Writing my Time

You're tense. Maybe it's your dress. Too tight around your body and too exposing around the neckline. A beautiful red with a tiny shimmer, chosen at Valentina's behest. Something about bringing out your eyes, and definitely nothing to do with the fact that it's cinching your tits to your throat. When you first tried it on back at the tower you hadn't noticed; simply nodding along to make her happy, but now it's all you can think about. Keeping to your pillar, you wait. One step closer to the middle and you'll become live bait. A beacon of bare skin and high heels. The suits around you only make you feel even more like a sore thumb; a sea of black and white only accentuating the scarlet fabric adorning your form.

Tonight is a celebration of the team's few successes now that it's been a full year since you had all become 'the New Avengers'. Or in other words, the biggest charity gala Valentina's managed to host yet. Hiring out The Glasshouse for the evening for any guest who paid the right price to enter, she had spared no expense in making the perfect venue for schmoozing. An elegant live orchestral band and an open bar was hard for anyone to say no to. While her greed didn't sit right with you, it did also get the tower an indoor pool. At least tonight she'd given the team her word that the earnings of the evening would be going to the New York repair fund. That is, as long as the team did a good job earning the donations.

The team you seem unable to find. Bob is a given, he's probably dipped after one look inside the premises. Alexei? Valentina could have lost his invite. Congressman Barnes has already said he'll be late. Maybe the girls are like you, avoiding the main action before the piranhas in rental tuxedos strike. Your lips stay pressed together, thumb gently gliding over the rim of your champagne flute. An unfortunate truth of the matter is, if no one else is willing to to the work of flirting out some cash, you've got to step up.

As you scan the hall for your first target, you actually spot Walker. In truth, you'd forgotten about him– or at least forced yourself to. He's relaxed, lingering by one of the pillars with a drink in his hand. While usually his machismo would earn a gag, you can't help but admire the way he looks tonight. Broad shoulders squared off in a nice suit. Nicer than any he's worn– not that you're keeping track, but it's nice. No gaping, no pulling, perfectly tailored to outline the muscles you claim not to notice. Fake smiles and small talk isn't something he stands for, but by now you know attention is something he craves on a platter.

His drink is for show, obviously. It's not like he needs one. He doesn't need liquid confidence if his whole existence is built on exuding it. There's enough of a group around him to tell he's making good conversation. Maybe he's sharing a war story or two. Whatever it is, he’s working the crowd like a pro. All white teeth and sparkling eyes as he boasts about his history. Each word from his lips draws the pompous laughter you can't stand, but his smile captivates you enough to keep looking. The sight is mesmerizing enough you almost don't catch the throat clearing to your left.

"Hello?"

It's a man. On the shorter side, in a suit that gapes at the lapel. While you don't bother flicking over his entire build, you can tell he doesn't fill out the pant legs, either. A tight smile graces your face– No, it doesn't meet your eyes. You hope he can tell. You hope he sees how there's absolutely no twinkle in your less than adoring stare, but he doesn't. The man stands, watching you expectantly as you blink. All too quickly are you reminded of why you're there in the first place. Schmoozing. Relinquishing your tight lipped smile, you extend your hand.

"I'm sorry, I was lost in thought." In an instant, the charm is on. You tilt your head just enough to look interested, smile finally finding your gaze as his hand meets yours. "I'm–"

"Oh, I know who you are."

Of course, by now, who doesn't? Your face has only been on the news every other week. In magazines and on billboards. Valentina doesn't pull any punches when it comes to marketing, does she? As the man takes your hand you can't help but notice his limp shake. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice you scrunch your nose.

"I'm a big fan," He begins, lightly out of breath as he adjusts his tie. "Of the new Avengers, and of you, specifically."

Of course he is.

"Really?" You tuck a stand of hair behind your ear, maintaining the façade of interest with a pearly smile. "I'm flattered, and you are?"

The man, whose name you forget instantly, goes on, and on, and on. You placate with sweet smiles and the odd giggle. His whole life story is recounted through monotonous tones, occasionally cut through with a frankly atrocious snort. Public relations or not, you need to get away from this guy. It's at that moment; while you're tracking the room for an escape, do you realize that Walker is watching you. His tongue is pressed into the inside of his cheek, icy blues narrowed at your stiffness. You revert your gaze back to the man to offer an answer to a question he clearly just asked.

"Yes, definitely," You nod, placing a hand over your chest as if truly taking it to heart. "Absolutely, I–"

"You'd like to?" The man is practically beaming.

"Excuse me?"

"Horseback riding, with me, yes?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, eyes widening in regretful horror as his words hit your ears. Gazing at Walker has landed you in a thousand and one awful places, but this might just take the cake. Horseback riding with some short ass with a comb-over is not your idea of a good time. As your mouth opens, desperately racking your brain for a kind way to put this man down, a different voice rings out.

"As much as our favorite bombshell loves horses," It's Walker. Thank Christ. "We don't have a lot of time between hero work for riding."

Within seconds, the shorter man is stumbling over himself– a red flush washing over his features. Riding. Yeah, you all knew what he was really asking for. Anger burns like acid on your tongue, which you swallow bitterly. Walker's euphemism crashes over like dead weight, forcing you to glare as the man bashfully excuses himself. All you offer is a wave, he doesn't give it back.

"Horseback riding." He repeats to you with a click of his tongue.

"He seemed nice." You shrug back, ignoring the steady relief flooding your system.

"Oh, I'm sure." Walker notes, and while he's not letting it show, his smirk is laden behind his words. "Too bad he's not your type."

"And my type is?"

"Oh, you know," He shrugs, that nonchalant little hunch of his shoulders that makes your lips twitch. "Tall, handsome, strong."

"A little whiny and full of himself, too?"

"Didn't realize you were Bucky's date tonight."

That earns a laugh. A real one; which you quickly cover with your hand as a few other attendees walk past. You can see he's reveling in it, Walker's eyes quickly lighting up as you catch your breath. Your cheeks flush. Curse his ability to make everything feel so warm.

"No, I think he's bringing someone else." You nod in acknowledgement.

"Oh really, so no date tonight, then?"

He has the audacity to ask as his hand ghosts over your hip. Not quite touching. Walker wouldn't dare. Despite the thunderous beating of your heart, once was enough. Anything more than once meant that whatever it was between you was something– something you keep telling yourself is nothing.

"No. No date, John." His first name burns on your lips. You catch his nose twitching.

"That's a shame." Walker clicks his tongue, shaking his head with a playful laugh. "All dressed up in that pretty red dress—"

"We're supposed to be chatting up the attendees, John?" You cut him off with an arched brow. "Not each other."

"Gave up on that plan the moment you started giggling over some prick with a comb-over."

There's no hollowing of his eyes or pout of his lip. Walker's nostrils flare, eyes darting back to the man he'd so easily ushered away. You watch acutely as his jaw clenches, gut twisting as you feel your cheeks burn. It's unfortunate how good he looks when he's mad. A traitorous blush flushes your cheeks as he leans in, breathing hot against your ear.

"Secret or not, I don't like sharing." 

Walker makes quick work of guiding your hips, easing you through the crowd you'd both been ordered to work. It's clear Walker isn't phased. His long legs move you with urgency towards the large doors. It's not long before you're met with a near empty hallway. Within seconds, the hustle and bustle is drowned by silence, violins muffled by the closing door. As his eyes scan over every door, you finally figure out what he's planning.

"You're horny?" You sigh, trying your best to sound reluctant.

"Wow, that's forward." He pretends to huff, a falsely offended hand coming to his chest. "And here I thought we were trying to keep things–"

"Bathroom's that way."

"Perfect."

Even as he raises a hand in mocking surrender, Walker is still steering towards where you just pointed. The women's bathroom. Most likely cleaner than the men's; or at least, you hope, given that's where Walker's taking you. He might be focused on the door, but your focus is on your surroundings. One pair of eyes catching you both, and you'd never hear the end of it. Not from Valentina. Not from the world. Not from the team.

As you come up to the bathroom, you dart your head inside. With no one around, and each lock flicked to empty, your panic dims. Looking back at Walker, you nod your head. He follows. Quick to lock the door behind him, Walker seals you away from the rest of the world inside the pristine bathroom. There's no need for words. The way his hands grip at your hips is enough. He ducks his head enough for your noses to brush together, breaths mingling as you're pressed into the door.

To your surprise, he doesn't kiss you. Usually Walker is all in the second he can get his hands on you. But tonight, he hesitates; licking over his lips as his gaze trails your form. Through half-lidded eyes and fluttering lashes, he lingers.

"I meant what I said." He catches your confusion, and as your mouth hangs open to respond, he adds: "Your dress. Your hair. It's... You look good."

"That almost sounds sweet, Walker." Your lip catches between your teeth, sparkling eyes watching the blush grow on his cheeks. But then– a tentative inhale.

"I kinda don't have a condom."

"Jesus Christ." You groan, head lolling forward to press against his sturdy chest. For a moment, you had let yourself get lost in the romance; totally forgetting just who has you against the door. To make matters worse, you feel him laughing. His shoulders shuffling as he stifles the chuckle deep in his throat. "You said the same thing last time."

"I didn't have one last time, either." He huffs out the reminder.

That's all he says before he lifts you. Two big hands scoop behind your thighs hauling you up without so much as a grunt. Your hands snake around his neck, legs squeezing around his waist as you're brought to the countertop. Walker moves with a painful lack of hesitation, clumsy fingertips clawing the skirt of your dress up to your hips. 

"Don't rip it." You frantically hiss, batting his hands away to pull the rest up yourself.

"Chill out." He rolls his eyes, taking the moment to fumble with his belt buckle.

He stands tall between your legs, belt hitting the floor with an echoing clank. Quiet. Pure silence lingers save for the strained breath– you're unsure whose it is. Even under the fluorescent lights, he looks divine. Suit jacket thrown to the side. Top button popped. Hair falling into his face. It's hard to think straight once you spot the sweat on his neck, glistening as his Adam's apple bobs. Walker clearly notices your breath hitch. 

"Take it you're ready?"

"Yeah," You're shamefully quick with your answer, hands shifting to grip on his biceps. "Just don't come in me."

"Noted."

Dragging you right to the very edge, Walker keeps his head down. He can't help but be fixated on the way your drenched panties cling to your puffy lips. Two thick fingers sink into the waistband. For a second, you swear he's panting just from this. You might be, too. Walker drags them down, gliding it down the perfect slope of your legs until the skimpy lace is dangling off one ankle. With your slickness exposed to the cool air, you gulp.

"You're going so slow." You whine, bringing his head down to press a kiss to the side of his mouth.

"You're being too needy." He retorts, teasing a finger through your folds before kissing you sweetly. "She wants me bad, huh?" 

You grab his hand quickly, gesturing to the door. 

"I just don't want to get caught, John. Hurry up."

He pauses at the notion, brows raised as if he hadn't actually considered the repercussions. His ignorance earns a blank look. Your lips press together, holding back any usual bite just to move things along. Walker inches down his pants enough for you to catch a glimpse of of his downy curls.

"God, just give it to me." Your head lulls back, hitting the mirror.

"Told you." His lips curl as he grabs himself, nudging his shaft out from his briefs. It's already aching, throbbing in time with his heartbeat as he squeezes the base tight. "Needy."

You're about to bark a retort when he guides himself to your core. Any smart quip you could have made dies in your throat. Walker is a gentle man, easing the fat crown of his flushed cock against your fluttering hole. Panting breaths escape your parted lips. Then comes another whine as he begins to sink himself in.

"Easy," he soothes, free hand scrambling to the nape of your neck, "breathe. Didn't prep you, did I?"

You shake your head, wincing as his thickness stretches you wide. There's no burn— thankfully you're worked up enough for an easy glide. He's kissing you again, mouth engulfing yours as you take him deeper. His beard scrapes at your soft face. It doesn't stop you from chasing the kiss back.

"You feel so good for me." He whispers against your lips. Something in your belly twists at the reverence in his tone. Blue eyes sparkling, Walker gazes down adoringly. "So perfect."

Instead of responding, you kiss him. Tongues dragging together in a desperate exchange of spit. You and Walker slowly start to move. You're more rigid than he is, one hand in his hair, the other on his arm as you begin to grind your hips down. Walker, meanwhile, is everywhere. He chases the curve of your body; squeezing at your plump chest, tangling in your hair, whatever he can take in his hands as he thrusts up into you.

"John—"

"I got you."

It's slow at first, but even so, the sheer size of him is enough to punch air out of your lungs. His tip kisses your sweet spot every time his hips roll into your own. Unable to stop the pleading whines, you wrap your arms around his neck. Walker takes the hint, gripping at your sides to pull you into his grinding hips.

"Feel you squeezing me." He grins, teeth clattering against your own. "You feel that?"

"Stop talking." You manage to growl between panting breaths.

"You like it." 

You do. It's obvious in the way you take him; fluttering walls perfectly engulfing his shaft with every slow drag, soft moans escaping you both. Feeling the heat pool in your stomach, you snake a hand down your torso. As much as you wish you could prolong it— the more time you spend building up, the more chances you could get caught.

Pressing two fingers onto your clit, you circle it feverishly. You can only hide your moan by buring your face into his chest. He's fucking into you with reckless abandon. His hands pulling you completely off the edge to take control of the rhythm. Again and again, the flesh of your ass slams against his thighs.

"'M gonna come soon, where do you—"

"In me." It's spoken through gritted teeth, your fingers grinding your pulsing clit with growing urgency.

"You said—"

"I'm not letting it get on my dress," Another moan, "John, please."

The rolling of your hips becomes urgent; rutting into his with a slap that reverberates off the walls. Walker's fingers dig into your sides hard enough to bruise. Your foreheads press together, both breathing too hard to speak. Walker's brows are furrowed, eyes clamped shut as his grunts pick up volume.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" He pants under his breath dribbling into his beard as his head lulls back. "Come on, wanna feel you."

Walker chokes back the sweetest moan you've ever heard.

"Please, baby. Come for me."

That's all it takes. A break in his gruff tone just to beg. Everything tenses. The fingers on your clit work in overdrive, sending you keeping forward until the only thing you see is white. Walker doesn't stop; thrusting erratically as he holds you tight. You whimper into his chest. Almost a sob as your orgasm hits.

"That's it. That's it. God, I can feel it."

Walker can't get anything else out. His fingers flex around your hips just before they grab. He rams your body into him, chasing his own high until finally, he seizes. Rapid thrusts die into weak rolls as he spills into you. Your chest heaves. So does his. For a super soldier, Walker almost seems painfully out of breath.

Silence. Well, save for your panting.

"You okay?" You manage to rasp.

"Yeah," He exhales, forehead grazing against yours. "We should get back out there."

His head gestures towards the door as he gives a reluctant smile, all the while his cock stays buried deep inside of you. You sigh in agreement. While you only move your legs an inch, it's movement enough for some of his release to bubble from where you're sealed around him. Walker takes that as his cue to pull out. Blue eyes immediately dart down. As no surprise, he's transfixed on the milky fluid dripping from your worked hole. You whine.

It takes a few minutes for the two of you to be presentable. Walker fixes your hair, and you fix the lipstick smear that had dragged into his beard. Your palms glide over his chest, adjusting the lapels of his suit before you give him a smile. He's beaming. Part of it you know is because you're wrapped around his finger– the other part definitely because of what's soaking through your panties.

"Ready to head out?"

"Yeah," He confirms, though he raises a brow, mischief already building back up behind his eyes. "You sure you can walk right?"

"Don't flatter yourself." You roll your eyes.

Just as you're easing the door shut behind you, the men's room's swings open. Out strides Bucky– fixing his own suit jacket. He spots you at the same time you spot him. A cocked brow. A concealed smirk. Bucky's eyes dart between you both before he can't hold in his laugh. Walker bites his tongue, you see it in the way his jaw clenches. Your own cheeks flush. Before you or he can speak, Bucky does.

"Glad I didn't miss anything important." He shrugs, the teasing quip mostly geared towards Walker's expense. The two exchange a glance before Bucky gestures towards the gala hall. "See you guys inside."

The two of you stand, watching Bucky swagger towards the main doors. Your mouth hangs open. Walker's tongue drags along his bottom teeth, brows furrowed.

"We're never living this down." You mumble.

"I doubt it." Walker inserts. "He had lipstick on his collar."

Steve spends hours after his shift aimlessly driving. He hits up a bar, two, actually, plying himself with enough booze for his hands to stop shaking. By now, his hair is untamed, free from his strict comb and gel routine to curl onto his sweaty forehead. The car idles on a familiar street, his white knuckles unwavering from the steering wheel. Steve keeps his focus on the flickering street light. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. It's continuous blink casts a glow on his face, only to revoke it a minute later. Tiny numbers on his dashboard tell him it's just struck midnight. Too late to be here, and yet, here he is.

Steve parks outside your apartment.

When he finally gets out, he stops. Staring. Cold concrete wrapped in stucco. Locked door keeping him on the stoop. The door buzzers are staring him down, laughing in his face as he grinds his jaw. He’s two cigarettes down. Smoke plumes upward after every drag. He missed you in the office; you having left before he returned. Maybe that made it easier. No prying eyes to watch him flounder. No listening ears to hear him grovel. Though, it’s also worse. This apartment was the foundation of his undoing. Ground zero for the lingering pit in his stomach. As the moon peeks from behind the building, Steve sighs. His large palm drags sweat off his brow. How long is he going to stand here, ogling?

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath, flicking away the final dashes of ash. “Fuckin’...”

The screen door rattles, forcing him to brace against the brick. Calm, cool, reserved; portraying himself as everything his thunderous heartbeat denies. As it clatters back shut, Steve watches an unfamiliar figure exit. Another resident. Thank Christ. God knows what he’d say if you came out to catch him lingering. His eyes trail upward, darting between the cracks in the building until finally resting on your open window. Lights on. Music playing. He rubs at his nose, clearing his throat before finally pressing the door buzzer. It rings out loud and clear, almost reverberating into the street.

Too loud for you not to hear it.

And yet, you don't answer.

Steve is about to press again, certain that it is, in fact, your window, and you are in fact home. After carpooling so many times, of course he's certain. Every crack in this wall is burned into the back of his mind, every water stain and every speck of mold, too. So much of his focus while dropping you off was spent on these walls, all so he didn't look at you. Though, clearly retaining the bumps in the stucco couldn't quell his attraction for long. After all, the whole reason he's here is because it couldn't.

Even after his mind wanders astray, you don't come. His adam's apple bobs in his throat, swallowing his pride in thick gulps as he looks back up to your window. Lights still on. Music still playing. Steve feels his fingers twitch. Maybe you know it's him. Maybe you don't want to see him. It's not like he can blame you. A married man shoving his face into a colleague's pussy isn't exactly grounds to pursue more conversation. His gut twists. You're not just a colleague, are you? He doesn't want you to be, he knows that much.

Sucking in a breath, Steve shakes his head. Javier's shitty attempt at a pep talk courses through him. He needs to talk to you. His finger hovers over the button, gently nudging at the dome until the clear sound of curtains shuffling come from behind. Without looking, Steve feels it. The same shift in the air when he first saw you in the office. The same weight from when you first smiled from the passenger seat. He turns with urgency, head snapping around just in time to watch you pull the curtains back.

"Do you know how late it is?"

Your voice is like a balm. Every ache in his chest and shake in his hands rapidly dissipates the second your silhouette comes into view. Sure, you sound pissed, and your brows are furrowed with that familiar little crease, but its you. Steve feels himself exhale, a breath he didn't even know he was holding comes with shaky release. His last cigarette is flicked into the topiaries, freeing his hands to seemingly pause. In a pure freeze response, Steve lets out a breathy laugh.

"Steve, what do you want?" It cuts through the rose-tinted fog, your voice settling like ice in his fuzzied state. Steve shakes his head ever so slightly, clearing his throat before calling out to you.

"I wanted to talk!" His voice echoes in the empty street. When you simply stare, he continues. "You know, about the other night?"

"So," You gesture towards him from your spot in the window. "Talk."

"I was thinking I could come inside?"

"Here is fine." You call back without a hitch in your voice.

"That's not fair."

"I think it's perfectly reasonable."

A stand off. Steve stands on the steps of the ground floor, gazing up with pressed lips while you stare him down. He told himself this would be fine. That he'd understand if you were angry. If you were cold. Yet now that you're actually being angry and cold, Steve can't help but feel his jaw twitch.

"Seriously?"

"I'm not buzzing you up, Steve."

He scoffs, smearing his sweaty palm down he jean pocket as he turns to look away. Steve knows he can't blame you. He'd do the same. Shit, he was doing the same until tonight. Rolling his jaw and crinkling his nose, Steve clears his throat.

"Alright, alright, fine." He waves his hand in indignation, sucking in a breath as he chooses his words wisely. "I shouldn't have stopped talking to you. I should have told you I called Connie back. I should've–"

He stops, the sparkle fading in his eyes when he catches you not buying it. His solemn acknowledgement was doing a whole pile of nothing. Judging by your scowl, it was actually making it worse. This was half-empty, only a part of the real truth between you.

"Okay, okay–" He steps back, getting a clearer view of your window as he tries again. "I was scared. I freaked out. Because–"

He pauses.

"Your pussy was the best–"

You've never buzzed someone up quicker in your life. Finger slamming the entry button as the warmth creeps up your cheeks.

You both end up in your living room. Steve leans against the dining table, silent, as you perch on the couch. That couch. At first, Steve doesn't know where to look. You aren't much better, keeping your eyes on your hands until finally the silence feels too heavy.

"You didn't talk to me."

"Talk." Your eyes don't leave his wedding ring, nose twitching in disgust. At yourself or at Steve, you aren't sure, but either way, it's pooling in your stomach.

"I want to apologize." Steve states again, the incriminating hand smoothing down his open shirt as he clears his throat. "To... figure this out, between us."

You scoff, drowning out the lump in your throat by hissing it back. Steve shifts his gaze away from you, and you do the same. The peeling wallpaper suddenly feels easier to look at. Wallpaper doesn't play peekaboo with wedding rings. It doesn't blank you after one of your better nights either. You swallow.

"Okay," You acknowledge before the bitterness can truly settle in. "You could have done this sooner?"

"You didn't talk to me."

"What was I supposed to say?" He huffs, "Hey, sorry, my not ex-wife came back?"

"So she's not your ex?"

"In this context, I don't know"

"In this context?" You bark through a scoff, teeth almost bared.

You watch as Steve swallows, blinking away the frustration that burns in the corners of his eyes. His jaw clenches, muscle flexing through his scowl. A quick set of paces later, Steve returns to lean against the table.

You watch him recoil, coarse hairs of his mustache shifting under his heavy exhale. Steve drags the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows before dragging a palm over his face. Silence floods your living room, nothing but a dull hum of the refrigerator filling the void. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Steve sighs.

"After the shit with Carrillo, I asked for her to come back."

"And she came back. Your marriage is saved."

"Can you stop with the sarcasm?" He pleads, pushing himself off the dining table, both hands gripping at the sweat-laden strands of hair. "She's not– We aren't–"

Steve's are darker, now. Face gaunt as you catch him clenching his jaw. Something in the air changes. It's heavier. As if his guilt is bleeding out from every pore and chaining you to the ground.

"She's... aware that I've slept with prostitutes." He mumbles, more ashamed of telling you than he ever was with Connie.

"Oh, charming."

"Stop it."

"She knows about it. She knows it's stress relief. She knows its got nothing to do with emotions. But you?" He points his finger. Accusatory. Aimed right at your chest. "You fucked me up."

He doesn't let you speak. As soon as your mouth opens he rips up from his perch, tearing forward just to stop. His face scrunches, as if his thoughts are flashing too fast to find the words.

"I fucked you up?"

"Yes! You fucked me up!" His voice carries throughout the apartment, no doubt seeping through the walls of your neighbors. "Even before the other night. You got in my head. Every time you were in my car I could smell you. For days I'd smell you, and think about your stupid face."

"I started thinking about you all the time. Everywhere. Dumb little shit that I used to think about with Connie. Your smile when I looked at flowers. That stupid laugh you do when we got good info. Your face in the fucking sunset. Suddenly it was you." He gets it out through pants, chest heaving as the confession keeps coming. "The other night wasn't some freak accident. Or some moment of sobriety brain fog. It wasn't. Not to me, anyway."

"You think of me." You nod. The bitterness has left you. His confession ringing in your ears and stinging your eyes. "When you fuck your wife you think of me."

"Steve-"

"So yeah. I freaked." He rubs at his nose. Two thick fingers smearing as he sniffles. "I thought at least you'd get out of my head. Now every time she touches me, I–"

"Our marriage was failing already. It's not like–"

"But you're still married, Steve."

"I know." He rasps, throat raw. "I know."

Both of you sit in silence. Glassy eyes and grimaces, as if you're both looking in mirrors. Steve looks at you. You look at him. As hard as your chest aches, you can't give in.

"You're still married, Steve." You repeat, giving him a gentle shrug.

Late night crawlers flood in, and an out-of-state baseball team of senior leaguers disrupt the layout of the restaurant's tables to drag them across worn tiles. They stick out like a sore thumb. Hyped up after a big win (you can only assume they aren’t this ecstatic over losing), ramped up on the varying colours of syrup their tongues are stained with by gas station snow cones: you just know the exhausted coach-turned-chaperone approaching your till is going to unload a long order on you that will piss off the kitchen.

“Hi there, what'll it be?” You smile politely.

The man fixes his hat, rubbing the sandstone dirt and sleep from his eyes as he stares at a crumpled piece of paper that’s just as worn as he is. He's struggling to spew out a list of written orders that you're positive aren't actually on the menu board behind you. His eyes are stuck in a perma-squint, blinded from a hot day in the sun, so you offer to save his last bit of energy by extending your hand towards him.

“May I?” Finger points towards his list.

As if relinquished by God himself, the man parts with the paper with a heavy sigh of relief. “Take your time with 'em, dear.” He offers, pointing a tired thumb behind him towards the team. “Boys won't even notice.”

You give him a nod, chipping into your pot of that learned Southern Hospitality for him. The group is a mix of 13 to 16 year old's, dirtied uniforms, medallions around their necks, a trophy sat like a large paperweight on one of their tables, and smudged eye-black on their cheeks that's been lost to a day of sweat. They wouldn’t even notice if you handed them uncooked meat between two buns.

Retiring the man back to the tables, you stand a bit dumbfounded behind the till, wrinkled paper in hand. You tackle what you know can be universally translated to the Whataburger menu: a couple of cheeseburgers, an array of large fountain drinks, and an assumed order of a few dozen fries for everyone. Some burgers are a bit more elaborate than others—enough to make you scratch your head in silent problem solving. A few trips back and forth between till and kitchen resolves only a few items, but you're stumped on what a Big Boy could mean without any other context clues. Tempting a glance towards the rowdy boys, the coach-turned-chaperone looks contently defeated at the head of the tables so you opt not to bother him. Instead, in your quiet gaze finds a boy, not from the baseball team, clinging to the rims of the counter.

Round-faced and innocently sweet for someone his age, you recognize him as one of the Shaw's; the youngest, who you've sworn to be called El Stupido every time he’s beckoned by his family.

Perhaps it had an affectionate story behind it. You hope so, anyway.

“Got any more napkins?”

His voice breaks your concentration, and you eye the server station by the doors. The napkin box has been depleted entirely. You look back at the boy. His high and tight haircut has grown out into inch-tall spikes, but it seems to fit him better this way. Eyes drop behind your counter where the excess of plastic utensils, single-use seasonings and condiments, and napkins are. You set the paper of orders down to take more napkins than you'd normally give, thinking he might need a few extras anyways—from the way ketchup and mustard gathers in the corners of his mouth. Sliding them across the counter, you give the youngest Shaw another polite smile.

“My brother likes Big Boys.”

You blink.

“I—sorry?”

“Big Boys.”

You understand that part, you think, however your confused gaze prompts El Stupido to turn the crumpled piece of paper he's taken the liberty of holding around. A round finger points to a scribbled section. Salt from his french fries dusts the counter with every little tap.

“Big Boys? My brother Ty likes 'em.”

“Oh!—” You look towards the Shaw's. The empty seat besides the eldest brother reveals more of him in the booth. He's got an arm propped up against the wall trimming before the window, the other outstretched along the back of the booth where El Stupido previously sat. You’ve seen Ty around, outside of Whataburger that is, but nothing more than a familiar face around town and at the oil field ragers.

El Stupido, who seems to be anything but that from the way he nearly reads your mind, speaks up again.

"Wanna talk to him?"

You clear your throat, “Uh, no—I mean! No, that's okay.” A beat, “Do... You know what a Big Boy is?” There's no point in bringing his brother up here anyways.

The boy shrugs. Before you can stop him, he cranes his neck in a half turn, calling back to his brother.

“Ty!”

Fuck...

At the sound of his brother’s call, Ty breaks away from his table's conversation, jaw in a half-chew of fries.

“What?”

There's an awkward exchange of both brothers talking over each other, then another awkward exchange of silence when they both hold their tongues at the same time to let the other speak. Eventually, Ty shimmies out of the booth, large drink cup in hand, and walks up to the till. You would've liked to just figure out what you could substitute a Big Boy on your own, now that's become a whole thing, but the younger Shaw still grips onto the paper of orders in his hand—and now it's in Ty's hand.

“Holy hell… Who's order?” Ty sifts through the list, patting his brother on the back as if to dismiss him back to their booth. El Stupido doesn’t forget to thank you for the napkins, and you give him a gentle smile as he marches back to their family booth.

Holding the edge of the till, you point a loose finger towards the, now, pushed together tables and the baseball team riling up around its perimeter. “Tried to be as creative as I could,” You begin, looking back down at your screen of the orders. “Big Boy kinda stumped me.”

Ty puffs out an amused scoff, lips pulling to the side as he shakes his head. “Big Boy? S'just a double-decker, hon.” He thinks you'll know what he means. “Double-decker? Texy Top Floor? Mucho Meaties?”

You're even more confused.

He sets his drink down, motioning with his hand that you step back a foot as he hoists himself up and over the counter. Ty starts punching things into the till, moving his finger like a stiff piece of wood against the screen. Normally, you would've stopped him—you should stop anyone that brings themself behind the counter and starts fucking around with the cash register. But you hear a few of the cooks in the back holler something out, an inside greeting or something adjacent to it, that Ty reacts positively to.

“Used to work here.” He informs you casually, still punching his finger away against the screen as he eyes the crinkled paper of orders in his other hand. “Eons ago.”

“And a Big Boy is...?” You're looking for something you can actually understand this time.

“Two patties.”

“Ah.”

In his confidence, Ty crumples up the paper of orders and tosses it into the nearest bin. Whatever it is he put through to the kitchen: you're just going to have to trust him. The till beeps, and your eyes find the overhead monitor perched up on one of the inner kitchen walls behind you. It flashes with an entirety of items, some of which are detailed as two-patty burgers. Ty hands you a new receipt, still warm from the printer, something you can give the chaperone for a bill. “Bingo.” He chirps.

He retrieves his drink, stepping away with his lips to the half-chewed straw, slurping what's left of his watered down Coke among the ice cubes. “I've seen you before. Seen you a lot, actually.” He says.

“Your family eats here a lot.”

Ty shakes his head, molars chewing along the plastic of his straw. “I mean at the ragers.” He recognized you, too? “You was at the last one, right?”

The last one—and just like the one before that: it's the same old story. “Everybody goes.” You say.

Waving over the team's coach with the receipt in hand, you begin to punch in the numbers. The man waddles over, exhaustion still present in his bones and perhaps weighing him down more than when he first walked in. He's knuckle deep in his wallet, palming a fairly kind amount of bills as Ty remains quiet at your side, watching as you handle the team's payment. The man wipes his brow beneath the bill of his ball cap, nodding to the both of you, before he returns to the rowdy table of boys.

“...Nobody went.” Ty finishes, quietly and to himself more than to you.

—

You pick up the last tray of food to bring to the tables: stacked a few burgers too high, loose fries spilled over the lining parchment, and three towering Cokes bubbling beneath their plastic lids. At the bar, you've carried worse while handling far worse before. Granted, you had an entire bar top to divide you from the rest of the chaos and its patrons. So the shockingly cold shower of sticky cola comes as a rocking surprise when a catcher's mitt soars through the air, luring the boy closest to you to leap from his chair and check the bottom of the tray with his shoulder in an attempt to catch it.

He does. It’s a great catch, actually.

But now you're soaked.

Your sharp inhale of being soaked turns the Whataburger silent, and the ice cubes that haven’t slid into your top softly hit the linoleum tiled floors with a wet splat. 

“Way t’go Greenwall! You got the burgers wet!” One of the boys shouted, causing a distressing collection of teenage groans to echo in your ears as they mourn their food—pissing on your state of being drenched in Coke, actually. The coach struggles to wind the team down, avoiding your gaze with a guilty expression torquing his features. The boy that shoulder-checked the tray looks over at you with a sheepish apology, handing you a singular napkin as a peace offering.

“Gee, sorry Miss.” He murmurs, unable to keep his bubbling giggles to himself as his teammates start their upchuck of jokes. Yes, you’re currently working. Yes, you’ve been practicing your Southern Hospitality since you’ve moved here. Yes, you’re not an asshole and you’re rather patient when you don’t need to be.

But, fuck…

Your mouth opens, tongue sharpened in preparation of a well-deserved lashing against the entire table for distributing the place from the moment they walked in—then for whoever’s bright idea it was to play catch and volley with a baseball glove across the damn restaurant.

“—Hey!”

That definitely isn’t your voice. Your mouth shuts, breaking away from your statuesque position since being doused in three large Cokes, your head turns towards the Shaw’s booths. Ty is leaned over the table, elbow drilled into the table, finger pointing firmly at the baseball team. You don’t even process what it is he’s saying as he’s scolding them, or the fact that his sisters had evacuated their booth to guide you into the restrooms.

You blink once, you’re staring at Ty caddle up and reprimand the tables of boys like he was wrangling wild horses—you blink twice, and you’re staring at your drenched reflection in the restroom mirror as the two girls are working like medic veterans to de-sodafy your uniform.

“God, it’s everywhere…” Paris says, dabbing down on your chest and shoulders with a handful of scratchy, brown paper towels from the wall holder.

KC clicks her tongue, plugging one of the sinks up with a wad of toilet paper before filling it with water and hand soap. “What an asshole, seriously.” You feel another pair of hands pull at your soaked uniform polo until it untucks from your belted trousers. The orange colour, now a murky brown. The girls work in tandem, pressing lukewarm wraps of toilet paper and paper towels against your skin, leaving you at their mercy of hurried attempts to get as much Coke out of your hair and off your skin before it becomes a sticky, sugary coating.

“She needs a new shirt, KC.” Paris says, pinching at your uniform top. There isn’t a section of threads that isn’t soaked. “Hey, when does your shift end?” She asks you.

“...Midnight—”

“—Oh my God, she’ll be stuck in this for hours!”

“Do you have another shirt?”

“She’s not gonna have another shirt, Paris. Ty only got the one uniform when he worked here, remember? He got that stupid barbecue sauce stain on it like… The second day.”

“Shit, you’re right…”

You listen to the sisters go back and forth until Paris finally bolts out of the restroom in search of—well, you assume a new shirt—leaving you with KC. She stares at your reflection in the dingy mirror besides you, idly pinching the ends of your hair with her wettened fingers, finding any sticky sections she might’ve missed from before.

“Don’t worry,” She begins, “Ty’ll whip those idiots into shape.”

Although you aren’t all that concerned about reprimanding the baseball team for this, preferring you could just teleport to your apartment, into a clean change of clothes, and end this evening instead: it doesn’t hurt to know that the boys were getting wrung out.

“Yeah…” You huff, finally looking down to examine your cola-drenched state and the Shaw sisters’ efforts in getting as much off of you as they could. “Hey, thanks.”

KC smiles, phone in hand. She’s about to say something when the restroom door opens and Paris returns with a balled up plaid shirt in her hands.

“Here, it’s Ty’s.” She says, extending it out towards you.

KC sticks her hand out, interrupting the trade as she sours her face. “What? Ew, no. She can’t wear that.”

“KC—”

“—Paris, it probably stinks.”

You take the plaid anyways. It smells like cologne and campfires, and maybe a tinge of sweat—but it’s dry. Paris guides you into one of the stalls, giving you some privacy to change as you swap your sticky uniform polo for Ty’s plaid. Paris takes your discarded shirt, wringing it out over the sink as a splash of Coke drips from the orange fibers. It isn’t until you walk out of the stall, buttoning up Ty’s plaid shirt on your frame when there’s a knock on the restroom door.

Both Paris and KC look at each other, a little confused as to who would be knocking.

“Mama?” KC tries.

“No.”

El Stupido’s gentle rasp echoes in the restroom.

“Can I come in?”

Paris transfers your wrung-out polo into the sink filled with water and hand soap, while KC gives you a look. You nod, shrugging a bit. You were decent now, plaid buttoned up. She walks to the door, pushing it open for their youngest brother to softly waddle in. In his hands, he holds a crumpled stack of the napkins you gave him earlier.

“Do you need these?” He asks, hoisting the napkins up before you.

Your eyes round and soften at his attempt to help. You take a few napkins from him, wiping a bit aimlessly at your neck—the majority of the mess had been cleaned up by now. Still you, give the youngest a small nod. “Thanks.”

Like clockwork, another Shaw rapts at the restroom door with a firmer knock.

“How’s it goin’ in there?” Ty calls.

That's because he arrived. A masked Bounty Hunter that traveled the West. At first, it felt like a ghost story. Something made to scare the children over a campfire. That somewhere, out there, a man with no name would be watching; waiting for you to enact a misdeed. The first folk to see him awed over the tattered hat and silvered bandana, completely covering his face to the onlookers as he arrived at the sheriffs office in the dead of night. But as the bounties grew in both number and worth, his appearances became steady. Soon enough, everyone had a chance to witness his silhouette against the arid sun. His poncho became a warning symbol to those lurking in the shadows. His spurs the final call to back away. It was as if he lived his own mythos. A religion based on guns and not God, a life of solitude away from a quaint town with only his horse in tow. It was his way. All the townsfolk of Splitcreek had a story of the masked Bounty Hunter.

Some townsfolk have claimed he took of his bandana after a fight with some deputies turned outlaws. Some say he teamed up with raiders to take out one of the most violent bears just past the creek. Each time the Bounty Hunter returned, a new story would come. Though, more rumors came in the big spaces between his visits. There were some months where he'd return with as many men as there were bounties. Other months he wouldn't come at all. Where did he go in that time? Of course, there were some rumors, but no one could say for certain. Perhaps he had a life outside of bounty hunting. Perhaps he waited until the bounties were high enough. Perhaps he went from town to town, following the gold the same way the prospectors do. Regardless, the days the Bounty Hunter came into your town always stirred up the locals, as if all the townsfolk were holding their breath to catch a glimpse of the man beneath the mask.

The first time you see him, you're sweeping the stoop of the jailhouse. A familiar clinging of boot spurs earn silence. Some residents can't help but pull curtains, watching him drag his latest catch through the dusty path. A constant stream of pained groans spill out from the convicts bloody mouth. You keep your head down, sweeping the stubborn gravel that stays embedded in creaky planks. As the spurs rattling draws near, you peek. Just enough to catch the way his worn rope is fisted between his cowhide gloves. He is exactly like the stories. Down to the fading on his bandana. Once a strong black that had clearly silvered somewhere down the line. Your mind wanders, flashes of his accolades from deep within the western dessert. You debate saying something, even daring to open your mouth, but just like that, he slips past you. One strong hand swinging open the jailhouse doors with a huff. The floor boards creak under his heavy boots, fading away as he stalks towards the sheriff. You press your ear to the wall, squeezing your eyes tight in the bubbling hopes of hearing his voice.

"Penn, again?" You hear the faint sound of the Sheriff's chuckle. "I didn't even know we put another bounty on 'im."

"You did." The other voice rumbles through the walls like an oncoming storm. Quiet, but threatening. "My payment?"

The familiar clattering of counting coins, and no doubt the Sheriff's usual bumbling hands, come muffled through the wall. Your own heart beats louder in your ears than their voices, becoming less distinct the more movement happens inside. A groan. Some kind of slap. Silence.

"Next time, I'm bringing him in cold."

The low tones make you freeze. Hands still splayed on the crooked weatherboard, ear pressed to the wall. To your knowledge, the Bounty Hunter's voice had only been heard by outlaws and the sheriff, and now, you. A part of you hadn't expected it to be so breathy. A husky rasp that carried through walls, no doubt striking fear in the men he'd take down. Though, you were no outlaw. Just a jailhouse clerk on sweeping duty. That voice is one you shouldn't have heard, a dirty secret in the sea of mystery that surrounded the Bounty Hunter. When distinct footsteps break you from your frozen stupor, you rip yourself away from the wall. Broom shaking in your adrenaline filled hands, you keep your eyes to the floor, not daring to look up once he walks past again.

Spurs rattle. Two steps. Your eyes stay down, lingering on his worn boots as he grinds the heels into the planks. A jingling of coins emit from his gloved hands, catching your attention enough for you to lift your head. Right next to you, looming over the jailhouse steps is him. The Bounty Hunter. You're hardly a foot away from him, close enough to catch the detailing in his poncho. Some embroidered insignia you can't quite make out, with a few holes stitched over to match. He stays still, head tilted down to the fistful of dollars in his hand. At least, that's what you can make out. His hat sits forward on his head, tilted down enough that a shadow is cast over his eyes. Too dark to make out. For a split second, your eyes dart to the stack in his hands. Why the Sheriff couldn't issue a bank draft was beyond you, and clearly, beyond the Bounty Hunter, too.

Before you can speak; though to say what, you aren't sure, he swipes the coins over, slipping them into a bag on his belt. Despite his work clearly being done, the Bounty Hunter doesn't move. Wood from the broom's handle splinters against your hands. You stay silent, unable to cast your eyes away. It's only as his head begins to turn do you feel how long you've been holding your breath. Somehow managing to suck in more, you swallow.

"My horse needs food. Where's the best place to go for that?" There it is again. His voice. This time unfiltered by thin walls and papers rustling, but right in front of you clear as day. Not only that, but directed towards you. When your eyes travel from the side of his belt to his hidden face, you're suddenly greeted with the fact that he's head on. Truly. His whole body has twisted to face you, pointed toes of his boots and all. His mask shifts, fabric creasing as he twitches his nose. Impatient. Waiting.

"Uh-" Your eyes close, head shaking as you exhale for the first time in a good minute. "Barty offers horse feed at the stable, but-" Something tells you the Bounty Hunter would be less than thrilled with ample conversation. Especially with someone like Barty. "If you want quiet, the left side of the creek has enough grasses for them to graze on. No one goes down there this time of day. About fifty paces from the edge of town."

"Left side. Right. Thank you."

With a nod of his head, he goes. Boots thudding against the short steps before beelining to the town entrance. You watch his movements until his silhouette becomes a speck in the heatwaves. Only then, do you blink.

Technically, Steve started it. 

It’s no secret Messina isn’t the easiest person to work for. She has a habit of overworking others when her hands are tied. You, namely. Although you don’t necessarily blame her for her hostility, all things considered—of what and why everyone is here in the first place—why it had to be you and not your fellow report runners isn’t something you care to have explained to you anymore. You just want it to end. Hell, Steve and Javier already had their time in her wringer, and Messina can’t stop reminding Steve to not let his new marital problems get in the way of their jobs. Not again.

If only she knew Steve is actually actively making it worse for himself and everyone else. Fucking his own stresses out through you now that Connie had left Colombia to avoid him, again, wasn’t as hot as it initially sounded when he first pitched the idea down your neck. He couldn’t even get it up later that evening, twisting his wedding ring in his hand rather than his cock. 

You’ve both finished with each other since then, whether or not it was a genuine finish and not just a conclusion of absent stimulation aside. But this time was different. Neither of you were seeing stars and singing symphonic hymns of ragged, gasping, groaning bliss. Despite having hooked up the odd time—the odd several times—when Connie left the first time, Steve sought something in you rather than paying for it from a stranger, or, well, making up with his wife. What that something is, you don’t question it. You never let this arrangement interfere with work or the weird thing you consider your relationship with him. Not yet, anyways. There’s a very thin border of what you both allow from each other outside of fucking. Being decent to each other didn’t necessarily not make the cut, but you two started fucking long before either of you could become better friends. Now it was just a weird grey area of consideration neither of you talked about. You figured it was his way of handling the reality of screwing his coworker—and you never thought about him in ways more than… Whatever this was. Not that you’d admit you actually have. Steve had it worse, and in your mind, you were just there to blow off some steam yourself.

And you didn’t ever ask about Connie, knowing that the one time you did Steve nearly choked on his tongue pressed deep inside your cunt.

You aren’t oblivious. You aren’t stupid. You wouldn’t normally jump at a married man, and you still weren’t jumping at Steve, morally. You don’t know him, you don’t know Connie, and you actually do know Javier, more than anyone else in Colombia, having already become better friends with him to ruin it with sex. 

Of course it just happened to work out this way.

You’ve tried drawing attention to his marriage in the past, thinking Steve’s new lack of physical enthusiasm could be cured that way. That he was one of those guys whose infidelity made their cock stand like a flagpole for assholes. That definitely wasn’t the way. You’ve tried playing ignorant. Ignoring the photos of Connie around his apartment, or the long blonde hairs you would find on yourself after screwing her husband on their furniture in her absence, or the coldness of his wedding ring kissing your neck, or wrists, or the edges of your unsatisfied entrance. You could play ignorant, but Steve couldn’t. That wasn’t the way either.

Attention didn’t work. Ignorance didn’t work. Going at it roughly didn’t work. Going at it slowly and tenderly didn’t work. Fucking at work, fucking at home, his home, your home; fucking at the bars, outside and behind the bars; fucking in his car, in your car—nothing worked. One time, you were so desperate to come you even told Steve to picture his wife instead, hoping that would spur him on enough in any direction to bring you to the edge.

That definitely didn’t work.

Maybe you did want more from him than a subpar quickie with no happy ending in the copying room at work—or pressed against his front door because Steve couldn’t outrun his guilt fast enough to at least make it to his couch, let alone his bedroom. Maybe your conscience was trying to remind you that you were on the right track in solidifying yourself as a homewrecker if you keep this up. Tonight is no different. You’re going to let Steve pick you up, find someplace to eat, act like coworkers outside of work or old friends catching up, make it back to his place and try to make each other finish.

It’s fucking pathetic, really

—

You had a shitty dinner, had an hour of phoney conversations avoiding the obvious, tried to get something going in the car, back in the garage of his unit—to no avail. Now you’re both having even shittier beers on his couch.

And no, getting blackout drunk also didn’t work. You’ve tried that too. 

“I don’t think she’s coming back.” Steve suddenly says, lips pressed to the ridges of his bottle. It’s his only insight into his conclusion of how unimpressive his marriage has become, and why this time without her was likely different—why he couldn’t get it up past a limp rise lately. Why he couldn’t fuck you like he has in the past.

You look at him, watching him swig defeatedly.

“What?”

“Connie.”

You knew what he was talking about, so perhaps probing him to chant his wife’s name the an echo chamber of guilt his apartment has become isn’t good for the overall mood, but you’ve conjured it up in your mind already that you weren’t having sex tonight—sparing yourselves the awkward redress of a half-started, left empty fuck.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You both drink.

“Been wastin’ your time with me, huh.”

Steve hardly poses it as a question. He doesn’t give you the chance to try and deny it, or think of some way to make him feel better about it. He tilts his head, shifting like a dog to get a better look at you. There is an unspoken question you know he wants to ask, but doesn’t, for whatever reason. Whether it’s his guilt towards you, or his wife back home, or his own self-pity for being a shitty husband and a poor fuck as of late: you toss your head to the side against the couch to catch his gaze. You raise an honest, defeated brow yourself, knowing what the innocent question sitting unspoken on his tongue is, bordering untravelled concern, that neither of you know how to navigate other than to stay clear from it. 

“I haven’t been able to—“ You make a vague gesture that is somehow supposed to represent climaxing. Steve doesn’t say anything.

You tilt your head back, staring up at the ceiling. You wanna say forget it, but you let the conversation die on its own instead. Maybe it’s because you can’t see him right now, or maybe it’s because he genuinely feels bad that you’ve been dealing with him all night and for the past couple of weeks like this: but Steve takes advantage of your blindness. Studying your face quietly as you groan, exhausted, his concern starts to grow into something he knows he should nip in the bud.

At least it gives him something to talk about that isn’t his crumbling marriage.

“Able to…?” He probes.

“—Come, Steve.” You say blatantly, “Haven’t been.”

He sniffs, abandoning your features to throw his gaze up as well. He’s more agitated with being embarrassed than he is with just being embarrassed. Steve isn’t an asshole—well, he is—but his inflated ego doesn’t make itself known until something criticizing comes along and sticks a pin in it. Although that’s not what the nature of your admission is about, reminding him he hasn’t made you come in weeks isn’t exactly the softest blow he could take right now.

“I know. Sorry.”

“With anyone.” You clarify.

Now he looks over. He wouldn’t have any right to be jealous if you confessed you’ve been sleeping with other people. Now that would be fucking something. So you decide to take his sudden interest in a conversation he would rather have killed and buried as innocent interest. Still, you let him know what you know he’s going to ruin his night over if you don’t elaborate.

“I mean, like—on my own.” There haven't been others.

“No?”

His inquiry is endearing, circumstances aside. As long as he keeps any semblance of a smirk or the twitch of one off his face from your admission, you’ll be as honest as you can be with him tonight. There’s really nothing left to lose.

“Nope.”

“…Really?”

“Jesus, Steve. Yes. Really. Have you?”

You can see something flicker on his features, but it isn’t a grin or the tellings of a smirk. He looks miserably content, if that’s possible. He shakes his head, tipping his bottle back further before cradling the brown glass in his large hands. His features pull into a weak smile, but he doesn’t look at you. It’s almost innocent, in a way, boyish even, and it makes him look a lot closer to your age—unbridled with the stress of his shitty life, for once.

You have never seen him like this before. Feeling something stir in your chest and in your throat, you force another sip of your beer and cross your legs.

“Messina’s been on my ass.” You offer a dim reason for your inability to see God by the strokes and plunges of your own hand. “Can’t sleep. Ran outta Ambiens. It’s fuckin’ ridiculous, actually.” You don’t hold his hand through your explanation, but you know Steve is smart enough to realize that the last time you probably had a decent night’s sleep was when he could actually fuck you to sleep. His brows knit, and you’ve seen him look like this while staring at the evidence board he’s made at the office.

You ramble on in your silence. Aimless in the way you talk about knowing how bad it’s going to inevitably get for you, and that it’ll eventually show in your work—then Messina would really drive a nail in your ass about it. For a moment there, in the briefest of glances you shot his way, from the way Steve was reacting it seemed like he would do the same. Where this sudden shift came from is only confusing until it isn’t. Guilt eats Steve alive. He tugs his hair back harder, grits his teeth, stomps around, burns through his smokes, tightens his jaw up. Most of which he's doing right now, on the other end of the couch, as something unknown to you turned and clicked behind his eyes.

His bottle is retired to the coffee table, and his body pushes closer to yours. His mitt catches the nape of your neck with ease, driving you closer to him like he’s pitching to home. Lips crash without stopping, and your teeth nearly catch the hairs of his moustache in the process. There was nothing subtle, or building, or patient about this kiss. Steve holds you in place while his other hand snakes your bottle out of yours to retire to the coffee table as well. His tie was already slackened from trying to start something in the car earlier, so as your fingers latch onto something of his to hold onto, they pull the loosened knot the rest of its way down. Your hand lands in his lap, and Steve emits a tense groan from the back of his throat.

He was actually hard.

You wanted to catch up to him. For all those unspent nights, rushed lunch breaks in either of your cars, fucking in places unsanitary just to not finish in the end—you needed to catch up to him. You let him move you, and Steve positions you with ease onto his lap, fixing the way your knees bend parallel on either side of his thighs. For once, you don’t think about his ring on your skin, or the photos hung and sat around the apartment. You don’t think about the morality of your arrangement. You don’t think about Connie, or Steve with Connie, or the phone calls you’ve heard him murmur in the office—sometimes kissing her through the phone, others wishing he could blow his brains out with her listening on the other end of the line.

Steve has worked his hand from the back of your throat to the front of it, keeping you seated where he needs your pressure the most. He groans something against your lips that you don’t understand, but you take it in stride as you feel his tongue leech across your teeth.

“Open.”

That, you hear.

You didn’t realize your jaw was wired shut, tensed in something you can’t quite put a finger on as you feel all ten of his pressing into your skin somewhere. Finding the bones of his shirt collar, you follow the seam to the first button to pop it out of place. Then the second, and then the third. Making your way down his chest, his own hands have abandoned their latest posts on you, ripping away at your blouse in a primal attempt to untuck it from your waistband. You don’t know what it is that goaded him on like this—revamped with a newness like it was the first time you two got together. Surely then, it was adrenaline. Shaking hands, stiff lips that needed time to soften, straying eye-contact as if holding it would kill the both of you. Now? You aren’t so sure. Maybe he was getting off on telling you what to do, and now you can’t help but wonder if this is something Connie never let him get away with that he can with you. Steve is moving with determination, as if he could hear your thoughts. You’re half-naked and you don’t even realize until he breaks the suction of his lips from yours to attach himself to the skin between your breasts.

“Fuck, honey.”

Your tired attention waivers, snapping back to your sweating bodies, swearing to God he might’ve said ‘Connie’ against your tits. Your hands tug his dress shirt up the rest of the way, pulling the last remaining buttons to your fingertips as you finish undressing him blind. He sits up slightly, just enough to unhook his hands from your hips and take off the rest of his shirt, fastening his warm palms around your waist in their return. You look down, watching him work your mounds for the tender cost of littering your skin with stickers of discolouration and teeth marks. Your show of him is soon interrupted when you feel pressure on your mid-back, and a hand snakes to grab your throat again. You’ve been worked so hard, your stiffened spine crackles against his hand, and Steve makes another throaty grumble.

You think this is perfect. He’s pushing up into you in ways that allow you to feel more of his cock than you have in weeks, pushing you down onto him as if there aren’t a few more layers left to remove between you two. His lower hand skips back to the front of you, and like an idyllic dance, his hand on your throat circles to the nape of your neck again. You know he can feel how tense you are—how Messina’s been keeping you uncomfortably alert while also exhausted for days on end. You never complain about the job you love, and a bad day is just a bad day; but fuck it, you confessed how hard it’s been on you to Steve before his tongue licked your gums. Your lack of sleep killed your libado, but it also killed your sense of self. You rolled to bed tired, you rolled awake tired, you went to work exhausted, you worked tirelessly, you didn’t go out because you wanted to go home—to a bed you don’t even sleep in, being in an existence you can’t even exist in without feeling like a corpse. It isn’t Steve’s fault, and you should never sleep with married men, but—

“—Hey.”

You look down. The tip of his nose is rubbed red, his stache twinkling with moisture. You look further down. His wrist disappears beneath you, tucked away in your pants, and you realize then that his fingers are pressed against you, idly rubbing at a relatively dry cunt.

Your relatively dry cunt.

“You don’t wanna?” He asks unsure, his voice hoarse.

No, that isn’t it. You want to. You know you want to. You were into it at the start, you think. Or maybe it was when Steve smiled softly to himself, shaking his head when he admitted he hadn't came during this weird spell either. You were into it then, and by God, feeling how hard he was for the first time in weeks did something to you that you yourself haven’t felt for just as long. But you also went on about work—and as work tends to do, it creeps in the open door that you only leave open with the hope something or someone would come in and make your losing streak of days better.

Steve pulls his hand out from you when you don’t say anything, and by the time you try to tell him that you do want to, he’s already leaned back with the heels of his palms pressed firmly into his eyes. You know he’s not annoyed with you—or, maybe he is... You’re leaving him blue-balled the one time, in a long time, he actually has his dick hard enough to split you open.

He places his hands defeatedly on your knees, the span of his long fingers curling lazily where your calf meets the underside of your thigh. His thumbs swipe absently across your skin, and he almost looks apologetic for letting his cock complain about the sudden stop of momentums for him. Steve shakes his head, and now you feel like the asshole. He tends to make it considerably hard to read him or how he feels, which in turn, only makes it obvious for a man that wore his emotions on his sleeve. This, however, is the first time you couldn’t untangle his scrambled face.

“Should get some sleep.” He encourages, giving your legs a squeeze.

Absently, you consider his words at face-value without knowing which way to swing. If Steve is just being a jerk about it, or inflating his assertiveness because he couldn’t sink his dick into you tonight—so be it. You’re used to that. But what if he isn’t? Can he see how tired you’ve become? How less of a person you feel? Is fucking the dead-beaten shell of a human not as sexy as a living, breathing, and present one? Is that why he’s not pushing it any further tonight? Your eyes watch his hands take over your bent knees, and you decide to take the gesture and his words as something less egotistical, for your sake.

“Sorry.”

Steve shakes his head dismissively, giving your legs another squeeze before shifting beneath you to prompt your dismount. He looks for the first shirt he sees, his shirt, and hands it to you in case you didn’t wanna walk around his apartment half naked. You can tell he’s trying hard not to be disappointed in the way his common sense is betraying his dick, but you were honestly too exhausted to sit and talk this out with him. However, you’re not sure if you prefer this awkward separation, or the awkward separation after having to stop mid-fuck because both of you weren’t getting anywhere.

This one felt, different.

You make an effort not to gauge how hard he still is as you slip on his dress shirt. Giving him a weak nod, you turn to head towards his bedroom on your own.

—

It’s been a few hours and you’re still not asleep. You’ve tossed around enough, and you’re certain you’ve picked Steve’s side of the bed to sleep on because it smells like his sweat and aftershave. By now, your turning has pulled you to face the door, and when you finally hear Steve’s heavy steps circle a little too close to the bedroom, you close your eyes to feign sleep. Steve buys it, or he doesn’t, either way, he drags himself into the room and doesn’t allow his eyes to wander over your sleeping form tucked neatly beneath his blankets. He’s only ever had you in his bed once or twice, each time waking with you nestled against his chest and his long limbs entangled around you like he didn’t have a wife out there.

He undresses into his boxers, kicking away the remnants of his belt-coiled trousers to be forgotten about until laundry day. He climbs into bed with a murmured groan, and doesn’t bother trying to untangle himself a corner of bedspread out from under you. Instead, he lies like a board cut stiff. It’s almost natural in the way one hand curls beneath his head and pillow, and the other dips beneath his waistband. He’ll do this for an hour, debating if he should draw himself out and seek a weak attempt of tugging on himself until he feels too pathetic to come. But he isn’t even on his side of the bed, and anytime he shifts to press the back of his head further into the pillow: Connie’s scent haunts him.

A huff, and Steve shakes the bed slightly in adjustment. The sound of his creasing waistband and skin against skin dryly pats around the room. Christ, his palm isn’t even slick. He goes through the motions of absent gliding until there’s nothing left for his cock to do but rise half-assed like a limp limb. There’s no chase to it, as there’s nothing for Steve to chase. He rubs himself with a desperate need to know if he can even reach partial bliss anymore. That even the ancient thrill of doing something he’s been warned would turn him blind in his youth—biting into forbidden fruit and all that other bullshit—doesn’t make the taste he craves any more appetizing than a wet sock in his mouth. Steve wasn’t chasing anything, but dysfunction was chasing him.

And you were watching him.

Half-lidded at first, thinking the final turn you make to face him would snap him free from whatever fantasy he had playing in his head. You didn’t know there was nothing he could sink his teeth into—not his wife; not that one teacher he had in high school with the Farrah Fawcett blowout he and his friends would equally chide after; not even Javier on a sweaty day in the office. You’d like to think you aren’t vain enough to assume Steve was palming his shaft while picturing you riding it—but the throbbing ache between your legs sure is.

You’re bright-eyed now. Watching him tussle about himself with lazy strokes that sometimes stop all together in static pauses. Steve’s hand will stall, maybe even release his lame limb to scratch the thatch of dirty-blonde hair curling like a mat expanding around the base, then he’ll pick himself up again to examine if the work he put in for the past ten minutes did him any good. It doesn’t. He couldn’t get hard like how he did earlier in the night when he was with you. The way your body pressed onto his much harder staff than it is now was like a vision of Heaven in his darkened mind.

Of course, you’re deaf to his thoughts. Watching, learning, breathing in tandem as his sweat-kissed chest starts to rise and fall in a faster way in pure silence. Steve’s breath grows heavy as his hips start to stir beneath his hand, and you watch his bottom lip roll beneath his top row of teeth with the accompanying groan that rumbles in his tarmac-throat.

He looked fucking great like this.

It turns you catatonic, observing him in such a raw and natural state. There is something intimately different in seeing how Steve slides his hand to and fro with a precision you’ve seen him channel at work. He’s desperate, that much is obvious, but he’s not mindlessly lugging his palm along like it’s his first time. His long fingers are flexed, and the tendons in his wrist twitch as the muscles in his forearm all work in a carnal symphony to make his cock rise and his breath hitch. His thumb is extended, trailing along his shaft in discovery, and only sometimes rising high enough to bend his finger at the knuckle to seek for beads of precum over his tip. The entire show is enough to make you squirm. Donning nothing but his dress shirt from earlier, your bare thighs squeeze together; your knees are locked at the joint; and your feet pointed so tensely you’ll give your entire leg a cramp. You weren’t this wound up at the couch—granted, then, your mind was plagued by thoughts about your boss and the existential crisis of existing in a meaningless life, and not grasping at the sight of Steve losing himself in his hand.

But he stops.

As suddenly as he took himself in his hand, beating away in an exhibition of a man desperately looking for release, Steve releases himself to let his cock waver in the air like a dying soldier. It twitches slightly, not standing as tall as you’ve seen it grow to in the past, but more erect than you’ve seen it in the past few weeks. It feels like a damn waste to watch his arousal soften like a slowly deflating balloon. It depletes, though not all at once, you know how fast Steve’s mind works. To watch him deny himself of finding the stars after watching him climb as high as the fucking moon on his cock was upsetting to you and your throbbing seam. It doesn’t feel like this was his plan all along, in the sense of finding enjoyment in delaying his release. You can see it in his reddened face, even through the darkness of the room, that he isn’t going to pick himself up again this time and finish the job. He just props himself up on his elbow, eyes still shut in a staggering haze, slotting his cramping hand through his sweaty hair. You could see his first release in weeks seep out of his body.

It feels as if Steve was denying you your own ecstasy, and in a way, he was. He’ll tuck himself back beneath his boxers, roll over, and let his cock die out in a restless sleep after getting you further than you have been since Connie left and Messina dug every thorn of hers into your side. He doesn’t know it, so you make him know it.

“Were you thinking about me?”

Your voice is pinched in your throat, needing to overcome the sound of the initial jerk Steve makes upon hearing the first syllable of your words. His heavy eyes find yours beside him, your own entirely glossy with what you had just witnessed, and his jaded with sheepish shards that cut his squint into an even smaller slit. 

You’d leave him alone if he said no and—without admission—you might even start an argument if he named someone else. But it’s written all over his face now that you can see it. Any strange puzzling that once twisted his features into a tight knot you couldn’t untangle earlier is gone. Steve doesn’t need to tell you for you to know it was you he wanted wrapped around him in some form anymore, but he nods slowly anyways.

“Yeah.” A pause, “That… Okay?”

Without faltering, you don’t test his ego this time by poking fun at him asking for permission to jerk off to the thought of you. Instead you pull yourself closer to him, lying on your side to keep you upright as your inner hand finds the top of his scalp and your outer reaches over his torso. Steve’s head dips slightly under the new weight of your elbow by shoulder, and his own arm unravels itself from beneath you to find the small of your back. Now that you’re situated, you lower your gaze to your travelling hand.

“Yeah… Did it work?” Your fingertips trace the highest line of his untouched hairs leading you right where you plan to be. He never put himself away, despite stopping himself moments ago, and you gently pick up where he left off. Your touch is graceful, soft, tender as if he’d snap in your palm that seems to know exactly how to glide against him. “…Thinking about me?”

“Fuck—” Steve’s breath catches in his throat as your hand does something his hadn’t. Gliding over his tip, your fingers make a B-line along the underside of his shaft, pinning himself to his body as your fingertips push through his velcro hairs to graze the front of his sac. “—Yeah,” He grits, “Like a goddamn dream, angel.”

Your fingers wrap around him upside down, pulling upwards until your palm kisses his tip again, and you test the success of your ministrations. His cock stands taller than it ever did tonight, or the past few weeks—maybe even ever. 

“Why didn’t you let yourself—come?” You watch how he twitches, precum beading by your voice and ghost-touch alone. Steve is near-desperate enough to guide your hand back to his base, but he can be patient enough to wait just a little while longer. He’s been without release for weeks anyways, a few more minutes couldn’t kill him.

Only he’s kidding himself like a fool, and having you touch his cock like this could and will absolutely kill him. Either way, he will be seeing God.

Steve groans, when you take him back in your hand, freshly moistened by what’s been gathered off your tongue. Lobbing his head to the side of Connie’s pillow; he’s no longer haunted by her scent effervescing off the fabric, but blithely drunk off your own lingering scents that drown out anything of hers. His eyes zip tight at your question, as if his insecurity with his crumbling marriage and his shitty ways to cope with it left him entirely. 

Again, he isn’t really an asshole. Not to you. Not when it’s just the two of you… Fucking you to get over his marital problems just muddied the waters of something he knows the reality of all too well—and Steve isn’t nearly equipped enough to iron out the wrinkles of what he wants his relationship with you to be. He just knows he wants you. More than just as a fuck, or a coworker, or a coworker that he fucks, or a coworker that he fucks and cheats on his wife with. He just doesn’t know the language to explain that to you—or he does, and it’s horrible, and he won’t say it. Not tonight.

His heavy hand turns into silk as it finds the curve of your shoulder from around your back, following along the side of your neck until he can hold your jaw from the side.

“You—” He’s in the middle of sentences, grunting, rumbling, gravelling out sounds that are all intrinsic. He’s always been needy—needier for contact.

“—Need you t’do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You find purchase with the declaration. Releasing his sweat-warmed scalp, you wedge your arm beneath his head until the nape of his neck balances in your inner elbow. Soft fingers pinch and play with the shell of his ear as your working hand strokes him purposefully. You were going to make him come, and by the way Steve’s clenched groans were turning into unkempt whines that you don’t stop, you were going to make him come soon.

“Steve?”

“—Almost, angel.” 

His breath is hot against your cheek, having pushed your face close enough for him to drag his pointed nose across and tickle your skin with his moustache. Kisses are stolen, not as feverish and misguided as the ones you’d share thinking it’d both get you hot enough to get somewhere, but designated. His hips rut into your hand with almost every maul, and you wonder if it’s because he craves something more than a few fingers wrapped around him.

“Do you want me to put my mouth—”

“—No. Stay here.” He groans again, finding enough wind in his lungs and enough space between your teeth to clarify, “—Want you, here.”

He makes the effort to prove his point. Already unable to remove his lips from your skin, Steve shows you exactly why he needs part of you North, and the other part of you South as you pump him into oblivion. He’s murmuring half-words, half-sounds against your cheek as he lets you turn your head and watch him come undone.

There is no way you were going to miss it.

Steve’s second hand appears from nowhere after gripping the edge of the mattress the entire time. It’s instinctual, or something close to it, the way he wraps his hand over yours around his shaft. He stills your movements, keeping you a third up his length as he shoots white glazings against his torso and chest.

He’s a panting mess, bordering on whimpering, as he presses the stiff bridge of his nose against your cheek as his parted lips backdraft rushes of hot air against your skin. Steve’s grip on your jaw is the first to loosen, and he does so with a following swipe of his thumb along your cheek. He tilts you enough to break your gaze away from his throbbing cock, now sinking against his body with spent release as your hand slips away. Bushy lips find yours, seeking that final prize he’s never been rewarded with by anyone else, and you kiss him.

It’s warm, gentle—garnering moisture from Steve’s catching breaths before he finally splits his eyes open enough to gauge how well you worked him. He tugs at his dress shirt you borrow, indicating he’d like to take it off your frame. It’s used to wipe him down, tossed into the nether of his bedroom. Then, in a silent transer, he has you beneath him in an easy roll. His knees split yours apart, setting you up perfectly beneath him as Steve walks one of his hands down your body until he crosses your patch of curly hairs.

His fingers are greeted with a gush that wasn’t there back on the couch, and Steve can’t help but smile similarly to how he did then. Aimless, boyish, innocent. Like he was present here, and only here. Between your legs, he gently slips his fingers until they’re coated—kissing away the first small gasp that leaves your lips.

Mohamed knew what he was giving up when he took on his faith. To free himself of his past by choosing peace, choosing God and his prophets to guide him. Some things were easy to let go of, like alcohol. He’d never really taken to it, even in his teens. All his misguided habits came in school fights and carjacking. Booze was a secondary thing. Something in his peripheral for other kids to mess around with. By the time he was free, it meant nothing. Another vice shunned by his God, much like gambling. Mo wasn’t ever a gambler, either. His only strife came from rage. Many canteen meals sat with a plastic knife in his white-knuckled hand. Islam’s teachings managed to guide him. With each passing day, he learned. By the teachings of his lord, Mo found peace in imprisonment.

Prison release was almost just as bad a sentence for him. No more did the confined walls of his cell wrap around him. Instead, unlocking his front door only opened himself up to a vastness no one could prepare him for. Emptiness. Hardwood floors and painted walls. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and soon enough, Mo was a whole year out of prison. Come the first anniversary of his release, his kitchen finally had a table, one chair, and a fruit bowl. His living space had one armchair, his bathroom a pot plant. But Mo’s bedroom? Still as bare as the day he arrived. Mo had found solace in the wardrobe. A space small enough for himself to squeeze into, protected from all sides like the iron bars he’d grown used to. Night after night, the mattress on the wardrobe floor consoled him from the rest of the world that shunned him in the first place.

Not once in the first year did Mohamed attempt to spoil himself with pleasure. The lord’s word was subject to debate. To seek comfort from someone else’s body was forbidden, the limits of his own self-seeking was uncertain. Few and far between he’d risk it, occasionally dragging an unsteady hand underneath his sweatpants; uncomfortable and uncertain. A pathetic vision, hunched over on his side, tugging himself through gritted teeth, begging for that night to be the night. Each time, he’d eventually retreat, body slicked with sweat once his desire couldn’t outweigh his guilt. A righteous man shouldn’t find solace in his own hand. Though, deep down, Mohamed knows he’s far from righteous anyway.

Something changes when he visits the doctor. Agitable and sluggish, unable to keep up with the laborious work at the kennel, Mohamed thought he was getting sick. It’s only as he’s readjusting his shirt on the examination table that his theory is proven wrong. High blood pressure, high cortisol, weight loss and tense muscles. The doctor explains these symptoms as being under extreme stress; his body unable to keep up with the weight of his mind. None of the solutions feel worth the price of the bill. Taking a mental health day wouldn’t solve anything, and neither would a sleeping pill. When he denies those options with a twitch in his brow, the doctor gives Mo a sheepish shrug. Mohamed doesn’t understand why the consultation moves to his romantic life. He’s said a dozen times that there’s no one in his life to stress him out.

It’s only that night that he gets it.

Come nightfall, post his final prayer of the evening, Mohamed slides his closed door shut. Splayed back on the mattress, breaths steady, he finds himself tracing his clothes. The neckline of his tank has rough ridges, with the cuffs of his sweatpants sharing a similar feeling on his soles. Pure darkness consumes him, and once again Mohamed feels the pit grow in his stomach. Romance. Stress relief. The same thing he’d been denying himself since he first stepped foot in his cell, now rearing its ugly head through aching muscles and a splitting headache. His palm hits his crotch. His nostrils flare. This was haram. It was sin. In a millisecond, Mohamed loses control. Both hands curl into fists, smacking at his temples before he curls onto his side. A righteous man can live without pleasure. 

He attempts to sleep.

An hour passes.

Two.

Mohamed fears he is not a righteous man. He’s past the point of praying. Beyond begging for Allah to guide him through his ache. As his fingers twist in the single fitted sheet, Mohamed finds his train of thought shifting. Was it not the same men in his cell block that shot dice? The men who taught him Allah’s name who also wore gold on their fingers and snuck prison hooch? His jaw clenches as his palm drags along the band of his sweatpants. It’s a journey he’s made before countless times, but tonight Mohamed knows he needs to see it through. Short and sharp breaths tear through his nostrils. His palm lingers. He twists onto his back.

In truth, Mohamed isn’t even half hard. Barely a tent in the fabric he’s palming himself over. He groans, slamming his head back onto his pillow. It’s not like he had a magazine to help him along. They didn’t sell those in common spaces anymore. “Porn was on phones now.” The teller had told him. Like the extra channels on the TV. Only Mo doesn’t own a cellphone. Or a TV. Desperation hits. He watches his pants twitch. Mohamed exhales a pained whine. High-pitched and breathy, a vast difference to the violent growls he used to make. 

His hand finally slips under, tracing the rough hairs he hasn’t trimmed since he was released. Short, bitten nails scrape against the curls, hesitant to slip further. Mohamed’s teeth sink into his lip. He stops moving. Closing his eyes. Mohamed forces himself to breathe. Steady, long, calming. For once, he stays half-hard, and his eyes go wide. He swallows. Another cautious inch. Hesitation. Fingertips graze the base of his shaft, feeling it twitch underneath his unsteady hand. He squeezes. Mo shifts, tucking his waistband underneath his sack and exposing himself to the stuffy closet. It throbs, painfully so; bobbing in his uncertain hand as if to mock his wariness.

This isn’t going to work. Not when his hands shake too hard to get a good grip. 

What did he use to do?

When there was no one in his bed late at night, and he’d grown too accustomed to his own hand.

Would it even still work?

Against his better judgement, Mohamed flips himself onto his stomach. Hands and knees embedded into the crumpled sheets, palms splayed out as he holds his weight. With one hand, he hastily grabs his sweat-laden pillow, shoving it urgently between his pelvis and the mattress. His cock nudges against it. His breath hitches. It springs to life. No longer half-hard, his shaft is squeezed between his torso and the mattress, pre-cum oozing from the reddened tip. A weight grows in his stomach. Shame chases after his mind, trying to reach the same focus his pleasure is taking a hold of.

Mohamed’s hips tilt forward. Again, again, again. He drags himself along the pillow. Half his bottom lip is being chewed between his teeth, clamping down on stiff grunts as he finds a rhythm. There’s no fantasy in his head. Nothing to keep away the prying guilt as the crown of his tip catches on the pillow’s corner. Mohamed shudders. He throws his head back. A heady stench is beginning to build in the closet, with sweat beading across his broad shoulders. Mohamed rolls his hips with ferocity now. Teeth gritted as he fucks deep into the dip of his pillow. 

It’s too much. His palm slams on the closet door, forcing it open just a crack for the air he so desperately needs. Harsh pants are only louder now, reverberating through his empty bedroom as he rasps. Back on all fours, Mo grinds his hips hard. Pre-cum stains his pillow. It slickens up the coily hairs of his treasure trail. Copper taste spreads onto his tongue. His lips bitten beyond repair. Mohamed squeezes his eyes shut, breath hitching as the pilling on his pillowcase tickles the thick veins on his shaft. It’s all too much. He feels his thighs start to tense, stomach clenching. Another thrust. One more roll. Then;

Mohamed sees pure white.

His whole body goes rigid.

Through a breathy gasp, Mohamed lurches forward. His back arches. Thick ropes of his cum spurt outward, dousing his pillow in his release. It’s sticky, and warm, smearing ever so slightly on his stomach as his body untenses. At first he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy sucking in as deep a breath he can muster, weary of his scattered mind unable to find reality. Mohamed tears the pillow away, hearing it slump from past the closet, outside onto the bedroom floor. Residue sticks to his hands. They flex. His eyes narrowing at the sight.

Unclean.

Mohamed needs to wash his hands.

It’s been days.

Close to two weeks, in fact, since Steve skulked out of your apartment, hand slicked and face still glistening. Despite your desks being mere feet from one another, neither of you have said a word. Steve sits at his desk, the sleeves of his shirt pushed to his elbows. Sweat beads off his forehead, which he wipes away with equally sweaty palms. His hair is unkempt, the strands standing wildly from his long fingers constantly running through them. It’s only on the ninth day, when the phones stop ringing, and papers stop coming, does Steve risk looking at you. Blue eyes cast above his newspaper, scanning the newly bustling office. Agents are spread. Javier has one of the other office admins leaning over his desk. No doubt showing off her nails. “Best way to catch cleavage,” Javi said. What a sex pest. Though, is he much better? One week without his wife and he dares look at forbidden fruit? Connie had come back. Like a lighthouse in an unwavering storm, she had come when he called. Every time he closes his eyes, he tries to think about the way he held her. After watching what Carrillo had done in that helicopter, he needed her. Yet, the same hands that held her tight had been tarnished. Your sweet flesh is still embedded in his skin. Your taste still on his tongue. When Steve closes his eyes, it’s you he’s thinking about. It’s never felt like this with whorehouse women. Lingering guilt had never reared its ugly head. Never chewed in his gut when he closed the velvet curtain. It certainly never plagued him when Connie guided his hands under the covers. Yet here it is. Guilt. Burning in his fingertips. Acid on his tongue. A pit in his stomach. His large hands drag down his face again; an illusion of exhaustion while his mind is consumed by everything you.

“You ever heard of the phrase ‘don’t shit where you eat’?” Javier’s voice cuts through his mind like a knife. He leans against Steve's desk, arms crossed over his chest with a cocked brow planted on his face. “Our office isn’t shit enough, you had to go and make it a toilet?”

Steve drags two palms down his face, feeling the cool band sting against his warm face. Even as he swallows the growl he desperately wants to make, he snarls. No one else has heard, thankfully. Javier can be hush hush when he wants. 

“I didn’t do shit.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then explain that.”

With a gentle nod towards your desk, Javier forces Steve to look at you. His eyes land on forbidden fruit once more. There you are. Sunken face, lip between your teeth. All of your focus is being poured into the typewriter. You weren’t designated a computer yet. Steve remembers how you’d sat on his desk, cradling a mug of coffee as you complained. ‘A secretary job wasn’t worth such new technology’. The mockery of Messina’s words had him hacking back a laugh. But now, as he sits watching your deft fingers tapping away at the keys, Steve can’t help tense. Maybe it was good he didn’t let you touch him. Your taste was bad enough, seared into his tongue like scripture. God knows what your touch can do. He chews on his thumbnail, finally dragging his eyes back to Javier’s.

“Isn’t that the secretary that you take home?”

“Yep.” He answers, tight lipped and jaw clenched.

“And you two haven’t spoken in, what, seven days?”

“Nine.”

“Oh, you’re counting?”

“Jav.” 

It’s a warning they’re more than familiar with. The office is too busy. Too loud. Sure, there are bigger problems afoot, but they both know that no one is immune to workplace gossip. Steve’s hand hovers by his jacket, Javier’s lingers in his pocket. 

“Smoke?”

Both men lean up against the brick. Javier lit up when Steve first started explaining, cherry a soft orange against the burnt sky. Not a cloud in it. A pure view of the sun beginning its descent back behind the earth. Steve lets the smoke pour out of his lips, not bothering to force an exhale. He can feel Javier’s beady eyes narrowing in on his face, to which he simply keeps his eyes forward. Having just spent the last ten minutes describing what had happened nine days prior, he can’t say he feels like digging the hole deeper.

“Well, shit.” Javier lets out a low whistle, shaking his head before taking another drag. “You told Connie?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“Yes! No. I–” Steve cuts himself off, pinching at the bridge of his nose before frustration can boil over. “I don’t know. She’s going back to live with her sister, anyway.”

The two men stand in silence again. Javier flicks ash into the garden, while Steve keeps his eyes on his shoes. His thumb glides up and down the cigarette, rolling it in between his fingers. By now, his mind is running rampant, critique after critique of his own actions swarming in his mind until he can’t take it.

“I don’t know what Connie wants. When she first left she said it was over. Now it's–” He waves his hands around as the words fail to come, smoke trailing close behind. “Complicated.”

“Complicated because of Connie or the secretary?” Javier speaks up after inhaling a drag, brows raised with the burn. 

“Who do you think?”

“I think you’re the one making it complicated.”

Steve shoots the other man an unimpressed look, though, Javier’s right. The only person he has to blame is himself. Rolling his head back, the cool brick meets the crown of Steve’s head, supporting him as he slumps back. He drags a palm over his moustache. 

“You didn’t have this problem with any of the prostitutes.” Javier reminds him, leaning back into the wall to mirror Steve. “Why is the secretary giving you trouble?”

“I don’t work with prostitutes. I don’t have to see them again, either.”

“You saw the redhead three times.”

“Not the point, Jav.”

“Just admit that you like the girl.”

More silence. Both men stand, watching the sun begin to clip the embassy building. As the cherry of Steve’s cigarette begins to meet the filter, he flicks it into the garden. There’s no urgency to get back inside. All they’d do is get the rest of their things and go home, anyway. They lock eyes, Steve’s tired and unsure, Javier’s sympathetic but unserious. He offers Steve a shrug.

“All I’m saying is that this didn’t start before Connie left. It’s just evolved.” Javier’s words of wisdom smell like tobacco and a shot of tequila, and much to Steve’s frustration, they’re true. “You both thought your marriage was over. Hell, maybe it still is.”

“Christ, you think we’re that far gone already?”

“Eh,” Javier shrugs as he checks his watch. “I think it might have been the prostitutes. Or getting kidnapped. Take your pick.”

Steve nods his head, dragging his tongue over his teeth before finally pushing off the wall. With both hands now firm in his pockets, he looks towards the embassy doors. The pit in his stomach returns. Bile. A burning in his chest that he can’t tell if it's from the smoke or the guilt. Either way, it’s trickling up his throat until words fail to form. 

“Talk to the secretary, Steve.” Javier speaks up with impeccable timing, freeing Steve from a barrage of internal insults. “What harm could it do?”

“Yeah.” It’s hoarse, and restrained, but Steve relents. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her.”

His hand rests at a place between ten and eleven on the steering wheel, eyes seeking over the empty expanse of the freeway beyond the dashboard. He had lost his other hand hours ago; interlaced and tucked somewhere in Virginia’s lap. The heatwave from Kentucky seems to chase them. It follows Steve’s rusted tailpipes like a backwards omen that won’t warn them at the forefront, but will happily drag behind to watch the show. Steve has already withdrawn the revolver tucked into the back of his jeans and tossed it in the glove compartment while Virginia slept, tired of its stabbing reminder against his sweat-slicked shirt that it was there. But it was beyond its mere presence that bothered him. Steve catches his temple between his index and thumb, letting his forehead catch the wind whipping his blonde hair up as he drives on. Home was wherever he and Virginia laid their heads, that much he knew—and his moral compass has always been strong.

But sometimes it wasn’t stronger than his pride.

He got them out of West Virginia. He got them away from a rutted life that served no one but their families. He promised Virginia he would, and here they are. Miles away. States away. Livelihoods away. They’re so far gone that echoes of who their town thought they were are being blasted across local news calling upon deaf ears for their return. He did this. He—

“—Steve?”

In tandem with sitting up straighter, Steve turns his head towards the passenger side. He didn’t even realize Virginia had woken up.

“Sorry, Gin. Yeah?”

“I thought we were getting off for St. Louis?”

Steve blinks, trying to catch the next rolling sign that comes into view that details the next exit being past the one he was supposed to turn off of.

“...Shit.” He murmurs, gripping the wheel tighter.

—

They made it off the next exit, turning onto a quieter freeway that advertised an off-road gas station and diner. Nothing more than a on-route truckstop that’ll likely be filled with truckers than travelling families: but a place to find their bearings nonetheless. Now seated on the same side of a booth by the window, Steve’s arm cooks in the sunlight as it drapes over the back of the vinyl bench.

Virginia flips through the worn menu for them, although there isn’t much to choose from. The diner is a simple spot, serving more breakfast items than anything else. Their waitress is an older woman, kind and wrinkled in the eyes, who has probably seen just about every walk of life come through the doors for a break from the road. She pours Steve a coffee and brings their order to the kitchen with some absent chatter about the diner itself: how it’s been running since the early forties and that there hasn’t been much change to it—just the patrons and their stories. Steve just nods politely, nursing the hot mug in his free hand, while Virginia is excitedly keen on learning more.

They gab for a bit and Steve is just there to listen, happy to have faded out of the conversation by now. It isn’t until their waitress is waved over by another table for a refill that she excuses herself from Steve and Virginia’s booth, promising to finally put their order into the kitchen afterwards.

Small stacks of pancakes, toast and eggs, and a plate of carrots all make their way to their table. Steve is given a tall glass of milk, and Virginia a glass of orange juice. After realizing how hungry they were, they spend the first half of their meal just quietly eating and forking each other bites off their own plates. Virginia breaks their feasting silence first, taking a sip from her juice.

“How much further ‘till Missouri?”

Steve absently pats himself, as if searching for the map he knows is still in his truck. Empty handed, he goes off of memory. “Think it’s gonna be a couple more hours, Gin.” He admits, “Maybe more—if you keep askin’ our waitress about this fuckin’ place.”

Virginia rolls her eyes, tossing a carrot at him.

“I’m serious.” He continues, feigning sincerity, “We’ll be here all night. Then what’re we gonna do? Can’t do what I wanna do to ya in the middle of the diner.”

“Steve!”

He gives in, grinning, sipping his milk and wiping the remnants off his growing stache.

“Eat your food.” He says.

—

Day becomes dusk, coloring the sky in a delightful fire of red and orange hues. Virginia hung out the window for the entire sunset, taking in the beautiful phenomenon as they ease into the next town. Its population doesn’t carry over a thousand, with only a main street of shops, schools at the end of the hill, and a small suburb surrounding it. There is a motel off the corner road that leads back onto the freeway, and as Steve pulls into the parking lot, he reaches for his wallet to hand to Virginia.

“We got enough for a few nights, Gin?”

It wasn’t ideal that they left Kentucky as early and as suddenly as they did. Steve had paid for two weeks, using up a good chunk of their cash on it—banking it’d be a safe bet to hang their hats for the first little while of their escape. Missouri should be better. It’s farther than Kentucky—which means it’s farther from West Virginia. But all of Steve’s self-convincing leaves his body when he sees Virginia glance between the motel sign and its nightly rates, and his wallet.

“Gin?”

“We have enough for a few nights.” She doesn’t sound convincing.

“How many’s a few?”

“Like, three... Two if we want enough t’eat…”

Two fucking nights? Steve sinks in his seat. He rubs his eyes, dragging his hand down the bridge of his nose as he tries to think of something. He could sleep out in his truck—the both of them already have, and there were pillows and blankets haphazardly set up in the truck bed. Only this wasn’t Princetown, where they both knew their shitty hometown best. Steve doesn’t know where to park out here that’ll be safe enough to let him sleep and not stay half-cocked with the revolver in his hands all night. But Virginia should get a room—she deserves a fucking bed, at that.

“Fuck—”

“—We can just stay tonight, Stevie. Pick up tomorrow and head off?”

Steve shakes his head, speaking through his calloused hand as air puffs out of his lips in frustration. “We’ll still need more for gas money.”

Stalemate. They can’t stay and they can’t leave—and he doesn’t want them sleeping in the truck tonight. Virginia looks off, gauging the vacancy sign and its rates again. She thinks they could talk their way into an extra night or two, or even a discount. Shuffle their deck of cards they could pull on the receptionist just trying to get through the late evening without any rowdy guests. Virginia then remembers Steve’s revolver, but quickly shakes any adjacent possibilities from her mind.

“—Follow me.”

Steve makes a swift exit from the truck, rounding the hood to the passenger side. He’s quick to open Virginia’s door and ushers her out so he can reach in and retrieve the revolver from the glove box.

“Steve,” Her green eyes widened a bit.

“I’m not—no, Gin, it’s just in case. OK?” He locks up, tucking the gun away against his back and the waistband of his jeans once more. His shirt covers it entirely. “I ain’t leavin’ a loaded gun in the truck either.”

He keeps to the roadside, tucking Virginia under his arm on the other as he walks her to the crosswalk. Patience earns them the light, and he crosses them across the street and down to the neon-buzzing dive-bar blinking and flickering at the end of the main street. The building is a two-storey brick: with the owners living upstairs and the bar operating beneath it. Posters litter the outside, covering most of the windows with flyers spanning from days to decades ago all sunbleached and weather-worn. It’s charming in its own right: something city-goers would find unique from their concrete buildings back home. But for Steve and Virginia, it’s a comfortably familiar sight—despite the miles from any place they know to be similar in West Virginia. When they enter, they’re transported back to McKenny’s: the popular spot for graduates and those nearing in their hometown.

Where they’d always met outside of school in the brush of dusk, and their parents under the impression they were at the movies with their own group of friends.

Steve walks them to the bar, sitting them at the corner stools while he looks around. There were pool tables aligned in the center of the bar, all occupied with friendly games.

“You have my wallet Gin?”

A nod, and she withdraws it from her small bag.

Steve flips through his bills, giving Virginia a couple of dollars to keep her at the bar. He takes the rest in a crumbled fistful, shoving his wallet in his back pocket.

“You shooting?” Pool, she means, eyeing the billiard tables knowing Steve was going to—hopefully earn more money—bet what they had left. He was good at home, playing against other guys that were already bottomed out on Miller Lites, but this dive-bar is likely home for the aging population in this small town, and Steve and Virginia stick out like sore thumbs painted neon yellow.

“Gonna try, Baby.” He gives her a kiss, pushing the leftover cash towards her on the bartop. “Get somethin’, I’ll come back.”

—

Only he hasn’t. Virginia watches the erotic-looking clock hanging at the top of the bar: a cartoon woman with legs spread on either side of the clock face. It doesn’t necessarily add to the dwindling charm of the place—considering the rest of the lascivious decor of the place that Virginia is sure she hasn’t seen the last of. Steve is only a few feet away, having found his way into a pool game with a couple of middle-aged gentlemen that look well off enough to be his father. Regardless of the amount of times Steve had tried to teach her the game, Virginia never found it any fun, and despite knowing pool was Steve’s tried and true game—he honestly didn’t look like he was having any fun either. So Virginia holds off on ordering anything else from the bartender, assuming the rest of their cash was betted and lost.

“This seat taken, Dollface?”

Virginia looks up, following the stench of cigarettes and pot leaking off the older man hovering by the empty stool closest to her. She’d be foolish to tell him it wasn’t—that, surely, out of all the empty stools that parade the bartop behind him, this stool, this one specific stool that was right beside her, was free for him to take.

She’d be empathetically foolish.

“N-No.” Maybe he was harmless…

“Perfect. Was hopin’ you’d say so. You wanna drink something, Doll?”

No. Definitely not harmless.

Virginia smiles politely at the man, eyes drifting back to Steve at the billard’s table. He was aiming up a shot, eyes narrowing on the side wall pocket. He wouldn’t even realize the building had burned down if it did. She looks back at the man, “Oh. No thank you.” Her hands make a small gesture towards the empty glass in front of her, as if to say this was all she needed for the night. The man thinks she’s playing coy—like a little mouse, and he, the starving cat.

“I’ll fill that up for ya, Sweetheart. I’ll fill ya right up.”

He laughs at his own innuendo. His swollen fingers lift and beckon for the bartender, doubling Virginia’s previous order, ordering one for himself. He’ll be unpleasantly surprised she only ordered Shirley Temples.

“That’s OK...” She tries to wave off the bartender, but a sale is a sale and the man was already whipping out his dirty bills, tossing his wallet on the bartop. It splits open, and there is a very obvious photo of a woman and two little boys that looks as dated as the man is.

“What, you don’t like getting taken care of? Hell… Makes ya even better than my wife, Dollface. Damn woman wants me doin’ everythin’ but her. Man’s gotta eat, y’know what I’m sayin’?”

Still, Virginia tries to smile him off. Her nods are aimless, and her eyes are searching for Steve’s that are still locked on his next shot. He’s trying to win their money back, and she’s trying to not get abducted by the poster-child of extramarital affairs out here. It’s not like she hasn’t taken advantage of scumbags like this before, for the benefit of a few free drinks for herself and her friends back at home—or even for her and Steve. But there’s a very obvious difference in luring this out of desperate patrons, and having it done unsolicited.

And this man, he is something else.

“Aye? Do ya? Dollface?”

Desperate for conversation, he chides her again, reaching to run the back of his warty knuckle against the bare skin of her arm. He leaves a trail of uncomfortable goosebumps behind, and Virginia is quick to hop off her stool with an awkward laugh. She wishes she could sock this asshole in the face—but what would he do in return? Instead, she clears her throat, clutching her bag with growing anxiety.

“Actually—I’m just gonna use the girls’ room…?” Not exactly asking for his permission, as she’d book it to the nearest dark hole if it meant to get away from the man, but Virginia pushes another polite smile on her face anyways. The man grumbles about something related to his wife again, and Virginia takes it as her cue to turn on her heels.

This time, Steve does notice her. Watching as she walks towards the hallway leading to the restrooms, eyeing him with a desperation he nearly drops his pool cue for. He rushes a shit shot, ending his turn, and heads towards her.

“Gin—Gin, Baby what is it?”

Virginia sighs, reaching out to grip onto the pool cue he stabs an end into the worn wooden floors. “Are you almost done?” Reluctant to tell him about the man, wanting to just get out of the bar in peace—and Steve in one piece.

He looks a little dumbfounded. “Yeah… Almost.” A pause, “Gin, what’s the matter?”

“The guy. At the bar.”

Steve looks. There’s only one greasy bastard loitering at the bar, sitting besides Virginia’s now empty barstool double fisting both Shirley Temples. His brows furrow, knuckles whitening around the pool cue.

“What’d he do?”

There’s a very small window of things Steve considers tame enough to slide. A very small window. 

“Nothing—just… Can we go soon?”

Steve’s eyes linger on the man, spotting his discarded wallet on the bartop. It looks farther than he can reach from the stool, and the man definitely wouldn’t last chasing either of them out of the bar… 

“Gin,”

She sighs again, “I know… I’ll go back. Just don’t be long—”

Steve shakes his head, “No, Sweetheart.” He tilts his chin, “That his wallet? Over there?”

Virginia sneaks a quick glance, nodding when she eyes the worn brown leather flopped on the bartop.

“Yeah…?”

He gives her a look, and she knows what he’s thinking.

“Steve, that’s his—”

“—And he’s a scumbag. Go on, I’ll distract him.”

Virginia takes a reluctant step out of the restroom hallway. Steve follows behind her, returning his pool cue and settling his owed affairs to the men he was previously playing with. He’s quick to overtake Virginia on her way back to the barstool, stumbling onto the empty seat beside the man. Steve throws him the largest and unsettling grin, belching around him as he leans over the bartop.

“Fuck me—this weather, huh?” He slurs a bit, exaggerating a drunken—or at this point, a beyond consolable altered—state. His hand slaps the man’s shoulder, harder than that of a drunk man. “Huh? Hey?”

The man shakes Steve off of him, grumbling as he slurs some threats his way, coated by the beers he’s washed the Shirley Temples down with.

Behind Steve, Virginia swiftly nabs the man’s tossed wallet. She slides it into her bag and slips away unseen, leaving just the bell on the bar door ringing in her exit. The outside air is muggy, even in the late evening, and she can’t help but feel even hotter with the worst kind of adrenaline. Pacing by the lamppost, she watches Steve exit the bar moments later. She tries to talk to him, but he moves them away from the building first. They cross the street again, making their way back to his truck parked at the motel and sit inside it.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, digging his other into his pockets for his smokes and lighter.

“How much, Ginny?” His face flickers with embers, lighting his cigarette.

Sifting through the wallet, Virginia tries to ignore the photo of the woman and two boys wedged in the window pocket of the leather. The man clearly didn’t care about his own family—but he had a family waiting for him anyways—and his wallet was stuffed with cash. Cash that didn’t belong to Steve or Virginia, but here it is, in her hands.

She pulls the expanded money clip out. They didn’t need to count it to know there was a considerable amount in there, even more than they left West Virginia back—and maybe four or five times more than what Steve had lost shooting pool tonight.

“Steve, I dunno about this—” The wad of cash does nothing for Virginia’s waning conscience. Except, she can smell the pot off the clip, and she can picture the sleazy man still rotting on the barstool in the bar. She can hear what he said to her, again, and the crooked tone he used to talk about his wife, wherever she was. Virginia swallows, running her thumb along the paper edges of the clipped money, fanning it gently as she counts more than a couple hundred dollars. “...Only the scumbags, OK?”

“OK, Baby.” Steve looks at her. His hand reaches to smooth over the side of her head, and his other pulls the cigarette from his lips, holding it out the window. He brings her close enough to kiss her forehead.

“Only the scumbags.” He repeats.

“And we tip our waitresses nicely.”

“...And we tip our waitresses nicely.”