character: Keegan P. Russ
words: 11,063
cw: 18+, sexual content, mild angst, toxic relationships really
description: final part of this fic (AU in which you’re in a situationship with a drummer in an underground rock band.)
a/n: highly requested so I hope you guys enjoy it!!
You hadn’t seen Keegan in five days, which sounded like nothing once you put it into numbers.
Five days could vanish so easily if you filled them properly. Work, groceries, laundry, a few half-hearted plans you almost cancelled twice. You washed your sheets because his smell had lingered in them long enough. You cleaned the kitchen at two in the morning because you couldn’t sleep, scrubbing at the stovetop until your wrist ached, ignoring the matte black lighter still sitting beside the fruit bowl. His lighter. Of course it was still there. Of course your apartment had become a little museum of things he had left behind without thinking, because Keegan never seemed to think of objects as meaningful until they were gone. He misplaced himself everywhere. A hoodie shoved behind your hamper. A receipt from Easy Street Records folded into the pocket of your Carhartt jacket after he had borrowed it in the rain. One of his hair ties on your nightstand even though you had no idea why he owned any because his hair barely got long enough to need them. Tiny stupid proofs that he had been in your life with all the carelessness of a man who assumed he would be allowed back in anytime.
You had blocked him the night you left Barracuda.
You did it sitting in your car with the windows fogging from your breathing, engine off, keys in your lap, the venue still bleeding red neon through the windshield. Your hands had been shaking, which made you angrier than the fight itself. You kept tapping the wrong part of the screen. His contact photo stared back at you, a blurry picture you took outside his house once, Keegan with a cigarette between his fingers, head turned slightly away from the camera, mouth caught in that flat expression of his. You stared at it too long. Long enough for the anger to falter and the ache to slip through. Then you blocked him and felt powerful for about three seconds before your chest caved in so abruptly you had to lean your forehead against the steering wheel and breathe through your mouth.
The thing nobody told you about blocking someone was that it made absence active. Silence became something you built with your own hands. Every time your phone didn’t light up, you had to remember that you had made sure it couldn’t. You wanted to feel proud of that. You wanted the clean satisfaction of self-respect, the cold little dignity of finally refusing to sit around and wait for a man who could look at you like he wanted to ruin you personally while also treating the idea of being with you as a scheduling conflict. Instead, you woke up each morning and checked your phone before you could stop yourself, and every morning the same fact settled over you again.
He could not reach you.
You were done.
You said it brushing your teeth, standing in your bathroom under the weak light that made you look tired no matter how much you slept. You said it on the bus, watching rain collect in long silver lines across the window. You said it at the grocery store, where you took one look at a stack of Rainier and turned down another aisle so quickly an old man with a cart full of cereal gave you a dirty look. You said it while deleting half a playlist because every guitar riff seemed to have some fucking insane drumline hiding under it, waiting to put you back in Keegan’s basement, on his couch, bare thighs on cracked leather, watching him play like his drums were the only thing in the world that ever got the whole of him.
He was not worth this. That was the sentence you liked best because it sounded firm, almost sensible. He was a man. A hot, difficult, emotionally useless man with icy eyes and pretty hands and a habit of making you feel like the centre of his universe only when nobody else was in the room. He was not a storm. He was not fate. He was not some grand, tragic event you had to spend years recovering from.
He was Keegan Russ.
You were done.
By the following Friday, you had said it enough times that it began to sound almost true, which was how you ended up at a bar in Capitol Hill with people who had known you before him. That was important. Before him mattered now. Before his basement, before the smoke, before the way his hands felt sprawled over your stomach in the grey morning, warm and heavy, as if his sleeping body could admit what he wouldn’t. Before you learned the difference between his silence when he was comfortable and his silence when he was leaving you alone inside your own hurt. Your friends picked a place with exposed brick, warm hanging bulbs, and a record booth in the back where some guy in a faded beanie kept changing the mood every twenty minutes. The tables were too small, the floor was sticky near the bar, and the bathroom door didn’t lock unless you lifted it slightly while turning the bolt. It felt normal in the way you needed. Loud enough to keep anyone from asking too much. Crowded enough to make loneliness take the backseat for a while.
You ordered a Manny’s because Rainier was his.
It was stupid. You knew it was stupid. Rainier had existed before Keegan and would continue existing after him, but your brain had already filed it under him, along with black T-shirts, half smoked cigarettes, old vinyl, and men who looked bored until they were suddenly staring at you like they wanted to eat you alive. The bartender popped the cap and slid the bottle over. You wrapped your hand around the cold glass and let the condensation wet your palm. Your friend was telling a story about a guy who had lied about being divorced, her hands moving wildly as she acted out the moment she found his wife’s Instagram. Everyone laughed, so you laughed too, a little late but close enough that nobody noticed. They were busy being people with normal problems. Bad dates. Rent. Work drama. A landlord who still hadn’t fixed the bathroom fan. Lives that kept moving without a human sized gap sitting in the middle of them.
Halfway through your second beer, your phone buzzed on the table.
Your heart lurched so hard you hated yourself.
Then you remembered.
Blocked. He was blocked. There would be no name. No “come over” with no punctuation. No “you awake?” sent at a time when he would pretend it only meant sex and you would pretend to believe him. Just a number you didn’t recognize with a local area code, flashing across your screen while your friends shouted over the music about whether someone should order fries or not.
You frowned at it for a few seconds, thinking about letting it ring out. Local number could mean anything. Work. Spam. Someone calling about the wrong appointment, the wrong person, the wrong life. Eventually, you answered because some stupid part of you still hoped for the impossible.
You pressed the phone to one ear and plugged the other with your finger. “Hello?”
“Hey! It’s Ajax.”
You went still.
His voice was warmer than Keegan’s, easier to listen to, full of that lazy amusement he carried everywhere like a second skin. He sounded like he was already halfway into a grin.
“How’d you get my number?” you asked.
“Relax. You gave it to me.”
“I did?”
“Yeah. When we first met. Do you not remember?”
“Oh,” you said, because you really didn’t. “Right.”
Ajax paused, just long enough to hear what your voice was doing. “You bailed fast the other night.”
Your eyes dropped to the bottle label peeling under your thumb. “Yeah.”
“Everything okay?”
You could have given him something light. You could have lied better. Instead, you stared at the wet paper coming apart under your nail and said, “Depends who’s asking.”
Ajax went quiet for a second. It was jarring enough that you noticed.
“Me,” he said. “Not him.”
That made your throat close a little. You took a drink before answering. The beer tasted too bitter all of a sudden. “I’m fine.”
“Well that’s a fat fucking lie.”
You glanced at your friends. Nobody was paying attention. One of them had stolen someone’s maraschino cherry off their drink and was being dramatically threatened with a toothpick. “Why are you calling me, Ajax?”
“I’m having some people over tomorrow. Nothing crazy. My place. A few of the guys, some friends, whoever wanders in and doesn’t annoy me too much, y’know?”
“That’s your screening process?”
“Used to be stricter.”
You didn’t laugh, but your mouth almost gave you away. “Good for you.”
“You should come.”
Your fingers tightened around the bottle. “To your house?”
“Yeah. West Seattle. Little place off California.”
Of course.
Your mind gave you Keegan immediately. Keegan flipping through used records at Easy Street Records, his shoulders hunched under a black hoodie, cigarette tucked behind one ear until someone working there told him to knock it off. Keegan knowing that whole stretch of the city in small, private ways he had never shown you. Keegan existing in places you had only learned about through other people.
You kept your voice careful. “Is he going to be there?”
Ajax didn’t pretend not to know who you meant. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I mean, yeah. Most likely.”
You stared across the bar at nothing. The bulbs above the counter made halos in the scratched mirror behind the liquor bottles. “Does he know you’re inviting me?”
“No.”
That answer came fast enough to feel honest.
You breathed out slowly. “Ajax, I don’t know.”
“Yeah. I figured there was something going on.”
“There’s nothing going on.”
“Again, that’s a lie and you know it.”
“Ajax.”
He went quiet again. You could hear something on his end, a television maybe, or music low in another room, the small sounds of a life that wasn’t currently falling apart.
“I’m not trying to put you in a weird spot,” he said after a moment.
“You kind of are.”
“Yeah. Okay. I am. But not on purpose.”
You picked harder at the label until a strip came off under your nail. “Why invite me?”
“Because I like you.”
“That’s it?”
“And because Russ has been unbearable all week.”
Your heart did something stupid and immediate, a painful little twist you wanted to crush in your fist. “That’s not my problem.”
“No,” Ajax said. “It isn’t.”
The fact that he agreed made it harder to stay sharp.
You looked down at your beer. “I won’t know anyone there.”
“You know me.”
“Barely.”
“And Keegan.”
The line sat there. Heavy. Ugly.
Ajax’s voice softened without becoming too gentle. “You don’t have to talk to him.”
You almost laughed. “That’s adorable.”
“Come if you want. Don’t if you don’t. I’ll text you the address. You can show up, have one drink, decide my friends are unbearable, and leave without saying goodbye. I’ll even pretend I’m not offended.”
This time, you did almost laugh. It came out as air through your nose, brief and tired. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
“Don’t tell him you called me.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
You swallowed. There were questions behind your teeth, stupid ones, soft ones, the sort that would tell Ajax exactly where the wound was. Has Keegan said anything? Did he ask about me? Did he notice I blocked him, or did he just shrug and move on because having pride is easier than having a heart?
Ajax must have heard some of them anyway, because he didn’t hang up right away.
“You’ll be okay tonight?”
The question caught you wrong. Your eyes stung for no reason you could stand to explain. “Yeah. I’m with friends.”
“Alright.”
“Text me the address.”
“I will.”
You hung up before the silence turned into something worse.
⟡
You wore Keegan’s shirt because you were an idiot.
That was the cleanest way to put it. There were other shirts in your closet, plenty of them, clean and yours and free of emotional consequences. Black ones, colourful ones, one with a neckline you liked. But his faded band tee had been folded badly on your chair since laundry day, washed, dried, handled, still somehow carrying the idea of him even though his scent was long gone. The collar was stretched. The print on the front had cracked into pale veins. The fabric had thinned from years of wear until it sat on your skin with an intimacy that felt nearly too obscene to bring out in public.
You told yourself you wore it because it looked good with your jeans. You told yourself it was casual enough for Ajax’s house, simple enough not to look like you were trying. You told yourself you might give it back if the opportunity came up, though you knew that was bullshit the second you looked in the mirror. If you meant to give it back, you would have folded it into a tote bag. You wouldn’t have put it on your body like an ornament you wanted him to see.
Some part of you wanted to punish him with it. You wanted him to look across a room and feel the sick little jolt you had been living with for days. You wanted him to know he had left pieces of himself in your life, and you had been the one carrying the weight of them. There was something cruel in it. Something childish. You knew that. It didn’t stop you.
Ajax’s place sat on a residential street off California Ave, close enough to Easy Street Records that you thought of Keegan before you even parked. The thought came with no permission, as usual. You imagined him walking this neighbourhood with his hands in his jacket pockets, head down against the rain, stepping into the record store like church, flipping through crates with that serious, inward focus he got when music was involved. You had never gone with him. Of course you hadn’t. You had heard about these places sideways, through Ajax, through stray remarks, through Keegan mentioning a street or a shop as if you already belonged in the geography of his life when he had never actually drawn you a map.
The house was a low bungalow with chipped blue trim and a porch that sagged slightly on one side. The front yard was trampled, grass flattened near the path, cigarette butts collected in the wet dirt by the steps. Two milk crates had been flipped upside down as porch seats, each covered in old stickers from bands you half recognized, the corners peeling from rain. Someone had put an orange bulb in the porch light, and the glow spread over the front door and windows with a sleepy warmth.
Music leaked from inside before you reached the steps. A record played too loud, the speakers buzzing at the edges, bass pressing against the siding in a slow, dirty pulse. The front door had been wedged open with a boot. Smoke threaded through the gap, weed and cigarettes undercut by incense burning somewhere in a losing battle. The entryway was narrow, cluttered with shoes, amps, jackets, a cracked umbrella, and even a skateboard missing one wheel. Flyers were layered along the walls, some photocopied so many times the faces had turned to shadows, some marked with dates from years ago, corners lifting under yellow tape. A Pearl Jam poster curled above stacked beer cases. Someone had written AJAX SUCKS along the doorframe in black marker, and underneath it, in smaller handwriting, AND SWALLOWS.
It should have made you smile.
Instead, the house felt too close to Keegan. It had his atmosphere without his body in it yet. Smoke, music, low light, mess, private history everywhere you looked.
You found Ajax in the kitchen, bottle in hand, laughing at something a girl with silver eyeshadow was saying. The kitchen was too warm, yellow linoleum curling near the baseboards, fridge plastered with Polaroids and band stickers, counters crowded with bottles, ashtrays, paper plates, chip bags split open and forgotten. Someone had left a bowl of limes beside three empty tequila bottles. Ajax saw you over the girl’s shoulder, and his face brightened in a way that made a few people turn before he even said your name.
“[Name],” he called. “Holy shit. You actually came!”
You wanted to disappear into the floor.
He crossed the kitchen and hugged you with one arm, casual and warm, like he had known you longer than he had. He smelled like beer and smoke and some niche cologne you couldn’t hope of recognizing.
“I said I might,” you said.
“Yeah, and that usually means no.”
You gave him a look. He grinned, then his gaze dropped for half a second to the shirt. His mouth twitched.
Your stomach dipped. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say shit.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say you look really good.”
“Sure.”
“I’m capable of being nice.”
“Your nose is growing.”
Ajax lifted both hands, still smiling, but something in his face sharpened a little as if he had finally seen the edges on you. “You drinking?”
“Yes.”
“Good answer.”
He turned to the fridge and grabbed you a beer without asking. It wasn’t Rainier. You noticed. He probably noticed you noticing and had the rare decency not to say so. The cold bottle steadied you when he pressed it into your hand.
You looked away first. “Where’s the opener?”
Ajax reached for your drink, popped the cap against the edge of the counter with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times, and handed it back. “Try not to fight anyone before I’m drunk enough to enjoy it.”
“I just might.”
That made him smile again, and he let you go.
You took the beer and moved out of the kitchen. The living room was packed, bodies crowded around a sagging couch and a low coffee table scarred with cigarette burns. A turntable sat on two stacked crates near the wall, the record spinning under a layer of dust that clicked faintly between songs. Christmas lights were strung along the ceiling even though it was nowhere near winter, colouring faces red, green, blue, then leaving them ordinary again. Girls moved through the room like they had dressed for being looked at, low waisted jeans, dark lipstick, little shirts, bare shoulders, boots heavy enough to thud against the floorboards. They seemed at home in the heat and smoke, laughing too close to people, balancing drinks, leaning against doorframes with the unconscious confidence of women who knew exactly how pretty they were.
You felt plain in your jeans and faded shirt, then immediately hated yourself for caring. You had not come to compete. You had not come for Keegan. You had not come to stand in a room and measure yourself against girls who probably didn’t know your name and didn’t deserve the resentment your hurt kept trying to assign them.
And still.
Keegan stood by a bookshelf that held more ashtrays than books, shoulder against the plaster, beer in hand. Black shirt, black jeans, boots, rings flashing every time his fingers shifted around the bottle. His dark hair was damp, pushed back messily, with a few strands loose near his forehead. He wasn’t saying much. He rarely did in rooms like this. He let silence do the work for him, and people mistook it for mystery or depth or invitation. A couple of girls stood too close, drawn into his orbit with that obvious, hungry ease. One laughed at something he had not seemed to say. Another touched his arm, fingertips grazing over ink, testing whether she would be allowed to stay there.
Jealousy moved through you before you could dress it up as anything else.
It was ugly. Hot, small, mean. It had no right to exist and existed anyway. You had blocked him. You had left. You had told yourself you were done so many times the sentence should have built a wall inside you. Instead, one girl’s hand on his arm made your stomach twist like you had been betrayed all over again.
You took a drink. Too much. The beer went down cold and hard.
Then Keegan looked up.
His gaze moved lazily at first, half detached, bored in that familiar way of his that made people lean closer because they wanted to be the exception to it. Then his eyes hit you, and the room seemed to stall. The girls kept talking. Someone behind you laughed. The record skipped and caught. Keegan stopped pretending to be unaffected so fast you almost missed the layers of it. Annoyance first, sharp and immediate, as if your presence had kicked open a door inside him. Hurt next, brief but unmistakable, gone almost before it arrived. Then guilt, heavy enough to settle into his mouth.
His eyes dropped to the shirt. His shirt.
The bottle in your hand felt suddenly slick.
Ajax appeared at your side again like he had been waiting for the worst possible moment. “Oh, good. You saw him.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Ajax, don’t.”
“You two look ridiculous pining for each other from across the room.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
You tried to step back, but his arm slid around your shoulders, warm and casual, steering you before you could decide whether making a scene would be worse than being delivered to Keegan.
“I hate you,” you muttered.
“Yeah, get in line. You can yell at me later.”
“Oh, I plan on it.”
“Sexy.”
He smiled at someone briefly as he guided you through the bodies. Keegan watched the whole thing, face shutting down by degrees. By the time you reached him, the girls had noticed. The one who had touched his arm pulled her hand back without making it obvious. Another looked you over, then looked at Ajax’s arm around you, then Keegan’s face. Something registered. You hated being read that quickly by strangers.
Ajax clapped Keegan on the arm. “Look who I found.”
Keegan’s eyes stayed on you. “Yeah. I see her.”
His voice went through you like a hand under your shirt. Low and rough, controlled badly enough that you could hear the strain under it. It had been days, and your body still responded as if no time had passed. Your thighs remembered him. Your mouth remembered him. Your skin remembered the scratch of his stubble better than your pride remembered why you left.
Ajax glanced at the girls. “Can you give us a sec?”
One of them frowned. “Why?”
“Because I’m asking nicely?”
“We were talking.”
Ajax looked at Keegan. “Were you?”
Keegan’s jaw moved. “Ajax.”
“What? Were you?”
The girl flushed, more annoyed than embarrassed. “Whatever.”
They walked off with whatever brittle dignity they had left. Ajax dropped his arm from your shoulders, and the loss of warmth left you strangely exposed.
He looked between you and Keegan, the joking mostly gone from his face now. “I’m getting another drink.”
Your brows furrowed. “Wait—”
He leaned slightly closer as he passed. “You’re welcome.”
Then he was gone, swallowed by the kitchen light and movement.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
The silence between you had always had a physical quality. In Keegan’s basement, it could feel heavy and warm, packed with smoke, broken only by the scrape of a lighter, the soft click of a bottle set on the floor, his breathing after sex. Here, it was different. It was alive with everything around it. The party kept moving, indifferent and loud. Someone yelled from the kitchen that there was no ice. A girl on the couch laughed in a bright, artificial burst. The record cracked and warped around a guitar line. Keegan stood close enough that you could smell him beneath everything else in the room.
Your fingers tightened around your drink.
“Sorry,” you said. “Did I interrupt something?”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“I’m making conversation.”
“No, you’re being a bitch.”
The bluntness landed harder than you expected. Maybe because it sounded like him. No polished line or theatrical anger, just flat, irritated recognition. You smiled anyway because pride was a stupid animal and yours loved showing its teeth.
“Fine. I’m being a bitch.”
Keegan’s gaze moved over your face, then the shirt again. “You came here to do that?”
“I came because Ajax invited me.”
“Christ. He knows better.”
“Than to invite someone to a party?”
“Than to get in the middle of shit.”
You laughed quietly. “Is that what this is? Shit?”
His grip tightened unmistakably around the beer bottle. “You blocked me.”
There it was.
The satisfaction that flickered through you was embarrassing and immediate. He had noticed. Your wall had not been built against nothing. It should not have mattered. It mattered so much you had to look away for half a second before he saw it all over your face.
“Yeah,” you said. “So what?”
Keegan’s mouth twisted. “Mature.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“Did it?”
His eyes hardened, but beneath it there was something else. A wounded disbelief, maybe. Keegan looked like he could understand you leaving in the heat of a fight, could understand anger, a slammed door, a dramatic exit from a venue bathroom. Blocking him was different. Blocking him meant you had let the anger cool enough to choose the damage carefully.
Keegan looked down briefly, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. When he looked back up, his face had gone controlled in a way that made you want to break something.
“You’re not the only person who gets to be fucked up about this,” he said.
You stared at him.
The noise of the party seemed to thin for a second. Maybe it was only your focus narrowing. Maybe the room really did pull back from the two of you.
“You’re kidding,” you scoffed.
His jaw tightened. “Forget it.”
“No, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You keep doing that. You get close to saying something real for once and just—”
He looked away, and the movement made your stomach turn. You knew that retreat. You had watched it happen in bed, in his kitchen, after shows, on his couch with his hand resting too gently on your leg for someone who claimed nothing. Keegan could be right there and gone at the same time.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. It was quick. Too quick for anyone else to catch. You caught it because your body was still trained on him, waiting for the shift from argument to heat. The flicker in his eyes made your stomach tighten, low and immediate. He looked at you like he wanted to drag you somewhere dark and fuck the last few days out of both of you. He looked angry at the wanting too, which made it worse.
Then someone stepped into the space beside him.
A different girl this time, hair clipped back, eyeliner smudged in a way that looked intentional until you saw one eye was worse than the other. She smiled up at him, ignoring you with impressive confidence.
“You’re Keegan, right?” she said. “My friend saw you guys at Barracuda. Said you were fucking sick.”
Keegan didn’t answer right away. His stare stayed on yours for one charged second, and you saw the conflict there. Saw him decide too slowly. Saw yourself become the person standing there while another girl waited for his attention.
Something in you shut down.
You smiled without feeling it. “Go ahead.”
His eyes flicked. “Don’t.”
But you were already stepping back. You lifted your beer slightly, voice light enough to sound almost bored. “Have fun.”
You slid away before Keegan could choose whether to follow.
The house felt too hot now, overheated by bodies and your own pulse. Your clothes clung to your skin. The beer sat sour in your stomach. You moved down the hallway before you knew where you were going, past a bathroom with someone knocking from the outside, past a wall of old flyers and a framed picture hanging crooked over a hole in the plaster. The back door stuck when you pushed it, then gave with a damp wooden groan.
Cool air hit your face.
The deck outside was narrow and half hidden under an overgrown tree, its branches thick enough to break the weak kitchen light into patches. The yard beyond was dark and fenced in, with a rusted barbecue shoved against one side and plastic chairs sinking crookedly into the grass. Someone had left a bicycle against the fence, both tires flat, handlebars turned like a broken shoulder. The porch light didn’t work, so the only real light came from the kitchen window and the orange cherry of the joint being passed between Ajax and a guy you recognized only vaguely.
Ajax looked up first. He took in your face and did not smile as much as he probably planned to.
“That was quick.”
“Whatever.”
“[Name], this is Kick.” He motioned to the man beside him.
“Nice to meet you. Can I sit?”
Ajax shifted over immediately. “Yeah, here.”
You sat on the step beside him. The wood was cold through your jeans, damp at the edges. Kick was sprawled one step down, long legs stretched into the yard, boots planted in the weeds. He had a beer balanced against his knee, his other hand holding out the joint to you.
“You want in?”
You looked at it. You shouldn’t. You knew that. You hadn’t smoked since Keegan, partly because getting high made memory slow and tactile, turned it into something that could sit inside you for hours. But the night already had your throat in its hand, and you were tired of being sharp.
“Yeah.”
The first inhale scraped. You held it too long out of habit and coughed into your fist, eyes watering. Kick pretended not to watch. Ajax looked out into the yard, giving you privacy from the fact that your body couldn’t even take smoke without making a scene tonight.
For a while, nobody said anything. The party moved behind you through the kitchen wall. A record changed inside, the song heavier now, drums thick enough to reach through the siding and put a hand around your ribs. You hated that your body could pick him out even when he wasn’t playing. Everything with a hard enough beat became him if you were miserable enough.
Ajax leaned forward, elbows on his knees, bottle hanging loosely from his fingers. “Did something happen with you two?”
You looked out at the dead bicycle. “Why?”
“Because Russ looked like he wanted to blow up half the block.”
Kick made a small sound around the beer bottle. “That’d be fucking cool.”
You almost smiled. It didn’t last. “We’re not seeing each other anymore.”
The deck went quiet in a different way. Ajax didn’t react much. That was its own reaction. His shoulders stilled. His gaze dropped to the joint dying out in his hand.
Kick turned his head. “Wait. You and Russ?”
You felt the words strike exactly where you were already sore.
He didn’t say it cruelly. He sounded surprised, maybe even embarrassed that he had missed it. But the surprise itself was the injury. You had been in Keegan’s bed, in his basement, in his clothes, and still, to someone close enough to share a stage with him, you were news.
You looked at him. “Yeah.”
Kick blinked once. “Shit. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah,” you said, quieter. “That part’s been made clear.”
Ajax rubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“It just sucks, [Name]. I’m sorry.”
You took the joint when they passed it back, needing something to do with your hands. The paper was damp near the filter. You could taste everyone else on it, beer, ash, the bitter green warmth of weed. “It’s fine.”
Ajax looked at you.
You rolled your eyes, tired. “Okay, it’s not fine. Happy?”
“No.”
Kick scratched the side of his jaw, visibly uncomfortable. “Russ doesn’t really tell people shit, for what it’s worth.”
You exhaled smoke into the cold air. “Is that worth anything, really?”
“Probably not.”
At this, you did let out the tiniest of laughs.
“He’s weird about stuff,” Kick said, then seemed to hear how useless that sounded. “I mean, he’s weird about everything. You could ask him what he wants on a pizza and he’d act like you wanted to know his blood type.”
Ajax snorted despite himself. “I don’t think he was embarrassed.”
You hated how quickly that got your attention. “You don’t know that.”
“I know him.”
“So do I,” you said.
The words left your mouth before you could stop them, and the second they were out, you wanted to take them back. Because you didknow him. You knew the small things. The stupid things. The physical things. You knew the texture of his sheets after they came out of the dryer, how he never tucked them around the mattress properly. You knew his mouth went soft when he was half asleep. You knew the low, broken sound he made when your nails dragged too hard down his back. You knew how he liked his coffee and how long he could smoke without saying anything, eyes fixed somewhere far away. You knew the way his drumming changed when he was angry, harder on the snare, impatient with the cymbals. You knew what he looked like when he wanted you.
You did not know where he put you when other people asked about his life.
Ajax watched your face for a moment, then looked away, giving you the dignity of pretending he hadn’t seen whatever crossed it. “He’s been off all week.”
“Good.”
“You mean that?”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came.
That was the problem. You wanted to mean it. You wanted the clean cruelty of wishing him miserable. Instead, all you could think about was Keegan pacing around his basement and noticing your things missing, if he noticed at all. Your lighter absent from the ashtray. Your body absent from the couch. His shirts gone. The room still holding its breath around where you used to be.
“No,” you said finally. “Not really.”
The weed was smoothing the edges of the night, not enough to make it painless, just enough to make the truth easier to touch. You stayed outside longer than you meant to. The joint burned down in small turns. Kick wandered back inside when someone shouted his name from the kitchen, leaving you and Ajax on the step with the damp cold gathering around your ankles.
Ajax didn’t tell you to forgive Keegan. He didn’t say Keegan was a good guy underneath it all, which would have made you want to throw the beer bottle into the yard. He just sat there, shoulder occasionally brushing yours, steady in a way you didn’t even realize you needed.
Eventually, the cold got under your clothes.
You stood, brushing your hands down your jeans. “I’m going back in.”
Ajax looked up. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You need backup or something?”
You almost smiled. “I can handle him.”
Ajax’s face stayed serious. “That’s not what I asked.”
The question behind it was gentler than you wanted. You looked away towards the kitchen window, at the silhouettes moving behind the glass.
“I’m okay,” you said.
Ajax held your gaze a second longer. “Alright.”
You went inside before either of you could test the lie.
The house hit you all at once again. Heat, music, bodies, the sour sweet smell of beer spilled into old carpet. The living room had rearranged itself while you were gone, people shifted into new clusters, someone sitting on the arm of the couch, someone lying on the floor with their boots up the wall, a girl carefully pouring vodka into a plastic cup. Keegan was nowhere obvious. That should have relieved you. It made your skin prickle instead.
You told yourself to find the bathroom. Pee. Wash your hands. Leave. A simple plan. You could text Ajax tomorrow and thank him. You could go home, take off the shirt, and decide in the morning whether to give it back someday or bury it in the back of your closet until the feeling died on its own.
You made it halfway down the hall before a hand closed around your wrist.
Your body knew before you turned.
Keegan’s grip was firm enough to stop you, warm and immediate against your skin, pulling you out of the slow current of people moving down the hallway. You turned with a sharp breath already in your chest. He stood close, face harsher under the weak hall light, eyes too bright, mouth set like he had been looking for you longer than he wanted to admit.
He opened a door with his other hand and guided you inside.
The bedroom was too small for what had followed you in. Too small for anger. Too small for pride. Too small for all the things you had not said at Barracuda, in your car, in your apartment while staring at your blocked contacts like your phone might change your mind for you on its own. Blue light spilled from a shitty lamp on the nightstand, thin and artificial, tinting everything with a sick, underwater cast. It soaked over the low bed and its rumpled comforter, over a warped mirror propped against the closet door, over milk crates stacked beneath the window with records sliding crookedly inside them. The carpet had been worn down in the centre by years of pacing, shoes, spilled beer, careless bodies. The air smelled like old smoke trapped in fabric, weed threaded into the walls, cheap detergent, dust warmed by a bulb that had probably been burning for hours. It was Ajax’s room, probably.
And still, all you could feel was your wrist.
Keegan’s hand was gone now, but your skin hadn’t accepted that yet. The ghost of his grip remained, hot and exact, a pressure your body remembered humiliatingly. He hadn’t hurt you. That was almost worse. If he had grabbed you hard, if he had been cruel in a way that made sense, you could have built yourself around the anger. But he had touched you like he knew you might vanish if he didn’t act quickly enough, like panic had worn his fingers for him.
You turned on him. “Open the door.”
He didn’t block it or crowd you against it. He didn’t lean into that cold, immovable thing he sometimes became when he felt his guard slipping. He merely stepped aside, one hand still curled around the knob, jaw set so tightly the muscle moved under his skin. It was the restraint that did something sharp and awful to you. He looked like he wanted to put himself between you and the rest of the house.
“Go ahead.”
You stared at him.
Keegan’s mouth barely moved. “You want out, go.”
The blue light made him look harsher than he already was, cutting shadows under his cheekbones, catching pale along the bridge of his nose, flattening the dark circles under his eyes. He stood there like the door meant nothing, like your choice meant everything, and the contradiction made you want to scream. He had dragged you in here. He had closed the door. He had created this pocket of air where all the noise outside became muffled and distant, where you could no longer pretend you were just at a party because Ajax invited you and Keegan happened to be there.
“You dragged me in here.”
“Yeah.”
“So?”
“So leave if you want.”
The calm in his voice pissed you off more than shouting would have. There was no softness in it, no apology hanging plainly enough for you to grab, only that low, rough, difficult control, worn thinner than usual. You could see the wreckage underneath it if you looked closely, and you hated that you still knew where to look. His shoulders were tight under the black cotton, his chest rising in shallow measures. His hand stayed on the knob a second longer before he let it go, fingers flexing once at his side. Even now, even like this, your body catalogued him without permission. The line of his throat. The stubble along his jaw. The way his eyes kept moving over your face and then away, as if staring too long might make him say something he couldn’t swallow back.
You reached for the knob anyway.
Your fingers closed around it. It was cool from the draft sneaking under the door, a cheap brass thing dulled by too many hands. You could have turned it. You could have opened the door and stepped back into the hall, let the music swallow you, let Ajax spot your face and decide whether to ask or pretend not to notice. You could have walked through the kitchen, past the empty bottles and the girls leaning against counters, past the porch with its warm light, out into the damp street with Keegan’s shirt clinging to your body. You could have gone home and kept the block in place. You could have let him stand alone in this blue room with whatever he refused to acknowledge.
You didn’t.
Your hand stayed on the knob for one breath. Then another. Your body had always betrayed you in small ways around him. Leaning closer before you had decided to. Looking at his mouth when you meant to glare. Waiting for his text after promising yourself you would not. Now it betrayed you in stillness.
His eyes dropped to your hand on the knob, then back to your face. “That’s what I thought.”
The words moved through you like a match strike. Quick, hot, mean.
You laughed once, sharp and ugly. “Fuck you.”
“Probably shouldn’t start there.”
“Don’t joke.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Keegan’s tongue pressed into his cheek. His gaze shifted to the warped mirror and didn’t seem to register his own reflection there, split slightly by the bend in the glass. His shoulders were tense under his shirt, the black cotton stretched across his chest like he had been holding his breath for hours. “Trying not to say something stupid.”
“That would be new.”
His eyes snapped back to yours. “You done, [Name]?”
“No.” You let go of the knob, turning fully toward him now. “No, I’m not done. You don’t get to act pissed because I showed up. Ajax invited me.”
“Ajax doesn’t know shit.”
“Apparently nobody does.”
That landed. It landed exactly where you aimed it, and the small cruelty of that should have satisfied you. Instead, it made your stomach twist. You saw his face change, fast enough that anyone else might have missed it, a flinch so quick it hid inside a tightening jaw, a blink, a shift of his weight. But you were practised in Keegan’s almosts. Almost anger. Almost apology. Almost tenderness. You had lived inside those almosts for months.
Keegan’s voice dropped. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what, Keegan? Notice?” You stepped closer, and he didn’t move back. “Kick didn’t even know. He looked at me like I was growing a third arm when I told him you and I were sleeping together.”
The sentence tasted bitter the second it left you. It wasn’t Kick’s fault. You knew that. His surprise had been harmless, maybe even innocent in a blunt, band guy way, but it had carved straight through the thin skin you had managed to grow over the last few days. You could still see his face outside on the deck, the quick confusion, the realization that he had missed something obvious only because Keegan had made sure there was nothing obvious to see. You had sat there with smoke in your lungs and his shirt on your body and felt yourself shrink under the knowledge that you had been important in private and invisible everywhere else.
His jaw tightened.
You smiled without humour. “What? That’s embarrassing for you?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
He didn’t answer fast enough.
The pause did what his words wouldn’t. It opened a space and filled it with every fear you had been trying to starve. Maybe he hadn’t wanted anyone to know because then people would ask what you were. Maybe he had liked the convenience of you better than the responsibility. Maybe you had mistaken access for intimacy, mistaken his bed for a place in his life, mistaken the quiet way he handed you a joint or tucked his fingers into your hair for care. Maybe you had been living in a story he had never agreed to be part of.
You nodded, like the silence had given you everything. “Right.”
Keegan exhaled hard through his nose. “You think I was hiding you?”
“I think you never brought me anywhere, never told anyone anything, never asked me to stay unless you wanted to use me.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Then say what it was.”
He stared at you, eyes pale and furious in the blue light.
You waited.
Nothing.
The silence should have been familiar by now. Keegan’s silence had its own architecture, its own weight. Sometimes it had felt comfortable, stretching over the two of you in his basement after sex while music leaked softly from an old speaker and neither of you needed to fill the room. Sometimes it had felt like punishment, a door closing while you were still on the wrong side. This silence was worse because it was neither. You could see words gathering behind his teeth and failing to become anything useful.
Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out anyway. “You can fuck me, but you can’t admit you like me. That’s insane.”
His face shifted. “I never said I didn’t.”
“You never said anything.”
“Because I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Really? Really, you don’t know what I want you to say? Not one fucking thing comes to mind?”
Keegan looked down at the floor, and for once he didn’t look cold. He looked tired. Cornered. His hand dragged over his mouth, thumb catching at his bottom lip.
“I tried texting you,” he muttered.
It went through you with a dull, sick ache. You had known, in theory. Of course you had known. Blocking him only mattered if there was something to block. But hearing it from him made the last few days rearrange themselves. The quiet phone. The empty screen. The stupid part of you that kept expecting his name anyway. Somewhere on the other side of that silence, he had been trying to reach you, and the thought hurt even though you were the one who had built the wall.
You hated how much that hurt. “Yeah. I blocked you.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Yeah. Great. Really cleared things up.”
“Things were pretty clear at Barracuda.”
The name changed the air again. Barracuda came back in fragments, red tile, sweat, bass shaking the bathroom walls, the burn in your chest when he said he wasn’t your boyfriend like he was correcting a misunderstanding you should have been smart enough not to make. The way his mouth had tasted when he kissed you afterwards, like smoke and anger and all the things he couldn’t say. The way you had walked out before you could let the kiss soften you into forgiveness.
His eyes lifted again. “I was pissed.”
“So was I.”
“You walked out.”
“And you were fine with it.”
“What was I supposed to do?” His voice rose for the first time, not loudly but rough enough to cut through the muffled music outside. “Run after you in the middle of a set?”
“You could’ve called after.”
“I did.”
“I mean before I blocked you.”
He stopped.
You saw the answer before he said it. It crossed his face in a quiet, ugly way. The small retreat. The pride. The calculation he had probably mistaken for restraint. Keegan had a talent for waiting until waiting became harm. He could convince himself that silence was patience, that distance was respect, that doing nothing was better than doing the wrong thing. Maybe he had even believed it. Maybe that was the problem.
Keegan looked away. “I thought you needed space.”
“No, you didn’t. You thought if you waited long enough, I’d come back on my own.”
His mouth tightened.
There was no victory in being right. It only made you feel more naked.
“That’s what I always do, right?” you said, quieter now. “You say something shitty, or you go cold, or you make me feel like I’m asking for too much, and I still come back. I come over. I get in your bed. I wear your clothes. I pretend I don’t care because that’s easier for you.”
He swallowed. You watched the movement of his throat and wished you hadn’t. It made him look human. That was inconvenient. Anger wanted him cruel and simple. Anger wanted a clean target, someone who had meant to hurt you because he didn’t care. It didn’t know what to do with Keegan standing there looking at the floor like he recognized himself in what you were saying and hated the reflection.
You looked down because your eyes were starting to burn, and you hated that. Hated crying in front of him. Hated that your body still wanted to fold itself into his even while your chest felt scraped raw.
The bed sat behind you, close enough that you could feel its presence against the backs of your legs without touching it. The whole room seemed designed to make you aware of bodies and proximity, the low ceiling, the stale warmth, the rumpled comforter, the narrow strip of floor between you. You could hear your own breathing now, uneven at the edges. You could smell him too clearly. Beer. Smoke. Soap. A faint trace of sweat from the party. Familiarity was crueler than memory because it was present. It stood in front of you, breathing, and made leaving feel like cutting through flesh.
“I came tonight because I wanted you to see me,” you admitted. “That’s pathetic, but fine. Whatever. I wanted you to see me in your shirt and feel like shit. I wanted you to wonder if I was here for Ajax or some random fucking guy outside. I wanted you to have to stand there and not know.”
Keegan’s eyes moved over your face, slower now.
“And then you did look like shit,” you continued. “And I couldn’t even enjoy it.”
His voice was low. “Why?”
You laughed under your breath, but it broke halfway through. “Don’t make me answer that.”
Because answering would mean stepping past the last intact piece of your pride. Because the answer was obvious and humiliating. Because wanting to hurt him and failing had told you more about your own heart than any confession could. You had come here ready to prove you could be cruel if you needed to be, and instead the first flicker of pain on his face had made you feel sick. You didn’t want him untouched by consequences. You didn’t want him happy without you. But you didn’t want him destroyed either, and that tenderness, unwanted as it was, made you feel trapped inside yourself.
He stepped closer.
You stepped back once, and your calves hit the bed.
Keegan stopped immediately. That small restraint hurt almost more than if he hadn’t noticed. It would have been easier if he kept coming, if he let the argument become something simpler, something you could push against. But he stopped as soon as your body told him to. His hands stayed at his sides.
“[Name],” he said, and your name sounded rough in his mouth. “You know I’m shit at this.”
“Yeah, I figured that out.”
“No.” He shook his head, frustrated, eyes dropping again before he forced them back to yours. “I mean I don’t know how to do it. I’ve never cared enough to do it right before. And now I’m fucking everything up.”
You waited, breathing too fast. Keegan looked at you for a long moment. Then he added, very quietly, “I missed you.”
It was so simple that it knocked the fight out of you. It was almost absurd, how small his words were compared to what you had wanted. And still, your body reacted like he had placed his hand against an open wound and willed it to heal.
You blinked.
Keegan seemed to hate that he had said it. His shoulders went rigid, and his gaze shifted to the wall behind you like he couldn’t stand watching your face react.
“That’s it?” you whispered.
His eyes cut back, wounded despite himself. “What the fuck do you mean, that’s it?”
“I mean,” you said, throat tight, “that it sounds like a bunch of bullshit.”
Keegan rubbed both hands over his face. “For fuck’s sake, it’s not. I missed you, and I was pissed that I missed you. I kept going to text you and then remembering you wouldn’t get it. I missed the way you smell, the way you laugh, the way you used to roll those shitty deformed joints—” His gaze flicked over your body, brief and raw. “Everything just felt wrong without you.”
You looked down at yourself, cheeks warm.
“And now you show up here,” he pressed on, voice rough, “in my own fucking clothes, acting like I’m supposed to just let it slide, and I can’t. I can’t because I don’t want you to leave again. I don’t want to lose you again.”
Keegan looked embarrassed by the honesty, but he didn’t take it back. He stood there with the words still between you, his mouth tight, his eyes refusing to leave yours now.
You sat down on the edge of the bed because your legs felt unsteady and you didn’t want him to know that. The mattress creaked under you, a tired complaint under the comforter. The dip of it brought you lower than him, and you hated the vulnerability of that angle at first, hated having to look up at him with your eyes too hot and your hands uncertain in your lap. He stayed standing in front of you, close enough that his knees nearly touched yours, but he didn’t reach for you.
That restraint again. Quiet and careful.
You rubbed under one eye with your knuckle before a tear could fall. “You made me feel stupid.”
Something loosened in him and then tightened again, like the sentence had gone somewhere deeper than he expected. His eyes moved over your face, across the place where you had rubbed at your skin, and guilt sat plainly enough there that you had to look away.
“I know we weren’t together,” you said. “I know. You made that extremely clear. But I felt something, and you acted like I was crazy for wanting to know if you did too.”
“You weren’t crazy.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I didn’t tell people because I didn’t want them in it,” he said. “That’s the truth. Not because of you. Because of me. Because they’d ask questions, and Ajax would make that face, and Kick would say something stupid, and everyone would assume you’d be staying in my life.” He swallowed, his throat suddenly all you could look at. “And I didn’t know if you were.”
Your chest hurt.
You wanted to scream at him that you had been staying the whole time. That every morning you woke up in his bed and didn’t leave right away, every afternoon you lingered on his couch while he practised, every night you let your bare leg rest over his under the sheets, you had been choosing to stay in the only language he seemed willing to understand. But you also knew that wasn’t entirely fair. You had both been speaking around the thing. You had both mistaken not asking for not needing an answer.
“Keegan.”
“I’m not saying it made sense.”
“You hurt me because you were scared I’d hurt you first?”
He looked away. The silence was answer enough.
You breathed out shakily. “That is so fucking exhausting.”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t keep doing that.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked at you then, properly. “Yeah, [Name], I do.”
You searched his face for the usual escape route. The smirk. The coldness. The shrug that turned a wound into something you had imagined. None of it came.
The door rattled under a knock before either of you could say anything else. Ajax’s voice came through, muffled. “Russ? You alive?”
Keegan closed his eyes.
You almost laughed, but your throat was too tight. The sound rose in you and dissolved before it could become anything. Maybe under different circumstances, it would have been funny, but your eyes still burned, your chest still hurt, and Keegan looked like he was holding himself together by the skin of his teeth.
Ajax knocked again. “You two fucking, fighting, or both?”
Keegan turned and opened the door just enough to glare through the gap. “Leave.”
From where you sat, you could see only part of Ajax at first. One shoulder, the side of his face, his hand braced against the doorframe. The hallway behind him glowed warmer than the bedroom, yellow light and moving shadow, someone passing with a drink held too high. Ajax’s expression shifted as soon as he saw Keegan’s face. Whatever joke he had ready died quietly. His gaze moved past Keegan to you sitting on the bed.
“You good?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Ajax didn’t believe you, but he accepted it. “Okay.” He looked back at Keegan. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Keegan shut the door in his face and locked it. When he turned around, you were still watching him.
He crossed the room slowly and stopped in front of you again. This close, you could see the strain in him. The faint redness at the rims of his eyes, the tension in his mouth, the way his hands flexed like he wanted to touch you but knew he hadn’t earned it yet. His rings caught the blue light when his fingers moved. His knuckles looked rough, familiar. You remembered those hands on drumsticks, on your bare waist, rolling joints with effortless precision when you gave up, pressing into the mattress beside your head. You remembered wanting them. You remembered resenting how much.
“Can I?” he asked.
“Can you what?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Kiss you.”
Your breath caught.
He had kissed you before in anger, in hunger, in that wordless rush where bodies tried to solve what mouths avoided. This was different. He stood in front of you and asked, rough voiced and visibly uncomfortable with needing permission, and the care inside that discomfort made your chest tighten until you could barely breathe around it.
You nodded once.
He leaned down, one hand coming carefully to the side of your neck. His palm was warm, fingers rough at the edges, thumb resting just beneath your jaw. He moved slowly enough that you could have turned away, slowly enough that the choice remained yours right up until the moment his mouth touched yours.
But you kissed him back fiercely, and his restraint cracked with a quiet sound against your mouth. His breath came hard through his nose. Yours caught when he stepped between your knees and tilted your head back further, tongue sliding against yours with a heat that made your stomach clench.
There was still some anger in it. You could taste the last couple of days in the kiss, the blocked number, the empty couch, the shirt you kept, the girls near him in Ajax’s living room, your hand on the doorknob and your failure to leave. His fingers tightened at your jaw and then loosened, as if he kept remembering himself. The softness of that restraint kept colliding with the heat of his mouth until you didn’t know whether you wanted to cry or pull him down on top of you.
You reached for his belt.
Keegan caught your wrist.
You pulled back, face hot. “What?”
He was breathing hard. His eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide. “Don’t.”
You stiffened.
The room seemed to tilt for a second. Rejection crawled up your spine before you could reason with it. Your hand was still near his belt, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, and suddenly you felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothes. It was humiliating how quickly your mind reached for the worst interpretation. He didn’t want you like that now. You had misread him. You had reached too soon, wanted too much, offered the easiest part of yourself because it had worked before.
His grip loosened immediately, thumb brushing over your pulse. “Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re using it to fix everything.”
That hit too close.
You looked away. “I just want you, okay?”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I don’t want you doing that because you think it’ll make things normal again.”
Your throat tightened.
Because it would have been easy. That was the ugly truth of it. Easy to pull him closer, undo his belt, replace the ache in the room with something familiar and physical. Easy to make him groan, to feel wanted in a way that had shape and proof, to let sex blur the hard lines until morning. Easy to mistake relief for repair. You had done it before. Maybe not always consciously, but enough that him seeing it now made your skin burn.
He crouched in front of you, still holding your wrist, his voice lower now. “I don’t want normal if normal means you leaving after.”
You stared at him, chest rising and falling.
Keegan’s hand slid from your wrist to your knee. The placement was careful, almost painfully so. Not high enough to assume. Not loose enough to be nothing. His palm rested warm over your jeans, thumb still, his body lowered in front of yours like he had finally put himself somewhere he could not pretend to be above the damage. The blue light caught in his eyes when he looked up at you.
“Forgive me.”
The words came out small enough that, for a second, they almost disappeared into the house. You looked down at him. Keegan’s face was angled up towards you, all that usual severity stripped into something rougher. He looked uncomfortable with his own need. Almost pissed at it. His mouth was tense, his shoulders still holding the last of the fight, but his eyes had gone quieter now. Less guarded. You hated how badly that reached you.
You breathed out, almost laughing, though it came out shaky. “You’re really selling it, huh?”
His gaze flicked over your face, careful in a way he rarely was unless your body was involved. “Yeah, well.” He swallowed. “I’m shit at sales.”
“Clearly.”
A faint twitch moved near his mouth, then vanished. “[Name], at this point I’d let you run over my drum set with your car if it meant another chance.”
The sentence caught you off guard. A laugh broke out before you could stop it, small and wet and frayed at the edges. It loosened something lodged high in your throat.
“What did the drum set ever do to you?”
Keegan’s thumb moved once along the seam of your jeans. “Sat there and watched while I treated you like shit.”
The humour faltered, sinking into the carpet between you.
For some stupid reason, you did picture his drum set in the basement. The snare with its worn skin. The cymbals gleaming in the basement light. The stool turned slightly from where he’d left it. All of it silent while you sat on his couch, trying to be cool enough to survive wanting more than he gave you. It should have been ridiculous. Instead, your eyes burned again.
You sniffed and looked away. “Awful drum set.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Fuckin’ guilty.”
The room went quiet after that, like both of you had finally run out of ways to make this worse. Your anger was still there, somewhere under your ribs, but it had stopped throwing itself against the walls. It sat heavy and exhausted, breathing in the dark, making room for something else to come near it.
Keegan looked up again. “Forgive me.”
You thought about the days without him. The stupid ache of your phone staying dark. The shirt you wore because you wanted to hurt him and ended up hurting yourself too. The way he had stopped when you stepped back. The way he was still waiting now, like forcing you would ruin whatever fragile thing had survived the night.
“Okay,” you said, barely above a whisper.
His breath hitched. “Yeah?”
“But if you ever—”
He rose just enough to kiss you. It was quick and clumsy; his mouth pressed to yours and pulled away before it could turn into something entirely different, before heat could swallow the rest of the sentence.
“I won’t,” he said.
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
You looked at him, your mouth still tingling, your hand curled loosely against the bedspread. He stayed close, breathing unevenly, his forehead almost touching yours. He didn’t reach for more. He just stayed there with you, in the stale little room, under that cheap blue light, letting the relief arrive without pretending it was anything else.
After a moment, his eyes shifted towards the door. “Can we get out of here? I swear if Ajax comes around asking if we’re okay one more time, I’ll put my head through the wall.”
This time, your laugh was fuller. Real.
“Yours or mine?”
Keegan looked back at you.
Something in his face eased then, the smallest surrender, the hard line of him giving way around the edges.
character: Logan Walker
words: 12,978
cw: 18+, smut, sex, angst, yearning and pining, happy ending I promise
description: AU in which you're crushing stupidly on Hesh so Logan lets you “practice” on him in the meantime.
a/n: my first fic after almost a year of being inactive :’) hope you guys enjoyed this one!! it's a little long but I think Logan deserves the love lol
Dinner at the Walker house became routine.
That evening, your aunt appeared in the doorway with a covered dish balanced against her hip, her mouth set in a pleased little line. Elias was grilling. Your uncle was bringing wine. Hesh had apparently helped his father set up the backyard. Logan was home too, though Logan’s presence was more of a nuisance. He tended to appear whether people wanted him to or not, leaning against doorframes, stealing grapes from the fruit bowl, texting at strange hours with no greeting and no explanation, as if normal social rules had never applied to him.
By then, you had been in San Diego long enough for your aunt’s house to begin feeling a bit more like home.
That was what unsettled you most, more than the quiet, though God, the quiet could be brutal in the middle of the afternoon, when the air conditioning kicked on and the refrigerator hummed and the whole house seemed to wait for you to become useful again. It was the slow accumulation of proof that you lived there now, however temporarily. Your books on the nightstand with bent corners and old weathered bookmarks tucked between pages. Your shoes under the bench by the front door, no longer pushed carefully to the side. A cardigan over the back of the chair in the guest room. The stubborn half empty suitcase at the foot of the bed. Your aunt buying your favourite shampoo without asking because she had noticed the bottle you brought from home was running low. Your uncle replacing the flickering bulb over your desk because he said it was driving him insane. Little things.
To anyone who asked, you were taking some time. Staying with family for a bit. Figuring things out. Clean phrases. Acceptable phrases. They made it sound like you had set something down carefully instead of dropping it because your arms had finally gone numb. Your aunt and uncle had not pushed for more than you could give. Your aunt had opened the door and cupped your face between both hands for one brief second before letting go, like she was afraid too much tenderness would make you shatter. Your uncle had carried your bag upstairs and put it in the guest room, then stood awkwardly by the door and said, “Stay as long as you’d like.”
The Walker house had entered your life two nights later, carried across the yard in the form of Elias Walker and far too much food.
Elias was steady and, above all, warm. He did not ask why you were there. He handed your aunt two heavy Tupperware containers and told her he had misjudged portions again. Hesh had come with him, one arm full of foil wrapped dishes, the other hand steadying a jar of sauce that kept trying to slide. He had smiled at you in the kitchen, and some embarrassing part of your body had answered before the rest of you caught up. He was handsome in an almost aggravatingly natural way; just warm eyes, easy shoulders, a voice that sounded like it had never needed to fight for attention. Logan had trailed in last with a six-pack tucked under one arm, looked at you for half a second longer than politeness required, and said, “So you’re the one always abusing the pool out back.”
Your aunt had hit him with a dish towel.
He had laughed as if that was what he had wanted.
Since then, the Walkers had become part of the weather of your days. Elias and your uncle talked in driveways about boat motors, fishing lines, and power tools. Hesh came by with more leftovers, lifted heavy things, remembered which cabinet held mugs in your aunt’s kitchen, and asked you questions about your life before San Diego with enough care that you could answer without feeling cornered. Logan appeared without clear purpose. He leaned against the fence while you read by the pool and asked what was happening in your book, then insulted every plot point with the delusional confidence of a man who’d probably never picked up a serious novel in his life. He texted you a photo of a burnt sandwich at midnight without context. He called you “guest room” for an entire week until you threatened to put a lawn chair through his window.
You liked Hesh first because Hesh made sense.
He was the obvious person to like, almost embarrassingly so. Hesh was kind in ways that did not demand reciprocity. He carried things before anyone had to ask. He listened when your uncle spoke, and not with the strained politeness people used when waiting for their turn. He seemed to understand that your presence in San Diego came with sore edges, and he never pressed a thumb to them for the satisfaction of watching you flinch. When you told him, vaguely, that you were between things, he had nodded as though that was a complete answer and not the prettiest shard of a broken one.
Logan did not make sense.
Logan got under your skin because he did not move around the ache with the same careful grace. He poked near it, sometimes too close, sometimes exactly close enough. He made you irritated, and irritation was easier to survive than gratitude. He made your aunt laugh so hard she had to brace herself against the counter. He made your uncle call him a bonehead with open fondness. He watched people with a casual indifference that fooled no one who paid attention. You were not sure when you became one of the few people paying attention.
Still, when your aunt said, “Elias is grilling tonight,” your mind went first to Hesh.
Your body did too, traitorous and immediate.
You were on the living room couch with a book open in your lap, though you had reread the same paragraph enough times that the words had lost meaning and become only shapes. Your aunt stood in the doorway with her covered dish, already ready to go.
“We were just there,” you protested.
“Two nights ago.”
“We’re going to wear out our welcome, you know.”
Your uncle came down the hall, keys in hand, pausing long enough to glance at the dish. “If Elias is cooking, we go. That’s neighbour law.”
Your aunt gave him a fond look, then turned it on you, gentler. “Come on. It’ll be good to get out of the house.”
The phrase was simple. Harmless. It was also the sort of thing people said when they were worried you were becoming furniture.
“I need ten minutes,” you said.
The guest room upstairs had warm late afternoon light lying across the floorboards, the blinds cutting it into narrow bands. Your suitcase sat open at the foot of the bed. You changed once, frowned. Changed again, hated that you were trying to look like you were not trying. Changed a third time and stood there with your hands resting uselessly at your sides, staring at yourself without seeing anything useful. It was ridiculous. You were going next door to eat dinner with your aunt and uncle and their neighbours. You were not presenting yourself to Hesh Walker like an offering.
But want made you stupid in quiet, specific ways. It made you think about fabric and posture and whether your face looked tired. It made you stand under the ceiling fan in your borrowed room and try to imagine what Hesh would see when you walked into the yard. It made you ashamed of caring, then ashamed of being ashamed, until the whole thing exhausted you enough that you settled on the last outfit simply because you could no longer bear to look.
Downstairs, your aunt gave you one glance and said nothing.
The Walkers’ backyard glowed when you crossed over.
Their yard was nothing like the careful, pale brightness of your aunt’s. It was rougher, looser, more lived in. The long wooden table beneath the string lights was scarred with heat rings and old knife marks. The chairs did not match, but everyone seemed to have a preferred one anyway. Potted herbs grew wild near the sliding door, rosemary and basil and something flowering that had gone leggy from neglect. A cooler sat open beneath the table, bottles buried in ice, water dripping onto the stone. Smoke lifted from the grill and spread itself through the evening, rich with charred peppers, fish, citrus, salt, the sharp green smell of chopped herbs bruised under a knife. Music played quietly from a speaker near the window, low enough to sink beneath the conversation rather than compete with it.
Elias stood at the grill, tongs in one hand, listening to your uncle tell a story you had heard at least twice. Hesh was at the table, setting down plates with a competent ease that made you feel irritatingly soft inside. Logan sat backwards on one of the patio chairs, chin resting on folded arms, watching his brother do the work with serene uselessness.
Hesh looked up first.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you said, and hated the way your voice warmed.
Logan’s eyes slid towards you at once. You ignored him because you had learned, over the past few weeks, that attention was the first thing Logan tried to take and the last thing he would ever admit wanting.
Your aunt lifted the dish. “I brought salad.”
Elias did not turn from the grill. “I told you not to bring anything.”
“I know.”
“Trying to show me up in my own house?”
Your uncle set the wine on the table. “It’s best not to fight her.”
“I know,” Elias laughed. “I keep losing.”
Hesh came around the table and reached for the dish. “I’ll take it.”
“Thank you, honey,” your aunt said, with such easy affection that you felt your crush become suddenly juvenile, a schoolgirl thing pressed behind your ribs.
Logan leaned back in his chair and glanced at the covered bowl. “More food. Bold. Dad’s already cooking like he’s trying to feed an army.”
Without looking over, Elias said, “You want to eat less?”
Logan straightened immediately. “No, sir.”
“Then stop complaining.”
“I was making an observation.”
“You observe too much,” Hesh said.
Logan’s gaze flickered to you. “Been told that.”
It landed lightly enough that no one else cared. You cared, which was annoying.
The evening moved forward in small, tangible pieces. Chairs scraping over stone. Ice clinking in glasses. Your aunt laughing with one hand pressed to her chest. Hesh walking past you with a plate and saying, softly, “Careful, this one’s hot,” as he set it down near your hand. Logan seeing you notice Hesh’s fingers before you could stop yourself. Smoke thinning into the air, then thickening again when Elias lifted the grill lid. Your uncle and Elias already deep in some conversation about tides and bait and weather patterns, speaking with the grave, coded certainty of men who had long since decided fish were always worth getting up at dawn for.
You sat across from Logan. Hesh ended up diagonal from you, close enough that you could look at him without turning your whole head. Logan saw the calculation. Of course he did. He watched you choose your chair, then took a slow drink like he had just watched you commit a crime in plain sight.
Later, well into dinner, Hesh leaned in, his expression softer than you wanted it to be. “You settling in okay?”
That question from anyone else would have made you lock up. From Hesh, it made you want to answer too honestly. He had a way of making concern feel like a chair pulled out beside you in solidarity rather than a spotlight turned on your face.
“Depends on the day,” you said.
Hesh nodded. “That sounds about right.”
He did not ask for the bad days. He did not make you prove there were good ones. He let the answer stand, imperfect and alive between you. You hated how easily that deepened the ache.
Hesh was beautiful in the worst way because his beauty was not only physical. It was in how he noticed Elias had been standing too long by the grill and quietly switched his beer for water. It was in how he remembered the onions and nudged the bowl past you without comment. It was in how he listened to your uncle’s fishing plans with genuine patience. He made goodness look unforced, and that was dangerous because it let you imagine there was no cost to it.
Logan, meanwhile, watched from across the table as if the whole thing was a film he had seen before and resented for being predictable.
When Hesh leaned towards you again to offer the peppers this time, Logan’s chair creaked.
You glanced up.
He was staring down at his plate, pushing a charred piece of pepper through a smear of sauce. His mouth had flattened, not into anger, exactly. Into restraint. Something held back. Something bitten down on. Then he looked up and caught you watching.
For a second, neither of you moved. His mouth curved, faintly. It was not his usual grin. It had no swagger in it. No joke ready to follow.
You looked away first.
“So,” Hesh said, as if nothing in the world had shifted, “have you gone to the beach yet?”
You groaned. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because it’s ten minutes away and you’ve been avoiding it like the plague.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Maybe I don’t like sand.”
“Nobody likes sand.”
“Then why are you all obsessed with putting yourselves near it?”
“The water,” Hesh said, simply.
“My aunt has a pool.”
Logan made a sound into his drink.
You turned to him. “What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just that all I’ve seen you do in that pool is float around like a bloated corpse.”
Your cheeks heated. There was laughter around the table, gentle and easy, but it thinned quickly. The conversation moved on, as conversations do. Your aunt asked Elias about the herbs. Your uncle asked Hesh about work. Logan took another drink and did not look at you for almost five full minutes, which felt more pointed than staring would have.
After dinner, the adults stayed outside beneath the string lights, softened by food and wine and the warm evening air. The yard had gone amber. Glass rims caught the light. The leftover peppers shone slick on a platter. The sky beyond the fence had darkened to a deep blue that made the whole patio feel enclosed and intimate. Your aunt had kicked her sandals off beneath her chair. Elias leaned back with one arm hooked over the empty seat beside him, laughing at something your uncle said about the boat.
Hesh began clearing plates.
You stood too fast. “I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Logan made a sound to the side, almost like a choked laugh.
The kitchen was cooler than outside, lit warmly over the counters, the sliding door open behind you so voices drifted in with the smell of watered grass and fading smoke. You scraped plates while Hesh rinsed them, close enough that your arms nearly brushed when you both reached for the same dish. It should not have felt intimate. It was only food stuck to ceramic, water running over your knuckles, a damp dish towel thrown over the edge of the sink. But there was something merciless about domestic closeness when you wanted someone. It gave your imagination ordinary things to ruin. Hesh’s sleeves pushed up. His hand steady on the plate. The way he lowered the tap when you spoke, as if your voice deserved less noise around it.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said.
You glanced over. “Have I?”
“A little.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice.”
His eyes softened. “I always notice, [Name].”
That made something in you loosen and tighten at once. Heat bloomed in your cheeks again.
You stared down at the plate in your hands. The words were too kind. Too easily given. They made you want to step towards him and away from him at the same time. You looked up at Hesh, and there it was again. The crush. Hot, aching, almost painful in its hopefulness.
“I’m good, I promise,” you said.
“You sure? Logan didn’t say something out of pocket again?”
You laughed under your breath. “Nah, he’s not so bad. He’s kind of growing on me.”
“Sure. Like a fungus, I bet.”
Logan appeared in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he’d been eavesdropping.
“Dad wants to know if you two are opening a restaurant in here.”
Hesh straightened. “You could help wash.”
“I could.”
Logan looked at you first, then at Hesh, then back. Whatever he saw made his expression settle into something too still.
“Let’s play Smash after this,” he continued. “I need to feel better about myself.”
“You know I suck at that game,” you groaned.
“That’s what makes me feel better about myself.”
Hesh handed him a wet plate. “Dry this.”
Logan looked at it as if betrayed. “I didn’t come in here for manual labour.”
“Terrible turn of events.”
Logan took the towel anyway.
You watched that too. The small surrender. The way Logan’s complaints rarely stopped him from doing what was asked if Hesh asked in the right tone. The way he dried the plate badly, then redid it when Hesh gave him a flat look. The way Hesh did not smile until Logan looked away.
The den was dim when you all moved inside, lit by the television and one old lamp that gave off a weak yellow halo near the couch. It smelled faintly of warm electronics, dust, and citrus cleaner. Comforting. Logan sat on the floor with his back against the couch and handed you a controller without asking. Hesh dropped onto the couch behind him, one ankle crossed over the other, an open beer bottle in hand.
You sat on the floor too, not on the couch beside Hesh. Logan noticed. His eyes flicked over the choice, then back to the screen.
He noticed too much, you thought.
The first match was humiliating. The second felt like a personal attack. By the third, you stopped trying to look composed in front of Hesh and started leaning forward, elbows on your knees, cussing under your breath while Logan sat beside you with infuriating glee.
“You fucking suck ass,” Logan cackled.
“I’m going to throw this controller at your nuts, Walker.”
Hesh laughed from the couch. “He’s not wrong.”
You glanced back at him. “Neutral parties shouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m not neutral. I live with him. I just want someone else to suffer for once.”
Your attention lingered on Hesh one second too long. One second was enough for Logan to knock your character clean off the platform. The silence that followed was brief and devastating.
“Wow,” he breathed.
You set the controller in your lap. “Do not.”
“You’re trash.”
Hesh stood, still smiling. “I’m getting another beer. Anyone want anything?”
You shook your head. “No, thanks.”
Logan’s gaze stayed on the screen. “I’m good.”
When Hesh left, the room tightened.
It always changed when Hesh walked out, though you had not admitted that to yourself until then. His absence did not leave space. It removed the obvious thing you were supposed to be looking at, which meant you could no longer pretend not to feel Logan beside you. His knee close to yours, almost touching. His hand loose around the controller. The television flashing blue white over his face. From the kitchen came the sound of the fridge opening, bottle cap clinking, Hesh moving through the house with his usual unhurried steadiness.
“You’re obvious,” Logan said quietly.
You turned your head. “What?”
He kept looking at the game menu. “Come on.”
“What do you mean?”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed on the screen. “Don’t play stupid, [Name].”
Something about that answer irritated you more than a joke would have. “What is your problem?”
That made him look at you. The light from the television sharpened his face strangely, making the familiar angles less boyish, less careless. “I don’t have a problem.”
“You clearly do.”
His gaze flicked over your face, quick and exact. Before he could answer, Hesh came back with his beer, and Logan turned away as if a switch had been flipped. The room loosened again. Hesh sat down, glanced between you both once, and said nothing.
Later, when your aunt called from the patio that it was time to head home, you stood with a strange reluctance. Elias packed leftovers with determination. Hesh held the gate open for your aunt, then for you.
“You owe me a beach day,” he said as you passed.
You sighed, pretending not to feel pleased. “You are relentless.”
“Not my worst quality.”
“You mean you have good ones?”
“I can be very charming when I want to.”
“Yeah?”
He smiled. “You tell me. Are you charmed yet?”
The words slipped under your skin too easily.
Before you could answer, Logan came up behind him with the container your aunt had forgotten. “You’re wasting your time with her. All she’d do is complain. Ruin the whole day.”
You turned. “You don’t have to come along, you know.”
“You’d miss me if I didn’t.”
The words should have felt like nothing. They did not.
You took the container from him. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Hesh glanced between you and his brother, quiet now. For a moment, the three of you stood under the yard lights with the open gate between the houses and something unspoken crossing through the warm night air.
Then your aunt called your name, and the moment ended because ordinary life was cruel that way.
⟡
The fishing trip happened three days later.
Your uncle was up before sunrise, loud in the kitchen as he confidently bragged to your aunt about his planned catches. You came downstairs because the smell of coffee had dragged you out of sleep. Outside, the morning was pale and already warming, the street washed in that thin blue light before the day fully committed to heat. Elias and your uncle stood by the truck, speaking in their bright, incomprehensible language of rods, bait, and tides. Hesh loaded a cooler into the back, wearing an old cap and a shirt faded soft from sun and washing. Logan sat on the Walker porch steps with a mug of coffee, hair flattened on one side, expression grim as if mourning his lack of sleep already.
“You’re not going?” you asked him.
He looked up over the rim of the mug. “I’d rather eat glass.”
Hesh shut the cooler lid. “He gets seasick.”
“I got seasick once.”
“You threw up on Dad’s shoes.”
“I was twelve.”
Elias pointed towards him without turning around. “They were new.”
Logan lifted the mug in a tired salute. “Families forgive.”
Your uncle laughed so loudly a bird shot out of the hedge.
Hesh looked at you. “Last chance. You can come, you know.”
“To roast in the sun and smell like fish?”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“That’s the only way to look at it.”
Logan grinned at you. “She gets it.”
Hesh rolled his eyes. “You two are a bunch of pussies. But fine.”
The truck left a few minutes later, carrying Hesh, Elias, and your uncle towards the water. Your aunt went shopping around ten, kissing your temple before she left and reminding you about leftovers in the fridge, money in the junk drawer if you ordered anything, and sunscreen by the patio door because she still did not trust you to remember it on your own.
By noon, the house had gone too quiet. The air conditioner clicked on, sighed cool air through the vents, then clicked off again. Your laptop sat open at the kitchen island with one half-written cover letter on the screen.
Your phone buzzed.
logan: bored yet?
You looked at the message and felt the smile before you allowed it.
you: extremely busy
logan: bullshit
Another message came before you could answer.
logan: come lose at smash
you: why would i do that voluntarily?
logan: because you’re home alone and i’m home alone and we should be home alone together
You looked at the quiet kitchen, the blank heat outside the sliding door, the cursor blinking ridiculously on your screen.
you: sounds like a bad porno
logan: don’t make it weird
you: you made it weird by inviting me over like that
logan: door’s open pervert
It was not open. He answered late when you knocked, barefoot and damp haired, wearing an old shirt and shorts, the house behind him cool and dim compared to the hard white heat outside. He looked like he had showered recently and then lost interest in becoming presentable halfway through the process.
“You said the door was open,” you accused.
“Oops?”
“Asshole.”
“Just the way you like me.”
You followed him upstairs with your hand trailing lightly along the railing, aware of every framed photo on the wall, every shift in the house’s temperature as you moved away from the kitchen and into the quieter hall. His room sat at the end, door half open, afternoon light leaking through the blinds in narrow stripes. It smelled like clean laundry and something so fiercely Logan that it made your stomach flip.
It was messy but in a lived-in, almost cozy way. Textbooks stacked beside the desk with receipts and old pens shoved between them. A duffel bag half open near the closet. Laundry in a basket that had probably been clean once and had since entered a grey area. Game cases on the floor. A hoodie thrown over the chair. The bed unmade, sheets twisted, pillow dented.
Your eyes trailed on the bed.
Logan noticed you noticing.
“That’s where the magic happens,” he said, nudging a shirt under the frame with his foot.
“You mean your nightly ritual with your hand?”
He laughed and sat on the floor with his back against the bed. You sat beside him, leaving a careful space between your knees, and took the controller he handed you.
The first half-hour went by quickly.
He beat you. You accused him of cheating. He told you the game developers had standards and you would never meet them. You got better in tiny, humiliating increments and refused to acknowledge that his advice helped. At some point, the distance between you narrowed because you leaned forward and he shifted to reach for his diet Coke, and then neither of you moved back. His knee was close enough that you could feel the heat of him without touching. The room was quiet except for the game, the soft click of buttons, the occasional dry scrape of palm leaves outside the window.
By the fifth loss, you dropped the controller into your lap and leaned back against the side of his bed. “I hate this stupid game.”
“It hates you back,” Logan said.
“I hate you.”
“You say that but you showed up like, two minutes after I texted.”
You turned your head. “You invited me.”
“Yeah, I did.”
The way he said it made your pulse change.
The game menu looped in bright, cheerful colours on the television. Outside, a dog barked twice. Somewhere in the bones of the house, the air conditioning made a low mechanical groan, then settled. You thought of Hesh on the boat. Hesh in the sun. Hesh coming home later and asking what you had done with the day. You imagined saying you had played games with Logan, which would be true in the shallowest possible sense and somehow not true at all.
“Can I ask you something?” you said.
Logan leaned his head back against the mattress. “Here we go.”
Your mouth closed. Then, you decided to press on. “It’s about Hesh.”
He gave one quiet laugh, stripped of most of its humour. “Yeah, what about him?”
You looked down at your hands. “Does he – does he date a lot?”
The silence that followed was a little too long.
“Sometimes,” Logan replied.
“That’s not helpful.”
“He’s not constantly seeing someone, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you asking?”
You hated that question because the answer made you feel smaller than you wanted to be. Do I have a chance? Does he look at me when I look away? Am I only your neighbour’s niece, or has he ever imagined me outside of that?
You frowned at the television. “What kind of girls does he like?”
Logan’s fingers stilled around his controller.
You saw it. He knew you saw it.
“Girls who know what they want,” he said after a moment.
The words were perhaps not meant to hurt, but they found that soft place beneath your ribs anyway.
“Right.”
Logan exhaled. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t decide you’re out of the running before he’s even had a chance to say no.”
Heat rose in your cheeks. “I didn’t—”
“No?” His voice stayed quiet, which was worse than if he had thrown the words. “Then why are you so desperate for him to look at you when it should honestly be the other way around?”
For a moment, the room seemed to lose oxygen. The light through the blinds lay across the carpet in hard stripes. You hated him for saying that so easily. Hated, most of all, the part of you that felt a burning warmth pooling low in your stomach, because what the fuck were you supposed to do with that?
“You’re full of shit,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly. “Yeah, usually. But not about this.”
You looked away. A minute passed.
Then, quieter, he said, “I could help.”
You thought, absurdly at first, that he meant with the game.
“What?”
Logan looked at you. There was no grin now. No lazy mouth, no little twist of mockery to keep himself safe. “I said I could help. With your confidence. If you want.”
Your pulse dropped low, heavy.
“What the fuck are you saying?”
He swallowed and continued. “You probably want to feel like you know what you’re doing, right? Like if he looked at you – touched you – you wouldn’t panic.”
“Are you seriously offering lessons?”
“I’m offering practice.”
The word moved through you hot enough to make you dizzy.
You stared at him. “You’re talking about your brother.”
“No,” Logan said. “I’m talking about you.”
“But the point would be Hesh.”
“For you, maybe.”
The answer hung there, too honest to dismiss.
You became aware of every ordinary, obscene detail at once. The closed door to his room. The empty house below. The soft carpet under your legs. Logan’s bed at your back, rumpled and too close. The faded cotton of his shirt. His knee near yours. The fact that if you reached out, you would touch him, and nobody would know except the two of you.
“And for you?” you asked.
Logan dragged a hand through his hair. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted again. “I want you. I’m selfish enough to use whatever excuse lets me have you.”
The bluntness stole your breath.
It should have made him less appealing. It should have made the offer ugly enough to refuse. Instead, the ugliness made it feel almost clean. He was not pretending to be noble. He was not wrapping want in generosity and asking you to admire the ribbon. He was telling you he wanted you, and letting that truth make him look bad.
“This is fucked up,” you breathed.
“Yeah.”
“You’re supposed to disagree.”
“I’m not ashamed of what I want.”
That was the part that made the room go quiet.
You looked at the door again. Downstairs, the house sat empty and trusting. Outside, the day carried on in a blaze of indifferent heat. Hesh was on a boat with Elias and your uncle. Your aunt was somewhere inside a store, buying things she did not need. Everyone had left you with the boy sitting beside you, and the boy had just told you he wanted you.
So, you let it happen.
The first kiss was barely a kiss. A lean. A test. A brush of your mouth against his that could have been explained away if one of you lost courage quickly enough.
Neither of you did.
Logan went still for one breath, then his hand lifted to the side of your neck, fingers warm under your ear, and he kissed you back with a restraint that felt like pain. His mouth was softer than his voice, warmer than the sarcasm he wore like a second skin, but the want underneath it trembled hard. You curled your hand into his shirt, and the sound he made against your mouth was small and rough and involuntary.
It scalded you from the inside.
You had thought, distantly, that maybe this would be about pretending. About closing your eyes and imagining Hesh’s steadier hands, Hesh’s calmer voice, Hesh’s quiet smile. But Logan was too present for that, too solid under your touch. Too responsive when your fingers tightened. Too real in the way his breathing changed, in the way his hand held onto you like he was afraid of asking for more and more afraid of not asking at all.
He pulled back just enough to breathe. “You good?”
You nodded.
Logan kissed you again. He shifted back against the side of the bed and drew you with him, careful enough that you could resist. You did not. You moved between his legs, knees pressing into the carpet, and the new position made the air thicken until breathing felt difficult. His hands settled at your waist but did not push. You looked down at him, at the flush already creeping up his neck, at the strain in his jaw, and something inside you warmed with the sudden, heady knowledge that he was not as in control as he wanted to be.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Logan said.
“I know. I want to.”
His breath caught when your hand moved to palm him through his shorts. That reaction did something worse to you than any line could have. It sank low, a rush of nerves and power and heat. You touched him again, slower, feeling him hard beneath your fingers, and his head tipped back against the mattress for half a second before he forced himself to look at you.
“Fuck,” he whimpered quietly.
You were clumsy with him at first. The waistband, the angle, the unbearable intimacy of touching him bare. Logan helped only when your fingers faltered, then went still again, letting you set the pace. He was hot in your hand, heavy, real in a way that made your mouth go dry. You stroked once, uncertainly, and his hips gave a small, helpless jerk.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“For what?”
“I’m trying to not be pathetic.”
“I like you pathetic.”
His laugh shook. “Mean.”
“You like it.”
His eyes darkened. “Yeah.”
You leaned down before you lost your nerve.
The first touch of your mouth against him was only a kiss against his slit, tentative and soft. Logan stopped breathing. His hand hovered near your head, then settled carefully in your hair, gathering it out of your face without pushing.
“Slow,” he said, voice rough. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
You took him fully into your mouth.
The intimacy felt strange and vulgar and overwhelming. The salty warmth of him on your tongue. The stretch of your lips. The wet, quiet sound of your mouth in the still room. You were aware of everything all at once: teeth, breath, hands, the pressure in your knees, the wetness gathering between your own legs as his composure thinned above you. Logan did not make you feel foolish for the awkwardness. He guided you in broken fragments, each one rougher than the last.
“Like that. Use your hand too. Yeah. Don’t rush.” His breath caught sharply, almost pained. “Fuck, look at you. You’re so fucking pretty.”
You should not have liked being told what to do.
You did.
It moved through you in a hot, embarrassing rush, made your thighs press together for any semblance of friction while you learned him through every reaction. The way his fingers tightened when your tongue dragged along the underside. The way his stomach tensed beneath his shirt when you took him deeper.
Then the front door opened downstairs. Voices came in with the heat.
Logan’s hand went still in your hair. His eyes snapped towards the bedroom door. Downstairs, Elias laughed, low and tired. Your uncle said something about washing his hands. A cooler thudded against the floor. Hesh’s voice followed, sun roughened and amused, asking if Logan was upstairs.
Panic flashed white through your body.
Logan looked down at you, face tight with arousal and alarm.
“You should stop,” he whispered.
You should have.
Every sensible part of you knew that. Hesh was downstairs. Your uncle was downstairs. You were on your knees in Logan’s room with his cock in your mouth and your pulse pounding so hard it seemed impossible no one could hear it through the walls. It was reckless in a way that should have terrified you sober. It should have made you stand, wipe your mouth, fix your clothes, and pretend this had been a fever brought on by heat and loneliness.
But Logan’s hand shook slightly in your hair, and you suddenly never wanted to stop making him feel good.
You looked up at him and took him deeper.
His eyes went blank for half a second. Then his fist pressed against his mouth to trap the sound that almost broke out of him.
Downstairs, Hesh called, “Logan?”
Logan squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he called back, voice rough with pleasure. “One minute.”
You kept going.
The risk sharpened everything all at once. The muffled voices below. The slick drag of your mouth. The ache in your knees. Logan tried once to pull you back, hand gentle at your shoulder, giving you a final chance to stop. You refused with a small hum as your throat pulsed around him.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he whispered. “[Name], move—”
You did not move.
He came with his knuckles pressed to his mouth, his whole body rigid, breath shattering silently while you swallowed around him. It was messy and intimate and so fucking filthy that your own body throbbed in answer, empty and hot and aching.
When you pulled away, your lips were wet and your eyes stung. Logan stared at you like you had done permanent damage. Neither of you spoke.
Then Hesh called from below, “Seriously, man, you alive?”
Logan shut his eyes. “Barely,” he muttered.
You slapped his thigh, mortified.
He caught your wrist and held it for one breath, thumb pressed to your pulse. His face had lost every trace of smugness. Want, shock, something softer underneath that neither of you had language for yet. Then, he let go.
You went downstairs five minutes later trying to look like people who had spent the afternoon playing video games and nothing else.
⟡
The next two days stretched themselves thin around what happened in Logan’s room, so thin you could feel the secret showing through everything.
Nothing else happened. Not even a look held too long at dinner, or a text sent too late, or his hand catching yours in a hallway because he had lost the patience for pretending. Instead, life kept arranging itself normally around the two of you, which made the memory feel even worse. Your aunt made coffee in the morning and asked if you wanted toast. Your uncle complained about the hardware store changing where they kept the screws. The Walkers’ yard made its usual sounds on the other side of the fence: Elias dragging a cooler across the patio, Hesh laughing at something low and tired, Logan’s voice occasionally rising with some half-formed complaint before cutting off too soon. Every ordinary thing became indecent because it touched the edge of what nobody knew. You could sit at the kitchen island with a mug between both hands, nodding while your aunt talked about groceries, and still feel the remembered weight of Logan in your mouth. You could pass Hesh in the driveway and smile like a normal person while your tongue remembered how his brother had tasted when he’d come down your throat.
You kept telling yourself Hesh was still the point.
It sounded less convincing each time, but you repeated it anyway because the original version of the story was cleaner. Hesh was the first crush, the obvious one, the kind one, the beautiful one. He was the person your attraction had found before it got complicated, before Logan had offered himself up under the dirty little name of practice, before you had knelt on his bedroom floor and learned how little it took to make him shake while his family came home downstairs. Hesh made sense in the way a crush could make sense when it remained mostly untested. He was safe because he existed at a slight distance, held in the warm blur of possibility. Logan was the problem with a pulse. Logan was the mistake with hands. Logan was the boy who had wanted you loudly enough that your insecurity went quiet for one afternoon, and you were so grateful for the silence that you had not asked what it would cost.
Practice, you told yourself, but the word had started to sour.
By Tuesday, the house had gone too quiet around you.
Your aunt had left with a canvas tote and a grocery list written in her neat, slanted hand. Your uncle had gone to the hardware store for one specific thing, which meant he might return in twenty minutes or four hours depending on his mood. The house settled after they left, all soft mechanical sounds and light. The refrigerator hummed steadily. The ceiling fan turned above the living room, moving warm air without really cooling it. The television played an old western at low volume, one of those sun-faded films full of horses, family land, men staring into the distance, and music that rose too dramatically over very simple decisions.
You were lying lengthwise on the couch with one arm tucked beneath your head, pretending to watch.
You hated how quickly your mind went to him when there was nothing else in the room to stop it. Logan’s bedroom. Logan’s breath breaking against his own fist. Logan’s hand in your hair, careful even when he was losing it. The downstairs voices, the panic, the sick hot thrill of not stopping. You pressed your thighs together and stared at the television while a man on screen said something grave about honour. The line should have made you laugh. It did not.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table.
logan: home?
Your stomach tightened before you even unlocked the screen.
you: yes
His answer came quickly enough that you knew he had been waiting with the chat open.
logan: nice. let me in
you: no
Three minutes later, the back door opened because you had left it unlocked on purpose. For him.
That was the part you did not want to examine. The no had been for your pride. The unlocked door had been for your body. Some part of you had expected him before he asked, had left the house available to him because not doing so felt wrong. You did not look over when he came in. You heard the soft slide of the door, the dull click as he closed it behind him, his footsteps crossing the tile and then the carpet. He smelled faintly like soap and outside heat when he reached the living room, like he had walked over too fast – too eagerly after a shower.
“You forget how to knock?” you said, eyes still on the screen.
“I texted.”
“You are so fucking annoying.”
He dropped onto the couch beside you instead of taking the armchair, close enough that the cushion dipped under his weight and pulled your body slightly toward his. His hip brushed your feet. He reached for the remote on the coffee table like he already lived there, thumb clicking the volume up just enough for the music to swell absurdly over a shot of horses moving through dust.
“Didn’t peg you for a John Wayne girl,” he said.
“I always kick it with the Duke.”
Logan’s head turned slowly. “Please never say that again.”
You sat up and made a grab for the remote. “Give it back.”
He lifted it above his head without even pretending to consider it, one arm stretched high, the other braced loosely on the back of the couch. His mouth had already started to curve, but he looked tired around the edges, a little less polished than usual. Maybe you were only seeing what you wanted to see. Maybe the secret had worn him thin too.
“Logan.”
“What?”
“Give me the remote.”
“I don’t wanna watch your dumb western.”
“Too fucking bad. I was watching it first.”
He held the remote higher when you reached again, and the stupidness of it almost saved you for a second. You crawled across the cushion, one knee sinking beside his thigh, one hand catching his wrist. He laughed under his breath, just a brief sound caught in his chest as he shifted away from you. His hand came to your waist automatically when your balance tipped, fingers spreading warm and firm through your shirt to keep you from falling forward.
For a moment, it was harmless. Childish, even. Knees pressing into couch cushions. His wrist in your hand. The remote angled uselessly above his shoulder. Your breath hitching because you were laughing and annoyed and afraid of how quickly the room had begun to tighten around the two of you. It was safer to make it about the remote. Safer to wrestle over some dumb movie than admit you had left the back door unlocked because you wanted him to come in. Safer to feel his hand on your waist as a practical thing instead of what it was already becoming.
Then your leg slid across his hips.
The remote slipped from his fingers and hit the rug with a soft, plastic thud.
Neither of you looked at it.
The position settled before your mind caught up. You were straddling him, one knee on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest. Logan had gone still beneath you. Both hands remained at your waist, but they had changed there, no longer simply catching you. Holding you, maybe. Waiting to find out if he was allowed. You could feel him through his shorts, already hardening under the heat of your body, the pressure blunt and unmistakable. Your own body responded so quickly it embarrassed you. A low pull between your legs. A tightening in your stomach. Your nipples stiffened beneath your shirt, sensitive against the fabric, and you hated that there was nowhere to hide it from him at this distance.
Logan’s gaze dropped.
When he looked back up, his eyes had gone darker, the lazy humour burned almost clean out of his face. The afternoon light made everything too visible: the faint flush rising in his neck, the small part of his lips, the way his fingers flexed once against your waist before stilling again. He wanted you. You could feel it under you, but you could see it too, raw and immediate, not dressed up as teasing.
You tried to fill the silence stupidly.
“Have you talked to him?”
Logan’s face changed so quickly it nearly hurt to watch. The heat did not leave, but something colder moved through it. Guilt, maybe. Frustration. He blinked once, as if he had to drag himself back into the conversation from somewhere much closer to your mouth.
“Who?”
You hated him for making you say it while you were sitting in his lap with your body already betraying you. “Hesh.”
His hands tightened on your waist, then loosened with obvious effort. “About you?”
“Yes.”
He looked away.
Your stomach sank, a slow drop. “Logan.”
“I talked to him.”
“What did he say?”
He stared at the far wall, jaw working faintly. The television kept playing behind you, all hoofbeats and strings and some distant voice saying something you could not absorb. It sounded absurd now, too loud and irrelevant in a room where your breathing had stopped.
“What did he say?” you asked again, sharper.
Logan exhaled through his nose. “He said you’re cute.”
Your pulse kicked hard. “And?”
“That’s it.”
“What the fuck do you mean, that’s it?”
He looked back at you then, and the shame in his face was not neat enough to satisfy you. It did not make him less wanting. It did not make him less hard beneath you. It sat with the desire, tangled into it, which made the whole thing uglier and more honest.
“It means I haven’t been trying very hard.”
For a second, the sentence did not fit inside your head.
“To get him to ask you out,” he added, because he was apparently done offering you places to hide. His voice came lower now. “I said enough to tell myself I wasn’t being a complete bastard. I didn’t say more.”
“I thought you were supposed to be helping me.”
“I know.”
“You let me think you were.”
“I know.”
“That’s so fucking selfish.”
“Yeah.”
“And shitty.”
“Yeah.”
“Defend yourself, at least.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Why would I?”
That was the part that made anger catch in your throat instead of come out clean. He could have been slippery. He could have made some joke, turned your frustration into another thing to push against, given you a reason to climb off him and storm out with your pride intact. You wanted that. God, you wanted the easy version where Logan became cruel enough to reject. Instead, he stayed under you with his hands open at your waist, hard and guilty and looking at you like even being hated by you was better than not being touched.
“I’d have said just about anything to keep you coming back to me,” he said.
The honesty hit hard enough that you felt it behind your ribs.
You should have moved. You should have gotten off his lap, found the remote, turned the movie up, created distance before want could start rewriting the meaning of what he had done. You thought all of that clearly. You thought it while looking at his mouth. You thought it while his thumbs moved once, barely, against the fabric at your waist. You thought it while your own body grew wetter, shamelessly, angrily, because apparently your desire did not care about anything other than Logan.
You leaned down and kissed him hard.
Logan’s reaction came through his whole body. His breath caught first, then his hands closed on your hips with a force he immediately softened, as if even then he was checking himself. The sound he made against your mouth was low and rough, half relief and half apology, and it went straight through you. You kissed him like you were punishing him and asking for more at the same time. Your teeth caught his lower lip. His hand slid up your back. The anger did not disappear. It changed form, heated until it mixed with the slick ache between your legs and became something you could not separate from want.
You pulled at his shirt, shoving it up beneath your hands because you needed skin, needed him less composed under you. His stomach tightened when your fingers found him through his shorts. He kissed you harder, then dragged his mouth down your jaw, rough breaths spilling against your throat.
“I want to fuck you,” Logan said, voice wrecked against your skin.
The bluntness of it made you clench around nothing. Your fingers dug into his shoulder. “Jesus, at least beg a little.”
He froze for half a second, just enough to make you feel the words land in him. Then his hands tightened on your hips, and when he spoke, there was no joke in it. “Please.”
Your face burned so hot it felt cruel.
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, open mouthed and impatient. “Please. Let me fuck you. I’ve been thinking about it since I met you.” His breath dragged as your hips shifted against him, grinding down without meaning to. “I want you so bad I can’t think straight when you’re near me. Please.”
That was enough. More than enough. Too much.
The couch was a terrible place for it. Narrow, low, exposed in the middle of a living room washed in afternoon light. The front windows were curtained but not dark. The back door was unlocked behind you. The garage could open at any minute, or your aunt’s key could turn in the front door. The risk should have cooled you. Instead, it made every movement too bright, too immediate, as if the room had leaned closer to watch.
You reached between your bodies and tugged at his shorts. Logan helped with clumsy impatience, lifting his hips just enough to shove fabric down. Your shirt stayed on. His did too, pushed up and wrinkled beneath your hands.
When you reached between you and guided him closer, his whole body went still.
The first press of him against you made your breath catch. You were wet enough, but the angle was awkward, and your nerves made every sensation larger than it needed to be. You lowered yourself too quickly at first, impatient and embarrassed by the waiting, and the stretch startled you so sharply your hands flew to his chest.
Logan froze beneath you.
“Slow,” he said, voice strained. “Take a second.”
You shut your eyes.
The fullness was not pain, exactly, but it was too much at once. The shock of him inside you, the vulnerable position, the fact that you were not hidden in a bedroom but perched over him on your aunt’s couch, half dressed. Your knees pressed into the cushions. His hands rested on your thighs, warm and steady, not pulling you down, not pushing you away. Giving you room. Making it somehow worse because the gentleness made you feel seen past the heat of the moment.
“I’m not good at this,” you whispered.
You hated the sentence as soon as it left you. It sounded young. Small. Too honest. But Logan did not take it as an opening for reassurance that meant nothing. He looked at you for a second, breathing through his own restraint, and his face changed.
“You don’t have to be good,” he said.
“That’s not comforting.”
“I mean it.” His thumb moved slowly over your thigh. “Move how you want, baby.”
You lifted a little, then sank back down more slowly. The sensation changed when you stopped fighting your own body. Still intense. Still vulnerable. But warmer now, deeper, spreading through you instead of striking all at once. Logan’s hands stayed at your hips, guiding only when your rhythm faltered. He let you figure out the movement, let you discover the angle that made your breath thin and your thighs tremble, let the clumsiness exist without turning it into anything more.
At first, it was uneven. You rocked too shallow, then too deep. Your knees slipped slightly on the cushion. Logan’s hips twitched up once, and both of you made a sound before catching yourselves. You pressed a hand to his mouth without thinking, and his eyes flared under your palm, amused and wrecked all at once. Then he kissed your fingers, and the tenderness of it nearly made you lose the rhythm again.
You found it slowly.
A roll of your hips instead of lifting straight up. Less strain in your thighs. More pressure where you needed it. Logan’s cock dragged inside you in a way that made heat gather low and thick, not enough to finish you by itself, but enough to make your whole body want to chase the feeling. He watched you as you learned it, eyes heavy, mouth parted. Each time you moved right, his breath caught. Each time he reacted, you felt less unsure.
“Like that,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Fuck, just like that.”
You leaned forward, hands on his chest, and rode him with more confidence. The couch creaked beneath you. The cushions shifted. His shirt twisted under your fingers. Your thighs began to burn, but you did not stop, because the heat between you had sharpened into something you could not stand to interrupt. Logan’s hands slid from your hips to your waist, then down again, as if he could not decide where to hold you. His head tipped back against the couch, throat exposed, jaw tight. He looked almost ruined already, and the sight of him like that gave you a reckless little surge of satisfaction.
Then your breathing caught wrong, and the moan came out too loud.
Logan’s hand covered your mouth immediately.
Both of you froze.
The house seemed to expand around the silence. No garage door. No footsteps. No voices from outside. Only the fan, the movie, the soft rush of your breath against his palm. You stared at each other, your body still stretched around him, his cock buried inside you, both of you listening like criminals.
His eyes stayed on yours.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted his hips.
The movement pushed a muffled sound into his hand.
His pupils widened.
Something changed after that. Logan’s hand remained over your mouth, not hard, just enough to remind you of the risk, enough to catch what you could not swallow. His other arm wrapped around your waist and held you more firmly as he began rolling up into you. He fucked you in controlled, grinding strokes that made the pleasure denser, dirtier, harder to escape. Each movement pressed him deep and dragged him against the places that made your thoughts stutter.
Your hands clutched at his shoulders.
His mouth brushed your ear. “Quiet,” he whispered, though his own voice sounded close to breaking. “I know. I know, baby. Just stay quiet.”
Your body had become focused on him, on the heavy slide inside you, on the heat of his hand over your mouth, on the filthy intimacy of being pinned to silence in the middle of your aunt’s living room. The danger sharpened every sense until you could feel everything: the damp fabric at the back of your neck, the sweat starting under your shirt, the couch seam digging into your knee, the slight tremor in Logan’s abdomen each time he held himself back from fucking you harder.
His other hand slipped between you.
You jolted when his thumb found your clit, too sensitive already, swollen from arousal and the friction of your own movement. He adjusted quickly, lighter pressure, slower circles, then firmer when your hips chased it. His focus became almost severe. He watched you above his hand, watched your eyebrows pull together, watched your breathing stutter behind his palm.
You tried to stay upright.
It did not last.
The pleasure built in layers, low at first, then spreading hot through your pelvis, down your thighs, up into your stomach until every muscle seemed to tighten around the same centre. Logan kept moving under you, shallow and deep all at once, hips rolling with a rhythm that made the couch complain softly beneath you. His fingers did not stop. When you tried to turn your face away from his hand, overwhelmed, he followed just enough to keep your mouth covered and pressed his lips to your cheek.
“Don’t hide,” he whispered. “You feel so fucking good.”
You were so painfully close a few seconds later, your body tightening and losing it, tightening again, frustration catching in your throat because you were right on the edge and so full and still not there. Logan felt the shift. His hand slowed, changed pressure, then found the exact rhythm your body needed. His hips kept rolling up, less steady now, breath faltering against your temple.
“That’s it,” he said, almost soundless. “Come on, baby.”
You broke hard against his hand.
The sound you made would have been too loud if he had not covered it. It came out strangled into his palm as your whole body folded forward, muscles clenching around him in hot, shaking pulses. Your face pressed into his neck. Pleasure moved through you in deep waves, not pretty nor graceful, leaving your thighs trembling and your fingers cramped in his shirt.
Logan cursed under his breath, a tight, broken sound.
Your body clenching around him dragged him over the edge. His hips jerked up once, twice, then lost rhythm completely as he came too, his hands gripping you hard enough that you knew there would be tenderness there later. He buried his face against your shoulder to muffle himself, breath hot through your shirt, the muscles in his abdomen going rigid beneath you. For a few seconds, he shook under you in silence.
Then everything went still except your breathing.
You stayed collapsed against him, both of you damp and overheated, the couch beneath you too warm now, the movie still playing as if your world had not changed frequency in the middle of it. Logan’s hand slid from your mouth to the back of your neck, then down your spine, a slow, careful pass that felt almost shy after the way he had just held you together.
Ten minutes later, the garage door opened.
By then, you were dressed. Barely. Your underwear sat wrong under your clothes, your shirt was stretched at the collar, and your pulse still had not returned to anything resembling normal. Logan was on the floor pretending to look under the couch for the remote, which sat plainly on the coffee table. You were sitting too upright, hands folded in your lap, staring at the western with the fierce, artificial concentration of someone who had absolutely not just been fucked senselessly on the couch.
Your aunt came in first, carrying shopping bags that rustled against her legs. Your uncle followed with takeout and a story already halfway started about the hardware store clerk’s dog getting loose in aisle four.
Neither of them noticed.
⟡
After that, Logan became harder to separate from your days.
There were more stolen encounters, yes. His mouth on yours in the narrow strip of shadow between the houses, the stucco wall still warm against your back while sprinklers hissed nearby. His hand under your shirt in the laundry room, stopping the second you both heard your aunt through the wall. Your body on his bed one afternoon while Elias was out and Hesh was at work, Logan between your thighs with one hand over your mouth again because you could not stay quiet when he looked over you like that. His room filling with the smell of sweat and detergent and your skin, the blinds striping his back while he fucked you slowly enough to make you impatient, then rough enough to make you forget you had ever wanted anything else in life.
But the smaller things did worse damage.
He learned the way you took your coffee and what foods you loved and hated. He sent you songs at night, sometimes awful ones to annoy you, sometimes good ones with no comment. He listened to you talk for hours every night about everything and nothing at all, never once looking away from your face.
You stopped thinking about Hesh.
At first, you did not notice. Then you did, and the realization sat with you in your aunt’s car while she drove through a strip of shops under a white afternoon sky. A song came on the radio, low and guitar heavy, and your first thought was that Logan would like the opening and hate the chorus. You could hear his voice perfectly.
Hesh might like it too, you thought after a long moment.
The second thought felt too forced.
That evening, sitting on the edge of the pool with your feet in the water, you sent the song to Logan.
you: you’d hate 40 percent of this
logan: listening
Two minutes later.
logan: intro’s good. chorus sucks ass
You laughed out loud, alone in the yard.
Then, Hesh asked you out.
It happened in the Walkers’ kitchen after dinner one night. Your aunt and uncle had already gone home because your uncle had an early morning. Elias had gone into the garage to look for some missing cooler lid. Logan had disappeared upstairs after being quiet through dessert, his fork scraping once too hard against his plate before he muttered something about needing his charger. You noticed because you noticed everything about him now.
Hesh stood at the sink beside you, rinsing plates before loading the dishwasher. The kitchen window was open, letting in the damp green smell of warm grass.
“You’ve been here a few weeks now,” he started.
“Yeah.”
“You get much of a chance to see the city yet?”
Your hands tightened around the edge of the counter.
“Not yet,” you said.
“Good.” He turned off the tap. There was something different in his face then. A nervousness you had never seen there before, slight but unmistakable. “Then, I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner with me sometime. Just us. I could show you around more.”
The room held still.
Once, you would have said yes before he finished asking.
You knew that with awful clarity. The you from those first few dinners would have gone blank with pleasure. The you from Logan’s floor, asking what kind of girls Hesh liked, would have taken this as proof that wanting could be rewarded if you only became the right version of yourself.
But the you standing in the kitchen now thought of Logan’s mouth. Logan’s hand in yours for half a second under a table. Logan fucking all your insecurities about your body out of you, like he couldn’t believe he’d been awarded the privilege of doing so.
In the hallway beyond Hesh, Logan stood still.
You saw him before Hesh did. He had come down quietly and stopped at the edge of the kitchen. He had heard enough. You could tell by the way his face closed, not with anger, but with resignation arriving too quickly. As if he had always known the story might turn this way and hated himself for hoping otherwise.
He left without a word. The front door opened and shut.
Hesh turned slightly. “Was that Logan?”
You stared at the empty hall. “Yeah.”
Understanding moved through Hesh’s face slowly. The Walkers were too perceptive for their own good, apparently.
“Hesh,” you started.
He gave a small nod, already bracing. “It’s okay.”
“You’re great.”
He winced gently. “That bad?”
“I mean it. You’ve been nothing but kind to me.”
“But you’re not interested.”
The honesty of the moment demanded honesty back.
“I thought I was,” you admitted.
Hesh absorbed that. It would have been easier if he looked offended. He did not. He looked briefly hurt, then thoughtful, then softer than you deserved.
“Logan?” he asked.
You did not answer quickly enough.
He leaned back against the counter, exhaling through his nose. “Of course.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He looked towards the hall, then back at you. “I mean, I would’ve liked to know before asking my brother’s... whatever you are to him. But I’m not mad.”
“I don’t know what I am to him.”
Hesh held your gaze. “Maybe figure that out.”
Your throat tightened. There was no judgement in his voice. That made it harder. The tenderness cracked something wide open.
“I should go,” you said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “You should.”
You left through the front door and found no sign of Logan on the street.
His house glowed behind you. Your aunt’s porch light shone next door, warm and ordinary. The night smelled like jasmine, asphalt, and someone’s barbecue cooling down. You texted him from the sidewalk.
Logan didn’t reply.
You went back to your aunt’s house because standing in front of the Walkers’ place felt too exposed. The porch steps were still warm from the day. You sat beneath the light with your phone in both hands and waited.
The street settled around you in layers. A car rolled past slowly. A dog barked down the block. Sprinklers clicked on across the road, mist catching silver in the streetlight. Inside, your aunt and uncle were probably watching television, assuming you had stayed behind to help clean. You could have gone in. You should have. Instead, you sat with your knees drawn up and replayed Logan’s face until guilt became something physical beneath your ribs.
He had heard Hesh ask.
He had not heard you answer.
Maybe you deserved that. You had let the lie live too long because it protected you from choosing. You had let Logan believe he was still a detour long after you knew he had become the only road beneath your feet. Hesh had been a fantasy, soft at the edges. Logan was alive and painfully yours.
Almost an hour passed before Logan came back.
You saw him before he saw you. He turned onto the street from the far corner, hands in the pockets of his shorts, shoulders drawn up as if the night had gone cold around him even though the air still held the day’s heat. He walked slowly, not with the usual laziness he wore when he wanted people to think nothing touched him, but with the dull, worn rhythm of someone trying to exhaust a feeling out of his body and failing. The porch light caught him in pieces as he came closer. His hair was messier than it had been at dinner. His mouth was set. He kept his eyes on the pavement until he was almost at the walkway.
Then he looked up and stopped.
You had been sitting on the top step so long your legs had gone stiff. The porch beneath you still held a faint warmth from the sun, but the night had settled over everything else, soft and blue and full of small suburban sounds. Somewhere next door, the Walkers’ house glowed in quiet squares of yellow light, ordinary and impossible after what had happened in its kitchen.
Logan stared at you for a second like he did not trust what he was seeing.
“What are you doing out here?” he said. His voice sounded rough. Thick.
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I went for a walk.”
He stayed at the bottom of the path, too far away. That distance felt obscene after everything else. After his hands under your clothes, his mouth against your skin, the hungry, quiet pressure of him in rooms where you had both learned how to fall apart without being heard. You knew what he looked like when he lost control. You knew the exact sound he made when he was trying not to shatter before you. Seeing him stand there now, guarded and miserable beneath your aunt’s porch light, made something in your chest twist hard.
“So,” he said, and there it was, the brittle edge he used when something mattered too much. “When’s dinner with my perfect brother?”
“There isn’t going to be a dinner.”
Logan’s eyes moved back to you. The silence after that was thin and bright.
“He changed his mind?”
“I said no.”
He did not react at first. He only stood there, still enough that the night seemed to move around him. A moth bumped against the porch light above your head. The sprinklers across the street swept in slow, silver arcs.
“You said no,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“To Hesh.”
“Yes.”
He gave a small, humourless exhale and looked down at the path like it might tell him what to do with his face. “Why?”
There was so much in that one word. Suspicion. Hurt. Hope trying not to show its throat. You realized then that he was not asking because he did not understand. He was asking because he needed you to say it cleanly. Because if you dressed it up too gently, if you let him think for one second that this was pity or timing or confusion, he would take the wound and let it settle.
You stood. Your legs felt unsteady, but you came down one step.
“Because I’m seeing someone,” you said.
His breath changed.
“Sort of,” you added, quieter. “I didn’t know what else to call it.”
Logan’s mouth moved, not quite a smile, not quite pain. “Sort of?”
“You know what I mean.”
He looked away again, but not as far this time. “Does he know?”
“Hesh?”
Logan’s expression tightened at the name.
“He guessed,” you said.
“Of course he did.”
“He was kind about it.”
“He would be.”
There was no bitterness in that. Only exhaustion. Only the familiar knowledge of his brother’s decency, and maybe the old, private resentment of living beside someone whose goodness looked easier from the outside than it probably was.
You stepped down the last stair, close enough now to see the tiredness around his eyes, the careful way he held himself back. He did not reach for you. That hurt too, but differently. He had always reached for you in secret, quickly, greedily, as though the moment might be taken if he did not claim it first. Here, under the porch light, where anyone could glance out a window and see, he kept his hands to himself.
The secret had made cowards of both of you. Secrecy had given you a place to put the wanting without deciding what it meant. Behind closed doors, pressed into couches, bent into silence, you could call it hunger and leave it at that. Out here, with the night open around you and your rejection towards his brother still warm in your mouth, there was nowhere left to hide the rest of it.
When Logan spoke again, it was the smallest his voice had sounded all summer.
“You said no to Hesh for me?”
All the arrogance went out of him. All the sharpness. The boy who had irritated you over the fence, beaten you at Smash, lied to keep you close, touched you with shaking hands, watched you too closely because wanting had made him observant and cruel and tender all at once. He stood at the edge of your aunt’s walkway looking young in a way that had nothing to do with age, and you realized he did not believe he could be chosen unless you made the truth impossible to misunderstand.
“For you,” you said.
Relief hit him visibly. He tried to stop it, which made it worse. Logan’s face changed before he could control it, something bright and wounded breaking through, his mouth parting slightly as if he had forgotten how to breathe. Then he looked away, pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, and nodded once, too quickly, too casually.
“Cool,” he said.
You stared at him. “Cool?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s all?”
He looked back at you, and the laugh that left him was short and disbelieving. “I’m trying not to act like a fucking lunatic on your aunt’s lawn.”
“Jesus. Way to make a girl feel wanted.”
His expression sobered. “I’ve always wanted you.”
The answer went through you carefully, like a hand finding a bruise.
“Why?”
“Because you’re you.” Logan’s voice was rough again. “Because you make everything easy. Because you’re funny and sweet and so goddamn pretty for no fucking reason. It drives me fucking insane.”
Your cheeks heated as you reached for his hand.
He looked down as if the movement surprised him. As if after everything, after all the hidden, filthy, breathless proof of wanting, this was the thing he had not prepared himself for. Your fingers slid between his. His hand was warm, a little damp from the walk, and stiff for one fragile second before he closed around you.
Being held in the open felt more intimate than sex. No closed door, no music turned up to hide the sounds, no hand clapped over your mouth, no excuse of practice, no Hesh held between you like a curtain. Just Logan’s hand in yours beneath the porch light, where the world could have seen you if it looked.
“I want to go out with you,” you told him. “Properly.”
“Like a date?”
“Yes, Logan. Like a date.”
“With me.”
You squeezed his hand almost playfully. “Want me to say it in three other fucking languages? Yes, with you.”
Logan let out a breath, glancing down the street, then back at you. “I need a second to believe you.”
You watched him take it. Watched him stand in front of you, shoulders tense, fingers laced through yours, letting the truth settle into him in slow increments. You had said no to Hesh. You had waited outside. You had chosen him. The knowledge moved across his face with a painful kind of clarity, and when he finally smiled, it was not the usual sharp grin he used to win rooms over. It was quieter. Almost embarrassed.
So, you kissed him.
It started slower, almost careful, Logan’s hand at your face, yours fisted lightly in his shirt.
Then the relief moved through both of you at once, and careful became impossible. He pulled you closer, and you went, because there was nowhere else you wanted to be.
character: Keegan P. Russ
words: 7088
cw: 18+, drinking, weed use, sexual content, mentions of smut, angst (honestly everyone’s a little toxic)
description: AU in which you’re in a situationship with a drummer in an underground rock band. (part 2)
a/n: I love drummer!Keegan lol I’d write a whole series to be honest. Brian Bloom just fits the aesthetic so much, it’s crazy lmao. also this feels like it will have a part 2 at some point??
Whatever it was between you and Keegan, you never gave it a name. And that seemed to suit both of you just fine, for the most part.
There hadn’t been a conversation about it, nothing awkward or defined. No laying out of expectations. He didn’t ask where you were going when you left, and you didn’t ask if he was seeing anyone else. It was a rhythm, not a contract. You came over when you felt like it. Stayed when he let you. You fucked when he wanted it, or when you wanted it, or when the silence between you got too hot to sit in. And when it was over, you’d press your cheek to his chest or stretch naked on the mess of sheets while he rolled a joint and passed it to you without speaking.
It worked. No tension, no pressure. Just sweat and smoke and that low, lazy chemistry that filled the space like heat.
You were on his couch in the basement again, cross-legged, thighs bare, the hem of Keegan’s old Blink-182 shirt slipping over the flesh of your hips. It was soft, thin in the way that came from a thousand washes. Probably from the early 2000s, judging by the fading ink and the stretched-out collar. It smelled faintly of detergent and weed and sweat. You’d pulled it on after the two of you had fucked that morning — quick and rough, slow and deep, some tangled combination of both. Your thighs still felt warm. Bruised. Your mouth still tingled from the way he’d kissed you afterwards, open and unhurried like he didn’t have anywhere else to be.
He wasn’t sentimental about things. Not the shirt. Not the act. Keegan wasn’t the kind of man to collect objects just to keep them pristine. If he owned something, he used it until it wore down under his hands. And if it broke, it broke. The shirt was no exception. Neither were you.
You were bent over the little mushroom-themed rolling tray you’d gotten him a few weeks back, trying to mould the paper into shape. Your thumbs fumbled along the seam, sticking and unsticking as you cursed under your breath. Keegan always made it look so fucking easy — tucked papers, neat little folds, packed just tight enough. But whenever you tried, it was a mess of fingers and wasted bud. Still, he let you try. Even if he laughed. Even if he usually took over halfway through.
Across the room, the drums filled the space like a second heartbeat. Keegan was in the corner, shirtless, sweat beading along his spine and catching in the curve of his shoulder blades. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, slung haphazardly, making your stomach twist. One earbud was in, listening to whatever melody occupied his focus in that moment, the other dangling down the front of his bare chest, the cord sticking lightly to his skin. His head moved in time with the rhythm, slow at first, then sharper, more attuned. Each hit of the snare pulsed through the floor and up your spine.
Keegan played like it was religion. Like the drums weren’t something he controlled but something that spoke through him. Like the music he made was his church and he was its most devout worshipper. His forearms were tight, dark hair dusting over the ink that curled from wrist to elbow — black lines that looked like they’d been scrawled in a fever dream, sharp and violent and perfect. His stubbled jaw was tight, mouth slightly open, breath shallow with effort. He looked possessed, the kind of focus that made it impossible to look away.
It was erotic in a way that felt unfair. The way his muscles flexed with every strike. The way sweat dripped down the centre of his stomach, disappearing into the band of his pants. The way he didn’t even notice you watching, didn’t perform for it, just gave himself over to the rhythm like it was the only thing that existed.
Your joint came out wonky. You stared at it, annoyed, then smiled anyway. You’d make him fix it. Or make him roll you another one. Maybe later. Maybe after you blew him while he sat on that stool, his calloused hands still sticky from broken blisters, his mouth slack and panting your name.
You sank deeper into the couch, legs spread now, one knee propped high against the backrest, the other angled outward like you were stretching yourself open for the room to see. The shirt rode up with the movement, catching at your hips, flashing the skin he’d bitten just hours ago. You let your head fall back, eyes sliding shut for a moment, letting the beat carry you.
The drums tapered off one hit at a time, rhythm fraying until it fell into silence, cut loose from the structure he’d held it in. You felt it before you even looked — felt the shift in the room, the drop in tension that wasn’t relief so much as anticipation. When you lifted your head, Keegan had already set the sticks aside. He stretched, long and slow, arms rising above his head, his torso flexing in a way that made your mouth go dry. The muscles along his stomach drew tight, the slow ripple of movement dusted with drying sweat and lit by the faint spill of sunlight coming through the basement window. His eyes flicked over to you, lazy, half-lidded, icy.
You held up the joint without a word.
He crossed the room like he didn’t have a single thought in his head except you, and maybe he didn’t. When he reached you, you swung your legs over his lap without asking. His hands immediately found your calves, blistered fingers brushing up under the hem of your shirt — hisshirt — his thumbs dragging slow along your skin like he was re-learning how to map it from scratch.
He leaned in. Took the joint from your fingers, sparked it, and inhaled — long and smooth — and then he kissed you.
You let him.
His mouth was warm, lips dry, but the kiss was molten, laced with smoke that filled your lungs before you could breathe on your own. He didn’t pull back. Not right away. Just deepened the kiss, pressed harder, his tongue pushing against yours with lazy hunger, like he wasn’t done with you yet. Your chest heaved with the strain of it, lungs burning, body already reacting the way it always did — heat spreading down your spine, nipples pebbling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt that barely covered you, core pulsing in time with the low hum still ringing in your ears from his drumming.
His free hand moved higher. Rough palm at your waist, then gripping your body to drag you closer — like you weren’t already in his lap, legs parted across him, body melting into his without resistance. He didn’t speak. Keegan never really did during things like this.
You broke the kiss only to catch your breath, hands sliding under the hem of the shirt to tug it over your head, skin bare underneath — but then you heard it. A voice, echoing sharp and clear down the narrow staircase.
Keegan stilled against your mouth, exhaled slow against your cheek, and pulled back just as Ajax appeared halfway down the stairs, boots thudding against the wood like a warning that came too late. You reached blindly for the threadbare blanket beside you, yanking it across your thighs in a half-hearted effort to look like you hadn’t just been about to let Keegan fuck you stupid on his basement couch.
Ajax didn’t even flinch.
“Well don’t stop on my account,” he said, grinning like a bastard, eyes flicking between the two of you with that cockiness he wore like a second skin.
Keegan didn’t bother looking embarrassed. Just rubbed the back of his neck, hair damp, eyes already a little distant again like the moment hadn’t meant much. It never did, not enough to explain. He nodded once in acknowledgement. Nothing more.
You tucked the blanket tighter around your body, trying to settle back against the couch, pretending like your face wasn’t burning and your thighs weren’t still slick with the ghost of his hands. Ajax had met you a few times before. Enough to know. Enough to get it. And as far as you knew, he was the only one in the band who did.
Keegan didn’t like to share.
Ajax nodded toward the dying roach in the ashtray, toward the rolling tray on the table still scattered with papers and crumbs of bud. “Wow,” he said, mock-wounded, “you guys aren’t even gonna offer me any? I’m hurt.”
Keegan glanced at the tray, then at you. “Roll another?”
You gave him a look that was nothing short of incredulous. He knew you couldn’t roll worth shit. You stared at the mess you’d left behind — paper half-stuck to itself, too loose to burn, too sad to salvage.
He sighed. A low, almost fond sound.
“Never mind.” He sat back, took the tray from the table, and got to work.
You watched his fingers move, deft, efficient, as if everything in his life was built to be done with those hands. You shifted slightly, still curled up on the couch, blanket bunched around your hips now, the shirt you’d almost shed pulled down modestly. Ajax wandered off toward the mini-fridge for a beer.
He returned shortly thereafter, dropping with easy confidence onto the couch without asking. The old frame dipped beneath him, his thigh pressing casually against yours like he didn’t even notice how bare your skin still was under the blanket. The couch shifted around the weight of all three of you, and suddenly you were sandwiched between Keegan and his best friend, the press of muscle and body and silence closing in on either side.
Keegan glanced up, once, barely a flick of his eyes toward Ajax, like he’d registered the new presence beside you and moved on. No flicker of ownership. No hint of possessiveness. His gaze dropped again, and he returned to the task in his lap — rolling, slow and steady, the pads of his fingers coaxing the paper into place like it was nothing. Like you weren’t half-naked under a throw blanket, still breathing him in, your lips swollen from his kiss. Like Ajax being close enough to feel the heat off your skin didn’t mean a fucking thing.
You hated how much you wanted him to react. To shift. To care. Even a hand on your thigh would’ve been enough. Something small, grounding. But Keegan just licked the edge of the paper, sealed it, and reached for his lighter.
Ajax leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, beer resting between his palms. “You ready for tonight?” he asked, turning toward Keegan.
“Tonight?” you echoed before you could stop yourself.
Ajax blinked, surprised. “You didn’t tell her?”
Keegan didn’t even lift his head. He flicked the lighter open, flame catching on the first try, and lit the end of the joint with the same calm he brought to everything — playing, fucking, you. You stared at him as he inhaled slow, chest rising, the smoke curling from the corner of his lips like the question hadn’t even registered.
“There’s a gig?” you asked, quieter now. You were looking at Keegan, not Ajax. But he didn’t answer.
Ajax did it for him. “Yeah, late one. Ten o’clock, Barracuda. Should be packed.”
You let your eyes drag back to Keegan, who passed the joint to Ajax without a word. You didn’t say anything either, not at first. Just watched him, watched the way he leaned back into the couch, his arms resting lazily along the cushions, so casual it made you ache.
He hadn’t told you.
You’d spent the morning in his bed. Wrapped up in his sheets, his mouth on your neck, his hands between your thighs. He’d made you come twice before noon and never once mentioned he’d be on stage tonight. You’d been in his house all day. Still here now. But this? This was something he hadn’t thought worth sharing. And you were reminded, all over again, of just how carefully he kept things separate. How there were parts of him folded into drawers you weren’t allowed to open, no matter how many hours you spent lying against his chest, pretending this wasn’t what it was.
The problem was, it was working. You kept showing up. Kept waiting for the warmth that sometimes surfaced in the quiet after sex, when he curled his fingers into your hair and let himself breathe a little deeper than usual. You’d thought — stupidly, selfishly — that those moments were real. That he was thawing.
Because hadn’t you shared enough to earn that?
There were nights you lay naked beside him and talked about the things that hurt. His family. Yours. All the years between. You told him things you hadn’t said out loud in years, and he listened — really listened, eyes on the ceiling, fingers grazing your ribs like a metronome. And afterwards, his mouth would be on you again, and it felt different. It felt close.
So why didn’t this?
Ajax glanced at you, breaking the stretch of silence. “You’re coming, right?”
You blinked once. “Didn’t get an invite.”
Ajax made a face, sitting back with a low whistle. “Keegan. Seriously?”
Keegan shrugged, not even sparing you a glance. “You can come if you want.”
You wanted to laugh. If you want. The words landed like cold water against your chest. No smile. No warmth. No I want you there. Just a tossed-off offer like it didn’t matter either way.
And maybe it didn’t. Maybe to him, you were just something warm to hold between sets. A soft body. A pretty face. A routine.
You swallowed around it, the ache in your chest lodged like smoke in your lungs.
“I don’t know,” you said, forcing your voice lighter, more detached than you felt. You turned your head toward Ajax with a tilt of your chin, lips quirking like none of it touched you. “Might already have plans. Some friends and I were talking about going out.”
Ajax raised a brow, and Keegan finally turned to look at you then. Aware. You held his stare. Let it linger. Daring him to say something that would make you stay. Give you a reason. Offer you more than crumbs.
But he didn’t.
Ajax leaned forward again, his grin still lingering. “You know, it’s about time you got to see your man on stage.”
The word hit like a brick through glass.
Your man.
You felt the entire weight of it drop into your chest like it had been waiting to land, heavy and inevitable. It was said casually, a throwaway line, a joke between friends — but it echoed in the space between you and Keegan like it meant something more. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The words crawled across your skin, hot and sticky, settling into every crack you’d tried to smooth over. You weren’t his. Not really. And he wasn’t yours. That had always been the deal. No expectations. No claims. No mess.
But still.
Keegan didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh it off, didn’t joke back, didn’t even glance at you to gauge your reaction. His shoulders went still, the kind of stillness that wasn’t silence but retreat — internal, quiet, sealed behind that wall he always seemed to carry around inside his chest. His fingers were still resting on his knee, and he didn’t look up. Didn’t offer correction. Or clarification. Or anything.
That hurt more than you wanted to admit.
You forced yourself to react — to not react. To move past it like it hadn’t stuck in your throat. You gave a dry little laugh, just enough breath behind it to make it sound casual, and leaned your head back against the cushion behind you.
“I don’t know,” you said, your voice light, flirtatious enough to sound like nothing. “I feel like I’d distract him too much if I were in the audience. Flash a little bit of leg and he fucks up the whole tempo.”
You didn’t look at Keegan as you said it. You could feel the weight of his attention shift just slightly toward you — that faint prickling awareness of his gaze — but it passed too fast to mean anything. He didn’t respond. Not even a smile.
Ajax let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Audience?” he scoffed. “No. You’d be backstage. What do you think this is, some all-ages coffeehouse show? You’d have the best view in the place.”
And maybe you should’ve smiled. Maybe you should’ve taken the win. But all you could feel was the burn of Keegan’s silence stretching tight beside you. The way his body had gone unreadable again. Neutral. Like you were a guest in a house you were supposed to know the rules to by now.
You shifted on the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around your bare thighs even though your skin wasn’t cold — just raw. Your voice came light, offhanded, the words sliding out before your heart could weigh them down too much.
“Like I said, I might have plans tonight anyway,” you repeated, your gaze fixed on some vague middle distance, past Keegan’s shoulder, past the smoke curling between Ajax’s fingers. “So it’s fine.”
There it was. Final. Neatly wrapped.
You still didn’t look at Keegan. You couldn’t. You didn’t want to see the blankness you already knew would be there, the same flat line in his mouth, the same distant calm in his eyes. He wouldn’t ask what your plans were. He wouldn’t try to pull you back. That just wasn’t who he was, not with you, anyway. And that knowledge had settled inside you like a bruise, dark and aching, deep enough that no amount of weed or his touch on your body could dull it now.
You stood, the blanket falling from your lap in a soft collapse of fabric. You didn’t bother fixing the shirt as you rose, the hem barely covering the curve of your ass. You knew Ajax was watching, though he didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t, not out of respect for you, but for Keegan. That was the hierarchy. That was the line.
You moved past them, barefoot, the weight of their attention trailing across your skin like heat. You didn’t give them a look over your shoulder. Just walked slowly toward the stairs, the air thick with tension and smoke, your legs still aching from the way Keegan had pulled you apart that morning with his hands like he was trying to quiet something inside himself.
You paused at the foot of the steps, one hand on the railing. You spoke without turning around, voice soft and distant, almost careless.
“I’m gonna shower and get out of here. I’ll lock the door on my way out.”
Keegan didn’t say a word.
⟡
Despite everything — despite the hollow shrug of Keegan’s voice when he said you can come if you want, despite the way you’d lied about having other plans just to keep from sounding hurt — you found yourself there anyway. You weren’t even sure when the decision was made. There was no moment of conviction, no dramatic pivot in the shower. You got dressed. Got in the car. Drove into the night with your chest hollowed out and your hands too tight on the wheel.
Barracuda was the kind of place you could only find if you knew what you were looking for — tucked in the forgotten stretch of the industrial outskirts, past the bridges and the graffitied storage yards, far from anything pretty or clean. The building itself looked like it had once been used for steel, or maybe shipping — broad, soot-stained, and crumbling around the edges. A squat, brick warehouse with warped windows and a loading dock that had been converted into a smoking area. The sign above the door was nothing more than red neon tubing in the shape of a heart, buzzing like it was on its last legs. The bass rolled through the walls before you even stepped inside, vibrating through the soles of your boots and up into your ribcage.
The interior was a cavern. Red light bled across every surface, soaking into concrete floors and peeling black paint. The bar was jammed into the corner like an afterthought, a half-moon of metal and exposed piping, sticky with old liquor and illuminated by a spattering of humming bulbs overhead. The stage was framed by scaffolding, caged in like a living beast, with cables drooping like vines and fog machines wheezing out slow streams of synthetic smoke that clung to the ground like it was afraid to rise. The whole place smelled like beer and sweat and sex. Like bad decisions. Like longing.
You got there halfway through the set.
Ajax was singing, voice smooth but angry, mouth pressed to the mic almost intimately. You knew the song. Not by name, not by heart, but by the drumline. You’d heard it enough times in the bowels of Keegan’s basement, curled up on the couch half-naked, joints tucked one after the other between your lips while he rehearsed shirtless and oblivious to how his hips moved when he played. You’d watched his arms flex and sweat bead down his body as he worked through every single beat, never saying a word. Never playing for you. Always with you in the room, but never to you.
You didn’t go close to the stage. You didn’t try to find him in the mess of strobes and screaming and light. You went to the bar instead. Ordered something strong — whiskey, neat — hoping it would cut through the noise in your head. You wrapped your fingers around the glass and leaned into the edge of the bar, letting the cold press against your thighs through your jeans. You didn’t want attention. Not really. But you felt eyes from men around you sweep over you anyway — felt them catch on the waistline of your denim, on the smear of gloss on your mouth, on the line of your neck where your pulse thudded in yearning.
You could barely see him through the sea of bodies between you and the stage. There were girls everywhere — draped in fishnets and mesh, eyeliner smudged like warpaint, drinks in their hands and hunger on their faces. All of them beautiful. And they were screaming. For him. For Keegan.
Because everyone loved the drummer.
Everyone loved the sweat and the shadows and the raw, driving rhythm of it. Everyone loved the man who sat in the back and commanded the tempo, the one whose arms flexed with every hit, whose jaw tightened with effort, whose silence made people lean in. You could see them — crowded against the stage, shouting, dancing, laughing, tossing their hair back and hoping he’d look at them for even half a second.
And your stomach twisted.
Was this why he never brought you? Was this what you weren’t supposed to see?
The idea of it turned your drink sour in your mouth. The idea that maybe this was what he wanted to keep private — not because you were special, but because you weren’t. Because if he brought you here, if he let you stand beside him, the illusion would crack. Because maybe you were one of several. Because maybe someone else had worn that same Blink-182 shirt a few months ago and you’d never know the difference. Because maybe he liked you best when you didn’t ask questions.
And the worst part?
You didn’t even have the right to be mad.
You weren’t dating. You never said you were exclusive. You never asked. You agreed to this — the silence, the lack of labels, the easy slide from his bed to his basement to his hands between your thighs. And yet standing here now, watching the crowd scream for him, drink in your hand and mouth dry, all you could think about was how much you hated being on the outside of a door you’d never been invited through.
The next band stumbled onto the stage like they’d been pulled out of a trance, all static and too-loud tuning, the speakers hiccupping as they warmed up. The air shifted again — sweaty bodies pressing closer, the crowd surging in a drunken wave of anticipation. Plastic cups sloshed warm beer down forearms and shirtfronts, and cheers bled into the low throb of distorted chords. You lost him in all of it. One second Keegan was there — on stage, inside the pulse of the music — and the next, he was disappearing into the shadows behind the shredded backstage curtain. You caught only the shape of his shoulders as he vanished, swallowed up by the venue’s blackened mouth like smoke pulled through a lung.
The heat in the room felt suffocating now, a furnace of skin and bass. Your throat ached with it. Your eyes burned. You needed to move, to step away, but there was nowhere to go that didn’t hum with neon and liquor and the smell of someone else’s sweat. So you ducked your head, slipped out the side, and took the stairs down — metal underfoot, rust licking at the walls, the sound of the venue upstairs muffled and distant behind you.
The basement smelled worse — like stale beer that had been soaking into the concrete for years. There were no real lights, just dim, flickering bulbs strung along the ceiling, their weak glow caught on peeling posters and smudged paint. The hallway outside the washrooms was barely wide enough for a queue. Only single stalls down here. First come, first serve. Just graffiti-carved doors and the anxious pacing of half-drunk strangers waiting to piss.
You took your place behind a tall guy with a neck tattoo, tentacles reaching out from his collar, curling around the stubble at his jaw. His shirt was soaked through at the back, and he smelled faintly of weed and cheap cologne. Behind you, a girl with blue hair popped her gum and checked her makeup, the flash of her phone screen lighting up the curve of her cheekbones.
You pulled out your own phone, thumb hovering instinctively over the screen. There was no message. Nothing from him. No “where are you,” no “I saw you.” Just your own home screen staring back at you mockingly. And still, still, your brain offered up soft excuses, dressing them in hope.
He probably didn’t have service.
He was probably busy packing up.
He cared, just in his own way.
You hated how badly you needed that to be true. Hated the little catch in your chest every time you thought about the way his mouth felt against yours, the way he’d pull your hair back and press his lips to your throat like he meant it. The way he’d stare at you when you were naked in his bed, no words, no promises, just breath and heat and the weight of him between your thighs.
You wanted to believe that meant something. Even if he never said it. Even if he never called you his.
“Hey,” said the guy in front of you, breaking your train of thought. He turned a little, gave you a once-over that landed somewhere between charming and smug. “You come here a lot?”
You blinked at him. “No.”
He grinned, undeterred. “Shame. Pretty good scene tonight, huh? You into this stuff? Grunge, punk, noise rock?”
You shrugged. “I know some of the guys in the band.”
“Oh yeah?” He perked up like that did something for him. “Cool. You coming out after? Everyone usually heads to The Foundry after Barracuda. Chill spot. Good drinks. I’m buying, if you’re down.”
There was something about the ease of it that bothered you — how quickly he assumed you’d say yes. That you were alone. That you wanted to be approached. That you weren’t already spoken for, already raw and simmering from someone else’s hands and indifference.
You opened your mouth to let him down, and then the voice cut in.
“[Name]?”
You’d recognize that low gravel anywhere. It curled down your spine like heat, soaked into your skin like summer rain. You knew Keegan’s voice the way you knew lust — immediate, carnal, impossible to ignore. You turned, pulse slamming hard behind your ribs, already knowing what you’d find.
He stood at the mouth of the hallway, half in shadow, dressed all in black, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. His t-shirt clung to him like a second skin, the hem riding just above the sculpt of his abdomen, and the silver of his rings flashed with every flex of his fingers. His eyes were locked on yours.
Not the guy beside you. Not the girl behind you.
You.
Your body reacted before your thoughts did — your lungs pulling in too much air, your lips parting like you’d just been kissed. There was nothing in his expression that told you how he felt. Just that steady stare. That weight. Like he saw everything in one glance — the guy, the way he looked at you, the tight jeans you’d worn, the fact that you were standing alone.
The man in front of you shifted, his voice faltering as he looked from Keegan to you. “You know him?”
And you wanted to say yes. You wanted to say I know everything about him. The way he kisses. The way he plays. The sound he makes when you pull his hair and bite his shoulder. The way he groans into your neck like you’re the only thing that ever quiets him.
But you didn’t say anything.
Keegan’s boots scuffed against the sticky floor. He stopped close, a few inches away, almost brushing against your skin like static.
“I thought you said you had plans,” he said, voice dragging along your nerves like a rasp. His eyes were bright under the flicker of fluorescent light, jaw tightening beneath the smudge of sweat.
You lifted your chin, didn’t let him see the flutter in your stomach. “Plans changed.”
Keegan’s gaze didn’t move from yours, though he kept his shoulders loose, like the weight of the crowd’s noise earlier hadn’t already soaked into his bones. “You could’ve texted me. Let me know you were coming.”
You wanted to snap something back, but before you could, the guy in front of you turned slightly, throwing up one hand in mild protest.
“Hey, man, no offence, but we were talking—”
Keegan didn’t even blink. He looked at you, not him, like the guy wasn’t even there. “You here with him?”
You felt your pulse hitch at the implication, at the clipped suspicion in his tone. “No. I’m not.”
A stall creaked open — rusted hinges whining — and before you could react, Keegan’s hand was closing around your wrist. You barely had time to shoot the guy a glare before the door shut behind you both and the lock slid into place. The guy’s voice sounded muffled beyond it, some frustrated protest, but it faded into the throb of bass from the floor above.
The bathroom was small, box-like, claustrophobic. Red tiles smeared with marker and pen and stickers curling at the corners. The air was thick with old smoke and piss, the floor sticky underfoot, and you were very aware of how close Keegan stood to you, chest rising and falling, the planes of his neck damp from exhaustion.
You turned on him, your voice already cutting. “What the fuck, Keegan?”
He didn’t flinch. He never flinched. Just planted one hand on the wall beside your head, the other brushing the edge of your hip, fingers light but possessive. “You gonna tell me what’s really bothering you?”
“Nothing’s bothering me,” you said, folding your arms even though your skin buzzed with his nearness, his scent, warm and male and too familiar.
“Bullshit,” he said, and his voice dipped, thick with something you couldn’t name. “I know when you’re upset.”
You scoffed, the sound sharp in the tile-walled room. “Right, ‘cause you know everything about me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be like this.”
“Don’t be like what?”
“This. Moody. Bitchy. Acting like I hurt you.”
You mimicked his voice — low, flat, bitter. “You can come if you want.”
He blinked. “What?”
You stared at him. Really stared. “Do you have any idea how shitty it feels to hear that? Like you didn’t give a single fuck whether I showed up or not?”
Keegan shifted back half a step, but only to run a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. “You came anyway, didn’t you? So, what the fuck is the problem?”
“Forget it,” you muttered, reaching for the door, hand brushing the lock. But his palm pressed flat against it before you could slide it back. “Let me out, Russ.”
His jaw twitched. “Oh, it’s Russ now?”
“Move.”
He didn’t. He exhaled through his nose, dragging a thumb across his bottom lip before speaking. “You’re upset because I didn’t grovel for you to come see the show? Is that it?”
You laughed once, humourless. “Not grovel. But we’ve been seeing each other for what — a few months? And this is the first time I’m seeing you play. Why’s that, Keegan? How come you’ve never invited me before, huh?”
He paused. When he finally spoke, it was quieter, but no less blunt. “Didn’t think it was your thing.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Because what did that mean? That you weren’t the type of girl who liked music, like you hadn’t spent nearly every fucking day in his basement while he played? That you weren’t the type of girl he wanted to show off, that you didn’t match the image he projected onstage?
Or worse — that he wanted to keep you hidden?
Like he always had.
You looked at him, his features caught in the murky overhead light, sweat curling along his jaw, and you felt the ache in your chest thicken. The casual sex. The lazy mornings. The way he touched you without hesitation and then held back everything else. And for once, the fire between your legs wasn’t enough to chase the cold from underneath your ribs.
“I get it,” you said, quietly at first, in that terrifying way before glass shatters, before someone walks away and means it. You stared at the cracked mirror behind his shoulder rather than look him in the eye. Your reflection was a smear of red light, pupils blown, mouth twisted around restraint. “You don’t want to be seen with me. I get it. You could’ve just said that.”
Keegan’s brows pulled together, expression breaking for the first time into something less solid, less sure of itself. “No, [Name], that’s not—”
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
He flinched like you’d struck him.
“What?”
You pushed the words out before you could change your mind, before the heat of him clouded your judgment the way it always did. “I don’t think this is good for either of us.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he snapped, the sound bouncing off the filthy red tiles, all gravel and fury and something almost like hurt tucked deep beneath his voice. His jaw tensed, hands curling into fists at his sides. “You’re gonna pull this now? Here?”
“Yes,” you said, and it took everything in you to hold your ground. “Because I listened to you, Keegan. Every time. I showed up when you needed someone, no questions asked. When you needed to fuck the silence out of your system, when you needed a body to fall asleep next to. I was there. I was always there for you.”
His nostrils flared.
“I get that we’re not together,” you went on, stepping closer now, breath quick and sharp, “but I thought I was at least your friend. I thought you liked me enough as a person to want to fucking — I don’t know — hang out outside your place. Or mine. Maybe grab a fucking drink like normal people do.”
“You’re not just some girl I sleep with,” Keegan said lowly, like the sentence fought its way out of his throat. “You think I let just anyone in my house? In my bed?”
“How should I know?” you asked bitterly. “We’re practically strangers.”
His eyes flared, that glacial blue flickering in the low light. He took a step forward, and your back hit the tile behind you again, his chest inches from yours, his breath warm on your face. You could smell the stage on him — sweat, smoke, a trace of cheap beer — and it stirred something you hated in your gut.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “I don’t do this shit — whatever this is — with anyone. You show up and get under my skin and make me feel shit I don’t know what to do with. I’m not fucking used to it, alright?”
“Oh, poor you,” you shot back, heart thudding loud enough to drown the music upstairs. “Must be hard. Must be so fucking hard having someone care about you.”
“Get off my dick, [Name]. I’m trying, aren’t I?” His voice cracked slightly, like each word scraped its way painfully out of his throat. “Letting you crash at my place whenever you want. Letting you use me however the fuck you feel like. What do I ask for in return, huh?”
You glared at him, that low flame of disbelief flaring into something hotter, something uglier. It hit like a slap you should’ve seen coming. “This isn’t supposed to be transactional, you dick,” you said, the hurt edging into every syllable. “That’s not how relationships work.”
He scoffed, almost bitter. “We’re not — I’m not your boyfriend.”
The words sucked the breath from your lungs. For a second, you forgot how to swallow. Your body went still, a rigid quiet rolling through you like ice creeping under skin. “I meant in general,” you said after a beat, and your voice didn’t sound like your own. You kept it low, but it still cracked against the knot in your chest. “But good to know.”
Keegan dragged a hand down his face, muttering cusses under his breath. “What do you want from me, [Name]? Just fucking say it. Let’s talk like adults. We’re not kids.”
A knock landed hard against the door, sharp and impatient, breaking the air between you like glass. Keegan didn’t even look. “We’re fucking busy!” he snapped, voice barbed, and whoever it was retreated in silence.
You huffed, eyes narrowed. “Great. Now people think we’re fucking in here.”
His smirk came and went, hollow at the edges. “Wouldn’t be as fucking exhausting as this.”
You barked out a laugh, humourless, burned around the edges. “Of course. God forbid we do anything other than have sex.”
The look he gave you then was more than wounded. It was defensive, cornered. “That’s not fair. You know that’s not fair. You know I care about you.”
“Do I?” It came out too fast, too soft. The words slipped through the cracks in your defences, almost gentle, if not for the razor hidden underneath. “Do I know that?”
“You should,” he said, quieter. “I thought it was obvious.”
You stared at him, disbelief curdling into something sour in your chest. “To who?” Your voice sharpened as your jaw set. “To you? Because it’s sure as fuck not obvious to me.”
Another knock, lighter this time, followed by Ajax’s voice from the hallway. “Yo, Russ, come on. It’s showtime.”
Keegan turned his head, exhaling hard through his nose. “Give me a sec!” he shouted, then turned back to you, jaw tight. “Look. Just — come backstage. Watch the second half. We’ll talk after, alright?”
He looked at you like he was trying to hold you in place with his eyes. But something in you had gone quiet. Distant. “Sure,” you said flatly, the word stripped of any real weight. It felt like a lie before it even left your mouth.
Keegan took a breath like he didn’t buy it either. Then he stepped in, closing the space between you. His hand slid to the back of your neck, rough and warm, and he kissed you.
There was nothing soft about it.
It was messy and hungry, a clash of teeth and tension. His mouth tasted like sweat and smoke, and the unspoken things he couldn’t bring himself to say. His fingers grasped the nape of your neck and his body pressed against yours, hard and impatient. He kissed you like the truth lived in his mouth and he needed to make you taste it. And you let him, for what it was worth, because that was the rhythm you knew, the only language he seemed fluent in. You kissed him back because you didn’t know what else to do with the ache in your chest.
When Keegan finally pulled away, there was something half-formed in his gaze. Regret. Guilt. Maybe just fear. But you didn’t wait for him to explain it.
You stepped out into the hallway first, blinking against the sharp red haze that coated the space like a wound. Ajax was a few steps away, ready with a smirk and some easy line — “Hey, you came!” — but the rest of it died the second he caught sight of you. Of your face. Of Keegan behind you, his expression like a storm, like he’d shoved every feeling he didn’t know how to handle deep enough to rot. Ajax raised his brows slightly and stepped back without a word, giving you a path toward the stairwell.
Keegan didn’t say anything either. Just brushed past, heading for the door at the far end of the hall, footsteps too heavy in the quiet.
And you didn’t follow.
Your legs moved on instinct, up the other set of stairs, through the crowd and the heat, your body humming like the strings of a guitar pulled too tight. The venue felt louder now, rawer, the red lighting bleeding into your vision like a warning. You pushed your way toward the exit instead of the bar, instead of the stage, instead of him.
Because if you stayed another second, you weren’t sure if you’d cry — or worse, forgive him too easily.
You just needed to breathe before the ache hollowed out something you wouldn’t be able to fill again.
character: David “Hesh” Walker
words: 8116
cw: 18+, drinking, smoking, weed use, light sexual content (sorta smut but not really)
description: AU in which you’re Logan’s best friend but you’re crushing hard on his older brother.
a/n: a lovely anon requested something for Hesh and I will use any excuse to write for him :)))
Meeting Logan Walker was, without exaggeration, both the best and worst thing that had ever happened to you.
The best — because he was exactly what you hadn’t even known you were searching for. A best friend, sure, but more than that. A constant. A safe place. Moving across the country to San Diego for university had been a lonely kind of upheaval. The city was bright and loud and sprawling in all the ways your old life hadn’t been, and it had taken you years to feel even remotely rooted. And then, in your final year, a fluke of course scheduling dropped Logan into your lap. Some upper-year elective you’d registered for on a whim — just to fill the gap — and suddenly you were sitting beside a boy who made the whole world tilt a little differently.
You clicked immediately. No awkward phase, no second-guessing. Just laughter — real, belly-aching, eye-watering laughter — right from day one. He was razor-sharp, quick with a joke, always ready with some dry comment under his breath that turned even the most boring lectures into something worth showing up for. But it wasn’t just that. There was a warmth to him, a gentleness, that caught you off guard. A way of seeing you when you didn’t say much, of reaching out before you had to ask.
In a year full of exams you were convinced you’d flunk, of late-night breakdowns and messy almost-relationships that left you gutted and hollow, Logan stayed steady. Always with a Red Bull and a dumb grin, always picking up your calls at 2am without asking why. He didn’t flinch when you were at your worst. He cracked a joke, handed you tissues, reminded you — quietly, always quietly — that you could do this. You weren’t sure how you would’ve survived that year without him. He became a fixture in your life. Unshakable. Golden.
But it was also the worst thing. Because Logan had an older brother. And his older brother was really fucking hot.
David Walker — Hesh, as everyone called him — was the original blueprint. Where Logan was easygoing and irreverent, Hesh was sharp-edged charm and sun-kissed confidence. You’d caught onto it early, that Logan’s dry wit, his music taste, even the brand of cheap beer he insisted on drinking, all traced back to his brother. Logan would never say it aloud, but the resemblance in tone and manner was too strong to ignore. Hesh was the kind of man who could fill a room without trying. Not loud — no, never that. Just present. Unmistakably so.
And you were so hopelessly, absurdly, silently drawn to him it made your teeth ache.
Of course, you never said anything. God, no. That would’ve been a betrayal; whether real or just imagined, it didn’t matter. You weren’t oblivious. Logan was your best friend, and even if the two of you had never so much as flirted, never crossed the threshold into anything charged or intimate, the bond between you was still sacred. Precious. Just looking at his brother — thinking about his brother — felt like trespassing on something you weren’t meant to touch. You’d seen enough films to know how stories like that ended. Messy. Torn. With someone walking away. And you couldn’t afford to lose Logan. Not when he knew your secrets. Not when he was the only person who’d ever made this foreign city feel like home.
So, you buried it. Or at least, you tried to. Told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just boredom, some temporary glitch in your emotional programming. That you were lonely. Tired. Vulnerable. That Hesh being impossibly attractive didn’t mean anything.
But then the weekends would come, and with them, the gravity of that house — the Walkers’ place, nestled in a peaceful, tree-lined San Diego suburb where the air smelled like citrus and cut grass and the pool sparkled under a soft sun like something out of a dream. You’d pack a bag, climb into Logan’s beat-up car, and by the time you stepped through their front door, every boundary you’d ever drawn in your head would begin to blur. It happened every damn time. And you always let it.
Hesh had a way of slipping into your life without warning, like smoke under a doorframe. He didn’t ask permission; he didn’t have to. He was just there, folding into your dynamic with Logan like he’d always belonged, like the trio of you had been a unit forever. He’d offer to drive the two of you in his own truck, blasting half-forgotten 2000s hip-hop tracks or obscure punk songs you’d never heard before but would fall in love with anyway, just because they were his favourites. He’d pick up takeout, remembering everything you liked to eat, pass you a beer before you even asked, show up with a freshly rolled joint between his fingers and a look on his face that made your breath catch. He was generous in a way that didn’t feel performative. Casual. Natural. Like he liked doing things for you. Like watching you react to him was part of the pleasure.
And still, Logan never flinched. Never noticed the way your voice squeaked when Hesh was in the room. Never clocked the way your eyes lingered a second too long when his brother leaned against the counter, forearms dusted with flour from making late-night pizza from scratch just because, head tilted as he teased you. If he had, he never said a word.
But you noticed. You noticed everything.
Like the way Hesh never simply handed you the joints you smoked. No, he made a whole goddamn ritual out of it. He’d hold it up — two fingers, loose and casual — lips twitching with the hint of a smile, and wait. Wait for you to meet his eyes, for you to shift a little closer, for your lips to part. He’d guide it to your mouth slowly, thumb brushing your chin, and linger there just long enough to make your pulse flutter. And when you exhaled — smoke curling from your lips in slow, trembling ribbons — he’d let out this low, knowing laugh, then shift back like he hadn’t just stolen your breath.
It drove you insane.
He should’ve felt like an older brother. That was the script you were meant to follow. Hesh was Logan’s sibling. Off-limits. Family by extension. But nothing about him fit that mould. Not the way he looked at you, slow and curious, like he was working out a puzzle with his eyes. Not the way his arm brushed yours in the kitchen — bare skin on bare skin, that faint heat always pulsing outwardly. Not the way he’d call you angel in that velvet So-Cal drawl, not playful so much as suggestive, like he was savouring the taste of the word on his tongue.
And then there were the times — few and far between but burned into your memory — when he got close. The way he’d reach around you to grab a glass from the cupboard, his chest pressed to your back, breath fanning against the shell of your ear as if he had no idea what that did to you. The way he’d sit too close on the couch, knees brushing, fingers idly playing with the strings of your hoodie as you tried to focus on the movie. The way he’d watch you when he thought you weren’t looking — green eyes darkening, thoughtful, lingering on your lips.
You knew what you were feeling wasn’t innocent in the slightest.
You were infatuated. No, more than that. You were tangled up in him, in the scent of his skin — pine, salt, something faintly metallic from his work — and in the way he laughed when you said something sarcastic, low and rumbly, like he was genuinely delighted by you. You were hooked on every brush of contact, every shared smoke, every glance that lasted too long. You were losing sleep over him.
And there wasn’t a single thing you could do about it.
⟡
It was the first weekend after graduation, and instead of packing your life into boxes and driving north to whatever waited back home, you’d stayed. There’d been no big, dramatic decision about it. San Diego wasn’t finished with you yet. The city was just now starting to feel a little bit more like a place you might belong in, and besides, Logan had insisted. Practically dragged your suitcases out of your hands, said the guest room was yours for the summer. Said Elias was fine with it, already signed off on the idea before you’d even asked. You hadn’t even had time to argue. Not that you would’ve. Not when the thought of leaving made your throat tighten.
So, you stayed. And for now, you were in the Walkers’ garage, sunk low into a sun-bleached folding chair that creaked every time you shifted your weight. Your bare legs were sticky against the vinyl, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to your skin as the afternoon dragged its heels. The garage door was wide open, golden light spilling across the concrete floor and out onto the driveway. Beyond that, the neighbourhood was still, hot and green, palm trees swaying lazily like they had nothing better to do. The air smelled like cut grass, engine oil, and weed.
Hesh was crouched beside Logan’s piece-of-shit Civic, sleeves bunched around his biceps, black T-shirt clinging damply to his back. He was wrist-deep in the guts of the front wheel, muttering something to himself as he pried at the brake pads, forearms slick with sweat and streaked with grease. You couldn’t help watching him — tracking the shift of muscle under skin, the flex of his jaw as he leaned forward. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the stubble creeping along his cheekbones caught the light, making your stomach twist a little. There was something rougher about him today, more worn-in, like the heat had stripped away whatever polish he usually wore. He was hot. Stupidly so. And he didn’t even seem to notice.
Logan, in contrast, was sitting cross-legged on a spare tire, a smug little smirk on his face as he ground up flower with practiced hands. The rolling tray sat not in his lap, but yours, balanced across your thighs as he hunched over it, elbows digging into your knees. You were his workstation, apparently. The loose shake of weed clung to your skin, sweet and earthy, and every time he shifted the tray or tapped it, your whole body tensed, not entirely sure if it was from the ticklish motion or the knowledge that Hesh could see everything from where he was.
You weren’t dressed for anyone. Just a tank top and shorts, skin still warm from the shower you’d taken an hour ago. But with the sun pouring in and Logan so close and Hesh right there, it felt more exposing than it should’ve. You crossed your ankles, then uncrossed them, then bounced your foot without noticing, restless in the heat.
Logan gave your thigh a firm smack, his palm landing with a sharp clap. “Stop moving your legs,” he muttered, the tray wobbling as he tried to pinch the paper shut. “Can’t roll when you’re twitching like that.”
You blinked, startled. “Sorry,” you mumbled, freezing in place as his fingers worked swiftly. You hadn’t realised how fidgety you’d gotten. Hadn’t realised, either, how quiet the garage had become, the only sounds left being the low scrape of tools and the flick of Logan’s lighter.
You glanced over at Hesh again — just once, just to check — and caught the flicker of his eyes lifting towards you. His gaze swept up your legs, lingered, then slid back down to the car like nothing had happened.
The air inside the garage clung to your skin like oil, heavy and slow. The heat pressed in from every direction, humid and humming, the late-afternoon sun dimming into golden sheets that lit the dust motes like sparks. Somewhere down the block, a neighbour’s lawnmower whined half-heartedly, the sound fading in and out beneath the louder thrum of cicadas, the creak of metal, the occasional clatter of tools on concrete. Still, none of it quite cut through the coil of tension wound tight in your stomach. Not with Hesh so close, his arms working beneath the wheel well of Logan’s car, swearing low as sweat tracked down the curve of his throat and disappeared beneath his collar.
“Logan,” Hesh called, voice echoing slightly off the garage walls, “put some fucking music on before I start tweaking.”
Logan barely lifted his head. He was hunched over on the tire, joint paper stuck to his lip as he ran his tongue across the seam, slow and precise, like he was savouring it. “You do it,” he muttered, thumb smoothing the edge with practiced ease.
Hesh yanked his hand out from under the car, flipping it upright to show off the black smears of grease and grime that coated his fingers all the way to the knuckle. “Yeah? Wanna come suck the fucking oil off my fingers while you’re at it?”
You laughed — couldn’t help it — and tried to cover your grin as you pushed out of the chair, the metal groaning under your weight. “I’ll do it,” you said, brushing your palms on the back of your shorts as you crossed to the cluttered shelf where the Bluetooth speaker sat between an old socket wrench set and a half-empty bottle of Gatorade. Your phone connected with a familiar chime, the screen lighting up under your thumb as you scrolled through your music. You hesitated for a second, then tapped a track you knew he liked — a song that screamed late '90s sunshine.
The opening riff of “Semi-Charmed Life” exploded from the speaker like a jolt, brash and unapologetically upbeat. Logan groaned theatrically, flopping his head back.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Hesh called from behind the wheel well, the smile obvious in his voice. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Thought you’d appreciate it,” you said, easing back into your seat as the lyrics kicked in, cheeky, rough-edged, hot in a way that stuck to your spine. The weed smell thickened in the air as Logan finished rolling and sparked the joint, the flame licking at the paper until the tip glowed molten red. He took a few slow drags, eyes half-lidded, holding the smoke in his lungs like it was sex itself before letting it leak out through parted lips.
“Jesus,” Hesh muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. He crouched back on his heels and shook his head. “Puff, puff, pass, dumbass. You ever gonna learn?”
Logan made a face but handed it off to you. “You want it so bad, come and get it.”
You plucked it from his fingers before Hesh could. The joint was still warm from Logan’s mouth, the filter damp. You didn’t care. You brought it to your lips, inhaled deep, the sweetness of the strain blooming in your chest before you exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. It made everything blur at the edges — your limbs, your thoughts, the shape of the sunlight falling across Hesh’s shoulders. You hit it again. Then once more, greedily. Everything was slipping into soft focus, but him? Hesh was still in crystal clarity.
He was standing now, just a few feet away, sweat trickling down the side of his head, the smudge of engine oil staining the inside of one leg. He nodded toward the joint, then gave you a slow tilt of his head.
“C’mon,” he said. “Help a guy out.”
You blinked. “But your hands are gross.”
“Exactly,” he replied, and the grin he gave you wasn’t innocent. Not even close. “You know how this works.”
Of course you did.
You stood, your heart tapping a slow, thudding rhythm behind your ribs as you stepped toward him. The music played on, the lyrics skating under your skin with a wicked pulse:
Those little red panties, they pass the test…
The joint trembled just slightly between your fingers as you lifted it, brought it up to his mouth. His head dipped to meet you halfway, the scruff of his cheek grazing your wrist as he leaned in and closed his lips around the filter.
Slides up around the belly, face down on the mattress…
Hesh held your gaze as he inhaled, slow and deep, the cherry flaring hot. You felt it all — his breath, the faint heat of his tongue behind the paper, the whisper of his lips as they brushed your knuckles. He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, so close your skin prickled, so close your stomach twisted with longing.
Then, he exhaled the smoke straight into your face.
The effect was immediate. Your eyes stung, your chest hitched, your pulse jolted. You coughed once, hand rising instinctively to your mouth, and then you laughed, breathy and embarrassed, a little shaky. The haze clung to your hair, your lashes, your throat. You breathed it in like perfume.
Hesh grinned. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick, before crouching down again, just like that, like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t just set your entire nervous system on fire.
Logan’s voice tore through the mellow stretch of the afternoon like a fork dragged across a plate. Nasal, impatient, endearingly whiny in that way only he could get away with. “I’m starving,” he groaned, letting his head fall forward like the weight of his hunger was some great affliction. “Like, fuck me — I’m going to pass out. Or die.”
Hesh didn’t even glance his way. Still half-submerged in his work, he kept wrenching away at whatever rusted, stubborn piece of machinery had his attention. “Then go get pizza,” he shot back, voice echoing slightly off the concrete floor.
Logan made a wounded, theatrical sound deep in his throat — one part drama, two parts laziness. “We could just order in,” he offered, drawing the words out like they were sweeter when stretched.
“Or,” Hesh replied, the wrench slipping against metal with a sharp, hollow ping, “you could walk your ass to Rocco’s. It’s fifteen minutes, maybe less if you haul ass.”
The Bluetooth speaker hummed in the background, still low and insistent, a pulse of music threading through the heat like a second heartbeat. The track shifted and “Two Princes” by Spin Doctors kicked in, all jangly guitars and sun-drunk momentum. The air shimmered in the open garage; the moment pulsed golden.
Logan groaned again, dragging himself upright with the weight of a martyr. “Wanna come, [Name]?” he asked.
You didn’t even hide your smirk. “In this heat?” you asked, leaning back in your chair until it creaked beneath you, one bare leg thrown lazily over the other. Your eyes flicked toward the open garage door, where the sun baked the blacktop into something near-glowing. “Not a chance.”
Logan pressed a hand to his chest like you’d shot him. “You’re soft,” he accused, with mock horror. “You’ve gone soft on me.”
“Hey,” Hesh chimed in. “You heard the lady. Besides, I’m the one fixing your brakes, so get on with it.”
Logan paused for just a moment — long enough to glare at no one in particular — then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like traitors, patted his back pockets to check for his wallet, and headed toward out the driveway on foot.
The silence rolled in after he left. Just you, the speaker humming, the scent of weed still curling like incense, and Hesh working beside you in the shadows of the car.
After a moment, he slid out from underneath it, back flat to the ground, arms streaked black to the elbow. He looked up at the ceiling for a second, sweat beading along his brow before he gave a slow shake of his head and murmured, “Little shit,” as if the insult held more fondness than frustration. “Always trying to worm his way out of everything.”
You were already reaching for the tray Logan had left behind, stretching languidly, your tank top shifting against the curve of your back. “Must be tough being the big brother.”
“You have no idea,” Hesh said, sitting up and pushing his hair back with the inside of his wrist. The move pulled his shirt tight across his chest, damp in places where it clung to him, the fabric darkened with sweat and grease. He nodded toward the tray in your lap. “Roll another?”
You hesitated, fingers hovering above the grinder. “I’m not good at it,” you admitted, glancing down at the scattered green and torn paper tips. “I’ve watched Logan do it a hundred times, but still.”
“He learned from me,” Hesh said, mouth tugging up at one corner. “Which means you’ve technically been watching me this whole time.”
You gave him a look, half-teasing, half-defensive — but your hand moved anyway. Reaching for the grinder. Tapping it open. You began the process slowly, the sharp scent of flower rising from the crushed leaves as you rolled them back and forth between your fingertips, watching the pile grow in the shallow tray. The paper felt dry and delicate in your hands. You licked the edge carefully, just the way you’d seen him do it — slow and even, tongue dragging across the seam with a sensual precision that wasn’t lost on you, even now. You hoped Hesh noticed.
It wasn’t perfect. A little loose near the filter, a touch off-centre. But it held.
Hesh didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you. His eyes a little heavy-lidded. His mouth tilted with something you couldn’t quite place.
“You’ve been taking notes,” he said after a long beat, his voice low and amused. “That’s cute.”
You didn’t reply. But your gaze met his and held there, and it said enough.
He pushed to his feet, brushing the palms of his hands on the thighs of his shorts. The sound of him heading into the house echoed in the hollow quiet, screen door creaking open, then slapping shut behind him. You stayed where you were, still holding the joint, your pulse slow and heavy in your throat, your thighs tacky against the chair. The heat was unbearable now. You couldn’t tell if it was the sun or something else, something internal, something gnawing slow and deep in your belly.
Hesh returned not long after, stepping barefoot onto the concrete again. His arms were still a mess — smeared black up to the elbow — but his hands were cleaner now, damp still, scrubbed pink. Not pristine, but usable. Clean enough to touch. Clean enough to smoke with you.
He lowered himself onto the same spare tire Logan had vacated not long ago, legs sprawled, elbows propped on his knees. The sun caught the edge of his jaw, the new stubble dark, coarse, textured like sandpaper. He didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at you, then down at the joint still cradled between your fingers.
“Here. Pass.”
Hesh reached out, his fingers brushing over yours, his touch faint but searing all the same. He plucked the joint from your hand with the ease of someone who never had to ask twice, never rushed anything that didn’t need to be rushed. There was no hurry in the way he moved, only the slow, intuitive rhythm of a man who lived comfortably in his skin. He brought the paper to his mouth, lips parting just slightly as he tucked it into place, the flame from his lighter flaring gold and hungry for half a second before it kissed the tip. The ember bloomed red, pulsing like a heartbeat between his fingers as he drew the smoke deep into his chest.
Then he leaned back, letting the weight of his body settle into the curve of the spare tire like gravity had finally claimed him. One arm slung across his knee, the other holding the joint loosely, he closed his eyes, lashes feathering down against flushed skin. And then it came — that sound. Not quite a sigh, not quite a groan. Something deeper. A low, rough moan dragged from the back of his throat, warm and unguarded, the kind of noise that uncoiled slowly through the air and found its way straight between your legs. His lips parted, and the smoke flowed from him in a sinuous stream, curling into the thick afternoon heat.
When he opened his eyes, they found you instantly.
He extended the joint, holding it out again — not to hand over, but for you to take from him, like you always did, his fingers steady, the paper still burning softly.
You leaned in without hesitation, your lips brushing the edge of his knuckles as you wrapped them around the joint. You inhaled, long and slow, your chest tightening, lungs stretching wide. When you exhaled, it was quieter than before, more careful, like the act of breathing next to him was something far too intimate in itself.
“You looking for a place this summer?” he asked finally, his voice rough with smoke and something quieter beneath it.
You blinked, trying to find your voice. “That’s the plan,” you murmured. “Something not too far from campus, I guess.”
He nodded, thumb flicking ash onto the concrete beside him. “Dad wouldn’t care if you stayed longer,” he said. “You know that, right?” He glanced up at you again. “Logan’d be happy.”
The words settled somewhere beneath your ribs. You tilted your head, eyes tracing the long column of his throat, the way it moved when he swallowed. “Why haven’t you moved out?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could think twice.
A faint smile curled the corner of his mouth. “I did,” he said, pausing to take another drag. “After high school. Went to college, had my own place out near El Cajon for a bit, but I hated it. Hated being away from my everyone.” He looked away for a second. “Family’s everything, you know?”
You nodded before you even realised you were doing it. You did know. You knew what it felt like to miss people so badly your chest ached. What it meant to crave that kind of closeness even in silence. “I get it,” you said, quiet but sure. “I hate being away from your family too.”
That made him smile. “Yeah,” he said. “You fit right in.”
The music shifted again, the speaker humming the opening notes of “Californication”. Hesh took another puff, the ember pulsing against his fingers as he stared at it for a moment, gaze gone distant. The sun picked out the gold in his stubble, the shadows under his eyes.
“Hey,” you said, barely above the music, “you alright?”
He blinked, pulled out of whatever thought had taken him. His eyes met yours again, that small half-smile returning. “Yeah,” he said, but it was softer now, almost dreamy. “Yeah, I just — I wanna try something.”
Before you could ask, he brought the joint to his lips once more and took a long, purposeful inhale, dragging the smoke deep into himself, filling his lungs until his chest swelled. Then his other hand lifted — slow and steady — as he reached for you.
His fingers slid behind your neck, warm and rough, the calloused pads of his hand pressing against the sensitive skin at your nape. He didn’t even pull. Just guided. Thumb grazing the curve of your spine as he tilted your mouth toward his, your pulse thudding in your ears as his breath mingled with yours.
Then he kissed you.
It wasn’t sweet or shy. It was smoke and heat and hunger all wrapped into one quiet, staggering moment. His lips were soft but firm, parted just enough to let the smoke slip into you, and you opened for him, instinctive and aching. The exhale hit your lungs like silk. Like heat blooming from the inside out. You breathed him in — his weed, his sweat, his skin, his mouth — until there was nothing in the world but the weight of his palm and the press of his lips and the dark hum building low in your belly.
Hesh's hand tightened slightly at the base of your skull. Grounding. Like he wanted to make sure you didn’t float too far away.
The kiss didn’t last long, but it felt like it had cracked something open. When he pulled back, his breath was shallow, lips barely brushing yours, eyes hooded.
“You alright?” he asked, voice ruined, like gravel left out in the sun too long.
You nodded, mouth still parted, lungs still full of him.
Hesh grinned.
That same crooked, careless grin he always wore when he was playing coy — when he knew he had the upper hand and didn’t feel the need to prove it. He didn’t say a word. Just dropped the half-finished joint to the concrete and crushed it under the arch of his bare foot, grinding out the embers until there was nothing left but ash. No afterword. No smirked joke. No breathy, teasing comment about what had just happened.
You stayed frozen for a beat, still tasting him. Still full of him. Your lips buzzed faintly from the way he’d pulled you in — how easily it had happened, how impossible it was to figure out what it had meant. Was it impulsive? Casual? Something he’d done a dozen times before with other girls on a haze-heavy afternoon? Or had it been as electric for him as it had been for you?
He didn’t give you a chance to ask.
He crouched again beside the Civic, grease-streaked arms disappearing under the chassis like nothing had changed. Like your pulse wasn’t hammering against your ribs.
Slowly, you stood.
Your limbs felt loose, almost disconnected — part weed, part adrenaline, part confusion that was setting in thick and heavy like the late-day heat. You crossed the garage, the concrete cool beneath your bare feet despite the sun. You were trying to play it normal, trying to stay steady, but your thoughts were moving too fast to hold in one place. You had no idea what came next. Whether there was a next.
You moved to the side of Logan’s car and leaned back against it, letting the warmth of the sun-soaked metal press into your thighs as you watched him work. He hadn’t looked at you again. Not once. His fingers tightened around the wrench, arms flexing with the motion as he worked something loose, the weight of silence settling thick between you. You didn’t know if it was supposed to mean nothing. Or everything.
Eventually, he glanced up.
That grin was still there, tugging at the corners of his mouth like he was holding in a laugh. Like you were funny. Like the way you were hovering beside him, waiting for something, anything, was something he expected.
You swallowed. Tried to speak casually, like your heart wasn’t sitting in your throat. “What was that for?”
Hesh paused. Not long — just enough to let it sit.
Then he rolled his shoulders, wiped his hands on a rag, and shrugged. “What was what?”
It was infuriating. And yet not surprising. Not from him.
You scoffed under your breath, not even bothering to hide the smile that was already curling its way across your mouth. The weed made it impossible not to smile — your muscles soft and unwilling to fight the rush of heat in your chest. You looked away, pretending to watch the shimmering street outside, even though the only thing you could feel was him. The echo of his mouth. The firm hold of his hand at your nape. The taste of his breath, the way he’d exhaled into you like it was a promise or a challenge or something in between.
You said nothing else.
And neither did he.
⟡
The living room was dark except for the flickering glow of the television, which painted shadows in sharp relief across the terracotta floor tiles and arched stucco walls. The room, like the rest of the Walker house, was far too large, all burnt ochre and cream, rustic wood and wrought iron. A pair of tall, arched windows stood behind the couch, their heavy curtains drawn for the night, but you could still hear the faint murmur of crickets from outside, the occasional rustle of breeze against the lemon trees in the courtyard.
With Elias still gone on his fishing trip, the house had taken on a looser energy — a little less structured, a little more lived-in. There were empty beer bottles on the kitchen counter, pizza boxes stacked on the island, a pair of sandals abandoned near the door. No one had bothered to tidy, and it made everything feel easier, more intimate.
You were curled up on the couch, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, your bare thighs grazing the edge of a folded throw blanket. Hesh sat beside you, his thigh a warm line of heat pressed up against yours. The couch was huge, deep-seated and soft, with oversized pillows and a view of the wall-mounted TV that dominated the far end of the room. But despite all that space, Hesh was sitting close. Too close.
Logan sat on the floor just ahead, cross-legged between the couch and the massive carved coffee table, fully immersed in the movie he’d insisted on, some grainy ‘90s slasher flick with bad lighting and an even worse script. He was already three beers deep and narrating the movie under his breath, trying to mask how on edge he actually was. It was bravado, plain and simple. But you could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, the way he kept glancing toward the windows like something might be waiting behind the curtains.
“Bet you five bucks she trips on the rug,” Logan muttered, eyes glued to the screen as a half-naked girl stumbled down a hallway, breathless and doomed.
Hesh shifted beside you, stretching casually, lazily. His elbow nudged over the back of the couch before his hand came to rest against your shoulder, fingertips grazing the top of your arm. His palm was warm, solid, the weight of it unspoken.
You rolled your eyes, but it was mostly for show. A smile twitched at your mouth, no matter how hard you tried to flatten it. You turned your face away from him, tucking it half into your shoulder so he wouldn’t catch the way your cheeks were warming.
Hesh, for his part, didn’t react. Didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the screen, mouth tugging slightly at one corner like he was savouring the secret of it. His hand remained exactly where it was, not squeezing, not moving, just there. Intimate. Heavy. And hidden in plain sight.
Logan snorted as the girl finally fell. “There it is. Called it.”
You gave a noncommittal hum and tried to focus on the movie, but you could feel Hesh’s fingers flex slightly against your skin, the soft pressure there, like a thumbprint being slowly pressed into warm wax. Your heart beat louder than it should. You crossed your legs at the ankles again, re-anchoring yourself. The weed you’d smoked earlier made everything feel just slightly off balance — not in a bad way, but enough that you were hyper-aware of every breath, every sound, every movement.
“She’s gonna go in the basement,” Logan said with a scoff, shaking his head. “Who goes into a creepy-ass basement alone? Like, at night? While bleeding?”
“You write the movie next time, smartass,” Hesh said, deadpan.
That made you laugh. Hesh turned his head slightly, just enough to catch your profile, the way your lip curled. He didn’t say anything, but the look lingered.
Then the music on screen cut out — that sharp, pre-jump scare silence that was too loud not to mean something. You leaned forward slightly, anticipating it, but when the scare hit, sudden and stupidly loud, you gasped, the sound catching in your throat as your body jolted back.
“Shit,” you hissed, one hand clutching your knee.
Logan turned immediately. “Oh my God, was that you?” His eyes lit up, smug and satisfied.
You groaned. “Shut up.”
Hesh barked a laugh beside you, hand tightening on your arm for a second, warm and firm and there. “Tough girl, huh?” he teased. “Thought you were the fearless one.”
“Fuck both of you,” you muttered, trying to suppress your smile, but it was too late.
Logan was still grinning. “Finally! It’s always me getting scared. That felt good. That was karma.”
You buried your face in your hands for a second, letting the warmth of your embarrassment burn off in your chest. But even through your fingers, you could feel Hesh’s gaze, the weight of it as palpable as the heat still radiating off his body. His arm hadn’t moved. His fingers still rested against your skin, casual to anyone else, but you knew better.
Logan didn’t notice a thing. Not the closeness. Not the undercurrent. He was too busy revelling in your flinch, replaying it aloud like he’d caught it on camera.
And that was fine.
You were still riding the aftershock of that scare, still breathing too fast, still acutely aware of how much fire lived between your ribs when Hesh leaned in, the weight of his chest pressing subtly into your side like a whispered promise. His arm stayed heavy across your shoulders, but there was nothing innocent about the way his body angled into yours, about the way his mouth found your ear like it belonged there.
“You’re such a pussy,” he murmured, voice dipped in lazy amusement, soft and low, not loud enough for Logan to hear, not meant for anyone but you.
The words might’ve been harsh coming from someone else, but from Hesh, they landed differently. He wasn’t mocking. He wasn’t cruel. He said it like a challenge, like a tease, like a spark tossed into dry grass. And the way he'd said it made your thighs press together. You felt the heat crawl up your face before you could stop it.
You opened your mouth — maybe to fire something back, maybe just to tell him to shut up — but the words didn’t make it out. They evaporated the moment he shifted closer and pressed his mouth to the side of your neck.
The contact was soft. So soft it didn’t feel real at first, just the warm brush of lips against your skin, barely there. You held still, every inch of your body pulled taut, strung with anticipation. His mouth drifted lower, found the hollow just beneath your jaw, and lingered. The kiss was slow, open-mouthed, impossibly tender. Your eyelids fluttered. You felt your pulse spike under his lips, your body reacting to the gentle weight of him like it had been waiting for this.
The room dissolved. The sounds of the horror movie faded into background noise — screams, wet footsteps, frantic dialogue — but they didn’t reach you. All you could hear was the soft sound of Hesh's breathing, the faint drag of stubble against your throat as he moved lower, his lips mapping the curve of your neck, taking his time. When he sucked, you gasped again. His teeth grazed your skin, followed by a kiss that felt more like a seal. A mark. He was leaving something behind on purpose.
Logan didn’t notice.
“Dumb bitch is gonna open the closet,” he muttered from the floor in front of you, shaking his head. “Every fucking time.”
You forced a breath. Forced a sound that might’ve passed for agreement. But your voice was thin, warped by the need crawling up your spine. You couldn’t look down. Couldn’t look at Hesh’s face either, which you knew would be smug. You could feel his smirk in the way he kissed you. Could feel the weight of his satisfaction pressed up against your hip.
Then he pulled back, just for a moment, and reached for the throw blanket draped over the side of the couch. He tugged it over both your laps in one smooth movement, the fabric pooling softly around your legs like it belonged there. Like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
But everything had shifted.
His arm slid from your shoulders down to your waist, lower still, fingers grazing your side, your ribs, until his hand found the underside of your breast. It was slow, but greedy. His palm cupped you through the thin cotton of your tank top, the shape of his hand fitting perfectly like he had always meant to hold them. His thumb brushed across your nipple once, the friction sending a jolt straight to your core. Then again. And again. He moved with intention, circling over the fabric until the flesh underneath tightened, hardened, ached to be uncovered.
You couldn’t breathe properly.
Your body was already reacting, nipples peaking beneath the soft barrier of your shirt, your thighs tense, clenched. He leaned in again, kissed the side of your neck just as your breath hitched. His stubble scraped lightly against your skin, rough enough to awaken every nerve it touched. It made you shiver. You tried to suppress it, but it rolled down your spine like a wave, exposing you. The hand on your breast squeezed lightly, then returned to its slow, purposeful rhythm — the drag of his thumb, the press of his palm.
And then his other hand moved.
Under the blanket, his fingers found the bare skin of your thigh. He didn’t hesitate; just slid higher until his knuckles brushed the inside, just above your knee. You could feel him assessing the space, the shape of your legs beneath the blanket, as though he were mapping the way in. When his hand eased further up, you inhaled sharply through your nose.
There was no room to escape. And you didn’t want to.
Hesh's fingertips grazed the inside of your thigh, then paused, resting there like a question. Not yet touching you where you needed him most, but close enough that your whole body pulsed with the threat of it. Your underwear was already damp. You could feel the heat pooling low in your belly, spreading outward with every beat of your heart. Your breathing was shallow. Your chest rose and fell beneath his hand. You were slipping under, fast, and he knew it.
Then, Logan shifted.
It was subtle, just a lazy stretch, a roll of his shoulders, the familiar sound of his spine cracking as he leaned forward to grab another beer from the low coffee table. But the moment shattered all the same. Hesh’s hand vanished from between your thighs as if it had never been there. One second, you were burning under the heat of his palm, breath stuck in your throat, heart thundering at the risk of it all — and the next, the entire weight of him lifted. His mouth slipped from your neck, his arm from your waist, his thigh no longer brushing against yours. Like smoke through a screen door, he was gone, retreating into casual distance as though nothing had happened.
But your body didn’t get the message.
You sat frozen beneath the thin throw blanket, skin still aching, chest tight with unsatisfied hunger. Every nerve felt raw, exposed. Your nipples still strained against the soft cotton of your tank top, tingling from the attention they'd been denied. Between your legs, you were slick and clenched, your thighs pressed together in a vain attempt to quell the throbbing pulse he’d left behind. You stared blankly at the TV, some gory third act unfolding on the screen, and you didn’t see a second of it. You were lost in the absence, trapped in the echo of his touch, the phantom feel of his fingers teasing the inside of your leg, the memory of his lips along your neck. Your body was spiralling, your mind no better, wired and restless and stretched tight enough to snap.
The movie ended in a blur of screaming violins and final girl theatrics. The credits rolled.
Logan groaned, dragging himself off the floor with a yawn that cracked his jaw. “God, I need a shower,” he muttered, arms stretching above his head, shirt lifting just enough to flash a stripe of stomach. He turned back, blinking blearily at you. “You gonna shower before bed?”
You swallowed the lump in your throat, praying your voice wouldn’t betray how breathless you still were. “I already did,” you said, too fast, too high.
“Fine by me.” And with that, he was gone, heavy footsteps creaking up the stairs, the bathroom door shutting behind him with a faint click that felt like a gun going off.
Silence fell like a curtain.
You turned your head, slowly, like your body didn’t trust itself to move too quickly. Hesh sat at the opposite end of the couch, pretending to be interested in the end credits, but his shoulders were a touch too relaxed. Too smug. That same teasing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.
You smacked his arm. Hard.
“What the fuck was that?” you hissed, the whisper hoarse and furious. Not just with him. With yourself. With your own wrecked restraint. “Seriously, Hesh — what the fuck?”
He lifted his hands in mock defence, eyebrows raised, rubbing where you'd hit him. “Ow. Jesus, [Name]. I thought you were into it.”
“I was,” you snapped, voice sharp with frustration. “But Logan could’ve seen. You were feeling me up right beside him! Are you insane?”
Hesh's grin stretched wider, all self-satisfied and infuriating. “You think Logan doesn’t know?” he said, voice pitched low and smug, like he was letting you in on a secret you should’ve figured out months ago. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to ride me since the first weekend you stayed over.”
You stared at him, mouth parted, momentarily speechless.
“You’re such a little shit.”
“You’re not denying it.”
You shoved him again, but there was laughter now from both of you, real, electric, cutting through the tension like the first strike of a storm. Hesh caught your wrist before you could pull away, his fingers sliding down until they tangled with yours, and then he tugged. Just hard enough to pull you closer, and then again, until you lost your balance and ended up sprawled back on the couch, legs sliding to either side of his hips, his body hovering over yours like it had always belonged there.
“How long have you known?” you asked, voice rough with want, with disbelief, with everything you hadn’t said before.
“Since I first met you,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your mouth. “I’m not slow, angel. I know what you want.”
The words landed low in your stomach, heat blooming outward in a wave that had you curling your fingers in the front of his shirt, needing to feel something real. “Then why wait so long?”
His cockiness faded just a touch, replaced with something quieter, more careful. “Logan got to you first,” he said, mouth brushing the curve of your cheek. “Wasn’t about to swoop in if I thought he liked you.”
You stilled. “And does he?”
Hesh shook his head, no hesitation. “Nope,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “All mine for the taking, sweetheart.”
Your breath caught again, and the part of you that had been aching since the moment you met wanted nothing more than to grab him by the collar and crash your mouth against his. To finish what he started. To drag him upstairs and leave bite marks across his chest and scream into his shoulder while you came apart on him.
But you weren’t going to make it that easy.
You sat up slowly, pushing him off with a light shove. He let you go, slumping back on the cushions with a groan.
“Well now,” you said, “who says I still want you?”
Hesh threw his head back in exaggerated anguish. “Don’t do that.”
You stood, stretching your arms above your head like you weren’t still throbbing from his touch, and headed for the stairs.
“You gonna make me work for it?” he called out, voice rough and playful behind you.
You looked over your shoulder, grin sharp and wicked. “Fuck yeah. I’ve gone through the motions. Now it’s your turn.”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Fucking tease.”
You laughed, light and breathless. “Goodnight, Hesh.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rolling his eyes, his gaze catching yours. “Just wait until morning, sweetheart.”
The soft creak of the steps under your feet was your only answer as you disappeared into the dark, already counting down the hours until then.
character: Phillip Graves
words: 5705
cw: 18+, drinking, smoking
description: AU in which Phillip Graves is a bull rider and you’re the pretty young thing he’s got his eye on. (requested by the lovely @xkthrnx!!)
a/n: if only you guys knew about the rabbit holes I went down on for this fic lol
The air that afternoon was thick with the smell of livestock and sunbaked asphalt, overripe warmth that clung to your skin the moment you arrived. Even from the parking lot of the grounds, the Stock Show & Rodeo unfurled like a small, bustling city within itself — flags snapping in the breeze above the gates, the echo of country music bleeding from tinny speakers posted along every walkway, and the hum of generators and families and farmhands all bleeding into one.
You weren’t exactly thrilled to be there, but you were alone, and the freedom that came with that was something you could savour. Your father had offered — no, insisted — you take one of the executive passes, a badge clipped to your belt that gave you access to all areas, from the barns to the back corridors of the Frost Bank Center. He was proud of the whole thing, called it his legacy, and though you’d gone to college out of state and prided yourself on not being one of those Texans, the ones who wore boots to weddings and debated brisket like it was a religion, you’d said yes anyway. Maybe guilt. Maybe curiosity. Maybe just for the experience.
By the time you’d gotten yourself sorted and actually wandered into the expo centre, the sun was starting to slant low, casting golden light through the tall glass panels above. Inside, the air was just barely cooler but still heavy with hay and sweat and roasted peanuts. Vendors lined every available stretch of wall and aisle, booths draped in flags and plaid, every table stacked with tooled leather, hand-stitched saddles, turquoise jewellery, antler-handled knives, belt buckles the size of saucers, hand-dyed bandanas, and racks of denim shirts in more shades of blue than you thought possible. The smell shifted every few feet — barbecue smoke, kettle corn, cinnamon churros, the faint chemical sting of livestock shampoo.
You moved slowly through the crowd, your jeans stiff against your thighs, the festival t-shirt you’d bought earlier clinging slightly to your back with the heat. The shirt had a screen-printed steer skull and some dusty lettering, the closest you could get to playing the part. You felt eyes occasionally glance your way; locals could always spot someone not from around there. Still, you kept your pace easy, unbothered, pausing to thumb through some handmade soaps, their scents labelled with names like Prairie Morning and Cowgirl Clean. Somewhere nearby, a fiddle sang out in harmony with a banjo, laughter rippling under the music like a current. A toddler shrieked as a goat at the petting zoo nibbled her shirt.
You stood off to one side near a stall overflowing with tooled leather goods, a paper-wrapped hot dog in one hand, your mouth slick with a mess of ketchup and mustard. It was dripping down your fingers, staining the napkin you kept trying to fold just right between bites, each wipe of your lips more futile than the last. There was nowhere decent to sit unless you wanted to risk the edge of a planter digging into your back or a bench already occupied by someone’s uncle in cowboy boots and a sweat-damp hat. So you ate standing, half-leaning against the booth’s wooden frame, chewing slowly while your eyes wandered over the glint of belt buckles hanging in neat rows along the side wall.
They were gaudy things. Heavy silver-plated ovals and rectangles, all inscribed with cursive flourishes and bronzed filigree, some bearing scenes of rodeo riders frozen mid-buck, others etched with longhorns or American flags. A few had gemstones the size of dimes inset like prizes, like they’d been dug out of the side of a hill and polished until they gleamed beneath the overhead fluorescents. You licked your fingers absently, wiping them against the crumpled napkin again before sighing. You didn’t know a damn thing about any of this. Ranch life, livestock, bucking bulls — it all might as well have been an alien world. You were just some out-of-place transplant in a tourist shirt, feigning interest because you figured it was better than waiting in your father’s empty VIP box while he schmoozed with sponsors and old rodeo men.
You leaned closer to examine a buckle shaped like the state of Texas, so large it probably weighed more than your phone, when someone brushed against you from the side, just enough to jolt your elbow and send a streak of mustard across your knuckles.
“Shit — sorry,” you muttered, instinctively stepping back and glancing up.
The man who’d bumped you stood taller than you in his boots, broad through the shoulders and dressed down in well-worn jeans and a black pearl-snap shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He had short, close-cut hair the colour of sun-bleached dirt and a faint, aged scar tracing upward from the curve of his jaw to just under his right cheekbone. His stubble cast shadows across a sharp jawline, and his eyes — deep, slate blue — crinkled faintly as he smiled, one hand raised in apology.
“S’all good, darlin’,” he drawled, voice so low and so smooth that it practically melted into the background hum around you. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you there.”
You blinked, caught off-guard more by the easy charm in his tone than the actual bump. “No worries,” you said quickly, glancing back down at your ruined napkin before crumpling it in your palm. “It got crowded all of a sudden.”
“Always does around this time,” he replied, taking a step closer, not enough to smother you, just enough to glance over your shoulder at the buckles on display. “You eyein’ any of these? That one there’s a junior champ award buckle — see the little steer head etched on the sides? They give those out at the youth events.”
You gave a faint, polite laugh. “I’m not really interested in buying anything,” you admitted, straightening up and gesturing at the hot dog still half in your hand. “Just killing time.”
That earned a short chuckle from him, a rich, warm sound that came up from his chest and settled easy in the space between you.
“Fair enough,” he said, eyes flicking over to the display. “Well, I ain’t the one sellin’, so you’re safe. Don’t have the patience for standin’ behind a table all day anyway.”
You tilted your head. “So what, you just wander around mansplaining belt buckles to strangers?”
His eyes crinkled as he smiled at you, soft, like he liked the way you talked. “Nah, I’m workin’ tonight. I ride.”
You blinked. “Ride what?”
His grin deepened like he was waiting for you to walk into it. “Bulls.”
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious. I’m on the roster for tonight’s event,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Figured I’d walk around and take in the sights before I try not to get my spine cracked.”
You stared at him, unconvinced, feeling your stomach tighten under his gaze. “Right.”
He touched a hand lightly to his chest, right over his sternum, eyes feigning sincerity. “Scout’s honour.” He stuck his hand out then, palm up, fingers splayed. “Phillip Graves.”
You looked down at his hand, then back at his face — the scar catching the light now — and finally shook it. His grip was firm, his skin warm, and the callouses on his fingers sent the faintest of shivers down your back.
“[Name],” you replied. Phillip repeated it under his breath, pleased, slow and smooth, the syllables falling from his mouth like he’d meant to savour them. You felt your cheeks heat at the stillness, strange and brief, before he nodded over his shoulder toward the stadium entrance.
“Well, [Name], I’ll be climbin’ on a mean bastard named Widowmaker right ’round eight. You oughta come by. Ain’t every day you get to watch a man risk his spine for glory.”
“Tempting. I’ll see if I have time.”
Phillip stepped back, the crowd shifting around him, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he said, giving you a cocky little two-fingered salute.
And then he disappeared into the moving swell of bodies, boots scuffing over concrete, his back framed by the haze of smoke curling up from a barbecue stall somewhere nearby. You stared after him for a moment, the hot dog forgotten in your hand, ketchup pooling at the edge of the wrapper.
⟡
The stadium lights bore down heavy and bright, washing the entire arena in a glow that made the dirt shimmer like gold dust. You took your seat higher up in the VIP section, your dad’s laminate pass clipped to your belt. Below, everything bustled with motion: handlers corralling bulls behind chutes, announcers calling out names and numbers in a blur of slurred vowels, fans waving flags and screaming like the whole place was on fire.
You weren’t here for the rodeo. You couldn't even pretend otherwise. Your gaze cut through the noise and crowd until you spotted him — Phillip Graves — waiting at the edge of the chute, one boot braced on the rail, the other planted in the dirt. He wore a black vest now over his shirt, protective but well-fitted. The moment he stepped into the holding pen, his movements were nothing but fluid confidence. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just muscle memory and rhythm, the easy sway of a man who had done this too many times to count.
The bull beneath him was massive, dark as wet stone, the kind that looked bred for rage. Its shoulders rippled each time it kicked against the gate, froth dripping from its mouth like it’d been waiting all day to throw someone off.
When the chute swung open, everything snapped into motion like a pulled trigger.
Eight seconds. That was all he needed. You’d looked it up just to be sure.
And yet it felt longer. Time dilated as the bull exploded from the gate, bucking with a fury that sent dust into the lights. Graves moved like water atop the chaos, his arm loose in the air, hips shifting with each violent twist beneath him. His legs stayed tight, his back never arching too far, not giving the beast an inch more than it needed. He looked focused but relaxed, eyes locked somewhere just ahead of the horns, his mouth slack as if he were lost in the rhythm. You half-expected him to smile.
The buzzer rang, sharp and final.
Phillip dismounted like it was nothing. Let the bull tear off across the ring, let the clowns distract it. He hit the dirt running, turned to the crowd with a little tilt of his hand in mock salute, and jogged off before they could even finish cheering.
You didn’t stay to watch the next rider. There was no point pretending. You’d come just for that. For him. And now that it was over, the heat of the stadium and the echo of the crowd started to dull into background noise, fading as you made your way down the steps, out past the corrals, and onto the street.
The bar you found a few blocks down looked like it had been yanked straight out of a western fever dream, corrugated tin roofing, wood siding, and string lights glowing warm from every beam and overhang. Inside, it was more of the same — rough-hewn walls, high ceilings strung with wagon wheel chandeliers, a haze of sawdust underfoot and the distant reek of beer-soaked wood. The music was live but far too loud, a band wailing into a fiddle and electric guitar hybrid like they were trying to summon something unholy.
A dance floor opened up in the centre, already hosting couples in boots spinning with the rhythm, all hips and heels and confidence. But what caught your eye, more than the neon signage or the crowd or even the glow of the bar, was the mechanical bull parked near the corner of the room. It sat beneath a spotlight, roped off and looming like some strange, robotic altar. A teenage operator leaned on the controls nearby, disinterested. You scoffed under your breath. Of course they had one. A rodeo-themed bar with a fake bull, like some parody of the real thing you’d just witnessed not twenty minutes ago.
You made your way to the bar, ordered a whiskey sour out of habit, and the bartender handed it to you in a flimsy clear plastic cup with a lime wedge floating lazily on top. Authenticity, apparently, only went so far.
Settling into one of the stools, you nursed your drink and scrolled through your phone absently. Every few minutes, the crowd swelled. More boots, more hats, more noise. You figured most of them had come from the same event you had. Their shirts were still dusty, and a few of them even wore their contestant numbers half-pinned, half-forgotten on their backs.
You were reading an article you weren’t actually absorbing when someone cleared their throat behind you. You turned your head, startled, thumb slipping against the glass of your phone.
Phillip stood there, one glove tucked into his belt loop, the other hand braced casually against the edge of the bar.
“Well now,” he said, voice like warm bourbon. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. He smiled, slow and amused, before tapping the empty stool beside you with two fingers.
“Mind if I sit, darlin’?”
You let your gaze travel down first — scuffed boots worn at the toes, a fine layer of arena dust still clinging to the hems of his jeans and the sleeves of his shirt. His belt sat crooked on his hips like he’d fastened it in a hurry, and there was a smear of dirt just under his left forearm where it looked like he’d leaned on something rough. He looked as if he’d walked straight out of the ring and into this bar without skipping a beat. You lifted your drink and took another sip, the rim of the plastic cup pressing cool against your lips before you spoke.
“You following me?” you asked, voice dry. “’Cause I’ve seen horror movies start this way.”
That slow, familiar laugh rolled out of him again, warming everything around it. He slid onto the barstool beside you like he didn’t need your invitation anyway.
“Well, I was thinkin’ about it,” he hummed. “Tried to find you back at the stadium.”
“Oh? Didn’t know you wanted my attention that badly.”
“'Course I do,” Phillip said, that grin of his spreading, teeth flashing beneath the warm bar light. “Hell, I was afraid I bored you.”
“I left after your ride,” you said, letting your fingers trail around the rim of your drink. “What more was there to see?”
“So you were watchin’,” he said.
You gave him a flat look, the barest twitch of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Unfortunately.”
“Ouch.” He winced theatrically, one hand pressed to his chest like you’d just wounded him. “Damn. Tough crowd.”
You let your elbow rest against the bar, chin sinking into your palm as you studied him openly. He looked good like this — relaxed, leaning back with the faintest sheen of sweat still clinging to the curve of his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone and framing the sharp line of his collarbone. He smelled faintly of dust and something richer, like cedar and sun-warmed leather. You weren’t trying to stare, but God, he made it hard.
“You made that bull look weak,” you admitted, voice softening a little. “Like it didn’t even put up a fight.”
Phillip's grin pulled wider, a flicker of pride passing across his face. “Wasn’t its best day.”
You tilted your head, letting the sarcasm bloom slow. “Sure didn’t look like yours either.”
That got another laugh from him — real and rough-edged — as he turned toward you more fully. His knees brushed against yours beneath the bar, the contact casual, but electric all the same. His gaze didn’t waver, not for a second.
“C’mon now,” he said, that familiar teasing lilt weaving back into his voice. “You tellin’ me that ride didn’t impress you?”
You gave a shrug, slow and drawn out, like you were weighing it in your mind. “I mean, yeah — if I conveniently forget the part where you only lasted what? Eight seconds?”
“Eight’s the magic number, sweetheart.”
“For bulls, maybe,” you shot back.
He smirked, interest sparking in his eyes. “Oh yeah?”
You sipped your drink again, the condensation wetting your fingers, your gaze locked on his with practiced ease. “I’m just saying. Eight seconds doesn’t exactly scream stamina. If that’s the bar, I’d be worried for whoever ends up in your bed tonight.”
There was a pause. Then another laugh. His hand curled tighter around the edge of the bartop, like he needed something solid to hold as he shook his head with a breathless grin.
“Shit,” he said, voice a little husky now. “You got a mouth on you.”
“Always have, cowboy.”
“That so?” he asked, leaning in just a little, making your stomach dip. “Well, I like a challenge, sweetheart.”
You stayed quiet a moment, swirling the last melting ice cube around in your plastic cup before finally tipping it back and draining it. The bartender drifted past again, and Phillip waved him down easily, gesturing towards you with a questioning look.
“You stickin’ with that?” he asked, eyes dropping briefly to your empty cup. “No shame in cocktails every now ’n then, but beer’s where it’s at.”
You set your cup down on the bar and shrugged playfully. “What, are you judging me now?”
He laughed, waving dismissively. “Not judgin’, just sayin’. Beer’s reliable.”
“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes but grinning anyway. “Fine. Pick something out, then. Impress me.”
He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head at the bartender. “Two Lone Stars, please.”
The bartender slid the beer bottles across the lacquered wood with a low scrape, their labels darkening where the moisture gathered and dripped in lazy rivulets. The overhead lights caught the amber inside, turning it golden. Phillip nudged one toward you with a casual flick of his fingers, and your hand met his in the middle, warm skin brushing briefly against yours. The contact was nothing, a blink, but it sent a ripple through your chest all the same.
You took the bottle, pressed it to your lips for a slow sip. “It’s decent,” you said, cold droplets sliding down your wrist.
Before Phillip could say something smart back, the bar erupted in noise — cheers, whistles, a few whoops of encouragement rising over the twang of the music. Your gaze snapped to the source: the mechanical bull, now alive and kicking beneath garish, rotating spotlights that painted the padded arena in pulsing reds and electric blues.
A group of girls had taken centre stage, crowding around the bull with drinks in hand. They wore low-slung jeans that hugged every curve, crop tops glittering like confetti under the lights, and cowboy boots so pristine they probably hadn’t seen real dirt in their lives. Each one took her turn climbing aboard, laughing, stumbling, shouting to her friends over the music. The bull jerked to life with sudden force, throwing its riders into elegant chaos. Hair flew, legs flailed, hands clawed for the horn, and every time one of them hit the padded floor, the bar cheered louder, drunk on spectacle.
You couldn’t help it; you giggled, soft at first, then fuller, shaking your head in amusement as you took another slow sip from your bottle.
Phillip leaned in beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice low enough now to curl beneath your skin.
“Fun, ain’t it?” Phillip said, his voice curling at the edges, mischief flashing in the blue of his eyes as the cheers rose again from the bull pen.
You gave a small shrug, eyes tracking one girl — tan, breathless, her ponytail swinging like a whip behind her — as she launched off the mechanical beast and landed in a heap, boot completely gone off one foot, shrieking with laughter. Her friends clapped and hollered, one of them holding up a phone like she’d just filmed the highlight of the night.
“Sure,” you said, the word lazy, stretched out as you lifted your brow. “It’s entertaining, I’ll give you that. But it’s not really my scene.”
Phillip hummed, inching closer. “Y’know,” he said, cocking his head, “you say that, but you’re starin’ at that bull like you’re thinkin’ real hard ’bout provin’ yourself wrong.”
You turned to him with a laugh, shaking your head as you wiped a finger beneath your lower lip to catch a stray drop of beer. “Absolutely not. No way.”
“Aww, c’mon,” he coaxed. “Don’t tell me you’re scared?”
“I’m not scared,” you said, though your voice betrayed you. “I just don’t have a death wish or a desire to go viral tonight when I get launched halfway across the bar.”
“Shit,” he chuckled. “You act like it’s the PBR finals.”
You bit your lip, trying not to laugh again. “You saw that last girl. Her boot flew off. Like, physically flew.”
“She was showboatin’,” he said, waving a hand. “Didn’t have the technique.”
You turned back to the pen, the lights spinning faster, casting the bucking bull in a dizzy blur of colour and motion. “Technique,” you repeated, deadpan.
Phillip leaned back slightly, the grin never leaving his face. “You’re tellin’ me you came all the way down here, wearin’ jeans, that little rodeo shirt and all — lookin’ real damn cute, by the way — just to sit on the sidelines?”
You tugged at the hem of your shirt self-consciously, eyes narrowing at him with a playful glare. “I didn’t dress up. This was ten bucks at a merch table. And anyways, I’m pretty sure that bull smells fear.”
He scoffed and leaned in again, just a breath away now. “That thing ain’t got a heartbeat, sugar. It’s a glorified rocking chair with attitude. What’s the worst it’s gonna do — tilt you?”
“I just don’t feel like making an ass of myself,” you muttered, even as your voice softened.
He looked at you for a second, quiet, and then nodded slowly, a glint sparking behind his lashes. “Alright. What if I went up there with you?”
You blinked. “Together?”
He grinned, wolfish. “Why not?”
You looked from him to the bull and back again, doubt creeping in despite yourself. “I don’t think that’s a thing. Is that a thing?”
“It is,” he said, no hesitation. “Couples do it all the time. Seen it before. Two riders, one bull. Real romantic.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s fun.”
You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. The bull shifted lazily beneath a new rider, and the crowd erupted again as she shrieked and held on for dear life. Your hands itched and you hated how tempted you were.
“And what if I fall?” you asked, the words quieter now.
Phillip leaned closer, the heat of him tangible now, and you could almost swear you felt the air between you shift. His voice dropped, steady and warm, the teasing fading into something gentler.
“You won’t.”
You glanced at him, unsure, heart thudding low in your chest. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can,” he said. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ you go.”
You went still. Then, as if sensing the weight behind your silence, Phillip reached up and gently brushed his fingers against your cheek, the pad of his thumb grazing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath catch. The crowd roared again somewhere behind you, but the sound felt miles away.
“Cross my heart,” he murmured. “Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you fall.”
The mechanical bull loomed ahead, padded and ridiculous and swaying just enough to look like trouble. The operator — some kid in a dusty cap chewing gum with all the enthusiasm of a corpse — waved you over with a flick of his wrist. You should’ve backed out. Should’ve let the buzz of beer and flirtation die right there at the bar. But Phillip’s hand was warm on the small of your back, guiding you toward the edge of the mat, his voice low and smooth in your ear, whispering sweet praise with that unshakable confidence.
And now you were climbing onto the damn thing, your thigh hitching over the worn faux-leather as the whole crowd cheered. Of course they were cheering. You could feel their eyes on you, laughter ringing out over the country music as you straddled the bull and grabbed the handle. Your heart thudded behind your ribs like it wanted out.
A few women hooted when Phillip stepped up behind you, climbing on with easy strength, his jeans brushing yours as he settled in.
You muttered, “Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I even doing—”
“Ridin’ with a professional,” he said behind you, voice thick with amusement. His thighs pressed snug to yours, wide-set and firm, and then one strong arm wrapped around your waist like it had every right to be there.
“Hold on,” he whispered into your ear, his breath brushing the side of your neck. “To me, not that damn handle.”
You barely had time to respond before the bull jerked to life, jolting beneath you with a mechanical growl. You yelped, instinctively grabbing his arm instead, your body thrown back against his chest. His hand was splayed across your stomach now, hard and unyielding, fingers pressing into the soft skin there as he adjusted his grip and pulled you tighter.
The ride bucked again, rougher this time, and you gasped, the motion bouncing you up against him, your back hitting his chest with each jolt. He was solid behind you, unmoving except for the flex in his thighs and the give of his hips. His breath was hot against your cheek, lips brushing so close to your skin you could feel the ghost of a smile there.
Phillip's hand shifted lower, just slightly, fingers grazing the waistband of your jeans, then flattening again, fingertips pressing with a little more intent. He wasn’t subtle about it. He didn’t have to be. You could feel the heat of his palm, feel his thumb brush once against the bare skin just beneath the hem of your shirt.
“Doin’ alright, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice rough against your ear. His free hand gripped the saddle horn with a steady surety, anchoring both of you while the bull twisted beneath you, spinning, bucking.
Your breath hitched. “Are you feeling me up right now?”
He laughed into your neck. “You sayin’ you mind?”
You didn’t answer, couldn’t. The bull threw you again and your hips slid backward, back against the solid press of him behind you, his body molded to yours now, breath syncing with yours as you rocked together with every wild jerk of the ride. His scent clung to the collar of his shirt — sweat and leather, cedarwood, sunbaked cologne — and it filled your head until nothing else existed, not the cheers, not the music, not the ache in your thighs from holding on.
Phillip's grip shifted again — up, then back down, fingers teasing under your ribs now, tips grazing the curve beneath your breasts as you gasped again. It felt like being trapped inside some fever dream, a mess of adrenaline and heat, the friction of denim and the undeniable weight of him behind you. The bull slowed finally, grinding to a halt with one last dramatic buck that sent the two of you forward, your chest crashing into the saddle horn, his body catching yours before you could fall.
You stayed there, stunned, caught between him and the slow creak of the bull’s motor winding down. Your breath came fast and uneven. So did his.
Phillip’s mouth was right at your ear when he spoke, his voice honeyed.
“Told you I wouldn’t let you fall.”
The cheers chased you as you stepped off the mat, heat prickling at the back of your neck that had nothing to do with the Texas air. You didn’t look back — not at the girls already climbing back on for a second go, not at the ones hooting and clapping in your direction like you’d done something brave or stupid or both. Maybe you had. Your skin still buzzed from the ride, from the way his body had moved against yours, from the way his hand had lingered just a little too long when he helped you down. You crossed through the bar without stopping, shouldering past the scent of beer and fried food and perfume and sweat, stepping out into the humid night, gasping for air.
You stopped beside a dusty fence rail near the edge of the lot and let out a breath, one hand coming up to wipe your damp forehead. The air outside smelled like warm engine oil and honeysuckle, sweet and heavy in a way that only Texas nights could be. Your skin still tingled where his hands had been. Your mouth felt dry, but your thoughts wouldn’t stop moving. He was older. He knew exactly what he was doing. And you — God, you were still trying to pretend you weren’t smitten.
That was the word, wasn’t it? Smitten. Giddy, breathless, caught off guard. You weren’t supposed to feel this way. He was a stranger. A stranger with strong hands and a voice that poured into your skin like bourbon heat, far too easy to let in.
You didn’t hear Phillip until the screen door creaked open and then swung shut with a soft clang. His boots moved over the gravel like he’d walked this path a thousand times, sure-footed, unhurried. You didn’t turn right away. Part of you hoped he wouldn’t follow. Part of you hoped he would.
“You disappeared on me again,” Phillip said softly, like his voice was only ever meant for you alone.
“I do that,” you murmured, lips curving faintly. “It’s a bad habit.”
He stopped beside you, close enough that you could feel his body radiating heat in the humid air, but he didn’t touch you yet. “You alright?”
You laughed a little under your breath, eyes still on the soft glow of the streetlamp further down the lot. “Yeah. Just needed to catch my breath.”
“Bull get to you that bad?” he teased, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
“I stayed on, didn’t I?”
“With me behind you. Not exactly fair conditions for a first-timer.”
You let out a scoff. “Oh, sorry. Should I have told the operator to throw us off mid-ride?”
He laughed, low and warm. “I ain’t complainin’. Just sayin’ — that was probably the sexiest ride that bull’s ever seen.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest,” he said. “And I figure someone oughta tell you how damn good you looked up there.”
Your cheeks flushed hot. “Right. Me, flailing around while you groped me in front of everybody. Real elegant.”
“I did not grope.”
“Oh please,” you retorted, laughing despite yourself. “You had your hand halfway up my shirt.”
“I was tryin’ to keep you steady.”
“By practically grabbing my tits.”
“And did you fall?”
You paused, mouth open, then snapped it shut. “That’s not the point.”
Phillip took a small step closer. “Then what is the point, darlin’? ’Cause I won't lie to you — watchin’ you laugh like that, feelin’ you against me? I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”
You swallowed and looked away, shaking your head a little. “I should head back. To my hotel.”
There was a beat of silence between you, just long enough for the statement to hang.
“Yeah?” he said. “Where you stayin’?”
You gave him a look. “That sounds like the setup to a very obvious line.”
He held up his hands, still smiling. “Just makin’ conversation.”
“I bet.” Another pause. Then you added, quieter, “I’m not here long.”
“I know,” he said. “Couple days, right?”
You nodded. “That’s all.”
He tilted his head like he was thinking through every word before he said it. “Then we oughta make the most of it.”
You breathed out a sigh, almost in disbelief, dropping your head briefly. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Not when I know what I want.”
“And what’s that, exactly?”
Phillip grinned again, but it was slower this time, less cocky, more heat. “Right now? I wanna drive you back to your hotel. Maybe take the long way. Talk a bit more. Listen to that laugh of yours again. You let me in, I’ll keep my hands where they belong. ’Til you ask me not to.”
You stared at him for a long moment, the noise from the bar fading behind you, softening into something distant and irrelevant. The floodlights over the parking lot buzzed faintly, casting a sickle of pale yellow over the gravel and stretching long shadows beneath your feet. Phillip stood there, so steady and sure of himself, the collar of his shirt slightly open from earlier, chest rising slow beneath it. There was a confidence in him that wasn’t performative, and it scared you. It didn’t demand attention, it simply existed, like it was stitched into the lines of his body, the rhythm of his speech, the way he looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking before you did.
He made it feel easy. Too easy. The warmth of his voice, the heat of his hand on your waist, the way his laugh had curled around the edges of your restraint and tugged something loose in you. He knew the tempo of seduction by instinct. He made promises without needing to speak them. And still, your body leaned into the pull.
“You have a car?” you asked, your voice betraying the eagerness you’d tried to hide.
His grin returned, slower this time, like he felt it all too. “’Course I do.”
The heat between your thighs hadn’t gone away. Neither had the ache in your chest or the way his voice played over your skin long after he stopped speaking.
“Alright,” you said, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Lead the way.”
character: Simon “Ghost” Riley
words: 6009
cw: 18+, sexual content, smut
description: in which you live next door to Simon Riley and become friends with benefits. (requested anonymously, I hope I did okay!!)
a/n: I think Simon is the hardest to write for but let me know what you guys think!! there will be a part 2 coming later lol
Living next door to Simon Riley had always been fairly uneventful. You’d moved into the flat a year ago, drawn by the top-floor view and the promise of quiet. What you hadn’t expected was the just how quiet it could be sharing a wall with a ghost. Simon, for all intents and purposes, was practically non-existent. Weeks would pass, months even, and there’d be no trace of him. No footsteps overhead, no muffled conversations through the walls, no lights flickering beneath his door at odd hours. Just a silence that belonged to the abandoned, broken only by the occasional echo of city traffic drifting up from the street below.
And when he was home — when he returned from whatever godforsaken corner of the world they’d sent him off to — he moved like a shadow. You’d hear the shift of weight in the stairwell, the low grate of his key in the lock. Nothing more. He never made a fuss, never lingered in the hallway, never bothered with neighbourly chatter unless circumstance forced his hand. The only reason you'd ever exchanged more than a few words was because of that one rainy night, nearly six months after you'd moved in, when you came home late from work and discovered your keys had vanished, likely swallowed whole by the city transit system. The landlady wouldn’t be in until morning, and you’d stood there in the hallway like a drowned cat, rain dripping from your coat, blinking up at the fifth-floor fluorescents that buzzed overhead like insects.
He’d opened the door a crack, just enough to peer out with one eye, and muttered, “Y’alright?”
You must’ve looked pathetic enough, because next thing you knew, you were on his couch, curled up beneath a coarse blanket with the smell of soap and tobacco lingering in the air. He hadn’t said much. Just grunted, handed you a pillow, and disappeared into his room.
After that, something quiet passed between you two. A truce, perhaps. Not quite a friendship, but something just as lived-in and easy. You rarely texted each other, and when you did, it was dry, succinct, never lingering past the moment. He didn’t pry when you brought people over, and you didn’t blink when he came home with the occasional woman’s perfume clinging to the collar of his jacket. You’d seen that look in his eyes — half-wild, half-hollow — enough times now to know better than to ask. You didn’t want the story. He never offered one.
It worked. Whatever it was.
Until the storm.
It was one of those early spring tempests that rolled in heavy and loud from the west, sweeping over the skyline. Rain lashed at the windows in endless sheets, streaking the glass with silver rivulets. Lightning split the sky every few minutes, flooding your apartment in stark, momentary flashes. The power had gone out not long after dusk, swallowing the flat in a pale, cobalt gloom. Without the hum of the fridge or the dull glow of your screens, the silence took on a weight all on its own.
You’d tried to distract yourself — a paperback, your phone — but everything felt stifled, thin. Your phone battery hovered near death, the red bar taunting you. There was no question of heading out into the storm. You weren’t about to go wandering through flooded sidewalks on the off-chance of finding some poorly-lit café with a functioning outlet and overpriced tea. The thought alone made your head ache.
So, in a moment of weak desperation, you thumbed out a text to the only person in the building who might answer.
you home? power’s out. my phone’s dying.
You hit send. Watched the little bubble hang on your screen. Prayed the message would go through before your screen went black. Whether Simon would respond — or even see it — was another story entirely.
Almost an hour passed in silence, gnawing at the edges of your patience, before you finally heard a dull knock, just two solid raps on the door, as if he knew you’d still be waiting. You opened it to find Simon standing there, shoulders hunched slightly beneath a damp grey hoodie, eyes shadowed in the hallway’s faint emergency lighting. His cropped sandy hair was wet, clinging at his temples, and he carried that faint, mineral smell of rain off concrete. You thought about snapping at him — what took you so bloody long — but the sight of him, silent and soaked, robbed you of the edge. You just stepped aside, let him in with a slight lift of your brow.
“Power’s out in mine too,” he muttered, kicking off his boots in the entryway, the faint squelch of soaked socks on the hardwood following behind him. “Whole block’s buggered, far as I can tell.”
He sank into your loveseat with a low, content grunt, like an old dog settling into a warm rug, his massive frame barely fitting between the arms of your second-hand furniture.
“Got a bourbon or somethin’?” he asked, voice gravelled and low as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’d murder for it now.”
You flicked your eyes toward the kitchen, already half-lit with the faint glow that spilled from the living room. You’d set a few candles earlier to chase away the dimness, some you’d forgotten you owned, tucked at the back of a drawer. The air smelled like blackberries and burnt honey, wax warming slowly in the little ceramic holders. Sweet, yes, but there was something earthy beneath it all, something that reminded you faintly of leather and smoke and late nights. It reminded you of him. Of the shadow he cast, of the grit in his voice.
“No bourbon,” you called back as you rummaged through your half-barren cupboards. “Only gin. Want a cocktail?”
There was a beat of silence before he let out a dry exhale. “Criminal,” he grumbled. “Better than nothin’, I s’pose.”
You didn’t bother with shakers or garnish. Just two mismatched glasses filled with ice, gin, a bit of flat lemonade you’d forgotten you’d opened, and a splash of elderflower syrup that had lived far too long in the fridge. You tried not to think about the perishables quietly spoiling away. The timing of the blackout was lucky though — you’d nearly gone grocery shopping that morning and decided, mercifully, against it.
You set one glass down in front of him on a crumpled napkin that had been rescued from under a takeout bag.
“Extra strong, just for you,” you teased, dropping into the armchair across from him and propping your sock-clad feet up on the coffee table’s edge.
“Cheers,” he muttered, raising the glass lazily before taking a sip, then grimacing like you’d fed him poison. “Jesus. Bit heavy on the syrup, innit?”
“It’s called nuance,” you said dryly.
He drank it anyway.
A bolt of lightning flashed, stark and sudden, illuminating the living room in one white-hot flicker. For a breathless second, you saw him clearly. Simon’s profile sharpened against the glow, casting shadows deep into the scars that carved across his skin. He wasn’t shy about them anymore. Not with you. You remembered when he used to keep that balaclava of his on even inside the building, back when you first moved in — when he didn’t trust you, didn’t trust anyone, really. Back when he was all dark fabric and heavy boots to you, the weight of his duffel slung over one shoulder, eyes like budding storms as he glanced your way and said nothing.
It hadn’t taken long to learn that he wasn’t hiding to intimidate. He was hiding because he didn’t think anyone wanted to look.
But you had. And when he finally stopped wearing the mask around you, when he let you see the twisted ridge of his nose and the gap where one canine used to sit, it hadn’t startled you. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t stare. Why would you? Everyone had their mess. Everyone had their little ruins they lived in. Yours just weren’t worn on your face.
“Where were you off to this time?” you asked, voice softer now, less biting. You took a long sip from your own glass and settled deeper into the chair, curling your toes slightly in your socks. The storm howled against the windows. The world beyond the glass felt far away.
“Al Mazrah,” Simon said after a beat, his voice rough like it had been scraped raw by sand and smoke. He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared into the milky liquid sloshing quietly in his glass. “Not important.”
You arched a brow at him, unimpressed, your expression halfway between mock offense and something gentler beneath. “God forbid a girl wants to know where you’ve been.”
He leaned back into the cushions, the grey fabric of his hoodie bunching at the elbows, his silhouette casting long shadows that wavered behind him on the wall. “Classified,” he said, slanting you a look beneath lashes still wet from the rain. “Way ‘bove your pay grade, love.”
You exhaled, dragging your foot across the coffee table’s edge, sock sliding over the wood. “How long you staying this time?” The question came lightly, but you hated how your tone always hinted at the absence you’d grown used to — an absence that always arrived without warning and left just the same.
He hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the base of his glass. “Few weeks, maybe. Two, three.”
Your smile curved slowly, and you brought your drink to your lips, watching him over the rim. “And you’ve made time for me? Out of your oh-so-crowded social calendar?” You let your free hand rest over your chest in a theatrical flourish. “I’m touched. Truly. I should buy a lotto ticket.”
He huffed out something between a chuckle and a grunt. “You’re gettin’ proper cheeky tonight.”
“Just observant,” you replied with a wink.
Simon took another sip of the gin, then pulled the glass away like it had just insulted him. He stared at the contents with deep suspicion. “Fuckin’ hell. If this’s what you give me, I dread t’think what you’re pourin’ for the other poor sods you bring over. Is this gin or floor cleaner?”
You gasped, hand flying to your chest again as if mortally wounded. “Hey! I do just fine, thank you. No one’s ever complained.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, nose wrinkling as he took another reluctant mouthful, “That’s ’cause they’re too hammered to speak. You’re knockin’ ’em flat on their arse after half a glass. Bet they don’t even know where they are, never mind complainin’.”
You laughed then, full and careless, the sound bouncing off the walls like it belonged there. “And that’s a problem how?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just shrugged one shoulder, the motion slow and easy, and settled deeper into the couch. Outside, thunder broke again, this time louder, rattling the windows in their frames. You twitched reflexively, a quick jolt up your spine, and Simon’s eyes flicked to you, noting it, though he said nothing. The candlelight fluttered as if startled by the noise, throwing the room into a slow dance of gold and shadow. Everything softened under the glow — his face, your living room, the wall art you never noticed was hung a little unevenly until now.
“You know,” you began, shifting in your chair, “there’s a new show I started. Just came out this week. Thought you might like it.”
He made a noncommittal sound, tipping his glass slightly to inspect the melted ice. “Mm?”
“Yeah. It’s about this policeman who—”
“Feel like havin’ a shag?” he cut in, voice casual, like he was asking if you wanted a second round. Flat and unbothered, slurred just enough to carry the nonchalance beneath the words. You blinked at him, startled mid-sentence, your mouth still half-open.
Simon met your stare with all the subtlety of a brick wall, one brow barely ticking upward. The corner of his mouth twitched.
You blinked once, twice, not quite sure if you'd heard him right. The room still hummed with thunder outside, but the silence that followed his question was louder than anything. Your glass hovered near your mouth, forgotten. You searched his face for a smirk, a wink, some trace of playfulness in the aftermath of the words — but there was nothing. Just Simon. Cool, unreadable Simon Riley, slouched on your couch like he hadn’t just dropped a match on oil.
“Are you being funny?” you asked, your voice a little too thin, a little too careful.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “No,” he said, simply. “Just askin’.”
And that was the part that unsettled you more than the question itself — how even his voice had been, how it held no weight, no tease. Like he was asking if you wanted a cigarette or the last piece of toast. Like it wasn’t meant to shake your understanding of whatever strange, tenuous thread tied the two of you together. Like it was nothing.
But it wasn’t nothing.
Your heart beat louder than the rain outside, louder than the creak of old floorboards beneath his feet. You stared at him, the edge of your glass damp against your thumb, and tried to piece together what the fuck this was. You’d never thought of him like that — not really. Maybe in the quiet spaces between midnight and sleep, when thoughts twisted without sense, when his name would drift through your head and your hand might slip beneath the sheets. But that didn’t count. Those were just flashes. Fleeting. And never like this. Never right in front of you with him watching and waiting, no disguise, no bravado.
You were just neighbours. Not even friends, not in the true sense of the word. Barely more than passing ships who occasionally shared a drink and a few quiet conversations. You didn’t talk about anything real. You didn’t share stories, not the ones that mattered. He didn’t ask about your childhood. You didn’t ask about his nightmares. And maybe that was the beauty of it — no expectations, no history. Just proximity.
But something had shifted.
Because maybe a man like Simon didn’t ask twice. Maybe he didn’t say things unless he meant them. Maybe this was rare for him — precious, even, in the way that wild animals only let their guard down when they think no one’s watching. And what if this was the only time he’d ever ask you something like that? What if this was it?
And why did that thought shake you more than anything else tonight?
The power was still out. Your fridge was still dying a slow death in the dark, the streets outside slick with rain, the wind rattling the old building with every gust — but all of that felt far away. Your eyes were still locked on his face, half in shadow, the flicker of candlelight giving him that same haunted edge you’d seen before — when he came home with tired eyes and bruises under his jaw, when he stood in the hall like a man with nowhere to go.
And you could say no. You could close this door and it would never open again. You knew that, bone-deep. With one word, you could snuff it all out like a flame, and he would let you. Simon Riley didn’t beg.
But you didn’t want that. God, you didn’t want that.
Because you had thought about him. Shamefully. In secret. When he was gone for weeks at a time and you were curled up alone in your bed, fingers between your thighs and his name buried in the crook of your elbow. You’d imagined what his hands might feel like — rough, scarred, patient. The way they might span across your waist, firm and decisive. How his mouth, always set in that grim line, might soften against your skin, kissing along your ribs, your stomach, your thighs with a hunger he never spoke aloud.
You’d imagined the way he’d whisper filth into your neck, voice thick with need, all grit and smoke and heat. The way he might say your name like it meant something, like he was trying to remember it long after you were gone. The way he might grip you by the hips and drag you beneath him, slow and heavy, like he had nowhere else to be.
“Right,” you murmured finally, your fingers shaking just a little. Your voice wasn’t steady, but it wasn’t uncertain either. “I guess so.”
Simon didn’t smile. Just tipped the rest of his drink back in one motion, throat flexing as he swallowed, then set the glass down with a soft clink on the coffee table.
⟡
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the fading flicker of the candles down the hall and the occasional strobe of lightning that cracked across the sky outside. The curtains billowed faintly from the breeze that sneaked in through the cracked window, but neither of you noticed anymore. The storm had become a distant thing — something outside and far removed, no longer loud enough to compete with the sharp, wet sound of your mouths colliding, or the muted creak of bedsprings beneath you.
You were on top of him, legs spread wide across his hips, knees digging into the mattress, thighs caging him in as you kissed him hard enough to leave bruises. It was messy — his teeth scraped your lip, his tongue slipped against yours with no rhythm, only need. The kiss wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was all heat and want, your noses bumping, his breath hot and rough against your cheek as he exhaled sharply through it.
Simon’s hands gripped your ass, large palms kneading you with a kind of tenderness that didn’t match the hungry way he moved beneath you. His fingers curled through the waistband of your underwear, dragging the fabric taut against your skin before letting it snap back into place, rough and teasing. You could feel how hard he was beneath you, the tension straining between your bodies, the impatience coiled in the flex of his arms, the way his jaw clenched as your hips rolled down over his.
It wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually like this. You liked to linger. To draw it out. But with him, it felt impossible to think of anything beyond the burn in your belly and the way his hips twitched up to meet yours every time you pressed down. He didn’t even have to guide it; your bodies just fit. There was no awkwardness, no second-guessing. Only instinct. You followed the pace he set, even from underneath you, fast and rough and insistent.
You pulled away from the kiss with a gasp, hair falling across your face, your lips wet and swollen. You stared down at him, at the way his eyes were nearly black in the shadows, the way his chest rose and fell so quickly. You reached between the two of you, slipped out of your underwear with a shaky hand, baring yourself to him. Simon’s gaze never wavered.
You lined yourself up and sank slowly down onto him, inch by aching inch. Your mouth parted with a shuddered breath. He was thick, the stretch deep and raw, your body clenching tight around him in welcome. You barely had time to catch your breath — barely had a moment to adjust — before Simon’s hands were back on your hips, gripping you hard enough to leave a mark. His fingers dug into the softness there, grounding himself in the feel of you, like maybe the weight of your body above him anchored him to something real.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, low and hoarse, voice barely a whisper as he bucked up into you. “You feel fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart.”
He thrust up again, sharper this time, hips snapping into yours with a force that made your spine jolt and your mouth fall open in a quiet gasp. You grabbed at the headboard in front of you, one hand braced for balance, the other splayed across his chest, feeling the slick heat of his skin. You rode him as best you could, hips stuttering with each bounce, legs trembling as he kept that same steady rhythm from underneath, every movement punching up into you, deep enough that you swore you could feel him in your throat.
He wasn’t loud. His voice stayed locked behind his teeth, his breathing sharp and uneven, broken by the occasional grunt or groan that rattled in his throat. You watched his face beneath you — flushed, jaw clenched, lips parted slightly. His eyes flicked over your body like he didn’t know where to look first. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your stomach, the place where your bodies met and he disappeared inside you.
Like he couldn’t believe you were real.
His hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. The faint light from outside caught on the long scar near his temple, made the colour in his cheeks look deeper, more vivid. His muscles tensed every time you rolled your hips down, the lines of his abdomen flexing.
And still, he held your hips in place, dragging you down onto him over and over like he couldn’t get close enough. Like something in him needed to be buried as deep as he could go.
“Y’keep ridin’ me like that,” he muttered through gritted teeth, thick and ragged, “and I won’t last much longer.”
You swallowed a moan, too breathless to tease him, too wrecked by the heat pooling low in your body to think of anything smart to say. You clenched around him, and his grip on your waist faltered for just a moment before coming back stronger.
You leaned down, your chest brushing his, and kissed him again. Slower this time. Fuller. His hands moved up your back, touching your skin like he needed it — like he was searching for something he thought he’d lost.
You didn’t know when it started happening — your thighs shaking from the burn, your breath caught in your throat, the knot in your stomach threatening to snap — but it hit you hard when he gripped you tighter and buried himself to the hilt, grinding his hips up once, twice, sharp and deep. You felt the way his whole body jerked beneath yours, the ragged, guttural groan that tore from his throat as his head dropped back against the pillow.
“Fuckin’ — fuck,” Simon bit out, low and strained, as if the pleasure had stolen the breath right out of him.
He tried to pull out at the last second, fingers twitching like he was fighting instinct, but you didn’t let him. You sank down harder, deeper, your walls tightening around him in one final, possessive clutch, and he came with a full-body shudder, leaving him trembling under you. You felt the heat of it flood inside you, thick and hot, painting deep, and you didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. You just held yourself there, thighs burning, your forehead pressed to his chest as his heartbeat thundered against your skin.
And then it was quiet.
For a moment, neither of you breathed.
You slid off him with a soft wince, legs unsteady, your skin flushed and damp from exertion. Your inner thighs were sticky, a slick mess between your legs, but you didn’t move to clean up. You just collapsed onto your stomach beside him, the sheets warm beneath your cheek. Simon didn’t reach for you. Didn’t say a word. He just lay there with one arm slung over his eyes, chest still rising and falling as if his body hadn’t quite come down yet.
You felt full. Not just physically, though the ache between your legs still pulsed with the echo of him — but full in a way that gnawed at something deeper. And yet, even with the heat still lingering across your skin, you knew better than to ask for more. You weren’t entitled to anything more. Not after this.
Because what the hell was this, anyway?
You didn’t ask if he’d stay. Didn’t ask what this meant. Didn’t reach for his hand like you had the right to it. You’d given him your body, and he’d taken it in full, but this wasn’t some fairytale. There were no whispered promises, no post-coital confessions. Just two people who shared a wall and, apparently, a bed for one storm-drenched night.
Simon sat up slowly with a grunt, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. His back flexed as he reached down to grab his shirt from the floor, tugging it back on over his broad shoulders. You watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he pulled on his jeans, zipping them one-handed. His shirt was twisted around his frame, the hem sticking slightly to his lower back with sweat, but he didn’t seem to care.
Then, with the quiet hum of power returning, the room lit up.
The overhead light buzzed to life like an unwelcome guest, casting the scene in harsh white glow. Your skin looked too exposed now, the slick sheen on your thighs catching the light. The warmth between you and him — the raw, golden hush of candlelight and shadow — was gone. Replaced by something colder.
Simon glanced at you, half-naked and panting, still sprawled across your sheets with your limbs loose and sore. His mouth twitched, a dry huff escaping as he reached down and smacked your bare ass with a sharp crack, the sting sudden and biting. You jolted a little and turned your face toward him with a breathless laugh, muffled by your pillow.
“Oi. Don’t get too fuckin’ comfy,” he said, his accent heavier now, slurred at the edges. “Y’look like you’ve been steamrolled.”
“I have been steamrolled,” you muttered, voice hoarse. “By a fucking truck with blond hair.”
He smirked, but it was faint, tugging only slightly at the corner of his mouth. You could tell he was more than tired. There was something worn in his posture, his shoulders loose in a way you didn’t see often. Like he’d finally let go of something he’d been holding onto too tight for too long. He didn’t say thank you, didn’t offer softness, but he lingered at the edge of the bed a moment longer than he needed to.
⟡
Over the next few months, Simon came and went like the tide — gone for stretches at a time, then suddenly back in your world, standing in your doorway with that quiet, brooding look in his eyes. And more often than not, after a handful of words and a drink or two, the two of you ended up tangled in your sheets or bent over the arm of your couch, his rough hands on your hips, his breath hot against your ear, that familiar low voice cutting through the dark like it belonged there.
You didn’t talk about it. Not once. Not the first time, not the fourth, not even when he stayed longer than usual one night, lying half-asleep in your bed with one hand lazily stroking the bare skin of your thigh, as if your body was something he could learn like terrain. You knew better than to ask him what it meant. And he never offered.
But a pattern emerged. Something comfortable. Predictable, even. Simon would send a text, short and to the point — Back Friday. Or sometimes just you home? And your stomach would twist, your breath would catch, your fingers would hover over your phone longer than they should. You weren’t stupid. You knew what it was. You weren’t in love with him, and he wasn’t in love with you. But still, every time he came back, every time he knocked on your door or let himself in with the key you claimed you’d given him for emergencies, you felt something bloom sharp and heady beneath your ribs.
You’d never admit it aloud, but you started counting down the days after he told you he’d be back. You’d caught yourself rereading his messages more than once, tracing the words like they meant more than they did. It wasn’t a promise. He never said he’d see you. He never said I’ll be over. But still, you couldn’t imagine him not showing up. Not anymore. Not after the last time, when he’d pressed you against your kitchen counter and fucked you slow, one hand around your throat, the other guiding your hips in time with the sound of your moans echoing off the tile.
Lately, he'd even started texting you while he was away. Nothing extravagant. Just small, strange offerings that always made your chest ache a little. A blurry photo of a stray cat curled up in a clay alley. A market stall in some unnamed country, hung with silks in colours so vivid you swore you could feel them. A line of text, dry and sharp as ever: Saw this. Thought you’d like it. Or, once, just a photo of his boots propped up on a crate with the caption: Bored. You’d hate it here.
It wasn’t romantic. But it was something. Something more than silence. Something that left you lying in bed with your phone pressed to your chest, wondering why your throat felt tight and your skin burned like it remembered his touch.
Now, your apartment felt too small, too loud in its quiet. You’d been pacing for the last half hour, unable to sit still, chewing the inside of your cheek raw as you glanced at the clock. You knew he wouldn’t text to say he was coming. He never did, not when he was actually on the way. That wasn’t how this worked. Still, your eyes flicked to the door every time the elevator groaned down the hall. You caught yourself fixing your face in the reflection of the microwave, fluffing your t-shirt like it mattered, like he hadn’t seen you sweaty and naked and writhing beneath him more times than you could count.
This isn’t anything new, you told yourself, trying to still the thrum beneath your skin. It’s just Simon.
So why did you feel like you were about to be swallowed whole by the anticipation? Why did your palms sweat every time your phone buzzed, only to sink with disappointment when it wasn’t him?
You sat down, stood back up. Wandered to the window just to stare at the street below. The late evening sun slanted through your blinds in golden stripes, casting long shadows on the floor.
Your pulse wouldn’t settle.
Because no matter how many times he showed up at your door, no matter how many times you came together in a frenzy of limbs and breathless curses and sweat-slicked skin, it never got easier.
It was just Simon.
But he wasn’t just anything to you anymore, was he?
The sound of the door unlocking was a quiet thing, just the turning of a key and the soft hiss of the latch, but it set your whole body on fire. It didn’t matter how many times he’d done this before — how often you’d heard those boots cross your threshold or watched the shadow of his frame stretch across the wall when he came in late. Every time still felt like something breaking open. You were halfway across the flat before your mind caught up with your feet, breath caught high in your chest, your bare skin prickling with a kind of heat you hadn’t let yourself name.
And there he was.
Simon filled the doorway like a storm cloud, the low fluorescents in the hallway tracing the edge of his broad shoulders. His duffel hung from one arm, worn leather, military-issue, the strap digging into his clothing. He hadn’t even taken his boots off yet. His face was all sharp planes and travel-fatigue — jaw bristling with stubble, temples smudged with sweat, a sunburn high on his cheeks like windburn, where his usual balaclava could never quite reach. But his eyes found you the moment he stepped inside. Dark, hooded, that heavy weight behind them already pressing into your ribs.
You didn’t plan the way your arms went around him. You collided with him hard enough to make the bag shift against his side, your face buried in the warm, faintly sour scent of his shirt — cigarettes, old sweat, airport soap. He stiffened beneath you, body going rigid, caught mid-step like he hadn’t expected it. Like maybe no one had done that in a long, long time.
And then — slowly, cautiously — his arms came around you. His hands gripped your back like he was anchoring himself to you, palms flat, fingers curling in the fabric of your shirt. His chest expanded with a long, audible breath, and his voice came low against the crown of your head.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “Didn’t reckon you’d be that chuffed t’ see me.”
You didn’t let go.
He gave in, just a little. His chin rested against your temple as he toed the door shut behind him, letting it fall into its frame with a weighty click. And then he pulled back enough to look at you — eyes flicking over your face, scanning your expression like he was still trying to make sense of the welcome. Still holding on.
Before either of you could speak, he reached down into the side pocket of his bag and pulled something free, slim and glossy, catching the light. A scarf. Long, plum-coloured silk, cool and expensive between his calloused fingers. It looked utterly foreign in his hands, like it didn’t belong there, like it had no business being near someone like him. But he didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate. Just offered it to you, crumpled and all.
“Snagged it in a market,” he said, voice still low and a bit hoarse. “Thought you’d look good wearin’ it.”
You swallowed hard. The scarf felt like water in your hands, too soft, too smooth. It glinted as it shifted, like wine in low light. You stared at it for a second longer than you should’ve, pulse hammering in your throat.
“Jesus,” you murmured. “Simon. It’s—”
“Don’t,” he cut in quickly, slipping past you with a shrug, duffel thudding to the ground. “It’s nothin’.”
You followed him, feet silent against the floor, scarf still bunched in your hand. Something had shifted already — the way he’d looked at you when you hugged him, the way he hadn’t let go right away. The way his eyes had lingered on the hollow of your throat. He hadn’t even taken off his boots. Hadn’t sat. He moved like he knew where this was going, like his body was already two steps ahead of the conversation.
“How’ve you been?” you asked quietly, more for the sound of it than for the answer. You barely heard yourself over the thudding in your chest.
Simon didn’t stop walking. Just glanced back at you, one brow raised. “Hot. Dusty. Fuckin’ knackered. Swear I’ve still got sand up my arse.”
You laughed, nervous and breathless, following him down the hall. “So just a regular week, then?”
He huffed. “Livin’ the dream.”
By the time you reached your bedroom, he was already pulling his jacket off, the thick cotton sliding down his back to reveal the deep, carved lines of muscle beneath. The shirt underneath clung to his torso, damp in patches, riding up enough to show a slice of skin above the waistband of his jeans. He was all tension, all bulk and tired rage, moving like a man who had too much in his blood and not enough time to burn it out.
You stood in the doorway, caught in the low lamplight, your body thrumming with heat.
Simon turned his head to look at you, eyes sweeping over your frame — bare feet, bare legs, the heaviness with which you swallowed. He licked his lips once, slow.
“Y’gonna stand there all night,” he rasped, voice thick now, hoarse and hungry, “or you comin’ over here t’ let me fuckin’ touch you?”
character: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
words: 8508
cw: 18+, pining, slight angst
description: in which you and Kyle are roommates in London and he comes back after a long deployment.
a/n: another one for my baby boy Kyle because I hate that he’s so dang underrated :(( he’s literally so pretty have y’all SEEN him???
The door was unlocked.
You noticed it right away, fingers pausing on the handle out of habit, a beat of uncertainty flickering through you — until the sound of that old record player drifted into the hall. The needle was slightly off-centre as usual, warping the crooning ever so faintly, the music curling through the flat like breath. It was the one you’d bought him two years ago for his birthday, after a string of hints he thought were subtle. Al Green’s voice poured out soft and soulful, and already your shoulders eased, tension unspooling with every note. You stepped inside, breath catching in your throat, the door clicking shut behind you with a muffled thud. The scent of something familiar clung to the air — clean laundry, bergamot, the faintest trace of tobacco smoke from the coat he probably hadn’t aired out yet. You hadn’t even gotten your boots off when you heard the sound of footsteps from the hallway.
And then there he was.
Kyle stood in the frame of the corridor, broad-shouldered and solid as ever, a canvas duffle slumped half-heartedly on the floor behind him. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, deep crescents under his eyes, but there was a softness in his face that hadn’t dulled with exhaustion. He looked at you like he’d been holding his breath across time zones, and now, finally, he could breathe again. You peeled off your jacket slowly, fingers stiff from the walk home in the wind, and already the flat felt warmer than you’d left it. Toasty, even. He must’ve cranked the thermostat the second he walked in, the way he always did after being somewhere cold, somewhere bleak.
“Hey, stranger,” you said, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “Finally got tired of being shot at?”
Kyle let out a low laugh; it hummed through his chest more than his throat. “Something like that,” he said, and before you could say another word, he closed the space between you and pulled you into him.
His arms locked around your waist, strong and certain. He didn’t say anything else, just held you — like he meant to stay there awhile. You pressed your face into the warm line of his neck, taking him in. He smelled like he always did when he came back from deployment: travel-worn and clean at once, faint citrus clinging to his skin, his clothes, that bergamot body wash you’d started using yourself when you missed him too much. For a long, still moment, you just stood there, breathing each other in, like the world had gone quiet.
“Missed you,” you murmured, barely audible against his pulse.
His arms tightened around you, and he let out a breath, low and rough like it hurt to exhale.
Eventually, you pulled back just enough to see his face. To look at him properly. You’d memorised it in fragments over spotty video calls and pixelated photos, but nothing compared to this. His eyes were that same warm, deep brown, like wet earth after rain. Grounding. Steady. Like you could fall into them and not worry about finding your way back.
“The place felt so empty without you,” you said, voice thick in your throat. “Didn’t even realise how quiet it got.”
“Yeah?” he smiled gently, one corner of his mouth tugging up, and he reached out to pinch your chin between his thumb and forefinger, soft. “Can’t be having that, now, can we?”
He brushed past you, stepping into the living room like he hadn’t been away a day, and you followed, feet padding softly on the wood floor. The space looked mostly untouched since he’d gone, but you could already see the way his presence reshaped it — his jacket slung over the edge of the sofa, the way he’d rearranged the cushions to sit more comfortably, the low golden glow of the string lights you’d strung up together last winter. He hadn’t turned on the ceiling light, of course. Never did. Called it too bloody clinical, like you were about to get your teeth cleaned instead of relax. Since he left, you hadn’t switched it on once.
You shuffled into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on, movements familiar, grounding. Tea had never been your thing before Kyle. But somewhere between your late-night talks, his quiet routines, and the way he needed a cup before bed — even after the worst days — it became habit. He had a way of reshaping things like that. You hadn’t meant to build your life around him, but he moved like gravity. He made you orbit.
“Have you eaten yet?” you asked over your shoulder, already knowing the answer.
He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that relaxed sort of fondness that never failed to disarm you. “Nah,” he said. “Waited for you. Thought maybe we could head out? Grab something?”
You turned, arching a brow. “Only if you’re paying.”
Kyle chuckled, tilting his head slightly. “Fuck me. I’ve been home five minutes and already you’re rinsing me dry.”
You smirked, pulling the faded ginger tea tin from the cupboard. “Oh, come on. You think the world stops spinning just ‘cause you’re off on some glamorous holiday?”
He scoffed, eyes glinting with disbelief. “Holiday? You taking the piss?”
You gave an innocent shrug. “You know. Jet-setting round the globe. Room service. Little bars in places you can’t pronounce.”
“Right, yeah. All that glamour. Forget the bit where I’ve got some fucker shooting at me every other day.”
“Exactly. Never mind that.”
He laughed again — really laughed this time, head tilting back slightly — and you felt it in your chest, blooming like warmth. Then he stepped closer, took the mug you handed him with both hands, fingers brushing yours.
You lingered in the quiet warmth of your flat, curled on the sofa beside Kyle, half-empty mugs of tea in hand. The low light from the string bulbs overhead gave the room a kind of softness, a golden hour that stretched and clung, unwilling to end. The record had long since stopped playing, but neither of you moved to lift the needle. You just talked —about everything and nothing at all. About the neighbour upstairs who still hadn’t figured out how to close a door without slamming it. About the leaky faucet you’d finally patched in the kitchen. About the café around the corner that’d switched owners again. You listened to the cadence of his voice more than the content, savouring the lilt and weight of it, the way he said your name like it belonged in his mouth.
Eventually, you both got up, easing out of the comfortable lull. Coats were shrugged back on, boots laced, and the door clicked shut behind you. You padded down the narrow stairwell together — three flights of creaking wood softened by years of wear — until your feet touched the pavement of Electric Avenue. Even at night, Brixton was alive. A pulse underfoot, the kind you felt more than heard. There was music wafting in the distance — bass-heavy, vibrating through stone — and the smells of spice and smoke and exhaust hung in the crisp autumn air. The streetlights painted everything in a haze of yellow-gold, a little harsh but familiar.
“Want the usual?” you asked, sliding a glance over at him as he reached into his coat pocket.
He gave a short, knowing laugh, already fishing out a lighter. “Course I do. Been dreaming about that oxtail since bloody Kyiv.”
You rolled your eyes as he lit the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the angles of his face — the curve of his cheekbone, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble. “Back to this nasty habit, are we?” you teased, bumping your shoulder into his as you walked.
Kyle took a drag and exhaled slow, the smoke curling up past his brow. “Oi, don’t start. Let me have my one vice, yeah? Gotta cope somehow.”
“Cope better. Chew gum or something.”
“Gum doesn’t taste like this,” he said, tapping ash onto the sidewalk with a smirk. “Anyway, weren’t you the one who said I look fit with a cig? Don’t think I forgot that.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “You misheard me. I said you looked full of shit.”
“Mm. Same thing.”
The little restaurant was just a few steps further, a corner joint you’d both wandered into one rainy night years ago, and then returned to again and again. No sign out front, just the glow of hanging bulbs strung along the window and the thick scent of jerk spices that hit you before the door even swung open. Inside was barely enough room to fit a handful of people — just a counter, a glass display case, and the warm, familiar woman behind it who gave Kyle a knowing nod the moment he stepped in.
“Back again, huh?” she said with a grin. “Didn’t think I’d see your face ‘til Christmas.”
“Surprised me, too,” he replied easily, charm thickening as he leaned on the counter, eyes flicking down to the foil trays behind the glass. “Gonna need two oxtails, extra rice and peas, some plantain. And whatever she wants, too.”
He shot you a look like he’d dared you to protest.
You arched a brow. “You sure? Might go wild. Get the whole menu.”
Kyle made a show of sighing. “That’s alright. I’ll sell my kidney later.”
Once you had your food in hand, wrapped tight in foil containers and already steaming up your fingers through the bag, you slipped back outside. The inside was too cramped, too hot, so you both slid into one of the little outdoor tables set beneath a heat lamp. The metal chairs were chipped and brightly painted, and the table wobbled slightly, but neither of you cared. The heater hummed gently above, casting an orange glow over everything, and the bite of the wind against your ankles made the warmth in your hands feel earned.
The two of you dug in almost immediately. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a proper sit-down meal or that the table had some questionable graffiti scratched into it —everything tasted better after a long day, and better still with him sitting across from you. The rice was fluffy, the oxtail tender, the plantains caramelised just right.
Between bites, you talked. Laughed. Traded jabs the way you always had. Kyle recounted the disaster of a flight home, the snoring seatmate, the broken vending machine at the airport. You told him about the mouse you swore you saw in the stairwell (which he flat-out didn’t believe) and how you’d nearly killed yourself trying to fix the leaky tap without his help.
Eventually, though, your curiosity got the better of you. You leaned forward, elbow on the table, fork still dangling in hand. “So, what happened over there? You gonna tell me anything this time? Any juicy details?”
He shook his head slowly, chewing, taking his time to respond. Then: “You know the rules, love.”
“Yeah, yeah, no work talk,” you said, but the pout in your voice was hard to hide. “You’re so annoying about it.”
Kyle scoffed, licking a bit of sauce off his thumb. “I’m annoying because I don’t fancy telling you how I had to scrape someone’s mate off the fucking floor last month? Is that what we’re doing now?”
You blinked, chastened — but he softened almost immediately, nudging your ankle under the table.
“Look,” he said, quieter now. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. But I keep that shit separate for a reason, alright? You don’t need it in your head. You’ve got enough goingon.”
You looked at him for a long moment, then sighed dramatically, dragging your fork into his tray and scooping up a fat piece of oxtail.
“Oi — what the fuck—” he swatted half-heartedly at your hand, laughing, though he tried to look betrayed. “That’s bang out of order, that is.”
“Go ahead and starve,” you said, chewing it smugly.
By the time the foil containers sat mostly empty on the table between you, the street had grown quieter. The heater above continued to buzz gently, fighting the creeping chill of late autumn. The music from the nearby bar had shifted to something more mellow, the kind of rhythm that clung to the edges of your senses but didn’t demand attention. Across from you, Kyle sat back in his chair, one leg stretched out, the other tapping absently to the beat. He looked content — soft around the eyes, the edge of a smile playing on his lips. You could almost forget that he’d only just come home. That he was still shaking off the dust of some other country, some other life, and slipping back into yours like he’d never left.
Then he leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, and gave you a look that was just a little too casual.
“So,” he began, stretching the word, drawing it out like he was toying with it. “You meet anyone while I was gone? Any lad manage to finally sweep you off your feet?”
You blinked. The question dropped like a stone in your chest. It took a second too long to react, and you covered it with a scoff, tilting your head and letting out a dry laugh.
“Really?” you said, forcing a smirk. “That’s where we’re going now?”
He shrugged, grinning, unbothered. “Just saying. You’re always saying I’m the one with no social life. Figured maybe someone’d finally cracked that cold, cold heart of yours.”
You tried to keep up the act, tried to match his tone, but the words didn’t land right. Not when they touched something too raw inside of you. The very idea of anyone else— of opening yourself to someone who wasn’t him — made your stomach tighten. You weren’t even sure why it stung so much. Maybe because it was so easy for him to imagine you with someone else. Maybe because he couldn’t see how deeply you’d rooted yourself in the space between his absences.
“Please,” you said with a scoff, poking at the remainder of your rice with your fork. “Can’t exactly flirt with people when I’m too busy fixing leaking taps and taking care of your plants.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Could’ve fooled me. That lad from the corner shop, the one with the bad haircut — he’s always eyeing you up.”
“That’s because I paid him in coins one time. He’s traumatised.”
“Still. Wouldn’t blame you,” Kyle said, more softly now, his grin still easy, unaware of the way your chest was tightening. “Wouldn’t blame you if someone had caught your eye. S’been a while. Figured maybe—”
You set your fork down more abruptly than you meant to, the clatter sharper than it should’ve been in the quiet. “Can you not?” you said, trying to sound light, but there was an edge creeping in despite you. “It’s not funny.”
The smile slid from his face. Just slightly, but enough. His brow creased in that way you’d come to know over the years — a small frown that tugged at the corners of his mouth, the kind of expression that said wait, did I fuck up?
“Hey, alright,” he said gently, holding his hands up. “Didn’t mean nothing by it.”
You nodded, not trusting yourself to say more. You didn’t want him to see how fast your appetite had vanished, how your chest felt like it was lined with lead. You pushed your food away slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the table as if grounding yourself.
The silence between you stretched a little too long before he spoke again.
“Wanna head back?”
You nodded again, and the two of you rose, gathering your things, the laughter from earlier still echoing in the background but feeling miles away.
The walk back to the flat was quiet. You trailed beside him, hands shoved deep into your pockets, eyes fixed on the pavement lit by flickering streetlamps. Kyle didn’tspeak, didn’t joke like he usually did to fill silences, and part of you wondered if he felt it too — the weight in the air, the change in tone. But maybe he was just tired. Or maybe itdidn’t matter to him as much as it did to you.
You tried not to let your thoughts spiral, but it was hard not to drift. Hard not to think back to those first few years, when you and Kyle had just started hanging out. You’dmet through mutual friends, the kind of accidental friendship that formed without effort, and before long you were inseparable. Movie nights that turned into crash-at-each-other’s-place kind of weekends. Grocery runs that felt like dates even when they weren’t. After a while, the flat-sharing just made sense. Two people who trusted each other, knew each other’s habits, didn’t need to explain why sometimes the day was just too much.
You’d watched each other fumble through relationships — his with women who didn’t get the job, yours with men who didn’t get you — and every time something ended, it was Kyle who poured the tea and listened without needing to fix it. And it was you who patched him up, who reminded him he was still soft under all that grit. The world always made sense when it was just the two of you.
But lately — lately it had started to ache.
Because no one had ever made you feel the way Kyle did. No one ever filled the space beside you like he did without trying. And you weren’t sure when it started to feel one-sided — when the realization hit that maybe, for him, this was all it would ever be. You could live with him. Laugh with him. Travel through seasons and years. And still be nothing more than a friend.
The thought made your throat burn.
When you stepped back into the flat, the familiar scent of the place — clean soap, old wood, a faint lingering of Kyle’s cologne — hit you like a brick. You closed the door behind you, shrugging off your coat without a word.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” you said, eyes on the hallway.
“Yeah, no worries,” Kyle said.
You moved toward the bathroom, already tugging your sleeves up, but he stopped you just as you passed him in the hall.
“Oi,” he said, gently, fingers brushing your arm. “You alright?”
You hesitated, then turned toward him. His face was open, a little tentative. He hadn’t pushed, hadn’t pressed — but something in his eyes said he knew he’d said too much. Or maybe too little.
“I’m fine,” you said, and smiled.
It was small and soft and not entirely true.
Kyle held your gaze a second longer, as if weighing whether to believe you, but in the end, he nodded, stepping back.
You slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind you. The mirror fogged almost instantly as the hot water roared to life. You stood there a moment, watching the steam climb the glass, your own reflection vanishing into it. You stepped under the spray, let it scald your skin, let it mute everything else. Your fingers pressed into your eyes as the tears came, quiet and stubborn, barely more than a tremble in your shoulders.
⟡
“Detergent?”
“Yep,” you said, fingers curling around the familiar green Persil bottle. “Right here.”
You plucked it from the top shelf, feeling the cool weight settle in your arms as you turned to drop it into the shopping cart Kyle was pushing. The bottle landed with a soft thud beside the eggs, and Kyle gave a low grunt of approval like you’d just solved some complex riddle. His sleeves were pushed halfway up his forearms beneath the loose denim jacket he’d thrown on over a grey hoodie, the hood still up from the brisk walk over, casting a faint shadow over the top of his face. He didn’t bother to push it down. If anything, the way it framed his face only made him look more effortlessly at ease, despite the fact that he was maneuvering the stubborn cart like it was a wayward dog.
You checked off the next item on your list with a short, neat stroke, your pencil lead dulled from use. The slip of paper had been folded and refolded enough times that the creases were beginning to tear, but you kept it pressed between your fingers like it was sacred. There was something comforting in the task, something grounding about moving aisle by aisle with purpose, ticking each item off like a promise fulfilled. The mundanity of it — the silence between shelves, the low hum of refrigerator units, the soft clatter of other carts in the distance — it all felt like a balm after everything. Domestic. Predictable. And for a moment, that was enough.
Kyle trailed after you, one hand gripping the cart while the other occasionally reached for things you hadn’t asked for. A bag of crisps. A multipack of KitKats. A questionable-looking energy drink that you eyed warily but said nothing about. You walked slightly ahead, weaving through the store with focused precision, too keyed in to the task to notice that your pace was almost brisk.
“You tryna outrun me or something?” he asked eventually, the sound of the cart wheels squeaking behind him. “I didn’t realize we were doing the hundred-metre dash through the produce section.”
You glanced over your shoulder, expression unreadable. “Just sticking to the list.”
Kyle smirked, keeping up anyway, despite the slight veer of the cart that kept pulling left. “Right, of course. Can’t deviate. Strict military procedure, this.”
“I learned from the best,” you muttered, eyes scanning for the next item.
He let out a snort.
Maybe, in another moment, you would’ve turned around and teased him some more. Maybe you would’ve nudged his side with your elbow and laughed properly, like you used to. But you were still shaken from last night, still carrying that bruised feeling deep behind your ribs — the kind of ache that stayed even when you tried to smother it. It wasn’tjust a crush anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time. Being around Kyle made your stomach twist, made your heart race in ways you’d tried to ignore for months. Years, maybe. But it had reached a point where even looking at him made you feel too much.
Still, you went through the motions. Together, the two of you made your way through each aisle like you’d done a hundred times before. He asked if you needed more toothpaste. You reminded him that he finished all the milk without telling you. You picked the right kind of bread. He added a loaf of the wrong kind just to make you roll your eyes. It was easy in that way it always was with him — familiar, smooth, lived-in — but there was a strange undercurrent now. Something unsaid, something too sharp around the edges to ignore.
At the meat counter, things shifted.
You approached it with practiced ease, smile already slipping into place. Liam was there — young, broad-shouldered, apron streaked with fresh red. He spotted you and grinned, pushing a container of marinated chicken to the side so he could lean across the counter a bit. You’d spoken to him a few times before, usually when Kyle was gone. It was nothing serious — just enough teasing to get a better cut, a bit shaved off the price, a wink here or there to keep things friendly.
“Back again,” Liam said, flashing that crooked grin of his, the kind that always looked a little too practiced. He wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his apron and leaned forward against the counter like he had all the time in the world. “Could’ve sworn you were just here.”
You rested your weight on one hip, propped your elbow casually along the glass case, and matched his smile with one of your own — smaller, thinner, a touch brittle around the edges. “I live here now. Figured I might as well let you know.”
Liam chuckled, brushing a lock of hair away from his forehead with the back of his wrist as he reached into the display for the sirloin. “Good thing,” he said. “You’re my favourite customer.”
“Don’t you say that to everyone?”
He gave a little shrug, already slicing the meat with clean, confident motions, his fingers moving with the kind of practised ease that came from doing this every day. “Only the ones who laugh at my jokes.”
You laughed lightly, even though it didn’t quite bloom all the way in your chest. The sound came out thinner than you’d hoped, but he didn’t seem to notice — or maybe hechose not to. You glanced briefly over your shoulder, catching the shape of Kyle behind you. He was quiet, unusually so, standing just far enough away to be uninvolved but close enough that you could feel the tension radiating off him. His hands were in the pockets of his denim jacket now, the hood of his hoodie still up, casting a faint shadow over his eyes. He hadn’t moved since you stepped up to the counter.
Liam’s voice brought you back. “You want the same cut as last time?”
“Yeah,” you said, letting your chin rest in your hand. “And if you could mark it a little light?”
A playful smirk curved his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”
You turned the charm on just a bit more, leaned in ever so slightly as he handed you the wrapped parcel, your fingers brushing his just enough to make it look effortless. You weren’t flirting, not really. You didn’t care enough to mean it but you knew how to play the part when it helped. Especially when it meant getting an extra pound or two shaved off the total.
“You’re too good to me,” you said, grabbing the brown-paper wrapped meat and letting the words slide from your mouth like water.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
The whole exchange lasted less than a minute, just a few beats of light banter and a discount slipped under the table. It should’ve meant nothing. It did mean nothing. But when you turned to drop the parcel into the cart, Kyle’s expression stopped you short.
His arms were folded across his chest, shoulders squared, jaw clenched just a fraction too tight. There was no humour in his face, none of that easy, sarcastic warmth he usually carried. His gaze wasn’t on you — not directly — but somewhere in the middle distance, like he was trying very hard not to look at anything in particular.
“Bet that wanker does that for every pretty girl,” he muttered, voice low, just above a whisper, but enough for you to catch every word.
Your brows lifted. “Excuse me?”
Kyle shrugged, finally pushing the cart forward without glancing your way. “Nothing. Just saying. He was a bit eager, wasn’t he?”
You stood still for a moment, the weight of his words catching you off guard, as if someone had taken a swing at your ribs without warning. “What’s your problem?”
“No problem,” he said, with a dryness that scraped. “Didn’t realize we had time for a full flirting seminar at the butcher’s.”
Your glare bored into the back of his hoodie, but he didn’t turn around. You followed a few steps behind, the knot in your chest drawing tighter with every stride toward the checkout. He wasn’t making sense, and worse, he wasn’t acting like Kyle. Not your Kyle, not the version of him who teased and laughed and bumped shoulders with you in passing. This one was closed off. Edged.
You reached the tills without saying another word, both of you moving into position like actors in a scene you didn’t rehearse for. You began to unload the cart automatically — bread, fruit, detergent — lining everything up by weight and category like always, your hands working while your mind spun uselessly in place. Kyle busied himself with the end of the belt, bringing up snacks, placing the eggs carefully behind the milk like that mattered more than whatever just happened.
The silence between you felt enormous, bloated and uncomfortable. Each beep from the scanner hit your ears like a pulse.
Finally, you broke. You glanced sideways at him, voice low, firm. “Seriously. What’s with you?”
He didn’t look at you. He was still fussing with the groceries, stacking the chocolate bars with too much focus. “Nothing’s with me.”
“Kyle,” you said again, this time more softly, but edged with disbelief. You knew when he was lying.
He let out a breath, not annoyed, not even angry — just weary, like he was tired of pretending. “I dunno,” he said eventually. “Just wasn’t expecting to see you go all out at the counter like that.”
You frowned. “I was being nice. We get better meat when I smile.”
He nodded slowly, lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Right. Didn’t realise smiling meant flirting with some bloke who probably prints his number on the back of the receipt.”
Your breath caught. You stared at him, unsure if you’d heard him right. The words were so out of place, so not like him — at least not like how he usually was with you. Your heart beat faster, a flicker of heat rising in your throat.
“That’s not fair,” you said quietly, stunned.
Kyle turned to look at you then, finally. His eyes met yours, and something flickered behind them — raw and brief, something almost too human to name. It passed in an instant, so fast you couldn’t be sure if you imagined it, but for that moment, he looked as lost as you felt.
“Maybe not,” he murmured. “Don’t worry. Not my business anyway.”
⟡
The dishes clinked softly as you rinsed them one by one, the warm water running over your hands and turning your skin raw with heat. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting everything in a soft yellow wash that made the small kitchen feel more intimate than it should’ve. Behind you, the quiet bubbling of the stew on the stove filled the silence with gentle, rhythmic noise — almost comforting, if not for the thickness in the air between you and Kyle. He moved behind you in slow, measured steps, going through the motions of cooking like it was muscle memory. You could hear the way he opened drawers, the clatter of utensils, the scrape of a pot lid being lifted and set down again. Every few minutes, he’dcome up behind you, not saying a word, and drop whatever he’d finished using into the sink — a knife, a cutting board, the wooden spoon still stained with tomato. And still, the silence lingered. It wasn’t the quiet comfort that sometimes settled between you two when words weren’t needed. It wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Coiled tight.
You didn’t even know why he was still cooking. You didn’t know why you were washing dishes either. He’d made enough for both of you — measured out portions the way he always did when he knew you hadn’t eaten all day — but the thought of food turned your stomach. You had no appetite when there was tension like this, when things between you felt out of sync, like a wire that had been stretched and frayed and was one tug away from snapping. You rinsed off the chopping board and set it aside, letting the water run for a little too long, watching it swirl down the drain. Maybe if you focused on that — on the hiss of the tap, the warmth of the water — you could ignore the dull ache in your chest that had been sitting there since the grocery store.
Because that had been a fight, hadn’t it? Even if neither of you said the word out loud, even if you hadn’t raised your voices or stormed off in opposite directions. The air had shifted. The usual rhythm between you — familiar, easy, comfortable — had faltered. And you were still fumbling to find your footing.
Then you felt it. The unmistakable heat of him at your back. You looked up just as he stepped closer, his chest brushing lightly against your shoulder as he reached over you to open the cabinet above the sink. You turned your head without thinking, and for one suspended, breathless moment, he was right there — close enough that you could see the stubble on his jaw, the faint freckles on his nose, the way his lips parted slightly as he exhaled. His breath mingled with yours in the small pocket of space between you. The heat of the stove, the running water, his body — it all blurred into something that made your pulse spike.
Kyle didn’t say anything. Just grabbed the plates he needed and stepped away, barely brushing your shoulder as he moved past you, carrying them to the table like nothing had happened. But your skin tingled where he’d been. Your breath caught in your chest, and for a heartbeat you stood frozen, hands dripping water into the sink, eyes staring at the place he’d just been. Had he done that on purpose? Did he know what that kind of closeness did to you? Did he know?
You turned the tap off slowly, fingers trembling slightly as you reached for the dish towel. You wiped your hands in silence, watching him from the corner of your eye as he moved back to the stove, lifting the lid of the pot and giving the stew another stir, his back turned to you.
“You going to stop being mad at me?” you asked finally, your voice quiet but steady.
He didn’t respond right away. Just kept stirring, the spoon scraping softly against the bottom of the pot. “I’m not mad,” he said, but his tone lacked its usual softness. There was an edge there, something clipped, like he was holding back the rest of what he wanted to say.
You folded the towel in your hands slowly, pressing it flat against the counter. “You say that,” you murmured, “but you’ve barely said two words to me since we got back. You haven’t looked at me properly all evening.”
“I am looking at you,” he said, turning slightly, one hand still on the spoon. His eyes met yours for a moment before he looked away again, back into the pot.
You stepped closer, closing the gap between you by only a few feet. “You’re doing that thing,” you said. “Where you say you’re fine but everything in your voice says otherwise.”
He let out a breath through his nose, not quite a sigh, but close. “Maybe I’m just — confused,” he said.
You frowned. “Confused about what?”
He finally stopped stirring, setting the spoon on the edge of the pot. He turned to face you properly now, arms crossing over his chest, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his expression tight. “You told me you weren’t lookin’ for anything. You told me straight up, didn’t you? That you weren’t interested in dating. Said it clear.”
“I did,” you said, unsure of where he was going with this.
“Right,” he said, nodding, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “So I guess I just don’t know what to think, yeah? ‘Cause then I see you today — flirting with that butcher like it’s nothing. Laughing. Touching his hand. You don’t do that with just anyone.”
You blinked. “Kyle—”
“And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe that’s just how you talk to people. But I’m standing there with the cart, watching the whole thing, and I can’t lie — it fucked with my head.”
You stared at him, the words sinking in slowly, like syrup down the sides of a glass. You hadn’t even thought he was watching. “I was being polite. You know he gives us better cuts when I’m nice.”
“That’s not all that was,” he said, voice low. “That wasn’t just nice. You don’t lean in like that with just anyone. And it’s not about the bloody steak. It’s the fact that I thought I knew where you stood. And then I see that, and I start thinking maybe I don’t.”
You stepped back, chest tight, the edges of your thoughts fraying. “Why does it matter to you?” you asked, not yelling, but your voice rose all the same. “Why does it matter what I do or who I smile at? Why do I have to make sense to you?”
He hesitated. Something flickered in his face — hurt, maybe, or disappointment. “It matters,” he said after a moment, “because it’s you. And I guess I thought I mattered enough to you that you wouldn’t be out there flirting with strangers just because you can.”
You stared at him, stunned into silence. Your throat felt dry. Too dry.
After a long pause, you let out a breath, voice quieter now. “I’m not even hungry anymore.”
His shoulders dropped slightly, the fire in him flickering down into something gentler. He looked at you with something softer in his eyes this time — regret, maybe, orworry.
“Don’t do that,” he said, stepping forward just a little. “Don’t skip dinner ‘cause of this. I made what you like.”
The words shot out of you faster than you could stop them — sharp-edged and thinly veiled, born not of cruelty but bruised feeling, the kind of remark you only throw at someone who knows too much of you already. “Yeah? Well you’re being shitty company, Kyle.”
You didn’t mean it — not really. Not in the way it sounded. But as soon as the silence swallowed it whole, you wanted to reach out and take it back. The kitchen held its breath with you. Kyle didn’t flinch. He didn’t return the blow. He just stood there, still as stone, the overhead light catching on the faint stubble along his jaw, the set line of his mouth. He looked tired in the way people do when something soft in them has been worn thin. Then he let out a slow, measured sigh — long enough that you could see the rise and fall of his chest under the hoodie — and scrubbed a hand down his face like he was trying to smooth out something twisted behind his eyes.
“I’m not upset with you,” he said finally, voice lower now, rougher, with that familiar lilt curling around the edges.
He shifted his weight back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest like he needed something to hold onto. His gaze flicked to the floor, then to you. “It’s just —things feel off, y’know? I keep trying to play it back in my head, figure out where it started, but I’m stuck.” His brows knit together. “You got mad at me first, yeah? That night I asked if you were seeing anyone. I thought I was just takin’ the piss — like we always do — but you looked at me like I’d said something awful. And after that, it was like I could never quite find you again.”
You said nothing, lips parted slightly, fingers twisting in the side of your pants.
“Since then,” he continued, softer now, “you’ve been hot and cold. One minute you’re laughing at me like you used to, and the next I’m getting this wall. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.” He looked at you then, really looked at you, and his voice lost some of that usual steadiness. “I just want you back, yeah? The real you. The one who rips on my shit football opinions, tells me when I’ve put too much pepper in the stew, laughs like she’s got no one else in the world to perform for but me. That version of you I only ever see in this flat. That’s the version I miss.”
His words slid into you like a knife softened at the tip — not sharp enough to wound cleanly, but deep enough to leave bruises. Your throat tightened. Your vision swam for a moment in a way that had nothing to do with tears, and you felt your grip falter — not just on the dish towel but on the carefully constructed wall you’d been holding in place for months.
Your voice, when it finally surfaced, sounded too small, too thin. “You are the only one I’m like that with, Kyle.”
You saw the confusion flicker across his face, watched his brow furrow as though the words didn’t quite compute. You could tell by the way his mouth opened slightly and then closed again that he didn’t understand. Not yet. And something about that — about the not knowing — lit the fuse in your chest. Because how could he not? How could he stand there and say he missed you, but not see that the version of you he missed was the one that existed because of him?
“Christ,” you muttered, taking a step toward him, anger rising fast behind your eyes. “You’re such a fucking idiot sometimes.”
That got his attention. He blinked. Straightened a little. “What—?”
“You really don’t see it, do you?” you snapped, breath catching. “You think I’m like that with everyone? That I make jokes and laugh and put up with someone else’s weird food habits and rearrange the flat every bloody time they come back from deployment? That I bite my tongue when I want to scream because they leave their socks everywhere, or stay up with them when they can’t sleep, or cook them breakfast even when I’m running late for work?”
Your voice cracked, and still, you kept going.
“I’ve been pretending,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “Pretending like this is fine. Like I’m fine. Like being around you every day isn’t slowly pulling me apart.”
He stared at you, frozen now, like he didn’t even dare blink.
“I’m in love with you,” you said. “God. I love you, Kyle. And I’ve been dancing around it like a coward because I didn’t want to ruin what we had, but it’s too late now, isn’t it?”
It spilled out of you like water breaking past a dam — raw, irretrievable, and mortifying. The second it hit the air, you wished you could take it back, wished you could reach out and gather it all up, shove it back inside the locked drawer where it had lived for far too long. But it was out now. The truth stood between you, unblinking and awful, and you couldn’t bear the silence that followed.
You turned on your heel before he could answer, the shame clawing up your throat like fire, your only thought to get out. To put space between you and whatever came next. You headed for the archway, your cheeks burning, tears brimming in your eyes though you refused to let them fall.
But you didn’t make it past him.
Kyle moved quickly — too quickly — planting himself in the doorway like a wall. One arm braced against the frame, the other low by his side, broad shoulders filling the space and cutting off your escape. His chest was rising and falling with something that looked an awful lot like disbelief. The kitchen light cast a soft shadow beneath his jaw, and his expression was unreadable, something caught between shock and something you didn’t dare name.
“Say it again.”
You froze. “What?”
His eyes didn’t leave yours, dark and steady and far too close. “Say it again,” he repeated, lower now. “Look at me and say it.”
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. You tried to move past him, to duck beneath his arm, to end this before it got worse, but he shifted, holding firm.
“Kyle,” you whispered. “Please. Just drop it.”
“No.” His voice was firmer now. “I’m not dropping this. Not this time.”
His arm stayed braced against the doorframe, unmoving, the heat from his body radiating in waves that made it hard to think — hard to do anything but stand there, pinned in place by the weight of what had just come out of your mouth. You could feel your pulse hammering in your throat, every instinct screaming at you to bolt, to run and pretend none of this had ever happened. But Kyle wasn’t moving. And more than that, he wasn’t letting you move either.
He stared at you for a long, loaded second, and then his jaw flexed, voice low and tight in a way you’d never heard before. “No,” he muttered, “you’re the idiot.”
Your eyes snapped up to his. “Excuse me?”
He took a step forward, just enough to make your back skim the edge of the kitchen counter, his body still blocking the exit like a wall of heat and frustration and something else — something deeper. “Yeah. You heard me. You’re the bloody idiot here,” he said, voice quiet but cutting, every word weighted. “You think I didn’t know I was falling for you? You think I’ve just been swanning around this flat, completely clueless?”
You opened your mouth, but he held up a hand and barrelled on, eyes never leaving yours. “You live with me. I see you every day. I see you in my clothes, making tea, humming to your shit playlists, sitting on my sofa like you were always meant to be there. You think I haven’t been losing my fucking mind trying to be respectful? Tellin’ myself not to fuck this up? That I shouldn’t cross a line ‘til you came to me first?”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t say a thing,” he continued, words coming faster now, like he couldn’t stop them even if he tried. “Because this is your space too. And you’ve got boundaries. And I’d never — never — do something to make you feel uncomfortable in your own fuckin’ home.”
He was pacing now, half-wild in the way only someone completely undone could be. One hand raked through his cropped hair, his mouth moving faster than you could keep up with. “But you have no idea what it’s like — being out there, facing proper hell, knowing you might not come back. The things I’ve seen, the shit I’ve done — none of it compares to how bad it’d be if I didn’t come back to you. D’you get that?”
You blinked, stunned, mouth parted.
“You’re my home,” Kyle said, softer now, but with a desperation that carved the words clean. “It’s you. It’s always been you. When I’m out there, when it’s pitch black and bullets are flying and my ears are ringing from the last blast — I’m thinking about you. I’m thinking about this flat and your tea and your laugh and that stupid little way you write out the grocery list in block letters. That’s what brings me back. That’s what keeps me alive. You.”
The room was spinning. Or maybe you were.
He stepped closer again, his voice lower now, breath brushing your cheek. “All this time, I’ve been keeping my hands to myself. Bein’ good. Bein’ patient. Thinking if you ever wanted more, you’d say so. And now you’re standing here saying you’re in love with me — finally — and I can’t take it anymore.”
His hand hovered by your cheek, not touching, just barely there.
“I’m going to kiss you right now,” he said, voice rough, mouth so close you could feel every syllable. “And you better kiss me back, or I swear on my mum, I’ll—”
You didn’t let him finish.
Your fingers fisted in the collar of his hoodie and yanked him down hard, your mouth finding his in a kiss that wasn’t soft, wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t anything close to restrained. It was all fire. All months of silence and second-guessing and repressed want crashing forward like a wave you could no longer hold back. He groaned against your mouth, hands finally grabbing at your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the world fell away, burned clean with the heat of it.
Kyle kissed you like it cost him nothing and everything at once.
Like all the tension that had lived between you had finally broken, not in a whisper, but in a tidal wave — pulling you under, swallowing every unspoken word, every sidelong glance, every time one of you had looked and looked away. His mouth met yours with a hunger so fierce it made your knees buckle, his hands already cupping your jaw like he was anchoring himself to the one solid thing in the world. You felt him in every part of you — chest to chest, breath to breath, the scrape of stubble against your skin, his hoodie soft beneath your fists where you gripped the collar like it might keep you from falling apart.
You kissed him back with everything you had, with months of aching held tight behind your ribs. And still it didn’t feel like enough.
There was nothing careful about it. His kiss was heated and possessive and real, a little messy from the way neither of you seemed to know how to slow down, like you were trying to make up for every moment you’d spent pretending you didn’t want this. You tasted him — the sharp edge of cigarettes clinging faintly to his lips, the soft trace of the ginger tea he drank religiously, something warm and familiar that wasn’t any one thing but just him. The man who took up half your flat and all of your heart. The man you had waited so stupidly long to reach for.
When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to let you breathe. Your lungs burned, your lips felt swollen and kissed raw, and your heart was knocking against your ribs like it didn’t know what to do with itself now that the thing it wanted was here.
Kyle’s forehead rested against yours, his breath fanning out over your cheek, still coming quick and uneven. He hadn’t let go of you, not even an inch.
“First,” he murmured, voice rough and low, thick with everything he wasn’t sure how to say, “you’ll sit down and eat the dinner I made.”
You blinked, a little dazed, a laugh escaping you in a shaky exhale.
He smirked faintly, but his gaze never wavered. “And then, we’re gonna make up for lost time. Properly. Yeah?”
You looked at him, your fingers still curled tight in the fabric at his chest, your cheeks flushed, lips tingling, and every part of you thrumming with the kind of heat you didn’t think would fade anytime soon.
“Yeah,” you breathed, barely louder than a whisper, but sure. “Okay.”
His eyes flicked down to your mouth again, and before either of you could think better of it, you were pulling him in again, your mouth on his like you’d never stopped. Like the taste of him had ruined you already. Like the world could end and you’d die with your hands still wrapped in the hoodie he hadn’t even taken off.
working on a very domestic Kyle fic because my baby needs more loving 😌
(also I just like to imagine him unwinding after a long op in the comfort of his flat, listening to old records because you KNOW this man would have a collection)
hello !!! no req, just wanted to say (like i say in ur comments. but im saying it here also. bc i mean it so hard!!!) that ur writing is like ... some of (if not the) best ive encountered in any fandom ive ever been in. its so so so good and so descriptive and full of life and in character and every time i see u post i do 20 backflips consecutively. i aspire to write like u some day :))
you’re literally the cutest cutie patootie ever 🥹❤️
i literally can’t thank you enough for all your sweet comments on my fics, it’s literally my fuel to write more you have no idea 😭
also!!!! your writing is incredible too wdym??? your phillip graves fic is making me 🫀💥🫦 with the way you’ve got his character so down!!
hit me up in my messages if u want!! I’m always down to talk cod and anything else :))
character: David “Hesh” Walker
words: 9420
cw: 18+, smut, sexual content
description: AU in which you move back to San Diego after years of being away and your crush on Hesh comes back tenfold.
a/n: the fact that Hesh is canonically born in 1999 and so am I?? also Hesh reminds me strongly of my boyfriend ngl this was extra fun to write ;)))
The last time you saw David Walker, you were eighteen and invincible.
Or at least, it had felt that way — sunlight in your eyes, the wind tangling your hair as you leaned out the open window of his car, a second-hand Chevy his father had gifted him after graduation. The air had smelled of sun-warmed asphalt and honeysuckle from the neighborhood hedges, the radio murmuring something soft and distant — Eagle-Eye Cherry, maybe. Logan had been up front, long legs sprawled out and arm draped across the window like he hadn’t a care in the world. You’d been in the backseat, ankles crossed, your bare knees sunburned and stinging slightly, laughing at something Hesh had said. Somewhere along the line, he had told you not to call him David anymore — only my teachers call me that, come on — and with a roll of your eyes and a grin you’d since grown out of, you’d started calling him Hesh. It had stuck, the way summer freckles and childhood promises did. You were a part of their lives, and they were a part of yours. Simple. Easy. Like the seasons turning over and over without you needing to ask why.
You had promised, as so many do at eighteen, that you’d never forget them. Not Hesh, not Logan, not the way their house always smelled like cedar and motor oil or the way you used to sneak sips of beer in the backyard under the string lights, hearts racing from the thrill of being young and unseen. And in a way, you hadn’t forgotten — not really. But when college came calling, you’d packed your bags and gone east without looking back. Then came internships, job offers, long commutes, and bigger cities with empty skies. The years passed, quiet as dust settling on the corners of a room you no longer stepped into. You hadn’t come back. Not once. You told yourself it wasn’t personal. You were busy. Life had moved on.
But deep down, you knew they were excuses. Flimsy ones, even.
Now, standing in the center of your old bedroom, those excuses felt heavier. Like sediment built up over time. Nothing in the room had changed, not really. Your dad hadn’t touched a thing — same faded green comforter, same scuffed desk with initials carved into the side, same corkboard hung above it with memories pinned like evidence. Your reflection in the mirror didn’t quite match the girl who used to live here. Your hair was different. Your shoulders carried something they didn’t used to. You looked — older, maybe. Tired in places you couldn’t quite name.
Above your desk, a collage of sunlit ghosts greeted you. One photo showed you and Hesh at Linda Vista Park, skateboards propped at your ankles, your arm brushing his without meaning to, his smile bright enough to turn your stomach. Another, more chaotic, caught both Walker brothers lifting you onto their shoulders, your limbs flailing as the camera caught all three of you laughing — genuine, unposed, untouched by time. And then there was the last one: just you, lying in the grass of their backyard, your cheeks flushed, eyes closed, the smile on your lips soft and secretive, like you were dreaming of something you weren’t ready to admit.
You stared at that one the longest. Because the truth was, you didn’t recognize yourself anymore — not in the photos, not in the girl who had once been brave enough to dream of something more than friendship when it came to Hesh Walker. You’d buried that version of yourself somewhere along the way, beneath obligations and good intentions and the endless forward march of time.
And now, somehow, you were here again — home, of all places — getting ready for dinner like no time had passed. The Walkers were coming over. Hesh was coming over. You smoothed your hands down your shirt for the fourth or fifth time, restless, trying to anchor yourself in the moment while your thoughts drifted to the past. Your dad had insisted on the dinner. Said it was long overdue. That Elias and the boys had asked after you more than once, that everything they knew about your life these days came from second-hand stories he told over beers in the garage, or those occasional texts you sent that barely scratched the surface. “It’d be good for them to see you,” he’d said. “They missed you.”
You hadn’t had the heart to argue.
Downstairs, the front door opened with a creak you recognized from childhood, followed by the unmistakable echo of laughter and heavy boots against the hardwood. Voices rose up through the stairwell, low and warm, like thunder rolling in soft over familiar hills. You paused at the top step, heart tripping, breath cinched tight in your chest. You didn’t even have to strain to hear him — Elias. That voice hadn’t changed a bit. Steady, calm, a grounding kind of thing. The kind you trusted even before you understood why. It made sense, really. He and your father had gone through hell together, side by side in places you never dared ask too much about. They were the kind of friends forged in fire, in far-off deserts and forests thick with danger. That bond had always loomed quietly in your childhood, sturdy and unshakeable.
And then — there it was. A second voice, then a third. Younger. Laughing. The same cadence, deeper now. Hesh. Logan. It knocked something loose in you, something fragile and old and still warm. For a moment, your mind flared with memory — your legs swinging off the edge of their back porch, bare knees scraped raw from summer mischief, BB guns balanced over fence posts, tin cans dented from poor aim and poorer bets. You’d grown up in their orbit. The three of you, always a unit. Hesh especially — David, back then, but he hated when you called him that. Said it made him sound like a substitute teacher.
“[Name]!” your father’s voice bellowed from below, cutting through your spiraling thoughts. “They’re here!”
Of course they are. You already knew it. You’d felt it in your bones before the front door even opened. Still, your fingers trembled slightly on the banister as you made your way down the stairs, trying not to let your nerves show. Every step was slower than the last, like your legs didn’t trust you to carry the weight of what this meant. As you rounded the landing and met their eyes, the world tipped just a little.
“There she is,” your dad announced proudly, one hand sweeping out toward you as if unveiling a secret. “Isn’t she something? My baby girl, all grown up.”
You wished he hadn’t said that — wished he hadn’t drawn attention to how much you’d changed, because now they were looking. And you could feel it. Elias, standing tall and solid in the doorway, smiled first — kind, weathered, the sort of man who had never needed many words to say exactly what he meant. Logan beside him, posture easy, cocky little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. And then — Hesh.
Your breath hitched so sharply it almost hurt.
Gone was the lanky teenage boy you remembered. In his place stood a man, lean and broad-shouldered, eyes sharp beneath the weight of a few more years and a face that had grown into all its lines. His jaw had squared out, rough with scruff, and those eyes — those stupidly pretty green eyes — hadn’t lost their shine. If anything, they were deeper now. He looked like the kind of man who could carry the weight of a house on his back and not break stride.
And just like that, it was all over for you.
You went to Elias first, because it was easier. Because your heart wouldn’t stop thudding, and if you met Hesh’s gaze too soon, you feared you might never look away. Elias wrapped you in a hug, one arm slung around your shoulders like old times, solid and grounding.
“Good to see you again, kid,” he said with a chuckle. “Your old man’s been bragging about you out his ass.”
You laughed, awkward, soft, grateful for the familiar cadence of his voice. “That bad, huh?”
He nodded with mock severity. “He’s unbearable.”
He was older now, of course, lines etched deeper into the corners of his eyes, a touch more silver at his temples. But his strength hadn’t faded. His presence still filled a room. Looking at him, you understood all over again how the boys had turned out the way they had.
Logan was next, and he didn’t wait for formalities. He stepped right up and pulled you into a hug before you had time to think. Taller than you remembered — how had that happened? — but still Logan, still easygoing, still that sparkle in his eye that said he was holding back some smartass comment just for your benefit.
“Still shorter than me, I see,” he murmured against your ear, his voice full of mischief.
You pulled back, rolling your eyes. “You wish.”
He grinned, shrugging. “I know.”
You couldn’t help it — you laughed, really laughed, and it felt like something old and sweet rising back to the surface. God, you’d missed him. You’d missed all of them.
And then, of course there was still Hesh.
It took you a second — no, longer than that — to remember how to breathe when his eyes met yours.
The noise around you dulled, your pulse rising until it felt like it lived in your throat, pressing against the base of your tongue. He didn’t say anything right away — he didn’t need to. That smile was already there, the one you knew too well, the one you used to wait for like a secret reward. Crooked and easy, nothing forced about it, all warmth and none of the hard edges that life eventually carved into people. He opened his arms without hesitation, inviting, like no time had passed at all between now and the last time you’d seen him. He hadn’t changed that part of himself. Still confident. Still open. Still the safest place you had ever known.
“C’mere,” he murmured, voice low and so achingly familiar that it carved through you like sunlight through fog.
And you went. You didn’t even hesitate, despite everything you were feeling — despite how aware you were of the heat blooming under your skin, of the way your hands twitched slightly before settling against his shoulders. He pulled you in like he meant it, arms folding around your waist with just enough strength to make you forget where you were. He was warm. He smelled like fresh pine and the faint bite of smoke and something clean beneath it all. You could feel your heartbeat thundering against your ribs, and for a second you were convinced he could feel it too. His chest against yours, the air between you far too close, and God, how were you supposed to come back from this?
“Can’t believe you’re here,” he said softly near your ear, barely audible beneath the voices around you. Your fingers clenched slightly in the fabric of his shirt. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, that grin of his still lingering, tugging at the corner of his mouth like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be playful or something quieter. “Glad you’re home, [Name]. Really.”
You tried to smile but it felt like your lungs were too full. “Glad to be.”
The moment didn’t last — your father’s voice called on the way out to the backyard, a sharp, teasing complaint about steak turning to charcoal. You stepped back, needing the space, needing to move. Something in your chest ached, but you kept it in check, forced your limbs to keep moving.
You slipped into the rhythm of hosting, thankful for the distraction. The door to the backyard creaked open, letting in the golden spill of late-afternoon sunlight, and the air outside was thick with the scent of grilled meat and freshly cut grass. Your father stood by the grill, tongs in one hand, beer in the other, looking pleased as hell about the whole thing. Elias hovered beside him, laughing at something, his voice low and steady. It felt like stepping into the past — only everything had gotten sharper in the years you’d been gone.
You played your part. Beer bottles handed out, napkins tucked under arms, water glasses refilled, extra chairs dragged out onto the patio from the garage. You didn’t even realize you were watching Hesh until you caught yourself staring — until you noticed how easily he moved through the space, how naturally he opened the cooler for a drink, how he knew exactly where your dad kept the bottle opener. And Logan too — barefoot already, drink in hand, acting like he lived here. It hit you then, unexpectedly hard, that they had been here. That this hadn’t stopped just because you’d left. They’d visited, checked in, sat in your chair at the dinner table, probably listened to your dad’s stories and helped him fix that busted porch step you’d been meaning to get around to.
You were the only one out of place now.
“So,” Hesh said beside you, setting down a bowl of corn on the table you were arranging, his voice pulling you back. “What’s the verdict? Are you back for good or just taking a break?”
You blinked, surprised for a second, then gave him a soft, lopsided smile. “Something in between,” you said, glancing at him. “Needed a reset. Life out there got — loud. Thought maybe some quiet would help.”
Hesh didn’t look away. “Quiet’s good. We’ve got plenty of that here. You know, if you decide to stick around longer.”
His tone was casual, like it didn’t matter either way — but you could feel it. The unspoken question under the words. The thing neither of you were brave enough to ask directly.
You nodded, gently smoothing the tablecloth with your hands just to have something to do. “We’ll see.”
Before anything more could be said, Elias called him over — something about the heat on the grill flaring up again — and Hesh gave you a quick, two-fingered salute and headed across the deck with a grin. You watched him go, heart rattling in its cage.
The kitchen felt cooler when you stepped back inside, a relief from the heat clinging to your skin. Logan was already there, sleeves rolled up, rummaging through the fridge with the same lack of boundaries he’d always had.
“Where the hell is the pasta salad?” he muttered to himself, then perked up when he saw you. “Ah, there’s my favorite hostess. You’re doing great, by the way. Feels like a five-star joint out there.”
You raised a brow and leaned against the counter. “You mean I’m doing all the work.”
“Hey, I’m bringing this salad out like a true gentleman,” he said, holding it up with exaggerated care.
You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Heroic.”
Logan laughed, cracking open the lid and grabbing a spoon from the drawer. “No, but seriously. This is good. All of it. You being here. Your dad’s been in a better mood, even my old man’s been cracking more jokes than usual. And Hesh—” He trailed off slightly, glancing toward the open window that looked out onto the patio. His voice softened. “Hesh’s been lighter since he found out you were coming back.”
You looked at him, the question in your chest rising unspoken.
Logan met your gaze and shrugged, casual on the outside but unmistakably sincere. “He didn’t say it outright. You know how he is. But I could tell. He’s been different. In a good way.”
You said nothing at first, just turned back toward the counter and gently stirred the potato salad, mind racing. Something about the way Logan said it — offhand, but not really — lodged itself under your skin. You could still feel the echo of Hesh’s arms around you, the way his voice dipped when he said your name.
Logan didn’t say anything right away, but you could feel the smirk forming on his face from where he leaned against the fridge. It radiated like heat. You tried to ignore it — focused instead on helping him dig the pasta salad out of the cooler, peeling off the lid with slow, tender care — but the second he shifted his weight and cleared his throat with a little too much theatrical innocence, you knew it was coming.
“So,” he began, dragging the word out, savoring it like a piece of gum he didn’t want to throw away. “You and my brother.”
You didn’t look at him. “Don’t.”
“What?” he said, holding up both hands in mock surrender, but the grin had already spread across his face. “I didn’t say anything. You’re the one sounding guilty.”
You finally turned to face him, brow raised. “Seriously, Logan.”
“Seriously,” he echoed, placing a hand over his heart with mock sincerity. “I’m just saying, it’s kind of adorable. Like one of those long-lost high school love stories. You’re back in town, he’s still single, there’s beer on the table and fireflies in the yard — it’s practically fate.”
You swatted him lightly with a dish towel, which only made him laugh. “Oh my God, shut up.”
He ducked out of reach, cracking a beer with a grin. “Okay, okay. I’ll shut up. But for real — when are we catching up? Just you and me. I got stories to tell.”
You eyed him suspiciously. “Good ones or ones that’ll make me regret ever knowing you?”
He sipped his drink, shrugged. “Bit of both.”
You shook your head, unable to stop the smile from tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Sounds about right.”
⟡
After dinner, the sky deepened into that soft, dusky blue that always meant summer was settling in for the night. Crickets started up somewhere along the fence line, the occasional bark of a dog floating from another yard over. The smell of grilled meat still clung to the air, mingling with the sweet perfume of blooming jasmine and citronella candles flickering low on the patio table. Your father and Elias had already migrated to the living room, where the familiar drone of the Padres game crackled from the television, their laughter low and full-bellied as they settled in for the night with fresh beers in hand.
Hesh reappeared at your side just as you were gathering plates from the table. He nudged you gently with his elbow.
“Hey,” he said, voice soft enough that it felt like it was meant only for you. “You up for a walk?”
You blinked at him for a second, caught off guard by the question, but nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
Logan appeared before you could even ask. “Already grabbed my shoes,” he said, tugging them on as he stepped down from the patio. “Like I’d miss this.”
You followed the two of them out into the street, the warm pavement still radiating heat beneath your sneakers. The neighborhood had fallen quiet, most houses dark now, porches empty, blinds drawn. The three of you walked down the middle of the street like you used to — shoulder to shoulder, silhouettes cutting down familiar blocks like shadows returned to their source. Hesh walked beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours now and then.
Without a word, Hesh pulled a joint from the pocket of his flannel, stuck it between his lips, and lit it with a flick of his lighter. The tiny flame bloomed against the night, casting his face in brief gold before it disappeared again. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled toward the stars, the smoke curling up into the dark like a quiet spell.
He offered it to Logan first, who took it with a knowing look, puffing once and passing it along without missing a step.
“You still smoke?” Hesh asked as you accepted it.
“Sometimes,” you said, watching the tip glow as you inhaled. The warmth spread through your chest like a memory. “Depends on who I’m with.”
He chuckled, that same lazy sound that had once echoed across fields behind your house when you were all younger, wilder, laughing at nothing until your stomach hurt. The three of you passed it back and forth, slipping easily into that old rhythm. Stories started pouring out — half-remembered dares, broken fences, the infamous incident with a bottle rocket and someone’s garden gnome. Logan did impressions of your high school principal. Hesh recounted a camping trip gone wrong with a raccoon and a bag of beef jerky. You doubled over laughing more than once, the smoke blurring the edges of the night, making everything feel slow and soft and suspended.
Somewhere between the second joint and a retelling of Logan’s failed attempt at skateboarding down your old driveway, Hesh turned to you again.
“So,” he started, drawing the word out just like his brother had earlier, but with less teasing, more curiosity. “You seeing anyone? Back east or whatever?”
You glanced at him, then at Logan, who was watching you with a very obvious smirk and raised brows.
“Wow,” you said, laughing. “You guys are really trying to grill me tonight.”
“We’re just curious,” Logan said, all innocence.
You shook your head, the second joint burning warm between your fingers. “No. Nobody serious. Nobody worth bringing up.”
“Good,” Hesh said simply, his tone unreadable. He reached out and slipped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side as you walked. “Just checking.”
You let yourself settle into the space beside him, his arm draped comfortably over you, fingers resting against your shoulder like they’d always belonged there. He smelled like cedar and campfire smoke and something distinctly him, and you didn’t try to hide the way you leaned just a little closer.
The park appeared at the end of the block, tucked between quiet houses and a row of overgrown hedges. The playground was dark, empty, and half-lit by a flickering streetlight at the edge of the grass. It looked almost exactly the same — worn monkey bars, a plastic slide sun-bleached and faded, the swings creaking slightly in the breeze like they were moving of their own accord.
You stepped off the sidewalk without thinking and made a beeline for the monkey bars. Your body moved without asking, muscle memory kicking in as you hoisted yourself up with both arms and swung your legs up like you’d done a thousand times before. You climbed until you were perched at the top, legs dangling, the metal cool against the backs of your thighs. The whole neighborhood stretched out in shades of indigo and silver beneath the moonlight.
“Still got it,” you called down smugly.
Logan was right behind you, pulling himself up in one clean motion, climbing after you with ease. “You’re not the only one with core strength,” he muttered, mock competitive, settling a few bars away.
Hesh came last, slower but more focused, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows as he gripped the metal rungs, the veins in his forearms flexing under the strain. He climbed like it was nothing, just to prove he could.
You rolled your eyes and laughed, tipping your head back toward the stars. “God. Boys.”
Both of them grinned, breathing slightly heavier now, and for a moment — just a moment — you felt like you were floating somewhere between past and present. Caught in a night that felt like it had waited for you to come home.
Logan sprawled across the top of the monkey bars like he owned the night, one leg slung lazily over a rung. The breeze carried the faint scent of weed and dust, cooling the sweat at your temples. From your perch, you could see the neighborhood stretching out in quiet darkness — familiar rooftops silhouetted against the sky, the hum of streetlights, the occasional flicker of a distant porch lamp. You felt wrapped in it all, like the past had pulled a chair up to the table and asked to stay the night.
“Man,” Logan said suddenly, tapping his lip with his thumb. “You remember Casey?”
You paused, brows furrowing slightly. The name didn’t register at first.
Hesh’s groan filled in the blank for you. “Dude,” he muttered, not even looking up. “Don’t.”
Logan ignored him, already grinning like he’d found an old wound and couldn’t resist pressing on it. “Wait, you have to tell [Name] about Casey,” he said, turning to you now. “Hesh’s girlfriend back in college. Blonde, always wore those yoga pants and had that weird obsession with essential oils?”
You blinked once, then looked toward Hesh, curiosity piqued. He didn’t meet your gaze. He just stared off into the dark like maybe if he focused hard enough, he could teleport somewhere else.
“She hated when we smoked,” Logan continued, chuckling to himself. “Like, full-on meltdown if she so much as smelled it on our clothes. Remember that time she tried to throw out your stash?”
“Logan,” Hesh warned again, this time with a little more edge in his voice. “Seriously.”
“Relax, I’m not dragging her,” Logan said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk betrayed him. “I’m dragging you. You put up with so much crap, man. All that nagging, and the lectures, and the guilt-tripping about your diet. You couldn't even eat carne asada fries in peace without her giving you the look.”
You let out a quiet laugh, trying to mask the tightness that had crept into your chest. Jealousy was an ugly thing, and you knew it wasn’t fair — this was old history, long buried — but you couldn’t help it. The thought of Hesh with someone else, someone who knew him in those years you’d missed, stirred something sharp inside you. And at the same time, that familiar relief slipped in beside it — because it was over. He wasn’t tethered to anyone. Neither were you.
Still, you couldn’t resist. “She your college sweetheart or something?” you asked, voice a little too casual, like you weren’t secretly hoping the answer would disappoint you.
Hesh let out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “No,” he said simply. “Just a girl I dated for a while. It wasn’t anything serious. Not really.”
Logan snorted. “Serious enough that she tried to make you give up beer.”
“She was opinionated,” Hesh allowed, then turned his gaze toward you. His expression was gentler now, the edge from earlier gone. “We were just in different places. I think we both knew it. It ran its course.”
You nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch between you for a beat before asking, “Where’d you go to school?”
“USD,” he replied. “University of San Diego.”
That caught you off guard. Your brows lifted, and you tilted your head toward him. “Really? You stayed that close?”
“Yeah,” he said with a small shrug. “Thought about going farther. Even got into a couple schools up north. But it didn’t feel right. I didn’t want to be too far from home. You know. Just in case.”
The words sat heavy in your chest. He’d stayed. Rooted himself close, within reach of everything you had left behind without looking back. You didn’t even know how to respond at first, your throat tight with guilt that had been quietly building since the day you returned. You shifted on the bars, the metal cool beneath your palms, grounding.
“I didn’t mean to disappear,” you said after a moment, your voice low. “I didn’t plan to vanish after graduation. It just happened. Life got loud. I got busy. One year turned into more. It wasn’t personal.”
Hesh looked at you for a long moment, and you could see the flicker of something behind his eyes — recognition, maybe. Or understanding.
“It’s alright,” he said, his voice quieter now, slower. “I get it. Things change. People move on.”
“But I didn’t mean to move away from you,” you said, and there it was — bare and honest, even if it made you wince. “I just — I got caught up in everything. And before I knew it, it felt too late to come back.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Well, you’re here now.”
That was all he said. But it was enough to make you look down, to swallow hard past the ache forming at the back of your throat.
Eventually, Logan hopped off the bars with a grunt, stretching his arms over his head. “Alright,” he said, voice breaking the quiet. “All that beer earlier caught up to me. I’m gonna head back before I end up pissing in someone’s hydrangeas.”
You laughed, the sound a little too loud, too grateful for the interruption. “Charming, Logan. Really.”
He just winked and sauntered off ahead, shoes scraping against the pavement as he went. You and Hesh lingered behind, walking side by side beneath the trees. The night had thickened around you, cooler now, the sky darker than before. Streetlamps hummed overhead, casting patches of pale yellow on the sidewalk as you meandered back toward the house. Conversation turned softer, quieter — bits of nothing, memories and fragments of high school stories, the way your town had changed and stayed the same all at once.
By the time you reached your front yard, Logan had already disappeared inside. The screen door clattered behind him, leaving you and Hesh alone on the porch beneath the soft glow of the porch light. It buzzed faintly above your heads, casting a warm halo over the weathered wood planks, the railing chipped and familiar beneath your fingers.
You turned to say goodnight, but Hesh was already looking at you.
There was something different in his expression now — something quieter, unguarded. His eyes flicked down, then back up again, and he stepped a little closer, just enough to close the distance but not enough to make it uncomfortable.
“You looked really pretty tonight,” he said softly, voice rough with something you couldn’t name. “Just thought I should say that.”
Your breath caught. You tried to thank him, to make a joke maybe, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you felt the warmth bloom under your skin, your heart thudding in your chest like it was trying to reach for something it didn’t know how to hold.
He lifted a hand, almost without thinking, and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. His knuckles skimmed your skin — just barely — and then he stopped. Paused. His hand hovered there, so close it made you shiver, but he didn’t touch you again. He let it fall back to his side, his mouth twitching like he was about to say something, but thought better of it.
And then the moment passed.
“See you inside,” he said, voice quieter now.
He turned and disappeared through the threshold, the screen door creaking behind him. You stood frozen on the porch, the wood creaking faintly beneath your weight, arms wrapped around yourself as though you could trap the warmth of him in your chest before it faded.
⟡
A few nights after that moment on the porch — after Hesh had looked at you too long, and you’d stayed outside too late, pretending the air hadn’t shifted — he texted. Just one message: Burgers? I’ll drive. No context, no emoji. Typical. But it was after ten, the house was quiet, and the thought of staying in your room again, lying on that old bed surrounded by memories you hadn’t asked to keep, felt unbearable. So, you went.
You pulled on the hoodie you used to steal from your dad’s closet back in high school — oversized, frayed at the cuffs — and padded barefoot down the hallway. Outside, the night was warm and still, the sky an indigo blur overhead. Hesh’s familiar truck idled at the curb, headlights low, engine humming soft against the quiet. When you climbed into the passenger seat, the door creaked like it always had. He glanced over at you, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the console.
“You hungry?” he asked, eyes flicking toward you with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Got us the usual.”
You leaned back in your seat, pulled your sleeves over your hands. “Good. I’m starving.”
That seemed to satisfy him. He pulled out of the neighborhood with a turn so familiar it made your stomach ache. The windows were cracked, letting in the scent of warm asphalt and eucalyptus. Streetlights passed in a slow rhythm, painting the dashboard gold, then shadow, then gold again. The town blurred past your window in softened outlines — the gas station where you bought slushies, the closed-up diner with the flickering sign, the corner store that still hadn’t changed its awning. He didn’t say where you were going, but you knew. You felt it in the turn of the wheel. In the way he sped up just before the road curved inland toward the cliffs.
“Lover’s Lane?” you asked, feigning innocence, though your voice gave you away.
He glanced at you, already grinning. “It’s a classic. Why mess with tradition?”
You raised a brow. “You realize Logan’s gonna think this is a booty call.”
“Logan’s probably passed out with a bag of chips on his chest and Die Hard 2 playing in the background.”
You laughed, and it was loud in the stillness of the cab. His smile widened like he’d been waiting for that sound. But underneath it, that familiar tension curled in your stomach — one you hadn’t felt in years, one that made you feel sixteen again, reckless and tongue-tied. You and Hesh had spent hours here before, up on this ridge with greasy burgers and soda cans, throwing fries at each other and trading music recommendations. It had always been casual. Never romantic. Never anything like this.
But this time was different. Not just because the hour was later, or because you were older and slower to laugh. It was in the way he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, how the air between you had gone thick with something unnamed. It was in the way your heart tripped a little when he pulled into the familiar overlook, headlights sweeping briefly over the edge before he turned them off and parked in the hush of the dark.
Below, the ocean roared somewhere out of sight, black and infinite. Above, the stars burned low and quiet. The whole world felt tucked away, like a secret.
He handed you a burger, already unwrapping his, the scent filling the truck cab like memory. “Tell me this place doesn’t still slap,” he said through a mouthful, leaning back against the door like he was settling in for something more than just a late-night meal.
You popped a fry into your mouth, smirking. “You sound like Logan.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
He laughed, biting again into his burger. “Alright. That’s fair.”
The two of you ate in comfortable silence for a while, broken only by the rustle of paper, the hiss of crickets outside, and the occasional satisfied sigh. He handed you his pickles, like always — still hated them, and still remembered that you didn’t.
It felt easy. Almost. Like slipping on an old jacket and finding something in the pocket you didn’t know you’d missed.
“So,” you said as you tossed your wrapper into the bag with a crinkle. “Casey.”
He groaned immediately. “Fuck’s sake.”
You grinned. “What? Poor baby. She had you eating kale chips and drinking oat milk? Terrible.”
“She did not,” he said, though it sounded more like a protest than a defense. “Okay, once. But only because she insisted.”
“Logan also said she made you give up carne asada fries?”
He threw his head back against the headrest with a groan. “That was a dark chapter of my life.”
“Oh, I bet.”
“She had opinions, alright? Strong ones.”
You tilted your head, watching him. “Did you love her?”
The question lingered in the air like smoke. He didn’t answer right away. Just finished the last bite of his burger, wiped his hands on a napkin, and stared out the windshield into the dark.
“No,” he said finally. “I cared about her. I tried. But it always felt like — I don’t know. Like she was a placeholder.”
You turned toward him more fully, heart skittering. “For who?”
He looked over at you then, really looked — eyes searching your face, jaw tight, something unreadable flickering behind his expression. He didn’t smile this time.
“Who do you think?”
The air felt like it stopped moving. You didn’t blink.
“You don’t get to do that,” you said, voice low. “Not with me. You either say it out loud, or you don’t say anything at all. I’m not guessing.”
Hesh didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, slow. Like he’d known you were going to call him out.
“I had the fattest crush on you back in high school,” he said, finally. “And I mean — bad. When we’d smoke under the bleachers, when you’d talk shit and drop three-pointers at lunch, when you’d hang with me and Logan like it was nothing. I kept telling myself you were just one of the guys, but then — that night?”
He didn’t have to explain which night. You remembered it. The one where the three of you ditched prom, ended up on the beach with a cooler full of stolen drinks and a shitty Bluetooth speaker, barefoot and drunk and chasing the sunrise like it owed you something.
“You were laughing,” he said, softer now. “Hair everywhere, sand all over your legs. You looked at me and smiled like you weren’t even thinking about it, and I swear to God, it wrecked me. You were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.”
You felt your throat tighten.
“And you still are,” he added. “That hasn’t changed.”
Neither of you said anything for a long time. The truck was silent. The world was too. You heard the ocean, steady and far away, like it was waiting.
Something cracked open in your chest. Not a flood, not a collapse — just a quiet shift. Like something inside you had turned toward him, after all these years, and finally stopped looking away. You looked at him for a long moment, your heart thudding, chest tight with all the things that could have been — back then, and maybe even now. The words slipped out before you could soften them. “You should’ve told me, Hesh.”
He glanced at you, brow creased, expression unreadable in the dark.
“Back then,” you went on, voice quiet but firm. “If I’d known — maybe I’d have come home more often. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent so much time trying to forget this place. If I’d known there was someone waiting.”
He didn’t respond at first. Just let the silence stretch, his jaw shifting as he looked out toward the edge of the overlook. The moonlight cut a line across his cheekbone, faint and silver.
“There was always someone waiting,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “You just didn’t see it.”
That made your stomach twist, not because it hurt, but because it was too honest. Too real. You wanted to crawl back in time and knock on your younger self’s skull — tell her to stop being so scared, so sure that everyone else would forget her the moment she left.
You sighed, trying to push the air back into your lungs, then leaned over and nudged his shoulder with yours. “Well,” you said lightly, trying to pull the conversation back from the edge, “maybe if I’d known, I could’ve saved you from Casey. Think of all the quinoa you could’ve avoided.”
That earned a half-laugh from him, but he rolled his eyes. “Hey, don’t knock quinoa. It made me regular for the first time in months.”
You groaned. “That’s gross.”
He smirked. “I’m just saying. And say what you want about Casey, but she did have a few talents.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Please don’t—”
“I mean,” he went on, grin widening, “she was a pain in the ass, but girl could ride.”
“Oh my God,” you said, doubling over with laughter. “Stop. Stop talking. I take it back — I would’ve let you rot with her.”
He laughed too, full and unguarded, knocking his head lightly against the headrest. “You asked!”
“No, I absolutely did not ask for that visual. Jesus Christ, Hesh.”
The two of you couldn’t stop laughing for a moment, too many years of buildup, too much unspoken tension finally venting in the only way it could. But the thing was — you felt it. The moment he said it, the second the conversation turned that sharp corner toward something more physical, everything inside the truck shifted. You felt it in the way the air thickened between you, how his voice dropped just a little lower. How the space between you, once filled with wrappers and banter, now felt too small.
You looked over at him — and you saw him. Not just the Hesh who’d known you since you were in diapers. Not just the guy who used to flick bottle caps at your forehead and throw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. No. You saw the man he’d become. The heat in his eyes. The line of his jaw, the cut of his biceps under that worn flannel sleeve. He wasn’t just your friend anymore, and maybe he hadn’t been for a while.
He was a man sitting beside you in the dark, a man who liked you — who wanted you, if the tension in the air was anything to go by. And fuck, how could you blame him? Your skin was humming, your whole body keyed up with something you weren’t sure you could name, only that it made you want to slide into his lap and see how long he could keep talking if you kissed him just once.
You didn’t even notice you’d zoned out until you heard him snap his fingers near your face.
“Yo,” Hesh said, peering at you. “Where’d you go just now?”
Your eyes snapped back to his, wide and startled — and you knew he saw it. Knew, by the slow way his smile curved, that he felt it too.
You unbuckled your seatbelt with a sharp snap, and for a moment, neither of you moved. He just watched you — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils wide in the low light — and you could feel it, the air stretching thin between your bodies. You didn’t hesitate. You slid one knee onto the console, the leather warm against your shin, and climbed into his lap. You didn’t ask. You didn’t explain. You just moved, slow and sure, as if your body had already decided where it needed to go before your mind caught up.
His seat groaned beneath the sudden shift, and Hesh grunted softly as he leaned back, palms instinctively catching your waist. His hands settled there, firm and warm, thumbs brushing the skin just beneath your shirt, and he didn’t push you off — just let you straddle him, your right thigh brushing the door and his ribs. Your legs were bare, your shorts hiked high, and the feel of denim under you — thick and strained — sent a pulse straight through your gut.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, but his voice was different now — lower, huskier, like the words had to drag themselves out past his teeth.
You smiled, slow and quiet. You could feel him beneath you, hard already, pressing up against the heat between your legs like a question you hadn’t answered yet. You rolled your hips just enough to make him groan, a quiet, broken sound that made your stomach clench.
You leaned in, lips brushing his throat, the faint stubble catching against your mouth as you kissed down the slope of his neck. He tasted like sweat and salt and something that had always belonged to summer. He inhaled sharply when your tongue flicked against the curve just below his jaw, and you felt the way his hands twitched at your hips — like he meant to pull you off but couldn’t quite remember why.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “We should slow the fuck down—”
But your mouth was already trailing lower, teeth grazing his pulse, and your hand slid up into his hair, tightening just enough to tilt his head back for you. His throat arched beautifully, and you kissed a hot, open line down to his collarbone, sucking there until you tasted skin, until he was shifting under you like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Friends, right?” you whispered, lips pressed to the hollow of his throat. “Friends who used to want each other.”
Hesh breathed your name like a warning — low, guttural, but with no fight in it.
You rocked against him once, slow and purposeful, and he groaned again. This one wasn’t polite. It came from deep in his chest, ragged and raw. You felt it everywhere. The weight of him, the pressure, the heat curling up your spine like smoke. Your voice was still quiet, still playful, but your eyes locked on his.
“How many times have you jerked off thinking about me, Hesh?” you asked, not blinking.
His whole body jerked beneath yours, head tipping back against the seat, jaw clenched like he was trying to rein himself in. But the tremble in his breath gave him away.
“Fuck,” he exhaled, voice rough, barely hanging on.
You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You didn’t need to. The heat between you had already turned molten, coiling up from where your bodies met and burning through every inch of space that had ever dared to exist between you.
You shifted in his lap, the seat reclining just far enough to hold the weight of you. His hands were everywhere — gripping your waist, sliding down to your thighs, fingertips leaving trails of pressure that made you dizzy. His chest rose against yours, unsteady, and his breath was loud in the small cab of the truck, fogging the windows with each exhale.
You rocked against him, slow at first. Testing. Letting the friction build between you like the hum of a song you used to know. Hesh groaned — head tipped back, eyes closed, teeth sinking into his lower lip like he was trying not to lose himself too quickly. You could feel him straining against his jeans beneath you, and it only made your movements slower, more purposeful, until he cursed under his breath and gripped your hips tighter, guiding you where he needed you most.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse.
You kissed him — really kissed him this time. No teasing, no hesitation. Just your mouth on his, hot and open, tongues tangling, breath shared. You felt it in your teeth, in the tips of your fingers, in the place between your thighs where your body ached to close the distance.
Your hand slid down, working at his belt, both of you fumbling, half-laughing through the desperation. You felt the zipper lower beneath your fingers, felt the heat of him through the fabric, and when he finally helped you push everything down far enough, it was like a dam breaking.
You sank onto him slow — too slow — and he gripped the edge of the seat like he was holding himself together. You exhaled into his neck, shuddering, your nails digging into his shoulders as your hips rolled once, then again, and his hands found your ass, holding you there like he couldn’t stand to let you move too far away.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t soft either. It was messy and real and aching with the weight of years that could have been, should have been. Hesh’s mouth was on your neck, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach, and yours was in his hair, at his jaw, whispering his name every time your hips ground down harder, deeper.
“Look at me,” he said, voice cracked and low, one hand sliding up to your jaw. “Please. I want to see you.” His thumb traced along your skin as he said it, holding you there. Not roughly. Not sweetly either. Just with purpose, with heat.
So, you did. You opened your eyes, met his, and it nearly knocked the breath out of you — how hungry he looked, how hard he was fighting to keep it together. His hands gripped your hips tight, pulling you flush down against him again, and this time he didn’t hide the sound that came out of him. You felt it everywhere — in your thighs, your stomach, in the tight stretch between your legs where he filled you completely, deeper now with the way you were riding him, slow and unrelenting.
You rolled your hips again, pressing your knees tighter around his sides, grinding down on him so he couldn’t move without you. His head fell back against the seat, mouth parted, breathing hard. You leaned into the curve of his throat again, kissed it open-mouthed, biting lightly just under his jaw, and his hands jerked at your waist like he was losing control of himself inch by inch.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You feel so fucking good. I forgot — I didn’t think — fuck—”
You cut him off by lifting your hips and sinking back down hard, slow, making him feel every inch of you dragging along him. His hips bucked up instinctively, driving into you from below, and the angle made you gasp, your nails biting into his shoulders through his shirt.
“Don’t stop,” you begged, voice raw against his ear. “Oh fuck, Hesh, don’t—”
His hand slipped under your hoodie, grabbing at your ass as he fucked up into you again, rougher now. Each thrust jolted through your body — tight, sharp, wet heat building with every movement, every slap of your bodies meeting. You couldn’t stay quiet anymore. Your moans fell out of you fast and breathless, not delicate, not shy. You were past pretending.
“You thought about this, didn’t you?” he whispered, grabbing a fistful of your hair to keep your head back, so you had to look at him, had to see what you were doing to him. “You thought about me fucking you like this?”
“Yeah,” you gasped, barely getting the word out as you rocked down harder again. “So many fucking times.”
You were soaked now — could feel the slick drag every time he pushed deeper, could hear the wet sounds of it filling the truck, your thighs shaking around him. He shifted one hand between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your whole body jolt forward against his chest.
“Hesh—fuck—” You clenched down on him as he hit just right, and his groan turned into something nearly desperate.
“That’s it, baby,” he panted, his hand working between you as he kept thrusting up into your body, relentless now. “I wanna feel it. Right here.”
You kissed him — messy and wet and uncoordinated — tongues clashing, teeth catching, breath swallowed down into each other like it was the only thing keeping you alive. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your body jerking forward as your orgasm slammed into you — hot and sharp and too much all at once.
You cried out against his mouth, legs trembling, your cunt fluttering around him as he groaned into your neck, thrusting once, twice more before he let go too. His whole body jerked beneath you, thick and hot as he spilled inside you, his grip bruising on your hips as he held you down to take all of it.
There was only the sound of the ocean below and the windows fogged with everything you’d just done, the space around you thick with the weight of it — of years, of tension, of something broken open and finally seen. You were straddling him, his hands still gripping your thighs like he didn’t quite believe you were real. Sweat clung to your skin, cooling where your bodies had been pressed too close, and for a long moment, neither of you said anything. It was just the sound of your heart slowing down, his thumb brushing absentmindedly across your hip, the truck rocking faintly in the breeze that slipped in through the cracked window.
And then Hesh, in true Hesh fashion, opened his mouth.
“Well,” he drawled, voice gravelly and half-breathless, “you might be almost as good as Casey.”
You leaned back so fast it made the leather creak, your brows shooting up in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
He gave you that shit-eating grin, smug and entirely unapologetic, even as his chest rose and fell beneath you. “I mean, I’m just saying — if we’re ranking things—”
“You are so lucky I’m half-naked right now, because that?” You slapped his chest with a soft thud. “That warrants me killing you later.”
“Oh, come on,” he laughed, catching your wrist loosely, clearly pleased with himself. “You know I’m joking.”
You narrowed your eyes, but there was no heat behind it. “Uh-huh. Say one more word about your ex and see what happens.”
“I’m just saying,” he teased, voice lower now, the humor still lingering at the edge of something else, “she never did it in the car. So maybe you’re tied.”
You groaned and climbed off of him, your legs unsteady, still trembling just enough to make it awkward as you fumbled for the burger bag. “You are disgusting. This is why no one takes you seriously.”
Hesh laughed again as he zipped his jeans up, eyes following you as you pulled a few crumpled napkins free and tried to clean yourself up with as much dignity as one could muster post-car-sex. “You didn’t seem too bothered a minute ago.”
You tossed a napkin at his head. “Shut up.”
He caught it midair, grinning lazily. “You want me to take you home?”
You paused for a second, thumb still brushing idly against your inner thigh, thinking about your empty bedroom and the quiet house waiting for you. Then you looked at him — shirt halfway undone, hair sticking up in places from your fingers, lips still pink and a little swollen from where you’d kissed him too hard.
“No,” you said, soft but sure. “Take me to your place.”
That stopped his grin cold, just for a beat. His gaze sharpened, his jaw working like he was trying not to look too eager about it. “Yeah,” he said finally, nodding as he reached for the keys. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.”
⟡
The morning was already warm when you woke, sunlight sliding across the hardwood floors in slats, dust motes hanging lazily in the air like they had nowhere else to be. You rolled out of Hesh’s bed slowly, legs sore in the best way, your body still humming from every way he’d touched you through the night. The sheets were tangled behind you, the room a comfortable mess, like the two of you had fallen asleep mid-thought, mid-laugh, mid-something.
You didn’t bother changing. Just grabbed one of his old shirts off the floor — navy, faded, soft from years of washing — and pulled it over your head, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs as you padded downstairs barefoot. The sound of voices drifted up from the kitchen, low and familiar: Elias’s rumble and Logan’s sharper, brighter tone cutting in and out. The smell of bacon, coffee, and something sweet greeted you like a second welcome.
You stepped into the kitchen and paused in the doorway.
Elias was standing at the stove, ladling out oatmeal into a bowl, his back half-turned. Logan was already at the table, chewing lazily on a piece of bacon, feet kicked up on the empty chair beside him. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps.
And then he smirked.
“Well, well, well,” Logan said around the last bit of bacon, voice just loud enough to carry.
Elias turned then — just enough to see you standing there, silent in Hesh’s shirt, bare-legged, hair mussed, clearly not just someone stopping by for breakfast. His hand froze midair, spoon still halfway to the bowl.
The silence was immediate. Heavy. It stretched out just long enough to make your cheeks flush, but you held your ground, moving quietly to sit down at the table without a word.
Logan snorted and reached over to clap a hand on his father’s shoulder.
germansingergirl
areudirty
jacobvanloon
2087
blakekathryn
prguitarman
romaincrisis
janainaart
vaporwave