C.R.

John Tucker had gotten used to missing you.

At least, that was the lie he told himself on Monday morning, standing barefoot in the middle of his room with his toothbrush still in his mouth, staring at your side of the bed after it had been empty for two nights.

He was used to early practices, away weekends, and you stealing his hoodies before disappearing into your own schedule for hours at a time. He was used to sharing you with classes, friends, errands, family—with all the small, ordinary things that pulled at both of your lives.

But this felt different.

A whole week. Seven full days with you gone, back home for some family thing you'd sworn would be boring—even though you'd kissed him at the door like you knew exactly what kind of damage you were leaving behind. 

You'd smiled against his mouth and whispered, "Be good while I'm gone."

Tucker had rolled his eyes. "I'm always good."

Your hand had slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, your palm warm against his stomach. "That's not what I meant."

And then you were gone.

Now, two days later, Tucker stood in his room, already late for class, trying not to think about the fact that his bed still smelled like your shampoo.

He grabbed his wallet from the dresser and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans, only to freeze.

Something peeked out from the fold—not cash, not a receipt, and not the coffee punch card you kept stealing from him because, apparently, his stamps counted as communal property.

A glossy white square.

Tucker frowned, pulled it free, and stopped breathing.

A Polaroid.

You.

Not your whole face, not enough for anyone else to know—but enough for Tucker. Just the curve of your mouth, your lips parted around the hem of his old gray Briar Hockey T-shirt as your teeth tugged it up, revealing the bare line of your waist and the lace sitting low on your hips.

Black lace, of course.

His favorite.

Along the white border at the bottom, you'd written in your familiar, messy handwriting:

Miss me yet? ♥︎

Tucker stared at it for ten solid seconds before glancing toward his closed bedroom door, as if one of the guys might somehow sense what he'd found through the wall.

"Fuck," he mumbled around the toothbrush.

His phone buzzed against the dresser.

You: tell me you found one

You: before you start worrying, those are for your eyes only 

You: I hid them where only you'd think to look 

You: so maybe don't let anyone dig through your stuff, John

Tucker's thumb was moving before his brain had fully caught up.

Tucker: You put a half-naked picture of yourself in my wallet?

You: half? that's disappointing. I'll have to do better next time.

Tucker: You're unbelievable.

You: I think you misspelled thoughtful.

Tucker: I'm supposed to go to class with this in my pocket?

You: good.

Tucker: Good?

You: yeah. think about me.

He did. 

Through the entire econ lecture, Tucker thought about you.

He thought about the smug little smile you were probably wearing miles away, knowing he was sitting in a lecture hall with your body tucked behind his driver's license. He thought about the black lace hugging your thighs, the way you looked in his shirt, and the way you always played innocent when you knew exactly what you were doing.

By the time class ended, Tucker had barely managed to fill half a page with notes, and by lunchtime, he'd already pulled the Polaroid out three more times—always somewhere no one else could see.

His truck. A bathroom stall. The empty hallway outside the athletic offices.

Each time, his jaw clenched a little harder. Each time, he told himself he wasn't going to react like some horny teenager.

And each time, he failed miserably.

That night, after practice, Tucker found the second one.

You'd tucked it inside his textbook.

He found it at his desk later, freshly showered and dressed in sweats, his hair still damp and a highlighter uncapped between his fingers. When he opened to the chapter he'd marked with a sticky note, the Polaroid slipped out onto his notes.

This one was worse.

So much worse.

You were stretched out across his bed, surrounded by things he recognized instantly: the navy sheets, the pillow you always curled around in your sleep, the corner of his headboard behind you. You'd clearly taken it before you left, probably while he was at morning skate, which meant you'd been there alone, in his bed, planning all of this.

Your knees were spread just enough to send heat rushing through him.

Still no full face. Only your mouth, your throat, and the soft curve of your breasts mostly hidden behind your arms. Your panties were visible this time, thin and dark and stretched over you in a way that made Tucker's grip tighten around the Polaroid.

Along the border:

Study hard ♥︎

A low, disbelieving laugh slipped out of Tucker as he reached for his phone.

Tucker: You're actually evil.

You: which one did you find?

Tucker: The textbook.

You: oh good. educational.

Tucker: You expect me to study with this sitting in front of me?

You: you're smart. multitask.

Tucker: Baby.

You: yes?

Tucker: You're so in trouble.

You left him hanging for a full minute before his phone finally buzzed again.

Another photo.

Not another Polaroid this time. Fresh. Slightly blurred, like you'd taken it in a hurry in the childhood bedroom where he knew you were staying, your shirt pushed up and one hand covering your chest—barely hiding anything and somehow making the whole thing worse. At the bottom of the frame, your mouth curved into a smile.

You: am I?

Tucker leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand over his mouth.

His room had gone quiet.

Beyond the door, the house was still loud—the guys shouting about something downstairs, music thumping faintly through the floor. But inside his bedroom, all Tucker could hear was his own breathing.

He typed something, deleted it, then tried again.

Tucker: Lock the door.

You: already locked.

Tucker: Good girl.

Tucker: Because I'm about to tell you exactly what I'd do to you if I were there.

You answered almost instantly.

You: please.

Tucker's gaze went dark. 

He looked back at the Polaroid—at your thighs spread across his bed, at the taunt scrawled in your handwriting.

Then he started typing.

Not rushed. Not careless. He took his time, because he knew you. Knew how easily his words got under your skin when they came from him. Knew how much you loved it when he stopped being the sweet, patient boyfriend everyone else saw and let that rougher side of him show.

Tucker: I'd put you right back on my bed, exactly like that.

Tucker: Same panties. Same shirt.

Tucker: Except I'd make you keep your hands above your head.

Tucker: No touching until I told you to.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then came back again.

You: john.

Tucker: Already getting worked up?

You: maybe a little

Tucker: Try again.

You: yes.

Tucker: That's my girl

Nearly a full minute passed before you answered, and when you finally did, it was with another picture.

This one was darker.

Lower.

Your panties had been tugged slightly to the side, just enough to make Tucker's breath catch before it left him in a sharp, quiet curse.

You: am I allowed to do that?

Tucker shot to his feet so fast that his chair rolled back and knocked into the bed. He crossed the room, locked his bedroom door, and sent you a picture back—not fully explicit yet, just his hand low on his abdomen, the waistband of his sweats tugged down enough to reveal the sharp V of his hips and the dark trail beneath his navel. Enough to answer your question. Enough to show you exactly what you were doing to him.

Tucker: Keep going, and you'll find out.

By Wednesday, Tucker didn't trust anything he owned. He checked the pockets of his jacket before leaving the house, opened his laptop carefully, and flipped through his notebooks like they might go off in his hands. You'd turned his entire life into a minefield of temptation, and the worst part was that he loved every second of it.

He loved the anticipation. Loved wondering where the next glimpse of you would turn up. Loved knowing you'd been thinking of him every time you hid one, imagining the exact moment he'd find it. Loved knowing every photo was a deliberate little piece of torture disguised as affection.

The third one was waiting beneath his pillow.

He found it after a long day, exhausted from practice and sore everywhere, wanting nothing more than to collapse face-first into bed—only for his hand to slip beneath the pillow and brush against glossy paper.

Tucker closed his eyes for a second.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

This one was softer, which somehow made it feel even filthier.

You were curled up on his bed wearing nothing but one of his sweatshirts, your bare legs tucked beneath you and the hem riding high over your thighs. The picture cut off at your neck, one hand settled between your legs over the fabric, your fingers pressing just enough for Tucker's imagination to do the rest.

Along the border, you'd written:

Your side of the bed feels empty 

His chest tightened before anything else.

He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the Polaroid carefully between his fingers.

For all the teasing, all the heat, there it was—the reason the photos worked so well. Not because they were dirty, though they definitely were. Not because you knew exactly how to drive him out of his mind, though you absolutely did. 

Because he missed you. 

Because every picture said, I know you. I know exactly where you'll look. I know what will make you laugh, what will make you ache, and what will make you need me.

His phone buzzed against the mattress.

You: did you find another one?

Tucker: Under the pillow

You: that one's my favorite.

Tucker: Is it?

You: yeah. I was missing you before I even walked out the door.

Tucker's throat tightened.

Tucker: I miss you too, baby

You: don't get all sweet on me now. I'm supposed to be seducing you

Tucker: You're allowed to do both

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then your next message came through. 

You: show me how much you miss me

Tucker let out a slow breath.

This time, he didn't tease you back. He pulled his shirt off, tossed it toward the hamper, and settled against the headboard before taking the photo carefully, deliberately: one hand curled around himself over his sweats, the outline impossible to miss, his stomach drawn tight, and the Polaroid you'd left positioned beside his thigh so you could see it in the frame.

Your reply came almost immediately.

You: fuck.

You: john.

Tucker: You did this

You: I know

Tucker: Are you wet for me?

You: yes

Tucker: Use your words.

The typing bubble lingered on-screen before your answer finally came through.

You: I'm already wet for you.

Tucker: Where are you right now?

You: in bed. door's locked

Tucker: Is your hand between your legs?

You: not unless you tell me to

Tucker: Don't lie to me.

You: ...over my shorts

Tucker: That's what I figured

He pictured you instantly: tucked into bed miles away, your phone glowing in your hand, your thighs pressing together as you waited for whatever he'd tell you next.

Tucker was good at being patient.

Usually.

With you, patience felt less like restraint and more like strategy.

Tucker: Don't take your shorts off yet

You: john...

Tucker: You wanted to tease me all week. Now you're going to listen.

You: okay

Tucker: Good. Over your shorts. Slowly. 

Your reply came back in pieces.

You: you're mean

Tucker: No

Tucker: Mean would be telling you to stop

The next photo came through shaky with the tremor in your hand. Your hand was right where he'd told you to put it, pressed between your thighs over the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. The angle caught the bare stretch of your stomach, your shirt pushed up, your breathing visible in the slight motion of the frame.

Tucker's grip tightened around himself.

Tucker: Fuck, baby

Tucker: God, look at you

Tucker: Doing exactly what I told you

Then a voice message appeared, only three seconds long—just his name, whispered like you were trying not to be heard.

It ruined him.

Tucker played it twice, then a third time, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Then he called, and you picked up on the second ring.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. All Tucker could hear was your breathing on the other end—soft, uneven.

"Hi," you breathed.

Tucker's mouth curved despite himself. "Hi?"

A breathless laugh slipped out of you. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not." Tucker shifted on the bed, his gaze dropping back to the Polaroid beside him. "I just think it's cute how bold you get behind a camera, and then I get you on the phone, and suddenly you're shy."

"I'm not shy," you protested.

"No?" His voice dropped. "Then tell me what you're doing right now."

Silence answered him, followed by the soft rustle of sheets.

"My hand's still where you told me to put it."

"Still over your shorts?" he checked, voice low.

"Yes," you breathed.

"Are you pressing down for me?" Tucker's voice roughened.

"A little," you admitted, voice barely there.

"Does that feel good?" His voice stayed low, controlled.

You drew in a soft breath. "Not enough."

Tucker squeezed his eyes shut. God, he loved that—the frustration threaded through your voice, the fact that after teasing him all week, you were the one needy now, waiting for permission.

Tucker's voice softened into something cruelly sweet. "Poor baby. You've been teasing me from hundreds of miles away, and now you need me to help you?"

"You like helping me," you whispered.

"I love it," Tucker rasped, his hand sliding beneath the waistband of his sweats. "I love every single picture you left me. I love knowing you were in my room thinking about me. On my bed, spreading your legs for the camera because you knew I'd lose my fucking mind."

Your breath caught.

Tucker's voice dipped, satisfied. "There she's. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? For me to find them and spend the whole week thinking about this?"

"Yes," you breathed.

"Wanted me sitting in class hard because of you?"

"Yes," you admitted, voice shaking.

"Wanted me opening my wallet like an idiot, trying to buy coffee, only to find you half naked behind my license?"

You laughed, but it broke at the end into a small, helpless sound that sent heat curling low in his stomach.

"I almost forgot about that one," you confessed.

"I definitely didn't," Tucker answered.

"No?" you breathed.

"Not even a little." Tucker stroked himself once, slow, biting back the groan that tried to slip out. "I thought about it all day. Thought about that black lace. Thought about pushing my shirt up the rest of the way and putting my mouth on you."

"Oh," you whispered.

"Yeah," Tucker rasped. "Oh."

The silence between you grew heavy before you finally whispered, "Can I take them off now?"

Tucker's grip tightened around himself. "Ask me properly."

A frustrated little sound slipped out of you. "John, please."

"Ask," Tucker said, voice low and unyielding.

"Please," you breathed. "Can I take my shorts off?"

Tucker's eyes slipped shut. "Yes. Keep your panties on."

He listened as you moved—the soft kick of fabric, the rustle of sheets, the little exhale you gave when you settled back into place.

"What color are they?" Tucker rasped.

"White," you answered, voice thin.

A groan slipped out of Tucker. "Fuck."

"You like them?" you asked softly.

"You know I love them."

"I put them on because I couldn't stop thinking about you."

Tucker let out a low, strained laugh. "You're trying to kill me."

"Maybe," you teased.

"Touch yourself over them," Tucker ordered softly.

You obeyed, and he could hear it in your breathing—in the way your next inhale came out shaky.

Tucker's voice cut in, low and firm. "Slow."

"I'm," you breathed.

"Don't lie to me," Tucker warned, his voice rough.

"I'm trying," you whispered.

"That's better," he praised, voice rough with restraint.

For a few minutes, Tucker only listened. There was something obscene about it, something so intimate it made his skin feel too tight. The distance should have made it feel less intense, but instead, it sharpened everything: every breath, every sigh, every slick little sound you tried to muffle against your pillow.

Tucker's voice cut through the line, rough and quiet. "Don't muffle yourself."

"I need to be quiet," you whispered.

"I know," Tucker rasped. "But I still want to hear you."

"You're impossible," you whispered.

"I'm your boyfriend," Tucker reminded you, his voice warming. "I'm allowed."

"You're so bossy," you breathed.

"You love it when I'm bossy."

You didn't answer, and Tucker smiled to himself.

"Yeah," he murmured. "That's what I thought."

Your voice softened. "Are you touching yourself too?"

Tucker glanced down at his hand wrapped around his cock, his sweats pushed low, his body tense and overheated in the dim light of his bedroom.

"Yeah," Tucker rasped.

"Can I see you?" you asked softly.

Tucker pulled the phone from his ear and switched the call to video.

The video took a second to connect. Then your face filled his screen, flushed and soft in the glow of your bedroom lamp, your hair messy, your eyes bright, your lower lip caught between your teeth.

For a moment, Tucker forgot how to breathe.

"Hi," you whispered again.

His expression softened before he could stop it. "Hi, baby."

Your eyes dropped lower, and Tucker tilted the phone down, watching your reaction unfold—the parting of your lips, the way your pupils widened, the way your hand shifted beneath the sheets.

"Fuck," you breathed.

Tucker's grip tightened around himself. "Yeah?"

You nodded, unable to look away.

He stroked himself slowly, letting you watch the movement of his hand, the flushed head of his cock sliding through his grip. Your expression shifted at once, desire leaving you almost dazed.

Tucker kept his eyes on yours. "That's what you did to me. All week."

Your eyes stayed on his hand. "I wish I were there."

Tucker's eyes lifted back to yours. "Tomorrow, you'll be."

"Tomorrow feels too far away."

"I know," Tucker answered, softer this time.

Beneath the blanket, your hand moved.

Tucker's focus snapped back to you. "Show me."

Your eyes snapped back to his. "What?"

Tucker's gaze didn't move from yours. "Move the blanket."

"John..."

"Just for me," Tucker coaxed, gentler now. "Door's locked?"

"Yes," you assured him.

"And you're alone?"

You nodded once. "Yes."

Tucker's voice softened, but the command stayed there. "Then let me see, baby."

You hesitated for a second before pushing the blanket down.

A curse slipped out of Tucker before he could stop it. You were spread out on the bed in nothing but your shirt and those white panties, thighs parted, fingers moving in slow circles over the damp fabric. The sight hit him hard, his hips jerking into his hand before he could control it.

Tucker's jaw went slack. "Jesus, sweetheart."

Color rose higher in your cheeks. "Don't stare."

"I'm going to stare." Tucker's eyes stayed locked on you. "You don't get to send me Polaroids all week and then tell me not to look."

Your laugh broke into a moan as your fingers pressed down harder.

Tucker's focus narrowed on the movement of your hand. "That's it. Right there?"

You nodded fast, too worked up to trust your voice.

Tucker didn't let you off that easy. "Use your words."

"Yes," you managed. "Right there."

Tucker's expression went dark with approval. "Good girl."

Your eyelids fluttered, and Tucker caught it immediately.

Tucker's mouth curved. "Oh, you liked that."

"Shut up," you protested, breathless.

Tucker's smile turned filthy. "No. You love when I call you that."

A soft whine slipped out of you, your hips lifting into your own hand.

Tucker's smile held, dark and knowing. "You do. My good girl. My pretty girl. Lying there touching herself because I told her to."

His name slipped out of you, shaky and desperate. "Tuck."

Tucker went still for half a second. "Say my name like that again."

"Tuck," you repeated, your voice breaking around his name.

A rough sound broke out of him as his hand moved faster. "Fuck, I miss you."

"I miss you too," you whispered back.

Tucker's gaze stayed locked on you. "Pull your panties to the side."

Your hand stilled.

His expression softened. "Only if you want to."

"I want to," you told him, softer now.

Tucker held your gaze. "Then do it."

You hooked your fingers beneath the edge of the fabric and pulled it aside.

For one suspended second, neither of you spoke, and Tucker's mouth went dry.

You were wet, glistening and swollen and perfect, your fingers sliding through yourself in one slow, nervous stroke while you watched his face on the screen.

Tucker's restraint snapped a little more. "Touch your clit."

Your fingers moved exactly where he told you, and your body lifted into the touch, a soft cry catching in your throat.

Tucker watched you like he couldn't decide whether to worship you or ruin you. "There you go. That's my girl. Keep your legs open for me."

Your thighs trembled, but you kept them open. "They're."

"Wider," Tucker ordered.

You obeyed, thighs spreading wider beneath his gaze.

His hand picked up speed.

"Fuck, I wish that was my mouth." His hand moved faster as his eyes stayed fixed on you. "I'd keep you there until you forgot how to stay quiet. I'd lick you until you were shaking, until your hands were in my hair and you were begging me to let you come."

Your fingers moved faster.

Tucker's gaze sharpened. "Not yet."

A needy sound slipped out of you. "Tuck."

"Not yet," Tucker repeated, firmer this time.

"I can't hold it," you choked out.

"You can," Tucker said, slowing his own hand just to prove the point, even though it nearly killed him. "You made me wait all week. You can wait a few more minutes."

A broken little sound caught in your throat. "You're so mean."

"I know." Tucker's smile flickered. "And you like it."

"I do," you admitted, breathless.

The confession came out small and ruined, and Tucker felt it land in his chest.

Tucker's grip eased for half a second. "Yeah, baby. I know you do."

You watched him, breathing hard, your fingers moving in tight, slick circles. Tucker watched every bit of it—the tense pull of your stomach, the tremble in your thighs, the way your face shifted every time you got too close and forced yourself back.

It was the hottest thing Tucker had ever seen.

No, that wasn't true.

Having you in his bed tomorrow would be hotter—you beneath him, wrapped around him, laughing into his mouth because he wouldn't be able to stop touching you long enough for either of you to breathe.

But tonight, this was what he had, so Tucker took what he could get.

Tucker kept his eyes on yours. "Keep one hand on your clit. With the other, touch yourself lower."

Your eyes went wide at the command.

"Tuck—"

Tucker didn't look away. "I want to see how wet you're for me."

The sound that slipped out of you hit him low and hard, and then your other hand drifted lower.

Slowly, you dragged two fingers through your wetness, gathering it there before easing one inside yourself.

Tucker's mouth fell open.

"Fuck," he breathed.

A moan slipped out of you as your head tipped back.

Tucker's focus sharpened. "Look at me."

You forced your eyes open and found his through the screen.

Tucker's hand stuttered over himself. "That's it. That's it, baby. Add another."

You obeyed, and the sound you made almost undid him.

Tucker worked himself harder now, rougher, matching the rhythm of your fingers moving inside you. He could see how slick they were, could see the way your body took them, the way your hips lifted like you needed more.

Tucker's voice came out rough and uneven. "Wish it were me?"

Your voice broke around the answer. "Yes."

"Wish I were there filling you up?"

"Yes, please," you begged.

A broken sound tore out of him. "God, I love when you beg."

"I need you," you said, voice breaking.

"Tomorrow, baby. You'll have me tomorrow."

"I need you now," you pleaded.

"I know." His thumb dragged over the head of his cock, pleasure sparking hot up his spine. "I know, sweetheart. You're doing so good for me."

Your eyes fell shut.

Tucker's voice broke rough through the screen. "Don't stop."

"I'm close," you whispered.

Tucker's eyes stayed fixed on you. "I know."

Your voice broke around the word. "Please."

Tucker watched you tremble, watched your fingers quicken, watched your chest rise and fall with sharp, desperate breaths.

He wanted to make you wait. Wanted to drag it out until you were cursing him, begging for him, so far gone you forgot you'd ever been shy.

But he missed you too much. You looked too perfect like this, and your voice—soft and needy through the phone—had stripped him bare.

Tucker's control snapped. "Come for me. Let me see you."

That was all it took.

Your body seized first, thighs trembling as your fingers kept working you through it, your mouth falling open around a soundless cry. Then your voice caught up—his name spilling out in a shaky rush, again and again, like it was the only word left in your head.

Tucker came seconds later.

Tucker came seconds later, hard and helpless, his hand tightening around his cock as he watched you fall apart. Pleasure slammed through him until his head fell back against the headboard and your name left him in a low, ruined groan.

For a while, neither of you said anything. There was only breathing.

Darkness pressed in around his room.

On-screen, your face had gone soft and sleepy, your cheeks flushed and your lips curved in a small, satisfied smile.

Tucker reached unquestioningly for a tissue on the nightstand, cleaned himself up awkwardly without ending the call, and looked back just in time to catch you giggling.

Tucker looked back at you, still catching his breath. "What?"

"You're cute," you said, smiling at him through the screen.

Tucker shot you a look. "I just came on camera for you, and cute is what you're going with?"

"You can be both," you said, still smiling.

A tired, warm laugh slipped out of him. "Yeah?"

Your smile softened. "Yeah."

You pulled the blanket back over yourself and tucked it beneath your chin while Tucker settled lower against his pillows, the phone propped on his chest so he could keep looking at you.

"You know," Tucker said, eyes still on you, "I'm going to find every single one before you get back."

That wicked little smile came back.

Tucker narrowed his eyes. "How many are left?"

"I'm not telling you," you said, still smiling.

"Baby," Tucker warned.

"Nope," you replied, entirely too pleased with yourself.

"Giving me a number would be the nice thing to do."

"You don't like me because I'm nice."

"That's not true." Tucker's voice softened. "I like you because you're you."

For a second, all the teasing fell away, and your expression shifted, tenderness breaking through the heat.

"I love you," you said softly.

Tucker felt it ache in his chest.

"I love you too," Tucker said, soft and sure.

A smile tugged at your mouth. "Even when I hide dirty Polaroids in your stuff?"

"Especially then," Tucker said, smiling now.

Your laugh came out sleepy now.

He watched you yawn and tried not to think about the fact that tomorrow, you'd be back in his bed for real. Not in a picture. Not as a voice through the phone. Not through a shaky video call with his imagination filling in the rest.

Just you.

Warm and laughing and probably smug as hell when he showed you the stack of Polaroids he'd collected like evidence.

"You should get some sleep," Tucker said gently.

"So should you," you murmured.

"I'll," Tucker promised.

"You're lying," you accused softly.

"Probably," Tucker admitted.

Your eyes narrowed. "Don't go looking for the rest tonight."

Tucker looked far too innocent. "I would never."

"John Tucker," you warned.

Tucker grinned.

You pointed at the camera. "Don't you dare."

Tucker's grin only widened. "I won't."

"You're still lying," you accused, though your smile gave you away.

"Maybe," Tucker allowed, looking entirely unrepentant.

You shook your head, still smiling. "Goodnight, Tuck."

"Goodnight, baby," Tucker said, his voice warm through the screen.

Neither of you ended the call right away. For a few quiet seconds, you looked at each other through the screen, tired and sated and still missing each other.

Then, just before the call ended, you added, "Check your sports bag before practice tomorrow."

The screen went dark, and Tucker stared down at his phone for a second before laughing, dropping his head back against the pillow, and dragging a hand over his face.

"Fuck," he muttered, still smiling.

Tomorrow suddenly felt impossibly far away.

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