I'm so tired.

you think you haven't been dating that long, but kyle offers to pay for it and even finds a place that his friend owns, so you don't have to do the resort thing. he figures out everything and you're so grateful, you let him fuck you without a condom and are shocked at how much that changes up sex.

the house is beachfront and sun-drenched, wide open doors and coloured tile floors. you joke that city kyle and beach kyle are completely different boyfriends; beach kyle is vibrant and radiant, sandy-soled, a bright gem at sea.

what's interesting is how his intensity ramps up. so chill and relaxed back home, and now it's like his teeth are on edge here. he's waking up with a hand wedged into your cunt, drowsily rubbing you, or spreading you out on the cold tiles to fuck you raw, wild-eyed, or slipping his hands under your dinner dress to finger you over the bathroom vanity until you come, smearing your makeup.

the trip is lush. boozy. slow wake-ups and then falling back asleep until noon when he wants to eat you out, tonguing you until you're hanging off the bed. you eat and swim and sleep and shower and doze and drink and fuck fuck fuck.

supposed to fly out the tuesday. monday night, you're wandering around the different rooms to locate scattered items to pack up. kyle's not helping. when you stride back into the bedroom, he's sprawled out on the bed, hand loose around his cock, dreamy tugs to match his dreamy smile.

a bit annoyed for the first time all trip. can you help me, please?

he gets harder, pulls at his cock in longer vigorous jerks, when you don't understand his explanation. he needed to know. needed to be sure you were the woman for him. a nice little trial run here, yeah? seeing what every day will be like. here.

fucking you with his forearms bent either side of your head, salty sweat dripping down on you, caging you in. no condom. don't need them anymore, yeah?

» Look, I don't want to be rude, but your messages aren't funny to me. I don't like this mystery or thing you're doing. If you want to talk to me, just approach me

» Ah, I'm sorry.

» I really don't mean to scare you.

» You're not scaring me. It's just weird.

» Do you want a hint? Maybe it'll make you feel better.

» Or you could just tell me who you are. Or I could just submit a ticket to IT.

» You could.

» Do we work on the same floor?

» No. But I see you around.

» Do I pass you or do you pass me?

» Both.

That narrows it down to approximately two floors and far too many departments and teams. Time to put the elevator theory to the test.

» Have we talked before?

» I'll say this: you have a very lovely smile.

» Gotta run. Talk soon.

You stand up and go refill your water bottle at the station so you don't shatter your work laptop out of frustration.

—

A grimy July day drips into evening. A few teams, yours included, all banding together to descend en masse to a restaurant with a huge outdoor patio and cold-ass after-work drinks. You tentatively decline until Sasha bullies you into accepting. "Cinq à sept! Cinq à sept!"

Should socialize more rattling around your heat-dumb brain.

Sasha texting you before you guys lock up your computer for the night:

» maybe G will be out there amongst us woooohhhhh

That idea almost makes you decline again until she's parked her ass in front of your cube, firmly entrenched and not budging. "Let's goooo. One drink."

You walk together and your nerves twist in nauseated bundles under your skin as she yaps amiably the whole way. It's your first social outing with anyone other than her, so you quickly order a drink and stand with her, being gradually introduced to a wide variety of folks from accounting, HR, marketing, comms, and so on. When the sept part of cinq à sept passes, you lean over to her. "Do people usually get this drunk at these?" She laughs breezily. "Well. Depends on the group, but I think it's just this fuckin' weather. Oh, I think those guys are from IT. Hey," she elbows you. "Let's ask about your message."

Some people left after a drink or two — like you should've — and more continue to drift in. The IT guys are two tall men that don't look like IT men in the first place. Not that there's a look, but…there can be a look. You let your eyes land on them, taking them in: white with blue eyes and some trendy haircut, and Black with sweet eyes and a dentist's dream of a smile. Sasha needles you. "Let's go say hi, I'll introduce you."

"Sasha," you plead, but she taps her glass to yours and pulls you over.

"Hey! John, right?" She says, easy as anything, to the one with shaggy hair. She introduces you to them both, and they both smile warmly at you. "And sorry, you fixed my workstation last week but I'm totally blanking on your name."

"Kyle," the other guy says with a grin, and you all laugh over the mix of handshakes between the four of you.

"Kyle! Oh my god, right." She throws her head back dramatically. "You saved my fucking ass."

He laughs, taking a slow sip of his drink. "No trouble at all."

Sasha perks up. "I have a fun question for you both then!"

Fuuuuuuck.

"Excuse me, I gotta—" you say just as Sasha tries to grab your arm, but you cut yourself off, slipping away to the washroom before she can make a scene. You are not interested in what the IT team thinks of your fucking messages, and you're annoyed that she's making it a joke. Obviously if you cared enough, you'd have submitted a ticket already and gotten something resolved, but it's a new job and you don't want to make waves. Why couldn't she just let it lie between you both?

If you could get away with it, you'd stay parked in the washroom until IT left. Or just dip and run, but neither of these are viable solutions. Instead, you swipe away the gathered sweat from your neck and hands, pat your face with cold water, and try to make with a facade of confidence back to the group. You spot Sasha still with John and Kyle, so you beeline for another member of your team. Sit down in the safety of numbers, and order another drink.

A little while later, there's a hand that hovers slightly at your elbow. You turn to see Kyle having sit to your far left, where your back had been turned.

"Oh, hi," you say weakly. Sasha's off somewhere else now.

"Hey, just wanted to check if you're alright?"

Your eyebrows pinch together and you sip from your drink nervously. "Yeah? Why?"

"Ah, good. You just seemed bit out of sorts back there with your friend. Summat we said, or?"

You laugh, relieved. "No, no. It's all good." You have no idea if Sasha explained your issue. And you don't feel comfortable revealing it if she did decide to keep her mouth shut. "Just getting used to a big company with lots of people to meet. I guess I'm not used to the big get-togethers. My first one."

He smiles brightly, a lazy laugh coming out of him. "Ah, that's nice then. Bit of a shy one, eh?" His eyes crinkle nicely in the corners when he smiles like that. He looks like a man you would've admired in the men's sleepwear pages of the Sears catalogue; handsome and sweet. Doe-like eyes.

Your cheeks heat under his soft gaze. "Well, I don't know about that. Just getting used to it, is all. How long have you been here?"

He sucks his teeth a little, hems and haws. "Little over two years, I reckon? John headhunted me personally."

"Oh, nice."

"You got any plans this summer? Goin' on holiday?" He props an arm loosely along the back of the booth you're sat on, the relaxed cream linen shirt he's wearing pulled a bit snug over his arm muscles. The sun close to setting now, he seems to glow and gleam in front of you, while you just wilt and sweat. Some are just chosen ones.

You laugh. "I just started. Not taking any time off yet. I might just take off a Monday over a long weekend, maybe."

"Lovely." He smiles. Those're fun," he says, reaching his hand out and tapping his fingertip against your manicure, a reptilian pattern you'd tried last night.

"Oh, thank you." Another self-conscious laugh, the desire to pull your hand back.

"—arrick!" A boisterously loud voice calling over the patio, stopping most people's conversations as heads turn to the source: John, waving at the exit gate. "C'mon, mate, ah dinnae want tae get another ticket!"

Kyle's face breaks down into a seriously, mate? expression, turning back to you to smile ruefully. "Next time? You'll be here."

"Maybe!"

"Nah, you gotta promise that."

You laugh again, his voice carrying as he stands up, grabbing your hand. A couple people looking at you both.

"Sure, maybe I promise."

A smile as bright as the sun and just as intoxicating.

On the walk home to your car, Sasha gripping your arm tightly. "Dude."

"What?"

"Kyle's last name."

You stare at her. "I didn't hear it."

"John yelled it, you didn't hear it?"

"I dunno, kinda? Eric or something."

She laughs at you openly. "Garrick, dummy. G-guh-guh-garrrrrrick."

"No. I think it was Eric or Carrick maybe. I didn't hear a G."

She shrugs, clearly not believing you at all, hands up. "Oookay."

You wait as she waits for her bus, then you head through the secondary parking lot to your car in the next lot. Dozens of moths are swarming each floodlight, forming strange dark clouds that dissipate and reshape themselves.

A truck's headlights turn on in front of you, making you gasp and grab your bag. You squint above into the cab. See a tall shadow. You scurry your feet and hear a door open.

"Just me."

Elevator guy, unfurling his big body from the truck, and stepping down in his uniform and boots. Looks tired in the fluorescent lighting.

"Oh," you twist back, breathless and embarrassed for it. "Hey." The lack of his name gives you pause. "Just getting off now?"

He nods. "Walk you."

You wait as he shuts the engine off and palms the keys as he walks beside you across the swaths of grass and improvised footpaths between the lots.

"Where you comin' from?"

"Oh, the cinq à sept, down the road?" The realization hits you that maintenance and security and warehouse and all those other folks may not get invitations extended their way, and you bite your tongue in shame. "My team invited me last minute." A mollifying shrug offered like you too are on the outskirts.

"Never been," he says simply. You're not sure if you want to get to your car quicker or slower, feeling out of sorts and pulled apart. "They treatin' you nice?"

"Who, my team?"

"Yeah." No inflection, nothing to riddle out.

"Yeah, they're really nice." Wait. "How'd you know I'm new?"

He laughs shortly, not rude but not really kind either. "You got a look to you. Big eyes. Spooked."

You frown down, staring at the hem of your dress and sandals, not realizing people could smell the rookie off you that obviously. "Me? Or new people in general?"

"Don't know anyone else that's new."

You get to your car. Your keys are still in your bag. Sasha's dumb boldness takes root in you for as long as you can harness it.

"Can you tell me your name?"

His brows raise a little. "Simon."

"Full name. Please."

"Riley."

When you look deeply confused and start fidgeting with your keys, he looks around like he's missing something. "Y'alrigh'?"

"Yeah. I just…why'd that guy call you G?"

He looks just as confused as you do. "Who?"

Just gotta admit that I noted every single second of our encounter to replay later and know what a random man called you in a two-plus hour span.

"Your…friend from maintenance? He called you G. Through the speaker."

His expression settles immediately. "Dumb nickname the lads gave me." Even with the dim evening light, washed in deep tangerine twilight, there's colour high on his cheekbones. You stare at it dumbfounded. He is not the type of person — you thought — that would ever blush or seem uncomfortable.

"For what? I mean. What's the G stand for?"

"Ghost." He clears his throat loudly, and kicks your tire with his boot.

"Hey," you say lightly, waving your hands out at him. "That's my…those are my tires you're kicking!"

"Tire's nearly flat." He says, eyes flicking to you briefly.

You spin around to look. Sure enough. Dumb ass fucking piece of shit car. Dumb ass fucking piece of shit you.

"Get in." You do, obedient. Then watch as he gestures to you to wait, and jogs long-legged and slightly stiff, to his truck across the way. You watch in silence as his truck headlights come on. Veer out, across his own lot, then looping around until he's by yours.

"'kay, y'can wait in there if you're not gonna boil. Or y'can help me."

Neither of you speak about anything while he loosens the lug nuts, jacks your car up — not surprised he's got his own jack in his truck — then hauls the spare out of your trunk for you. You do helpful tasks like popping the trunk open. Handing him the occasional item. Staring at him. As you lose the dying bits of sun, holding your phone's flashlight out to see better, which he snorts at.

It's done by the time your roadside assistance would even be dispatching someone.

"Take it for a spin." He gestures, and you climb in, aware of the scent he's left behind — an old but mostly clean sweat — and drive around the parking lot, feeling like an idiot learning how to drive.

"Feels good?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Do you get out of the car? Shake his hand? Hug him? "How—no—can I pay you back, please?"

A solemn shake of his head. "Nah, don't be daft. Glad I was here."

"Me too." Again.

"Can I buy you a drink?" What if he doesn't drink? What if he'll take it as flirting? Do you want him to take it as flirting? What if he's married, or g—

"Alrigh'."

You take his number and don't offer yours in return. You suddenly feel very possessive of that scrap of agency left. "Well, thanks again. Simon."

Your team, and even your department, is small. You don't know anyone with those initials. Do you? In your email, you pull up the department group to scroll through all the names; you're still new, you're probably forgetting a few.

Nothing. Well, it's intra-company, so no harm, no foul. It's not as if you're clicking on a suspicious link.

» Accept.

You wait. The longer you wait, the antsier you get. You flick at your thumbnail, your fingertip catching where the nail polish is peeling up. Little flecks of polish in a tiny pile that you sweep off with a scoop of your hand.

Wrong message maybe?

Sighing, you flip back to your manual to scroll through for specific information when the window suddenly blinks.

» Like your hair today

» Hi, sorry who is this?

» You don't know?

Your stomach flips.

» Sorry, I'm new. I really don't know anyone outside my department.

» Shame. Should socialize more.

What?

» Oh, well…I'll start soon, i'm sure lol. Sorry what department are you in?

» Kinda fun to let you figure it out

You minimize the chat window silently. It feels like holding a snake that suddenly turns its head to look at you.

You message Sasha, asking if she knows anyone with the first initial G, without telling her the rest. She laughs and says you might as well be asking if there're any white guys working in big tech.

For the rest of the day, anyone passing by your little cubicle is a suspect. You are in a busy, central spot of your floor; dozens of people float around every hour, many faces still unknown to you. You constantly receive a spectrum polite smiles, blank smiles, warm hellos, but nobody that stares or lingers. Every single person you interact with, hear about, you're training yourself to look for any matching initials.

Judging by their message, G doesn't want you to deduce it right away. Wants to play a bit, and you don't like it one bit. You delete the message history. It won't prevent them from sending you messages, but it's the only thing that works to keep your focus off it.

Pretend it hasn't happened.

—

A week later, you're deep in a document review, eyes bleary, when the window blinks. Doesn't occur to you that it wouldn't be anyone but your team members.

» Forgot to mention I like your cute little picture

Your eyes slam to the pinned picture on your partition wall — you, your best friends, soaking wet on the dock, arms up and eyes closed. A comfort to look at. No different from other people's pictures of their pets or kids or spouses. Suddenly, it feels as if you blew it up and hung it off the side of the building to flap in the wind and let the city gawk at you. Like a nude got published. You're all in your bathing suit cover-ups, nothing untoward to hang up in the workplace, but you suddenly grab it, the little pushpin ripping out with it. You stuff it in your bag, suddenly noticing that your palms and soles of your feet are sweating.

» Make you nervous?

» I don't really know what to say. I don't know who you are.

» You sure?

What the fuck. You close the chat again, pushing your chair out from your desk, and get up to go talk with Sasha. She asks if you want to tell IT; not yet, not really. HR? Definitely not. You both tool around and discover the chat app doesn't let you block other users, considering it's just a company-wide tool.

"Okay, well. I can try to look up directories, if you want, anyone with a G-name. Find an org chart, but those are constantly fuckin' outdated. Do you think they work on this floor?"

"Sasha, how would I know that," you laugh weakly. You scroll up through the chat history to show her. "There's nothing there that tells me what department they work in. How often they see me. They could be mailroom, or someone's assistant, or…anyone!"

She chews her lip, hip bumped against your desk. "Yeah. Fuck. Well, just ignore them for now. Let me know if you want to escalate it." She gives you very serious eye contact until you nod sincerely. "Or if they do something even weirder. Okay?"

You wander back to your desk.

You work later than usual that day. A company this size and given the field you're in, there are still dozens of people on calls, staring at screens, wrapping up meetings. Makes you feel better, safer.

A maintenance worker is waiting for the elevator when you approach. The sheer breadth of him makes you feel small and insignificant, standing there with your lunch bag and water bottle and backpack like a schoolkid. He's got a big yellow maintenance pushcart with him, and when the doors ding open, you motion for him to go first so you can fit yourself in after. He obliges with a blank nod, and you skirt in behind him.

G for you.

B1 for him.

You're staring unseeingly at the smeared stainless steel reflection of the elevator door, picking at your nail polish, when the lights flicker rapidly in a one-two count, and then the elevator car is shuddering, pulling up short and making your stomach roil.

"What the fuck," you mutter automatically. Eyes flick up to the robotic floor read-out, but that doesn't even seem certain where you are. Between 2nd and 3rd floor?

The lights shudder out again, plunging you both in dark for a few moments. You breathe in sharply until some sort of backup system kicks in, running lights on the ceiling of the elevator turning on. A ceiling fan spinning, thank god.

You turn to the maintenance worker — also thank god, someone who might know what to do exactly besides pressing the HELP button — and his mouth is downturned, unimpressed.

"Do you want—?" You gesture to the panel of buttons. He nods silently. Then, with the big-ass cart filling up the space of nearly 4 people, you have to maneuver off to the side like one of those frustrating tile games so he can bring himself up to where you were stood.

Tucked at the back, his broad back blocks you from seeing what he's pressing. Then there's a tinny, crackling voice. "Maintenance."

"Hey mate, it's me. Stuck in car 2 between 2 and 3. Power go out?"

"Oh, hey, man." You can almost detect relief in the other person's voice, like they're grateful not to hear from a panicking employee instead. "Yeah, brown-out. Car should be good though — lights and fan on?"

"Yeah."

"Weird. 'Kay, hold tight. I'll give J a ring." The crackling noise cuts out.

You stare at his back impolitely. Large shapely muscles bulked under a dark grey short-sleeved canvas shirt, tattoos pouring out over thick biceps and forearms. Workman's belt. Matching grey canvas pants and some of the thickest black boots you've seen. Huge, muscular ass. Tree trunk thighs stretching the canvas tight.

Boots turning backward to face you. Your eyes fly up to his face — solemn dark eyes, healed-wrong nose, and full mouth — breathlessly, guilty.

"Y'alrigh'?"

"Yeah?" You almost cough. "Yeah. Good."

"Might be a bit. Stingy fuckers been delaying calling the elevator techs out since spring."

"Oh." You panic because there's nothing to look at except for him and all he's looking at it is the way you're grabbing helplessly at the straps of your backpack. "Well. At least we've got air." You, ever the optimist.

—

The cart forces awkwardness. When you finally slide to sit down, and he follows suit later, you can't even see one another. Two ends of an L shape of space.

The silence is mortifying for no good reason, shining floodlights on your social insecurities.

You've tucked yourself in the back corner of the car, knees pulled up to your chest, unzipping your backpack quietly like you don't want to disturb the man.

It's been an hour and a half. You've stopped caring about the sweat that's peppered along your hairline, under your arms.. You scrape your hair up and find a claw clip to keep it off your skin.

"Whatcha got?" he asks after you crinkle around in your lunch bag too loudly.

"Oh, I was…I was just about to offer. I have some cold noodle salad left. You allergic to sesame or peanut?"

"Nah."

You scrape two portions out, using your emptied containers to divvy them up. Big boy; you serve him a bigger portion. Around the corner from you, he won't know any different. Instead of standing, you scoot forward until you're peeking around. His legs are kicked out as much as they can, but he looks cramped and awkward.

He meets you halfway, arms flexing to grab your offerings; a can of grapefruit seltzer water, chopsticks and cold noodle salad, and a two-bite brownie from the dollar store. His expression, so blank before, looks surprised when he sees it.

His big fingers drag against yours as you weirdly try to place it all in his opened palms.

"Cheers," he says bluntly.

You nod politely and you both retreat to your corners like sweating, sad boxers.

"Oh wait!" You call out brighter than anything else you've said to him. "Ice packs."

A repeat of moving forward and then a hand-off a cool-but-better-than-nothing ice pack. He makes a very small sound when it hits his hands. Scuffled back into your spots again. A deeper groan when he puts the ice pack…wherever. You don't want to imagine where he's placed it.

"You get this downstairs?" It's the only question he's asked you except if you're alright.

At first, you think he means the ice pack.

"Huh? Oh, the salad? No, I made it. Why, is it okay?" Properly a character deficiency for you to seek validation from a random stranger in a stuck elevator.

He slurps the noodles loudly. "S'fuckin' good. Can't figure these things out though." You suspect he means the chopsticks.

You laugh lightly. "Sorry, I don't have a fork."

"Don't say sorry." The crisp sound of the pop can being cracked open and then a long thirsty guzzle. He must be sweatier than you in that canvas uniform. You imagine his Adam's apple working up and down as he chugs the water. "Ah, what the fuck is that" spat out in a strangled voice.

"What?"

"Your pop's gone off."

"Huh?"

"Tastes old."

Realization. You laugh. "It's just seltzer water. Flavoured. Not really pop."

You see the edge of his steel toed boots move slightly, and then a hand appear around the corner, setting the opened drink down for you. He moves back against his wall. "'m good. Thanks."

Are you opposed to drinking from the same can as a stranger? Yes.

This stranger? You grab the can quickly as if he's going to snatch you, and set it beside you. Look down and see where some of the water's pooled around the open tab. In the utter, humiliating privacy of your corner, you silently sniff the top of the can. Nothing. You have a tiny sip, and then dig into your own noodles, awash with whatever has come over you. A bitch in heat.

You gasp very loudly when the speaker crackles to life.

"Ey, G? You good, man?"

The man — you still don't know his name. He doesn't know yours — awkwardly pushes himself up to stand. "Yeah."

"Sorry for the wait there, brother. Fuckin' shitshow with these fools. Someone had to pull up their goddamn contract to check about OT calls. Anyway, they should be here soon. You guys good?"

"Yeah, all good, mate. Cheers." From this angle, stood up tall, he glances back and sees you tucked up tight, staring up at him. A funny look crosses his face, but you don't know him, can't read him.

When the technicians finally arrive, it doesn't take long for you guys to finally arrive at the 2nd floor, doors sliding open, and you finally on more stable ground. The man chats a little with the techs and you shyly say, "Thank you so much," to…everyone there, and then aim for the stairwell. The cold recirculated office air is a fucking relief on your skin, under your dampened clothing.

There's a door slam in the stairwell, echoing loudly in the chamber as you descend, and heavy boots clomping down, not hurried but not slow. You glance back and up: he's followed you. Didn't stay to chat.

"Walk you out." He says simply, and you mouth oh and you don't really have any arguments for that, so you walk self-consciously ahead of him. Aware that your pants and top are stuck unflatteringly to your skin with probably a pool-shaped band of sweat at the back of your top. "You drive or take public?"

"Uh, drive." Nerves rankling your voice like you didn't just spend hours cooped up in a tighter space than this.

He nods. Laughs short and rough when he sees you heading to the single car in the deserted parking lot. Overnight crews must park elsewhere.

An absurd question out of your mouth — "Do you want a drive home? Or…need? I don't know if you drive or…" You fumble with your car keys, press repeatedly on the fob to open the doors just for something to do with your hands. Your car lights blinks obediently as you approach.

"'m good. Drove." You turn your head, too afraid to look back up at him now, but watching his arm lift to gesture at a secondary parking lot. Some trucks parked there.

He stands, crossing his arms across his bulky chest, as you smile unnaturally.

"Okay, well, thanks, I guess." You laugh uncomfortably. "For keeping your cool. Made me feel a lot better."

"Yeah?" An eyebrow, ripped apart by scar tissue, tugging up by a hair.

"Yeah. A lot, actually." And then immediately, your cheeks feel even hotter, feeling like you've revealed something far too intimate to a man whose drink you swallowed.

"Cute."

You hustle into your car, flinging your shit on the passenger seat, sweating furiously and keys bouncing off the ignition cylinder multiple times until it takes, and waving until you can pull out and far away.

His hair was overgrown, almost blocking out his vision on its own. Her own head felt lighter now. Maybe that was why she could see now, eyes no longer blocked by dark tresses. 

His eyes were visible though, just barely. They peered out at her, bloodshot and frantic. 

His behavior was odd, like he was trying to bargain with an invisible enemy more than he was trying to communicate anything with her. The rules he stated were circular, twisting in her mind as if his words held slightly different meanings to the ones the doctors wielded. 

She wished he would stop speaking. The only thing he seemed capable of doing was getting things tangled up inside of her. But then, she didn’t dare act out of turn. It was clear this meeting was for some purpose, set into motion by people who mattered. She didn’t understand but she could fall in line. 

And so she did. 

He seemed upset by it, every kind word causing a proportional negative reaction. 

She wished she could shut her eyes. It was too much, this brightness and color and movement. His reactions, trying to make sense of them. They had been right to take it from her. They knew best, at the end of the day; knew what she should not be made to handle. 

She tried her best to adjust her eyes to it, to let it filter through her brain without interference the way the dark could. 

It was harder than she’d anticipated. She couldn’t stop noticing things, couldn’t narrow her field of view or prevent distraction. 

The light felt sharp, almost penetrative. Nothing like the soft, noncommittal possibility of the dark. The dark didn’t ask anything of her. 

“Do you want to close your eyes?”

Want. A difficult sort of question, the sort she could change her answer to. She wished she could ask, could try and prompt a direction out of him. “I try not to want.”

“That’s not an answer. Give me a real answer.”

“I don’t want to have to choose.”

He scoffed. “Tough. You can, though. If you want.”

Can. She didn’t like the way he spoke. She kept her eyes open and refused to vocalize it. 

“You know, when we met, you were rude to me.” He spoke almost wistfully, which didn’t make sense. They hadn’t met. Or…

Maybe they had. He would be allowed to remember things she was not, there was nothing to stop him. He wasn’t like her, he wasn’t molded like this. 

Or maybe he was. He looked like she did, looked like he would fit. But something there just didn’t. It felt wrong. Like she knew something, somewhere. Somewhere she shouldn’t have access to. 

But she needed to know it, needed to know if he was one of them, if she should listen. 

She was rude? She wouldn’t do that if he was one of them. Had she known then? Was she allowed to think about this? 

The silence had apparently gone on for too long. Spike huffed. “You can speak. I know you can.”

“We met.” Not a question. She knew that logic wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny, but it might get her something.

“We did.” He understood, she could hear it in his voice alongside something else, a quiet dare to push.

“We’re meeting.” There. That was something, at least. A delineation. 

 “To you, maybe. We met a long time ago.”

When? That’s all she wanted to ask, just one word. She knew she couldn’t. 

Had it been here? Or maybe before? She knew there had been a before, there had to have been.

“I haven’t known you very long.”

“You have. You’ve just forgotten. You know, I can’t be too upset. I think I’ve forgotten too. Our meeting.”

“When I was rude.”

“No. Well, maybe, I guess. I don’t really know. You were rude in a sort of… second meeting. Like this one, I guess.”

“I remembered you. In the second meeting.”

“No.” She winced at the response. It felt like she’d given a wrong answer. “You didn’t. You weren’t allowed to.”

“I don’t remember that either.”

“No, I know.”

“I’m happier now,” she posited, not because she remembered before or had any concept of relative happiness, but because something in her said it was what he wanted to hear. “I’m happier being this. Now.”

It seemed to have the opposite effect of what she had intended. He seemed to hollow at the words. He was stuck in the same position, of course, but she watched something inside him collapse through his eyes. It was disconcerting. One was never faced with truths like this when the world was black. If it had happened before, she had not been able to know it. She selfishly thought she preferred it that way. 

Or maybe it wasn’t selfish. If she became hollow, she doesn’t know if she would want him to see. If he was like her, she certainly wouldn’t.  But she didn’t know if he was, couldn’t figure it out. If he was like them, she would never presume to want or not want anything from him, of course. 

“Do you want to know something?” he asked. 

She didn’t. “Yes.” It was what he wanted to hear. 

“It’s my fault. You were rude when we met, you asked me questions. And now you’re nothing. A puppet who’s master doesn’t bother to enliven anymore.”

She was right. She hadn’t wanted to know that. “I’m not supposed to ask questions, I think. I’m never sure.”

“You thought that then too. I think I didn’t count as much because I was like you.”

It made sense. She’d considered that very thing mere minutes ago. “You’re not like me.”

He sagged at that, head pushing up against the restraints, refusing to allow him the slack his body clearly wanted. “No. But I thought I was, back then.”

A mistake, then. But not one of hers. She didn’t know what the consequences were, when they got things wrong. But then, she could hardly remember what her own consequences were. She only knew they existed, that they loomed over her perpetually. 

“You forgot,” she tried, trying to order the events in her head. She didn’t think she was supposed to understand it but it was unravelling all the same. This stranger felt almost in kind to her, parallel to who she had been formed into. 

“Yeah.” His voice was soft, almost sad. “I forgot.”

They didn’t talk after that, but still she looked at him, watched him breathe in shaky breaths and blink heavily behind shaggy hair. 

Eventually, he slept, some heavy sheet of exhaustion overwhelming him. That too she could understand. She could not join him, now, with all this light, but she could understand. And maybe that was what counted in the end. 

When the doctors entered the room, he was none the wiser. 

She did not call out to him. That would be unwise, would run counter to the person she was supposed to be. Still, something in her pulled taut at the sight of them approaching him, of cold gloved hands running over warm skin. 

Was his skin warm? Their hands were always cold. How would she know the difference? 

The cold, ungiving metal around her wrists snapped open and her arms slid off the sides of the chair. Her whole body slumped over as her head was no longer held up and. All she could do was stare. It was not supposed to do that, she knew that much. Or did she? She supposed perhaps it was. They did not seem concerned so perhaps she should not be either. 

They were looking at her. She could not tell why, could only see their heads trailed in her direction. They were covered completely, impossible to read. Then how did she always know when they were upset, when she had done something wrong? She looked at them expectantly, eyes darting between the two men. 

The doctor came over and pulled her to her feet. She followed the motion reflexively, obediently. 

It was easier to see him this way, looming over him. She watched his struggle to tilt his head back as much as he could to look at her, fighting against the unyielding metal of his restraints. 

Wasn’t he supposed to be the one who was with them? Why was this line being drawn, her standing with a doctor while he stayed restrained? It wasn’t right, she couldn’t do it. 

She shouldn’t. Something resembling guilt tangled itself in her stomach. 

Standing like this, she could see things she hadn’t been able to see before. The man’s arm was peeled open, its insides revealed to her, alive and pulsing. 

It wasn’t right to see him like this. Cut open. Laid bare. 

Her hand twitched towards her stomach. She stopped it when it actually moved, no longer held steady by the metal. It was harder to keep herself in check this way, no longer guided by the firm hands of people who knew better. She resolved herself not to move unguided again. 

The doctor led her over to him. Her feet moved forward, out of her control. It was what they wanted her to do. 

The man strained his eyes to look up at her, having given up on shifting his head. It looked painful. Those sorts of things didn’t matter in the dark. 

She didn’t know why she was being shown this. She didn’t know why she was being shown anything. 

She wanted desperately to ask for guidance, to ask why. She refrained, instead looking blankly at the doctor, waiting for any guidance. 

She received it. “Go on. Touch.”

She knew she shouldn’t, knew somewhere inherent inside of her that it was wrong. Her hand creeped forward, brushing against the least invasive piece of him, touching at the skin on the outside of the gaping wound, holding loose, unmoored. It shifted easily at her touch, with nothing to cling to. Even still, like this, separated from its master, it was warm. 

He jerked at the contact, not a wince of pain nor a start of surprise, but something she couldn’t quite identify. Almost like she’d shocked him. 

She remembered that, she realized belatedly. Remembered shocking people; dragging her socks across carpets, sending a small burst of electricity through her fingers. 

It didn’t seem likely here. She had no socks, let alone a carpet. She rarely had so much as the ability to drag her feet, though she supposed she'd now been given that privilege. And besides, she had the nagging feeling that she would have known if that’s what she’d done to him. 

She went to withdraw her hand, her mission completed, but the doctor tsked at her. “Stay there. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

The words hit her like a blow, her body locking in place. As the doctor shuffled over, filling a syringe with something, she heard a crack. She turned to see the man, jaw now open, stretching it from side to side. 

“It’s alright,” he said, words coming fast as he nervously glimpsed at the doctor. It almost seemed like he was scared the doctor might take his words away. It didn’t make sense, the man didn’t follow orders. The doctor could do nothing to him. “They’re making you do this. It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

She didn’t like his words. Putting a name to the guilt sent it bubbling up through her, rising outside of the depths of her guts where it had settled, happy to be ignored in favor of complacency. 

The doctor returned, fiddling with the plastic bits of the man, running his fluids through him. The doctor inserted the needle, sending the contents of the syringe flooding through them, churning into the rest of his body. 

She wasn’t sure where the instinct came from, but she braced for screaming, her muscles tightening. 

It never came. 

Instead, the main in the chair convulsed a little, a wet rattling coming through his chest. And then he was looking at her again, eyes sad and angry and almost a little damp. Almost. 

She wished his hair was longer. Then she wouldn’t have to see them. 

His arm twitched under her fingers, the skin loose and shifting with every tensing of his muscles. 

And then he shuddered, his eyes going glassy. 

She wanted to pull away. She shifted back, onto the heels of her feet, feeling unsteady. 

The doctor’s hand cradled hers, pushing her harder into his flesh. She could feel his veins thrumming in time with the throbbing she could see, the way they wound endlessly around and around inside his arm. Was hers like that, on the inside? Or had they reordered the veins, rearranged his insides to suit their needs?

It upset her how dry it was, how sterile. There should be insides on the inside, a wet mass that bled when cut into. It wasn’t right, to see it splayed like this, to have it so perfectly organized so as to almost not be recognizable as flesh. 

As soon as the doctor let go of her hand, she let it fall to her side. She knew it wasn’t permission to let go, but she decided to take it as such anyway

They started speaking about something. She didn’t know what, she wasn’t listening. Instead, she began a slow shuffle back to her chair. This time, she had to think about every movement, forcing herself forwards. It was a relief to slump back onto her chair, lifting her hands so they fell in line with the restraints. 

One of the doctors looked back at her, as unreadable as ever, and muttered something to the other. She was glad it was too quiet to hear, she didn’t have to focus on ignoring it. 

The restraints snapped shut and she was able to relax once more, being held up by forces outside of herself. 

They did not stay long after that, seeming disinterested in whatever they’d been doing now that she was not involved. Something inside her fluttered at the idea that her action, unguided and independent, had saved him from more pain. She was unsure if it was a good or a bad fluttering. It did not seem for her to decide. 

The man stared at his arm, face forlorn and unreadable, looking bare without protective equipment. It was a privilege, she supposed, to be able to hide like the doctors did. He made no move to leave, though something inside her said that he could if he wanted to. She was not sure where that left him, what side she should categorize him on. 

“They’re chemically stimulating emotions,” he informed her unbidden, pulling her from her thoughts. It was for the best, she wasn’t sure if she should be having them. 

“It made you feel something.” Still not a question. A stupid technicality, something that could be toppled over with a look. She tried not to think about it. It was harder to do, when she could see. She mourned the dark once more. 

“Yeah.”

“It was…” she struggled to get the words right. “I don’t know what they made you feel.”

“And you won’t know,” he snapped. 

“Your name is Spike,” she said, the fact slotting into place like it had always been there. There was some emotion behind it, something it took some force to shove away. 

You crawl into his lap, eyes lidded as your fingers tug on his shirt.  “Kyle,” you whisper, lips brushing against the pulse point on his neck. 

He shakes his head, pausing his movie as his hands find your hips. “Proper stoned, aren’t you, love?”

You pull away, hand rubbing against his cheek– his skin’s so soft; it always feels so nice against your fingertips. “Not that bad, just had a gummy.”

He raises his eyebrow, his palm pressing hard against your soaked panties– as if the mess between your thighs is enough proof that you’re lying. 

“Okay, two, Kyle, please,” you whine, hips slowly moving against his hand. 

He sighs, ignoring your pouting when he removes his hand. “Fine, but I’m finishing my movie,” he says, hands already on his zipper. 

Your mind’s too foggy to know just how much time has passed since he sat you on his cock– the edibles fully kicking in by now. 

“Fuck,” you moan, hands on his shoulders as his thick length fills your cunt. 

A sharp gasp leaves your mouth as his fingers pinch and pull at your nipples. “Quiet down, can’t hear the telly,” he mumbles, his eyes never leaving the action film playing in the background. 

Burying your head in his neck, you lick and suck at his skin in a pathetic attempt to stay silent as you slowly continue to move your hips. 

His hips thrust up suddenly, the tip of his cock brushing against the deepest part of you. “How much longer?” you whimper, wanting nothing more than for him to relieve the ache in your core. 

“You’re lucky, Petal; the credits just started.” 

He doesn’t give you any warning as he manhandles you, moving you from sitting in his lap to lying down on the couch. 

“Always get so needy like this,” he teases, the sound of wet noises and skin slapping filling the air as he finally fucks you. 

Your nails scratch down his back, lips parted as you make broken and desperate noises. “Mmm, ‘m close,” you manage to slur out, unable to think of anything other than the warmth that’s spread throughout your body. 

His thumb brushes your clit, tracing gentle circles against the swollen bud. “C’mon, love, let me feel you cum around my cock.”

Your walls clenching down around him as you reach your peak, his words pushing you over the edge. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through your orgasm as he chases his own high. 

“Kiss, please,” you beg, barely coherent when his mouth crashes into yours. Your tongue pushes past his lips, feverishly licking at the inside of his mouth. 

Hips stilling, he groans into the kiss, his body shuddering as he spills his cum inside your cunt. Your mixed spit shines against his swollen lips as he pulls away. 

The sounds of your combined breathing fill the air as he collapses on top of you. His heavy weight anchors your dazed mind back to reality. 

“Hey, Kyle?” you mumble, fingers running up and down his back. 

He hums in response, head pressed against your chest, the vibrations against your skin causing you to let out a soft giggle. 

You calm your laughter before continuing. “I really want a burger, like, bad.”

He sighs as he sits up, looking down at you with a soft smile. Grabbing his clothes off the floor, he hastily gets dressed. “With chips?” 

a fool's offer, one he'll never concede to, but your voice is sweet and tempting all the same. "ser garrycke, please grant me this. it is dangerous for us to be out in such heat."

it had been your suggestion in the first place; your father had waved his hand, weary from the heat, and bid you and your honourable knightguard to ride your horses as far as the creek at the far end of your father's estate. "return by dusk," he'd said with no heart in it, and you'd clasped your hands together in joy at the release.

ser garrycke had been beside himself, fretting about the heat, the horses, the impropriety ("for whom? father has permitted it."). you swatted away his concerns easily as he saddled your mare, smiling up at him. he liked your smiles, you knew, and could never quite resist when you turned your teeth to him.

so now, wading into the rock-floor creek, water rushing cooly at your knees now, you turn your bright lovely smile upon him.

he is torn. he always is. "my lady—"

"it is too hot to argue with me, ser garrycke. if you want to continue, you'll have to come in with me to do so." then you pluck at the ties of your thin summer gown, lift your arms, and peel the fabric up and over you. the heavy hem, sluggish with water, makes your job more difficult than you'd like, but then you are tossing the gown and chemise to the shore where you left your satin slippers.

over the rushing creek, you hear a sharp inhale. you don't turn around to look, but continue wading in, inhaling yourself as the water laps at your shivering, pebbled flesh of your thighs and your lonely sex and your stomach and your breasts. your entire body feels taut, drawn up like skin stretched over a drum, as the cold presses up around your arse.

you float your arms out ahead of you, feeling your toes inch along the slippery rocks.

"my lady, take care—"

"i can't hear you!" you sing back.

you do slip a little then, the water silk against your neck, splashing against your spluttering mouth, but it feels so delicious in the heat, you've no mind to head back to the shore. you stay at this height, water lapping at your mouth like summer's only cold kiss, until you hear the splashing behind you.

you sense the frustration pouring off him before you even turn around. when you do, his great chest is heaving with effort, sweat pooling at his clavicle — he's removed the most burdensome aspects of his vestments, but is still wearing his braies. you drink him in, as delicious as the creek on a hot day.

he looks positively anguished. "my lady, this is most improp—"

you arc an arm back and splash him, the sun glittering droplets all over his face and hair and shoulders, making you laugh girlishly.

"i don't need a lady's maid today, ser garrycke. i need a man who will swim with a woman on the devil's hottest day of the year."

the water landing on his braies helps tremendously, molding the linens against his manhood. he sees your smirk pulling out of the water and his expression of agony becomes firm and determined.

"that is quite enough."

"do you think my father a fool, ser garrycke?"

silence. stubborn silence.

"i take your silence as a resounding no. if my father is not a fool, then do you question his judgment in allowing us to spend the day together? do you believe him to be naive, at best, or not of sound mind?" your skin ripples against the heat as you step toward him, the water receding down to your sex until you're stood in front of him.

he is hard within his braies, straining the fabric. his beautiful eyes are held to yours, not willing to look downward and see you. he's a graceful and quick-witted man, but he does not expect you to unroll the excess waistband over his hipbones, seeking the linen tie so you can tug it before he pulls away from you, until the fabric is loosened and falling away, down to his knees.

he makes an undignified sound, and you sink to the smooth river stones, pushing your knees in to find a gripping leverage. the water swallows your bottom half up. his cock springs forth from a bed of tight, dark curls, and it's held with such tension that you think it bears quite a resemblance to its owner in that moment.

"please, ser garrycke," you ply, cooing. "let me keep you refreshed."

when your mouth surrounds him, he utters a deep, haunting gasp. you place your hands delicately on his coarsely-haired thighs, running your fingers through them pleasantly, enjoying the texture against fingertip.

"have you not missed this?" you tease. "my mouth upon you like this?" you replace your lips and let him try to form a sentence while your throat opens up, your cheeks sucking in as you swallow him up all the way to his skin.

"my—my lady—fuck" and you have him. ser garrycke, so much older and crystallized now, a ripened version of the boy you once knew. the boy who laid with you for the first time, somewhere near this creekbed, both of you crying into one another's cheeks and necks, rutting unknowingly against one another until he found his release. yours took longer, more patience and exploration, but you were both natural learners, eager to please and discover.

the man standing above you now tries to pretend those days never existed, and would like to go on bearing the knightly title and duties, whilst gazing at you with those loving eyes across each room you find one another in. loyally bound to your father, and completely unaware that your father knew every step, every stroke of hand that crossed paths under his roof. the boy was sent off and came back cleaned and refined in his vestments, and your father smiled at him. finally worthy for his daughter.

poor ser garrycke, in his own world. nobody has told him yet. your father rather enjoys playing with the poor man (like father, like daughter), testing his integrity every so often by allowing you such access. with each test passed, his appreciation for his future son-in-law grows.

until the truth is revealed, you do enjoy teasing. having his cock pulsing in your mouth is something you've won over weeks of attrition, a delicious little reward for yourself. you think that if you tried to bed him, he would abandon his knighthood altogether, believing himself an utter failure. you will let that be his wedding night gift.

bearing a sweet smile on your face, you pull off him, listening to his great gasping breaths, and feel his fingers hover around your hair tentatively. he never did know how to hold you when you did this. you grip him tightly then, and sheath him with your fist back and forth, knowing his release is close. his hands come to your shoulders as he curls forward, shadows swallowing you both up in this arc of bodies meeting.

"for me, ser garrycke?"

"anything—" he cries out, and spills forth from his cock, his milky seed splashing in the chilled creek water, coursing away just as quickly as it came, until he's emptied and left cupping your shoulders, his skin pebbled.

you cup your palms together and gather water, then use it to clean him off. the cold startles him, so warm under your ministrations.

"come in further. let's get clean."

-