Back To Kaminocasey

For all the hate, intolerance, and ignorance Nick dealt with on the daily, he dished out love, empathy and acceptance in equal measure, though he was not one to take an insult lying down.

He was also passionate; fiery beneath a calm and collected disposition, his habitually stoic makeup a steadying force and welcomed counterbalance to the restless biome that flourished within these walls.

It was when he spoke to you the first time that you became enamored with his personality, whether artificial, finding him to be bold and charismatic. He had asked what brought you to the neighborhood—you were a trader who lost your caravan, your guards, nothing left but the caps in your pocket. 

Luckily for you, a man named Arturo Rodriguez had been contemplating the idea of extending his hours for quite some time, his competition employing a salvaged Mister Handy named Percy to sell goods even in the dead of night—it was a case of being in the right place at the right time, one you were thankful for.

It became engrained into his subroutine, these evening visitations, Nick sharing bits and pieces of his history with you for a lack of customers, though oftentimes short and sweet as he kept himself busy. There was always a new crime to be investigated, or a new case to be solved.

Truth be told, the detective was worried about you—a solitary woman—being out there by your lonesome at such late hours. All kinds of riffraff ushered themselves in off the streets, not caring what time of the day it was.

Diamond City was a safe haven as much as it was a magnet for undesirables, those men and women of ill repute that made life difficult for hardworking people just trying to get by. Security could only do so much; it was common for slime to slip through the cracks, portions of the city less fortified than others.

Still, Nick felt Arturo ought to be ashamed, getting a broad to do his dirty work. Little did he know this job had been a godsend, or that you were tougher than a two-dollar steak and twice as hard to chew.

Call him a gentleman, but Valentine, on more than one occasion, had gone out of his way unbeknownst to you, changing his route home simply to check in on your stall. 

“Workin’ hard, or hardly workin’?” Nick had inquired, the corner of his mouth creeping upward to indicate his offhanded chiasmus was merely a good-natured tease. 

“You know me,” you had answered back, “total slacker.”

“Stickin’ it to the man, glad to hear it,” he would drawl, voice dry and deadpan yet soothing to the ears. Even though Nick was cordial with Arturo, he didn’t mind having a joke at his expense.

“Doing my part,” you replied, wishing he’d step closer, wishing he would stay and chat a while.

“Stay out of trouble, doll,” he’d warn, tipping the brim of his hat; you were in awe at how a single monosyllabic word could drive you toward such filthy imaginings as you were then, reveling in that passing instant he had paid you mind.  

Mission accomplished, Nick would wander off to park himself at the Agency, unaware that for the rest of the night your mind was wholly occupied by impure thoughts—and it was all his fault. It was ridiculous that a simple term of endearment expressed so casually could nearly short-circuit your human brain, yet here you were.

Could he make love to you if you asked? Would he touch you if you begged him to? 

You supposed his existence was an adventurous one, wishing you could participate in something other than this humdrum life, though you assumed you ought to be grateful you were alive at all.

But it unnerved you—angered you to no end— to hear the drivel that oozed like poison from out the mouths of bigots when they spoke of Nick Valentine in his absence. They declared he was not sentient, that an intelligence such as his was naïve to think of itself as self-aware, as if they were any more autonomous than he, choosing to act of their own free-will by way of insults and disgraceful slurs.

Arturo had been accommodating, allowing you the top floor of his home until you could get on your feet. Such things were heard from rooftops, echoing beyond thin strips of sheet metal to leech its way into your ears. You roosted, enjoying the wide-open view of the sky and the clouds drifting by, only for your mood to sour, tempted to shout obscenities at the offender—usually Myrna— from your place in the dark.

You valued Nick’s company despite the rumors or the gossip about the Institute, ignoring the fact he was a Synth. You wondered if something was wrong with you, finding your short exchanges to be a thousand times more stimulating than any discourse with your neighbors—Valentine’s smile alone was worth more than all the caps in the world.

You often daydreamed about his cybernetic eyes looking down at you from your place atop his mattress, bright as sunbeams, imbued with radiant golden light. They were the windows to his soul—and you were convinced he had one— no one could tell you otherwise.

Then, more questions came. Could man love machine? Could machine love man? Ethical quandaries that knew no bounds. Those of narrow minds might call it an abomination in the eyes of God, while for others it might cause confusion, or effectuate ridicule.

Somehow, none of that would matter, not if Nick returned what was undeniably blossoming into not just admiration, but desire. Could Synths feel desire? Could androids dream?

And the man did flirt, if only feigning attraction, but not with you—you did not assume you were boring or undesirable, but you carried yourself the opposite of Piper, or even his assistant, Ellie. These women were always present in his life, women you tried not to be jealous of, though the ease with which they spoke, the familiarity of their years together ate away at you, knowing you might never reach the level of intimacy you so craved.

Besides, nothing good came of getting close to someone in this day and age, yet you wanted to be—scared of heartbreak, of them being stolen from you too soon, or of being sorely disappointed should they show themselves to be something other than what you thought them to be. There were risks at every turn; you had to decide—would you ever be brave enough to tell him how you felt?

Then, one day, you heard about the love between Ms. Edna and Mr. Zwicky, a robot and a human getting married of all things—it’s what prompted you to stand outside Nick’s door right this very moment, staring long enough at the glowing, heart-shaped outline for it to be burned into your retinas.

The sun was sinking just beyond the wall, Diamond City winding down as its citizens took shelter in their homes or closed up shop—it was thankfully one of your nights off.

You couldn’t get it out of your head, the very idea of a single touch, a single kiss—an affectionate word shared, a smile meant just for you. To make him smile would be the most gratifying thing of all. Too often Valentine looked glum, his thoughts weighing on him, dragging him down along with all the horrors that came with living in a post-apocalyptic society.

To kiss it away, to ensconce him in your embrace—to make him forget he wasn’t human, if only for a few minutes—your heart raced at all the possibilities, all he had to do was let you in.

You assumed a knock was in order, deep, slow breaths doing little to calm your nerves. You had adorned a dress for the occasion, something someone had traded for extra ammo. It was soft blue in color, and in relatively good condition. Ultimately, it was clean, and that was all that mattered to you. Arturo had no use for it, so it had wound up in your possession. Now you would wear it to confess, though you were nervous, a wellspring of anxiety having burgeoned behind your ribs.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” you had asked yourself, fingers curling as you raised your arm. After a few more seconds delay, you made a move to rap against the door, painted red to match the sign out front. There was just one problem—it opened before you could, Ellie’s eyes widening as she jerked a step backward, the woman obviously on her way out.

She said your name, denoting her surprise. You would quickly apologize, already on edge.

“Sorry, Ellie, I—” You paused, averting your eyes to stare at the ground that had suddenly become so interesting. “I was hoping to see Nick,” you bashfully admitted.

The woman quirked a brow, amused for some unknown reason, as if she was in on your little secret just by the way you carried yourself. You attempted to straighten up, offering her a smile to throw her off your scent; you weren’t sure that it was working, though she was kind enough not to comment.

“He stepped out a few hours ago,” she informed you, “but he should be back any minute. You can wait here if you like, but I promised Cathy I’d go have a drink with her.” Ellie gave a halfhearted laugh, “apparently she needs a night out away from her husband.”

“Al-all right,” you managed, supposing Nick was hardly ever “home,” what with being hired for everything under the sun from finding missing cats to tracking down murderers—you only hoped for his safe and swift return.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” she offered, holding it open; you timidly stepped forward, Ellie giving you a small wave on her way out.

It was not until that moment you realized you had never stepped foot inside Valentine’s Detective Agency, something you felt ashamed of—maybe he assumed you had no interest in his work. The thought caused a frown to form, but you didn’t want to lose track of why you were here, though finding no harm in taking a look around.

You were respectful, not having it in you to snoop or pry, no matter how many folders lay open or scattered about his desk. There were copies of old newspapers, the latest from Publick Occurrences, rusty filing cabinets, overloaded cardboard boxes, and clipboards with scribbled notes attached.

You spied holotapes of unknown origin, scraps of memorabilia from times long since passed. Items you could only guess at—clues, maybe? Not to mention an assortment of tools, perhaps left over from Nick’s days as a handyman—he’d told you stories, though the idea made you uncomfortable, somehow—the Synth reduced to making household repairs when he was a being of such remarkable intelligence.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, having found yourself sitting at the man’s cluttered workspace. You stared at the painting before you, a tranquil forest scene that had been tarnished by years of grime and dust. A half-smoked cigarette in a nearby ashtray caught your eye; you surprised yourself by picking it up, placing the filter between lips painted a pretty candy apple red, having decorated yourself with a little lipstick for the occasion—you could hardly think of a better time to wear it.

The stale scent of nicotine invaded your nostrils, its taste pungent on your tongue. You struck a match against its book, wanting to experience something that had graced Nick’s synthetic lips, if you couldn’t do so firsthand.

Smoke drifted toward the ceiling, diffusing in loose curls above your head as you exhaled, feeling yourself becoming aroused by your salacious daydreams. You leaned back in Nick’s chair with a faint smile, closing your eyes to more clearly picture his face.

Your free hand groped your own breast, teeth biting down on tender flesh, imagining what it might be like for Valentine’s mechanical fingers to touch you; would it feel cold like metal, or warm like machinery? Sharp like the point of a knife, or smooth like purified silver?

You sighed with longing, chest rising and falling as you stared at the ceiling. You took another drag, finding the burn to be unpleasant as the cigarette reached its end. You bent forward and extinguished it in that same ashtray—Nick would never know the difference—forgetting your lipstick would leave a stain behind.

You normally weren’t one to smoke, feeling slightly buzzed upon standing, riding the tiny high the nicotine gave you as you spied a small space off to your right; you had yet to explore it. There was nothing to keep you out, no locks, no warning signs; you tiptoed forward, as if committing a crime that warranted the use of stealth, peeking around the corner to find a staircase, and a bed.

You glanced upward through the cracks in the floorboards; another mattress was positioned above you, but the personal effects scattered about on the bottom floor let you know this was Nick’s corner, the file folders and spare fedora on his nightstand giving it away.

You snatched the hat, twirling it over in your hands. It was one you hadn’t seen him wear too often, but that was in better condition than the one he sported on the regular, having the bold idea to place it directly on your head.

Of course, there was no mirror to admire yourself in.

You would just have to use your imagination, skimming the rim with two fingers, just like Valentine. You tipped the brim to no one, spinning once to let the full skirt of your pre-war dress swirl around your calves. Feeling pretty, you plopped down gracefully on Nick’s bare bed, wondering if Arturo might have a spare set of sheets you could gift him—did Synths sleep, you wondered? Did Nick lie here awake at night, staring at this same ceiling as you were now?

You sighed, tipping the hat lower, catching onto the unusual scent embedded within its fibers. You pressed your nose against faded leather, inhaling deeply of this strange fragrance, idly twisting bits of clean cotton, not used to wearing something so delicate and fancy; it felt odd, but the texture, the softness of the dress suited you.

This hat smelled like tobacco; ozone; coolant. Like a musty bar mixed with cigarettes. Like metal; like something organic; like wet earth after a radstorm—all things that in combination were uniquely Nick. It pulled a sigh from your lungs, loins aching for the Synth worse than ever, wishing that Valentine might show himself before you chickened out.

You thought to leave the bed; unpredicted were the moves you made to hike your dress up, legs spreading open as you gathered the excess bits of skirt into a fist. You held it to the height of your navel, exposing yourself before you had any real grasp on what you were doing, sliding the palm of your hand past your waist and hips, introducing two fingers to the elastic hem of your panties.

You grinned a little grin, feeling unlike yourself; naughty, for lack of a better word, inching your way beneath its thin layer to brush against your clit. You cooed a little sound, hips gyrating gently as you got comfortable, one of your two fingers gliding down, taking up a measure of your slick.

You massaged that part of you just begging for it, pinpricks of pleasure causing your nerves to tingle as the sensation traveled, extracting a subdued moan from bowed lips. You had the nerve to giggle, entertained in more ways than one, letting Nick’s hat fall flat against your face as you breathed in deeply, working that excitable nub in slow circles, taking your time.

You were just getting started, body reacting in tandem with your touch, exhilarated beyond comprehension at this singular act of bawdy desperation. You were where you always envisioned yourself to be, though now you conjured up something else—what some might call an abject fantasy, one where you explored the body of a robotic man to your heart’s content.

Smooth, hard flesh, or pliable and soft, warm against you, or cold like ice. Exposed wires and eyes stolen from the crown’s of angels, twin halos you would kill a man to see up close. Lips too kissable for one who wasn’t human, tongue and teeth all there, or between your legs. Metallic fingers, dexterous and nimble, the other good for groping all your biologic parts.

You were so close already, wondering if you might in some way be able to please him back. Would he have a cock you could stroke or suck? Could you dig around inside him? Could you find a button, or perhaps a jumble of loose wires to fondle, one that would make his machine-parts whir?

You covered your face more thoroughly with one arm, the fedora hiding you from your own shame. You pushed your hips into the bed as you felt the onset of an orgasm building in the seat of your belly, almost there, almost—

“Say, am I interrupting something?”

You practically screamed, throwing the fedora off with such speed it hit the bed and bounced. You shoved your dress down, embarrassed beyond belief, mortified as much as you were frightened, your heart racing as you pushed up off the Nick’s mattress and ran for the stairs. He had been so quiet—maybe there was a way out of here, up there. You would never live this down.

“Hey, now,” Nick chided, his voice taking on an austere quality that caused a bout of horripilation, the micro hairs on your arms standing at attention; the Synth had locked the fingers of his good hand around your wrist, pulling you back down to his level before pressing your body against the wall of his abode. He tilted his head, studying you with rapt attention and an almost morbid curiosity—he doubted you were some kind of adrenaline junkie, or even an exhibitionist for that matter.

“You think you can just waltz in here and use my bed to pleasure yourself without some kind of explanation? I’ve seen some things in my day, but this takes the cake.”

You could not face him, averting your eyes. His accusatory gaze was powerful, the catalyst for your tears, tiny droplets threatening to roll down your cheeks as you stammered a reply. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean t—”

“—You didn’t mean to masturbate?” Nick questioned, a sardonic tone lacing his old-world, Midwestern accent. “I find that hard to believe.”

There was a pause, Nick’s metallic fingers grasping you by the point of your chin. He gently guided you to face him, tears and all, his voice softening as he realized how sorry you seemed to be, though he was still skeptical.

He called you by your name, addressing you calmly, “at least be honest with me—this how you get your rocks off, or is this some kind of special occasion? If Ellie was here—”

“—she was the only who let me in,” you whispered, Nick so tantalizingly close, yet you were beside yourself in self-abasing horror at your own actions—how could you have been so stupid!? Of course he would find out, sooner or later—he was a private eye, a damn good one! Not to mention this was his place of business, his assistant trusting you well enough to behave yourself. You suddenly felt worse than before; you were sure he had seen everything.

“Huh,” Nick snorted, the gears of his artificial brain beginning to turn toward another direction. “Why the hell would she go and do a thing like that?"

You took a breath and gulped, finally having the courage to look, to get lost in the depths of  those parhelic circles he called eyes, wishing to speak, to find the right words, yet it was nearly impossible with the way he had so easily ensnared you.

“Cat got your tongue? Beginning to wonder just how many lights are on upstair—"

You steeled yourself; you kissed him rather than giving an explanation, wondering if this was another thing you would come to regret, though sparks danced behind your eyelids—worried for one moment they might be real, some side effect of physical contact—Nick forcing you off to where your back was returned to its spot against his bedroom wall.

They had been warm; his lips were warm.

“Oh, I get it now. You came here thinking you’d shoot your shot, but when I wasn’t home you got carried away in some sick fantasy, is that it? Decided to rub one out,” he derided, laying your sins out before you so coldly that your lip trembled; you struggled to break free.

“Valentine, please—"

“Could have just waited for me,” he offered; you froze with bated breath, his words having taken an unexpected turn—could he be serious, or was he simply toying with you as punishment?

“Gal like you isn’t exactly hard on the eyes…”  

“You’re not upset?” you asked breathily, chest heaving, wide, round eyes searching his for confirmation.

“Upset you thought you could get away with this,” he muttered, brushing his mouth against yours, Nick’s skeletal hand holding your chin steady. Never in your wildest dreams did you imagine that he would indulge you, feeling yourself melt against the solid brick of his Diamond City home. “Not exactly a secret you fancy me; can read it all over your face, just never thought you’d have the guts to do a thing like this.”

“I couldn’t help it,” you pleaded, your own hand lifting, exploring the texture of his tattered coat, rising higher to caress the portion of his flesh still intact just below the fissure that extended beyond the brim of his hat. “Then why didn’t you say something? I only meant to tell you how you make me feel,” you whispered, eagerly returning that kiss, introducing your wet human tongue to his.

“How’s that?” he asked, ignoring the first part of your question—he wasn’t about to tell you you’d have to make the first move, he didn’t have to—his inviolate hand sliding down the dip in your waist to rest against your hip. He gave it a squeeze, aware of his own strength, applying just enough pressure to excite you, no more, no less.

“Ravenous,” you exclaimed, hiking your leg, encircling him to draw in close like you were playing the part of some wily seductress in a pre-war film. You emitted a dulcet moan, digits inching across the back of his head, taking the time to kiss Valentine more deeply in your lust.

Nick was quick, supporting your ass in his firm grip, securing your leg as he pressed his inorganic frame against yours that was supple and pliant; he met your hunger head on. “Good thing I know a trick or two.”

You shivered with anticipation, despite the Synth being almost hot to the touch. Silicone fingers disappeared up your long, flowing skirt, but only after he was sure you were both comfortably entangled.

Valentine kissed a question up the side of your neck toward lipstick-laden lips. “You wear this for me?” he asked, motioning his head toward your bartered dress.

“Y-yes,” you stammered, grasping his tie, feeding your words directly into his smug mouth. “Wanted to look pretty for you,” you conceded.

“Only thing more lovely than a bird in blue is a woman who wears her confidence like a second skin. Tell me you didn’t walk in here thinkin’ you could pull me, or are you just a nightingale pretending to be a peacock, flaunting your feathers, yet too afraid to show me your true colors?”

You were floored; you could not answer, having hoped that you could sway him, but doubting your plan from the get-go. You dare not tell him, too shy to admit your shortcomings, and too proud to acknowledge he had hit the nail on the head. Instead, you stared unabashedly, even as your cheeks burned, swallowing down the knot in your throat as you remained transfixed on eyes that glowed like candles in the dark.

“Too bad,” Valentine teased, rousing you from your stupor by way of calculated movements beneath your dress, “Suppose I’ll have to find out the hard way.”

Your breath hitched as the tips of faux fingers thoughtfully guided your panties to one side, Valentine expertly trailing his forefinger through your excess to the top of your slit. The Synth grazed the swollen sheath of glands pulsating adamantly between your legs, finding his rhythm, administering just enough friction to get a rise out of you, as intended.

“Nick,” you gasped, the fingers of one hand still cinched around his tie as the fingers of the other clawed into false flesh. He slid back down, following that happy little trail of slickness, its viscosity registering as wet against microscopic sensors, Nick’s index finger delving into something so moist, so soft.

“Why don’t you tell me how long you’ve dreamt of this? Tell me this isn’t some dime-store hookup you’re using to scratch an itch, I dare you,” he growled darkly into your ear.

You could only whimper as he worked you, aiming for the seat of your pleasure, Nick’s thumb running concentric circles around your turgid clit in perfect unison with that part of him that was introducing pressure to your G-spot. You had the gall to rock your hips, balancing like a flamingo on one leg, though he held you close between himself and the wall, not once allowing you to think you might stumble and fall.

“Always think of you, where you are, what you’re up to,” you breathed. “Never leave my mind.”

“What else?” he asked, brazenly steeping another finger, your soaked cunt riding both together as you shamelessly kept undulating your pelvic arch, already so near to climax.

“Dreamt of kissing you, making love to you. Wanted to know what touching you might feel like, warm, co-cold,” you moaned. “If you could ever want me back, if y-you knew just how much I adore you, how much I wish to be the one to make you smile…”

“Is that right?” Nick titillated you toward orgasm without any extra effort, feeling yourself spill out all over him as you vocalized to the heavens, Valentine not relenting until you were spent. Then, he retracted as simple as that, lifting you up, the Synth forcing you to wrap that other leg around him in order to carry you the few feet between him and the bed.

“And did you ever think of what you’d do if I didn’t have the parts?” he began, tossing you carefully onto the mattress. You watched in longing as he shucked his trench off for it to slide down the length of his arms, gathering in a pile at his feet.

“Fuck. It wouldn’t matter,” you insisted, sitting up on the palms of your hands. “It wouldn’t matter,” you repeated more urgently, adjusting to crawl forward, unable to keep yourself from him now that you had a taste.

“And what you’d do if I didn’t reciprocate?” The hat was next, tossed haphazardly off to the side.

You gaped at him, unable to come up with a satisfactory response, scouring his pleasing form from head to toe with your eyes, admiring his shoulder holster, his weapon of choice, and the suspenders that dug into his shoulders.

“I’m more machine than man; typically… disappointing to dames like you. But I’ve got nothing to hide, and I mean that literally,” he quipped, loosening and discarding his tie. What he did next surprised you, Valentine placing one knee on the bed. He pushed you backward, fitting himself right between your thighs.

“Never stopped me before,” he muttered, coercing you to lie back. In the blink of an eye, he had slipped your panties down and off, flipping the tail end of your skirt up and over your lap, exposing the soft mound between your legs.

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” he commented; how to go down on a beautiful woman was not something he would soon forget, no matter he wasn’t in the body he was born with.

You gasped before settling into a melodious moan as he swiped his tongue across your sensitive bud, Nick noticing you were tuned to the key of C, a low-frequency tonal sound that made his robotic brain buzz with something akin to happiness.

Before you knew it, he had buried himself, embedding his articulate tongue in your tepid core. Responsive biosensors did their job of transmitting physiological data concerning the presence of chemical compounds that happened to be coming into contact with his face; the detective was well aware of what that meant without having to overthink it, appreciative of the way you writhed against the bed.

“Valentine,” you mewled, arm reaching, fingers stretching to caress a hinged jaw made of filaments and wires, more unbidden tears finding their way to your eyes.

“Kiss me,” you implored, exploring the sharp contours of his inhumane face, the actuate planes and angles, the rough textures, the smooth remnants, the electrical undercurrent that hummed beneath the surface of his pseudo-flesh, causing you to cry out as he obliged, but not in the way you had expected.

Nick lapped at your cunt like it was a second mouth, attentive to every little move your body made as it wriggled and quivered, spasming with each long lick. He showed no mercy, relentlessly fucking you with his spongy tongue at a slow and steady pace, brushing the back of an alloyed finger along the cut where hip met thigh.

“Please,” you tried again, though in your heart of hearts you did not want him to stop. He refocused on your clit, being oh-so careful as he slid a single metallic digit into your wet pith, tensile fibers remaining elongated so as not to maim and injure, but to experiment, your pelvic muscles clenching around him as he began to suck.

“I can’t,” you professed, unable to elaborate, to stop your mounting orgasm. Your back arched as your hips bucked upward to meet his all too talented mouth, forcing a sound out of you that was reminiscent of pain but indicative of pleasure as you came a second time that night, Nick withdrawing his hand, his carbon-ferrous finger, pulling back to look you in the eye.

“Sweetheart, did I—”

Valentine flexed his unsheathed digits, composed of bare metal, his forefinger saturated and glistening, yet he was worried. His painted brows quirked upward as he rose to meet your face, his palm fitting itself around the curve of your waist, as gentle as can be.

He stared into your soul with those penetrative, aureate eyes, wishing you hadn’t of done that. Wishing he hadn’t of done that—it had been just plain ignorant on his part, but he didn’t figure you’d go and move so suddenly. And truth be told, you were beautiful, a thing too good to pass up. He wasn’t exactly a hot commodity these days, though a part of him—the inhuman part—didn’t think he was worth it.

Still, it was a difficult thing to just give up when he had urges, needs, wants, desires—or at least he thought he did. It was hard to tell where the real Nick began and Synth Nick ended, but for now he was experiencing an emotion that was real enough to give him pause.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his mood turning toward something serious, Valentine wondering if he had caused anything irreparable. He didn’t think he could live with himself if he’d gone and hurt an innocent—especially like this—despite the fact he wasn’t exactly alive to begin with.

You did not answer, studying the change in his demeanor, observing as his tough guy persona disappeared to be replaced by the sweet, caring man you had grown to cherish over the past few months.

He was two sides of the same coin, but you had known that going in, purposefully trailing your fingers across denuded metal toward a gathering of thick red wires, caressing the coils between the gap in his neck with the utmost tenderness.

“I’ve never been better,” you promised, appraising the look of quiet bliss that overtook him, realizing this sort of thing might be his little secret—he came back to himself just in time to put a halt to your investigation, the Synth oddly silent as he searched for something deep within your eyes.

“But I want to make you feel good,” you offered with a genuine pout, but Nick held fast to your wrist, going back to how this whole game had started. His apprehension was clear, the detective reading like an overdue library book. You couldn’t help but feel a little sad, a little disappointed, instead climbing onto his lap, draping yourself over his sound thighs.

“I don’t let just anyone poke around inside me—what makes you think you’ll make the cut?” he asked, slipping a stray bit of hair behind your ear in a gesture so human it made your heart ache.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Nick.” It was the truth.

He’d redirect you for now, but you couldn’t blame him— you were surprised that you had even gotten this far.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he replied. “Tell me something about yourself. What do I need to know besides exactly how you taste?”

You smiled, assuming that one day he might trust you well enough to return the favor.

Baby steps. You could be patient. The only thing that mattered was that at that moment, you had him to yourself.

“I once killed a Yao guai with my bear hands,” you joked, taking the time to notice just how many kiss marks you had left all over him—time to add one more, just to play it safe.

“There they are.”

“What?”

“Your true colors.”

Your lips spread into a mischievous grin.

“On second thought, I think I’m going to need a drink for this.”

At least he hadn’t kicked you out yet.  

Your husband went up into space with his three best friends and came back down to Earth… different. It was definitely a shock at first. But now… you’ve gotten used to it. You still find him absolutely sexy, rocks and all. In fact… the sex is somehow even better. 

At first, Ben didn’t want to even try. He would only watch you pleasure yourself. Finally, you’d gotten way too needy for him and he gave in. But only after he had Reed build a new type of condom that could withstand him. 

Thank you, Reed Richards. 

“Fuck… baby… that’s it. Keep going.” Ben’s needy voice is low, in the way that makes you absolutely soaked for him. “Taste so fuckin’ good.” 

You ride his face as he carefully holds your arms behind you as your hands stay firmly planted on his hard chest. His tongue, much bigger than before, licks into you desperately, needing to push you over the edge. 

You whimper above him as you writhe a little harder against his mouth, the coolness of his head feeling good between your legs. 

“God, listen to you.” He moans between licks. “Can feel how fuckin’ close you are.” 

“God… Ben…” You moan breathlessly, clenching your fists against his chest, behind you. 

He groans again as he catches your clit between his teeth for a moment and you gasp. For some reason tonight… you’re just not able to fling yourself over the edge.

“Ben… please-” You whimper.

“Need more?” He asks and you nod. Wordlessly, he helps you up and then gently guides you to your back. “You know I got you, sweetheart.”

He grabs one of the condoms that Reed made him from the bedside table and hands it to you to open before guiding it over his massive length. 

His length is different than before, of course. Bigger… Rockier… But it never once deterred you. The condom coats his rocky hardened length and gives it a smooth feel. 

Once the condom is in place, he smirks down at you, his blue eyes never once leaving yours. “Should I make you beg for it?” 

“Ben Grimm… I swear to god-” You start to whine but he starts to push in slowly just to shut you up.

“Yeah, baby? What was that?” He teases and when you have no response, he keeps going. “Oh come on now… That all you got, Mrs. Grimm?”

Your eyes roll back into your head the moment he’s fully inside you and his hands expertly find your hips, your thighs rested up against him. 

“Feels so fuckin’ good… Jesus… she was made for me, wasn’t she, baby?” He rambles as he pulls out just to push back in, a little rougher.

The air leaves your lungs in a welcoming way as he talks dirty to you. It’s something that he’s always been good at. Since you met in college. He has a tongue that would make a nun faint. Or rebel against god. 

“God… baby… I’m gonna-” You whine.

“Oh I know. Come on, sweetheart.” He pulls your hips up a little, angling you just right to slide right back into you, making you clench around him. “Oh fuck-” 

You can tell he just came by the way his hands grip your waist a little tighter, still careful with you though. His eyes squeeze shut and you whine as your hand falls between your legs, rubbing your clit for him. 

“Look at me as I fall apart for you.” You whisper to your husband. “Please.”

His eyes open again, falling down to the wetness between your legs. 

“Look at that. Absolutely soaking us.” He grins. “Fuckin’ perfect.” 

His crystal blue eyes bring you another wave of pleasure and you clench around him one last time before finally reaching that peak that you were both craving. Your orgasm washes over you with you moaning Ben’s name in the way that, to him, makes you sound like a siren. A sound he’d gladly get lost in. 

“Jesus.” He groans as he falls to the bed, beside you, careful to not hurt you. 

You let out a soft laugh as your entire body feels like jell-o. He pulls you to him, closer, as you rest your head against his hardened shoulder. 

“God, I love you…” You murmur.

“I love you.” He runs a rocky hand down his face. “Marry you all over again if I could.” 

You let out a soft laugh and lean up slightly to kiss him on the lips. It used to be a thing he was too self conscious about until you finally proved you truly didn’t mind and that you just desperately needed to kiss your husband. But now it’s like second nature again.

“Don’t forget we’re supposed to have lunch with everyone tomorrow.” Ben reminds you.

“I didn’t forget.” You assure him as you sit up to turn the bedside light off.

“You sure because I’m pretty sure I had your mind a jumbled mess earlier.” He teases.

You swat him playfully, your hand coming in contact with cool hardness. “Shut up.” 

“Just sayin’.” He grins. 

“Rotten husband.” You roll your eyes as you lay back down, facing away from him with a grin.

His hand falls down to your stomach pulling you into him as he lays on his side. “Can’t help it. You love me anyway.”

That you definitely do.

He needed to see you.

That was the only thought running through his head, the only thing that mattered in this moment. The guilt at not helping his brothers settle in after such a tough mission can come tomorrow.

Tonight, he planned on getting lost in you.

He keyed in the code to your front door. Your singing is the first thing he registered as he made sure the door locked behind him. His armor trailed behind him as he moved inside, following the sound of your voice into the kitchen.

There you are.

He could cry with how beautiful you were. Karking vibrant as you moved effortlessly in your own space, putting away dishes like it was a choreographed performance, your hips swinging to the beat you were singing.

You were everything good, and sweet, and kind, and pure in this galaxy. Everything he longed but never hoped for.

Everything you insisted he deserved.

He wasn’t so sure of that, not with the specter of old battles haunting him. But he also wasn’t a good enough man to care, not when you gave yourself to him so happily.

“Can I cut in?”

 You yelped, and Jesse was glad he chose to stay in the entry based on how you flailed about, surprised by his voice.

“Jesse!” Your tone was a mix of annoyed and overjoyed and he had never heard anything so lovely. You flew across the kitchen, forcing him to catch you as you threw yourself into his arms.

“Hi, gorgeous,” Jesse grumbled into your ear, his hold around you tightening. He let his hands mold to the curve of your frame, relishing in the feel of you securely against him. He could feel each breath you took as your chest expanded against his, and yet he was compelled to pull you even closer.

“How long do I have you?”

“Four days.”

He could feel your smile form against his neck. It was more than he usually got.

“Lucky.” Jesse looked down as he felt you pull back and look up at him. “You’ve got lousy timing. I just finished cleaning up. You’re lucky you’re cute, though. I don’t mind dirtying up the kitchen again. What d’ya want for dinner? I’ve got some tip yi—"

He cut you off with the seal of his lips against yours. Food wasn’t going to satisfy him. He needed you, and he needed you to need him just as fiercely.

Jesse walked you back to trap you against the wall, his hips meeting yours as he pressed himself against you, trapping you as his tongue darted out to tease your soft lips. Satisfaction hummed pleasantly through his body as you melted from his touch.

Your mouth dropped open at his insistence, and he couldn’t resist gently taking your lower lip between his own and sucking, soothing the strain after with the swipe of his tongue.

Gods, he couldn’t get enough of those sweet moans you made just for him.

“Sorry baby. I couldn’t wait another second. Needed my mouth on you. Needed you right here against me.” His apology was half sincere at best. Tomorrow he can be sorry for interrupting, for taking what he needed.

You pushed up against him to hold your lips against his as you said, “Don’t be sorry. I’ve missed you, too.”

Jesse pushed forward, done with teasing touches at your approval. He claimed your mouth with his, stealing the very breath from your lungs and replacing it with himself. You returned his frenzy, trailing your tongue against his before pulling back enough to nip at his lip, the shock of the sting shooting straight to his groin.

With a growl from deep in his chest, Jesse broke away, distracted for only a split second by the string of saliva connecting his lips to your sinful tongue, still poking out of your open mouth.

The truck’s headlights sliced through the darkness, their pale glow cutting a path on the slick highway ahead. The tires hummed steadily against the wet asphalt, a constant, rhythmic sound that usually calmed Scott’s nerves.

It was a feeling he’d grown used to over the years- the long hours spent driving through endless stretches of empty roads, chasing storms, chasing destruction, always one step ahead of whatever might tear the world apart next.

But tonight, it was different. There was something gnawing at the back of his mind, some disruption to his usual routine.

It was you.

The backseat of the truck was too quiet, despite the steady hum of the engine, the occasional swish of windshield wipers keeping the rain at bay. Every few seconds, he heard it- a soft pop.

Pop.

Nobody else seemed to care. Javi had dozed off hours ago in the passenger seat. Next to you sat Kent and Jim; both in their own worlds, headphones in, music up. Nobody else could hear it. Nobody but the two of you; you, incessant. Scott, irritated.

Pop.

It was that damn gum you always chewed. The rhythmic sound of it was like an annoying buzz in his ear, always the same, always so loud, so... there. He couldn’t ignore it. He never could.

Pop.

Scott clenched his jaw, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The storm was coming, he could feel it in his bones. But for some reason, his focus was on the sound of your gum, on the way your lips seemed to work in perfect rhythm, pulling the sticky candy in and out of your mouth like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Pink. Bright pink. Obnoxiously pink. He'd seen it wedged between your pearly whites far too many times for it to be considered a normal, healthy, edible shade.

Pop.

"Can you not?" he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough to be heard over the hum of the engine.

But of course, you didn’t hear him. Or maybe you just didn’t care. Another otherwise-satisfying sound left your lips.

He let out a frustrated sigh. Of all the things that could get under his skin, it had to be something so stupid. It was just bubblegum. People chewed it all the time. Hell, Scott had a pack of his own in the glovebox; mint.

But you? You chewed it like it was the only thing keeping you sane in this insane world. Quick, efficient, popping it over and over like it didn’t matter that you were speeding toward a tornado that could tear apart entire towns.

Pop.

"Can you... can you not do that?" he finally snapped, his patience wearing thin.

You leaned forward, blinking distractedly. Truthfully, you hadn't actually noticed; too busy watching the wide stretch of Kansas outside of the backseat window.

“What? You don’t like gum?”

Scott didn’t answer at first, just stared straight ahead, wishing he could escape the nagging feeling in his chest.

He hated being irritated by something so trivial. It wasn’t you, not really- it was everything. The storm. The weight of the job. The greasy diner breakfasts and sludges mistaken for coffee and empty, dingy motel rooms.

The isolation. The loneliness. The pressure.

You, on the other hand, seemed to just float through it all. You didn’t care. You were light- and that, more than anything, drove him crazy.

"Just quit it, alright?"

He caught sight of your brows furrowing. Perfect little things, he thought, once oddly noticing the way they framed the rest of your face just right. Then you'd open your mouth and spew out some shit like that cloud looks like a fat skeleton, and Scott would- once again- be reminded of why it physically pained him to pay any attention to you.

"Want me to spit it out?"

It was all he could do not to slam the breaks and reach over to you himself; squeeze your cheeks, let the gum fall, and hurl it out of the window.

"What? No! Just- damnit, just close your mouth,"

"I am closing my mouth," you said back, eyes narrowing at him through the rear-view mirror.

"Stop with the damn blowing," he shot back, knuckles set on the wheel.

A small, amused tug pulled at the corners of your lips. Scott pretended not to notice. "You could have just said," you slumped further into your seat. Next to you, Kent leant his head against the window, eyes shut, completely out of Scott's vision. A pang of jealousy jolted through you.

"I mean it, kid," Scott warned. He'd looked away from you now, steely blue eyes focused on the road ahead. "We've still got a few hours to go, I'm not putting up with it anymore."

"Then drive faster."

Big mistake. Massive mistake; you regretted the words as soon as you said them. Once again, Scott was glaring at you through the rearview mirror.

"What was that?"

"I said, drive safely." you lied.

“Are you always like this?”

"What? A gum-chewer?" you mumbled to yourself.

"Say that again?"

"Nothing."

You sulked. Scott paused, waiting for another quirky quip back, but he could see it in your slump that you were done pissing him off for the night. Not that you ever meant to, he realised. This was just the way you were.

She's young, Javi had winced, just one day before your arrival, knowing already that Scott would have a problem with it. Why wouldn't he? Shots were being called regarding internships that he had no say in. But she's good. Apparently.

You came up to him on the first day with a grin so wide, he was scared it'd stretch right off your pretty little face. Sometimes, though Scott would never admit it, it was infectious. Maybe even cute. When you first started, he actually found you quite interesting.

Young, wide-eyed, bright; full of an energy he'd assumed would fizzle out eventually due to the constant pressures of what you all did. But then one month turned into two, and that two bled into five, and you hadn't changed. Not one bit.

You were relentless. You kept finding things to do, ways to keep moving, conversations to join. Though he'd rather die than say it out loud, he found you cute- in the way that people usually do when they see a litter of puppies for the first time.

He kept finding you cute. Kept letting himself find you cute. Then one night- when everybody else was at the bar and he was alone with his own thoughts- Scott allowed himself to find you irresistible.

Thoughts of you sinking down on him flooded his mind, taking up ever vacant corner and making it their home. He'd pumped his length faster than he had in months. Flashes of you moaning, whining, fucked dumb on his co-

"Can we turn the music up?"

Never again, he'd told himself. It was one time.

He should’ve said something. Something sharp. Something mean, like you probably expected him to. Instead, he did exactly what you said; turning the volume up the loudest it would go.

Hoping- praying- it would rid his mind of any and all thoughts of you.

You stayed oblivious to it all, glazed eyes fixated on the road ahead.

When the truck finally pulled into a gas station a few hours later, Scott stayed back, his mind still running in circles. He wasn’t hungry, didn’t need anything. You had all already scattered inside, doing your usual round of stretching, grabbing snacks; whatever else possible to unwind from over five hours of continuous driving.

But Scott? He wasn’t built for that kind of downtime. He stayed in the truck, locked in his own head, trying to prepare for whatever came next.

Javi came back first, a pack of cigarettes in hand that made Scott raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nasty habit, that."

"Yeah. Figured I'd try it out, you know? Don't wanna die without knowing what it tastes like."

He knew it was a joke; could see it in Javi's quirked lip and the fact that he hadn't even bothered to take the film off before opening the glovebox and tossing it inside. Yet something gnawed at Scott's insides, a constant, aching feeling.

The one ahead of you all was predicted to be the worst storm to date. He'd seen what really bad storms did to the people in the towns, sure; mass destruction, uprooted ways of living, profitable expanses. It was all in the name of the game. But what it did to the crew? To the people like him, like Javi, the rest of StormPAR, collecting data and putting themselves right in the middle of it?

Well, he'd lost count of the people he let himself care about and lose. If it wasn't a tragic accident, it was a sudden leave of the team; never to be seen or heard from again. So, he never let himself get too close. Refused.

Javi called him a dick. Scott knew he was just playing it safe.

You were the last one to return, slipping back into the truck with a smile on your face and an enclosed fist. Scott hadn't noticed your giddy expression until he turned the key in the ignition; the engine roaring to life.

Your face popped up between his seat and Javi's. As he turned to face the other man, he was greeted with the sight of your smile instead.

Illuminated in the darkness. Unprovoked. And, to be frank, quite terrifying.

"Jesus, fuck! What the-"

“Gum,” you said casually, holding something out to him.

Scott blinked, confused for a second. If he hadn't been so taken aback, he would have been furious at your lack of warning. “What?”

“You like mint, right?” he saw the glimmer of the little silver packet in your hand.

You shrugged as if it was no big deal, but the little glint of thoughtfulness in your eyes made something stir in his chest.

“It's spearmint, not just the regular stuff that you get. Thought it might be better.”

He reached down and took it without a word, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest of moments. It was a simple thing. A small gesture. But somehow, it felt like the most complicated thing in the world.

You didn't wait for him to register, had no time to. You'd already slotted yourself back into the middle seat, nudging a distracted Kent who'd been watching something on his phone, wordlessly begging him to let you see.

Scott stalled for a bit. A split second. But that was enough to earn a pair of narrowed eyes from Javi, who looked like he was about to come out with a dumbass statement any second now.

“Thanks,” Scott finally muttered, though the words felt strange coming out of his mouth.

Your head snapped up, momentarily, and you smiled at him, “No problem.” immediately, you went back to whatever fascinating thing was on Kent's screen.

Scott put the car in reverse. Backed out of the space. Tires hit gravel, sand and asphalt all at once as the truck began barrelling down that same road again.

For the last hour, he drove steadily, as if the smoothness of the car could calm the hammering in his chest.

In his free hand, his fingers toyed with the little silver packet, mindlessly, wordlessly.

He hadn't realised.

Days blurred together in a haze of data, storm readings, and long hours in cramped trucks and motels. There was always another storm to chase, another reading to capture, another risk to take.

Scott had begun to hate the monotony. He'd always prided himself in being a structured guy, but it was getting harder and harder to stick to a routine when it was slowly but surely sucking the life out of him.

Before, when he'd first started and him and Javi were fresh-faced interns taking on the world together, he found it fun. Exciting, even, a new challenge to brave after years spent pining for a degree at MIT- though even way back then, he was only really in it for the money.

Then, there was the drinking.

He never truly knew his limits. He hadn't been dumb enough to join a fraternity during college- his father would have tied him to a tree and set him alight- but he liked the feeling a few beers and a drag of someone else's cigarette gave him. Scott would let himself fully unwind then; the smile on his face disingenguine but wide, the drink in his hand a hard, dark liquor he would still be able to taste in the morning.

Then- as if smoking wasn't bad enough- he'd developed yet another nasty habit.

Nights out at the bar almost always turned into an extra digit added to his bodycount. It was thrilling, different- and it felt good, so he never really thought twice about it.

But then one night turned into multiple, one body being lost in a sea of tens, and Scott just couldn't bring himself to do it anymore. The drink did things to him, messed with his mind in a way that put a stop to any and all connection. He couldn't even remember half the faces he'd been with. Not that he particularly wanted to.

"Someone had a rough morning," Kate had shrugged one morning, when Scott came to breakfast with tousled hair and a grimace.

He'd shot her a glare, "Shut it."

"I'm just saying," as always, Kate was relentless. "I could hear her from my room. Opposite the courtyard."

"Yeah? Maybe don't listen in then,"

"Or maybe you should give the whole 'cum and go' thing a break. It's getting a little old."

Scott had done nothing but scoff, downing the rest of his coffee with a mutter to mind her own business. But he hadn't ever brought a girl back again after that, knowing there was a lot more truth to Kate's statement than she'd realised.

Though even he knew, settling down wasn't an option. Especially not in his line of work, and especially not after. Nobody wanted to be with a man who always put data first, and he didn't want just anybody; especially not somebody who couldn't grasp just how important his career was to him.

He'd worked far too hard to get to this point. Invested way too much time, money and effort.

Scott sighed, taking his cap off and running a hand through his hair. It had been the worst and best week for the team. Everyone was tired, aching, but every string of data and formulation had been the best they acquired all year.

Through it all, you remained. You were there, bringing that inexplicable brightness with you. You made everyone laugh. You kept everyone sane. He'd never seen Javi so easy-going, and the man was the epitome of easy-going.

Scott, however, couldn’t quite shake you. Every time he thought he’d put you out of his mind, there you were. You were a plague with a pocketful of Hubba Bubba and about fifteen million questions to ask poor Kent. Who, Scott noticed, had never actually given you the greenlight to become his friend, much less his best friend. You just saw the smile on his face one day and ran with it.

If anyone asked Scott, he'd be honest; you were a pest at the worst times, but he knew you never meant to be. Regardless, your dumb questions were met with silence from him instead of the usual narrowed eyes and snarky remark.

"...So you agree?" you'd asked him one morning, eyebrow raised, hand flat on your hip.

Scott kept his gaze on the laptop before him, fighting any and all urges to give into your intiation of a conversation.

"What?"

"You agree that you look like Superman."

Truth be told, if this was any other time, he'd probably just get up and walk away. If you weren't bodyshaming clouds and forcing your way into other peoples' iPhone screen watch parties, you were coming up with the dumbest comparisons for all of the members on your team.

Scott, unfortunately, included. He'd kept his head down when you asked Javi if he'd ever watched In The Heights, quizzed Kate on some TV show called Normal People. He thought you'd skip past him, maybe focus on someone like Jim instead.

But you hadn't; you'd waited for the right time, the right moment, to corner Scott (metaphorically) and force him to be part of a conversation he never consented to.

He said nothing. Didn't want to give it the time of day, though the way you were currently looking at him- studying him- made the back of his neck crawl.

"Should head back, kid," he'd muttered, not looking you in the eye. You tilted your head to the side, blinking in confusion.

"You have his eyes."

He made a noise caught between a sigh and a grumble. You watched him for a beat longer, eyes narrowed, arms folded. To you, it was pure analysis- for comparison purposes, that was all.

To Scott, it was the reason his brain short-circuited. Still malfunctioning, long after you'd shrugged and walked away, blowing that damn bubblegum and sucking it back into your mouth with an all-too familiar pop.

From then on, he couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t stop noticing it.

Neon pink sweetness that you'd roll between your tongue and the roof of your mouth, sometimes blowing bubbles big enough to make a mess when you thought no-one was looking. He'd counted once, purely out of boredom; you went through four pieces an hour. Six depending on the brand.

He'd watch it absent-mindedly while you spoke, trying to ignore whatever irrelevant question popped into your head and made a bee-line for your mouth.

Do you have a favourite dish? Not food, a ceramic?

Does your hat have meaning?

Is Max alive? I haven't seen him in days.

Other than the gum and the stupid questions, you were actually quite okay at the job. Sharp at your work, sharper than any intern he'd ever met. You knew your stuff, breathed it, didn't stress over it. Hell, even Kate and Javi were starting to notice.

"She's decent, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Javi had hummed. They both watched you do your thing, Scott unknowingly listening behind them, "Might have to keep her on after the internship. What do you think, Scott?"

He'd just shrugged, gave a slight nod that barely moved. Regardless, Javi grinned; that same, skeptic look he'd given him in the truck days before.

Scott tried to ignore it. He couldn't let Javi get to him.

The man was persistent, but subtlety wasn't exactly his strong suit; he'd given you a bulk of tasks with Scott as the main lead, would redirect all of your questions, and even went so far as to take your spot in the back seat- just so you'd have no other choice but to slot right next to Scott in the truck.

He thought it would be hell. Thought it'd end in a direct threat to his business partner, a hurtful remark to you, and a warning to everybody else to leave him the fuck alone.

Surprisingly, Scott found himself going along with it. Albeit reluctantly, and always with a glare that Javi would answer back with a wink.

But he kept quiet about it, telling himself it'd be easier and that it was only until this season was over. You were young, dumb and excited; Javi was just trying to get under his skin, that's all.

One evening, as the group gathered in the small motel room, you sat next to Scott; an automatic move now that he'd been your point of call for the whole week.

Your face was intent as you pored over the storm data on your laptop. The others were talking in the background, but his attention was solely on you.

Dishevelled hair framed your flushed face, strands poking this way and that due to having the window down whenever you rode shotgun. Your lips always had a fresh coat of tinted chapstick, and he could smell your bubblegum scent from where he was sitting. Odd, because you weren't currently chewing any.

You didn’t even seem to notice, your eyes scanning the readings with an intensity he hadn’t expected. You were quiet, focused, a terribly different contrast to how you were usually.

You didn’t act like a rookie. You acted like you belonged.

“Do you think the readings are off?” you broke the silence, voice calm but serious. You blinked up at him and he cleared his throat, not having expected the disruption in quiet.

He said nothing. He knew you'd add to it eventually.

“The wind speeds are showing a delay compared to the pressure readings. I think there’s a lag in the data.”

Scott’s eyes flicked to the screen, then back to you.

Like it always did, his brain absorbed everything in front of him and tried to slot it all into place. None of it made any sense.

Not the data. Not his heart. Not how when he looked at you now, the feeling of irritance had been replaced by something far, far worse.

But, especially not the data.

You were right. He wasn’t surprised- at this point, he was starting to expect it from you.

“Yeah,” Scott murmured slowly, his tone begrudging but genuine as his eyes flitted over the data- then, without his consent, to the way your perfectly manicured fingers held the edges of the screen. “You’re right.”

You smiled, the satisfaction of being right playing across your face. "Thank god. I just don't want to mess it up."

Scott didn’t say anything, but the beat of something in his chest stayed with him. You didn’t need his approval, but you had it anyway. For reasons he couldn’t explain, that made him feel something close to admiration.

You confused him, everything you did a wonder to the man in the cap and sunglasses. You were childish and annoying and overwhelming, but when it came to the job, you weren't just a kid who knew a bunch of fancy terms and how to use them.

You were competent. You were good.

Evening came fast and with it, a lighter air around the team. Another day had passed; successful in every way due to the simple reason of everyone actually surviving it.

Scott wanted nothing more than to retreat back to his room, a glass of something neat in his hand. Whisky, maybe, if he knew he wasn't going to be the one driving the next morning.

He had no plans of spending any more time with the people he'd been stuck with all day- he was exhausted. Trying not to snap, trying not to be too condescending because four interns had quit already and this was only their second year on the program.

But then Javi cornered him in the lobby, arms folded and eyebrow raised, and Scott felt that quiet evening in floating further and further away.

"You alright?"

Scott raised his own, "Are you?"

"Hm," Javi ignored him, a beat passing between them, "Busy week, huh?"

"Always is."

"You feeling okay?"

"Why'd you keep asking me that?" Scott shot back in slight annoyance- though he knew, if there was anyone on the team who could take it, it would be Javi.

Javi shrugged, "No reason. Just making conversation,"

"We've been together all week. Don't think there's much more conversation to be had,"

"You'd be surprised," yet another mischevious glint glimmered in Javi's eyes, "Any plans tonight?"

Scott wanted to laugh as he took a seat in one of the peeling leather sofas. "Does it look like we're anywhere near a place that can have plans?"

Javi smirked, "Good point. Tell that joke again over drinks later,"

Immediately, Scott shook his head.

"Nah."

"Oh, come on! It's a good joke-"

"No, Javi," he interrupted, voice slightly firmer this time. "I don't do that shit anymore,"

"What shit? Hang out with your friends?"

"Colleagues."

"Ouch."

He said nothing, knowing Javi wouldn't take it too personally.

"Come on, dude. When was the last time you had a drink that wasn't in your motel room?"

Scott didn't want to think about it. He was 99% sure it had ended with some girl whose name he didn't even know moaning his, over and over, as the bed banged against the wall and an ache bloomed in his chest.

Over and over and over again, like clockwork. One whisky was all it took to create a lifelong pang of regret.

"That new rookie," Javi hinted gently, eyes on everything else in the room but Scott. "She's gonna be there."

"She even old enough to drink?"

"She's twenty-four," Javi frowned.

"Old enough to know better, then."

"Yeah? And when Tyler Owens leaves tonight to take her back to his room, all gone on rum and coke, you think she's gonna know better then?"

Scott glared, a clench in his jaw he just couldn't unfold. "You're gonna be there, no?"

"Yeah. Not my job to babysit her, though."

"So that makes it mine?"

Javi chuckled, "Didn't say that. But out of me and you, when someone like Tyler lays it on thick and she thinks it's what she wants, who do you think she's gonna listen to?"

Silence. Scott's fists unclenched as he stood up from the seat. With a hard shove against Javi's shoulder, he stalked down the hallway; trying to ignore the vivid thoughts in his brain of you being swayed by someone like Tyler fucking Owens.

He told himself to breathe. The walk to his room felt longer than it was.

The bar would be a dive. Small, dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and frying food. The kind of place that felt worn-out, much like the people who stumbled in after a long day. The people who didn’t want to think about the storm on the horizon. They just wanted to forget for a few hours.

Scott didn’t care about any of that. He wasn’t going to be there for the small talk, the too-loud laughter, or the way people slapped each other on the back like they’d just survived a war. Because, in his mind, they had.

And the people who didn’t get it? They were just distractions. Bodies to fill the space, white noise.

You weren’t a distraction. Not in the way the others were. You were something else. You were the reason he couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t stop the cogs in his brain from turning. And he hated it, wanted to hate you, craved the feeling of not giving a single shit about you.

Hours later, he could hear the commotion outside. People were turning in for the night, or just about ready to go out.

He glanced at himself in the dusty mirror of his room, the frame encased in what he duly hoped wasn't mold. Then, he grabbed his cap, pressing it down on his curls.

He placed his hand on the handle, exhaling. He didn't have to go. He didn't want to. He knew Javi was just joking around- if it came to it, it something really happened, he'd have you; he'd be right by your side with a bashful Kent and tipsy Kate in tow.

But something twisted in Scott's mind, something he was unable to shake. You were sweet, so, stupidly, sickly sweet that it wasn't just Tyler Owens he had to worry about.

The man was harmless. Truly. A hillbilly boasting a YouTube channel and tending to his saviour complex with bullshit charitable donations, sure, but he'd never lay a finger on you if it was unwarranted. No, Scott didn't give a fuck about him.

It was the bar he couldn't stop thinking about. The men who'd pulled in for the night, all in their leather jackets and uncombed beards and flannels tied clumsily to their scalps. Bartenders with gall and a packet of something that could knock you out in seconds. Other storm chasers who had never even met you, never met Scott, who knew nothing about the repercussions of messing with a girl on his team.

The rough ones, the idiots with gropey fingers and stale breath and an entitlement to bodies they were nowhere near worthy to have.

His jaw clenched. The thought of you, glassy eyed and helpless, no quirky quip in your mind as one of them reached out for you- it was all he could do not to slam the door.

He wrenched it open, stepping outside. The cold air hit him, and for the first time in a long time, Scott actually felt like he could breathe.

You, on the other hand, were having the time of your life.

You didn't drink much, not really. You'd been to a few house parties here and there- crashed a sorority hazing or two before you graduated- but alcohol never truly held that appeal like it did to some.

There was no reason for it to. It just made you giggly and foggy and the world spun a lot slower. You thought, maybe mushrooms were the way to go; at least you'd get some health benefits.

The drink in your hand resembled one that you'd get in those cheap red plastic cups back in college. They didn't have cocktails here, or dry martinis with the little blue cheese stuffed olives; no, here it was hard liquor and a spat of seltzer if you were lucky and the bartender had been cracked the night before.

Nevertheless, you tipped your head back, feeling the warmth trickle down your throat.

"Damn," a voice behind you whistled, one that you found difficult to recognise above the music.

As you swallowed, you turned your head; eyes catching on the infamous Tyler Owens. They widened in excitement as you wiped your lips with the back of your hand.

"You sure know how to take a drink."

A wide smile spread slowly across your face, stumbling up with your arms outstretched to greet him. "Tyler!"

He grinned- that stunning, charming pull of his lips that seemed to work on every woman in the vicinity of a storm.

But you knew- secretly- that it held it's reservations for one woman and one woman only.

"How are you?" he asked, slotting into the seat next to you. A smirk tugged at your smile.

"Forget me. Tell me about you," you said, hands joining in with the theatrics of your voice. "I hear it's going well for you guys."

"And I hear talks of you being kept on after your internship,"

"Oh, well, you know. A rumour's a rumour," you shrugged, feeling the heat creep up your cheeks.

Tyler watched you with an amused sparkle in his eye, grabbing his own drink from the bar and taking a massive swig. "Very humble of you,"

"I'm a very modest and very chill woman." you said solemnly, earning a chuckle from the man in front of you.

"Sure. Let's go with that."

You laughed with him.

Then, with a sudden lower of your voice and a lean inwards that had you stumbling slightly, you gestured him to do the same. Of course, Tyler complied.

"Are you..." you started, hand covering your mouth now, hoping to fend off any skilled mouth readers, "Are you seeing Kate tonight?"

Tyler's face flushed. He pulled back from you, ever so slightly, the entertained crease in his eyes indicating that you hadn't overstepped like you feared.

He didn't ask you how you knew. You'd made the assumption that Kate told him a while back, when she gave you her phone to search up her celebrity look-alike and a text from a Mr T. Owens popped up at the top of the screen.

Room 217. I've got the petals, wear something pretty.

You'd screamed so loud that she clamped a hand over your mouth and wouldn't let go until you'd promised to be quiet.

Unfortunately enough for her, you hadn't finished screaming; earning you a second clamp that had her rings scraping hard against your teeth.

"Promise me you won't say anything," she'd begged, palms pressed together.

You just blinked, handing her phone back with a vacant stare. "Scott's going to kill you."

"Then we just won't tell Scott, will we?"

"Then he'll kill me,"

"Come on," she raised an eyebrow, "we both know that's not true."

You ignored her comment, wanting nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow you whole at the slight mention of Scott Miller.

You promised you'd keep it a secret, miming an animated gesture of you zipping your lips and throwing away the key.

For the rest of the day, Kate seemed much more relaxed. She felt happier, lighter. Her face glowed differently. And for once since you'd started at StormPAR, you felt like there was more to it than tornadoes and mass destruction.

That was a full month ago. You'd gotten them both seperate cupcakes to congratulate their sneaky little milestone; delivered right outside their motel doors with nothing more than a janky scrawl; Happy '1'!

Tyler smiled softly, nodding, "Think so. Thanks, again. For... you know."

"No need to thank me," you shrugged casually, holding up your empty glass and willing him to do the same. "I should be thanking you. She's been better since you guys started this thing,"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," your eyes glimmered, "She laughs a lot more and she doesn't get as stressed. You've worked wonders, Tyler Owens,"

"Glad to hear it," he beamed, tilting his own glass towards yours. "Couldn't have done it without you and your unwavering loyalty,"

"Mhm, I'll cheers to that," you hummed. Then, with a slight, unsatisfying clunk of your plastic cups, you said, "To secret relationships!"

"To what, now?" your blood ran cold. Immediately.

Oh.

Oh... no.

You didn't have to turn around to know who that voice belonged to.

It was a constant in your life now; in the truck, during a meeting, in your dreams. It was the same voice that terrified you and coursed adrenaline through your veins at the same time; deep, gruff, always with a hint of something rude and unaware.

Scott Miller.

Tyler wasn't phased. He shot the other man a grin, hand out for a shake, only to be left hanging.

You didn't react. Couldn't. Usually, you'd be able to lie your way out; Kate always said you had a charm that just made people believe you, made them forget anything prior to your smile and topic change.

You wished she could see you now. She'd eat her words faster than Tyler downed his drink.

"To secret, what?"

"Uh-"

"I'll... catch you both later," Tyler said, throwing some change down on the counter for both his drink and yours. "Nice seeing you," he said your name but he might as well have pulled you for a 76th annual reaping.

As Tyler turned to walk away, you could see the slight glint in his eyes; apologetic, pleading. The type of look where he had faith in you handling everything yet nothing at the same time.

It wasn't speculation. It was actually a very well known fact; Scott held a certain patience for you that he exercised for absolutely nobody else. Whatsoever. Proven time and time again, so much so that Tyler assumed you'd be able to get through this whole mess all by yourself.

Still, you'd be having words with Kate about her flakey boyfriend later. Right now, you had a much bigger, cap-wearing, sunglasses hooked on polo collar fish to fry.

"Hey, Scott." you tried to sound as casual as possible, but every syllable failed you. Especially the 'Y' that you seemed to drag on for far too long.

"How much have you had to drink?"

Your brows furrowed slightly. You'd expected a harsher tone and a meaner remark about Tyler fucking Owens. Scott said it so much you'd genuinely started to wonder whether that was his actual middle name.

"I had a vodka cran and a double Disaranno and coke. And then whatever this was,"

You tilted your cup towards him. Reluctantly, Scott sniffed the remains, a grimace filling his face.

"Christ. Are you trying to get wasted?"

"Are you not?" you raised an eyebrow. You were feeling it now; the warm feeling spreading across your chest, the hazy lull that meant the alcohol was finally- finally- starting to take effect.

And it only took three shots and four mystery drinks to get there. Not that he needed to know that.

"Come on," Scott muttered, unfolding his arms with a scowl. "You've been here less than an hour and you've had more than half the team."

"Then tell them to catch up."

He said your name, tone dark, blue eyes even darker. "Let me take you back to Javi."

"Javi? I haven't seen him all night," you frowned.

Scott's jaw clenched. That bastard.

"What room are you in?"

"I don't know the number,"

"You don't know the number?" he was looking at you incredulously now, eyes wide in disbelief more than anything.

Here you were, a babbling, tipsy, low-lidded mess of a girl. Your breath probably smelled like Wray & Nephew had a baby with Grey Goose, and your arm was still sticky from accidentally leaning too far across the bar.

And here was the infamous, immovable Scott Miller- actually trying to help you- and the way you showed gratitude was with a string of nonsense and no memory whatsoever about the room you'd spent the past four nights in.

Great.

Scott gritted his teeth. He was feeling everything all at once; annoyance, hatred, burning deep in his gut and threatening to spill out of his mouth. He was tired and angry and pissed off because he'd just spent twenty minutes looking for you, twenty minutes wading through bodies and drunkards, just to find you leant into Tyler at the edge of the bar.

Laughing. Whispering. Toasting to something he hoped to fuck he heard wrong.

He hated the way Tyler looked at you. He hated the way he spoke to you like it was easy. He despised that you seemed to like it.

But it wasn’t just Tyler. It was everything.

Because Scott couldn't speak to you like that. He couldn't hear your little quips and outburts and match your energy in the way others could. He just had to sit, and watch, head ducked in the sidelines- as other people beat him to it.

Scott wasn't an idiot. He knew you, had met girls like you before; they didn’t just come around and want guys like him. Girls like you belonged with nice, sweet, wholesome farmer boys- the kind of guys that never swore and wore glasses and blazers two times too big; the goofy types, the Kents of the world.

Probably ones who wrote a lot, and wore button-up dress shirts and doted on your every word. Clever guys who’d tell you they had feelings for you the very second they felt them.

That’s what you deserved.

Scott just… well. He wasn’t that. And you needed that. And he still didn't know what this feeling for you was, whether it was good or bad or dangerous or safe. All he knew was that it was getting harder and harder to act like he didn't give a fuck about you when you were the first thought he had in the morning and the last one he had at night.

You didn't realise what was happening until Scott guided you to your feet. You'd expected a tug, a pull, one you wouldn't necessarily like but could soften with a 'if you wanted it rough, you could have just said'. You were waiting for it, ever since you heard his stunned tone when you were speaking with Tyler.

No; Scott was gentle. He helped you to your feet. You felt his palm press into your lower back, steady and sure. You passed the table of Kent, Jim and Kate on the way out, and you listened as Kate told Scott your room number.

The room swayed as they spoke. The lights shone too bright, the music far too loud.

She looked at you too, wide eyes full of a praise you knew she'd sing in the morning. She appreciated you. You did well.

Unfortunately, every bone in your body had been affected by the essence of alcohol. You walked too stiffly, then too softly, then stopped walking altogether.

Scott didn't say a word. The walk back to your motel room was quiet, but surprisingly not uncomfortable. He kept his eyes ahead, trying to ignore the feeling of your warmth beside him, the way your presence felt like a calm after a storm.

By the time you two reached your room (213- you'd remember that for next time), the tension between you was palpable.

The night had left you both wound up, but neither of you knew how to break the silence. Scott stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching you as you rummaged through your bag for the keys. You found them clumsily, unlocking the door and stunbling inside.

For a moment, Scott’s gaze swept around the room. It was identical to his in that the space was small, but it still felt like you.

A little messy, a little bright. Random gum wrappers littered the side and a couple fell on the floor. You had picture frames. A small golden statue of something abstract. An unattended candle sat burning in the corner and freshly plucked ragged daisies scattered the windowsill. No vase.

It was times like these that he was reminded of the years he had on you; you still found joy in bringing remnants from home away with you.

He couldn’t stop looking. The room, like you, was alive.

"They die quicker in the water." you lied, as he raised an eyebrow at the scattered flowers. Truthfully, you'd just knocked into the table and sent your vase from home flying; it smashed into a million tiny little pieces.

Scott stood there, unsure of how to answer. He wasn’t good at this- at feeling like he had to stay when everything in him was telling him to walk away. It felt strange, intimated now; more than it ever had been. It was like he'd been granted a ticket to enter your world, a safe space he didn't know how to invade.

"Don't you wanna head back?" you slurred innocently. Scott paused. "You haven't even had a drink yet."

"Didn't want one."

You frowned. "Then why were you at the bar?"

He didn't answer.

"You're weird, Scott Miller."

"You always drink this much?"

"When I'm trying to forget," you gasped dramatically, flopping down on your bed with a sigh. The overhead light shone bright in your face as you laid a lazy arm over your eyes.

He tried- fuck, he tried- with everything in him to look away from the way your skirt rode up; exposing nothing but your underwear underneath. You didn't seem to notice.

God help him.

"Forget what?"

"It's a figure of speech."

"Huh," he paused, as if contemplating what to say next. Flashes of your recent conversation played like a reel in his mind. "Want me to go get your little boyfriend?"

You, however, didn't miss a beat. "You can't. Haven't you heard? The guy who plays Superman's out of town."

"Funny."

"You don't have to stay-" you hiccuped, "-you know. I'll be fine. I think,"

“I’m not leaving you alone like this." Scott told you, arms folded as he took short strides around your room. You had picture frames up, and he couldn't stop himself from being nosey and looking at them.

He also wasn’t entirely sure if that was the real reason. The frames did wonders to pull away from the thoughts racing through his head.

You smiled, your lips curling in that way that always made Scott’s heart do strange things. “I’m fine, really.”

Regardless, it felt wrong to walk away now. He just scoffed at your words, not believing them for a second.

Maybe he just needed a moment; just a few more minutes, and then he could go back to pretending that you didn’t make him feel like something was shifting inside him. Maybe he just needed, wanted, you to prove him wrong; to show him you were everything he didn't need, so he could finally stop himself from wanting.

You rolled away, face down on the bed, your legs spread regardless of the mini skirt you were wearing.

Your voice vibrated heavily through the mattress; low and slow, yet clear as anything.

“Tell me why you hate me.”

Scott froze, his breath catching in his throat. In front of him sat your graduation picture; you in the tassel hat and robe, leaning into a woman who looked a lot like you. Your mother.

He didn't hate you. Far from it. He wanted to, tried to, but every attempt was futile.

"What?"

"You hate me," you spoke into the mattress, "You hate when I chew gum and you hate me."

"Who said- will you get up?"

You didn't listen. He said your name, firmer this time. "Get up. Now,"

"We're off the clock, you can't tell me what to do." you mumbled unhappily, pushing yourself up and resorting to a sitting position on your knees.

Scott swallowed, eyes darting to where the plush of your thighs stopped at the black skirt.

Admittedly, you looked cute. Wrecked by the alcohol, sure, but tousled in the best way.

"I don't hate you." he said, slowly. You folded your arms.

"So you just heavily dislike me,"

"Where is this coming from?"

"So, you do?"

"What? No-"

"So you're scared of me, then."

He wasn’t scared. Not of anything. Certainly not of you.

But Scott couldn’t say that. It wasn’t true. Not when you made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Not when your presence had a way of breaking down walls and barriers he'd spent his entire life hiding behind.

“I’m not scared of anything,” he said, voice gruff and exasperated, the words slipping out a little too easily. But they were hollow, even to him.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. There was amusement in your gaze now, a quiet challenge.

"No?" you smirked.

Scott's eyes narrowed. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"What's with all the questions?"

"Answer this last one,"

He couldn't even grasp what he was feeling at this point. Bafflement, maybe. Amusement in the tiniest dose, but most importantly; captivation. He just couldn't look away from you.

"Will you quit it? Get under the covers. Get some rest," Scott muttered.

"I will if you answer me,"

"I already ha-"

"You don't hate me?"

"I'm starting to."

"But you don't,"

"...No," he gritted his teeth together, "But I'm getting really fucking close."

"So it's not hate, and it's definitely not love. And you say you're not afraid of me?"

His mind stilled at the sly mention of the latter. His words came out rigid, "No."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. I mean, no- fuck sake. I'm not scared of you. And I don't hate you."

"Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?"

Scott’s breath hitched, his eyes snapping toward you in a way that made your entire body go cold.

You'd said the words, and you couldn't take them back. They were just there now; suspended in the air between you, thick and heavy and such a big risk for you that it felt like all the alcohol left your body as soon as that one question did.

You felt like shoving him out of your motel room and screaming. You wouldn't care if Javi heard next door, or if Kate heard from the other side of the building. Because you'd just said the one thing you should never say to an asshole like Scott and now, everything was on the line.

Your future in storm chasing. Your life at StormPAR.

Your odd, back-and-forth dynamic with the miserable man before you that you believed had actually grown quite fond of you these days.

He hesitated for a moment, heart pounding in his chest. He could see you so clearly- your lips plump from all the nervous biting, that look in your eyes like you were daring him to do something he wasn’t ready for.

You stared back at him. At the simple white tee he wore to the bar, looking so casual, so normal, so unlike Scott that the mix of whisky and vodka in your system had you second guessing if this was a bad idea at all.

Though, not that deep down, you knew the drinks were just a convenient excuse.

"What?" his jaw flexed as he swallowed. You scrambled to get off the bed, standing up with such determination that you'd actually managed to get yourself upright without so much as a wobble.

You bit back the feeling of regret. Scott was looking at you now like a deer in headlights; eyes narrowed yet puzzled, desperation in his gaze as he scoured your face for clues on whether this was a joke or not.

But it wasn't a joke. It hadn't been since you started and first set your eyes on both God's gift and wrath to women everywhere; the mean, short-tempered, glacial being that was Scott Miller.

"You heard me."

You took a step forward. He didn't move back.

If anything, Scott went impossibly still; the kind of still that meant every instinct in him was screaming, every careful line he’d drawn suddenly under threat of being crossed by the quiet sound of your breath, the scent of your perfume in his space.

“Careful.” he said, almost a warning. But it wavered as his eyes flickered down to your lips.

You took one more step forward. “Why?”

He didn’t look away. He looked at you harder- as if memorising the exact second his restraint started to fail. His pulse jumped visibly at his throat.

He thought about you, outside of this room, the person you were and were still becoming. Bright, stubborn, funny in your own way with so many quirks it was hard to keep up with them all. You were the sunlight that streamed in through the curtains, never having to ask for permission to enter the room.

Then, Scott tried to think of himself next to you. Right by your side.

And he couldn’t.

All he saw were the things that dragged behind him: the weight, the sharpness, the parts he never figured out how to soften. A man built from the wrong weather- all pressure and warning signs and unspent storms.

He swallowed, voice rough and low.

“You think you know what you’re asking for.”

You lifted your chin. “I do.”

A humourless breath escaped him- not a laugh, but similar to a scoff. He stepped forward just enough that your knees brushed, and the air between you heated.

“No,” he whispered, eyes dropping to your lips and back up again, slow and tortured. “You think you want me. But you don’t-"

"You don't know what I want."

"You're still a kid. And you're far from home-"

Your voice shook alongside his, "You have no idea what I want."

"I know that you're drunk."

"And all the times before this?" you asked, "I wasn't drunk then."

You stared at him, confusion knitting your brows. yet again, Scott didn’t answer. Didn’t elaborate.

Just looked away like he was bracing for something he didn’t want to feel.

Frustration rose, sharp and hot in your chest. A constant now; born exclusively from Scott's unique stubbornness and incapability to be anything other than plain-faced or sour.

You shook your head, an annoyed laugh slipping out- one that was tired, hurt, and real.

“You know what? Fine," you stepped back, arms in the air in surrender.

He watched you- just watched you, with that patient, irritating vice of his; all ears and no words, not even a hint as to what he was currently thinking.

“Be that way."

You wanted to stop, shut off and leave the room entirely. But the words had been sat there for a while, taking up space in both your body and mind, and you just couldn't stop them fron spilling out.

"Be the thing everyone expects you to be, Scott. Prove them right. Push me away like I don't matter. I probably never did, not to you,” it was mainly the alcohol talking, but the exasperation in your words was evident.

His jaw twitched. His eyes finally met yours.

“I already know you don’t feel the same way,” you said, quieter now, but the words carried a soul-crushing weight. “I just wish you’d tell me. Instead of acting like I’m-”

“Stop.”

"-nothing to you. Even if it's true. Even if you think everything I've thought about myself since I met you. Just do me the decency of letting me know so I can finally stop trying to get you to like me."

You went to push past him, but Scott’s voice cut through the room; sudden and low, sharp enough to cut through your rambling.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat off him, the tension vibrating through him like a wire pulled too tight.

“You think I don’t feel anything?” he asked, voice rough.

You opened your mouth to answer, but he beat you to it.

“Let me speak. You think I don’t notice?”

You blinked, thrown.

Scott shook his head once, frustrated, breath unsteady.

“You get carsick,” he started, plainly.

His eyes had been fixated on yours but now, they'd found the floor; unable to look at you as he spoke.

“So I drive slower. Smoother. The damn truck's a sports model and I go fifty in an eighty so you don't have to close your eyes every five minutes. Even when I'm bored out my mind. Even when the others bitch about making good time.”

Your breath caught.

"And when those idiots in the other group called you a useless rookie,” he continued, jaw clenching hard, “I shut them up before you walked in. You said you hadn't seen Max in a while. He packed his shit up the same day."

You stared at him, heart pounding.

"You don't have to say any of thi-"

“When that storm swerved the car and everyone got out too late. The one on Tuesday?"

Slowly, you nodded. It had been one of those days, one of those trips, where you just felt like you could do nothing right by him.

"Heavy rain and sleet and nothing was going right. I yelled at you more than the others because you’re the only one I was looking out for. The only one I gave a single fuck about watching.”

He swallowed.

“I always watch you first.”

Your lips parted to speak, but you couldn't. You assumed he never noticed. That the yelling was typical Scott, even though it had been sterner with you than anybody else. That the guys on the other team all scattered because they simply didn't know how to speak to a woman, much less someone like you.

All this time, it had been Scott.

“So don’t you dare tell me I’m pushing you away,” he breathed lowly, carrying that edge that made everything feel like it could break. “Don’t tell me I don’t 'feel' anything for you. Because you know what it would be like if I didn't.

"Every stupid, reckless thing you are- every single piece of it- I see it. I stick around it. And I wish I didn't want to. But I do."

You didn’t know when the space between you had vanished, or when Scott had let his hand settle against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, hovering just short of your lips.

You leaned your head forward, eyelids fluttering shut. He did the same; forehead resting his on top of yours.

Time no longer mattered- you had no interest in it anymore. All you cared about was the man in front of you. Eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed; like opening them caused him pain.

“You are the bane of my fucking existence,” Scott said then, and you could feel the vibration of his words. “You laugh too much. You’re too loud. You find the dumbest shit funny. And you don’t leave me the hell alone on a good day,”

"Scott..."

He shook his head, breath rough. You'd never seen him like this before.

You didn't think he could even be this way; the usually collected, no-nonsense Scott, falling apart right in front of you.

“I don’t know if I love you. I’ve never been in love. I don’t have a blueprint for this shit,” his voice fell, raw and unguarded, “And if this is what it feels like, then it’s the most painful thing in the goddamn universe.”

Not even a second passed. Your heart was beating so fast you wondered if he could feel it, too.

If there was a lump in his throat, any hesitation on his part, he swallowed it down.

“But I’d take it. Again and again, over and over. Gladly. If you’re what’s waiting at the end."

You didn’t think.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his before he had a chance to say a word, and the world narrowed to the heat of him, the ragged beat of his pulse, the urgent, raw energy that seemed to radiate from every inch of him.

Scott caught you instantly, arms wrapping around you with a force that stole your breath; holding you in place as if letting go was impossible.

The kiss collided with him, chaotic and desperate, a storm of months of half-said words, tension, and moments that had lingered unspoken.

He responded with the same ferocity, lips moving against yours like he was making up for every second he’d restrained himself, every moment he’d pretended not to notice the way you got under his skin. You tasted like ethanol and strawberry bubblegum, sweet and addictive.

You both collapsed onto the bed, bodies tangling into one another. He put himself between your legs, the kiss still heated, passionate and unbroken. You clawed at his biceps, trying to ground yourself, trying to savour the moment.

Scott’s hand traveled from your waist to the back of your neck, thumbs brushing your skin as if trying to memorise it. You bucked your hips up against him, your skirt bunched up around your stomach now as Scott did the same.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you. Whatever he was doing- whatever movements he was making- felt surreal. The heat was quick to spread between your legs and you began to move, fingers fumbling to undo his belt.

When he pulled back just slightly, you whined, the loss of contact harsh.

"Not like this," Scott muttered, lips finding your sternum. He peppered kisses all up along your neck, savouring the way you moaned, drinking it up like it was the purest water known to man. "I'm not taking you like this,"

"Scott-" you gasped, hands fisting his shirt, "Please."

He'd always been stubborn. That, you knew.

But right now, it was the last thing you needed.

"You don't deserve this," he kissed against your skin, every word painful to hear. You were thinking with that space between your legs, the thing that craved him so badly you thought you might die if you didn't get it. "Not here. Not with the drink in you. Not when you won't be able to feel me, fully, and what I've been waiting to do to you for months."

That alone made you moan the loudest you had all evening. Scott met your mouth with his, tongue finding yours like it belonged there.

When he finally pulled away, you could feel him everywhere. Poking against you, hovering above you, eyes boring into your own.

"You deserve a bed," he whispered, forehead once again resting on yours. "A real bed. Fresh sheets. A clear head. I'm not taking this from you- not now. Not like this. Alright?"

All you could do was nod, chest rising and falling fast, still trembling from the intensity of the kiss. His hands stayed firm on your body, holding you close, grounding you.

Before you could protest, Scott shifted, slowly lowering himself to the mattress beside you. You felt him settle, close enough that his warmth pressed against you, his shoulder brushing yours.

You hesitated for a moment, then let yourself sink into him, curling against his side. His arm came around you, pulling you a little tighter.

You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand.

Scott let out a low breath, equal parts relief and disbelief. He’d kissed you like the world was ending, like every restraint he’d held for months had finally shattered, but now he let it soften into something real; something serious.

For the first time in a long while, Scott Miller allowed himself to simply stay. No drinking to blur the edges, no reckless mistakes, no transient thrills to dull the ache in his chest. Not like the nights he’d lost himself before; letting his hands and mouth do what they would without care or consequence. Not like the mornings he’d wake up with regret, fumbling around in unfamiliar sheets, disoriented and bitter that he’d let another person in, even for a fleeting moment.

This time was different. This time, there was no regret waiting to crash down on him when the sun came up.

He was here, fully awake, fully aware, and that made it better than anything he’d ever had.

You shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, and Scott tightened his arm around you without hesitation. His hand rested lightly on your hip and you let yourself melt into it, letting go of the tension that had been coiled so tightly all evening.

You closed your eyes, feeling the exhaustion and adrenaline of the night ebb away, leaving only the calm certainty that you were safe here.

Scott pressed his lips to the top of your head, lingering there, as if to reassure himself too. A low, almost inaudible hum escaped him; a sound somewhere between a sigh and a grumble of contentment. He let the moment stretch, basking in the quiet, letting his body unwind in a way he hadn’t allowed it to in years.

Just like yours did, his eyes fluttered shut. The rhythmic ticking of the clock in the corner soothed him, but it did nothing to calm his mind.

He knew it’d be hard. Your jobs meant danger, and with that came loss, panic, stress; the kind of nights where the world felt like it might swallow you both whole. You'd be working together. Be a unit together. You'd have your ups and downs, your quiet days and good days and everything else in between.

His grip tightened around you. You sighed in your sleep next to him. Whatever it was, whatever he was thinking; all of that could wait.

Scott wasn't scared of much. But he was terrified of this.

Yet he knew, without a doubt, that he’d follow you; your trail of laughter, your awful jokes, your sharp, witty remarks- all the way. Into the storms, into the fire, into whatever came next. He'd be there- right by your side.

Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours. 

Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.

Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer. 

Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.

Then there was getting fucked…

There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. 

If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately. 

If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count. 

If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either. 

Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.

Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.

For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down. 

Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.

Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.

Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.

You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…

Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.

You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.

Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them. 

People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.

The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.

You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.

“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.

You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.

You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.

“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”

He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.

You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”

Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”

You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.

“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.

“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.

Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.

“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.

He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.

“You seem awfully confident about that.”

“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”

Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.

“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”

“Need five minutes,” he muttered.

You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”

The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.

Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.

The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.

“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”

“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.

He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.

“Come open my door.”

“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.

“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”

Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.

You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.

Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people. 

Brutally honest people usually were.

At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.

HR would’ve had a heart attack.

That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.

The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.

Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.

“What’s wrong with Scott?”

You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.

Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.

Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.

You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”

Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”

“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”

“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”

You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”

Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”

Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”

“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”

You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”

Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”

You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately. 

The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.

“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.

Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.

The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.

Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.

By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.

You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.

“What’s your current issue?” you asked.

“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.

You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.

“When’s the last time you had sex?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”

You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”

Scott snorted.

“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”

“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”

“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”

“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.

Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.

“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”

“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”

You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.

“Can we leave now?” you asked.

Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.

“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.

Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…

Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.

“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”

Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”

You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”

“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”

“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”

“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”

You barked out another incredulous laugh. 

“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”

“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”

“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”

The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.

His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.

You drove home in complete silence.

No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.

This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment. 

For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.

By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.

Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.

The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.

Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.

Scott followed behind you quietly.

You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.

The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.

Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.

The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.

Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.

The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him. 

Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.

Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.

At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.

“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.

“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.

You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.

Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.

You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.

At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.

Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.

You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.

You stared at each other for a second too long.

You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.

One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.

You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.

You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.

You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.

"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.

"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness. 

Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.

He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.

The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.

"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.

He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.

He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.

He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.

“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.

As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.

He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.

From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.

Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.

He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.

Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.

His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.

Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.

You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.

You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.

Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.

You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.

The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.

For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.

Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.

Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.

“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”

“You’re right.”

You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees. 

“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.

“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”

Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”

Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”

You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”

His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”

Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”

“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”

“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.

“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”

Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.

The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.

“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.

NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.

It just wasn’t the truth.

You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically. 

Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.

The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.

At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.

You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.

One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.

You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.

The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.

If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.

You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.

Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.

The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.

"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.

You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.

Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.

The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.

He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.

You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.

Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.

"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.

He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.

"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.

He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.

As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.

"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."

The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.

Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.

"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.

He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.

Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.

Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.

With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.

The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.

Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.

You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.

"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.

There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.

Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.

What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.

You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.

The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.

You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.

Off-season made it worse.

Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.

Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.

So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.

It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.

He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.

There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.

Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.

He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute. 

The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.

He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.

"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.

It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.

Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.

"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.

You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.

The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.

As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.

In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.

"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.

The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.

"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.

He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.

A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.

Good sex stopped mattering. 

Great sex became expected.

Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.

But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.

So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.

You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)