꒰ঌ ໒꒱

The hum of the industrial refrigerator is the only thing keeping you company—a low, vibrating drone that seems to rattle right through the soles of your worn-out heels.

It’s 3:14 AM. The air inside the diner is freezing, the ancient heating unit overhead doing nothing but blowing a thin, lukewarm draft that dies before it ever reaches the floor. You shiver, pulling the sleeves of your stained shirt over your hands, your knuckles raw and red from the ice-cold dishwater.

Every muscle in your body aches with a deep, heavy exhaustion. Your lower back throbs from hours of pacing the greasy, stained linoleum. Your eyes burn, feeling like someone rubbed sand into them. You’ve been on your feet since yesterday afternoon, and the night shift has a way of stretching time until minutes feel like hours.

Under the harsh, flickering buzz of the yellowing fluorescent lights, the diner has a way of looking abandoned. The cheap vinyl booths are cracked, casting long, distorted shadows across the empty tables.

It’s mostly quiet, save for the sparse, depressing clientele of the dead-of-night crowd. Over in the corner booth, a tired trucker stares blankly into a mug of lukewarm, burnt coffee, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the highway was crushing him. A few stools down at the counter, a guy in a grease-stained jacket slowly traces the rim of his glass, looking like he has nowhere else in the world to go, letting the smoke of his cigarette glide into the air and cling to the damp, cold windows.

You sigh, the sound lost in the vast, empty space of the restaurant. You grab a damp rag to wipe down the counter for the hundredth time, your movements slow and robotic. The smell of old grease, stale tobacco clinging to the curtains, and the sharp bite of cheap bleach fills your nose.

You hate this uniform. You hate these stupid shoes that dig into the soles of your feet like nails. Your stupid manager constantly demands you look "pretty" for the customers even though he almost never actually shows up unless it's to complain about your "shitty service"—like that’s the issue, and not the fact that this place has an ecosystem of mold growing in almost every room. You're expected to work the night shift on your own for the third week in a row and run around after the losers that come in here night after night with a smile.

A sharp ding rings through the room, making you look up toward the door from the counter you are dragging your cloth against.

A man steps in, letting the door slam shut behind him. He walks over to the counter and sits on a stool, keeping his head down and resting his heavy arms on the worn laminate.

"Can I get anything for you, sir?" you ask quietly, not wanting to disturb him more than necessary.

His broad shoulders tense, his large hands balling into fists. "Coffee, black," he grunts.

You nod politely and head into the back to brew a fresh pot. The machine starts buzzing loudly, sending vibrations through the floor. Then, it starts gargling. With a sudden, loud bang, a plume of gray smoke rises from the lid.

"Shit... shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" you curse, hitting the side of the metal machine.

You stand there, glaring at this sad excuse for electronics, and let out a defeated sigh. How are you going to explain this to the grumpy men sitting just behind the wall? Stepping out of the kitchen, your hands tremble slightly with a nervous hope that they won't kick your head in.

"I'm really sorry, guys. Erm... the coffee machine just bro—"

Before you can even finish your sentence, the tired trucker stands up, scowling, and storms out into the freezing night.

"—broke," you finish, your voice trailing off. You look at the man in the grease-stained jacket, then back to the tall newcomer. "However... if either of you wanna take a crack at fixing it... go ahead, I guess. I'll put some coffee on the stove, but it'll take... longer."

You scuff the linoleum with the front of your heel, the silence echoing through the room. Unsurprisingly, the man in the grease-stained jacket slides off his stool and slips out too, leaving his glass behind.

You turn back and head into the kitchen. Your hands are shaking slightly from the anxiety of the night. Lighting a match, you chuck it onto the stove and place a metal pot on top.

then, you hear the sound of the kitchen doors swinging open behind you, forcing you to turn away from the warmth of the newly lit fire.

You turn around, half-expecting the guy in the grease-stained jacket to have changed his mind, but instead, it’s the tall newcomer.

Up close, he is even more massive than he looked from across the counter. He has to duck his head slightly to clear the low-hanging doorframe of the kitchen, his broad shoulders practically filling the narrow, fluorescent-lit space. He’s wearing a heavy, dark jacket, and his face is partially shadowed by the brim of his cap.

You grip the handle of the cold metal pot a little tighter, suddenly realizing how small you are compared to him. "Oh," you breathe, your voice a little raspy from the cold. "You... actually want to take a look at it?"

The man stops a few feet away, keeping his hands in his pockets. He looks at the smoking, ruined coffee machine, then slowly looks over at you.

When he raises his head, the harsh kitchen light catches his face. He looks rugged, with a heavy five o'clock shadow and a faint, faded scar near his temple. He looks like a man who has seen his fair share of rough nights. But as his dark eyes lock onto yours, his hard expression softens slightly. There’s a sudden quiet in the air as he watches you intensely, his eyes slowly gliding down your body.

"Said you needed a hand," he grunts. His voice is a deep, rough gravelly rumble, but he speaks so quietly it's almost a whisper. "Used to do some mechanical work. Simple enough to check the heating element."

"Right. Yeah. Thanks," you mumble, slowly letting go of the pot and pouring the coffee grounds into the water. The rich scent of dark roast slowly begins to fill the damp, cold air.

"This place is a dump," Frank grunts from below, the clinking of metal tools echoing in the quiet room. "Manager ought to be shot for letting a lady work in a freezer like this."

A dry, bitter laugh escapes your chest before you can stop it. "Tell me about it. My manager doesn't care. He's probably asleep in his warm bed right now. Meanwhile, I've got to stand here in these..." You stop yourself, looking down at your cheap, stupid heels that are currently throbbing with a dull ache.

Frank pauses his work. He slowly stands back up, holding a dusty screwdriver. His eyes immediately trail down to your feet, then back up to your face. The furrow in his brow deepens, looking almost angry—but it's a protective, possessive kind of anger.

"He makes you wear those?" Frank asks, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous edge sliding into his tone. "To run around on greasy floors for eight hours?"

"Yeah," you sigh, leaning your hip against the counter, suddenly feeling the weight of your exhaustion crushing you. "Says it makes the diner look 'pretty.' Says customers like it."

Frank lets out a low noise of disgust. He steps closer, closing the distance between you until you can smell the faint scent of rain, leather, and cheap cologne on him. He towers over you, but his hands remain gentle as he gestures toward the prep chair where his jacket is.

"Sit down," he says softly.

"I have to watch the stove—"

"I'll watch the stove," Frank interrupts, his dark eyes glaring at you intensely, practically demanding you to let him help. "Please, sweetheart. Sit. Let me look at the machine, and you rest your feet."

The word sweetheart rolls off his tongue so naturally it makes a strange, fluttering sensation spark in your stomach. You look at his huge, intimidating frame, deciding to let him help.

Slowly, hesitatingly, you walk over to the chair and sit down with a loud sigh. "I'm not supposed to be sitting on company time. My manager watches the camera to make sure I'm not slacking. He's probably gonna kill me for this," you say, resting your elbow on the metal counter and letting your head sink into the palm of your hand.

His eyes drift up to the flickering camera, the air going thick for a moment. Without a word, he walks over and jams the metallic end of the screwdriver directly into the glass dome. It shatters with a sharp crack, and he shoves the broken casing to the side, letting it flop uselessly to face the top of a cabinet.

"Let's see him try," he grumbles.

He walks back over and kneels in front of the broken machine again, the fabric of his shirt stretching tight across his massive shoulders as he goes to work. The steady, rhythmic clink-clink of metal tools and the hum of the blue flame on the stove are the only sounds in the cramped kitchen.

"So, you got a name?" you ask quietly.

"Frank," he responds bluntly still clattering away with the mashine.

From your chair, you have no choice but to watch him. The heat from his discarded jacket draped over your lap is heavy and warm. Between that deep warmth and the exhaustion dragging at your limbs, your brain starts to slow down, your eyes fluttering closed every so often.

"So," you murmur, your voice sounding small even to your own ears. "You always go around fixing coffee machines for strangers at three in the morning?"

Frank pauses. He slowly turns his head, looking at you over his shoulder. Up close, his dark eyes are incredibly intense, heavy-lidded and tracking the way you're slumped in the chair.

"Only for pretty girls who look like they're about to collapse," he murmurs with a raspy chuckle.

Your cheeks instantly flare with heat. Normally, a comment like that from a strange man in a dark diner would make your guard go up. But under his heavy, unblinking gaze, your mind just... stumbles. Pretty girl. The words ring in your ears, feeling strangely heavy. You try to think of a witty, sarcastic comeback—something to show him you aren't that easy—but your brain feels like it's trying to run through wet cement.

"I'm not... I'm not that pretty," you mumble, the defense weak and childish.

Frank stops working entirely. He lays the screwdriver down with a quiet clatter and stands up. He towers over you, his massive frame completely cutting off the light from the stove. The sheer size of him is overwhelming, making you feel incredibly delicate, tiny, and fragile sitting in that metal chair.

He steps closer, until the tips of his heavy boots are almost touching the heels of your stupid, painful shoes.

"Yes, you are," he rumbles, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register that seems to vibrate right through your skin. "Don't say things like that about yourself. You're so pretty, sweetheart... even covered in dishwater and grease."

Your breath catches in your throat. You stare up at him, your mouth parting slightly. The room suddenly feels incredibly hot. The steam from the boiling pot on the stove is rising, wrapping around you, making the air thick and heavy. Or maybe it’s just him. He is so big. So warm.

But the closeness doesn't last for long. He turns away, going back to silently working on the machine. You trail off in thought, hypnotized, watching the muscles in his broad back stretch while he works. You stretch out and yawn, hearing the water suddenly bubble over. You start to stand to turn off the heat, but a heavy voice cuts through the steam.

"No. Sit," he demands, dropping the screwdriver on the floor beside him and quickly standing. "I said I got it, understand?"

He grumbles, sliding in between you and the stove. His large back completely blocks the flame from you, and a sudden draft of cold hits your face at the loss of the fire. The click of the stove turning off and the clank of the coffee pot leaving the burner are dulled by the wall of muscle only inches from your face.

He shuffles past you, grabbing two ceramic mugs from the rack, and places them down, filling each with the boiling coffee.

"You take milk?" he questions quietly, placing the pot on the hot plate.

"You're the customer, I should be doing this stuff," you say with a weak giggle, feeling your skin flush from his sheer presence and his quiet, commanding kindness.

You don't think you've ever met a man like this before. Most customers in this dump would slap you on the ass as you walked past, or shout at you for not cooking them a huge meal even though the kitchen closed at 9:00 PM. But Frank... something about him makes you completely relax. The radiating warmth of his body, the way he speaks to you with such calm confidence—it makes all the walls you spent years building up simply crumble.

It’s slightly scary, how vulnerable you feel. Your body is too tired to run, your brain too fixated on the way his fingers move, the way his muscles tense, the way his scent has completely filled the small room to even care. You can feel yourself already weakening, your mind slowing down, getting comfortable.

"Milk, yes or no?" he asks again, placing the mugs down in front of you.

The sharp clink of the ceramic hitting the metal counter snaps you out of your daze.

"B-black's... fine..." Your words are slow, dragged out.

His warm, heavy hand gently touches your cheek. "You're cold. Drink up while it's still hot," he says, looking intensely into your eyes.

Your lips part slightly, your breath quickening. The dry, rough feel of his calloused thumb against your cold, sensitive skin sends a sharp, tingling jolt straight down your spine. Your eyes flutter, a soft, helpless whimper escaping your throat before you can catch it.

Your brain completely glitches. The thought of your manager, the cameras, the freezing diner—it all just dissolves, leaving nothing but the heavy sensation of his hand on your skin.

"You're shakin'," he observes, his voice thick and possessive. His thumb strokes your cheekbone again, and you find yourself leaning your head into his touch, your mind going completely quiet. There is a silence for what seems like forever, nothing but the warmth of his touch swimming through your mind.

"So soft. Just a sweet, pretty little thing, aren't you?" he says quietly.

You realize he can probably see exactly how much you're enjoying this, but you don't think you care all that much anymore. You nod slowly, looking him in the eyes, letting your mouth fall slightly more open. His thumb, which had been sliding against your cheek, glides further across to brush the corner of your lips.

"You like that, hmm? Open your mouth for me a bit more, sweetheart," he says, moving even closer until the tips of his heavy boots align with your heels. His hand shifts, cupping your jaw firmly while his thumb slides across your lower lip.

"Sss-bbs-sw...?" you babble, letting out a few small, helpless noises. You aren't quite sure of your own words anymore as your mouth falls open naturally.

"Such a good girl for me. Let me take care of you, okay? Do you understand, sweetheart?" he says, a dark, pleased smile spreading across his lips.

He pushes the tip of his thumb into your mouth, pressing it against your tongue, slowly swiping the saliva that has built up there.

"Close," he orders, his gentle voice drawing out the word.

You let your lips lock around his thumb, the swirling saliva being played with, pushing the last remaining thoughts right out of your head. You gently start to suck, the taste of metal and salt filling your mouth.

"Oh, sweetheart... you're doing so good. I didn't even have to ask," he smirks. His free hand gently plays with your hair, twirling the strands around his thick, scarred fingers.

With a slow, deliberate pull, he tugs his thumb out of your mouth with a soft pop, letting a thin string of saliva drip down your chin. He carefully wipes the wetness from your face with the back of his hand.

"Fuck, baby doll. I didn't think this is what would be happening tonight."

His hand pushes through your hair, angling your head up so you have no choice but to look at him. Heat rushes through your body, pooling into a pit of desperation in your stomach. He carefully grips your waist, his strength effortless as he lifts you to sit on the prep table, making you much easier to access.

His large hands move back to your face, cupping the sides of your head, completely framing your face.

"So pretty... so, so pretty... You want me to touch you? You want that, baby girl?"

His face is so close to yours that his breath hot on your lips makes your entire body flutter. You nod. It's barely a movement, but a nod nonetheless.

"You seemed so confident earlier," he whispers, a teasing rumble in his chest. "Where's all that gone, mhm? Not a single thought behind those eyes now."

He slides his hand down, moving under your crumpled skirt. You let out a high, needy whine as his thick fingers press against your underwear, instantly finding the wet patch that is growing by the second.

"I wanna keep you, sweet girl... look after you. Let your pretty moans be the only thing I hear when I get home. You want that? Let Daddy take care of you."

You lean back slightly, pushing your weight helplessly against his hand, nodding over and over. You find yourself grinding against the tough pads of his fingers, getting entirely too needy, too desperate.

His other hand moves to your collar, slowly undoing the top few buttons of your shirt to reveal your bra.

"Oh, princess. That looks so pretty."

He leans down, his lips grazing small, warm kisses across your sensitive skin.

"Pl-ppp-pllleee~ mhhhh....~ mhhh," a litter of pathetic, broken whines leaves your mouth, taunting him, begging him for more.

Just as you start to find a rhythm, pushing your weight against his palm, the heat vanishes. Frank pulls his hand back, leaving you completely exposed to the freezing kitchen air. You whimper, a cold shiver racking your body as the damp draft hits your wet underwear. You reach for him, your clumsy hands clutching at his chest, but he gently pins your wrists to the metal table.

"Nooo~" you cry out, tears filling your eyes, the words coming out way more pathetic than intended.

"No? Oh, so you can speak. You gotta be patient for me, sweet girl," he mocks.

You wriggle against his restraint. "Come on, baby doll, you gotta talk for me. I need to know this is what you want. Tell me what you want me to do to you." His voice is low, but his tone is sickly sweet. You whine again, this time in frustration, a single tear rolling down your cheek, pouting like it'll change his mind.

He pulls both your wrists together gently to hold them with one hand, reaching with the other to wipe the tear away.

"Don't cry, baby, it's okay... I'll take care of you. I just need you to tell me what you want," he comforts, letting go of you again, this time releasing your arms too.

He moves back, grabbing your ankle and slowly sliding the cheap heel from your foot, then doing it again with the other, leaving you in your socks as the worn footwear clatters to the floor.

"That feel better?" he asks, sliding his hands up and down the bottoms of your feet, then up the back of your aching calves.

You let out a sigh of relief, feeling the pain dulling. Your brain is so fogged up you struggle to remember why they were hurting in the first place. You try telling him what you want, the muscles in your mouth feeling useless, the words coming out as pathetic noises.

"P-please mo—ugh, more." The words come out stretched and muffled.

He wraps his hand around your jaw, squishing your cheeks. "You want more, sweetheart? Tell me what you want. Use your words."

You try. You really try. "P-pl... p-pleee..."

"Please what, baby girl?" he coos, his other hand gently tracing the thick of your inner thigh. "Pretty girls ask nicely. What do you want Daddy to do?"

Your mind is totally blank. The only thing in your head is the warmth of his skin and the desperate throb between your thighs. You can't think of the word. You just whine, shaking your head.

"Well, I can't help you then... can I?" he chuckles, the skin around his eyes crinkling.

You try scooting yourself toward the edge of the table, desperate for the feeling to return, desperate for him to bury his cock inside of you.

"Please, f-fuck m-me, please, please," you whine, finally managing to get the words out.

He smiles. "See, baby doll? All you had to do is ask."

He slides your underwear down, unhooking it from one leg and letting it dangle from one foot. He pulls you forward enough to let you lie back, your hair pillowing your head against the counter. He pushes your skirt up, crumbling it around your waist.

"...Such a pretty pussy. If you hadn't asked so nicely, I’d devour you right on this table, sweetheart," he groans, letting his thick fingers explore you, making you shiver and whimper.

Suddenly, his head snaps up toward the swinging doors. His arms bracket your head on the table in a protective, commanding stance. He leans down real close, his hot breath brushing your ear.

"Shhh... shh, baby girl. Someone just walked in."

You hear his words, but they don't quite register. Your brain is too busy spiraling, the cold kitchen air making your sensitive skin break out in goosebumps. You just watch, dazed, as he disappears through the swinging doors.

There’s a brief mumble of voices on the other side of the wall. A harsh, low rumble from Frank, followed by the sound of the front door chime ringing again as the customer quickly thinks better of it and leaves.

Just as quickly as he disappeared, Frank strides back into the kitchen. He is aggressively pulling his belt off with a metallic clank, his zipper trailing down.

"Asshole..." he grunts, his jaw clenched in pure, protective anger. "If those are the kinds of dudes you have to deal with every night, I swear to God I'm never letting you step foot in this dump again."

His quiet ranting phases out as he steps between your thighs. Your brain completely blocks out his words, focusing entirely on the excruciatingly hot sensation of his thick tip rubbing up and down your entrance.

Your desperate, needy whines instantly snap him out of his anger. His eyes trail over your flushed, helpless face, and his expression softens completely. His free hand slides up under your shirt, his warm palm rubbing your tummy softly to soothe your shaking body.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Daddy got a bit angry for a second there," he whispers, his voice thick. "Back to your pretty face. How's that feel?"

You can't even answer. You just beg, repeating "please" over and over because it’s the only word your melted brain can conjure.

He slides inside you. It’s an incredibly tight, heavy fit, and you can feel your body stretching to accommodate him. Slowly, he slips almost all the way back out, leaving only the leaking tip inside before bucking deep into you again. His pace is steady and demanding, his large hands wrapping securely under your hips to hold you in place as he drives you against the metal table.

Your hands reach up, grabbing onto his thick biceps, your fingernails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself. You whimper and moan, filling the gaps in the quiet kitchen with pathetic, slurred pleases, completely desperate for your orgasm.

He keeps fucking into you, grunting and groaning as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

"You wanna cum, sweet thing?" he asks, watching your eyes roll back.

You nod frantically. "Please... please... ughhh, please, please... mhhhggmmm..."

You can't focus. The feeling of him pushing in and out of you has rendered your mind entirely useless. You are right on the cliff. Your moans get louder, echoing in the empty diner, your legs trembling helplessly against his sides.

"Fuck... you look so pretty like this," he groans.

His words are the final thread snapping, tumbling you over the edge into a crashing, blinding orgasm. You twitch and shake beneath him, your mind completely white. He keeps fucking you right through your climax, his own breath catching as he follows you over, groaning loud as he buries himself as deep as he can go and fills you.

Your head is completely empty. The room is spinning in your dazed, overstimulated state.

Frank rests his forehead against yours for a moment, catching his breath, before slowly pulling out. You let out a weak whimper at the loss of him.

"You did so well for me, sweetheart," he whispers, kissing your sweaty forehead. He pulls up his jeans and fastens his belt, his eyes never leaving you.

He looks down at your ruined, stained uniform, then at the cheap, painful heels sitting abandoned on the floor. His eyes darken with a quiet resolve.

"You wanna leave this place?" he asks, his voice quiet but intense.

You nod breathlessly, completely incapable of making a decision for yourself.

"Good girl." Gently, he unbuttons your uniform shirt himself, sliding it off your arms with tender care. He grabs a clean paper towel from the dispenser to gently wipe you down, keeping you comfortable, before chucking the ruined shirt and those stupid, painful heels directly into the trash bin.

He wraps his massive, warm jacket around your bare shoulders, zipping it up so it covers your body almost completely like a giant blanket. He scoops you up into his arms, lifting your weight effortlessly against his chest.

Six months. Twenty-six weeks. One hundred and eighty-two days. For six months, your company had become regulars for Kyle’s delivery company. Express delivery. First class delivery. Business class delivery. Second-day delivery. Just about every kind of crappy ‘deal’ or overprized ‘special’ offer that his company offered, yours accepted liked chums. It felt like just about every single day, he’d see you⎯hidden by this big old glass desk and smelling of expensive coffee. 

Sometimes in the morning to pick up monstrous packages that killed his lower back to carry back to the truck, greeted by your half-awake smile and a weak apology for not being able to help him with the packages. Sometimes in the evening, when you had a stack of papers that needed to be delivered before midnight, greeted by a frazzled look and a hushed joke about ‘work am I right?’.

Sometimes, he’d just show up and pretend like he was just checking if there were any more packages. Your building had great air conditioning. Plus, the free wifi was nice. But, those things really were just little extras on top of being able to see you. The way that you rolled your chair around behind your desk, scrambling to grab papers and answer phone calls. The way you would put on the sweet smile and pretend like you didn’t want to strangle entitled co-workers.

Pushing open the door to the lobby with his elbow, he cowers slightly at the soft beep of the sensor, feeling like a sore thumb in the sea of polished tile and marble offices. Here he was in thrift store work boots, surrounded by these perfect and polished offices that he would never see the light of unless he was scrubbing the floors of them. Finding your receptionist desk, it was like a breath of fresh air, a tiny glimmer of color in the cold unwelcoming office lobby. Watching you brush away some guy in a suit, he chews on his bottom lip, picking at the skin with his teeth. He should've just stayed in his truck, eating his sad excuse of a sandwich. He shouldn’t fucking be in here.

“Kyle!” You perk up in your seat, a bright smile spreading on your lips. 

“Uh..hey, ( Y/n ).” He weakly waves, cringing at how awkward his words come out.

“Hi!” You lean over the desk to motion him closer, “Come on, I stole us some sandwiches from the potluck. They're like those super expensive ones from that fancy BBQ place around the corner.”

“You didn’t have to.” He argues, praying that it wouldn’t get you in trouble.

“As if I wasn’t going to let you starve!” You argue, “Plus, they're gonna buy these ridiculously overpriced donuts for dessert, so they won’t even notice if something goes missing.”

Cracking a soft smile at your insistence he eat the stolen food, you push yourself off the desk, heels clacking as you scramble to unlock the door for him. Fuck, you were sweet. Too fucking sweet, really. Most receptionists wouldn’t bat an eye at him, yet here you were⎯offering him food. Pushing open the door, you practically drag him inside by the shirt, ushering him to the secret stash of stolen food from the potluck. There on a small corner of the desk was a stack of plastic takeout boxes filled with food. Biting back a chuckle of amusement, he could smell the sweet brown sugar rub of the BBQ in the air, different from your usual smell of coffee. But, it was still nice.

“You really don’t have to…” 

“Oh hush! Like I said, they won’t notice.” You argue, “So tell me, which one do you want?”

“Uh..what is there?” 

“So..um..” You chew on your bottom lip, sorting through the boxes. 

Moving some boxes around on the countertop, you furrow your brows in focus, trying to read the label. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he glances over your side profile, lingering on the way that your lips part softly. Your hair was curled and styled. Your makeup was glittery and perfect. Your suit was silky and unwrinkled. Everything about you was clearly meant to match with the aesthetics of the office. Something expensive. Something above his pay grade. 

“This is pulled pork, and this one is barbecue chicken.” You point to each box, “This one is..some kind of brown sugar  rub on ribs, I think? And this is the cornbread with macaroni n’ cheese.”

“I’ll take the smallest one..” 

“Kyle..” You shoot him an annoyed look, “Don’t you start with that nonsense. Take what you want, or even take all of it home.” 

“I can’t do that to you.” He sighs, hating the thought of stealing food from you.

“Kyle, don’t make me shove these into your pants. Just take some, I get this stuff all the time.” You threaten, a playful smile on your lips. “This is no different.” 

Chewing harder on the inside of his cheek, he looks at the rows of take-out boxes, lingering on box of pulled pork. The box was stuffed full, tiny pieces of pulled pork threatening to fall onto your desk. Hesitantly grabbing the box, he tenses up involuntarily, just waiting for you to protest against it. But, you don’t. Popping open the container of cornbread, you grab a small handful, picking it apart as you eat it in pieces. He remembered you said something about it ‘burning calories’.

“Ahh, that’s a good choice.” You nod your head in approval, “This stuff is like crack to the managers. They buy like the catering size cause they totally pig out on it.”

“Yeah?” He raises a brow, amused by your explanation.

“Mm-hm, it’s ridiculous.” You nod, “Almost as ridiculous considering they all bitch about how fat they are, when they all fit in a size small. Like don’t start with that whole ‘I am fat’ bullshit, it makes me feel like shit when I go get seconds or look in a mirror.”

“Yeah..I guess.” He shrugs, not really sure how to respond to that.

“I think that if you’re gonna be miserable, do it at home. Don’t bring it to work.” You chew on a piece of cornbread, “So, besides how shitty my co-workers are. Tell me, how is work? Any gossip with you?”

Thinking over your words, he hesitates in answering back, because in all honesty he did have some shit that he wanted to get off his chest. His co-workers were assholes. His manager was an even bigger asshole. He had to work overtime three times this week alone. His lower back was killing him. He really didn’t want to go back to work, and deal with entitled clients. Oh, and he was fucking crushing on you like a total pussy. Looking down at the takeout box, he pops open the lip, half-heartedly picking at the pulled pork with his fork. He shouldn’t gossip, he shouldn’t. It would look bad on his company’s part, almost as bad as him sitting behind your desk and eating food. 

“Nah..” He shakes his head, “Just the usual..working overtime and my back killing me.”

“Yeah?” You chew on your bottom lip, nodding along at his words.

“Yeah.” He nods, not thinking twice about your concern.

“You know..I know a really good massage place, can fix that back of yours. But, it only does couple massages though.” You suggest carefully, a light coyness in your tone. 

Not really paying attention to your words, he shakes his head at the suggestion, his mind already calculating the cost of this potential massage. He was stretched thin this month on money. Hell, coming here was pushing it. Taking a bite of the pulled pork, he bites back a groan, the taste of brown sugar and smokey meat taking like heaven after not eating all day. Glancing back up to you, you stare at him with a mix of amusement and curiosity for his response. 

“I probably can’t afford it⎯” He pauses, the realization clicking in his head. “Oh..”

“Yeah..so, what do you say?” You chew on your bottom lip, “Up for a little massage, Kyle?”