and to dust you shall return

It irked you every time you looked at the stack of overdue bills crowding the kitchen table. The dryer had broken three weeks ago, and there wasn't enough money sitting in your account to fix it. Three weeks of hauling damp laundry across town, three weeks of stretching groceries until payday, three weeks of pretending you weren't calculating every dollar before falling asleep at night. You tried not to let Charlie notice. Children noticed everything anyway.

You thought about it often during those walks to the laundromat. The warm weather had finally settled in, and the orange glow of sunset always seemed to rush across the sky faster than you expected just a little after 5pm. Charlie was the only thing that made those trips enjoyable. He skipped ahead on the sidewalk, darting from one side to the other, making you nervous every time he got too far in front.

"Charlie, stay where I can see you." You shouted, panting as you carry the heavy load.

"I am!" he called back, grinning as he spun around.

"You are not."

His laughter carried through the evening air as he hurried back toward you.

The familiar chime above the laundromat door rang when you stepped inside. Warm air immediately wrapped around your body. The place smelled like clean laundry, lavender detergent, and hot steam. Commercial dryers hummed steadily in the background while fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Charlie immediately attached himself to your side again, the excitement of the walk gone the moment strangers were involved. His small green frog rain boots squeaked against the tile floor while he rolled a little red toy car across his arm, making quiet engine noises beneath his breath.

Across the room, Lion looked up. He hadn't expected anyone this late. His eyes landed first on your worn white sneakers, then drifted toward the tiny pair of frog rainboots beside them. He watched Charlie press himself against your hip.

Lion wasn't trying to stare. He just couldn't help it. In his old life, women had always seemed untouchable. Ring girls in glitter and heels standing under bright lights. Perfect smiles. Perfect makeup. You looked nothing like that. You looked like you'd been through it for the day, like you could've crashed an hour ago if you could. And somehow he found himself watching anyway.

His attention shifted when he noticed something resting beside his steel-toed boot. A tiny red toy car. Lion glanced up and caught Charlie staring at it from behind one of the folding tables. The boy froze the second their eyes met. Lion bent down, picked up the little red car, and turned it over in his hand.

"Yours?" he asked quietly, and Charlie nodded. Without another word, Lion crouched down and rolled the car gently across the floor. Charlie hurried forward, grabbed it, and immediately retreated back to your side.

Lion couldn't help the small smile tugging at his mouth. Charlie narrowed his eyes suspiciously while making whispered car sounds, making a classic buzzing sound with his lips. That only made Lion smile more.

That had been the start of everything.

You'd been struggling with the dryer door, trying to keep it open while balancing a basket full of soaking wet clothes against your hip. The machine kept swinging shut every time you turned your attention away from it. "Come on," you muttered. The door slammed closed again. "Seriously?" You groaned. A large hand suddenly caught the edge before it could shut. You looked up. Lion.

"Oh." You said, embarrassment lacing into your words, obvious with the heavy sigh you let out. "You looked like you were fighting it."

Heat crept into your cheeks and flushed your face into your hairline. "I was winning." Lion looked at the overflowing laundry basket, then at you. Then back at the basket.

"You sure?" He asked. You looked annoyed despite yourself, you laughed. "Alright, maybe not. But, I've got it." You insisted but Lion insisted back. "Let me help." Without another word, he took the basket from your arms. Like it weighed absolutely nothing.

You stared.

"Jesus."

"What?"

"That thing's heavy."

Lion shrugged.

"It's laundry." The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. For some reason, it made your stomach flutter. Charlie peeked out from behind your leg. Lion noticed.

"Hey there," Lion said and Charlie furrowed his eyebrows, turning his head into your shorts immediately. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. "Sorry." You said placing your hand on top of Charlies head. Lion shook his head. "Don't be."

And somehow he sounded like he genuinely meant it. He didn't sound like someone who was trying to just dismiss a child's behavior for the sake of the parent. After that, things moved slowly.

You'd started seeing each other. At first it was coffee, then lunches, then dinners. Somewhere along the way it became something more serious. You had tried to keep some distance between the two of you. Partly because you were scared. Partly because Charlie was involved. You kept waiting for Lion to notice and leave. To decide you came with too much baggage.

A struggling single mother. A quiet little boy. A complicated life. But he never left. He noticed. You knew he noticed. Yet he stayed anyway and didn't walk out because it would just be easier then continuing to try.

That scared you more than if he'd walked away. Because if Charlie got attached and Lion left later, it would destroy him. It would destroy you too. Crush you. But Charlie never made getting attached easy.

Normally he was energetic and chatty once he was comfortable. Around Lion, though, he became impossibly quiet. He sat pressed against your side during lunches. He buried his face against your shoulder whenever Lion asked him questions.

"How was school?" Charlie shrugged. "You got any favorite cartoons?" Another shrug. Lion glanced toward you. Charlie immediately looked toward you too. You wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

Still, Lion never pushed. Never complained. Never acted annoyed. He simply kept trying. "Got something for you." Lion said. Charlie's eyes immediately narrowed towards Lion with suspension. Lion held out a Matchbox car. The little boy stared at it with want but strong anxiety with the thought of taking it. "You don't have to take it." Lion reassured the young boy, Charlie looked at you.

You nodded, you didn't have to give him approval, he wanted it for himself. Slowly, he reached forward and accepted it. Lion smiled. Charlie clutched the car to his chest, his eyes lingering on Lion. That was enough.

There had been cookies one night after dinner while Charlie slept upstairs. Flour covered half the kitchen. Lion somehow managed to get chocolate chips everywhere.

"How did you even do that?" you laughed.

"I don't know."

"You literally missed the bowl." You said grabbing a rag to clean the mess. "I was trying."

"You were losing."

Lion rolled his eyes.

You laughed harder. Trying not to laugh too loud because of Charlie. Before he left, Lion carefully placed a cookie into a sandwich bag.

"What's that for?" You asked, watching him set it aside. "Charlie." Your heart squeezed painfully. It meant a lot to you that Lion was trying so hard with Charlie, even if Charlie was stubborn and stand-off-ish with Lion. The next morning Charlie found it waiting for him. He never said thank you. But he ate every crumb and asked you about more cookies later.

Sometimes Lion would sit at one end of the couch while Charlie sat at the other. Cartoons played on the television while neither of them said much. Lion never seemed bothered by the silence.

Charlie caught some awful bug near the end of the month. The kind that left him miserable, his tiny body hurting, making him unable to sleep, he couldn't even get comfortable. He spent the entire night sick, crying, and exhausted.

Every time you thought he'd fallen asleep, another coughing fit or wave of nausea woke him up again. His tiny sobs broke your heart. You sat on the bathroom floor holding him while he cried against your shoulder.

"It's okay, baby." You cooed, patting his back.

"I don't feel good." she sobbed, the sob breaking with a cough following a gag before a deep inhale and another sob.

"I know."

Your own eyes burned with exhaustion. The fever came next. Charlie would sweat through his shirt only to start shivering minutes later. The thermometer numbers made your stomach twist. Lion had never taken care of a sick child before. Truthfully, he'd never really taken care of anyone but himself before.

Yet he showed up without hesitation. He made soup. Ran to the pharmacy. Picked up medicine. Helped clean up. He even held onto to Charlie when he got sick when Lion was around and you weren't.

Not because he expected praise. Not because he was trying to earn brownie points. Simply because he cared, not just about you, but Charlie. A few days later you were finally able to go back to work while Charlie recovered at home. Lion stayed with him. The little boy sat bundled beneath a blanket on the couch. His cheeks were still pink from the fever. The sticky Mickey Mouse fever patch was peeling away from his forehead.

The television played quietly in the background. Neither of them were paying much attention. "When are you leaving?" Charlie asked with no clarification. Lion blinked.

"What?"

Charlie kept staring at the television. "When are you gonna leave?" The question caught him completely off guard. He shifted slightly, turning toward the boy. "What'd you mean?" he asked, slightly nervous at the kids words.

Charlie shrugged. "Are you gonna leave?" His voice no longer sounded mousy and instead sounded rough from being sick. For a moment Lion didn't know what to say. Children didn't ask questions like that for no reason.

He leaned back against the couch. "I'm right here." Charlie finally looked at him. Lion held his gaze, it was clear that Charlie was confused. "I don't have any plans on going anywhere." The little boy studied him carefully, like he was trying to figure out if the answer was true. Then Charlie looked back toward the television.

Neither of them spoke again. A few minutes later, Charlie shifted slightly closer. Only a few inches. Lion pretended not to notice. The moment felt too important to scare away.

The payoff for Lion was never being called Dad. It wasn't some grand declaration. It wasn't Charlie suddenly becoming talkative overnight. It was smaller than that. More important than that.

It started with Charlie waving goodbye when Lion left at night. Then asking him for help with things. Then sitting beside him on the couch instead of across from him. Tiny moments. Little pieces of trust that meant everything to Lion.

One evening Lion had stopped by after work. He kissed you softly at the front door before heading home. "See you tomorrow." he murmured..

"Drive safe."

He'd made it halfway down the porch before a tiny voice stopped him.

"Bye, Lion." Charlies small mousy voice echoed.

Everything seemed to freeze. Lion turned. Charlie stood in the doorway clutching one of his toy cars. The little boy lifted his hand and gave an awkward wave. Lion smiled immediately. "Bye, Charlie." Charlie nodded and sprinted away back into the house.

That was it. Nothing dramatic. Nothing huge. Yet it meant more than any title ever could.

Because for the first time, Charlie had spoken to him without being prompted. Nobody reminded him to say thank you. Nobody told him to say goodbye. He'd wanted to. That meant everything.

The moment meant even more a few weeks later. The dryer still wasn't fixed. Life was still busy. Laundry still needed done. Lion had offered to bring Charlie with him while he emptied the change boxes in the laundromat machines.

The three of you walked down the sidewalk together beneath the afternoon sun. Without warning, Charlie squeezed himself between the two of you. You looked down. So did Lion. Charlie slipped one hand into yours. Then reached for Lion's with the other. For a second, neither of you moved. Neither of you wanted to ruin it. The little boy simply kept walking as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Lion thought his heart might stop. Nothing needed to be said, it was simple acceptance.

For the first time, Charlie wasn't just tolerating him. He was choosing him. And as Lion looked down at the tiny hand wrapped around his own, he couldn't think of anything in the world that had ever felt quite so special.

Sliding divider credits to @ / honeyluvsw

Alice had told him to come by. That you would do a much better job at mending the gash that wanted to reveal tanned skin from his shoulder to elbow; she didn’t have the right thread, anyway, and had some tending to do around the ranch. Some blood leftover in dots were a red nearing a brown from the sun’s drying watch, not much but enough to notice—he didn't mind the mess, just wanted it fixed up.

“No need to get rid of such a nice thing,” he argued lightheartedly when he caught the quick raise of your brows. You shrugged in silent agreement—it would give you something to do in the balmy afternoon.

He followed as you made the way to a larger table towards the farthest wall, albeit with almost careful steps, like he was afraid to intrude even with there being no one else around. Above the table was a singular shelf with spools of thread in a uniform line, some fairly new and others nearly spun to their wooden cores. Ribbon curled with marks for measurements like old peels of fruits. A tin can held dull pencils.

You didn’t know much about Roy. The last time he had come into town, you were busy with an order: some dress with far too many ruffles and bows, darling but tedious in its creation from its bare beginnings. What you did learn was influenced through warmed blood outside the shop, both of drink and clothes muggy from heat: unabashed phrases that brought a flush to anyone untouched, a roll of your eyes and a wave of your hand when recited from your friend’s giddy hiccups. Talk of his manners and pointed teeth and wind-swept hair amateurly cut was strung along by anyone else who had caught your conversation—though the chatter became overwhelming with your drink sitting idly in your head, it provided a low eagerness in your limbs now.

“I’m tellin’ ya, I would not mind seein’ him one more time. Might even turn inta some gun-slingin’ bandit just so he can stop by,” one of the ladies in the bar had admitted, raising their glass.

You had laughed behind your palm; someone else standing a few feet away scoffed, pouring themselves another drink.

“Oh, please, you wouldn’t steal somethin’ if it had your name on it all pretty. And you can’t even read.”

As you sat down atop your stool, you turned to eye his figure. Watched his calm and still slightly unsure gait carry muted blue to everything that hung at the walls or succumbed to folds in shelves, not through some sort of distaste or boredom at needing you to fix something of his—as was usually the case in the past—but from a distant curiosity. Of course, there was nothing to be deemed inherently luxurious, so the act made a small smile tug at your lips. He looked almost like a child eyeing what sweet he would like to tuck into his pocket for later.

You waited a moment, reaching over the table for the smallest set of scissors to fiddle with. “Give it here,” you muttered with a jut of your head to where the article would lay, subject to your hand.

Taken out of his stupor, he nodded and handed the shirt over like an envelope to a stranger, or, more fittingly, a pistol in need of shining he knew he would get back.

The thread like a snake coiling to then disappear, its hiss shriveled by the pull of it taut in your fingers, you worked in quiet. Disjointed talk and hooves delicately pluming dust came in with a gentle breeze. His own boots shifted along the floor as he leaned his weight on one leg, then the other.

His shirt was warmer in your hands than you had expected, though maybe the air was to blame; it had a nasty habit of making everything it touched an unbearable extension of itself. The fabric was beaten in to take the shape of muscle at his arms, back, the nape of his neck. The blood stains looked harmless now that you were able to fold them out of view.

Without lifting your head, you glanced over at where he stood, just shy of pressing his hip to the table’s edge and hands clasped in front of him. “Can I ask what happened?” you asked.

He took his bottom lip between his teeth. “Just caught it on an old nail. Wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’.”

You hummed. A third of the gash was sutured shut. “And the blood?”

“Oh, you don’t hafta worry none. ’S old.” His response was quick, quiet, as if you’d be afraid you would need to sow his wound next.

A thought flickered in your mind of if the blood was even his, given the word of mouth about his past. The ladies gushed over the mystery he brought on horseback, welcomed it with batting eyelashes and pet names. Too early to pry, you told yourself as you strung the thread along.

There was a part of you that was glad he did not talk much. The few men that would come in in place of their wives used to peer over your shoulder, throats coarse with voices worse, and spit something about your working too slow or a flat croon about not ruining whatever it was they handed over. They would leave with an unappreciative thanks and a shove of the doors.

But Roy did not hover. Even with his standing near, he waited patiently, only glancing every once in a while at your hands, which he would look away from if you focused your eyes on him at the sound of him shifting about.

It only took a few minutes. You cut the excess thread, running a thumb along the stitching. The line was raised like a new scratch.

You hummed and turned your body so you faced him, the stool creaking under the movement; he took the few steps to stand in front of you at the sound. Looking down, he took the shirt in his hands, putting a palm down in the same manner you had done. The imitation raised a certain tension in your being strangers—here was this simple thing you both cared for and would refer to the other if anyone asked. A part of you would now always trace the line of shoulder to elbow in all hours and every hour—you usually didn’t mind, but today there was a dwelling of pride lodged somewhere in your ribs, your wrists.

“Thank you.” He spoke with such a tenderness in his drawl, you thought that perhaps this was his only shirt. “Looks as good as new.” You caught the tick in his lip—which your own mirrored just briefly—as both of your eyes wandered to the blood as if it grew in mockery of his words.

You muttered under your breath that it was no bother as you got up and walked to the counter, him following behind and admiring the stitching as if it held threaded jewels. You reached for your catalog of customers, a piece of paper with names, the work you had done, the date, any other necessary information, when he cleared his throat.

He reached into his pocket, fishing for a bundle of coins set at the seam. “How much do I owe ya?”

You opened your mouth to object—it hadn’t been a hard job—but it was like he knew you would and shook his head. Dust blown in from outside fluttered about his mussed hair.

“I insist,” he said. He set down a handful on the counter. “How’s that?”

You slid them to the edge and took them in your palm, counting—it was more like the amount you charged for a basic shirt tailoring, which wasn’t much, but definitely more than necessary for a simple stitch: you never charged anything at all, unless you had to sow more fabric in or fetch another spool of thread.

“I ’ppreciate it.” The cluster grew warm in your hand and the smell was sure to stick in the lines. He gave you a curt nod, folding the shirt over his forearm.

“You be careful now, Goode,” you added, looking down briefly to write his name, looping the ‘o’s, feeling like a schoolgirl jotting down hearts in the margin of her paper.

He cocked his head in a slow nod, eyes cast on your own, a cool blue beneath eyelashes too delicate for a man of his nature.

“Yes, ma’am.”

That night, you were over at a friend’s for dinner. The candlelight spread across the soup she set in front of you like a finishing garnish.

“Isn’t he somethin’?” she fawned when you mentioned who came into the shop after she asked how your day had been.

She pointed her spoon in your direction, droplets falling to her dull tablecloth much like the blood that stained his shirt. “Next time, you should ask ’im to take his shirt off, just ta make sure nothin’ else needs fixin’.”

You snorted, chuckling. “I am not doin' that.”

“Oh, c’mon, I bet he’d do it if you smiled all nice! Everyone else in this damn town does it.”

You told her she was welcome to go find him and ruin another shirt of his.

Considering their unstable lifestyle, he should’ve gotten “used” to the concept of uncertainty by now. Truth is, Lion can’t even remember when piling up debts that neither he nor Stan can afford to pay off, and bleeding for a couple of bucks became such a “normal” routine.

Not that Stanley gives him much room to suggest something better, anyway.

"Y’know the drill, Lion. I’m the brains; you’re the muscles. I do the thinking; you do the punching."

That’s the worn-out argument he always resorts to sweep away any spark of rebellion growing inside Lion’s naive head. It works, unfortunately. The younger one is scared of finding out what would happen if he says that he doesn't want to do “the punching” anymore. 

As mentioned before, Lion isn’t a big fan of changes and the consequences that come with them. Staying loyal to what he already has going on is less risky and much easier.

Or it should be.

It’s seven in the morning when Lion wakes up before his alarm gets the chance to scream in his eardrums. He lazily stretches, gets up, yawns, and makes his way to the kitchen. 

A hint of uneasiness stirs somewhere deep inside him as he notices his brother isn’t… around. Stanley may be really damn flawed, yes, but one admirable trait about him is his commitment to waking up early every single day. If the Sun’s up and he’s not wandering around the house, well... saying that’s rare would be an understatement.

Either way, Lion chooses to believe it’s a harmless miracle and goes through his usual morning checklist. Shower, breakfast, blah, blah, blah. He’s not in a rush, so when he checks the clock on the living room’s wall, he isn’t surprised to see that over half an hour has gone by.

Still no sign of Stan.

That can only mean one of these two options:

He’s dead.

He left the house for some unknown reason and didn't warn Lion about it, which would be so suspicious. Stanley would never pass up the chance to bother him so early in the morning.

Therefore, the first alternative is way more believable.

As soon as Lion finishes pouring another generous amount of dog food into Ash’s bowl, he decides to check whether or not he’ll need to ring 911 today.

To his relief, when he walks into Stan’s room, he doesn’t find a lifeless, cold body. However, the view right in front of him is... intriguing to the same degree. He’d even say it’s somehow worse than the corpse scenario he’d been imagining seconds ago.

What the hell is Abigail, their neighbour — a woman in her forties, happily married (...as far as Lion knows?) — doing in Stanley’s bed, clinging to him under the sheets and nake... oh. 

This feels illegal.

All the blood in Lion’s body rushes straight to his face. He quickly looks away while his brain tries to process the crime scene he accidentally walked into. His instincts are screaming for him to take a step back, shut the door, and pretend that he never saw that — even if the memory will haunt him in his nightmares and the guilt will eat him alive every time he runs into Mr. Smith from now on. 

Jesus.

Alright, he’s losing focus. There’s no spare time to waste on Stanley’s bullshit.

There’s no way he can leave without talking to his brother first, either. They should be on the road, heading to his next match — the one he absolutely can’t lose. Too much money involved, and they need it. More than ever. 

It’s all Stan’s fault for being such a bad manager, by the way. If he hadn't gotten involved with people of questionable character, Lion wouldn’t have to be doing all this shit just to fix their lives.

Pepper, the gangster they — Stanley — owe a shitload of money to, seems to have developed a peculiar admiration for Lion. He’s watched some of the younger Kaminski’s fights, and it’s hard not to notice the huge potential there. That’s probably why, after a heated negotiation, Pepper agreed to forget about the debt thing if Stanley made sure Lion would compete in one of those underground boxing clubs, this time in San Francisco’s Chinatown. Pretty generous deal.

So, a few days ago, Stan had assured Lion he’d take their old car to the mechanic for a “quick check-up” before the long trip. He’d also added that it was “nothing Lion needed to worry about.”

Lion obeyed like he always does. Didn’t worry. Didn’t question. Whether that was a good idea or not, he’s about to find out now that he needs the keys.

“Stan…”

He shakes his brother’s shoulder, his voice sounding loud enough to wake a forgotten Mrs. Smith first. The redhead opens her eyes, grumbling before realizing that it’s Lion there. 

Sweet, lovely Lion, who now knows she's being unfaithful to her husband.

There’s a minute of quiet contemplation. Lion considers apologizing for walking in without knocking like this, but Abigail squeaks as she's yanking the thin cloth up to her neck.

“Lion?! Oh, Lord...”

“Hey, uh... Mrs. Smith.”

They share another agonizing moment of dread. She’s staring at him with those wide green eyes, he’s smiling awkwardly like he wants to melt straight into the floor…

And Stan is still mindlessly drooling on his pillow.

“I’m sorry—”

They say it at the same time, which somehow makes the whole situation even weirder.

Lion is about to explain and assure her he has no intention of getting involved in… whatever is going on here, but he misses the chance as Abigail is already scrambling to her feet and gathering her clothes from the floor, face flushed and body tangled up in the bedsheet. 

As soon as she heads straight to the bathroom so she can lock herself in there, Lion releases a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

Then, Stanley frowns, grumbles, but stays in the same position as he stares at Lion with those swollen eyes.

“What?”

“Are you serious?”

It takes a lot to irritate someone like Lion. A lot. He’s not one to brag, far from it, but he can confidently say he has a high level of patience. The thing is, for months now — years — he’s been swallowing every small act of irresponsibility from Stan. It’s getting harder and harder to keep his cool.

Even so, he tries to take a deep breath and count to ten in his head.

“San Francisco. My next match. You said you were taking me there.”

Stanley blinks. Lion sighs.

“You forgot?”

Great. He’s not mad anymore. Just sad.

When Stanley’s two remaining brain cells start working, he drags a hand down his face and groans.

“Fuck.”

That answers Lion’s question.

He doesn’t want to sound like some whiny baby that’s not getting enough attention, but it’s impossible not to feel upset by this lack of consideration when it’s coming from his own brother.

“It’s okay.”

It is not okay.

Why can’t you at least pretend to care? For once in your life?

He swallows his own thoughts.

“If you wanna stay, I don’t mind. But I’m still gonna need the car keys.”

That last part wakes Stan up. For real. He sits up on the mattress as if that’ll help him think faster somehow.

“Oh, shit.”

Here we go.

“What?”

“I think... I think I might have… forgotten to take the car to the mechanic.”

That’s not too bad.

“That’s fine. You said it was just a check-up. I’m sure nothing’s wrong with it anyway.”

When Stanley’s tense demeanor doesn’t change, Lion knows there’s more to it than he’s saying.

“Stan... spit it out.”

“Well, there might be one tiny, little problem with the battery... and also the, uhm… fuel system... and the ignition... and—”

“Stan!”

“We don’t have enough money to fix all that!”

Lion blankly stares at him as if saying, “Please, tell me you’re joking.” All he gets in return is his brother’s weak, dumb smirk, which makes him want to smother that dumbass with one of the pillows.

“Are you serious?!”

Stan fires back as he tries to defend himself.

“I mean, why did I have to do it?! Why did it have to be my responsibility?!”

“You told me I didn’t have to worry about it!”

“Well, that’s— I mean, I was gonna—”

“I trusted you, Stan!”

Lion’s breathing is uneven, and his voice is cracking with the storm of bottled-up emotions boiling in his chest. Seeing the stunned look on his brother’s face makes him feel awful, though. Even if he has every reason to blow up like this.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

He trails off. His hands are shaking, so he forces himself to clench his fists and pull himself back together.

“Doesn’t matter. If I can’t use the car, I’ll find another way to get there.”

“What? How?”

“I’ll take a bus? Can’t be that expensive.”

“It’s gonna be way more exhausting.”

“Do I have any other options?”

This heavy quietness that fills the room says everything on its own.

Stanley insists anyway.

“We can figure out a quick way to fix everything—”

“Too late for that.”

“Don’t be stupid. We still have a few days—”

“Don’t wanna risk it.”

“Lion.”

“And I think it’d be better if you just… stay here this time.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

A disbelieving laugh slips out of Stanley’s throat. The kind that makes Lion feel brainless. Like he’s a joke.

“Lion, I’m your manager. I’m your brother. I can’t let you do this. Not alone.”

“Then start acting like one.”

“What?”

“Start acting like a brother since you clearly can’t act like a manager.”

Stanley’s lips part in shock at this sudden boldness. It’s stomping all over his ego.

“Are you even hearing yourself right now?!”

Lion pinches the bridge of his nose. Instead of taking his words back, he sticks to his point.

“You know I don’t wanna argue with you. The only thing I want is for you to respect my decisions.”

Lion’s jaw clenches as he watches Stanley rub his temple.

“You’re not doing this. I’m gonna figure out something better… as always.”

It’s Lion’s turn to frown, offended.

“I’m an adult, Stan. I don’t need your permission.”

Stanley’s eyebrows shoot up. So high they almost disappear into his hairline.

“Lion… what the hell is wrong with you lately?”

I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong, but maybe I’m just so fucking tired that you never seem to give a damn about what matters to me. About what could make me happy. It’s always about you. About what your selfish mind thinks is best for me. About what you want. Have you ever stopped to ask yourself what I want? And every opportunity I gave up so I wouldn’t disappoint you? Or are you too damn busy getting us into trouble? Trouble that I’m gonna have to fix for you?

Those words circling Lion’s mind force him to bite his tongue so they don’t slip out. They’re both on edge. The last thing he needs is a futile argument blowing out of proportion right now. He knows it’ll keep him up at night afterwards.

“Sorry, Stan. I just... I could use some time alone, y’know? I’ll call you as soon as I get there. Promise.”

“So you’re really doing this. Wow.”

If Lion were still just a boy, the venom in Stanley’s voice would make him feel sick with guilt. The thing is, they aren’t kids anymore. It’s not like Lion has to keep following his older brother around like a lapdog. It’s way past time for both of them to accept that.

“Don’t forget to feed Ash until I get back. I’m serious. I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“This is so immature.”

Before Lion leaves his brother behind to deal with his bitterness, he adds with a hint of sarcasm.

“And I hope Mr. Smith will beat your ass as soon as he finds out you’ve been sleeping with his wife.”

“What—”

The door slams before Stanley can finish whatever he was about to say. As soon as Lion waves goodbye to Ash and grabs his backpack, he hears his brother’s confused yell echoing through the thin walls.

“Where’s Abby?!”

It’s impressive how painfully tedious a bus terminal waiting area becomes after an hour. 

You’ve already stretched your legs, taken a short walk around, sat back down, read sixty four pages of this thick book you brought with you, scrolled through every single one of your socials, discovered that the public Wi-Fi there sucks, shifted around in your seat about fifteen different times in every-humanly-possible-position hoping to get comfortable, and now, in an attempt to seem less hyperactive, you’ve settled on: watching everyone else there as if they’re cartoon characters.

There are at least eight couples, and the sickening sweetness radiating off them is making your skin itch. One of them is this adorable elderly pair trying to solve what looks like a word search puzzle together. Their preciousness diminishes your envy. Just a little.

This sweaty nerd who’d been staring at you for almost twenty minutes is worth mentioning as well. He got petrified the second you glared back at him like you wanted to tear him apart, roast his body, and eat his flesh with barbecue sauce. Interesting.

There's a whole group of girls giggling and gossiping among themselves, too. Whatever they’re talking about seems to be so funny that you almost catch yourself getting invested in their teenage drama.

Then he catches your attention.

You can’t help but study every detail, drawn in by the melancholic magnetism the guy sitting a few seats away from you seems to have.

He looks like he’s texting someone on his phone, which naturally makes your eyes drift down to his hands. Despite all the bruises still healing on his knuckles, they look soft. Gentle. When he stops typing, you notice his fingers are shaking even if his facial expression remains calm in a tired sort of way.

What a pretty face. Sad-looking, but gorgeous.

That cut right beneath his eye, though, makes you wonder if he’s going through some shit. Just like you are. A wave of concern hits you, and that's insane. You don’t even know the guy. You don’t even know his name. Why he’s there. Yet, something about that quiet intensity in his captivating presence stirs up this urge to find out. 

You realize you’re acting just like your nerdy admirer, gawking at this stranger as if he’s a mystery to be solved. An attractive mystery, but still!

As a matter of fact, he feels the weight of your eyes burning through him. Now he’s the one noticing you, which makes you panic.

You immediately go back to your phone after getting caught like that, clicking on the calculator icon and typing random numbers to pretend you’re busy.

You need someone to shoot you. Right now, if possible.

Male creatures don’t make you feel this nervous. It’s always the other way around. Intimidating men just enough to keep them on their toes is something you pride yourself on being good at. 

Getting shy because some cute guy looked back at you for less than half a second? Sounds like a big, fat joke.

It makes you feel vulnerable. You’re still debating whether you like or hate that.

You shouldn't think about it all, actually. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get distracted like this ever again. 

Focus on what matters. 

You’ll make sure to remember to pick a seat as far away as possible from this hot, mysterious guy.

Yes, that's it. That’s what you’re going to do.

It's time to board.

The last hours flew by for Lion, even though Stanley didn't stop calling and texting him since he left early that morning. Most of his messages are saying stuff like “What did I do?”, “Are you still mad at me?”, and “Can you stop acting like a bitch and come back home so we can figure this out together?”. Lion eventually reaches his limit and turns off his phone. He needs to claim his spot in the line so he can be able to get on the bus, after all.

Since he’s so lucky, he ends up at the very end of it. Meaning he’s doomed to stay in a "leftover seat". Not that he cares. He’s just happy he managed to get a last-minute ticket this quickly. As long as he gets to his destination, the conditions don’t matter.

You, standing right in front of him, happen to share the same opinion while doing your best to look unfazed. You can sense his eyes right on the back of your neck, like laser beams are shooting out of his pupils. 

What’s going through his head while he’s looking at you? Or is he just so bored that you happen to be the best distraction he could find among those other forty human beings gathered there? Or—

Just focus on the damn line. Your overwhelmed brain reminds you before you start to spiral. Just wait for it to move.

And it does start moving. Fast. Right when you feel the urge to open the soda can you bought from a vending machine minutes ago. The reason why you're at the end of the line.

In your defense, you’re facing a deadly risk of dehydration. Your throat is drier than the Sahara Desert.

So, this is how the first disaster happens.

As you’re busy trying to open the can without breaking one of your nails in the process (that would be an unprecedented tragedy), you’re not paying attention to your surroundings anymore.

Against all odds, you manage to breathe, hold your bag, and — miraculously — open your soda without any damage.

Or... almost none.

You’re heading straight for the floor. Yep. Face first. The whole clown package.

Your feet get tangled as you’re climbing the steps into the bus. You stumble forward, a humiliating sound escaping your mouth, and oh, man... this is getting added to your ever-growing collection of war flashbacks that haunt me before bed, isn’t it?

To make a nightmarish situation even more miserable, there’s Diet Coke everywhere. You must’ve shaken the can in the middle of the chaos. The liquid is all over the floor, your sneakers, and the poor driver, too.

Amazing.

Fantastic.

That’s exactly what you needed.

Look on the bright side. It could’ve been so much worse than this. You could’ve face-planted in front of an entire audience.

Luckily, someone catches you before you can destroy whatever little dignity you still have left.

“You okay?”

That calm voice comes with a soft, warm breath brushing near your ear. Your back is pressed against Lion’s chest because he pulled you toward him to stop your fall. So yeah, you’re certain that he can feel your heart racing and watch your skin break out in goosebumps. His strong paws are resting on your waist, even though you’ve already regained your balance.

Looking over your shoulder, your eyes meet his.

You expected him to be holding back a laugh. Damn, you’d understand if he laughed at you. You’re such a train wreck. 

Instead, he looks like he wants to make sure you’re not hurt. That’s all.

It doesn't help your heart slow down.

The only response you manage is a weak nod. If you try speaking right now, you’re going to stammer something lame that it'll make you feel like jumping out of the nearest window even more. Nah, not happening. You’ve already exceeded your daily humiliation quota.

Lion clears his throat and pulls away after realizing he’s still holding onto you. You stepped on his foot by accident, too, but you need to apologize to an angry bus driver first. He’s the one who looks the most… screwed over.

“I—”

You try not to focus on the soda dripping down the bald man’s shiny forehead, which doesn’t work at all, since your eyes follow his hand dragging down his wrinkled face in a hopeless attempt to wipe himself off.

There’s burning fury in his voice when he cuts you off with a scream.

“GET IN AND SIT DOWN!”

You move like a recruit taking orders from a colonel. You’d better find an empty seat fast. Sink into it. Rethink every decision you’ve ever made.

But the last two seats left are all the way in the back.

One for you.

One for Lion.

There goes your “S.A.F.A.F.H.A.P: Stay As Far Away From Him As Possible” plan.

And look, Lion wouldn’t mind giving you both seats. He’d sit on the ground if it meant avoiding any chance of making you uncomfortable, but he’s quite sure that the bald driver will bark at him the same way he just barked at you.

He’ll have to check how you feel about this, though. Your whole body language is giving “I’m nervous as hell, please get me out of here” vibes. He doesn’t blame you for it. He’s intimidating.

Alright, he's not intimidating. Not in the slightest. That’s not quite the adjective he was looking for. Anyway, something like that. All the bruises and stuff. Besides, you don’t even know each other. In his opinion, making you feel unsafe through this entire trip would be unacceptable.

Trying not to sound accusatory, he asks patiently.

“You sure you’re good?”

You smile, even though you’re mortified.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Right.

“I just... I get it if you… if you are, uh... how do I say this? I-I don’t know.”

He scratches the back of his neck while searching for the right words.

“What I’m trying to say is… I could try to… to get someone to switch seats with me if that’d make you feel... better.”

It’s so visible when something clicks inside your head. You rush to answer.

“Oh. Oh, no, no, no. You don’t need to do that. Seriously. I’m fine. A hundred per cent. But thanks. That’s really sweet of you.”

You’re being genuine despite your mixed feelings, so Lion doesn’t push it. He quietly nods and takes your bag from your hands (completely forgotten for a moment) to place it along with his backpack in the overhead compartment. 

You’re still standing there, not entirely sure what to do now. That makes the ghost of a shaky smile appear at the corner of Lion’s mouth. 

He thinks you’re so endearing. Like a deer in the headlights. Or something like that.

“You can take the window seat if you want. I don’t mind.”

The offer pulls you out of your trance. There are more than ten people mentally cursing both of you by now because you guys are standing there acting like two idiots instead of sitting your asses down and shutting up.

For that reason, you give in a lot more easily than you’d like and skip the whole pointless “oh no, you can have it” “please, I insist” argument before one of the other passengers decides to throw a shoe at both of you.

Curled up in your seat with Lion right beside you, you pull the curtain open just enough to watch the scenery outside fade into the distance.

Your genius method of avoiding looking at him. Nothing personal, really. Making small talk when your mind’s a mess isn’t one of your strongest skills. All you want is to take a nap so you can forget everything.

Lion is a chill, silent company. Makes it easy for you to relax. It doesn’t take long before your eyelids grow heavy. While unconscious, you don’t have to worry about pretending to be nonchalant. You’re terrible at acting nonchalant.

It also doesn’t take long for your head to end up resting on Lion’s shoulder, using it as a pillow while you sleep.

Ignoring how his heart is trying to punch its way out of his chest, Lion doesn’t dare move a single muscle for the next hour. He’s afraid of waking you up by accident… and losing your comforting warmth.

There’s a new type of mayhem happening when you wake up.

Lion watches how your lashes flutter as your eyes open, and how long it takes for you to process the fact that you’re leaning against him. Again. Good thing your brain is loading at a slow pace, otherwise you would’ve freaked out over how close your face is to his.

You fell asleep. 

On his shoulder.

For God knows how long.

And he let you?

You rub your eyelids, adjust yourself back into your seat, and ask in a hoarse mumble.

“Did I drool on your shirt?”

Lion hums, an unbothered sound, not annoyed in the slightest.

“A little, yeah.”

A small noise of frustration slips past your lips. The corner of Lion's mouth twitches once again as he tries to suppress an innocent, amused chuckle.

“Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Don't worry.”

You're about to say something else, but...

Why isn’t the bus moving?

It's parked. Frozen. No movement. At all.

Did you really sleep that long? The first stop shouldn’t be happening this early.

You narrow your eyes to force them into focusing. That’s when you notice a crowd gathered near the bus exit. A bunch of people are squeezing their way out through the tiny space as if there’s a zombie on board, ready to infect everybody.

Considering all the insane stuff that you've been through these past few weeks, it wouldn’t be a shock if that’s the case.

You turn your attention back to Lion.

“Do you know where we are? How much time has passed?”

“An hour… and a half, I guess. Wasn't really paying attention. And no, I'm not sure where we are. I mean, we had to stop at a gas station because one of the passengers... uh, threw up all over the person sitting next to him. So let's just say the situation got out of hand pretty quickly. Lots of screaming. I was about to wake you up. We'll have to get off so the driver can, y'know... clean up the mess.”

You blink. Several times.

Vomit sounds way worse than a zombie on board.

“That poor guy isn’t getting paid enough to deal with all this shit, is he? I feel bad for him.”

A beat.

“At least the 'second-hand embarrassment' spotlight isn’t pointed at me anymore.”

Lion grins, unable to contain himself this time. Your judgment isn't working like it should since you're a bit drowsy, so you don’t catch the way he’s looking at you with so much tenderness when you're this close to him.

Maybe it’s better that way.

“We should, um...”

You gesture toward the exit, now a lot less crowded.

“Uh, yeah... yeah, of course.”

This is fate telling you to feed yourself. Your stomach will start to ache soon, so you should find something at the gas station convenience store to make it feel less grumpy.

Finally, a tiny bit of luck. Even if it came at someone else’s expense.

A bag of chips and a new Diet Coke can — since your first one ended up all over the sulky driver’s face — is what falls within your budget.

The humble amount of money you have tucked away in your bag is for some other stuff you’ve planned. You can’t afford any luxuries, which is why you’re at this modest dining area at the back of the convenience store, taking your time to finish your lonely feast.

All the other passengers are outside, showing levels of annoyance that vary as they wait for the bus to be “fixed.” You weren’t able to absorb every detail of what happened, but what you do know is that the sweaty nerd guy got nauseous and threw up his entire breakfast all over one of the women you’d also seen earlier in the terminal waiting room. Poor thing. All you could offer to help was some wet wipes and one of the spare tees you had in your bag, so she could change into something clean.

So yeah, everyone’s standing out there with their arms crossed in such a depressing mood that it could make even a funeral seem more lively.

...almost everyone.

You can see Lion approaching from the corner of your eye, sitting down on the stool next to you. He slides a mixed fruit cup, a sandwich, and a bottle of water across the counter without saying a single word.

Towards you.

Your response is to narrow your eyes as if chivalry is some kind of alien, suspicious concept.

“What’s this?”

“Food?”

Oh, hilarious. He’s so funny.

Lion smirks at his own cleverness before shrugging.

“Can’t you just accept it? No questions involved?”

The words come out soft, without any real bite behind them. The silly expression on his face almost makes you cave.

Your stubbornness doesn’t allow you to, though. Your mother would end your life if she saw you considering disobeying her wise teachings about always being cautious around men and their “good actions”.

“Why are you doing this?”

Lion hums, taking a bite out of his own tuna sandwich.

“Because I know you’re hungry. Your stomach was growling while you were asleep.”

Your whole face heats up, but Lion is still gazing at you with that infuriating smile.

“Did you really have to say it like that?”

“Sorry. You’re right. That was so rude.”

“It really was!”

You huff, splaying a hand flat on your chest as if you’re so offended. That goofy theatrical side of you manages to make Lion giggle.

One of the sweetest sounds you’ve ever heard. You have no idea why your heart warms at it. Against your will, of course.

But the feeling fades when a pang of guilt hits you.

“You didn’t have to do this, y’know. Spend money on me, I mean.”

It’s not that you’re being ungrateful. You know your intuition isn't lying, and it's clear that Lion is a cool guy. You just want to fully understand what’s happening here, even if there might not be much to understand.

Lion’s eyes soften when he sees your playfulness fading.

“Don’t think about it like that. It’s not a big deal.”

It is a big deal to me. That’s what you stop yourself from saying out loud.

“Besides, chips and Diet Coke won’t be enough to satisfy you. The next stop’s gonna take a while, so... I don’t know...”

He trails off, unsure how to elaborate, then shrugs as a last resort.

He’s so adorable when he's nervous. Your inner demons are gnawing at the bars of their enclosure. You deserve some kind of award for the self-control it’s taking not to pinch his cheek at this very moment.

“Thank you. I mean it.”

His eyes drift away from yours. You can see his ears turning red as he nods.

“You’re a nice guy.”

He swallows hard.

You can tell when someone isn’t used to being complimented like that, so you decide not to push it.

A pleasant silence settles between the two of you while you eat, until you remember a detail.

“You don’t even know my name. Feels unfair.”

He thinks for a second before suggesting.

“Then you should fix that.”

“What?”

“Tell me your name.”

You look deep into those beautiful blue eyes of his, then you tell him your name.

He hums and mumbles it as if wanting to hear how it sounds in his own voice. For some foolish reason, your heart skips a beat. Maybe two.

“That’s a pretty name.”

His eyes trail over your face. Appreciating it.

“It suits you.”

Now it’s your turn to look away. You’re afraid he’ll notice how much he’s affecting you.

“You’re not gonna tell me yours?”

Lion catches that tiny spark of curiosity hidden in your whisper. He clears his throat to answer.

“Walter. Walter Kaminski. But people call me Lion.”

Your smile grows at that. You can understand why, despite the introversion he displays.

“Lion.”

You savor his name oh so gently. Lion is trying his absolute hardest not to show how much he’s being affected by your melodic voice saying his name like that.

“It suits you.”

“I-It’s just a dumb nickname my brother gave me when we were kids, and he still makes sure everyone knows about it, so I guess it’s my actual real name now. Can’t get rid of it.”

His attempt to change the subject fails. You insist on making him squirm even more.

“Why would you wanna get rid of it? It’s adorable. I like it.”

“It’s silly.”

“No, it’s not! It’s cute.”

“Really?”

“Really, Lion. So cute.”

“T-That’s enough.”

You smile at how this rosy hue on Lion’s cheeks keeps increasing every time you say his name.

Unexpectedly, it’s like you both are inside a bubble that makes time seem nonexistent. The conversation that unfolds isn’t particularly deep or philosophical, but it flows without much effort. Anyone watching from a distance would assume you’ve known each other for a while, considering all the giggling and teasing going on.

You’re aware that this is going to end once you reach your destinations, though. Maybe you’ll exchange numbers, go your separate ways, and never see each other again. The vague memory of him will be the only thing you’ll have left.

It’s so stupid that this specific thought saddens you, but finding someone who makes you feel this comfortable this fast is almost like a divine gift.

Instead of letting the melancholy swallow you whole, you stay in the present, where you’re both still talking each other’s ears off.

“I mean, Edward is so much cooler. Everyone knows that. He may not be the perfect partner, but he’s protective, loyal, and he glows in the sunlight like a mirrorball. It’s such an obvious choice, in my opinion.”

“I’d choose Edward, too. Jacob is a toxic idiot.”

“Team sparkly vampire?”

“Team sparkly vampire. No doubt about it.”

The convenience store cashier — a friendly girl with short dark hair, braces on her teeth, and a name tag on her apron that says Nia in huge letters — is leaning against the register counter while observing everything with knowing amusement written all over her face.

She doesn’t want to get involved in the very serious debate you’re having, but this is an emergency.

“Sorry to interrupt, guys.”

You and Lion immediately stop rambling to look at the teenage girl.

“Just thought it was important to let you know your bus is leaving.”

A beat.

“Without you.”

What?

“What?”

You both say it at the same time. Nia nods while motioning for you to hurry up.

You and Lion don’t just hurry up. You burst out of the convenience store like a tornado, nearly tripping over each other in the process. 

The bus is pulling out onto the road beside the gas station. You feel your chest jolt as you run while trying to keep hold of your heavy bag by its strap, which almost sends you crashing face-first into the ground.

For fuck’s sake. You can’t catch a goddamn break.

“WAIT! PLEASE!”

Lion isn’t doing much better. Despite his athletic background, there’s no way he can catch up to a vehicle moving that fast.

The two of you sound like an absolute pair of utter buffoons, uselessly shouting and waving your arms in the middle of the road.

When you realize it isn’t going to work, you stop, both of you out of breath, staring at each other with matching expressions of panic.

“They’ll notice we’re not there. Don’t worry.”

That’s Lion trying to comfort you when you sit down on the curb, put both hands on your head, and close your eyes like you’re trying not to lose your shit.

“They’ll come back. You’ll see.”

The last glimpse of the bus turning down the road and disappearing farther and farther into the horizon is enough to dry up whatever hope Lion had left.

He sits down beside you on the curb.

That’s it.

You two are screwed. Doomed. Cursed. Abandoned.

But at least you have each other.

Ew, erase that. That was so unbelievably cheesy.

What you’re trying to say is that Lion’s company eases some of your anxiety.

“They’re not coming back, are they?”

“Yeah... I don’t think so.”

For a long minute, you both just sit there.

Just the two of you.

Two broke losers left behind in the middle of nowhere, completely at fate’s mercy.

You’ve been home from uni for a little over three weeks, long enough for the house to fall into a familiar rhythm again, though nothing about Remmick’s presence in it feels familiar in any harmless way. 

Your mother moves around the kitchen with the radio playing low, humming while she rinses vegetables and talks about grilling later, and Remmick keeps himself out on the covered porch where the sun cannot quite get to him.

There’s always been something wrong with the way bright light bothers him, something about the glare that makes him squint and retreat into shade with his sunglasses low on his nose and a beer sweating in his hand. 

From where he sits, he has a perfect view of the yard, the pool, the lounge chair, and you.

His beer runs empty sometime after your mother disappears back inside to check on the food, and you notice it before he says a word.

The can hangs loose between his fingers, condensation dripping down to the porch boards, his gaze still fixed somewhere near the pool even though you know he is watching you from the corner of his eye.

You push yourself up from the lounge chair and cross the patio barefoot, letting the heat of the stone bite at your soles as you pass him without asking what he wants.

When you come back out, you don’t hand it to him right away.

You hook your nail beneath the tab and crack it open yourself, the sharp hiss cutting through the air. Foam gathers at the lip, and before it can spill over, you lift the can to your mouth and take a small sip.

It’s bitter and cold on your tongue, not really what you want, but Remmick’s eyes drop to your mouth so quickly that it is worth it.

You swallow, wipe a bead of beer from your lower lip with your thumb, and only then hold it out to him.

“Thought you might need another,” you say, sweet as anything.

Remmick takes the can from you slowly. “You always this helpful?”

You smile and turn away before he can see too much of it. “Only when I feel like it.”

You had chosen the red bikini because you knew exactly what it did to him. 

Therems no innocence in it, not with how little the top covers and how the bottoms keep riding up whenever you move, the thin fabric slipping between your cheeks.

The first time you stepped outside, towel tucked under one arm and sunglasses pushed into your hair, Remmick’s conversation with your mother had gone quiet for half a second too long. 

Your mother had not noticed, too busy fussing with a pitcher of sweet tea through the open sliding door, but you had.

You caught the pause, the slight lift of his chin, the slow drag of his eyes down your body before he forced them away and took a long pull from his beer.

And that was all the encouragement you needed. 

You spread your towel across the lounge chair with unnecessary care, bending at the waist instead of crouching, letting the bikini top gape just enough that you felt the warm brush of air against your tits. You stretched out beneath the sun with one knee bent, then rolled onto your stomach after a few minutes, propping yourself on your elbows while the bottoms rode higher. 

Every motion became performance because his attention made you bold.

You fixed your towel; you adjusted the tie at your hip; you reached behind yourself to tug at the fabric, only to let it snap back into place a little worse than before. 

Each time, Remmick stayed silent…

By the time you rise to go run back inside for a drink, your skin is glossy with sun and sweat, and you know without looking that he’s watching the swing of your hips. 

You pass close enough to his chair that your thigh nearly brushes his knee, and the scent of him reaches you through the summer air… beer, smoke, soap.

His fingers drift toward your hip as you pass, slow enough that you could let him catch you, but you slip away at the last second and glance back over your shoulder with a smile that’s too sweet to be believed.

“Need something?” you ask, voice light.

Remmick’s jaw tightens, and his gaze flicks once toward the kitchen before settling back on you. “You know what you’re doing.”

You only smile wider and slide through the door, leaving him with the view of your ass as the red fabric disappears inside.

When you come back a minute later, you have a cherry popsicle in your hand. 

You settle on the porch step beside his chair as though you have simply chosen the nearest bit of shade, knees drawn loosely together. 

The popsicle’s already beginning to melt in the heat, red syrup gathering along the edge of your fingers, and you bring it to your mouth with all the patience in the world. 

You lick up the side first, slow and flat-tongued, tasting sugar and artificial cherry while your eyes drift toward the yard as if Remmick is not sitting so close that you can feel the tension coming off him. Then you wrap your lips around the tip and suck, letting your mouth hollow around it, letting the wet little sound linger between you.

His hand flexes around the beer can.

You do it again, slower.

“Careful,” he mutters, so low that your mother wouldn’t hear him even if she stepped out onto the porch.

You turn your head slightly, popsicle still between your lips, and blink at him with open, false innocence. “Careful with what?”

Remmick’s eyes drop to your mouth, sunglasses gone now, pushed up into his hair, and without them there’s nowhere for his hunger to hide. 

He looks tired from fighting it, annoyed with you for knowing that, and unbearably handsome with the porch shade cutting sharp along his cheekbones. He lowers the beer can, his thumb rubbing slowly through the condensation as his stare drags over your lips, your chin, the thin red line of syrup that’s escaped and started down your skin.

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble,” he says.

You swallow around nothing, then take the popsicle from your mouth and lick the drip before it can reach your chin. “Maybe I’m bored.”

His laugh doest sound amused. “That what this is? You bored?”

“Maybe.” You lean your shoulder more firmly against him, close enough to feel the heat of him through his shorts. “Maybe you’re just easy.”

The look he gives you makes your pulse kick, though he does nothing, and somehow that’s worse than if he grabbed you outright.

His eyes move over your face with a slow, punishing focus, as if he is deciding which part of your attitude he wants to break first.

Then the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly.

“You been acting like a spoiled thing since breakfast,” he says, voice quiet enough to stay private. “Bending over in that suit, looking back every time you know I’m watching. Now you’re sittin’ here with that in your mouth, makin’ a mess on purpose.”

Your thighs press together, but you keep your expression sweet. “It’s hot outside.”

“It’s about to be hotter inside if you keep it up.”

You glance down and see the thick shape of him straining against his shorts, half-hidden beneath the loose fall of fabric, though not nearly well enough.

The sight makes your stomach dip. 

Yesterday, you let him corner you in the laundry room while your mother was out getting groceries, let his hands skim your waist and dip under the hem of your shirt before you slipped away laughing at the last second. 

Two nights before that, you knelt for him on the rug beside your bed, taking his cock into your mouth with your fingers twisted in his shirt while he kept one hand braced against the mattress, hips thrusting up into the warmth, and tried not to make too much noise. 

Later, alone under your covers, you touched yourself until your wrist ached, replaying the sound of him losing control, the rough praise he tried to swallow, the way he looked at you afterward.

You drag the popsicle over your tongue again, slower this time, and Remmick’s hand moves.

His fingers find the back of your neck beneath your hair, resting there with enough pressure to make a warning out of the touch.

“You got something real nasty coming the second I get you inside,” he murmurs.

Heat pulses between your legs, slick and immediate. You tip your head back just enough to look at him through your lashes. “What, Daddy’s mad?”

It’s not the first time you’ve called him that, but it still does something to him every time, especially here, with your mother moving somewhere behind the kitchen wall and his beer sweating onto the porch boards and you sitting at his knee in a bikini that barely covers anything. 

His hand slides lower, thumb brushing the side of your throat in a touch that feels almost tender until his mouth moves closer to your ear.

“You keep saying it like that,” he says, “and I’m gonna make you say it with tears in your eyes.”

Your breath catches, and the sound gives you away.

He reaches for your ass, palm sliding over the curve of it, but you slap his hand away with a sharp little laugh and rise before he can catch you. “Pervert.”

For a second, he looks almost still enough to be calm. Then his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to where your bikini bottoms have ridden up again. “Yeah,” he says softly, “keep laughing.”

You should stop there, but stopping would mean admitting he’s gotten to you, and you have spent too many days enjoying the game to fold just because he finally sounds dangerous. 

So you make him wait. 

You stretch out beneath the sun again, roll onto your stomach, let your legs part just enough to make him shift in his chair, then rise to dip your feet in the pool and glance back at him each time you feel his eyes burn across your skin. You tease from a distance because distance makes you brave. You bend over to look for sunscreen in your bag. You let syrup from the last of the popsicle stain your lips and smile when he stares. 

The afternoon stretches long and gold, the heat softening at the edges only when the sun begins to sink behind the trees, but Remmick’s patience does not soften with it. If anything, he grows quieter as the day goes on, and the quiet has your pulse fluttering with a nervousness you refuse to show.

Inside, the house smells like chlorine, warm skin, cut tomatoes, and something salty your mother has started on the stove. She’s put out a tray of hamburgers and salads for later, moving between the counter and the fridge while she talks about a coworker who called in sick and a neighbor who borrowed a serving bowl and never returned it. 

You sit at the kitchen table across from Remmick, damp hair sticking slightly to the back of your neck, one of his old shirts thrown over your bikini because your mother told you not to drip on the floor. The thin cotton clings to the wet fabric beneath, and every time Remmick looks at you, you remember exactly how little separates his gaze from your skin.

Your mother pours herself a glass of wine and leans against the counter, still talking. “I’m gonna shower before I eat. Don’t let the buns sit out too long, alright? And don’t pick at everything before I get back.”

You nod quickly, too quickly, and Remmick leans back in his chair with his beer to his lips, watching you over the rim of it.

Your mother pauses in the doorway. “You two want anything before I go?” She glances to you first before turning to Remmick. “Baby?”

“No, I’m alright. Go take your shower, we’ll be here when you’re done,” Remmick answers, polite as anything, and the smoothness of it makes your toes curl under the table.

The second her footsteps fade down the hall, the whole kitchen seems to hold its breath.

Water pipes groan somewhere behind the walls. A door shuts. 

You look at Remmick, and he looks back with all the patience gone from his face.

The chair scrapes the tile from how fast you stand.

You only make it halfway to the guest bathroom before his hand catches the back of the shirt and pulls you in against him. 

A breathless laugh escapes you, more panic than humor, but he crowds you forward with his body, his mouth close to your ear while his hand slips around your waist and presses low on your stomach.

“Runnin’ now?” he murmurs. “You weren’t shy outside.”

“Remmick,” you whisper, glancing toward the hallway.

“That ain’t what you called me on the porch.”

He pushes you into the bathroom and kicks the door shut behind him. 

Before you can turn fully around, Remmick has you backed against the sink, one hand at your jaw and the other bunching the damp shirt up over your ribs.

“You had a lot to say when you were out there showing off,” he says, thumb pressing lightly at the corner of your mouth. “Where’d all that mouth go?”

You try to answer, but his grip makes the words come out soft and useless. “I was just teasing.”

“Just teasin’,” he repeats, dragging the phrase out as if it offends him. 

His eyes lower to your chest as he hooks two fingers under the bikini top and tugs until the cups shift, baring one breast, then the other.

The air hits your nipples and makes them tighten into stiff peaks, and Remmick’s expression changes with open satisfaction. “That what you call it when you spend all afternoon trying to make me hard while your mama’s ten feet away?”

You swallow, cheeks burning. “You could’ve looked somewhere else.”

His mouth curves enough to make you wet. “I did. Then you bent over again.”

The laugh that leaves you is thin, unsteady, and it breaks when he leans in to bite gently at the underside of your jaw.

His stubble scrapes your skin. His teeth press without quite hurting, and his hand slides down to your hip, fingers spreading over the damp red fabric that has tormented him all afternoon. 

When he touches you there, he feels how soaked you already are, the bikini bottoms clinging slick and hot to your swollen cunt. His fingers still for a second, then press harder, rubbing the wet fabric right against your dripping slit until your knees nearly dip.

“Look at that,” he murmurs against your neck. “All this attitude, and you’re already messy for me.”

You try to turn your face away, embarrassed by how wet you are, but he keeps your jaw in his hand and forces you to look at him.

“I’m sorry.” Your breath trembles, though your hips move into his hand.

Remmick gives a soft, breathless laugh and lifts his head to look at you. “Too late for sorry now, girl.”

He reaches behind you and turns the sink on just enough for the faucet to run, giving the room another layer of noise. Then he turns you around with a firm hand at your waist, bending you over the counter until your palms land on either side of the basin and your tits press against the cool porcelain.

The mirror catches your face, flushed and wide-eyed, lips parted around shallow breaths. Remmick stands behind you, broad and sun-warmed, hair slightly damp at his temples, his expression sharpened by everything you’ve done to him. 

He looks at your reflection, not your body first, but your face, watching embarrassment spread across it as he drags the shirt up your back and shoves the bikini bottoms down just far enough to expose you. They catch around your thighs, tight and indecent, while he nudges your feet wider with his.

“There she is,” he says, voice dropping. “There’s my spoiled girl that wants me to fuck the attitude outta her,” he breathes.

You grip the sink. “Remmick…”

“Huh?” His hand comes down on your ass hard enough to leave a sting and sharp enough that your breath breaks. “You worried now?”

“Remmick—”

Another smack lands lower this time, followed by his palm smoothing over the heat he has left behind. “Try again.”

The correction makes your eyes flutter.

You look at him in the mirror, pride and need tangling so tightly in your chest that you can barely breathe through either one. “Daddy,” you whisper.

His expression changes, hunger pulling tight across his face. “Better.”

He unzips his shorts behind you, the sound small under the running faucet and distant shower, but it still makes your whole body tense in anticipation. 

When he frees himself, heavy and hard in his hand, he doesn’t push in right away.

He makes you watch his face in the mirror while he rubs the thick, flushed head of his cock through your wet folds, dragging it slowly from your swollen clit up to your entrance, gathering slick until both of you are glistening. 

The first touch makes you whimper, the second makes you push back on instinct, needy enough to forget yourself, and he clicks his tongue.

“Now you wanna be eager,” he mutters. “Out there, you kept moving away every time I touched you.”

“You were on the porch.”

“And you were in my face,” he says, pressing against you just enough to make your body clench around nothing. “Lickin’ that damn thing, looking at me like you wanted me to drag you inside by your hair.”

Your face burns hotter because some part of you has wanted exactly that. 

Remmick must see the truth of it in your reflection, because his mouth brushes your shoulder in a kiss that feels almost affectionate before his teeth graze the same spot.

“You get so embarrassed when I say it plain,” he murmurs.

“Please,” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can dress it up as anything else.

He stills. “Please what?”

You press your forehead closer to the mirror, eyes half-lidded, voice trembling under the weight of his stare. “Please fuck me.”

His reflection in the mirrors shows you that it pleases him; in the way his mouth curves and his eyes darken. 

He drags the head of his cock through your slick again, then higher, pressing right against your tight little asshole and circling until your whole body tenses, the flutter of panicked want moving through you before you can hide it. 

Remmick laughs low, gives one more firm nudge, then pulls back.

“Maybe next time,” he promises, voice dripping with filthy intent.

Your stomach flips at the words, cunt throbbing harder, and he sees that—sees everything when he has you like this, bent over and bare for him, all your teasing turned into wet need and shaky knees. 

He lines up again, this time at your soaked entrance, and pushes in slow, stretching your pussy lips wide around the blunt head, feeding you inch after thick inch until your walls grip every veiny ridge and you’re white-knuckling the sink edge.

“There you go,” he mutters, watching your face in the mirror. “That’s what you spent all day asking for.”

The stretch is thick and immediate, your body slick enough to take him but still overwhelmed by the size of him, every inch forcing you open while your fingers curl against the porcelain and a low, broken moan slips from your throat.

Remmick watches your face the entire time, jaw slackening slightly as your mouth falls open and your eyes water.

“Mm,” he breathes, hips pressing forward another inch. “That’s what all that teasing was for, huh? You fuckin’ tease. Wanted me so bad you couldn’t act right.”

You try to answer, but he sinks deeper, and the words dissolve into a broken sound.

He feeds himself into you with patience, letting you feel everything, the heat of him, the drag, the fullness that makes your thighs shake. When he finally bottoms out, balls flush against your clit, he stays there and bends over you, one forearm braced beside your hand on the counter.

“You feel that?” he whispers, mouth at your ear. “All the way in, baby. That’s what you were asking for.”

Your eyes slip shut, tears gathering from the stretch and the pressure. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

His groan is soft, almost unwilling, and then he pulls back and snaps his hips forward hard enough to jolt you against the sink.

You choke on a gasp, but his hand comes up quickly, palm covering your mouth while his other arm wraps around your waist to hold you in place.

“Quiet,” he says against your temple. “Unless you want your mama asking why you’re moaning with her boyfriend in here.”

The threat makes your cunt clench around him. 

His eyes meet yours in the mirror, dark with triumph. He starts fucking you then, not slow anymore, not gentle enough to let you pretend this is only another stolen touch. His hips drive into you in deep, rushed strokes, each one rocking you into the counter while the faucet runs and the shower hisses upstairs. 

The room fills with the wet, filthy smack of his hips against your ass, the loud, sloppy squelch of your cunt taking every thick inch of his cock, his breathing rough at your ear and your muffled cries trapped beneath his hand.

He knows exactly how to angle himself, how to hit the place inside you that makes your legs threaten to give out, how to keep you pinned open.

“You spent all day acting like a brat. Now look at you,” he mutters, voice fraying as he thrusts into you, bending over you so his chest presses hot to your back, lips brushing your tear-streaked cheeks in mocking little kisses. “Gonna cry for me, baby?”

You whimper against his palm, tears spilling over now, hot tracks down your cheeks that embarrass you as much as they thrill you. 

Remmick’s gaze flicks to them in the mirror, and something pleased and possessive moves across his face. He uncovers your mouth only to grip your jaw instead, forcing your chin up so you have to look at yourself.

“Look at you,” he says, softer now, mean threaded through praise. “We both know you’re just gonna do it all over again tomorrow, aren’t you? So you gotta learn the lesson now.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, though your hips push back into him in helpless little movements.

“You can.” His mouth brushes your cheek. “You’re gonna take it. You made me wait all afternoon, didn’t you? You can take a little more.”

The words loosen your pride, melt the last of your performance, and leave you trembling beneath him with your cheek near the mirror and your body taking every thrust he gives. 

When his hand slips between your thighs and finds your clit, your whole spine arches. He rubs you in tight, firm circles, still driving into you from behind, and the combination makes your breath scatter.

“Please,” you gasp, too loud.

His hand returns to your mouth at once, and his hips never slow. “You wanna get caught that bad?”

You shake your head quickly, but your body betrays you again, clenching hard around him while your eyes roll half-shut.

“No?” he murmurs. “Then keep that mouth quiet for me.”

You nod against his palm, crying harder now from the pressure building too fast, too deep, too much after an entire afternoon of teasing yourself with the thought of him.

“Please, I’m gonna—” Your words break off on a mewl.

“I know,” he says, stubble scraping against your cheek as he nods. “I can feel it. Poor baby’s not so mouthy now, is she?”

He rubs your clit faster, his cock dragging heavy through your cunt, and when your orgasm hits, it takes you with a helpless, silent sob. 

Your body locks around him, thighs shaking, nails scraping uselessly against the sink while Remmick holds you up and fucks you through it, the wet sounds of your pulsing pussy growing even louder around his thrusting cock.

“There you go,” he whispers.

You’re still pulsing around him when the shower shuts off, and both of you freeze for half a second. 

Then Remmick’s hand tightens on your hip, and he buries a groan against your shoulder, his restraint snapping under the risk. He fucks you harder, shorter strokes now, chasing his release while you tremble oversensitive around him. 

You bite down on your own wrist to stay quiet, tears still wet on your cheeks, and he watches the motion in the mirror as if it might finish him all on its own.

“Fuck,” he breathes, low and ragged. “That’s it. Hold still. Let me have it.”

His hips drive deep once, twice, then press flush as he comes inside you with a thick, shuddering groan that he barely manages to swallow. 

You feel every pulse of him, hot and deep, your body milking him while footsteps sound faintly upstairs.

He stays there for one dangerous second too long, forehead dropping to your shoulder, breath shaking against your skin. Then he pulls out slowly, and the sudden emptiness makes you wince. 

Warmth spills down your inner thigh almost at once, and Remmick watches it with a dazed, hungry look before tugging your bikini bottoms back into place, trapping the mess against you.

Your reflection looks wrecked—lips swollen, eyes wet, chest still heaving.

Remmick turns off the faucet, then catches your chin and kisses you, stealing the little sound you make before it can become anything louder. When he steps back, he tucks himself back into his briefs, zipping himself up.

From the upstairs hallway, your mother calls, “You two still in the kitchen?”

Remmick’s eyes stay on you. “Yeah,” he answers, voice almost normal. “She was looking for a towel.”

Your mouth falls open slightly at how easy the lie comes, and he gives you a warning look that makes your thighs squeeze together.

“Found one,” you call, voice thin but steady enough to pass.

Your mother says something about the burgers getting cold, her footsteps moving away, and only then does Remmick turn the sink on and wet his thumb, wiping under your eyes just enough to make you presentable without erasing all the evidence. “Fix your face, baby,” he murmurs, mouth nearly touching yours. “And don’t walk too fast.”

The rest of the evening stretches around the secret in a haze.

You sit at the table with your mother and Remmick, eating too little, nodding when spoken to, hyper aware of the damp heat between your thighs and the places where his hands have gripped you. 

Remmick plays polite beautifully; he passes your mother the mustard, asks about her morning shift, laughs at one of her stories with that easy, low charm that makes her smile without knowing he has just had you bent over the bathroom sink while her shower ran. 

Every so often, his knee brushes yours under the table, or his eyes find you over the rim of his glass, and your body answers with a pulse so strong you have to shift in your chair.

Then your mother’s called in not long after dinner.

The hospital has some emergency, the sort that makes her sigh while tying her shoes and mutter about being too old to keep running out at night. 

Remmick walks her to the door, kisses her cheek, tells her to drive safe, and stands on the porch until her car disappears down the road. 

You watch from the hallway, clean from a shower that hasn’t managed to rinse him out of your head. 

When he comes back inside, the house seems larger around the two of you, every room gone quiet except for the ceiling fan and the faint buzz of insects against the screens.

He doesn’t come to you, because maybe he thinks one stolen, rushed, filthy mistake is enough for the day, or maybe he likes making you wait as punishment. 

He goes to your mother’s room, changes into boxers, and leaves the door partly open like a dare. 

You stay in your room for almost an hour, pretending to scroll on your phone while the memory of him keeps sliding through you: his hand over your mouth, his voice at your ear, the way he said baby—the term of endearment your mother called him—when you were shaking around him. Your thighs still ache. Your skin feels too sensitive under your nightshirt. 

You try to ignore it until your own restlessness turns unbearable, until your fingers slip beneath the hem and find yourself wet again.

That’s what finally makes you get up.

The hallway is dark except for the warm bar of light from the bathroom nightlight. 

Remmick’s asleep when you reach the bedroom, or close enough to it, sprawled on his back with one arm tucked behind his head and the sheet low over his hips. Moonlight and porch light cut soft lines across his chest, showing the rise and fall of his breathing, the dark hair trailing beneath the waistband of his boxers, the relaxed heaviness of him in sleep. 

He looks less mean like this, younger almost, though there is nothing harmless in the memory of his hands.

You crawl onto the mattress carefully, and it dips under your weight. 

Remmick stirs but doesn’t wake fully until your mouth touches the line of his jaw. His lashes lift, eyes unfocused for a moment, then sharpen as you kiss along his stubble, soft and open-mouthed, tasting soap and salt on his skin.

“What’re you doing?” he rasps, voice rough with sleep.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His hand finds your waist beneath the nightshirt. “That so?”

You nod, though your hand has already slid down his stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of his boxers. 

He lets out a quiet breath, watching through half-lidded eyes as you move lower. 

The sheet shifts around you when you slip beneath it, the space under the covers warm and close, filled with the scent of him.

You tug his boxers down just enough to free him, already half-hard, heavy against his lower stomach. He twitches when your fingers wrap around the thick base, and the low, pleased sound he makes goes straight to your cunt.

“Still needy?” he murmurs from above the sheet.

You press a kiss to the swollen head of his cock instead of answering, lips brushing the sensitive skin before your tongue follows, licking slow and filthy over the slit to taste the first salt-warm bead of him.

He hardens fast in your grip, thickening until the veiny shaft fills your palm completely, the flushed tip already leaking more for you.

A soft groan leaves him, his fingers sliding behind your neck under the covers.

“Girl,” he breathes. “... been trouble all day.”

You smile against him, then take him between your lips. Slowly at first, just the head, letting your tongue swirl the way it did around the popsicle on the porch, letting him feel the echo of what started all this. 

Remmick’s hips shift, his hand holding onto the nape of your neck, and he lets you make a mess of him.

You suck him deeper, your lips stretching wide around his girth, spit gathering quick and slick as you work him with eager, wet pulls of your mouth.

The slurping sounds fill the dark room under the sheet—loud, messy—and it makes your face burn as if anyone else could hear.

You love him like this—breathing harder because of your tongue, his thighs tensing when you take him too deep and swallow around him.

Your eyes water from the stretch, but you keep going, moaning softly around his cock when his fingers tighten on you. The vibration makes him groan again, louder this time, and he quickly presses his mouth shut as if remembering the empty house still has neighbors close enough for sound to carry through thin summer walls.

“Baby,” he warns, though his voice has no real warning left in it. “You keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”

You pull back just enough to kiss down the slick length of him, then lick back up with slow devotion, taking the head into your mouth again and sucking until his hips jerk. 

His hand guides you then, setting a rhythm that makes your jaw ache and your thighs press together beneath the covers. His fingers tighten on your nape, holding you right where he wants you, and then he starts fucking up into your mouth in short, greedy thrusts. 

You gag around the thick length when he pushes too deep, throat tightening hard around the swollen tip, the sudden squeeze pulling a ragged groan from his chest.

He pants above you, breath coming faster, hips rolling again so the head nudges against the back of your throat and your eyes water instantly.

Remmick watches the shape of your head bobbing beneath the sheet like it’s the only thing in the world worth staying awake for, his groans turning into low, broken pants that he tries to swallow down.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, voice rough and full of sleep-warmed hunger. “Knew you were done being a little brat.”

You hum around him, and his breath catches hard. He fucks into your mouth a little faster, hand firm on your nape, using you just enough to make your throat spasm and squeeze around him again and again.

The wet, choking sounds growing louder as your spit coats every thick inch until his cock is glistening and your chin is soaked. His thighs tense under your palms, muscles jumping each time your throat tightens and milks the head.

He comes with his grip tight on your neck, hips lifting once, twice, burying himself deep as he spills hot and thick across your tongue and straight down your throat.

You swallow him eagerly, throat working around every heavy pulse while his body goes tense beneath you, then softens all at once, a final shaky groan rattling out of him.

Even after he’s done, you keep your mouth on him, gentle now, licking him clean with slow strokes of your tongue that make his hand tremble against the back of your head.

You suckle softly at the sensitive tip until he twitches one last time, then finally pull off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen.

When you finally crawl back up beside him, he catches you by the jaw and kisses you. 

He tastes himself on your tongue and groans softly into your mouth, pulling you close until your bare legs tangle with his under the sheet.

Outside, the night presses hot against the windows, cicadas still screaming from the trees as the fan turns lazy circles overhead.

Remmick’s thumb moves over your cheek in a slow, absent stroke, and when you tuck yourself against his side, he lets you, his arm heavy around your waist.

“You’re gonna start up again tomorrow, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

You smile against his chest, too pleased with yourself to lie well. “Maybe.”

His hand slides lower, resting over your hip. “Then I guess I’ll have to teach you again.” 

Then he leans in closer to your ear. You assume he’s going to say what he’d plan to do, how’d he plan to get get you alone again. Instead, his voice drops to that low, gravel-rough drawl and his lips part on words that make your eyes widen.

“Dirty slut, fuckin’ your mama’s boyfriend and then crawlin’ in here ‘cause you couldn’t settle without a taste of daddy’s cock. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Shame rushes hot through your chest at the words, burning up your neck and flooding your face until you feel stripped bare in a whole new way, but anger twists right alongside it—sharp and sudden, at him for saying it out loud, at yourself for how badly your body still aches for him even now. 

You shift like you might pull away, ready to slide out of the bed and disappear back down the hall. But Remmick’s fingers close tight around your wrist, stopping you cold. 

He tugs you right back down against his chest, voice low. “C’mere,” he murmurs, urging your mouth to his.

You resist at first, turning your face just enough that his lips catch the corner of yours instead, a small, stubborn sound of protest slipping out even as heat coils tighter in your belly. 

He doesn’t let you go, thumb stroking slow over your pulse until you finally give in, mouth softening, parting under the insistent press of his.

The second your lips meet—soft and hesitant at first, then melting open—his free hand lowers, sliding down your side and slipping just beneath the waistband of your shorts, brushing warm skin and the damp edge of your panties with a stroke that makes your breath hitch against his mouth.

And from the way those fingers linger, tracing lazy circles right where you’re already wet, his lesson for tomorrow might not even wait that long.