grab a mug

in some ways, it all feels like a bad dream. the memories of what you've done play on a loop in your mind, a private screening of a horror movie starring you as the crazed killer, blurring a little more with each replay. you're no idiot, you've seen macbeth before, it almost feels like an inevitability that your own thoughts will drive you slowly insane.

if the man- simon- was still here, you could distract yourself. make your mind too busy to think about how it felt when the gun kicked in your hand, the sounds of bodies hitting the floor, the ringing in your ears as the shot rang out in your hallway. but instead you're alone, with only your own mind to keep you company.

true to his word, simon cleaned up the place. there's no blood to be found, no dislodged photos, and the bullet holes have been located and patched with plaster sometime in the middle of the night. there's no note waiting for you, but you know already where he's gone- off to finish the 'job' he keeps talking about. he'll be back, it's a sureity- but there's no telling when.

logically, you know you have to keep busy. it's the only thing you've found aside from drinking yourself into oblivion that helps stave off the bad thoughts and sad memories- and you can't afford to drink right now. that fat wad of cash was put straight to the mortgage, although most of it was probably put towards interest. shit, you hope simon comes home from this job with some money, all you have left in your pantry is a paltry amount of bisquick and various ingredients that you don't have the energy or willpower to combine into a real meal.

cleaning is the only thing to do around the house when you're alone and broke, so that's exactly what you do. it only takes you a day to do your regular cleaning routine throughout the entire house, but when simon doesn't come back that night- or even the following morning- you decide to do an even deeper cleaning to keep yourself sane.

your plan, however well-intentioned, is a total failure. snippets of the past play like an unwelcome movie reel in your mind, undeterred by the way you're cleaning the tile in the bathroom with an old toothbrush. every memory feels like a frozen icepick being jammed up through your belly, stabbing your heart and lungs along with it- and the pain of it is enough to leave you sick and breathless as you listlessly wander through the house, rag in hand.

"sweetpea?" you can practically hear your dad's voice echoing in your mind as you scrub, his confusion and fear apparent in his voice. in your mind's eye you hurry down the stairs and into his room, where he'd stared at you from his bed, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"have you seen my daughter?" he'd asked, and even on your knees in the bathroom, you have to bite your life to stop it from shaking.

"i'm sorry, she just stepped out. can i do anything for you?" you'd asked, voice wobbling with the tears you'd so valiantly held back. dad just shook his head silently, rolling over in bed, his back towards you, clearly uninterested in you.

it was the first time he'd forgotten who you were. it wouldn't be the last, or even the most painful- but you remember it as if it were yesterday, the way you'd hovered in the doorway, watching his silhouette blur as your eyes filled with tears that you wouldn't allow to fall until you'd closed the bedroom door behind you.

you tell yourself that your sniffling has to do with the ajax you're scrubbing into the grout, that your watery eyes are just from the chemicals and poor ventilation- but you know you're just lying to yourself. still, as the floors slowly get cleaned and the sting in your knees and eyes gets stronger and stronger, it helps you to focus on the pain so your mind doesn't wander off to dark corners again.

you think you're safe from your own thoughts until you start washing the walls, taking the photos down so you can run a rag over the aged wallpaper. the eyes of the long dead, very recently dead, and few months passed cling to your face uncomfortably like cling wrap over your mouth and nose, suffocating and disorienting. when you finish, you don't hang the photos back up, opting instead to leave them in a pile on the side table, all face-down as you fail to fight off further memories.

stepping out of your bedroom in the middle of the night for a glass of water, only to find dad, sitting at the kitchen table back in the old house, head in his hands, openly weeping. the thick carpet hid your footsteps, but as soon as your feet hit linoleum, the sound of bare feet on plastic startled him into looking up.

"dad?"

"sweetpea, i-" there were tears on his face, streaking his cheeks and catching in the stubble along his jaw. his mouth opened and closed, like the words just wouldn't come out, lower lip quivering as he sniffled, breaths shaking and rattling in and out. his eyes were wide- horrified, the most afraid and distraught you've ever seen him in your life.

it was scary, seeing your normally put-together, confident, brave father shaking and crying like that. you knew something was horribly, irreparably wrong, that nobody could fix it- not if he was sniffling and weeping like this.

he held his arms out for you to hold him, and to this day you hate yourself for hesitating, for being afraid of what it meant. you stood there, staring at him and that desperate, despondent, grief-stricken look on his face, watching him slowly curl in on himself as you stood there, stuck in place.

here he was- your rock, your pillar, the man who kept you safe from everything bad and terrible- having a complete breakdown. even in the moment, you knew things would never be the same after seeing him like that. no longer was he the seemingly perfect, unflappable, solid rock, the perfect patriarch with no weaknesses- practically a god in your childish mind.

from that point on, your dad was just a man, trying his best.

"please." he'd barely whispered. "please, sweetpea."

he sounded ruined. looked it, too, enough that it compelled your little feet forward, allowing him to swallow you up in the biggest, tightest hug he could without crushing you. you were so little then, and he was so big, still clinging to you like a drowning man might try to hold on to a buoy as a last-ditch attempt to keep from going under permanently.

"your mama's gone." he whispered against your hair, voice watery and weak. "she's gone, honey. i can't fix it. i don't know what to do."

the memory knocks you back to your knees, and you sob on the floor, next to a bare wall covered in bright little squares and ovals, the wallpaper having been sun bleached around where the framed photographs had been.

~

it takes an hour to stop crying and start reorganizing the pantry.

it's like all the grief you'd dammed up, tucked away and tried to forget has wriggled its way to the forefront of your mind, drowning you from the inside out, making you sluggish and weak. it's hard to concentrate on moving the older cans of beans to the front of the cabinets, or dusting the shelf liners, or checking expiration dates when you keep getting hit over and over again by waves of sadness that threaten to pull you under the tide.

"look, do whatever you want. doesn't matter to me if you put him in a home or hire a nurse or throw him in a fucking ditch- i've got enough goddamn problems of my own. i'm not handling this one." cam's voice said through the phone as you stared a hole through the worn-down kitchen floor in your old apartment. "figure it out or don't, i don't give a shit."

the memories continue to wash over you like a bitterly cold tide as you scrub out the sink. it's a pit you're in, one that's slowly caving in on all sides, threatening to crush you from every direction. you can't see a way out, can't seem to fight against the thoughts and images that bubble up unbidden, pulling your concentration away from cream of mushroom soup that expired a year ago and forcing you to confront a pain you'd thought you'd buried.

the sound of coughing through the closed bedroom door. it had been persistent at that point- but the doctor said he wasn't sick sick. it was just a side affect of his acid reflux, apparently. still- it sounded horrible, even muffled through the door.

"you good?" you called out from where you were in the kitchen, somewhat absent-mindedly. you already knew he wouldn't respond- it was before eight a.m., he wasn't typically very verbal until after he had breakfast at nine. if at all.

ten minutes later he stopped coughing. fifteen minutes after that, when you went to wake him for breakfast, you found him dead.

that one feels like a knife to the brain, sending you sinking to your knees. fuck the cleaning- you can't keep running anymore, can't keep distracting yourself with the dangerous man who moved into your guest room, can't drink the pain away- can't use any of your usual techniques to stave off the flood of agony that you've kept dammed up for so long.

the sobs roll through you like thunder, wringing tears from the core of you, making your ribs ache and lungs burn as you struggle to breathe through it. grief truly feels like drowning, that awful inescapable inability to take a ragged lungful of air without the fear of choking to death on it. all you can do is crawl across the kitchen on your hands and knees, slowly traversing to your bedroom as you brace for another wave.

"cam!" a stranger's voice called out on the ground floor, startling you damn near to death. it was bad enough having someone else barge into your home without permission, but you'd been in ghost's room,having mustered up the courage to go snooping around and looking for a pair of panties you would have sworn he'd swiped right from the hamper. for a half second you'd thought he'd come home, essentially busting you for prying where you knew in the marrow of your bones you shouldn't have been.

"get the fuck out here cam, i'm done playing games with you, you little shit!" a new voice barked, and your mind immediately decides you're in some serious fucking danger.

they're not going to believe you don't know where cam is, they're going to hurt you to try to find out, they're going to hate the truth when they force it out of you, a voice in your head whispered. there's a handgun just laying on one of your grandmother's doilies, and you grab it with shaking hands.

slowly, you opened the door, only to see a large man with a shotgun reaching the top of the stairs. you can remember almost in slow motion the moment that you knew he saw you. his eyes went wide with surprise, mouth dropping open, presumably to call for his companion.

panic is how you explain what happened next. it was panic that made you forget you had a gun, made you decide instead to rush him, shoving the barrel of his gun away as you used your weight to shove him over the railing, sending him crashing to the ground. panic is what made you stare at his unmoving body until his partner screamed at you and pulled you out of your stupor. panic is what made you swing the gun up and start firing at the partner until he stopped moving.

but when you slowly went down the stairs, gun still drawn- albeit shaking in your hands- and looking over the bodies you'd made? when you'd grabbed them by the ankles and drug them out back? when you'd put an extra bullet in each of their heads just to be safe?

that deliberate.

that was you.

you did that. and there's no taking back the calculated way you'd shut down your emotions for a bit so you could clean up after yourself, doing your best to cover up what you'd done. you can scrub and scrub and scrub, lady macbeth, but you know your sins.

so you count them, all of them, begging god or whoever else is listening for mercy and forgiveness as you crawl into bed and pull your covers over your head. starting at all the times you were late getting dad breakfast and working your way to allowing the man who killed your brother to finger you on the front porch. the demons in your head come out to play, jabbing you with their pitchforks and pen knives as all of your shame and guilt continues to flow freely through you. you've been making so many mistakes lately, allowing your grief and loneliness to transform you into someone completely different than who you are.

a voice in your head begins to whisper-

maybe you don't really love simon. maybe it's all just in your head. maybe you're just lonely broken, and he's taking advantage.

it plays on a loop, over and over, a slight distraction from your other memories as you focus on every interaction with simon, every look, every touch, every conversation. it's hard to say if he's actually good for you, or if he's pushing you into a delusion that allows him to easily take what he wants from you.

he'd showed you how easy it is to kill, and now you're a killer. that has to be his influence, right?

you analyze what you know about simon to the point of exhaustion, wearing yourself down mentally to tire you enough for sleep.

it's hard to say how long you rot in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom before flopping back down in your nest of pillows and blankets. the buzzing in your head is so overwhelming that you don't hear the front door open, let alone the slow, heavy footsteps down the hallway.

it's not even until you feel the mattress dip behind you that you even know someone's there.

"oh, mama. i left too soon, didn't i?" simon's crooning voice cuts through the fog like the lantern of a lighthouse. "had too much time to think and made yourself sick, eh?"

"you're home." you croak, throat dry. when was the last time you had water? or food? it's hard to remember. his presence feels like a light in the dark, helping you realize the state in. you're hungry, sweaty, and your throat is dry to the point of pain. how did you not notice it getting so bad?

"i am." he says simply. "job's done."

"oh." you know what that means- and what expectations he has.

"was gonna fuck you nasty oll over the bloody house t'celebrate, but i think that's not wot either of us needs right now, hm?" that's when you notice it- a bandage wrapped around his middle, a dark red stain seeping through it- and it snaps you out of your malaise like having cold water dumped on you.

"you're hurt!" you sit up quick, and simon just waves his hand in front of his nose.

"and you stink, love. get your arse in the shower while i change the sheets and my bandages." much as it pains you to admit, he's right. you catch a waft of yourself and realize not only are you going to need to shower, but to change the sheets as well.

"but-"

"don't argue. off you pop." he instructs, throwing your blanket off of you. it wafts the ripe, spicy smell of body odor over both of you, and he coughs. melodramatic, you think to yourself.

"you're sure i can't help?" you ask, eyeing his bandage warily.

"shower." he orders, not unkindly. "then make us somethin' t'eat."

every sideways thought you'd had about your relationship and attraction to simon evaporates completely in the light of his return. you have a job to do again, tasks to distract you from your internal conflict. with him right in front of you, your brain stops spinning in circles, focused on accomplishing the tasks set before you. it seems that, like a shark, if you stop moving, you'll die-

so you move.

first to the shower- where you thoroughly wash yourself until the hot water is nearly all gone, scrubbing the soapy washcloth with a ferocity that would remove rust from an old truck bumper- then to the kitchen to make some instant mashed potatoes and meatballs. easy and quick enough to make, while still immensely filling.

simon joins you just as you begin plating, wearing fresh clothes with no visible blood or mud on them.

"smells good, mama. m'starvin'." he says, pressing himself against your back and nuzzling a bit at your neck, inhaling audibly and exhaling on a sigh. "shampoo smells nice. missed that."

the way his voice rumbles, low and deep and right in your ear, gives you a little shiver down your spine. if he felt it, he says nothing- and lets you go with a pat to your hip, dropping down in his seat and loudly digging into his plate. something about the sight of this comically large man eating up your cooking like a starving dog settles something inside of you, quelling the storm that's been raging in your head for god-knows-how-long. he was right, you did overthink yourself to illness, and it seems like simon's presence is the only cure.

your eyes drop to his side, fresh bandages hidden under a clean shirt.

"are you okay?" you ask as you pick up your fork, gesturing towards where his wound is.

"s'just grazed is oll. need a few days t'take it easy and not rip out my stitches, but it won't kill me. no need t'fuss." he says around a mouthful of food. he stops to swallow. "and you?"

ah, yeah, suppose there's no hiding how bad you've been lately, what with the pitiful state he found you in, nestled in your cocoon of blankets and stink.

"i don't know." you say honestly, and he hums in response. "i think i- i've changed-"

"course you have. it's what people do when shit goes bad. be mental if you hadn't." he points his fork at your still-full plate. "eat. you can't fix none of it, no use starvin' over it."

he just makes it sound so simple, like this is the sort of thing that should be easy to move on from. the fork feels heavy in your hand as you eat, small bites over a longer period than normal. simon's helped himself to seconds and polished them off long before you ever finish, but you see him watching you carefully even as he wolfs down his meal and polishes off any hope of leftovers.

his foot hooks behind yours as he sits back to watch you peck at the rest of your dinner.

"used t'be that death was everywhere. not just the old- young people, children, babies. came from oll sorts o'things, war, disease, famine, or just an ill-timed kick from a mule. just a part o'life, innit? brigands would sooner kill you outright than deal with witnesses to their doin's. sometimes food that was just a bit off would take out a while family- or maybe a winter that was a bit colder than usual. i once saw a man die fallin' off his cart and onto a rock. people died oll the time, for no reason at oll. or stupid ones.

this world is still a hard place, sure, but it's grown softer over the years. cleaner deaths. longer lives. healthier babies. osha. o'course a soft thing like you, born into this world, isn't used to death like i am- but it's still the same now as it was then. oll just a part of nature, innit? you did what needed done and paid the price for your freedom. thassoll. no need t'wring your hands about it.

men like that- if it weren't you puttin' 'em down, someone else would've. might've been your brother's wife, or someone she'd hired. or another person they tracked. or their boss. or the police. or even the bloody state. it's just the way of it. don't get your knickers in a twist over a couple dead bellends- police bloody wouldn't."

he doesn't seem to even assume you killed them out of some form of self defense- and what's more, he doesn't seem to care. it feels stupid to be shocked by that, if you're honest. this is the man who killed cam and then helped you dispose of two bodies without hesitation. of course he doesn't care.

"i- i just-" you swallow and put your fork down, trying to find the right words. "i'm not used to being- like that. how i had to be. i hated it- hate myself for being that way."

"what way?" he says, as if he isn't currently the living, breathing incarnation of the very sensation you're trying to describe.

"cold." you settle on. "it was just- handling business. i- i even- i mean, when i took them out back. what i did. in the head."

you can't make yourself say it, and his responding grin sends a chill down your spine. a flashbang of a memory hits you; figures laid out against the snow in the dim evening light, muzzle flashes briefly illuminating their faces a milisecond before the bodies jerk and dark liquid pools behind their skulls, night-black against the blueish snow.

"i saw. i was proud." his foot rubs up and down the back of your ankle affectionately. "still am. my soft girl, takin' care o'business f'me while i'm away. didn't expect that from you- but i like it oll the same."

it soothes your frayed nerves, but only a little. your appetite is still shot, and you can feel the worry creeping back into the corners of your mind.

"what if more people come?" you ask nervously. simon shrugs, unbothered.

"we'll handle it." he says simply, as if talking about shoveling the snow from the driveway and not taking human lives.

"it's really that easy?" you ask, bewildered, and his grin softens.

"freedom is leased, not owned, mama. gotta keep payin' for it, over and over- and i will. f'both of us." he smirks, looking deeply pleased. "coz it's me n'you forever, innit?"

something about the way he's looking at you like a prize he's won paired with his declaration of forever opens something in you, like popping the cork from a barrel and letting the wine drain free.

it doesn't even matter to you if he's taking advantage of you somehow, or if he's turning you into someone else. simon's presence- his guidance- makes you feel whole again. when he's around, you're a person, not a mass of feelings all writhing against one another like a pit of eels. when he's home, you're someone who's capable, smart, and can handle tough jobs- like being lookout when bodies are being disposed of.

"yeah." you breathe, feeling lighter. it really feels like it's going to be okay somehow. simon was right, there is no fixing what's already happened, you just have to keep going and try to do better- and what's more, the burden of consequence won't land on you alone. simon will help you through whatever's next. forever.

"finish that up. you'll need your strength f'when my stitches oll heal up." he teases with a glint in his eye, chuckling to himself as he stands to take his place at the sink.

heh, heh, heh.

you watch simon wash the dishes as you slowly peck at your dinner. broad shoulders work under a tight black t-shirt, stretching the fabric taut as he moves. he's really quite the specimen- not just tall but big, with arms so large you can see the little cuts he had to make on the inside of his sleeves just to get them over his biceps.

you're barely cleared your plate before simon sweeps it away, setting it in the sink and silently urging you to your feet, big hands pulling at your arms until you're standing and in his arms, his broad chest pressed against your back.

"let's go to bed, yeah? need t'just hold my girl for a bit. been away too long." he murmurs against your temple, and you nod silently, ecstatic to feel his body heat leech through your shirt as he holds you close. he doesn't let you go so you can walk to the bedroom- instead opting to keep your back pressed to his chest tightly as he marches you forward, practically bullying you into bed, positioning you exactly how he wants before he crawls onto the mattress behind you.

a thick thigh shoves its way between your legs and a strong forearm hooks around your waist, broad body plastered up against yours with a deep and contented sigh- the kind an old dog makes while laying in a sunbeam after a good long walk.

"tomorrow mornin' you're gonna make me pancakes. naked, with my cum leakin' from your cunt." he whispers in your ear, rocking his hips forward ever so slightly. "s'oll i've been dreamin' of, love. you n'me, left alone at last t'do as we please."

"do you think we'll really get that?" you whisper back. "does 'happily ever after' really exist?"

he aspirates a laugh against your neck.

"fuck no." he chuckles in the dark. "but it don't mean we can't have somethin' nice between the shitshows, eh?"

it's a blend of realistic and hopeful that you've never experienced before. if what little he's told you about himself is anywhere near true, simon's lived a entirely un-sheltered life. if anyone knows the ways of the world and navigating it, it's probably him.

"true." you murmur, shifting slightly to burrow a little deeper into your pillow. you're not tired, per se, but there's something about the way simon's presence makes you relax that makes sleep seem inevitable. it's as if his proximity is the permission your body needs to release the tension that's been plaguing you this entire time. and that loosening of tension feels incredible.

the two of you lay there together, legs entwined, bodies warming fresh sheets, your ass pressed to his hips, your breathing growing slower as sleep creeps up on you, pulling your mind into unconsciousness right as simon murmurs something so lowly against your shoulder that you almost miss it.

Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, “Oh, look what I got” or “Look at what all my work has amounted to.”

That’s never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know you’re worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).

Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldn’t be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether. 

It’s not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.

But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold. 

And it happens that way with your heart too.

There’s a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine. 

It’s always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the café with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.

The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them you’ve even grown to recognize over time—students bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.

You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.

They’re harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choice—some boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them. 

Then, to him. 

He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down. 

Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence. 

Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that there’s a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun. 

You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him. 

It’s no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that you’ll cross paths again. 

And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time. 

That isn’t unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that you’ve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; you’re no different. Neither is he. 

It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when you’ve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but it—

It grows.

It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat. 

You don’t entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear you’ve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as him—broad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache. 

He’s objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy? 

Want may not be a strong enough word for what you’re experiencing. It’s more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the café to order his coffee. 

You don’t know what to do with yourself when he doesn’t show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that you’ve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesn’t owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesn’t, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.

You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. It’s pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that you’ve become infatuated with wasn’t at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day. 

Forgive yourself though. Nothing you’ve ever wanted has come without pain.

What you don’t expect is for him to finally notice you. 

It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as you’re about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and he’s already pushing on the other side. 

“Traffic jam,” he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. “Here, I’ve got you.”

He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.

You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you can’t move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present. 

That wasn’t part of the plan. It’s thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it. 

And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mind—the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips. 

The only problem is—

Now he knows who you are.

You don’t expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. He’s not the one that’s been pining these past few weeks. He’s not the one that’s been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger. 

But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time he’s in. 

It’s one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.

Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the café and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.

His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. It’s what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zeno’s Achilles never could. 

“Hey stranger, no dance today, huh?” he asks, clearly addressing you.  

You don’t know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks you’ve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadn’t considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return. 

“Sorry?” you croak.

He gestures with his thumb towards the door. “From the other day, remember?”

You don’t know how you’ll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. “Right. Haha. I guess the dance floor’s closed today.”

You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.

For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way. 

The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. It’s too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out. 

And he will figure you out. You haven’t exactly played it subtle. 

Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you don’t even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable. 

You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right.  

Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you.  

His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you. 

At first, it’s nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didn’t realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.

Maybe. Or maybe you’re imagining it. 

“So when are you gonna let me take you out for real?” 

That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you can’t seem to suppress. 

“For real?” you repeat.

“On a date,” Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone weren’t enough to wreck you. 

“Oh.” 

You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, he’s already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu). 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died. 

It’s everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldn’t want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you can’t quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat. 

You’ll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely. 

The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you can’t do this anymore. You need to leave—go anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.

But there’s a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land. 

What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isn’t what you want? Do you even know what you want?

Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection. 

But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. It’s the having that’s dangerous. 

You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly it’s too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because he’s deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you. 

Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one you’ve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town. 

To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory. 

Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.

You have to shut your mouth before you—

“A long time,” you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. When was your last date? 

Kyle doesn’t seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. “I must be one lucky man then.”

He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight. 

You assume he means a drink at a bar until you’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch. 

What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch. 

He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. It’s not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design. 

“Do you have, um…any plans tomorrow?” you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm. 

“Nope,” he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now. 

You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.

The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose. 

You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your double’s ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. “If I give you an inch, you’re going to run a mile, aren’t you?” he murmurs. 

There’s a lump in your throat when you swallow. “No,” you lie.

He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts. 

He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy. 

If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they can’t gather themselves enough to retreat. 

That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that. 

He eats pussy like he hasn’t had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost don’t know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory. 

Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread. 

You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons. 

When have you been someone’s ‘poor baby’? Someone’s darling, sweetheart, honey, that’s it, I’ve got you, that felt good, didn’t it? God, you’re so pretty, I can’t believe you let me—

He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again. 

“It’s still sensitive,” you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching. 

“So what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means I’m not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?”

“No,” you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks. 

Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut. 

They don’t stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface. 

Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.

“Don’t—don’t say that,” you gasp.

He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. “You can’t tell me that. You can’t tell me what to do.”

Whatever this is, it’s nothing like anything you’ve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath. 

Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels. 

He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, and—

You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him. 

What you don’t expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.

“That’s right, baby,” he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day. 

Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. He’s entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly. 

When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin. 

“I can feel your heart racing,” Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.

And why shouldn’t he? Your heart is racing after all. “I’m nervous.”

“I know you are, baby,” he murmurs. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”

It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. You’ve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you. 

“Want me to make this easier on you?” he asks gently. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling. 

And wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do? 

You nod. 

“Okay, honey. Then you don’t have to do it. No telling me to go away. I’ve got it from here.” 

When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you don’t stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone. 

You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up. 

So be it. 

He finds her in the candy aisle, grubby little paws rooting around in a box of gummy worms, pulling plastic packages free with a crinkle and trying to rip them open. Bundled up from head to toe, winter boots, winter hat, even little gloves on strings around her wrists. No parent in sight. 

Odd. 

Where are her parents? 

He waits. He watches. No one appears, and he’s not going to leave a toddler alone in a grocery aisle. 

She doesn’t even notice when he approaches, not until he’s squatting down beside her, tapping her on her shoulder. “What’re you doing?” Her eyes go wide, mouth dropping open, caught with her hand in the cookie jar. 

“Gummies.” She points. 

“Where are your parents?” She shrugs, returns to her pillaging. “What’s your name?” 

“Nori.” She hands him a plastic package, obscenely pink and filled with squishy candy. “Open please.” 

“Are you allowed to have candy?” She nods, peering at him with a frown.  

“Open my candy.” Little dictator.

“Is your mum here? Or dad?” She sighs impatiently, and he has to swallow his laugh. 

“No dad, just mum. Please.” She points at the bag, and he shakes his head. 

“If you show me where your mum is, I’ll open this for you.” She huffs, but then immediately books it, surprising him with how fast her chubby little legs can run.

Once she rounds the aisle, it’s not hard to find you, and she tucks her tiny hand into his. 

“Mum.” She points at the same time you spin around, your face filling with relief, cheeks wet with tears. 

The itch ceases. Complete vanishes. Maybe this is what he needed all along. 

A family of his own. 

You go to your knees in front of him, wrapping your arms around the kid and holding her to your chest, cupping the back of her head. 

“You’re supposed to stay with me, Nori. You c-can’t do that. You can’t walk away from me.” You’re worked up, it’s painfully obvious, wearing it all over your face like a god damn broadcast. 

He only pays attention to it for a moment, before becoming blindingly distracted by your fat arse, hugged by a pair of black leggings, cheeks folded into thighs. If you fell backward, you’d probably bounce. No wonder you have a kid, he muses, you’re perfect for breeding. 

“Found her in the candy aisle, destroying a box of gummies.” You sniffle and shake your head. 

“Nori,” your shoulders slump, tired, exasperated. “You can’t just run off anytime you want something. What if something happened and I wasn’t there?” 

“He was.” She points at Simon and shrugs, the nonchalance pulling his lips into a surprising smile. 

“Thank you again. I swear I let go of her hand for one minute and this is what happens.” 

“It’s no problem.” He gives you another nod and turns away, heading in the opposite direction to pick his basket up and continue his shopping. 

For now. 

It’s easy to spot you in the parking lot. Nori is trotting along beside you and the buggy, holding tight to your hand until you get her situated in her car seat and turn back to your purchases, loading them in the back. 

Wait. 

He loathes having to leave his own car here, but sacrifices have to be made. 

You lock the car before you walk the buggy to the corral, keys fisted in your hand. 

Wait. 

He stands between the vehicles next to your car, hood pulled over his head. The locks unclick, you pull the door open and slide behind the wheel, gripping the handle to pull it shut- 

Just as he grabs the corner of the door. 

“What the fu-“ 

“Slide over.” He rubs your shoulder with just enough pressure, trying to encourage you to listen, instead of fighting. You stare at him, shocked. Confused. Trying to catch up. 

“What the he- heck are you doing?” 

“Don’t make this difficult, sweetheart. Slide over now.” He can see the scream building in your throat, big palm snapping out to cover your mouth, leaning down into your face. “Don’t make it harder for you, or Nori, love.” You’re trembling, but Nori is surprisingly calm, watching with expressive interest. 

“Gummies?” She holds out her hand, eyeing the bag in his pocket, and he smiles. 

“Yeah honey, I got your gummies.” 

“P-please, don’t… don’t hurt us. Please.” Nori’s eyebrows crease, picking up on your distress, and he pats your hip soothingly. He doesn’t want to upset you too much, knowing how hard the adjustment will be for everyone in the coming weeks. Better to start off with cool heads, as calm as you can manage. 

“Everything’s alright baby girl, your mum just needs help driving home is all.” 

“Yep.” You glance at her in the rear-view mirror with a shaky smile as he nods encouragingly. Last resort is flashing the gun, but it’s not how he wants to start off with his wife and baby. As you scooch, he slides in after, pulling the door shut firmly and moving the driver’s seat back to accommodate his legs. 

“Phone.” He gestures to the device cutting into your hand, the one you’re trying to trigger an SOS with, and when you don’t relinquish it immediately, he snags it from between your fingers with a sigh, handing you his instead. “Put your address in.” 

“I… you c-can’t…“ He palms the back of your neck. 

“Everything is going to be okay,” he murmurs, his thumb moving in circles against your skin, “it’s alright. Just put the address in, we’ll talk about everything once we get home.” 

“Once we get home?” The engine turns over, and he peeks over the seat at Nori. 

“What do you think about chicken nuggets for dinner?” She squeals, kicks her feet. 

“Yeah! Nuggets!” You close your eyes. 

“Sound good, mum?” You stare straight ahead, shell shocked, voice barely a whisper as you nod.