The storm was finally behind you, but the adrenaline still buzzed in your veins. Tyler’s truck bounced down the rutted back road, mud splattering up the sides as the wipers smeared streaks of rain across the windshield. Your jeans were plastered to your legs, hair damp and gritty from flying debris, and every muscle in your body hummed with the ache of exhaustion.

“Home’s still over an hour away,” you muttered, gesturing vaguely out the window. “Pretty sure I’ll fall asleep and drown in my own drool before we hit the county line.”

Tyler snorted, one hand loose on the wheel, the other draped over the top of the seat. “Wouldn’t be the first time I had to haul your sorry ass out of this truck.”

You shot him a look. “That was one time.”

“Twice,” he corrected, grinning. 

You sank lower in your seat, rolling your eyes. The heater kicked on, fogging the cab with damp warmth, and for the first time since the storm, you let your shoulders sag.

Tyler glanced over, jawline sharp in the passing glow of headlights. “You can crash at my place. It’s ten minutes out. Beats an hour drive smelling like wet dog.”

“Wow. Such hospitality. You’re a real gentleman, Owens.”

He smirked. “Don’t spread it around. I got a reputation to keep.”

The truth was, this wasn’t new. You’d ended up at his place or in his motel room more than once. Sometimes it was just for sleep. Muddy boots left by the door, you curled up on his couch or in the second bed of a motel room if they had limited rooms available.

Other times…well, you both knew how that went. The friendship always snapped back to center, though. Neither of you made it complicated or weird. You were just friends…that also sometimes had sex. Simple.

Still, something about the way he kept sneaking glances at you now made your stomach tighten.

“You only invited me to stay so I’d owe you one,” you said, breaking the quiet.

“Nah.” He grinned. “Invited you ‘cause you smell like cow shit. You need a shower, darlin’.”

You laughed despite yourself, swatting lightly at his arm. The tension eased, but not entirely.

Tyler’s truck rumbled to a stop outside his place, the familiar shape of the farmhouse barely visible in the dark. The porch light cut a pale circle against the rain slick yard, moths already circling. He killed the engine and the cab fell into silence except for the tick of the cooling engine.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar like it always did. He kicked off his boots just inside the door, mud caking the floorboards, and peeled his wet jacket off in one smooth motion. You trailed after, tugging at your own damp sleeves, more focused on how heavy your clothes felt than the trail of water you were dripping across his entryway.

Tyler glanced back, that grin tugging at his mouth, sharp and boyish even with his hair plastered damp to his forehead. 

“I’m going to shower now. You coming?”

The words landed the same way they always did. Half a joke, half a challenge. This wasn’t new. Sometimes you took him up on it, sometimes you didn’t. Either way, you both knew what the offer meant.

You rolled your eyes, lips twitching despite your best attempt to look unimpressed. “Wow, romantic.”

“Save the commentary,” he shot back, already tugging his shirt over his head as he headed down the hall. “Water heater doesn’t last forever.”

You shook your head, muttering something about his ego, but your feet were already moving to follow. Neither of you pretended this was about saving water.

The bathroom steamed quickly, fogging the mirror until your reflections blurred. You stripped out of your damp clothes. Tyler was already under the spray of the shower head by the time you stepped in, head tipped back, water running over his shoulder and chest.

“Don’t hog it all,” you muttered, shoving at his side to squeeze in.

He cracked an eye open, smirking as he shifted just enough to give you space. “You’re the one dragging your feet. Slowpoke rules don’t apply in this house.”

As you ducked your head under the spray of the shower head, your fingers began to work through your hair. Tyler then stilled behind you. He reached up and his hand brushed through your damp strands, fingertips catching on something. He frowned.

“Hold up,” he said. His palm pressed gently at the back of your head, tilting it toward the light. “You’re bleeding.”

You blinked water from your eyes, startled. “What?”

“There’s a cut. Right here.” His thumb ghosted the edge of your scalp, careful, his brows knitting together. “You didn’t feel it?”

“I…no.” You winced when he touched a tender spot you hadn’t noticed before. “Guess adrenaline drowned it out.”

“Jesus.” He cursed under his breath, shaking his head. “You’ve been walking around with this and didn’t say a damn word?”

You bristled. “I didn’t know.”

“Still.” His tone softened, though frustration lingered. “You gotta be more careful out there.”

Before you could answer, he stepped away long enough to grab a washcloth off the rack, ran it under the spray until it was warm, then dabbed carefully at the cut. His touch was steady with the kind of gentleness you didn’t usually see from him. 

When he seemed satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, he set the cloth aside and reached for the bottle of shampoo. You raised a brow. 

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” His voice was gruff, but his hands were already working through your hair, beginning to lather the shampoo into your hair gently. “You gotta be careful with that cut. I got it.”

You started to protest, but the words fizzled out the second his fingers massaged into your scalp. He tipped your head back under the spray, rinsing the suds away. His hands lingered for a minute, thumbs brushing lightly over your temples.

When your eyes opened again, his gaze was locked on your face.

Your chest tightened. “Tyler…”

He didn’t answer right away, still cradling your head in his big hands like you were made of glass. His thumb traced the edge of your hairline, careful not to press near the cut.

The usual heat in his grin was gone. What lingered now was softer, steadier. Something that made your stomach twist and your pulse race for reasons you weren’t sure you could name.

Tyler’s hands lingered in your hair long after the suds were gone, his thumbs still brushing at your temples like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. The steady rush of water filled the silence, echoing off the tile. You should’ve stepped back, broken the moment before it got strange. 

That was the unspoken rule:keep it light, keep it physical, never let it tip into something else.

“What?” you asked softly, trying to play it off, but your voice came out thinner than you meant.

“Nothing,” he said, except his voice was low, rougher than before. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then back up again.

He leaned in, closing the space between you with a kiss so soft it startled you. It wasn’t the usual kiss you had with Tyler. Usually it was rushed, hungry kisses that led to everything else. This was…hesitant. Tentative. Like he was asking instead of taking.

You froze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, before your lips answered back on instinct. The water streamed down over both of you, muffling the world outside the shower, but every nerve in your body was awake, lit up by the difference in this kiss.

When you leaned in, the shift was undeniable. His mouth moved against yours slower, deeper, each press unhurried. You felt the slide of his palm along your jaw, holding you like he was afraid you might slip away.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, his breath warm against your lips, “Didn’t know you could look at me like that.”

You opened your eyes, meeting his, and there it was again. That softness.

“Tyler…” you whispered, but the sound dissolved as he kissed you again.

This time he pressed you gently back against the tile, careful with the angle, his body crowding yours but not caging you in. The water poured down his back, soaking through every line of muscle, dripping from his hair as he leaned closer. His hands slid down, palms resting at your hips like anchors, grounding you as his lips kept moving against yours slowly.

Your fingers found his shoulders, sliding over slick skin, curling there as though holding him was the only way to keep your balance. When you parted your lips, he deepened the kiss, still unhurried, still searching, and something in your chest twisted hard.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

But you couldn’t stop.

His forehead rested against yours between kisses, his breaths uneven, mixing with the steam and the spray. His thumb stroked over your hipbone, tender in a way that sent shivers racing up your spine.

For the first time in all the nights you’d shared this space with him, Tyler Owens kissed you like it meant something.

And for the first time, you let yourself kiss him back the same way.

The kiss deepened until you lost track of time, of everything but the slick heat of his mouth and the solid press of his body against yours. Tyler’s hands skimmed lower, sliding from your hips to the backs of your thighs. He lifted you with a practiced ease that should have felt familiar, but didn’t. Not tonight. Tonight it felt steadier, his grip sure but not greedy.

Your back met the tile, cool despite the steam, and the contrast made you shiver. He caught the tremor with another kiss, slower, firmer, his lips parting to taste the soft whimper that escaped you.

Usually this part was all urgency. Hands everywhere, laughter muffled against mouths, both of you chasing your release and nothing else. But the pace tonight was different. Deliberate. Every brush of his lips, every slide of his palm down your damp skin carried a patience that made your pulse stutter.

He drew back just enough to look at you, his face inches from yours, water dripping from his hair onto your cheek. His body shifted, guiding you with a care that felt foreign to the two of you. He pressed inside slowly, steadily, and for once, it wasn’t about racing toward the inevitable. It was about the way your breath caught, the way your fingers dug into his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding himself back until you pulled him closer.

The water streamed down both of you, steam rising. 

You wrapped your legs around him, anchoring yourself to him in a way you never had before. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath stuttering with every thrust, each one measured, not rushed.

It felt different.

The usual fire between you was still there, but it had been reshaped into something deeper, something that left you raw. He kissed you through it, breaking away only to murmur against your skin.

His mouth trailed along your jaw, down the column of your throat, tasting the salt of your skin, the spray of the shower. His hands held you steady, not just bracing, but grounding, like he needed to keep you close.

You weren’t used to this, to him. The Tyler you knew teased, rushed, laughed his way through everything. This Tyler kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, like the idea of letting go even for a second was unbearable.

Your chest tightened at the thought.

The rhythm stayed steady, his body moving with yours in a way that felt less like friction and more like connection. Every time your head tipped back against the tile, every time a moan slipped past your lips, he was there, his hands guiding, his lips chasing yours, his breath mingling with yours until the world shrank down to the two of you in the steam.

“God, you–” He swallowed the rest of the words in a kiss, but his hand came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “Didn’t think…” He trailed off, shaking his head like the words wouldn’t come.

You kissed him back, tasting the heat, the water, the unspoken weight of everything that was changing between you.

The climax built slowly, and when it broke, it wasn’t the usual scramble, the half laughed release. It was overwhelming, pulling both of you under in silence broken only by ragged breaths and the rush of the water around you.

He held you through it, arms tight, mouth pressed against your temple. You clung to him, nails biting into his shoulders, riding it out until your whole body sagged against him.

For a long moment afterward, neither of you moved. The water pounded down, cooling slightly, steam thinning in the air. Tyler’s chest rose and fell against yours, his breath still uneven, his arms still locked around you like letting go might undo it all.

Finally, he eased back, kissing your forehead before setting you carefully on your feet. You wobbled, legs shaky, and he steadied you with hands at your waist.

The bathroom was still full of steam when you finally stepped out, wrapping yourself in one of Tyler’s oversized towels. Your hair dripped steadily onto the hardwood as he padded ahead of you, another towel slung low on his hips. He didn’t bother with the lights, just flicked on the lamp by his bed, the soft glow pooling across the room.

You sank down on the edge of the mattress, still catching your breath. He followed, dropping heavily beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a moment, the only sound was the slow creak of the old ceiling fan above.

Then his hand came up, thumb brushing carefully across your scalp where the cut was. His touch was light, almost absentminded, but you felt it everywhere.

“Guess I should charge extra for first aid,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head, though the sound came out softer than you meant it to. “Pretty sure my insurance doesn’t cover you.”

“Damn shame,” he said, though his grin didn’t reach his eyes this time. The weight in the air was too thick, pressing in around the jokes.

You looked at him, ready to break the silence, but he beat you to it. His grin softened, fading into something quieter, steadier. “Don’t overthink it. Tonight was just…different. That’s all.”

All of a sudden you realize your bag is still out in Tyler’s truck. Tyler must see ta something’s wrong because he raise his brows, as if asking what’s wrong.

“My go bag’s still in your truck.”

Tyler glances toward the window like he might see the truck through the darkness. 

“It’ll keep,” he says, easy. Then he pushes up and yanks open the top drawer of his dresser. “Here.”

He tosses you a pair of black boxer briefs and a white T-shirt. They smell like his detergent, and faintly like him.

You make a face at the boxers. “Very chic.”

“Best in show,” he deadpans, but the grin is back, faint and crooked. “C’mon. They’ll be comfy.”

You duck into them, the cotton settling warm against your skin, the shirt falling to mid thigh. It hangs differently on you than it does on him, sleeves swallowing your arms, collar drooping just enough to flash the pulse at your throat. When you look up, he’s watching. Not blatant, just watching you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

You clear your throat. “Better?”

He nods once, almost solemn. “Yeah.”

He tips his chin toward the bathroom. “Before we crash, let me look at that cut again. Want to make sure you don’t need a couple stitches.”

You groan, but you follow. The mirror is still fogged, the sink dotted with water, a ghost of steam curling off tile. He reaches into the cabinet and pulls out a dented first-aid kit that looks like it’s made more rodeos than he has. He pops it open on the counter and rummages: gauze, Band-Aids, a tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol, triple antibiotic, a handful of mystery items that probably have a story.

He pats the counter. “Hop up.”

You hitch onto the counter edge, bare legs swinging, his shirt riding up to reveal the curve of your thigh. He steps in close, thighs brushing your knees as he tilts your head under the light. The world narrows to his hands and the clean smell of alcohol and the soft rasp of his towel slipping on the tile.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, voice gone focused. He wets a square of gauze, then hovers. “This’ll sting.”

You brace. When the alcohol touches skin, it nips sharp, a hot pinprick that makes your eyes water. His hand settles on your shoulder, big and steady, thumb rubbing once in apology.

“Sorry,” he breathes.

“Mm.” You try for a joke. “If I pass out dramatically, you’re catching me.”

“Wouldn’t let you crack that hard head any worse.” A smile ghosts across his mouth. He dabs again, gentler. “You sure you didn’t feel this? It’s pretty deep.”

“Adrenaline,” you say. “And we were kind of busy not dying in that EF2.”

“Still,” he says, softer now. “Hate the thought of you getting knocked around while I’m right there.”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you sit in the quiet and let him tend to you. He dries the spot, touches the tiniest smear of antibiotic, then holds a little bandage up as if asking permission. You nod. He presses it down careful with two fingers.

“All right.” He steps back just enough to take you in, eyes sweeping your face like he’s checking for other invisible damage. “Looks worse than it is. You’ll live.”

“Tragic,” you say, but your voice comes out thinner than planned.

He sets the kit aside, but doesn’t move away. Usually after this…the shower, the sex…there’s a natural drift. One of you cracks a joke, the other finds pants, you end up on his couch or in his guest room or back in your car with damp hair.

Tonight, he doesn’t drift. He stands there, hands braced on either side of your thighs on the counter, head bent a little like he’s listening to something only he can hear.

“Hey,” he says finally, eyes lifting to yours. “You wanna–” He stops, rethinks, tries again, gentler. “You wanna sleep in here? With me.”

It lands in your stomach like a stone dropped into water, ripples moving outward, touching things you’ve kept carefully out of reach. There’s no bravado in the ask. No wink. Just a quiet offering that makes your throat feel a little tight.

“We don’t have to,” he adds quickly, like he’s stepping back from the edge for you. “Guest room’s fine. Couch is fine. I just…figured…” His mouth quirks, self conscious in a way you almost never see. “Figured maybe you’d sleep better in here.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

Relief loosens his shoulders the same way hot water loosened yours. 

“Okay,” he echoes, and it’s almost a smile.

He flicks off the bathroom light and the house shrinks to lamplight and cricket hush and the soft thud of your feet on wood. In his room, the sheets are clean, the quilt worn soft, the pillows all wrong for your neck and somehow perfect for tonight. He tosses your towel to a chair and lifts the comforter for you like it’s habit, though it isn’t.

You climb in first, the fabric cool against your warm skin. He slips in after, careful not to jostle your head. When he settles, there’s a foot of space between you, a polite distance that feels unfamiliar and a little ridiculous after the way he’d held you under the water.

You stare at the ceiling for a breath. Then you give up and roll toward him on instinct, tucking into the curve of his body like you’ve been doing it for years without knowing. His arm slides under your head, his chest a solid line of heat along your back. The t-shirt bunches under your chin. Your hand finds his forearm that’s resting on his chest and you rest yours there, thumb idly drawing a small circle into skin.

He goes still. Not like a tense still. Just…still, the kind of stillness that comes when a skittish animal realizes it isn’t in danger.

“You good?” he asks after a beat, voice low in your hair.

“Yeah,” you say, softer than all the words you’ve used tonight. “You?”

“Yeah.” It’s almost a sigh.

The fan ticks overhead. Somewhere outside, a lone car hums past on the wet road. Inside the room, the quiet’s a different animal entirely, something easy that curls up at your feet and purrs.

Tyler shifts an inch closer, enough to tuck you tighter into him, enough that his breath warms the spot behind your ear. His palm drifts to your waist and settles there, heavy and sure. He doesn’t move it. Doesn’t push for more. Just holds.

You try to summon a joke about the boxers, about the way his shirt could pass for a nightgown on you, about anything that might let you float back up to the surface. Nothing feels right. Nothing feels necessary.

“Hey,” he murmurs, so quiet you feel it more than hear it. “You did good today.”

You huff, sleepy. “You’re just saying that because I didn’t die.”

“Among other reasons.” A smile in his voice. It fades to something fonder. “Proud of you, y’know.”

You swallow and let the words sit where they land. Minutes stretch. Your body unwinds one muscle at a time, weight dropping by degrees until the mattress holds all of you. His breathing evens out against your shoulder, the rise and fall syncing with yours like it’s been waiting to. You drift at the edge of sleep, sliding over and back.

When you tip fully, he must think you’re gone. His arm tightens almost imperceptibly, the kind of unconscious pull you make toward a heat source in winter. Then, through the cotton of his own shirt and the damp wisps of your hair, he presses his mouth to the crown of your head.

It’s not a kiss meant to wake you. It’s not even a kiss meant to be known. It’s a quiet thing, a reflex, a giveaway he wouldn’t hand you with the lights on.

“Different,” he whispers, so low it barely makes a sound. “That’s all.”

The storm was building on the horizon, a wall of dark clouds stretching across the flat Nebraska sky. The wind funneled in little bursts through your rolled down window, carrying the smell of dirt and rain, and making the loose pages on the dashboard flutter. Tyler’s hand rested loosely on the wheel, his eyes flicking between the road and the storm system ahead.

Boone was perched behind you in the backseat, narrating for the livestream. Every so often the chat pinged with something that made Boone snort under his breath.

You shifted in the seat, trying to peer up at the sky and get a better look at the sky. But the sun was slanting through the windshield in front of the wall cloud was just enough to blind you. You flipped the visor down, squinted, and realized it didn’t help. You were too short. You muttered a soft curse, leaning forward, and shading your face with your hand.

Boone chuckled as he looking at you. “Strugglin’ there short stack?”

“Shut up,” you shot back.

Without even thinking about it, your hand reached for the cream Stetson on the dash. Tyler’s Stetson. You settled it on your head, and tilted it to block the glare.

Tyler’s eyes flicked off the road for just a second as he cleared his throat. He didn’t say anything about it, but something in his demeanor seemed to shift. You frowned, tugging the brim lower.

“Sory–” you started, as you reached up to lift the hat from your head. “I didn’t mean–”

“Keep it, darlin’.” Tyler’s voice cut you off.

He didn’t look at you when he said it, his eyes glued to the road, knuckle tightening briefly on the wheel before relaxing again.

Boone, never the one to let something go, swung the camera toward you, catching your profile in Tyler’s hat for viewers. A grin spread across his face.

“Oh, chat is lovin’ that.”

“What does that mean?” You asked as you turned to look at him.

“Just sayin’. Chat loves you two,” Boone said. You opened the stream up on your phone and began to scroll trying to figure out what he was talking about. 

But with fifteen or sixteen thousand people the comments were going by so fast it was impossible to keep up. Emojis, cap locked messages, a flood of cowboy hats and hearts scrolled by too quickly to read. 

You caught a glimpse of your own reflection on the screen, Tyler’s hat tipped low on your forehead before another wave of text buried it.

“What–” you tried again, but the feed was moving too fast.

You gave up with a huff before tucking the phone away. You glanced back over at Tyler, half expecting him to join in the conversation, but he didn’t. He just cleared his throat, eyes fixed on the road like the conversation wasn’t happening at all.

Which only made you more confused.

Tyler reached forward, grabbing the radio he used to communicate with the rest of the team following behind.

“Dex, Dani, what’s it lookin’ like from your side? Cell still holdin’ east?”

Static crackled, and Dani’s voice came back quickly in reply. Boone leaned forward, adjusting his camera as the team got ready for the exciting part of the chase.

Things moved on like nothing had happened. You gave Tyler a final glance, and sat back in your seat, tugging the brim of Tyler’s hat lower over your face, feeling a little more unsettled than before.

* * * *

By the time the chase had wrapped for the day, exhaustion was heavy in your bones. The motel lost was mostly empty when you rolled in. The rest of the team made their way into the rooms, ready to call it a night. You watched as Lily and Boone slipped into the first room while Dexter and Dani slipped into the one next to theirs.

You busied yourself, pulling your bag from the floorboard in the backseat, double checking your phone charger was stuffed inside. For a second you debated just heading straight to your room, and slipping away before anything could get more awkward. The ride back had been more silent than usual. Boone’s words still echoed in your head. Chat is lovin’ that. Fifteen thousand people spamming emojis and reactions while Tyler said nothing at all.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, chewing your lip. Maybe you didn’t need to bring it up at all. Maybe it was better to pretend you hadn’t noticed the way Tyler had glanced at you when you put his hat on. Or how he’d said Keep it, darlin’.

You turned to walk towards the motel stairs that led up to your room on the second floor. Tyler was leaned against the brush guard on the front of his truck, one boot crossed over the other. As you stepped closer, you lifted the Stetson off your head.

And that’s when the words came out before you could stop them. “Can I ask you something?”

Tyler didn’t move, just raised his head enough to meet your eyes. “Shoot.”

You shifted the bag higher on your shoulder, hat still dangling between you. “What was Boone talking about earlier? The whole chat loving me in your hat thing?”

For the first time all night, his mouth curved into a grin. Not his easy, crowd pleasing grin, but something smaller. He let out a laugh, low and disbelieving, before shaking his head.

“What?” You pressed, heat beginning to prickle under your skin.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just Boone runnin’ his mouth.”

“That wasn’t nothing,” you shot back. “I even tried to check the chat myself but the comments were flying so fast I couldn’t follow. Boone looked at me like I should get it. And you–” You faltered, nerves sparking again. “You didn’t say anything.”

Tyler’s smile widened, that same knowing curve that made your stomach twist. He still didn’t take the hat from your hand.

Frustration pushed past your nerves. “Come on. You can’t just laugh at me and then leave me hanging. Just…tell me what’s on your mind.”

His eyes dragged over you slowly, before coming back to your face. For a second he looked almost incredulous. “You can’t be that innocent.”

Your pulse began to race. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tyler chuckled, tilting his head like he was weighing just how much truth you could handle. His gaze swept over you. He still hadn’t taken the hat from your hand, just kept looking at you like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.

“You really want to know what’s on my mind?” he asked finally, his voice slow, almost testing.

You swallowed, nodding once.

His grin spread, sharp enough to make your stomach flip. “You’re wearin’ way too many clothes for what’s on my mind.”

Your cheeks flushed into a blush instantly. Your brain raced trying to put the pieces together. But no matter how you turned it, you couldn’t quite get it to click in your mind. 

“I…I don’t get it.”

He let out a laugh, rough and low, like he couldn’t believe you’d actually said that. He just shook his head.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, “you don’t just take a cowboy’s hat. Not unless you’re ready for what comes with it.”

You blinked, clutching the brim a little tighter. “What comes with it?”

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” He said as he leaned in, his voice dropping just a bit.

For a second, all you could do was stare. The words clicked belatedly, the meaning crashing into you with enough force that your knees felt weak.

Your eyes went wide.

Tyler smirked, watching every second of your reaction, clearly enjoying the way you froze, how your lips parted around a sound you didn’t quite manage to make. His tongue flicked over his bottom lip, and his drawl came even softer.

“Now you get it.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, charged. You still stood there with his hat in your hand, your whole body flushed, the air between you humming like electricity before a strike. And Tyler? He just leaned back against the truck again, patient as ever, like he could wait all night for your next move.

His eyes flicked down to the hat in your hands. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the silence sit heavy between you. Then he stepped closer, boots crunching against the gravel until there was  only a sliver of space left.

His voice dropped low, softer than you’d heard all night. “I ain’t gonna push you, darlin’. If you wanna hand that hat back, I’ll take it, and we’ll forget this whole thing ever happened.”

Your grip tightened on the brim, pulse jumping in your throat. He let that sink in, then tipped his chin down so his eyes caught yours. 

“But if you keep it…” His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile or a smirk. “...you’re not just wearin’ it to wear it. You’re wearin’ it cause you’re mine.”

Mine. The word hung there. Raw. You froze for a second. Trying to process it. His tone wasn’t cocky. It was steady and sure. Like he’d made up his mind long before now.

Tyler stepped in that last inch, one hand brushing your hip, feather-light. “This ain’t some quick roll in the sheets, sweetheart. Not for me. If you’re gonna keep that hat, it means you want me.” His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then back up.

Your throat tightened. “Tyler…”

He gave a little shrug, though his eyes stayed locked on you. “Or, you can hand it back, and we’ll call it a night. No hard feelings.

You looked down at the hat, at the scuffed brim, at the weight of it in your hands. For a heartbeat, you thought about slipping past him, ducking into your room, pretending none of this ever happened.

But when you looked back up, Tyler’s eyes were waiting for you, steady and sure, like he’d hold that line until you decided.

Slowly and deliberately, you slid the hat back onto your head.

Tyler’s grin spread across his face. He then leaned in, close enough now that you could feel the heat of his breath. His hand came up to cup your jaw.

The first brush of his lips against yours was soft. Tender. Almost like he was testing the waters. But then you sighed against him, and he deepened the kiss. His lips pressed harder against yours, stealing your breath as he pushed you back against the side of the truck.

The hot metal bit at your spine, but all you felt was him. Broad shoulders boxing you in, the faint scrape of his stubble on your cheek as his mouth moved against yours.

The strap of your bag slid off your shoulder, and your hands curled into his shirt. You clutched onto him like you needed him closer. Tyler groaned low, the sound vibrating between you. He kissed you harder, pinning you in place with the weight of his body.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice thick.

He reached down and grabbed your bag then he tugged gently at your hand, guiding you away from the truck. You stumbled after him, laughter bubbling out of you when your shoulder bumped hi. He caught your smile with another kiss, like he just couldn’t help himself.

You made it a few more steps before he kissed you again, and this time you laughed against his mouth.

“You’re terrible.”

“Mm,” he drawled, his lips brushing against yours once again. “You love it.”

His hand settled firm at your hip, steadying you as the two of you moved towards the stairs. By the time you reached the stairs, your pulse was racing so hard you barely noticed the climb. All you knew was Tyler’s hand at your waist, his mouth on yours between steps. You were like two kids in high school sneaking out to see each other.

By the time you reached the door, your head was spinning, laughter and kisses tumbling over each other in a blur. Tyler never let go of you, one arm firm around your waist as he dug into his pocket with the other.

The key slid into the lock with a faint scrape, his hand steady even as his mouth brushed your temple, his breath hot against your skin. The door swung open, hinges groaning, and he nudged you inside with a gentle push at your hip.

The room was dim, smelling faintly of old carpet and rain, but you barely noticed. The door clicked behind you, and then Tyler had you pinned against it, his chest pressing yours.

His lips grazed your ear, his drawl molten and teasing. “Knew you’d look good pressed up against somethin’, darlin’. Didn’t think it’d be this door, but I’ll take it.”

You shivered, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as he kissed down your jaw. The door rattled faintly with the weight of him crowding you, his hand slipping from your hip to splay wide at the small of your back, holding you close.

You gasped, the sound muffled when he found your mouth again, kissing you hard, messy, like he’d been starving for it all night.

“Tyler–”

“Mm?” He kissed the corner of your jaw, down the line of your throat.

“This is…I’m not–” you faltered, the words tangling. “It’s been awhile.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes a few shades darker than normal, but still steady. “You don’t gotta be nervous with me. Gonna take real good care of you.”

You let out a small sigh of relief. But the nerves didn’t ease. You weren’t a virgin, but you weren’t very experienced either. Not like the women on the stream’s chat that always flirted with Tyler. Or the women at bars who seemed to find it easy to walk up and start talking to him. A woman like that would have climbed him in a second if he asked.

But Tyler wasn’t rushing. 

He kissed you again, slower, and when he finally tugged at the hem of your shirt, it was careful, giving you all the room in the world to stop him.

You hesitated, blush rising hot in your cheeks as your arms instinctively moved from his shirt to try and cover yourself. “You don’t have to…take all my clothes off.”

That earned a low laugh from Tyler. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Yeah I do. Cause I want to see you. Too damn pretty to hide from me.”

The conviction in his voice melted the protest on your tongue. So you let him ease the shirt up and over your head, dropping it onto the floor. Goosebumps prickled across your skin in the motel’s cool air.

Instinctively, your hands came up to cover yourself, but Tyler caught your wrists in one of his hands, pressing them gently back against the door. 

“Nope,” he murmured, his grin small but deadly. “Not hidin’. Not from me.”

Then his mouth trailed over your collarbone, kissing the newly exposed skin. When you tried to twitch or pull back, his voice was there to comfort you. “Easy…I’ve got you.”

By the time he unclasped your bra, your nerves had lessened but they were still there. 

He slid the straps down your arms, letting the fabric fall, and then leaned back just far enough to take you in. His eyes swept over you once, slow, deliberate, before locking on yours again.

“Even better than I pictured.” He muttered, voice hoarse.

Your face flamed. “You pictured?”

He huffed a laugh, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Sweetheart, I’ve wanted this for months?”

Your heart skipped, pounding for an entirely new reason. He kissed you again before you could answer, easing you back toward the bed.

You reached for his green button down shirt, pulling the hem out from where it had been tucked into his jeans.

His grin returned again. “You wanna see me?”

You swatted at his chest playfully, a little embarrassed. “I didn’t–”

He unbuttoned the shirt and then shrugged it off, his chest broad and slightly gleaming with sweat. Your eyes widened and you reached out, your fingers tracing lines across his chest, down his stomach, and he sucked in a breath as he tipped his head back.

“You touching me like that? Gonna undo me, darlin’.”

Feeling emboldened by his words, you undid the buckle on his belt and worked at the button on his jeans. He helped you tug them down, and then kicked them off, leaving only the thing cotton of his boxer briefs separating him from you.

His weight pressed you into the mattress, but he was slow and took his time. He kissed down your body, pausing to almost worship every inch he revealed as he slid the rest of your clothes away. By the time you were bare beneath him, your nerves had softened weren’t gone completely. You blushed, and tried to cover yourself, reaching for the scratch hotel blanket.

But Tyler caught your hands again, holding them to the sheets

“Don’t hide,” he said softly, his voice firm but tender. “You lettin’ me have you like this? That’s a privilege, sweetheart. And I’m not takin’ it for granted. Want you so bad.”

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his tone. No one had ever said being with you was a privilege.

Tyler kissed you again, like he wanted to make sure you knew he meant every word.

“I want you too,” you whispered as you tugged at the waistband of his underwear.

“Careful, darlin’,” he rasped. “You keep sayin’ things like that, I might never let you go.”

He leaned down again, pressing his lips to yours again. Then his lips moved to your neck, your chest, your stomach. His hands moved over your skin, touching as much of you as he could. Your hand slid up his chest and then to the back of his hair. You pulled him back down to you, kissing him hard. And for a long, dizzying minute it was just lips and tongues and teeth and hands, your body pressed flush against his.

Then Tyler shifted, rolling away. He moved to lean back against the headboard, his broad shoulds propped against the pillows. His chest was gleaming with sweat under the dim lamplight.

“C’mere,” he murmured, crooking a finger.

Your heart thundered as you crawled into his lap, straddling him. The heat of his body bled through the thin cotton of his boxers, the thick bulge pressing insistently against you. Your breath hitched, nerves flaring, but before you could retreat, his hand caught yours.

You sucked in a breath when he pressed your hand over him. The sheer size of him even through the fabric, made your pulse race. Tyler’s head tipped back, his jaw flexing as he exhaled hard, a groan slipping from him when your fingers traced the shape of him through the cotton.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Don’t stop.

Your hand kept moving, and his hips started lifting subtly to try and chase your touch. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs, and tugged the fabric down. The fabric slid away, and he sprang free into your palm.

His hands slid down to your waist, big and warm, anchoring you in his lap.

“You ready for me?” He asked, his voice low, and eyes steady on yours.

You nodded, though your hands trembled where they rested against his chest. “I think so.”

His thumb traced over your hipbone. “Need a little more sure of an answer, darlin’. If you want to stop we can.”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. “No I want to. I’m just…nervous.”

“No need to be nervous,” he said as a grin spread across his face again, a little wicked but softened by the warmth in his eyes. “Gonna take real good care of you, sweetheart.”

Tyler’s hands guided you, shifting you higher until he could line himself up beneath you. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance.

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders. “Tyler–”

“Shh.” His hands steadied at your hips. “Nice and slow now. You’re okay. I got you.”

Then Tyler reached to the left of him, snagging his Stetson from where it had fallen on the bed. He set it gently on your head, the brim tilting forward. His lips curved into a grin as his eyes took in the sight of you straddling him in nothing but his hat.

You took a deep breath then lowered yourself over him, the stretch was sharp, almost too much. Your breath hitched, and you froze halfway.

Tyler’s grip on you tightened, holding you still. His forehead pressed to your collarbone. “That’s it. Just breath. Takin’ me so good, sweetheart.”

You exhaled shakily, and his thumb stroked circles against your waist, grounding you. Bit by bit, you eased lower until he was buried deep inside you. The fullness made your whole body tremble.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, eyes wide.

“Darlin…you keep squeezin’ me like that and I might not last.” Tyler groaned, his jaw tight. He kissed you again, rougher this time, then pulled back just enough to look at you. “Look at you. Fuckin’ gorgeous sittin’ on me like that.”

The discomfort gave way to something else, and you shifted your hips, rocking forward. Pleasure sparked through you, sharp and dizzying.

Tyler’s breath hissed between his teeth, his hands gripping tighter. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

Encouraged, you tried again, a little more confident this time. The friction made your head spin, a sound slipping from your throat that you couldn’t hold back.

“Fuck.” Tyler’s answering groan was raged. “That’s it, sweetheart. Look at you.”

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t stop. The shy hesitation that had gripped you started to melt under the steady rhythm, replaced by something bolder. You rocked your hips with more purpose, chasing that flood of sensation.

Tyler’s head tipped back, his laugh breaking on a moan. His hand tangled in your hair, tugging you down for another kiss, sloppy and desperate. meet yours. The sharp thrust stole your breath, pleasure bursting through you.

“Tyler–”

“I got you,” he rasped, moving with you now, guiding your hips with firm hands. “Take what you need, darlin’. I’ll give you all of it.”

Every roll of your hips sent sparks racing up your spine, every snap of his met with another ragged moan from him. He praised you through it, voice breaking, filthy and tender all at once:

“Fuck, that’s perfect.” “You feel so good.”

You rode him harder, faster, surprising even yourself. The rhythm built and built, your nerves forgotten in the flood of sensation, your body hungry for more.

The coil of pleasure wound tighter, sharper. Your nails dug into his shoulders as your cries grew louder, the heat in your belly threatening to break.

“Tyler–I–”

“I got you, sweetheart,” he rasped, though his jaw was tight, his breathing ragged.

Your climax tore through you, body clenching around him, and Tyler groaned. He bucked once, twice, and then hissed through his teeth and pulled you up, his hands lifting you just enough to slip free.

You whimpered at the sudden emptiness as his fist wrapped tight around himself, stroking hard and fast. His head tipped back against the headboard, a guttural sound ripping from his chest as his release spilled hot across his stomach and hand.”

“Fuck–” his voice cracked on the word. He let his hand fall to his thigh, chest heaving, and eyes dragging back to you.

You were still straddling his lap, flushed and breathless, your thighs trembling around him. Tyler’s lips curved, tired but wicked, as he reached up with his clean hand to tilt the Stetson still on your head.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice raw with awe and satisfaction. “Prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

The room was hushed except for your uneven breaths and the hum of the air conditioner rattling in the corner. You shifted gingerly in Tyler’s lap, thighs trembling, and he caught you before you could slide away.

“Easy,” he murmured, sliding an arm around your back. His voice had softened again, low and steady, that teasing edge gone for the moment.

You sagged against him, your cheek pressed to his chest. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, strong and grounding. He reached behind himself with his free hand, tugged a crumpled towel off the dresser, and wiped himself clean with a practiced ease before dropping it aside.

When he leaned back into the pillows, he tugged you with him, tucking you against his side under the scratchy motel blanket. One of his hands stroked lazy circles over your bare shoulder, soothing, anchoring.

“You okay?” he asked after a long beat, his voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

You nodded, though your throat felt thick. “Yeah.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Good. ’Cause I don’t want you thinkin’ this was just somethin’ that happened.”

Your heart stumbled. “What do you mean?”

He tipped the brim of his Stetson, still perched a little crooked on your head, with one finger. “I mean, you put this on, darlin’, and I wasn’t kiddin’, that makes you mine. And if I get a say in it, tonight’s not the end of this.”

You blinked at him, wide-eyed. “Tyler…”

He swallowed, his thumb brushing over your cheek now. His grin was there, but it was smaller, more fragile at the edges. 

“I’m askin’ if you want to stay. With me. Doesn’t have to be forever. Just…don’t walk out that door in the mornin’ like this meant nothin’.”

You smiled, small and certain, and settled closer against him. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

The hotel’s ballroom has been completely transformed for tonight’s community galas. Glass and gold, donors in tuxedos, chandeliers throwing prisms of light across the marble floors. The relief fund logo glows across a giant screen. Names of surrounding counts scroll beneath it. You can pick out half a dozen places from the list that you’ve stood in with a mic and mud up to your ankles.

You hand your ticket to a woman with a clipboard and a warm smile, before tucking your clutch under your arm.

It’s the Disaster Relief Fund Gala. A black tie event held on by the city each year to help local communities affected by tornadoes and other natural disasters. Silent auction tables are lined with various items people had donated. Their prizes range from gifts certificates to local restaurants all the way to a brand new smoker somebody had donated.

But the main event is the date auction. The committee usually pics 3-5 notable singles and auctions off an evening with them. Highest bidder gets a date with the person of their choosing.

You start to make your rounds through the crowd. You smile and make small talk with the crowd. Your finger occasionally ghosts to the bare place where a ring used to sit on your left hand.

Your mind flashes back momentarily to the sight of Tyler on one knee in a backyard strung with Christmas lights in June. His smile so big. You standing there with a hand clapped over your mouth and then saying the easiest yes you’ve ever said.

Then another flash to just a few months ago. Suitcases by the door. Your voice steady as you told him that you couldn’t do a relationship with a ghost. Him reaching for you, but no saying anything. No promises that he’d do better. No asking for one more chance like you expected. But maybe it was better that he didn’t say anything. Your mind was made up, and it was too late for him to change. He was gone more than he was home and it just wasn’t working anymore.

You blink the thoughts away. You can’t think about him right now. You turn your attention toward the stage where the emcee is warming his throat, getting ready for the auction. A little ‘check one two” is said into a mic by a stage hand that pops through the room.

“Drink?” says a server with a tray of champagne. You take one and let the bubbles bite your lip.

You glance toward the silent auction tables again and that’s when you see him. Simple black tuxedo. Bowtie slightly loose. Hair held in place with just enough gel to look intentional. His signature cream Stetson is nowhere to be seen tonight. He’s posted by a sponsor table, answering questions from a man whose cufflinks probably cost more than your rent. Grant Riggs. Son of Marshall Riggs. The kind of man you’ll probably end up going on a date with because he’ll have a wallet deep enough to bid for it. Tyler nods along, patient, hands tucked in his pockets so he doesn’t talk with them the way he does when he’s excited.

His eyes catch on you. The pause is microscopic. Then he looks back to the sponsor. You look away first. Mutual avoidance, the cowardly gentleman’s agreement.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee booms, “welcome, welcome, welcome! Tonight, we raise money for disaster response in our own backyard because when the sky turns, neighbors turn toward each other.”

First they have a few families speak. Families who were helped by funds from last year’s gala fundraiser. They remind everyone in the crowd of what the night is about.

And then it’s time for the auction and you feel your stomach start to tighten in knots.

“First up,” the emcee croons, milking the crowd just a little, “the woman who keeps us safe when the sirens sing! Chief Meteorologist at WKHY is offering a night out. Dinner with her at the Sky Room restaurant located in the historic Magnolia Hotel. I hear she’ll explain dew point in layman’s terms if the cap breaks.”

There some laughter. A few cat calls. You make your way onto the stage. You take your place by the emcee and wave like a homecoming queen to the crowd.

“Let’s start the bidding at one hundred dollars.” He says. “Do I hear one hundred?”

A hand pops up. “One hundred.”

“Two fifty?” he calls, and a different hand lifts. “Two fifty!”

“Three?” he tries.

“Three hundred,” says a woman.

“Five!” Grant Riggs calls out. He lifts his paddle casually like he’s hailing a cab. “Five hundred.”

“Five fifty!” The woman calls out again.

The room perks. The emcee’s grin widens by instinct as he turns back to Grant. “Six?”

“Seven fifty,” Grant says without waiting. He’s already turned his body toward you like the night is a foregone conclusion.

“Do I hear a thousand?” the emcee asks the air.

Somewhere in the back, someone flicks their paddle. 

“One thousand,” the spotter calls.

You squint into the lights to try and get a look at the bidder, but you can’t make out the face with the lights shining down on the stage.

The emcee then turns to grant. “Eleven hundred?”

Grant nods and the emcee turns to the woman who shakes her head. Then he turns his attention towards the bidder in the back.

“Do I hear one thousand two fifty?”

The unseen bidder holds his paddle up agreeing.

Grant laughs, seemingly delighted at this game of back and forth. “Fifteen hundred.”

The air changes. Your pulse ticks up in ways that have nothing to do with stage fright. The spotter points to the back again. 

The spotter shouts house “Seventeen fifty.”

“Two thousand,” Grant says as his smile tightens. He glances at you and then at the back. You can feel the crowd swiveling, trying to catch a silhouette between the pillars. The emcee’s eyebrows shoot up. He milks the pause like a pro.

“Do I hear twenty five?” he purrs.

The voice rolls out like a weather front. “Four thousand.”

The room does that soft, rippling gasp people do when something unexpectedly expensive or sexy happens. Heads turn. People on the edges stand to see who the bidder willing to pay $4,000 for a date with you is.

You don’t have to. You know that voice. You knew it in the dark with the windows rattling. You knew it at a kitchen table with a map open and coffee gone cold.

Tyler stands in the far aisle by the exit, paddle still halfway raised like he barely used any muscle to lift it. Bowtie undone. Grin nowhere. His eyes are on you and nothing else.

Grant exhales, amused and pragmatic, and folds. The emcee hammers his gavel like he’s always wanted to be that guy. “Sold. For four thousand dollars to Mr. Tyler Owens.”

Applause crests again. You make your face behave and shove down the thoughts and feelings racing through your brain.

“Thank you for your generosity,” the emcee says as you step off the stage.

The balcony doors are open to the night. You take the out without looking back. The city air slides cool against your bare shoulders, storms grumbling somewhere far enough off to be romantic instead of dangerous. Your phone buzzes with a notification you don’t check. Inside, the emcee rolls on.

You brace your palms on the stone rail and force yourself to focus on your breathing and not the fact that you’ll have to go on a date with your ex-fiance. A date he was willing to pay four thousand dollars to get apparently.

You hear footsteps follow you onto the background. You don’t turn to see who it is. You don’t need to. You’d know the scuff of his Lucheese anywhere.

“You could’ve let someone else donate,” you say, eyes on the far off flicker of the sky.

“I did donate,” Tyler says. He shuts the door softly behind him, giving the two of you some privacy. “I donated four grand in case you missed that part.”

You roll your eyes at the sky. “You donated to yourself.”

“I donated to the fund.” He stops a polite distance away. “And I bought time to talk to you.”

“Bought,” you repeat, sour on your tongue. Your fingers curl around the rail. “Right. Because jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you, and your…generosity.”

Silence, then a rough sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Jealousy’s got me by the throat tonight.”

“Congratulations,” you say, because petty is easier than honest. “You win. You don’t have to watch me smile at Grant over dessert.”

He steps up beside you, not touching you. But close enough that you can feel his body heat through the thing fabric of his shirt against your bare arms.

“That wasn’t what this was,” he says.

You huff. “No?”

“No.” He looks out with you, and when he speaks again his voice is lower, like he’s angling it for you and not for the room inside. “He spent fifteen minutes telling me what he was going to do on your date when he bought you. The way he said it…like you were a prize he’d one up me with and then unbox later.” His jaw ticks. “You’re not a prize to be won, and I wasn’t going to stand there while a man like that eye fucked you over a steak dinner.”

You blink. The word hits, ugly and exactly right. “Tyler–”

“I know you can handle creeps,” he says quickly, hands up like he’s preempting your argument. “You shouldn’t have to. Not on a night that’s supposed to celebrate you.”

You swallow, look down at your bare hand on the railing and then away. “I wasn’t…smiling at him,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

“I know,” he says. “You were smiling at the idea of a new Doppler unit if these people get out their checkbooks. You were smiling for the cameras because you’re a pro. I know the difference.”

Wind lifts a strand of hair against your neck. He doesn’t fix it. The restraint raises a memory of all the times he did. You catch yourself missing the small, domestic thoughtlessness of it and get irritated at your own heart.

“This isn’t about Grant,” you say, because it can’t be; if it is, you’ll never get to the real thing. “You can’t bid your way into dating me again Tyler. There’s a reason we broke.”

“A reason you called off the engagement,” he corrects. “And trust me I’m well aware of it. Because I was gone more than I was home.”

“And then ‘rarely ever,’” you finish, because if you’re going to do this, you’re going to use accurate terminology. “I wasn’t asking you to stop chasing. I was asking not to be engaged to a ghost.”

“I know,” he says. The words are clean. No defense. “I told myself it was a season. One more push. One more set of storms and then I’d slow down. I kept pushing the line. The line moved. And then I looked up and you were putting your ring in my palm like it weighed a thousand pounds.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t look at him. “You didn’t argue or try to get me to stay.”

He exhales. “I didn’t trust myself not to promise you something I couldn’t give. And I didn’t want to break another promise to you.”

“Are you going to promise me something tonight then?” you ask, still watching the sky, which is easier than watching his mouth when he’s honest. “Is that why you paid an absurd amount of money to take me to dinner?”

“No,” he says, and you feel him square himself. “I’m going to tell you what I’d do different this time if you give me another chance. And you can decide if it matters.”

You want to keep your shields up, but your curiosity turns its head like a dog that knows its name. “Okay.”

“My team’s not a one-man band anymore,” he says. “I split leadership. Dexter’s got full ops control on half the runs. Lily took over media planning. We’ve got two drivers I trust. I’m not required for the team to move anymore; the team can move without me.”

You flick your eyes at him. He’s looking at the horizon like a man reading a forecast. Careful and sure. 

“Okay that’s some logistics. But still doesn’t fix everything.”

“It’s not. But it’s a start, don’t you think?” He drags a hand over the back of his neck, stops himself like he remembers he’s in a tux and not a ball cap. “I’ve got a place two miles from your station. When the storms are slow. I’m there a couple days a week right now at minimum. I can keep that up. Give you a guaranteed two or three nights a week that are just yours. My phone goes off and I’m all yours. Storm or no storm.”

“You’re making it sound simple,” you say, because it isn’t. Getting back with Tyler will never be simple. Being with Tyler will never be simple.

But you hear him out because you want it to be and that scares you. It scare you how easily you want to believe him and give him a second chance.

“It’s not, he says. “But I’m starting to realize that I can’t control the sky. But I can control whether I chase it or not.”

The city breathes, that endless white noise. Inside, laughter pings off crystal. Out here, thunder mutters a county or two over. You keep your eyes on the dark line where the clouds lie heavy and think about mornings alone with a coffee cup gone cold. You think about loving someone whose body shows up but whose mind is already on a radar return three states away. You think about the way his hands steadied when he slid a ring onto your finger.

“I can handle storms and chasing,” you say finally. “I do it every day. What I can’t handle is you telling me you’re coming home and then not walking in the door.”

He nods like he expected the exact contours of that sentence. “Then that’s the line. If I’m gonna miss a night together, I tell you before you dress up for me. If I can’t make a night because of a chase window, I replace it with two. If I start to slide, you say stop. We stop. All I’m asking for is a chance here.”

It’s so practical you want to laugh, and the laugh catches on something fragile and becomes a sound that makes his mouth go soft.

“I miss you,” he says. He doesn’t load it with metaphors, doesn’t make it a vow. He says it like a fact he can’t sand down. “I miss waking up with your hair trying to kill me. I miss arguing about which storm is gonna break. I just miss…you.”

You close your eyes against the sting that sentence knows how to find. “Missing me didn’t make you stay.”

“No,” he says, quietly. “But it made me miserable enough to stop pretending I didn’t lose the best thing I ever had. I thought chasing and the team was the best thing I had going for me. It was a drug. But nothing compared to the feeling of seeing you walk out that door, and pull out the driveway. I can barely be in that damn house now because you’re not there. It’s why I got the place near the station. I couldn’t go home when I knew you weren’t gonna be there.”

You snort wetly. “Did you practice that apology on a cereal box?”

He huffs, looks half offended and half relieved that you still know his worst habits. “On the drive over, actually. The tux got the brunt of it.”

You let the smile have your mouth for one second. Then you set it down. “I don’t want to be bought.”

“You weren’t,” he says. “You can’t be. I bought a chance to ask if I can try again. If you want me to shut up and take my ‘date’ and shove it, I will. I’ll drive you home right now, and leave you at your door.”

“You’d do that,” you say, testing, because the man you left would have kissed you at the door and called it chivalry.

“I would,” he says. “And then I’d go eat a stupidly expensive steak by myself and try not to text you about the cloud base on the way.”

You laugh, helpless. It’s a small sound and it changes the pressure. He takes one careful step closer. “Can I…?” he asks, not quite reaching. “Touch your hand?”

It’s such a gentle ask it breaks you a little. You turn your palm up on the rail, and he lays his over it. His hand is warm, familiar as thunder in summer. He doesn’t lace your fingers. He just covers them like shelter.

“I can’t promise you I won’t feel that sick green when someone else makes you laugh,” he says, eyes on your joined hands. “I can promise I won’t punish you for it. I can promise I’ll say it out loud before it curdles me.”

“Jealousy isn’t the flex you think it is,” you say, though your voice has lost its teeth.

“I don’t think it’s a flex,” he says. “I think it’s a flare. Tells me where I’m failing. Tells me what I’m afraid to lose.”

You look at him then, finally, head-on. His bowtie hangs open; his eyes are bright with more than the ballroom. “What if I say no?”

“Then I take it,” he says. “I won’t chase you into loving me. As much as it will kill me not to, I won’t do that to you.”

“And if I say yes?” Your pulse ticks, traitorous. Your skin has already decided what your mouth hasn’t.

He smiles then, small and wrecked and hopeful. “Then we start with dinner I didn’t buy at an auction. And two nights next week that are yours. And we make a plan for storm days so you know where I’ll be when you fall asleep.”

Lightning walks its fingers through the far clouds. Close enough to light the edge of his face, far enough that you can pretend time is generous. You lean in before you can think yourself back. 

“Kiss me,” you say.

He does. Without hesitation. His mouth is warm and the sigh you make tastes like lime and relief. He doesn’t press you back against the railing; he leaves you the space to step away and the invitation to close it. You close it. His hand leaves yours to settle at your waist, steady and present; the other cups your jaw like it’s something he took an oath on.

When you break, it’s because breath insists. You keep your foreheads together. Inside, someone claps at a joke you didn’t hear.

You open your eyes. He’s right there. You slide your hand down his white button up shirt, feeling the heat underneath. 

“Take me to dinner,” you say. “Not the Sky Room though. Somewhere that doesn’t have an $80 entree.”

He lets out a laugh and looks into your eyes. “There’s a taco truck I passed on the way here two blocks over that looked pretty good.”

“Perfect,” you say, and when he reaches past you to open the balcony door, you let him.

Tyler takes a step back and reaches past you to open the door that leads back into the ballroom. You let him hold the door, and thank him as you pass him.

Tyler’s hand finds the small of your back, and he looks down at you. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

He guides you through the crowd of donors with that charismatic ease he’s known for. A quick smile here. A nod there.

At the elevator in the hallway he pushes the call button. The doors slide open in a soft hush. You step inside together, the mirror catching his tux and the dark emerald satin of your gown. Tyler presses the button for the lobby.

Outside, the night is warm and a little damp, the kind of air that makes your hair think about misbehaving. Tyler’s tux jacket goes over your shoulders without comment. He unlocks the truck, then braces a hand on the door and offers the other to help you step up. You take it because the step is high, that’s it. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. His palm is calloused and feels familiar against yours.

“Careful,” he murmurs as you settle. “This seat has a history of seducing meteorologists.”

“Tragic,” you say. “I prefer to be wooed by accurate models.”

“Then you’re in luck,” he says, circling to the driver’s side. “I’ve been working on getting some new ones running.”

He fires the engine. The cab smells like cedar, rain, a hint of gasoline that clings to men who live on the road.

Two blocks later, the taco truck glows. String lights haloing a cloud of cilantro and grilled meat. There’s a short line of people out front. Tyler parks then jogs around to open your door. He offers you a hand as you climb down.

At the window, the woman in the truck beams. “Owens! You bringing trouble or saving it tonight?”

“Neither,” he grins. “Redeeming myself, if I can.”

She eyes you, takes in the jacket over the gown, and softens. “Good answer. What’ll it be?”

“Two al pastor, two carne asada,” Tyler says, glancing to you for confirmation. “Extra onion, extra cilantro. And the green salsa.”

Tyler slides his wallet out of his back pocket. He hands over the cash for the meal and tells her to keep the change. Then you move to the right of the window while you wait for your food.

He leans against the metal siding of the food truck, and looks down at you.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” he says.

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you point out.

He nods as he accepts the correction. “Thank you for the chance to.”

When the food’s ready, the foil packets are warm enough to sting through paper. He takes both and the two of you head back towards the truck.

“Your place?” He asks. “Only if you want.”

“I want.”

The words surprise you with how easily they come. You slide a hand under the edge of his jacket on your shoulders, hook a finger in the lining.

Back in the truck he hands you the food as he starts the truck.

“Address?” he asks, as he opens his phone and pulls up his GPS.

You rattle it off, and he nods. You notice he drives a little more careful than you remember. Careful on the turns. Respecting the speed limit.

He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other palm up on the console like an invitation that you can choose to take or ignore. You set your fingers in his as if no time has passed. His fingers curl slightly to gently hold yours.

“Two nights a week,” he says quietly, eyes on the road. “You pick.”

“Tuesday,” you say, absurdly decisive. “And Friday.”

“Tuesday and Friday it is.” He says it like a vow.

You pull up outside your building. The hallway smells faintly of laundry and someone's too aggressive lavender diffuser. He insists on carrying the food, which is ridiculous because your clutch weighs nothing, but you let him, because tonight you are practicing the art of letting the person who wants you show you that he does.

At your door, you fish for your keys from your clutch. You slide the key into the lock, then pause with your hand on the door.

“This is dinner,” you say, to draw the line and keep your intentions for the night clear. “Not…anything I might regret tomorrow.”

He nods. “Dinner. If you want me to go after, I’ll go.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll stay a little longer,” his mouth curves up. “Then I’ll still go when you decide you want me to. And I’ll be back here on Tuesday to pick you up for a date.”

With that you turn the knob, and lead him inside.

Your living room is the opposite of the ballroom: soft lamp, stack of weather journals on the coffee table, a throw with a hole the size of a thumb through the weave. He sets the tacos down, steps back to look around. You shrug off the jacket and drape it over a chair.

“Plates?” you ask.

“Napkins are fine,” he says, and then, because he’s learning, “unless you want plates.”

“Napkins are fine,” you echo, and hand him one. 

You take a seat on the couch, and he mirrors you. You eat with your heads bent over foil. The green salsa hits your mouth and your eyes widen. He grins, and reaches over to wipe a way a dot of sauce at the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“Good?” He asks.

“The best,” you say, and he laughs.

The two of you eat in comfortable silence. You wiped the last smear of salsa from your thumb and et the napkin on the empty foil wrapper. Tyler leans back against the couch cushions, looking at you like he can finally relax.

“I should…change,” you say, flicking your eyes down at the gown. “Be back in a minute.”

He gives you a nod, and then begins to gather the foil wrappers from your dinner.

Once in your room, you kick off your heels with the grateful groan of a woman reclaiming her ankles. You reach back and tug the zipper at your spine. It moves an inch and then it get caught. You mutter to yourself and then try again, the tips of your fingernails sliding uselessly against the zipper.

You step to the doorway, fingers braced on the frame. “Tyler?”

He’s there faster than you expect. “Yeah?”

You angle your shoulder, lift your hair. “Zipper’s stuck...can you uh…can you help?”

Something flickers across his face. ”You sure?”

“I asked you, didn’t I?” You say with a small smirk.

He steps behind you. He carefully gathers your hair in one palm, and carefully moves it to the front of your shoulder. You feel the slow slide of his other hand, knuckles grazing the bare skin at the nape of your neck. The zipper begins to lower, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“There,” he says, his voice a little rougher than it had been before. To his credit, he steps back, and turns toward the hall. “I’ll…I’ll give you a minute.”

Your hand catches his wrist before he takes a second step.

“Stay,” you say, and the word is simple and enormous.

He goes still. You feel his pulse under your fingers, quick, honest. He turns back, eyes searching your face for doubt and finding none.

“I said dinner,” you add, “I didn’t say no to dessert.”

There’s a little bit of relief that breaks out over his features. “You’re sure about this, darlin’?”

“Come here, cowboy,” you say, and tug gently on his wrist.

You step backward into the room together, his hands hovering but not quite touching you. The dress loosens at your sides, and you hold the bodice in place with one hand while you reach for the collar of his shirt with the other.

He leans down and kisses you. It’s slow. Intentional.

“Shoes off,” you murmur against his mouth, because you are not about to have his muddy boot prints all over your bedding.

He laughs into the kiss then drops to the edge of the bed and toes off his boots. You let the dress slide off. The satin puddles at your feet and you step out of it. Tyler’s fingers begin unbuttoning his shirt until it hangs open, the white framing the tanned skin of him.

He’s on the edge of the bed knees apart. You climb into that space and swing a leg over his thigh, then the other, settling into his lap. His hands go to your hips almost on reflex.

“Okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you breathe, and your mouth finds his.

This kiss isn’t careful anymore. He exhales into it like he’s been holding that breath for months, palms sliding from your hips to the small of your back, anchoring you closer. You roll your hips without thinking, the friction a bright, needy jolt. He lets out something that almost sounds like a groan as he presses his mouth along your jaw, down to your collarbones.

He kisses there like he’s memorizing it. Open mouthed, soft, then not so much. Teeth barely scraping before he soothes it with his tongue. 

Your head tips back on instinct, hands in his hair, shoulder blades bowing as he kisses the top swell of your chest. You rock again and feel him, hard under the fine fabric, the drag of his slacks and the heat of him through his boxers lining up perfectly with the ache you’ve been studiously ignoring since the balcony.

“God, I missed you,” he mutters against your skin, the words vibrating through your sternum. His thumbs stroke along your ribs, careful with the edge of your bra, waiting.

“Tyler,” you say, and it lands like a yes.

He answers by kissing the hollow at the base of your throat and reaching behind you. 

“Can I?” he asks, fingers hovering at the clasp.

“You can.”

He drops the bra to the side without looking away from your face. His hands come back, cupping you tenderly first, then a little One hand stays on your back, steadying you, while the other come up to cup your chest. Your breath hitches when his thumb skims over your right nipple. Your back arches into his touch. Your hips keep moving in small circles, and he meets you halfway. Thrusting up, and groaning when you grind just right.

“Too many clothes,” you murmur, tugging at his belt. 

The buckle answers with a bright little clink. He lifts his hips so you can work it free, your fingers shaking, laughter catching in your mouth when the leather finally pulls loose.

“Team effort,” he says, breathless, and then makes short work of the button and zipper. You help shove the tux pants down. The boxer briefs go with them, his cock springing free against the heat of your belly. 

He swears softly when your fingers wrap around him once, testing weight and pressure like reacquainting yourself with a tool you never stopped loving.

“Condom?” you ask.

“I don’t have one baby, wasn’t exactly planning on this,” he says.

“I might have some in my nightstand.”

He pulls open the drawer of your nightstand and moves his hand around blindly before pulling one out. He tears the packet before rolling the condom on his length.

“Your turn,” he says, eyes flicking down to your panties, and then back up to your face.

You climb off his lap and stand between his legs, hooking your fingers in the waistband. He helps, sliding the fabric down your thighs. You kick them aside and settle again, bare now, the heat of you slick against the latex and the muscle beneath it. He stills, hands wide on your hips, eyes dark.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, honest.

“You,” you say. “Now.”

You climb back onto his lap, your legs straddling him. His hands find your hips immediately. You reach between you, line him up, and sink onto him in a slow, deliberate push.

It’s a little rushed, a lot needy, the kind of joining that is half muscle memory and half this new promise. He fills you and you take him and the months apart collapse to a single, stunned beat of finally. Your hands brace on his shoulders; his forehead drops to your collarbone; you both ride out the first wave with laughter that sounds dangerously like broken prayer.

“Still fits,” he says, wrecked.

“Still yours,” almost slips, but you catch it with your teeth and turn it into a kiss that swallows the sentiment and transmits it anyway.

You start to move. Slow at first, then quicker, chasing the angle that lights you up. His hands guide without taking, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your hips, sliding you down, up, down again. The slide is messy and perfect. You’re already slick, the sounds of it shameless in the quiet room. He meets you with little bursts of his own, hips lifting, jaw tight as he groans your name like an apology and a vow all at once.

“Right there?” He asks when your breath turns sharp.

“Right there,” you bite out, rolling your hips to show him again. 

He gets it instantly, adjusts his angle, and it hits.

You brace your hands on either side of his neck and ride him. He can’t stop touching you. One hand on your back, one sliding to your breast, mouth open against your collarbone, teeth catching. You’re vaguely aware of the shirt still on his shoulders, the collar gone crooked. He tries to shrug it off and you laugh mid moan.

“Leave it,” you say, voice wrecked. “It’s doing something for me.”

His laugh breaks, turns into a groan when you clamp down around him. “Yes, ma’am.”

You change the angle, moving your knees a little wider. And the friction lands exactly where you need it. Your head tips back, an almost embarrassingly loud moan coming out of you. 

He feels it and goes still, palm cupping the back of your neck, eyes on your face.

“Don’t stop,” you say. “Please.”

He doesn’t. He gives you everything you asked for: steady, deep, then faster when you chase it. The pace turns a little chaotic, the rhythm messy, your bodies smacking, breaths syncing then fracturing. It’s not graceful. His hand catches your thigh, you slip, both of you laugh breathlessly, and it’s somehow more intimate than any sex you’ve had with Tyler before.

“Look at me,” he says, and you do.

“Tyler–” you warn, and he nods, thumb pressing into your hip, the other hand sliding between you to give you the nudge you need. Two strokes of his thumb. Then a third, and your orgasm hits hard enough to knock the air out of you. You clamp around him, cry out, and ride it out.

Tyler’s not far behind you. He swears through clenched teeth, hips stuttering, and just a few thrusts later and his release fills the condom. He holds onto you through the aftershocks. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other splayed over your back, holding you to him.

Your breaths start to even out. You ease off of him. He catches the condom, knots it, and tosses it towards the trash by your nightstand. Then he reaches for you, pulling you back in towards him so he can wrap his arms around you.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Your palm rests over his chest, feeling his heartbeat come down under it. “You?”

He nods, eyes a little glassy in the low light. “Yeah. I—” He swallows. “I missed you.”

You drag your fingers through his hair and smooth it back, the old, ridiculous affection settling in like it never left. “I missed you being here,” you say. “Not just this.”

“I’m here now,” he says, simply. “And Tuesday. And Friday.”

You walk around to the opposite side of the bed and turn down the sheets before crawling inside. You pull the sheet up over you as Tyler slides in beside you. You tuck your feet under his calf, stealing his warmth. He drops a kiss to your shoulder and reaches past you to set his watch on the nightstand.

“Stay,” you tell him, even though he already is.

He smiles into your skin. “Gladly.”

The sun’s barely risen when you pad barefoot into the living room, still wearing nothing but one of Jake’s old Navy shirts. It’s soft and worn, falling just low enough on your thighs to cover you. But just barely. You’re rifling through a beach bag, double-checking that you packed sunscreen and sunglasses, when you hear him behind you.

“You tryna kill me before we even leave the house?” Jake’s voice is still a little raspy from sleep, but there’s no mistaking the smirk wrapped around it.

You glance over your shoulder, and raise a brow acting innocent. “What?”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes very obviously not on your face. “That shirt’s barely holding on, darlin’. And you keep bending over like you don’t know what you’re doing."

You roll your eyes, a little smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re the one who left it out. It's not my fault it’s comfy.”

Jake pushes off the doorframe and walks over to you. His eyes still trailing down your legs like he’s memorizing the view.

Just when you think he’s about to reach for you, you step around him to go grab your swimsuit from the bedroom.

“Better hurry, Seresin. We’ve got a beach to get to.”

He watches you go, shaking his head, and mutters just loud enough for you to hear, “Gonna make you pay for that later.”

* * * * *

The drive to the beach isn’t long, maybe fifteen minute tops. But with the way you keep adjusting your bikini top, it’s shaping up to be the longest fifteen minutes of his life.

Jake’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His sunglasses are on, but they’re not hiding how often he’s glancing sideways at you.

You’re twisted slightly in your seat, trying to adjust the tie on your bikini top.

“Is it crooked?” You asked as you tug at the fabric and shift your chest back and forth. “It feels crooked.”

Jake’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick away from the road for a second too long.

“You’re gonna make us crash.” He warns.

You blink at him, feigning confusion. “What? I’m just trying to fix it.”

“You’re trying to make me drive off the damn road,” he mutters, tightening his grip on the wheel.

You smirk, catching the way he adjusts the board shorts he’s wearing.

“You’re that distracted?”

He starts to slow slightly as you approach a red light. When he looks over at you, you adjust the top one more time, adjusting the cups and pushing the fabric together slightly to give him a better view of your cleavage.

Jake’s eyes rake over your chest and he mutters a quick, “Tease,” before the light turns green and he starts to accelerate again.

You lean over the console, and Jake stiffens beside you the second your body brushes against his. You pause, letting your fingers trail across his shoulder as you press a soft kiss to his cheek. His stubble is prickly against your lips as you whisper, “you love it.”

Jake’s grip on the steering wheel tightens even further for a beat before one hand slips off and lands firmly on your thigh. His fingers curl possessively, his thumb dragging slow circles that send a rush of heat straight to your core.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, darlin’,” he mutters, voice low. There was a warning in his tone, but it felt like more of a promise than a threat.

You smirk and sit back in your seat, pretending to adjust your sunglasses.

* * * * *

The beach is already alive when you arrive. The coolers are packed, towels scattered around, someone’s Bluetooth speaker is playing summer hits. The squad is in full sprawl out mode, claiming a prime spot near the dunes.

Jake pulls off his shirt with a practiced tug over the head move that should’ve been illegal, revealing sun kissed skin and those abs you had absolutely loved. His sunglasses slide into place as he adjusts his board shorts with a little smirk, catching you staring.

In response you pop the button on your denim shorts and shimmy them down your legs slowly, just enough to know Jake’s eyes are on you. You bend at the waist to slide them off completely, feeling the heat of his gaze on you.

A firm smack lands squarely on your ass, followed by a low whistle.

You straighten with a jolt, turning over your shoulder to give him a playful glare. “Seresin.”

He holds both hands up in mock surrender, the smirk never leaving his face. “You bend over in front of me and expect me not to smack it? I’m only human, darlin’.”

You roll your eyes and toss your shorts at his chest. “Behave.”

“Not a chance,” he says, and you know he means it.

You feel the warmth of the sun on your shoulders and reach for your sunscreen. You turn toward Jake, who had just settled in the sand with a beer in hand and his long legs stretched out on the towel. You hold up the bottle and tilt your head toward him.

“Think you can do my back?”

He raises a brow from behind his sunglasses and reaches for the bottle. He pats the towel between his legs and says, “c’mere.”

You settle between his thighs. The first cool swipe across your shoulders makes you shiver, and Jake’s breath catches just slightly as he leans in to press a kiss behind your ear.

“Cold?” He murmurs, his voice low and teasing.

You hum, arching your back just slightly as he applies a little more. His hands work slowly, spreading the sunscreen with careful and deliberate movements. They aren’t entirely innocent. And they’re definitely not subtle.

His hands slide lower, palms skating over your sides before dipping just under the edge of your bikini top to make sure every bit of exposed skin is covered. His mouth brushes the curve of your jaw as you lean back into his chest.

You turn your face toward him, your lips barely touching his in a slow kiss that lingers longer than it probably should.

“Jake,” you warn, grinning as you pull back. “There are children present.”

“So?” He murmurs, kissing along your neck again. “We’re just setting a good example for what love should look like.”

You snort out a laugh. “You’re such a tease.”

His hands slide around your waist, pulling you a little closer. “Takes one to know one, darlin’.”

“Hey lovebirds! Volleyball! Let’s go!”

Jake laughs and the two of you make your way over to where the rest of the group was. With how the teams were divided, Jake ends up on one team and you on the other.

You shoot him a look as you reach up to adjust your ponytail. “Try not to cry when I spike you.”

Jake’s grin is instant, cocky and dangerous behind his sunglasses. “You can spike on me anytime, sweetheart.”

A chorus of groans and “Jesus Jake!”s ring out from both teams. You feel the heat rush to your cheeks immediately. You roll your eyes and flip him off with a smile then turn take your place at the back to serve.

The game kicks off fast, full of chaotic energy and laughter as everyone drives for saves and jump for spikes. Jake, of course, is obnoxiously good. With his long arms, fast reflexes, and just the right amount of confidence to be a show off.

At one point he goes for a dramatic dive to save the ball, and lands flat in the sand. You jog up to the net and call out, “Need help getting up, old man?”

He wipes the sweat from his forehead and pushes up to his feet, brushing sand off his abs like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Nah, just wanted to give you a better view.”

A few rounds later Jake steps up to serve, tossing the ball once before readying his stance. Right as he goes to serve, you oh so casually adjust the top of your bikini, pulling the straps just enough to catch his eye. His gaze drops for half a second, but it’s just long enough to throw him off.

The serve is lousy, barely clearing the net before Phoenix saves it with a bump that send sit straight to you. You jump, time it perfectly, and spike the ball right at Jake. He misses the block entirely, and the ball lands clean at his feet.

Coyote, Fanboy, and the rest of his team all groan loudly.

“Something on your mind, Seresin?” you call sweetly.

Jake just runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, trying to play it cool as his eyes drag down your body. You blow him a kiss before turning away from him.

Someone on his team mutters, “Get a room.”

Jake doesn’t even look away from you as he replies, “Trust me. I’m trying.”

* * * * *

The group eventually calls a break, everyone scattering toward the towels, coolers, and the shade of nearby umbrellas. Sandwiches are unwrapped, beers are cracked open, and someone changes the speaker to a new playlist full of summer anthems.

You are mid sip of your water when Jake leans in close behind you, his warm breath brushing your ear. “Think I left my drink in the truck. Wanna come help me find it?”

You arch a brow at him. “You need help opening a cooler?”

His intentions are clear with the smirk that appears on his face. “Not exactly.”

You follow him up the sand path, both of you pretending not to be in a hurry. 

The second you are far enough away from the beach goers, Jake’s hand finds your waist and tugs you behind the cover of the truck. You barely have time to open your mouth before he has you pressed up against the side panel, his mouth claiming yours in a rough kiss. His hands find your hips, as your fingers twist the strings of his board shorts.

Jake pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, “You really gonna tease me like that and expect me not to lose it?”

You smile, completely breathless from just a few kisses. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He growls softly, dipping his head to your neck. “Keep it up and I’ll skip dinner and eat you instead.”

Your laugh turns into a gasp when his hand lowers, slipping right under the fabric of your bikini bottoms to grip your ass.

“Jake–”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Not here, baby.”

You whimper, fingers digging into his skin. “Then stop touching me like that.”

He gives your ass one last, lingering squeeze before pulling his hand free and resting it on your hip. “Just wanted to remind you what’s coming later.”

You stare at him, slightly dazed. “Consider me reminded.

Jake winks, then pulls open the cooler to grab a drink so no one questions what the two of you were doing while you were gone.

The motel door slammed shut behind you, rattling on its hinges as the wind howled one last time before dying off. Rain still pelted the pavement outside, but the worst of it had passed. You leaned back against the door and laughed.

“Jesus,” you gasped. “We almost died.”

Tyler was dripping beside you, hair plastered to his forehead, his Wranglers and soaked flannel clinging to every inch of his frame. His eyes were still wild from the chase, but he laughed too.

“Worth it,” he said, grinning. “Did you see that rope funnel drop? She was a pretty thing.”

You nodded, still catching your breath, your limbs still slightly shaking with the aftereffects of adrenaline. Your boots squelched with every step as you moved toward the little table to toss your gear down. You only half registered the dull ache in your thigh.

Tyler started undoing the buttons of his flannel before shrugging it off.

“We look like hell, he muttered, glancing at you with a crooked grin. “But at least we’re–”

He froze mid sentence as his eyes dropped to your leg.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “You’re bleeding.”

You looked down, and sure enough dark red bloomed through the soaked fabric of your jeans, staining the dirt caked fabric along your upper thigh. You blinked at it, suddenly aware of the sharp, throbbing sting as the adrenaline started to wear off.

“Oh. Huh,” you murmured, reaching down to run your fingers over the fabric. “Must’ve caught something.”

Tyler was already moving to grab the first aid kit he kept in his bag.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the edge of the bed. “I wanna look at it.”

“It’s fine,” you said, even though you limped toward him. “Really, it’s just a scratch.”

“That’s too much blood for a scratch,” he said as he crouched in front of you.

His voice had gone a little more serious. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he started to push your jeans up, but the soaked fabric stuck stubbornly to your skin.

“Stop. Hold on,” he muttered, glancing up at you. “We need to get these off so I can clean that. C’mon. Bathroom has better light.”

“I can do it, Ty,” you protested weakly, but Tyler was already standing, and heading towards the bathroom.

“Yeah,” he said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Unfortunately the motel bathroom wasn’t much. Just a tight space that barely had room for one person, let alone two.

You braced one hand on the counter, trying to catch your breath. The adrenaline had finally faded, which meant the dull ache in your thigh had bloomed into a deep, pulsing sting. When you looked down, you saw the blood had spread from when you looked at it just a few minutes ago.

You winced as your fingers fumbled with the button on your pants.

“Here,” Tyler said, “let me help.”

“No. I–I’ve got it.” You didn’t mean to snap at him, but the embarrassment was starting to set in. You were shaking now, whether from pain or the fading rush of adrenaline, you weren’t sure. The soaked denim stuck stubbornly to your skin as you struggled to slide it down.

Your fingers trembled again, missing the button completely.

Tyler stepped forward, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him despite your soaked clothes. He didn’t say anything this time, just reached out and gently closed his hands over yours, stilling them.

His voice was soft. “Let me.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly feeling tight, and nodded. He crouched in front of you. His hands moved carefully, undoing the button and dragging the zipper down inch by inch. The pants were clinging to your legs like a second skin, soaked and gritty with mud.

You hissed when the fabric tugged across the cut.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, glancing up. “Almost done.”

You bit your lip and focused on the wall as he worked the jeans down your legs, inch by inch, being mindful of the cut. When he finally got them past your knees, you stepped out. You were slightly unsteady, one hand braced against the counter to keep you from falling.

And then it hits you. You were standing in front of Tyler Owens in nothing but a mud streaked tank top and your last clean pair of underwear. The cute pair. The kind you almost didn’t pack because you thought “Really? Out chasing in tornadoes in this?”

You silently thanked the universe that you had chosen that pair and not the thong which was the only other clean option until the team stopped at a laundromat.

Tyler hadn’t moved, still crouched there, his face inches from your bare thigh as he examined the injury. You felt his breath, warm and slow, fanning across your skin.

“It’s not deep,” he said after a beat. “Shouldn’t need stitches.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t respond. Not when his hands were steadying your leg, his fingers brushing skin that hadn’t been touched by another person in far too long.

He reached for a clean towel and wetted it in the wink, wringing it out before bringing it to your thigh. The cloth was cold, and you sucked in a breath as it met the cut.

“Shit–sorry.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay.”

But your voice was quieter now, almost shaky. Tyler’s touch was careful and tender. He cleaned around the wound in silence, his jaw tight, but his breath even.

You watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed. Watched how his hands trembled slightly when he reached for the gauze and antiseptic.

“You okay?” You asked, needing to fill the silence with something…anything.

“Yeah,” he said, but it didn’t sound convincing. “Just wish I’d noticed sooner.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Still should’ve seen it.”

Your breath hitched when he pressed the gauze against your skin. Not from the sting, but the way his fingers lingered just a little too long. The way his eyes darted up to meet yours before quickly flicking away.

“Tyler…”

He didn’t look up this time. Just cleared his throat, and shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said again. “Just trying not to screw this up.”

He taped the gauze in place and sat back on his heels. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your shallow breaths and the soft, constant hum of the buzzing light above the sink.

His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours. His gaze dropped briefly, lingering on your tank top where it clung to your ribs, then lower over your thighs, and finally back up to your face.

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he could hear it.

Then he pushed himself up and said, “C’mon, let’s get you out of these clothes.”

You weren’t sure if he meant it platonically as your friend or as something more. You didn’t answer right away. Your hand flexed at your side.

But you didn't stop him when he reached for the hem of your shirt. He moved slowly, giving you time to say no or stop him. But you didn’t. You raised your arms, and he pulled the damp and dirty tank up and over your head carefully. The soaked fabric landed on the floor with a soft splat right next to your jeans.

You crossed your arms over your stomach on instinct, not because you were cold, but because you were suddenly a little too aware of everything. 

The way your old, faded bra clung damply to your skin, the straps slightly stretched, and the material thinned from wear. Comfortable. Reliable. But not remotely sexy. It’s not the one you would’ve picked had you known Tyler would be on his knees in front of you, peeling away your clothes like this.

Pair that with your cute lace trim underwear, it made you feel a little ridiculous.

You huffed a breath, half embarrassed, half desperate to break the tension.

“This feels a little unfair,” you said, voice soft but teasing.

Tyler tilted his head. “What does?”

You gestured vaguely toward him. Toward the way he still had some semblance of clothing. His white undershirt was clinging to his chest, soaking to the point of being practically see through. His jeans were darkened from the rain, molded to his legs. You could see the shape of every muscle, every flex beneath the fabric.

“You’re still dressed,” you said.

His mouth curved into a dangerous and knowing smile. Without a word he reached for the hem of his shirt. The cotton peeled away from his skin with a soft sound, sticking to his shoulders as he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside.

And then he was just there. Bare and dripping in front of you, water tracing the line of his collarbone, down his chest, and catching in the scatter of dark hair across his pecs and stomach.

Your eyes drifted lower. His Wranglers were clinging to his hips, low and tight. Your stomach flipped, heat curling in places that had no business aching this badly for your friend Tyler.

He didn’t say anything as your hand lifted on it’s own, your fingertips brushing the white gold chain that always hung around his neck. It was warm, despite the cool air conditioned air. Your fingers then moved over the center of his chest, tracing the dip between his pecs, through the coarse hair trailing down his stomach.

Then his hand was on your waist, large and warm. The skin slightly calloused but still somehow soft at the same time.

He stepped into you slowly, backing you toward the counter behind you. The edge hit the backs of your thighs, and suddenly all you could feel was him. The solid heat of his body, the way his breath was warm yet minty on your face, probably from the gum he had been chewing earlier.

His hand stayed at your waist, holding you there. You looked up at him, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. You lifted your other hand, sliding it up his chest, fingertips skimming across his shoulder. His skin was hot beneath the chill of the room, and when your thumb grazed over the dip of his collarbone, he let out a whisper of a groan.

“Been wanting to do this for a long time,” he murmured.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You were eye level with his mouth now, close enough to see the water beading on his neck as it dripped from his hair. His forehead dipped to yours, and he paused in one last breath of restraint.

“Tyler,” you whispered.

That was all it took. His mouth found yours in a crash. His lips were warm, tasting of rain and something sweet. You kissed him back with everything you’d never told him.

HIs hand slid from your waist to your lower back, fingers spreading and then pulling you in until you were flush against him. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue tracing yours like he needed it to keep going.

Your hands roamed his body. Over his shoulders, down his arms, and up again to curl behind his neck. He pulled his lips from yours for a second to take a breath, and your finger hooked around the chain he never took off, tugging him closer until his lips were on yours again.

He pressed you gently against the counter, his hips pinning your legs against the cool tile. His other hand found your thigh, careful to avoid the bandaged cut, as it slid around to the back of your leg, lifting it slightly, coaxing you to wrap around him.

Your legs curl around him, tugging him closer until his hips are slotted against yours just right. Tyler groaned into your mouth, hands sliding lower over your waist and hips before settling on the curve of your ass. His fingers flexed there for a beat, and then without warning he lifted you.

You gasped, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he held you against his chest. The sudden movement pulled a soft laugh from your lips.

He carried you into the main room of the motel like you weighed nothing, and gently laid you down on the bed. The sheets were scratch. The A/C hummed noisily in the background. Rain still tapped faintly against the window. 

But you didn’t care about any of that as Tyler crawled over you. He braced himself with one hand beside your head, the other cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin.

“You sure, darlin’?” He asked, voice low.

You didn’t hesitate to nod. “Yes, I’m sure, Tyler.”

His mouth was back on yours in the next second, this time slower. He kissed you like he meant to memorize you this time around. Like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance, so he was going to savor every second and every kiss he got.

Your hands slid down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. He was damp but beautiful, muscles flexing beneath your palms as you explored.

Somewhere in the haze of kisses and soft moans, your bra was pulled down. The straps slid down your shoulders as Tyler tugged the cups under your breasts. Tyler’s lips never left your skin as his hand roamed upward, thumbs brushing over your nipples making you shiver.

When his mouth followed, tongue warm and slow, you arched up into him, a soft moan escaping your lips.

“Fuck…” he breathed. It was like he still couldn’t believe he finally had you like this. 

You ran your fingers through his still damp hair, tugging gently on the ends. You felt his lips twitch against your skin in response. His hips then pressed lower, his belt grazing your inner the, the cool metal feeling jarring against your warm skin.

He kissed lower then up again, along the line of your jaw. Across your shoulder. His hands roamed your sides, gripping your waist, your hips, your thighs like he didn’t know where to touch first.

The heat between you simmered, slow and steady, building with each brush of lips and each roll of his body against yours. He kissed you like he had nowhere else to be. Like this, like you, were the only thing that mattered.

And for a while it was. Just his mouth on yours, his hands tracing every inch of your skin, the heat between you winding tighter and tighter.

But eventually the need sharpened. He pulled back slightly, panting, sage green eyes dark and blown wide with want.

His voice was low and rough as he said, “If I don’t get these damn jeans off, I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

You let out a breathless laugh, eyes drifting down to where the denim still clung to him.

“Yeah, not exactly fair,” you teased, echoing your earlier words.

He smirked, kissed you once more, and then rolled off the bed just long enough to shove the jeans down his legs and kick them away. You sat up on your elbows, watching him in the dim motel light as he rifled through his bag and grabbed a condom.

His finger tore the foil open and rolled it onto himself. Your eyes raked over him. Tall and bare, skin flushed, muscles tensing with every breath he took. That white gold chain still hung around his neck, glinting softly against his chest.

He caught you staring, and his lips curved up into a smirk.

“What?”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned forward and hooked your fingers in the waistband of your panties, and slide them down slowly.

Tyler’s breath hitched, and his gaze darkened.

“Jesus,” he murmured.

He was back on the bed in seconds, hands reaching for your bra next. It was already pushed halfway down your torso and he made quick work of tugging it off and tossing it to the floor.

Now there was nothing between you. No clothes. No storm. Just skin and heat and a history of silently wanting each other.

He settled between your legs, careful as his hands skimmed down your sides, pausing at your thigh.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked softly, fingertips brushing near the bandage.

“I don’t care,” you whispered. “I just want you.”

That was all it took. He kissed you again, slower now, his body easing over yours. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, drawing him in as close as you could get him. 

You sighed into his mouth when his hand slipped between your thighs. His fingers moved as he learned what made you gasp, what made you moan, and where that one spot was that had you arching into him. Your hips began to chase his touch.

“Fuck, baby…” he groaned when he realized how wet you were getting, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

You whimpered when his thumb circled your clit again. Then his fingers dipped lower while his other hand stroked down your thigh like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.

He pulled back and slid his fingers from you before lining himself up. He pressed in slow. Your mouth parted in a breathless moan as he sank into you, inch by careful inch. He went slow, watching your face like he was afraid to miss anything.

When he bottomed out both of you stilled.

“Okay?” He asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, and Tyler leaned down, his mouth finding yours again. Then he started to move. Slow, deep thrusts that made your breath hitch every time he pressed into you. His hips rolled, the tip of his cock dragging against that perfect spot, and you dug your fingers into his shoulders.

He took his time. Kissed your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. Then his mouth found your tits again, sucking soft and low until you were whimpering beneath him. One of his hands held your thigh, spreading you open, and anchoring you in place. The other slid under your lower back, lifting your hips into his rhythm.

It was good. Great even. But you needed more. You wanted him. All of him. And you could tell he was holding back.

“Tyler,” you breathed, catching his face in your hands. “Harder.”

His hips faltered for a second. He looked down at you, stunned for half a beat. Then something shifted. He growled low in his throat, buried his face in your neck, and thrust harder. Not rough. But deeper. Hungrier. Like he’d been dying to but was waiting for you to give him the green light.

Your moans filled the room now, shameless and loud, echoing off the cheap motel walls. He fucked you like he meant it. His chain dragged across your chest, cool against your flushed skin.

He muttered your name like a prayer. You chanted his back like a sin.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, fingers tangling in his hair as your body started to unravel beneath him. He could feel it too. He felt you clenching around him.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

You came with a sharp cry, stars bursting behind your eyes, nails clawing down his back as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you. Tyler followed soon after, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, groaning your name into your shoulder as he came hard.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just tangled limps, shaky breaths, and heartbeats hammering in sync.

Then finally he kissed you again. Softer this time.

He slipped out of you, and the second he did, a small breath escaped your lips. More of a whimper than anything else. Your body trembled slightly, eyes half lidded as you watched him start to shift away, his weight moving as he began to crawl off the bed.

“No–” you murmured, your voice low and hoarse. Your fingers brushed his wrist as you whispered, “Stay.”

Tyler paused instantly, his gaze meeting yours, soft and adoring even in the dim motel lighting. He leaned in, his lips finding yours in a lingering kiss.

“I’m not going far, baby,” he promised. “Just the bathroom. Be right back.”

You let him go this time, your hand falling back against the mattress as you watched him go. He disappeared into the tiny motel bathroom, the sound of running water following a moment later. The room felt colder without him as you laid there sprawled in the middle of the one bed with flushed skin and sore muscles.

A few minutes passed before he returned. He was shirtless still, but now a pair of grey boxer briefs sat low on his hips, and in one hand he carried the first aid kit. Again. This time though, he also had a small plastic pouch tucked under his arm.

“What is that?” You asked, your voice still rough with sleep and sex.

He smirked, climbing onto the bed and sitting beside you. “Wet wipes. I usually keep them for Boone. He gets chocolate everywhere.” His smile deepened as he looked over at you. “But figured they’d be good for…other messes too.”

You laughed softly, not even caring how you looked or sounded. “God, that’s the most dad thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

He raised an eyebrow as he pulled one of the wipes free and leaned closer to gently part your thighs again.

“Might be,” he said with a shrug. “But you’re not complaining.”

The first swipe was gentle, almost reverent in how he moved. You winced slightly from the sensitivity and his eyes flicked up to yours in concern.

“Too much?”

You shook your head. “Just tender. I’m okay.”

He continued carefully, murmuring something you couldn’t quite hear under his breath. Then once you were clean, he tossed the wipe into the small motel trash can and shifted his attention to your leg. The bandage had loosened during your…extracurricular activities, and was beginning to be stained with red again.

“You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?” He muttered, peeling the gauze back. 

His jaw tightened at the sight of the reopened wound.

“I’ll survive,” you said, watching as he cleaned around the edges with a fresh antiseptic wipe. “Pretty sure you just gave me a reason to forget about it for awhile.”

He glanced up then, and that crooked knowing smile was back. “Glad I could be a distraction.”

You laughed again, the warmth of it curling through you like the last embers of a fire. He worked quickly, unrolling fresh gauze and wrapping the wound again, tighter this time, but still gentle. When he finished, he leaned back on his heels, surveying his work.

“There,” he said. “Good as new. Almost.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

He gave your ankle a little tap. “Now, what do you want to wear? Something from your bag?”

You hesitated, cheeks flushing despite that he’d just had his hands and mouth on places no one else had touched in a long time. “Um. All I have left that’s clean is a thong.”

His brows shot up. “That’s it?”

You gave a half shrug, before covering your face with your hands. “We were supposed to stop by a laundromat before the storm his today and I wasn’t exactly planning on sharing a motel with anyone.”

Tyler laughed low in his throat at that, before getting up and reaching for his own duffel. “Lucky for you, I’m prepared.”

He pulled out another pair of boxer briefs and tossed them to you. Then a white cotton shirt, well worn and oversized. You caught both and looked up at him as he walked over to your side of the bed.

“Want help?” He offered.

You nodded, sitting up with a groan. Muscles you didn’t even realize you had were already starting to ache. Tyler knelt on the bed beside you and helped ease the boxers up your legs, taking time not to jostle the bandaged thigh too much. Then he lifted the shirt over your head, helping guide your arms through the sleeps, his knuckles brush the curve of your waist as he tugged it into place.

Once you were dressed, you leaned into him, resting your head against his bare shoulder. His arm came around you without hesitation.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s sleep before you pass out right here.

You both crawled under the covers, the cold scratchy motel sheets no match for the warmth of his body beside yours.You nestled into his side, his chest a solid pillow beneath your cheek. His arm wrapped around you and began to rub gentle circles over your hip where the shirt had ridden up just a bit.

The room was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the faint rustle of blankets. You could feel the steady beat of his heart, grounding and safe.

You shifted just slightly to look up at him. “You okay?”

His lips quirked up. “I think I should be asking you that.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m good.”

Tyler kissed your forehead, a gentle press of lips against damp skin. “Then sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And you did. You let your eyes drift shut, wrapped in Tyler’s arms, sore but safe and warm. Maybe the world outside the motel was still dangerous with the second round of thunderstorms rolling in. But in that moment, tucked beneath thin sheets and the scent of him, you didn’t care.

He had you.

The little dive bar the team had stumbled across wasn’t much to look at, but after a day like today, it might as well been heaven. Neon beer signs buzzed against wood paneled walls. The jukebox played an old country song. The clack of pool balls echoed from the back. The floor under your boots was a little scuffed, and the regulars sized you up before going back to their own business.

The crew came in through the door loud and hungry. Tyler held the door open for you last, tipping his head toward a couple of tables in the corner.

“Remember we aren’t stayin’ too long.” He murmured. “We’re hittin’ the road again at dawn.”

You gave him a sweet smile, stepping past him. But not before you reached up, snatched the cowboy hat right off his head, and plopped it onto yours.

“Darlin’.” His voice dropped like a warning, though the corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk before his tongue ran across his bottom lip.

You grinned, reaching up and tugging the brim low over your eyes. “Looks better on me anyway, don’t you think?”

His jaw ticked, because it wasn’t the first time today you’d pulled this stunt. You’d snatched his hat off him back at a gas station off of Highway 33 after the chase this morning, too. You had plucked it from his head and strutted off towards the pumps with it like you owned it before he caught up to you and took it back.

He had let it slide then, and told himself he’d get you back later. Now here you were doing it again, this time in front of the whole damn bar.

You headed off toward the jukebox, hips swaying just enough to make him curse under his breath as he watched you go. He followed you, boots heavy against the scuffed wood, reaching out to grab you.

“Don’t make me chase you,” he warned.

“Thought you liked a chase,” you tossed back over your shoulder as you weaved through the Thursday night crowd that had gathered in the bar.

Shortly after arriving and getting the first round of drinks, a couple of the locals recognized Tyler and challenged him to a game of pool, and of course he couldn’t say no.

The bar’s one pool table was wedged in the corner beneath a neon Bud Light sign. The green felt was a little scuffed and the cue sticks were a little warped, but nobody seemed to mind.

You leaned against the edge of the table, sipping your drink as you watched him line up his shot. One of the regulars broke and then Tyler handed the cue stick to you. You made your way around to the opposite side of the table. The position was shameless. You didn’t even try to hide what you were doing. Bent forward, back arched, chest forward, the neckline of your top dipping just enough to make his jaw tick.

He’d already had to put up with you fiddling with the radio the whole ride into town, your hand planted on his thigh every time the truck hit a bump. And he didn’t fail to notice the way you had slowly inched your hand a little higher each time.

You then stood up and made your way back to the side of the table he was on.

“Didn’t like that shot.” You murmured before bending over in front of Tyler, positioning the cue on your left hand as you lined your shot, your ass just millimeters from the front of his jeans.

“You keep bendin’ over like that, and we’re gonna have a real problem, darlin’.”

“What kind of problem, cowboy?” You teased after sinking one of the stripes into a pocket.

He huffed out a laugh and took the cue from your hand before setting it aside. His hand landed on the table beside your hip. He was now in your space, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“You like makin’ me crazy, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” you tilted your head, eyes shining bright. “You gonna do something about it?”

You reached up and plucked the Stetson from his head that he had taken back, and placed it on your head once again.

A couple of the regulars nearby hooted and hollered, clearly entertained. Tyler on the other hand, just put his hands on his hips and looked at you, almost like he was weighing how much trouble he was going to let you get away with tonight.

“You’ve got ten seconds to hand that back before I take it back,” he said.

You looked up at him, tilting the hat lower over your eyes. “Try me, Owens.”

You saw the muscles in his jaw tick before he stepped closer. Close enough you could smell the mix of sweat, leather, and ozone still clinging to him. His hands came up, reaching for your waist. But you dodged sideways, slipping out of his grasp and towards the dance floor.

The next song on the jukebox was a little bit faster, and you used it to your advantage, spinning and swaying your hips like you didn’t have a care in the world.

“She looks like trouble,” you heard one of the locals say to Tyler.

Tyler ignored the comment, eyes locked on you. Hungry and amused at the same time.

“You keep runnin’ that mouth, keep struttin’ around in my hat…” He closed the distance in a few long strides, stopping just short of touching you. His voice dropped low, rough. “I’ll put you flat on that table until you remember who it belongs to.”

Your pulse jumped, heat curling low. But you kept your smirk, leaning close enough to brush your lips near his ear. “All hat, no cattle.”

Tyler huffed out a sharp laugh, but there was nothing light or easy about it. You’d been running him ragged since the storm. And now here you were, hips swaying, his hat on your head, daring him to snap.

“You’re askin’ for it.”

“Maybe I am.”

For a beat, it was just the two of you, the bar noise fading to a hum around the edges. His hand hovered near your hip, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the promise in it. Your body wanted to lean in, to give up the game, but your pride held steady. You swayed your hips again, slow and taunting, keeping his hat firmly on your head.

“Darlin’,” he said finally, his patience stretched tight. “If we weren’t in public right now…”

The words were molten, muttered for your ears alone, and you felt the goosebumps rise along your arms.

You arched a brow, feigning innocence. “If we weren’t in public, what?”

His eyes narrowed, green fire catching yours. For a second, you thought he’d spell it out right there, make the whole bar complicit in the threat. But he just exhaled slowly, pulling back enough to drag his gaze down your body and up again.

“You don’t wanna know.”

You laughed softly, the sound threaded with challenge. “I think I do.”

He shook his head like he was trying to clear it, then plucked the hat from your head at last. He jammed it back on, the brim shadowing the heat in his eyes, and muttered, “Get your pretty little ass in the truck. I’ll pay the tab.”

“Someone's feeling bossy,” you teased, lingering where you stood. “What if I don’t?”

Tyler gave you a look, one that told you he’d already decided how this was going to end. He had let you get away with too much today. More than usual, really. But everyone had their limit, and you’d been testing his from the minute you slid into his passenger seat with that smug little smile he loved so much.

He turned toward the bar, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, leaving you with the echo of his warning.

Despite the warning, you decided to stay put on the bar stool you were on. When he was done paying Tyler turned and his eyes scanned the bar. He saw you still sitting there with a smug little smile and he didn’t waste any time.

“Last chance to get yourself out to that truck before I carry you out there.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you challenged as you leaned back and finished off the last of your drink.

“Oh,” he said as he leaned down, “I’d do a hell of a lot more than dare.”

His arm slid around your waist, and before you could protest you were hoisted over his shoulder. You squealed as tried to squirm to get down. The slap of his hand against your ass was quick, more playful than anything, but it still make your breath catch a little.

“You think you’re real cute don’t you darlin’?” His voice rumbled through your back, low and steady, and you knew it wasn’t a question.

Your laugh came out breathless as you squirmed against his shoulder. “Put me down, Tyler!”

“Not a chance.”

His palm slid over the back of your thigh to steady you, his grip unyielding. “You had your fun. Now it’s my turn.”

The regulars whistled and hollered as he strode past the bar. Tyler didn’t spare them a glance. His boots hit the gravel outside with a crunch, the night air cool against your flushed skin.

“Ty-” you started, but his hand swatted lightly against your backside again, cutting you off.

“Ah, ah. You’ve been ridin’ my last nerve since noon. Stealin’ my hat, playin’ pool like you don’t know what you’re doin’, puttin’ on a whole damn show.” He adjusted you higher on his shoulder like you weighed nothing, his other hand settling possessively on the back of your thigh. “I warned you, sweetheart. Told you one of these days you’d push me too far.”

Your heart thudded, the mix of heat and thrill making your breath catch.

He stopped once he reached the truck, finally setting you down. He crowded you back against the passenger door, his hands bracketing your hips, holding you still as he bent low.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a little restraint left,” he said, voice soft but thrumming with warning. “Almost gave the whole bar a show, darlin’.”

You swallowed hard, biting back a grin that would only get you into more trouble. 

“So what now, cowboy?”

Tyler’s lips twitched, that dangerous smile tugging at the corner. He opened the truck door with one hand, his other guiding you up by the waist.

“Now,” he said, settling you onto the seat and leaning in close enough that his drawl ghosted against your ear, “you sit your pretty ass right here.”

The door shut with a solid thunk, leaving you flushed, buzzing, and already anticipating what was coming once the truck left the lights of the bar behind.

The rumble of the engine settled into a steady hum as Tyler pulled out of the gravel lot, headlights cutting through the dark stretch of highway. You leaned back against the seat, trying to calm the thrum in your chest, half expecting him to crack a smile and let you off the hook.

But he didn’t.

He kept one hand on the wheel, the other draped loose on his thigh. His jaw was set, eyes forward, every line of him focused. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. Just weighted.

You glanced at the passing signs, waiting for him to take the exit that led back to the motel. Instead, he blew right past it without a blink.

“Uh…you missed the turn.”

“Did I?” he asked, voice smooth, almost casual.

Your stomach flipped. “Tyler.”

He reached into his pocket at the next stop sign, thumbed a quick text without looking, and tossed his phone back into the console. “Boone’ll manage. Told him we’d catch up.”

“You what?”

Tyler just shifted gears, turning onto a narrow county road that dipped between stretches of pasture. Crickets sang in the ditches, fireflies sparking faint in the fields, the night swallowing you whole.

“Where are we–”

“You’ll see.”

The two words carried enough promise to send a shiver down your spine.

A mile later, he slowed, scanning the tree line until he found what he was looking for, an opening in the barbed wire fence, a dirt track barely visible in the headlights. He turned in, gravel crunching under the tires, and eased the truck deep into the clearing.

Finally, he cut the engine. The silence felt louder than the jukebox or the laughter from the bar. It was just you, Tyler, and the steady drum of your heartbeat. He sat there for a moment, hat brim low, profile carved in shadow. Then he turned, eyes locking on yours with a heat that stole the breath right out of your chest.

“You wanted to know what I’d do if we weren’t in public,” he said softly. “Darlin’, you’re about to find out.”

He killed the engine and stepped out. Then he rounded the hood in three long strides, tugging your door open before you could even reach for the handle. His hand found yours, warm and steady, and he helped you down.

Then he guided you to the back of the truck. The field stretched out quiet around you, fireflies sparking faint in the tall grass, the air heavy with the damp sweetness of summer. Tyler flipped the tailgate down with one easy motion, then lifted you up like it was second nature. The metal was cool against your thighs in the chilly night air, and a shiver raced up your spine as he stepped closer.

He stood between your legs, his broad frame crowding in, his eyes dark. With one palm braced on the bed beside you and the other sliding up your leg, there was nowhere left to go.

The brim of his hat dipped as he closed the last inch, his mouth crashing into yours without warning. Tyler usually liked to tease and draw it out, sometimes even make you beg for more. But tonight there was nothing teasing about the way he kissed you. It was rough, hungry, lips bruising, teeth catching enough to make you gasp.

His hand slid higher on your thigh, anchoring you against the edge of the truck bed as his mouth broke away from yours and found the curve of your neck. He sucked hard, deep enough to sting, and you knew it’d bloom into a mark by morning. He didn’t seem to care. In fact, he did it again lower down, his low groan vibrating against your skin.

“Lay back,” he muttered, voice ragged as his fingers toyed with the buckle of your belt.

You obeyed, palms pressing to the cool metal as he leaned over you, working the leather loose with quick, practiced tugs. Your boots thumped against the tailgate one by one as he slid them off, then your jeans followed in a single rough pull that left you breathless.

He tossed them aside carelessly, eyes raking down your body as he braced a hand on either side of you.

“Been waitin’ on this all damn day.”

His hands left your waist only long enough to drag his own belt loose, the metallic clink of the buckle sharp in the quiet field. His zipper rasped down, and he shoved his jeans low on his hips, just enough to free himself.

He stepped back between your thighs, crowding you to the edge of the tailgate, one hand steadying you as the other gripped himself and pressed against your entrance. The contact drew a sharp gasp from you, heat flooding through every nerve.

But the angle was wrong, frustrating, the height not quite there. Tyler growled low in his throat, and in the next breath his arms slid around you, hauling you off the bed like you weighed nothing.

“Hold on,” he muttered.

Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, arms clutching his shoulders as he carried you the few steps to the side of the truck. The dusty red paint was cool against your back as he pressed you flat to it, his body pinning yours in place.

His grip locked hard on your hips, thumbs digging into your skin as he angled himself and drove upward into you in one needy, claiming thrust.

The sound you made broke on the night air, muffled quickly by his mouth as he swallowed it in a kiss. His hips snapped again, then again, fast and hungry, each movement dragging you higher against the side of the Dodge.

“Been makin’ me crazy all day,” he groaned against your throat, his breath hot and ragged. “Teasin’ me.”

Another thrust stole his words, the pace relentless. Every push was sharper, faster, a man finally taking what had been burning in him since morning.

Pinned against his truck, legs locked tight around him, you could only cling and feel him pour every ounce of pent up need into you, the field around you echoing with the sound of it.

The truck rocked faintly with every sharp thrust, the metal behind your back rattling under the force of him. Tyler’s grip on your hips was almost punishing in its need, hauling you down onto him harder, faster, as if he couldn’t get close enough no matter how deep he pushed.

Your legs cinched tighter around his waist, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders. Each moan slipped from you unrestrained, half broken things that only spurred him on. His jaw locked, breath dragging ragged through his chest as he drove up into you again and again.

“Christ–” The word came out hoarse, swallowed against your throat. 

His forehead pressed to yours for a heartbeat before he dropped his mouth back to your neck, biting down hard enough to make you gasp. 

“Feel too good,” he groaned, the sound wrecked, torn straight from the center of him.

You could feel it building in him, the way his rhythm stuttered for a second before he forced it back, the way his chest heaved with every ragged breath. He wasn’t going to last long, not tonight. Not after a whole day of you winding him tight, not with the slick heat of you clenched around him, not with those filthy little moans spilling out of your pretty mouth like you didn’t even care who heard.

“Darlin’--” It was half a warning, half a plea, his voice breaking apart on your skin. His thrusts lost their precision, driving harder, needier, as though he was chasing something he couldn’t stop if he tried.

You tugged his hat off and tossed it aside just as his control finally snapped. With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep, holding you pinned to the side of the truck as his hips stilled. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and shuddering against your skin.

Your name tumbled from his lips, followed by that rough, reverent “darlin’,” as he spilled inside you, his whole body trembling with the force of release.

For a long moment he stayed there, chest heaving, keeping you tight against him like letting go might undo him completely. Then he started to soften. His big hands sliding gently down your sides as if to smooth away the roughness of what had just burned through him.

“Hey,” he murmured, sweeping your hair over one shoulder so he could see your face. His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek, green eyes searching yours. “You good? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Your smile was weak but real, still dazed. “I’m good.”

Relief passed over his face, loosening the last of that tight coil in his chest. He pressed a kiss against your temple before shifting his weight, adjusting his grip. “C’mere.”

In one fluid motion, he lifted you again, carrying you the few steps back to the open tailgate. He set you down gently, steadying you with a hand at your back as a faint breeze slipped through the field. Goosebumps rose instantly on your skin, and he caught it.

Without hesitation, Tyler shrugged out of his flannel and draped it over your shoulders, tugging the sleeves snug around you. 

“Can’t have you freezin’ up on me after all that,” he said softly.

He crouched, found your jeans crumpled in the dirt, and shook them out before helping you slide them back on, his touch careful, almost reverent now. Once you were dressed, he stepped close again, moving between your knees like he had earlier, but the heat was gone, replaced by something quieter.

His arms came around you, one hand weaving into your hair, the other banded firm around your back as he drew you into his chest. He kissed the top of your head, a hum of contentment vibrating in his chest.

The hangar still smelled like jet fuel and hot asphalt, the air rippling with heat even though the sun had started to dip lower toward the horizon. You leaned against the railing just outside the ready room, still replaying the maneuvers from the day’s dogfight in the air. Your helmet hung by its strap in your hand, sweat cooling sticky against the back of your neck.

The rest of the squadron was milling about, peeling out of gear, bragging and chirping at each other the way they always did after a successful training session . You tried to keep your expression neutral, but your eyes betrayed you the second Jake Seresin strolled in from the flight line.

Hangman, golden boy of the skies, looked unfairly good like this. His helmet tucked under his arm, flight suit unzipped to well past his sternum, sweat darkening the gray T-shirt clinging to his chest. He had an easy smirk plastered on his face, the one that made you want to simultaneously roll your eyes and fan yourself.

You told yourself you weren’t staring. Really, you weren’t. But your gaze snagged on the sharp cut of his collarbone peeking out from under the flight suit, the rise and fall of his chest, the way he dragged a towel across the back of his neck and down his throat like some kind of slow-motion movie scene.

Unfortunately, Jake noticed. Because of course he did.

He tossed his helmet onto a bench and turned, towel draped casually around his neck. His smirk deepened when his green eyes met yours. He crossed the space between you in a handful of long, confident strides, every step radiating the cocky charm that had earned him his callsign.

“You seem to like what you see.” His voice was pitched low, teasing, like it was meant just for you.

Heat flushed your cheeks as you straightened off the railing, glaring at him. “You wish, Seresin.”

“I don’t wish.” He leaned one hand against the wall next to your shoulder, close enough that you caught the scent of sweat on his skin. “I know.”

You gave a short, incredulous laugh, trying desperately not to show just how close you were to pressing your knees together. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously handsome,” he offered, grinning.

You rolled your eyes, but your voice came out a little shakier than you’d intended. “Full of yourself much?”

“It’s not my fault you were staring.”  Jake said easily.

You bristled, shoving a finger into his chest, your fingertip meeting solid muscle beneath damp cotton. “I was not staring.”

“Yes, you were.” His grin widened. “Don’t worry, darlin’. Happens all the time. Occupational hazard.”

“Occupational hazard?”

“Yeah. Being this good looking around the hangar. People get distracted.” He tilted his head, eyes roaming your face with slow, deliberate attention. “Case in point.”

Your pulse kicked hard in your throat. You should’ve shoved him away. Should’ve stormed off. Instead, you stayed pinned beneath the weight of his gaze, the way his smile softened into something almost earnest when he noticed your silence.

“Seriously,” Jake murmured, his voice dipping low enough to send a shiver racing down your spine. “You really were staring.”

Your mouth went dry. “Maybe I was just trying to figure out how a man with an ego the size of Texas fits in a cockpit.”

The party had long since wound down. What was once a house full of laughter, clinking glasses, and familiar music had melted into quiet. Low hums now played through Glen’s speakers, and dim light illuminated the living room of his home just outside Austin. You sat tucked into the corner of his oversized couch, legs curled beneath you, fingers loosely wrapped around a now empty glass.

The clock on the wall had long since passed 2:00 am.

Footsteps padded softly over the hardwood, and a moment later, Glen appeared, two fingers cradling a bottle of tequila and a small grin on his face. His tie was gone. Top buttons undone. The easy charm he wore so well was still there, but it was gentler now that most of the guests had left.

“You want another?” he asked, holding up the bottle as he settled in beside you.

You gave a lazy shake of your head. “I shouldn’t. I’ve gotta drive home.”

He leaned back, resting the bottle on the table without pouring it. “You know you don’t have to go anywhere. Guest room’s made up if you want it.”

You smiled, looking over at him. “You always offer your crew a place to crash?”

His eyes flicked to yours. “Only the ones I like.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It had never been with him. Even back on set during the long filming days, there was something about Glen that made the quiet feel easy.

But tonight, the quiet felt a little heavier.

Your gaze drifted over to him again, his fingers tapping against his thigh in beat to the music, his shoulders turned slightly toward you. His eyes weren’t on the tequila or either of your empty glasses. Nor were they on the stereo that was playing the music. No, his eyes were on you.

You blinked, and your question came out before you could second-guess it. “What?”

“What?”

“You’re staring,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, even as your heart kicked up.

Glen’s smile that came next was slow and warm, like molasses melting over heat. “Just thinking.”

You arched a brow. “About?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he leaned in a little, elbow resting on the back of the couch, his voice a little lower than before.

“You.”

Your breath caught in his chest. He didn’t move closer to you, nor did he reach for you. He just let his words hang there in the air between you.

You don’t respond for a minute or two. But then you laugh, breathy and nervous.

“You’re not serious,” you say.

Glen just tilts his head, his eyes steady as he studies you. “I’m dead serious.”

You blink, searching for something clever to say. Something witty to quip back with. But your mind stutters.

“Did you hit your head? Or just have one too many tonight?”

He chuckles, and for a second, you think you’ve successfully diffused the moment. But then he shifts closer. It’s subtle. Not pushy. But deliberate. He drapes one arm over the back of the couch. His fingers graze your shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he admits softly, “for weeks now.”

You swallow as you glance down at your hands before looking up at him. “Glen…”

“I know it’s not ideal.” His voice is lower now. Gentler. “And I get it, really. But I like you. A lot. And I don’t know if or when I’ll see you again if I don’t say something.”

“This is a really bad idea.” You whisper.

You don’t date people in the industry. It was something you had both discussed and agreed on. You especially don’t date co-stars or people you’re working with on a project. And here he was suggesting you break that very rule.

“I know,” he says. “But that doesn’t change how I feel.” 

He watches you for a few seconds before continuing. Trying to catch any signs that you don’t want this. That this is making you uncomfortable. When he finds none, he continues.

“I’m not trying to mess with your head. Or make things weird. I just–” he shifts his hand, brushing your jaw this time, his fingertips feather light on your skin. “I want to make you mine.”

He doesn’t say it in a possessive way. There’s no arrogance in the words. Just a quiet reverence. A kind of certainty. He’s not claiming you, but maybe hoping you might want to be claimed.

Your hand moves before your mind can catch up. You reach out, hesitant at first. Your fingers find the soft cotton at the collar of his shirt, fingers curling there. He doesn’t pull away, and you take that as your sign to continue. You let your hand drift up, sliding under the fabric and across the warm curve of his neck.

You shift on the couch, rising slightly to your knees. You’re close enough now to feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.

Glen doesn’t move. Not yet anyway. He just watches you, his eyes searching yours.

Then, slowly, he leans in. His hand comes up, warm and sure, cupping your jaw. And when he kisses you, it’s soft. Intentional.

Your fingers curl at the back of his neck as your lips part against his. You melt into him without meaning to, and he shifts easily, guiding you forward until you’re straddling his lap. His hands find your waist, anchoring you gently but firmly, like he’s not quite ready to let go.

You pull back for air, just for a second or two.

Glen’s smile is softer now as he looks at you.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.

Then his lips are back on yours a moment later, slower this time. Exploring and learning. Taking his time like he has all night.

His hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, warm fingers splaying against the small of your back. And then he trails kisses down your jaw, each one deliberate. He finds the edge of your neck with his lips, warm and open-mouthed, and gently sucks. Your fingers tighten slightly against his skin.

You breathe his name out, it’s barely more than a whisper. He answers with another kiss to your throat, and another soft press of his hand against your lower spine.

Glen pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. His chest rises and falls in a slow but heavy rhythm.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you like he’s still trying to memorize every detail of you. And maybe he is.

Then, with a quiet breath, he presses one last kiss to your lips before pulling you into him. His arms wrap around your waist with an easy kind of strength, and your body molds to his instinctively. The room is quiet again, save for the low hum of music still playing somewhere in the background. The moment should feel charged. It should feel complicated. But it doesn’t. It just feels…right.

You curl into his chest, legs tucked beneath you, your fingers drawing idle shapes over the cotton of his t-shirt. Glen’s hand brushes a few strands of hair from your cheek, then slides into the rest of it, his fingers combing gently through it, like he can’t help himself.

He gathers it loosely at the base of your neck, holding you there. Not tight. Not forceful. Just there.

His hand stays in your hair, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“Stay with me tonight?” he murmurs.

You nod, already halfway asleep. “Okay.”

Your eyes flutter closed, lulled by the warmth of his chest and the weight of his arms around you. 

His voice comes one more time, low and rough and barely above a whisper. “You’re mine now, yeah?”

Your lips curve into a soft but sleepy smile.

“Yeah,” you breathe.