rise and fall of Shane’s chest against his, his breath brushing across his cheek, a little sour. The low lamplight smoothed down his sharp edges. The usual guarded, mocking set of his mouth had softened. Dark lashes rested softly against pale cheeks. Without the armor, without the posture, without the constant challenge in his voice, he looked like what he was: twenty-two, hurt, and finally somewhere safe enough to let go.

Little shit.

He’d come here. In the rain, bleeding, half-concussed, he’d still remembered the offer and trusted it enough to show up at a cop’s door. Enough to fall asleep in his bed. Shane didn’t strike him as the type to trust easily. His own interactions with him, as well as the stories from his fellow detectives, told Tim that much. So he must’ve done something right.

Protectiveness and want tangled together until he couldn’t separate them. He wanted to keep him right here, under these blankets, where no one could get another hit in. Wanted to smooth the damp hair back from the bandaged forehead, check the ribs again, make sure the torn earlobe wasn’t still bleeding.

And underneath all of that, shameful, insistent, was the ache to pull him closer, taste the mouth that had been throwing barbs at him all night, call him baby and sweet thing and whatever other soft names would come out if he ever let them. He wanted him safe and pliant and his, at least for a little while.

He comes in late July, when Alabama is at its hottest and most humid— The sort of days you spend sitting on your family’s home back porch with a fan that mostly blasts hot air and an endless pitcher of lemonade; it’s Sunday, a holy day, but the man is there just after mass, with his tool belt and pick up truck— The roof of the barn caved in after a particularly bad storm and although that sort of thing is usually fixed by your father, he’s still recovering from the last time he fell down the old ladder and your mother will not have him climbing that ricketing thing again.

So she offers Joel Miller to the gravity deities instead, on a holy day so hot and humid your dress sticks to your back and your thighs no matter how much water you splash on your face. Your younger siblings manage to refresh themselves a little more by hosing each other down; you’re half tempted to join in but, at twenty-two, your mother makes sure that you know your place. You’re a young woman now, no longer a child that can run and giggle underneath a spray of water on the hottest day of the summer— You must learn how to cook and how to clean, how to serve others rather than tempt them with your wet clothes. 

That demand to serve is how you end up inside the barn when the sun is still high in the sky, balancing a tray with a sandwich and a pitcher of water. Mr. Miller has been slowly but surely making progress on the roof for hours without food and your father scolds you for the lack of christianity at not thinking about thy neighbor’s needs.

“Mr. Miller?” You call out, setting the tray on a bench. He’s sitting in one of the beams, at least twelve feet from the ground, and all you can see is the dark wash denim of his pant legs and the mud-covered work boots. “I got you a sandwich.” 

“I’ll be right there, sweetheart.” He says, his voice strained as if he had something between his teeth. 

You should go back to the house. His food is served, and he knows it’s there— You have no reason to linger but you do, hands smoothing an inexistent crease on your pale pink dress. You’re just… Curious. You saw Mr. Miller from afar, his broad frame towering over your father’s lithe one, and you want to get a peek up close to the mysterious man that has just moved into town. Nothing else, really. So you wait, hands wringing and smoothing your clothes and then tugging at the golden cross on your neck as he slowly climbs down the ladder, grunting when his boots hit the dirt.

He’s just as handsome as you thought he would be. Older, rugged, his face marred with the passage of time and salt and pepper in his beard— Nothing like the boys from your church, all bare faced and chubby cheeked. Mr. Miller is a man in the best sense of the word, broad and thick and tall. His hands are dirty with sawdust, clothes stained with dust and mud, sweat glistening on his face and the hollow of his throat. You can see just a peak of chest hair poking from the opening of his flannel and it’s an incredibly difficult task to look away.

Most importantly, and perhaps the thing that distinguishes him from everyone else the most, is the fact that he doesn’t look away from you. Not when he fills a water glass to the brim, drinking it down in just a couple of swallows. Not when he sits down on a stack of hay and motions for you to do the same, his brown eyes watching you with intent. You’re used to being ignored, glanced over. You’re not sure what to do when someone refuses to look away. You sit down, tugging the hem of your dress down even if it doesn’t slide up, playing with the simple gold ring you wear on your middle finger — the only inheritance you got from your late grandmother — and keep your eyes averted from his face. 

“Is the sandwich any good?” You ask when he doesn’t offer any subject of conversation. You know it’s good, you know your cooking skills are better than your mother’s and you can make something special out of even a simple sandwich, but pride is a sin, so you try to remain humble. “I make the mustard myself.” 

Joel chews slowly, his eyes raking up from your roper boots all the way up to the cross hanging from your neck. 

“Delicious.” 

Heat creeps up your neck and you bite down on your bottom lip, his praise getting to you more than anyone else’s ever did. 

“I uh—” You all but jump up from your seat, unable to keep still. You want to sit back down, to talk to this enigma of a man, to learn anything else about him other than the fire in his eyes and the gravel in his voice but you simply can’t phantom the idea of standing under his gaze anymore. “I have some clothes to wash. I’ll be back later for the plates. If uh— If you need anything else, Mr. Miller, just let me know.” 

Joel smirks as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. 

“Don’t worry, pretty girl, I will. Thank you for the sandwich.”

As much as you tell yourself that you don’t care, you spend the rest of the afternoon waiting with baited breath— You want him to need you, want to see his strong shoulders come through the kitchen backdoor with a request on his lips. You do your chores dutifully, with the same care as always, but Joel’s presence is like a beacon; even if you can’t see or hear him, you know he’s out there, in the barn, and it burns in the back of your brain all day. 

You can’t stop thinking about how he called you pretty girl. You’ve never been the pretty one. You’re sweet, and kind, and good, but never pretty. It stays on the back of your mind, trying to burn into the forefront of it. Vanity is sin. Your body is a temple and you must care for it, yes, but anything further than that is a slippery slope into temptation, and temptation leads to damnation— You’re not supposed to care about such frivolous things, because they will take away the Lord’s place in your heart. 

Still, between loads of laundry and the biscuits you knead by hand, you stop to fix your hair more than once.

It’s almost dusk by the time you see Joel again. Your mother is upstairs bathing the baby, your younger siblings are trying to catch fireflies in the front lawn, your father is somewhere out in the field and you sit in the kitchen, scriptures in hand, not reading a single line— You stare out the window instead, the sun turning bright orange and pink in the horizon. You notice him before he gets to the porch and there’s a good ten seconds during which you don’t know what to do with yourself, fixing your hair and your dress and smoothing the pages of the Bible that you hold more as a prop than a holy book. 

“Hey sweetheart.” Joel calls out as he makes his way through the door, holding the empty tray. You jump from your seat, plucking it carefully from his hands and setting it to soak in the sink; there’s nothing in it that requires soaking, but you can’t help but make yourself available to him, not wanting any other tasks to get in your way. “Think I could use your phone for a minute?”

You can only pray that your face doesn’t reflect the disappointment you feel. 

“Hm… You’d have to ask my father for that. The landline is in his office, and we’re not— He doesn’t like when anyone else goes in there.” You bite down on your bottom lip. “I think he’s out by the orchards.” 

Joel tsks, switching from one foot to the other. “Can’t you just let me in real quick? I don’t want to upset your old man, but it’s a little urgent. I should’a been home by now, my daughter will start to worry.”

“Oh.” 

You feel foolish, your eyes immediately falling to his hands; you hadn’t considered the possibility of Mr. Miller being a married man, but it makes sense— He’s charming, handsome, hard-working. Of course he would have a wife and a daughter at home. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, there’s no tan line as if he removes it for work, but you figure that doesn’t mean much anymore; couples are getting more modern, marriages a little less sacred, and well… He’s a man that works with his hands. Maybe a wedding band would simply get in his way. 

“It’s just the two of us, you see.” He tells you, head tilting to the side so he can catch your wandering eyes. “Her mama passed when she was real young, and I’m all she’s got. We wouldn’t want her worryin’, would we?”

“No, of course not.” You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling, knowing you’ll be praying for hours to repent for feeling so elated at the death of a woman you don’t even know. “Just… Just don’t tell my father, okay?”

“It’ll be our lil’ secret.” Joel winks. 

You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve been inside your father’s office; all of them when you were young, too young to know better— When the physical punishments were more constant, when you kept messing up the rules you weren’t familiar with just yet. 

You haven’t been inside the office since you were twelve. Your siblings come here more often: Joseph specifically, at just ten years old, who is brought to the office for some sort of punishment at least once a month. The black sheep, your mother says. The child that needs a firmer hand and more prayers if they want to remain a family once Jesus returns in all of His glory. 

The room, much like the rest of your childhood home, seems to be frozen in time. There’s a decaying bookshelf on one side, filled with evangelical books that your mother keeps bringing home even though the only book she ever reads is the Bible, the wallpaper yellowed and stained— There’s a square where the wallpaper is lighter and, while you can’t remember what the picture used to look like, you know once upon a time there was a picture frame with a photo of your grandparents in it; the only memory your mother had of her family, which your father took down because it was too close to veneration of idols in his opinion. 

It was one of the few times you’ve ever seen your mother cry outside of the church’s walls. 

The landline sits on top of your father’s carved wooden desk, brown and beige with a thick layer of dust between the buttons— The phone is older than your siblings and younger than you, but not by much. You know your father uses it, you’ve heard him talking through the walls, but it looks so old and worn that you’re surprised it even works. 

“Please be quick.” You tell Joel; you don’t want to bring up the phone bill, it’s rude to talk about money like that, but the last thing you need is your father noticing the strange call when the bill finally comes. 

“Don’t worry, I will.” Joel gives your shoulder a squeeze as he walks past you towards the phone. “Why don’t you stand outside, as my lookout? Just tap the door if you hear anyone else.” 

You shouldn’t listen in. It’s rude, unnecessary, and reminds you of the old ladies at church that always know everyone’s business— And you hate them for it, the way they look down on everyone else and use other people’s wrongs to feel good about their rights. You shouldn’t, you should love them just like Jesus does, but it’s hard when you can feel their eyes and hear their whispers whenever you walk past them. 

You can’t hear anything, no matter how hard you press your ear to the door. Joel isn’t the sort of man that speaks loudly from what you’ve seen, but the silence that comes from the room is odd. Your father is quite soft spoken but the walls are thin enough that even he can be heard, even if it’s impossible to make out what words are being said. The first thing that crosses your mind is that, maybe, his daughter isn’t picking up. Maybe she’s not home, or maybe she’s busy with something else and Joel is in there, receiver to his ear, listening as it rings and rings. But then he steps out of the room not even five minutes later, thanking you for helping him. He tells you that his daughter is fine, that she’s going out with some friends and he can stay for a little longer, just until it gets too dark to work. Joel squeezes your arm as he walks back out, the pads of his fingers rough against the soft skin of your bicep, leaving you puzzled and warm all over.

Later that night, when the house has quieted down and you’re alone in your bed, you can’t erase Mr. Miller from your mind. The way he smiled at you, his smell of sawdust and his deep brown eyes— His voice alone had been able to shake you to your core, butterflies flipping around your stomach and sending you into sinful thoughts with a single praise. 

Your grandmother warned you about men like him. Beautiful men, sent by Lucifer himself, to deviate well-behaved women— She’d told you, on her few and far between moments of lucidity, how the Devil would come knocking at your door one day, with soulful eyes and easy smiles, and how he’d charm you into Hell if you were not careful enough. 

Your snakes between your thighs before you can second guess yourself, staring intently at the sliver of darkness that you can see from your half-open door — no closed beddoors are allowed in your house, but you’ve set it shut just enough to pretend it was the wind if your parents complained about it. At first you’re just trying to make sure the hall is empty but, as your fingers run slow circles over your clit, you can’t help but picture Joel on the threshold, hair mussed from a hard day of work, his flannel stretched thin over his shoulders. You think back to his gravely voice, how he’d called you pretty girl and sweetheart, and you wonder if he’d say it again with your naked body underneath his. You think of his full lips on yours, soft and warm where they lay scorching hot kisses, his cock pushing into you. 

You come with one hand on your pussy and the other over your mouth, swallowing down the name that threatens to spill from your lips.

You think Joel Miller might be the Devil himself. 

And Hell doesn’t seem like such a bad idea if you get to feel his big hands between your thighs.

You hear about the movie from the teenagers at the youth group that weekend. You’re too old to partake in the group but you’re always lending a helping hand, setting up meetings and baking goods for them, giving advice to the younger girls and helping the pastor with whatever he needs that weekend. You’re busy refilling their cups of soda while they chat after the sermon and it’s the word hunk that catches your attention— You stall, just a little, taking more time than necessary with stacking the napkins. The ‘hunk’, it seems, is a cute actor from a horror movie that is screening at the local movie theater. One of the girls says she wants to watch it because she just loves Drew Berrymore, while the other says she wants to see it because of the dreamy main actor. One of the boys nods, says he’s seen it already and that it’s the best horror movie he’s ever seen. 

You have a soft spot for the horror genre. Always had, since you were a little girl and you found a forgotten VHS tape of Carrie. It’s strictly forbidden in your household, of course, because those sorts of media are the devil’s work and only serve to weave immorality into society and you know that, you know that, but… 

Well, you still think about Carrie’s blood soaked prom dress and the murderous look in her crazed eyes and just how much you rooted for her in those moments. How much you’d seen yourself in her shoes in the years to come, during those harsh teenage years and how you thought that being forgotten and neglected by your peers was certainly better than having tampons thrown at you. 

And, even though you try with all your might, you can’t help but see a little bit of your own parents in Margaret White. 

On Monday evening you walk past the movie theater on your way home from one of the babysitting jobs you take here and there. Your parents aren’t expecting you home just yet — You’d been babysitting for the Mortons that night and your mother knows their date nights tend to run late — and you find yourself standing in front of the movie poster, unwilling to walk away. 

Scream. 

Your stomach is tied into a hundred tiny little knots as you move to the counter, purchasing your ticket and then a small bag of popcorn. It’s wrong and exciting at the same time, your knees trembling as you find your seat at the back of the movie, shoulders hunched; you pray that you don’t run into anyone you know, pray that the rumor mill doesn’t run off and it feels like you’re committing the absolute worst of crimes but, at the same time, it feels like an invisible noose has been removed from your neck.

You leave just as the credits roll, head down and shoulders up, trying to sneak out before the lights turn on. There’s a light mist pouring down, enough to frizz up your hair but not enough to get you wet, the streets empty this time of night. Your watch says it’s 8:39, which means you have about ten minutes to get home before your mother starts to complain that is getting too late and might decide to tell the Mortons to pay you more the next time— You’re almost jogging on the sidewalk, clutching your bag to your chest, cold finally starting to seep in when Joel pulls up next to you, his old truck lulling on the sidewalk. 

“Get in.” He says, pushing the passenger door open. “I’ll drive you.” 

You should say no. You should smile, and thank him politely, and then go on your way; proper young women don’t climb into strange men’s cars— You’ve heard the stories, know it ends in pregnancy or death or something worse, and you know that your father would most likely take you into his office if he found out his oldest daughter had been driving around alone in a car with a man that isn’t him or the pastor but after a night of reckless behavior, accepting a ride from a man you technically know doesn’t seem like the worst transgression. 

And it’ll get you home in time. 

“Thank you.” You smile, rubbing your hands together. “I didn’t plan for the rain.”

Joel turns the heat on and you can hear your mother in the back of your mind, berating you that you’ll get sick; it feels like just another tiny rebellion when you put your palms up to the hot blowing air, relaxing as it warms your clammy skin. 

“How was the movie?” 

“I wasn’t at the movies.” Your tongue feels twice as big when you chuckle. “That’s— Unbecoming. I babysit every so often, and the Mortons were running late from their date night. I’m uh— I’m usually home earlier.”

“You need to learn to lie better, pretty girl.” Joel’s eyes dart from the road to you. “I caught you just as you walked out.” 

You bite down on your bottom lip, heart thundering so fast inside your chest you think it might crawl out of your throat. “It— It was a scary movie. I didn’t know. I— I wouldn’t have gone if I knew it would be so… Sinful.”

Joel hums and you can tell he doesn’t believe you. You wouldn’t believe it either, really, and you’re ashamed of getting caught in such a terrible lie. 

“Please don’t tell my parents.” You say, turning to face him. “They’re… They can get real strict about this sort of thing.” 

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.” You’re just a little put off by the switch in conversation but also incredibly glad to steer away from focusing on your wrongdoings. 

“Then there’s nothin’ to tell ‘em. You’re a grown woman.”

Your face burns with embarrassment and you finally look away from him, letting your eyes fall down to his arms, dusted with dark hair and prominent veins. 

“You seem to be the only one that thinks so. I don’t think my father will see me as a grown woman until I’m married off.” You hate how bitter, how petulant you sound, but you can’t stop yourself, the words slipping out of your mouth like a confession. “He only sees me as an adult when it’s convenient for him.” 

“I reckon that’s a dad thing.” Joel says, his fingers thrumming on the steering wheel. “I still see my Sarah as my baby. You just gotta show ‘im you’re not a kid anymore, he’ll get used to it eventually.”

“How old is Sarah?”

Joel is silent for so long you wonder if maybe he’s one of those absent fathers that don’t even know how old their own child is, even if he hasn’t shown himself to be the type. 

“She’ll always be thirteen to me.” 

It’s such a specific answer that it makes you even more curious, your head cocking to the side; you open your mouth to press for more but Joel reaches for the radio, turning the volume up and drowning the cabin with the classic rock and pitter-patter of the soft rain. 

The silence makes you realize you never answered his question in the first place. 

“The movie was incredible.” You say, trying to shake off the mortifying feeling of being rude to this man that has been nothing but kind to you. “It’s called Scream.”

“Horror flick, right?” Joel smiles and, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s proud. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to be into slasher movies.” 

You wring your fingers on your lap, unsure of how to answer him— He says it like it’s a compliment, even if you’d never take those words for something good. 

“Have you ever seen Black Sabbath?” Joel asks when you don’t answer. He doesn’t seem mad at your silence, but you still feel bad. “It’s an older one, but it’s good, a buncha different horror stories together. The first one is very similar to Scream, I think you’d like it.”

You’ve never heard of that movie before and, for a moment, you consider lying and pretending you have just to save face— But Joel doesn’t seem to judge you, he doesn’t ask with the same tone most people do, as if not knowing something popular was a moral failing on your part; you’re used to it, really. It had been even worse in school, where the girls would act as if you were an alien for not knowing the name of a cool actress or a new band. 

“I— No, I haven’t.” It’s what you settle for, in the end. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. “It sounds fun.”

“We can watch it together sometime.” Joel licks his lips and your eyes can’t look away from the way his bottom lip shines. “I gotta put my Blockbuster card to use.” 

“Oh.” His offer makes your chest warm up and your heart explode into a wild gallop inside your chest. You’ve never been to a boy’s house before, even if classifying a man like Joel as a boy is laughable. “Won’t your daughter mind?”

Joel’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the road in front of him. 

“No, she won’t.”

Two weeks later, on a Friday afternoon, you lie to your mother. You go with the least inconspicuous lie, which is that you’re babysitting for Joel. You doubt his daughter is at babysitting-age but your mother doesn’t seem to care much, just waving you goodbye as one of your siblings tugs at the hem of her dress, demanding attention. Joel is still at the farm, still slowly repairing the roof, and he gives you a ride; you have the perfect excuse on the tip of your tongue, the argument of him needing to shower and fix himself before whatever it is that he has to do and needs you to babysit, which you don’t know what it is because Mr. Miller’s personal life is none of your business and all you know is that he’ll be home late but, again, your mother doesn’t seem to bat an eye. Your father in fact clasps Joel’s shoulder, thanking him for his kindness— Joel makes a little joke about ‘headin’ in that direction anyway’, to which your father laughs harder than you find necessary. 

It’s only then that it dawns on you just how much they trust him— How much your parents like him, for some reason. It’s confusing, and off-putting, but you decide not to look a gifted horse in the mouth: If it means less questions, you’ll gladly accept it. 

Joel’s home is a small, one story house in one of the shadier neighborhoods; it looks stuck in the past, the outside looking more like a cheap 60s house than the newer McMansions you’d see in the nicer neighborhoods— Not that there were many around town, anyways. Most of your town felt like Joel’s home, everything with some degree of decaying, stuck in the past as if the new millenia wasn’t just a few years away. 

The house is dark and empty when you walk in, and you remove your shoes by the door even if it doesn’t seem like something Joel and Sarah practice— There’s no shoe rack, just a rickety table where Joel throws the key of his truck without a second thought. 

The house barely looks hospitable. You think it’s probably because of how recently they’ve moved in, empty in a way that lacks furniture, no personal touches anywhere yet. In the carpeted living room there’s a green plaid couch, a stained coffee table and a small yet bulky television, the VHS player balancing on top of it. The walls are bare apart from a loopy wallpaper that is probably older than you, not a single potted pant or throw pillow or indications anyone lives there. 

The only personal touch is a picture on the coffee table. It’s not framed, thrown loose on top of the dark wood next to a used coffee cup; you sit on the couch, knees drawn together, and look at the photograph carefully while Joel busies himself in the kitchen with soda and snacks— The photo is at least a few years old, a younger Joel smiling with his arm thrown over the shoulders of a teenage girl, her curly hair poking out at the sides of a pale pink french bonnet. They don’t really look alike, the girl’s skin darker and her smile fuller, but you recognize her as Sarah immediately— For all of their differences, her sweet eyes are a carbon copy of Joel’s. She can’t be older than thirteen in the picture and, when you turn the photo around, it reads ‘Dad and I — winter 1989’ in loopy, purple ink. 

There’s a heart in the ‘i’ of winter, and you think it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You look up when Joel’s frame shadows the entrance to the living room, holding two Dr. Pepper glasses; he looks stricken, his face a little pale as he stares down at you even if you can’t understand why. 

“Sarah’s really pretty.” You say, placing the picture back where you found it. “She’s not home tonight?”

Joel clears his throat, frozen for a second longer before he finally comes close. “Sleepover at a friend’s house.” 

“I can’t wait to meet her. She seems like a sweet girl.”

“You will.” Joel nods, his voice a lot more somber than you think the conversation requires. “Soon enough.” 

The movie is beautiful. It’s an Italian film from what has to be the sixties, but it pulls you in from the very first scene: A beautiful woman, alone in her house, her undressing ritual of the night cut short by a menacing voice on the telephone saying she’ll be dead before morning comes. 

The movie is tense, claustrophobic even, but you have a hard time focusing on anything other than the woman— She’s gorgeous, even in despair, and there’s something so utterly sensual about her that it has you squirming in your seat. 

“She’s really pretty.” You say eventually, sipping your Dr. Pepper. Joel sits next to you, close enough that you have trouble breathing; his legs are sprawled in front of him, arm draped over the back of the couch. You’re not touching, but barely. The last time you sat this close to a man you’re attracted to was while you still attended youth group, sitting next to the twenty-something year old pastor that only had eyes for the prettier girls— Still, you’d been sweaty and nervous then, just as you feel now. 

“She is.” Joel agrees, and there’s something in his voice that makes you unstick your eyes from the screen and turn to him. 

He’s staring directly at you. The intensity of his gaze makes your stomach flutter and you can’t hold his gaze for more than a moment before you look away, busying yourself with the straw of your Dr. Pepper; it tastes a little funky but you down it anyway, not wanting to offend Joel— He doesn’t seem like the type to be drinking diet sodas, but you figure that maybe the soft drink belongs to Sarah and he doesn’t want to drink alcohol in front of you. 

Joel seems like a beer drinker, you think. There’s a very strict no alcohol policy in your home, but you can see Joel coming home after a long day of manual labor, kicking his work boots by the door and throwing himself on the ratty couch; in this fantasy you’re right there, in a pretty dress, bringing him a can of ice cold beer before settling next to him. 

You try to settle next to him the same way you’re imagining, staring at the screen without properly watching it, far too aware of the man sitting next to you, radiating warmth and Old Spice towards you. You miss a chunk of the movie and then suddenly there’s another lady there, just as beautiful, though not nearly as innocent. By the time the first story ends, you’re a little drowsy, your eyelids taking longer and longer to open with each blink. 

Still, even in your sleepy state, you don’t miss how the final kill has no blood on screen. It seems like such an oversight it has to be on purpose and you frown, unable to name the discomfort you feel. 

“He didn’t bleed.” You say, the sentence cut off by a small yawn. “I really wanted to see ‘im bleed.” 

The words don’t strike you as odd until after you’ve already said them and you tense, waiting for the joke or the odd look but Joel doesn’t give you any. He just hums, nodding. You yawn again before he can respond, and Joel cracks a smile at that. 

“Tired, sweetheart?” 

“A little.” And then, because you don’t want Joel to feel like he might’ve chosen the wrong programming, you say: “I’m liking the movie, though.”

“That’s good.” He says, his voice just a little flat— Almost as if he isn’t listening to you at all. You frown, turning to look at him; out of all the people in your life, Joel has been the only one that shows a proper interest when you speak. 

Joel is staring at the half-drunk soda in your hands. His face is clouded by something that you’re fairly certain to be annoyance, brow furrowed and lips downturned underneath his mustache. And then he catches you looking and it’s gone, his face melting into a pleasant smile when he taps his thigh.

“C’mon, finish your drink and lay down.” 

“Uh— What?” You’re not sure you get his order, heat and embarrassment exploding through your belly; he taps his thick denim-clad thigh again, mirth shining in his eyes. 

“ ‘S fine, sweetheart. Sarah falls asleep on my lap all the time, we ain’t got nice pillows for the couch yet. Drink up ‘n’ lay down.” 

You’re fully aware that you shouldn’t— This is a stranger, an older man that is asking you to lay your head on his lap and you know you should know better but… Nobody has ever looked at you the way he does, the soft lighting from the television reflecting on his face. And, well— The mention of his daughter shifts the situation a little bit. 

You’d never fallen asleep on your own father like that, but he wasn’t exactly known for being a warm person, let alone a comforting one. Maybe this is what your relationship with your father is supposed to be, you tell yourself, downing the last of the funky Dr. Pepper before scooting down on the couch, gingerly placing your head on his thigh. It’s comfortable despite the rough denim, Joel’s leg warm and strong underneath your cheek. 

“Good girl.” Joel whispers, the words settling somewhere deep into your chest. He brushes the hair away from your face, already staring back at the tv when you look up, his body entirely at ease, as if having a young girl’s head on his lap was the most normal thing in the world. 

And you tell yourself again: Maybe this is what it’s supposed to be.

You wake up on Joel’s bed the next morning, and you feel like death. Your head pounds, and your body feels like you’re trapped in Jell-O as you drag yourself to the bathroom; you don’t vomit but it’s a close call, washing your face with cold water before Joel pops in on the bathroom door. 

“Mornin’. I made breakfast.” He says, leaning against the threshold. He’s changed clothes, his salt and pepper hair still wet and slicked back, a dark blue flannel stretching over his chest. “You okay? Yer not lookin’ so good.” 

Your stomach rumbles, half hungry, half nauseated. He frowns, coming close and pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. Your body recoils, hip bumping painfully against the corner of the sink— You don’t even notice until after you’ve done it, your body pulling away on instinct. 

“I feel sick.” You tell him, using that as an excuse as to why you’re suddenly pulling away. 

Truth is, you’re scared. Your head is foggy, feeling too heavy on your neck— You’ve only been drunk once, when you were twelve and had stolen a bottle of Jim Beam with your best friend; the beating you’d gotten had left you feeling worse than the hangover, your body black and blue for days afterwards. 

You feel as hungover as you did back then, except this time you didn’t drink. You think back to the odd taste of your soda, the way Joel had been pushy to get you to drink, how he barely drank his. You don’t want to accuse him of anything, you really don’t, but you’ve heard enough stories of silly girls who get too drunk and put themselves in danger to not consider it. He cocks his head to the side, just a little. 

“You’ll feel better after you eat.” He says, giving you a small smile. Joel steps back, not crowding you inside the small bathroom anymore. “You fell asleep halfway through the movie, I brought you to my bed and then slept on the couch. Maybe you were already feeling a little sick yesterday?” 

“Yeah.” You run a hand over your forehead. “Maybe.” 

“C’mon sweetheart, let’s eat and get you home.”

You arrive home a little after nine am, and the farm is already bustling. Joel drops you off with a well-prepared lie, apologizing profusely to your mother for not letting her know you’d be gone for so long, telling her about how he didn’t have a phone line yet, with being so new to town, and then singing a thousand prayers about how you’d been so kind to Sarah and how much she loved you— He spews a story of you falling asleep on the couch after a movie marathon to which your mother twists her nose — all movies belong to the devil, for all she cares — but she accepts gracefully the exorbitant amount of money he gives her “for her troubles”. He talks for so long and smiles so sweetly that your mother swoons, even giving him a slice of pie for the road while you run inside your house two steps at a time, ready to wash off last night from your skin. 

All hell breaks loose after Joel leaves. Your mother berates you, talking in hushed, sharp whispers about what the church would think if they saw you leave a man’s house in last night’s clothes, how she had to lie to your father and how she might as well go to hell because of you— She calls you a whore, her face purple from lack of proper breathing and anger as she spits the word at you even after you swear to her that nothing happened; you almost tell her the truth then, you almost say you’re scared and that you can’t remember a single thing that happened after Joel had you laying on his lap and how you woke up in his bed but you don’t. You know she’d spin it, know she’d blame it on you and then she’d tell your father and most likely your pastor and the consequences of your confession might be worse than living with such a terrible secret.

After so many years, you hate that you’re still surprised by your mother’s antics. She doesn’t tell your father about what happened, and she still treats Joel with kindness whenever he comes over to work on the roof, but her attitude towards you change— She doubles your chores and triples her affection with your siblings, the gap of the coldness she has towards you only becoming even more blatant. She barely speaks to you unless it is to bark orders, and she keeps a close eye on whether you’ve been doing your devotional and your prayers as if you’re ten years old again. 

By the time she brings up the doctor’s appointment, you’re so relieved that she’s back to addressing you as a human being that you don’t even question it. You’re not sick, but if it means your mother is talking to you again, you’ll go to as many doctors as she’d like. 

You should’ve known better than that. 

The two of you take the bus — your mother doesn’t drive, because women shouldn’t have to drive — two towns over, and you’re extremely anxious by the time you stop at the clinic: The only reason your mother would take you to a doctor so far away is to make sure nobody in your town hears about it, which can only means it’s going to be bad. 

It’s a women’s clinic, which you quickly learns it means a gynecologist; your mother had never allowed you to visit one before, saying those clinics incentivise sins like pre-marital sex and abortions, but she drags you inside with her head held high and hawk-like fingers clutching both your arm and her cardigan, almost as if the dirtiness of sin might rub off on the both of you just by sitting in the waiting room. 

“The doctor” she says, putting enough judgement in the title that it makes you want to curl in on yourself. “is going to make sure you haven’t done anything you’re not supposed to. And so help me God, girl, if I find out you’ve laid with that man—”

“I didn’t.” You say, hissing through your teeth. She’s clearly taken aback by your tone, but your heart is beating so fast you barely have time to control your anger. “I told you already.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Your mother’s nails dig into the skin of your forearm, her tone sharp and hushed. “You’ve always been a liar.” 

The exam is every bit as invasive and painful as you expect it to be, your eyes full of unshed tears as you lay on the table, a man between your bare thighs for the first time in your life. You’re thoroughly humiliated by the time you finally leave, after your mother has made the doctor reassure her three times that your hymen was still in place, as if he was as much of a liar as you.

You’d never admit to her or anyone else but, in the end, you’re relieved to know that Joel had been telling the truth all along.

Alyssa Brown’s murder is the first one your town had in over fifteen years. She’s a nineteen year old supermarket clerk that went to school with you, engaged to her high school sweetheart and a faithful member of your church; the entire town is devastated, setting up a memorial that spreads through fifteen feet in front of her home, flowers and pictures and letters from almost every citizen adorning the white picket fence. They find her the morning after you’ve slept over at Joel’s house, drowned in her bathtub, a gash on her forehead that was done by a lampshade the police finds broken in her bedroom, arms tied behind her back and the only part of her body that is underwater is her head and shoulders— No forced entry, no fingerprints or DNA left behind to identify who had so violently killed her and you sit through dinner while you hear your father rant about how the police force was woefully unprepared to handle such a terrible tragedy; your mother prays and cooks for her family, and then gives you a snark remark on how Alyssa, ‘unlike some girls’, had certainly gone to Heaven.

Alyssa’s funeral is the second you ever attend, following your grandmother’s funeral when you were a child, and it is every bit as uncomfortable as you expect it to be. You sit with your family, dressed in black pressed clothing, and offer her family condolences you don’t really mean: Alyssa had been a stranger, just a name you heard in passing, and you truly don’t feel the grief the rest of the town seems to feel. 

Her funeral is also the first time you’re alone with Joel ever since your little movie night— You’ve seen him around the farm, but your mother doesn’t allow you to be in the same room as him, always sending you into the fields or the cowshed whenever he’s on the property. But she’s busy that day, holding Alyssa’s mother in her arms and singing comforting hymns, and doesn’t notice when Joel saddles up next to you after the ceremony. 

“What a tragedy.” He tusks, taking a swig from a metal canteen whenever nobody is looking. You can smell the whiskey on his breath when he leans in, way too close to your face. “Such a beautiful girl, taken from her family like that.” 

Jealousy blooms deep in your stomach, bitter and overwhelming. You twist your nose, turning your face away from him to hide how much his words affect you; Joel isn’t looking at you anyway, his eyes glued to the coffin at the center of the room. 

“She looks just like you, don’t you think?” He takes another drink from his canteen before shoving it back in his pocket. “Same eyes, same hair color. Could’a been your sister.”

You hate how right he is. You’d never noticed it before but, standing in the back and staring at the poster of a dead girl’s face, all you can see is your own. It’s not just the eyes or the hair— Her smile is just like yours, the same thickness of your lips and the same slope of your nose. Her skin is a little darker but not enough to wash away the similarities, her hair texture the exact same as yours. 

You feel like you might be sick. Joel waits a beat, and then another, before he adds:

“Could’a been you.”

next part. (coming soon)

“Watch him. Seriously.” John passed him the glass of water and Tylenol he’d requested.

“You really think he’s dangerous?” They both watched Shane for a second, making obscene gestures in the mirror and smirking at himself. “He looks like just another punk kid.”

That wasn’t quite true. He happened to have a smooth, angular face, cheekbones that could cut glass, plush pink lips, and big brown eyes–shit.

“I don’t know. Spooked Connie after one conversation. And that Satanic mumbo-jumbo he was spewing at Jones…”

Tim glanced at him. “Don’t tell me you believe in that shit?”

John shrugged, “No, but he does. Gave me the creeps, if I’m honest.”

“Well, alright.” Tim squared his shoulders. “Wish me luck, I guess.”

He pulled the door back and stepped through, letting it swing shut behind him with sharp finality. The kid stiffened, though he tried not to. Tim’s shoes echoed hollowly in the cement box as he approached the table.

The kid’s eyes were trained on him instantly, like a prey animal in a snare. Pupils blown wide, dark pools swallowing most of the dark brown iris. Pills, maybe. Oxy, benzos…

Tim set his file, along with the water and pain meds, on the table, just out of Shane’s reach.

“Alright, Shane–”

“Dio.” He corrected instantly.

Tim drew his glasses from his breast pocket and put them on before opening his file to read. “Name: Shane Alexander Morrissey, Date of Birth: April–”

“Okay, man. Whatever.”

Tim glanced at him over the rim of his glasses. “Sure you don’t want me to keep going? I mean, there’s some real interesting stuff in here…”

“Can we skip the bullshit?” Shane picked at the taped edge of his bandage absently. He wasn’t sweating yet. He was breathing steady, but too steady, like he was regulating it on purpose.

“We can, yeah. You tell me what I want to know.”

“I already told the uniforms. I don’t know anything.”

Tim huffed a breath, setting the file aside again. “I thought we were skipping the bullshit, Shane?” He leaned half on the edge of the table, taking the weight off his bad hip, still throbbing from last week’s takedown.​

He tried to hide the wince, but Shane caught it anyway. Kid’s eyes were too quick for his own good. He was doing the tough-guy act now, leaning back in his chair, slouched, or as much as the cuffs would allow. But every muscle in him was tight, coiled.

Tim let the silence hang for a while, long enough for the kid to get nervous, antsy. When he spoke, his voice was lower. “Can I ask you something?”

Shane scoffed. “That’s why I’m chained to this table, right?”

Tim gestured at the piercings and studded jewelry glinting in the harsh light, the shitty pentagram tattoo on his hand. “You really into all this shit? Or is it camouflage?”

“This…shit?” Shane tilted his head, hardware jingling. He inhaled, the motion pulling his thin black shirt tight across his lean chest. Nipple rings. Jesus Christ. What else had the kid pierced?

It was the wrong thought to have. Tim’s throat went dry. He pulled his eyes away, back up to meet Shane’s. Just in time to catch his sly, knowing smile. Dammit.

“Exactly what shit is that, Detective?”

“You tell me.” Tim kept his tone steady, flat. “I got one detective saying you tried to hex him, spewing some satanic mumbo-jumbo.”

“Yeah?” Shane’s laugh was short and bitter, but his gaze moved down Tim’s frame slowly, intentionally, before returning to his face. “He tell you the part where he tried to choke me out?”

The kid’s gaze was potent as physical touch. “Don’t tell me you expect sympathy.”

Shane shrugged. “Not from some pervy old gimp who says mumbo-jumbo unironically.”

“Ah. There’s that winning personality they warned me about.”

Tim eased off the table and circled behind the chair. Not fast, not threatening. Just close enough to make the kid’s shoulders tighten. Close enough now he could smell the gel in his hair, his cheap cologne, the sweat beneath it.

“You’re nervous.”

Shane didn’t turn his head, but the muscle in his jaw jumped. Tim filed that away.

“Man, this is bullshit. Just like last time. How’d that turn out again?”

He had a point there; Tim couldn’t deny it. Turned out the ‘victim’ was wanted under various aliases in multiple states for sexual assault. Probably would’ve done a number on both Dio and his girl if he hadn’t stopped him when he did. In light of that, it was ruled self-defense. Case dropped. Whole thing had been a shit show for the department, but none of it was relevant now.

Tim leaned in behind him, close enough his breath stirred the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck. “You’re clearly a smart kid, Shane. Not smart enough to learn your lesson the first time, though.”

“I’m 22.” Shane’s voice dropped half an octave. “Not a kid.”

“To this pervy old gimp, you are.”

Shane’s lips twitched. “What lesson, then?”

“Stop hanging with, what do you call ’em? Posers?”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“Rats then. People who turn on you when shit gets hot.”

“That’s all there is, man.”

Tim stepped back into Shane’s line of sight. “So this warehouse on 14th,” he said conversationally, leaning on the table again. “What were you and your little coven doing there?”

Shane’s posture stiffened for a second, but then he leaned in, face alarmingly close to Tim’s thigh, looking up at him with those big dark eyes.

“Why, Detective…” Shane murmured, warmth breathed across Tim’s thigh. “You interested in our working?” His smile sharpened. “I could show you sometime.”

Tim held his gaze. Kids broke into abandoned buildings all the time. Smoked a little, scared each other with spooky rituals. Harmless, mostly. But his tone sent a small shiver down Tim’s spine.

“I’m mostly interested in why your working ended with a warehouse on fire.” He let that sit a moment. Then added, almost casually, “Fire marshal says it started inside.”

“Well, if he said it, it must be true.” Shane huffed, still picking at the edge of his bandage.

“That hurt?” Tim nodded at his arm.

Shane shrugged noncommittally.

Tim slid the glass and pills toward him. Shane hesitated, as if waiting for the catch, but after a few seconds he scooped the pills up–awkwardly, cuffs scraping the table–and tossed them back, followed by the water. He downed the glass in a few gulps, throat working.

Tim looked away a second too late.

Shane set the glass down slowly. “Enjoying the show, Detective?”

“Three of your friends got second-degree burns; one’s still in the burn unit. And every single one of them is pointing at you, saying you knocked over the kerosene when you got ‘possessed’ or whatever the fuck story you were selling.”

Shane’s posture stiffened. “They’re lying.”

Tim held his gaze. Shane didn’t look away.

“Three separate statements, same story. You chanting, then flames.”

Shane exhaled sharply through his nose. “I was there, yeah. But I didn’t start the fire.”

Tim pulled the chair out and sat. He studied the younger man’s face in the flat light. “You’re high.” It wasn’t a question.

Shane’s mouth curved wryly. “You gonna add public intoxication to the charges?”

“If you keep bullshitting me.” Tim tapped the table once. “You were high then, too. Weren’t you? That’s why your friends are so quick to hang you out to dry. ‘Dio was fucked up, man, he didn’t know what he was doing…’ Convenient.”

Shane’s jaw flexed. “I didn’t start the fire, and I wasn’t the one who brought the kerosene.”

“Then tell me who did. Unless you want to take the fall for them.” Silence stretched; neither moved. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. “I need a name, Shane. Or I start treating you like the arsonist your friends say you are.”

Shane held his gaze a moment longer before dropping his eyes to the table. When he spoke, his voice was so low Tim had to lean in to hear it. “Blade…I guess his real name’s Brent. Check his phone, 929 area code, starts with 386, I think. That’s all I got.”

Tim wrote it down, nodding once. He crossed the room, reached for the door.

Behind him, Shane spoke. “This is gonna fuck me over, Detective. You know that, right?”

Tim’s hand paused on the door handle. “Yeah, I know.”

—

That had been what? Eight months ago? Turned out the kid’s information was legit. Brent’s phone led them to a mid-level fence in Queens and several other cases of insurance arson. Shane got misdemeanor trespass and reckless endangerment; they dropped the rest. Two hundred hours community service, mandatory twelve-step meetings everyone knew wouldn’t do shit.

Now Tim was watching him again through the same one-way glass. Time hadn’t been kind to the kid. He was cuffed and chained to the chair again. He looked thinner, sharper, clothes hanging off him like they belonged to someone else. His cheekbones were hollow, his hair shaggier, dirty, brown roots showing beneath the black, nail polish mostly chipped away.

Tim rubbed his jaw, stubble rasping under his palm. He sucked in a breath as he straightened and pushed through the door.

“Fuck.” Shane muttered when he saw him. “You gotta be shitting me…”

“Long time no see, kid.” Tim set the file down and leaned on the table.

“Miss me, Detective?” The words came out half challenge, half something else.

“Was hoping I wouldn’t see you in here again.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Shane’s gaze slid slowly down Tim’s body, then back up. “You look good, old man. Still limping?”

Tim ignored the jab and the heat crawling up his neck. “Let’s get down to it. Uniforms roll up, victim bleeding out. You, ten feet away, covered in blood. Seems cut and dry to me.”

“I’ll tell you exactly what I told those fucking pigs. I didn’t stab anyone.”

Tim leaned down, forearms braced on the table so their faces were level. “If you didn’t, who did?”

Shane didn’t lean back. “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.” Tim straightened. “What were you doing in that park at 3am, Shane?”

“It’s Dio.”

“We’ve been through this before, Shane. What were you doing in the park?”

Shane swallowed, throat working. “Sleeping.”

“In February? Try again.”

Shane’s eyes flicked to the one-way glass, then back. “No colder than the shelter, and a hell of a lot quieter ‘til your boys showed up.”

The kid was holding it together fairly well, but the pulse in his neck was jumping. “You look like hell, Shane.”

“Fuck you.”

Tim didn’t flinch. “Tough guy routine didn’t work last time, and it’s not gonna work now. Not when there’s a body on a slab, and your name’s already top of the list.”

Shane swallowed again, harder this time. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Then tell me who did.” Tim pulled out the chair opposite and sat, elbows on the table. “Because right now, your story’s looking thin. Real thin.”

Shane stared at the table, breathing shallowly.

“Clock’s ticking, and my patience is running out.”

Shane’s fingers curled into fists. “I was sleeping,” he repeated, but the words sounded smaller now.

Tim let the silence stretch another ten seconds, watching the kid twitch like he was about to crawl out of his own skin. Shane kept his eyes on the table, but the bravado was fraying.

“You’re shaking,” Tim observed quietly.

Shane’s head jerked up. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Tim leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Pupils like pinpricks, skin’s clammy, you’re chewing the inside of your cheek raw. How long since your last hit?”

Shane’s laugh came out cracked, too high at the edges. “Whatever, man.”

Tim pulled a battered pack of Reds and a lighter from his trousers pocket, setting them on the table between them.

Shane’s eyes locked on them instantly.

“They won’t fix what’s wrong with you, but they might take the edge off.”

The leg bounce picked up speed. “You trying to play good cop now? After all the ‘clock’s ticking’ shit?”

“I’m trying to wrap this conversation up before you start puking on my shoes.” Tim tapped the pack once with a fingertip. “Your call.”

For a long beat, nothing happened. Then Shane’s cuffed hands slid forward, his knuckles grazing Tim’s hand as they closed around the pack. The contact was brief, hot, before Tim drew back.

Shane fumbled a cigarette out, and got it between his lips, but his hands shook so bad he couldn’t work the lighter. Tim took it from him, flicked it, and held the flame steady. Shane had to lean close to reach it. Tim had the strangest urge to cup the back of that pale neck.

The first drag was desperate, cheeks hollowing. He held it in his lungs, then exhaled through his nose in a long stream. The smoke curled up toward the buzzing light. His shoulders dropped a fraction.

“Better?” Tim asked.

Shane took another long pull and didn’t answer right away.

“I wasn’t lying about the park,” he said finally. “Couch-surfing ran out. Shelter’s full of assholes. I was sleeping there.”

“In February?”

“Yeah, in February.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “Guy came up to me. Started talking. I talked back. That’s it.”

Tim waited, leaning in a fraction. “Talked about what?”

Shane’s jaw flexed; he kept his eyes on the table. “Does it matter?”

“It matters if he ended up bleeding out ten feet from you.”

“I didn’t stab him.”

“I didn’t ask if you stabbed him. I asked what you were doing with him at three in the morning.”

Shane scrubbed a hand over his face; the chain rattled. “He wanted something. I was considering it. He got handsy. Pinned me. I couldn’t get him off.” His voice stayed flat, detached, but the words came faster toward the end. “Then someone else showed up. Deep voice. Started yelling. I didn’t see a face. I was busy trying to get out from under the first guy.”

“Some guy came to your rescue? Who? Batman?”

“Fuck you, man. Did I say that? I said he started yelling at the john.” The word slipped out; neither acknowledged it.

“Yelling what?”

“Threats. Money. I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly taking notes.”

The cigarette had burned down to the filter. Shane stared at it like he didn’t know how it’d happened. He crushed it out on the table’s edge, leaving a black streak.

“Take another if you want it.”

Shane barked a laugh. “You think a few smokes are gonna make me confess to something I didn’t do?”

“Just tell me what happened, Shane.”  

“I did, goddammit! I’m telling the truth!”

“I need something more, Shane. A description, anything.”

Shane’s hands curled into fists on the table. For a second he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was lower, thinner. “It was dark. He was on top of me. I couldn’t see shit. I heard the other guy, and then the knife–” He stopped, throat working. “There was blood everywhere.”

He reached for the cigarette pack, fingers shaking, then seemed to forget it. Instead his hand closed around Tim’s wrist. The grip was tight, almost painful. Their eyes met.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Shane whispered. “I swear.”

Tim didn’t pull away. “Alright, kid, I hear you.”

The door groaned open. Shane flinched and dropped his hand. Tim straightened, jaw tightening.

“Rockford.” John poked his head in, tired eyes flicking first to the kid, then Tim. “Need you a minute.”

Tim swallowed back a curse. “Hang tight, Shane. Don’t go anywhere.”

Shane’s laugh was a dry rasp. “Where the fuck would I go, exactly?”

Tim stepped out, letting the door thud shut behind him. His mind was still on the heat of Shane’s grip and the way the kid’s eyes had gone dark and pleading. The hallway smelled like burnt coffee, old sweat, and industrial cleaner that never quite won the fight.

“What?”

“We think we got the perp. Tried to stick up a liquor store a block from the park. Knife still had wet blood on it when patrol rolled him.”

Tim’s stomach clenched. “Did you send it to the lab?”

“Yeah, rush order. Tech said prelim match could be back in an hour or so.”

Tim glanced through the glass. Shane was hunched now, elbows on the table, forehead almost touching the scarred metal. His fingers had finally closed around the cigarette pack. He was shredding it methodically, peeling off thin strips. Curls of paper drifted to the floor around his boots.

“Little shit’s telling the truth,” Tim muttered.  

John shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just good at playing victim. Hold him till we know. Can’t cut him loose and have him rabbit on us.”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s coming apart in there. Withdrawal’s hitting hard. If we keep him much longer without something, he’s gonna puke or seize or both.”

John gave him a flat look. “He’s a material witness at best, suspect at worst. We don’t run a detox center.”

Tim sighed shortly. “Yeah. I know.”

He pushed back inside, closing the door behind him. Shane didn’t look up. His breathing was shallow, ragged; every few seconds, a shiver ran through him like current. One cigarette remained from the pack he’d shredded, bent.

Tim slid back into his chair. “We got a knife with blood on it, might be a match. Lab’s running it now.”

Shane’s head jerked up, eyes wide. “So I’m free?”

“Not yet, gotta wait for the match. Could clear you, could bury you. Either way, you’re not walking till we know.”

Shane pressed the heel of his hand to his stomach, hard, like he was trying to hold something in. “Fuck. I can’t–I can’t stay here like this.” His voice dropped, thin. “It’s hitting bad, man. Like knives in my guts.”

The kid’s hands shook as he tried to straighten the last cigarette. It snapped in half. Shane stared at the broken pieces, then dropped them. His breathing hitched like he was fighting not to cry or puke or both.

“You know I didn’t kill him, right? I–I’d never…” A full-body shudder ripped through him; he doubled over, forehead to the table, chains clinking.

Tim reached across the table and slowly closed his hand around Shane’s forearm.

Shane froze, but he didn’t pull away.

“I know.” His thumb brushed once along the inside of Shane’s wrist, over his racing pulse. “Hang on, kid. Just a little longer.”

Shane's breath hitched at the touch, his eyes locked on Tim's, dark, pleading.

"Alright." Tim straightened, coming around the table to unlock his cuffs from the bolt. "I’m calling it. We're moving you.”

Shane blinked, confusion cutting through the haze. "Moving me where?"

"Lock up ‘til the lab comes back,” he explained, “come on.”

Shane swayed as he stood, chains clinking. Tim’s hand came up automatically, taking his elbow, steadying him. The kid’s skin was too warm, almost feverish. He kept his hold, escorting him out of the room and through the maze of fluorescent-lit hallways toward lockup.

Shane glanced sideways at Tim, "This your idea of chivalry, Rockford?”

Tim didn't rise to it.

They reached the holding area, and the detention officer buzzed them through. He glanced over the paperwork, then stepped forward, “I can take him from here, Detective.”

“No.” Tim’s grip tightened briefly on Shane’s arm. “No, that’s alright. Just page the on-call. Kid's crashing hard.”

Lock up reeked like bleach poured over piss, but at least the cells were only half-full tonight. A couple drunks snoring it off, a tweaker muttering to himself in the corner, a woman curled fetal on her bench… Tim led Shane to a single cell and opened it, guiding him in. As soon as he removed the cuffs, Shane collapsed onto the thin mattress. He curled in on himself, knees to chest, breathing ragged.

"Doc'll be here soon." The door closed with a metallic clang. He leaned one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, watching Shane through the steel grid. His condition was worsening by the minute.

"You ever been through this shit?" Shane muttered, not looking up.

Tim had once. An undercover gone wrong, but that was a lifetime ago. "Yeah, sucks."

Shane let out a weak laugh that turned into a groan. "Understatement of the year, old man." He shifted, uncurling enough to meet Tim's eyes. "You really gonna stand there and watch me fall apart? Or is this where you ride off into the sunset?"

Tim’s jaw clenched. He felt the pull, the urge to unlock the damn cell and... what? Hold him through it? Bullshit. He was a cop. Shane was a satanist druggie mess, with eyes that promised trouble Tim didn't need.

"Hang in there," Tim murmured. "Doc's coming."

It took fifteen minutes, but it felt like hours, before the on-call nurse showed up. A no-nonsense woman in her fifties named Carla, scrubs rumpled from the night shift. She carried a medical kit, a clipboard tucked under her arm. Tim briefed her: withdrawal symptoms, history of oxy and benzos, but could be something worse these days.

Carla peered through the bars. Shane was doubled over now, dry-heaving into the steel toilet. "How long's he been like this?"

"Building for hours, but hit full tilt in the last thirty."

She nodded. Tim unlocked the cell, and she stepped inside. "Alright, Mr. Morrissey. Let's get a look at you."

Shane flinched at her touch but let her check his vitals–temperature, pulse, blood pressure, the works–muttering curses under his breath the whole time. Carla jotted it all down in her notes, then straightened, glancing back at Tim. "He's in rough shape. Methadone could ease it, but I need the doc's sign-off. He's not seizing yet, but if it escalates..."

"Page him.” Tim pulled the door open for her. “Tell him it's on my req. Material witness, can't have him incoherent if we need more from him."

Carla nodded, stepping out.

Ten minutes later, approval came through for low-dose methadone, enough to taper the edge.

"Under the tongue," she instructed, handing it to him. "Let it melt. Should kick in pretty fast."

Shane took it with shaky hands, eyes flicking to Tim as he complied. The relief wasn't immediate, but the promise of it softened the tight lines around his mouth immediately.

“Keep an eye on him,” Carla instructed. “If he gets worse–seizures, vomiting blood–page me. Otherwise, ride it out."

She left, footsteps fading down the long hall. Tim pulled up a folding chair and settled onto it.

Shane lay back on the bunk, one arm draped over his eyes. "Thanks,” he said after a long silence, no sarcasm this time.

"Don't thank me yet. You're still here till the lab clears you."

Shane shifted, arm dropping so he could look at Tim sideways. The methadone was starting to work its way in, tremors easing. "What is this, guarddog duty?"

Tim leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Someone's gotta make sure you don't choke on your own bullshit."

Shane's lips curved slowly, almost seductive despite the wreck of him. He rolled onto his side, facing Tim fully, one hand trailing lazily down his own chest. "Or maybe you just like the view."

Tim swallowed, but held his stare. "Careful, kid. You're playing with fire."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

The methadone took its time, but it worked, smoothing off the worst edges. Tim stretched his legs out, taking the pressure off his hip. Neither spoke; silence was easier, safer.

An hour and some change later, the radio on Tim’s belt crackled. Lab results were back, a preliminary match. The blood on the recovered knife was the victim’s, type and markers consistent. There was no secondary contributor in the visible stains. Prints on the handle were partial, smudged, unusable, but under the circumstances, the evidence was more than enough to clear Shane. Tim keyed the radio once, acknowledged, then stood.

Shane lifted his head at the sound, eyes clearer now, though still tired. “That it?”

“Yeah.” Tim unlocked the cell gate with an echoing clang. “Blood matches, you’re in the clear.”

Shane pushed himself upright, testing his limbs. He stood, wavering for half a second before steadying. He stepped out of the cell.

Tim jerked his head toward the stairs. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

They moved through the station in near silence, out of the holding area, through the bullpen where a couple night-shift detectives glanced up, then away. Shane kept pace, shoulders loose for the first time since they’d dragged him in.

They stopped at booking, the woman behind the desk returning his belongings to him. Shane pulled on his duster immediately, the oversized coat hanging off his lean frame. He checked his pockets, swearing under his breath when he realized whatever he’d been looking for wasn’t there. “Hey, they took my–” he started.

“Don’t push it.”

“Shit, man, don’t you know NYC is supposed to be 420 friendly now?” He held Tim’s gaze now, less guarded, a little mischievous, still carrying that low simmer of heat.

Tim’s pulse kicked. “Cops are still cops.”

“Bastards…So, this where you tell me to stay out of trouble? Go to meetings? Find Jesus?”

Tim huffed a short breath, almost a laugh. “Would you listen if I did?”

Shane’s mouth curved into a small, crooked grin. “Probably not.” He stepped closer, too close. “But it’s more tempting…coming from you.”

Tim didn’t step back, didn’t speak.

“Thanks for, you know...”

Tim nodded. “Don’t make me do it again.”

Shane started toward the doors.

“Wait,” Tim blurted before he could stop himself, “You got a phone?”

Shane stopped short. “I…it’s disconnected.”

Tim fished a scrap of paper and pen from his pocket, jotting down his number. “This is my personal cell. Call me. If you’re ever in a serious jam.”

Shane’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re serious? Call a fucking cop?”

“Sometimes you need a fucking cop, Shane.”

“Happy birthday, old man,” you say with a grin, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. Lucien closes his eyes, relishing in the way your lips feel against his skin, and he aches to tilt your chin towards him and claim your mouth in a searing kiss.

“Oh, c’mon. Is forty five really that old?” he asks, his hands wrapping around your middle, toying with the hem of your shirt as if testing to see if he could get away with his fingers skating over the strip of exposed skin at your back. 

“Yes,” you respond matter of factly. “In fact, I made our dinner reservation for 4:30 because I know how much you love an early bird special.” You finally pull away and set your bag down on his kitchen counter. 

“Ha ha,” he says dryly, rolling his eyes, already missing your embrace. “Very funny. What time is our actual reservation at?”

“9:30.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he asks teasingly. 

You break out into a smile and Lucien swears his heart skips a beat. You’re stunning. “You love me, birthday boy,” you jest, poking him in the chest.

Lucien looks down at your finger and then back up at you, nodding. He wishes he could tell you the truth – how you make him feel and how you’ve made his life better in every way. “Of course I do,” he admits. Lucien licks his lips and lets his gaze flit down to your mouth, his brain screaming at him to close the distance and just kiss you already. He finds himself unconsciously leaning in but then you’re gone, moving towards your bag and removing a silver party hat that you place precariously on top of his head.