sullen girl

The jingle of his keys unlocking the door and the sound of his heavy boots stepping onto the hardwood floor prompt you to jolt awake. Your eyes shoot open, and you are met with your dark bedroom. Charlie’s finally home. 

Earlier in the evening, he had called to inform you that he’d be staying late at the station and to eat dinner without him. You understood what you signed up for when your relationship first started, however, you couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed whenever those frequent calls came. Not only for the lack of quality time, but because you know the mental toll it takes on Charlie. Recently, he’s been working late almost every night—and every night, you’re forced to eat dinner alone and curl up into your empty bed, waiting for him to return. 

Charlie loves his job. Although, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t hate the way it keeps him from you. It kills him to know you’re waiting for him at home all alone, sometimes forcing yourself to stay up until he arrives. This is not one of those nights.

You had fallen asleep as soon as you cleaned the mess that making dinner warranted—begrudgingly crawling up the stairs, lazily breezing through your nightly routine, and closing your eyes as soon as your head hit the pillow. Usually, you’d have trouble even falling asleep, having missed the way Charlie’s warmth would gather beneath the covers. Lately, you’ve grown accustomed to it, despite how much you hate it and how badly you miss him. 

Throwing the covers off of your body, you swing your legs over the edge of your shared bed and slide your feet into your house slippers. Fall is approaching, so the house is under a constant chill, making you grab one of Charlie’s flannels to push your goosebumped arms into the oversized sleeves. It was a bad night to wear shorts and a tank top to bed, you silently point out. 

Slowly opening the bedroom door, your eyes squint from the harsh light shining from downstairs. Charlie’s looking for the food you set aside for him, no doubt, and you can tell by the way his footsteps move cautiously that he’s trying to be quiet. Your feet quietly drag along the floor, your steps barely audible as you tread down the stairs at a leisurely pace. 

Turning the corner, you step into the kitchen, your eyes still adjusting to the overhead fluorescent lighting. You find Charlie sitting at the dinette table, caught in the middle of cracking open a cold beer. Rough night, you figure. 

He jumps, nearly spilling his beer, when he finally notices you standing in the doorway of the kitchen. 

“Hey, baby.” His drawn voice calls to you, setting the can down on the table. “Did I wake you?” 

He looks exhausted. His stature is leaned back, legs sitting manspread, and he hasn’t bothered to shed off his heavy police coat or his duty belt. Hours of work settle themselves into the dark circles that form under his eyes, and his hair is messy, a product of him running his hands through it whenever he’s stressed. Which is often, lately. 

“S’okay.” You wave him off, your tired words slurring as you shuffle toward him and hold his flannel closer to your shivering body. It’s much colder downstairs, and your body screams to crawl back into bed. “I missed you.” 

“Missed you too, baby.” His soft voice pulls you closer, his arms opening to invite you into them. Stopping between his spread legs, you opt to sit on one of them, sitting sideways while wrapping your arms around his neck. His arm curls around you, settling his hand on your hip while his other arm perches itself onto the table. From his position, he looks up at you, his warm eyes visibly admiring your features. He always looks at you with such adoration, his lips twitching into a subtle smirk as he does so. 

“How was work?” You ask, a yawn forcing its way out of you at the end of your question. 

“It was… fine.” His hesitation is a dead giveaway that there’s more than he’s leading on. 

“Charlie.” Your tone is a warning. His eyes catch yours, but flick away when you raise your eyebrows, fishing for more information. Giving in, he lets out a deep breath, his eyes closing as he pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. 

“There’s just a lot going on at the station—and not enough cops to deal with it. That’s where I come in.” He sighs, the stress of the day weighing heavy on his stature. “I guess it’s the price I pay for being Chief of Police.”

“You deserve a break.” You tell him, unwrapping your hold on him to run your hand through his hair. Your nails gently drag along his scalp, knowing it soothes him, and you watch as the tension melts from his shoulders just a bit. “I wish there was something I could do—to relieve your stress, at least.” He only hums in response, distracted by the soothing action as his eyes stay shut.

Charlie does have days off, but even then, he’ll receive a phone call about some paperwork that needs to be reviewed—or a case needs to be filed—or someone is specifically asking to speak with him, and only him. 

“It’s my day off tomorrow.” He reasons, but you both know that doesn’t mean anything.

“For now.” You sigh, sliding your hand from his hair to his cheek, the subtle scruff scratching your palm. His eyes open to find yours, exhaustion present in their gaze. 

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, silence falling before you lean in, placing a gentle kiss on his lips as your eyes flutter close. His hand on your hip tightens as you feel him push back, pouring his affection into you. His other arm leaves the surface of the table and you feel his free hand grip onto your outer thigh, pulling you closer into him. Your arms replace themselves around his neck, deepening the kiss further than you intended.

A low groan settles in Charlie’s throat when he feels you squirm in his lap. He can read your body language fairly well—and that’s a telltale sign that you want him. Bad. 

You can’t help but feel as though he needs this. A moment to forget about work. Indulge in something that doesn’t require effort—at least not mentally. If there’s one thing you know about Charlie, it’s how to get his mind off of things. When he’s with you, nothing else matters, and you’re determined to make that happen. 

Quickly breaking the kiss, you rest your forehead against his, your breath heavy with pure need. “Come with me.” 

Charlie wastes no time following your lead as you lift yourself off of his lap. You grab one of his hands, pulling him from the chair and out of the kitchen, straight into the living room. Positioning him in front of the couch, you release his hand and undo the zipper of his police jacket, his eyes focused only on you. Slowly, you peel the jacket off of him, letting it fall off his shoulders and arms, before gathering it into your hands and tossing it to the lonesome chair beside the couch. He watches you, his head following your movements, curious as to what your next steps are.  

Just as his hands instinctively reach for your waist, your hands lay flat against his chest, carefully pushing him to sit on the couch. He lands on the soft surface with a small oof, his head craning upward to look at you. He looks mesmerizing. 

His legs fall in their natural spread position, his head leaning against the headrest of the couch, and hands resting atop his thighs, eyes watching you with eagerness. You’re positive Charlie expected to go another night sleeping beside you with little to no acknowledgment, always allowing you to get your beauty rest, but this—this is much better. 

His eyes follow yours as you kneel between his legs, your hands landing on either knee. You notice subtle tension in his muscles at your touch, your hands moving up his legs at a tantalizing pace. His thighs tense up while you fumble with his duty belt, undoing the heavy buckle and sliding the bulky belt off of his hips, setting it aside elsewhere. He’s left only in his work pants and department button-up. 

“Aren’t you tired, baby?” His gravelly voice cuts in as your fingers graze his pants’ zipper, pulling you to look up at him from your position. 

Truth be told, your tiredness left you long ago when you noticed just how wound up Charlie really is. Your incessant need to pamper him consumed your thoughts, satisfaction only redeemable once he’s cared for. 

“Not at all. Are you?” He shakes his head, his hips absently bucking beneath your touch. “Then let me take care of you.” You smirk, watching as the black of his pupils swallows his rich brown irises. 

He’s at a loss for words as he observes your movements—undoing the button and zipper of his pants with ease and untucking his shirt from the waistband. His breath is shallow—shaky—when your fingers ghost the elastic waistband of his boxers. You must’ve been in this position a hundred times, but you still manage to get him riled up; his chest rising and falling slowly, his eyes focused on every small action. His stomach flexes when the tips of your fingers graze his skin, hooking your fingers into his boxers and tugging just enough to let his length spring free. 

He nearly groans when you firmly wrap your hand around his erection, admiring the precum that leaks from the tip. You glance up at him, watching as his breath gets caught in his throat when your eyes lock with his. His hands have fallen to the sides of him, absently gripping the plush couch cushions beneath him—he’s waiting, patiently—restraint proving hard to keep. 

You hold his gaze as you lean forward, sitting on the heels of your feet, and capture the tip of his cock between your plump lips. He releases his breath, the rush of air coming out uneasy as his head falls back. The salty taste of his precum floods your tastebuds, and you hum as you swirl your tongue around the sensitive skin—simulating a vibrating sensation. His hips jerk beneath you as you feel one of his hands fly to your hair, his fingers grazing your scalp to maintain a hold on you. 

Taking him deeper, you sink your head down, only stopping when you feel him hit the back of your throat. A low groan exits Charlie—your watchful eyes observing as his lips part to release his silent praise. You move up slowly, swirling your tongue around his tip once more, before sinking back down. The grip on your hair tightens, though it’s not uncomfortable or painful. If anything, it encourages a faster pace, your own arousal growing from the consistent grunts that slip off of Charlie’s lips. 

You’re unwilling to let him finish this way, and as much as you’d love to taste him dripping down your throat, you’re feeling selfish. You’re unable to ignore the pooling moisture between your thighs, nearly soaking through the thin sleep shorts you wore to bed. You maintain a steady rhythm, tears gathering on your waterline from the brush of his tip against your throat, until you see his stomach tighten through his shirt. He’s close. Too close. 

Hollowing your cheeks one last time, you release his erection with an audible pop and tuck it back into his boxers. His head veers down to look at you, his brows scrunched from his close climax and chest heaving from his heavy breaths. 

He undoes the hold on your hair, sliding his hand to hold your cheek, his palm flat against your flushed skin. His thumb swipes the spit that’s accumulated on your now-swollen lips, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his own. 

“I missed you so much.” He sighs, bringing his other hand to cup your other cheek, pride present on his features. He has his girl sitting on her knees for him after a long day at work. The sight makes his cock twitch. 

“Show me.” You challenge, lifting yourself off the heels of your feet, still kneeling before him. 

He takes the hint, peeling his back off the couch to capture your lips in a hungry kiss. Your hands grip his wrists, and his large palms are now plastered against your jawline to hold you against him. Your lips move hastily yet fluidly. This kiss is much more fervent than the one before in the kitchen. 

Charlie consumes your every sense. You taste him on your tongue, the brief sip of beer he got to enjoy still present on his lips. His starving groan echoes in your ears. Images of him with his head hung back, lips parted, and eyes squeezed shut just moments ago flicker like a film behind your closed eyes. He smells of cinnamon, firewood, and natural musk—his natural pheromones seep into his skin, only driving you even more insane at a close range. And all that you can feel is him. His rough palms cradling your face, the coarse hair of his mustache scratching your sensitive skin, and his lips consuming yours in a yearning embrace. 

You move quickly as you lift yourself from the ground, lips still attached to his as you climb into his lap, straddling him. His hands fall from your face, instantly finding a home on your waist, the tips of his fingers digging into the soft flesh. Draping your arms over his shoulders and the back of the couch, you break the kiss, much to his natural protest. 

Though, you’re not done with him. Bending your head to find his neck, your lips gently graze the warm skin. His head tilts, his hips bucking into yours as you pepper open-mouth kisses along the tender flesh. Your lips move along his neck, paying extra attention to his sweet spots, and stopping just below his ear. 

Grazing his earlobe with your lips, you whisper, “Show me how much you missed me, Charlie.”

You nearly yelp when he gets a stronger hold on you, quickly switching positions so you’re lying beneath him. There’s no wasting time for him as he paws at your flimsy sleep shorts, pulling the near-see-through material down your thighs. His eyes grow darker—unsatiated—when he sees just how wet you are through your cotton underwear. 

His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, swiftly peeling the soaked material off of your cunt, prompting you to lift your hips in assistance. You lay there before him in your sorry excuse of a spaghetti-strap tank top, your hardened nipples peeking through the thin fabric, and his oversized flannel, with your hair splayed over the armrest of the couch. 

“Beautiful.” He mumbles to himself. 

He leans over you, carefully placing his lips onto yours in yet another kiss. It’s slow this time. Meaningful. 

Your arms lazily wrap around his neck, your eyes fluttering close as your legs spread for him, welcoming him between them. One of his hands is propped onto the armrest beside your head while the other fumbles with his boxers, releasing his awaiting erection. His lips work against you as you suck in a small gasp, feeling him drag his tip through your wet folds. He’s being gentle, and thorough, as explores every crevice before pausing at your aching entrance. 

Both of your breaths hitch when he nudges his hips forward, your walls stretching to consume every inch. Your breath quickens the deeper he gets, your cunt pulsing as it attempts to accommodate him. His mouth swallows the moan that claws its way from your throat when he’s fully seated inside you. Usually, you’d take the much-needed time to get to this point, but the situation demanded urgency. 

Charlie’s other hand falls into place beside your head, now caging you in. His lips leave yours, his breathing heavy as he pulls his hips back, only to carefully drive back into you. Your lips part, and a string of quiet moans braid themselves into every exhaled breath. If it’s possible, your legs spread wider, the heels of your feet finding themselves digging into his lower back as he finds a steady rhythm.

Your hands spread on the expanse of his broad back, desperately grasping at the material of his police uniform. An incoherent stream of grunts rolls off Charlie’s tongue, increasingly growing louder and adding to your peaking arousal. You know you won’t last long, and neither will he.

“I missed this so much.” You whine, squeezing your eyes shut and scrunching your brows in pure pleasure. “I missed you.” 

“Jesus, baby.” He mutters under his breath. His lack of words is a sign that he’s close, unable to form a coherent thought. 

He maintains the same speed, his hips digging into yours with forceful thrusts, trying to keep the momentum. That familiar feeling settles deep within your lower belly, sending waves of arousal to your already-soaking cunt. It allows him to thrust into you rapidly, your limbs clinging onto him as your climax quickly climbs to its highest point. 

“Please, Charlie.” His name leaves your mouth in a pleading whimper.

“Look at me, baby.” The tremble in his voice lets you know he’s not far behind. 

Your eyes open to find him locked onto yours. A sheen layer of sweat gathers along his forehead, and his hair sticks to the creased skin as his brows furrow in concentration. 

His hips slam into yours for a final time, both of your orgasms clashing. Yours washes over you in rhythmic pulses around Charlie’s cock, uncontrollable cries leaving your throat raw as you finish around him. His cock twitches frantically inside of you, coating your fluttering walls in his cum. Charlie’s defeated groans climb over every surface around you, filling the living room.

When he finally pulls out, his cum spills out of you, mixing with your own release as it settles beneath you. The feeling isn’t your favorite, however, you’re distracted when Charlie places a gentle kiss on your forehead. Both of your breathing has evened, and the aftershocks of your orgasms are now a distant memory. 

His body slumps onto yours, his head falling onto your chest. Your hands slide into his hair, combing the rough strands back, eliciting a content hum from Charlie. His arms snake down to your waist, hooking underneath you to hold you closer. The couch isn’t nearly big enough to allow the two of you to cuddle comfortably, and you’re sure he looks ridiculous with his legs hanging off the other armrest, but he doesn’t seem to care. He nuzzles into your chest, and while you’re perfectly content with staying like this, he deserves to be comfortable. Preferably in bed. With you.

“We should head up, Charlie.” You tug on his hair, pulling him to look up at you. “You’re still in your uniform.” You point out, chuckling. 

“Fine.” He grumbles, lifting himself off of you, and tucking his softening erection into his boxers. You see a glimmer of mischief in his eyes before a smirk is plastered on his face. “We really should get cleaned up, though. How ‘bout a shower?” He means together.

You glance at the clock on the wall behind him, then back at him. “Aren’t you tired?” You repeat his earlier question. 

“It’s my day off tomorrow.” He recalls, and you playfully roll your eyes. 

As you chatted with him, Ellie wandered over and held up a juice box, a silent plea for assistance. You popped the straw in and handed it back without ever losing your train of thought (or glancing away). 

Dread, and a touch of jealousy, pooled in Aaron’s stomach. The normalcy of it stung, the air now beginning to feel a bit too warm. He felt like a bystander in his own family's life.

Another thought came to mind - is this what always happened when he was away?

The man even offered Ellie a smile, but she paid him no mind, completely ignoring him in favor of running off to rejoin the other little kids. 

Aaron eagerly picked up his pace, desperate to intervene before the guy began invading your space even more. It didn’t look like it’d be long.

Your friendly face morphed into one of clear surprise when he came into view. You pushed your sunglasses up onto your head, as if your eyes were playing a trick on you. “Aaron?! What are you doing here?”

Aaron caught the subtle flicker of disappointment that crossed the man's face. His hand settled around you, a little more possessive than usual, pulling you closer against him. If there was one thing he wanted to make clear, it was that you were his. “We wrapped last night and took an early flight home. Thought I'd surprise you.”

“Consider me pleasantly surprised,” you grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

When you pulled back, you caught the tension lingering in his jaw, his subtle gaze continuing to size up the other soccer dad. Not that Aaron seemed to notice your observation - he was too focused on the man who had clearly gotten under his skin.

Your hand rested against his chest, your fingers moving absently over the fabric of his shirt, a quiet reminder that you were right there.

“How's he doing?” Aaron asked as his posture relaxed the smallest amount, his eyes shifting to the far end of the field, immediately locking onto number two.

Your mouth opened, but it wasn’t your sweet voice Aaron heard.

“Jack's doing great today.” The man answered instead, rattling off Jack's stats with the confidence of a proud parent. He looked at you, too happily, too smug. “He's gotten what? One goal? Two assists-”

“I was asking my wife.”

Your expression faltered, taken aback by your husband's strange lack of friendliness. You studied his face, searching for some explanation.

An awkwardness settled in the air, intertwining with the growing humidity, but before you could say a word, Ellie suddenly appeared, crash landing into Aaron's legs. “Daddy!”

-

“Today was fun,” you said, leaning back against the kitchen counter as you watched Aaron rinse off the last of the dishes. The words were casual, but the meaning behind them wasn't. It was an invitation, a gentle opening for him to share whatever had been weighing on him since the soccer field.

The kids had long since been tucked into bed, exhausted after a full day. Jack's team had won, and between the game, the trip to the grocery store, and the belated Father's Day festivities that followed, it was no wonder they'd been fast asleep almost as soon as their heads hit their pillows.

And now, the two of you moved through your usual end-of-night routine; cleaning up before finally settling in yourselves.

“It was.” His back was to you, putting one of the glasses in the dishwasher. He didn’t elaborate, though his tone indicated there was much more to it than that.

“Aaron.”

He stopped, his eyes finding yours. “What?”

“Is everything alright?” Your gaze searched his face, worry softening your expression. “You're…” you trailed off.

“I'm what?” He asked, a bit harder around the edges than he intended. Frustrated. 

“Acting like you have something to prove.” Your voice softened, confusion flickering across your face as your expression dropped.

“Am I?” It wasn't a challenge or even a denial. More of an admission to himself than anything else.

You studied him for a moment, watching the conflict play across his features. “Does this have something to do with Jared?”

The name almost made him flinch. His jaw tightened, and he let out a quiet breath through his nose before finally meeting your eyes.

“Is he always that comfortable with you?” he asked, trying for a casual tone that didn't quite land.

“I... no.” You stated with certainty, hands falling to your side. A crease formed between your brows, “not at all.”

He huffed, shaking his head slightly as he crossed his arms.

“Is that why you’re so upset?” You asked gently, compassion softening every word. “Aaron, sweetheart, he-”

Aaron interrupted, “it made me sick to my stomach.”

“I'm sorry-”

“How natural it all looked.” Another confused look pulled onto your face, and he continued. “Watching him stand there like he belonged beside you. The smile he gave Ellie, like he was hoping she'd smile back. Or as if he was responsible for how well Jack was playing.”

Your tone changed, switching from sincerity to more of a firm confidence. "Aaron, honey, you have no competition.”

“Well, it should have been me.”

“Aaron, it is you. Whether you're physically here or not.” You laughed, your expression filled with affectionate disbelief. “Do you really think there's anyone else I would want this life with?”

“Even if most of the time you’re living that life on your own?”

“I’m not.” You insisted, pushing away from the counter and gently catching his forearms, coaxing them apart from where he'd folded them tightly across his chest. “You’re okay. We’re okay. So what if you miss a soccer game here and there? None of that changes what you mean to us.”

“It’s not just that, though.” He looked down, ashamedly averting his eyes from yours. “It’s everything. I was talking to Dave,” at the mention of his name, Dave’s words flashed into his mind. Do you ever consider it? Hanging up that badge? “I've been thinking about taking some time off.”

Your brows drew together. The idea of Aaron willingly taking time away from work was startling enough to send a wave of concern through you. “For how long?”

“A couple weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know.” He gave a small shrug, his eyes finding yours again. “It's just a thought.”

“Would you actually want that?” 

“I don't want Jack and Ellie growing up remembering me as the dad who's always leaving, who's missing their lives.” And the thought of someone else taking his place terrified him. Someone else being there for the moments he missed, becoming the familiar face in their lives while he became the father who was always gone. His replacement. 

“Aaron, that's not who they see.” A sad smile tugged at your lips. “And you really don’t miss much. If anything, you miss the ordinary moments. But when you're home…” your expression warmed, “that's when our favorite memories are made.”

“It'd be nice to actually be there for it all. Especially the ordinary moments.”

“It would,” you agreed simply, because yeah. You’d prefer your husband to be home at all times - of course you would. “But we don’t hold it against you. We understand. But I don't want you making a decision because you're punishing yourself.”

“I don’t want to make the same mistakes as before.” A silent understanding passed between the two of you - Haley.

“You aren’t, I promise you. Jack and Ellie are never counting the moments you're gone.” You held his gaze. “They're too busy loving the moments you're here. And if you truly feel as if you need to take time off, that’s fine. But again, don’t do so because you feel as if you have something to prove.” 

Aaron wouldn’t be doing it because he felt like he had something to prove. He’d do it for a million reasons, but never that. He’d do it because he hated the feeling of jet lag and waking up without you in his arms. He’d do it to be rid of the paperwork and the nights alone and the bureaucracy. He’d do it so he never again had to show up at a family event and get a sick feeling in his stomach, a nagging in the back of his mind that some other man was going to come along and take the most important pieces of his life away, simply because he was near and Aaron wasn’t. 

He’d do it if only for you. Then again, he’d never quite been good at letting go. 

He had to get the point across somehow, but he couldn't quite find the words to explain what he was feeling. So, he settled on saying, “I just want more time with you, okay? I don’t think that’s too much to ask. It’s not a punishment to be near you. I want to be.”

“I want more time with you, too, Aar,” you echoed as if it was second nature, the reassurance coming without a thought. “I always do. And a leave of absence would be nice, but I don’t want you thinking you have to shut down your whole career just because you think some arrogant soccer dad I have zero interest in is jeopardizing our marriage. I’m happy with what you and I have.”

“As a matter of fact, I think our lives are pretty close to perfect.” You continued, quiet certainty in your eyes. “I've got a wonderful husband and two amazing kids. Everyone's healthy and-” Your eyes narrowed playfully at him. “-usually happy.” 

Aaron couldn’t help but chuckle lightly. Guilty.

“And you happen to have a smokeshow for a wife who's completely, hopelessly in love with you.” Your smile softened. “Aaron... as far as I'm concerned, there's nothing else I could ask for.”

The tension in Aaron's shoulders finally eased, if only a little. He let out a slow breath before stepping forward, his arms slipping around your waist and drawing you against him. His chin came to rest atop your head, holding you there a moment longer than usual.

“And…” you began after a quiet beat, the thought surfacing almost shyly. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

He hummed softly, encouraging you to continue.

“I was thinking…” You tipped your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Maybe it's time we tried for a third again.” 

“A third kid?” The question came out softer than he intended, surprise threading through his voice. The two of you hadn’t talked about this since, well, the Roy situation. 

You nodded, flush filling your cheeks. “Plus, you're kind of hot when you get all riled up and protective about us.”

Satisfaction settled in his chest. Even after years together, he could still get a shy reaction out of you. And just like that, Jared the soccer dad disappeared from his thoughts entirely. Because there was no competition. There never had been.

You weren't looking for someone else. You weren't wishing for something different. You were standing there, telling him you wanted more of this - more of him, more of your family, more of the life you'd built together.

Your lips pulled into a soft smirk. “Maybe you should put that jealousy to good use?”

“Now?” Before you could respond, his grip shifted and he lifted you effortlessly onto the counter. A quiet laugh escaped you as you steadied yourself against his shoulders, his place between your legs bringing him closer.

In your daze, teary eyes squeezed shut, you vaguely feel the pressure of his arm as he curls it under and around your neck. The unwavering punch of his tip against the spot you like nearly makes you miss the way he begins to squeeze the air out of your throat—as if you already didn’t have a hard time breathing as is. But even as angry as he must be, Shane is mindful about his strength, keeping his grip on you just loose enough to where you won’t pass out. Without realizing it, your hands have clung onto his wide biceps as he fucks you further into your soft, squeaky mattress.

In your daze, teary eyes squeezed shut, you vaguely feel the pressure of his arm as he curls it under and around your neck. The unwavering punch of his tip against the spot you like nearly makes you miss the way he begins to squeeze the air out of your throat—as if you already didn’t have a hard time breathing as is. But even as angry as he must be, Shane is mindful about his strength, keeping his grip on you just loose enough to where you won’t pass out. Without realizing it, your hands have clung onto his wide biceps as he fucks you further into your soft, squeaky mattress.

You have a tear-stained cheek pressed against one bicep, the hairs on his skin collecting a few of the escaping droplets. Your nose is buried into the crook of Shane’s elbow, where you can smell the musk of his sweat, along with the remnants of dirt, grime, and the woodsy outdoors that have clung onto him throughout the day. On any other man, it would have been gross and unpleasant. On Shane, it’s unfortunately intoxicating.

You don’t remember coming the first time.

The entirely obscene squelch of your slick combined with Shane’s precum, you can barely hear over the rush of blood in your ears and Shane’s labored breaths. You’re not even sure if the sharp-sounding “fuck” you heard from him was real, or if it’s just your mind filling in a void with things you’re used to hearing during these moonlit trysts.

The warm, familiar wave of your next orgasm starts to take over, Shane’s thick cock and fingers guiding you through the curve of pleasure, continuing their work beyond its peak. Your entire body squirms in his hold, tensing at the overload of sensation as his thrusts lose their tight rhythm. Despite that, Shane still manages to quicken his pace even more until he lets out a final groan into your ear. His seed floods your walls, fluttering muscles sucking him dry like they know the routine by now.

You suck in a sharp gasp of air into your lungs as his headlock finally loosens around you, becoming something more gentle as he turns you both onto your sides. You don’t make a sound of protest even though you already miss the weight of his chest on your back.

“So proud of ya, baby.” Shane groans softly into the back of your neck. “Tight cunt’s always so good to me.”

And just like clockwork, you keen.

Still high off your climax, you slip into a half-conscious, post-coital fog where you’re vaguely aware that Shane’s dick is still sitting inside you. You’re also aware enough to be a little surprised by it because he doesn’t usually stay past quickly but efficiently wiping his cum and sweat off of you with a damp washcloth he finds in your bathroom. But maybe you aren’t aware enough to tell the difference between sixty seconds and ten minutes.

Either way, Shane slips out of you, and the dip in the bed becomes shallower. A few moments later, a damp washcloth is between your legs, gently cleaning the mess that he made.

There’s a faint tap at your bare hip. “You should go piss.”

You make a muffled sound at that that most cannot discern as agreement, acknowledgment, or refusal.

Regardless of your friends with benefits status, you and Shane have upheld the “friends” end that many seem to forget altogether because of the way these arrangements tend to get ugly fast at the first sign of feelings. Over the course of your friendship, he has learned the language of your indiscriminate sounds. This one meant I’ll go later, but later is actually never because I’m falling asleep.

You don’t think about how caring it is that he helps you to the toilet before the Sandman sends you off, not until the next morning and he’s already long gone.

You don’t expect anything from Shane.

It’s why you don’t mind when you watch him shamelessly flirt with the most gorgeous person you’ve ever laid your eyes on across the bar; a tall, dark-skinned woman who looks unbelievably soft underneath her minidress, which is likely worth more than your monthly salary. It’s the kind of dress that doesn’t belong in a bar on the kind of woman who belongs on a runway in Paris, walking for Chanel.

“Ten bucks, he strikes out.”

You turn around to see Ryan Fielding getting settled onto the stool beside yours, his broad frame dwarfing the tiny seat. “Should you be betting on customers?” you ask, expression entirely unimpressed by the prospect.

He offers you a simple shrug. “I’m on my fifteen.”

“Well, then, I’m not making a bet with you I’m sure to lose.”

“Ouch.” He mock winces at you. “No faith at all? Thought you two were friends.”

“It’s because we’re friends that I know he’ll strike out.” You snort, taking a small sip of your cheap beer. “That woman looks like Anok Yai, and both are way out of his league. Big time.”

“I’m gonna pretend like I know who that is and agree.”

You let out a gasp, twisting your torso around to face him, totally appalled. “You don’t know who Anok Yai is? The model? God, I forget you guys live under a rock here.”

Ryan holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, I got enough on my plate, tending to lovesick fools, shit flirts, and drunk assholes. I don’t have the time to be keeping up with fashion or whatever.”

Before you can inquire further about who the “lovesick fools” in question are, Shane approaches from the other end of the bar—beautiful woman now notably absent—a dripping beer bottle clutched in his fingers. He doesn’t say a word when he takes a seat next to you, tipping the lip of the bottle to his mouth.

Your head tilts to the side. “I take it, no home run?”

“I was just giving her directions.”

You can’t resist a snicker. “That’s what men say when they’re fishing for a number.”

“That’s true.” On your right, Ryan nods adamantly.

Shane only smirks, shaking his head with amusement. “She was just looking for directions to the nearest hotel.”

“You direct her to your tent?” You chuckle, flagging the bartender down for another beer.

An unladylike snort leaves Ryan’s mouth behind you while Shane holds onto his easy smile. “No. Only if she asked, but I doubt that kinda woman would be able to fully appreciate it anyway.”

You hate that you want to ask what kind would.

The thought plagues you even as Shane pushes you down on your knees by your shoulders in the cramped bathroom stall, forcing his flushed cock through the seam of your wet lips. You try to ignore the hard press of dirty tile against your knees, hoping you could magically will away bruises. It’s a miracle you both even manage to fit in the tiny amount of space there is in front of the toilet. It’s a good time to not be claustrophobic.

“Breathe, baby,” he reminds you quietly, bringing you out of your thoughts, a large palm supporting the back of your head.

Your eyes flutter, lashes already coated with tears as you try to inhale through your nose. It’s been a minute since you’ve blown Shane, since you’ve felt the tip of his dick sit uncomfortably at the back of your throat. He curses lowly when the warm muscles involuntarily close up around the girth of him.

“Gonna make me blow my load early if you keep doin’ that.” He holds your head still, hips beginning to thrust steadily into the warm of your mouth. “Shit, that’s it.”

Your hands rest at the back of his calves, holding tightly onto the rough denim of his dark-wash jeans. Your eyes close as you lose yourself in overwhelming sensation of him fucking your mouth.

The hand not on your head taps your puffed out cheek, trying to guide your attention back. “Eyes on me, baby.”

Shane comes down your throat the second you finally meet his dark brown gaze with tear-glazed eyes.

“Take my cock so well,” he murmurs, pulling your mouth off of him. Shane wipes up the drool and cum that’s accumulated around your mouth and chin with one hand, the other brushing away stray tears. “So proud of you.”

Rarely do you get to spend your mornings waking up to the woods surrounding Shane’s tent. Even before you started sleeping with the wilderness management officer, you’ve stayed over in his beloved, quaint shelter a number of times. It’s nice to be able to get away once in awhile, to be reminded that things outside of the Internet and giant skyscrapers exist. That not all things are manmade, but some are just born, especially the most beautiful of things.

Like the war raging on in the early morning sky, bleeding reds and oranges washing away into the deep blue ocean. Shane was an early riser through and through, something the Army and rangers beat into him, but you managed to sneak off and snag the view all to yourself this morning.

Though that’s partly due to being unable to sleep well on Shane’s stiff cot. No matter how you twisted and turned that night, the damned thing dug into your shoulders, sides, your back, and your patience. At some point, you pulled your phone out of its charger and began scrolling through an ebook you had downloaded months ago. When that lost its novelty, you began cleaning out your camera roll because that was a task long overdue. And when you quickly grew bored of that, you eventually managed to get a few moments of shuteye while Shane snored the whole night away next to you. It was maddening. You were jealous.

But now, you get to see a dawn worth thousands of LA mornings. The city’s skyline wasn’t anything to write home about, wouldn’t steal your breath away like an early morning in Yosemite could. It could never be so quiet either. Not just literally, but rather, in the way a soul could be; settled, without a voice pulling you in every which direction, demanding everything of you. A life out here feels simple, unburdened, and it makes you understand more what Shane preaches on to you about.

“Didn’t I tell you not to go wanderin’ off without me?”

Shane always sounds grumpy in the morning. You think it might be a side effect of being a chronic asshole. There’s a hint of worry underlining his tone that amuses you.

“Didn’t go that far.” You don’t bother to turn your head around, revealing to him a can of bear spray and one of his pistols waiting patiently at your side. “And you looked so cozy, sleeping like a pretty princess. Snored like one too.”

“You even know how to use that thing?” he asks with a quiet grunt, taking a seat next to you on the picnic blanket you have laid out on the hill.

“Learned from the best, didn’t I?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Sure did.”

You watch the sunrise together in silence, the night blues growing lighter by the minute. Birds chirp all around, high up in the trees. While you’d find it incredibly bothersome in the city, here the high-pitched calls sound like they belong. Much like Shane’s soft, relaxed breaths.

Another ten minutes and the night will be fully settled in its bed for the day.

“Does it ever get old?” you murmur, staring into the burning sun ahead, fluffy clouds shielding it like armor.

“Not for me, it doesn’t.”

Only then do you glance at him, rotating your head just enough to make out his profile. He’s still looking where you just were, brown velvet eyes appearing as soft as you’ve ever seen them. Shane always get that look when he talks about the great outdoors, like nature can soften out all the rough of edges of man instead of sharpening them more.

“I wish I could agree.”

You don’t blink twice when a cute guy offers you his number, scrawled out pretty on a small cafe napkin.

Granted, it’s a little old-school, but maybe that’s why you’re even considering dialing it—or maybe you should text first? God, you don’t go on a date in a few years, and it already feels like you forgot protocol. You stare at the napkin square sitting on the table in front of you like some kind of omen.

Shane plops down onto the seat across from yours, startling you. He takes one sip of his black coffee, glancing down. “What’s that?”

You shrug, fingertips brushing the soft napkin. “Some guy slipped me his number.”

He hums. “You gonna use it?”

“Jury’s still out on that one. He was cute. It might be fun.”

“Your hesitance seems like enough of an answer.”

“What, like you just jump at the prospect of a date with every girl that shows interest?” You scoff, stirring your drink around in its cup. “I’m just keeping an open-mind before I go back. Maybe he’s not interested in something long-term either. Huh, I wonder if the dating scene here is anything like it is in LA.”

“I wouldn’t know.” The chair under him creaks as he leans back, mouth pressing into a fine line.

“Can you believe summer is almost over already? Jeez, it feels like every time I come back, it gets shorter. Wasn’t like that when I lived here. Summers used to feel like a million years.”

Shane huffs. “I remember your complaining.”

Your face splits into a teasing, toothy grin. “Hey, I know you miss me now that I’ve moved away. You somehow still barely have any friends besides me.”

He just shrugs, despite your insult. “I don’t need other friends.”

“Well, that’s nice, but I—ugh, Jesus, what’s he doing here?”

Kyle Turner steps through the cafe’s door, heading to the counter to order a coffee.

While you don’t have any reason to be bothered by the ISB agent’s presence, he’s harassed Shane enough to make it your problem. Sure, your friend isn’t the nicest guy around town, but Turner’s issue with him runs deeper than legal. And as much of a shithead Shane is, you were livid when Kyle stuck a gun to his chin for no better reason than his own anger and pride. You had quickly shoved Kyle away from Shane with all your strength, nearly screaming your head off at the older man while Shane tugged you away, his bloody, shit-eating grin softening out at your worry.

If Shane was good at anything, it was stoking a flame into a wildfire. But beneath all that sarcasm and arrogance is a good man, as jaded as he may be. That’s a fact you know as well as breathing. Ryan had been wrong when he said you had no faith in Shane. You might’ve had too much.

“Maybe we should head out,” you suggest, trying to finish your drink in a single swig.

He pays Kyle no mind, still settled into his chair like he belongs there. “Why? I haven’t done anything.”

Your lips curl into a frown, your free hand clenched on your knee. “I don’t need him blowing your head off, Shane.”

“You worried about me, baby?” His mouth forms a smirk, and the sight makes your stomach flip annoyingly.

“With how seriously you take your life?” You scoff and glare at the back of Kyle Turner’s head. “Yeah, fuckin’ obviously.”

You stand abruptly, fingers tugging the hem of Shane’s flannel sleeve, dragging him out of the cafe. The napkin with the cute guy’s number goes forgotten at the table.

You remember the first time you felt the weight of a gun in your hands.

Deceptively heavier than it appears, holding a pistol feels like carrying the weight of the world between your fingers. And for some, that’s what it meant. Life or death. The world or the unknown. Everything or nothing. It’s a side you choose: to be on one end of the barrel or the other. And you should pray to not be the one staring it down.

Being ex-military means Shane has had much practice with that. Means he always knows which side he’s on.

Shane had pressed the small firearm into your hands with thinly-veiled amusement before adjusting his camouflage hat and perching a hand on his hip. He pointed to a set of beer cans he set up across the field. “Now, all you gotta do is hit those targets over there.”

You glanced between him and the empty beer cans that stood mockingly with an unimpressed look. “Shane, this feels like a humiliation ritual.”

He tsked, shaking his head. “It’s easy.” He took the pistol from you, quickly firing a clean shot into one of the metal cans, making it explode into bits.

The sudden, loud sound of the bullet piercing through the quiet, woody air made you cringe. He pushed the gun back into your grasp, staring at you expectantly.

“That was a terrible demonstration,” you said, holding the gun uselessly at your side. “You just wanna laugh at my expense.”

“Sweetheart, I already do that every day.” He smirked, stepping behind you.

You rolled your eyes at him, opening your mouth to spit out a retort, only for it to die right on your tongue when Shane all but presses his chest to your back, wrapping his arms around you to help you grip the pistol properly, lining up your shot for you. It felt like cheating, but you could hardly find the will to care when his hot breath blew on the back of your ear as he guided you through the steps. Only Shane could make his charity sound so patronizing.

“You breathin’?”

“Yes,” you said quickly, very indignantly despite the obvious sharp intake of breath that you do.

You deserved praise for how steady you kept your hands when your teacher was being much more of a distraction than anything remotely helpful.

Shane let go, taking a step back. “Take the shot.”

The beer can fell before you even realized you had pulled the trigger.

You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, eyes hurriedly darting to Shane’s for approval.

“See? Easy.”

Although you only end up making the rest of your shots with varying degrees of success, the faint traces of a proud look on Shane’s face were worth all the humiliation.

You’d like to think you know which side of the barrel you’d be on, too.

The California sun beats down even through all the natural shade the trees in the park provide, the temperature going on near unbearable with this week’s forecasted heatwave.

It’s days like these that role of Shane and the other park rangers becomes even more crucial. Because people are stupid. Little kids don’t know better when they see a cute bug crawling across a log a couple steps from the path. Animals get just as agitated from the heat as humans do.

It’s not unusual for Shane to let you shadow him while he takes care of some of his lighter ranger duties, things the average civilian can handle tagging along for. Now, is he technically allowed to do this? The answer happens to not be yes. But lucky for you, you know when to shut up and let him do his job. You know when and when not to be a distracting friend.

But today isn’t a usual day, and you decided that rather than lounge around at your parents’ house all day, you would try to be a bona fide adult and do the recommended hour of physical activity. Which is how you ended up following Shane around for the last fifteen minutes, already sweating up a storm in spite of the early hour.

When there is a heatwave, it is often recommended to not stay outside for too long because of how fast it could get dangerous. Heatstrokes are no joke. But you don’t intend to stay for more than an hour, not including the walk back to civilization, which you’ve learned to recognize like the back of your hand over the years of being Shane’s friend. You do actually listen whenever he drops his unsolicited survival tips the same way your aunt says you’d get a boyfriend if only you worked on your looks more.

The only way you got Shane to agree to let you join him this morning is on the condition that if anything serious is called in, he’ll leave to deal with it while you head back around the way you came.

“Anything interesting happen before I got here?” you ask Shane, gravel crunching under your hiking shoes.

He stays in step beside you, twisting his cap backwards, tufts of greying dark blond sticking out the hole in a rather attractive way. “Nah, just had a couple of German tourists looking for a bathroom. And I had to shoo off some deer away from a group of hikers.”

“Exhilarating.”

“Better that than a missing person,” he says, shrugging.

You hum a form of agreement, taking in your surroundings. The wind has started to pick up a bit, allowing you a little bit of reprieve with some airflow that feels like a luxury on your heated skin. Pulling a water bottle from your backpack, you take a long drink to cool your insides before tipping it in Shane’s direction. He accepts the offer, fingers brushing against yours when they wrap around the bottle. He takes a short sip of water, slipping it back into your bag’s side pocket for you.

The vastness of Yosemite National Park never fails to steal your breath from you. It’s mostly just a bunch of green in front of you as far as the eye can see, but you know that there are mountains in the distance somewhere. The air is grossly hot but still fresher than the air in most of the zip codes that make up LA County. But Yosemite is much like its own universe, yet to be fully explored because of just how expansive its territory spreads. That’s why it’s so easy to get lost in its unforgiving depths. It continues to amaze you that Shane doesn’t find any bit of it frightening, managing to live all by his lonesome in the middle of it. Few things seem to scare him, you think.

“You ever think about moving back to real human civilization?”

“Nope.”

Your mouth forms a tiny smile, gently knocking your shoulder against his. “Just you and the trees then?”

“You’re there sometimes, too.”

“Yeah, for like four out of the fifty-two weeks in a year. What about the other forty-eight? I can’t grace you with my presence all the time, especially not if you ever wanna find a partner.”

“A partner?”

“A significant other, your other half,” you clarify teasingly.

He frowns like the thought of finding someone has never once crossed his mind. “What for?”

You scoff, the toe of your shoe kicking some pebbles forward. “What do you mean ‘what for’? Is your plan to really die alone out here drinking shitty canned beer?”

“I ain’t really got a plan,” Shane admits, scratching his stubbled jaw. “But it wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

Even though you’re the one who started digging this hole in the first place, you’re not sure you want to press any further, fearing that the answer to your question is one you won’t enjoy the taste of. Maybe he won’t ever settle down. It’s not his style. Maybe he will, just doesn’t want to with you. You’re not the type worth changing his style. Truth has always been the most bitter pill to swallow.

“What’s the look for?”

“What look?”

“That look.”

“That’s my face.”

“It’s not,” he insists. “You look like a constipated raccoon.”

You stare at him incredulously. “Have you actually ever seen that?”

“No, but I’m imaginin’ it’s pretty similar to the look on your face right now.”

“You ass.” You scoff with indignation, shoving him to the side as you try to restrain the smile.

Shane grins, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just tellin’ it like it is.”

“Well, tell yourself to shut up.”

He slings his arm around you, pulling you in closer. “Only if you say ‘pretty please.’”

“I’m not begging for a damn thing.”

“Oh, but you do it real good,” he whispers lowly, his warm breath ghosting your ear.

With as much will as you can muster, you hold back a shiver, knowing you wouldn’t be able to blame the cold. As you continue down the trail together, your brain runs a million miles a second trying to stitch together a response that’ll embarrass you the least.

Lucky for you that you both spot a little kid just ahead, looking incredibly lost and like a great distraction from your inability to take some of Shane’s teasing in this cursed heat.

The boy looks no older than six, teary eyes darting around the woods, unable to recognize anything resembling his parents anywhere in the brush. Shane immediately goes into responsible ranger mode, peeling himself from your side to crouch in front of the distraught child in less than an instant.

“Hey, buddy,” Shane says as softly as his gruff voice allows. “Where are your parents?”

The boy sniffles with his entire little body, tears mixing with his snot. “I dunno. I want my daddy.”

You stop in front of him, crouching down to his level like Shane with a gentle, comforting smile. It’s then that you notice a scrape along his left knee, the small injury still bleeding a little. “We’ll help you find your daddy then. What’s your name?”

“Ben,” the kid chokes.

Shane asks with a small smile, “How old are you, Ben?”

“Almost s-six.” Ben holds up six small fingers as a visual aid.

You laugh, voice coated in a tone of disbelief. “Six? Wow, I thought you must’ve been ten! You’re so big!”

The brunet boy smiles wide, shaking his head. “Not yet!”

On your left, Shane calls in the lost kid you’ve found on his radio, trying to see if the boy had already been reported missing. He has not, which hopefully means his dad has only just lost him and is still within the area.

While he’s still on walkie with another ranger, you lead Ben over to a wooden log a few feet away, getting him to sit down while you fish out your first-aid kit.

“What happened here?” you ask, pointing to his knee.

“I fell.” He points in the direction you came from.

“Did it hurt?”

He nods. “It hurt a lot.”

You hum, trying to carefully brush away the rest of the dirt and rock still stuck to his tanned skin. “Well, I’m gonna clean it up and make it better for you, okay? But it might sting a bit.”

You reach into the kit for some disinfectant and wipes, giving Ben another warning right before you start to thoroughly clean his wound. He winces at the burning sensation, hands braced on the log, but takes it better than expected for a kid his age.

“You remember what you saw earlier when you were with your daddy?” asks Shane behind you, perhaps trying to distract him from the pain.

“Uh… we saw water.” Ben throws his arms out suddenly, nearly startling you. “Lots of water! Up in the mountain. It went woosh.” Another visual reference: his hands fly down fast, presumably mimicking the movement of the water.

Shane tilts his head curiously. “Like a waterfall?”

“Yeah, waterfall!”

“Almost done.” You smile, rubbing some antibiotic ointment over the scrapes before tearing open a large bandaid to cover his knee. Carefully, you adhere it to his skin. “Feel better?”

Ben nods enthusiastically. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, buddy.” You chuckle, packing away your kit. “If your dad is okay with it, I’ll buy you an ice cream cone later for being so strong. You like ice cream?”

“Uh-huh!”

Shane lets out a short, amused sound behind your shoulder. “Nobody’s called anything in yet, but I think I know the waterfall he was talkin’ about. Ain’t too far from here. We can walk over and see if the father’s retraced his steps.”

“Sounds like a plan, Ranger Rick,” you say, coming to stand at your full height. You hold your hand out to the boy, clasping it with his when he accepts it. “C’mon, let’s go find your dad.”

After ten minutes of walking, the three of you hear the roaring rush of water before you see it. Through a couple of thick trees, you find a small, breathtaking lake at the bottom of the waterfall. But unfortunately, Ben doesn’t recognize any of the sightseers wandering around.

After twenty minutes of walking, you hear a soft little yawn escape past the little boy’s mouth next to you, making you chuckle. “You sleepy?”

Ben rubs his eye with his other hand, nodding. He lets out another longer yawn.

Shane hands you his pack and crouches down suddenly, gesturing with a nod of his head for the boy to climb onto his back. “Hop on, kid. I’ll carry you back ‘til we can locate your dad.”

You watch the park ranger hoist up the child on his back, Shane’s large forearms supporting the back of Ben’s knees. The sight is almost cruelly domestic, reminding you of an impossible fantasy that lives quietly in the back of your head, accosting you with its pathetic presence once in a blue moon.

The gesture is surprisingly sweet for a guy like Shane, who you sometimes think forgets how to interact with actual human people after living such a secluded lifestyle. But more likely, his selective bedside manners is a choice, one of the reasons he prefers his way of living in the first place.

Bears are easier than people, he once told you.

Everything is easier than people, you retorted then. And you’re impossible.

It’s not even half past eight yet when you return to the entrance of the hiking trail, even with the amount of stalling that happened because Ben kept pointing his finger around and asking Shane questions about the wildlife.

You know deer can jump up to ten feet in the air? People can only jump about a foot.

If you ever spot a bear ‘round here, it’s gonna be a black bear. All the grizzlies died out about a hundred years ago, and the brown bears haven’t adapted to Yosemite as well as the black bears did.

Most of the park’s black bears are actually brown.

You had also been a little surprised by Shane’s willingness to entertain the kid until he fell asleep about ten minutes back, leaving the two of you in silence. Shane had not much patience when it came to people. (Ironic for a man in a customer service adjacent profession.) And he never seemed very chirpy around little children either, as far as you knew. He had a couple of younger cousins he’d complain to you about whenever he was forced to attend a family reunion, deeming them nuisances despite being totally glued to their devices.

Neither of you dared to speak until the radio strapped to his hip hissed to life, a crackly woman’s voice requesting for him. Since his hands were busy, you unclipped the walkie-talkie from his side, holding it up to his mouth for him to reply. It had been good news: the father wasn’t that far from your position and would reach you any minute now.

“You look so… fatherly,” you muse aloud, looking at the way Ben’s little cheek is propped against Shane’s shoulder.

Shane huffs, giving you the look of a man unamused.

You shrug. “What? It’s cute. The people love a single dad.”

“Well, I ain’t a single dad.”

“I mean, I could get a picture right now for your Tinder profile,” you tease, pulling out your phone camera.

You snap a few pictures of the tall ranger giving the boy a piggyback ride, wearing the most unenthused expression one could possibly come up with. How utterly lame, you pout. You don’t think Ben’s dad will mind. At least, you hope not. Ben’s face is hidden in the crook of Shane’s neck anyways, and it’s not like you intend for the photos to live anywhere but in your camera roll.

“Oh, thank God!”

You turn around to see one of the hottest men to ever grace the earth heading your direction. That’s Ben’s dad?

His salt and pepper hair is tousled rather fashionably, like despite the number of times he’s worried his tanned fingers through the waves, it stubbornly couldn’t look anything shy of perfect.

His cries make Ben blink awake, who lights up at the sight of his father. “Daddy!” he exclaims, moving off Shane’s back and into the man’s arms where he belongs.

“You can’t just wander off like that, Benny. How many times have I told you?” He hugs his kid tighter, pulling Ben’s face into his shoulder with a ringless left hand. (Ugh, what the hell’s wrong with you?) “Oh, God, I’m just glad you’re safe.”

After a few moments, Mr. Single Dad finally acknowledges you and Shane, thanking you both profusely.

The dirty blond park ranger only smiles politely, lifting his camouflage hat to smooth down his sweat-soaked hair. “Just doin’ my job, sir. It happens more than you’d think, but make sure you keep a better eye on ‘em next time.”

“And I was just trying to be a good Samaritan,” you say, waving off his kind words. “He seems like a good kid. Oh, and make sure to put something on that scrape on his knee. It wasn’t too nasty, but I put some cream on it, so hopefully it heals over faster.”

“That’s very kind of you. I can’t thank either of you enough for taking care of my boy.”

“Um, I promised Ben an ice cream cone after I patched up his knee.” You fish out a five dollar bill from your wallet, adding quickly as you offer it to the man, “If that’s alright! He took the disinfectant like a champ, so I just wanted to treat him a little.”

“Yay, ice cream!” Ben swipes the money from your fingers and cheers.

The older man flashes you a swoon-worthy smile, making a soft suggestion, “How about I treat you to dinner tonight? To say thanks.”

You think you and Shane both make the same strangled noise at the proposition and its glaring innuendo.

“Oh! Um, sorry, that was… unexpected,” you stammer, itching the back of your neck. “I—“

“I hope you don’t mind my being forward.”

You suck in a breath, pulling out an awkward smile. “No, no, not at all.”

Shane makes some kind of disgruntled huff next to you.

Hot Dad’s (You don’t even know his name!) attention returns to Shane, bouncing between the two of you with a flicker of realization. “Oh, sorry, are you two…?”

You shake your head adamantly, feeling your insides shake as well. “No, we’re not… But um, I appreciate the offer, it’s just—I’m not really looking to…”

“Oh, well that’s a shame.” He gives you a dejected (but still awfully sexy) smile, nodding his head in understanding. “You’re very beautiful.”

“Th-thanks, you too.”

Oh, my God, you need to die.

‘Thanks, you too’?

‘You too’?!

You can feel the mortification burst into flames up your back, through your neck, and to the rest of your body.

He chuckles more kindly than you’d expect, and Ben and his hot dad are gone the next time you blink.

You swallow thickly, turning your head to look at Shane, who you can tell is doing his real best to not howl. “Oh, my God, I need to die.”

Mercifully, he snorts instead, crossing his arms over his chest. “Seems like the cute kid didn’t help after all.”

“I’m… different.”

“That’s for sure.”

You wake up with a lingering hangover and a heavy heart.

Another summer in Yosemite is quickly coming to a close. And while you should be expecting it each year with the way it lives on your calendar, it still only hits you when you’ve got less than a couple days before you’re hopping on a plane back home to Los Angeles. Back to a criminally expensive apartment with a great roommate but who’s unfortunately not Shane-shaped.

Truthfully, you never miss all that much about Yosemite. Sure, the air quality is astronomically better up north, but you’ve still got air back home. You will miss the clear skies, where the twinkling stars aren’t hidden away behind smog and pollution. You won’t miss the millions of bugs, the hundreds of mosquito bites you accumulate like a loyalty stamp card without any of the benefits. You will miss the ex-Army ranger you call a best friend, whose dark blond hair is greying beautifully when you’re back in the city.

Is it bad to say you sometimes miss him more than your own parents? It’s just, with Shane’s more isolated way of living, he rarely has the signal to text, let alone call you. He tries when he’s in town, but even then, he’s busy managing the giant park he calls home; searching for idiot tourists who stray off the trails (which are marked for a reason!), helping crying, snotty kids find their parents after they wander off alone, scaring off snacky bears and thieving raccoons—the list goes on.

So yeah, you do miss Shane more than your parents who are always at the touch of the call icon.

You barely manage a few hookups whenever you’re back home, too busy to be seriously pursuing anyone and nearly too busy to even be horny. Your hand, ironically, becomes your best friend, but your touch is still nothing compared to Shane’s. His fingers are longer and thicker than yours, almost enough to match the girth of his cock, always enough to make you come in record time.

And you will miss the rare days in which you get to wake up next him, curled up into his warmth like the rest of the world no longer exists, even if that stupid cot of his is your back’s sworn enemy. But in those short moments, your mind can pretend something it’s never openly voiced. You can pretend to be his—in every sense of the word—not just quietly, not his wrapped up in the intense moans of your pleasure, or his split by his merciless, fat cock. It’s a fantasy you allow yourself to indulge in in those early morning hours, tucked away from the rest of humanity by the wilderness. The one place people where don’t have to hide, or maybe, the only place they do.

It’s not a fantasy you think he shares.

Shane Maguire has never struck you as the type of guy who settles down, even if he ever meets the girl of his dreams. That is, if he even had one in mind. Hell, it’s a miracle the guy even finds the time to piss during the summer months, when tourist traffic and stupidity are at an all-time high and his best friend/seasonal hookup is in town. The two of you are steadily, rapidly, pushing forty, and although you aren’t in any rush to settle down either, the thought definitely keeps you up some nights.

It doesn’t help either that you subconsciously compare every guy you’ve dated or shown interest in to Shane in some way. You tell yourself it’s the thrill of sneaking around that keeps you coming back to him, not the ranger himself and his stupid wilderness facts and his taste for canned beer that tastes like motor oil and despair. It’s just insanely attractive that he knows how to fire a gun with incredible accuracy, stealthily track the park’s wildlife (and people), and survive off of just a couple of items in a tiny pack.

You feel the short buzz of your phone, which is currently laying MIA somewhere in your tangled sheets. You paw around for a minute, finding it hiding under one of your many pillows.

Ranger Rick sent you a message:

Your folks still home? Got any eggs?

You tap the text notification, typing quickly:

idk, just woke up. prob not. yes

Ranger Rick: It’s 10

You: u say that like it’s supposed to mean smth to me

Ranger Rick: Be there in 15

Just like he said, Shane shows up at your door exactly fifteen minutes later (You suspect he was already on his way long before he bothered to text.), dressed in his usual casual attire: a tight, dark blue t-shirt and cargo pants.

He makes you eggs in your own house, navigating the kitchen with the kind of familiarity one has in their own home. It’s a quiet morning, much like the ones you spend together in his tent. To not be completely useless, you pour two glasses of orange juice, but not without a long yawn that makes him glance at you.

“You sleep enough last night?”

A quiet, grunt-like hum leaves you as you pull out the silverware drawer and grab two sets of forks and spoons.

No, but will have to make do.

Shane sets the plates of bacon and eggs down on the dining table while you very carefully pinch the two slices of toast from the toaster like you’re the surgeon in the very delicate game of Operation. Your impatience leads you to burn the tips of your fingers anyway, making you wish you actually had a pair of Operation tweezers.

He rolls his eyes at your wince, grabbing your wrist to guide your stinging fingers into his warm mouth, sucking gently. The sight is far more erotic than you can possibly handle on a Thursday morning, but you can’t get yourself to look away either.

“Shane,” you murmur warningly.

He pulls your thumb and finger from between his wet lips, smiling innocently at you like he ain’t got a clue what he’s doing. “Yeah?”

Your best friend crooks a finger around the thin strap of your tank top, teasing it over your bare shoulder enough to bare your breast. Hungry, brown eyes flicker down and soak in the sight of your hardening nipple. He licks his thumb, rolling the sensitive peak under the pad of his thumb, drawing quiet whines from your mouth.

He grins like a fox, wetting his lips. “Look at you, makin’ all these pretty noises for me.”

You keen like it’s a command.

Because he’s evil, Shane pinches the strap of the top between his fingertips, leisurely lifting the fabric back up your arm right where it belongs, as if it never left. You shuffle away with what little is left of your dignity, sitting down at the table to discover two small painkillers sitting next to your orange juice. You nearly forgot the headache you’d had since waking up after his little display.

The rest of breakfast is not so erotic.

When you both finish your meal, you’re quick to climb into Shane’s lap like a cat, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses from his collarbone up to his sharp jawline. He wraps one arm around your back, hand supporting your side. The other dances along your thigh, fingers mindlessly rubbing across the smooth expanse of skin, just below the hem of your flimsy cotton shorts. You practically purr when they ghost teasingly over the fabric covering your slick heat, the tip of your nose brushing the column of his throat.

Without looking, Shane’s mouth finds yours with incredible assured ease, the kind that is born out of the same familiarity that guides him through your kitchen like it’s his. You feel his demanding tongue prod your soft, sealed lips, parting them open to taste you. His kisses are light-headed, stupefying, and orange-flavored.

Few things top a lazy morning make out.

Calloused fingertips circle your clit through your shorts, the movements devastatingly unhurried. Despite the relaxed pace in which Shane works, you can already feel the growing wet spot seeping through the thin cotton. And so can he. He doesn’t spare you the knowing smirk, the expression obvious against your mouth. He does spare you the teasing comment, likely too focused on kissing you as thoroughly as possible.

“Want me to make you come like this?” he breathes against your kiss-swollen lips. “Or does my pretty thing want more?”

Or not.

“More,” you decide.

Granting your soft-spoken request, Shane crooks two fingers under the fabric of your shorts and tugs it to the side to reveal your aching cunt. “Barely done a thing, and it’s already weepin’. All this for me, baby?”

Again, you purr.

Skilled fingers work you open, your folds parting easily for the thick digits. Your hips rock against them, and a long moan escapes your lips when they’re finally seated fully inside you, curling against spots you can somehow never find with your own hands.

“Being so good right now,” he praises you, quickening his ministrations. He even rewards you by rubbing your swelling clit faster. “Proud of you, baby. So proud.”

Shane spends the whole morning finger fucking you until all your earlier sadness disappears out though your pleasured cries.

On your last day in town, you end up back at the bar for one last drink. The place is unusually slow at the moment, quiet even for a Monday evening. An R&B song plays in the background, too low for you to make out the words, but you know it sits somewhere in the back of your mind.

You’ve been sipping on a cocktail for the better part of an hour, some sugary concoction Ryan made on the house since you’re going back home. Although, you were going to treat yourself anyway after only consuming grossly cheap beer all summer because it had only mattered that you got to the point of a warm belly and loose limbs, not how. (And also because it’s all Shane drinks, wielding a similar depressing philosophy.)

Right now, you’re at the point where you’re unable to contain the bright giggles that keep escaping your lungs at whatever gossip Ryan is dropping to you. Slow nights are good for that. With all the downtime between customers, he can pretend he’s wiping down the bar when he’s really shit talking the regular sitting four seats over who never tips well, despite smelling like a brewery by the time he closes his tab.

Ryan stops right in the middle of his sentence, blue eyes scanning the establishment and then twice at the clock on the wall. “Where’s your ranger?”

“I came here by myself.”

“Well, I can see that,”—the bartender rolls his eyes—“but I figured he’d stop in to see you by now.”

You stir the ice in your drink around with your thin straw, mumbling, “Why? It’s not like we’re attached at the hip.”

“Oh, but you so are.” Ryan wipes a stubborn spot of dirt on the brown countertop with his damp rag until it’s shiny.

“Well, we’re friends. It’s not crazy that we spend so much time together.”

He tsks, muttering under his breath, “‘Friends’, my ass.”

“Not this again,” you complain into your drink.

Pointing his dirty rag at you, he accuses, “Either you two are great liars, or you’re both fuckin’ clueless idiots. I mean that lovingly, babe. But there’s something going on in whatever that is you’re calling a friendship. ‘Cause you’re hot, but I don’t eye fuck my friends.”

“That’s absurd…”

You’ve never told anyone before that you and Shane fuck sometimes—a lot of sometimes. You’re not sure whether coming clean to Ryan will help your case or not, not when he’s sticking his finger around in a mess you’d much rather drink in a bottle. Your intention tonight wasn’t to get shitfaced, but four drinks in, and that might change.

“Why do you think you keep coming back?”

You frown at that, answering sarcastically, “What, can’t I see my family?”

Ryan scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “People see their families during the holidays. You’re here during the holidays and every summer, despite how inconvenient it is. Despite the fact that there’s nothing here for you.”

“Okay, ouch.”

“Except Shane,” he finishes pointedly. “You may have grown up around Yosemite, but you’ve also grown out of it. Grown out of everything here but Shane.”

You worry the meat of your cheek with your teeth, trying hard not to swallow the truth you’ve never heard spoken out loud to you before. “C’mon, it’s my last night. Must you be so harsh?”

“But it’s not your last night. You already moved away. You’re the one who keeps coming back. Are you really happy just waiting around for him?”

“There’s nothing to be waiting for.”

“You’d be settled down now if you really believed that.”

The words cut through the alcohol in your system, quickly sobering you up as well as a cold shower. You dig through your pocket, dropping a nice tip on the bar counter.

“Screw you,” you mutter, pushing yourself off the seat. Clearly not sober enough, however, because you’re stumbling off the barstool when a strong hand steadies you, grip warm and firm.

Speak of the Devil, and he appears.

Shane looks at you, his thick eyebrows furrowed with traces of worry. He glances at Ryan, who’s already disappeared to the other side of the bar to take care of another customer. “You okay? What’d that shithead say?”

He only seems to have caught the tailwind of your conversation, thankfully. The rising panic that began bubbling settles in your throat.

“Nothing,” you say quietly, swallowing thickly.

His grasp on your arm grows a bit tighter, igniting fire on your skin. “What’d that shithead say?”

“Nothing,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Really, Shane.”

The look on his face tells you that he doesn’t believe your words at all, but your own expression makes him drop it. For now. You don’t need Shane getting into another bar fight, especially not over truths you’re afraid of, tucked away in your rib cage and holding your heart hostage.

Not on your last night in Yosemite.

And because you’re drunk, sad, and greedy, you let him touch you in the backseat of his truck, parked right in your parents’ driveway. The lights of your childhood home are out at this hour, but the walls are too thin and your want too urgent. You get to moan a little louder for him out here as he drives the hard length of his cock up into you like he wants you to miss it while you’re gone. He doesn’t have to. You’ll miss it anyway.

Not long after you both come and with your cheek laying on his breathless chest, you voice something like it’s an afterthought and not with all the weight it’s worth, “I think I’m gonna stay in LA next summer.”