#flogan ff

Fuck, Flynn.

That’s the general idea.

“Wyatt?”

The phone clatters to the desk as Wyatt spins his chair around to face the newcomer, desperately hoping his face isn’t as red as he imagines.

“Ms. Tompkins—ma’am—I—did you need something?”

Maria Tompkins, the Director of Development for Mason Industries, and by far the most brilliant woman Wyatt’s ever met, is one of his favorite people in the building. But not, however, when she’s standing in his doorway, eyes sparkling in amusement as she arches a single brow and looks between him and his dropped phone. Thankfully, she doesn’t comment on it.

“I was on my way to the staff meeting and noticed I wasn’t the only one who was late,” she replies. “Walk with me? Unless...you weren’t planning on attending?”

Wyatt nearly swears as he glances over at his computer only to see that she’s exactly right—an overdue calendar notification blinks at him from the screen and he grabs his phone off the desk, shoving it into his pocket as he gets up.

“Nope. Just lost track of time. Thanks for the reminder, ma’am.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you can call me Maria?” She teases as they step out of his office. “You’re not in the army anymore, Master Sergeant Logan.”

Wyatt grins and ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Old habits...ma’am.”

Maria laughs just as Wyatt’s phone buzzes in his pocket again. His fingers twitch to answer, a fact which she doesn’t miss, even though he forces his hand to stay at his side.

“Girlfriend?” She asks, and his face heats again.

“Ah—no.”

“Boyfriend?”

Wyatt nearly chokes on air, both from the ease with which Maria switched tracks and the very idea of calling Flynn his boyfriend.

(If he’s honest with himself, he wouldn’t mind that. Might even welcome it. But it’s a hell of a label to slap onto someone he’s spent more time talking dirty with than...well...any other kind of talking.)

“Don’t have one of those either,” he replies.

Maria hums as though she’s not quite sure she believes him, but doesn’t press.    

“You know, my son is going to be in town for the holidays,” she says instead. “He runs his own business and works all over, but he promised to give me at least a few weeks of staying in the same place this year.”

“What does he do?” Wyatt asks.

“Private security, mostly,” she replies. “He’s former military, too, so—”

“Yeah,” Wyatt acknowledges. “I know how that goes.”

Maria gets a sly look on her face as they approach the conference room and adds, “Oh, and he’s single. Just in case whoever that is you’re texting really isn’t a significant other.”

Wyatt does choke on air then, and Maria smiles innocently as they reach the room. He takes just a moment to sort through that as she leaves him, pulling out his phone to check the message before following.  

Wyatt?

Staff meeting, he taps out quickly. Sorry.

Shame, Flynn replies. I was looking forward to hearing you come again.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that he manages to keep a straight face as he slips through the door and into an empty seat, shooting Connor Mason an apologetic glance as the man pauses briefly at the interruption before continuing on.

“As I was saying…”

Wyatt does manage to pay attention to the meeting, even gets through his departmental update before his phone buzzes twice again and steals his focus. He makes it through Maria’s section, and partway through Anthony Bruhl’s before he gives into temptation, sliding the phone out of his pocket and swiping it open under the table.

It takes approximately two seconds for the image on the screen to register, and then he’s coughing up a storm, shoving his phone away before anyone else can see.

Jesus Christ.

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Logan?” Mason asks as Rufus Carlin passes over a bottle of water.

“Fine,” Wyatt croaks out. “Must have swallowed wrong or something. Sorry.”  He very deliberately ignores any and all commentary his mind offers up about swallowing.

By some miracle, he makes it through the rest of the meeting without further incident. The second it’s finished though, he swings by his office only long enough to grab his keys before heading out for the day. He doesn’t look at the unread messages on his phone yet, keyed up enough that he just wants to get home as soon as possible and call Flynn directly, screw the time difference.

Wyatt does check them once he’s through the door of his apartment, and then he has to bite his lip to keep from swearing.

The picture Flynn sent during the meeting is just as overwhelming as it was the first time—Flynn’s hand fisted loosely around his cock, thick and hard and flushed. Enjoy your meeting, the accompanying message reads.

Do you know how gorgeous you look on your knees? Reads the next, and Wyatt shivers.

I wasn’t kidding before—I want to hear you again. You make the prettiest damn sounds when you’re close.

Kinda makes me want to work you over, keep you right there until you can’t stand it anymore. Make you beg for it...would you like that?

Wyatt does swear then, swears and strips down, hitting the call button as he settles on the bed. Goddammit, Flynn. He hasn’t even touched himself and he’s already lost.

(Yes, he would like that, would fucking love for Flynn to put him on his knees, make him wait, make him beg, except Flynn can’t because he’s halfway across the world, and Wyatt hasn’t officially asked to see him again anyway, and it’s entirely possible that despite all the excellent phone sex, Flynn doesn’t actually want to see him again, and—)

“H’lo?”

...oh. Wyatt had been entirely prepared to drag Flynn for being an awful tease and then talk dirty until his throat was sore, but Flynn’s voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, which is simultaneously hot and adorable, and it makes Wyatt’s chest ache with fondness.

“Did I wake you up?” He asks.

“Wyatt?” The sound of a light clicking on comes over the line and Flynn stifles a yawn. “You did, but it’s fine.”

“Where are you that it’s the middle of the night?”

“London,” Flynn replies. “Favor for a friend. She asked me to look at some files from a case I worked on back when I was consulting for the NSA.”

Wyatt stretches out on the bed, one arm looping behind his neck as he cradles the phone by his ear with the other. As worked up as he is, he’s surprisingly willing to be distracted, especially if Flynn wants to share personal details.

“You worked for the NSA?”

Flynn hums. “For a few years after I decided to stop fighting every war I could get involved in. They needed someone who knew the landscape of Eastern Europe, I had dual citizenship, it made sense. I left and started my business after—after my daughter was born.”

“You—” For all that he’s already lying down, Wyatt feels unsteady. “You have a kid?”

The other end of the line is quiet enough that he half-wonders if the call dropped or if Flynn’s abruptly fallen back to sleep, but then Flynn clears his throat and his voice comes back even rougher than before.

“Not anymore,” he says. “She—she died. In the same accident that killed my wife.”

Personal details—it’s what Wyatt wanted, right? Because you don’t necessarily get many of those when you pick a guy up in a bar and spend a weekend having amazing sex. But that particular reveal is like a stone dropping to the pit of his stomach. How long ago did it happen? How old was his daughter? How many years was he married?

“I’m so sorry,” Wyatt replies.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you.”

“No,” Wyatt says. “No, that’s—it’s fine. That you didn’t. Really, it’s fine.”

(It is fine. Because it wasn’t his business, and because technically they don’t actually have a relationship. But, he does have questions, he does want Flynn to talk to him about his shit, even if goodness knows Wyatt isn’t always the best with complicated. He wants Flynn to trust him.)

Another weighty silence falls, and then, before he can talk himself out of it, Wyatt adds—

“I was married, too. She didn’t—we’re divorced.”

“I’m sorry.”

Wyatt shrugs. “It’s for the best. We weren’t exactly happy.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard,” Flynn replies.

“We—uh—” Wyatt clears his throat. “We got married real young. And for a long time, Jess was the only person I had. So...yeah, it was hard.”

They talk for an hour, until Flynn’s breathing evens out on the other end of the line and Wyatt stops talking and just listens. Listens and breathes with him and finally hangs up feeling lighter than he has in weeks. A smile on his lips, he taps out, You’re still a tease, and hits send before going to take a shower.

The next morning, he wakes up to, That’s not a complaint, followed by When can I see you again?

When are you back? Wyatt asks.

Week from Wednesday. There’s some holiday party my mother wants to drag me to that Friday.

How about Thursday night?

Dinner?

Wyatt stares at the message, heat pooling in his stomach at the thought of actually seeing Flynn in person again. Without giving himself time to think about playing it safe, he sends back, Or we could start with dessert. My place?

There’s no response as he finishes getting ready for work, nor does one come for the first few hours of his day. Wyatt is just about ready to backtrack when his phone buzzes.

That sounds fantastic. I’ll see you then.

Well then.

It starts like this.

“Look, Bam-Bam, I appreciate it, but I’d really rather go home.”

It’s still early in the night as far as the bar scene is concerned, but Wyatt isn’t particularly interested in drinking himself stupid and staying out until all hours when he could go home, find something mindless to watch on TV, and go to bed before 2AM.

“And while I hear your objection, Wyatt, I’m overruling it,” Dave replies. “It’s been, what, eight months since the divorce? I’m not saying run off with the first person you meet, but at least get laid.”

“Dave,” Wyatt groans.

“Flirt, then,” Dave says. “Buy a pretty girl a drink. Hell, buy a pretty guy a drink, maybe that’s what you need right now.”

“You know, I didn’t tell you I’m bi because I needed help being set up with men,” Wyatt points out. “I just wanted to say it.”

“I know. But the point still stands,” Dave replies. “It would be a change of pace. Could do you good…what’s your type?”

Wyatt rolls his eyes. “I’m not telling you my type. I don’t even know if I have one.”

“Oh, come on. What about him?” Dave points to a blue-haired guy in skinny jeans across the room.

“We’re not doing this.”

“Not him, okay.” Dave scans the room and nods at a burly guy with a bushy beard and a tank top. “Him?”

“Oh my god,” Wyatt laughs, shoving at Dave’s shoulder. “You’re the worst wingman ever.”

“Hey now, I’m working with limited data here!” Dave says. “It’s not like you’re helping.”

“Because I don’t need help! I don’t need help and I don’t have a type.”

“Clearly, you do need help, because you haven’t gotten laid in a year,” Dave replies. “And everyone has a type, just give me one more shot...him. Tall, dark, and handsome over there, what do you think?”

Wyatt laughs again, turning his head to look just to humor his friend, only to nearly choke on his tongue when his eyes actually land on the man in question.

Fuck. Tall, dark, and handsome is a solid description, but that doesn’t quite capture the way the man’s jeans cling to his ass and thighs, the breadth of his shoulders underneath a leather jacket, the size of his hands—

Suddenly, the man turns and catches Wyatt staring, and Wyatt flushes and wrenches his eyes away.

“Don’t have a type, my ass,” Dave teases.

“Shut up.”

“I saw that look.”

“Oh my god—”

“Hi.”

Wyatt’s head snaps up to see the man in front of their table, and his cheeks heat again as the man slowly looks him up and down, a smirk curving his lips.

“I’m Flynn,” he says. “You?”

“I—uh—Wyatt.”

“Can I buy you a drink, Wyatt?” Flynn asks.

“Yeah, Wyatt, can he?” Dave seconds, looking far more amused than Wyatt thinks the situation really calls for.

Wyatt’s pulse ticks up at the thought. Maybe there’s something to this whole getting laid idea after all.

(Although, at the same time it’s more than a little terrifying because Flynn is hot, really hot, and Wyatt’s never actually slept with another guy before, he doesn’t know how to do this, and he’s so out of practice as it is—)

“He likes beer,” Dave adds. “Nothing fancy.”

“I—sure,” Wyatt agrees. Flynn flashes a grin and walks off to the bar, and Wyatt turns to Dave. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” Dave replies with a smirk. “And oh, look. There’s an open seat over there next to the woman with the shoulder tattoo. You’ll be fine here, right?”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Wyatt breathes through the tightness in his chest at being left alone as Dave gets up and crosses the room, but he isn’t alone for long.

“Here you go,” Flynn says, sliding a beer across the table when he reappears at the table.

“Uh, thanks,” Wyatt replies, taking a sip. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I don’t have to stay.” Flynn sets his own drink down, but doesn’t move to fill Dave’s empty seat. “If you didn’t actually want—”

“No,” Wyatt interrupts, flushing lightly when Flynn’s lips curl up. “I mean, I did—I do—I just...haven’t been out in awhile. Kind of out of practice.”

“I can handle out of practice.” Flynn takes the open seat. “What do you do, Wyatt?”

“I work in security,” he replies. “Dave, my buddy over there, we were in Delta Force together a few years back, but I didn’t want to be a military man forever, so...here I am. You?”

“I run a business,” Flynn says. “Also security-related, but it’s not that interesting really.”

They trade small-talk for a few more minutes until Wyatt empties his glass. Flynn glances at it, then nods toward the bar.

“Can I get you another?”

(The thing is, Wyatt knows he could say yes, knows he could probably sit there talking with Flynn all night and then still go home alone after, no pressure. But Dave was right—it has been a long time since he’s been kissed, since he’s been touched by hands other than his own. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a mostly-anonymous one-night stand. He can manage that, can’t he?)  

Wyatt wets his lips and looks at Flynn, then the door. What the hell, right?

“I think I’m good. Could go for some air though.”

Which is how a minute later, he ends up being kissed within an inch of his life in the alley next to the bar.

Flynn’s hands feel just as good as Wyatt thought they might—running down his arms, curving around his waist, gripping his hips tight when Wyatt’s own hands find their way under Flynn’s shirt. He’s aching in his jeans, can feel Flynn hard against him as well, and it’s still nerve wracking in that What if I’m bad at it? kind of way, but there are good nerves there too. He feels like he’s sitting at the top of a roller coaster waiting for the drop, the rush, the high, and it may be terrifying but he doesn’t want to get off the ride for anything.

“I don’t—I don’t usually do this,” Wyatt admits, breathless as Flynn turns attention to his neck.

“Pick up strangers in bars?” Flynn nips at his pulse point and Wyatt’s hips jerk forward. Fuck.

“Pick up strange men in bars,” Wyatt clarifies.

Flynn’s grip loosens immediately, not pulling away completely but no longer pinning him against the brick either, and lifts his head—Wyatt nearly whines at the loss.

“Do you want to stop?” Flynn asks.

No. God, no.

Wyatt exhales shakily and tries to tug Flynn down to kiss him again, but the man is immovable.

“Wyatt?”

“I think I want you to come home with me,” he admits.

That does get him another kiss, but one that’s soft, sweet enough to make his knees buckle in an entirely different way from before.

“You think or you know?

What—oh.

“I want you to come home with me.”

“Okay,” Flynn agrees.

“Yeah?”

The response is a low laugh muffled by Wyatt’s mouth as Flynn kisses him again before pulling away and fishing a set of car keys out of his pocket.

“Definitely. Come on.”

Flynn stays the night, and the next, and finally leaves early the morning after that, kissing Wyatt boneless when he’s half-asleep, and saying something about having to catch a flight before scribbling his phone number on a post-it note. It takes Wyatt a week and a half after that to actually use it, after Dave has successfully gotten him drunk, and he winds up leaving a long message in Flynn’s voicemail about all the things he’d like Flynn to do to him. When he remembers, he almost changes his number altogether, but then Flynn calls and...well. It goes from there.

Wyatt spends the next week distracted, on edge, wanting. It doesn’t help that he and Flynn talk three more times while Flynn is away, even if the conversations are shorter than the first. If it were just phone sex, that would be one thing, but it isn’t. It’s war stories and shitty childhood memories and the more they talk, the more Wyatt falls. It’s stupid, it’s so stupid—you’re not supposed to fall for a one-night stand. And yet. And. Yet.

At work, Maria doesn’t stop casually bringing up her son Garcia, and Wyatt knows he should probably discourage her from whatever madcap idea she has of setting him up given that he’s tied up in knots over Flynn, but he doesn’t. Maybe being set up is what he needs—after all, he’s pretty sure this thing with Flynn isn’t going to last, doubts Flynn could possibly want it to when he’s...Flynn and Wyatt’s Wyatt. So on Wednesday, after another staff meeting, he mentions that he’s looking forward to meeting her son and gets a winning smile in response.

After that, he goes home, makes dinner, watches some game or other for a couple hours while his brain helpfully reminds him that in less than 24-hours he’ll be seeing Flynn again, and finally gives up on trying to think about anything else and elects to just start getting ready for bed.

Wyatt has just finished brushing his teeth when there’s a knock at his door. The hell? He pulls a shirt on as he makes his way through the apartment, fully prepared to tell whoever it is to politely leave him alone until a more normal hour—except that every bit of air leaves him when he opens the door to see Flynn in front of him, clearly tired from his trip but very real.

“Hey.”

Wyatt opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again, but all he can think of to say is, “”It’s Wednesday.”

“I know,” Flynn replies. “But I got back and went home and realized that I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to see you, so—although, I can, obviously, if you don’t want—”

Wyatt kisses him before he can finish such a truly, truly nonsensical sentence, gripping Flynn’s shirt with both hands and pulling him inside. This, this is what he’s been waiting a week to do, and god, kissing him is everything.

“Stay,” he breathes against Flynn’s mouth as Flynn’s hands skim down his sides to the hem of his shirt. If Wyatt had been tired before, he’s wide awake as Flynn’s kisses turn soft enough to shatter him—Flynn is careful and gentle and it makes Wyatt ache because he’s no good at soft, because it makes him want things he shouldn’t, because he’s setting himself up to get his heart broken.

Wyatt bites Flynn’s lip to push them back into the desperate roughness he’s more comfortable with as they make their way to his bedroom, and blessedly, Flynn switches tracks.

“What do you want?” Flynn asks as he presses Wyatt against the wall of the bedroom, spreading Wyatt’s legs with one of his own. Wyatt rocks his hips against Flynn’s thigh, desperately seeking friction as Flynn rucks his shirt up and drags his teeth over Wyatt’s pulse point. “Tell me.”

Wyatt lets Flynn relieve him of his shirt, then pushes him back to the bed so he can climb into Flynn’s lap.

“Fuck me,” he says, kissing Flynn and getting his own hands under Flynn’s shirt. “I want—I need you to fuck me.”

Flynn’s hand curves around Wyatt’s throat just enough to tip his head back and give Flynn better access to his neck. There’s no grip, no real pressure other than Flynn’s thumb pushing against the underside of his chin, but Wyatt goes hot all over, a low whine twisting its way out of him. Flynn stills and pulls back just enough to look at Wyatt’s face, watching the reaction when he drags his thumb slowly down Wyatt’s windpipe—Wyatt’s eyes fall closed and he shudders, his mind going blank except for the quiet thought of well that’s a kink I didn’t know I had.

“Interesting,” Flynn muses, his eyes dark. But he draws his hand away instead of exploring further. Wyatt doesn’t have long to linger on his faint disappointment at that though, because the next moment, Flynn flips them and stretches out on top of Wyatt, pinning his hands to the bed.

“If I recall correctly,” he says, grinding his hips against Wyatt’s, “I said something last week about making you beg for me.”

Wyatt nearly bites his tongue to keep himself from doing it already. He could, and Flynn would probably give him what he wanted instead of making him wait, but that would rather defeat the point of the exercise.

“You’re going to kill me,” Wyatt replies instead, his breath hitching when he tests Flynn’s grip on his wrists, only for it to tighten.

“Oh, but what a way to go.”

Wyatt gets very little sleep.

They do, in fact, have dinner Thursday night, when Wyatt comes home to find that Flynn can apparently cook, and extremely well at that. It takes very little to convince Flynn to stay another night.

And then, on Friday, it all goes to hell.

The annual Mason Industries holiday party could hardly be called anything less than an extravaganza. Not to mention, Mason would likely be aghast if anyone did. Wyatt doesn’t bother going home beforehand, instead just changing shirts in his office and splashing some water on his face.

He’s...not the biggest fan of events like this. The music tends to get louder as the night goes on, there are too many people—

His phone buzzes.

Pretty sure my mother is going to try to set me up tonight. The things we put up with for love?

Wyatt chuckles quietly at the mental image of Flynn being ordered about by a sweet old lady and types out a reply.

Need me to conveniently call you with an emergency?

It’s entirely possible. If I do does that mean I can see you later?

You could do that anyway.

Wyatt switches his phone to silent, shutting and locking his door as the sounds of festivities start to drift down the hall. Just a few hours and then he can go home.

The main lobby is awash with lights and decorations, too many people milling around to keep track of. Rufus raises a glass at Wyatt from across the room and Wyatt smiles in response—maybe this will be the year Rufus and Jiya finally admit they’re head over heels for one another. There’s certainly enough mistletoe about for it to be possible.

Then, he hears his name.

“Wyatt!” Maria waves at him as he approaches. “Garcia, this is Wyatt Logan, he’s the head of security here. Wyatt, this is my son, Garcia Flynn.”

Wyatt has half a second of thinking the back of the man’s head looks incredibly familiar before Flynn turns around and both of them freeze.

“Flynn? Not—uh—not Tompkins?” Wyatt asks.

“My late husband’s name,” Maria explains, looking between the two of them.

We’ve actually met, is on the tip of Wyatt’s tongue, but Flynn recovers first, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Logan.”

Wyatt shakes Flynn’s hand on instinct, even as his stomach twists. Mr. Logan? Mr. Logan? Twelve hours ago he was blowing him and now Flynn’s acting like they’re strangers?

(So much for the possibility of them being more.)

“I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” Wyatt replies. “Although apparently not enough.”

He shakes his head and pulls his hand back, nodding once to Maria. “Excuse me. Ma’am.”

“Wyatt—”

Wyatt ignores the call, his eyes blurring as he walks off. Goddammit.

He’s almost to his office when he hears his name again, then a hand catches his arm.

Flynn.

Wyatt pulls away from the touch and unlocks his office door, not looking at Flynn even when he follows him inside.

“Wyatt…”

“Did you know?” Wyatt asks.

“Of course not,” Flynn replies. “If I’d known, I would have told you.”

“Would you?” He pushes back. “Because apparently you didn’t even tell me your first name, Flynn.”

“No one calls me Garcia anymore except her, it doesn’t—”

“It matters.”

“It was a random coincidence.”

“You shook my hand!” Wyatt argues.

Flynn opens his mouth, closes it. His jaw ticks as he rakes a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “It took me by surprise. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I—” I want you to care, Wyatt thinks, his stomach sinking. “Nothing,” he replies instead. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Wyatt—”

“You should go back to the party.” Wyatt turns away. “Maria’s probably wondering where you are.”

For a moment, he thinks Flynn might say something, anything, but nothing comes. A moment later, the door clicks as it shuts. He tries to stop feeling sick.

Wyatt doesn’t know how long he sits at his desk after Flynn leaves, torn between the desire to run away and the fact that getting to the parking lot would involve passing through the party and risking running into him again. It’s not that he doesn’t get it—no one expects their mother to suddenly be introducing them to their fuckbuddy. But it’s the particular lie that stings—not friends, not even casual acquaintances, strangers. Strangers. Because even if he and Flynn were just having sex, that still meant something, didn’t it? It did to Wyatt at least. Considering that he didn’t—he doesn’t—just sleep with every attractive man he comes across—

“Wyatt?” Maria knocks quietly on the door of the office before opening it a crack. “May I come in?”

He considers saying no, but that would probably just be prolonging the inevitable, so he waves a hand at the chair across from him.

“I’m sorry,” he says as she sits.

“For what?”

“For...well.”

Maria is quiet for a moment as she studies him, then she sighs.  

“Garcia is a good man, you know,” she says. “Unfortunately, he can also be an emotionally constipated fool of the highest order. Never did know how to start a relationship worth a damn.”

“I—Maria, we’re not—”

“Oh, I know you’re not in a relationship,” Maria acknowledges. “But you aren’t strangers either—a blind man could tell that. Which is why I wanted to see how you were, because he may be my son, but I’d like to think after these past few years that you and I are at least something like friends.”

They are. In fact, she’s probably the closest thing Wyatt has had to a mother in ages, let alone being friends. But can he really talk to her about this?

Wyatt looks at her for a moment, at the openness of her face, the lack of any sort of judgment. Maybe he can.

“You know, after Jess left I was kind of a mess,” he says. “We got married when we were so young and were together for so long that and I just—I didn’t know how to be alone. But I also didn’t know how to date as an adult—I still don’t know how to date as an adult, clearly. It’s a lot harder than I expected it to be.”

“Why is that?” Maria asks.

Wyatt shrugs. “Because everyone else seems to have their shit together. Can say how they feel, know how to talk to each other. Even Flynn—well, before today anyway—he was so—and I’m—I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing.”

Maria is quiet for a moment...and then bursts out laughing.

“I’m sorry,” she says between bouts. “I’m not laughing at you, it’s just—the idea that anyone would think Garcia knew what he was doing in the world of dating is incredible. Truly. Wyatt—”

She reaches across the desk and takes his hand. “Listen to me. My son has been in a grand total of two relationships in his life. The first was with his best friend and lasted on and off for ten years. The second was with his wife. And I can tell you, he most certainly did not instigate either one of those, and they succeeded in great part in spite of him rather than because of any affirmative actions on his part. Which is all to say...he’s just as clueless. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Garcia doesn’t do casual.”

“Maybe he’s trying something new,” Wyatt replies.

“The way he looks at you says otherwise.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, you’ve only seen us interact for—what, a minute?”

“I’m a mother,” she points out. “And you didn’t see his face when you walked away earlier.”

Is it possible? Wyatt almost doesn’t want to hope, doesn’t want to even allow the thought. But if it is—

“Why are you telling me this?” He asks.

“Because he won’t,” Maria replies. “And he also won’t ask for what he wants. So if there’s something you do—well, it may be up to you. To tell him that.”

“And if I can’t?”

Her lips quirk up, and without hesitation she kisses his cheek, squeezing his shoulder gently as she pulls back.

“You’re a good boy, Wyatt. Just try not to break his heart.”

Wyatt opens his mouth, then closes it, recovering just in time as Maria reaches the door.

“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” he says.

Wyatt sits in his office for awhile longer, mulling that over and thinking back over the past few months with Flynn. He does want a relationship, he can admit that at least. And maybe Maria is right and Flynn wants the same thing.

If nothing else, at this point Wyatt doesn’t think he can make things worse between them by saying how he feels, even if it’s still nervewracking.

Making up his mind, Wyatt makes his way back to the party, pausing in the hallway when he catches the end of an argument coming from a nearby room.

“It’s not that easy—” Flynn.

“It’s easier than you’re making it out to be,” Maria scolds. “Wyatt—”

“He doesn’t want anything else from me,” Flynn interrupts, and Wyatt freezes even though he should probably walk away. “He only—it’s not like that between us.”

“Darling, trust me,” Maria says. “A man who is upset that you didn’t properly introduce him to your mother is not a man only interested in sex.”

Wait, what?

Flynn makes a noise. “Majka—”

“If you’re old enough to have it, you’re old enough to talk about it.”

“You thought I was only interested in sex?” Wyatt steps into the room and is halfway through the question before he reminds himself that interrupting his not-boyfriend and his mother in a private moment might not be the best thing he’s ever done. But, when he looks over, Maria is smiling even if Flynn is frozen like a deer in the headlights.

“I think that’s my cue,” Maria says.

She closes the door behind her and Wyatt clears his throat, somehow managing to work up the courage to repeat himself.

“You thought I was only interested in sex?”

Flynn rakes a hand through his hair again, although unlike earlier it reads as nerves rather than frustration.

“Aren’t you?” He asks.

“I—” Wyatt’s pulse ticks up and he exhales slowly to try and settle himself. “No. I won’t—look, I like having sex with you, I can’t lie about that, but I also like you Flynn.”

Surprise, insecurity, and hope flicker across Flynn’s face in quick succession before it smooths back into impassivity.

“I asked you on a date and you invited me over for sex,” he replies, and it’s Wyatt’s turn to blink in surprise.

“You—what?” He thinks back to Flynn’s text about dinner, to the long pause after his own response.

Oh, god. We’re both idiots.

“That was—I was trying to flirt,” Wyatt says. “I didn’t realize you were—we spent months talking about sex, I thought you were asking for a booty call, not a date. I didn’t think you would ever want to—but I—for fuck’s sake, Flynn—”

It may be up to you. To tell him.

“I do,” he chokes out. “Want to date you. And yeah, part of that is because we have great sex, but it’s also because I like waking up with you in the mornings, I like making you laugh, I like talking with you and listening to you—I haven’t dated in years and I’ve never dated a guy before so I can’t say I’ll be any good at it, but I—I do want to date you. I really do.”

“You—” Flynn stops and clears his throat, dawning realization coming over him. “You do?”

“You think I tell just anyone about my dad?” Wyatt asks weakly, fighting the urge to run. Fuck, why is talking about feelings so hard?

“I didn’t think,” Flynn replies. “Clearly. I’m—I’m not very good at this either.”

“Well…” Wyatt takes a step forward and offers his hand. Slowly, Flynn takes it, confusion flickering over his face. “Hi. I’m Wyatt Logan, and I’d really like to take you to dinner. As a date.”

Flynn grins and ducks his head. “Garcia Flynn,” he replies. “Apparently you work with my mother. And I would really, really like that.”

“If I kiss you now is that going to confuse things, or—”

Flynn laughs and tugs at Wyatt’s hand to pull him in. The next moment, they’re kissing soft and slow and warmth spreads through him from his lips to his toes.

“Guess I didn’t need to call with an emergency after all,” Wyatt says quietly, a small smile on his lips when Flynn pulls back.

“Guess you didn’t,” Flynn acknowledges. “Want to be my excuse to get out of here anyway?”

“Depends. Will your mom tease us for ditching?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll never hear the end of it.” Flynn steals another kiss as Wyatt laughs.

“Let’s go.”