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It was fun, exhilarating even. Just a tickle at the back of your mind and suddenly you had to do it.

Harmless. That’s what went through your mind as you slipped out of her room while the others were still sleeping, fiddling with the tiny cylindrical bottle. Thumb pressing into the nozzle where its scent could leak onto your skin. It smelled nice.

When your roommate returns, a heavy lump always settles at the base of your throat, thick and swollen. Regret already clumping like oil and dirt till it worms itself under your skin like a painful sty. She never notices though, because you return the sample the next day when she’s out at work again.

It’s a never-ending cycle.

It starts as a prickle at the nape of your neck. An itch. It can be staved, put off long enough to operate normally. You go about your days, hang out with your roommates, slink off to your room, then get ready in time to head to work. At least you only have to show your face three times a week. The urge only grows, tension mounting and multiplying on itself till you start to feel anxious, your palms growing clammy as they gather sweat.

And then it happens.

Take the abandoned necklace that’s been sitting on the coffee table for weeks. Or the little keychain off your coworkers purse. You’ll swipe a pack of lip balm when you walk along the aisles at the convenience store down the block. Another time it’s floss, then a pack of Tylenol, then a tube of blue mascara—why would you ever wear blue mascara? It’s outrageous, the things that settle in your pockets. The things that make your stomach turn after the fact. The things you pass out to your roommates like little goodies.

It’s innocent.

That’s what you tell yourself. And you hate yourself for it.

You’re sitting on your bed, your roommate in the chair at your vanity. You guys are having a thoughtful conversation. Something about perception and first impressions as opposed to the present moment. A topic that surprises you when you hear the thoughts she has to share concerning her first impressions about you. Makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Special—wanted—until her brows furrow with suspicion. She scoots back a bit, peering under the tabletop.

“Is that… my rainboot?”

When you’re kicked out the following week, you feel a sense of betrayal. A sense of derealization—like it can’t be true. There's a dull buzzing in your ears as the landlord's voice rattles off policy, the kind buried in fine print you never thought would matter. Just bits and pieces. Immediate disposal of tenants violating clause B6: Unauthorized Possession & Patterned Behavior.

And even as he speaks, nothing sticks.

It’s hard when your roommates are watching you from the couch. When you have to focus on keeping your head up and not at the weird looks they give you. Your landlord's voice floats in and out of your ears. “… possession of items… without express permission… considered in breach of this agreement…”

Whatever that means.

What’s worse is the lack of time. You aren’t even given a full thirty days. Your disposal is immediate.

You pack in silence, cheeks burning. Your hands move like you’re underwater, stuffing wrinkled clothes into big, black trash bags, because it all can’t fit into your suitcase. Your chest tightens with every rustle of plastic. You can hear your roommates in the next room. Whispering. But not quietly enough. Things about stealing and how you’re such a mess, a thief, so problematic and strange.

“Does she not feel bad?”

“Bet she doesn’t—otherwise she’d stop.”

“She’s just… weird.”

The words fall heavy like stones in your gut. You pause, hand clenching around a bundle of socks that suddenly feel like too much to hold. You start to your knees, heart pumping in your chest. You want to shout. To explain. To cry and rage and tell them you never meant to bother anyone.

That half the time you returned what you took. So did you really steal in the first place?

No one offers to help you carry your things. Not the roommate who once shared their charger, not the one you allowed to borrow your favorite lip liner. Not even the one you spoke with nights before, deep into the early hours of the morning. You make trip after trip down to your car alone, arms aching, eyes burning. The trunk overflows. So do the backseats. Still, you climb the stairs one last time to say goodbye.

No one meets your eyes.

No hugs. No good lucks. Just muttered take cares and a door that closes before you're even out of earshot.

No tears.

At least not on their end.

You feel it poking like pins and needles, hysteria thick on the back of your tongue. You sit in the driver's seat, hands gripping the wheel at ten and two. Trying to combat the powerful, aching swell that wells up in your throat. Your breaths come hard, eyes already swimming. When it finally comes, you bury your head in your hands.

You don’t know where else to go. You weren’t expecting this, so you have no places lined up. No friends close enough that’d be willing to take you in. You think about reaching out to your aunt before deciding against it. She’d ask questions. She always asks questions.

It all feels so helpless.

Eventually, when you manage to peel away, spit, snot, and tears string between your hands and your face.

Gross.

You fumble for the glove department, reaching for a napkin. You wipe your face and your hands, then let out a long exhale. You tell yourself you’ll figure it out in the morning. Sleep somewhere—anywhere. You just need a night to think. A night to be invisible.

You pull out of the parking lot like you’re floating.

Still tingling at your fingertips.

Still rotting inside.

You don’t sleep. You can’t. You just drift, aimless without thought, days on end. You stop going as consistently to restaurants and instead stop by the convenience store to grab a quick bite. Just snacks, never fulfilling, warm meals that leave your lids droopy and stomach pleasantly full. Your paycheck doesn’t arrive for another week, so you need to conserve your money.

On your way to work, you park the car down a few blocks instead of in the parking deck below. You don’t want people asking questions about the mess in your backseat. This means entering through the front entrance instead of from below. This means that after entering your PIN and walking through those double doors, heads will lift, and people will mark your presence.

You just hope nobody notices you’ve been wearing the same wrinkled blouse for three days. That you’ve been needing to wash your hair for a week. That you stopped wearing makeup once you lost full access to a sink.

You slide behind the counter, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The building smells like printer toner and lemon cleaner. Your computer boots up, your email loads, the calendar populates with other people’s meetings, other people’s lives, things you oversee but never belong to.

You smile when people arrive.

“Morning.”

“Hi.”

“Coffee’s fresh.”

Your voice is steady. Pleasant. No one looks at you long enough after you stop wearing makeup. No longer that young, pretty secretary. Now just that young secretary. The one who’s probably severely underestimated. You guess you should be grateful for it. But you liked the attention.

You eat lunch at your desk, head bowed, shoulders hunched, hoping nobody comments on the same deli sandwich you’ve been eating for days. Hoping nobody can smell the cold turkey and pesto mayonnaise when they walk by.

When you leave the building, walking back to your car after the sun's set, you can’t help but feel hollow inside. Like everything’s unfair.

Nights pass in chunks. Sunk in the cold and the dark, a mere pane away from harm.

Except for this particular evening—headlights slicing through your windshield, the same three songs on loop, a pattering rain that turns into a torrential downpour. At some point you have to park. Somewhere public, yet dim, at the edge of a random lot. Gas is precious. You don’t look too closely at your surroundings, just crawl into the backseat and curl up in a little ball. Trying to get comfortable.

Morning comes gray and sour and cold.

Your eyes flutter open just barely, and you stir, smacking your lips. Your tongue feels swollen, coated. You push up from where you lay, just barely, hair sticking to your salty, sweat-licked skin. Your breath fogs the barest amount as you exhale. You blink hard, trying to gather your bearings and remember where you are.

You sit up a bit further, your neck stiff and lower back aching. You reach a hand around to rub at the tenderness. You blink again, harder this time, lids heavy and puffy. Your gaze finally hones in on a red sign at the complete opposite end of the parking lot through the backseat window: 11th Street Diner.

Right. Perfect.

Your stomach twists when you sit up. Hunger… shame. You’ve stopped by the establishment more times than you can count. You smooth your hair as best you can, flattening flyaways with the heels of your palms. Then you crawl clumsily over the middle console and drop into the driver’s seat, grabbing your phone off the passenger side. The charger yanks taut before you unplug the cord and wrap it up in a loop around your portable charging block. You check the time.

7:43 am.

You check your reflection in the rearview mirror. Swipe under your eyes. Pinch your cheeks for color. You look awful. But not the kind anyone would comment on. Just worn down in a way people glance over without ever really seeing. Another face in the crowd.

When you slip out, you shove your hands deep in the pockets of your jeans, and make a beeline for the double doors, avoiding puddles that look too deep. You hope the thick, penetrating humidity will wake you up. The bell above gives a delicate jingle, barely audible over the low hum of fluorescent lights and the clink of silverware.

Inside it’s mercifully warm and alive with the comforting staleness of over-fried food and too many hours. Pancakes, burnt coffee, burgers cooked in the same grease since yesterday. The smell is immediate and overwhelming, and your stomach responds like a bell struck too hard. Tightening, then growling.

You tread softly across the checkered red-and-white tile, but the soles of your shoes stick slightly with each step, peeling free with a quiet tack. You slide into a booth at the back. One in the corner. One that feels invisible.

You order an omelet and a glass of orange juice. You eat quietly, keeping to yourself, and slowly, the diner begins to fill. You take your time only because once you finish, you’re not sure how to move forward. Should you call out of work tomorrow? Tell your boss you’re not feeling well till you sort out the situation?

Probably not. You should continue to go, give yourself something to do—but you can’t remember which bag held the rest of your business casual. You wince, head dropping into your hands. You’re at a loss, unsure of what to do. You’ve never been in a situation like this before. Forced to make such simple yet complicated decisions.

And then, when you lift your head again, you see him.

He’s standing at the complete opposite end of the counter, back turned, talking to the waitress. She has to crane her neck up to look at him. He’s big. Still. Like he’s built into the room instead of occupying it. You notice him without meaning to, because he’s always there. Hunched over a mug at the counter, a dark shadow slouched in the corner booth. He’s become something you rely on more than you want to admit. His presence a steadying constant in this quiet, unmoored in-between which you find yourself stuck in. You notice him the same way you notice exits, loose objects, unattended things.

It’s the wallet that gets you though.

Black and worn, sliding halfway out of his back pocket like it doesn’t matter if it’s there or not. Like it’s longing to escape. You stare at it for a hot second. Willing it to fall onto the floor. Your chest tightens when his hips shift as he takes a step back, forcing the wallet further up. The itch sharpens, more compulsive now, crawling up your arms. You try to ignore it. Shift your weight. Dig your nails into your palm. It doesn’t go away.

You tell yourself the same lie you always do.

Just touch it. Just feel it. You’ll put it back. You always do.

You shovel the last few bites of your omelet into your mouth and then slide off your stool, feet gingerly meeting the floor. You toss back the rest of your orange juice, and then your eyes flit back to him. You have to think fast because your feet are moving before your brain even has a chance to catch up. The closer you get, the more he seems to grow. His body towering over yours.

You step closer under the excuse of the sugar station. You pluck a few packets of creamer for good measure, before your shoulder brushes his arm. For a second you think better of it. He’s not pliant under your weight, but steady and immovable.

Too late.

Your fingers close around leather.

The relief is instant. A molten, hot, sickening rush of pleasure that makes your vision blur at the edges. Satisfaction so overwhelming it makes your heart start to race and your armpits prickle with sweat. You don’t even look inside. You don’t want to know what’s in there. You just slide it into your jacket pocket and move away, heart hammering like you know you’ve done something unforgivable.

Your head’s spinning by the time you make it back to your seat. You’ve ruined it—once again—you just had to go and ruin it. You bump into the table in your rush, hands jittery as you reach for your car keys. You’ll just gather all your belongings and be out the door before you know it.

Before he knows it.

When you edge into the booth, knee first, that’s when he slides into the seat across from you. The seat squeaks under his weight. Your body jolts before your brain can even comprehend.

You barely stifle the curse, eyes wide with mortification.

“Shit.”

And suddenly you’re hot all over. It swims up your neck and floods your cheeks. Your cool hand reaches up, pressing into your face as your eyes dart around the table, hoping for an escape that you feel is highly unlikely to come.

He settles in with lazy confidence, folding thick forearms across a broad chest like he’s disappointed in you. The look in his eye says as much. Like he expected better. The muscles beneath his sleeves flex subtly. Ominously. It only promotes the fact that he is massive. He could pummel you if he wanted to. Grab you, turn you upside down and shake you till the wallet escaped.

He leans back against the seat and eyes you from beneath heavy lids, studying you down the tip of his nose. His mouth is drawn in a grim line, a nasty scar bisecting his upper lip. There’s a hat on his head, a faded thing pulled low, but he peels it off and drops it on the table between you with a quiet thud. His hair underneath is sandy blonde, on the shorter side. He runs a hand through it anyway, like he’s smoothing himself out. As if appearances matter when it comes to confronting a thief. His hand runs along his mouth before sweeping down across his jaw.

“Wanna try this again,” he says, voice low and level, “or do we have’ta have a talk.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush, and your head starts pounding. Your hand rests in your pocket, thumbing through the folds of his wallet. The tips of your fingers tracing bills and the sleek edges of cards. You’re mute, you don’t know what to say. How to break the news that you’ve never done this before—taken somebody’s wallet—honest. That if anything it was just to prove you could, the way it was hanging off his pocket all precariously.

His eyes are sharp and assessing, like he’s already sorted you into categories and none of them are good. You wait for yelling.

It doesn’t come.

“Empty your pockets,” he says.

Your throat tightens. Shame burns hot and familiar, crawling up your neck. The guilt you feel is so heavy it might as well choke you to death. You pull the wallet out with shaking hands and hold it out like it might bite.

“I was going to put it back,” you hear yourself say.

He studies you for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he snorts. “Yeah, ‘cause you look like the type ta do that.”

Something about that cracks you open. Floods you with relief, and suddenly you’re glad it was him who caught you. Still, humiliation manages to tangle in the mess of emotion in your chest. Makes your chest get a little tight. You manage to find the courage to defend yourself. You lean forward like that’ll help him to better understand you.

“I swear I am,” you admit, palms upright. “I really am.”

“Dumb fuckin’ girl,” he mutters, not completely exasperated. “Yer parents ever teach you any manners?”

You cringe in your seat, fiddling with the hem of your jacket. “Of course they did.”

“Not well enough,” he grunts, reaching out to paw the wallet from your hand. Your fingers tingle where his skin touches. “You plannin’ on payin’ with my money? ‘S that it?”

“I told you I was gonna give it back,” you push. And then you give him a little smile, “Unless you do want to pay for me.”

He looks at you for a moment. Scoffs. And then calls the waitress over. He mutters under his breath while he thumbs through his cards. Her eyes dart between you as she sets down the bill.

When you get up to leave, he doesn’t peel off in his own direction. Instead he sticks by your side. Barely more than a foot away. Holding the door open just so you have to brush up against his front. A soft touch at your elbow to steer you away from a puddle.

It’s probably not a good thing, letting a stranger walk you to your car, no matter how often you see him. Especially one you stole from. You don’t even know his name. He doesn’t give it to you either. You toss a glance back as you bumble towards your car.

“Thanks for paying for me, Mr.…” Your voice trails off, hoping he’ll fill in his name.

“Just Simon,” he says. “Glad y’got some manners after all.”

You fumble for your keys, “Told you my parents taught me right.”

You step up to your car, hand poised at the handle. And then you stop. With Simon there, it’s like you’re seeing yourself through his eyes. The sight is pitiful. Your car is packed. Not in a messy way, just brutally full. Trash bags instead of suitcases. The backseats, trunk, and footwells are full. Your entire life, crammed in such a tight space. No attempt to hide it, not that you could with how clear your windows are.

You glance over your shoulder up at him, and notice his eyes scanning the state of your vehicle.

He rests one big hand on the roof of your car, chest brushing up against your back, getting a good look. “You movin’ house?”

You shrug, noncommittal, mouth already opening with a deflection. “Just for a bit.” And then you spin around, leaning against the door, looking up at him. “Thanks for walking me to my car though. I’ll be off now.”

To where? You don’t know. You say it because you expect him to walk away afterwards. To get the cue that he has to leave, but he stays, brows furrowed, tongue in cheek.

“Where you sleepin’ tonight?”

“Probably in my car.”

Your answer is blunt. Probably shouldn't have told him that. You don’t dramatize the situation—you certainly don’t want his pity. You tell him like it is, as if you were to acknowledge a simple fact. The way somebody says, I’m hungry.

But that must be what makes it land.

He goes still. Eyeing you hard. He doesn’t react. Not really, like he doesn’t want to give away too much. And then he presses further.

“How long?”

Not why. Not what happened.

You just shrug, “Don’t know.”

He takes a step back, giving you a look that makes you feel crazy. Like you just told him you’re going to sleep in the middle of the street. He takes one last long look at your car.

“You kiddin’? There’s hardly any space in this thing,” he raps a knuckle against the window.

You shrug, “Well I don’t have anywhere else.”

You end up in the passenger seat of your own car.

Simon’s hand grips the top of the wheel, knuckles pale against the cracked leather. Big thighs straddling your steering wheel. You let him drive because he told you his truck was in the shop—and that he’s bad at giving directions—but you’re not sure if you should believe him. You glance at him and then quickly down at your lap, unable to stop the smile that cracks across your face. It’s ridiculous, the way he has to fold in on himself just to fit, but he doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t comment on anything, really. He seems unbothered.

The engine hums to life after he shoves the key in the ignition.

You watch condensation bead and slide down the windshield, the wipers squealing once before he switches them on for a few seconds. He pulls out of the lot like he’s done this before. Like this is just another errand. Like he didn’t catch you stealing his wallet less than an hour ago.

You keep waiting for what you feel is inevitable. That’s probably why you let this man take control for you. You feel like you deserve to be punished in some way. Afterall, it can’t really get worse than this, is what you tell yourself. He’s a rugged looking man, older than you, the way he holds himself a bit portentous. And though that’s the case, you’re not really sure that you’d mind if this was a kidnapping.

As long as he can give you a place to sleep.

You wait for him to ask questions that poke and prod at your past. For judgment. For the lecture you deserve. For the police station to suddenly pass into view. Something drastic.

None of it comes.

Instead, after a few blocks, he says, “This ain’t permanent.”

You sneak a peek at him. His eyes stay on the road.

“Didn’t think it was,” you say, too quickly.

“Good.” A pause. “You know how to follow rules?”

Your mouth opens. You think about your violation back at the apartment. Your mouth closes. You nod instead.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I can,” you say. “When they make sense.”

A huff of breath leaves him, not quite a laugh. Moreso done in exasperation. “They’ll make sense.”

Silence settles again. It’s heavy, but not uncomfortable, in fact it’s worse than that. It’s stabilizing. The kind that presses you down into the seat like a weighted vest. Makes you feel smaller without touching you. Grounds you in the moment when your mind is somewhere off in the future, thinking of what you’re itching to do.

He turns down a side road. Then another. Houses start to thin out, and town homes begin to creep in. Cracked paint jobs and drawn shutters. Trees edge closer to the pavement where grass already springs through the cracks. You should probably ask where you’re going.

You don’t.

Because something in you loosens the longer he doesn’t look at you. The longer his hand rests on the wheel, his back slouching comfortably in your seat. The longer he doesn’t accuse or point fingers. The longer your hands remain empty in your lap, fingers fidgeting with nothing to take.

Your pulse finally slows, coming down from your high.

“You stay,” he says, like he’s thinking out loud. “You eat what I cook. You listen. You don’t touch my things.”

Your chest constricts, instinctive, your eyes flaring at his words. You turn to look at him, “And if I do?”

His jaw flexes. “Then you leave. Back on the streets.”

Simple. Clean. Non-negotiable.

You lick your lips, swallow, and nod again.

He’s not providing mercy, you know that. It’s containment. A fence built just close enough that you can feel it when you lean too far. When he pulls into the cramped parking lot just outside the complex, nestled in the trees, something old and decaying quiets inside you. For the first time in days, the itch dulls.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. You always do because it always is.

But it’ll be back. Soon.

You step past the threshold gingerly, eyes darting around. It’s plain, humble, but it's warm inside, and there’s some semblance of cleanliness. You hone in on the couch as you slip out of your shoes. You take tentative steps towards the worn thing and set your bag down. Your fingers linger a second too long on the strap. Already having second thoughts about leaving. But when you look back at Simon, closing the door behind him, you think better of it. Your eyes drift to the hallway, a dark, gaping space beside the fridge.

Closed doors, dark corners. The soft hush of a space that isn’t yours. That you never would have known till this moment. A place completely unexplored to your keen eyes.

You curl your hands into fists and shove them in your pockets.

After dinner—Simon ordered takeout—you stand at the couch facing him, a towel clutched to your chest. He helped you bring in a few more items to get settled for the time being. He’s very adamant about his rules though. He feels the need to reiterate them before you step into the bathroom.

“You don’t touch my things,” he says again, slower this time. “I don’t wanna find anything missin’, you hear me, girl? ‘Cause I’ll know.”

You nod. Easy enough. Still, your eyes flick, once more, to the hall behind him. Simon notices. Of course he does.

“That includes places,” he adds.

Later, when you're sprawled on the couch, shrouded in the dark of night, staring up at the ceiling, your mind plays through the events leading up to this point. Leading to this foreign home, with its foreign scents, and this foreign man, with all his rules. You feel it beginning to settle now as you slowly start to sink your roots into his place.

A tiny sense of belonging.

There’s barely a sliver of orange at the horizon when you hear a door shut down the hallway. Seconds later, the low hiss of shifting pipes sounds. It’s followed soon after by the muted thud of water pressure, and then the soft, rhythmic patter of droplets striking porcelain.

You lay there for a moment, a soft ache in your lower back, and a kink in your neck, before you sit up fully. You don’t trust him while you remain asleep. In fact, you think you might start your day too. You glance at the bathroom door, then your gaze slides further, towards the rest of the hallway that he forbade you from trespassing.

A peek wouldn't hurt…

You pad barefoot down the hall while he’s in the shower, pretending you’re just stretching your legs. You tell yourself you’re not violating any rules, you’re sticking to the common ground—the hallway. As you move past the bathroom door though, a floorboard creaks under your weight.

You freeze, breath held, heart jumping. A few tense beats pass, and then, you relax. Realizing he won’t do anything. Can’t do anything probably, because there’s no way he heard you in the first place.

You don’t go into any rooms. You just stand there.

But you do stand there longer than necessary. At war with yourself before you back up and return to the couch. Waiting patiently for him to get out of the shower.

He comes out five minutes later. You wonder if he even bathed properly—it takes you at least fifteen minutes to even feel adequately clean. His towel’s slung low across his hips. Your eyes are having trouble keeping to his face, shifting down the hard expanse of his torso. Brutalized muscle and thick, sinewy ligaments. You’re mostly drawn to the tattoo sleeve covering his left arm, wondering what it is. If it was earned. If he had to pay a hefty price for the intricate greyscale work. You force down a swallow, eyes darting back up to his face, catching the slightest smirk on his lips. His hair is plastered across his forehead.

“Y’hungry, pet?” He asks.

Your heart gives a hard twang before it starts beating. You cock your head, already nervous, “I’m sorry?”

He folds his arms, “I said are ya hungry?”

You duck your head to your chest, rubbing your eyes, trying to clear your head. He meant it literally. Quickly, you give a couple head bobs.

He moves closer into the light, leaning against the wall, “You gonna pocket one of my spoons?”

Stupid question. Probably meant to make you feel stupid, and he succeeds because it makes your cheeks burn.

“No.”

He chuckles at your tone, backing away, “Then go on. Make us somethin’.”

He’s sitting across from you moments later, scarfing down scrambled eggs and toast. It’s not much, but he works through it like he’s been starving for days. You take your time on the other hand, making sure to chew completely before you swallow.

He pushes up from the table before you even finish. “I’ve gotta run a couple errands, mind if I use your car?”

A nagging little decrepit voice in the back of your head says no, but yes comes out of your mouth instead. You don’t know why you agree, you mull the decision over in your head again and again, long after the door’s slammed behind him.

Deep down though, you know. You want something to hold over him. Something to make up for the misdeeds you’re bound to commit.

Each week, when Simon does his laundry, he makes you bring a load over as well. Has you set it down in the corner so he can get to it when the time comes. You offered to do your own laundry, but the look he gives you tells you he is far from trusting you.

“Can I at least help when you’re around?” you press when he gives you his back, blocking you from his view. “Besides, how do I know you won’t go looking through my underwear?”

“Think I wanna smell yer dirty knickers?” he grunts, bending over to toss a bundle of shirts into the dryer.

You shrug, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He shakes his head, muttering under his breath—but lets you help in the end. After the load completes, he sets down your fresh batch of laundry at the couch so you can fold your clothing while a movie plays in the back.

You ask him to join you one evening, unable to stand the isolation. You tell yourself it’s because you want to get better acquainted. He just stares at you from his bed, boxers in hand when you ask. You’re at the threshold, slowly inching inside, clasping your hands to your chest, before he barks at you to get out.

He meets you in the living room moments later.

You fold in silence, occasionally laughing at something on the screen, tossing glances in his direction. His smiles are begrudging, like he doesn’t want to, but it happens anyway. And soon after you both forget what you’re doing, eyes glued to the tv, bodies on autopilot.

At one point, you ask him to teach you how to fold your clothes in that militant way he does. He guides you through the motions, reaching out to correct your missteps. You find you like his hands on yours. The way his roughened palm engulfs your fingers. Callouses gently brushing your knuckles. So you mess up every so often just to ask for his help. He pauses when you nudge his shoulder, asking what to do next. It takes him a moment, but he reaches over to readjust something, pulling back a bit quick, voice clipped.

But you do it again, and again, and again, just to feel him lean in close and correct you with that low voice in your ear.

“Do you know how to fold a pair of panties, Simon?” You whisper, leaning in, batting your eyes up at him.

He chuckles, his voice a harsh rasp. “Do I look like I wear that shit?”

“I mean,” you shrug, “I wouldn’t know.”

“Fuck off.”

“What?” You frown, running the soft pink cloth down his arm.

He snatches your wrist, holding it away, eyes boring into the delicate undergarment hanging from your fingertips. There’s a few tense moments. You wonder what he’ll do, but he just says, “Hands to yourself.”

When he releases you, you shrink back into yourself, chucking the underwear off to the left. It’s hard to be reprimanded like that, especially when it’s Simon. It feels a bit unfair. It makes you feel like a silly child. You don’t like that feeling.

When the movie ends you gather your stacks of shirts and jeans. You tell yourself not to notice what’s his and what isn’t.

You fail.

When you hand him the sock you’d been sitting on, the sock that isn’t yours, the fabric is still warm from the dryer. You feel the itch spark, fast and bright, and shove your hands into your pockets before it turns into something else.

You can’t mess it up.

You follow him into his bedroom, still yapping about the movie. He doesn’t tell you to leave, so you get comfortable. The plot twist at the end had thrown you completely off guard. You just want to talk about it.

You don’t sit on his bed, not because he tells you not to, but because something about it feels too intimate.

So you sit on the floor instead, back leaning against the wall as he pulls out his dresser drawers and tucks his clothes inside. Your eyes drift low to the shadowed space beneath the bedframe every so often. You don’t know what you expect to find there, or if you even want to find anything. Or if you just want to crawl underneath and hide.

The thought lingers long after you go to bed.

“Dumb fuckin’ girl.”

The longer you stay, that’s all you are. All Simon ever calls you. But at least you’re given a key to the apartment. And Simon lets you move your belongings in at last. You feel grounded again. You have purpose once more.

You start to grow bold.

It comes out in a snide hiss through his teeth when he catches you kneeling at his bedside, cheek pressed to the floor so you can get a better view under his bed. When you sit up straight, eyes wide, the barest sliver of a smirk on your lips, he grips you by your upper arm and hauls you upright. By the time he steers you out the door you’re giggling and tripping over your own feet, shoving the loot into your pocket.

Your missing panties.

“You go pokin’ where you shouldn’t, girl,” he grunts, releasing you with a jerk of his hand. “That how you always get caught?”

You stumble forward before twirling around, hands behind your back. He didn’t notice.

You caught him.

“You sure you don’t want me in there?” You poke, grinning madly.

“Dumb fuckin’ girl.”

It comes out in a tight-jawed rasp when you step out of the bathroom after a thirty-minute-long shower. When the door swings open and you finally emerge from the steam filled space with only a towel wrapped around your body. Shoulders damp and reddened from the heat of the water.

“You tryna rack up the water bill?” he presses.

You just glide past him and into the living room. He won’t follow you because that’s where you let the towel drop.

You know he watches though.

Spine rigid and eyes piercing from the darkened hallway. He’s utterly silent, and that’s the only reason you know he’s tracking your movements. The way you use the towel to scrunch at the dripping ends of your hair. When you crouch down at the foot of your suitcase, knees digging into the roughened, burgundy grain from the oriental rug. When you rifle through your clothing as sparse beads of water run down your legs towards the floor where your knees rest. When you rise to your feet as you worm into an oversized shirt.

Why are you surprised when your knees are stained red? You glance down the hallway, hoping he doesn’t notice how the dye from the rug has leeched onto your skin, but his big, looming form is already gone.

“Dumb fuckin’ girl.”

It’s growled through bared teeth when you complain about the food he makes for dinner. How it’s always got a funky taste, how it’s burnt and hardened like a rock, or how it’s never cooked all the way through.

It never feels like an insult, but rather a pressure valve. A warning to himself. A way to keep you small enough to remain manageable. A restraint. He stops himself before he can act on impulse. Before he can let you get the best of him. He holds himself back the way you can’t seem to. It makes you want to push him over the edge.

You can feel it, like an electric current in the air. Static tingling along your scalp. It’s bound to happen.

He’ll hit you some day. You know he wants to—everyone does at some point. Big paw raised after he grabs a fistful of your shirt. You think the oven mit might soften the blow as you close your eyes with a big smile. A playful squeal escaping you as your hands come up to squeeze at the thick wrist keeping you within his reach.

He yanks his hand back like you’ve burned him.

Eyes wild and breath heavy, his chest rising and falling underneath the soft cotton of his crewneck. He removes himself from your vicinity. One step back, biting at his cheek, eyes flitting across your form slouched in the chair. Thinking before speaking.

He just says, “Go.”

Because he’ll always make you leave the room when he needs time to self-regulate. When he needs to remember why he let you under his roof in the first place. Why he’s tending to you, and letting you eat his food, and sleep on his couch, and sing at the top of your lungs in his shower.

You poke and prod, you try to rile him up, but every time he grabs you he stops himself, swears, and takes a step back. You test it. You test him. Not because you want to be hurt, but because you want to know why he won’t do something about it already.

You’re a hazard.

You like to provoke him. Not loudly or clumsily. It’s a sick little game where you test his restraint. You prod at the edges, testing the fence. You wait to see where the wire hums. If the shock will bite enough to paralyze, or if you can endure it and push forward.

Simon knows the game. He recognizes your intent, and lately, he can feel his self-control thinning.

You commit the first offense on a Tuesday evening.

He comes home from work, boots thumping up the steps to the door. He shoves the key in and barges in, only to stop short. He catches it, the shallow rise and fall of your breathing. You’re prone on the couch, curled into the corner, folded in on yourself like something small that learned early how to take up less space. When your lips part on a soft, damp sound, he closes the door behind him with care. Not wanting to spook you with too much noise.

He shrugs out of his boots without looking away, nudges them aside with his heel. Eyes glued on you as he moves closer, slow and soundless. It’s as if the carpet itself knows him. Knows better than to betray his approach.

You’re wearing a hoodie that swallows you whole. The sleeves hang past your hands, and the hem creeps down your thighs. Not modest enough to cover the glimmer of lace he catches on your panties. Your blanket’s kicked aside, tangled uselessly at your feet, leaving your legs bare. Your knees are drawn up, calves brushing together restlessly. The motion is unconsciously done.

Like a cricket, he thinks. All nerves and instinct. Built to sing when it shouldn’t. Maybe one day you’ll sing for him.

He stops at the foot of the couch and looks his fill.

His fingers hardly touch you. Just a ghost of contact along the outside of your calf. He barely stops it, the urge to feel, but your reaction is immediate. A sharp inhale. A shiver that runs clean through you. You wake with a start, eyes snapping open, body going rigid beneath his hand.

You don’t pull away.

That’s the part that gets him.

You look at him like a caught thing, breath held, waiting to see what comes next. Simon takes the silence as permission. He hooks two fingers into the hem of the hoodie and lifts it just enough. Just enough to see you’re not wearing a shirt underneath. Just enough to catch the slope of your spine. Just enough to see the tag.

XL.

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t need confirmation. He knows his own clothes the way he knows his weapons. By weight, by feel. Still, he rolls you onto your back, carefully, and you let him. No resistance. No protest. Just that pliant give, your body yielding, so willingly sweet, it makes his throat dry and his teeth ache.

You shouldn’t feel like that.

And, of course, the front of the hoodie is exactly what he expects.

His.

The realization settles low and comfortably in his chest. You’ve been in his room. You’ve crossed the line he drew and did it quietly enough to think he wouldn’t notice. Laid out on the couch like a slab of meat, all buttery and mailable. As if he’d let it slide.

“Hi.”

That’s all you say. Your voice a gentle rasp, halfway submerged in the remnants of your dreams.

He pulls in a breath, giving your hip two sturdy pats. Just to watch the way it jostles your body a bit. Your breath catches slightly. You fiddle with a strand of hair, eyes looking at him expectantly. His hand tightens at your hip before he can stop himself. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to remind himself you’re real. His thumb digs in, and the urge comes roaring up his spine—sharp and violent and intimate all at once.

He falls back, sinking down into the cushion beside you. Still, you make no move to get up.

“Think you’re slick?” He asks. He shifts, a lazy movement, his hips rolling up gently as he slouches deeper into the couch. He reaches down to readjust his pants, tight over his thickening cock.

You bite your lip, a coy smile spreading. Your voice is barely audible, “What?”

“Snuck into my room, did’ya?” He watches you purse your lips. Eyes going all squinty as you snicker quietly. Not an ounce of shame. “What’d I say ‘bout touchin’ my things?”

You get all puppy-eyed and pathetic suddenly, bottom lip puckering as you slouch further into the hoodie. “I was gonna return it.”

He cocks his head, “Were ya?”

You nod vigorously, but there’s a hint of mischief underlying that tells him otherwise.

He pushes up then, his hand skimming the top of the couch to the cushions below as he adjusts onto a knee. Slowly, he invades your space till he’s straddling your feet. His hands come to rest on the apex of your knees, fingers drumming along the soft flesh.

And you’re still not fighting. You’re not scrambling away or snapping something clever back at him. You’re lying there on your back, belly up and vulnerable, eyes flicking to his mouth like you’re bracing for impact. Or hoping for it.

It makes something ugly and rotted twist in his gut.

You don’t understand what you’re poking at. You don’t see the precarious line you’re dancing on. Or worse, you do, and you like it. Like seeing how close you can get before the animal lunges.

He’s practically salivating. Eager to pry your legs apart, hoping for even a glimpse of your pretty cunt. He bets she’s dripping right now. So fervid and aching to be caught in his clothing, wearing nothing underneath. He wonders how long you’ve been like this. Waiting for him to come home.

It would take nothing—nothing at all—for him to have his way. He wouldn’t even need your permission, he could just take. Simply shift his grip, a firm hand at your shoulder, one decisive movement to flip you over and press you down. He’d hook his fingers beneath your hips, move you how he wanted. Slide your soaked knickers down trembling legs.

He’d work his fat, heavy cock into you, slowly, because he’ll want you to remember the shape of him. How it feels to be stretched open to the point where you can’t even breathe. How it feels when there’s nothing left but him. How it feels to take what’s not yours.

Until you’re full. So full you can’t even think of anything else.

He watches your mouth open and close for a moment, eyes glued to his hands, but nothing comes out.

“An’ if I said I wanted it back now?” His voice is coarse, need roughening his vocal cords.

Your eyes flare, “Then take it.”

That sends all the blood in his body rushing south. You don’t make any moves, but you wait expectantly for him to.

And he does. Drags the thick cotton over your head and down your arms. His gaze sticks to your front when it catches at your shoulders, shielding your eyes from him. He has to stop himself from reaching for the soft plush of your breasts that fluff overtop the cups of your bra.

He works down a swallow, and it’s tough going down.

When the hoodie finally comes free, he fists it tight in his hand, knuckles whitening around the familiar weight.

You tilt your head, hair mussed, eyes bright with quiet triumph. “Told you I’d give it back.”

Little shithead.

You move around like a spirit, skirting the edges of his vision. A flicker of you in a doorway. A shape slipping past the hall. Every time he turns, there’s nothing there. It needles at him, makes him feel unsteady—like the start of something clinical. Like he’s going through some kind of psychosis.

When he does manage to catch you, it’s because you’re pushing it.

He walks in on you perched on the edge of the tub, his body wash uncapped and cradled between your thighs. You’re rubbing the blue gel between your fingers, lifting your hand to your face and breathing it in like it’s incense. So curious… and thoughtless. He snaps at you, makes you wash your hands. Tells you not to fuck with his things. He’d beat your ass for wasting that shit.

Every morning, it’s the same.

He cracks his door open to get ready for work and nearly trips over you sitting on the floor outside it. Back to the wall. Knees tucked in tight like you folded yourself small on purpose. You perk up at the sight of him, mouth splitting into a grin.

“Morning sleepy,” you sing at him, jumping to your feet.

He just grunts, slides past you and into the bathroom. Relieves himself in a long, steaming stream, eyes half-lidded. When he steps back out, you’re still there. Waiting patiently for him to finish.

You always beg to come with him to the store, and he caves more often than he should. You sprint for the truck before he can open the door, hauling yourself into the passenger seat like it's a race.

Inside the store, you orbit him. Darting ahead, doubling back, tugging at his sleeve to show him nothing at all.

You’re like a dog. All motion and need.

Eventually he snags you by the back of the neck, fingers firm as he steers you down an aisle. Makes you carry the basket. Keeps you close. And annoyingly, he realizes he doesn’t hate it. The extra set of hands. The warmth at his side.

And then it happens.

The first time he catches you is only because you’ve got this guilty look on your face. He knows something’s wrong before you ever say it. You won’t meet his eyes. You keep worrying the hem of your jacket, glancing around like the walls might start talking. When you get back to the truck, you don’t touch the handle. You wait. He unlocks it, you climb in quietly, and the drive home stretches long and silent.

Only when you’re both sitting there in the lot does he speak.

“Thought you would’ve said somethin’ by now.”

Silence.

“Y’gonna tell me what you did?” he asks.

You just shrug.

“You won’t be leavin’ any time soon,” he warns.

You reveal it seconds later.

A fucking mango.

He stares at it. Stares at you.

He thinks about letting you keep it just because you latch onto his arm, apologizing in a whisper so soft it’s pathetic. I’m sorry, so so sorry, Simon, I—I didn’t mean to. Like someone might hear if you’re too loud. He should make a thing of it. Should drag it out. And he does, because he’d rather watch you squirm than let you get away with it. Just so he can feel your hesitation under his hand when he nudges you back toward the doors. Fingers firm at your lower back. Making you move after driving all the way back to the supermarket.

You return it, under the guise of forgetting to scan it. You get off with a few chastising words and a look. He tells himself that’s mercy. That it has nothing to do with your sad little face.

Friday evenings you’ll put on a show. He doesn’t mind, it’s nice to have a little noise in the background. Till you make him start joining you. Pulling him down beside you, replaying scenes, inching closer and closer. Till you’re gawking up at him, eyes wide like you’ve just been caught redhanded when your head ends up on his shoulder.

You’re ridiculous.

“‘S fine,” he mutters.

And you go down willingly, melting into him like a gooey marshmallow.

By the end of the movie, his eyes are shot, his neck sore, and his shoulders stiff. He starts to move like he’s going to get up, but you stir, a dissatisfied groan slipping from your lips.

Of course you fell asleep.

He doesn’t even think, he just slides a hand beneath the crook of your knees, his other circling around your back, pulling you into him. You aren’t heavy, but you’re fluid, falling through his grasp like liquid. Limbs heavy and limp. Still so recalcitrant, even in sleep.

He cradles you close as he eases you onto his lap. He shifts your legs, guiding them to straddle his, and then—you stiffen.

He glances down.

Big doe eyes, wide with realization, lock onto his.

You hold his gaze, unwavering. You don’t look away.

His hand lifts to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, exerting just enough pressure to guide you back down. You resist. He can see it in your eyes, the mental battle between confusion and acceptance.

Then, you give in.

Your body softens against his, squirming as you seek to find comfort. His hands hover until you still. Your breaths come in tiny puffs as you nuzzle your cheek up in the crook of his shoulder. Sweat dampened skin burning his neck, the furnace-like heat of you seeping into him.

He curls an arm around your waist, palm settling on the supple curve of your hip. His fingers spread wide, claiming more, feeling more, anchoring himself in the warmth of you.

Slowly, he traces his hand up the length of your back, then down, a steady, lingering sweep. You arch into him, a gentle shudder rolling through you. He rests his cheek on the crown of your head.

Little by little you’ve been cracking open his sternum. Wriggling your little festering fingers into his chest and tainting his heart.

He’s stopped trying to push you out. He figures he’ll just let you stay.

When you return to work on Monday after a long weekend, the office is quieter than usual. It’s late enough that the phone has stopped ringing, but early enough that no one’s gone home yet. That in-between hour where everyone’s pretending to be busy in order to rack up their hours, and watching the clock instead. You’re good at this part. Being invisible. Sitting straight-backed at the desk, answering emails, smiling when someone passes.

You stand to head to the bathroom. Just to move. Just to breathe. The silence makes the hallway feel longer than usual, and the carpet too soft beneath your shoes. Like you might sink through the next second.

Back at your desk, your fingers rest on the mouse and you start clicking random things. You tell yourself you’re just checking something. A reference number. A start date. Something harmless. Something you normally do when the end of your shift approaches.

You shouldn’t be able to open the folder directly. But the system remembers you. Remembers that you scan. That you file. That you upload and route and label things no one else wants to. One click takes you somewhere you don’t belong.

Your breath stills.

It’s not a lot. Just one document inside it. A draft not yet finalized. Temporarily parked before it’s sent to the higher ups for review.

Employee Relations—Internal Use Only.

You don’t know what gives you the audacity. What makes you sit there and pretend you’re entitled to look. Like you’re some executive little shithead and not a part-timer who answers phones and fetches coffee every other day.

You feel it then.

A restless buzz under your skin that makes it hard to keep still. You skim. Just a line or two. It’s an incident report. There’s a name you recognize, dates following, and then the allegations. Notes that were never meant to be read aloud, much less seen by you.

Your pulse kicks hard.

It always starts like that.

You’re just messing around when you decide to print up the record. The pleasure from it hits fast and hard. A clean rush, like jumping off a building and finding out halfway down that you can fly. A quiet sound slips from your throat before you can stop it. Your thoughts go mercifully blank. For the first time all day, you feel good.

Capable.

In control.

You get up and head to the printers. The paper is fresh, warm to touch, and you tuck it smoothly away into your folder, like you’ve done this a hundred times. Like it belongs to you. Like it always has and you’re just doing your job.

When you return to your spot behind the counter, no one looks at you twice.

No alarms. No confrontation. No consequence.

You ride that feeling home.

All evening, through your shower, through dinner, through Simon’s voice, it hums under your skin. Your own little secret. A warmth that makes everything softer, brighter. You catch yourself smiling at nothing.

“What’re you smilin’ for?” Simon asks.

He’s elbow-deep in dishwater, when you slink over to him and drape yourself stomach-first over the counter with a breathless laugh. You rest your head on your hands, staring at the foamy bubbles. Watching water drip down his forearms. His movements are methodical, smooth. Done a hundred times over.

“Nothing…” you sneak a peak up at him, wondering if he’ll press.

He doesn’t.

You push upright, and slide right up behind him, snaking your arms around his waist. You rest your head against his back, “Just had a good day at work.”

You sleep better than you have in days. The guilt doesn’t come. Not that night, not the next morning.

It waits.

It waits until you hear raised voices down the hall at work. Until a coworker’s eyes go wet. Until your boss’s door stays shut longer than usual. Until the printer log gets checked. Until the absence is noticed.

Until you realize the damage didn’t stay private.

That it mattered.

Your stomach drops then. Hard, heavy, sickening. Because this isn’t like Simon. There’s no private reckoning here. No quiet forgiveness. No rule bent just for you. This time, the damage doesn’t stay contained. Out here, outside the apartment, things are real.

And you don’t know how to put it back.

They don’t call you in right away. That’s the first thing that’s wrong. Normally, when something goes missing, there’s an announcement. An email. A tense meeting where everyone pretends not to look at each other. Where nobody points fingers, but silent confrontations happen after. In the corners of the breakroom, down below in the parking garage, or in the bathroom using hushed whispers.

This time, your calendar invite just updates.

Meeting—10:30 a.m.

Location: Conference Room B

No agenda. No recognizable sender name.

You stare at it longer than necessary, finger hovering over the mouse. That familiar itch twitches low in your gut, but it doesn’t bloom into pleasure this time. It just sits there.

Conference Room B smells like stale coffee and disinfectant. There are three chairs on one side of the table. One on the other. You take the single chair without being told to. HR arrives together. Two of them. One you recognize, one you don’t. Both pleasant and professional. Both already seated before you finish adjusting yourself.

A folder sits on the table. Not your folder, but close enough that your stomach sinks anyway and your chest gets all tight.

“Thanks for coming in,” the woman says, smiling. “This shouldn’t take long.”

You nod, folding your hands neatly in your lap and pasting on a little smile. You’re very good at this part.

“We are doing an internal review,” the man clears his throat when you shift in your seat. “Nothing out of the ordinary, just routine.”

Words meant to soften edges. You remain sharp. Vigilant.

“We uh… noticed a discrepancy,” he continues, “in the access logs.”

Your pulse ticks once. Twice. You feel your lip twitch into a subtle frown. You nod, waiting for them to continue.

The woman slides the folder toward you, but doesn’t open it. “You are somebody that has clearance for HR files,” she says gently. “Limited clearance. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, nodding your head.

No hesitation. You tell yourself that’s important. It makes you look faultless, willing to comply. You work down a swallow anyway.

“And you understand,” she adds, “that accessing documents outside your scope is a violation of policy?”

You nod again. Still calm. Still composed.

She glances at her colleague, then back at you. “On Monday afternoon, a document was accessed from a workstation assigned to you.”

Your mouth goes dry. She doesn’t say, from your workstation, but frames it in a way that doesn’t condemn you. Yet. The itch stirs, your hands twitch in your lap, not pleasure now, but memory. That warm, heady sense of getting away with it.

Now you just feel nauseous.

The man speaks this time. “That document contained… sensitive employee information.”

The words feel unreal. Floaty in your skull, and your mind hones in. Sensitive.

“It was printed off the record,” he says, stopping short for emphasis. “And then removed.”

Silence stretches. They don’t accuse you. They wait. You think of Simon then. How he watches, how he lets the quiet do the work. How silence isn’t empty. It’s pressure.

You won’t fall for it.

“I—” Your voice catches. You clear your throat. “I don’t remember printing anything like that.”

The lie lands cleanly. Almost. Maybe if you hadn’t stuttered like a fool in the beginning it could pass fully. You bite your lip.

The woman’s smile doesn’t change. “That’s okay,” she says. “Memory can be unreliable.”

She opens the folder. Inside are timestamps. Login records. A grainy still from a security camera. Just you, profile turned, hand reaching toward the printer. Not proof, but so so close.

“We’re not saying you took it,” the man adds quickly. “We’re just saying the responsibility rests with you at this time.”

Your breathing’s gone a little off now, like you can’t get in enough air. They aren’t shouting, this isn’t punishment, but somehow it’s worse.

“We just need to understand,” the woman says, “where the document is now.”

Your mind scrambles. Excuses, justifications, rehearsed apologies. You think of how Simon lets you squirm. How he enjoys it. How this feels nothing like that. There’s no heat here. No indulgence. No sweet gratification once you realize you’ve got a rise out of them—just consequence.

“I don’t have it,” you say finally.

They exchange a glance.

The man sighs, almost regretful. “Then, we will need to escalate.”

The word hits harder than any threat Simon’s ever made. Escalate means investigations. Means audits. Means people losing trust. Jobs. Security.

The woman closes the folder gently. “You’re not in trouble,” she says. The lie is painfully obvious this time.

They stand. The meeting is over. You remain seated, hands numb in your lap, watching the door close behind them. You're overcome with remorse. It settles deep in your gut, all heavy, and sick. Utterly immovable.

Because you didn’t just take something. You had to worm your grimy hands into where they didn’t belong, tug on one little string, and now, the whole system is starting to notice. But you’re the one that’s beginning to unravel.

You can’t sleep.

“Simon,” you whisper into the dark, kneeling at his bedside. Your voice barely carries. “Simon, I did something bad.”

He comes awake like he’s been shot.

The mattress jolts. A curse tears out of him, raw, loud enough to rip a sound from your own throat. You don’t even register the movement until the world tilts and your back hits the bed, breath knocked loose, the ceiling a black blur above you.

His hand is at your throat.

He doesn’t squeeze hard, but the pressure is there. Instinctive. Reflexive, like you’re some intruder. Firm enough that your words die before they’re born. Your pulse stutters beneath his palm. You blink hard, mouth open, staring up at the dark cut of his silhouette.

It takes a second. One sharp breath.

Then he feels you shaking.

He pulls back like he just slapped you unwittingly, dragging a hand down his face, swearing under his breath. “Jesus—pet.” His voice is rough, unsteady. “You scared the fuck outta me.”

Your body caves in on itself once the pressure’s gone. The tears come without warning. Silent, ugly, unstoppable. He swears again, lower this time, and gathers you up like you’re coming apart in his hands.

He sits back against the headboard and hauls you with him, pressing you down against his front, one broad hand at the back of your head, guiding your face down onto his chest. Your cries get lost there, muffled and damp.

You think, distantly, that maybe that’s why he does it, to drown out your voice, but his hand doesn’t leave your back. It strokes gently, up and down. Grounding. His heart is hammering hard enough you can feel it through his ribs, against your cheek.

He presses his mouth to the crown of your head. Lingers.

“Hush,” he murmurs, not angrily. “Easy.”

The room settles inch by inch. The night presses in around you. You sniff, hiccuping once, then again, until your breathing evens out. His thumb keeps tracing the same path along your spine, like he’s bringing you back into yourself. It’s working.

“Can’t just walk in like that,” he mumbles, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard him speak before. What’s left sounds tired. “Thought somethin’ was wrong for a second. Woulda crushed your windpipe—”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I—” your voice breaks off and you let out a heavy, blubbering sigh, nuzzling deeper into his chest.

His hand strays up into your hair, fingers running gently through your scalp. There's a moment of silence while you’re swallowed up in the darkness of night, your eyes slowly adjusting to his figure beneath you.

Finally, he exhales.

“What’d you wanna tell me?” he asks again.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you shift, climbing slowly up his chest, knees bracketing his hips, until your mouth is near his ear. Close enough that he can feel your breath.

“I had a bad day,” you whisper. “That’s all.”

His body reacts before his mind does. You feel it—the way his abdomen tightens, the way his hands come to your hips like they’re anchoring you there.

“Well,” he murmurs, something tired and dangerous underlying his tone, “what d’ya want me to do about it?”

You rock forward just enough to make the contact unmistakable. Grinding your aching clit on his lap. Not hurried or desperate, but rather testing. Seeing what he’ll allow himself to ignore. If he’ll allow you to continue. If he’ll let you forget for just a minute.

“Kiss me better,” you say softly, your mouth brushing his jaw. “Just—” a breath, a pause, perfectly placed. Your teeth snag on his neck before you give it a soft kiss. “Tell me it’s gonna be okay.”

“That what you want?” he grunts, his hands finding your hips, testing their give before gradually beginning to guide you in a smooth push and pull.

Something tightens low in your belly at the subtle control of it.

He noses your cheek. You lift your head instinctively, eyes fluttering shut. That’s when he nips your chin, and it makes you gasp. A curious hand slips around your hip, bolder now, fingers digging into your bottom. He grabs a large handful as he pulls you forward before pushing you back. You quiver in his arms like a dry, brittle leaf, mouth falling slack against his chest. Caught up in a rhythm you didn’t start and can’t stop. You choke on a breath when he starts to roll his hips up into you.

“Mhm,” you gasp, mouthing at his neck. “I want that.”

The first peck is gentle, careful, almost chaste. A soft joining of your lips, like he’s bracing for you to pull away. You don’t. You lean in instead, kissing him again. Slower this time, more certain. Drawing your tongue along that thin scar intersecting his upper lip. His hand comes up to your chin, thumb tilting your face as he catches your bottom lip between his teeth.

When you pull back, you find him watching you, eyes heavy and dark.

He bucks up into you when your hips stutter to a halt, “Fuck pet, don’t stop.”

You’re obedient this time.

Back arching with the next slow roll, stammering out a shaky breath. You lean down again, your kisses losing their neatness, growing sloppier. Smearing spit, and tears, and warmth along his mouth and jaw.

His hand drifts from your hip, following the curve of your inner thigh up, until his fingers dip under the leg of your shorts. You jolt at the contact, but he hushes you softly, his tongue slipping into your mouth. His finger presses right there. Against where you sit bare, dragging a curious, unhurried finger along your drenched seam, circling your swollen nub with your slick.

“Shit, Simon,” you jerk in his arms.

He chuckles darkly in your ear, continuing his ministrations. You can hear the smile in his voice when your thighs start to squeeze his hips, “Y’like that?”

You whine, fingers gripping his shirt, “Yeah, f-feels good.”

His fingers get all slippery in your folds and you're panting like some dog in heat, toes curling and eyes rolling to the point where you have to bury your face in his chest. Hide away as he brings you closer and closer to the peak.

Your teeth dig into his shoulder when his finger tests your weeping hole. When he tries to push his thick finger in.

“Relax,” he hushes, “It’s only gonna hurt if ya keep on squeezin’ me like that.”

It’s far from hurting. The fit is a little tight at first, but he gets it in, all the way to the base. It doesn’t take long till he works in a second finger. Knuckles dragging pleasantly along your spongy walls. You’re almost nervous that he’s working you up to taking his cock. Especially with the way it’s all chubbed up, the hard length a prominent presence against your inner thigh.

But when you finally come—after your breath catches in your chest, and your spine goes rigid, and your limbs lock up, and he captures your lips again with his—he just rubs your back in soothing circles. Pulls the blanket around your shoulders and coddles you to sleep.

Still half-hard and leaking down his pant leg.

It happens on a Wednesday.

That’s what stays with you later. Not the severity of it, but how ordinary the day is when everything changes.

The office hums like it always seems to. Phones ringing, printers coughing awake before settling into a steady whir, someone laughing too loudly in the break room. You sit at your desk with your hands folded neatly in front of you, spine straight, trying to act like your heart’s not beating outside your chest.

You almost convince yourself that nothing’s wrong. Almost. Then an email pings.

SUBJECT: Please come to Conference Room B

FROM: Human Resources

No punctuation. No explanation.

Your mouth goes dry. You wipe your palms down your skirt.

You stand slowly. Grab your notebook even though you don’t know why. A prop, maybe. Something to make you look like you belong where you’re going. Give you something to hold so you’ll stop fidgeting like you know you’ve done something wrong.

People glance up as you pass. Just flickers of attention. No one knows yet.

You can already see them inside: the two HR reps, your direct supervisor, and someone you don’t recognize with a laptop open and a badge clipped to their chest. Compliance. The door shuts behind you with a soft click. Final.

“Have a seat,” one of them says.

You do. They don’t waste any time.

“As you know, we’re conducting an internal review regarding unauthorized access and possession of confidential employee records.”

The words still feel unreal, like they’re describing someone else. Your supervisor won’t look at you.

“We need you to confirm,” the other HR rep continues, “whether you accessed File 17-C outside of approved protocol.”

Your pulse roars in your ears.

“Yes,” you say.

A beat.

“And whether you removed it from company systems or premises.”

You hesitate. Just long enough. You’ve already lost.

“Yes.”

The man with the badge types something. The sound of the keys feels obscene.

“This constitutes a violation of company policy and federal compliance standards,” the rep says calmly. “Effective immediately, you are suspended pending further investigation.”

Suspended. Not fired. Not yet at least. They slide a form across the table. Then another and another. You sign where they tell you to. Your handwriting looks unfamiliar. Tight, careful, like you’re afraid of making noise. Afraid to lose your hand and scribble over the whole page.

“You’ll be escorted to retrieve your personal belongings,” someone says. “Your PIN will be deactivated.”

Escorted. That’s when it becomes real.

When the door opens again, it’s not just HR waiting, it’s the rest of your colleagues. The open office beyond the glass. Heads lifting. Suspicious eyes tracking. Nosy mouths whispering. You stand, and walk. Slowly. Like if you go too fast you might crumple to your knees.

The compliance officer follows a step behind you. Close enough to remind you that you are no longer trusted to move freely. The whispers start before you reach your desk. Not complete sentences. Just the sound of attention shifting. Chairs creaking. A few keyboards going silent. You keep your face neutral. Professional. Like this is just another errand.

Like you don’t care.

Your PIN doesn’t work when you try to open your drawer. The officer steps in and unlocks it for you. That’s the moment your throat tightens. You pack quickly. A pen. A bottle of perfume. A pack of gummy candies you forgot you had. Each item feels incriminating now, like proof you existed here at all.

Someone you used to eat lunch with watches you openly. Your supervisor still doesn’t look at you. When you’re done, the officer gestures toward the exit. No goodbyes. No explanations. Just the doors swinging shut behind you with a click of finality.

Outside, the air feels wrong. Too big. Too free. Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

A text from a coworker you barely speak to: what did you do??

You frown, shoving the device into your back pocket..

The fuck?

You don’t answer. By the time you reach your car, your inbox is already filling.

[no subject] Re: HR???

[no subject] omg are you okay?

[no subject] Heard something bad happened!

You sit in the driver’s seat and stare at the steering wheel. This is the part you didn’t imagine. Not the taking, not the giddy pleasure. Not even the fear. This.

The watching. The knowing that your name is being said without you in the room. That you’re talked about and gossiped about, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You think of Simon then.

Not as safety. But as the last place you were allowed to pretend consequences were negotiable.

You’re anxious all the time now. You can’t even sit still.

“What’re you standin’ there for?” Simon barks, jolting when he finally notices you.

You flinch at the sound of his voice, shifting your weight from foot to foot like you’ve been caught doing something wrong.

You turned your music on too loud, anything to drown out the tight, buzzing feeling in your chest. You tried lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths. It didn’t work. So you drifted into the kitchen instead, hovering uselessly.

He’s only annoyed because you caught him dancing.

Well, dancing is actually a bit generous in this case. It was more of a loose shuffle as he stood at the stove, reheating what smelled like yesterday’s leftovers. Still, he’d caught the rhythm, let it carry him around the counter, a spoon tapping absently to the beat against the pot.

Then he saw you.

He didn’t jump, not really. Just went still. spine stiffening. Eyes flicking wide before he schooled his face back into place.

“Sorry,” you mumble, staring at the floor. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

He just breathes out, long and heavy. Like he’s already tired. “What’d you do this time?”

You look up at him, genuinely offended. “Why do you always assume I’ve done something?”

“‘Cause you always get that look,” he says, waving the spoon in your direction. “That sad little face. Same one you wear when you know you’ve been a bad girl.”

Your hand flies up to your cheek, disbelief sharpening your tone. “Nuh uh.”

“Mhm,” he taunts, “So what’d ya steal this time?”

Your breath snags hard in your chest. Your eyes give you away before your mouth can catch up.

“Fuck you,” you say.

His laughter booms after you as you flee down the hall to the bathroom. You slam the door behind you, heart hammering.

They don’t call you back in right away. You feel like that’s cruel on their part.

Days pass. Three of them. Long enough for hope to rot into something sour and humiliating. Long enough for you to imagine scenarios where this becomes a warning, a probation, a mark on your file that eventually fades.

On the fourth morning, the email comes.

SUBJECT: Final Determination

FROM: Human Resources

You don’t open it immediately. You already know. Still, you dress like you’re going in. Blouse pressed, hair neat and washed—the version of you that used to belong there. You bring the stolen document with you. You drive to the building on instinct alone, hands steady on the wheel like muscle memory can carry you through.

Security stops you at the door, and you’re reminded once more that your PIN doesn’t work.

“I’m here for a meeting,” you say.

The guard checks his screen. Nods once. Makes a call. Then waves you through, not unkindly, but not warm either. You are escorted again to Conference Room B. Same glass walls, same chairs, same neutral light that makes everyone look a little sick.

You feel a little sick.

This time, there are fewer people. No compliance officer. No laptop. Just HR and your supervisor. Your supervisor finally looks at you for the first time during this harrowing week. You think it’s worse than if he hadn’t.

“Please sit,” the HR rep says.

You do, and she folds her hands, breathing in steadily. You recognize the cadence now. The way people prepare to deliver bad news they’ve practiced saying in the mirror. You wonder if she feels bad doing this to you. If there’s a lot of mental preparation that goes into kicking someone hardworking off the team. Someone that slipped up badly, and can’t get off with a warning.

“After completing our investigation, we’ve determined that your actions constitute a severe breach of trust and policy.”

You nod.

“Specifically,” she continues, “the unauthorized access, possession, and removal of confidential HR materials created potential harm to employees and the organization.”

Your mouth feels numb.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Dumb fucking girl.

“As such,” she says, “your employment with this company is terminated, effective immediately.”

There it is. A clean sentence that cuts you off at the knees. You don’t know you’re crying till tears plop down on your hands wringing nervously in your lap. You sniff, and lick your lips, giving her a shallow nod. She looks at you like you’re some pitiful creature, and she truly is sorry.

Your supervisor clears his throat. “This isn’t… this isn’t personal,” he says, and it’s obvious he believes that makes it better.

You don’t answer.

They slide paperwork across the table. Severance details. Final paycheck information. A reminder of your ongoing confidentiality obligations.

“You are not eligible for rehire,” the HR rep adds, gently, sliding you a box of tissues. Like she’s telling you the weather.

You just close your eyes and bow your head. Not only fired, but closed.

“Do you have any questions?”

You think about asking why this feels worse than being evicted.

You think about asking why it felt good to take something that wasn’t yours.

You think about asking if anyone else ever got away with it.

Instead, you shake your head and snatch a tissue from the box.

“No,” you say, your voice nasally.

They escort you out one last time. Your desk is already empty. Someone has wiped it clean so efficiently it’s like you were never there. No trace of you trying to belong.

A few people look up, some don’t. You catch a whisper, averted eyes, so many people pretending very hard to type.

You walk past all of it.

Outside, the sun is bright. Indifferent. The kind of day people remember for good reasons. Your phone buzzes again. A message from a coworker you thought liked you:

Guess it’s true.

That’s when it finally hits—possibly even harder than the guilt.

The loss of anonymity.

You are no longer a quiet, forgettable presence. You are a story now. A cautionary one. Your name will become one people lower their voices over. You’ll be laughed at and scorned, an account that people tell their families. The ridiculous girl working behind the receptionist desk who thought she held all the power.

You sit in your car and don’t cry. You just stare ahead and feel something hollow settle in your chest. This wasn’t like the other times. You don’t get to return from this. Some rules don’t exist to scare you.

They exist because once you cross them, there is nowhere left to stand.

You’ve been waiting for Simon all day, gnawing at your lip, pacing the same path over and over. Living room to window. Window to couch. Couch to hallway, and back to the living room. You check the time again. And again. And again—ten times in five minutes, like if you look hard enough the numbers might rearrange themselves into something more agreeable.

You don’t text him, not after he told you that first time, Don’t wait on me. You’ve got a life. You wanted to though, felt like you needed to.

You even sneak into his room at one point, crawl under his covers, press your face into his pillow like proximity might summon him faster. As if being somewhere you aren’t supposed to might make him appear quicker.

It doesn’t. In fact, he’s later than usual.

By the time he finally comes home, the sun has been gone for hours. You hear his boots on the steps and freeze mid-stride, heart leaping straight into your throat. Your eyes lock on the door as he works the key and pushes it open, stepping inside. A brush of cold air swirls in before he closes the door behind him.

Something about the way he pauses and looks at you. Concern etched into his features, lips parted like he’s going to demand, What is it, makes hot tears start streaking down your cheeks.

You trip over your own feet in your rush to get to him. Desperate hands grabbing at his jacket, his shirt—anything solid. Trying to pull him close. Trying to disappear into him. You don’t even care about the cold on his sleeves. When his arms come up around you, it still doesn’t feel like enough.

“They fired me,” you wail. “Simon, they f-fired me! They actually did it!”

He tries to pry you off of him, suddenly exasperated. “Christ—lemme at least take my shoes off.”

You tear yourself away like you’ve been burned, retreating to the couch and collapsing into it. You fold your arms rocking back and forth. “They won’t be rehiring me again and—and she said I’m done.”

Simon stands there for a moment before shrugging out of his jacket. Your words seem to pacify the worry he felt early because now his voice is indifferent, “Well what do you want me to do about it? ‘S done now.”

The words land wrong. Not what you’d imagined.

Not the reassurance you’d built up in your head. You stare down the hallway, jaw tight. Maybe if he hadn’t let things slide. Maybe if he hadn’t looked the other way every time you crossed a line—maybe if he hadn’t been such a wuss and inflated your stupid ego. Maybe if he’d done something so that you wouldn’t have felt so emboldened to take what wasn’t yours. Then maybe you’d still have your job.

You bite the inside of your cheek, stand up like you might leave, then sit back down again.

“So what did you do?” he asks.

You push out a breath, wiping angrily at your face, furious at the tears that won’t stop. “Accidentally opened someone’s personal record. An HR incident report.” You tack on bitterly, “It was pretty serious.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “So?”

Your voice goes thin when you manage to bite it out. “I printed it… and I took it home.”

Simon lets out a long breath. He moves over silently, dropping down on the couch, elbows on his knees. Like your words just took it out of him. Like that was the last thing he’d expected you to say. “Well shit. What the fuck did you expect?”

That makes you snap.

“This is your fault.”

That gets a laugh out of him. Sharp, disbelieving. “My fault? Did they fire me, or you?”

“Me, but—” your lip quivers as you scramble to your knees, sniffling and chest heaving as you inch towards him. The finger you point is accusatory, shaking with the breadth of your emotion. “It's y-your fault because you’re a pussy—a-and you let me get away with anything!”

His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist and yanking you close till you’re nose to nose. “Don’t put this shit on my conscience,” he says firmly, giving you a shake. “You are old enough to know better. You shouldn’t have done that, now you get to live with the consequences.”

When he lets go, you deflate where you are, sinking back to his side like a balloon that’s been popped.

Your body doesn’t know what to do with itself now that there’s nowhere left to push, no argument left to make. You cross your arms tight over your chest, then uncross them, then fold them again. Nothing feels right. Your eyes skitter uselessly around the room, landing on nothing, avoiding his face. At a loss. Exposed.

You feel small in a way that has nothing to do with the hunched way you sit.

So wretched. So painfully obvious in your failure. The kind of pathetic that doesn’t need to be named because it radiates.

He’s right.

That’s the worst part. It isn’t cruel, or unfair, or surprising. You should’ve known better. You did know better. You knew the rules. You knew the risk. You knew where the line was because you’d been staring at it for weeks, toeing it, grinning at it, daring it to move first.

And still you crossed it.

You should’ve kept your head down. Should’ve done your job and nothing more. Should’ve stayed out of other people’s business instead of treating it like a puzzle to pry open, a lock meant for your hands. This is what you get. What you deserve.

Penance, you think dimly. Payment due. For being curious when you should’ve been quiet. For wanting something that wasn’t meant for you. For taking what didn’t belong to you and mistaking the thrill of it for permission.

You wring your hands together, scrub at your nose with the heel of your palm. You finally look up at him through wet lashes.

“At least…” Your voice wobbles. “At least make me feel better?”

You peel down your pants because Simon tells you to. The air somehow feels colder this way. Goosebumps race along your thighs. You lay on your back because he tells you to, staring up at the yellowing popcorn ceiling. The ceiling fan whirs distantly overhead. You let him guide your knees to your chest and hold them down with his big hand. Let him steady you because you know you deserve it.

You wonder if he likes what he sees. You in the pink, lace thong you found under his bed. It’d gone missing after you folded your laundry together that one evening. Reappeared under his bed the next week. You wonder if he did in fact bury his nose in the fabric. Touch himself with it. You wonder if it gets him riled up now. If he can feel how wet you are when he rubs an experimental finger over your clothed sex.

If it makes that first crack of his palm over your backside gratifying in any way.

You squeak on contact.

“Gonna steal again?” he asks, tenderly kneading your ass before planting a sharp slap across it.

You grunt, “No.”

You feel your toes curl, feel yourself clenching up when he flicks your pussy. “Liar.”

You jerk each time he spanks you, and if you're crying had slowed down then, it’s definitely picked up now.

“Actin’ all sweet and buttery,” he mutters, his hand coming down harder than before. When you wriggle, he pushes the backs of your thighs down harder. “Bet you think you can get away with anything, huh?”

You shake your head, draping your arms over your eyes, “I don’t.”

“Yeah you do,” he counters. “‘Cause you’re a bad—”

Spank.

“Fuckin’—”

Spank.

“Girl.”

Spank.

He offers reform in the flat of his palm. A sense of grounding that somehow sweeps out from under you in a wave of compulsion. It’s not that you want it—you need it or else you fear you’ll lose your head in guilt and shame. That it’ll come free of your neck with a little snap and float away into the atmosphere. Each brief moment of that sharp, bruising contact is a reminder.

Stop. Fucking. Stealing.

You feel tears streaking along your temples and into your hairline. Open-mouthed gasps leaking off your tongue, abdomen pulling taut. Even more so when he strikes your crotch with the tips of his fingers.

You’re sobbing quietly by the time he stops, a plaintive sound that you can’t control.

When his hand makes contact this time, it’s soothing. He runs it along your backside, roughened callouses dragging delightfully across your enraged skin. You flinch, at that first touch, seizing as you brace for impact, but it never comes.

When he releases your thighs, you feel weak. Your legs part, unfurling to either side like buttery flower petals. A sheen of sweat coats your skin. You peek down at him through your fingers.

He hovers close and you freeze up at first, taken aback by the feather-light brush of his lips on your clothed mound. He glances up at you when he gives it a small kiss. You practically melt when he plants the flat of his tongue on you. Your spine turning molten hot like you might sink into the cushions.

He pulls away then, nipping at your thigh, fingers curling under your ass, hooking on your panties. He drags them carefully off your legs.

“Y’stopped crying,” he notes. “Feel any better?”

You feel mute all of a sudden, a bit shy and raw, so you just nod.

He rises to his feet, his movements smooth and lithe with grace despite his size as he sinks onto the couch across from you. A predator settling in. The cushion pitches low where he plants himself, and you feel yourself dipping towards him. Your eyes flick downwards to the way his massive thighs spread on either side of you. Muscle extending to bracket your hips. His hands work away at his belt. Thick fingers steady and assured. You feel yourself swallow when he flicks open the button and pulls down his fly.

His boxers are navy, stretched taut over himself. A hefty curve straining against cotton, the barest sliver of a vein running along the underside. You don’t know what you’re expecting when his thumb notches on his waistband. Your throat works down an anticipatory swallow at the first sign of the thicket of hair.

When his dick springs free, a shiver runs up your spine. He pushes the waistband further down, tucking it under his balls. Your tongue grows dry. He’s big.

“The hell is that?” You whisper, voice coarse.

Your back doesn’t leave the couch as he reaches down, gathering you by the waist and hoisting you up onto his lap. He lifts his thick cock, lets it rest against your stomach. His heavy sack pressing against your cunt. Chin tucked to your chest you gawk down at his angry, leaking, tip, now dribbling against your tummy.

“Tha’s my magic rod, pet,” he tells you, voice gruff, rolling his hips, coating himself in your slick. “He’s gonna help ya feel even better.”

His precum slides precariously down towards your navel, straying too close to your blouse. You reach for the hem, quickly rucking it up to your chin. Not wanting the silk burgundy to be tainted. He helps you out, pulls it off the rest of the way, leaving your hair all staticky and mussed.

Your eyes narrow when he reaches down and swipes a thick pearl off your tummy. He pushes his finger past your lips, letting it settle heavy on your tongue.

“C’mon,” he urges. “Clean me up.”

He holds your eye as your tongue runs along his finger. Even when you’re sure you’ve licked it up completely, he doesn’t pull away. Even when you open your mouth, waiting for his finger to leave your mouth. He just runs his finger along your tongue, coating it in your spit. His touch is gentle, so gentle that you almost don’t feel him breach the back of your throat till you gag. He chuckles, voice low, and pulls away at last. When you close your mouth, you can still feel him on your tongue.

He reaches down to spread your puffy lips, each rock of his hips drags his cock against your swollen bud. Your mouth falls open, your eyes growing droopy, honing in on his movements. You sneak a hand down, curious fingers grazing his tip, sliding down his slippery length. He gets a little rough then, fingers digging into the meat of your waist, holding you still.

He works three fingers in you just so it won’t hurt, scissoring each digit apart once he fits them in all the way. He doesn’t stop till your arousal’s trickling down your ass and leaking onto the couch.

“‘M ready, Simon,” you whine, tripping over your words.

Only when your moans get high and tight does he pull back and notch the head at your entrance.

“Needy girl,” he huffs, pulling his shirt off.

When he finally pops the tip in, your back arches up off the couch. He leans forward, cramming himself in a bit more before drawing back. The drag burns, makes your head get all foggy, makes your chest feel compressed. Your hands shoot out reaching up and snagging on his chest hairs.

“Slower—” you manage. “S-slow down—”

He only pushes in further and you squeal at the pressure, trying to suck in a breath. He keeps pushing till you feel physically full. Till it feels like he’s pulsing at the back of your throat. Till your walls are squeezing around him in erratic pulses, and you can feel your head spinning as you try to acclimate.

“Ohhh, tha’s nice,” he groans, grinding his hips in you. “Hold me tight—jus’ like that.”

And then he starts to move. Move you. Hands digging into your hips, and forcing you onto his cock. His grip is bruising, like steel clamps. They don’t budge, even as you writhe in his grip. Pushed and pulled like some toy.

He’s vocal. Grunting and groaning, talking about the best pussy he ever had. The squelching sounds that ensue make your cheeks get all hot and flushed.

You reach for his shoulders, trying to pull yourself up and onto his lap, but his hand nails you down as he situates himself over you. Grabs your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head while he ruts into your distended sex, breathing hard as he bottoms out. Makes you clench up tight and your stomach fizzle with white-hot, prickling nerves.

His fingers creep under your bra, and one tit pops out.

“Look at that,” he rasps, leaning down to lap at your pert nipple.

You squirm, leaning into the wet warmth of his mouth while he frees your other breast.

He fucks you like an animal. Like he’s been stalking you for ages and just managed to snag you by the delicate scruff of your neck. Hands palming your body like he can pull you into him and keep you there forever.

When his strokes start to get jerky and his hips begin to stutter, you know he’s close.

“‘M gonna come inside you, pet,” he tells you.

“W-wait, what?” You reach for his sweat tacky chest, feeble palms pushing.

He pulls you close till your chest to chest though, huffing into your neck like some savage, his hips forcing your thighs to spread even wider. You claw at his back, your nails scoring red lines up and over his shoulders, but that doesn’t stop him. It only forces a long brutish groan from the back of his throat. You squawk when his canines meet your neck, clamping down hard.

You think he might draw blood.

When he comes, he bites down even harder, shoving himself in completely to the root, notching right up against your cervix. You can feel his seed spilling deep and hot against your walls. And it just keeps coming and coming.

You can barely even muster words, “Ohhh fuck—“

“You full, pet?” He coos, his warm palm reaching down to press on your belly. “Was ‘at too much?”

He fucks it in gently, keeping you stuffed, making sure you pull every last drop out of him. Your mouth falls open when he jerks your clit to the cadence of his hips. Pets you like he’s trying to force an orgasm out of you—

And he succeeds.

You can’t stop your legs from spazzing out. Your trembling hands grasp for his arms, but he just offers you his hand to hold onto. Big paw pressing down on your heaving chest. Elbow fully extended and locked so he can pull back just to look at you. The way your eyes roll to the back of your head when you try to grab onto his bicep. The way you twitch like a faulty spark plug. Squeezing him in tight, throbbing bursts.

He doesn’t pull out for a while, just reaches behind your neck to lift your head. Makes you look at the creamy white at the base of his cock. “Milked the shit outta me. Jus’ lookit that.”

You don’t care. You’re spent. All the last bits of your strength finally oozing from your limbs. Leaden in the afterglow.

You let him pull you upright, limp as a doll, eyelids heavy. You let him keep you there sodden cunt dripping onto his lap till he starts to soften inside. Chest to chest. You let him lick a stripe from your neck, to your ear and bite your lobe. Let him nuzzle the crook of your jaw, sucking hickeys onto your salty skin and nip and mark the fat of your breasts. His tongue laps into your mouth, teeth grazing, biting, drawing the slightest trace of blood.

“My good fuckin’ girl,” he growls between kisses.

And as you wilt against his chest, fatigued and weary, you don’t feel so rotten inside.

The urge doesn’t disappear.

It follows you down the street, sticky and insistent. When your eyes snag on a handbag displayed in a shop window. It’s there in the twitch of your fingers as you drag yourself up the apartment stairs, gaze catching on your neighbor’s welcome mat. It hums beneath your skin when you slip a cute little keychain into your pocket at the gas station, heartbeat kicking up like it always does. Lips pursing in a subtle smile.

But Simon’s hand at the back of your neck doesn’t disappear either. It’s a sudden, warm weight.

“Think you’re slick?”

You duck your head, breath stalling in your chest. Yeah, for a hot second you really did.

“Put it back.”

You force the air out of your lungs and hang the keychain on its hook. He doesn’t ease up until you’re past the doors, until you’ve climbed back into the car. He swats your ass just before you sit, light but pointed.

A reminder. Watch yourself.

It’s always a glance held too long. A thought you know better than to finish. But it passes more easily now. As everything does.

You tell yourself that means you’re getting better at controlling it.

You don’t really think about leaving. You don’t think about starting over. You don’t think about much at all. There’s relief in that—in letting the wanting quiet down, in letting someone else decide where your hands should stay.

You slide an arm out from beneath your covers and silence the phone with a tap. The quiet rushes back in and you tuck your arm quickly to your chest.

The heating system’s been broken for days now throughout the complex. You set it to seventy-four on the dial, but it still reads sixty-eight across the screen. Several complaints arose—you even tried reaching out—which says a lot, because you don’t like asking for help. You’ve come to learn that your landlord is unreliable. You just have to tough it out. Layer up on sweaters and socks, trying to combat a bone-deep chill that never pacifies.

You feel it slowly starting. A depression that settles in your gut, making itself at home before the leaves have even fallen off their trees. Before the sun begins to withdraw its warmth. Before the purple edges of dusk start to creep into the sky—when before it would have still been light out. When you start to eat dinner with the curtains drawn.

You just need something to look forward to. Something that gives you purpose and sheds a light over the early morning grey that follows you throughout the week.

And then, almost like it was planned, it happens.

You see him on the bus on Monday, still blinking the sleep out of your eyes as you clamber past the open doors. You plop down on the lower level where the seats face each other and you can watch the world pass by through the wide open windows. You don’t care if the contents in your bookbag get squished between your back and the seat. The world is just a haze of motion and stale air, the faint hiss of brakes, the hum of the engine beneath your feet.

You readjust your headphones and reach for your phone, thumb poised and ready to skip to a better song, when you spot him sitting near the back. Broad shoulders taking up space, head tipped back to lean against the window.

Just the sight of him makes your heart give a startled flutter.

His eyes are closed, and your eyes can’t help following the scruff that spreads across his strong jaw, running down his neck. His throat works against the stretch as he swallows, but he makes no move to sit upright. The floor rumbles beneath your feet, and you lurch when the bus hits a deep pothole.

He barely reacts, just shifts in his seat like it was a minor inconvenience, peeking an eye open to make sure his arm is still slung across his work bag. He relaxes again, legs spread in an easy sprawl. The suit he’s wearing does terrible things to your self-control. His slacks hug a pair of powerful thighs, neatly polished dress shoes pointing outwards.

You can’t help the fact that your eyes are drawn to his lap. You gawk absentmindedly where the fabric bunches indecently around his crotch. He’s oblivious to you. Doesn’t even glance your way. Somehow, that feels worse than being caught. Like a rejection you weren’t prepared for. You want his attention. You want to be seen by him, if only for a heartbeat.

Your stop comes too soon.

Your gaze drifts unconsciously back to him—his forearms rest on his legs, hands hanging loose between his knees, thick fingers flexing once before settling again.

He’s all unstudied masculinity. Casual, relaxed, exuding a quiet, natural kind of presence that makes your mouth go dry. Makes you feel slightly ashamed at how badly you crave recognition from him. You make your way to the exit at the back, and just as you reach the doors, he opens his eyes.

That icy blue lazily drifts upward, and locks on you. Doesn’t let go until you turn away and step off the bus. And even then, when you’ve begun walking down the sidewalk and you dare a glance back, he’s still watching.

You hide in the bathroom before heading to class, an embarrassingly wide smile making your cheeks ache. It hasn’t left your face since you stepped off the bus. Your thoughts spin like wet leaves. Slapping against your skull, sticking, peeling off, and spinning again. Who is he? What was he doing on the bus? At what point did he board? Where was he going? Why have you never seen him before?

That’s all you think about the rest of the day. When you’re sitting in class, staring out the window instead of tuning in to the lecture. When you eat the lunch you packed while sitting on a park bench. When you mess with your hair in the restroom mirror, trying to look somewhat presentable. When you return to the bus stop and a prickling anticipation makes you feel jittery.

He’s not there.

You could’ve assumed—you just chose to believe that things might go your way.

But he’s on the bus the next day, and the next, and the next. You miss his face on weekends when you rot in bed, the air cold again, heater useless, like nothing’s changed at all. And then that familiar dread for your early morning Monday class starts to stir in your belly when Sunday comes around. However, the fact that you’ll be able to see his face before class tempers your anxiety.

You begin putting more effort into your appearance. You start wearing makeup, styling your hair, carefully considering your outfits the night before. Every choice you make is intentional, but you’re not even sure if he notices.

You get on the bus a little later than usual one day.

The heater in your apartment was finally fixed, and you’d overslept, nestled deep beneath the warmth of your covers, trying to convince yourself not to go in at all. To stay in this cozy little safe haven. But you’re trying to be better about skipping, so your hair’s damp from a last-minute, sporadic shower, coat still unbuttoned, fingers stinging from the cold.

You ran, breath fogging, heart thudding, cold air whipping your face, just so the driver wouldn’t take off without you. You leap onto the bus, breathless and sniffling, huffing out a, “thank you” to the bus driver. You fumble with your cash, shoving it at the driver with shaky hands, bouncing on the balls of your feet while he thumbs through the change in his palm.

When he’s satisfied he gives you a nod and you make your way down the aisle. The doors squeal shut. You pull in deep breaths through your nose, trying to control the quick rise and fall of your chest.

He’s already there. Third seat from the back. He slouches only slightly today, the collar of his coat turned up.

You hesitate—barely a second—before the bus starts, forcing you to drop into the seat diagonal from him. Closer than you’ve ever dared. You can see the fine gray at his temples, the faint crows-feet bracketing the edges of his eyes, the solid shape of his hands resting on his knees. All blunt nails and thick knuckles. So at odds with his attire.

Your heart’s in your throat. You bite the skin of your lip and glance out the window past his head when he looks up. Your palms are sweaty, tongue dry. You reach up, swiping your finger along your upper lip and grimace when it comes away damp.

You wonder what he thinks when he looks at you. Maybe you should’ve sat near the front like usual.

The bus sways. You tip forward the slightest bit before grounding your feet and shoving yourself back. The whole ride drones on with the grind of the engine, the smell of oil, condensation dripping from the windows. The few other passengers stare into nothing.

As your stop nears, you shift towards the edge of your seat, preparing to stand. Maybe you’re too nervous, maybe you realize you actually don’t want to be perceived because you’re just not feeling your best and you want off as quickly as possible, but you get up.

He does too.

Then the bus driver slams on the brakes. You nearly topple into the aisle, grabbing the nearest pole—the same one he’s holding—to save yourself. The force of the bus throws you straight into him. Your face hits his chest, firm and unyielding. He doesn’t even budge. You struggle to right yourself, heat blooming up your neck, and he helps with a gentle nudge of his shoulder, one hand firm on the pole, the other gripping the straps to his workbag.

At this point, your hair might actually be steaming from how hot your face feels.

He glances down at you then. Really looks. For a moment, the world stills. His steady eyes, impossibly blue, peer deep into yours, like he can gauge your state of being just by looking at you. Like he can see all the private thoughts written within. You can’t even meet them. Your limbs feel shaky from mortification.

You manage a quiet, “Sorry,” towards the floor, voice half-drowned in the growl of the engine.

He gives a small, polite smile—not pitying, but it’s the kind that leans more teasing. Amused.

“S’alright,” he tells you, and the deep rasp of his voice nearly makes you swoon. “You okay, kiddo?”

And you think, oh no. Because now that he’s spoken to you, you’ll never be able to pretend he’s just another stranger again.

You nod, feeling light-headed, and peel away, heading for the exit, mouth suddenly numb. You can feel him behind you as you step off the bus, making your way towards campus. You suddenly forget how to walk, how to look right, and you begin to think too hard about how to place your feet. You wonder why he gets off at this stop today. He never does, at least not when you've been on the bus. His presence continues to trail you down the sidewalk, and you suddenly start to convince yourself that it's because he's following you. Until his footsteps veer away in another direction.

You don’t dare look back. You’re terrified he’ll still be watching if you do.

You start looking at him differently to the point that the rides begin to blur together. Now that you’ve seen the way he moves—heard his voice. You start to let your mind wander.

He’s always somewhere mid-bus—never buried in his phone, never asleep. He reads the way men ought to: a book within his big palm, his pinky and thumb overextending the weakened spine. You work down a heavy swallow as he turns the pages. Sometimes it's a small notepad. He scribbles down a quick note before tucking it away in his breast pocket. Sometimes it's nothing at all, just watching the world slide by through fogged glass.

When older women climb aboard, he’s already halfway out of his seat before they can ask. A quiet Here you go, love, in that gravelly voice of his. Strong hands gathering a frail forearm to help ease them down. Then he stands the rest of the way, one hand braced on the overhead bar, coat hanging open, eyes taking in everything. He's a big man, his presence commanding.

He’s polite, but not too soft. He’s direct and leads with a firm hand. You like that about him.

There’s a steadiness to him that draws your attention again and again. And maybe he knows it, because once or twice—when you’re sure you’re being subtle—his gaze flicks up, as if he can sense you, meets your shifty eyes in the reflection of the window where you secretly watch him, and one corner of his mouth turns. Not a smile, exactly. More like a small, knowing hmm.

You gawk down at your lap the rest of the bus ride. Nape prickling where you can feel his eyes roam.

Soon enough, it becomes a game you didn’t agree to play. You look, he catches you. Sometimes he tips his chin in a wordless hello, or lifts two fingers from his coffee cup in a lazy salute. You start counting the stops differently now. Start seeing how close you can sit without giving yourself away.

You have a feeling he already knows though.

Friday evening, you find yourself stuck on campus long after the sky’s gone dark.

You hate lingering this late, mostly because it means paying for another ride back. But your printer’s been down for weeks, and the student center was the only place nearby where you could use one. What should’ve taken five minutes stretched into an hour—fumbling with settings, poking random buttons—before you realized all it needed was your student ID.

Silly little mistake. You decide to treat yourself to make up for your woes.

The convenience store near campus hums under harsh fluorescent lights. It’s nearly empty, the kind of place where sound feels swallowed. Where the muted atmosphere makes it feel like pressure’s building behind your ears. You’re crouched in front of the snack aisle, a water bottle tucked in the crook of your elbow, scanning the bottom shelf for instant noodles, when a deep voice breaks the quiet.

“I’d go for the orange one. Pink’s a lot hotter.”

You straighten so fast you nearly drop your bottle.

He’s standing at the end of the aisle, sleeves rolled, a paper bag tucked under one arm. Out of the suit, he looks rugged—less polished, more real. His frame fills out a denim button up, and your eyes flit straight towards his bared forearms.

It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about the ramen packaging that you were assessing just moments before.

You push out a steady breath, but trip over your words nonetheless. “Oh yeah—well, I uh… was actually trying to decide. But I like spicy so…”

You snatch up the pink pack instead. When you’re standing upright, he looks at you for a moment. Eyes creasing as he slowly takes in your appearance.

“You're the girl from the bus,” he says, a wry smile lighting his features. “You study over at the university downtown?”

You blink. “How’d you…?”

“Just a guess, “ he tilts his head. “Always got on a backpack.”

Your laugh is a little breathless. You don’t think it’s that unprovoked, considering the attractive man you watch and obsess over on the bus is talking to you right now—basically admitting that he’s noticed you.

Your eyes flick to the floor. “Well, that’s a little embarrassing.”

“Nothin’ to be embarrassed about. I teach there, kids rushin’ everywhere all the time.” He tilts his head, amused, that dimple creasing his cheek. “Thought I recognized the lanyard last time you got off.”

Professor.

You stare, eyes wide, half-smiling because the words barely register and you don’t know what else to do. Your mouth opens then closes.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.” His tone softens, voice growing a tad deeper, almost teasing. “You jus’ look like you’re runnin’ late half the time. Always outta breath.”

It’s almost condescending, the way he says it—gentle, indulgent, like he’s humoring a student. Which you are, but there’s something else beneath it. A hint that doesn’t feel academic at all.

You mumble something about the cold weather and homework assignments, and edge toward the register, heart fluttering. He follows at an easy distance, tossing a pack of mints onto the counter beside your drink. He asks for a pack of cigarettes while you’re pawing at the back pockets of your jeans and still manages to pay for you before your fingers even touch the cold, synthetic leather of your wallet.

Outside, the air bites. The street’s gone mostly quiet, the sound of your footsteps shallow on the pavement. You look up at him at that moment, arms folding protectively across your chest.

“You didn’t have to pay for me,” you say, half protest, half thank you.

“You gotta job?” he pokes.

You shake your head. “Not yet. But I got accepted for a paid internship this summer.”

It’s proud, a little hopeful, a soft smile tipping the edges of your lips, chest puffed. You wait for him to meet you there—but he only chuckles down at you, like you’re just a silly child. “Well, I just paid for you, and you’re jobless in the meantime.”

You bristle at his words. Not at all what you were expecting.

He shrugs, “You’re welcome, kid.”

You push out a defeated breath and the cool air turns it visible. You watch as it curls away, disappearing into the atmosphere before you reluctantly mutter, “Thanks. I guess.”

You part ways. He asks for your email, and you give it to him. After all, it’s not like he’s asking for your socials. So you see no problem. He even leaves you with a slip of paper. It has his name: John, and the location of the academic building that his office is in along with the floor and room number. In case you have any questions… or feel like you need a little guidance.

You’ve gotten pretty good at hiding what you really feel over the past several years away from home. Gotten good at keeping to yourself when before you would wear your emotions openly like the shirt on your back.

You force a scowl up at him and yank the door open the rest of the way, but he doesn’t force his way in like usual. Instead, he eases in slowly, eyes tracking every twitch of your fingers, the wariness in your eyes, lingering on the spaghetti straps of your camisole, before settling on the steady rise and fall of your chest, lips parted as if words won’t come.

John Price—speechless.

It makes you want to smile. Looking at his stupid face, the way his dark lashes flutter without really blinking, how he can’t seem to tear his gaze off you…

It makes you want to grin until your cheeks ache.

Triumphant. That’s what you are.

Elation courses through your veins lightning quick, threatening to explode through your chest—and yet, you don’t let on. Not even a twitch at the corner of your mouth. No smiles for him today. You refuse to give him that satisfaction.

“He’s probably in the basement,” you say with a blank face.

You shut the door firmly behind him, and the flick of the lock that follows punctuates the silence with finality. You turn, already heading for the staircase, but his voice stops you short. A deep rasp, disbelief in his tone, like gentle nails drawing down your back. You fight back a shiver, growing stiff where you stand.

Your name. He’s calling your name.

You glance back. “Huh?”

“Fuck.” It comes out soft and disbelieving.

His mouth splits wider, teeth on full display, lips spreading so wide he’s flashing you his canines. Your heart kicks up a notch in your chest. His smile borders on feral. Like he’s bearing his teeth at you. A warning cloaked behind a cordial row of keen white. His dimple deepens in his cheek.

You lift your chin, willing your heart to calm its beating. Willing the rise and fall of your chest to even out.

He looks you up and down, tongue in cheek while he leans his broad shoulder against the wall.

“If I’d known you’d be back so soon,” he tells you, “I might’ve come ‘round to help move your things.”

That’s a lie. One spoken so casually it nearly makes you forget the simple fact that he would never offer his help when it came to matters concerning you. Always intent on disappearing when all you wanted was to see his familiar face.

“Yeah well, my dad already asked and he said you were busy so…” you shrug, crossing your arms, defensive before you mean to be. “Already missed out on that opportunity.”

He chuckles darkly under his breath, a sly smirk on his lips. “You sour ‘bout that, hun?”

You feel yourself grow stiff.

Hun.

Honey.

He used to throw that word around when addressing you as a kid. Mock your parents' use of it. You know he didn’t think you were sweet. Not one bit. Maybe you were sweet on him in your youth, your adolescent brain obsessed with that tall, burly man your dad always had over. But to him, you might’ve just been a nuisance. To him, you were probably more like glue. So he perverted your parents' terms of endearment. Mocked it and abused it till it sounded natural falling from his lips. Used it till it stuck to you.

Adults are talkin’, hun. Why don’t you run along and play upstairs?

Gonna lick my boots too, honey? Make sure they shine for work?

Sorry honey, can’t play ball tonight. I’ve gotta date with a cigar and my office.

You just shrug, arms folding protectively across your chest. Caught a little off guard by his taunt. “It would’ve happened with or without your help.”

John moves closer, and your eyes dart down to the floor just as his booted foot presses into the carpet.

“Ah—” You throw up a hand, an accusatory finger pointed at him like a weapon. “Shoes off.”

He lifts an eyebrow, but you just stare at him.

That’s never been an issue in the house—or at least, John’s never been told to take his shoes off. Especially considering the fact that he was always on his way to the basement or straight out back, where no one cared what dirt he dragged in. And things probably haven't changed since you’ve been away.

You just want to get on his nerves. Worm yourself under his skin till all he can think about is you.

But he only smiles, complying easily. “College did’ya good, eh? Got a bit of bite now, don’tcha girl?”

You purse your lips, fighting off the smallest quirk that threatens to form at the edge of your mouth as he toes off his boots. You look down at your feet instead till you manage to school yourself, “So does that mean you’re gonna stop being a jerk?”

“Guess I should. Don’t wanna get on your bad side.”

His tone is a tad condescending as he draws closer, looking down at you. The closer he gets the more you’re tempted to take steps back, but you stand your ground, neck craning back just to hold his eye. He’s trying to intimidate you again, and you’re so tempted to cower.

But you don’t care anymore. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Repeat it like a mantra in your head till you start to believe it.

Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care.

“Guess you should,” you echo.

He licks his lips, eyes darting to your own soft mouth before arching an eyebrow, “Where’d you say your dad was again?”

“Basement,” you answer—slowly this time. Drawing out the word like you’re speaking to a forgetful child in hopes that he’ll remember.

John laughs, and this time it’s strained, a little fire flickering to life in his eyes like your attitude is finally getting to him. A cross between amusement and mild displeasure. His eyes never leave you as you back away and head up the staircase. You feel them boring into your back till you turn the corner and escape from his line of sight.

You shut your bedroom door behind you with a firm push. You sink down onto your haunches, head bowed for a moment, just breathing. You run your hands up your forehead and into your hair, letting out a long exhale.

And then you smile.

It’s a fully grown woman that answers the fucking door. John almost wasn’t sure who it was for a second. Nearly tripped over his own feet trying to shove in past the door.

You’d been an annoying teenager. Pimples running across your cheeks, hair always a mess—and your clothes. It was like you tried to dress up and look nice, but you couldn’t quite grasp the concept of what looked good together. Or maybe you were just trying too hard.

Then, you were just a kid.

Now, it’s like he doesn’t even know how to act.

He’s practically salivating at the mouth when you yank the door open and he nearly walks into you. Gets a nice lingering look down your blouse. Breasts sagging and nipples pebbling without the support of a bra. He would’ve offered his hands, cupped those pretty tits for you. But you start giving him lots of back talk, and a snide look that rubs him the wrong way.

So no… you don’t even deserve that. He does get a nice long look at your pert, little ass when you turn to walk away though. He bites the inside of his cheek when the urge to call you back catches on his tongue.

None of that mattered in the end. You still got away.

You’re a sweet girl—or you were.

So attentive when he’d come around. Flashing him big smiles, your lips parting on big, cheeky grins while you tripped and bumbled over your words, gazing up at him with bright eyes. So achingly pathetic with your excitement to engage in the conversations he had with your dad on the back patio. A word caught at the back of your throat, then swallowed promptly after you realized nobody was really listening.

Not once did they bother to include you.

It wasn’t done out of any malicious contempt. You were just young, still unsure of yourself, awkward, and had a strange obsession with wolves. Not bad things, you just didn’t provide any merit to their conversations.

“Honey,” your father would say, “Mind going inside and helping your mum fold the laundry upstairs?”

You would whine, complain about how she already did, shoulders sagging and arms hanging limp at your sides.

Until he’d chip in:

“C’mon honey, mind goin’ inside and seein’ if your mommy wants any help?” He’d ask, buttering up his words nice and smooth so when he shoved them down your throat it’d be easy going down. “I’m sure she’d appreciate your help.”

He watched your face then, the curl of your lip, the flare of your nostrils around that one word: mommy. You didn’t argue that time. Just let out a quiet huff, and then stomped away. You threw the door open—but you never slammed it.

His dismissal never stopped you though. Never shot down your willingness to help. Eager ticks always twitching at the ends of your stubby fingers. You would always offer to grab him a beer, pass him a lighter (never dissuading him of having a smoke—not like your mother), even grab his plate after crashing family dinner.

He thumps down the basement steps, and cold air immediately rushes up to greet him. His feet meet cold concrete after he steps off the last stair. The shock of it sinks deep into his soles. Your father stands off near the sliding door, gazing out at the backyard, more specifically the new garden he’d just planted. He doesn’t turn to look, but John knows he heard him. He shuffles over, eyes widening just a bit when he notices your dad still has his shoes on.

You told him to take his off.

It comes blurting out past his lips before he can even stop it, “Daughter’s a fuckin’ peach.”

Your dad just laughs, pure joy in his tone. Whether it’s because he could sense the sarcasm or because he agreed, John didn’t know.

Before, you wanted him there—sure as hell acted like it.

You frown, lids lifting when nobody enters.

You’d moved out of the city and into the countryside once you got the job—just last month. A glorified Visitor Center Attendant. Not your idea of a dream job, but it’d work for now. You're young and there's still plenty of other options in the future.

You pivot slowly and make your way back to the desk, heels tapping softly. Your slacks are pressed, your blouse a crisp white, light enough to breathe, your name tag pinned to your chest. Your hair’s pulled back into a neat twist.

No one would ever guess how long it took you to get ready this morning.

They wouldn’t know how long you spent in the mirror just trying to re-curl your lashes, fussing with your hair till it began to puff up, frizzy pieces sticking out in weird places till you had to tame them back into submission. No one would know how many times you had to run back into your closet for a different clothing item, trying on different odds and ends until sweat prickled your underarms. They wouldn't know how sick you felt when you left the house wearing this ridiculous get-up.

How you almost turned around and drove back home, risked clocking in late, because you were terrified of being looked at the wrong way.

And now?

Now it all feels silly. There’s no one here.

School should be in session, but there are no scheduled field trips. Just the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the low creak of the building settling.

Just you.

You’re not sure if you like that fact today.

You fiddle with a stack of pamphlets, your fingers grazing the glossy edges as you gather the scattered paper guides into a single pile. You align their corners with excessive precision, tapping the stack against the desktop once—twice—until they stand upright.

Then, with a soft clack, you let them fall. A neat little line. Perfect.

Suddenly, you have something to do.

You seize it like a lifeline.

Your hands move quickly, sweeping up loose pens that hadn’t bothered you a moment ago. You click each one—once, twice—before dropping it into the pencil holder. But it’s a little off center… you shift it slightly. Then again. Until it looks just… right.

You open a drawer. Shut it. Open another. Shuffle things, rearrange, pretend you're looking for something important. Paperclips. Extra name tags—batteries, maybe. Anything.

You circle the front desk like a tethered animal, hands running along the surface, smoothing invisible creases on the counter, straightening another stack of brochures—and then again. The hum of the vending machine in the corner grows louder in the silence, and for a brief moment, you consider pretending you're hungry just for the excuse to press buttons and shuffle through a couple bills.

But no one comes.

You glance at the doors. Still shut.

The building creaks softly above you, laughing you suppose. Dust dances in the sunbeams, drifting down in lazy spirals, as if time itself is stalled—caught in the same loop you are. You look at the clock.

Only four minutes have passed.

You let out a heavy breath and return to your chair.

Eventually—hours later—a family of five stumbles in. You hear them before you see them: the creak of the doors, the clatter of hurried footsteps, the confused murmur of voices bouncing off tile and glass. You sit up straighter, heart pricking with sudden alertness. Your fingers smooth the front of your blouse and straighten your name tag, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

They pause just past the threshold, blinking into the bright space as if they’re on a different planet, feverishly scanning their surroundings.

The dad is the first to spot you. His face lights up, a little “Ah !” slipping from his mouth like a minor revelation.

He strides toward the desk with purpose. You rise to your feet, ready—finally ready—to offer directions, trail maps, animal facts, something useful. Or even just a simple exchange of pleasantries.

And then he asks, “Is there a bathroom in here?”

That’s it.

That’s all he wants.

You point him in the right direction, “Down that hall and to your left,” give the faintest smile, and sit back down before they’re even out of sight.

They never so much as glance at the pamphlets.

When they leave—ten minutes later, the youngest one still struggling with the sticky zipper on his pants—you feel it flush out of you. All that readiness. All that effort. Down the drain.

By closing time, you feel empty. Not tired exactly, just hollowed out. Scooped clean.

You rise slowly, bones aching in a way that doesn’t come from use. In the back room, you gather your things from the narrow locker: your bag, your half-full water bottle, a pair of sunglasses you won’t be needing now. You sling your bag over your shoulder, fingers fumbling for the right key, clumsy from disuse, until you find the one that fits the front door.

The sky is a bruised purple, fading into an orange that slowly crawls behind the craggy horizon. The air is thick—sweet and wet, steeped in the smell of earth and blooming wildflowers. Your skin feels tacky with sweat by the time you reach your car.

You climb in and slam the door shut. Heat swells around you instantly, oppressive and stale. The steering wheel is nearly too hot to touch. You crank the engine, roll down the windows, and blast the AC. It sputters to life, coughing out lukewarm air before it ever gets cold.

You drive home in silence. No music. No podcasts. Not even the familiar shuffle of your favorite playlist. The aux cord dangles, unused. You let the sound of tires on pavement fill the space instead.

Your heart gives its usual little jitter as you round the bend just outside your temporary residency: Dead Man’s Diner. It always does, especially on a Friday evening around 8:15. Lights glowing warm through the smudged front windows, a hoard of trucks and motorcycles parked out front like loyal dogs.

The place is worn down and teetering on its last leg, but Simon has kept it alive longer than anyone expected. It’s the place to be among the townsfolk—you came to learn that quickly.

Simon let you take the space upstairs. He doesn’t ask much in rent—just enough to keep the lights on. For that, you’re grateful.

It’s not fancy. One bedroom, one bathroom, a cramped kitchen teeming with appliances, and a sliver of living space with a sagging couch and creaky floorboards. But it’s fully furnished, and it's yours. Quiet, tucked away, just enough for you.

The parking lot behind the bar crunches under your tires as you pull in, gravel skipping out beneath the wheels. You ease into your usual spot, near the rusted dumpster and a faded "Tenants Only" sign that no one really honors. The air outside is thicker now, darker. The last of the sunset has bled out, leaving only the thrum of summer dusk and the faint neon red flicker from the sign above the diner.

Your eyes flit throughout the parking lot, scanning the cars. You slow to a halt and shove the gearshift into park before killing the engine. You take a moment and suck in a breath, preparing yourself. You gather all your things into your lap, eyes skimming the seats to see if you missed anything. Your car door creaks as you push it open. Warm air hits your face like a wave, thick with summer sweat and the faint sting of gasoline, grilled meat, and cheap liquor. You step out slowly, keys in one hand, bag in the other.

You make your way up to the diner, pressing the lock button twice on your key fob. Your car chirps, as you push inside. It’s in this little alcove between the second pair of doors that you hear laughter, music, and the low hum of people.

The place is alive tonight.

You shoulder your way through the last set of doors, and nearly get swept up in the warmth of the place—the clink of glasses, the scrape of boots on floorboards, the low hum of conversation stitched together with bursts of laughter. The smell of fried food and tobacco clings to the air, comforting in its own way.

You hug your work bag closer to your chest, shuffling in further, trying to worm your way through moving bodies without bumping into anyone. You stumble just slightly when a man shoves up from his table without looking behind him, raucous laughter booming as he steps into your personal space. He doesn’t even realize you're there, and you make no move to signal your presence. Just dart out quickly from behind him.

You’ve nearly made it to the staircase at the back when your gaze drifts toward the counter.

He’s there.

The broad-shouldered man himself behind the bar, sleeves pushed up over his forearms, one hand polishing a glass while the other rests lazy against the counter. His head is slightly bowed, a cigarette tucked between two fingers, smoke curling upward before the ceiling fan drags it away.

Simon Riley.

He’s talking to someone. You can see his lips moving, but you can’t make out what he’s saying. Then he looks up.

Steel-blue eyes catch yours. Sharp even in the dim, warm haze of the diner. He studies you for a beat too long, then rises to his full height, the corner of his mouth twitching before it settles into a grin. Then he tosses you a wink.

Simon’s taken to making you breakfast in the morning.

Big man rolls out of bed and shuffles into the kitchen like clockwork—pajama pants riding low, white t-shirt clinging to the extra layer around his middle, short hair mussed from sleep. Gets to work before he opens up shop for the day, before a few of his employees come in to help prep.

He leaves the food out fresh and hot just before you head out to work. No note. Just there.

But on the weekends, when you have no work—and he opens later than on weekdays—he makes a second plate. Insists you sit down and eat with him like it’s a privilege that he does this for you.

“Sleep doesn’t come easy like it used to once you start getting older,” he told you after your first week. “Least I can do is make my pretty tenant somethin’ warm to start the day.”

You laughed, not just to be polite but slightly caught off guard by how easily he said it. Some people could get away with lines like that without making them feel heavy. It wasn’t anything bad, and it flowed easily. It was just the way they spoke. Simon was one of those people.

Until other things started to slip.

“Bet ya never had it this easy,” he said one morning, cracking a smile as he fried eggs in butter, eyes cutting sideways toward you. “Man makin’ you breakfast every mornin’. Fillin’ up your belly nice and full for the day, huh?”

You hid behind your glass, swallowed whatever you were about to say. Heat pricking your cheeks and flooding down your neck. He reached for the salt shaker, then the pepper next, and you took another bite, figuring the conversation was over.

“Don’ I take care of ya, birdie?” He pushed.

You pursed your lips around a mouthful of waffles, nodding vigorously when he pinned you with his stare, “Mhm.”

“Tha’s right,” he muttered, more to himself than to you once he turned back around. “Take care of ya real nice.”

This morning you wake to a routine message from him, asking if you’re hungry. Your body’s already half-awake, your internal clock twitching to life even before the text. You groan softly and roll out of bed, still foggy as you fumble into shorts and a T-shirt. No makeup. No bra. You pick at a wedgie just before turning the corner into the diner.

He’s waiting for you.

“Mornin’,” he says, as you shuffle over to your usual table and sit down.

“Good morning,” you whisper, rubbing at your eyes as you yawn.

He sets a plate down in front of you—avocado toast and a glass of orange juice—before pulling out a chair across from you, easing himself down with a grunt.

He looks ridiculous sitting across from you. Mammoth compared to the table. A tiny little apron tied around his waist with stitching across the front that reads: Kiss the Cook. He started wearing it recently you noticed. You have to fight to control your smile whenever you look at it.

His plate is loaded with a massive omelet, a glass of milk on the side. He digs in like he’s starving.

“Watcha up to today?” he asks through a mouthful of egg, watching you over his fork.

You take a sip of orange juice and shrug. “Not sure yet… Maybe give me a chance to wake up, and then we can talk.”

He laughs at that—sharp and sudden, like you’ve told a real joke.

“A’right,” he says, shifting in his seat with a creak of old wood. His elbows land on the table, and it groans under his weight as he leans in just a little. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You two sit in silence for a moment, before you answer. Something vague about spring cleaning, and then taking a swim in the lake.

He’s interested in that. Wants to know how long you’ll be there, if he should make you a little something to snack on. If you’ll be going on your own or with friends. Recommends a nice spot for you to set up too. Vocalizes his thoughts on what kind of bathing suit he thinks you’d wear. You the type ta let your ass hang out, birdie? When you shake your head, he implores you to come to him if you need anything. You nod along, not really intent on the idea, but letting him know you’ll think about it and get back to him.

Soon enough, your plate’s nearly cleared. The toast was good—fresh avocado, little sprinkle of salt, citrusy tang of lemon. His food is good. He always cooks well. That’s never been the problem.

Simon leans back in his chair, chewing slowly, eyes still on you. You try not to notice how long they linger. Eyes flitting everywhere but at him. Towards the shelves lined with colorful liquors behind the bar. Past his shoulder at the shutters drawn over the windows. Down at your half-eaten toast, before drifting towards his ridiculously large thigh jutting out past the table leg, straining against the starched denim of his jeans.

You take another bite.

“Y’know,” he says finally, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial, “you could do better than that little concierge gig.”

You blink up at him, still mid-chew. “Huh?”

He shrugs, casual, words spilling like it’s nothing. “Just sayin’. Pretty thing like you? You’re wastin’ your time handin’ out trail maps and what not. Don’t gotta work so hard, birdie. You got... other things goin’ for ya.”

Your stomach tightens—quietly—dipping embarrassingly low at the suggestion in his tone. A decrepit little thing that lurks within you. You shift in your seat, heart suddenly pattering rabbit-quick in your chest. You’re not quite sure you understand, though there’s a small piece in you that has a feeling. You reach for your juice, taking a sip just so you won’t have to say anything.

“I mean hell,” he says, voice rougher now, “if you were mine, I wouldn’t have you liftin’ a finger.”

You freeze, barely a second.

But he sees it. You know he does. He keeps going, encouraged.

“I’d cook for you every day, y’know. Let ya sleep in. Rub your back while you told me ‘bout your dreams—I’d love to hear ‘em. Send you off to the lake everyday. Might even take ya myself a couple times.”

He speaks like he’s thought about it before, imagined it. Your fork clinks a little too hard against the plate. A tiny slip, your fingers trembling just slightly.

“Simon,” you breathe, softly, and he hums with a coy little smile, prompting you to answer. “I think you’re confusing breakfast with a date.”

He chuckles, but doesn’t back off. Just tips his glass toward you. “Ain’t sayin’ it’s a bad idea.”

You feel your breath catch. It’s all so sudden, you don’t know what to say, and you don't push him for any clarification. All that slips out is some flustered, lame excuse to flee the situation: “Well, I should head up. Got some cleaning to do.”

He doesn’t stop you. But he rises with you, real slow, pushing up from the table and towers above you. He takes your plate and doesn’t bat an eye when you flinch as his fingers brush yours. He tracks your every movement like he’s memorizing the way you move and tucking it away.

You try not to think about the solid bulk of him at your back as you shuffle toward the staircase. Try not to notice how he leans against the wall when you glance over your shoulder, bicep swelling where his elbow rests. Or how his shirt rides up a bit and you can see his hard abdomen. How it’s dusted with fine hairs that condense into an unruly thatch that starts at his navel and dips beneath the hem of his sweatpants…

Your mouth opens like you might say something, then shuts again, useless. He just swipes a strand of hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers trace along your jaw before one thick knuckle hooks under your chin, tilting your head up to meet him.

“Anytime you get tired of hustlin’ around for tips and givin’ out trail facts,” he murmurs, “you come on down, birdie. I’ll take real good care of ya. You’ll do that for me, won’tcha?”

Your throat works, but no words come. His thumb presses firm at your chin, guiding you into a nod before you can think better of it. The slow grin that spreads across his mouth makes your knees weak.

He lets you go, though it feels reluctant, his hand falling away with a final press of his thumb. You turn slowly, like you don't want to part ways just yet.

“Go on,” he rumbles, punctuating it with a light swat to your hip that makes you stumble forward.

You scurry up the steps, breath uneven, heart hammering so hard you think he can hear it. At your door, you turn back.

He’s still there, at the bottom of the stairs, broad shoulders filling the space as he waits. Watching. Not moving until you’re safely inside.

Things between you and Simon start to shift. Slowly, almost imperceptibly.

On weekends, you creep downstairs, half-expecting breakfast to be waiting. But more often than not, it isn’t. He’ll be in the kitchen, moving around, pulling out appliances, ingredients lined up on the counter like little soldiers. Other times he’ll be in the middle of mixing, sometimes he’s just starting prep—either way, he always calls you over to help. Never insisting, always suggesting, like he knows you'd never disagree. Like he's proposing the idea just to hear you tell him yes, you'd love to help make breakfast.

And who were you to turn him down anyway? You always help him without any complaints, a sense of obligation carrying your feet behind the counter.

One early morning, the sun barely brushing the horizon, he sets you to work with dicing strawberries. He shows you how he wants it done, chest pressed to your back for the first minute to make sure you don't cut yourself. Like that, he tells you, but not too big. Gotta save some if you want pancakes tomorrow.

Under his watch, you fumble with the knife like you've never touched one before. You can't help it. He makes you nervous, so it’s slow going. You’re meticulous, not wanting him to critique you too hard when he comes over to check on you every so often.

When he leaves, you toss a few glances over your shoulder just to make sure his back is still faced towards you before you pop several slices into your mouth. You wipe the sticky sweet juice on your apron when it gets all over your fingers. Ridding yourself of the evidence of your thievery.

He calls over to you suddenly when your cheeks are bulging, mouth full, “C’mere.”

You chew frantically, only turning to face him when you're positive you've licked the insides of your cheeks clean. He’s holding out his hand towards you, a dab of whipped cream on his finger. You just stand there, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I wantcha to try this for me,” he tells you. “I can’t tell if it’s too sweet or not.”

Your knife clatters softly as you set it down, hands brushing against your apron as you wipe them again, stomach tight. You shuffle towards him, eyes flicking around the counter, scanning for some sort of utensil.

“Want me to get a spoon or…” your voice trails off when he steps closer.

“I got it nice and ready for you right here,” he says.

It takes you a moment before you realize. He coaxes you into opening your mouth and his finger settles heavy on your tongue. He watches as you suck it off, his lids going heavy before you release his finger with a wet pop.

“How’s ‘at taste?” He asks, voice gruff, eyes fixed on your lips as your tongue darts out to chase the sweetness.

You swallow. Hard. Heart fluttering up in your throat.

“It’s good.” Then after a beat when he doesn’t say anything, “Perfect.”

He nods slightly, and then turns around to gather more on his finger. Makes you suck it off again. Your eyes bulge when he slips his finger in a tad bit further—Make sure ya get it all. Don't waste my cream. The third time he swabs the bowl, there’s a polite refusal on the tip of your tongue. But it doesn’t make it out in time, so you turn your head a bit—he only smears the cream against the corner of your mouth instead.

His brows raise in mock disbelief, “Aw birdie… Look what ya made me do.”

You’re not prepared for his big hand to come around and cup your nape. To drag you the slightest bit closer as his head ducks low. You’re suddenly dizzy just from the sheer mass of him, of his proximity to you. Not ready for his tongue to press hot against your mouth and lick up the cream instead.

You squeak, and it feels like fire is suddenly flooding your face. When he pulls away, the whisper of air against the wet spot he’s licked, feels cold. You just stand there, bewildered.

“Tha’s good,” he tells you with a little bob of his head. “Think it’s perfect now.”

You open your mouth like you might say something, but then you close it, nod, and spin around, hurrying back to your cutting board. Your hands shake just slightly when you go to pick up your knife. Knees knocking like you’re having trouble keeping yourself upright.

You’ve become a sort of taste-tester for Simon.

It’s not like you volunteered. It just… happened.

It started with something simple—soup from the pot, ladled onto a spoon and held out to you. He stood there with one brow raised, waiting for your verdict as though it mattered more than anything else in the world, muttering a soft, Tell me if it needs more salt.

But then the spoon disappeared.

Now it’s the pad of his thumb dipped into a sauce, pressed to your lips before you have time to think. Or a strip of bacon cooled just enough for him to slide it between your teeth. Once, a smear of jam he dragged slowly across your bottom lip, waiting—watching—until your tongue darted out to catch it. Eyes flaring bright when your face lit up, a surprised mmm leaving you.

He’s stopped asking if you want it. He just tilts your chin up, brings the morsel to your mouth, and waits until you open.

His approval rumbles deep in his chest, “Ya like that, birdie?”

You want to be embarrassed. It feels weird, this thing between you two, but the way he watches you makes you forget to feel silly. Makes you feel like your opinion is the only one that matters to him. Like he won’t be satisfied till you do like it.

After one particularly brutal day at work, you push open the diner doors and don’t so much as glance toward the counter. You keep your eyes forward and your pace brisk. Your boots thud against the stairs, two at a time, until you reach your little apartment above and slam the door behind you.

Your work bag hits the couch with a dull thud, and you decide in that exact moment: you hate children. At least today you do. Herding multiple classes of sixth graders around on back-to-back tours has you swearing off the entire species.

You’d barely gotten your first fun fact out—"Hummingbirds have amazing memories. They can remember every flower and feeder they’ve visited.”—when the laughter erupted. Not the delighted, charmed kind. No, the cruel snickers that tell you they’re laughing at you, not with you. You had flushed hot under their stares, your rehearsed smile faltering.

And that little incident only breached the surface of your torment.

By the time you close yourself off in the shower, you’re simmering—clothes discarded carelessly on the floor, steam curling thick around you. You lean against the tile, back to the cold wall, letting the water drum against your head until it’s all just white noise. No dinner. No distractions. Just exhaustion gnawing at your bones.

You drag yourself into bed without even drying your hair, curling tight beneath the sheets. Somewhere below, you know Simon is still moving around, a quiet, steady mass. Wiping down counters, switching off lights. When he comes to terms with the fact that you never came back down, never spoke to him, you wonder what he’ll do.

He sends you a text at 11:00 pm, long after the diner’s closed.

You’re laying in bed, tucked beneath the sheets, scrolling through your phone when it comes: “I want you to try something real quick.”

Your response is curt.

“Not hungry.”

He replies almost instantly. “It’s good. Trust me.”

You roll over on your side. “I already ate.”

There’s a moment of silence. You think it’s over and rest your phone on the night stand, closing your eyes. Your phone vibrates in that moment though, the screen illuminating your room.

You huff out a breath and snatch the device back to your chest.

“Don’t make me come up there.”

The words sit heavy in your mind. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, but no excuse comes. You’re aware of your pulse, of how still the room feels except for the faint hum of the refrigerator, the soft rush of cars passing by on the street outside.

Would he really come up? Disturb your silence?

You entertain the thought for a moment. He has a key to your place. Would he knock, or just enter? Would he search for you? Push into your bedroom, plate in hand, sit at the edge of your bed and feed you? Ask you where you were? Tell you how you left him all alone down there?

You decide it’s not worth the trouble.

Finally, you type:

Coming.

You swing your legs over the bed, shoving your feet into slippers, and pause before heading downstairs. You’re in nothing but a long t-shirt that barely brushes your knees. No bra. No shorts. Just the thin cotton and the cool air of the apartment making you shiver slightly. You tell yourself you should be fine though, and make your way down.

The diner is dark, the only light spilling warm and amber from the kitchen. The scent of cleaner and mopped floors hangs in the air, sharp and familiar. You round the bar and push through the double doors into the kitchen.

Simon’s waiting for you, leaning against the counter.

He pushes up as soon as you enter, eyes flaring at the sight of you. Soft and freshly washed in your oversized t-shirt. His gaze lingers on your bare legs. Freshly shaved. You tuck your hair behind your ears and cross your arms, suddenly wishing you wore a bra.

“What is it?” you say.

“Thought I wouldn’t notice?” he asks.

You frown, “What?”

“Didn’t wanna come say hi, huh?”

You huff out a laugh, because of course he’d say that. You saw it coming. You even predicted it. But he doesn’t laugh with you. Doesn’t even smile. He just ushers you back out to the bar. Makes you round the counter and sit at a stool while he pulls a plate out of the oven. The smell hits first—rich, buttery, thick.

You suck in a breath when he sets the plate down in front of you.

“I kept it warm for you,” he says, eyes on you, not the food. “Didn’t know how ya took your meat, so I cooked it rare, jus’ how I like it. That okay, birdie?”

You stare down at your plate. It’s steaming, and it smells heavenly. The steak is thick-cut, dripping with butter and spices, a fresh sprig of rosemary on top, roasted vegetables on the side. You’ve never had a problem with your food, you’re not that picky, but this? This is entirely too much.

You tell him as much.

He just cracks a smile and leans against the counter, “Take a bite. Then we’ll see how much ya can stomach.”

“Simon, I really don’t think I can eat all of this—”

In that moment, your stomach whines before descending into a low, hollow growl. He arches an eyebrow.

You glare at him, but you pick up the knife and fork anyway.

He watches you eat. Observing every mouthful, tracking each bob of your throat as you swallow. When you ask for a napkin, he just takes his thumb and wipes at the mess dripping down your chin, swiping along the plush of your bottom lip. Tells you, Jus' one more bite, when you start to complain about how full you are. Starts finger-feeding you the vegetables when you say you really can’t take another bite. Goes so far as to pour you a tall glass of milk when you ask for water.

You refuse, telling him you don’t drink milk plain like that, but he just waves off all your fussing. “I drink it everyday. Ya think I got this size offa water?”

You just rest your head in your arms, mouth coated in grease, belly full and throbbing. Ignoring him, closing your eyes so you won't have to look at him.

He pokes your elbow and you huff, pulling away. “I’ll pass.”

There’s silence on his end. You still don’t look up. You feel him move though, pulling away from the counter. You listen closely, track his footsteps as he rounds the counter to sit on the barstool beside you.

“I think you’re bein’ ungrateful,” he says at last.

You sit up almost immediately, looking at him incredulously, the crease between your brow deepening. “Well that’s not fair.”

“No,” he counters smoothly. “What’s not fair is you bein' all picky.” He plucks the glass of milk and drags it toward himself. “I’ve fed you how many times? And now you’re jus’ gonna let my milk go to waste?”

“It won’t go to waste!” you blurt. “Just—just pour it back in the jug!”

“Not how it works, birdie," he tuts. "Guess I’ll just have to pour this down the drain…”

You slump back with a frown, guilt tugging at your chest. “Fine. I’ll drink it.”

He starts to stand as if he doesn’t hear you, heading back, but you scramble after him, hands encircling his forearm.

“Simon, I said I’d drink it!”

That gets him to sit down again. He pushes the glass back to you, chin angled at you as if he’s not convinced. But you take it in both hands, and bring it to your lips, eyes darting warily between him and the milk. He watches you with a glint in his eye. Leaning back, big, muscled arms folding across his broad chest.

“Good girl,” he tells you with a wry smile.

When you finish, you set the glass down and slide off the stool, with a pout on your lips, heading to the staircase at the back. Your steps are slow.

Simon calls after you tauntingly, “Where’re you goin’, little bird?”

You don’t turn to look at him, “Bed.”

You don’t even hear him approach. He’s silent as a ghost.

You squeal when his arms come around you, scooping you off the floor. He carries you swiftly up to your apartment like you weigh nothing, big legs pumping up the steps with ease. He brings you to your living room, sits down on the couch with you in his lap, guiding your legs so they straddle his hips. You don’t bother squirming, don’t even care about the situation under your shirt. That the only thing separating him from you is a pair of underwear. You just slump against his front, cheek pressed against the pillow of his chest.

His hands run up your back in soothing strokes, "Somethin' bothering you?"

You shake your head. You don't know why you're so adamant about not letting him know about your day at work. Don't know if it's because you don't want him to make fun of you. Getting upset at kids for not laughing at your jokes... You're more surprised by the fact that he doesn't push for an answer though.

You lay there in silence for a bit, just breathing in and out when you feel his hands creep under your shirt. You squirm instinctively, suddenly conscious of the protrusion of your belly when he runs his fingers along your sides. Worried about how full you still are, and that he can feel it.

"Simon..." you start.

He just hums into the crown of your head. "Round lil' belly you've got there, birdie."

You can feel your cheeks growing warm. "Stop it."

His hands circle around to your back and he pulls you closer to him. "Food was good, wasn' it?"

You don't grant him an answer. Your silence only makes him push harder.

“C’mon birdie, don’ I take care of you?”

You sniff, trying to shrink back, pull off of him, but a sharp swat to your backside stops the motion. You jerk with a gasp, burying your face into his chest.

“Yes, okay? Is that what you wanna hear?”

He chuckles, hand lingering, squeezing where he just struck, nuzzling your temple, voice low in your ear. “Mhm, and who gave you a place to stay when ya needed it?”

You turn your head, trying to outrun his voice, “You did.”

He finds you easily, hands wandering lower down your front while he burrows his face in your neck, placing a kiss under your jaw. “And who feeds you every day?”

“You.”

“Tha’s right, birdie. I do,” he lifts your chin with a firm touch, making you look at him. “Think I deserve a little thanks. Don’t you?”

Who knew thanks would include you on your stomach, your shirt bunched up around your shoulders, face mashed into your rumpled sheets, a pillow shoved beneath your stomach, legs dangling off the side of your bed, taking his cock inch by inch? His big hands stroke heavily down the sides of your hips, telling you to breathe. Petting your ass, dimpling flesh, and squeezing tight as he pulls you back, cramming himself in just a tiny bit more. You scrabble to get away, trying to ease some of the pressure, but he keeps you pinned.

He insisted on leaving your overhead light on. Told you he wanted to see you. How pretty you looked beneath him. You just feel more naked than you already are. Especially since he still wears his stupid fucking apron.

“Si-Simon—shit—can barely br-eathe,” you grunt, trying to suck a breath into your lungs.

A low groan expels from him, his head rolling back. “Your wound up tight today, birdie. Jus'—relax.”

He grunts when your pussy spasms, inner walls gripping him tighter, hips bucking involuntarily. You fist the sheets, wailing around the sheer mass of him, feet twitching, trying to find purchase against the floor. Your toes only manage to whisper across the grain of the carpet. He just crowds you in, forearms bracketing your head, fingers interlocking with your own.

“I's a lot, ain' it?" he whispers in your ear, as he snaps his hips forward, grinning like some twisted beast. You gasp when they slap against your ass, crying out when he drags his cock out slowly. "But your bein' so good f’me, aren’t you?”

You whimper, squirm and try to wriggle free. It’s too much, you can’t even move. Just have to take what he gives you. Wet, little pants breaking free from you.

“Let’s get this offa you, huh?” He mutters, easing you out of your shirt completely.

He flings it off into your room and it lands balled in the corner.

His big hand searches down your leg, gripping the back of your thigh above your knee, hefting it onto the mattress. As soon as he does that, it’s like he’s split you wide open down the middle. Bared you completely to his lecherous eyes. All your little private bits on display.

That's when you feel him bottom out completely, a heavy groan oozing deep from in his chest.

His forehead drops down to rest in the middle of your back.

“Ffffuck,” he huffs, voice hoarse.

He pulls out just the tiniest bit and then shoves right back in. Keeping you fuller than you already are.

You can’t even speak. Tight little pants and squeaks are snatched from your chest with each shallow thrust. You can feel his breath, hot against your back, groans that he bites off too late spilling down your spine and tangling in a knot in your stomach.

You keen into the sheets when his thumbs fit under your ass cheeks, pulling your thighs apart as he draws his hips back slowly, mesmerized at how much of his dick he’s able to stuff inside you. Only to sink back in, achingly slow. You wail at the invariable press inward. It’s like you can feel him at the back of your throat.

“Lookit ‘er suckin’ me in,” his voice shakes with amusement. “Y’feel that?”

You don’t bother answering him, too busy drooling. Can’t even close your mouth or it feels like you're suffocating.

“She’s hungry—jus’ like you,” he says. “Gobblin’ up my cock so well.”

"Shut up," you bleat, all pathetic.

When he reaches under you to pet your aching clit, you seize up, limbs locking in place. His calloused finger titillating the swollen bud in tight little circles.

“Y’like that?” he pants into your ear.

A high-pitched whine escapes you as you turn the other way. He moves with you, lips pressed close to your ear again.

“Tell me it feels good, birdie.”

You moan, low and wounded, "F-fuck."

His hands encircle your hips, fingers pressing you and holding you down against his cock. His grip is bruising as he grinds his hips up in you. It makes you want to scream.

You can feel it now. It's intense, the building pressure.

“'M waiting,” he growls, reaching back between your legs, poking and prodding with inquisitive fingers.

“I-it’s good,” you break at last, tears leaking from your eyes. “You fucking—shit, it feels good— ”

When he comes, he clutches you to his chest, burying his face in your neck to stifle his groans. Works your clit a little faster just to bring you over the edge with him. Just to feel the way you clench up around him. Soft, spongy walls holding him tight.

Lookit you, he says in your ear when you squirt. Voice dripping with honey. Saccharine sweet. Such a good little bird. He doesn’t pull out, just holds you still while he fucks his cum into you with long strokes. Till your tears are spilling past your water line and wetting the sheets.

A soft mewl escapes you when he pulls out of you, and sinks to his knees. Hands locking around the backs of your knees and holding you down while you lay there limp, trying to catch your breath. Laps and slurps at the mess leaking from your cunt like he's been starving for days. Till your legs are twitching, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

He ignores your whimpers and pleas for release. Drags it out as long as he can, teasing you. He runs his nose through your slippery folds, biting and sucking at the soft flesh of your inner thighs, chuckling when you jerk and whine and quietly curse at him.

He has no qualms about pinching your backside—Dirty mouth.

Your second orgasm crashes through you, sudden and violent. It yanks you under and floods your lungs. Every muscle locks up, taut and trembling. But Simon's right there the whole time, easing you through it. When the swell breaks, it spits you out in pieces. Till you're nothing but a brittle husk of the girl you once were. You lay slumped against the mattress, boneless, shaking, the last tremors easing out of you.

When Simon drags you up his chest, he kisses you slow and deep. His tongue dipping into your mouth. Your lashes flutter shut, your weight sinking into him, every ounce of strength sucked out of you. He licks up your tears like he can't get enough of you, Sweet little bird.

He tells you he'll get his dick up in your mouth another day, but for now, you should rest. You don't even have the energy to hit him for his brazen words.

"Why're you in such a bad mood t'day?" he asks, tugging a blanket up and wrapping it snug around your shoulders.

You breathe in deep, peeling your cheek away from his sweat-tacked chest. "Bad day at work."

"Quit the job, I’ll take care of ya,” he says simply, like it's that easy. "Won't have to keep waking up so early."

“‘S good money,” you mumble, lids growing heavier by the minute.

“But I own this place.” When you don't answer he pokes your side. "D'you at least feel better?"

You just hum your agreement, nuzzle deeper into his chest, eyes finally drifting shut. You don’t even recall falling asleep, just blunt nails dragging softly across your back.

You only start lingering at the diner after work because Simon insists on being the one to feed you dinner. Says he’ll come find you upstairs if you don’t—And we both know how that ended last time, huh birdie?

At first he sits you up front, but before long he’s relocated you to the booth at the back, claiming it’s warmer and cozy and private.

But you know better.

He slides in beside you every time, crowding your side until his arm and thigh are pressed flush against yours. Sometimes he pins you into the wall with the sheer breadth of him, unmovable until you shove at him with a begrudging smile. He always relents, playfully reluctant—like he’s humoring you. But you know, bone-deep, that if he wanted to keep you there, he could. Big man that he is.

“How’s your day, birdie?” he asks, sliding a plate of food in front of you, and you tell him. You spill everything, words tumbling fast just to fill the space he takes up. Just to keep him at bay a little longer. He listens without interruption, gaze steady, heavy, until your voice thins and falters, dying out. That’s when he moves—ducking his head, nuzzling into the crook of your neck like a lost pup.

His mouth finds you in wet, unhurried kisses. Your jaw, your shoulder, the corner of your lips. Lazy, claiming pecks that leave your skin tingling. He even goes so far as to sneak a hand up your skirt one evening. Tries to get you to eat while he finger-fucks you beneath the table.

You swat at him, cheeks flushed, reminding him that there's people all around, but he only grins wider. Like he’s testing how much resistance you’ve got left in you.