#obviously.

A soft, yellow glow spilling out from your living room window. He knows that window. Knows it the way you know a face you’ve seen a hundred times without ever really talking to it.

The curtains aren’t fully closed.

You never line them up right. Just that thin, careless seam where the panels don’t quite meet; it makes his jaw creak just thinking about it. He shifts his teeth, works them side to side until he can feel his molars grind. 

When are you gonna fucking learn?

Doesn’t it ever cross your mind that somebody could be out here, watching?

Some creep. Some sick bastard taking that invitation you keep leaving wide fucking open.

He leans forward an inch.

Then another.

If he tilts his head just right, he can see inside.

That room’s as familiar to him as the weight of his sidearm.

He’s practiced the angle enough that it’s muscle memory. Knows exactly how far he can push it before the windshield glare screws him over.

It’s taught him a lot of things.

Like how long you leave the overhead light on before switching over to the lamp. How your soft, beige couch has got that permanent dip in the cushions where you always sit, knees tucked under you.

You’re there now, folded into that spot like usual.

You’re wearing your usual, too. Loose T-shirt and dark cotton shorts.

No lace or ribbons or nothing. It’s so unsexy. Not like those chatroom girls he messes around with some nights. Hell, he’d even take one of those skimpy little silk dresses—Karen’s got a whole closet full of ‘em.

You don’t even try.

And yet... there’s skin.  

Lots of it, he can get a good eyeful of your thighs when you’re sitting there like that with your legs pulled up, the lamplight turning your skin all warm and honey-soft. When you reach sideways for the remote, your shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of stomach.

He swallows, throat clicking loudly in the quiet cruiser.

No bra.

He knows because he watched you take it off earlier.

Watched the straps slide down slow over your arms, one after the other. You tugged it out through your sleeve, tossed it over the back of the couch. Careless. Same way you always leave the curtains open.

Same way you forget to lock your door half the time.

Drives him fucking nuts.

He shifts in the seat, one elbow braced on the door, the other hand hanging loose over the wheel. His thumb rubs slow circles into the worn leather, mouth pulled tight.

If he squints, he can almost make out the shape of your tits underneath the shirt. Can imagine how your nipples would tighten if the room got colder.  

Or if his hands were there instead.

Fuck.

He breathes hard through his nose, leather creaking under his fist.

The hand that’s been resting on his thigh starts inching inward. Toward that thick bulge trapped in his camos, chubbing up beneath the fabric. He drags a rough, heavy palm across the top, squeezing just once, eyes burning a hole through the glass.

You’re playing with your hair again.

You do that a lot when you’re distracted. Just lounging on the couch, remote loose in your hand while the TV screen flickers white and blue lights across your face.  

Most nights go like this. Boring as shit, really.

Sometimes you’ll fold laundry. Sometimes you’ll read, those nerdy little glasses slipping down your nose until you push them back up with your finger. He’ll time it, if he’s really desperate for entertainment. Count how many minutes it takes before they slip again.  

Sometimes you’ll sit there on your phone, thumbs tapping away. He’ll watch you smile at something that lights up your screen and wonder who the fuck is funny enough to make you laugh like that.

You don’t have a boyfriend.

He’d know.

He knows what time your shift ends at the diner. Knows what nights you close. Knows there’s never a second set of headlights behind you when you pull in, never a truck parked here overnight. Never some asshole walking you to your door, hand at the small of your back like he’s got some fucking right.

He would’ve seen it.

Would’ve remembered the plate.

He rubs his thumb across the steering wheel, thinking about that night with the music.

Some godawful, girly pop song blasting loud enough the whole block had to listen while you spun around in the middle of your living room, all alone, wine glass in hand.  

You slammed into the couch, almost ate shit. Wine sloshing over the rim, streaking across your shirt, but you just stood there, staring at the mess, and started laughing. Head thrown back, twirling like you’re performing for an audience of none.

Well—one.

He’d laughed then, too. Shook his head alone in the dark like some goddamn idiot.

He catches himself smiling at the memory as he watches you now, eyes locked on your frame while you flip through the channels mindlessly.

Then he notices your hand.

At first, he thinks you’re just adjusting your shirt. Fingers drifting lazy and aimless, sliding over your stomach.

Your hand slips under the hem, like you’re chasing an itch.

Doesn’t come back out.

He squints, leaning forward until his chest presses against the steering wheel. His breath fogs the glass and he swears under his breath, wiping at it impatiently, smearing it worse before clearing a small circle with the heel of his palm.

And it’s with a well-angled tilt of his head, he’s holding his breath now, that he realizes your fingers are sliding down. Dragging a slow line across your hips, swirling patterns over the skin above the elastic.

Then they hook into the waistband of your shorts.

And disappear.

His cock jolts hard in his briefs.

“No...” he breathes, voice scraping low in his throat. “No fuckin’ way.”

Your wrist sinks deeper. Your shoulders move next, rising and falling in subtle, rhythmic rolls. The fabric between your thighs pulls tight, stretched over the shape of your gliding knuckles.

It takes him another second to catch up.

Then he moves all at once.

“Holy shit. Holy fuckin—”  

He jerks upright, knees slamming into the wheel. The cruiser rocks a little and he freezes, eyes snapping to your window like you might’ve heard that through brick and drywall.

You don’t even look up.

You’re too busy.

His belt’s suddenly suffocating, biting into his stomach. He wrestles with it, hands clumsy, jerking and fumbling. The cab vibrates with frantic rustles, ragged breaths, the scrape of metal dragging against fabric, before—

“Shit! Fuckin’... c’mon!”

His zipper’s stuck; he has to glance down to wrench it free, practically ripping the fabric away from the teeth. The second it gives, he shoves his pants and briefs down in one rough yank. His cock springs free, tip angry red and slick under the dim glow of the dash.

He hisses through his teeth as cool air hits his balls, resting heavy on top of his waistband.

His gaze snaps back up.

You’re still there.

And—oh, fuck.

Your shorts are gone.

Sometime in his fumbling, you kicked them off. They’re pooled on the floor near the couch. You’re bare from the waist down now, shirt rucked up to just under your tits, cotton bunched high on your stomach.

Your thighs are spread wide across the couch. Knees angled open, feet planted at the edge.

Jesus.

It’s more of you than he’s ever seen.

Soft, plush, endless stretches of skin, the swell of your hips sinking deep into the coarse upholstery.

He wraps his hand around his cock. Tests the weight of it, the feel, thumbing over the head, smearing pre-cum until it strings between his fingers.

He narrows his eyes, lips parted in focus as he tries to grasp whatever detail he can.

It’s not much, but when you tilt your hips just right, letting the lamplight kiss your skin, he swears he sees something wet there.

Between your thighs.

Something that fucking glistens.

His vision blurs at the edges.

“Oh fuck me—"

He groans, thumping his head back against the seat once, hard enough to make the springs creak. Then he folds forward fast, spitting a thick glob into his palm. Smears it all over his length and plants his boots on the floorboard, knees splayed wide.

Starts stroking in earnest.

In the window, your arm picks up speed.

So does his.

Obedient as a mirror, precise as a metronome. Hips twitching in the seat as he strokes himself slow, forcing himself to stick to your rhythm, just itching to speed up.

His other hand grips the driver’s side door for purchase, wet schlicks filling the space between his grunts.

“Yeah,” he breathes, teeth flashing in the dark. “Yeah, there you go. That feel good?”

He’s not in the cruiser anymore.

He’s on your couch.  

Spread out beneath you, big hands planted on your waist, thumbs digging into the soft give of your hips.

You’re straddling his lap, knees braced on either side. Shirt shoved up to your collarbones now, tits spilling free, bouncing every time you grind down on his cock.

He ruts up against his fist, makes a loose ‘o’ with his thumb and four fingers to form a makeshift sleeve. His other hand’s gripping the door so tight his knuckles are blanched.

You look like fucking heaven.

Head tipped back, lips parted, neck bare and slick with sweat. He wants to press his mouth to it, sink his teeth in and trace the salt around with his tongue. Sucking, kissing, tasting, leaving marks he won’t ever let fade.

“Fuck yes, ride me. Yeah, yeah—shit, just like that.”

He’s jerking faster now, free hand coming up to grasp at the empty air in front of him. Fingers flexing, curling, like they’re closing around your waist for real. He can feel it, the phantom weight of your hips. That hot, slick drag of your pussy, the squeeze when he bullies his way back inside.

His hips jolt off the seat in a sharp thrust, steering wheel digging into the tops of his thighs.

“Take it,” he pants at the glass, like you can hear him. “Fuckin’ take it. C’mon, baby.”

You sound like fucking heaven.

Fingers buried in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp while you rock yourself on him like you can’t get enough. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull while you drool and bounce on his cock, telling him it feels good, so good, yeah, don’t stop, fuck me harder daddy, oh my god, Gator, you’re so big—!

“Gonna fuck you so good,” he grunts, the sounds of his spit-drenched cock loud and obscene in the echoing silence of the car. He pretends they’re from your pussy instead. “This... this fat cock stretchin’ you out. Swear you won’t... won’t be walkin’ for a week.”

You smell like fucking heaven.

That sharp, sugar-sweet tang of pussy thick in the air, strangling his senses, mixed with the smell of your shampoo—that peachy scent he catches every time you lean over the counter at the diner.

Smiling at him in your tiny little apron, all bright and teasing as you top off his coffee.

Mornin’, deputy. Your usual?

He never knows what to say back. Just smiles, nods. Clears his throat and pretends to glance out the window, eyes landing on anything but you.  

Like he won’t go right back to staring the second you turn your back.  

He always leaves a bigger tip than he means to.

Then he sits in the parking lot afterward, watching you through the dusty glass while you tend to the breakfast rush, palming himself through his pants like some fucking animal, bricked up just from the way you smelled leaning over him. Peach and sugar and warm skin.

Conditioned. Like a goddamn K-9 catching a scent.

He thinks about that one time you brushed his fingers when you handed him his change.

An accident, probably.

He’d thought about that for a week.

Went home that night and stared at his hand like it meant something. Turning it over in the light, sat on the edge of his bed.

Now he drags that same hand over his cock and imagines it’s yours.

Your arm’s moving faster now. Hips bucking against the couch, one hand sliding up to squeeze your tits through your shirt, fingers digging in. He could do that for you. Do that and a whole lot more.

He groans low, hand flying over his cock, grip turned punishingly rough.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he pants, jaw slack, eyes burning. “C’mon. You gonna... gonna come, baby? Huh? Gonna come like that?”

He can’t look away from your face.

He just needs to know.

Needs to know what’s in your head right now.

Who’s in it.

Some faceless guy? Some cook from the diner? Some asshole texting you late at night?

The thought makes his jaw lock.

And then another one slips in, soft and pathetic:

What if it’s him?

What if, when you’re close, when you’re right there on the edge, you think about the way he looks at you across the counter? The way his voice drops low when he thanks you. The way he lingers at the door like he might’ve forgotten something, just to turn back and steal one more glance.

Do you ever think about him when you’re about to come?

Like he thinks about you?

Do you ever think about him when you’re bored at work, when you’re lonely or sad or restless?

Like he thinks about you?

Do you ever lie in bed after a long shift, wondering what it’d feel like to have someone warm there beside you?

Someone who’d remember to lock the doors for you. Fix the crooked curtain rod in your bathroom. Change that burnt-out porch light without being asked.

He thinks about it all the time.

About coming home to you, for real.  

Boots kicked off by the door, badge tossed on the kitchen counter. The whole house smelling warm, like butter and garlic and whatever you’ve been stirring on the stove.

You’re standing there, in one of his old T-shirts.   

“You’re late,” you call out in that half-teasing voice.

He steps up behind you, big hands sliding around your waist, chin dropping to your shoulder.

“Had shit to do,” he mumbles, nose brushing your neck. “Sorry, darlin’. Missed ya.”  

He breathes in your scent, peaches and warm skin, nips at your jaw just to hear that soft, light chime of your laugh.

You pull back and give him a wide smile.

Same one you always give him at the diner.

But now, it’s only for him.

Nobody else ever gets that smile.

Only him.

He stares at your lit window, dragging his thumb over the head of his cock.

“You don’t even know,” he mutters, strokes turning uneven. “Don’t even... don’t even know how good I’d take care of ya.”

He imagines leaving the bedroom he’s slept in his whole life.

Same four walls, same faded photos and knuckle-shaped dents in the plaster.

He imagines building something that’s his.

A house.

A yard.

A woman waiting inside.

Someone who wants him. Wants to keep him.

Who loves hi—

“Shit, shit, shit, shit—fuck!”  

Cum shoots hot and sudden over his fist, splattering across the steering wheel and down his knuckles. He jerks upright with a punched-out groan, boots scraping against the floorboard, the suspension creaking under the sudden shift of his weight. He grips his cock harder, aiming it at the wrong angle—thick, pearly streaks spray up high on his shirt, staining the dark fabric. It drips off the hem, pooling into the crease of his pants.

He groans low, too far gone to care as his hips stutter in time with each heavy spurt, his cock twitching weakly by the time he sinks back into the seat.

He keeps stroking himself through it, oversensitive, hissing at the sting while he ekes out the last few beads that glide slow and sticky down the side of his cock.

By the time he forces his eyes open, his vision is speckled and swimming. He blinks hard, straining to make out your silhouette across the street.

You’re still there.

On the couch. Head tipped back, spine arched, hips moving in that slow, restless rhythm. Your lips are parted around a sound he’ll never get to hear.

It kills him, the not knowing.

How he can see the shape of it, the parted ‘o’ of your lips, the exposed column of your throat and the heaving swell of your chest—but it's never enough to reach him.   

It’d probably have to be something small, he thinks. Something quiet. Something that could hide away in plain sight—taped under the coffee table, maybe tucked behind the hem of the curtain. He'll have to look out for it on his next supply run.

He slumps back in his seat, boneless, absently rubbing his softening cock while he watches your body shudder through the tail end of your orgasm.

He sighs, lashes fluttering with a heavy blink as he glances down at the amount of volume he’s sprayed, spunk cooling all over his clothes, his stomach, the wheel. He shakes his hand off in vague disgust before leaning across to the glovebox, fumbling for tissues. It takes him fucking forever. He swears under his breath; he’s gotta start keeping a sock or some shit in here.

By the time he looks back up, you’re no longer on the couch.

You’re standing at the window.  

Right there. Just behind the glass.

His breath locks in his chest.

The lamplight behind you turns your face into shadow, but the outline of you is unmistakable.   

You stand there for a beat, real still.

Then the curtains snap shut.

“Fuck...” He sags back into the seat, crumpling the cum-soaked tissue in a tight fist. “Shit, that was close.”

He lets his eyes fall closed, pulse hammering in his ears.

Lights off, engine cold. Alone in an empty cruiser, the air thick with the stench of sweat and spunk, drying tacky on his skin.

He sits there for a long time.

Waiting.

He wonders how long it’ll take you to fall asleep tonight.