College student!Lottie Mathews x bookstore clerk!reader
This is just a drabble I wrote, not proofread but was inspired by @loserlesbiancoded Jackie x reader story!
With your temple pressed against the right side her head, lips so close enough to her ear, that it sends a shiver down her spine. The scent of your cologne is what adds to her heightened awareness of just how close you are, she didn’t anticipate the smell making her feel even more flustered. It’s robust enough but not overwhelming. Woodsy, with a hint of spice. The scent is mixing with the traces of the walk you took to get to the bar, to get to Lottie. The smell of rain is faint, like the droplets that have melted into the flannel you have on. There is also the lingering aroma of the inside of the bookstore you work in. Clinging to you like a second skin, so familiar to her now. She can’t get enough of it, of you.
The bar is loud, the smell of spilt beer over the years covered up by disinfectant faint now that she’s pressed against you, tucked into a corner near the vintage jukebox. As she thinks about how close you are now, she feels hyperaware of the slight height difference between you two. She doesn’t mind it, she enjoys it actually, if she were to tilt her head slightly she could place a chaste, teasing kiss right on your pulse point.
She lets her gaze travel from you to roam across the bar. She observes the small space, the atmosphere quiet, like the space itself waits in anticipation for you two to crack. As her gaze comes back to you, another thought crosses her mind, what noise would you make if she did? Would you groan at the contact, would your skin betray you and would she feel you shiver from her touch. Or would you grip her hips, teetering on the verge of collapse and finally take what you want. Planting a searing kiss on her lips, all wanting and full of desire. Claiming her for your own.
You two have been walking this tightrope together for some time now. The carefully constructed walls starting to crumble little by little, and Lottie thinks she might help you knock them down tonight.
With a hand coming to land on your waist, and the other sneaking its way up until it settles on the nape of your neck, bring you in just a bit closer to feel your warmth. She shifts, moves her hips to press herself further into you, willing the tension to break and for you to finally get the hint. She wants you to show her how devoted you are to her, and tonight, in the dim glow of the dive bar you both have claimed as yours, she will finally get what she’s been anticipating since she first laid eyes on you inside that bookstore. You.
kickstart my heart
aka cate discovers that the new mechanic has VERY capable hands
tw: girlcock, g!p reader, alternate universe, meet cute (kinda), sexual tension, flirting, mechanic!reader, ex-con!reader, family dynamics, porn with plot, vaginal sex, fingering, handjobs, mutual masturbation, daddy kink, public sex, semi-public sex, slight exhibitionism, workplace sex, etc.
22.4k+ words
author's note: DADDY'S HOME! hehe hoping i can get back to a more regular release schedule following this fic. no promises, but i finally have a bit more time to edit everything i've been working on, so fingers crossed! that being said, this was originally going to be a strictly sydcate fic, but i wanted to make it accessible to a wider audience by also creating a reader x cate version :) please enjoy!<3
The heat hit her first.
Midday sun baked the asphalt outside, and it felt like the entire block exhaled straight into the open bay doors of Dunlap Motor Works. Hot air, hot metal, the sour tang of old coffee, the thick, almost sweet smell of engine oil and rubber. An impact wrench barked from somewhere deep in the garage, then chattered to a stop. A rock station played low on a battered radio, distorted guitar riffs crackling through its one working speaker, the other blown sometime around 2004.
Cate stepped in off the sidewalk and paused just inside the threshold, letting her eyes adjust to the light. Dust motes spun lazily in the stripes of sun cutting across the concrete floor. Dark smears of oil tracked a path from the bays to the back office. A box fan rattled uselessly in the corner, only managing to push the hot air around.
“Dad?” she called, her bright voice cheerfully out of place among the grease and growling machinery. “You alive in here, or did one of your carburetors finally come for you in your sleep?”
No answer.
She took a few more steps in, the heels of her sandals clicking against concrete that looked like it would stain anything dumb enough to touch it. Her sundress was the wrong choice for a place like this and she knew it: soft pink, thin straps, hem flirting with mid-thigh every time she moved. But Cate didn’t own “appropriate.” Not really. It clung where the heat made her skin damp, fabric darker at the small of her back and under her breasts. A strand of blonde hair stuck to the side of her neck until she tipped her head to shake it free.
She was already annoyed, already planning exactly how she’d guilt trip her dad for making her come all the way down here instead of answering his phone, when she heard it: the scrape of metal against metal, then a muffled curse from under one of the lifted cars.
The voice wasn’t one she recognized.
Cate turned toward the sound. The boots sticking out from beneath the lifted car caught her eye first: scuffed black work boots planted against the stained concrete, soles braced for leverage and leaving faint prints in the dust. Then the long legs in faded jeans that sat low on lean hips, denim pulling tight where one thigh flexed to push you farther beneath the car. You were stretched out on a battered red creeper, most of your body obscured beneath the chassis, but not enough. A ragged white tank top had ridden up over a strip of stomach slick with sweat, the thin fabric darkened where it clung to your ribs.
A socket wrench clicked rhythmically. The red creeper shifted with each small adjustment of your body, cracked vinyl giving a faint squeak against the concrete.
Cate’s mouth watered with such immediate, shameless interest that she almost laughed. The universe really did love her.
She took another step, the air almost warmer here, smelling of gasoline and something else under it: sweat and old cologne and the metallic breath of hot steel. “Hi,” she tried, but it came out too soft. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Excuse me?”
The socket wrench stopped clicking. For a second, nothing moved beneath the car. Then one arm stretched out from beneath the chassis, reaching blindly for the toolbox sitting beside the front tire. The motion pulled every lean muscle taut, bicep flexing as the socket wrench landed against metal with a clank. There was grease streaked across the back of your hand and stuck beneath your short nails, exactly the kind of grime Cate went to unreasonable lengths to keep off her own body. Looking at that hand now, she had the sudden, vivid thought that she wouldn’t mind it at all if it left fingerprints all over her.
“Yeah, hang on,” the unfamiliar voice called, roughened by the hollow undercarriage. One boot pressed into the concrete, and the battered creeper rolled forward. A head slid into view.
Cate almost forgot to pretend she was here for anything but the woman under that car.
Short curls escaped from under a backwards cap, damp enough to cling to your forehead and temples. Your nose had a slight bump, like it had been broken once and reset by someone with good intentions and bad bedside manner. A thin scar split one eyebrow. There was grease on your cheekbone, a thumbprint like war paint. Your eyes were shockingly sharp even as they squinted against the light.
A toothpick shifted from one corner of your mouth to the other as you looked Cate up and down. Not subtle. Not even trying to be.
“Can I help you with something?” you asked, and the low rasp of your voice did something unhelpful to Cate’s knees.
Cate smiled like she wasn’t already committing you to memory in indecent detail, all of it material she would absolutely be replaying later, alone in bed, with far less need to pretend she was being polite. She almost said she was looking for her dad. The words made it as far as the back of her teeth before instinct stopped them. Boss’s daughter was information best saved until after this beautiful stranger had decided she wanted her. “Looking for Eric,” she said instead, smooth as silk. “Old, grouchy, swears the check engine light is a government conspiracy?”
You snorted. “Dunlap? Parts run. Should be back anytime.” You wiped your forearm across your brow, leaving another streak of grease over tanned skin, then let your gaze travel over Cate again, slower this time. From the thin straps of her dress to the bare length of her thighs, lingering at the hem before lifting back to her face. By then, your interest had become considerably less subtle. “You his…” The toothpick shifted lazily to the other corner of your mouth, “…customer?”
Cate had to bite back a laugh. If Eric saw the way you were looking at her, he’d have a coronary before he hit the floor.
“Not exactly,” she said. She hooked her thumb under the strap of her purse, tugging it higher up her shoulder, letting the movement tighten the line of her dress across her chest.
The non-answer settled easily between you two, sweetened by the way your gaze dipped again. Cate saw no reason to ruin a perfectly good first impression with unnecessary information.
“Mm.” Your gaze returned to Cate’s face. Up close, you were even worse. There was something unnervingly focused in the way you looked at Cate, as though she were a beautiful problem laid open in front of you, one you already knew you’d prefer solving with your hands.
“Boss didn’t tell me we were expecting company.” You rolled the rest of the way out on the creeper, catching the edge of the lift with one hand before you could coast too far. When you sat up, your tank rode higher over your stomach, revealing the waistband of your boxers above your jeans and the sharp, slick line of your hip. “Haven’t seen you before.”
Cate let her eyes linger there, not bothering to hide it. “Maybe you weren’t looking closely enough.”
A slow grin pulled at your mouth, crooked and a little dangerous. “Trust me, sweetheart. I’d remember a girl like you.”
Cate felt the smile break across her face before she could stop it. Well. Pretty and quick on your feet. That was almost unfair.
You planted your hands on your knees and pushed yourself to your feet in one fluid motion, leaving Cate to revise her opinion of the situation. Up close, you were taller than Cate by a few inches, broad across the shoulders, your tank clinging damply to the muscles in your chest. The strip of skin above your jeans disappeared again as the fabric settled, but the waistband of your boxers still showed when you reached back to dust off your palms. A chain gleamed at your throat before vanishing beneath the sweat-darkened collar.
You gave her your name. A name Cate could already imagine saying in circumstances that had nothing to do with introductions.
She offered her hand before that thought could become visible on her face. “Cate.”
You looked at it like you were deciding whether or not to be good. Then you wiped your own hand on a rag tucked into your back pocket and took Cate’s.
Your palm was rough and hot, fingers long, grease still caught in the creases. Cate felt the calluses drag against her softer skin, felt the firm, confident squeeze and the way it lingered a second too long. Heat crawled up her arm and settled low in her belly.
“Nice to meet you, Cate-not-exactly-a-customer,” you said. You released her hand and stepped back, reaching for the rag again. “Car broke down or what?”
“Mm, no. My car’s fine.” She let her gaze drift over your face, down the column of your throat where a bead of sweat slid under the fabric of her tank. “Sadly.”
You barked a laugh. “You say that like you wish you had an excuse.”
Cate tipped one shoulder, the movement exaggerated just enough. “Who says I don’t?”
The radio crackled quietly behind you, some old guitar riff rising and falling. A cicada buzzed somewhere outside. For a moment, the garage felt very small, like the heat and the smell and the noise had all rushed to the edges and left only the two of you in the center.
Your eyes sharpened, something alert slipping in under the lazy grin. “You kill time in mechanic shops often, or is this, like, a new hobby?”
“Depends on the mechanic.” Cate let her lips part, just a little. “You’re the first one I’ve seen who makes a tank top and sweat look like a sex crime.”
It was almost worth the risk just to see the way your expression twisted. For a second, you looked startled, like you’d expected polite small talk, not a girl in a short sundress walking into your bay saying that you looked like a felony.
Your tongue pressed briefly against the inside of your cheek, as if you needed half a second to decide whether laughing or flirting back would get you in more trouble. Then the surprise melted into pleasure, your grin dragging at one corner of your mouth like you were trying not to enjoy yourself too obviously. “You always talk like that, or am I getting the deluxe package?”
Cate lifted a shoulder, as if any part of this conversation had left her remotely unaffected. “I like to make a memorable first impression.”
Your gaze dropped, slow, from Cate’s mouth down her throat, over the line of her collarbones and the rise of her chest. Cate felt each inch of that look like a touch. Her skin prickled, goosebumps rising even in the oppressive heat.
“Well,” you said quietly. “You’re doing a hell of a job.”
Somewhere near the office, a phone rang and rang, then cut off. No footsteps followed. No familiar shuffle of Eric’s boots. The world didn’t intrude.
Cate let the silence stretch just long enough to feel intentional. “So, how long have you been working here?”
You glanced toward the office first, as if remembering this was still a place with walls, cameras, consequences. Then you hooked your thumbs into the front pockets of your jeans, shoulders settling into something that tried very hard to look casual. “Couple weeks.” Your voice stayed casual, but something in your jaw tightened around the answer. “Dunlap’s taking a chance on me.” You looked at Cate for a moment, visibly measuring how much to say. “Most people don’t love hiring ex-cons, no matter how good you are with an engine.”
Cate’s brows rose. If anything, that made everything worse in the best possible way. “Ex-con,” she echoed. “What’d you do?”
Your mouth quirked. “You ask everybody you meet to list their felonies, or am I special?”
“You’re special,” Cate said without missing a beat.
The silence that followed had weight. Your eyes darkened, a flush rising high on your cheeks and curling into the shell of your ears. You looked away, picked up a wrench from the toolbox, and turned it once in your hand like you’d suddenly found something fascinating about the chrome.
“Nothing glamorous,” you said. “Wrong place, wrong time, wrong friends. Got caught holding more than I should’ve, then got caught again before I was smart enough to stop. Court decided I needed a timeout. I decided I liked engines better than cell blocks.”
The casual shrug didn’t quite hide the faint tightness in your jaw. Cate filed it away, not to weaponize, just to know. You didn’t read as ashamed, exactly. More like you were determined not to let anyone else’s opinion of it affect the new life you were trying to build.
Cate stepped closer, enough that she could smell the salt on your skin, the faint edge of cigarettes in your hair. “Well. Sounds like you’re reformed now.”
You huffed out a laugh. “That what it sounds like?”
“To me.” Cate let her nails graze the edge of the workbench beside you, resisting the urge to just put her hand on your bicep and see what happened. “But then, I have a soft spot for bad decisions.”
“Yeah?” You angled toward her without quite closing the distance. “You make a lot of those?”
Cate thought about the guy she’d let talk her into the backseat of his car last weekend, the one whose name she barely remembered. Thought about the way her parents had looked at her when she came home smelling like perfume and beer and someone else’s cologne. Thought about how nothing ever quieted the restless ache under her sternum for more than an hour.
“You have no idea,” she said, as if she’d be happy to ruin the afternoon for both of you while proving it.
Your eyes flicked to the bay door, then back. There was no one else around. A radio jingle warbled from the front office, then clicked off. The fan clacked and clattered in the corner.
“So what’s your plan?” You asked. Your voice had gone a little lower, humor still there but thinned by interest. “Stand around making my day harder until Dunlap gets back?”
She could see it on your face: the hesitation, the little war between wanting to lean into this and remembering there were rules about flirting with girls who showed up at your workplace. Cate could have made it easy. She could have said, I’m his daughter, relax. She could have left.
Instead, she tilted her head, letting her smile return in a softer, more dangerous shape. “He called me,” she lied, though technically he had, earlier, to ask if she remembered where he left his reading glasses. “Said he needed me to stop by…guess I’m early.”
“How early?”
Cate checked her phone, more for effect than information. “Depends. How long before I become a distraction?”
Your laugh came out a little strangled. “That ship sailed the second you walked in wearing that dress.”
Cate’s bones turned to syrup. “So…” She took another half-step into your space, close enough now that if either of you breathed too deep, you’d touch. She tilted your chin up. The backwards cap kept your damp curls shoved back from your face, practical and careless, and Cate wanted to tug it off just to see what else you might let her mess up. “You gonna kick me out, or are you gonna let me watch you work?”
The words came out darker than she planned, threaded with real want. Cate almost winced at herself. Subtlety had never been her strong suit.
Your nostrils flared. Your gaze dropped again, this time straight to Cate’s mouth, then jerked up as if you’d been caught. “Kinda hard to focus with someone like you staring me down.”
“That a no?”
Your throat worked around a swallow. You looked toward the parking lot again. Still empty. The street outside hummed with distant traffic, nothing slowing. No familiar blue pickup turning into the drive.
Finally, you blew out a breath. “Fine,” you said, voice rough. “You wanna watch, you can watch. You get bored, you…whatever. Wander. Try not to trip over anything. I’d hate to have to perform emergency first aid when I’m already this filthy.”
Cate’s eyes slid down your torso, slow and blatant. “I wouldn’t.”
You muttered something that sounded like Jesus Christ under your breath and dropped back onto the creeper. In a practiced motion, you slid under the car again, one boot pushing off the ground.
Cate perched on the edge of a nearby tool cart, crossing her legs carefully. The hem of her sundress rode up, exposing more of her thighs. She didn’t adjust it.
From her new vantage point, she could see the taut line of your arm when you reached up, the flex and release of muscle as you turned the ratchet. Sweat ran down the inside of your bicep, disappearing into the crook of your elbow. The tank clung to your ribs every time you exhaled. Cate watched, shameless, while the rhythm of the work settled into something hypnotic.
“You stare like you’re cataloguing me,” your voice drifted out, muffled by metal. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Flattered,” Cate said. “Definitely flattered.”
Another laugh, softer this time. “You always this intense?”
Cate considered. “Yes,” she said, as a smile crept onto her face, slow enough to be dangerous. “But you’re getting a slightly upgraded experience.”
“Again with the deluxe package,” you muttered, but there was a smile in it.
The wrench slipped with a sharp metallic clank, and your knuckles glanced off something unforgiving beneath the engine. You cursed, jerking your hand back hard enough to make the creeper rock. When your arm slid into view, two knuckles were scraped raw, blood bright against the grease.
“Shit.” You shook your hand, more annoyed than hurt.
“Are you okay?” Cate slid off the cart before she even thought about it. She stepped closer until you rolled fully out and sat up again, hand cradled against your chest.
“It’s nothing,” you said reflexively.
Cate reached for your injured hand. “Let me see.”
You hesitated, then let her. Cate curled her fingers around your wrist and drew the injured hand closer, angling it toward the light. The scrape wasn’t deep, but it was definitely bloody, a raw red line split across two knuckles. Grease darkened the creases of your fingers, caught beneath your nails, and Cate had the very inconvenient thought that even hurt, even filthy, your hands were attractive.
Cate’s thumb brushed just beside it. “You need a bandage.”
“It’s fine,” you said, but your voice had dropped. You were looking at where Cate’s slender fingers circled your wrist, at the way your skin looked together: soft and manicured and pale against rough and stained and tan. “I’ve had worse.”
“Humor me.”
There was a first aid kit pinned to the wall near the office, a dirty white metal box with a red cross sticker peeling at one corner. Cate had seen it a thousand times growing up. She didn’t let go of your wrist as she tugged you to your feet, leading rather than asking.
She felt the tendons move under her fingers, the flex of muscle in your forearm. It was ridiculously easy to imagine those same hands on her, big and sure and a little careless. Her pulse skittered.
You went with her, resisting just enough to make it clear you knew better and not nearly enough to stop.
At the kit, Cate finally let go, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. She popped the latch and rifled through the contents, coming up with an antiseptic wipe and a bandage.
“Here,” she said, turning back. “Hold still.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you said lightly, but your eyes weren’t joking. Not completely.
Cate bit the inside of her cheek, feeling something hot curl low. Of all the things she wanted from you, obedience wasn’t in the top five, but having it didn’t exactly hurt.
She unwrapped the antiseptic and took your hand again. Your fingers dwarfed Cate’s, knuckles nicked with old scars, veins rising under the skin. Cate dabbed carefully, watching your face.
“This might sting.”
Your jaw tensed, but you didn’t pull away. The wipe smelled like a hospital, sharp and sterile, quickly cutting through the scent of heat and oil. Cate’s thumb stroked unconsciously along the side of your hand, a soothing little rhythm she couldn’t seem to stop.
“You’re very good at this,” you said, gaze locked on Cate’s mouth.
“I have a lot of experience with damage control,” Cate said quietly.
The air between you shifted, something unspoken but heavy slotting into place. Cate could feel the choice forming there: make a joke, diffuse the moment, or lean into the gravity of it.
She chose neither. She leaned into the part of her that wanted to see how far she could push before something snapped.
She finished cleaning the wound, dropped the wipe in a nearby trash can, and peeled the backing off the bandaid. Her fingers were clumsy for once, the paper catching on her nails. When she pressed the bandage over your knuckles, she smoothed it down with two fingertips, slow. Her other hand slid unconsciously higher on your forearm, nearly to the elbow.
“There,” she said, voice softer than she meant it to be. “All better.”
Your throat bobbed. “You always this…hands-on?”
Cate smiled, quick and bright. “You complaining?”
Your teeth caught the toothpick, chewing down hard enough that Cate heard the tiny crack. “Not even a little.”
You stood like that for a heartbeat too long, Cate’s hand on your arm, your newly bandaged hand hovering close to Cate’s waist, like gravity wanted it there and only willpower kept it from settling.
An engine roared by outside, too loud as it accelerated past the shop. Cate flinched, the sound punching through the bubble you’d built together. She stepped back a fraction, dropping your hand. The loss of contact felt abrupt.
“So,” she said, forcing casual into her tone. “You gonna show me you actually know what you’re doing under there? Or are you just using the tools as props to impress me?”
You snorted. “Sweetheart, if I was trying to impress you, your panties would be off already.”
The words hit Cate like a physical touch. Her breath caught, pupils dilating. A flush rose under her skin, her thighs pressing together a little too automatically.
“Big talk,” she managed, trying for a smirk and mostly succeeding. “Especially for someone who hasn’t even bought me a drink first.”
You leaned in, close enough that Cate could feel the heat radiating off you. “I’ve got a vending machine in the break room,” you murmured. “That count?”
Cate laughed, the sound coming out a little breathless. “Depends. Are we talking name-brand soda or off-brand citrus surprise?”
“The good stuff.” Your eyes caught on the slight sway of Cate’s dress, then dragged themselves back up like it took effort. “I’m not a monster.”
“Tempting.”
“It could be.” Your hand twitched like you had to stop yourself from reaching out. “Pretty sure the boss wouldn’t love it if I fucked someone in the bay, though. Even if it’d be worth the write-up.”
Cate’s heart stumbled. The boss. Her dad. Reality slid back in, unwelcome but undeniable.
For one inconvenient second, the secret sat between you waiting to be noticed. You had no idea you’d just put your hand right on the tripwire. Cate could still end it cleanly: laugh, say something wry, drop the reveal, watch you scramble back into professionalism. It would be safer. Smarter. The right thing to do, probably.
Instead, she stepped closer, letting her gaze drop to your mouth, then lifted it again slowly. Self-preservation had never been her strongest skill.
“Who says he has to find out?” she asked, eyes bright and reckless.
Your inhale was sharp, your body going still in a way that wasn’t denial, just…tension. Your eyes searched Cate’s face, looking for something: hesitation, uncertainty, a no that hadn’t been said out loud.
“Cate,” you said finally, your voice lower than before, rough around the edges. “You should tell me if you’re fucking around or not. ‘Cause I just got this job. And I’m not great at being the bigger person when someone looks at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”
Cate’s fingers curled in the fabric of her own skirt, knuckles pressing white against the soft pink. She knew that look. Knew what it meant. Had seen it in mirrors after nights she didn’t remember all the way through.
She swallowed once, then again, and made herself say the truth. “I’m not fucking around.”
Your jaw worked, muscle ticking. “You sure you want to do this here?”
Cate let her gaze dart to the open bay doors, the empty lot beyond, the narrow slice of street visible between the frame and the hedge. Someone could pull in at any minute. Her father could walk through that side door, bag of fast food in hand, eyes lighting up at the sight of his little girl and the pride in his voice when he introduced her to the new hire he’d taken a chance on.
Her pulse thudded, loud in her ears.
“I’m very good with time constraints,” she said. “Adds to the fun.”
The sound that came out of you wasn’t quite a laugh. More like a growl strangled halfway. “Christ.”
“Problem?” Cate fixed her eyes on your mouth, the curve of it, the way the toothpick rested at the corner. She wanted to feel those lips against her own, wanted to taste your tongue.
You dragged your uninjured hand over your face, thumb and forefinger pinching briefly at the bridge of your nose, like you were trying to physically press some sense back into yourself. “Whole bunch of them,” you muttered. But you didn’t step away.
Instead, you reached past Cate to flick the switch on the bay door beside you. The massive metal frame began to rattle down, shading the space from the harshness of the noon sun, turning the garage into something darker, more private. The slice of street narrowed, then disappeared entirely behind corrugated metal.
The fan kept up its useless whir. The radio crackled, a DJ laughing at his own joke. Somewhere in the back, a drip hit the rim of a bucket in a steady, hollow plink.
You looked back at Cate. “Last chance to change your mind,” you said. “If I start something with you, I’m not half-assing it. And I’m not getting caught with my pants down because somebody wanders in needing an oil change.”
Cate’s breath came a little faster, chest rising and falling. “Who says I want you to half-ass anything?”
The corner of your mouth kicked up. Then, finally, you closed the distance.
Your hands landed on Cate’s hips, big and warm, fingertips denting the soft flesh just above the waistband of her panties. Cate sucked in a breath as you walked her backward, slow but deliberate, toward the shadowed space between the nearest tool chest and the concrete pillar. The corner of Cate’s bag knocked against a metal shelf, sending a socket clattering to the floor.
The sound jolted through her. She startled, then laughed, nervous and bright. Your fingers tightened.
“You okay?” you asked quietly, voice right against her lips now, the words warm with the ghost of your breath.
Cate nodded. “Yeah. I’m—yeah.”
You searched her face again, that same careful checking. “Say it,” you murmured.
Cate’s heart tripped. The insistence should have annoyed her, but it didn’t. It grounded her instead, pulled her out of the rush of risk and back into her body.
“I want this,” she said. Her voice came out rougher than she expected. “I want you.”
Something in your posture relaxed and sharpened at the same time. “Good,” you said simply.
Then you kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was hot and needy from the first second, like you’d been holding yourself back from the moment Cate walked in and the dam had finally cracked. Your mouth fit over Cate’s, plush and insistent, toothpick abandoned somewhere on the floor between you. Your hands dragged Cate’s hips forward, slotting your bodies together.
Cate gasped into your mouth, fingers flying to your shoulders for balance. Her nails bit into the warm, solid muscle there. The smell of you was everywhere now: engine oil and salt and the faintest hint of cheap peppermint gum. You licked into her mouth like you owned it, tongue sliding against Cate’s with shocking confidence.
Heat shot straight down between Cate’s legs. She tilted her head, chasing the kiss, letting herself get pinned between your body and the pillar. The concrete was hot through her dress, rough against her shoulder blades. Your thigh shoved between Cate’s, denim scraping the tender inside of her leg as you shifted, angling.
Cate moaned, the sound helpless. The vibration of it made you groan back into her mouth, a low, guttural noise.
“Fuck,” you murmured against her lips between kisses. “You taste like trouble.”
Cate laughed shakily. “You gonna arrest me?”
“Pretty sure I’m violating my parole just looking at you,” you said. Your hand slid from Cate’s hip down the curve of her thigh, fingers dipping under the hem of her sundress. Her skin felt like fire where you touched, callouses dragging over the smooth, sensitive flesh.
Cate sucked in a sharp breath as your fingers skimmed the edge of her panties. “Fuck,” she whispered.
You stilled. “Too much?”
Cate shook her head hard. “No. God, no.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m usually the one who takes control,” Cate said before she could think better of it. The words left her feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothing.
You hummed, fingers tracing idle little circles at the hollow of Cate’s hip, just under the elastic. “You can,” you said. “If you want to. You want to tell me what to do, I’ll follow your lead.”
The offer landed like a weight in her chest, heavy and tempting. She could. She could take charge, push you to your knees, ride your face until her legs gave out. The image flashed hot and bright behind her eyes, almost enough to make her dizzy.
But right now, pressed against the pillar with your thigh between hers and your hand so close to where she ached, Cate didn’t want control. She wanted to be handled.
“Maybe next time,” she murmured, fingers curling in the hem of your tank and tugging you closer. “For now, I just…don’t stop.”
Your eyes darkened, though your grin twitched at the edge. “Next time?” You repeated. “Look at you, planning ahead.”
“I’m optimistic.”
“You’re trouble.” Your hand slid higher on her thigh. “But yeah. Okay. Next time.”
Your fingers slid fully under Cate’s panties, the pads of them dragging against hot, slick skin. Cate’s head thumped back against the concrete, the slight pain drowned immediately by the rush of sensation. You swore quietly under your breath.
“Already wet for me?” you said, a little incredulous, a lot pleased.
“The garage is very…stimulating,” Cate managed.
You huffed a laugh, then cut it off with another kiss. Your fingers found Cate’s clit with a certainty that made Cate suspect this was hardly the first time you’d had someone pinned up against something solid. You circled it slowly at first, testing, learning the rhythm that made Cate’s knees wobble and her breath stutter.
Cate clutched at your shoulders, at the back of your neck, fingers sliding into the curls along your nape where they escaped the cap. The hair there was damp and soft, the skin beneath burning. She rocked down against your hand, chasing pressure.
“Yeah,” you murmured against her jaw, lips trailing along the line of it, the hollow beneath her ear. “That’s it. Use me.”
The words sent a fresh lick of heat through her. Cate tilted her head, giving you better access. Teeth grazed her throat, not quite biting, just close enough to make her gasp.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Cate whispered, half-laughing, half-moan.
“Lot worse ways to go than getting fingered senseless in a garage,” you said, fingers dipping lower, slipping through slick and back up again.
Cate choked on a sound that might have been a curse. Her thighs were shaking now, muscles working to hold her up as your hand worked. She could feel the seam of your jeans against the inside of her leg, the hard line of your thigh pressing up against her. Every movement scrambled her thoughts further.
“Tell me what you like,” you murmured. “Fast, slow, deep…you want me inside you or you wanna ride my hand?”
The directness of it made Cate’s brain spark. She’d had guys fumble around, too shy to say what they were doing out loud, too caught up in their own stupid pride to ask her what worked for her. You were different. Present in a way that made Cate feel seen, not just touched.
“Inside,” she heard herself say. “Please.”
Your breath hitched. “Yeah? You want my fingers in you, princess?”
The pet name, the gravel in your voice when you said it, nearly undid Cate. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, please.”
You kissed her again, slower this time, a little reverent around the edges. One arm braced beside Cate’s head, palm flat against the pillar. The other slipped lower, two fingers circling her entrance once before pressing in.
Cate cried out softly, the sound muffled against your mouth. Her body clenched around the intrusion, welcoming the stretch. Your fingers were thick and sure, callouses scratching pleasantly at her inner walls as you eased them in to the knuckle.
“Fuck,” you breathed. “You’re tight.”
“Don’t—stop talking like that,” Cate gasped.
“Like what,” you said, starting to move your hand, slow, steady thrusts that had Cate’s breath coming in short little bursts. “You mean honest?”
Cate’s laugh broke apart halfway. Her head thunked back against the pillar again, the faint throb grounding her in her body. Her nipples were hard, peaked against the thin dress, the fabric brushing them every time her chest moved.
Your name escaped her in a strangled voice.
“Yeah, baby.” Your thumb found her clit again, rubbing small, precise circles in time with the slide of your fingers. “You feel so good. Taking me so well. Gonna make a mess on my hand, huh?”
Cate’s world narrowed to the heat between her legs, the rough drag of your skin against hers, the way your wrist flexed, the damp patch forming on her own dress where your bodies pressed together. She could feel your chest rising and falling against her, could hear the change in your breathing, the little hitch every time Cate clenched around your fingers.
“You…you’re good at this,” Cate whispered, half laughing as her thighs trembled.
“I like making pretty girls fall apart,” you said, matter-of-fact and filthy. “You gonna let me see your face when you cum? Or you gonna hide it from me?”
Cate’s hand flew up, fingers digging into the back of your neck, holding you close. “You first,” she said, words slurred by pleasure. “You look at me when I do.”
Your eyes locked on hers, color gone almost black. “Deal.”
The pressure built fast, a coil tightening low in Cate’s belly, heat licking up her spine. Her hips had a mind of their own now, grinding down against your hand, chasing the friction on her clit. The world blurred at the edges, all concrete and metal and the faint echo of music drowning under the staccato beat of her own heartbeat.
She felt it crest, that sharp, dizzy moment right before the fall, and panic flirted with the edges of it. The bay door was down. The office door was closed. But someone could still come in. Her father could still pull that cord, lift the door, see her pinned and panting and already too far gone to pretend otherwise.
The thrill of that danger tipped her over the edge.
Her orgasm hit like a punch, all the air leaving her lungs in a silent gasp before a broken moan tore free. Her fingers clenched in your hair, dragging your mouth down to devour a kiss that probably bruised you both. Her thighs clamped around your hand, trapping it, holding you exactly there as she rode the waves of it, each pulse sending another spike of pleasure through her.
You groaned against her mouth, working your fingers through it, slowing only when the intensity made Cate flinch and whine. You eased off, thumb shifting to gentler strokes, fingers still buried deep, a constant reminder of how completely you owned Cate’s body in that moment.
“Good girl,” you whispered, breath hot on Cate’s lips. “That’s it. Ride it out for me.”
Cate shuddered, the praise sparking another aftershock. “Fuck,” she panted. “Fuck, fuck…”
“Language,” you teased, voice hoarse. “What would your dad think?”
Cate’s whole body went rigid.
It was ridiculous, the way the mention of him hit her harder than the orgasm had. Reality crashed back in with all the grace of a falling anvil. Her lungs seized, her fingers tightening involuntarily in your hair.
Your eyes widened immediately. “Hey. Hey, relax. I didn’t mean…” You started to pull your hand back.
For one sharp second, Cate almost let you. Then she forced herself back into her body: your hand, your breath, the concrete warm against her back, the reckless pulse still beating between you.
Cate grabbed your wrist. “Don’t you dare stop.”
You froze. Then, slowly, that dangerous little smile crept back. “Yes, ma’am.”
You eased your fingers out carefully, coated in slick. Cate watched, dazed, as you brought them to your mouth and licked them clean. The sight sent another weak tremor through her.
“You taste like trouble, too,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
Cate’s brain felt half-melted. Her legs were jelly, her back damp where it pressed against the pillar. Her sundress was askew, one strap fallen down her arm, her lipstick a mess. She’d never been so thoroughly wrecked in such a short amount of time, and she hadn’t even touched you yet.
She blinked, forcing herself to focus on you. On the dark stain of arousal seeping through the front of your jeans, the outline beneath the denim, the tension in your jaw like sheer willpower alone was holding you together. You looked wrecked and furious about it, which only made Cate want even worse things.
“You’re just going to leave yourself like that?” Cate asked, voice rough.
You huffed a laugh, glancing down at the hard line straining against your jeans. “Trying to be a gentleman.”
Cate arched a brow, still breathing too hard to make the look as clean as she wanted. “You just got me off at work instead of fixing that car.”
“Yeah,” you said. “And kept my other hand to myself. I’m basically a saint.”
Cate swallowed, her eyes dropping to the front of your jeans before she could stop them. The knowledge sat heavy and electric in her stomach, less a surprise than an invitation her body had already answered. She wanted to see you. Wanted to know the weight and heat of you in her hand, on her tongue, the shape of you without denim and restraint in the way.
“You said you don’t half-ass things,” Cate murmured. She slid her hand down your abdomen, fingers toying with the hem of your tank top. “What, you only go all the way for girls with extended warranties?”
You laughed, pleasure cutting through the restraint you’d been trying so hard to keep. “You’re a menace.”
“So I’ve been told.”
You looked at her for a long moment, the humor in your eyes tangled up with something more hesitant. “We don’t have a lot of time,” you said quietly.
“That’s never stopped me,” Cate said. “You gonna let me take care of you or are you really gonna keep me wondering what you’ve got going on under there?”
Your breath stuttered. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” you said, echoing Cate’s earlier words.
“Like you said,” Cate murmured, fingers tracing the line of your waistband. “There are worse ways to go.”
Your resolve snapped with visible force. Your hand caught Cate’s wrist, pressing it firmer against the front of your jeans. The heat there made Cate’s mouth flood. There was no mistaking the hardness beneath the denim, thick and heavy, pushing against the zipper.
“Is this what you want?” You asked, voice gone low and harsh.
“Yeah,” Cate whispered, eyes wide. “Yeah, daddy.”
The word slipped out unbidden, instinctive in the fuzzy, overheated state she was in. The second it left her mouth, she stiffened, half in anticipation, half in fear of how it would land.
Your reaction was visceral. Your pupils blew so wide they nearly swallowed the color entirely. Your grip on Cate’s wrist tightened enough to border on painful.
“Fuck,” you breathed. “Say that again.”
Cate’s pulse roared in her ears. “Make me.”
Your breath hissed between your teeth. “You really don’t like making things easy, do you?”
“Nope,” Cate said, grin turning wicked at the edges. “Where’s the fun in that?”
You groaned, shifting your hips forward. Then you pressed in hard enough to flatten Cate more fully against the pillar, pinning her there with the full, hot weight of your body, one hand braced beside her head, the other catching Cate’s wrist and guiding it down to the front of your jeans. “Get your hand in my pants,” you ordered, voice rough. “You wanna see me lose it? You’re gonna help.”
Cate’s fingers fumbled at your fly, clumsy with afterglow and adrenaline. You cursed softly, batting her hand away long enough to pop open the button yourself and drag the zipper down. The fabric parted, revealing the band of your boxers and the suggestion of what lay beneath.
You guided Cate’s hand in, under the waistband, against bare, hot skin. Cate gasped as her fingers brushed the base of your cock, the sudden reality of it making her lightheaded.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “You’re…big.”
“Flattery’ll get you everywhere,” you muttered through gritted teeth. Your own hand stayed on Cate’s wrist, controlling the pace, guiding her. “Wrap your fingers around me.”
Cate did, curling her hand as best she could. She barely got her fingers all the way around, the thickness strained her grip. Your hips jerked forward at the first squeeze, a broken sound ripping from you.
“Jesus,” you rasped. “You’re killing me.”
“Feels like you could kill me with this thing,” Cate whispered, a shaky laugh slipping free.
“Not my style,” you said, voice strangled. “I like my girls breathing. Say it again.”
Cate swallowed, throat dry. “What?”
“You know what.”
Cate squeezed harder, thumb dragging over the head where it leaked precum, smearing slick over the sensitive skin. Your knees almost buckled.
“Fuck, baby,” you groaned. “Say it.”
Cate leaned up, lips brushing the slick line of your throat, her tongue catching on the tendon there. Her hand kept moving, stroking slowly, savoring the way your cock pulsed in her grip, the way every little twist of her wrist got a reaction.
“Daddy,” she whispered into your skin. “You look so good like this.”
Your entire body shuddered. A curse fell out of you, filthy but heartfelt. Your hips bucked into Cate’s hand, rhythm losing its steadiness.
“Jesus Christ,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me cum so fucking fast.”
“Good,” Cate said, emboldened. “I want you to. I want to feel you lose it for me.”
“Shit,” you choked. Your forehead dropped to Cate’s shoulder, breath hot and ragged against her neck. Your hands dug into Cate’s hips hard enough to bruise, anchoring yourself as Cate stroked you, faster now, firmer, finding the cadence that made you whine deep in your chest.
Cate’s own arousal flared back to life, a slow burn under the fading aftershocks. The weight of you in her hand, the way your muscles jumped under your skin, the little helpless sounds you couldn’t swallow back. It all fed something greedy in Cate. It was more than satisfaction. It was the pleasure of discovering she could make you come apart, and the immediate, desperate need to do it again.
“You look so good,” she murmured, lips against your ear. “Getting off in my hand in this filthy little garage. Bet you’ve thought about this, huh? Fucker like you, you must jerk off in here all the time.”
You groaned loudly, half-laughing, half-mortified. “You’re gonna be the end of me, I swear to God.”
“You keep saying that,” Cate taunted. “But you’re still standing.”
“Not for long,” you gritted out. “Fuck. Faster, baby. Just like that.”
Cate obeyed, twisting her wrist, pumping her hand faster. Her palm was slick now, sliding easily. Your hips lost their rhythm entirely, stuttering into her grasp. Your breath came in harsh, broken pants, each one puffing hot against Cate’s neck.
“Where do you want it,” you managed, voice strangled. “Tell me where.”
The question knifed through her. Cate’s body answered before her brain did. “On me,” she breathed. “On my dress. Make a mess.”
You swore with feeling. “You’re fucked up,” you rasped, admiration heavy in your voice.
“Takes one to know one.”
Your whole body went taut, every muscle locking for a split second. Cate felt the tremor before she saw it, the way your cock jerked in her hand, the flood of heat that followed. You came with a strangled groan, biting down on Cate’s shoulder hard enough to make her hiss.
Hot streaks spilled over Cate’s fingers first, slicking her knuckles, then caught on the open waistband of your boxers as your hips stuttered forward. Cate’s hand shifted instinctively, sliding up with the motion, and you jerked once more with a broken groan. The last of it spurted higher, landing on the front of her dress, warm and wet as it soaked into the pretty fabric like evidence.
Cate kept stroking you through it, gentling the motion as you trembled, breath sawing in and out. One of your hands left her hip to slam against the pillar again, steadying yourself.
“Fuck,” you panted. “Fuck, fuck…”
“Language,” Cate whispered back, smug and soft.
You laughed weakly into her skin, the sound breathless and wrecked. “You’re evil,” you exhaled, voice roughened into something fond.
The front of your boxers were a disaster, soaked dark where they showed above your open jeans. Cate’s sundress wasn’t much better. The stain had already begun to seep into the pretty fabric, spreading at the edges in a warm, damning bloom.
“Worth it?” Cate asked, holding up her hand for inspection.
You groaned, tipping your head back as if appealing to whatever god watched over terrible decisions. When your eyes opened again, they fixed on Cate’s messy hand, and you swallowed hard. “Don’t show me that unless you’re planning on letting me lick it off,” you said, voice rough. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
Cate’s breath hitched, the image doing unholy things to her.
Before she could decide if she was brave enough to call that bluff, the distinct rumble of an engine cut through the haze like a warning.
Both your heads snapped up.
Cate heard it first in her bones, that particular uneven idle she’d grown up to, the rattle of her dad’s ancient pickup dragging itself off the street and into the lot, and damn near levitated. Gravel crunched under tires. A horn beeped twice in lazy greeting, as familiar as a knock on her bedroom door.
The sound reached you a beat later. Your whole body went still, desire wiped clean off your face by the kind of dread that came with rent, parole officers, and second chances held together with duct tape. Somewhere behind your eyes, Cate could see the realization land: truck, boots, boss.
“Shit,” you whispered.
Cate slapped a hand over her own mouth, as if she could quiet the guilty flush in her cheeks that way. Her other hand, the one still slick with your cum, hovered awkwardly in the air.
The truck engine cut off outside. A door creaked. Slammed. Heavy boots hit concrete.
For one suspended, stupid heartbeat you just stared at each other, both frozen in the wreckage of what you’d just done. Then panic hit you both in the same second.
“We cannot get caught like this,” Cate hissed, wild-eyed and breathing hard.
Your brain finally caught up. Eric Dunlap. The guy who’d given you the job and, by extension, your last shot at not screwing up your entire life. Your face went pale beneath the grease. “Fuck me.”
“You just had your chance,” Cate snapped, half-hysterical.
You had thirty seconds. Maybe.
You moved first. You grabbed the hem of your boxers and jeans, yanking everything up in one harsh drag. The hiss you let out when fabric smeared over oversensitive skin was almost a whimper. Your fingers fumbled with the button, slick and shaking.
Cate’s brain sprinted to exactly one conclusion: hide the evidence.
Cate looked down at herself and nearly laughed. The front of her sundress was ruined, a wet patch blooming dark over the fabric. Her thighs were sticky. Her hand looked like she’d just dipped it in something indecent. Her thighs still trembled. There was no universe where she could walk across the garage like this and have her father chalk it up to a heatwave.
“Rag,” she hissed. “Where’s a rag—”
You jerked your head at the bench. “Red one, left side.”
Cate lunged, nearly tripping over a rolling stool. She grabbed the rag and focused on her hand first, wiping furiously. It only half-worked. The fabric spread more than it erased, leaving her palm still damp, now perfumed with engine grease over the faint musk of sex.
“Fuck,” she muttered.
You made a strangled sound that might have been agreement, might have been panic, and finally managed to shove yourself back into your jeans. The button fought you for one humiliating second before it snapped into place. Your zipper came next, dragged up too fast, teeth catching once before you forced it.
Then your eyes dropped to Cate’s hand.
“Give me that,” you rasped.
Cate barely had time to loosen her grip before you took the rag from her and swiped it across the front of your own pants in frantic motions. The wet patch across your boxers had already seeped through the denim. No way was that passing for sweat.
“Okay,” you muttered, a little too loudly. “Okay, okay, okay. Maybe if—”
The idea hit you both at the same time.
Grease.
Cate stared at the rag, then at the stain on her dress, then at your zipper. “You’re not serious,” she said.
You were already smearing. “You got a better plan, princess?”
You pressed the heel of your hand into your own thigh, grinding dark fingerprints into the denim above and around the damp patch. It wasn’t perfect, but between sweat, cum and grease, it read more “I wiped my hands on my jeans like an animal” than “I just got jerked off against a pillar.”
“Come here,” you hissed.
Cate barely had time to squeak before you caught her by the hip and dragged her in, pressing the filthy rag into the wetness on her dress. You rubbed hard, blending the darker stain into wider, more ambiguous smudges.
“You’re ruining my dress,” Cate gritted out between clenched teeth, her whisper so exaggeratedly furious it would’ve been convincing if she weren’t still flushed and trembling.
“Actually, I’m saving your ass,” you shot back. “Turn.”
You manhandled Cate by the waist, dragging the rag across the back of her skirt in a few strategic streaks. It looked ridiculous. It also looked like she’d leaned against a car and lost.
Out front, the bell over the customer entrance jingled. The side door hinges shrieked open, a sound Cate had heard a thousand times.
Cate’s heart did a full somersault.
You looked at the closed bay door and swore under your breath. “Shit. He’ll think I’m napping in here.” You slapped the button. The metal gate rattled up just enough to make it look intentional rather than incriminating, stopping halfway with a groan. Outside, the blue pickup sat crooked in its usual spot.
For half a second, you stared at it like the truck itself had come to collect your soul. Then you turned back to Cate, and whatever color was left in your face drained out.
“You, uh…you look like…” you said.
Cate yanked her phone out of her bag, flipping to the front camera. One look made her wince. Hair skewed, lipstick smeared to hell, pupils looking like she’d just seen God and liked what she saw.
“Oh, great, I look freshly fucked,” she muttered.
“Hot,” you said, then winced like you’d heard yourself be useless in real time. “For me, anyway.” Your eyes darted toward the bay door. “But maybe not for Dunlap.”
Cate snatched the rag from you and found the cleanest corner by instinct, blotting carefully at her mouth instead of scrubbing, redistributing pigment into something less obviously post-orgasmic. The lipstick came away uneven, leaving her lips softer, less devoured-looking, though still swollen enough to incriminate her. Her pupils were still blown, but there was nothing she could do about that short of sticking her head in the parts washer.
You reached out impulsively and straightened the fallen strap of her dress, fingers brushing the warm curve of Cate’s shoulder. “There,” you said, softer. “You look…fine.”
Cate snorted, sarcastic. “You have no idea how reassuring that is, coming from you.”
You, who could still feel your own heartbeat in places it had no business being, forced yourself to move. You grabbed the nearest wrench, some random size that matched absolutely nothing you’d been working on, and planted yourself next to the lifted car.
Deep breath. Shoulders back.
You rolled your neck, popped a new toothpick between your teeth, and tried to remember how to be the cool, lazy mechanic who’d been here for all of two weeks and desperately needed this job.
Then you looked at Cate.
Cate, still too close. Cate, flushed and bright-eyed, sundress strap barely fixed, standing in the middle of the bay like the prettiest piece of evidence anyone had ever left at a crime scene.
Your grip tightened around the wrench. “You should…go stand over there or something,” you said, jerking your chin toward the far side of the shop, away from you. “Look like you just got here.”
“I did just get here,” Cate said primly. “Sort of.”
“You know what I mean.”
Cate scooped up her purse, fingers still slightly tacky even after the rag, and sashayed toward the far workbench. She prayed no one would notice her legs were still a little shaky. She leaned a hip against the bench and picked up a random part, turning it over like it was fascinating.
Her heart thudded. Her cunt ached, pleasantly sore. She could still feel the ghost of your fingers inside her when she shifted her weight.
Across the bay, you gave her one frantic look that said, Please act normal.
Cate lifted the random metal piece a little higher and widened her eyes at it, as if she had developed a sudden, scholarly interest in whatever the hell it was.
Eric called out your name, cheerful and unaware. “You in here or did the heat finally finish the job the state started?”
You rolled your eyes reflexively, then caught yourself and pasted on something resembling respect. “In here,” you called back. Your voice only cracked slightly. Not bad.
For one glorious, delusional second, you thought you might actually pull this off.
Then the office door banged open.
Eric strode into the bay in his standard uniform: oil-stained coveralls half-zipped, t-shirt underneath that said EAT MY DUST in cracked white letters. His hair, grayer at the temples every year, stuck up at odd angles like he’d been running his hands through it for the last hour. The man was a walking laundry disaster.
Eric saw you first, naturally. You were front and center, wrench in hand, tank clinging, tattoos on display. If you were still flushed, he didn’t comment on it. His gaze flicked down once, taking in the smears of grease on your jeans, then moved on. Probably exactly what you’d both hoped for.
He made it three more steps before the heat hit him properly, his face creasing as he squinted toward the open garage door, then back at the button on the wall like it had personally betrayed him.
“What’d I tell you about closing the door?” He grumbled. “Feels like Satan’s asscrack in here as it is.”
You lifted the wrench, trying to make it look like you’d been using it this whole time. “Had the intake open,” you said, nodding toward the car. “Didn’t want dust getting all up in the lady’s guts.”
Eric paused, blinked, then nodded, conceding the point.
Behind him, a younger guy stepped in, still chewing the last of a burger, brown hair sticking up in sweat-curled tufts. Caleb, you remembered from half-heard conversations: helped out around the shop sometimes, took classes, rolled his eyes a lot.
“You trying to cook her in here or what?” Caleb asked, sweeping a look around the bay. “It’s like ninety.”
Eric shot him a look. “She had the intake open, genius. You want road dust in Mrs. Alvarez’s engine because you’re delicate?”
Caleb lifted both hands, burger still pinched in one of them. “I’m just saying, my organs are boiling.”
“Then take your organs to the office,” Eric said. “Door stays down until she’s done.”
You kept your jaw loose, fingers relaxed on the wrench even as every nerve in your body screamed. You could feel the damp patch cooling inside her jeans. Could feel the faint pull of your fly against barely contained thickness. Could feel, like a phantom, the press of Cate’s hand.
Eric wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Parts show up?”
“Yeah,” you said, proud that your voice mostly cooperated. “Box in the corner. Intake’s half on. Another hour and she’ll be purring.”
Eric nodded. “Atta girl.” He shuffled the rag in his hand, then looked around again. “We get any walk-ins while I was gone?”
You felt Cate’s presence like a knife between your shoulder blades.
“Uh, yeah,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed on Eric’s face, determined not to let your gaze skate traitorously toward Cate. The grease smears on your own jeans felt like neon signs. “You got…someone waiting.”
Eric huffed, already sounding resigned. “What’d you do, leave your number on an invoice?”
Your mouth twitched before you could stop it. “Not this time.”
“Mhm.”
“What? I’m growing as a person.” You rolled the toothpick from one side of your mouth to the other, still not looking at Cate. “Blonde. Pretty. Said she was here to see you.”
From her corner, Cate sank her teeth into the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Her heart still hammered, but the edges of her fear had gone fizzy with adrenaline.
Caleb perked up instantly. “Where?” His gaze started darting around like a golden retriever’s. “You holding out on us already, new girl?”
You didn’t look at the far bench. Didn’t look at the smears on Cate’s dress. Didn’t look at the way your hands probably still had grease in every line.
“Back there somewhere,” you said instead, jerking your chin toward the shadows.
Eric sighed like a man deeply wronged by fate. “Unless the shop fairy turned into a swimsuit model while I was gone, I’m guessing that’s just—”
“Hi, daddy!”
Cate’s voice cut through the air like a bell, bright and sugar-sweet, ricocheting off metal and concrete.
You flinched on reflex. Everything in you snapped to attention. The word hit the same place it had ten minutes ago, hot and low and Pavlovian, and you whipped around so fast the wrench nearly slipped from your hand.
You froze halfway through the turn.
Because Cate wasn’t looking at you.
Cate was halfway across the bay already, dress swinging, purse bouncing against her hip. She went straight past you, straight past the car, straight into Eric’s arms.
He caught her without missing a beat, laughing as she looped her arms around his neck like she’d been doing it since she could walk, body pressing into the front of his filthy coveralls with zero concern for her clothes.
“Hey, darlin’,” he said into her hair, voice turned warm and mushy in a way you’d never heard. “You’re gonna break my back one of these days.”
“You’re strong, you’ll survive,” Cate said, grinning, nose pressed into his shoulder.
You watched everything unfold and had the horrifying thought that Cate probably still smelled like the sex you’d barely managed to wipe off her skin. Close up, tucked against Eric’s chest like that, there was no way to know what he might catch.
Eric set Cate back on her feet, keeping a hand on her shoulder like he didn’t quite trust gravity not to steal her away. “What’re you doing down here, kiddo?” he asked. “Thought you were gonna study. Or whatever it is you pretend to do at that fancy school.”
“Thought you might want these before you tried to read another invoice by threatening it,” Cate said brightly, producing his reading glasses from her purse.
Eric squinted at her, then at the glasses. “Knew I left those somewhere.”
“Kitchen counter,” Cate said. “Right next to the coffee you also forgot.”
Caleb snorted behind him, the laugh escaping around the last bite of his burger. Eric shot a warning look over his shoulder. “You keep chewing.”
“I am chewing,” Caleb said, muffled and innocent.
Eric grunted, already sliding the glasses onto the top of his head instead of his face. Cate opened her mouth to comment on that too, but Caleb was faster. The second Eric set her back on her feet, Caleb swooped in from the side and hooked an arm around her shoulders, dragging her into a sloppy half-hug that nearly knocked her purse off her arm.
“Careful, Catie,” he said, squeezing her obnoxiously. “You walk in here lookin’ like that and someone’s gonna blow a gasket.”
Your grip tightened around the wrench so fast your knuckles ached. For one insane second, you thought he knew. Thought Caleb had somehow looked at Cate’s messy hair, her swollen mouth, the careful angle of her body and seen the whole thing written there in neon. Then Caleb grinned, entirely too pleased with himself, and you realized he was just being an annoying little brother.
“Hi to you too,” Cate said dryly, elbowing him. “Did you bring me fries or are you useless as always?”
“No fries for traitors.”
“I drove all the way here to keep our father literate.”
“That’s like, bare minimum daughter behavior.”
They fell into sibling bickering like muscle memory, easy and sharp and affectionate beneath the insults. Eric watched them with the long-suffering fondness of a man who had built an entire life out of pretending not to enjoy this.
You stood rooted to the spot, wrench heavy in your hand, brain quietly catching fire.
You gotta be fucking kidding me, you thought, and somehow managed not to say it out loud.
Cate. Catie. Eric. Caleb. The names pinged around in your head like loose bolts.
You remembered Eric mentioning his kids once, almost offhand, somewhere between bitching about tuition, car insurance, and the way teenagers apparently treated brake pads like a renewable resource. You also remembered the old family photo in the office, half-hidden behind a stack of invoices when you’d signed your hiring paperwork: Eric younger and less gray, one arm around a boy with Caleb’s grin, the other around a blonde girl with bright eyes and a smile already sharp enough to get her out of trouble.
You looked at Cate again, watching all of it unfold like someone had dropped you into a movie halfway through and forgotten to give you a script. At the way Caleb still had her hooked under one arm, at the casual way she stole the rag from Eric’s hand and used it to wipe a smear of ketchup off Caleb’s chin, ignoring his immediate protest. At the way Eric watched her do it with fond exasperation, like this was an old ritual and not the most devastating reveal of your adult life.
Cate felt you watching. Of course she did. She could feel you like a magnet in the back of her skull, heat and panic and something else prickling along her spine. She let herself enjoy it for two whole seconds before she glanced over Caleb's shoulder while Eric was busy settling his glasses onto his face, and finally, deliberately, met your eyes.
You looked, briefly, like you might drop dead on the spot.
Cate’s mouth curved. She didn’t wink. That would have been too much, too obvious. Instead, she let her expression go sweet and contrite, all wide eyes and soft cheeks, and silently shaped one word at you across the bay.
Oops.
You felt your stomach drop, your blood go cold and hot at the same time.
Eric, oblivious, followed the line of Cate’s gaze. “Oh hey,” he said, brightening, hand still resting proud on his daughter’s shoulder. “You two met already, huh?”
Cate turned, all sugar and innocence, leaning lightly into his side. The grease smear on her sundress looked exactly like she’d brushed up against a fender. Only you knew better.
“We’ve been talking,” she said sweetly. “She was keeping me company while I waited. She’s very…attentive.”
You tried not to choke. Caleb’s eyebrows shot up. Eric just nodded, pleased.
“Good, good,” he said. “She’s the best thing that’s happened to this place since air tools. Knows her way around an engine better than most of the clowns that apply here. And she works, too. None of that phone bullshit.” He gave you an approving jerk of his chin. “You keep that up, we’re gonna make a decent mechanic outta you yet.”
You managed a sound that might, in generous light, be mistaken for a laugh. “Yessir,” you said. Your voice came out a touch higher than usual. “Just, uh. Doing my job.”
Cate’s eyes danced. “She’s very committed to it,” she said, voice bright with manufactured innocence. “You’re in good hands, daddy.”
Your fingers spasmed around the wrench. The urge to sink through the concrete or spontaneously combust was almost overwhelming. Either would be fine.
Cate stepped sideways, brushing past you on her way out. The proximity was deliberate, just close enough that your arms almost touched. The faint scent of her perfume hit you again, floral and bright over sweat and grease. It made the aftershocks in your body flare.
As she passed, Cate let her fingers twitch once, barely grazing the back of your hand where it hung at your side. Too light for anyone else to see. Heavy as a promise.
Her voice was quiet, meant for you alone. “See you around.”
You didn’t trust yourself to answer. Instead, you smiled weakly and decided, very clearly and very specifically, that you were absolutely, totally, cosmically fucked.
For three days, you saw her everywhere.
Not literally, which was somehow worse. There was no Cate leaning against the office door, no Cate perched on the front counter, no Cate wandering into the bay with those kissable lips and dangerous eyes and the kind of dress that made workplace safety feel like a myth invented by the involuntarily celibate. There was only the absence of her, which you discovered was its own form of haunting.
You found yourself looking up every time the bell over the front door jingled. Found yourself wiping your hands twice before stepping into the office, like Cate might be there and you might need to look less like a walking oil spill. Found yourself listening for a voice you had no business wanting to hear again.
Which was stupid.
Dangerously stupid.
The garage taught you to hear things before they became problems.
The hiccup in a starter. The thin, bright scrape of a belt about to go. The wrong rattle under the hood of Mrs. Kline’s Chevy that wasn’t the muffler no matter how many times Mrs. Kline insisted her cousin knew a muffler sound when he heard one. You’d always been good at listening to machines, probably because machines never pretended to be anything but fucked until fixed. They complained honestly. They leaked where they were hurt. They didn’t walk into your workplace in a little pink dress, let you put your fingers inside them, make you cum in your own jeans, and then reveal they were your boss’s daughter with a smile sweet enough to commit fraud.
Machines were civilized.
People were a dumpster fire with legs.
For three days after the Cate Dunlap incidentTM, you existed in a state of mechanical hypervigilance that bordered on religious punishment. You worked. You worked well. Better than well, actually, because panic did excellent things for productivity when it had nowhere else to go. You changed oil, bled brakes, installed an alternator, cleaned a carburetor until it shone like something that had confessed its sins, and replaced a belt on an old Tacoma while thinking very hard about not thinking about Cate’s thighs bracketing your hand.
It didn’t work.
Everything turned into her. The smear of pink chalk Caleb used to mark a tire rotation became the color of her dress. The cherry scent of the cheap air fresheners by the counter became the soft, bright perfume that had clung to Cate’s neck. The snap of latex gloves reminded you of Cate’s mouth pulling off yours, breathless and bruised. The word daddy became an active threat. Eric said it once in passing, something about a customer telling her kid to “ask daddy which tires he wanted,” and you dropped a socket straight into an oil drain pan.
“You good?” Caleb had asked, leaning around the side of the Civic you’d been under, eyebrows raised.
“Livin’ the dream,” you muttered, fishing blindly through warm oil for the lost socket. “The dream has sludge in it.”
Caleb snorted and disappeared again.
He was too perceptive. That was the problem with younger brothers, you thought bitterly. Caleb was observant enough to notice, annoying enough to say something, and blessed with the exact sibling-born talent of standing precisely where you didn’t want him.
Eric, somehow, noticed nothing.
Or maybe he noticed only in the broad, fatherly way that men like him noticed things: you were working hard, eating badly, drinking too much coffee, and keeping your nose clean. Good enough. He clapped you on the shoulder twice since and told you that you were “settling in,” which made you feel like a criminal being praised for hiding the body properly.
By the fourth day, you’d started flinching at every bell.
The customer entrance jingled and your whole spine went rigid. Delivery driver. The side door opened and you nearly brained herself on a chassis. Caleb. The office phone rang and you glanced toward the front like Cate might materialize through the receiver, voice pitched soft enough to ruin you from three rooms away.
“She’s got you jumpy,” Caleb said that afternoon.
You went still, elbow-deep in the engine bay of a dented Subaru. “Who?”
Caleb leaned against the tool chest with the hateful leisure of someone born into his place in the world. He had a soda in one hand and a rag in the other, neither being used for their intended purpose. “Didn’t say a name.”
“Then you’re talking to yourself.” You ducked back under the hood. “Which checks out.”
“Mhm.” Caleb slurped his soda. “You know, Cate does that.”
Your wrench slipped.
Your knuckles hit something metal, pain sparking hot across your hand. “Fuck.”
Caleb grinned. “That.”
“Your sister makes people hurt themselves?”
“My sister makes people act like they’ve never seen a woman before. You’re doing the thing.”
You straightened slowly, flexing your injured hand. The bandage from the other day was gone, replaced by a fresh scrape across the same two knuckles. Very poetic. Very stupid. “Your sister dropped by once.”
“Yeah, and now you look at the door like it owes you money.”
You stared him down. Caleb stared back, cheerfully unbothered.
“I’m observant,” he said.
“You’re unemployed with a hobby.”
“I work here.”
“You hover here.”
He shrugged. “I’m family. Hovering is in the benefits package.”
You wiped your hands on a rag, resisting the urge to throw it at him. “Don’t you have a fuel filter to misplace?”
“Already did.” Caleb pushed off the tool chest and started backward toward the office, walking with the loose, obnoxious confidence of someone who had been loved too openly to fear consequences. “Anyway. Cate’s got class today. Long day. So you can stop looking like you’re gonna be jumped at any minute.”
You hated the relief that moved through you. Hated it more than anything else that week.
“Wasn’t worried,” you called after him.
Caleb laughed. “Sure, buddy.”
By Friday, you had almost convinced yourself it was over.
The logic was solid enough if you didn’t think about it too hard. Cate was your boss’s daughter. Beautiful, spoiled, reckless, obviously used to getting exactly what she wanted and bored once she had it. You were a new hire with a record, one bad reference away from being unemployable somewhere that wasn’t night shift warehouse work or a kitchen with questionable ventilation. Cate had gotten the thrill of the dirty mechanic in the family garage. You’d gotten the kind of orgasm that made you nearly rethink the concept of God. You’d both survived. Great. Done. Put a bow on it, throw it in the dumpster, set the dumpster on fire, deny everything under oath.
The bell over the customer door stayed quiet all morning. Eric and Caleb were both in and out, orbiting around a nightmare of a Ford F-150 whose owner had apparently believed oil was optional if you had enough confidence. Around noon, Caleb came in from the office saying something about a stranded Jeep across town. Eric grumbled for all of three seconds before grabbing his keys, because he couldn’t hear the words won’t start without developing some sort of moral obligation.
“Consider this an educational field trip,” Eric had said, as he led Caleb out to the truck.
Caleb had groaned. “I literally work here.”
“Then start acting like the gene pool gave you tools.”
The garage settled.
No Eric booming from the office. No Caleb making commentary like a Greek chorus with a learner’s permit. No customers in the waiting area, no voices drifting from the front, no familiar truck rattling in the lot. Just you, the radio mumbling through static, and the mid-July heat pressing against the bay doors.
You’d been left alone with a ’69 Camaro the color of black coffee, its driver’s side door open, its dash half-gutted beneath the shop lights, and the blessed chance to work without anyone talking at you.
The car had come in smelling like cigarettes, sun-baked leather, and somebody’s second divorce. You had one boot planted on the concrete, the rest of your body folded awkwardly inside as you wrestled with the wiring behind the dash.
Your cap was backward again, curls damp at your temples, tank top stuck to the hollow of her spine. Sweat gathered beneath the band of your sports bra and slid down your ribs in slow, irritating lines, arms already streaked with grease.
You’d just found the bad connection when the bell jingled.
Your whole body reacted before your brain gave it permission. Your wrist jerked, the back of your hand smacking the underside of the dash.
“Fuck,” you hissed, ducking your head out of the footwell.
The bell’s echo faded through the empty front office.
You stayed still, half in the car, listening.
Heels on concrete.
Not heavy. Not a work boot. A click, then another, measured and light.
Your stomach dropped.
No. Absolutely not. The universe had standards. Surely.
The footsteps paused near the office, then drifted into the bay like they owned the place. You slowly turned your head.
Cate stood in the mouth of the garage wearing a white sundress and sunglasses, looking like a pristine thing delivered by mistake to a filthy world.
This dress was worse than the pink one, because it looked innocent from far away and criminal up close. It was one of those soft little things with buttons down the front and a skirt that moved around her thighs when she walked. Her hair was loose over her shoulders in soft blonde waves that caught the light, as if she hadn’t spent any time making it look exactly that way. Her sandals were glossy red. Her mouth matched them. In one hand she held a cardboard drink carrier with two iced coffees sweating through their cups. In the other, a small paper bag folded at the top.
You stared.
Cate pushed the sunglasses up into her hair and smiled. “Hi.”
Your first thought was not remotely safe for work.
Your second was: I need to leave the state.
Your third, arriving with terrible clarity, was: She planned this.
The garage had gone too quiet. You slid out of the Camaro with as much dignity as one could manage while sweaty, greasy, and actively trying not to look at the way sunlight moved through cotton when Cate took three steps forward.
You dragged your eyes back to the Camaro with all the strength of a woman attempting emergency re-entry into civilized society. “No.”
Cate’s heels gave a light tap against the concrete as she stepped into the bay. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“You didn’t need to.” You ducked back into the driver’s side doorway, one boot planted on the concrete, the rest of you angled awkwardly inside as you reached beneath the dash. You fit the wire strippers around absolutely nothing useful with much more aggression than the wiring deserved. “Whatever you’re about to do, no.”
A pause, delicate and put-on. “I brought you coffee.”
“Weaponized coffee.”
“And food.”
“Bribery.”
Cate gave a soft, affronted exhale. You could hear the smile inside it, that pleased little curl of amusement you’d already learned was dangerous. “I didn’t realize it was illegal to be thoughtful.”
“It’s illegal for you to be in here when your dad’s not around.”
“Technically, I think it would be weirder if he were around.”
You barked a laugh before you could stop yourself, then immediately regretted rewarding her. The wire strippers clicked once, twice, and slipped because your hand had gotten slick against the grip. You straightened with a sharp sigh, braced one hand on the Camaro’s roof, and turned around.
That was your second mistake. The first had been letting Cate touch you at all.
Cate had placed the drinks and the paper bag on the cleanest corner of the workbench, apparently finding this small act domestic enough to be pleased by it. Up close, she looked cool and expensive and utterly wrong against the stained concrete and tool carts, which meant she looked exactly right for the specific kind of ruin your self-control seemed determined to pursue.
You tightened your jaw. “Your dad’s gonna be gone for at least an hour.”
Cate tipped her head. “Is he?”
Her expression didn’t change fast enough.
There it was. A tiny flash. Satisfaction, bright as a match behind her eyes.
You stared at her.
Of course Cate knew. Of course she’d known before she ever stepped through the door, probably before she’d picked the dress, probably before she’d ordered two iced coffees and packed the little paper bag like a prop in a very horny sting operation.
“Right,” you said flatly. “So obviously this is premeditated.”
Cate’s mouth dropped open, one hand lifting to her chest like you’d just accused her of armed robbery, blue eyes going wide with theatrical offense. “Premeditated?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you wandered into your father’s garage at the exact moment he and your brother are out chasing some mystery tow because you suddenly developed an intense interest in dashboard wiring.”
“Maybe I missed you.”
The sentence was soft enough that it scraped you in an entirely different place than Cate’s usual teasing. Your grip tightened around the rag hanging from your pocket. You wiped it over your hands because you needed them occupied, needed something between yourself and the memory of your hands gripping Cate’s hips against a concrete pillar.
“You met me once,” you said.
Cate’s smile turned just a little less playful. “It was a very memorable once.”
Your cock gave an inconvenient pulse inside your jeans. You looked away quickly, scanning the Camaro’s open door, the gutted dash, the dark footwell, as if any of them might hand her a usable exit strategy.
Five days. It had been five days since she’d found out the pretty stranger who had been moaning her name in Bay Three was Eric Dunlap’s daughter. Five days of showing up early, putting her head down, working like a machine, and avoiding every thought that began with Cate’s mouth or ended with the breathy, devastating way she’d said daddy before turning around and revealing an entirely different daddy had just walked through the door.
Eric had been decent to you. More than decent. He’d looked at the felony on your application, looked at the ugly, empty years behind it, and asked whether you could rebuild a transmission. When you’d said yes, he’d pushed a tool cart your way and told you not to make him regret it.
You needed this job. Needed the paychecks, needed the clean routine, needed someone on the outside willing to believe you could be more than a charge sheet and a parole officer’s appointment calendar. Fucking the boss’s daughter in his own shop was not how a woman safeguarded a second chance.
Even when the boss’s daughter was standing three feet away looking like every bad choice you’d ever wanted to make had been distilled into perfume and bare legs.
“You can’t miss me,” you said, voice flatter than it felt. “You don’t even know me.”
Cate’s expression flickered. Not wounded, exactly. More like interested in the bruise beneath the words. She took one slow step closer. “Then let me.”
You laughed once, without humor. “This isn’t a date, Cate.”
“It could be.”
“Here?”
“You have a coffee. I have a coffee. You’re avoiding my eyes because you’re thinking about me naked. That’s already better than most dates I’ve been on.”
This time you couldn’t help it. You looked.
Cate rewarded you with the faintest lift of her chin, the movement elegant and shameless. Her dress floated around her legs when the box fan swung in your direction, cooling nothing, only carrying the scent of her deeper into the bay. Vanilla and something floral, mingled with shop heat and motor oil.
“Jesus Christ,” you said quietly.
“I remembered your order.”
You stared at the iced coffee, condensation dripping down the cup. “You don’t know my order.”
“Black with an extra shot.”
You scoffed. “That’s not an order. That’s what everyone thinks mechanics drink in porn.”
Cate laughed, genuinely this time, a bright little sound that seemed absurd in the hot, hollow garage. “Fine. I guessed. Was I wrong?”
You looked at her for a long second, then crossed the distance to the workbench and snatched the coffee. You took a sip through the straw, refusing to make eye contact as the cold bitterness hit your tongue.
Cate watched you expectantly.
“It’s fine,” you said.
“Mm. Rave review.”
“Don’t get smug. You haven’t earned smug.”
Cate glanced meaningfully at the lower half of your body, then raised her eyes again. “I thought I made a fairly strong case for it last time.”
You nearly inhaled coffee into your lungs. You coughed, turning away, one palm braced on the Camaro’s roof.
“Nope,” you said when you could breathe again. “No. We’re not talking about last time.”
“That’s unfortunate. I’ve thought about it quite a lot.”
“Cate.”
“Especially your fingers.”
You set the coffee down harder than necessary. The plastic cup rocked, ice clattering inside it.
“Stop.”
Cate did. Immediately.
The little pause that followed changed the air. You felt it before you looked up, the shift from Cate pressing because she liked the game to Cate waiting because she already understood the severity in your voice. Her smile had softened away, her hands folded loosely in front of her sundress, eyes clear and attentive.
You dragged a hand down your face, smearing sweat and a faint stripe of grease along your temple. “I’m not saying I don’t want you.”
Cate’s lashes lowered slightly. “I know.”
“That is very much the fucking problem.” You pushed away from the car, restless energy pricking under your skin. You paced once toward the tool chest and back. “Your dad gave me a job. A real one. Do you know how many people looked at me after I got out and saw the word felon before they saw my face?”
Cate didn’t answer. Her posture remained still, but you saw the careful attention in her eyes, the way all of Cate’s bright, provocative movement quieted when something mattered.
“He didn’t,” you continued, hating that the words were already coming out now, too honest and too rough. “He said he didn’t care what I did before as long as I didn’t bring any bullshit into his shop. And then his daughter shows up in a dress with coffee and starts looking at me like…” You broke off, jaw flexing.
“Like what?” Cate asked softly.
Your laugh was a strained thing. “Like I’m something you want to eat alive.”
Cate’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t entirely a joke. “Maybe you are.”
“See?” You gestured at her helplessly. “This. You do this, and I forget that I’m supposed to have a functional survival instinct.”
“Isn’t that the fun of it, though?”
You closed your eyes.
There it was. Sugary and terrible and delivered with that voice, the one that made recklessness sound less like a fatal character flaw and more like a door you simply hadn’t had the nerve to open yet.
“No,” you said, reopening them. “That’s the part where I wind up unemployed and your dad uses a tire iron to introduce me to God.”
“He won’t murder you.” Cate leaned her hip against the fender, crossing one ankle over the other. “He likes you.”
You stared at her. “That makes it worse.”
“Being liked?”
“Being trusted.” Your voice sharpened around the word, and you hated how much it gave away. “There’s a difference.” You swallowed, your tongue clicking against your teeth, mouth suddenly dry. “This is a bad idea.”
“I know.”
“Catastrophically bad.”
“I know.”
“I could lose this job.”
“I know.” Cate stepped close enough that you could see the quick pulse beneath the skin of her throat. There was nothing uncertain in her expression now, no careless little performance, only the bright insistence of a grown woman accustomed to wanting what she wanted and sharp enough to understand the stakes. “I’m not asking you to pretend it’s smart. I’m asking whether you want me enough to do something stupid.”
You stared down at her. The fan shuddered in the corner. Somewhere outside, a delivery truck groaned through the intersection, brakes squealing in the heat. The radio slid from one old rock song into another, guitar filling the silence between you.
You laughed under your breath, disbelieving. “You are unbelievable.”
“Sometimes.” Cate’s fingers skimmed the edge of the open car door. “Sometimes I’m very believable.”
“You’re my boss’s daughter.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
“No, don’t stand there saying that like it’s just a fun fact while you’re looking like that.”
Cate glanced down at herself, feigning surprise. “Like what?”
“Like entrapment with lip gloss.”
That startled a real laugh out of her, bright and delighted. It filled the bay, bounced off the Camaro, went straight into your bloodstream like a spark hitting gasoline. Cate covered her mouth for a second, shoulders shaking. The laugh made her younger somehow. Less polished. More dangerous.
Your resolve, already coughing blood in a ditch, made a weak little noise and died.
Cate took the final step between your bodies. Not touching yet. Close enough that you could smell her perfume, something clean and floral over the warm cotton of her dress. Close enough that you could see the faint sheen of sweat at her throat, the little pulse fluttering there like a trapped moth.
“I thought about you,” Cate said softly.
Your hands curled at your sides. “Don’t.”
“I thought about your hands.”
“Cate.”
“And your mouth.” Cate’s gaze dropped there, lingered. “And the way you looked at me when you realized who I was.”
“Like I was seeing my parole officer in hell?”
“Like you wanted me anyway.”
You swallowed. Your mouth was dry. “Wanting isn’t the issue.”
“No?”
“No.” Your voice came out rougher now, dragged over gravel. “Wanting you is apparently the easiest, dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
Cate’s face changed, pleasure blooming high in her cheeks before she tried to hide it. “That’s almost romantic.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s a little romantic.”
“It’s a felony-adjacent HR violation.”
Cate gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “My dad does not have HR.”
“That doesn’t improve my situation.” You backed up a step and hit the Camaro’s doorframe with your hip. Perfect. Great. Nowhere to go but into the car or through Cate, and the second option had already proven to be a career-ending hazard.
Cate noticed. Her eyes flicked to the driver’s seat behind you, then back. A slow thought moved across her face, one you desperately wished you could swat out of the air before it landed.
“No,” you said.
Cate smiled.
“Do not smile at me like that.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re thinking something.”
“I’m always thinking something.”
“I’m serious.” You braced one hand on the roof of the Camaro, the other on the door. “We are not doing this again. Especially not in a customer’s car. That’s insane.”
Cate stepped into your space.
You sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it, because now Cate’s perfume was in your lungs. Cate’s hand lifted, two fingers brushing the chain at your neck where it disappeared beneath the sweaty collar of your tank. The touch was featherlight. It still made you stiffen, every nerve turning toward Cate.
“You’re very dramatic for someone who came on my dress less than a week ago,” Cate said.
“I’m going to die.”
“Not yet.” Cate tugged gently on the chain, not enough to pull, just enough to make your head tilt. “You haven’t even let me kiss you again.”
Your eyes slipped shut like that might save you. “This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.”
“We can’t.”
“We shouldn’t.”
“That is not the same as can’t, and you fucking know it.”
Cate’s smile sharpened, pleased in a way that made your grip tighten on the car door.
You opened your eyes. “You’re evil.”
“I’m bored.”
“That’s worse.”
“I’m bored,” Cate repeated, but the softness under it trembled. “And I keep thinking about how you looked at me like I was the first thing you’d wanted in years.”
Your expression cracked before you could stop it.
Cate saw that too. The tiny wince. The way your throat worked once, hard. The way your fingers flexed on the car roof like you needed something solid beneath your hand.
The air changed. It always did when Cate stopped playing with the pretty knives and reached for the ones under the ribs.
She said your name, quieter.
“Don’t make this sweet,” you muttered. “I can survive horny. Sweet is what gets people in trouble.”
Cate’s lips parted. The want in her face shifted, deepened. “You think this is just horny?”
“I think I’m trying not to ask questions that make me dumber than I already am.”
Cate reached up and touched the grease on your cheek with her thumb, smearing it instead of wiping it away. Her eyes tracked the mark like she’d done it on purpose, like she liked leaving proof. “You aren’t stupid.”
“I’m about to be.”
The corner of Cate’s mouth lifted. “Yeah?”
You should have stepped back. You should have put both hands up, walked into the office, and locked yourself inside until Eric came back to save you from yourself. Instead, you stood there while Cate’s fingers slid from your cheek to your jaw, then down to the front of your tank.
“Last chance,” you said, even though it was a lie and you both knew it.
“For me or you?”
You huffed a laugh, helpless and furious about it. “God, you’re a pain in my ass.”
Cate leaned in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “You noticed.”
You turned your head and caught her mouth.
The kiss lit so fast it felt less like starting and more like something already burning through the floorboards. Cate made a soft, pleased sound and pushed into you, one hand fisting in the front of your tank, the other sliding around the back of your neck. Your hand went to Cate’s waist on instinct, greasy fingers curling over white cotton, and some lucid part of your brain screamed about fingerprints on a sundress before being shoved under by the feel of Cate’s tongue against yours.
She kissed differently this time. Last time there was a spark and panic and you pushing her up against concrete. This time Cate took. Not forcefully. Not clumsy. She kissed like she’d arrived with an agenda and a schedule, like every little tilt of her head had been rehearsed privately and improved in the moment. She nipped at your lower lip, soothed it with her tongue, pulled back just far enough to make you chase.
“Fuck,” you breathed against her.
Cate’s answering smile touched your mouth. “Language.”
Your laugh broke into a groan when Cate’s hand dropped to the front of your jeans. “Do not start with me.”
“I thought I already had.”
You caught her wrist. “Cate.”
Your tone was serious. Cate went still enough to listen, though her fingers stayed curled just above the button of your jeans.
You breathed through your nose, trying to wrestle sense from the molten wreckage of your nervous system. “If you’re doing this because it’s fun to make me squirm, fine. Congratulations. I’m squirming. I’m squirm city. Population: me. But if this is just a game you’re gonna get bored of once I’m fired and living under a bridge, I need you to stop.”
Cate’s smile faltered. Not enough to look guilty, not enough to retreat, but enough that the game slipped sideways for a second. Her eyes stayed on your face, suddenly more careful than teasing.
Then she leaned in and kissed you again, soft this time, maddeningly soft. It was barely more than a press of lips, warm and steady, her body still close enough to make every warning in your head flash red.
“I don’t want to get you fired,” Cate said against your mouth. “I don’t want you living under a bridge.”
“Great. So civic-minded.”
Cate’s fingers tightened in your tank. “And I’m not bored with you.”
You tried not to react. Failed.
It would have been easier if Cate had stayed a game. A beautiful, overly sexual little disaster who liked getting under your skin and under your clothes. It was harder to resist the plain truth in her face, the way her thumb moved once across your knuckles, stroking over the bandage she herself had put there five days earlier.
Cate saw the flicker and pressed closer. “I came here because I wanted to see you.”
You stared at her for half a second before laughter escaped you, disbelieving and breathless. “You are so fucking spoiled.”
Cate’s gaze snapped back to you, pupils widening. “Say that again.”
Your amusement faltered into heat. “Spoiled?”
Cate kissed you before you could sharpen it further. This time, when she pushed, you moved with her. One step back. Then another. Your thighs hit the edge of the driver’s seat, and Cate used the moment, palm flat against your chest, to shove you gently but decisively back into the car.
The Camaro had been babied all morning, polished paint shining under the shop lights, interior cleaned until the old leather gave off a warm, sun-baked smell every time you opened the door. You’d spent half your shift working inside it with reverent patience, careful with the brittle plastic around the dash, careful with the wiring, careful with the kind of vintage car that made grown men use the word original like a prayer.
Now Cate had both hands on your chest and was shoving you backward into the driver’s seat.
You had one passing, doomed thought about Eric’s reaction to discovering grease-stained fingerprints on the upholstery, or worse, fingerprints that were sticky from other fluids.
Then Cate moved in, and the Camaro ceased to be a customer’s car so much as a cramped, leather-lined confession booth with terrible ventilation and no room left for good decisions.
You landed in the seat with a grunt, knees still outside, boots planted on the concrete, torso angled awkwardly because the steering wheel hemmed you in. “Jesus, Cate.”
Cate followed before you could recover. She stepped between your knees, gathered the skirt of her dress in one hand, and climbed into your lap with determined precision. One knee sank into the worn driver’s seat beside your hip, the other bracing near the edge as she straddled you. The car creaked beneath their combined weight. Your hands flew to Cate’s hips automatically, steadying her before your better judgment could get a word in.
“Absolutely not,” you said, breath already uneven. “No. This is not happening. Get down.”
Cate settled her weight over your thighs. “You’re holding me.”
You looked at your own hands like they’d betrayed you entirely. “That’s because I don’t want you falling.”
“How noble.”
“I’m chivalrous as hell.”
Cate’s fingers slid under the brim of your backward cap and tugged it off. Your damp curls sprang loose, unruly from heat and sweat, falling over your forehead as Cate tossed the cap onto the passenger seat.
“There,” Cate whispered, threading her fingers through the mess she’d made. “Much better.”
You lifted your head, eyes dark and mouth already too close. “You come in here just to redecorate me?”
“I came in here to get your hands back under my dress.”
For a second, you just stared at her.
Then your hands moved.
They slid under Cate’s skirt with the kind of helpless, decisive hunger that made Cate’s smile falter into something softer and far less smug. Your palms dragged up the backs of her thighs, rough with calluses, warm from the shop heat, leaving invisible tracks over skin that already felt too sensitive. Cate’s knees tightened around your hips where she straddled you, breath catching as you found the lace at the top of her thighs.
Cate murmured your name.
Your grip tightened. “Don’t say my name like that while you’re sitting on my dick.”
Cate went still for half a breath.
Then she shifted.
It was small. Almost nothing. A delicate roll of her hips that dragged her over the hard length straining against your jeans. Both of you went silent. Your hands flexed on Cate’s thighs, fingers digging into flesh.
Cate’s breath hitched. “You’re hard.”
“I’m aware.”
“Already.”
“You climbed into my lap in a sundress. It’s not a character flaw, it’s math.”
Cate laughed softly and did it again, slower, grinding down with enough pressure to make your head fall back against the seat. The car smelled like old leather and sun-bleached vinyl. The air inside was hotter than the bay, trapped and intimate, Cate’s perfume mixing with dust and gasoline until everything felt dizzy and illicit.
“Cate,” you warned, but you sounded wrecked.
Cate leaned down, lips at your ear. “You told me I could take control this time.”
Your eyes squeezed shut. “I’d say anything with you in my lap.”
“You meant it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Cate sat back enough to look at you. There was something pleased in her face, but under it, a careful question. “Do you still?”
Your hands eased where they held her, thumbs stroking once over her waist before you seemed to realize you were doing it. Your voice dropped. “Yeah.”
The word landed heavy. Simple. No performance to hide behind.
Cate’s expression flickered. For one second, just one, her confidence wavered into something soft and almost startled, as if you agreeing plainly had hit harder than all the filth before it. Then she bent and kissed you again, slower, deeper, claiming gratitude without having to say it.
You let her. Let Cate’s mouth take yours apart. Let Cate press you back into the car, let her fingers card through your hair, let the warm weight of Cate’s body pin you there so completely that there was nowhere for either of you to pretend distance still existed.
When your hands slid higher under her dress again, Cate shivered. Your fingers slipped beneath the edge of her panties and found her already slick.
Your expression changed.
“You’re so wet,” you said, unable to stop yourself, voice huskier now. “All this because you thought you might get me alone?”
Cate’s breath caught as you touched her properly, fingers sliding through heat and then pressing in just enough to make her hips lift. “I knew I would.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Dad’s predictable.” Cate’s hands tightened in your hair, her composure thinning fast as you curled your fingers and found the angle that made her whole body tense. “Caleb’s even easier.”
You stilled just enough to stare at her.
Cate bit down on her lip, trying to look innocent while your hand remained under her dress. She failed spectacularly.
Your eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Cate.”
She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Fine. I might have mentioned that someone outside the campus gym was complaining about needing a tow.”
You stared at her.
Cate’s mouth twitched, breathless and pleased with herself. “Caleb likes rescue missions. And Dad likes proving he can fix anything with an engine and a bad attitude.”
“You engineered a fake emergency?”
“I never said it was fake.” Cate tried to lift her chin, but your fingers shifted and ruined most of the effect.
“You manipulative little menace.”
“You’re welcome.”
You withdrew your hand, and Cate made an outraged sound that nearly made her laugh.
Before Cate could demand anything, you caught her by the hips and shifted her higher in your lap, using the cramped seat and the open driver’s side door to make room where there wasn’t any. The skirt of Cate’s dress rode up around her waist, pale lace bared beneath it, darkened at the center and pulled crooked by your hand.
Cate’s hand slid between your bodies, palm pressing over the hard shape of you through the denim. Your breath caught, hips twitching up despite yourself.
Cate’s smile deepened. “Is this my reward for setting everything up so nicely?”
You looked down at Cate’s hand, then back up at her face, jaw tight and eyes dark enough to make Cate’s pulse jump.
“No.” You hooked your fingers into Cate’s underwear and tugged them down carefully, working them over one thigh, then the other, awkward in the tight space but determined enough to make Cate’s pulse trip. “This is me making an informed series of terrible decisions.”
Cate lifted her hips for you, obedient only because it got her what she wanted. The lace came free after a bit of fumbling, and you shoved it into the pocket of your jeans without thinking.
Cate’s lips curled. “Planning to give those back?”
“Not sure yet.”
“That seems unethical.”
“So is sabotaging your father’s schedule so you can seduce his employee.”
“I didn’t sabotage.” Cate leaned in until her mouth brushed yours. “I facilitated an opportunity.”
Then Cate reached for the front of your jeans.
You grabbed her wrist. “The upholstery.”
Cate blinked at you.
Your face was flushed, mouth swollen, eyes dark. “I’m serious.”
“You’re thinking about upholstery right now?”
“I’m trying to prevent another forensic incident.”
Cate’s lips twitched. “Incident feels dramatic.”
“We’re developing a pattern.”
“That sounds intimate.”
“Sounds expensive.” You glanced toward the dash, then the cracked black seat beneath your bodies. “This is a customer’s car.”
Cate looked around, considering, then reached behind you and plucked an old shop towel from the passenger seat. “There.”
You stared. “You can’t just put a towel down and call it morally solved.”
“Watch me.”
“Cate.”
She laid the towel over your lap with maddening ceremony, smoothing it once over the bulge in your jeans. The touch was light enough to torture. Your hips jerked.
Cate’s eyes lifted. “See? Practical.”
“You are a demon in lip gloss.”
Cate unbuttoned your jeans.
The sound of the zipper inside the hush of the car was obscenely loud. You looked toward the office, panic flashing across your face. Cate caught your chin and turned you back.
“No one’s coming,” Cate said.
“If this goes well, we both are,” you muttered.
Cate’s mouth parted with a laugh, then curved. “You’re deflecting.”
“I’m noticing the empty office, the missing truck, and your suspiciously good timing.” Your eyes narrowed. “You really did plan this.”
“I always come prepared.”
Your mouth opened, ready to let another joke loose.
Cate put a finger against your lips. “Don’t.”
Your lips moved against her fingertip anyway. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say I respect preparedness.”
“No, you weren’t.”
Your eyes flicked down, then back up, bright with the kind of grin you were barely holding in. “I respect follow-through too.”
Cate stared at you for half a second, then laughed under her breath despite herself. “You’re impossible.”
Her hand slipped into your open jeans, under the waistband of your boxers, and whatever smug little follow-up you’d been building toward collapsed into a low, broken sound. Your cock was hot and heavy in Cate’s hand, already slick at the tip, trapped against your stomach until Cate freed you carefully. Your head tipped back against the seatback at an awkward angle, throat exposed, tendons standing out.
Cate stroked you slowly, looking down with undisguised fascination as she freed you fully from your jeans. Your cock settled against your stomach, flushed at the head and already slick.
“I thought about this, too,” Cate confessed, voice soft and indecent.
Your eyes opened, dark and unfocused. “Did you?”
“In my bed. In the shower.” She drew her thumb over the leaking head, collecting precum, and your eyes shut again for one dangerous second. “In my car outside a coffee shop about twenty minutes ago.”
You groaned. “Tell me you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You touch yourself thinking about me?”
Cate’s smile went languid. “I didn’t cum. Thought I should save something for you.”
You made a sound like something inside you had just torn loose.
Cate looked down between you.
The sight hit Cate harder the second time, maybe because she now knew what you looked like when you lost control. You bare in her hand, thick and flushed, obscene and perfect against grease-stained denim and the fabric of Cate’s dress. There was something deeply unfair about how much you fit every kind of want Cate had ever been told to bury. Rough hands, sharp mouth, a body that looked built to work and fight and hold and—most importantly—fuck. A body that, under Cate’s touch, went breathless and obedient in a way that made Cate feel powerful enough to glow.
“You’re so pretty,” Cate said before she could stop herself.
Your laugh came out ragged. “I’m covered in grease.”
“I know.”
“That’s pretty?”
Cate stroked you once, slow from base to tip, watching more precum bead at the head. Your stomach jumped under your tank. “Part of it.”
“Fuck,” you whispered.
Cate’s thighs tightened around you. The sound of that word in your mouth, low and scraped raw, made her feel like someone had lit a match inside her ribs. She gathered her dress higher, exposing her thighs and the slick evidence of exactly how much the grinding had begun to ruin her. Your eyes dropped immediately, helpless.
“You’re staring,” Cate said.
Your tongue moved against your lower lip. “Yeah. I’m suffering.”
“Good.”
“That is such a rich girl thing to say.”
Cate smiled, gathered her dress even higher, and shifted forward until the heat of her pressed against you through open denim and the last scraps of restraint you were both running out of reasons to respect. Your hands snapped to her hips, holding her there.
You grinned despite the ache between your legs. “You think you’ve got me figured out already?”
“I think you’re trying to act cruel while rubbing your cock against me like you can’t stand not being inside.”
The grin vanished.
Cate saw it and brightened with victory.
“You’re such a little shit,” you said, breathless.
“And you’re still not inside me.”
“Wait.” Your voice went sharp enough that Cate stilled instantly. Cate froze, one hand braced on the seat, her body hovering over your lap. The shift was immediate. Teasing gone, eyes searching. You swallowed hard, gaze flicking up to hers. “I mean, not wait wait. Just…” You grimaced, breath still uneven. “I don’t have a condom.”
Cate blinked.
Your jaw tightened. “What?”
“You don’t?”
“I didn’t exactly pack for sex at my job,” you said, voice low and strained. “Because I’m normal.”
Cate stared at you for half a second, then gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “After what happened the last time I was here, that feels less normal and more overly optimistic.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Cate.”
“What?” Cate reached blindly toward the passenger seat for her purse, one knee pressing harder into the leather as she shifted. The movement brought her closer by accident or, knowing Cate, by theater. The low neckline of her dress dipped, her breasts looming dangerously close to your face as she stretched across you.
You went very still.
Cate glanced down at you. “You thought I came all the way down here in this dress with nothing but good intentions and iced coffee?”
“I was hoping to preserve one illusion,” you said, though it came out strangled.
“Relax.” Cate dug through the small leather bag with infuriating calm, pushing aside lip gloss, sunglasses, a compact, her keys. Then she pulled out a foil packet between two manicured fingers and held it up like evidence. “Didn’t I tell you? I always come prepared.”
Cate’s smile lingered as she shifted back just enough to give herself room, the torn wrapper crinkling between her fingers. The joke left your face when Cate reached for you again. Not completely, not enough to erase the crooked edge of your mouth, but enough that your breath changed, hitching as Cate wrapped her fingers around your cock and stroked once, slow, before fitting the condom over the head.
Your hands flexed uselessly on Cate’s thighs. “Jesus.”
“Hold still,” Cate murmured, though her own voice had gone thinner than she meant it to.
“I am holding still.”
“You’re twitching.”
“You’re rolling a condom onto me in a Camaro.”
Cate’s lashes dipped, her smile turning private as she smoothed the latex down with careful fingers, feeling you pulse hot and hard through it. “And you’re being a very good girl while I do it.”
You made a rough, disbelieving sound that collapsed when Cate gave you one last firm stroke, checking the fit with a concentration that made the air feel even hotter. Only then did Cate rise carefully on her knees, bracing one hand on the seat back, the other still wrapped around you. The towel bunched between you. The car gave a faint groan, leather creaking. Your hands slid up under the hem of Cate’s dress to hold her bare hips, and the heat of your palms made Cate’s concentration fracture.
The first press of your cock against her entrance made you both go still.
Cate lowered slowly, jaw going slack as the head pushed into her. The stretch was immediate, bright, almost too much after days of remembering the first time in flashes: your mouth, your fingers, the heavy ache of being opened around you. You made a sound like you’d been punched in the gut, hands tightening hard enough on Cate’s hips that she knew she’d have bruises come morning.
“Easy,” you rasped, though you looked like you were saying it to yourself. “Fuck, Cate, easy.”
Cate’s lashes fluttered. “I’m trying.”
“I know. I know, baby.” Your voice changed, all the sharp edges melting into something rough and steady. “Take your time.”
That didn’t help. That made it worse, actually. Made Cate ache with something that wasn’t strictly physical, because your hands were dirty and trembling, but careful. Because you looked wrecked already and still cared more about whether Cate was in pain.
Cate sank another inch, then another, the stretch filling her until she had to stop, forehead dropping to yours. Your breath tangled. Sweat slid down your temple. Cate could feel every tremor in her thighs, every pulse of you inside her.
“You okay?” You asked, voice tight.
Cate nodded, then shook her head, then laughed once because neither answer was right. “You’re big.”
Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “Yeah, we covered that during the first felony.”
Cate laughed again, softer, and the movement made both of you gasp. Your eyes squeezed shut. Cate steadied herself with one hand on the seat, then lowered the rest of the way until she was seated fully in your lap, you buried inside her, the towel already useless between them.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The garage breathed around you. Radio static. Fan rattle. Distant traffic. The occasional clink from the office. The world had not stopped, which felt rude, because Cate was fairly sure hers had reorganized completely around the pressure inside her.
You opened your eyes.
Your gaze was unfocused at first, then sharpened on Cate’s face. “You look…” You swallowed. “Fuck.”
Cate smiled faintly. “Articulate.”
“I’m using all available processing power not to cum in this customer’s car.”
Cate clenched around you on purpose.
Your head snapped back. “Fuck. You’re evil.”
Your hands tightened on Cate’s hips, holding her still for one more breath before you shifted underneath her. Not hard. Not yet. Just a careful upward roll that made Cate’s fingers dig into your shoulders and her mouth fall open around a sound she didn’t quite let out.
You found the rhythm slowly at first, careful in spite of the recklessness of everything around you two. You wanted to feel Cate adjust, wanted to map what made her tighten, what made her eyes squeeze closed, what made her hand clutch at your arm as if it were the only solid thing in the room.
“You can move more,” Cate whispered, breath breaking at the end when you thrust up again. “I’m not delicate.”
Your gaze flicked to hers. “Never thought you were.”
“Then fuck me like it.”
The plea was perfectly Cate, dressed as a challenge so she didn’t have to admit how badly she wanted to be given something. You felt the understanding click into place, tender beneath the rush of lust.
Your grip shifted, one hand spreading against Cate’s lower back, the other firm on her hip. “Yeah?” you murmured. “That what you want?”
Cate’s chin lifted, stubborn even as her thighs trembled around yours. “Yes.”
Then you moved harder.
Cate slid both hands into your hair and curled her fingers tight, using the grip to steady herself as she met your rhythm.
Slow at first, because she had to learn the angle. One knee pressed into the worn leather beside your hip, the other braced awkwardly near the edge of the seat, the towel bunching between them with every careful shift. Your jeans were peeled open but not enough, rough denim scraping the inside of Cate’s thighs, and the center console crowded your shoulder so tightly that Cate had to tilt herself just right to take you deeper. None of it mattered. Or all of it mattered, each discomfort sharpening the pleasure until there was no clean line between wanting and taking and the hard physical reality of doing this somewhere you absolutely shouldn’t.
You let her set the pace. More than let her. You held Cate’s hips and followed, jaw clenched, breathing through each downward roll like it cost you something. Her muscles shifted under sweat and sunlight when your forearms flexed. Your eyes stayed fixated on Cate’s face, hungry and watchful, tracking every small change, every blink, every breath.
Cate rode you with increasing confidence, slow giving way to deep, deliberate rolls of her hips. Each one dragged you through her in a way that made her fingertips go numb. She’d expected the thrill, the danger, the smug satisfaction of getting you to cave. She hadn’t expected how intimate it would feel to watch you try to survive being wanted.
“Thought you said no,” Cate breathed.
Your laugh broke apart into a groan. “I did.”
“You’re not very good at it.”
“No,” you panted, grip tightening. “Apparently not with you.”
Pleasure curled through Cate’s belly, hot and greedy. She leaned down and kissed you hard, swallowing the next sound out of you. Your hands slid from her hips to her ass, bunching her dress higher, helping her move now. Not taking over, not yet, just guiding when Cate’s rhythm faltered, lifting her enough to make the next drop hit deeper.
Cate gasped into your mouth. “Fuck.”
“There it is,” you murmured. “All that attitude had to run out sometime.”
Cate bit your lip in retaliation.
You groaned. “Okay. Deserved.”
Cate sat back enough to look at you and then changed the angle. Her next downward roll made both of you choke on a sound. The pressure hit deep and bright, dragging a shudder out of Cate’s whole body.
“There?” You asked immediately, voice strained.
Cate nodded, breathless.
Your expression went focused, predatory through the haze. Your hands found the angle again and helped her keep it, guiding Cate down in a rhythm that punched pleasure up through her spine. Cate’s control frayed fast. She still rode you, still set the pace, but you were there under her, steadying, calibrating, learning her too quickly.
“God,” Cate whispered. “You’re so—”
“What?” You rasped, chest burning. “Say it.”
Cate’s breath hitched. She hadn’t known what she’d meant to say until you asked for it. “Good,” she managed. “You’re so good.”
Your face changed.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just a fracture, a split-second crack in the filthy confidence where something softer flared, startled and vulnerable. Cate felt it more than saw it, the way your whole body responded, your grip tightening, your cock twitching inside her.
“That’s cheating,” you said roughly.
Cate smiled, dazed. “Praise?”
“From you?” Your laugh was almost a gasp. “Yeah.”
Cate bent and pressed her mouth to your jaw. “Good,” she whispered there too, because now she knew. “You’re good.”
“Fuck.” Your hips jerked upward, your first real loss of control, and Cate cried out, hand slapping against the roof of the car. “Sorry, shit, sorry.”
“No.” Cate grabbed your face and made you look at her. “Do it again.”
Your pupils blew wide.
“Spoiled,” you breathed, but there was awe in it, hunger and surrender tangled tight.
Cate lowered herself further and you thrust up to meet her.
The sound that came out of Cate was too loud. Your hand flew to the back of her neck, dragging her into a kiss to muffle the next one. It turned messy, all teeth and breath and saliva. Cate’s hips moved faster now, control turning fluid, instinctive. The car rocked faintly beneath your bodies, springs creaking, the seat complaining in little rhythmic sighs.
Your body was a live wire under her. Every thrust up was restrained but not gentle, careful only because you had to be, because the world was still outside the windshield and Eric could theoretically come back early with Caleb and the wrath of God in a plastic bag. The risk didn’t cool anything. It sharpened it until Cate felt skinned alive by sensation.
You slid her hand between your bodies, fingers finding Cate’s clit where your cock stretched her open. Cate’s cry rose immediately, too sharp for the open bay, and you covered it with your mouth, swallowing the sound while rubbing firm circles in time with each upward thrust.
“Oh my God,” Cate whimpered against your lips. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop, please.”
“Not stopping.” You kissed her jaw, then the damp hollow below her ear, your voice rough enough to scrape. “You feel too fucking good. Got me risking my whole life for this pretty cunt.”
Cate’s legs tightened around her. “It’s worth it.”
“Cocky girl.”
“You’re the one inside me.”
“Yeah.” You gave one hard, grinding thrust and held there, watching Cate’s eyes flutter. “I am.”
Cate clutched at the back of your neck, drawing you closer until your noses brushed, her expression suddenly unguarded in the haze of pleasure. “I knew you’d cave.”
You laughed into her mouth. “Should I be offended?”
“No.” Cate’s voice softened, fragile only at the edges. “I wanted you to.”
That nearly ruined you more completely than any filth Cate could have said. Your hand slowed for half a heartbeat, attention caught by the nakedness of it. Cate wanted you, yes, but she’d also wanted to be wanted enough to override reason, caution, every sensible argument. She’d come to the garage carrying coffee and manipulation in her pocket because she needed proof you hadn’t written your first encounter off as an accident.
You stared at her, breath ragged, thumb still pressed against her clit. “Cate.”
Cate swallowed, eyes flicking over your face. “Don’t make me regret saying that.”
Your chest tightened. The words hit harder than they should have, harder than anything had a right to hit while you were half-trapped in the driver’s seat of a customer’s Camaro with your jeans open and your boss’s daughter in your lap. But there it was anyway, soft and dangerous under all the heat.
“I won’t,” you said, and then moved again, harder, because Cate had asked for stupid and you, apparently, had always been better at stupid than survival.
You fucked Cate harder, the careful rhythm going rough at the edges, every upward thrust driving deep into the wet, tight clutch of her. Cate held on, nails dragging down your chest, hips dropping eagerly to meet you. She was past teasing now, past theatricality, making broken, stifled sounds against your mouth and shoulder as the pressure rose through her.
“You like this,” you murmured, voice ragged. “Using me in your dad’s shop. Climbing on top of me like you own the place.”
“I do,” Cate gasped.
You laughed, dark and breathless. “Yeah, princess, I know.”
Cate clenched hard around you.
Your laugh died. “Fuck.”
The nickname hit Cate somewhere molten. She rode you harder, chasing the deep grind and the pressure against her clit where your bodies met, the drag of denim and cotton and the damp heat between. Your hands shifted under her dress, one gripping her ass, the other sliding around to press at the small of her back, keeping her close.
Cate’s orgasm built differently this time. Not sudden, not sparked by panic, but climbing and climbing with every roll of her hips, every helpless sound you failed to swallow, every moment of eye contact that felt too naked for two people committing something indecent in a Camaro. It made her chest ache. Made her want to laugh or cry or sink her teeth into your shoulder.
You saw it coming before Cate did.
“There,” you whispered. “That’s it. Keep going. Don’t stop.”
Cate’s thighs burned. Her knees ached against the seat. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, made the thin dress cling to her spine. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Her body chased what you promised, and you watched her like every second of it mattered.
“Want you to cum on me,” you said, rough and low. “Want to feel it.”
Cate whimpered.
“Yeah?” Your thumb found her clit again beneath the bunched fabric of her dress, circling with maddening precision. “Come on, baby. You got what you came here for. Take it.”
That broke her.
Cate came with a sharp, bitten cry, folding forward against you as pleasure snapped through her. Her body clenched tight around your cock, hips stuttering, rhythm falling apart. You groaned like it hurt, arm wrapping hard around her waist to keep her steady through it.
For a few seconds Cate couldn’t think. Couldn’t perform. Couldn’t be clever or composed or careful. She was just heat and pulse and your name broken against the side of your neck.
You held her through the whole thing.
And then you started to lose it.
Cate felt the shift underneath her, the tight tremor in your thighs, the way your breath went ragged and shallow. Your hand left Cate’s clit and grabbed at the seat beside you, fingers digging into old leather. Your rhythm broke rougher, every upward thrust driving deep into the wet, tight clutch of Cate’s body as the last waves of her orgasm rolled through her.
Cate convulsed around you again with a cry she couldn’t fully smother. Her back arched, dress pulling tight over her chest as her thighs locked around your hips. The first clench nearly tore your orgasm out of you by force, the second left you breathing in helpless, guttural sounds against Cate’s hair.
You kept moving through it, shorter thrusts now, letting Cate ride the aftershocks while you fought not to spill without asking. Cate’s body shook in your lap, softening and tightening in waves.
“Fuck,” you gasped. “Cate, I’m close.”
Cate lifted her head, dazed, hair stuck to her cheek. “Don’t pull out.”
Your eyes snapped to hers. “What?”
“Want you inside me when you cum.”
The words were soft but clear, reckless as a match dropped into gasoline, even with the latex between you. Maybe because of it. Maybe because the barrier made the request feel less dangerous and somehow more intimate.
Your face twisted. “Jesus Christ.”
Cate rocked down again, slow and cruel, overstimulation sparkling at the edges. “Please.”
Your grip on her waist tightened. “You can’t say please like that. It’s not fair.”
Cate brushed sweaty curls off your forehead, thumb dragging through the grease smudge there. “Cum for me,” she whispered.
You made a ruined sound and thrust up hard enough that Cate had to grab at the headrest to steady herself. The rhythm went frantic for three strokes, maybe four, and then you came with a hoarse groan buried against Cate’s mouth. Heat pulled violently through you, your cock pulsing deep inside Cate as your hands held Cate’s hips pressed tight to your lap. Cate shuddered around you, arms tightening around your shoulders as if she could feel every release through the thin barrier of latex, as if she wanted to keep all of it exactly where you gave it to her.
For several seconds the garage contracted into breath and sweat and the slick, intimate pressure of your bodies still joined. The radio murmured some chorus you couldn’t have identified at gunpoint. The fan turned its useless head toward you, stirring the damp ends of Cate’s hair where they clung to her cheek. The Camaro’s old leather creaked beneath you, a quiet complaint neither of you had the decency to heed.
You stayed slumped in the driver’s seat, one arm locked around Cate’s waist, trying to retrieve your ability to think from wherever Cate had tossed it.
Then Cate gave a small, pleased sigh and stroked one hand lazily through your hair.
“That,” she murmured, “was a much better lunch break than I was expecting.”
You huffed, dazed and wrecked beneath her. “Pretty sure lunch breaks are legally supposed to involve less property damage.”
Cate smiled against your mouth. “You loved it.”
“I did,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
Then you shifted.
A slick warmth slipped between you, smearing down where your bodies were joined as Cate exhaled shakily. She became suddenly, horribly aware of the towel bunched uselessly to one side, your jeans open, the condom still on but doing absolutely nothing about the rest of the mess you’d made together. The seat beneath you was not nearly as protected as either of you’d pretended.
You lifted your head slowly.
Your eyes dropped to the mess.
Silence.
“Fuck,” you said, with flat despair. “We got cum on the upholstery.”
Cate blinked down at the seat, then back at you. “Technically, I don’t think all of that is cum.”
“That does nothing to comfort me.”
“It should. Some of it is just evidence.”
You stared at her.
Cate’s mouth twitched. “Chemistry?”
“Don’t laugh,” you warned.
Cate’s shoulders shook.
“Cate.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re visibly laughing.”
“I’m emotionally processing.”
You looked at the seat, then at Cate, then at the ceiling of the Camaro like divine intervention might descend through the headliner with a steam cleaner. “We really need to stop with the cumstains.”
That was it. Cate broke, laughter spilling out of her, bright and helpless, her face tucked into your neck to muffle it. You groaned, but the sound softened halfway through because Cate was still in your lap, still warm around you, still laughing because the world hadn’t caught you yet.
“This isn’t funny,” you muttered, though your hands had already slid up Cate’s back to hold her.
“It’s a little funny.”
You shifted slightly, and both of you sucked in a breath at the sensitivity. Cate stilled, suddenly softer, fingertips brushing the damp hair at your temple. “We can clean it.”
“Can we?” You asked. “Because I know engines. I don’t know how to remove my own bad decisions from vintage leather.”
Cate grinned. “You’re a mechanic. Improvise.”
“I hate that I’m attracted to you.”
“Do you?”
You stared at her for a long second, then sighed dramatically through your nose. “No.”
The admission landed gently this time. No joke sharp enough to cut it. No immediate retreat. Cate’s smile dimmed into something smaller, warmer. She touched your cheek with the back of her fingers, tracing the grease she’d smeared earlier.
You started to answer, but the office phone rang.
Both of you froze.
It shrilled once, twice, violently ordinary in the overheated shop.
Cate’s eyes widened. You, still buried inside her in the driver’s seat of a customer’s Camaro, felt every drop of blood in your body abandon pleasure and report directly for panic duty.
The answering machine clicked on in the front office.
“Dunlap Motor Works,” Eric’s recorded voice crackled through the shop, tinny and cheerful. “Leave a message and we’ll call you back.”
The beep came.
Then Eric’s real voice followed, somehow even worse. “Stark, you there? Tow was a bust. Kid got it started before we even made it across town, so Caleb and I are heading back. Ten minutes, maybe less. Need you to clear space by bay two before we pull in.”
Cate pressed her lips together.
You stared at her.
For one long, airless second, neither of you moved.
Reality reentered like a brick through a stained-glass window.
Your eyes went wide. “Off. You need to get off.”
Cate nodded quickly, though her body protested the idea with a deep, delicious ache. She lifted herself carefully, biting her lip at the slow slide of you out of her. Your hands stayed at her hips, helping, steadying, even while panic began rebuilding itself in the room.
The second Cate was clear, more warmth slipped down her inner thigh.
You saw it and your brain visibly short-circuited. “Jesus.”
Cate grabbed the towel from your lap and shoved it between her thighs. “Stop looking.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“I was doing great before you weaponized cotton.”
Cate climbed awkwardly out of the Camaro, smoothing her dress down with one hand and holding the towel discreetly with the other. You removed the condom in a frantic little blur, tied it off, then tucked yourself away with fumbling hands, wincing as oversensitivity and panic performed a duet on your nervous system. You wrapped the condom in another shop towel and buried it in the trash under the workbench before grabbing a clean towel from the floorboard and staring at the stain on the seat like it had personally betrayed you.
Cate peered down. “It’s not that bad.”
You looked up at her.
“Okay, it is,” Cate amended. “But in a manageable way.”
“Great. Put that on my tombstone.”
The next several minutes vanished into frantic, silent triage: towel, stain, trash, jeans, dress, breath. Every sound from the street made your shoulders jerk. Every second made Cate’s smile wobble closer to panic.
You’d just managed to scrub the worst of the evidence from the seat when your hand brushed the pocket of your jeans and found lace.
You froze.
Cate, still blotting at her mouth with the least filthy corner of a rag, noticed immediately. “What?”
Very slowly, Cate’s gaze dropped to your pocket.
Her mouth curved. “Were you planning to return my property before my father walks in?”
Your jaw flexed. For one terrible second, you looked like you might actually give them back. Then Caleb laughed somewhere outside, loud enough to slice straight through the bay, and you shoved the lace deeper into your pocket with the grim resolve of a woman choosing crime under pressure.
“Later,” you muttered.
Cate’s smile went dangerous and bright. “Promise?”
You gave her a look that could have stripped paint. “Go stand by the workbench.”
The bell over the front door jingled again.
Your face went blank with horror.
Cate’s mouth opened.
You held up one greasy finger. “Do not,” you whispered, “say oops.”
kickstart my heart
aka cate discovers that the new mechanic has VERY capable hands
tw: girlcock, g!p reader, alternate universe, meet cute (kinda), sexual tension, flirting, mechanic!reader, ex-con!reader, family dynamics, porn with plot, vaginal sex, fingering, handjobs, mutual masturbation, daddy kink, public sex, semi-public sex, slight exhibitionism, workplace sex, etc.
22.4k+ words
author's note: DADDY'S HOME! hehe hoping i can get back to a more regular release schedule following this fic. no promises, but i finally have a bit more time to edit everything i've been working on, so fingers crossed! that being said, this was originally going to be a strictly sydcate fic, but i wanted to make it accessible to a wider audience by also creating a reader x cate version :) please enjoy!<3
The heat hit her first.
Midday sun baked the asphalt outside, and it felt like the entire block exhaled straight into the open bay doors of Dunlap Motor Works. Hot air, hot metal, the sour tang of old coffee, the thick, almost sweet smell of engine oil and rubber. An impact wrench barked from somewhere deep in the garage, then chattered to a stop. A rock station played low on a battered radio, distorted guitar riffs crackling through its one working speaker, the other blown sometime around 2004.
Cate stepped in off the sidewalk and paused just inside the threshold, letting her eyes adjust to the light. Dust motes spun lazily in the stripes of sun cutting across the concrete floor. Dark smears of oil tracked a path from the bays to the back office. A box fan rattled uselessly in the corner, only managing to push the hot air around.
“Dad?” she called, her bright voice cheerfully out of place among the grease and growling machinery. “You alive in here, or did one of your carburetors finally come for you in your sleep?”
No answer.
She took a few more steps in, the heels of her sandals clicking against concrete that looked like it would stain anything dumb enough to touch it. Her sundress was the wrong choice for a place like this and she knew it: soft pink, thin straps, hem flirting with mid-thigh every time she moved. But Cate didn’t own “appropriate.” Not really. It clung where the heat made her skin damp, fabric darker at the small of her back and under her breasts. A strand of blonde hair stuck to the side of her neck until she tipped her head to shake it free.
She was already annoyed, already planning exactly how she’d guilt trip her dad for making her come all the way down here instead of answering his phone, when she heard it: the scrape of metal against metal, then a muffled curse from under one of the lifted cars.
The voice wasn’t one she recognized.
Cate turned toward the sound. The boots sticking out from beneath the lifted car caught her eye first: scuffed black work boots planted against the stained concrete, soles braced for leverage and leaving faint prints in the dust. Then the long legs in faded jeans that sat low on lean hips, denim pulling tight where one thigh flexed to push you farther beneath the car. You were stretched out on a battered red creeper, most of your body obscured beneath the chassis, but not enough. A ragged white tank top had ridden up over a strip of stomach slick with sweat, the thin fabric darkened where it clung to your ribs.
A socket wrench clicked rhythmically. The red creeper shifted with each small adjustment of your body, cracked vinyl giving a faint squeak against the concrete.
Cate’s mouth watered with such immediate, shameless interest that she almost laughed. The universe really did love her.
She took another step, the air almost warmer here, smelling of gasoline and something else under it: sweat and old cologne and the metallic breath of hot steel. “Hi,” she tried, but it came out too soft. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Excuse me?”
The socket wrench stopped clicking. For a second, nothing moved beneath the car. Then one arm stretched out from beneath the chassis, reaching blindly for the toolbox sitting beside the front tire. The motion pulled every lean muscle taut, bicep flexing as the socket wrench landed against metal with a clank. There was grease streaked across the back of your hand and stuck beneath your short nails, exactly the kind of grime Cate went to unreasonable lengths to keep off her own body. Looking at that hand now, she had the sudden, vivid thought that she wouldn’t mind it at all if it left fingerprints all over her.
“Yeah, hang on,” the unfamiliar voice called, roughened by the hollow undercarriage. One boot pressed into the concrete, and the battered creeper rolled forward. A head slid into view.
Cate almost forgot to pretend she was here for anything but the woman under that car.
Short curls escaped from under a backwards cap, damp enough to cling to your forehead and temples. Your nose had a slight bump, like it had been broken once and reset by someone with good intentions and bad bedside manner. A thin scar split one eyebrow. There was grease on your cheekbone, a thumbprint like war paint. Your eyes were shockingly sharp even as they squinted against the light.
A toothpick shifted from one corner of your mouth to the other as you looked Cate up and down. Not subtle. Not even trying to be.
“Can I help you with something?” you asked, and the low rasp of your voice did something unhelpful to Cate’s knees.
Cate smiled like she wasn’t already committing you to memory in indecent detail, all of it material she would absolutely be replaying later, alone in bed, with far less need to pretend she was being polite. She almost said she was looking for her dad. The words made it as far as the back of her teeth before instinct stopped them. Boss’s daughter was information best saved until after this beautiful stranger had decided she wanted her. “Looking for Eric,” she said instead, smooth as silk. “Old, grouchy, swears the check engine light is a government conspiracy?”
You snorted. “Dunlap? Parts run. Should be back anytime.” You wiped your forearm across your brow, leaving another streak of grease over tanned skin, then let your gaze travel over Cate again, slower this time. From the thin straps of her dress to the bare length of her thighs, lingering at the hem before lifting back to her face. By then, your interest had become considerably less subtle. “You his…” The toothpick shifted lazily to the other corner of your mouth, “…customer?”
Cate had to bite back a laugh. If Eric saw the way you were looking at her, he’d have a coronary before he hit the floor.
“Not exactly,” she said. She hooked her thumb under the strap of her purse, tugging it higher up her shoulder, letting the movement tighten the line of her dress across her chest.
The non-answer settled easily between you two, sweetened by the way your gaze dipped again. Cate saw no reason to ruin a perfectly good first impression with unnecessary information.
“Mm.” Your gaze returned to Cate’s face. Up close, you were even worse. There was something unnervingly focused in the way you looked at Cate, as though she were a beautiful problem laid open in front of you, one you already knew you’d prefer solving with your hands.
“Boss didn’t tell me we were expecting company.” You rolled the rest of the way out on the creeper, catching the edge of the lift with one hand before you could coast too far. When you sat up, your tank rode higher over your stomach, revealing the waistband of your boxers above your jeans and the sharp, slick line of your hip. “Haven’t seen you before.”
Cate let her eyes linger there, not bothering to hide it. “Maybe you weren’t looking closely enough.”
A slow grin pulled at your mouth, crooked and a little dangerous. “Trust me, sweetheart. I’d remember a girl like you.”
Cate felt the smile break across her face before she could stop it. Well. Pretty and quick on your feet. That was almost unfair.
You planted your hands on your knees and pushed yourself to your feet in one fluid motion, leaving Cate to revise her opinion of the situation. Up close, you were taller than Cate by a few inches, broad across the shoulders, your tank clinging damply to the muscles in your chest. The strip of skin above your jeans disappeared again as the fabric settled, but the waistband of your boxers still showed when you reached back to dust off your palms. A chain gleamed at your throat before vanishing beneath the sweat-darkened collar.
You gave her your name. A name Cate could already imagine saying in circumstances that had nothing to do with introductions.
She offered her hand before that thought could become visible on her face. “Cate.”
You looked at it like you were deciding whether or not to be good. Then you wiped your own hand on a rag tucked into your back pocket and took Cate’s.
Your palm was rough and hot, fingers long, grease still caught in the creases. Cate felt the calluses drag against her softer skin, felt the firm, confident squeeze and the way it lingered a second too long. Heat crawled up her arm and settled low in her belly.
“Nice to meet you, Cate-not-exactly-a-customer,” you said. You released her hand and stepped back, reaching for the rag again. “Car broke down or what?”
“Mm, no. My car’s fine.” She let her gaze drift over your face, down the column of your throat where a bead of sweat slid under the fabric of her tank. “Sadly.”
You barked a laugh. “You say that like you wish you had an excuse.”
Cate tipped one shoulder, the movement exaggerated just enough. “Who says I don’t?”
The radio crackled quietly behind you, some old guitar riff rising and falling. A cicada buzzed somewhere outside. For a moment, the garage felt very small, like the heat and the smell and the noise had all rushed to the edges and left only the two of you in the center.
Your eyes sharpened, something alert slipping in under the lazy grin. “You kill time in mechanic shops often, or is this, like, a new hobby?”
“Depends on the mechanic.” Cate let her lips part, just a little. “You’re the first one I’ve seen who makes a tank top and sweat look like a sex crime.”
It was almost worth the risk just to see the way your expression twisted. For a second, you looked startled, like you’d expected polite small talk, not a girl in a short sundress walking into your bay saying that you looked like a felony.
Your tongue pressed briefly against the inside of your cheek, as if you needed half a second to decide whether laughing or flirting back would get you in more trouble. Then the surprise melted into pleasure, your grin dragging at one corner of your mouth like you were trying not to enjoy yourself too obviously. “You always talk like that, or am I getting the deluxe package?”
Cate lifted a shoulder, as if any part of this conversation had left her remotely unaffected. “I like to make a memorable first impression.”
Your gaze dropped, slow, from Cate’s mouth down her throat, over the line of her collarbones and the rise of her chest. Cate felt each inch of that look like a touch. Her skin prickled, goosebumps rising even in the oppressive heat.
“Well,” you said quietly. “You’re doing a hell of a job.”
Somewhere near the office, a phone rang and rang, then cut off. No footsteps followed. No familiar shuffle of Eric’s boots. The world didn’t intrude.
Cate let the silence stretch just long enough to feel intentional. “So, how long have you been working here?”
You glanced toward the office first, as if remembering this was still a place with walls, cameras, consequences. Then you hooked your thumbs into the front pockets of your jeans, shoulders settling into something that tried very hard to look casual. “Couple weeks.” Your voice stayed casual, but something in your jaw tightened around the answer. “Dunlap’s taking a chance on me.” You looked at Cate for a moment, visibly measuring how much to say. “Most people don’t love hiring ex-cons, no matter how good you are with an engine.”
Cate’s brows rose. If anything, that made everything worse in the best possible way. “Ex-con,” she echoed. “What’d you do?”
Your mouth quirked. “You ask everybody you meet to list their felonies, or am I special?”
“You’re special,” Cate said without missing a beat.
The silence that followed had weight. Your eyes darkened, a flush rising high on your cheeks and curling into the shell of your ears. You looked away, picked up a wrench from the toolbox, and turned it once in your hand like you’d suddenly found something fascinating about the chrome.
“Nothing glamorous,” you said. “Wrong place, wrong time, wrong friends. Got caught holding more than I should’ve, then got caught again before I was smart enough to stop. Court decided I needed a timeout. I decided I liked engines better than cell blocks.”
The casual shrug didn’t quite hide the faint tightness in your jaw. Cate filed it away, not to weaponize, just to know. You didn’t read as ashamed, exactly. More like you were determined not to let anyone else’s opinion of it affect the new life you were trying to build.
Cate stepped closer, enough that she could smell the salt on your skin, the faint edge of cigarettes in your hair. “Well. Sounds like you’re reformed now.”
You huffed out a laugh. “That what it sounds like?”
“To me.” Cate let her nails graze the edge of the workbench beside you, resisting the urge to just put her hand on your bicep and see what happened. “But then, I have a soft spot for bad decisions.”
“Yeah?” You angled toward her without quite closing the distance. “You make a lot of those?”
Cate thought about the guy she’d let talk her into the backseat of his car last weekend, the one whose name she barely remembered. Thought about the way her parents had looked at her when she came home smelling like perfume and beer and someone else’s cologne. Thought about how nothing ever quieted the restless ache under her sternum for more than an hour.
“You have no idea,” she said, as if she’d be happy to ruin the afternoon for both of you while proving it.
Your eyes flicked to the bay door, then back. There was no one else around. A radio jingle warbled from the front office, then clicked off. The fan clacked and clattered in the corner.
“So what’s your plan?” You asked. Your voice had gone a little lower, humor still there but thinned by interest. “Stand around making my day harder until Dunlap gets back?”
She could see it on your face: the hesitation, the little war between wanting to lean into this and remembering there were rules about flirting with girls who showed up at your workplace. Cate could have made it easy. She could have said, I’m his daughter, relax. She could have left.
Instead, she tilted her head, letting her smile return in a softer, more dangerous shape. “He called me,” she lied, though technically he had, earlier, to ask if she remembered where he left his reading glasses. “Said he needed me to stop by…guess I’m early.”
“How early?”
Cate checked her phone, more for effect than information. “Depends. How long before I become a distraction?”
Your laugh came out a little strangled. “That ship sailed the second you walked in wearing that dress.”
Cate’s bones turned to syrup. “So…” She took another half-step into your space, close enough now that if either of you breathed too deep, you’d touch. She tilted your chin up. The backwards cap kept your damp curls shoved back from your face, practical and careless, and Cate wanted to tug it off just to see what else you might let her mess up. “You gonna kick me out, or are you gonna let me watch you work?”
The words came out darker than she planned, threaded with real want. Cate almost winced at herself. Subtlety had never been her strong suit.
Your nostrils flared. Your gaze dropped again, this time straight to Cate’s mouth, then jerked up as if you’d been caught. “Kinda hard to focus with someone like you staring me down.”
“That a no?”
Your throat worked around a swallow. You looked toward the parking lot again. Still empty. The street outside hummed with distant traffic, nothing slowing. No familiar blue pickup turning into the drive.
Finally, you blew out a breath. “Fine,” you said, voice rough. “You wanna watch, you can watch. You get bored, you…whatever. Wander. Try not to trip over anything. I’d hate to have to perform emergency first aid when I’m already this filthy.”
Cate’s eyes slid down your torso, slow and blatant. “I wouldn’t.”
You muttered something that sounded like Jesus Christ under your breath and dropped back onto the creeper. In a practiced motion, you slid under the car again, one boot pushing off the ground.
Cate perched on the edge of a nearby tool cart, crossing her legs carefully. The hem of her sundress rode up, exposing more of her thighs. She didn’t adjust it.
From her new vantage point, she could see the taut line of your arm when you reached up, the flex and release of muscle as you turned the ratchet. Sweat ran down the inside of your bicep, disappearing into the crook of your elbow. The tank clung to your ribs every time you exhaled. Cate watched, shameless, while the rhythm of the work settled into something hypnotic.
“You stare like you’re cataloguing me,” your voice drifted out, muffled by metal. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Flattered,” Cate said. “Definitely flattered.”
Another laugh, softer this time. “You always this intense?”
Cate considered. “Yes,” she said, as a smile crept onto her face, slow enough to be dangerous. “But you’re getting a slightly upgraded experience.”
“Again with the deluxe package,” you muttered, but there was a smile in it.
The wrench slipped with a sharp metallic clank, and your knuckles glanced off something unforgiving beneath the engine. You cursed, jerking your hand back hard enough to make the creeper rock. When your arm slid into view, two knuckles were scraped raw, blood bright against the grease.
“Shit.” You shook your hand, more annoyed than hurt.
“Are you okay?” Cate slid off the cart before she even thought about it. She stepped closer until you rolled fully out and sat up again, hand cradled against your chest.
“It’s nothing,” you said reflexively.
Cate reached for your injured hand. “Let me see.”
You hesitated, then let her. Cate curled her fingers around your wrist and drew the injured hand closer, angling it toward the light. The scrape wasn’t deep, but it was definitely bloody, a raw red line split across two knuckles. Grease darkened the creases of your fingers, caught beneath your nails, and Cate had the very inconvenient thought that even hurt, even filthy, your hands were attractive.
Cate’s thumb brushed just beside it. “You need a bandage.”
“It’s fine,” you said, but your voice had dropped. You were looking at where Cate’s slender fingers circled your wrist, at the way your skin looked together: soft and manicured and pale against rough and stained and tan. “I’ve had worse.”
“Humor me.”
There was a first aid kit pinned to the wall near the office, a dirty white metal box with a red cross sticker peeling at one corner. Cate had seen it a thousand times growing up. She didn’t let go of your wrist as she tugged you to your feet, leading rather than asking.
She felt the tendons move under her fingers, the flex of muscle in your forearm. It was ridiculously easy to imagine those same hands on her, big and sure and a little careless. Her pulse skittered.
You went with her, resisting just enough to make it clear you knew better and not nearly enough to stop.
At the kit, Cate finally let go, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. She popped the latch and rifled through the contents, coming up with an antiseptic wipe and a bandage.
“Here,” she said, turning back. “Hold still.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you said lightly, but your eyes weren’t joking. Not completely.
Cate bit the inside of her cheek, feeling something hot curl low. Of all the things she wanted from you, obedience wasn’t in the top five, but having it didn’t exactly hurt.
She unwrapped the antiseptic and took your hand again. Your fingers dwarfed Cate’s, knuckles nicked with old scars, veins rising under the skin. Cate dabbed carefully, watching your face.
“This might sting.”
Your jaw tensed, but you didn’t pull away. The wipe smelled like a hospital, sharp and sterile, quickly cutting through the scent of heat and oil. Cate’s thumb stroked unconsciously along the side of your hand, a soothing little rhythm she couldn’t seem to stop.
“You’re very good at this,” you said, gaze locked on Cate’s mouth.
“I have a lot of experience with damage control,” Cate said quietly.
The air between you shifted, something unspoken but heavy slotting into place. Cate could feel the choice forming there: make a joke, diffuse the moment, or lean into the gravity of it.
She chose neither. She leaned into the part of her that wanted to see how far she could push before something snapped.
She finished cleaning the wound, dropped the wipe in a nearby trash can, and peeled the backing off the bandaid. Her fingers were clumsy for once, the paper catching on her nails. When she pressed the bandage over your knuckles, she smoothed it down with two fingertips, slow. Her other hand slid unconsciously higher on your forearm, nearly to the elbow.
“There,” she said, voice softer than she meant it to be. “All better.”
Your throat bobbed. “You always this…hands-on?”
Cate smiled, quick and bright. “You complaining?”
Your teeth caught the toothpick, chewing down hard enough that Cate heard the tiny crack. “Not even a little.”
You stood like that for a heartbeat too long, Cate’s hand on your arm, your newly bandaged hand hovering close to Cate’s waist, like gravity wanted it there and only willpower kept it from settling.
An engine roared by outside, too loud as it accelerated past the shop. Cate flinched, the sound punching through the bubble you’d built together. She stepped back a fraction, dropping your hand. The loss of contact felt abrupt.
“So,” she said, forcing casual into her tone. “You gonna show me you actually know what you’re doing under there? Or are you just using the tools as props to impress me?”
You snorted. “Sweetheart, if I was trying to impress you, your panties would be off already.”
The words hit Cate like a physical touch. Her breath caught, pupils dilating. A flush rose under her skin, her thighs pressing together a little too automatically.
“Big talk,” she managed, trying for a smirk and mostly succeeding. “Especially for someone who hasn’t even bought me a drink first.”
You leaned in, close enough that Cate could feel the heat radiating off you. “I’ve got a vending machine in the break room,” you murmured. “That count?”
Cate laughed, the sound coming out a little breathless. “Depends. Are we talking name-brand soda or off-brand citrus surprise?”
“The good stuff.” Your eyes caught on the slight sway of Cate’s dress, then dragged themselves back up like it took effort. “I’m not a monster.”
“Tempting.”
“It could be.” Your hand twitched like you had to stop yourself from reaching out. “Pretty sure the boss wouldn’t love it if I fucked someone in the bay, though. Even if it’d be worth the write-up.”
Cate’s heart stumbled. The boss. Her dad. Reality slid back in, unwelcome but undeniable.
For one inconvenient second, the secret sat between you waiting to be noticed. You had no idea you’d just put your hand right on the tripwire. Cate could still end it cleanly: laugh, say something wry, drop the reveal, watch you scramble back into professionalism. It would be safer. Smarter. The right thing to do, probably.
Instead, she stepped closer, letting her gaze drop to your mouth, then lifted it again slowly. Self-preservation had never been her strongest skill.
“Who says he has to find out?” she asked, eyes bright and reckless.
Your inhale was sharp, your body going still in a way that wasn’t denial, just…tension. Your eyes searched Cate’s face, looking for something: hesitation, uncertainty, a no that hadn’t been said out loud.
“Cate,” you said finally, your voice lower than before, rough around the edges. “You should tell me if you’re fucking around or not. ‘Cause I just got this job. And I’m not great at being the bigger person when someone looks at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”
Cate’s fingers curled in the fabric of her own skirt, knuckles pressing white against the soft pink. She knew that look. Knew what it meant. Had seen it in mirrors after nights she didn’t remember all the way through.
She swallowed once, then again, and made herself say the truth. “I’m not fucking around.”
Your jaw worked, muscle ticking. “You sure you want to do this here?”
Cate let her gaze dart to the open bay doors, the empty lot beyond, the narrow slice of street visible between the frame and the hedge. Someone could pull in at any minute. Her father could walk through that side door, bag of fast food in hand, eyes lighting up at the sight of his little girl and the pride in his voice when he introduced her to the new hire he’d taken a chance on.
Her pulse thudded, loud in her ears.
“I’m very good with time constraints,” she said. “Adds to the fun.”
The sound that came out of you wasn’t quite a laugh. More like a growl strangled halfway. “Christ.”
“Problem?” Cate fixed her eyes on your mouth, the curve of it, the way the toothpick rested at the corner. She wanted to feel those lips against her own, wanted to taste your tongue.
You dragged your uninjured hand over your face, thumb and forefinger pinching briefly at the bridge of your nose, like you were trying to physically press some sense back into yourself. “Whole bunch of them,” you muttered. But you didn’t step away.
Instead, you reached past Cate to flick the switch on the bay door beside you. The massive metal frame began to rattle down, shading the space from the harshness of the noon sun, turning the garage into something darker, more private. The slice of street narrowed, then disappeared entirely behind corrugated metal.
The fan kept up its useless whir. The radio crackled, a DJ laughing at his own joke. Somewhere in the back, a drip hit the rim of a bucket in a steady, hollow plink.
You looked back at Cate. “Last chance to change your mind,” you said. “If I start something with you, I’m not half-assing it. And I’m not getting caught with my pants down because somebody wanders in needing an oil change.”
Cate’s breath came a little faster, chest rising and falling. “Who says I want you to half-ass anything?”
The corner of your mouth kicked up. Then, finally, you closed the distance.
Your hands landed on Cate’s hips, big and warm, fingertips denting the soft flesh just above the waistband of her panties. Cate sucked in a breath as you walked her backward, slow but deliberate, toward the shadowed space between the nearest tool chest and the concrete pillar. The corner of Cate’s bag knocked against a metal shelf, sending a socket clattering to the floor.
The sound jolted through her. She startled, then laughed, nervous and bright. Your fingers tightened.
“You okay?” you asked quietly, voice right against her lips now, the words warm with the ghost of your breath.
Cate nodded. “Yeah. I’m—yeah.”
You searched her face again, that same careful checking. “Say it,” you murmured.
Cate’s heart tripped. The insistence should have annoyed her, but it didn’t. It grounded her instead, pulled her out of the rush of risk and back into her body.
“I want this,” she said. Her voice came out rougher than she expected. “I want you.”
Something in your posture relaxed and sharpened at the same time. “Good,” you said simply.
Then you kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was hot and needy from the first second, like you’d been holding yourself back from the moment Cate walked in and the dam had finally cracked. Your mouth fit over Cate’s, plush and insistent, toothpick abandoned somewhere on the floor between you. Your hands dragged Cate’s hips forward, slotting your bodies together.
Cate gasped into your mouth, fingers flying to your shoulders for balance. Her nails bit into the warm, solid muscle there. The smell of you was everywhere now: engine oil and salt and the faintest hint of cheap peppermint gum. You licked into her mouth like you owned it, tongue sliding against Cate’s with shocking confidence.
Heat shot straight down between Cate’s legs. She tilted her head, chasing the kiss, letting herself get pinned between your body and the pillar. The concrete was hot through her dress, rough against her shoulder blades. Your thigh shoved between Cate’s, denim scraping the tender inside of her leg as you shifted, angling.
Cate moaned, the sound helpless. The vibration of it made you groan back into her mouth, a low, guttural noise.
“Fuck,” you murmured against her lips between kisses. “You taste like trouble.”
Cate laughed shakily. “You gonna arrest me?”
“Pretty sure I’m violating my parole just looking at you,” you said. Your hand slid from Cate’s hip down the curve of her thigh, fingers dipping under the hem of her sundress. Her skin felt like fire where you touched, callouses dragging over the smooth, sensitive flesh.
Cate sucked in a sharp breath as your fingers skimmed the edge of her panties. “Fuck,” she whispered.
You stilled. “Too much?”
Cate shook her head hard. “No. God, no.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m usually the one who takes control,” Cate said before she could think better of it. The words left her feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothing.
You hummed, fingers tracing idle little circles at the hollow of Cate’s hip, just under the elastic. “You can,” you said. “If you want to. You want to tell me what to do, I’ll follow your lead.”
The offer landed like a weight in her chest, heavy and tempting. She could. She could take charge, push you to your knees, ride your face until her legs gave out. The image flashed hot and bright behind her eyes, almost enough to make her dizzy.
But right now, pressed against the pillar with your thigh between hers and your hand so close to where she ached, Cate didn’t want control. She wanted to be handled.
“Maybe next time,” she murmured, fingers curling in the hem of your tank and tugging you closer. “For now, I just…don’t stop.”
Your eyes darkened, though your grin twitched at the edge. “Next time?” You repeated. “Look at you, planning ahead.”
“I’m optimistic.”
“You’re trouble.” Your hand slid higher on her thigh. “But yeah. Okay. Next time.”
Your fingers slid fully under Cate’s panties, the pads of them dragging against hot, slick skin. Cate’s head thumped back against the concrete, the slight pain drowned immediately by the rush of sensation. You swore quietly under your breath.
“Already wet for me?” you said, a little incredulous, a lot pleased.
“The garage is very…stimulating,” Cate managed.
You huffed a laugh, then cut it off with another kiss. Your fingers found Cate’s clit with a certainty that made Cate suspect this was hardly the first time you’d had someone pinned up against something solid. You circled it slowly at first, testing, learning the rhythm that made Cate’s knees wobble and her breath stutter.
Cate clutched at your shoulders, at the back of your neck, fingers sliding into the curls along your nape where they escaped the cap. The hair there was damp and soft, the skin beneath burning. She rocked down against your hand, chasing pressure.
“Yeah,” you murmured against her jaw, lips trailing along the line of it, the hollow beneath her ear. “That’s it. Use me.”
The words sent a fresh lick of heat through her. Cate tilted her head, giving you better access. Teeth grazed her throat, not quite biting, just close enough to make her gasp.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Cate whispered, half-laughing, half-moan.
“Lot worse ways to go than getting fingered senseless in a garage,” you said, fingers dipping lower, slipping through slick and back up again.
Cate choked on a sound that might have been a curse. Her thighs were shaking now, muscles working to hold her up as your hand worked. She could feel the seam of your jeans against the inside of her leg, the hard line of your thigh pressing up against her. Every movement scrambled her thoughts further.
“Tell me what you like,” you murmured. “Fast, slow, deep…you want me inside you or you wanna ride my hand?”
The directness of it made Cate’s brain spark. She’d had guys fumble around, too shy to say what they were doing out loud, too caught up in their own stupid pride to ask her what worked for her. You were different. Present in a way that made Cate feel seen, not just touched.
“Inside,” she heard herself say. “Please.”
Your breath hitched. “Yeah? You want my fingers in you, princess?”
The pet name, the gravel in your voice when you said it, nearly undid Cate. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, please.”
You kissed her again, slower this time, a little reverent around the edges. One arm braced beside Cate’s head, palm flat against the pillar. The other slipped lower, two fingers circling her entrance once before pressing in.
Cate cried out softly, the sound muffled against your mouth. Her body clenched around the intrusion, welcoming the stretch. Your fingers were thick and sure, callouses scratching pleasantly at her inner walls as you eased them in to the knuckle.
“Fuck,” you breathed. “You’re tight.”
“Don’t—stop talking like that,” Cate gasped.
“Like what,” you said, starting to move your hand, slow, steady thrusts that had Cate’s breath coming in short little bursts. “You mean honest?”
Cate’s laugh broke apart halfway. Her head thunked back against the pillar again, the faint throb grounding her in her body. Her nipples were hard, peaked against the thin dress, the fabric brushing them every time her chest moved.
Your name escaped her in a strangled voice.
“Yeah, baby.” Your thumb found her clit again, rubbing small, precise circles in time with the slide of your fingers. “You feel so good. Taking me so well. Gonna make a mess on my hand, huh?”
Cate’s world narrowed to the heat between her legs, the rough drag of your skin against hers, the way your wrist flexed, the damp patch forming on her own dress where your bodies pressed together. She could feel your chest rising and falling against her, could hear the change in your breathing, the little hitch every time Cate clenched around your fingers.
“You…you’re good at this,” Cate whispered, half laughing as her thighs trembled.
“I like making pretty girls fall apart,” you said, matter-of-fact and filthy. “You gonna let me see your face when you cum? Or you gonna hide it from me?”
Cate’s hand flew up, fingers digging into the back of your neck, holding you close. “You first,” she said, words slurred by pleasure. “You look at me when I do.”
Your eyes locked on hers, color gone almost black. “Deal.”
The pressure built fast, a coil tightening low in Cate’s belly, heat licking up her spine. Her hips had a mind of their own now, grinding down against your hand, chasing the friction on her clit. The world blurred at the edges, all concrete and metal and the faint echo of music drowning under the staccato beat of her own heartbeat.
She felt it crest, that sharp, dizzy moment right before the fall, and panic flirted with the edges of it. The bay door was down. The office door was closed. But someone could still come in. Her father could still pull that cord, lift the door, see her pinned and panting and already too far gone to pretend otherwise.
The thrill of that danger tipped her over the edge.
Her orgasm hit like a punch, all the air leaving her lungs in a silent gasp before a broken moan tore free. Her fingers clenched in your hair, dragging your mouth down to devour a kiss that probably bruised you both. Her thighs clamped around your hand, trapping it, holding you exactly there as she rode the waves of it, each pulse sending another spike of pleasure through her.
You groaned against her mouth, working your fingers through it, slowing only when the intensity made Cate flinch and whine. You eased off, thumb shifting to gentler strokes, fingers still buried deep, a constant reminder of how completely you owned Cate’s body in that moment.
“Good girl,” you whispered, breath hot on Cate’s lips. “That’s it. Ride it out for me.”
Cate shuddered, the praise sparking another aftershock. “Fuck,” she panted. “Fuck, fuck…”
“Language,” you teased, voice hoarse. “What would your dad think?”
Cate’s whole body went rigid.
It was ridiculous, the way the mention of him hit her harder than the orgasm had. Reality crashed back in with all the grace of a falling anvil. Her lungs seized, her fingers tightening involuntarily in your hair.
Your eyes widened immediately. “Hey. Hey, relax. I didn’t mean…” You started to pull your hand back.
For one sharp second, Cate almost let you. Then she forced herself back into her body: your hand, your breath, the concrete warm against her back, the reckless pulse still beating between you.
Cate grabbed your wrist. “Don’t you dare stop.”
You froze. Then, slowly, that dangerous little smile crept back. “Yes, ma’am.”
You eased your fingers out carefully, coated in slick. Cate watched, dazed, as you brought them to your mouth and licked them clean. The sight sent another weak tremor through her.
“You taste like trouble, too,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
Cate’s brain felt half-melted. Her legs were jelly, her back damp where it pressed against the pillar. Her sundress was askew, one strap fallen down her arm, her lipstick a mess. She’d never been so thoroughly wrecked in such a short amount of time, and she hadn’t even touched you yet.
She blinked, forcing herself to focus on you. On the dark stain of arousal seeping through the front of your jeans, the outline beneath the denim, the tension in your jaw like sheer willpower alone was holding you together. You looked wrecked and furious about it, which only made Cate want even worse things.
“You’re just going to leave yourself like that?” Cate asked, voice rough.
You huffed a laugh, glancing down at the hard line straining against your jeans. “Trying to be a gentleman.”
Cate arched a brow, still breathing too hard to make the look as clean as she wanted. “You just got me off at work instead of fixing that car.”
“Yeah,” you said. “And kept my other hand to myself. I’m basically a saint.”
Cate swallowed, her eyes dropping to the front of your jeans before she could stop them. The knowledge sat heavy and electric in her stomach, less a surprise than an invitation her body had already answered. She wanted to see you. Wanted to know the weight and heat of you in her hand, on her tongue, the shape of you without denim and restraint in the way.
“You said you don’t half-ass things,” Cate murmured. She slid her hand down your abdomen, fingers toying with the hem of your tank top. “What, you only go all the way for girls with extended warranties?”
You laughed, pleasure cutting through the restraint you’d been trying so hard to keep. “You’re a menace.”
“So I’ve been told.”
You looked at her for a long moment, the humor in your eyes tangled up with something more hesitant. “We don’t have a lot of time,” you said quietly.
“That’s never stopped me,” Cate said. “You gonna let me take care of you or are you really gonna keep me wondering what you’ve got going on under there?”
Your breath stuttered. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” you said, echoing Cate’s earlier words.
“Like you said,” Cate murmured, fingers tracing the line of your waistband. “There are worse ways to go.”
Your resolve snapped with visible force. Your hand caught Cate’s wrist, pressing it firmer against the front of your jeans. The heat there made Cate’s mouth flood. There was no mistaking the hardness beneath the denim, thick and heavy, pushing against the zipper.
“Is this what you want?” You asked, voice gone low and harsh.
“Yeah,” Cate whispered, eyes wide. “Yeah, daddy.”
The word slipped out unbidden, instinctive in the fuzzy, overheated state she was in. The second it left her mouth, she stiffened, half in anticipation, half in fear of how it would land.
Your reaction was visceral. Your pupils blew so wide they nearly swallowed the color entirely. Your grip on Cate’s wrist tightened enough to border on painful.
“Fuck,” you breathed. “Say that again.”
Cate’s pulse roared in her ears. “Make me.”
Your breath hissed between your teeth. “You really don’t like making things easy, do you?”
“Nope,” Cate said, grin turning wicked at the edges. “Where’s the fun in that?”
You groaned, shifting your hips forward. Then you pressed in hard enough to flatten Cate more fully against the pillar, pinning her there with the full, hot weight of your body, one hand braced beside her head, the other catching Cate’s wrist and guiding it down to the front of your jeans. “Get your hand in my pants,” you ordered, voice rough. “You wanna see me lose it? You’re gonna help.”
Cate’s fingers fumbled at your fly, clumsy with afterglow and adrenaline. You cursed softly, batting her hand away long enough to pop open the button yourself and drag the zipper down. The fabric parted, revealing the band of your boxers and the suggestion of what lay beneath.
You guided Cate’s hand in, under the waistband, against bare, hot skin. Cate gasped as her fingers brushed the base of your cock, the sudden reality of it making her lightheaded.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “You’re…big.”
“Flattery’ll get you everywhere,” you muttered through gritted teeth. Your own hand stayed on Cate’s wrist, controlling the pace, guiding her. “Wrap your fingers around me.”
Cate did, curling her hand as best she could. She barely got her fingers all the way around, the thickness strained her grip. Your hips jerked forward at the first squeeze, a broken sound ripping from you.
“Jesus,” you rasped. “You’re killing me.”
“Feels like you could kill me with this thing,” Cate whispered, a shaky laugh slipping free.
“Not my style,” you said, voice strangled. “I like my girls breathing. Say it again.”
Cate swallowed, throat dry. “What?”
“You know what.”
Cate squeezed harder, thumb dragging over the head where it leaked precum, smearing slick over the sensitive skin. Your knees almost buckled.
“Fuck, baby,” you groaned. “Say it.”
Cate leaned up, lips brushing the slick line of your throat, her tongue catching on the tendon there. Her hand kept moving, stroking slowly, savoring the way your cock pulsed in her grip, the way every little twist of her wrist got a reaction.
“Daddy,” she whispered into your skin. “You look so good like this.”
Your entire body shuddered. A curse fell out of you, filthy but heartfelt. Your hips bucked into Cate’s hand, rhythm losing its steadiness.
“Jesus Christ,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me cum so fucking fast.”
“Good,” Cate said, emboldened. “I want you to. I want to feel you lose it for me.”
“Shit,” you choked. Your forehead dropped to Cate’s shoulder, breath hot and ragged against her neck. Your hands dug into Cate’s hips hard enough to bruise, anchoring yourself as Cate stroked you, faster now, firmer, finding the cadence that made you whine deep in your chest.
Cate’s own arousal flared back to life, a slow burn under the fading aftershocks. The weight of you in her hand, the way your muscles jumped under your skin, the little helpless sounds you couldn’t swallow back. It all fed something greedy in Cate. It was more than satisfaction. It was the pleasure of discovering she could make you come apart, and the immediate, desperate need to do it again.
“You look so good,” she murmured, lips against your ear. “Getting off in my hand in this filthy little garage. Bet you’ve thought about this, huh? Fucker like you, you must jerk off in here all the time.”
You groaned loudly, half-laughing, half-mortified. “You’re gonna be the end of me, I swear to God.”
“You keep saying that,” Cate taunted. “But you’re still standing.”
“Not for long,” you gritted out. “Fuck. Faster, baby. Just like that.”
Cate obeyed, twisting her wrist, pumping her hand faster. Her palm was slick now, sliding easily. Your hips lost their rhythm entirely, stuttering into her grasp. Your breath came in harsh, broken pants, each one puffing hot against Cate’s neck.
“Where do you want it,” you managed, voice strangled. “Tell me where.”
The question knifed through her. Cate’s body answered before her brain did. “On me,” she breathed. “On my dress. Make a mess.”
You swore with feeling. “You’re fucked up,” you rasped, admiration heavy in your voice.
“Takes one to know one.”
Your whole body went taut, every muscle locking for a split second. Cate felt the tremor before she saw it, the way your cock jerked in her hand, the flood of heat that followed. You came with a strangled groan, biting down on Cate’s shoulder hard enough to make her hiss.
Hot streaks spilled over Cate’s fingers first, slicking her knuckles, then caught on the open waistband of your boxers as your hips stuttered forward. Cate’s hand shifted instinctively, sliding up with the motion, and you jerked once more with a broken groan. The last of it spurted higher, landing on the front of her dress, warm and wet as it soaked into the pretty fabric like evidence.
Cate kept stroking you through it, gentling the motion as you trembled, breath sawing in and out. One of your hands left her hip to slam against the pillar again, steadying yourself.
“Fuck,” you panted. “Fuck, fuck…”
“Language,” Cate whispered back, smug and soft.
You laughed weakly into her skin, the sound breathless and wrecked. “You’re evil,” you exhaled, voice roughened into something fond.
The front of your boxers were a disaster, soaked dark where they showed above your open jeans. Cate’s sundress wasn’t much better. The stain had already begun to seep into the pretty fabric, spreading at the edges in a warm, damning bloom.
“Worth it?” Cate asked, holding up her hand for inspection.
You groaned, tipping your head back as if appealing to whatever god watched over terrible decisions. When your eyes opened again, they fixed on Cate’s messy hand, and you swallowed hard. “Don’t show me that unless you’re planning on letting me lick it off,” you said, voice rough. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
Cate’s breath hitched, the image doing unholy things to her.
Before she could decide if she was brave enough to call that bluff, the distinct rumble of an engine cut through the haze like a warning.
Both your heads snapped up.
Cate heard it first in her bones, that particular uneven idle she’d grown up to, the rattle of her dad’s ancient pickup dragging itself off the street and into the lot, and damn near levitated. Gravel crunched under tires. A horn beeped twice in lazy greeting, as familiar as a knock on her bedroom door.
The sound reached you a beat later. Your whole body went still, desire wiped clean off your face by the kind of dread that came with rent, parole officers, and second chances held together with duct tape. Somewhere behind your eyes, Cate could see the realization land: truck, boots, boss.
“Shit,” you whispered.
Cate slapped a hand over her own mouth, as if she could quiet the guilty flush in her cheeks that way. Her other hand, the one still slick with your cum, hovered awkwardly in the air.
The truck engine cut off outside. A door creaked. Slammed. Heavy boots hit concrete.
For one suspended, stupid heartbeat you just stared at each other, both frozen in the wreckage of what you’d just done. Then panic hit you both in the same second.
“We cannot get caught like this,” Cate hissed, wild-eyed and breathing hard.
Your brain finally caught up. Eric Dunlap. The guy who’d given you the job and, by extension, your last shot at not screwing up your entire life. Your face went pale beneath the grease. “Fuck me.”
“You just had your chance,” Cate snapped, half-hysterical.
You had thirty seconds. Maybe.
You moved first. You grabbed the hem of your boxers and jeans, yanking everything up in one harsh drag. The hiss you let out when fabric smeared over oversensitive skin was almost a whimper. Your fingers fumbled with the button, slick and shaking.
Cate’s brain sprinted to exactly one conclusion: hide the evidence.
Cate looked down at herself and nearly laughed. The front of her sundress was ruined, a wet patch blooming dark over the fabric. Her thighs were sticky. Her hand looked like she’d just dipped it in something indecent. Her thighs still trembled. There was no universe where she could walk across the garage like this and have her father chalk it up to a heatwave.
“Rag,” she hissed. “Where’s a rag—”
You jerked your head at the bench. “Red one, left side.”
Cate lunged, nearly tripping over a rolling stool. She grabbed the rag and focused on her hand first, wiping furiously. It only half-worked. The fabric spread more than it erased, leaving her palm still damp, now perfumed with engine grease over the faint musk of sex.
“Fuck,” she muttered.
You made a strangled sound that might have been agreement, might have been panic, and finally managed to shove yourself back into your jeans. The button fought you for one humiliating second before it snapped into place. Your zipper came next, dragged up too fast, teeth catching once before you forced it.
Then your eyes dropped to Cate’s hand.
“Give me that,” you rasped.
Cate barely had time to loosen her grip before you took the rag from her and swiped it across the front of your own pants in frantic motions. The wet patch across your boxers had already seeped through the denim. No way was that passing for sweat.
“Okay,” you muttered, a little too loudly. “Okay, okay, okay. Maybe if—”
The idea hit you both at the same time.
Grease.
Cate stared at the rag, then at the stain on her dress, then at your zipper. “You’re not serious,” she said.
You were already smearing. “You got a better plan, princess?”
You pressed the heel of your hand into your own thigh, grinding dark fingerprints into the denim above and around the damp patch. It wasn’t perfect, but between sweat, cum and grease, it read more “I wiped my hands on my jeans like an animal” than “I just got jerked off against a pillar.”
“Come here,” you hissed.
Cate barely had time to squeak before you caught her by the hip and dragged her in, pressing the filthy rag into the wetness on her dress. You rubbed hard, blending the darker stain into wider, more ambiguous smudges.
“You’re ruining my dress,” Cate gritted out between clenched teeth, her whisper so exaggeratedly furious it would’ve been convincing if she weren’t still flushed and trembling.
“Actually, I’m saving your ass,” you shot back. “Turn.”
You manhandled Cate by the waist, dragging the rag across the back of her skirt in a few strategic streaks. It looked ridiculous. It also looked like she’d leaned against a car and lost.
Out front, the bell over the customer entrance jingled. The side door hinges shrieked open, a sound Cate had heard a thousand times.
Cate’s heart did a full somersault.
You looked at the closed bay door and swore under your breath. “Shit. He’ll think I’m napping in here.” You slapped the button. The metal gate rattled up just enough to make it look intentional rather than incriminating, stopping halfway with a groan. Outside, the blue pickup sat crooked in its usual spot.
For half a second, you stared at it like the truck itself had come to collect your soul. Then you turned back to Cate, and whatever color was left in your face drained out.
“You, uh…you look like…” you said.
Cate yanked her phone out of her bag, flipping to the front camera. One look made her wince. Hair skewed, lipstick smeared to hell, pupils looking like she’d just seen God and liked what she saw.
“Oh, great, I look freshly fucked,” she muttered.
“Hot,” you said, then winced like you’d heard yourself be useless in real time. “For me, anyway.” Your eyes darted toward the bay door. “But maybe not for Dunlap.”
Cate snatched the rag from you and found the cleanest corner by instinct, blotting carefully at her mouth instead of scrubbing, redistributing pigment into something less obviously post-orgasmic. The lipstick came away uneven, leaving her lips softer, less devoured-looking, though still swollen enough to incriminate her. Her pupils were still blown, but there was nothing she could do about that short of sticking her head in the parts washer.
You reached out impulsively and straightened the fallen strap of her dress, fingers brushing the warm curve of Cate’s shoulder. “There,” you said, softer. “You look…fine.”
Cate snorted, sarcastic. “You have no idea how reassuring that is, coming from you.”
You, who could still feel your own heartbeat in places it had no business being, forced yourself to move. You grabbed the nearest wrench, some random size that matched absolutely nothing you’d been working on, and planted yourself next to the lifted car.
Deep breath. Shoulders back.
You rolled your neck, popped a new toothpick between your teeth, and tried to remember how to be the cool, lazy mechanic who’d been here for all of two weeks and desperately needed this job.
Then you looked at Cate.
Cate, still too close. Cate, flushed and bright-eyed, sundress strap barely fixed, standing in the middle of the bay like the prettiest piece of evidence anyone had ever left at a crime scene.
Your grip tightened around the wrench. “You should…go stand over there or something,” you said, jerking your chin toward the far side of the shop, away from you. “Look like you just got here.”
“I did just get here,” Cate said primly. “Sort of.”
“You know what I mean.”
Cate scooped up her purse, fingers still slightly tacky even after the rag, and sashayed toward the far workbench. She prayed no one would notice her legs were still a little shaky. She leaned a hip against the bench and picked up a random part, turning it over like it was fascinating.
Her heart thudded. Her cunt ached, pleasantly sore. She could still feel the ghost of your fingers inside her when she shifted her weight.
Across the bay, you gave her one frantic look that said, Please act normal.
Cate lifted the random metal piece a little higher and widened her eyes at it, as if she had developed a sudden, scholarly interest in whatever the hell it was.
Eric called out your name, cheerful and unaware. “You in here or did the heat finally finish the job the state started?”
You rolled your eyes reflexively, then caught yourself and pasted on something resembling respect. “In here,” you called back. Your voice only cracked slightly. Not bad.
For one glorious, delusional second, you thought you might actually pull this off.
Then the office door banged open.
Eric strode into the bay in his standard uniform: oil-stained coveralls half-zipped, t-shirt underneath that said EAT MY DUST in cracked white letters. His hair, grayer at the temples every year, stuck up at odd angles like he’d been running his hands through it for the last hour. The man was a walking laundry disaster.
Eric saw you first, naturally. You were front and center, wrench in hand, tank clinging, tattoos on display. If you were still flushed, he didn’t comment on it. His gaze flicked down once, taking in the smears of grease on your jeans, then moved on. Probably exactly what you’d both hoped for.
He made it three more steps before the heat hit him properly, his face creasing as he squinted toward the open garage door, then back at the button on the wall like it had personally betrayed him.
“What’d I tell you about closing the door?” He grumbled. “Feels like Satan’s asscrack in here as it is.”
You lifted the wrench, trying to make it look like you’d been using it this whole time. “Had the intake open,” you said, nodding toward the car. “Didn’t want dust getting all up in the lady’s guts.”
Eric paused, blinked, then nodded, conceding the point.
Behind him, a younger guy stepped in, still chewing the last of a burger, brown hair sticking up in sweat-curled tufts. Caleb, you remembered from half-heard conversations: helped out around the shop sometimes, took classes, rolled his eyes a lot.
“You trying to cook her in here or what?” Caleb asked, sweeping a look around the bay. “It’s like ninety.”
Eric shot him a look. “She had the intake open, genius. You want road dust in Mrs. Alvarez’s engine because you’re delicate?”
Caleb lifted both hands, burger still pinched in one of them. “I’m just saying, my organs are boiling.”
“Then take your organs to the office,” Eric said. “Door stays down until she’s done.”
You kept your jaw loose, fingers relaxed on the wrench even as every nerve in your body screamed. You could feel the damp patch cooling inside her jeans. Could feel the faint pull of your fly against barely contained thickness. Could feel, like a phantom, the press of Cate’s hand.
Eric wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Parts show up?”
“Yeah,” you said, proud that your voice mostly cooperated. “Box in the corner. Intake’s half on. Another hour and she’ll be purring.”
Eric nodded. “Atta girl.” He shuffled the rag in his hand, then looked around again. “We get any walk-ins while I was gone?”
You felt Cate’s presence like a knife between your shoulder blades.
“Uh, yeah,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed on Eric’s face, determined not to let your gaze skate traitorously toward Cate. The grease smears on your own jeans felt like neon signs. “You got…someone waiting.”
Eric huffed, already sounding resigned. “What’d you do, leave your number on an invoice?”
Your mouth twitched before you could stop it. “Not this time.”
“Mhm.”
“What? I’m growing as a person.” You rolled the toothpick from one side of your mouth to the other, still not looking at Cate. “Blonde. Pretty. Said she was here to see you.”
From her corner, Cate sank her teeth into the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Her heart still hammered, but the edges of her fear had gone fizzy with adrenaline.
Caleb perked up instantly. “Where?” His gaze started darting around like a golden retriever’s. “You holding out on us already, new girl?”
You didn’t look at the far bench. Didn’t look at the smears on Cate’s dress. Didn’t look at the way your hands probably still had grease in every line.
“Back there somewhere,” you said instead, jerking your chin toward the shadows.
Eric sighed like a man deeply wronged by fate. “Unless the shop fairy turned into a swimsuit model while I was gone, I’m guessing that’s just—”
“Hi, daddy!”
Cate’s voice cut through the air like a bell, bright and sugar-sweet, ricocheting off metal and concrete.
You flinched on reflex. Everything in you snapped to attention. The word hit the same place it had ten minutes ago, hot and low and Pavlovian, and you whipped around so fast the wrench nearly slipped from your hand.
You froze halfway through the turn.
Because Cate wasn’t looking at you.
Cate was halfway across the bay already, dress swinging, purse bouncing against her hip. She went straight past you, straight past the car, straight into Eric’s arms.
He caught her without missing a beat, laughing as she looped her arms around his neck like she’d been doing it since she could walk, body pressing into the front of his filthy coveralls with zero concern for her clothes.
“Hey, darlin’,” he said into her hair, voice turned warm and mushy in a way you’d never heard. “You’re gonna break my back one of these days.”
“You’re strong, you’ll survive,” Cate said, grinning, nose pressed into his shoulder.
You watched everything unfold and had the horrifying thought that Cate probably still smelled like the sex you’d barely managed to wipe off her skin. Close up, tucked against Eric’s chest like that, there was no way to know what he might catch.
Eric set Cate back on her feet, keeping a hand on her shoulder like he didn’t quite trust gravity not to steal her away. “What’re you doing down here, kiddo?” he asked. “Thought you were gonna study. Or whatever it is you pretend to do at that fancy school.”
“Thought you might want these before you tried to read another invoice by threatening it,” Cate said brightly, producing his reading glasses from her purse.
Eric squinted at her, then at the glasses. “Knew I left those somewhere.”
“Kitchen counter,” Cate said. “Right next to the coffee you also forgot.”
Caleb snorted behind him, the laugh escaping around the last bite of his burger. Eric shot a warning look over his shoulder. “You keep chewing.”
“I am chewing,” Caleb said, muffled and innocent.
Eric grunted, already sliding the glasses onto the top of his head instead of his face. Cate opened her mouth to comment on that too, but Caleb was faster. The second Eric set her back on her feet, Caleb swooped in from the side and hooked an arm around her shoulders, dragging her into a sloppy half-hug that nearly knocked her purse off her arm.
“Careful, Catie,” he said, squeezing her obnoxiously. “You walk in here lookin’ like that and someone’s gonna blow a gasket.”
Your grip tightened around the wrench so fast your knuckles ached. For one insane second, you thought he knew. Thought Caleb had somehow looked at Cate’s messy hair, her swollen mouth, the careful angle of her body and seen the whole thing written there in neon. Then Caleb grinned, entirely too pleased with himself, and you realized he was just being an annoying little brother.
“Hi to you too,” Cate said dryly, elbowing him. “Did you bring me fries or are you useless as always?”
“No fries for traitors.”
“I drove all the way here to keep our father literate.”
“That’s like, bare minimum daughter behavior.”
They fell into sibling bickering like muscle memory, easy and sharp and affectionate beneath the insults. Eric watched them with the long-suffering fondness of a man who had built an entire life out of pretending not to enjoy this.
You stood rooted to the spot, wrench heavy in your hand, brain quietly catching fire.
You gotta be fucking kidding me, you thought, and somehow managed not to say it out loud.
Cate. Catie. Eric. Caleb. The names pinged around in your head like loose bolts.
You remembered Eric mentioning his kids once, almost offhand, somewhere between bitching about tuition, car insurance, and the way teenagers apparently treated brake pads like a renewable resource. You also remembered the old family photo in the office, half-hidden behind a stack of invoices when you’d signed your hiring paperwork: Eric younger and less gray, one arm around a boy with Caleb’s grin, the other around a blonde girl with bright eyes and a smile already sharp enough to get her out of trouble.
You looked at Cate again, watching all of it unfold like someone had dropped you into a movie halfway through and forgotten to give you a script. At the way Caleb still had her hooked under one arm, at the casual way she stole the rag from Eric’s hand and used it to wipe a smear of ketchup off Caleb’s chin, ignoring his immediate protest. At the way Eric watched her do it with fond exasperation, like this was an old ritual and not the most devastating reveal of your adult life.
Cate felt you watching. Of course she did. She could feel you like a magnet in the back of her skull, heat and panic and something else prickling along her spine. She let herself enjoy it for two whole seconds before she glanced over Caleb's shoulder while Eric was busy settling his glasses onto his face, and finally, deliberately, met your eyes.
You looked, briefly, like you might drop dead on the spot.
Cate’s mouth curved. She didn’t wink. That would have been too much, too obvious. Instead, she let her expression go sweet and contrite, all wide eyes and soft cheeks, and silently shaped one word at you across the bay.
Oops.
You felt your stomach drop, your blood go cold and hot at the same time.
Eric, oblivious, followed the line of Cate’s gaze. “Oh hey,” he said, brightening, hand still resting proud on his daughter’s shoulder. “You two met already, huh?”
Cate turned, all sugar and innocence, leaning lightly into his side. The grease smear on her sundress looked exactly like she’d brushed up against a fender. Only you knew better.
“We’ve been talking,” she said sweetly. “She was keeping me company while I waited. She’s very…attentive.”
You tried not to choke. Caleb’s eyebrows shot up. Eric just nodded, pleased.
“Good, good,” he said. “She’s the best thing that’s happened to this place since air tools. Knows her way around an engine better than most of the clowns that apply here. And she works, too. None of that phone bullshit.” He gave you an approving jerk of his chin. “You keep that up, we’re gonna make a decent mechanic outta you yet.”
You managed a sound that might, in generous light, be mistaken for a laugh. “Yessir,” you said. Your voice came out a touch higher than usual. “Just, uh. Doing my job.”
Cate’s eyes danced. “She’s very committed to it,” she said, voice bright with manufactured innocence. “You’re in good hands, daddy.”
Your fingers spasmed around the wrench. The urge to sink through the concrete or spontaneously combust was almost overwhelming. Either would be fine.
Cate stepped sideways, brushing past you on her way out. The proximity was deliberate, just close enough that your arms almost touched. The faint scent of her perfume hit you again, floral and bright over sweat and grease. It made the aftershocks in your body flare.
As she passed, Cate let her fingers twitch once, barely grazing the back of your hand where it hung at your side. Too light for anyone else to see. Heavy as a promise.
Her voice was quiet, meant for you alone. “See you around.”
You didn’t trust yourself to answer. Instead, you smiled weakly and decided, very clearly and very specifically, that you were absolutely, totally, cosmically fucked.
For three days, you saw her everywhere.
Not literally, which was somehow worse. There was no Cate leaning against the office door, no Cate perched on the front counter, no Cate wandering into the bay with those kissable lips and dangerous eyes and the kind of dress that made workplace safety feel like a myth invented by the involuntarily celibate. There was only the absence of her, which you discovered was its own form of haunting.
You found yourself looking up every time the bell over the front door jingled. Found yourself wiping your hands twice before stepping into the office, like Cate might be there and you might need to look less like a walking oil spill. Found yourself listening for a voice you had no business wanting to hear again.
Which was stupid.
Dangerously stupid.
The garage taught you to hear things before they became problems.
The hiccup in a starter. The thin, bright scrape of a belt about to go. The wrong rattle under the hood of Mrs. Kline’s Chevy that wasn’t the muffler no matter how many times Mrs. Kline insisted her cousin knew a muffler sound when he heard one. You’d always been good at listening to machines, probably because machines never pretended to be anything but fucked until fixed. They complained honestly. They leaked where they were hurt. They didn’t walk into your workplace in a little pink dress, let you put your fingers inside them, make you cum in your own jeans, and then reveal they were your boss’s daughter with a smile sweet enough to commit fraud.
Machines were civilized.
People were a dumpster fire with legs.
For three days after the Cate Dunlap incidentTM, you existed in a state of mechanical hypervigilance that bordered on religious punishment. You worked. You worked well. Better than well, actually, because panic did excellent things for productivity when it had nowhere else to go. You changed oil, bled brakes, installed an alternator, cleaned a carburetor until it shone like something that had confessed its sins, and replaced a belt on an old Tacoma while thinking very hard about not thinking about Cate’s thighs bracketing your hand.
It didn’t work.
Everything turned into her. The smear of pink chalk Caleb used to mark a tire rotation became the color of her dress. The cherry scent of the cheap air fresheners by the counter became the soft, bright perfume that had clung to Cate’s neck. The snap of latex gloves reminded you of Cate’s mouth pulling off yours, breathless and bruised. The word daddy became an active threat. Eric said it once in passing, something about a customer telling her kid to “ask daddy which tires he wanted,” and you dropped a socket straight into an oil drain pan.
“You good?” Caleb had asked, leaning around the side of the Civic you’d been under, eyebrows raised.
“Livin’ the dream,” you muttered, fishing blindly through warm oil for the lost socket. “The dream has sludge in it.”
Caleb snorted and disappeared again.
He was too perceptive. That was the problem with younger brothers, you thought bitterly. Caleb was observant enough to notice, annoying enough to say something, and blessed with the exact sibling-born talent of standing precisely where you didn’t want him.
Eric, somehow, noticed nothing.
Or maybe he noticed only in the broad, fatherly way that men like him noticed things: you were working hard, eating badly, drinking too much coffee, and keeping your nose clean. Good enough. He clapped you on the shoulder twice since and told you that you were “settling in,” which made you feel like a criminal being praised for hiding the body properly.
By the fourth day, you’d started flinching at every bell.
The customer entrance jingled and your whole spine went rigid. Delivery driver. The side door opened and you nearly brained herself on a chassis. Caleb. The office phone rang and you glanced toward the front like Cate might materialize through the receiver, voice pitched soft enough to ruin you from three rooms away.
“She’s got you jumpy,” Caleb said that afternoon.
You went still, elbow-deep in the engine bay of a dented Subaru. “Who?”
Caleb leaned against the tool chest with the hateful leisure of someone born into his place in the world. He had a soda in one hand and a rag in the other, neither being used for their intended purpose. “Didn’t say a name.”
“Then you’re talking to yourself.” You ducked back under the hood. “Which checks out.”
“Mhm.” Caleb slurped his soda. “You know, Cate does that.”
Your wrench slipped.
Your knuckles hit something metal, pain sparking hot across your hand. “Fuck.”
Caleb grinned. “That.”
“Your sister makes people hurt themselves?”
“My sister makes people act like they’ve never seen a woman before. You’re doing the thing.”
You straightened slowly, flexing your injured hand. The bandage from the other day was gone, replaced by a fresh scrape across the same two knuckles. Very poetic. Very stupid. “Your sister dropped by once.”
“Yeah, and now you look at the door like it owes you money.”
You stared him down. Caleb stared back, cheerfully unbothered.
“I’m observant,” he said.
“You’re unemployed with a hobby.”
“I work here.”
“You hover here.”
He shrugged. “I’m family. Hovering is in the benefits package.”
You wiped your hands on a rag, resisting the urge to throw it at him. “Don’t you have a fuel filter to misplace?”
“Already did.” Caleb pushed off the tool chest and started backward toward the office, walking with the loose, obnoxious confidence of someone who had been loved too openly to fear consequences. “Anyway. Cate’s got class today. Long day. So you can stop looking like you’re gonna be jumped at any minute.”
You hated the relief that moved through you. Hated it more than anything else that week.
“Wasn’t worried,” you called after him.
Caleb laughed. “Sure, buddy.”
By Friday, you had almost convinced yourself it was over.
The logic was solid enough if you didn’t think about it too hard. Cate was your boss’s daughter. Beautiful, spoiled, reckless, obviously used to getting exactly what she wanted and bored once she had it. You were a new hire with a record, one bad reference away from being unemployable somewhere that wasn’t night shift warehouse work or a kitchen with questionable ventilation. Cate had gotten the thrill of the dirty mechanic in the family garage. You’d gotten the kind of orgasm that made you nearly rethink the concept of God. You’d both survived. Great. Done. Put a bow on it, throw it in the dumpster, set the dumpster on fire, deny everything under oath.
The bell over the customer door stayed quiet all morning. Eric and Caleb were both in and out, orbiting around a nightmare of a Ford F-150 whose owner had apparently believed oil was optional if you had enough confidence. Around noon, Caleb came in from the office saying something about a stranded Jeep across town. Eric grumbled for all of three seconds before grabbing his keys, because he couldn’t hear the words won’t start without developing some sort of moral obligation.
“Consider this an educational field trip,” Eric had said, as he led Caleb out to the truck.
Caleb had groaned. “I literally work here.”
“Then start acting like the gene pool gave you tools.”
The garage settled.
No Eric booming from the office. No Caleb making commentary like a Greek chorus with a learner’s permit. No customers in the waiting area, no voices drifting from the front, no familiar truck rattling in the lot. Just you, the radio mumbling through static, and the mid-July heat pressing against the bay doors.
You’d been left alone with a ’69 Camaro the color of black coffee, its driver’s side door open, its dash half-gutted beneath the shop lights, and the blessed chance to work without anyone talking at you.
The car had come in smelling like cigarettes, sun-baked leather, and somebody’s second divorce. You had one boot planted on the concrete, the rest of your body folded awkwardly inside as you wrestled with the wiring behind the dash.
Your cap was backward again, curls damp at your temples, tank top stuck to the hollow of her spine. Sweat gathered beneath the band of your sports bra and slid down your ribs in slow, irritating lines, arms already streaked with grease.
You’d just found the bad connection when the bell jingled.
Your whole body reacted before your brain gave it permission. Your wrist jerked, the back of your hand smacking the underside of the dash.
“Fuck,” you hissed, ducking your head out of the footwell.
The bell’s echo faded through the empty front office.
You stayed still, half in the car, listening.
Heels on concrete.
Not heavy. Not a work boot. A click, then another, measured and light.
Your stomach dropped.
No. Absolutely not. The universe had standards. Surely.
The footsteps paused near the office, then drifted into the bay like they owned the place. You slowly turned your head.
Cate stood in the mouth of the garage wearing a white sundress and sunglasses, looking like a pristine thing delivered by mistake to a filthy world.
This dress was worse than the pink one, because it looked innocent from far away and criminal up close. It was one of those soft little things with buttons down the front and a skirt that moved around her thighs when she walked. Her hair was loose over her shoulders in soft blonde waves that caught the light, as if she hadn’t spent any time making it look exactly that way. Her sandals were glossy red. Her mouth matched them. In one hand she held a cardboard drink carrier with two iced coffees sweating through their cups. In the other, a small paper bag folded at the top.
You stared.
Cate pushed the sunglasses up into her hair and smiled. “Hi.”
Your first thought was not remotely safe for work.
Your second was: I need to leave the state.
Your third, arriving with terrible clarity, was: She planned this.
The garage had gone too quiet. You slid out of the Camaro with as much dignity as one could manage while sweaty, greasy, and actively trying not to look at the way sunlight moved through cotton when Cate took three steps forward.
You dragged your eyes back to the Camaro with all the strength of a woman attempting emergency re-entry into civilized society. “No.”
Cate’s heels gave a light tap against the concrete as she stepped into the bay. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“You didn’t need to.” You ducked back into the driver’s side doorway, one boot planted on the concrete, the rest of you angled awkwardly inside as you reached beneath the dash. You fit the wire strippers around absolutely nothing useful with much more aggression than the wiring deserved. “Whatever you’re about to do, no.”
A pause, delicate and put-on. “I brought you coffee.”
“Weaponized coffee.”
“And food.”
“Bribery.”
Cate gave a soft, affronted exhale. You could hear the smile inside it, that pleased little curl of amusement you’d already learned was dangerous. “I didn’t realize it was illegal to be thoughtful.”
“It’s illegal for you to be in here when your dad’s not around.”
“Technically, I think it would be weirder if he were around.”
You barked a laugh before you could stop yourself, then immediately regretted rewarding her. The wire strippers clicked once, twice, and slipped because your hand had gotten slick against the grip. You straightened with a sharp sigh, braced one hand on the Camaro’s roof, and turned around.
That was your second mistake. The first had been letting Cate touch you at all.
Cate had placed the drinks and the paper bag on the cleanest corner of the workbench, apparently finding this small act domestic enough to be pleased by it. Up close, she looked cool and expensive and utterly wrong against the stained concrete and tool carts, which meant she looked exactly right for the specific kind of ruin your self-control seemed determined to pursue.
You tightened your jaw. “Your dad’s gonna be gone for at least an hour.”
Cate tipped her head. “Is he?”
Her expression didn’t change fast enough.
There it was. A tiny flash. Satisfaction, bright as a match behind her eyes.
You stared at her.
Of course Cate knew. Of course she’d known before she ever stepped through the door, probably before she’d picked the dress, probably before she’d ordered two iced coffees and packed the little paper bag like a prop in a very horny sting operation.
“Right,” you said flatly. “So obviously this is premeditated.”
Cate’s mouth dropped open, one hand lifting to her chest like you’d just accused her of armed robbery, blue eyes going wide with theatrical offense. “Premeditated?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you wandered into your father’s garage at the exact moment he and your brother are out chasing some mystery tow because you suddenly developed an intense interest in dashboard wiring.”
“Maybe I missed you.”
The sentence was soft enough that it scraped you in an entirely different place than Cate’s usual teasing. Your grip tightened around the rag hanging from your pocket. You wiped it over your hands because you needed them occupied, needed something between yourself and the memory of your hands gripping Cate’s hips against a concrete pillar.
“You met me once,” you said.
Cate’s smile turned just a little less playful. “It was a very memorable once.”
Your cock gave an inconvenient pulse inside your jeans. You looked away quickly, scanning the Camaro’s open door, the gutted dash, the dark footwell, as if any of them might hand her a usable exit strategy.
Five days. It had been five days since she’d found out the pretty stranger who had been moaning her name in Bay Three was Eric Dunlap’s daughter. Five days of showing up early, putting her head down, working like a machine, and avoiding every thought that began with Cate’s mouth or ended with the breathy, devastating way she’d said daddy before turning around and revealing an entirely different daddy had just walked through the door.
Eric had been decent to you. More than decent. He’d looked at the felony on your application, looked at the ugly, empty years behind it, and asked whether you could rebuild a transmission. When you’d said yes, he’d pushed a tool cart your way and told you not to make him regret it.
You needed this job. Needed the paychecks, needed the clean routine, needed someone on the outside willing to believe you could be more than a charge sheet and a parole officer’s appointment calendar. Fucking the boss’s daughter in his own shop was not how a woman safeguarded a second chance.
Even when the boss’s daughter was standing three feet away looking like every bad choice you’d ever wanted to make had been distilled into perfume and bare legs.
“You can’t miss me,” you said, voice flatter than it felt. “You don’t even know me.”
Cate’s expression flickered. Not wounded, exactly. More like interested in the bruise beneath the words. She took one slow step closer. “Then let me.”
You laughed once, without humor. “This isn’t a date, Cate.”
“It could be.”
“Here?”
“You have a coffee. I have a coffee. You’re avoiding my eyes because you’re thinking about me naked. That’s already better than most dates I’ve been on.”
This time you couldn’t help it. You looked.
Cate rewarded you with the faintest lift of her chin, the movement elegant and shameless. Her dress floated around her legs when the box fan swung in your direction, cooling nothing, only carrying the scent of her deeper into the bay. Vanilla and something floral, mingled with shop heat and motor oil.
“Jesus Christ,” you said quietly.
“I remembered your order.”
You stared at the iced coffee, condensation dripping down the cup. “You don’t know my order.”
“Black with an extra shot.”
You scoffed. “That’s not an order. That’s what everyone thinks mechanics drink in porn.”
Cate laughed, genuinely this time, a bright little sound that seemed absurd in the hot, hollow garage. “Fine. I guessed. Was I wrong?”
You looked at her for a long second, then crossed the distance to the workbench and snatched the coffee. You took a sip through the straw, refusing to make eye contact as the cold bitterness hit your tongue.
Cate watched you expectantly.
“It’s fine,” you said.
“Mm. Rave review.”
“Don’t get smug. You haven’t earned smug.”
Cate glanced meaningfully at the lower half of your body, then raised her eyes again. “I thought I made a fairly strong case for it last time.”
You nearly inhaled coffee into your lungs. You coughed, turning away, one palm braced on the Camaro’s roof.
“Nope,” you said when you could breathe again. “No. We’re not talking about last time.”
“That’s unfortunate. I’ve thought about it quite a lot.”
“Cate.”
“Especially your fingers.”
You set the coffee down harder than necessary. The plastic cup rocked, ice clattering inside it.
“Stop.”
Cate did. Immediately.
The little pause that followed changed the air. You felt it before you looked up, the shift from Cate pressing because she liked the game to Cate waiting because she already understood the severity in your voice. Her smile had softened away, her hands folded loosely in front of her sundress, eyes clear and attentive.
You dragged a hand down your face, smearing sweat and a faint stripe of grease along your temple. “I’m not saying I don’t want you.”
Cate’s lashes lowered slightly. “I know.”
“That is very much the fucking problem.” You pushed away from the car, restless energy pricking under your skin. You paced once toward the tool chest and back. “Your dad gave me a job. A real one. Do you know how many people looked at me after I got out and saw the word felon before they saw my face?”
Cate didn’t answer. Her posture remained still, but you saw the careful attention in her eyes, the way all of Cate’s bright, provocative movement quieted when something mattered.
“He didn’t,” you continued, hating that the words were already coming out now, too honest and too rough. “He said he didn’t care what I did before as long as I didn’t bring any bullshit into his shop. And then his daughter shows up in a dress with coffee and starts looking at me like…” You broke off, jaw flexing.
“Like what?” Cate asked softly.
Your laugh was a strained thing. “Like I’m something you want to eat alive.”
Cate’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t entirely a joke. “Maybe you are.”
“See?” You gestured at her helplessly. “This. You do this, and I forget that I’m supposed to have a functional survival instinct.”
“Isn’t that the fun of it, though?”
You closed your eyes.
There it was. Sugary and terrible and delivered with that voice, the one that made recklessness sound less like a fatal character flaw and more like a door you simply hadn’t had the nerve to open yet.
“No,” you said, reopening them. “That’s the part where I wind up unemployed and your dad uses a tire iron to introduce me to God.”
“He won’t murder you.” Cate leaned her hip against the fender, crossing one ankle over the other. “He likes you.”
You stared at her. “That makes it worse.”
“Being liked?”
“Being trusted.” Your voice sharpened around the word, and you hated how much it gave away. “There’s a difference.” You swallowed, your tongue clicking against your teeth, mouth suddenly dry. “This is a bad idea.”
“I know.”
“Catastrophically bad.”
“I know.”
“I could lose this job.”
“I know.” Cate stepped close enough that you could see the quick pulse beneath the skin of her throat. There was nothing uncertain in her expression now, no careless little performance, only the bright insistence of a grown woman accustomed to wanting what she wanted and sharp enough to understand the stakes. “I’m not asking you to pretend it’s smart. I’m asking whether you want me enough to do something stupid.”
You stared down at her. The fan shuddered in the corner. Somewhere outside, a delivery truck groaned through the intersection, brakes squealing in the heat. The radio slid from one old rock song into another, guitar filling the silence between you.
You laughed under your breath, disbelieving. “You are unbelievable.”
“Sometimes.” Cate’s fingers skimmed the edge of the open car door. “Sometimes I’m very believable.”
“You’re my boss’s daughter.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
“No, don’t stand there saying that like it’s just a fun fact while you’re looking like that.”
Cate glanced down at herself, feigning surprise. “Like what?”
“Like entrapment with lip gloss.”
That startled a real laugh out of her, bright and delighted. It filled the bay, bounced off the Camaro, went straight into your bloodstream like a spark hitting gasoline. Cate covered her mouth for a second, shoulders shaking. The laugh made her younger somehow. Less polished. More dangerous.
Your resolve, already coughing blood in a ditch, made a weak little noise and died.
Cate took the final step between your bodies. Not touching yet. Close enough that you could smell her perfume, something clean and floral over the warm cotton of her dress. Close enough that you could see the faint sheen of sweat at her throat, the little pulse fluttering there like a trapped moth.
“I thought about you,” Cate said softly.
Your hands curled at your sides. “Don’t.”
“I thought about your hands.”
“Cate.”
“And your mouth.” Cate’s gaze dropped there, lingered. “And the way you looked at me when you realized who I was.”
“Like I was seeing my parole officer in hell?”
“Like you wanted me anyway.”
You swallowed. Your mouth was dry. “Wanting isn’t the issue.”
“No?”
“No.” Your voice came out rougher now, dragged over gravel. “Wanting you is apparently the easiest, dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
Cate’s face changed, pleasure blooming high in her cheeks before she tried to hide it. “That’s almost romantic.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s a little romantic.”
“It’s a felony-adjacent HR violation.”
Cate gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “My dad does not have HR.”
“That doesn’t improve my situation.” You backed up a step and hit the Camaro’s doorframe with your hip. Perfect. Great. Nowhere to go but into the car or through Cate, and the second option had already proven to be a career-ending hazard.
Cate noticed. Her eyes flicked to the driver’s seat behind you, then back. A slow thought moved across her face, one you desperately wished you could swat out of the air before it landed.
“No,” you said.
Cate smiled.
“Do not smile at me like that.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re thinking something.”
“I’m always thinking something.”
“I’m serious.” You braced one hand on the roof of the Camaro, the other on the door. “We are not doing this again. Especially not in a customer’s car. That’s insane.”
Cate stepped into your space.
You sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it, because now Cate’s perfume was in your lungs. Cate’s hand lifted, two fingers brushing the chain at your neck where it disappeared beneath the sweaty collar of your tank. The touch was featherlight. It still made you stiffen, every nerve turning toward Cate.
“You’re very dramatic for someone who came on my dress less than a week ago,” Cate said.
“I’m going to die.”
“Not yet.” Cate tugged gently on the chain, not enough to pull, just enough to make your head tilt. “You haven’t even let me kiss you again.”
Your eyes slipped shut like that might save you. “This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.”
“We can’t.”
“We shouldn’t.”
“That is not the same as can’t, and you fucking know it.”
Cate’s smile sharpened, pleased in a way that made your grip tighten on the car door.
You opened your eyes. “You’re evil.”
“I’m bored.”
“That’s worse.”
“I’m bored,” Cate repeated, but the softness under it trembled. “And I keep thinking about how you looked at me like I was the first thing you’d wanted in years.”
Your expression cracked before you could stop it.
Cate saw that too. The tiny wince. The way your throat worked once, hard. The way your fingers flexed on the car roof like you needed something solid beneath your hand.
The air changed. It always did when Cate stopped playing with the pretty knives and reached for the ones under the ribs.
She said your name, quieter.
“Don’t make this sweet,” you muttered. “I can survive horny. Sweet is what gets people in trouble.”
Cate’s lips parted. The want in her face shifted, deepened. “You think this is just horny?”
“I think I’m trying not to ask questions that make me dumber than I already am.”
Cate reached up and touched the grease on your cheek with her thumb, smearing it instead of wiping it away. Her eyes tracked the mark like she’d done it on purpose, like she liked leaving proof. “You aren’t stupid.”
“I’m about to be.”
The corner of Cate’s mouth lifted. “Yeah?”
You should have stepped back. You should have put both hands up, walked into the office, and locked yourself inside until Eric came back to save you from yourself. Instead, you stood there while Cate’s fingers slid from your cheek to your jaw, then down to the front of your tank.
“Last chance,” you said, even though it was a lie and you both knew it.
“For me or you?”
You huffed a laugh, helpless and furious about it. “God, you’re a pain in my ass.”
Cate leaned in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “You noticed.”
You turned your head and caught her mouth.
The kiss lit so fast it felt less like starting and more like something already burning through the floorboards. Cate made a soft, pleased sound and pushed into you, one hand fisting in the front of your tank, the other sliding around the back of your neck. Your hand went to Cate’s waist on instinct, greasy fingers curling over white cotton, and some lucid part of your brain screamed about fingerprints on a sundress before being shoved under by the feel of Cate’s tongue against yours.
She kissed differently this time. Last time there was a spark and panic and you pushing her up against concrete. This time Cate took. Not forcefully. Not clumsy. She kissed like she’d arrived with an agenda and a schedule, like every little tilt of her head had been rehearsed privately and improved in the moment. She nipped at your lower lip, soothed it with her tongue, pulled back just far enough to make you chase.
“Fuck,” you breathed against her.
Cate’s answering smile touched your mouth. “Language.”
Your laugh broke into a groan when Cate’s hand dropped to the front of your jeans. “Do not start with me.”
“I thought I already had.”
You caught her wrist. “Cate.”
Your tone was serious. Cate went still enough to listen, though her fingers stayed curled just above the button of your jeans.
You breathed through your nose, trying to wrestle sense from the molten wreckage of your nervous system. “If you’re doing this because it’s fun to make me squirm, fine. Congratulations. I’m squirming. I’m squirm city. Population: me. But if this is just a game you’re gonna get bored of once I’m fired and living under a bridge, I need you to stop.”
Cate’s smile faltered. Not enough to look guilty, not enough to retreat, but enough that the game slipped sideways for a second. Her eyes stayed on your face, suddenly more careful than teasing.
Then she leaned in and kissed you again, soft this time, maddeningly soft. It was barely more than a press of lips, warm and steady, her body still close enough to make every warning in your head flash red.
“I don’t want to get you fired,” Cate said against your mouth. “I don’t want you living under a bridge.”
“Great. So civic-minded.”
Cate’s fingers tightened in your tank. “And I’m not bored with you.”
You tried not to react. Failed.
It would have been easier if Cate had stayed a game. A beautiful, overly sexual little disaster who liked getting under your skin and under your clothes. It was harder to resist the plain truth in her face, the way her thumb moved once across your knuckles, stroking over the bandage she herself had put there five days earlier.
Cate saw the flicker and pressed closer. “I came here because I wanted to see you.”
You stared at her for half a second before laughter escaped you, disbelieving and breathless. “You are so fucking spoiled.”
Cate’s gaze snapped back to you, pupils widening. “Say that again.”
Your amusement faltered into heat. “Spoiled?”
Cate kissed you before you could sharpen it further. This time, when she pushed, you moved with her. One step back. Then another. Your thighs hit the edge of the driver’s seat, and Cate used the moment, palm flat against your chest, to shove you gently but decisively back into the car.
The Camaro had been babied all morning, polished paint shining under the shop lights, interior cleaned until the old leather gave off a warm, sun-baked smell every time you opened the door. You’d spent half your shift working inside it with reverent patience, careful with the brittle plastic around the dash, careful with the wiring, careful with the kind of vintage car that made grown men use the word original like a prayer.
Now Cate had both hands on your chest and was shoving you backward into the driver’s seat.
You had one passing, doomed thought about Eric’s reaction to discovering grease-stained fingerprints on the upholstery, or worse, fingerprints that were sticky from other fluids.
Then Cate moved in, and the Camaro ceased to be a customer’s car so much as a cramped, leather-lined confession booth with terrible ventilation and no room left for good decisions.
You landed in the seat with a grunt, knees still outside, boots planted on the concrete, torso angled awkwardly because the steering wheel hemmed you in. “Jesus, Cate.”
Cate followed before you could recover. She stepped between your knees, gathered the skirt of her dress in one hand, and climbed into your lap with determined precision. One knee sank into the worn driver’s seat beside your hip, the other bracing near the edge as she straddled you. The car creaked beneath their combined weight. Your hands flew to Cate’s hips automatically, steadying her before your better judgment could get a word in.
“Absolutely not,” you said, breath already uneven. “No. This is not happening. Get down.”
Cate settled her weight over your thighs. “You’re holding me.”
You looked at your own hands like they’d betrayed you entirely. “That’s because I don’t want you falling.”
“How noble.”
“I’m chivalrous as hell.”
Cate’s fingers slid under the brim of your backward cap and tugged it off. Your damp curls sprang loose, unruly from heat and sweat, falling over your forehead as Cate tossed the cap onto the passenger seat.
“There,” Cate whispered, threading her fingers through the mess she’d made. “Much better.”
You lifted your head, eyes dark and mouth already too close. “You come in here just to redecorate me?”
“I came in here to get your hands back under my dress.”
For a second, you just stared at her.
Then your hands moved.
They slid under Cate’s skirt with the kind of helpless, decisive hunger that made Cate’s smile falter into something softer and far less smug. Your palms dragged up the backs of her thighs, rough with calluses, warm from the shop heat, leaving invisible tracks over skin that already felt too sensitive. Cate’s knees tightened around your hips where she straddled you, breath catching as you found the lace at the top of her thighs.
Cate murmured your name.
Your grip tightened. “Don’t say my name like that while you’re sitting on my dick.”
Cate went still for half a breath.
Then she shifted.
It was small. Almost nothing. A delicate roll of her hips that dragged her over the hard length straining against your jeans. Both of you went silent. Your hands flexed on Cate’s thighs, fingers digging into flesh.
Cate’s breath hitched. “You’re hard.”
“I’m aware.”
“Already.”
“You climbed into my lap in a sundress. It’s not a character flaw, it’s math.”
Cate laughed softly and did it again, slower, grinding down with enough pressure to make your head fall back against the seat. The car smelled like old leather and sun-bleached vinyl. The air inside was hotter than the bay, trapped and intimate, Cate’s perfume mixing with dust and gasoline until everything felt dizzy and illicit.
“Cate,” you warned, but you sounded wrecked.
Cate leaned down, lips at your ear. “You told me I could take control this time.”
Your eyes squeezed shut. “I’d say anything with you in my lap.”
“You meant it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Cate sat back enough to look at you. There was something pleased in her face, but under it, a careful question. “Do you still?”
Your hands eased where they held her, thumbs stroking once over her waist before you seemed to realize you were doing it. Your voice dropped. “Yeah.”
The word landed heavy. Simple. No performance to hide behind.
Cate’s expression flickered. For one second, just one, her confidence wavered into something soft and almost startled, as if you agreeing plainly had hit harder than all the filth before it. Then she bent and kissed you again, slower, deeper, claiming gratitude without having to say it.
You let her. Let Cate’s mouth take yours apart. Let Cate press you back into the car, let her fingers card through your hair, let the warm weight of Cate’s body pin you there so completely that there was nowhere for either of you to pretend distance still existed.
When your hands slid higher under her dress again, Cate shivered. Your fingers slipped beneath the edge of her panties and found her already slick.
Your expression changed.
“You’re so wet,” you said, unable to stop yourself, voice huskier now. “All this because you thought you might get me alone?”
Cate’s breath caught as you touched her properly, fingers sliding through heat and then pressing in just enough to make her hips lift. “I knew I would.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Dad’s predictable.” Cate’s hands tightened in your hair, her composure thinning fast as you curled your fingers and found the angle that made her whole body tense. “Caleb’s even easier.”
You stilled just enough to stare at her.
Cate bit down on her lip, trying to look innocent while your hand remained under her dress. She failed spectacularly.
Your eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Cate.”
She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Fine. I might have mentioned that someone outside the campus gym was complaining about needing a tow.”
You stared at her.
Cate’s mouth twitched, breathless and pleased with herself. “Caleb likes rescue missions. And Dad likes proving he can fix anything with an engine and a bad attitude.”
“You engineered a fake emergency?”
“I never said it was fake.” Cate tried to lift her chin, but your fingers shifted and ruined most of the effect.
“You manipulative little menace.”
“You’re welcome.”
You withdrew your hand, and Cate made an outraged sound that nearly made her laugh.
Before Cate could demand anything, you caught her by the hips and shifted her higher in your lap, using the cramped seat and the open driver’s side door to make room where there wasn’t any. The skirt of Cate’s dress rode up around her waist, pale lace bared beneath it, darkened at the center and pulled crooked by your hand.
Cate’s hand slid between your bodies, palm pressing over the hard shape of you through the denim. Your breath caught, hips twitching up despite yourself.
Cate’s smile deepened. “Is this my reward for setting everything up so nicely?”
You looked down at Cate’s hand, then back up at her face, jaw tight and eyes dark enough to make Cate’s pulse jump.
“No.” You hooked your fingers into Cate’s underwear and tugged them down carefully, working them over one thigh, then the other, awkward in the tight space but determined enough to make Cate’s pulse trip. “This is me making an informed series of terrible decisions.”
Cate lifted her hips for you, obedient only because it got her what she wanted. The lace came free after a bit of fumbling, and you shoved it into the pocket of your jeans without thinking.
Cate’s lips curled. “Planning to give those back?”
“Not sure yet.”
“That seems unethical.”
“So is sabotaging your father’s schedule so you can seduce his employee.”
“I didn’t sabotage.” Cate leaned in until her mouth brushed yours. “I facilitated an opportunity.”
Then Cate reached for the front of your jeans.
You grabbed her wrist. “The upholstery.”
Cate blinked at you.
Your face was flushed, mouth swollen, eyes dark. “I’m serious.”
“You’re thinking about upholstery right now?”
“I’m trying to prevent another forensic incident.”
Cate’s lips twitched. “Incident feels dramatic.”
“We’re developing a pattern.”
“That sounds intimate.”
“Sounds expensive.” You glanced toward the dash, then the cracked black seat beneath your bodies. “This is a customer’s car.”
Cate looked around, considering, then reached behind you and plucked an old shop towel from the passenger seat. “There.”
You stared. “You can’t just put a towel down and call it morally solved.”
“Watch me.”
“Cate.”
She laid the towel over your lap with maddening ceremony, smoothing it once over the bulge in your jeans. The touch was light enough to torture. Your hips jerked.
Cate’s eyes lifted. “See? Practical.”
“You are a demon in lip gloss.”
Cate unbuttoned your jeans.
The sound of the zipper inside the hush of the car was obscenely loud. You looked toward the office, panic flashing across your face. Cate caught your chin and turned you back.
“No one’s coming,” Cate said.
“If this goes well, we both are,” you muttered.
Cate’s mouth parted with a laugh, then curved. “You’re deflecting.”
“I’m noticing the empty office, the missing truck, and your suspiciously good timing.” Your eyes narrowed. “You really did plan this.”
“I always come prepared.”
Your mouth opened, ready to let another joke loose.
Cate put a finger against your lips. “Don’t.”
Your lips moved against her fingertip anyway. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say I respect preparedness.”
“No, you weren’t.”
Your eyes flicked down, then back up, bright with the kind of grin you were barely holding in. “I respect follow-through too.”
Cate stared at you for half a second, then laughed under her breath despite herself. “You’re impossible.”
Her hand slipped into your open jeans, under the waistband of your boxers, and whatever smug little follow-up you’d been building toward collapsed into a low, broken sound. Your cock was hot and heavy in Cate’s hand, already slick at the tip, trapped against your stomach until Cate freed you carefully. Your head tipped back against the seatback at an awkward angle, throat exposed, tendons standing out.
Cate stroked you slowly, looking down with undisguised fascination as she freed you fully from your jeans. Your cock settled against your stomach, flushed at the head and already slick.
“I thought about this, too,” Cate confessed, voice soft and indecent.
Your eyes opened, dark and unfocused. “Did you?”
“In my bed. In the shower.” She drew her thumb over the leaking head, collecting precum, and your eyes shut again for one dangerous second. “In my car outside a coffee shop about twenty minutes ago.”
You groaned. “Tell me you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You touch yourself thinking about me?”
Cate’s smile went languid. “I didn’t cum. Thought I should save something for you.”
You made a sound like something inside you had just torn loose.
Cate looked down between you.
The sight hit Cate harder the second time, maybe because she now knew what you looked like when you lost control. You bare in her hand, thick and flushed, obscene and perfect against grease-stained denim and the fabric of Cate’s dress. There was something deeply unfair about how much you fit every kind of want Cate had ever been told to bury. Rough hands, sharp mouth, a body that looked built to work and fight and hold and—most importantly—fuck. A body that, under Cate’s touch, went breathless and obedient in a way that made Cate feel powerful enough to glow.
“You’re so pretty,” Cate said before she could stop herself.
Your laugh came out ragged. “I’m covered in grease.”
“I know.”
“That’s pretty?”
Cate stroked you once, slow from base to tip, watching more precum bead at the head. Your stomach jumped under your tank. “Part of it.”
“Fuck,” you whispered.
Cate’s thighs tightened around you. The sound of that word in your mouth, low and scraped raw, made her feel like someone had lit a match inside her ribs. She gathered her dress higher, exposing her thighs and the slick evidence of exactly how much the grinding had begun to ruin her. Your eyes dropped immediately, helpless.
“You’re staring,” Cate said.
Your tongue moved against your lower lip. “Yeah. I’m suffering.”
“Good.”
“That is such a rich girl thing to say.”
Cate smiled, gathered her dress even higher, and shifted forward until the heat of her pressed against you through open denim and the last scraps of restraint you were both running out of reasons to respect. Your hands snapped to her hips, holding her there.
You grinned despite the ache between your legs. “You think you’ve got me figured out already?”
“I think you’re trying to act cruel while rubbing your cock against me like you can’t stand not being inside.”
The grin vanished.
Cate saw it and brightened with victory.
“You’re such a little shit,” you said, breathless.
“And you’re still not inside me.”
“Wait.” Your voice went sharp enough that Cate stilled instantly. Cate froze, one hand braced on the seat, her body hovering over your lap. The shift was immediate. Teasing gone, eyes searching. You swallowed hard, gaze flicking up to hers. “I mean, not wait wait. Just…” You grimaced, breath still uneven. “I don’t have a condom.”
Cate blinked.
Your jaw tightened. “What?”
“You don’t?”
“I didn’t exactly pack for sex at my job,” you said, voice low and strained. “Because I’m normal.”
Cate stared at you for half a second, then gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “After what happened the last time I was here, that feels less normal and more overly optimistic.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Cate.”
“What?” Cate reached blindly toward the passenger seat for her purse, one knee pressing harder into the leather as she shifted. The movement brought her closer by accident or, knowing Cate, by theater. The low neckline of her dress dipped, her breasts looming dangerously close to your face as she stretched across you.
You went very still.
Cate glanced down at you. “You thought I came all the way down here in this dress with nothing but good intentions and iced coffee?”
“I was hoping to preserve one illusion,” you said, though it came out strangled.
“Relax.” Cate dug through the small leather bag with infuriating calm, pushing aside lip gloss, sunglasses, a compact, her keys. Then she pulled out a foil packet between two manicured fingers and held it up like evidence. “Didn’t I tell you? I always come prepared.”
Cate’s smile lingered as she shifted back just enough to give herself room, the torn wrapper crinkling between her fingers. The joke left your face when Cate reached for you again. Not completely, not enough to erase the crooked edge of your mouth, but enough that your breath changed, hitching as Cate wrapped her fingers around your cock and stroked once, slow, before fitting the condom over the head.
Your hands flexed uselessly on Cate’s thighs. “Jesus.”
“Hold still,” Cate murmured, though her own voice had gone thinner than she meant it to.
“I am holding still.”
“You’re twitching.”
“You’re rolling a condom onto me in a Camaro.”
Cate’s lashes dipped, her smile turning private as she smoothed the latex down with careful fingers, feeling you pulse hot and hard through it. “And you’re being a very good girl while I do it.”
You made a rough, disbelieving sound that collapsed when Cate gave you one last firm stroke, checking the fit with a concentration that made the air feel even hotter. Only then did Cate rise carefully on her knees, bracing one hand on the seat back, the other still wrapped around you. The towel bunched between you. The car gave a faint groan, leather creaking. Your hands slid up under the hem of Cate’s dress to hold her bare hips, and the heat of your palms made Cate’s concentration fracture.
The first press of your cock against her entrance made you both go still.
Cate lowered slowly, jaw going slack as the head pushed into her. The stretch was immediate, bright, almost too much after days of remembering the first time in flashes: your mouth, your fingers, the heavy ache of being opened around you. You made a sound like you’d been punched in the gut, hands tightening hard enough on Cate’s hips that she knew she’d have bruises come morning.
“Easy,” you rasped, though you looked like you were saying it to yourself. “Fuck, Cate, easy.”
Cate’s lashes fluttered. “I’m trying.”
“I know. I know, baby.” Your voice changed, all the sharp edges melting into something rough and steady. “Take your time.”
That didn’t help. That made it worse, actually. Made Cate ache with something that wasn’t strictly physical, because your hands were dirty and trembling, but careful. Because you looked wrecked already and still cared more about whether Cate was in pain.
Cate sank another inch, then another, the stretch filling her until she had to stop, forehead dropping to yours. Your breath tangled. Sweat slid down your temple. Cate could feel every tremor in her thighs, every pulse of you inside her.
“You okay?” You asked, voice tight.
Cate nodded, then shook her head, then laughed once because neither answer was right. “You’re big.”
Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “Yeah, we covered that during the first felony.”
Cate laughed again, softer, and the movement made both of you gasp. Your eyes squeezed shut. Cate steadied herself with one hand on the seat, then lowered the rest of the way until she was seated fully in your lap, you buried inside her, the towel already useless between them.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The garage breathed around you. Radio static. Fan rattle. Distant traffic. The occasional clink from the office. The world had not stopped, which felt rude, because Cate was fairly sure hers had reorganized completely around the pressure inside her.
You opened your eyes.
Your gaze was unfocused at first, then sharpened on Cate’s face. “You look…” You swallowed. “Fuck.”
Cate smiled faintly. “Articulate.”
“I’m using all available processing power not to cum in this customer’s car.”
Cate clenched around you on purpose.
Your head snapped back. “Fuck. You’re evil.”
Your hands tightened on Cate’s hips, holding her still for one more breath before you shifted underneath her. Not hard. Not yet. Just a careful upward roll that made Cate’s fingers dig into your shoulders and her mouth fall open around a sound she didn’t quite let out.
You found the rhythm slowly at first, careful in spite of the recklessness of everything around you two. You wanted to feel Cate adjust, wanted to map what made her tighten, what made her eyes squeeze closed, what made her hand clutch at your arm as if it were the only solid thing in the room.
“You can move more,” Cate whispered, breath breaking at the end when you thrust up again. “I’m not delicate.”
Your gaze flicked to hers. “Never thought you were.”
“Then fuck me like it.”
The plea was perfectly Cate, dressed as a challenge so she didn’t have to admit how badly she wanted to be given something. You felt the understanding click into place, tender beneath the rush of lust.
Your grip shifted, one hand spreading against Cate’s lower back, the other firm on her hip. “Yeah?” you murmured. “That what you want?”
Cate’s chin lifted, stubborn even as her thighs trembled around yours. “Yes.”
Then you moved harder.
Cate slid both hands into your hair and curled her fingers tight, using the grip to steady herself as she met your rhythm.
Slow at first, because she had to learn the angle. One knee pressed into the worn leather beside your hip, the other braced awkwardly near the edge of the seat, the towel bunching between them with every careful shift. Your jeans were peeled open but not enough, rough denim scraping the inside of Cate’s thighs, and the center console crowded your shoulder so tightly that Cate had to tilt herself just right to take you deeper. None of it mattered. Or all of it mattered, each discomfort sharpening the pleasure until there was no clean line between wanting and taking and the hard physical reality of doing this somewhere you absolutely shouldn’t.
You let her set the pace. More than let her. You held Cate’s hips and followed, jaw clenched, breathing through each downward roll like it cost you something. Her muscles shifted under sweat and sunlight when your forearms flexed. Your eyes stayed fixated on Cate’s face, hungry and watchful, tracking every small change, every blink, every breath.
Cate rode you with increasing confidence, slow giving way to deep, deliberate rolls of her hips. Each one dragged you through her in a way that made her fingertips go numb. She’d expected the thrill, the danger, the smug satisfaction of getting you to cave. She hadn’t expected how intimate it would feel to watch you try to survive being wanted.
“Thought you said no,” Cate breathed.
Your laugh broke apart into a groan. “I did.”
“You’re not very good at it.”
“No,” you panted, grip tightening. “Apparently not with you.”
Pleasure curled through Cate’s belly, hot and greedy. She leaned down and kissed you hard, swallowing the next sound out of you. Your hands slid from her hips to her ass, bunching her dress higher, helping her move now. Not taking over, not yet, just guiding when Cate’s rhythm faltered, lifting her enough to make the next drop hit deeper.
Cate gasped into your mouth. “Fuck.”
“There it is,” you murmured. “All that attitude had to run out sometime.”
Cate bit your lip in retaliation.
You groaned. “Okay. Deserved.”
Cate sat back enough to look at you and then changed the angle. Her next downward roll made both of you choke on a sound. The pressure hit deep and bright, dragging a shudder out of Cate’s whole body.
“There?” You asked immediately, voice strained.
Cate nodded, breathless.
Your expression went focused, predatory through the haze. Your hands found the angle again and helped her keep it, guiding Cate down in a rhythm that punched pleasure up through her spine. Cate’s control frayed fast. She still rode you, still set the pace, but you were there under her, steadying, calibrating, learning her too quickly.
“God,” Cate whispered. “You’re so—”
“What?” You rasped, chest burning. “Say it.”
Cate’s breath hitched. She hadn’t known what she’d meant to say until you asked for it. “Good,” she managed. “You’re so good.”
Your face changed.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just a fracture, a split-second crack in the filthy confidence where something softer flared, startled and vulnerable. Cate felt it more than saw it, the way your whole body responded, your grip tightening, your cock twitching inside her.
“That’s cheating,” you said roughly.
Cate smiled, dazed. “Praise?”
“From you?” Your laugh was almost a gasp. “Yeah.”
Cate bent and pressed her mouth to your jaw. “Good,” she whispered there too, because now she knew. “You’re good.”
“Fuck.” Your hips jerked upward, your first real loss of control, and Cate cried out, hand slapping against the roof of the car. “Sorry, shit, sorry.”
“No.” Cate grabbed your face and made you look at her. “Do it again.”
Your pupils blew wide.
“Spoiled,” you breathed, but there was awe in it, hunger and surrender tangled tight.
Cate lowered herself further and you thrust up to meet her.
The sound that came out of Cate was too loud. Your hand flew to the back of her neck, dragging her into a kiss to muffle the next one. It turned messy, all teeth and breath and saliva. Cate’s hips moved faster now, control turning fluid, instinctive. The car rocked faintly beneath your bodies, springs creaking, the seat complaining in little rhythmic sighs.
Your body was a live wire under her. Every thrust up was restrained but not gentle, careful only because you had to be, because the world was still outside the windshield and Eric could theoretically come back early with Caleb and the wrath of God in a plastic bag. The risk didn’t cool anything. It sharpened it until Cate felt skinned alive by sensation.
You slid her hand between your bodies, fingers finding Cate’s clit where your cock stretched her open. Cate’s cry rose immediately, too sharp for the open bay, and you covered it with your mouth, swallowing the sound while rubbing firm circles in time with each upward thrust.
“Oh my God,” Cate whimpered against your lips. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop, please.”
“Not stopping.” You kissed her jaw, then the damp hollow below her ear, your voice rough enough to scrape. “You feel too fucking good. Got me risking my whole life for this pretty cunt.”
Cate’s legs tightened around her. “It’s worth it.”
“Cocky girl.”
“You’re the one inside me.”
“Yeah.” You gave one hard, grinding thrust and held there, watching Cate’s eyes flutter. “I am.”
Cate clutched at the back of your neck, drawing you closer until your noses brushed, her expression suddenly unguarded in the haze of pleasure. “I knew you’d cave.”
You laughed into her mouth. “Should I be offended?”
“No.” Cate’s voice softened, fragile only at the edges. “I wanted you to.”
That nearly ruined you more completely than any filth Cate could have said. Your hand slowed for half a heartbeat, attention caught by the nakedness of it. Cate wanted you, yes, but she’d also wanted to be wanted enough to override reason, caution, every sensible argument. She’d come to the garage carrying coffee and manipulation in her pocket because she needed proof you hadn’t written your first encounter off as an accident.
You stared at her, breath ragged, thumb still pressed against her clit. “Cate.”
Cate swallowed, eyes flicking over your face. “Don’t make me regret saying that.”
Your chest tightened. The words hit harder than they should have, harder than anything had a right to hit while you were half-trapped in the driver’s seat of a customer’s Camaro with your jeans open and your boss’s daughter in your lap. But there it was anyway, soft and dangerous under all the heat.
“I won’t,” you said, and then moved again, harder, because Cate had asked for stupid and you, apparently, had always been better at stupid than survival.
You fucked Cate harder, the careful rhythm going rough at the edges, every upward thrust driving deep into the wet, tight clutch of her. Cate held on, nails dragging down your chest, hips dropping eagerly to meet you. She was past teasing now, past theatricality, making broken, stifled sounds against your mouth and shoulder as the pressure rose through her.
“You like this,” you murmured, voice ragged. “Using me in your dad’s shop. Climbing on top of me like you own the place.”
“I do,” Cate gasped.
You laughed, dark and breathless. “Yeah, princess, I know.”
Cate clenched hard around you.
Your laugh died. “Fuck.”
The nickname hit Cate somewhere molten. She rode you harder, chasing the deep grind and the pressure against her clit where your bodies met, the drag of denim and cotton and the damp heat between. Your hands shifted under her dress, one gripping her ass, the other sliding around to press at the small of her back, keeping her close.
Cate’s orgasm built differently this time. Not sudden, not sparked by panic, but climbing and climbing with every roll of her hips, every helpless sound you failed to swallow, every moment of eye contact that felt too naked for two people committing something indecent in a Camaro. It made her chest ache. Made her want to laugh or cry or sink her teeth into your shoulder.
You saw it coming before Cate did.
“There,” you whispered. “That’s it. Keep going. Don’t stop.”
Cate’s thighs burned. Her knees ached against the seat. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, made the thin dress cling to her spine. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Her body chased what you promised, and you watched her like every second of it mattered.
“Want you to cum on me,” you said, rough and low. “Want to feel it.”
Cate whimpered.
“Yeah?” Your thumb found her clit again beneath the bunched fabric of her dress, circling with maddening precision. “Come on, baby. You got what you came here for. Take it.”
That broke her.
Cate came with a sharp, bitten cry, folding forward against you as pleasure snapped through her. Her body clenched tight around your cock, hips stuttering, rhythm falling apart. You groaned like it hurt, arm wrapping hard around her waist to keep her steady through it.
For a few seconds Cate couldn’t think. Couldn’t perform. Couldn’t be clever or composed or careful. She was just heat and pulse and your name broken against the side of your neck.
You held her through the whole thing.
And then you started to lose it.
Cate felt the shift underneath her, the tight tremor in your thighs, the way your breath went ragged and shallow. Your hand left Cate’s clit and grabbed at the seat beside you, fingers digging into old leather. Your rhythm broke rougher, every upward thrust driving deep into the wet, tight clutch of Cate’s body as the last waves of her orgasm rolled through her.
Cate convulsed around you again with a cry she couldn’t fully smother. Her back arched, dress pulling tight over her chest as her thighs locked around your hips. The first clench nearly tore your orgasm out of you by force, the second left you breathing in helpless, guttural sounds against Cate’s hair.
You kept moving through it, shorter thrusts now, letting Cate ride the aftershocks while you fought not to spill without asking. Cate’s body shook in your lap, softening and tightening in waves.
“Fuck,” you gasped. “Cate, I’m close.”
Cate lifted her head, dazed, hair stuck to her cheek. “Don’t pull out.”
Your eyes snapped to hers. “What?”
“Want you inside me when you cum.”
The words were soft but clear, reckless as a match dropped into gasoline, even with the latex between you. Maybe because of it. Maybe because the barrier made the request feel less dangerous and somehow more intimate.
Your face twisted. “Jesus Christ.”
Cate rocked down again, slow and cruel, overstimulation sparkling at the edges. “Please.”
Your grip on her waist tightened. “You can’t say please like that. It’s not fair.”
Cate brushed sweaty curls off your forehead, thumb dragging through the grease smudge there. “Cum for me,” she whispered.
You made a ruined sound and thrust up hard enough that Cate had to grab at the headrest to steady herself. The rhythm went frantic for three strokes, maybe four, and then you came with a hoarse groan buried against Cate’s mouth. Heat pulled violently through you, your cock pulsing deep inside Cate as your hands held Cate’s hips pressed tight to your lap. Cate shuddered around you, arms tightening around your shoulders as if she could feel every release through the thin barrier of latex, as if she wanted to keep all of it exactly where you gave it to her.
For several seconds the garage contracted into breath and sweat and the slick, intimate pressure of your bodies still joined. The radio murmured some chorus you couldn’t have identified at gunpoint. The fan turned its useless head toward you, stirring the damp ends of Cate’s hair where they clung to her cheek. The Camaro’s old leather creaked beneath you, a quiet complaint neither of you had the decency to heed.
You stayed slumped in the driver’s seat, one arm locked around Cate’s waist, trying to retrieve your ability to think from wherever Cate had tossed it.
Then Cate gave a small, pleased sigh and stroked one hand lazily through your hair.
“That,” she murmured, “was a much better lunch break than I was expecting.”
You huffed, dazed and wrecked beneath her. “Pretty sure lunch breaks are legally supposed to involve less property damage.”
Cate smiled against your mouth. “You loved it.”
“I did,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
Then you shifted.
A slick warmth slipped between you, smearing down where your bodies were joined as Cate exhaled shakily. She became suddenly, horribly aware of the towel bunched uselessly to one side, your jeans open, the condom still on but doing absolutely nothing about the rest of the mess you’d made together. The seat beneath you was not nearly as protected as either of you’d pretended.
You lifted your head slowly.
Your eyes dropped to the mess.
Silence.
“Fuck,” you said, with flat despair. “We got cum on the upholstery.”
Cate blinked down at the seat, then back at you. “Technically, I don’t think all of that is cum.”
“That does nothing to comfort me.”
“It should. Some of it is just evidence.”
You stared at her.
Cate’s mouth twitched. “Chemistry?”
“Don’t laugh,” you warned.
Cate’s shoulders shook.
“Cate.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re visibly laughing.”
“I’m emotionally processing.”
You looked at the seat, then at Cate, then at the ceiling of the Camaro like divine intervention might descend through the headliner with a steam cleaner. “We really need to stop with the cumstains.”
That was it. Cate broke, laughter spilling out of her, bright and helpless, her face tucked into your neck to muffle it. You groaned, but the sound softened halfway through because Cate was still in your lap, still warm around you, still laughing because the world hadn’t caught you yet.
“This isn’t funny,” you muttered, though your hands had already slid up Cate’s back to hold her.
“It’s a little funny.”
You shifted slightly, and both of you sucked in a breath at the sensitivity. Cate stilled, suddenly softer, fingertips brushing the damp hair at your temple. “We can clean it.”
“Can we?” You asked. “Because I know engines. I don’t know how to remove my own bad decisions from vintage leather.”
Cate grinned. “You’re a mechanic. Improvise.”
“I hate that I’m attracted to you.”
“Do you?”
You stared at her for a long second, then sighed dramatically through your nose. “No.”
The admission landed gently this time. No joke sharp enough to cut it. No immediate retreat. Cate’s smile dimmed into something smaller, warmer. She touched your cheek with the back of her fingers, tracing the grease she’d smeared earlier.
You started to answer, but the office phone rang.
Both of you froze.
It shrilled once, twice, violently ordinary in the overheated shop.
Cate’s eyes widened. You, still buried inside her in the driver’s seat of a customer’s Camaro, felt every drop of blood in your body abandon pleasure and report directly for panic duty.
The answering machine clicked on in the front office.
“Dunlap Motor Works,” Eric’s recorded voice crackled through the shop, tinny and cheerful. “Leave a message and we’ll call you back.”
The beep came.
Then Eric’s real voice followed, somehow even worse. “Stark, you there? Tow was a bust. Kid got it started before we even made it across town, so Caleb and I are heading back. Ten minutes, maybe less. Need you to clear space by bay two before we pull in.”
Cate pressed her lips together.
You stared at her.
For one long, airless second, neither of you moved.
Reality reentered like a brick through a stained-glass window.
Your eyes went wide. “Off. You need to get off.”
Cate nodded quickly, though her body protested the idea with a deep, delicious ache. She lifted herself carefully, biting her lip at the slow slide of you out of her. Your hands stayed at her hips, helping, steadying, even while panic began rebuilding itself in the room.
The second Cate was clear, more warmth slipped down her inner thigh.
You saw it and your brain visibly short-circuited. “Jesus.”
Cate grabbed the towel from your lap and shoved it between her thighs. “Stop looking.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“I was doing great before you weaponized cotton.”
Cate climbed awkwardly out of the Camaro, smoothing her dress down with one hand and holding the towel discreetly with the other. You removed the condom in a frantic little blur, tied it off, then tucked yourself away with fumbling hands, wincing as oversensitivity and panic performed a duet on your nervous system. You wrapped the condom in another shop towel and buried it in the trash under the workbench before grabbing a clean towel from the floorboard and staring at the stain on the seat like it had personally betrayed you.
Cate peered down. “It’s not that bad.”
You looked up at her.
“Okay, it is,” Cate amended. “But in a manageable way.”
“Great. Put that on my tombstone.”
The next several minutes vanished into frantic, silent triage: towel, stain, trash, jeans, dress, breath. Every sound from the street made your shoulders jerk. Every second made Cate’s smile wobble closer to panic.
You’d just managed to scrub the worst of the evidence from the seat when your hand brushed the pocket of your jeans and found lace.
You froze.
Cate, still blotting at her mouth with the least filthy corner of a rag, noticed immediately. “What?”
Very slowly, Cate’s gaze dropped to your pocket.
Her mouth curved. “Were you planning to return my property before my father walks in?”
Your jaw flexed. For one terrible second, you looked like you might actually give them back. Then Caleb laughed somewhere outside, loud enough to slice straight through the bay, and you shoved the lace deeper into your pocket with the grim resolve of a woman choosing crime under pressure.
“Later,” you muttered.
Cate’s smile went dangerous and bright. “Promise?”
You gave her a look that could have stripped paint. “Go stand by the workbench.”
The bell over the front door jingled again.
Your face went blank with horror.
Cate’s mouth opened.
You held up one greasy finger. “Do not,” you whispered, “say oops.”
summary: you've spent years chasing someone who barely sees you while your best friend watches from the shadows, unable to look away. at a team bonfire on a cold october night, the distance between you finally becomes impossible to ignore. when natalie walks away, you realize too late that you've been missing everything that mattered.
warnings: unrequited love, underage drinking, and heartbreak.
note(s): my first scatwinko one-shot, yippee.
day 15/31 of angstober.
The trailer park smelled like someone's dinner cooking—something with too much garlic and not enough care. You'd grown used to it, the way you'd grown used to most things here. The broken welcome sign by the entrance that hung at a thirty-degree angle. The rusted swing set where you and Natalie used to sit until the sun went down. The way your mom's shifts at the diner always seemed to land on nights when you needed someone not to be alone.
Tonight was one of those nights.
"Your mom left you money for dinner?" Natalie asked, already knowing the answer. She stood in your trailer's small kitchenette, the kind of kitchen that felt like a joke—a stove that only had two working burners and cabinets that stuck when you tried to open them. She had a key. She always had a key.
"Leftover pasta in the fridge," you said, settling into the worn velvet armchair that had seen better decades. "But that's boring. I was thinking we could just do whatever."
Nat turned from where she was rifling through your mother's sad collection of snacks, and her expression softened in a way that made your chest feel tight. She was still in her Yellowjackets jacket, hadn't gone home yet. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and there was something about the line of her neck, the slight curve of her shoulders, that made you understand why you kept finding yourself in these moments—alone with her, aware of how alone you were together.
"Movie?" she suggested, already heading toward your room where the ancient television lived.
"Nails first," you countered, surprised by your own boldness. "My mom left nail polish. Like, an entire bag of it. I think she was going through something."
Natalie's eyebrows lifted, but she was already moving, that easy compliance that you'd learned meant she wanted to stay longer. "Yeah? What colors?"
You bounded up, suddenly energized, and grabbed the beat-up Ziploc bag your mom had left on the bathroom sink. It was full of cheap polish—mostly reds and pinks, a few neutrals, one truly tragic shade of orange that looked like it belonged in 1987.
"We're avoiding this one," you announced, dangling the orange like it was toxic waste.
Nat laughed—really laughed, not the polite sort she deployed at school. This was the laugh that came out in your trailer, under the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of someone's television bleeding through the thin walls. This was her real laugh.
You settled cross-legged on your bed while she took the floor, and you started setting up. Your room was small, cramped, but it felt infinite when Natalie was in it. You put on X-Ray Spex, keeping it low so your neighbors wouldn't complain. Poly Styrene's voice filled the trailer, defiant and raw, and it felt exactly right for a Wednesday night in a place like this.
"Oh my God, your mom has taste," Nat said, head tilting toward the speaker.
"She had taste," you corrected, gently. Your mom had lost a lot of things over the years, but she was trying. Most days, she was trying. "Before the diner sucked her soul out."
Natalie settled across from you, feet tucked under her, and grabbed your hand without asking. She'd been doing this since you were kids—taking your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes you wondered if she knew what it did to you, this casual intimacy, this assumption that your skin was something she had access to.
"Identity" played while she painted your nails a deep crimson. Her hand was steady, her movements precise. You'd never noticed before how her tongue poked out slightly when she was concentrating, how her eyes narrowed in that way that made her look fierce.
"Talk to me," she said softly, working on your pinky. "What's going on?"
You watched her instead of answering immediately. Natalie Scatorccio, your best friend since you were seven years old and she'd shared her juice box with you at the trailer park's community center. Natalie, who somehow became even more beautiful as you got older, in a way that felt like a personal cruelty. Natalie, who was painting your nails on a Wednesday night while Poly Styrene demanded identity and you were dying inside asking yourself what yours actually was.
"Jackie asked me to tutor her in biology," you said finally, watching for Nat's reaction.
Her hand stilled for a fraction of a second. Just a fraction. Most people wouldn't have caught it. You weren't most people when it came to Natalie.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. She said I was smart, and she needed help with the midterm, and..." You trailed off, feeling stupid.
Nat went back to painting, meticulous as ever. "And you said yes."
"How'd you—"
"Because you always say yes to her." Natalie's voice wasn't accusatory, but it wasn't gentle either. It was the voice of someone stating facts, the way you'd describe the color of the sky. "Jackie Taylor asks you to jump, and you ask how high."
You wanted to defend yourself, to explain that it wasn't like that, but the thing was—it kind of was. Jackie had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room, and you'd spent years crafting fantasies around that attention. You'd never told Natalie any of this. She knew anyway, the way she knew most things about you before you knew them about yourself.
"Your turn," you said, changing the subject the way you'd learned to do. Push too hard, and Natalie would leave, and you couldn't have that. So you pushed just enough to breathe, and then you changed the subject.
She held out her hands, and you took them. Her nails were practical, short, already chipped from someone's blocking drills. You chose a dark plum color and got to work, careful and slow, trying to make it last as long as possible.
"She's going to hurt you," Natalie said quietly.
"I know." You did know. Some part of you had always known. Jackie Taylor moved through the world like someone who'd never learned that other people had internal lives—she took and took and never seemed to notice what she was taking. But that didn't seem to matter much when she smiled at you.
"And you're okay with that?"
You didn't answer. What could you say? That being hurt by Jackie seemed like a fair trade for the hours where she actually saw you? That you were seventeen years old and stupid and in love with someone who thought of you as a distraction between more important things?
Natalie watched you work, her dark eyes following the brush of the polish across her nails. The silence stretched between you, but it didn't feel comfortable the way silences usually did with her. It felt like something was breaking, or about to break, or had already broken and you were both just noticing.
"I hate this," she said when you were almost finished.
You steadied your hand. "The color? I can take it off—"
"Not the polish." She pulled her hand back gently, and you let her, even though you weren't done. "I hate watching you do this. To yourself. For her."
This was dangerous territory. You could feel it the way you could feel a migraine coming—a warning pressure behind your eyes. "Natalie—"
"I know, I know." She held up her other hand, stood up, walked to your window. The trailer park at night looked like a collection of small lights, each one someone's life, someone's pain, someone's waiting. "I'm being a jerk."
"You're not being a jerk."
She turned back to you, and her expression was complicated. Sad and angry and something else you couldn't quite name. "You want to know what's going to happen? Jackie's going to get an A on that biology midterm because you're going to do all the work for her. She's going to thank you like you're a piece of furniture she's noticing for the first time. And then she's going to move on to the next person who makes her feel seen, and you're going to be here, alone, wondering what you did wrong."
Your chest felt tight. "Why are you saying this?"
"Because someone has to." Natalie's voice cracked slightly. "Because everyone else is too busy chasing after her to notice that you're—that she's—" She stopped, took a breath. "You deserve better."
The words hung in the air between you, and you realized that what you were hearing wasn't just concern. What you were hearing was something deeper, something that scared you a little because it meant you'd been hurting someone you loved while you were busy hurting yourself.
"Nat," you started carefully, "what are you—"
"I'm going home," she said, already reaching for her jacket. "It's getting late."
"My mom isn't home yet. We were supposed to watch—"
"I know." She grabbed her keys. "But I can't stay."
And she left the way she sometimes did when things got too heavy—with a kiss to the top of your head that meant both everything and nothing, and the door closing quietly behind her.
------
The team bonfire three weeks later was full of the kind of October cold that promised winter was coming. The Yellowjackets had won their last two games, and there was this energy among the team, this collective sense that maybe this was the year. Jackie had her arm around someone—not you, and that had started to bother you in ways it hadn't before, not until Natalie had said those things and you couldn't unsay them in your own head.
You were sitting on one of the logs pulled around the fire when Natalie arrived, and she didn't sit next to you. She sat on the other side of the bonfire, near some of the junior varsity players, and didn't look at you once.
The ice between you had been building for weeks. You'd gone to the biology tutoring sessions with Jackie, and they'd gone exactly as Natalie predicted. Jackie had flirted with you in that way that made you feel special, had leaned close over the periodic table, had laughed at jokes you weren't sure you'd made. And then she'd gotten a B+—not an A—and she'd blamed you for not explaining molecular bonding well enough, and you'd apologized and meant it despite her joking manner.
You'd tried to talk to Natalie about it after, tried to prove to her that you were learning, that you were going to get it together. But she'd been distant, evasive, the way she got when something had really bothered her. And when you were around each other now, it felt like you were both walking through a minefield, trying not to step anywhere that would explode.
"Hey," you called to her across the fire, unable to help yourself. "Come here for a second?"
She didn't move for a long moment. You watched her consider it, consider you, consider something that was happening inside her chest that you couldn't quite access anymore. Then she got up and joined you, but she sat far enough away that you couldn't have touched her without reaching, and you both seemed to understand that reaching was no longer allowed.
"What's up?" Her voice was carefully neutral.
"I miss you," you said, which was stupid and obvious and true.
Natalie laughed—that polite laugh, the one she used at school. It was worse than anger. "I'm right here."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?" She poked at the fire with a stick, watching the sparks fly up like she was counting them. "Because I'm not sure I do. I'm not sure I know anything anymore."
"Natalie—"
"Did you sleep with her?" The question came out flat, destructive.
You stared at her. "What? No. Why would—"
"Because you're obsessed with her. Because you've been obsessed with her for the entire time I've known you had a crush, and I'm just..." She trailed off, still not looking at you. "I'm just your best friend. I'm just the girl you hang out with in your trailer while you talk about Jackie."
"That's not fair."
"It's completely fair." Now she turned to you, and her eyes were bright with something close to tears, which was almost worse than if she'd actually let them fall. "You know what the unfair part is? The unfair part is me. Showing up. Over and over. Watching you throw yourself at someone who doesn't even—" She caught herself, breathed. "Who can't see you."
"So that's what this is?" You felt anger blooming, hot and necessary. "You're mad at me for not reciprocating some feeling you've never even told me about? That's—that's not fair, Nat."
"I'm not asking you to reciprocate anything." Her voice was quiet, which was somehow worse than if she'd yelled. "I'm asking you to see yourself the way I see you. To want better for yourself. But you won't, because Jackie has given you just enough attention to make you think that's what love is supposed to feel like."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know everything I need to know." Natalie stood up, and the light from the fire caught her face, made her look older than seventeen, worn down by caring about someone who wasn't caring back. "I've known you since we were seven. I know you better than I know myself. And I know that you're going to spend years—maybe all of your life—chasing after people who don't deserve you while missing the people who do."
Around you, the bonfire continued. Jackie laughed somewhere in the darkness, that tinkle-bell sound that had consumed your attention for so long. Someone was telling a story about something stupid someone did at school. The normal sounds of teenage life, of a team and a tribe and belonging to something. But between you and Natalie, there was only the crack and hiss of the fire and the sound of something fundamental breaking.
"If you felt this way," you said quietly, "why didn't you just tell me?"
Natalie looked at you for a long moment, and in her face, you saw something you'd been too stupid to notice before—saw it clearly for the first time. Saw her. Really saw her. Not as your best friend. Not as the girl in the trailer next to yours. But as someone who loved you, had been loving you, had been showing you in every small way she could without ever saying the words.
"Because I knew you wouldn't love me back," she said finally. "And I'd rather have you as my best friend, miserable and pining after Jackie, than not have you at all. But watching you, night after night, hurting yourself for someone who doesn't even know your last name?" She shook her head. "I can't do that anymore."
"Nat, wait—"
But she was already walking away, disappearing into the darkness beyond the firelight, and you couldn't follow because there was nowhere to go after this. You'd been offered everything you didn't know you wanted and had rejected it in favor of pursuing someone who'd never wanted you at all.
The fire crackled on. Jackie laughed again. And you sat in the cold, understanding finally that you'd had something real the whole time, and you'd spent your energy looking everywhere else.
By tomorrow, the whole team would know something had happened between you and Natalie. By next week, people would be asking sides. By winter break, you'd find yourself without your best friend, without even the possibility of what might have been, because you'd been too blind to see it when it mattered.
The worst part wasn't losing her, though that was bad. The worst part was knowing, with absolute certainty, that she was right. And that you'd never be able to tell her so.
the eyes, they never lie - even though it’s been 5 years since you were rescued, the wilderness still haunts you. somehow, natalie finds a way to be there when you need her the most.
stress relief - you're not gay. still, for some reason, you can't seem to stop hooking up with the sexy stoner from your college soccer team, even when it means sneaking around behind your boyfriend's back in order to do so.
⋆ multiple-part fics
if only gravity was a choice - three years ago, you and natalie, your former hookup and high school soccer teammate, had a bad breakup, and you haven't heard from her since. it's like she completely vanished off the face of the earth, and everyone still walks on eggshells around you when it comes to her. so, when your friends van and taissa organize a weekend at their lake house for your former teammates, you're surprised to see nat decided to show.
matter of time - you and nat got divorced 2 years ago after repeating the same mistakes from the past, and you've been holding out... relatively well. the only problem is your son, luke, and his tireless insistence on celebrating his birthday on a camping trip with both of his moms.
♥ additional tags/warnings: no crash, ex-wife!nat, mom!nat, divorce, mentions of abortion, slow burn, tattoo artist!nat, mentions of parental abuse
♥ word count: 13.2k
♥ summary: you and nat got divorced 2 years ago after repeating the same mistakes from the past, and you've been holding out... relatively well. the only problem is your son, luke, and his tireless insistence on celebrating his birthday on a camping trip with both of his moms. (based on a request based on a jackie fic)
part 2
Pick up Luke. Drive home, have him take a shower. Chicken for dinner. Fuck, I didn't defrost the chicken. Scratch that, pasta for dinner. No, Luke hates pasta. Takeout, then. The healthy place with the good veggie options. Get the drycleaning. Put in the order for those boots online. Finish charting after Luke’s asleep.
You sighed, finally pulling into the parking lot, lightheaded after a long day at work and an even longer forty-five-minute drive.
Fucking pileup. How was it conceivable for eight cars to crash into each other and bring a light pole down with them? And why did it have to put a hold on your whole day?
Sure, it was just as gratifying as it was exhausting to be called into the ER as a helping hand — and it was even better when all twenty-three victims ended up living to see another day —, but did the fire department really have to keep the busiest intersection in the neighborhood blocked for that long? Well — you didn't really know that much about electric circuits, and you surely weren't educated on the potential harm caused by a fallen light pole, but for fuck's sake. The accident happened this morning. Did it really take a whole business day to free up the avenue?
You leaned back against the seat, closing your eyes once you were parked, taking a nice, deep breath. Relax. You're here. He's not alone, Nat's got him. Nat's good. He's okay.
One of the downsides of being summoned into the ER, all the kids you saw there. Little boys and girls about Luke's age, breathing out of tubes, fighting to survive. It was stressful enough to be a hospitalist — trickier cases, complex diseases, patients you got to know and inevitably got attached to —, but those rare ER days always took the cake. You had one rule since med school, one you’d promised to take to your grave: no children. Absolutely no getting involved when it came to kids. But in the ER, you couldn't really afford the luxury to choose.
That's out there, you reminded yourself. That kid's gonna be fine, he's got his own mom to take care of him now. Go take care of yours.
You opened your eyes, checking the rearview mirror for a second to make sure everything was in place, and Jesus Christ.
“Have I looked like this all day?”
You reached for the worn hair tie that kept that poor excuse for a ponytail together, pulling it off, figuring you'd have a better chance with a quick shake and a good old smoothing out than with whatever that was. God. What a mess. And no one thought to give you a hint. You ran your fingers through your hair, doing your best to make it look at least presentable, frustrated when it only half-worked.
It doesn't matter, you told yourself, trying hard to believe it. Nat had seen you worse. She'd seen you up till 4 AM, high on too much caffeine while you studied for the boards. She'd seen you bawling first thing after getting home on the night you lost your first real patient. She'd seen you passed out on the kitchen floor, holding Luke's bottle in one hand and his faithful blanket in the other, completely unaware of the milk that overflowed from the pan onto the stove.
Plus, what were you doing caring about what you looked like in front of Nat, anyway? It wasn't your place anymore. The divorce had been mutual, which meant you'd both been to blame, which meant you shouldn't be freaking out about how your fucking hair looked right now. Nat wasn't the one you were here to see. You were here for Luke, your son, who you were pretty sure couldn't care less if you showed up with a mohawk as long as you brought along a new pack of Pokémon cards. That's why you’d left the hospital without even changing out of your scrubs. That's why you hadn't bothered to check the mirror before getting in the car. To get to Luke faster, to be his mom, to be there for the kid who needed you.
So, very much aware that there was nothing you could do to help your case anymore, you stepped out of the car and walked up to the big concrete building you'd been in a thousand times before.
Scatorccio Tattoo, the door on the second floor read, room 207, right across the hall from the elevator.
You didn't have to knock, you knew it'd be open. Nat only locked up once the day was done, which, when she wasn't supposed to have Luke, meant everyone would be there until about 7 or 8 — whenever the last client left with new ink on their skin and a smile on their face. Said and done, you walked through the black door with the blue neon sign on it, taking in everything, the smell of antiseptic and sandalwood just as you remembered, even though the space looked infinitely bigger now. You knew Nat had upsized, she'd made an offhand comment about contractors and the endless bureaucracy of taking down a wall a few months back, but you had to hand it to her — the studio looked fantastic. Two new stations aside from the couple already set, padded chairs in the lobby, a new reception desk that came with a new receptionist — a pink-haired girl with a nose ring who offered you a polite smile as she said something over the phone. The AC didn't make the obnoxious rattling sound it used to back when Nat first rented the room, and the only thing you could hear aside from the casual chattering of artists and clients and the distant humming of tattoo guns was the music, low and ambient, some Elliott Smith track you'd heard about a million times before in Nat's car.
Nat's station was still where it used to be — far left, past the water cooler, by the big window that offered the great view of the downtown lights at night. The same place you'd come running to after class, tired out of your mind, excited about the prospect of pepperoni pizza and the sound of her laugh. You're gonna make it big, you used to tell her, staring at the skyline as you lay next to her on the floorboards — back before diapers and binkies and passing out cold on the kitchen floor. Someday, this place is gonna be crawling with people begging you to get those hands on them.
Prophecy fulfilled: for what you'd heard and seen, Nat's studio had become one of the biggest in town. Always getting the best reviews. Always filled with people. So much so that, well, you saw it — the two new stations, two new artists to lend a helping hand to her and Van, the one she'd hired long before the big changes.
“Heeey, there she is,” Van smiled as she saw you, wide and friendly, leaning an elbow on the receptionist's desk with that ease she always seemed to carry around. “Our friendly neighborhood Dr. House.”
You couldn't help but grin, tired but honest, though maybe not as big as it would've been a couple of years ago.
“Van,” you took a step closer, hand in one pocket. “How've you been?”
“If you're asking as my doctor, I'm doing alright,” she leaned forward, placing a hand beside her lips as if she was about to tell a secret. “But if you're asking as my friend, hungover out of my mind. But you gotta do what you gotta do, right?”
You chuckled.
“That's the spirit,” you nodded, amused by the fact that, even with all the years, Van never seemed to lose her essence. “Have you seen my kid anywhere around here?”
“Nat's station,” she pointed at the hall you knew well, the same one that led to the water cooler, far left of the room. “Talking everybody's ears off. Being a menace. Making every client fall in love with him. You know, the usual.”
You smiled, chest warming at her words. That sounded right. Luke had always been a force of nature, a hurricane with dark brown hair and eyes as blue as his mom's, melting every heart that ever crossed his path with a quick sense of humor and a crooked smile. You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding, the same kind that always got stuck between your throat and your lungs on ER days. He was here, he was okay, he was with Nat. That was all that mattered.
“Right, thanks. I should go get him,” you made a motion to leave, lingering long enough just to properly wrap up the conversation. “It was nice seeing you, Van. And congrats, by the way, the place looks amazing.”
“Thanks, yeah. Good to see you too,” she nodded, that shit-eating grin softening into something earnest, quieter. “Hey, stop by more often. I'll give you half off if you ever decide to let me ink you up.”
You let out a little laugh.
“I'll think about it.”
“You go ahead and do that.”
And so you walked toward Natalie's station, determined, deliberately doing what you were there to do.
Luke sat on Nat's chair, bouncing his legs, tongue poking out as he drew something on her tablet — a dragon, a tiger, you weren't sure from this angle. He was focused, determined, that same wrinkle between his eyes that used to pop on Natalie's forehead whenever she worked on a client. He occasionally stopped, assessed his work, mouthed the words to the song that played in the background like a seven-year-old had any business knowing the lyrics to Elliott Smith's discography.
Nat sat on the table, right next to the tablet, leaned on her hand as she watched her son with a proud smile on her lips. It was that face she made the first time Luke kicked a soccer ball, the same from when he sighed and rolled his eyes and told you he didn't want to wear a button up to your brother's wedding at the ripe age of four. The that kid's just like me look. Like she knew he was a carbon copy, except male and a bit shorter, but still scary similar in all the ways that mattered.
“Good trace, bud,” she muttered, free hand running through his hair affectionately. “You've already got your own style. That's not for everybody, you know.”
Luke nodded, unfazed, brow still furrowed — like all the praise in the world wouldn't pull his focus from the task at hand.
“I like to do the mouth like this,” he said, sharp, as serious as a lifelong painter explaining his work. “Makes it look like he's breathing fire.”
You let out a chuckle, soft, just loud enough for them to realize you were there. Your presence, as it turned out, was in fact enough to make Luke raise his head from his very important masterpiece.
“Mom!” He smiled widely. “You're back from the hospital!”
“I am,” you walked up to him, muscles finally relaxing after the day you'd had, cupping his cheek in one hand just to make sure he was real. “Hey, baby. Sorry I couldn't pick you up from school.”
“That's okay! Mama said you saved a lot of people from dying today!”
Nat let out a snort, shooting her eyes up in your direction, shaking her head slightly with amusement.
“I didn't say it like that,” she clarified, raspy, melting visibly in the way she always did whenever Luke said something unhinged. “I said you were saving lives. The whole death thing was implied.”
“He's a smart kid. Good at reading between the lines,” you smiled, tame, the only kind you'd offered Nat since the divorce two years ago. Friendly. Safe. In regards to anything Luke-related. “And a talented one too. Let me take a look at that drawing, sweetheart.”
“It's not a drawing,” he corrected, turning the tablet around — and there it was, a dragon. Wobbly. Just as accurate as a seven-year-old could do from memory. Still, Nat was right, it did have personality. “It's a stencil. For a tattoo.”
You chuckled, Natalie's proud grin not going unnoticed.
“Ooh, a stencil? Is that right?”
He nodded eagerly.
“Mama said she's gonna let me print it so I can put it on my arm. Pretend it's real like the ones she has.”
“What can I say,” Nat smirked, as enamored about it as she was smug. “Kid wants to be just like his mama.”
You shook your head, letting out a content yet tired breath. The exhaustion of the day was starting to catch up to you faster than you'd anticipated now that you saw Luke was alive and well, sitting on his mom's chair right in front of your eyes. This was what you'd been waiting for all day — coming to see him, touching his rosy cheek, listening to his baby voice after a long day of taking care of injuries on other people's kids. And now you needed rest, even if you weren't going to get it anytime soon. You needed to get your boy in the car, drive him home, hear all about his day at school over a balanced meal that would probably be too expensive, but not enough to make cooking worth it tonight. You needed his presence. His youthful innocence brightening up the house while you had him for the week. To trip on his scattered toys and hear his loud cartoons and let the liveliness make you forget all the despair and fear you’d been surrounded by all day.
“Well, that sounds like fun, Mr. Tattoo Artist. Go print out your stencil so we can go home, yeah?”
“But mom,” he whined, pouting, shoulders dropping. “I'm not finished yet.”
“That's enough, buddy. You can wrap it up next week when you're with mama again.”
“Please,” Luke brought his hands together, because apparently it was a life or death situation. “I wanted to bring it for show and tell tomorrow.”
You sighed. The pleading look on his face was something you’d already learned not to fall for — even though it still had an unsurprisingly high success rate —, but right now all you saw when you looked at it was that other little boy, the one who almost didn't make it, the one whose mom held onto so tightly as she cried I will do anything you want. Come back to me and you'll have everything you ask for, honey, whatever it is.
Fuck it. You'd been stuck in the ER all day, you'd been trapped in your car for forty-five minutes on the way here. You could spare your son a few more minutes doing what he liked.
“You can grab a seat,” Nat smiled, gesturing at the tattoo chair, looking at you like she could somehow still read your mind after all this time. “There's no rush.”
You nodded, making your way to the chair, knowing it was all for a greater good.
“Thanks.”
Nat got up, slow, walking closer to where you stood while Luke went back to his stencil — now muttering some Nirvana track he apparently knew by heart.
“He's almost done,” she said, holding onto the edge of the chair as you sat on the other end, feet dangling off. “Finishing touches and all. Turns out he's kind of a perfectionist.”
You let out a weak snort.
“Sure. I'll… let him do his thing a little longer,” you looked at Luke, smiling softly, still half-high on the relief to see him happy and healthy after a hard day. “Thanks, by the way. For picking him up today. I would've had my brother do it, but—”
“No. No way,” she shook her head. “He's my kid too, only fair that I go. Plus, it's good to see him outside of my days. Helps me miss him a little less.”
You offered Nat a small smile.
“I know what you mean. Uh, thanks anyway. Sorry it was such short notice.”
“Don't apologize. I saw the pileup thing on the news. Oof.”
“Yeah,” you chuckled absently, looking down, “oof.”
Natalie licked her lips, turning her head away from you, staring at Luke's focused expression for a second. And then she looked at you again.
“You want an espresso?”
You narrowed your eyes, a confused smirk taking over your lips.
“Espresso?”
She let out a breathy laugh.
“We have this fancy machine now. With all the buttons and shit,” she shrugged, so casual, so Natalie it made your heart flutter amidst all the exhaustion. “Makes hot chocolates too. Luke's already had, like, three so far.”
You laughed too, for once not concerned about the amount of sugar your kid had ingested — not today.
“Thanks. But I'm trying to go easy on the caffeine.”
“That's… new,” she chuckled, and you couldn't blame her. You used to drink coffee like it was water — a habit you'd been cutting back on since the divorce. As it turned out, heartbreak and palpitations from five cups a day weren't the best combo if you wanted to get an okay night's sleep. “Alright, then. Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Sure,” you nodded. The jingling of the bell above the front door called your attention, indicating someone had just arrived or left. Your eyes fell on the new tattoo gun by the chair. “Uh, congratulations, by the way. The studio looks… It looks really good, Nat. Fancy espresso machine and everything.”
Natalie smiled, looking away, doing that thing with her face she used to do when you complimented her.
“Yeah. It’s, uh, really taken off.”
“I can see that.”
She paused for a moment.
“And how are you—”
“There, I’m finished!” Luke interrupted whatever Natalie was going to say, turning the tablet around with a proud grin on his face, showing his masterpiece to both of his moms. “Ta-da!”
Nat’s eyes sparkled.
“Whoa, bud,” she said, widening her eyes for flare, stepping closer to him so she could have a better look. “That’s gonna make a sick tat.”
Luke smiled big, taking the praise better than his mama ever did, used to being seen, to being celebrated. It was a point Nat made from birth, showering him with compliments whenever he reached even the smallest accomplishments — there you go, buddy, good burp. Strong as a lion. Great job sleeping through the night. Hey, look at that latch, that's how it's done. You're the best baby in the world.
“Can we print it now?! Please, please, please?”
“Of course, give it here,” Nat grabbed the tablet, tapping the screen a few times until the thermal printer began to buzz.
Luke squealed, getting up from the chair like the excitement was simply too much to bear, bouncing on his heels with the utmost glee. When the stencil finally came out ready, blueish-purple lines on white paper, Nat picked it up and cut around the art with her scissors.
“There you go,” she held the piece of paper by the edges, extra careful not to wrinkle it. “If you wanna wear it to show and tell, ask mommy to help you put it on before school, okay?” When he nodded eagerly, Nat looked up at you with a chuckle on her lips. “It comes off with soap and water.”
“I know,” and you did, you'd been through this before, you'd been her lab rat a billion times when she wanted to test out new styles and designs. “He's gonna be the coolest kid in Ms. Lee's class.”
“Emma's gonna freak when she sees it!” Luke jumped up and down, launching himself into Nat without warning, arms wrapping around her waist like she'd just given him the entire world. “Thank you, mama! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm gonna go show aunt Van!”
And he was off into the hallway, disappearing on the way to Van's station like he knew it by heart after all the time he’d spent in the studio. Natalie stood there a few seconds, red cheeks and ears, smiling to herself as if she didn’t know what to do with all the love in her chest. Then, because she was Nat, she shrugged it off. Let out a snort. Looked at you like her heart hadn't just visibly melted right in front of your eyes.
“It's been Emma this, Emma that all the time,” she offered, casual, an attempt to recompose herself. “Joined at the hip just like I was with Van at that age.”
You let out a laugh, deciding to let Nat off the hook for always masking her emotions. It wasn't your place to meddle anymore.
“I don't think that's possible,” you tilted your head. Van and Nat had been inseparable all through the years you'd known them — and from the stories you'd heard, they’d been that way practically out the womb. “But yeah. Emma's been a popular name lately. I think that's a good friendship for him to have.”
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“She has two moms,” you commented, leaving off the part you'd heard through the grapevine about their divorce, about their time apart, about their reconciliation less than a year ago. It all just hit a little too close to home. “One’s a nurse at the hospital, actually. Sweet woman. It's good for him to be around other families like—”
Like ours, you almost said before cutting yourself off mid-sentence. You didn't live in the same house anymore. You didn't wake up next to Nat, you didn't force her to sit down and eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich in the morning so she wouldn't leave on an empty stomach. You didn't tuck Luke in together at night, a kiss on the forehead each, a five-step monster check just to be sure — you behind the curtains, Nat under the bed.
You weren't a family, not anymore.
So you cleared your throat, swallowing the lump that had suddenly formed there.
“—like that. Uh, two moms.”
Nat looked down, bringing a hand to the nape of her neck like she’d also made the conscious choice to let you off the hook this time.
“Yeah. That’s good.”
Luke’s laugh echoed from the lobby like a light at the end of the tunnel, saving you from the familiar awkward moment you could feel coming before the silence had a chance to stretch.
“Well, it's getting dark soon,” you said, looking at Nat. “I should take him home.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” she nodded, bringing her hand down to the waistband of her skirt, playing absently with a belt loop as she drifted her eyes toward the hall. “Let me walk you.”
You both found Luke in the reception area, sitting on Van's knee on one of the new padded chairs, eyes shooting up with excitement as he saw his moms come in his direction.
“Mom! Mama!” He squealed. “Aunt Van said she can give me a dragon tattoo when I'm old enough! A real one! Isn't that cool?”
You laughed.
“We'll talk about it,” you looked at Van, who just smirked like she'd been caught red-handed making promises she shouldn't. “Come on, Lukey. It's time to go. Say goodbye to mama and aunt Van.”
He nodded obediently, wrapping an arm around Van's neck, sinking his head into her shoulder for just a second.
“Bye, aunt Van. Don't forget the Pokémon cards next time so we can trade!”
“Got it. Charizard, I’ll bring it over next week.”
He smiled, hopping off Van's lap with the stencil tucked in his hand like a trophy, making his way to Nat with familiarity. The goodbye. The thing he'd been getting better and better at over the past two years. She crouched down to get on his level, not quite as resilient even though she nearly did enough to hide it well, wrapping those tattooed arms around him with eyes closed so tightly they gave her away.
“Bye, little man. Be good to your mom. And don't forget to take pictures of the stencil before you go to school tomorrow.”
“Okay, mama,” he pressed a kiss to Nat's cheek, caring and gentle, ever the cuddlebug when it came to his moms. “I love you.”
“Love you more.”
“No take backs.”
“No take backs.”
You stood back, watching them silently, not getting in the way of the moment. Their little ritual. The hug, the love you more, the no take backs. Nat's way of letting him know he could do anything in the world and she would still love him no matter what, she would still be his mama at the end of every day.
She let out a breath, giving him one final squeeze before letting go.
“Alright, off you go.”
He ran in your direction, stepping into his role, grabbing your hand like he already knew his way around your and Nat's arrangement at this point. You smiled at him. Looked at Van again, then at Nat.
“Bye, you guys,” you said, standing at the door. “And thanks again, Nat. You saved my butt today.”
She chuckled, always amused to hear you censor your curses around Luke.
“Of course, Y/N, anytime. Hit me up if you need to, yeah?”
You nodded, small, genuine. You knew she meant it — even with the distance, even with the divorce, even with the mutual decision that had been undeniably stronger on her end, she meant it. She knew your routine, knew your work, knew shit happened sometimes. She'd always made it clear she'd be there to pull her weight with Luke for those moments.
“Thanks. You too.”
“Will do.”
In the car, with the takeout bag already safely tucked behind the seatbelt on the passenger seat and finally on your way home, Luke filled you in on the details of his day.
“And after PE we went back to class and Ms. Lee let us sing happy birthday to Jake!” He said, the stencil still in his hand, looking out of the back window. “His mom brought everyone cake but Parker had to have a different kind because she’s allergic to frosting. But that sucks. The frosting was the best part!”
You chuckled, grateful to hear his incessant blabbering, gladly letting the kid fill your ears with the hottest gossip of his second grade class.
“That sounds nice, buddy,” you offered, eyes on the road. “You know, speaking of birthdays… Somebody’s going to be turning eight very soon.”
“Meee!” He giggled. “Just a month left!”
You nodded, a smile taking over your lips as you let yourself take a peek at his eager expression through the rear view mirror for just a moment.
“That’s right,” you overplayed it, emphasizing every word with a few more teeth for the sake of his excitement. “You know how you wanna celebrate yet? Should we do a soccer tournament like last year?”
Luke shook his head.
“Nah. I wanna do something different this year.”
“Different?” You asked, amused. “Got anything on your mind?”
He nodded proudly, as if he'd been waiting for you to ask.
“I wanna go camping.”
You took a turn right, swerving into your street, the house you’d been living in for a little over two years now already noticeable in the distance. It took you a second to register Luke’s words, and, once you did, you pouted in confusion.
“Camping?” You asked. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Callie said she went with her dad last week. They roasted marshmallows by the fire and stayed in a trailer and everything. Like in the movies!”
You narrowed your eyes, slowing the car down, pulling into the driveway like you always did — only this time, once you came to a full stop and unbuckled the seatbelt, you turned around to look at your son.
You’d been completely blindsided. Your survival abilities in the woods were basically limited to knowing how to work a bottle of bug spray. The things you most cherished in life, after the kid in the backseat, were as simple as a hot meal and a comfy bed. And plumbing. Piped water that fell from a shower head at the mere twist of a knob.
“Camping, Luke?” You double checked, making sure all the hard work of the day hadn’t somehow caused you to start hearing things. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, mom. Camping. It’s gonna be fun!”
“No soccer tournament?” You pushed a bit, realizing he was serious, not having a clue how you were going to make that happen. “Maybe a party with a bouncy house?”
But Luke shook his head with determination, as if his mind had already been made for a long time now.
“Camping.”
You sighed. The smile on his face didn’t fade, and you watched him for a second. Once again, you saw it in your head — that other boy from earlier today, the tube down his throat, the desperate mom with her hands on his face like maybe he’d wake up if she held him long enough. And Luke was there, alive, healthy, full of hope, proudly clutching onto his stencil like the caring little boy he was.
He was a good kid. He deserved to have everything he wanted.
“We can arrange that, then.”
“Yes!” He bounced eagerly in the backseat, movements a bit restrained by the seatbelt. “It’s gonna be so fun!”
You let out a chuckle, not exactly excited, but figuring you’d give it a shot when he was the one asking for it. You could take him to a campground, somewhere safe, rent an RV so you wouldn’t have to figure out how to work a tent. Somewhere you’d have access to food you didn’t have to roast in a fire. Somewhere you wouldn’t have to pee behind a bush in the middle of nowhere.
You could do it.
“I have to remind mama to bring a coat! Callie says it gets really chilly at night.”
Your eyes narrowed at his statement.
“Wait,” you said, confused. “You want mama to take you?”
Thank God, you thought, figuring Nat might have a better shot at the whole nature thing. If Luke wanted her to take him camping, maybe you could do something else when he got back — the bouncy house, the pizza, the guys in the superhero costumes. No bugspray. Something in your powerhouse.
“Well, yeah,” he shrugged, eyes on yours, that undying smile still on his lips, “both of you!”
Both of you.
You and Natalie. His moms. The ones who'd barely been in the same room for more than a few hours at best over the past two years. The ones who'd only talk when it meant working out a schedule or discussing whatever had been said at the latest parent-teacher conference, not looking directly at each other's faces. The ones who sat a very confused five-year-old Luke down and told him he'd have two different houses from then on.
You nearly choked, chest tightening at the thought of breaking that little boy's heart again.
“Well, baby…” You hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I'm not— I'm not sure both mamas can take you…”
Luke's face fell immediately, his smile giving space to a pout, his eyes looking bigger than usual.
“But we always spend my birthday together,” he argued. “Even after you moved.”
You let out an exhale, watching his expression — taking in the frown, the quivering lip, all the tells that showed that wasn't just an occasional tantrum after a long day.
He was right. You did always spend his birthday together. That was the rule. You'd alternate Thanksgiving and Christmas, you'd do separate halves on Mother's day, but Luke's birthday was the one date you and Nat had both agreed to spend completely together, start to finish. There had been two since the divorce so far, and it’d actually been working out well — Nat would knock on your door before Luke woke up, you'd make his favorite breakfast while she worked on setting up the sign and the balloons, he'd come downstairs and you'd all eat together as a family. You'd both give him presents. Set up his party. Avoid being alone together longer than necessary in the most obvious attempts to act like everything was normal. Nat would laugh at something a parent said and it wouldn't reach her eyes, you'd step inside to get more napkins you knew wouldn't be used. Luke would smile all day long. Run around full of life, full of joy, grab your hand for a moment in passing. Nat would help you clean up after everyone left and Luke was fast asleep in his room, purposely turning up the music so the silence wasn't too weird, which never really worked. She'd mutter something safe — he had a lot of fun, the cake was really good, did you see Riley's dad's weird mustache? You'd chuckle lightly. She'd nod. You'd say goodbye with words and awkward smiles.
And then she would leave.
It was a good arrangement. Something Luke looked forward to. Something you could manage if you set your mind to it, if you distanced yourself, if all the other moms were around to distract you from those dark locks and those blue eyes.
But camping? A whole weekend cramped up in an RV, nowhere to hide, bumping into Nat every five minutes?
That might be a little more than you could handle.
“I know,” you tried again. “But it's just one day, Lukey. Camping is… it's complicated, we both have work and—”
“Mom, please!” He whined, chin beginning to tremble in that heartbreaking way it did right before he started crying. “It's— it's gonna be fun! I'm gonna be so good! I'm— I'm gonna eat my veggies and I'll clean my room and I'll do homework without complaining and—”
Luke rambled on, slurred and rushed, talking over himself like he depended on your mercy to save his life.
He popped up into your head again. The kid from the ER, tattooed on your brain at this point. Too weak to even breathe on his own, a near miss, so close you must have thought about leaving the room to call your son over a thousand times.
“Okay,” you gave in with a sigh before the first tear could drop from your son's eye. If that other little boy could basically rise from the dead upon his mother's desperate plea, you could give Luke this. You could suck up whatever unresolved feelings you still had for Nat and swallow them. Your kid deserved it, he deserved everything you could give him and more, and this you could do. For him. “Okay. If mama's on board. If you do everything you said. I'll call her tomorrow and ask, alright?”
Luke unbuckled himself clumsily, too eager for his hands to work right, launching himself in your direction like the clingy little boy he'd always been. You couldn't help but melt. Your arms found their way around him, back hurting from how you had to twist it — but it didn't matter. Nothing else did. Not when he held onto you so tightly, squealing into your shoulder, pressing wet kisses to your cheek as a token of his gratitude.
You were doing this for him. For Luke. For your son.
And that's how, a few weeks later, you found yourself in your driveway, loading a suitcase into the trunk of Natalie Scatorccio's car.
Of course Nat said yes. She didn't even think about it when you told her how eager he was.
“If the kid's asking…” You could practically hear the shrug through the phone, the pressed lips and tight chin as clear as day in your mind. “We've gotta do it, right?”
Pushover. A complete sucker for him, just like you were.
It didn't surprise you.
Nat wasn't one to profess love through big gestures. She wasn't the kind of parent who bragged obnoxiously about her kid to the other moms at soccer practice or bought him a monthly paycheck's worth of toys in one trip to the store. Her love was about showing up. Being there for the big things and the small ones with the same level of excitement. Cheering at the very front whether Luke scored a goal in a crowded game or did a cartwheel in the living room. Letting him know through words and gestures that she was there for him — no matter what, no matter where, no matter when. No take backs. Every single day till the rest of her life.
Nat never had a problem loving, she was as loyal as a guard dog, her love was gentle and honest and so whole you'd occasionally just burst into tears when you thought about it over those first few years. Happy tears. Tears that seeped through cracking walls, that came from finally being free from a lifetime of walking on eggshells, from feeling so seen and so known and so cared for you couldn't help but overflow. A love that was so selfless, so genuine, so safe you'd never understand how she couldn't simply accept it back.
That had always been the problem with Nat. She was good at loving. Not so much at letting herself be loved.
You'd met her in your senior year of college, wide-eyed, thinking you knew everything until Tai's girlfriend brought along a platinum-haired friend with a cute smile to a party and you realized you still had a lot to learn.
Nat had silver rings on all ten fingers, tattoos on her arms and legs, a joint behind her ear that didn’t stay in place for too long before finding its way between pale fingertips. Her eyes were blue, grayish when you first saw her outside under the moonlight, darker after a while, in the kitchen, as she poured herself another drink and talked to Van about something you pretended not to listen to. The smile never left her lips — sure, steady, the kind that said I know exactly who I am even though she was clearly an outsider. It didn’t seem to bother her, she welcomed it. Laughed whenever some college kid said something ridiculous like she and Van were in on a secret you and Tai weren’t aware of. She was never rude, never once entitled, just so incredibly herself it undid you a little.
She undid you a lot.
Pulling you in without trying to, taking up space without an apology, existing in that way you’d never seen anybody do before. Introducing herself to you with a crooked smile and a rasp in her voice and those fucking eyes as if she had any right to look like that, to talk like that, to be like that.
“I’m Nat,” she’d said, leaning in for you to hear her over the music, close enough that you could smell her perfume — something earthy and mature and just a little sweet. “Nice to meet you.”
Nat caught you alone a few hours into the party, drinking warm beer as you stared across the makeshift dance floor with a heavy heart. She’d chuckled, friendly, making an offhand comment about having lost Van at some point during the night, a joke on how she’d probably disappeared into one of the bedrooms with Tai. That tracks, you remembered saying, a little too bitter after a few drinks — inhibitions low enough that you didn’t bother hiding your disdain for the happy couple that danced a few feet away from where you stood anymore. Your ex. Her new boyfriend. Picture perfect, happy, not two weeks after she’d left you because she needed to find herself. Apparently all she needed was to search in the arms of a brain dead frat guy with frosted tips and beer breath.
“Alright, I wasn't gonna meddle or anything, but…” Natalie crossed her arms, eyes finding the spot where yours had been set like she had no intention of leaving. “That an ex or something?”
You narrowed your eyes, letting them fall on her face.
“How did you know?”
She chuckled.
“Maybe I'm psychic. Or maybe I just have enough experience with shitty exes to know one when I see it,” that permanent smirk stayed tattooed on her lips as she analyzed the dancing couple across the room. “Though I wouldn't have pegged you as the frosted-tips type.”
You took a sip of your beer, snorting halfway through it, looking at Nat in amused disbelief.
“So you're not psychic," you said. “Try again, I'll give you one more chance.”
She raised a brow, rising to the challenge like she'd been waiting for you to push her. She looked at the couple again, eyes drifting from the guy to the girl, the smirk widening on her lips.
“Her?”
You nodded lightly, tightening your jaw, staring at the side of your ex's face while that guy shamelessly went to town on her neck.
“Yeah,” you muttered, face contorting in disgust. “Her.”
She let out a snort.
“Guess I got two out of three right, then,” Nat shrugged, amused. “Pretty good for a psychic.”
“A psychic would have gotten it right the first time,” you offered back, half-teasing, half-stuck in a puddle of self pity as you kept looking at that man's hands on your ex's waist. “But I'll give you an A for effort.”
Nat laughed, raspy and low, shoulder touching yours briefly as she shifted on her feet.
“Fair,” she took a sip of her drink. “Though maybe I did get it right the first time, but I didn't say it because I didn't want to assume anything.”
You pursed your lips, intrigued, drifting your eyes to Nat's face only to realize hers were already glued to you.
“You did assume, though,” you countered. “That I'd go for someone like that. Like him.”
She chuckled.
“I'm sorry about that,” she licked her lips, a habit you'd later come to realize surfaced whenever she was nervous or excited or curious about something. “You know what they say. Expect the worst while hoping for the best or whatever.”
It was your turn to laugh, tipsy, unsure of the meaning behind her words.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Your smile made hers grow, automatic, breathtaking.
“Maybe I'm just curious about your preferences.”
That brought chills to your spine, making your heart race in your chest as you suddenly realized just how close she stood. Her eyes were even darker now, hair catching the LED lights as they switched colors, a mix of unshakable confidence and drunken ease radiating through her pores. Everything seemed to revolve around her, like the party was just an excuse around the real main attraction — that smile on her face, those ring-clad fingers running through her hair. She was beautiful, even more so from up close, especially with her gaze set on you like you were the only person in the room, quiet and intense like a forest right before a thunderstorm — as if she knew all she could do in that moment was sit back and brace for impact, like the damage was already done.
For some reason, you just knew she was going to be trouble.
“My preferences?”
She nodded, grinning like she noticed the shift in your attention.
“Yeah. What you like. What you don't like. What I need to say to get you alone.”
You chuckled at that, eyes widening slightly at her forwardness. She didn't back down, didn't apologize, didn't pull away — instead, she leaned closer, watching you meticulously as if she had you exactly where she wanted.
“A little bold to say that to a girl who's been complaining about her ex to you,” you teased, testing her, pushing just enough to see how hard she'd pull.
“Like I said, I'm no stranger to shitty exes,” she shrugged, unfazed. “Though I have to say, you're better off. Always smart to cut stupid people off your life.”
You chuckled.
“What makes you think she’s stupid?”
Natalie smiled victoriously, nodding her head.
“Well, she’s over there while you're right here,” she licked her lips again, the smell of her perfume now mixed with the joint she'd smoked earlier, intoxicating. “Which has to be the dumbest thing I've ever seen.”
You laughed.
“You know, that's a good start.”
“A good start?” Nat raised a brow, tilting her chin down, watching your face.
“Yeah,” it was you who leaned closer this time, drawn to her like a magnet, inexplicable and powerful and already forgetting about the girl who danced with the guy across the room like whatever came before Nat suddenly didn't matter anymore. “If you’re serious about wanting to get me alone.”
Needless to say she didn't even have to try from then on.
You finished the night in Nat's bed, clothes scattered across the floor in a tiny two-bedroom downtown, her name on your lips and her hair in your fists and red marks all over your skin you'd be tracing with your fingertips long after she was gone. She wasn't like anyone you'd met before. Her hands mapped out your body, exploring with the eagerness of a treasure-hunter yet the accuracy of someone who'd been there before, like she was somehow remembering your nuances instead of getting to know you. That's how it always felt with Nat — not new, never new. Familiar. Exciting, sure, but not in the way you'd feel around someone you'd just met — it was like running into an old friend you hadn't seen in forever. Like coming across a lover from a different lifetime, like reclaiming what was once yours, overwhelming and exhilarating and intense, addictive, so much so that it took you no time at all to reach out again after that first time.
And just like that, Nat was a part of your life, growing around every aspect of it like tree branches you couldn't help but feed. The passion was electric, the draw was strong, the impact so hard you could practically split your life in two — the one before Nat and the one after her. Lonely nights in your dorm turned into laughter and takeout and lovemaking in her apartment when Van wasn't around. Meaningless flings turned into something real, something stronger, the only sure thing you'd ever known. Deep breaths and unshed tears turned into soft fingers on your hair, a shoulder to lie your head on and sweet lips on your cheek as Nat whispered you don't have to hold it all in — and, for once, you believed it.
The first crack in the glass came around two and a half years after you’d met, a stupid fight that turned into raised voices and slamming doors and you standing confused in the living room as Nat stormed off in the middle of the night. You weren't sure what happened. You'd been going through the motions, tired, dedicating every last hour of your day to med school as she struggled to get her new studio up and running — a rough patch, you thought, something you'd eventually work through, after all, every couple had their adversities. But things escalated. You complained about something unimportant, something that wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't been so exhausted, a forgotten dish on the sink or an unpaid bill she was supposed to take care of, you didn't even remember. But Nat was tired too. So she deflected. Sighed a bit too bitterly, rolled her eyes, turned her back to you while you talked just like you'd seen your father do a million times to your mother, and it all just hit a bit too close to home. You were projecting, it was a stretch, but you weren't thinking straight. And then one thing led to another until Nat walked out with tears rolling down her face, claiming it was best to end things before it was too late, making clarity hit you as soon as she stepped out into the hallway.
You'd seen it before, you'd noticed it in the small things — the way she never seemed to know how to take a compliment, the way she'd shrink into herself after telling a childhood story. Nat had a hard time letting herself be loved. She didn't know how to. She'd been taught to brace for failure, to expect to be walked out on, to let go before she got hurt, and that was what she was doing.
Tensions were still high, you were both stretched thin, she wasn't thinking clearly — so you let her go, at least for the meanwhile, knowing the risk of losing her forever was too high if you didn't give her the space she needed. Nat was impulsive, you'd come to know, and sometimes it was best to just offer her some time to clear her head before trying to reason. You deemed it best to wait, for the sake of your relationship, for the sake of making things better down the road.
What you hoped would be a few days turned into four months apart.
You came home to Nat sitting by your door, exhausted after a late night study session, letting out a breath you'd been holding in for months once you finally caught her eyes — blue, almost green in the hallway light, full of love and guilt and regret as they fell on you.
“I'm sorry,” she muttered, embarrassed, stepping to her feet as soon as she saw you. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”
“I know,” you answered, because you did. “Come on, let's get inside. We’ll talk about it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Nat poured her heart out to you, stumbling over words as if she'd just spent however long she'd been waiting at your door going over what she would say, but never quite finding the right way to do it. She talked fast, like she needed to hold her breath if she wanted to get it all out, and you listened patiently, taking her hand as the tears started rolling down her cheeks, telling her to take her time, that you'd be there for as long as she needed. She told you all about her childhood — the trailer park, the abusive father, the negligent mother. The harsh words she had to hear since she was a little girl, the ones that made her believe she would never amount to anything, that she wasn't worthy of love. You knew she didn't talk to her mother much, and you knew her father had died when she was a teenager, but that was it. You didn't know how he'd walked in on her with a friend, how he'd accused her of things you wouldn't dare repeat — your heart breaking in your chest as she choked on the words whore and slut like she'd carried that cross around her whole life. You didn’t know how he’d become aggressive, how her mother somehow got caught in the middle of it, how Nat didn't even think before grabbing the shotgun her father didn't bother to keep hidden. How he'd taken it from her hands, how he’d threatened to shoot, how he'd tripped over the steps and fallen and, boom, suddenly he was gone right before her eyes.
Your heart ached with revolt, with anger, with disbelief over how anybody could ever do something like that to Natalie. You held her — it was all you could do, keeping her close and stroking her hair and trying to offer the same reassurance she always used to offer you before everything went down.
“I’m right here, I'm not going anywhere,” you repeated again and again, trying to make her believe it. “I'm not going anywhere, Nat, I'm always going to be here.”
After that night, no words were needed. You'd both decided to try again, to pick up where you'd left off, to not keep any more secrets.
Until about a month later, when Nat called you, asking you if you'd be home for dinner because she had something she needed to say. You caught the distress in her tone, the way she'd called instead of texting like she always did, the careful way she'd phrased it. Are you— are you coming home for dinner? I'd— uh, I'd really like you to be. If you can. I, um, I need to talk to you about something. Please, just— let me know, okay? If you can. I really just— fuck, I just really need to talk to you.
You jumped to every conclusion in the book — something had happened with the studio, a client had done something to her, maybe her mother had resurfaced and somehow hurt her all over again, you couldn't know for sure. All you knew was that, whatever it was, it was serious.
Nothing in the world could have prepared you for what came next.
“Pregnant?” You asked, confused, narrowing your eyes as you tried to make sense of the words that came out of a terrified Natalie's lips. “...How?”
She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face, clutching onto the positive test in her hand like she couldn't believe it was real.
“While we were broken up,” she sobbed, avoiding your eyes, breathless. “I— it was stupid, it was a one time thing, Travis just— he showed up, I was drunk, I was stupid, I shouldn't have…”
Travis.
You'd seen the guy once before — at a party, right before you and Nat became official, staring daggers as she wrapped her arms around your neck while angrily sipping his beer in the corner of the room. The shitty ex Nat had offhandedly mentioned the night the two of you met. The guy who kept showing up when she was vulnerable, when she was heartbroken, when she wasn't thinking clearly enough not to make any stupid decisions.
You couldn't deny it, the thought of Nat in his bed made your blood boil in your veins, your hands closing into fists at your sides just for a moment before you loosened up. Natalie cried copiously, desperate, gasping for air like her whole life had just ended right before her eyes. Like she'd done the stupidest thing in the world and she was about to lose everything that mattered. Like you already had one foot out of the door, and she'd been the one responsible for ruining everything.
So you held back the jealousy, it didn't matter now. She was within her right. You were broken up, she could do what she wanted, it wasn't like you had a say.
Nat was here now, and she needed you. And you’d never deny her.
“Nat,” you let out a breath, placing a hand on her shoulder, the other one finding her chin. “Hey. Look at me. That's okay, we'll figure it out.”
And so Nat sank into your arms, apologizing profusely into your shoulder, breaking down while you held her tightly and assured her everything was going to be fine. That you'd find a way. That you'd stand beside her no matter what.
After Nat calmed down, her initial plan was to terminate. To set an appointment at a clinic and pretend like the whole thing never happened. You said you'd support her through it, you'd be there to hold her hand, you’d do whatever was in your power to make her comfortable — it was her choice after all, and you'd never do anything to undermine that. You'd keep your promise and stick by her for whatever she needed, for whatever she chose.
But days passed and she never made the call. You gave her space for about a week or so before asking, voice careful, hand on her hair as she lay her head on your lap in the living room couch.
“Nat,” you said, soft, gentle. “Are you still sure you want the abortion?”
She sighed, as if she'd been waiting for you to ask.
“I…” She shook her head. “I just— I’ve never really… I never thought about it, you know? I just… I’ve always been irregular, I've— I didn't even think I could, and…” She cleared her throat. “I don't know, Y/N. Maybe if Travis wasn't such a deadbeat it’d all be different.”
Your hand stilled in her hair.
“Is that what this is about? Travis?”
Nat bit her bottom lip, swallowing audibly.
“He obviously wouldn't want any part in it,” she said hesitantly, not meeting your eyes. “And I just— I don't want to put a kid in the world for that. To be unwanted. And it's not like I could do it alone anyway.”
“Nat,” you looked at her, sure, careful. “Hypothetically, if a deadbeat dad is the only reason why you're thinking about terminating, if— if it's something you would've otherwise wanted… you know you wouldn't be alone, right?”
She blinked. Looked up at you. Licked her lips.
“I’d never ask something like that of you.”
“You're not. I'm just saying. It's your choice, I'll be here for whatever you decide.”
Nat looked at you for a few seconds, face unreadable.
“Even if I wanted to keep it? Hypothetically?”
You nodded.
“Hypothetically, yes.”
She stayed quiet for a moment before sitting up abruptly, lips pressed together in a straight line, watching you like a million thoughts went through her head as she looked at your face.
“I…” She let out an exhale. “I can't explain why, but I just… I've been having some thoughts and I just… I think I might wanna keep it. I— I could do things differently and— I know it doesn’t make sense, but—”
“It doesn’t have to make sense,” you grabbed her hand. “As long as it’s what you want.”
“I'm… not sure. I don't know what to do.”
“You've still got a few weeks to figure it out,” you offered, calm. “I just want you to know you won't be alone. Whatever you choose.”
Nat let out an incredulous chuckle, staring at your face as if she struggled believing you were real in that moment.
“You'd seriously raise Travis Martinez's kid? Are you— are you even thinking about what you're telling me right now?”
You nodded.
“It wouldn't be Travis’ kid. It'd be mine. Yours and mine,” you squeezed her hand. “If that's what you decide to do.”
“So if I wanted to terminate…?”
“You know you'd have my full support.”
She shuddered.
“And if I wanted to keep it…?”
“I'd be all in,” you took her other hand, looking at her face, knowing Nat needed the reassurance. “You wouldn't do it alone, Nat. I'd be here.”
She smiled, small, tame.
“You'd be all in? Even if it meant taking care of— of a baby?”
You nodded again, certain, knowing you'd do anything she asked, you'd be there for whatever she needed. You loved Nat. The only thing you were sure of was that you wanted her in your life forever, whatever it took.
“I'd be all in. It'd be my baby. Our baby.”
Natalie's smile grew, and she unexpectedly grabbed your face, cupping your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss.
“Your baby, huh?”
And that's how the agreement came to be — you were just as much of Luke's mom as Nat was, regardless of who'd birthed him, regardless of whose DNA he shared. You were the one who took care of Natalie all through her pregnancy, who held her hand during appointments, who drove late at night to get her scones from that 24-hour bakery two towns over when she woke up with cravings. You were the one who proposed about three months into the pregnancy, getting down on one knee not only because you loved her and wanted to be with her forever, but because getting married meant the adoption process would be infinitely easier and you'd do anything to get the parenting rights to your baby boy as fast as you could. You were the one who nearly had your fingers crushed while Nat gave birth, clutching your hand tightly in the delivery room, holding onto you like she needed to feel you there in order to go through with it.
You cut the cord, you held him first, you strapped him to the car seat so the three of you could drive home together for the first time. You painted the nursery, you put together that complicated crib Tai and Van got you and Nat as a gift. You bawled your eyes out the first time you saw him, so small, covered in blood and other fluids, knowing in that moment you’d never experienced a love as strong as this one. You were his mom. He was your son. Nothing would ever change that.
Sure, you felt scared sometimes — all the time, actually, but you never once regretted standing by Nat in her decision to keep him. Every parent felt scared. Every parent worried about being present enough, about teaching right from wrong, about working hard enough to put food on the table while still managing to spend quality time with their children. And you never thought you'd go through something like that — at least not unexpectedly, and definitely not until way further down the line. But how you saw it, Luke was always meant to be yours. The breakup, Travis, the four months apart while you lay awake wondering what Nat had been doing — it was all a necessary evil in order to make him get to you, in order to put that cute, smart, funny little boy in your life.
The three of you had about four good years before the beginning of the end.
There were some challenges — the boards, Nat's studio, spending most of your savings on a bigger house so Luke would grow up in a place with enough space for him to run around —, but nothing you couldn't manage. Until right after his fourth birthday. You were pushing thirty, right in the thick of residency, stretching yourself thin between eighty-hour weeks and a four-year-old and stepping up when Nat went to the studio because she needed to work too. Whatever little time you had to yourself was spent either studying or sleeping or taking care of the house, you were always tired, always running on empty no matter how hard you tried to be everywhere at once. There was always an edge you couldn't hold, a loose end you couldn't quite pull — with Nat getting the worst of it nearly every single time.
You were too busy to spend time alone with her, too tired to have sex, too stressed to think about things that weren't work or house or Luke-related. Little by little, you started to see her less. You started to talk about your obligations instead of everything. You did the one thing you promised you'd never do — you shrank, disappearing before Nat's eyes, not being the anchor you knew she needed. You didn't rise to the occasion, figuring you'd use whatever energy you had left to be the mom Luke deserved, forgetting your wife also needed someone on her corner.
Nat held out well at first. She gave you space, knowing you needed it. She worked extra hard to let you do your thing, to let you chase your dream, the one you were so close to finally getting. One more year, baby, you used to tell her, figuring it’d all go back to normal once you were done with your residency, but she was already starting to slip. You just hadn't caught it yet.
She was the one who brought up the word divorce for the first time, right before Luke turned five, after what was supposed to be an anniversary celebration turned into a screaming match when you didn't make it home by the time you promised you would. You'd stayed behind. Gone into the on-call room at the end of your shift just to wake the other resident so she'd pick up where you'd left off. So exhausted you somehow wound up passed out in one of the beds, phone dead, missing the first night in months you'd spend with your wife alone — Luke away in Van's house, table set with dinner Nat had left the studio early to make. The house spotless because she knew how much you appreciated coming home to everything clean. New lingerie underneath her clothes, a blue pair bought just for you, matching her eyes because you always told her how good she looked in that color.
You showed up at 2 AM, apologizing before you even finished closing the door, but the damage was done. Nat sat in the living room with a new dress on and a disappointed look on her face. You could tell she was trying to stay calm, to stay patient, but it didn't last. Soon, a complaint about your being late turned into you're never around anymore and you think I'm not here because I don't want to? and it's like you're not even fucking trying at this point. You were still tired, still not thinking straight, repeating the mistakes you'd once promised yourself you'd never make again. Speaking before even filtering what you were going to say. I just want some fucking support, you'd said, knowing how unfair it was when Nat had been such a good sport. And she didn't back down. She raised her voice in a way she never had, not even that first time, talking so fast you could barely make sense of any of the words spat out of her mouth.
You slept on the couch that night.
The divorce talk came the next morning, when you and Nat stood awkwardly in the kitchen, silent over the coffee you'd woken up extra early to make as a peace offering.
“I'm sorry I yelled,” she finally said after a long silence, quiet, low. “I shouldn't— I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have gotten so mad.”
“I fucked up, Nat. I should be the one apologizing.”
“No, Y/N, I just…” She took a deep breath. “There's no excuse. I shouldn't yell like that, I didn't even recognize myself, I was acting just like—” Natalie paused. She didn't have to say it, but you saw it in the way she lowered her head, in the way her eyes darkened. Like my father. “It's not right.”
“We're both tired. We're both under pressure,” you shook your head, still foolishly seeing a light at the end of the tunnel that you didn't know had begun to fade. “I know you didn't mean it.”
She swallowed.
“I did mean it,” she muttered, visibly embarrassed, staring at the table. “When I said it. I wanted to hurt you just like you hurt me. It shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't… feel like this.”
You grabbed her hand and she let you, which you naively took as a good sign.
“You're human, Nat. You’re allowed to feel things. It's okay.”
Nat stayed quiet for a long moment, her coffee still untouched, the bags under her eyes deep after what you could only assume had been a sleepless night.
“This can't happen again,” she finally said. “Especially with Luke around, I can't— I can't let him see me like that.”
You nodded.
“It won't, baby. We'd never let it. Just…” You took a deep breath, thumb running gently over the back of her hand. “Don't be so hard on yourself.”
You should have known better. Nat was quick to forgive you, to forgive Van, to forgive everyone she loved. But she was never good at sparing herself the same grace.
“I don't ever want him to see something like that. To see me speak to you like that,” she swallowed again. Paused for a moment. Her hand stiffened under yours. “Even if we have to— I don’t know, spend some time apart or something.”
You hardened immediately. That was not the direction you expected the conversation to take.
“Time apart?” You asked, incredulous, suddenly feeling like the ground had been pulled from underneath you. “You mean like…?”
“I'm not talking about a divorce,” the word landed like a punch in your ears. “Not yet. Just… if it doesn't get better.”
“Not yet?” You repeated, blindsided, the talk escalating to places you'd never even thought of just a minute earlier. “You mean there's a chance?”
Nat sighed, licking her lips, nervously chewing on the bottom one.
“I can't let him see me like that, Y/N. I can’t.”
You let out a nervous laugh, humorless, head growing dizzy with panic.
“What about me, Nat? Don't you— I mean—” You let out an exhale, choking on your words, desperate.
“I love you,” she murmured, more resigned than you wished she would have sounded. “That's why I'm saying this.”
Things never went back to normal after that.
You felt Nat slip away exponentially, careful, quiet. Like she'd started policing herself after that horrible fucking night. Like she believed she deserved to get punished — if not by your hands, by her own.
You tried for a while — you really did, doing whatever you could to get home earlier, holding her longer, making an effort to be present even on the nights when you just wanted to lie down and forget about the day you'd had. Initiating sex even though it didn't last as long as it used to, even though it didn't make you feel as connected to your wife as you once had. Telling her you loved her every chance you got, even when she didn't sound like she meant it when she said it back.
The problem was you knew she did. She just wasn't letting herself feel it, not when she thought she'd ruin it all if she simply stopped being careful.
You signed the divorce papers a few months before Luke turned six. You couldn't do it anymore, not when Nat was always miles away, fading right before your eyes. It was unsustainable. With your son getting older, smarter every day that went by, you worried he'd start to notice. And Nat was the one who took the initiative anyway, so there wasn't much you could've done to help it.
“I just…” You'd said, sitting across from her at the kitchen table, eyes hollow, set on the floor. “I want Luke. I mean, I— I want him to have us both. To share. I know I didn't birth him, but—”
“Y/N, you're his mom. Of course we’ll share. I'd never take him away from you.”
And now here Nat was, keeping her promise, smiling politely as you stepped into the passenger seat of her car. She'd made a point out of planning the whole trip, knowing how busy you were, telling you I've got it, leave it to me, I know a good place. As long as I don't have to sleep in a tent, you'd joked, so the fact that she was being so amazing about it wouldn't hurt as much.
“MOM!” Luke launched himself at your back, not intimidated by the headrest between his chest and the back of your head. “I missed you!”
Your heart broke a little like it did every time he said something like that.
“I missed you too, buddy,” you said, arms moving back to hold him back in the way you could. “You excited for this weekend?”
“SO EXCITED!” He squealed, bouncing back onto his seat. “I'm gonna sleep in a tent! We're gonna play explorer and I'll make a fire as big as a house and I'm gonna take pictures of all the bugs we find so I can show Emma—”
He rambled on, excited, stumbling over words like he was too hyper to finish his sentences. You simply chuckled, letting him get it all out, knowing the gentle rocking of the car would have him passed out in just a few minutes.
Said and done, he was out cold before Nat even swerved into the highway. She let out a chuckle, soft, looking at him through the rear view mirror for just a second before focusing back on the road.
“Every single time,” she muttered fondly.
You let the silence stretch for a second, staring out your window so you wouldn't have to think about how close Nat sat, how beautiful she looked while driving, how sweet she'd been to offer to pick you up at your house.
“So,” you talked, knowing you'd go crazy if you were alone with your thoughts for too long, “what's that Luke said about sleeping in a tent…?”
She chuckled.
“He saw me packing it this morning. Kept talking about how cool it's gonna be.”
“I thought we'd settled on no tents.”
Nat laughed, easy, calm, making you wonder how she managed to handle everything so well.
“Don't worry. You're gonna like it.”
“Nat,” you said, daring to look at her, serious. “Don’t tell me you didn't rent an RV.”
That fucking smile didn't leave her lips.
“Let's just say I took some creative liberties,” she teased. “It's Luke's birthday after all. He gets what he wants, right?”
“You didn't.”
She let out a snort, clearly amused.
“Just… hang on. You'll see it when we get there.”
“Natalie.”
“I’m serious,” she insisted again. “Don’t knock it yet. Not until you see it.”
“There better be an RV waiting when we get there.”
“…You’ll see, Y/N.”
You shook your head, resigned, not knowing what to expect when she acted this secretive. Of course, the prospect of sleeping in a tent was not appealing, but the cold or the hard floors or the lack of a real roof weren’t what fazed you. It was the fact that you hadn’t brought one. You didn’t think you had to. If what Luke said was right, if you were all going to sleep in a tent, you’d have to share. The idea of being in a cramped up RV with Nat for two days was already more than you thought you could handle, but if you had to share a fucking tent — no walls, not a drop of privacy, nowhere to hide — you actually might not survive the weekend at all.
“Hey,” she broke the silence again after a few minutes, “you mind turning on some music?”
You held back a relieved sigh, because yes, some music would actually be perfect to fill the loud silence that had settled itself in the car at this point — the one that always came when you spent too long with Nat.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Just— here,” Nat stuck her hand in her back pocket, pulling out her phone and handing it to you. “Passcode is Luke’s birthday. Pick whatever you wanna listen to.”
You would've known the passcode even if she hadn't told you, but you didn't mention it. It was the same from when you were still together, the same she'd used for nearly eight years now, the same you'd type every time she handed you the phone and let you take care of the music while she drove.
You also didn't say anything about the photo on her home screen — Luke, around four or five, blue gloves on as he sat on Nat's chair at the studio and pretended to give her a tattoo with a washable marker. You'd taken it. It was one of the rare occasions during that hellish year when the three of you had been together and you'd both been fully present — an innocent trip to the park that had ended in Nat having to swing by work on the way home, and one thing led to another. Luke kept wandering around, the shop still pretty much limited to a small reception area and two stations for Nat and Van, and he was in awe. Kept asking to do what mama did, to sit on mama's chair, for mama to let him give her a tattoo. Nat said yes, because that's what she did. And you took the picture when neither of them was looking.
You remembered foolishly thinking we're gonna make it through this when you went to bed that night, but it was all just a distant memory now. A picture on a phone. You weren't even sure Nat remembered the context behind it.
You scrolled through her music app, trying to find a safe playlist — no love or breakup songs, no songs you used to listen to on the floor of her shop back when the whole place consisted basically of a chair and a prayer, no songs you'd both sing along to in the car with the windows down in another lifetime. You ended up settling for an old 2000s collection with lyrics marketable enough for you to be able to breathe through.
When you were about to place Nat's phone on the center console, it buzzed with a notification. Your eyes drifted involuntarily to the top of the screen — a name, a woman's name, someone named Lucy who apparently really wanted to know how she was doing.
You swallowed it, locking the screen, not mentioning what you'd seen. For all you knew, it could be anybody — a friend whose name had somehow never come up, a client, a fucking real estate agent who still had her number saved or some other doctor following up on a consult or whatever, whoever, it didn't necessarily mean it was romantic. And even if it was, you'd agreed to the divorce. You'd been apart for two years. Nat was young, she was gorgeous, she had needs. She had a right to try and be happy. It wasn't your place to meddle anymore.
You cleared your throat, staring out the window. It was probably nothing anyway.
Thankfully, the drive to whatever place Nat was taking you and Luke wasn't much longer than an hour, and eventually she pulled by a dark wooden gate that led to a large dirt road surrounded by neatly trimmed grass. You couldn't see much further ahead, but it looked nice — well-kept, the sight of trees in the distance, the faint sound of running water coming from somewhere down behind the central pathway.
“We're here,” Nat said, a little smile on her face, eyes drifting to Luke still asleep in the rear view mirror again. “He's gonna lose his shit when he wakes up.”
You looked around, unable to get much of a sense of the place while Nat stepped out of the car to handle the gate.
“What is this place?” You asked, curious, still concerned about the rooming situation.
Nat simply chuckled as she hopped back in.
“Be patient. You'll see.”
Luke shifted slightly in his sleep, and Natalie tapped her fingers on the wheel eagerly, periodically glancing at him with that little dimple popping on her cheek like she might be more excited than the kid about the weekend ahead.
For his sake, of course. Always for his sake. She was nothing but a mother looking forward to giving her son a birthday to remember, it had nothing to do with you, it was all for Luke.
You took a deep breath, pretending not to notice the way she licked her lips or how the morning light snuck through the car window and caught her dark hair.
♥ additional tags/warnings: no crash, ex-wife!nat, mom!nat, divorce, slow burn, tattoo artist!nat, mentions of parental abuse/neglect, drug use (weed)
♥ word count: 14.6k
♥ summary: you and nat got divorced 2 years ago after repeating the same mistakes from the past, and you've been holding out... relatively well. the only problem is your son, luke, and his tireless insistence on celebrating his birthday on a camping trip with both of his moms. (based on a request based on a jackie fic)
part 1
Nat drove up a small hill, finally pulling the car into a gravel driveway, and your heart fluttered in your chest.
It wasn’t a campground.
It was a fucking cabin. Small, wood-paneled walls, a triangular red roof with a chimney on its left side like the whole thing had come out of a children’s book. There was a large strip of green grass ahead of it — an actual front yard, filled with majestic trees and a beautiful selection of potted plants by the porch, not to mention a rocking chair right next to the door and a round firepit a few feet away, two thick logs on either side of it. In the distance, a lake. An actual lake with an actual pier and an actual kayak tied to it. The forest stretched a bit further, a clear pathway between some trees leading to what you could only assume was a hiking trail.
You were speechless.
“Nat…” You blinked, trying to make sense of what you saw. “What is this?”
She chuckled proudly.
“I told you you were gonna like it when you saw it,” she simply said, letting out a breath as her back relaxed against the driver’s seat.
Luke’s soft snore in the backseat brought a smile to your lips, or maybe it was the view, you couldn’t know for sure.
“I thought this was a camping trip,” you muttered, still disbelieving.
“It is,” Nat tilted her head, pointing at the front yard area. “There’s a place to build a fire, there’s a lake, there’s enough space to set up a tent for Luke. He’s gonna have the full experience.”
You chuckled, incredulous.
“There’s a house.”
She nodded, the grin widening on her lips as she gave you a smug look.
“Technically, it’s a cabin.”
You kept staring at the whole ensemble with your jaw on the floor, still assembling the fact that the weekend ahead was about to be infinitely easier than you’d anticipated, all things considered. Nat shrugged lightly in that same way she used to when she knew she did a good thing but didn’t want to draw any attention to it.
“You didn’t think I was gonna make you sleep in a tent, did you? Little miss indoors?” She huffed a laugh, casual, low. “Just because Luke wants to camp doesn’t mean we have to suffer through it. This way everybody’s happy.”
You shook your head, trying to avoid the weakness in your knees that came with the realization of how incredible this was. Sure, you were pretty certain Nat also didn’t want to have to go through the whole cramped-up-RV or shacking-up-in-the-same-tent situation, but you didn’t expect her to be so amazing. To go through the trouble of finding a place that would work for everyone. To give Luke exactly what he wanted while making sure you’d be as comfortable as you could in a situation like this.
“That’s fucking genius,” was all you managed to say, getting one last good look at the view through the windshield before unbuckling your seatbelt. “How did you even…?”
“Crazy what Google can do when you use the right words on your search,” she unbuckled herself too, looking at you for just a brief moment before turning around to catch a glimpse of your son. “You get him while I pick up the bags in the trunk?”
“Yeah, sure.”
And so you stepped into your co-parent role, fighting not to let yourself get too impressed, grabbing Luke from the backseat while he stayed out like a light in your arms, ever the heavy sleeper.
The inside of the cabin wasn’t as big as it was intentional, perhaps even more charming than the outside — a living area that opened up to the kitchen, a stone fireplace dominating the far wall, a leather couch with knit blankets in muted greens and browns thrown over it. There was an L-shaped counter attached to the farmhouse sink, a retro style fridge that hummed softly on the corner next to a stove, a cute little round table by a bay window that overlooked the lake. Two bathrooms, two bedrooms — a twin with two beds, a dresser and a desk, and a suite with a queen bed and a quilt that looked handmade tossed across it. The latter was connected to a small deck through a sliding glass door, facing the woods.
It was cozy, perfectly pleasant, the type of place you might have taken advantage of in another life when it would’ve been acceptable to snuggle through the day and steal kisses through the night.
Now you’d have to settle for awkward small talk.
You struggled a bit to carry Luke to the couch, he’d been getting heavier every day and you figured soon you wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. Once he was settled, you deemed it best to let him rest for now, knowing how much easier it’d be to set everything up if he wasn’t running around as you were sure he would once he realized where he was.
“Let me,” you offered at the door, taking your bag from Nat’s hand as she clumsily tried to carry two at the same time.
“Thanks,” she graciously accepted it, smiling awkwardly. “Just… leave it in the suite. I'll bunk with Luke in the other room.”
You stopped, looking at her for a second. She'd already booked the trip. She'd already paid for the whole thing without even mentioning it. She'd already been the one behind the wheel for over an hour on the way there.
“No, Nat,” you shook your head. “You take the suite. I'm happy to share with him.”
But she didn't budge.
“No, no. He'll probably wanna spend most of the time in the tent, anyway,” Natalie shrugged as if it was no question. “It's cool, I don't mind sharing.”
“Nat—”
“Just take the room, Y/N,” she walked past you toward the twin room, not rude or dismissive, simply not offering a chance to argue back. “You take longer in the shower anyway.”
You let out a chuckle, a bit startled by the comment like it was normal for her to tease you about how long your showers usually ran, letting yourself simply stare down at the bag as Nat disappeared through the door.
“...Okay, then,” you muttered under your breath, only for yourself to hear.
In no time, Luke was already up and running all over the place, the nap doing nothing to dampen his energy. He talked a mile a minute, nearly colliding with Nat as she brought a hand to his shoulder, laughing with recognition like she wasn't surprised at his eagerness, his shoes scattered and forgotten on the floor where he'd carelessly kicked them off.
“Calm down, bud. Let's get you something to eat first, then we'll go for a swim,” she said calmly, hand moving up to fix his hair, messy from sleep. “Maybe we can set up the tent, too?”
“THE TENT!” He yelled, just remembering the camping aspect of the trip as if that wasn't what he’d been expecting all along. “Can I help? Please! Can you teach me, please, please, please?!”
You leaned against the doorframe of the suite, watching quietly as she chuckled, Luke's eyes shining with all his seven-year-old excitement.
“Of course. Shoes back on, though,” she called out. “Shoes, then food, then you can pick what we do first. Deal?”
“DEAL! YES!” His eyes scanned the cabin, settling on you, smile widening as he caught a glimpse of your own. “MOM! We're gonna SWIM! Then we're gonna set up a TENT! And there's a KAYAK! Did you see? Did you see?!”
You laughed, melting by the second at the way he could barely finish a sentence, too excited to function properly.
“I saw, baby. Fun, huh?” You nodded, making your way toward him. “But you heard mama, come on. Go put on your shoes while I make you a sandwich.”
“Okay, mom, but do it fast!”
By the time Luke was fed and the midday sun had reached its peak, Nat had already taken him to the twin room in order to help him find a pair of swim trunks. Don’t forget the sunscreen, you’d gently reminded, not wanting to take any chances with his skin as pale as his mama’s. In the meantime, you took the opportunity to change into a swimsuit as well — staring at your reflection in the full-length mirror, eyes set on a specific spot, biting on the inside of your cheek like you did every time you let yourself look for too long.
You had a finger hooked around the side of the bottom, pulling it down just enough to reveal the spot below your hipbone. You took a deep breath. There it was, the only tattoo you’d ever let Nat give you, the only time a tattoo gun had come anywhere near your skin — the letter N, in black ink, small but present like a cruel reminder of the life you’d lost every time you took your clothes off.
You’d both gotten each other’s initials done on the same spot on the day you got your marriage license from city hall. We’re barely gonna wear rings, Nat had argued, since neither of your jobs really allowed them on the clock. This is so much better. I’ll give you yours, you’ll give me mine. I promise it won’t hurt.
While it didn’t hurt the day you got it, it certainly did now.
You’d thought about getting it lasered, or maybe even getting something else tattooed over it, but you chickened out every time. Besides not wanting to go through the pain, the little ritual you had of staring at the small letter on your skin every time you changed clothes or took a shower was your favorite kind of torture. Even though it was a constant reminder of the life you didn’t have anymore, it also served as proof that, even if it was over now, it’d been real. She’d been yours. And you were foolishly still hers — with her initial branded on your body and everything.
You let the swimsuit snap back into place, the one you’d consciously bought for this occasion because the ones you owned didn’t do much to cover that specific spot. You slung a towel over your shoulder, staring at yourself in the mirror one last time, mentally preparing to go outside and see your ex-wife in similar gear.
You wondered if Nat still had her tattoo, your initial just below her hipbone, wobblier and more amateur-looking than yours.
It didn’t matter now. She probably didn’t. She had unlimited access to tattoo guns and artists every day, and she was no stranger to needles. She must’ve gotten it covered in the first month you’d been apart. Why would she even keep it anyway?
You made your way outside, reluctant but purposeful, knowing it was all in favor of a greater good once Luke flew in your direction, swim trunks on, smelling of sunscreen and smiling like he was about to live the best day of his short life so far.
“MOM! COME ON! You're taking too long!” He grabbed your hand eagerly, running outside as he pulled you, making you wonder when he'd gotten so strong.
“Easy, buddy,” you laughed, never immune to your son's happiness. “I'm coming.”
Nat was already in the water when you stepped outside, up to her waist, back turned to you. She stared down at something, maybe a fish, maybe the distorted image of her hands underwater — Natalie Scatorccio and her ability to look for beauty in the mundane, in tiny little aquatic creatures, in the refraction of light when it shined against her skin. Luke could be the same sometimes, observant and careful, though it'd often get outshined by his urgent need to explore and dive head first into something he was excited about. That was all you. The need to be in the thick of things. The restlessness you couldn't shake. The need to do, to be, to move.
“MAMA!” He yelled, letting go of your hand when he realized Nat had already beat him to testing out the water. “IS IT COLD?”
Natalie turned around as soon as she heard him, smiling brightly, shaking her head.
“It's perfect, bud. Come on in.”
Luke ran like a bullet, not needing to be told twice. Luckily, he remembered to kick off his sandals at the last minute, tossing them carelessly onto the grass before making a splash into the water and mercilessly launching himself in Nat's direction. She laughed, immediately matching his energy, welcoming him with open arms and letting them both sink for just a moment before resurfacing.
“WHOOOA!” He yelled excitedly, arms tight around her neck, shaking his hair.
Nat laughed again, visibly endeared, bringing a hand up to push wild, wet locks away from his eyes.
“I know, baby. Pretty rad, huh?”
“Yeah! So rad!” He clung to her, turning his head around to catch you standing on the shore. “Mom! The water is so good!”
“That's great, buddy!” You said, looking at him and only him, cheeks burning when you realized Nat's eyes were set on you too.
“He's right,” she called, making you feel bare in your swimsuit just from addressing you when that's all you wore. “You coming in?”
You shook your head.
“You guys go ahead,” you grabbed the towel from your shoulder, shaking it slightly as proof of your excuse, looking at Luke. “Gotta catch up on my tan. I'll be right here, though. Gonna see just how fast you can swim right from the shore.”
“COOL!” He gave you a thumbs up, still keeping one arm clutched around his mama. “You can time mama and me to see who holds their breath under water the longest!”
You smiled, happy he didn't insist. Truth was you couldn't care less about a tan — you simply didn't trust yourself to be near Nat in the water, wet hair and tattoos on display, without completely breaking.
“You're on, mister,” she laughed, once again giving you an out.
So you set your towel on the grass, sunglasses on, letting the sun hit your face as you did your best not to stare at your ex-wife too much. Luke and Nat splashed around in the water, his laugh filling your ears for what might've been hours in between timed competitions and races and her pointing out random fish that were brave enough to swim by the both of them. Eventually, she left the water with heavy breaths, smiling as she told him not to swim too far, mama just needs a little break to catch her breath.
You lay back on the towel, propped up on your elbows, thankful for the advent of sunglasses and their ability to hide your gaze — because, even though you absolutely shouldn't, the view was simply impossible to pass up on.
It was the first time that day Natalie's body had been completely on display, not covered to her waist or higher by water, and the scenery was just unfair. The sunlight, now lower than when they'd gone in, worked overtime to highlight her in all the right spots — golden streaks against brown hair, darker from the water, droplets glowing as they dripped down her skin and disappeared into her waistline in a way that couldn't be described as anything but mesmerizing. Sinful, maybe. But all the while still majestic, still scary beautiful, still hypnotizing and magnetic and gorgeous in the way Natalie had always been. With her like that, finally still, arms up as she dried her face with a towel, you could at last get the good look you'd been secretly craving.
All of her old tattoos were still there, as far as you could see. The plant on her right hip, branches you used to trace with your fingertips all the way down to the side of her thigh. The dagger just above her knee. The one across her ribcage — a sun and a tree and two stick figures, poorly drawn, an exact replica of one of Luke's mama and me drawings from when he was about four or five. The same one she'd excitedly shown you after an exhausting shift one day, the one you liked to look at and kiss once it'd healed, right before everything started going wrong.
Your eyes drifted to her left hip, but the search was inconclusive. As it turned out, Nat’d apparently had the same idea as you — that fucking swimsuit covering just what you looked forward to seeing most.
Something else caught your attention, though — one new tattoo, one you didn't recognize, one you'd never seen before. Proof of how much time had passed, of how much it'd all changed, of the long way you'd come from a time when you'd know every single inch of her skin by heart. A clock. Technically a pocket watch by the looks of it, about as big as your palm, right on the left corner of her stomach. Pretty, clean style, clearly done by a skilled professional. Probably Van's work — you recognized the trace, plus you knew at least two thirds of Nat's ink had been done by her and vice-versa.
Nat dried herself half-heartedly, droplets of lake water still trickling down her skin by the time she walked up to where you lay.
“Mind if I…?” She gestured at the spot beside you, making your heart race with the proximity, though you'd never admit it.
“Go ahead,” you nodded, sitting up on instinct.
She lay her towel next to yours, sinking down on it with a groan, clearly tired from Luke's relentless creativity for water games.
“So,” she said, close but not enough to touch, eyes set on the little boy who now swam around with his snorkeling gear on, “apparently hyperventilating is a good strategy for holding your breath longer under water. Luke says it makes more oxygen go to your blood. Wonder where he learned that.”
You chuckled, knowing damn well that'd been your doing.
“I told him to use it moderately,” you shook your head. “But it's good to know the lesson stuck.”
“He also said superventilating,” Nat smiled, fondly watching him swim in the distance, “but I figured I'd let it slide since he explained the whole biology of it so well.”
You laughed, light, careful.
“Kid's smart. Nothing gets past him.”
“Must drive Ms. Lee crazy,” she let out a snort, endeared. “Has an opinion on everything. Wants to know why stuff's the way it is. He'd make a good scientist.”
You smiled, looking at him too, your heart melting in the way it did whenever you let yourself think about your son for too long.
“Last I heard he wanted to be a doctor-tattoo artist-guitar player. And I'm pretty sure he's kind of going through a vet phase too.”
Nat laughed, easy, and you could feel the smirk that lingered even though you didn't dare look.
“Yeah, the vet phase is definitely there. He's been bugging me about getting a puppy for a few weeks now.”
“You too?” You asked, all too familiar with the please, mom and I'll take good care of him and I promise I'll clean up after him! “Sly kid. Trying to get it where he can.”
She chuckled.
“A little more pressure and I might give in.”
“Oh, I'm sure,” you said, looking down. Daring to tease because you simply couldn't help yourself around her. “You'd give him your left arm if he asked nicely.”
“I'm right-handed anyway,” Nat joked, soft. “Plus, you're one to talk.”
You raised a brow, finally giving into the pull and letting your eyes fall on her face.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
She looked at you too.
“It means exactly what it is. You're just as much of a fool for the kid as I am.”
Your heart did that thing it usually did when Nat's eyes found your face, slamming against your ribcage so violently you thought it might break through. Still, you did your best to act natural, choosing to stick with the safe option and keep talking about Luke.
“Maybe a little,” you countered, swallowing the nerves. “But I'd say you're worse.”
Nat didn't back down, the smirk still there.
“Y/N, you're on a fucking camping trip.”
Caught red-handed.
“Is it really a camping trip if I’ve got hot water and a bed?”
Nat chuckled, visibly amused, and you were just as thankful for the lightness in the mood as you were heartbroken by it.
“You didn't know those would be there until a few hours ago,” she retorted, and you knew you couldn't argue anymore. “Admit it. You're a sucker. No shame in it.”
She gestured at her rib tattoo, the one of Luke's drawing, as if to prove you were both on the same boat — the two of you just as helpless when it came to your son. You looked on instinct, for just a second, knowing that staring down at Nat's body from this close was a dangerous game you couldn’t afford to play.
“Fine,” you said, eyes landing back on Luke, who still swam around like his energy would never run out. “What can I say? We're both suckers.”
Natalie let out a small sigh, looking at him too.
“We are,” she muttered, voice softer now, no longer carrying that teasing tone. “Can't blame us, though. Anyone in our place would. We've got the best kid in the whole world.”
“We really do.”
“MOM!” Luke yelled in the water, eyes meeting yours from afar, saving you before the moment between you and Nat turned into more than you could handle. “COME SWIM WITH ME! IT'S SO FUN!”
You smiled. Well, there you had it. The proof of Nat's accusations, and you'd fallen guilty.
“I've been summoned,” you joked, low enough so only she could hear, stepping to your feet as you threw your sunglasses on the towel. “Coming, baby!”
By the time the sun started to set and Luke was already bathed and changed into dry clothes, the three of you stood outside, gathered near the firepit as Natalie pulled the unassembled tent off its bag. He had insisted all of you put it together as a family — the word landing like a punch to your gut, but this weekend was about him, so he'd get everything he wanted.
Plus, you figured it'd be kind of fun to see Nat try to assemble a tent. She'd often tease you about your aversion to anything crafty back when you were together, but she wasn't exactly handy either — one time, about three or four months into the pregnancy, you'd seen her spend over an hour trying to figure out how to set up a dresser for the nursery, even with the instruction manual (with pictures on it) right beside her the whole time. So, as torturous as this whole experience might be, at least you'd get a good laugh out of it.
“Okay, little man,” she looked at Luke as he bounced on his heels, gesturing at the equipment spread on the grass. “Basically what we need to do is grab the poles, slide them through the holes on the fabric and then clip the edges together with those little plastic thingies.”
He nodded.
“Got it.”
“We gotta do it as a team, though,” she continued, grabbing one of the poles, free hand picking up the fabric so she could slide the pole in. “Because if one of us messes up, we can't move forward. So let's… take it easy, okay? Take turns doing it.”
Much to your surprise, she got the first pole in smoothly, barely looking, as if she'd done the same thing about a billion times before.
“There,” she smiled at Luke, proudly holding the evidence of her work, “now we do the same thing on all four sides and then move on to clip the ones that'll go on the bottom.”
“Can I go next? Please? Can I try?”
She chuckled, ruffling his hair with her free hand as she held the fabric up with the other.
“Sure, bud. Grab a pole. I'll show you how to do it.”
Luke eagerly grabbed one of the tent poles, trying but failing to mimic Nat, his rushed motions getting the pole stuck halfway through the sleeve.
“Gentle,” she took his hand, guiding it, helping him slide it through till it reached the other end. “There, like that. Can’t rush it or it doesn't work.”
You watched the scene silently, eyes narrowed at Nat's unexpected ease when it came to the task at hand. She must've gone through that manual a million times at home, you thought, because that was the only explanation for her to be so good at this. Either that or this was easier than it looked, because you knew Natalie Scatorccio simply hadn't been built for handy work, and you had the evidence to back it up — the dresser, the bookshelf that always leaned to the left in her old apartment, that one time she tried to hang a picture in the shop and ended up drilling a hole right through the wall.
“Gentle,” Luke repeated, calmer now, the same focus and determination on his face as you'd seen the day he drew a dragon on Nat's tablet, “okay. Now it's your turn, mom.”
You nodded, stepping to your role, knowing the shared activity was an excellent opportunity to give your son a lesson on the importance of teamwork. Plus, then again, if Nat didn't have any problems doing it you were sure it couldn't be so hard.
If only you knew how wrong you were.
“Alright, let's do it,” you picked up a pole confidently, ready to give it a go. “Explorer 101.”
Luke stayed beside you, watching like he couldn't wait to get another turn again.
“You gotta do it gently, mom,” he instructed as if you hadn't been right there to hear Nat say it the first time. “If you rush it then it doesn't work.”
You chuckled, the little parrot repeating his mama’s lessons as he often would.
“Okay, honey. I’ve got it.”
And then you slid the pole through the fabric sleeve, face falling when it got caught halfway through. You pushed it further, figuring it might have just been a little jammed, but it didn’t work — all it did was bend the pole, which you were pretty sure wasn’t meant to happen.
“You alright there, explorer?” Natalie teased, already smirking like she couldn’t help it.
“I’ve got it,” you emphasized, regretting not having sat this one out.
You kept trying to push the pole through, careful not to tear through the fabric, but also not ready to pull back and start over. This was harder than it looked. You should be good at it, for fuck’s sake. You’d given patients central lines much more complicated than that, and even then you hadn’t struggled this much to get the fucking tube in.
How was Natalie so good at it?
“Mom, you’re bending it,” as if the whole show wasn’t humiliating enough, now you were getting humbled by a seven-year-old. “You have to be gentle, remember?”
Nat chuckled, infuriatingly amused by your distress.
“You heard him. You’ve gotta pull it back and reposition.”
“I said I’ve got it,” you insisted one last time before pushing again, unsurprisingly to no success.
This wasn’t going to work.
“I think there’s something wrong with mine.”
Nat snorted obnoxiously.
“With the pole?”
Luke shook his head.
“Try again, mom!” He encouraged, placing a small hand on your arm, smiling in the same way you would when trying to get him to tie his shoes or get his spelling right. “Mama can help you, she’s really good!”
You sighed, watching his careful face, taking in his gentle tone. He was so sweet. A sensitive kid through and through, which you’d made a point out of encouraging ever since you’d sat next to Nat in that cold doctor’s office and found out you were going to have a boy. You wanted to raise him right. Teach him all about respect, about the importance of allowing himself to feel things, show him it was okay to cry when he needed to. That he didn’t have to struggle to do everything by himself. That there was no shame in asking for help.
You and your fucking lessons.
“Okay,” you gave in, looking at Natalie, who smiled victoriously at your lowered head. “Mind helping me, Nat?”
She looked at Luke for a moment, basking in the win, then back at you.
“Yeah, of course. Get the edge of the pole and pull it all the way out of the sleeve,” she instructed, the tease slowly giving space to something softer as you followed the steps. “There. It’s not bent anymore, see?”
“You’re doing it, mom!” Luke exclaimed, eyes shining, a welcome distraction from Nat’s raspy voice as she guided you so carefully.
“Now push it back in. Gently. You can feel it out with your other hand to see if it’s coming through.”
And just like that, you got it right.
“Good job, mom! You did it!” Luke yelled eagerly, encouraging, jumping up and down before lifting a flat palm in your direction.
You laughed, not immune to your son’s adorable cheerleading, giving him a high-five.
“Thanks, buddy.”
“I knew you could do it! She did a really good job, right, mama?”
Nat chuckled, eyes landing on you for a moment, the smile lingering on the corner of her mouth. It didn’t look teasing this time — instead, there was earnestness to it, the kind you recognized from when Luke said please and thank you to a stranger or wanted to place his own order at a restaurant, and you knew she was proud for seeing her lessons stick.
“Yup,” she raised a hand in your direction, just like he’d done, playing it up for the sake of your kid. “Good job, mom.”
We’re both here for Luke.
“Thanks,” you high-fived her too. “And thanks for helping me.”
“Anytime.”
“Okay, can I get another turn now?!” Luke was already reaching for the equipment on the floor, eager to build something, wanting to prove how he’d get it right this time.
But you stayed still a moment, heart fluttering in your chest, Nat’s eyes shining in the sunset suddenly too much for you to handle.
The three of you finished setting up the tent, carrying all kinds of pillows and blankets from the cabin in order to make it cozy enough to sleep in — which Luke insisted he was going to do. It didn’t take long for night to fall, the air getting cooler, causing everybody to put on their jackets before moving outside to roast marshmallows by the fire.
The fire which Nat had started the old fashioned way, with sticks and rocks and determination, even though the kitchen had a perfectly fine blowtorch in one of its drawers.
“Wanna see something cool, Luke?” She’d asked, sitting next to him, guiding him through the steps though she never let him touch the fire.
Who was that person?
First she knew how to put together the world’s most complicated tent, now she was building fires from scratch like Tom Hanks in fucking Cast Away. Natalie Scatorccio. The same you’d seen accidentally break about a hundred wine glasses in your lifetime. The same whose solution for every little problem around the house was to call a guy.
It didn't add up. Either she'd taken a survivalist course after the divorce or she'd been replaced by a handier, more adventurous doppelganger. Whatever it was, you shrugged it off, not wanting to ask just yet — not when Luke was straight up carbonizing his marshmallow, pouting disappointedly when it came out looking like a piece of charcoal.
“Easier, Luke,” you poked a stick through another marshmallow, showing him the ropes because that you could do. “Not so close to the flames.”
The evening was easy, you and Nat falling into a nice rhythm that consisted mainly of listening calmly as Luke narrated the highlights of his day like you both hadn't been there to see it. He talked about the fish, about the kayak, about how he’d totally beat mama in a race again tomorrow, yawning into his marshmallow because he couldn't help it after such an exciting day.
Once you started alluding to the idea of getting him ready for bed, he frowned, sticky hands clinging to your arm.
“But mama promised she'd let me sleep in the tent,” he whined. “It's not camping if I have to sleep inside.”
You sighed, not crazy about the idea. It'd been fun to show him the tent in the afternoon, to lounge around for a few minutes while Nat got ready inside, but sleeping in it? Absolutely not.
“Lucas.”
“Please, mom. Please. Mama promised.”
You shot a glance at Nat, who smiled sheepishly.
“Guilty,” she admitted. “Tell you what, kiddo, why don't you go change into your PJs and brush your teeth while I get some more blankets?” Natalie looked at you, shoulders relaxing as she fixed the sleeve of her jacket. “I've got it.”
And so you cleaned up while Nat equipped the tent with enough blankets to build a fortress, supervising as Luke got his Spidey pajamas from the suitcase.
A few minutes later, ready to get in bed and relax the tension of the day off, you looked at the bedside table and didn’t see the book you'd brought there. Fuck, you thought, I must've left it outside. You thought about toughing it out and trying to fall asleep, but you knew it'd be useless. You didn't stand a chance without your faithful reading session before bed.
So you stepped outside, finding it on the swinging chair by the porch exactly where you'd left it, but that wasn't what called your attention.
Luke and Nat did.
They weren’t in the tent yet as you'd expected — instead, they sat on one of the logs by the fire, Luke leaned against Nat's side as she kept an arm around him, fingers threading gently through his hair. They had their backs turned to you, talking calmly, just loud enough for you to hear while they didn't seem to notice your presence. You hung back a second, observing. Enjoying the rare opportunity to just stand and watch. Taking in the ease, the tenderness, the love.
“So,” Nat said, looking down at the top of his head. “You excited about the big eight tomorrow?”
He nodded, tired, clutching something in his hands.
“Mm-hm. It's gonna be the best birthday ever.”
She chuckled.
“Yeah?”
“Yup. This is the coolest place in the world,” he snuggled closer, shooting his eyes up, smiling sleepily. “Today was so fun, mama. Like, the most fun.”
“I'm glad you liked it, baby. I had fun too.”
He let out a soft sigh, keeping his gaze on Nat's face like he had something on his mind.
“Mama.”
“Yeah, bud?”
“How did you get so good at camping?”
You smiled to yourself, quiet, still watching. That observant kid. Attentive to detail in ways that still managed to surprise you. Wanting to get to the bottom of things in the same way you did. Noticing the people he loved in a way that was all Nat.
She let out a soft breath, as if bracing for something, and you stilled in place.
“Uh, my father used to take me sometimes,” she muttered, eyes on his face, fingers still in his hair. “When I was about as big as you.”
You froze, heart breaking in your chest. Nat never talked about her dad. You'd only ever heard her mention him twice — that time she showed up at your door after the first breakup and on the night she first brought up the possibility of divorce, and on that second time she hadn't even explicitly said anything. You had no idea about the camping trips. So that's where her experience came from, that's why she'd been so good at everything you'd been doing all day.
Luke frowned, a new found curiosity on his face.
“You have a father?”
Nat shook her head.
“Not anymore, bud. But I did when I was your age.”
He nodded as if he understood it, even though you knew he was too young to make sense of her words, bringing his free hand to Nat's knee.
“Did he die?”
Natalie watched his face carefully, tender, smiling sadly.
“He did, baby.”
“That's too bad,” he said, rubbing her knee gently, comforting her. “Maybe mom could have saved him. She can save everyone's lives, she's really good at it.”
You felt your chest burst with so much warmth and so much pain you didn't know what to do with it. You simply stayed there, eyes filling with tears despite yourself, clutching the book in your hands like it could somehow ground you.
“It was a long time ago,” Nat shook her head, still smiling, stroking Luke's hair with the utmost affection. “Way before I knew your mom.”
“It's okay to be sad about it, mama. Cry if you need to, remember?”
She chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“Mama's okay, buddy. Thanks for being so sweet.”
He wrapped his arms around her neck, pushing to get on her lap, whatever he had in his hand shining in the moonlight.
“It's okay, mama. We're gonna have so much fun tomorrow anyway,” he pressed a wet kiss to her cheek, causing her to let out a laugh. “Can we go exploring?”
“Only if you get a good night's sleep. Eight-year-olds need all the energy they can get if they wanna face these woods,” she gave him one last squeeze before tapping his back, helping him up. “Come on, let's check out how cozy that tent feels with all the blankets. Charmander can come along.”
“Charizard, mama,” he corrected, waving the object in his hand — which you now recognized as a Pokémon card, of course. “Aunt Van gave it to me.”
And so you stepped back inside before you could be seen, heart heavy and warm all at the same time.
Sleep didn't come, not even with the book. Not when your head was filled with thoughts of Nat — sweet, as little as Luke, forced to go camping with a father who didn't know how to love her. Getting yelled at when she couldn't set up a tent or start a fire. Subjected to everything she refused to repeat with your son, her son, the boy both of you loved more than anything in the world.
When the words started to blend together on the page and you still couldn't seem to shut your fucking eyes, you sighed. Good thing were prepared for this — knowing how close you'd be to Nat this weekend, you'd brought a pack of chamomile tea as a last resort just in case.
You snuck out to the kitchen, making some tea, sitting at the table in order to have it before trying to sleep again. It wasn’t going to happen anyway, not now. You figured you might as well make good use of the time while you were at it.
So you opened your laptop, placing it before you, thankful for the advent of wifi as you logged onto the hospital’s internal system and checked on your patient’s clinical evolutions for the day. It wasn’t like you’d be there tomorrow to help with any changes, but it was good to be kept up to speed. If anything happened, you were just a call away from your residents anyway.
As you typed something up on the page, already halfway through your cup of tea, the creaking sound of the front door made your eyes shoot up. Nat carried Luke inside, body limp and heavy with sleep, his head tucked into her shoulder as he breathed steadily. She stopped when she saw you, seemingly surprised, smiling softly, politely.
“Hey,” she muttered quietly, not taking any chances even though he was a heavy sleeper. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
You shook your head slightly, looking at her face, the words you’d overheard her tell Luke earlier echoing in your head.
“I could say the same about you,” you offered back, soft, careful. “Whatever happened to spending the night in the tent?”
“Please,” she chuckled, “no fucking way I’m sleeping in that thing. Was just waiting for him to pass out before coming inside and sleeping in an actual bed.”
You matched her expression.
“Can’t blame you. At least he got to live his camping fantasy.”
“Yeah,” she pulled her head back a bit, staring at Luke for a moment before settling back on you. Her eyes carried so much love, so much devotion for the little boy that anyone could see it from miles away. “He’s having a good time. Out here, I mean.”
You smiled. My father used to take me sometimes, you heard in your head, once again thinking about how difficult those trips must’ve been for her judging by what you knew about the man. And she’d been so amazing today. Giving Luke all the attention he needed, encouraging him, always patient. Always kind. Never once raising her voice. Never once losing her head.
You thought she deserved to know it.
“He is,” you nodded, earnest. “You did good, Nat. This place is incredible. He’s gonna remember it forever.”
Natalie smiled too, honest, beautiful.
“That’s the goal,” she said like a mantra or a prayer, the words genuine on her lips. Her eyes drifted to the laptop before you and she chuckled again, shifting Luke slightly in her arms. “Get some sleep, doc. Got a whole day ahead of us tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll find a way to hold the fort without you.”
You nodded, surrendered, a little smirk popping up on the corner of your lips. Doc. The old nickname, the one she’d use when you were bent over the kitchen table in your apartment, looking over books and charts like they’d been written in a foreign language.
“Soon,” you reassured, just like you used to in another lifetime when you knew she’d be waiting for you in bed once you were done. “Just need to wrap something up real quick.”
“Sure you do,” she snorted, picking her rhythm back up. “Good night, Y/N.”
“Night, Nat.”
You finished your tea and went to bed, even if you weren’t sure you’d be able to sleep, even if no one was there waiting for you anymore. She was right — if anything happened at the hospital, it didn’t concern you. Not this weekend.
You woke up extra early the next morning, surprised when you didn’t see Nat’s car outside through the balcony doors. You smiled to yourself, she didn’t. Upon further inspection and the torn piece of paper with her handwriting you found in the kitchen, you realized she absolutely did.
Gone into town to pick up Luke’s cake, be back before he wakes up — N
The cake. The chocolate and vanilla swirl from that bakery you’d been ordering from since he was old enough to try it, which you’d already learned by now was only good if you got it the same day you were supposed to cut it. The place must’ve been at least an hour away from the cabin, and you’d already practically woken up at dawn, so Nat must’ve barely gotten any sleep in order to drive there and back before Luke woke up on his special day.
She really was an excellent mom.
You got to work too, knowing your son’s birthday meant no effort would be spared, already getting started on the balloons you’d packed and the coffee you were sure Nat would need when she got back.
By the time she arrived, box in hand and a paper bag dangling from her arm, the living room was already covered in multicolored balloons as you hung a HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUKE banner on the wall by the kitchen table.
“Wow,” Nat said from behind you, moving to place everything on the counter so her hands would be free to help out. “You really went all out, huh?”
“Says the woman who got up in the crack of dawn to go pick up the cake,” you joked with recognition, standing on a chair, arms stretched all the way up. “How was traffic?”
“Not too bad,” she came closer, right behind you, grabbing the roll of duct tape from the table without you having to ask. “Banner looks really good.”
“Thanks, there’s this place at the mall that makes them in—” as you reached for the tape she handed out, your foot slipped in an awkward way that caused the chair to wobble, making you lose your balance.
It happened fast. You gasped, bracing for the fall, but it never came.
Instead, Nat’s hands moved up to your waist at the speed of light as if on instinct — steadying, balancing. Tight and strong. Not letting you fall.
“Careful,” she said, looking up at you as your chest heaved from the scare, knees now trembling for an entirely different reason. “You good?”
You still had your back to her, except now your neck was turned, eyes on hers, blue and soft and genuinely concerned. Her hands were still tense on your waist like that was normal, like it hadn’t been two fucking years since they’d last touched that spot.
You nodded, letting out a soft exhale.
“…Yeah,” your voice came out lower than you intended it to, “I’m okay.”
“Sure?”
Nat’s hands softened their grip, but she didn’t let go.
“Mm-hm,” you muttered, absolutely not okay, but that didn’t have anything to do with the almost-fall.
Natalie was touching you. Not just anywhere, not just accidentally in passing or for a split second while handing you something, but actually, intentionally touching you — firm, familiar, fingers spread across your waist in a way that had the tip of her pinky right where she was marked on your skin forever.
“You can let go now,” you let out in a near whisper, not wanting the moment to end, but worried about what stupid thing might come out of your mouth if she stayed that close for too long. “I've got it.”
Nat blinked like she'd only now realized her hands were still on you, pulling them back, her absence suddenly making your body feel cold.
“Yeah, yeah,” she murmured awkwardly, clearing her throat. “Watch out, though. Those chairs can be real unstable.”
“I'll be more careful. Thanks.”
“Yeah, of course.”
A beat went by, both of you silent. You finished hanging the banner — not threatening to fall this time — as Nat grabbed the paper bag she'd left on the counter, starting to set the table with the pastries she'd brought from the bakery.
“Bear claws?” You chuckled, already down on the ground, trying to lighten the mood.
“Luke's favorite,” she pulled out some croissants and muffins too, moving to grab plates from the cabinet to put those in. “I figured we could all use some carbs since we're going hiking today.”
“Hiking?”
“Luke said he wants to explore,” she let out a snort, shaking her head. “And, well. Birthday privileges, right?”
You nodded, not excited about the plans, but determined to make this the best day ever for your son.
“Birthday privileges.”
By the time Luke appeared in the hall, Spidey pajamas on and eyes full of sleep, the decorations were already set and the presents you'd both brought were wrapped and on display by the table. You ran to light the candles stuck on the cake, putting on your best smile to start your son's day off the right way.
“There's the birthday boy!” Nat exclaimed, joyful, arms open to welcome him. “Whoa, man, I think you're already getting taller!”
Luke giggled, slowly waking as he took in the decorations.
“Am not, mama.”
“Are too,” she crouched down to get on his level, hugging him tightly, kissing his cheek. “Look how big you're getting.”
He laughed, melting into the hug, clingy arms wrapping around her while you stood and watched the scene with warmth in your heart, the earlier chair incident now gone and forgotten.
This was all that mattered.
“THERE'S CAKE!” He jolted toward you as soon as Nat let go of him, stopping where you stood with the cake in hand, excitedly bouncing on his heels. “Is it chocolate and vanilla, mom? Is it? Is it?”
You laughed, nodding, leaning down so he could blow the candles.
“Yes. Chocolate and vanilla, your favorite,” you said with a smile, so full of love you thought your chest might burst. “Happy birthday, baby.”
You and Nat sang him happy birthday and he blew the candles, hand over his heart while he closed his eyes shut and silently made a wish. I can’t say what it is, he insisted once you'd both pried, or it won't come true.
The morning settled nicely over the three of you, Luke talking a mile a minute about his new Lego set and the cool pair of binoculars you'd gotten him (the wrapping paper now scattered all over the floor), making plans for the day, eating pastries and cake and begging you to let him have just one sip of coffee.
“When you're older, buddy,” you chuckled, shaking your head, because apparently even birthday boys couldn't have everything they wanted. “But there's OJ in the fridge if you're thirsty.”
By the time you were all fed and Luke was covered head to toe in sunscreen and bug spray, you and Nat walked side-by-side as he ran ahead, new binoculars around his neck, following a little wooden arrow that led to a well-marked hiking trail.
You watched him for a second, chuckling to yourself. The things I do for this kid, you thought, still not believing you were spending a very rare day off out in the woods with your fucking ex.
“How sure are we about this?” You asked, hanging back beside Nat as Luke looked at everything through the lenses. “He's a city kid. Closest he's gotten to hiking was that time we took him to see The Lion King.”
Nat snorted.
“The ad said the trail was kid friendly. And, well, he's nothing if not determined,” she nodded in Luke's direction, making you smile as you noticed him go WHOA! at the sight of a bird. “I think he's good for it.”
And so the three of you fell into step — Luke excitedly cataloging every creature, plant and rock with his binoculars, you and Nat just behind, watching, assessing, making sure to periodically warn him not to run too far.
As time passed, you noticed Nat's cheeks starting to blush, hair beginning to stick to her forehead in a way that should not be this attractive. She took a sip from the water bottle in her hand, letting out an exhale, eyes following Luke as he walked ahead like he wasn't the least bit fazed by the exercise.
“It's kid friendly alright,” she muttered, breathy. “Not sure it's meant for adults, though.”
You chuckled, amused, probably just as flushed as she was.
“The wonders of hiking. Sweat and mosquito bites and muscle cramps,” you took a sip from your bottle too. “Yet everybody seems to be doing it these days.”
“I fucking swear. You open Instagram and it's all hiking this, yoga that,” she rasped like that was a topic she'd debated before.
“Don't forget kayaking.”
She chuckled.
“For fuck's sake, right? It's like everyone's suddenly an outdoors person,” she shook her head. “You know Shauna Sadecki?”
You frowned, confused at the sudden change of topic.
“Callie's mom?”
Nat nodded.
“We were talking the other day at pick-up and she told me how she's been on those dating apps lately,” she leaned slightly closer, lowering her voice. “You know, since the divorce.”
You raised a brow, but Nat kept talking before you had a chance to ask.
“Four different people have asked her on hiking dates,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “Guys and girls. It's a fucking epidemic. Whatever happened to bars?”
Your shoulders relaxed and you allowed yourself to laugh, half because what Nat said was indeed absurd, half because she finally pulled away and you didn't have to hold your breath in anymore.
“Those apps are nightmares,” you commented offhandedly. “Craziest people you'll ever meet.”
Nat stopped for a second, looking at you with a smirk she couldn't seem to hide — though, to be fair, you weren't sure she was trying.
“Speaking from experience?”
Shit, you thought to yourself, realizing you’d talked too much.
“What— no,” you immediately corrected, suddenly wishing you could dig a hole and crawl into it. “I just— I heard it from some friends, that’s all.”
But Nat didn’t budge, for once leaning into the slip instead of letting you off the hook.
“Friends. Right,” she chuckled. “It’s no shame, you know. You’re single. You’re successful. I’m sure you’d get a ton of… likes or whatever.”
“I'm not on dating apps,” you reinforced, cringing to your bones, flushed for a reason that didn't involve all the exercising anymore. “I told you, I just have some friends who've done it.”
Nat let out a snort that made you want to bash her head in. That teasing, relentless, gorgeous fucking woman you'd always had a billion soft spots for.
“No need to get all defensive about it. I'm just fucking with you,” she kicked a pebble, resuming walking in order to catch up with Luke's pace — who still did his own exploring a few feet ahead, oblivious to the conversation. “And I wouldn't judge you if you were, by the way.”
“Sure, Nat. I'll set up a profile right now,” you rolled your eyes, following suit. “I can squeeze a few dates in my schedule when I'm not working or driving Luke to soccer practice. Who knows, I might get some action by the time he turns eighteen.”
She laughed, the shit-eating grin on her face denouncing the fact that she knew she'd successfully pushed your buttons.
“What, you're gonna tell me you’re not dating? At all?”
“Wouldn't you like to know,” you huffed, exasperated, turning your eyes away from her.
Why did she care anyway?
“I'm just making conversation,” she shrugged, annoyingly composed. “You know. Friendly asking.”
“I barely have time to stop and breathe, Nat,” you gave in, figuring she wouldn't leave you alone anyway — classic Natalie. “Dating's not exactly at the top of my to-do list right now.”
“You work too hard,” she countered, unfazed. “Should give yourself a little break sometimes.”
You frowned, eyes falling on her again, trying to decipher what she meant. What was she trying to say? Was she just being friendly? Was she genuinely just worried about your tendency to overwork yourself? Was she implying she had been dating?
Your breath caught in your throat, that name flashing in your head again — Lucy, some faceless woman texting Nat, asking her if she was okay.
You figured you wouldn't get another chance to ask.
“Well, have you been—”
“MOM! MAMA!” Luke exclaimed, interrupting you mid-question, which you couldn't decide whether it was a good or a bad thing. “Look! Blackberries!”
Nat caught her step as if the whole conversation had never happened, smiling excitedly at Luke. You followed right behind, putting the mom mask back on, opting to try to put whatever that had been out of your mind, as hard as you figured it'd be.
“Those aren't blackberries, buddy,” Nat instructed, stopping beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “They’re mulberries. Blackberries don't grow on trees, they grow on vines.”
“Oh,” he nodded, interested. “Mulberries. Cool! Do they taste sweet?”
“When they're ripe,” Nat placed a hand on her hip, looking up at the tree, little berries hanging from it just out of her reach. “You wanna try one?”
“YES!” He jumped eagerly. “Just like a real explorer!”
“I'll grab a handful, hold on.”
You watched her, knowing there was no way either of you would be able to reach them, they were simply too high up.
Nat didn't seem to care about her odds.
She placed a foot on the trunk of the tree, crooked and curvy, using a hand to support herself as you realized just what her plan was.
“Nat,” you warned, having seen enough accidents at work that had started just like that. “What are you doing?”
“Getting mulberries,” she answered like it was nothing, ever the stubborn idiot when she wanted to be.
“That's dangerous.”
“I’ve got it,” she said smugly, pushing herself up, placing both feet on a lump on the trunk as she carefully picked up the berries. “Alright, one, two, three…”
Luke watched the whole thing like a movie, mesmerized, eyes shining like he'd just found out his mama was a superhero.
“Mama, you can climb trees! That's so rad!”
She let out a soft laugh from up there, definitely a little smug.
“Thanks, bud. Tell that to your mom,” she teased, making you roll your eyes again. “Alright, I think I got enough. Coming down now.”
Nat lowered herself, using her free hand to lean against the trunk, and it seemed to work in her favor — until, at the last minute, it didn’t. Before either of you knew it, her feet slipped, making her land with them both on the ground, but not without scraping her arm against the tree first.
“Ah, f—” she caught herself, groaning, mulberries tucked in her hand as she used the other one to cradle her injured arm on instinct. “Jesus!”
Your heart stopped, and you were stepping up to her side before you even knew it, unsure if the readiness came from being a doctor or from the fact that it was Nat getting hurt right in front of you.
“Let me see,” you said, prompt, unhesitant.
“It's—” she huffed, clearly masking the pain. “It's nothing, I'm fine.”
“Mama!” Luke yelled beside you, eyes wide, focused on Nat's arm. “You're bleeding!”
“I’m okay, buddy,” she reassured him, visibly shaken by the pain, but toughing it out. “I’m okay, it’s just a little scratch.”
“Natalie, let me see,” you insisted, unable to see anything clearly when she kept turning away, just spotting a red blur of what could only be blood dripping down her forearm.
She opened her mouth to protest again, but Luke was faster.
“Mama! You’re hurt!” He exclaimed in panic, a second away from crying, chin already starting to tremble. “Let mom look! She’ll know how to fix it!”
“Okay. Okay, buddy, okay,” she said calmly, gently, wanting to give him a sense of security. “Here. Here, I’ll let mommy look. It’s okay. It’s okay, mama’s alright.”
Luke curled into your side, forehead against your ribcage as you brought an arm around him and Nat finally lifted hers in your direction.
“It’s okay, baby,” you muttered, rubbing gentle circles on his back to soothe him. Your free hand moved to support Nat’s elbow, steadying it, offering you a better look at the injury just below it. “It’s not deep. Just a little scrape that looks scarier than it actually is. Mommy can make the bleeding stop and then we can put some nice bandages on it when we’re back at the cabin.”
“You can make it stop?” Luke asked, voice muffled, clutching onto you.
“Yeah, darling. You’ll see, it’ll go away in a minute.”
You let go of Nat’s arm gently, fiddling for a hand towel in the backpack you carried, handing it to her without hesitation.
“Press it down on the cut,” you instructed, careful. “Should stop bleeding soon, it’s a small one. Shallow.”
“Thanks,” she followed your instructions, visibly calmer now that the scare was gone, looking over at Luke with soft eyes. “Really, buddy, mama’s okay. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. You heard mommy, it just looks scary, but it’s nothing.”
“It looks really scary,” he muttered, still tucked into your side.
“I know. I know it does, baby,” Nat ran a hand through his hair, wincing just a little, opposite fingers pinching the towel against her arm as the mulberries stayed safely tucked in her palm underneath. “Tell you what, how about we go back to the cabin now so your mom can patch me up and make me good as new? Then we can go kayaking or we can play some soccer or we can eat more cake. Whatever you want.”
He nodded, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.
“Okay,” he sniffled, not really crying, but nearly there. “Okay, let’s go back.”
Back at the cabin, you grabbed the first-aid kit you’d packed in Nat’s car just in case, promptly getting to work on the wound. She sat across from you on a kitchen chair, toughing it out as you sprayed antiseptic on the cut, an apprehensive Luke holding her free hand for emotional support.
“Does it hurt, mama?”
Nat shook her head.
“No, little man. I can barely feel it anymore.”
You knew she was lying for the sake of his innocence, but you went with it. You were careful, steady, gentle hands cleaning the wound and placing sterile dressings over it, explaining every step to Luke in order to try and keep him calm.
“There,” you said once you were done, looking over at your son with a reassuring expression. “All done.”
But he was still skeptical.
“You’re sure it’s all better now?” He asked, looking between you and Nat, brows still furrowed. “Mama’s all fixed up?”
“As good as new,” she moved her arm, trying to prove her point. “See? All better.”
He pressed his lips together in a thin line, staring at the dressings for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, worried, eyes falling on your face. “Maybe you should kiss it just in case.”
You froze.
“Luke—”
“Just like you do with me,” he explained in his eight-year-old logic, clutching Nat’s hand. “It always makes me feel better. It might be what mama needs.”
He looked at you pleadingly, like a kiss would be the answer to finally settle the lingering distress on his little face, and you found yourself at a loss of words. The fucking kid. Unknowingly putting you through the world’s most dangerous situation. Unknowingly breaking your heart all over again when you knew that two years ago the kiss wouldn’t even have been a question.
Shit. It was his birthday after all.
Natalie stayed quiet, eyes on you as if her plan was to follow your lead, whatever you decided, and you sighed resignedly.
“Okay,” you said, defeated, looking at her to make sure that was alright. “Just in case.”
Nat nodded, lips pressed together.
“Work your magic, doc.”
You held Nat’s elbow, trying not to let on just how much your hands shook. Even with sweat dripping down her temples, her scent was just as pronounced as the day you met her — earthy and mature and still just a little sweet —, which didn’t help your nerves. Her eyes stayed on you the whole time, blue and focused, lacking the ease from the hike — that annoying nonchalance, the I have my shit together she might as well have screamed while asking questions about your dating life now all gone, giving space to silence and breaths she didn't fully let out. You got closer, Luke's eager stare in your peripheral vision working as the only thing in the room capable of grounding you.
You've kissed her a million times before, you thought to yourself, not sure if it helped or just made everything worse. You've kissed every inch of her body, a little peck on her arm is nothing.
It was quick. Soft and salty and barely there, just next to where you'd placed the dressings.
Still, you felt it in your whole body.
“There,” you muttered, eyes finding Nat's for just a second before turning to Luke for safety. “All healed.”
“Do you feel better, mama?”
Nat cleared her throat.
“Yeah, bud,” she said with a weak nod, her gaze following the same path as yours. “All better now.”
Luke let out a relieved breath, at last fully relaxing once he believed his mama wasn't hurt anymore.
“Told you,” he squeezed Nat's hand, still in his own. “Mom can make everyone better, she's so good at it.”
“She is,” Nat smiled, small and tame, touching his hair tenderly. “The best.”
“Okay, now we can play soccer!” And just like that, he was already back on full birthday boy chaos. “I'm gonna go get the ball! Mama, you play against me! And mom can be the goalie! Come on, people!”
Luke jolted like a lightning outside, leaving you and Natalie alone in the kitchen, both staring at the path he'd taken.
You swallowed the lingering tension, doing your best to act normal.
“Like it never happened. Eight-year-olds and their perpetuous resilience.”
“Right? They should teach a class or something like that,” she snorted, weak, pausing for a second. Her eyes landed on you. “Uh, thanks, by the way,” she lifted her arm. “The way you handled that was… pretty amazing.”
“Just… doing my job,” you shrugged, trying not to let the effect of the compliment show on your cheeks. “Uh, make sure to change the dressings once a day, by the way. I can show you how to do it if you want.”
“Thanks, doc,” she grinned, nodding. “Anything else I need to do?”
“Just steer clear from trees,” you joked. “Or, you know, you can look. But no climbing anymore.”
“Can't make any promises. But I'll try.”
As you were about to tease back, thankful for the rhythm you'd managed to maintain even with the unspoken awkwardness of the kiss, Luke ran back inside, ball in hand.
“COME ON! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!”
And so you both stepped back into your roles.
Night fell a bit more warmly than the one before, Luke's birthday high and sugar rush decreasing by the second, especially after you'd gotten him bathed and ready for bed. You lay next to him in the tent, Nat inside taking care of cleaning up the decorations, his body curled against your side as he fought off sleep and lost by a mile.
“Mom?” He muttered quietly, nearly gone.
“Here, baby.”
“If I make a birthday wish and tell just one person what it is… then it's okay, right? It can still come true?”
You smiled, taking in the moment while you still could. While he still believed in birthday wishes and the unspoken rules behind them.
“Sure, buddy. Why do you ask?”
“Because I wanna tell you mine,” he whispered, eyelids so heavy you expected him to fully pass out any second now. “But you can't tell anyone else. I don't wanna risk it.”
“Cross my heart.”
He shifted against you.
“I wished we could come here every year. You and me and mama. Family camping trip for all my birthdays.”
Your heart fluttered in your chest at the word family.
“We can make that happen, honey.”
It didn't take long for him to fall asleep after that.
You carried Luke inside with a grunt — he was getting so heavy —, his head tucked into your shoulder as you let the smell of his shampoo ease every nerve that had been on edge over the weekend. It hadn't been easy — being this close to Nat after so long, having to act natural even though you were dying inside half of the time —, but now, on your last night here, holding your baby in your arms, you took comfort in the fact that it had all been worth it. He'd had so much fun. He'd been cared for and appreciated and loved through every second of it. He'd loved it so much he wanted to come back every year with his moms, who still managed to make him feel like part of a family even with everything that had happened.
You'd done your job, and you'd done it well.
“He's out?” Nat asked quietly, leaned over the kitchen counter with a glass of water in hand.
“Like a light,” you whispered. “I'll go put him to bed.”
Natalie followed you suit, opening the door for you, hanging back as you gently tucked Luke into the twin bed. You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
“Happy birthday, buddy.”
Nat watched the scene, arms crossed, leaned against the doorframe with a little smile on her lips. You looked at her, knowing exactly what was going through her mind — all the love for that little boy practically oozing out of her every pore in a way that made her glow. You nodded in recognition, smiling back.
“He's the best thing I ever did,” she commented, earnest, watching his chest move up and down with steady breaths. “Best thing we ever did.”
“He is,” you looked at him too, stopping beside her, letting go of all the ex-wives drama for a moment. Right now, you were both Luke's moms. “Turning out pretty great.”
She chuckled, endeared, shaking her head slightly.
“Best kid in the world,” Nat uncrossed her arms — the dressings still tight in place —, feet slowly moving backwards into the hallway, eyes landing on your face. “Hey, think you can come outside with me a second? I wanna show you something.”
You raised a brow, stepping out of the room, carefully closing the door.
“What is it?”
“Come on. You'll see.”
You couldn't think of a world where you'd ever say no to that.
Outside, Nat circled the cabin, stepping onto the deck that connected to the master bedroom without a word. She sat on the little couch there, fiddling for something in her pocket — an Altoid tin, as it turned out, making your lips curve immediately with recognition.
“You didn't.”
She laughed, cracking the tin open, showing you what was inside — a single joint, carefully rolled in those same fucking rolling papers she used to carry around back when you met her.
“I did.”
You shook your head, amused and surprised, taking the spot next to her — careful enough not to touch her as you sat. Maybe you shouldn't, maybe you were digging your own grave and setting yourself up for the biggest embarrassment of your life, but you couldn't pass up on the opportunity. Nat sat there, beside you, smiling with a joint tucked between her fingers like no time had passed and you were suddenly ten years younger.
And when it came to her, a little part of you was always going to be that same clueless college girl with the wide eyes and the shaky knees.
“I haven't touched one of these in years,” you chuckled, looking at her in disbelief.
“Eight years,” Nat tightened the roll, an old habit you immediately clocked. “Me neither. But when I saw the pictures of the cabin online, I mean…” She shrugged, that gorgeous grin still painted across her lips. “I had to. For old time's sake, you know?”
“I'm not even sure I still know how to.”
“We can find out right now,” she handed you the joint and the lighter, raising her brows slightly as if checking if you actually wanted it. “Do the honors, doc.”
You looked at it for a moment, unsure whether or not you should.
Well, you were already here. Fuck it.
“Gladly,” you placed the joint between your lips, lighting it, fighting tooth and nail not to cough from the smoke that suddenly invaded your throat. You were rusty, but you still had it in you.
She laughed, watching you inhale the smoke.
“There she is.”
“Like riding a bike,” you said with an exhale, handing her the joint.
Nat smoked too, and you watched her ring-clad hands shining in the moonlight, the smoke curling in the air and enveloping her face in the same way it used to. She was gorgeous. So fucking beautiful, especially from this close, especially with that little grin that met her lips the second she exhaled.
“Like riding a fucking bike.”
You both took about two or three more hits before you started feeling lightheaded, shaking your head, laughing as you handed her the joint back.
“Alright, I think that's it for me,” you leaned back against the couch, breathing softly. “Maybe I still need training wheels, just in case.”
“I know,” Nat put out the joint on the corner of the coffee table, placing it back in the Altoid tin with a giggle. “Fuck. I used to go through these like water. Whatever happened to that? When did I turn into such a fucking lightweight?”
You chuckled.
“We’re moms now, Nat. Which means we’re pretty much ancient.”
“Been out of the game for too long,” she joked, staring into the distance — a dark blur of trees blending together in the horizon. “Eight years old. Can you believe that?”
You nodded, warm, the weed making you feel pleasantly light.
“Eight years old,” you repeated. “Feels like yesterday. I thought you were gonna rip my hand out in that delivery room.”
She laughed.
“Yeah, only because he was the biggest newborn ever. I thought I was gonna die. Felt like giving birth to a watermelon.”
You looked at her, amused, shaking your head.
“Well, got Travis to blame for that. The guy’s basically a human closet.”
Nat lowered her head with a snort, thinkative. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and you raised a brow.
“What, did I strike a nerve there?”
She shook her head.
“No, no. It's just— I don't know. Weird,” she paused, eyes falling on your face. “I just forget he's not yours sometimes.”
It took her a second to catch herself.
“I mean, he is yours. In all the ways that matter. You're his mom. What I mean is just… I forget we didn't make him together, you know?”
You chuckled, understanding what she tried to say, the slight high lowering your inhibitions just a bit.
“I think that would've been a little difficult, Nat.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I don't mean it like that,” she nudged you softly, daring to move just slightly closer, thigh still not touching yours. “He's just so much like you. Getting more and more similar every day.”
You smiled, chest filling with warmth.
“He's my baby,” you muttered, full of love for your son, mind drifting back to his soft words in the tent earlier. “And he's just like you too, you know. It's like looking at a carbon copy.”
Nat sighed softly, visibly more relaxed.
“I think we're doing a good job,” she muttered, leaning back. “All things considered.”
“We are. He had a really good time this weekend, you know,” you grinned. “Said he wants to come back every year.”
Nat's lips curved in a big smile, proud, knowing she'd done something right.
“Every year?”
You nodded earnestly.
“It was his birthday wish. But it's a secret. You can't tell anyone.”
She nodded too, determined.
“My lips are sealed.”
You both paused for a moment, settling into a silence that was, for once, comfortable.
“It was all you, by the way,” you cut through the quiet, gentle, voice trailing off in the light breeze. “You did all this. The cabin, the tent, the… patience you have with him. You're a really good mom, Nat. He's lucky to have you.”
She licked her lips — that same habit that resurfaced whenever she was excited or curious or nervous —, her smile softening into something smaller, gentler now.
“He makes it easy,” she looked over at you. “And give yourself some credit. You're very good too.”
“We both are,” you recognized, “that's why he's such an amazing kid.”
She chuckled.
“I can accept that.”
Silence again. Nat tapped her fingertips on the armrest, taking a deep breath before speaking.
“I'm sorry if I made it weird, by the way. With the, uh, dating app thing earlier. I was just trying to make the mood light.”
You let out a little snort.
“Make the mood light?”
“Yeah, just— get rid of this wall that seems to have set itself between us, you know?” She shrugged, and you knew exactly what she talked about. “Joke around like we used to.”
You nodded, heart melting for the billionth time this weekend. Classic Nat — cracking jokes when things got uncomfortable, trying to keep the atmosphere comfortable however she could. Being the easiest person to be around, if only you weren't still so completely in love with her.
“It's okay,” you reassured, “you didn't make it weird.”
“Well, sorry anyway. It's not my place to meddle.”
You stayed quiet for a second.
“I set up a profile about six months after the divorce,” you confessed, blushing, smiling embarrassedly at your knees. “And I texted a grand total of three women before freaking out and uninstalling the whole thing. There, now you know.”
Nat's laugh sounded out, not mean-spirited or mocking, just amused.
“What, they weren't your type?”
You sighed.
“It just… felt like work,” you shrugged, honest. “I don't think I could've stood to explain to one more person what a hospitalist does.”
She laughed more freely this time, brows furrowed, eyes meeting yours again.
“You deleted the app because you didn't wanna explain what you did for work?”
“Not that,” you shook your head, searching for the right words. “I just… didn't feel like it. It didn't feel right. I’m already spread thin with Luke and work and managing the house and… dating felt like a chore, you know? Like one more thing to do.”
She nodded, chewing on the inside of her cheek, a bit more serious now.
“I know what you mean.”
It was your turn to raise a brow, the question that had been in the back of your mind since the hike earlier threatening to slip right through your impaired filter.
“So… you haven't been dating either?”
She chuckled.
“Wouldn't you like to know,” she mimicked your words from earlier, making you roll your eyes.
“I told you when you asked,” you countered, “only fair you do the same.”
Nat pressed her lips, a smirk on the corner, nodding her head.
“Alright, alright. Since you shared with the class,” she took a deep breath, leaning both hands on her knees, turning her neck to look at your face. “I… haven't. Kinda been focused on other things right now.”
“Other things?”
She nodded again.
“Yeah. Same as you. Work, Luke. Adult stuff, you know.”
“Adult stuff,” you repeated. The question you'd been dying to ask still tickled the back of your throat — you shouldn't, you knew it, but your lips were moving before you had any control over them. “So Lucy is just a friend then?”
Nat’s brows furrowed, curious, confused.
“Lucy?” She snorted. “Where'd you hear that name?”
You looked away, sheepish, already regretting it.
“Uh— I didn't mean to look, it's just…” You cleared your throat. “The notification popped up on your phone and I happened to see it. Which I didn't mean to do. Just figured she might be a girlfriend or something like that.”
Nat laughed, eyes a bit red, landing on the side of your face in a way that was so magnetic you couldn't help but stare back.
“Lucy is my therapist, Y/N.”
You blinked — once, twice, processing. Therapist? How long had that been going on?
You'd suggested it a few times, hinted at it in a way you figured wouldn't offend her, but it'd all been pointless. I'm fine, she'd insist, even when she wasn't, I can manage.
And now she was seeing a therapist?
“Your… therapist?”
Nat nodded, smiling softly, not shying away from the topic as you expected her to.
“Mm-hm,” she hummed, gentle. “My therapist.” As if seeing the question mark all over your face, she kept talking. “I’ve been seeing her for, like, a year now. Maybe more.”
“That's…” You exhaled softly, genuinely proud. “That's great, Nat.”
Her smile didn't fade.
“Yeah. Yeah, she's kind of amazing,” she licked her lips again. “I, uh, just figured it'd be… good. After the divorce. After seeing this version of myself I didn't recognize and all the hurt I caused. Took me a while to get there, but… well. Here we are.”
“I… I'm happy for you, Nat. Really. Couldn't have been easy.”
“Not at first,” she shook her head, “but the payoff is… you know. It's everything. If that's what it takes for me to be a better mom and a better wife then that's what I'm gonna—”
She paused, abrupt, catching herself mid-sentence.
But you'd already heard it.
“A better wife?”
“I didn't mean—”
“But you said it,” you interrupted, not sober enough to shut your mouth and let her off the hook this time. “You said a better wife.”
Nat looked at you, then at the trees, then at the spot behind you. Then at you again. She appeared to be deep in thought, the gears that turned in her head practically visible, and you prepared for her to joke, to deflect, to go with the safe route.
But she didn't, not this time.
“I've been thinking about it,” she said, determined, blurting it out in the same way someone jumps into cold water — all at once, just to make sure they won't back out halfway through it. “A lot. About everything I lost. About what I threw away because I didn't know how to have it.”
“Nat—” you started, but she didn't let you finish.
“Just… let me say it,” she took a deep breath, picking it back up. “I did the stupidest thing in the world, Y/N. I wasn't the person you deserved. I— I ran, and I avoided, and I didn't know how to deal with myself so I figured you wouldn’t either. I should've given you more credit. I should've… I should've fought harder. For you, for our family.”
Your knees trembled, and you were sure you would've fallen if you weren't sitting down. Family. The word Luke had used, the one you'd been suppressing in your mind all weekend long. And there Nat was, saying it like it meant something, like she was finally ready to scream what apparently the both of you had been hiding.
“Lucy's been helping me,” she continued, completely focused on you now. “She's been helping me build myself up piece by piece so I can be the woman you deserve. So I can honor you, so I can honor Luke, so I can do everything right this time. If you'll still have me. If you'll forgive me for the dumbest thing I ever did in my life.”
Nat brought a hand to cover yours on the couch, bold, shaky. You didn't stop her.
“I wasn't gonna tell you like this. I had this whole— speech worked out in my head,” she chuckled nervously. “In a few months, when I… when I had a more solid foundation, when I worked through some stuff a bit more, I'd ask you to dinner and… I'd do it properly. I had a plan. But then Luke came up with this weekend and you've just been here all the time, and I've been trying so hard not to just—”
Nat finally stopped, breathing heavily as if she'd just run a marathon, but you weren't done.
“Trying so hard not to what?” You asked, needing to know what she was about to say.
She grabbed your hand more tightly, those gorgeous blue eyes staring right into yours.
“To tell you that I love you,” she said, the words landing right in your chest, heart beating so violently you could feel it in every cell. “That I never stopped.”
“Nat…”
“You don't have to say it back. I know it's a lot, I know you weren't expecting me to—”
“Nat, I love you,” you interrupted her, unable to stay quiet as she poured her heart out to you, saying all the words you'd been waiting two years to hear. “I love you, I've loved you for eleven fucking years now. I didn't stop once, not for a second.”
“Y/N, you don't—”
“No, now you let me finish,” you covered her hand with your other one, shifting closer, voice shaking. “I love you more than anything in the world, Nat. I don't— I don't to wait until some new and improved version of you comes along, I want you as you are. You're working on bettering yourself? Don't look for me when you're done. Let me be there through it. I wanna be there for everything, please don't make me wait. Not anymore.”
She swallowed, eyes wet, taking in the words you said like they were all she'd ever wanted to hear. Once you finished, she let out a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper:
“You sure? Even after I—”
“I’m sure, Nat. It's the only thing I’m truly sure of, that I want you. I want my wife. I want my family.”
“You have me,” she leaned forward, touching her forehead to yours, hands flying to cup your cheeks. “Fuck, Y/N, you've always had me.”
You couldn't wait anymore.
You kissed Nat's lips with a softness that didn't last long, soon turning into hunger, into promises of I love you and I miss you and I need you that didn't need to be said. Her fingers threaded into your hair like that's where they'd always belonged, the overwhelming mix of familiarity and excitement only she was able to give you making your skin burn. Nat didn't waste time, straddling your lap with urgency, hands meeting everywhere they could possibly reach until she finally had enough and rasped:
“Take me to bed.”
You'd be insane if you ever said no to that.
You stumbled into the suite through the sliding glass doors, kissing her again and again, falling into the dance you both knew so well at this point. You undressed her, and she did the same to you, taking her sweet time even with all the anticipation. The clock tattoo on her stomach shined majestically under the low light, and she didn't have to explain its meaning to you — you understood it, it all made sense now.
“You still have yours,” she traced the N on your hip with her fingertips, slowly lowering herself on your body until her lips met it with soft kisses that gradually turned into more.
You did the same to hers — your initial, still black and wobbly and so fucking perfect on her hip just as it was the day you'd promised yourself to her forever.
You were tangled with Nat into the morning, learning and relearning each other all over again, whispering sweet words and muttering soft curses until you were both limp and spent in the queen-sized bed, only moving your muscles in order to smile.
When Luke woke up and found you both in the kitchen, lazily chatting and grinning at nothing in particular over cups of extra-strong coffee, your heart felt full. Nat looked at you with a knowing nod, squeezing your hand under the table, and you knew everything was finally okay.
✐ 𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈 : at the top of the food chain and the bottom of the invite list collide: a ruthless queen bee and the school’s loudest punk misfit who keep crashing into each other—at bulletin boards, parties, and 2 a.m. sidewalks—until their rivalry starts to look suspiciously like a habit neither of them can quit.
✐ 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 : 18+, explicit sexual content, high school au, enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers, secret relationship, opposites attract, underage drinking, recreational drug use, ensemble cast, popular!cate, punk!sydney
please note that each chapter will also have its own warnings!
after school special
aka cate proves that academic involvement can be very hands on
tw: girlcock, g!p reader, teacher!reader, divorced mom!cate, daddy!reader, semi-public sex, fingering, handjobs, etc.
3.5k+ words
author's note: special thanks to @i-miss-hange-zoe for this idea :)
Cate had learned a long time ago that the shortest distance between desire and results was a straight line dressed like a curve. Today, the curve was a blush-pink blouse with one extra button ignored and a black skirt that could plausibly be called “a pencil” if the person doing the naming had never met a pencil. She’d tucked her hair behind one ear and glossed her mouth until it looked like something one would write poems about, and then she’d put a paperclip on a manila folder as if it were full of dire documentation and not, in fact, three print-outs of her kid’s straight-A progress reports and one very dramatic highlight over a single A-minus.
The PTA head in her said: due diligence. The woman in her said: this is about the teacher.
You had teacher written all over you in an unapologetically masculine hand: leather jacket slung over the back of your chair, a black tee with a faded band logo peeking through an open flannel, the sharp line of a jaw that could have cut cardstock, and those soft, devastatingly serious eyes that made Cate feel like a pop quiz she wanted to fail just to see what kind of detention you ran. You had a pencil behind one ear and rings on your fingers and absolutely no idea what to do with Cate Dunlap, which only made Cate want to give you ideas.
“Ms. Dunlap,” you greeted, standing from behind your desk as if professional courtesy could be a barricade. It wasn’t. The barricade could try, but it would inevitably fail.
“Cate,” she corrected, habitual and honeyed, letting the door click shut behind her. She perched on the student chair in front of the desk like it had been designed for her legs specifically—uncrossed, then crossed again, skirt sliding that last lethal inch. Your gaze went there, caught itself, snapped back up. The little victory burnt through Cate’s chest like a match.
“You asked to talk about Riley’s grade,” you said carefully, like you were negotiating a ceasefire. “I have Riley’s portfolio here if you’d like to go through it.”
Cate slid the manila folder forward with two manicured fingers. “I brought backup.” She gave you a conspiratorial whisper. “I sniffed an A-minus.”
Your mouth twitched, traitor to her stoic intent. “You…sniffed…an A-minus.”
“I have a very refined nose for academic danger,” Cate said solemnly. “It’s part of my work as head of the PTA. We can’t have standards slipping. Next thing you know, it’s Bs. Then TikToks. Then—” she widened her eyes, “unstructured play.”
You made a sound that wanted to be a laugh and died as a cough instead. Your hands settled on the desk’s edge, broad and capable and ink-smudged, and Cate had to bite the inside of her cheek at the image of those hands doing anything but holding a red pen. The thing about you—about the way you moved, the deliberate gravity of you—was that you wore competence like cologne. It made Cate stupid.
“I see.” You leaned down to the portfolio, flipping it open. The tendons in your forearm flexed. Cate watched one vein draw a delicate line beneath skin. She imagined her mouth against it. She imagined wrecking your meticulous composure.
“Riley is getting an A+ in everything,” you said, all business again. “The A-minus was on a single draft of the social studies essay. Final was an A+. I left written feedback, and we did a one-on-one conference.”
Cate put the back of her hand to her forehead. “So it was a near miss. Thank God you were there to steer my daughter back from the brink.”
Your eyes cut up to her through your lashes. You were trying—Cate could see it—not to smile. You were also trying to keep your distance, to be the teacher with the neat little boundaries and the open-door policy that did not, under any circumstances, include Cate’s skirt hem sliding up another centimeter when she readjusted in the too-small chair.
“I take my job seriously,” you said. “Riley’s a good kid. Hardworking. Creative.” A beat. “Stubborn.”
“Wonder where she gets that from,” Cate murmured, spreading her knees the tiniest bit, not enough to be obscene, just enough to let air and awareness move. Your gaze flicked traitorously down again and then snapped to a crucifixion of professionalism on the far wall: a laminated poster about Growth Mindset.
“Did you have any…specific concerns?” You asked the poster, then forced yourself to look back at Cate. Up close like this, the soft curve of your chest against cotton stole her breath. You were built like the answer to a question Cate hadn’t admitted out loud in years.
“Mm.” Cate tipped her head as if thinking very hard. “Time management. Study habits. Office hours.” She let the last phrase sit there, cooling. “When are your office hours?”
“Wednesdays.” The answer came automatically. “And most days after school, if—” You swallowed. The ring on your index finger glinted. “If needed.”
“Oh, I need,” Cate said, and watched you blink like a cat hit by sunlight. “I’ve been meaning to sit down with you about…strategies.” She pitched her voice lower on the last word, a velvety drop.
“Strategies,” you repeated faintly.
“Motivational frameworks. Positive reinforcement. The sorts of things that work…wonders.” Cate touched the folder’s corner with her fingertip, drawing an idle little circle. “I care about Riley’s education.”
“I can tell,” you said, dry. “You’ve emailed me seven times this quarter.”
“Eight,” Cate said. “But who’s counting?”
“I am. I’m literally counting. That’s—” You exhaled through your nose. “That’s my job.”
Cate watched the breath move through you. “You’re very good at your job.”
The room was all after-hours hush: the hum of fluorescent lights, the smell of whiteboard cleaner and old paper and whatever sandalwood soap you used that clung to the cuffs of your flannel. Cate had spent enough evenings in these little rooms over the years to learn the physics of them—how quickly two people with a secret could feel like the only thing happening on earth. She leaned forward, forearms to thighs, blouse gaping that calculated second, and said, softer, “Can I tell you a secret?”
Your hands flexed against the desk. “Cate…”
“That’s a yes.” Cate smiled. She let the mask of PTA-head slip just a little, enough that the woman underneath looked out through her own eyes—lonely and hungry and stupid for this butch with a pencil behind her ear. “I like talking to you.”
Something wavered in your face. Not irritation, not exactly, though you’d tried to cultivate that with your gruffness and your visible dislike of staff meetings. No, this was worse for you than annoyance: this was want, plain and inconvenient. “You like…harassing teachers.”
“Oh, no.” Cate shook her head, slow, hair brushing her cheek. “Just you.”
You stood there as if you were on a balance beam between rule and ruin. Cate had always liked balance beams, they made falling look pretty.
“I’m trying to be professional,” you said finally, and your voice did that husky wrecked thing it did when you taught first period and hadn’t warmed up your throat yet. Cate felt something primal turn toward the sound like a field of flowers to the sun. “You’re Riley’s mother.”
“Divorced mother,” Cate said, and let the word sit there like permission. “Which—what a relief for the school budget, because I can devote even more of my boundless energy to the PTA.”
“God help us,” you said, and it was almost a laugh. It weakened your stance. “This is a classroom.”
Cate glanced around. The map of the world. The paper crane mobile. The read-aloud corner with its rug that had seen better days. The desk that didn’t yet know what it was for. “I know exactly where I am.”
Your jaw worked, your hands came off the desk and back down again like you needed the anchor. “You don’t play fair.”
“No,” Cate agreed, leaning in until the table between felt like an inside joke. “I don’t. I want what I want.”
“And what is that?” You asked, very softly, as if you already knew and were begging for clarity to be your undoing.
Cate let the silence stretch, a violin string tightened to sweetness. “You,” she said, and then—because bravery always tastes best when it’s tossed back like a shot—she added, “Daddy.”
The word landed. You flinched like you’d been struck and then straightened like you’d been knighted. It lit your eyes from the inside. It put heat under your skin.
“Cate,” you warned, but it wasn’t warning anymore. It was a hand on the small of the back steering her toward a closed door.
Cate stood, slow, letting her knee brush the desk, letting the chair scrape back, a deliberate little noise that sounded like a decision. The world narrowed to the distance between your bodies. She set her palms on the edge of the desk and leaned until she could smell the hint of coffee on your breath, until she could count the freckles sprinkled across your cheekbones like punctuation marks. “Tell me no and I’ll sit back down. We’ll color-code a study plan and I’ll bake muffins for the next fundraiser, and I’ll be very, very good.”
Your eyes dropped to Cate’s mouth. Stayed there. “You are never very, very good.”
“I could be,” Cate lied.
“Don’t lie in my classroom,” you said, and then you reached.
Your hand was at Cate’s waist, heat through thin fabric, the ring biting gentle imprints as you pulled her in that last inch. The first kiss was a collision made of hunger and caution: your mouth careful, Cate’s mouth greedy, both of you breaking and then coming back truer. Cate opened for you with a little sound that wasn’t PTA approved at all. Your tongue slid against hers and Cate’s knees unthreaded. She let your hand hold her upright and thought, irrationally, devoutly, finally.
“Lock the door,” Cate whispered when you broke for breath.
You didn’t ask if she was sure. You didn’t ask anything. You touched your forehead to Cate’s for one anchoring heartbeat and then circled around her, quick, the soft clack of the lock flipping like a gavel.
Cate’s laugh came out in a tremor. “So professional.”
“I’m adapting my lesson plan,” you said, a little breathless now as you returned, as you bracketed Cate between the desk and your body. Up close, the lines of you were a whole syllabus: the press of your chest, the flex of your thighs through jeans, the telltale swell under denim that said Cate wasn’t the only one losing focus. “Hands,” you murmured.
Cate obliged, palms flat to the desk. The stance made her blouse fall away from her ribs, made the cool of the room kiss hot skin, made you make a sound in your throat that Cate wanted to hear again and again. Your mouth found the open neck of the blouse and kissed a line down, teeth grazing, the soft scrape that made Cate shiver and arch. Fingers—those graphite stained, competent fingers—worked open the remaining buttons with a care that felt obscene. The blouse slid off her shoulders. The air took a bite. Your hands followed with heat.
“God, look at you,” you said like a reprimand and a prayer. Your thumbs swept under the lace of Cate’s bra, lifting, learning. “You came in here dressed like trouble.”
“I came in here dressed like a solution,” Cate managed, and then lost the thread when you sucked a bruise onto the top swell of her breast. “Oh—”
“Shh,” you murmured against skin, not shushing so much as savoring. “We’re studying.”
Cate’s laugh broke into a gasp when you tugged the bra down and filled your mouth. It was wet and sweet and shameless, the drag of tongue over nipple until Cate’s spine turned liquid. She moaned your name.
“Daddy,” you corrected softly against her. Cate’s fingers curled against the wood.
“Daddy,” Cate echoed, delirious, rewarded by the faintest curse breathed against her chest. The power of it cascaded down her body. She rolled her hips against your thigh where it pressed between her legs and watched your pupils flare wide, the teacher gone, the woman answering.
“Turn around,” you said, and Cate obeyed without thinking, skirt rucking up as she pivoted, palms still braced, hair falling forward. She could see you both in the dark reflection of the classroom window: you behind her, jaw set, hands smoothing over the slope of her waist like you were memorizing geography. Cate, lips parted, eyes heavy, pink blouse open and careless. Somewhere out in the parking lot a car door slammed. Cate didn’t care. The world had reduced to the way your fingers tucked under the hem and dragged the skirt up until cool air kissed the backs of Cate’s thighs.
“Fuck,” you said softly, reverent. “You did this on purpose.”
“Mhm,” Cate hummed, wiggling her hips. “Is it working?”
Your palm landed, warm and possessive, at the curve where ass met thigh. Not a slap, a claim. Cate felt liquid heat arrow low. Then fingers slipped under thin fabric, finding damp proof of Cate’s good intentions, and both of you hissed.
“You’re soaked,” you said, almost disbelieving.
“I’m studious,” Cate said, which turned into a gasp when you slid two fingers along her slit, unhurried, devilishly precise. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Touch me,” she said, pointless, because you already were. “Make me—”
You eased two fingers inside, slow, as if you had all the time in the world. Cate’s nails were going to leave half moons on the desk. The stretch was delicious, the angle perfect like you had mapped her out during all those emails Cate sent at midnight. You pressed in until your palm kissed Cate’s cunt and then settled there, filling her, teasing the front wall with the barest crook of fingers that made Cate want to cry.
“God, you feel…” You didn’t finish. You didn’t have to. You curled your fingers and Cate bit her own lip to keep from moaning loud enough to make the janitor suspicious.
“Faster,” Cate pleaded, head dropping forward. “Please, daddy.”
Your breath stuttered. The pace picked up, not frantic—you didn’t do frantic—but decisive, each thrust a thesis statement, your thumb finding Cate’s clit with a teacher’s accuracy. Cate pushed back into it, shameless, greedy, taking what she’d come for, what she’d wanted since the first time you had corrected her kid’s writing in a tone that suggested other kinds of correction.
“You’re going to cum for me on my desk,” you said, low and certain, and Cate nearly did just from the sentence. “Be good.”
“I’m—” The word fell apart as pleasure surged hot and bright. It felt like being seen and undone at once, like her ribcage had been cracked open. She rocked on your hand, found the rhythm, and chased it. You stayed right there with her, thumb relentless, fingers stroking that spot like you could write your name on it. “I’m close—”
“Yeah,” you said, mouth at the hinge of Cate’s shoulder, teeth marking, hands sure. “Give it to me.”
Cate broke with a sound that lit up every quiet hallway in her body, clenching around your fingers, breath shattering into pretty nothing. She rode it, messy and real, until her thighs trembled and her palms slipped and you held her through it, gentling just enough to turn the quake into aftershocks.
“Good girl,” you murmured against her skin, and Cate went loose, boneless, absurdly proud.
When you eased your fingers free, Cate swayed. You caught her by the hips and turned her, guiding her back against the desk. Cate pulled you in by the collar, kissed you like gratitude, like promise, tasted wine nights and a dozen PTA meetings where she’d stared at that mouth and thought terrible things.
“Your turn,” Cate said, voice wrecked in the sweetest way.
Your smile tilted. “We’re not—”
Cate slid her hand down between them and cupped the heat in your jeans, and watched speech die. “We are,” she said. She popped the button, dragged the zipper down, pressed her palm to the thick, eager weight of you. The heady press of it under her hand made her dizzy. “Lesson plans adapt, remember?”
The room shrank again, left only the sound of breath and the faint squeak of denim as you pushed your jeans and briefs down enough to free your cock. Cate’s mouth watered. She wrapped her hand around you, thumb swiping at the leaking tip, and your head fell back, a soft curse peeling from your tongue.
“Fuck. Cate.”
“I’ve got you,” Cate said, and meant it—meant it in all the ways that had nothing to do with this desk and everything to do with the plain fact of wanting someone who made her feel alive. She stroked you slow at first, learning your weight, your texture, the way your hips wanted to jerk and how you held yourself back, always so careful. “You don’t have to be good for me.”
“That’s dangerous,” you laughed, but you were already bracing one hand on the desk beside Cate’s hip and thrusting into Cate’s fist in tight, helpless little snaps.
Cate guided you, squeezed when the head slid under her fingers, twisted on the upstroke just to hear the sound it pulled from your throat. She kissed your chest through soft cotton, mouthed at a nipple and felt the shiver shoot through your body like you were an instrument and Cate had found the place that made you sing.
“Cate—” Your voice went thin. “I’m—fuck, I’m—”
Cate quickened, slicking her hand with spit and precum, using her other palm to cup your balls, gentle, owning. “Cum for me,” she said, into fabric and heat and the pulse hammering under your skin. “Be my good girl.”
The words detonated. Your hips jerked and you spilled over Cate’s fist with a strangled groan, thick and hot, streaking Cate’s fingers, the desk edge, your own shirt. Cate stroked you through it, tender, kissing the corner of your mouth as you shook, as you laughed breathlessly into the kiss like you couldn’t believe relief had a taste.
Silence settled back over the classroom in warm waves. Cate leaned her forehead to yours and breathed with you until your pulses climbed down out of the rafters. Your hand—those hands—found Cate’s waist again, settled there like home base.
“I’m going to need a very detailed justification for this meeting in my records,” you said after a moment, trying for gruff and landing on dazed.
Cate held up her sticky hand and wiggled her fingers. “Positive reinforcement.”
You caught her wrist and brought those fingers to your mouth, eyes on Cate’s the whole time as you took them in and sucked them clean. Cate’s legs nearly failed her. “You’re going to be the death of me,” you said around her, lazy and satisfied.
“Mm. Not today,” Cate said, smiling like a conspiracy. “Today, we make a study plan. I’ll bring muffins. You’ll grade my technique.”
You laughed into her skin, kissed her wristbones, and then pulled back to do the most teacherly thing imaginable: you grabbed a stack of tissues and tried to make the desk respectable again. Cate buttoned her blouse in slow, steady motions, watching the way you watched her, the fondness sneaking in around the edges of the heat.
At the door, you hesitated, then looked at Cate like you were memorizing another kind of homework. “I meant what I said about Riley. She’s exceptional.”
“I know,” Cate said, soft with pride. “She has a very good teacher.”
Color moved across your cheekbones. You unlocked the door but didn’t open it yet. “You’re going to email me tonight, aren’t you?”
“Obviously,” Cate said. She reached for the knob and brushed her fingers deliberately over yours. “Subject line: Follow-up on A-minus.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Mm. And you’re late for your next meeting, Miss.” Cate winked. “There’s a line of worried parents desperate to discuss their prodigies’ perfection.”
You groaned. “If they’re half as tenacious as you—”
“They aren’t,” Cate said simply, and stepped into the hall like she hadn’t just been a disaster on a desk, like she wasn’t going to wear the faint bloom of teeth on her breast all week like a secret. At the end of the corridor, she glanced back. You were watching her with your hand on the doorframe, posture wrecked in a way no staff meeting would ever fix.
Cate lifted the manila folder. “I’ll be in touch,” she called lightly.
“God help me,” you muttered, but you were smiling now, small and secret, like a note passed in class.
Cate walked away on high heels and good choices. Later, she would open a new email and type, Subject: Office Hours, and attach a calendar invite that was nothing but a heart. Later, she would show up with muffins and a polite argument for further instruction. Later still, she would memorize the sound you made when you came the second time, when you let yourself let go.
For now, Cate tucked the folder under her arm, reapplied her lip gloss in the reflection of a trophy case, and congratulated herself on her ironclad dedication to academic excellence.
If her kid ever brought home a B, she thought wryly, they’d both be doomed.
Chapter Sixteen: Something Borrowed, Something Blue
summary: tara wakes up to coffee and a note that says everything without saying anything. she goes home, loses an argument she didn't know she was having with sam, and spends the day coming apart at the seams over an earring and a post-it note. by dinner, she's held it together long enough.
warnings: mentions of grief (deceased parental figure), mild emotional distress, referenced anxiety and avoidance, brief mention of past trauma (woodsboro), and the specific kind of hurt that comes from caring about someone who doesn't quite know how to let you yet.
Tara sat on the edge of your bed and held the to-go cup in both hands and tried very hard not to read into it. The cup was warm. You'd gotten it before you left, which meant you'd gotten up early, which meant you'd barely slept, which meant—
She read into it anyway.
Had to run out. Three words on a Post-it note, your blocky handwriting, no period at the end. Stuck to the lid of the cup like punctuation you hadn't committed to. She stared at it until the words stopped looking like words and started looking like a door closing at a very reasonable pace that she wasn't supposed to take personally.
She took it personally.
The coffee was good. Of course it was good—you'd gotten it from the place on the corner that she'd mentioned exactly once, in passing, three weeks ago, that she liked because they didn't burn the milk. Of course you'd remembered that. Of course you'd gotten it before you left instead of just leaving, because you were constitutionally incapable of not taking care of people even when you were in the middle of running away from them.
Tara drank it standing up. Gathered her things with the quiet efficiency of someone who'd done this before—sneakers, jacket, phone, the notes she'd scattered across the coffee table the night before. She checked the bathroom mirror, reassembled herself into something that looked like a person who'd slept fine, and let herself out.
The lock clicked behind her.
------
She stood in your hallway for a second longer than necessary.
Then she went home.
Sam was in the kitchen when Tara got back, sitting at the counter with both hands wrapped around her own coffee, reading something on her phone. She looked up when Tara came through the door and her expression did exactly nothing alarming.
That was suspicious.
"Hey," Tara said, dropping her bag by the door and kicking off her shoes with practiced imprecision.
"Hey." Sam turned her phone face-down. Reached for her coffee. "How was Tai's?"
The name landed carefully, like Sam had chosen it deliberately, like she'd been holding it in her mouth waiting for the right moment to set it down.
"Fine," Tara said. "Sorry for the last-minute thing. I should've texted."
"Mm." Sam sipped her coffee. Looked at Tara over the rim of her mug with the serene, infuriating patience of someone who already knew the shape of a conversation before it happened. "You've been staying over there a lot."
"I've been studying—"
"A lot," Sam repeated, with the exact same inflection.
Tara looked at her older sister. Sam looked back. The kitchen clock ticked between them.
"I don't have time for this," Tara said, and picked up her bag and walked down the hall to her room.
She heard Sam hum behind her. Not smug—just knowing. Which was somehow worse.
Her bed was exactly where she'd left it, which was a comfort, and it received her without complaint when she dropped face-first into the pillows. She lay there for a while, cataloguing the ceiling through closed eyelids, replaying the previous twelve hours with the particular masochism of someone who knew they shouldn't but couldn't stop.
I'm not running. That was what you'd said. Or—Tara had said it, actually. Which in retrospect was ironic, given the Post-it note.
She pressed her face harder into the pillow.
Okay. So that was the thing about you—the infuriating, specific, totally predictable thing—you did this. You let people close enough to see the edges of you, close enough to reach out and almost touch, and then something shifted in you and you got up before sunrise and got coffee from the right place and left a note that said you had to run out. Like that was a normal thing. Like you weren't the same person who'd stood by the window at 3 AM with your palm against the glass, listening.
I'm not going to run, Tara had said.
And you'd said I know. Three times. Like it was a very reasonable thing to believe.
She finally rolled over and stared at the actual ceiling, the familiar water stain in the corner that looked vaguely like a rabbit if she tilted her head.
She should change. She was still in yesterday's clothes and her jacket and she'd been in them since the gym bag drop-off and the couch and the morning, and she should change and shower and eat something and do all the things that regular people did on regular days.
She sat up.
Reached back to take out her earrings—gold hoops, small ones, her favorites—and found:
One.
Tara's hand dropped. She reached back again. Both hands this time, systematic, methodical.
One earring.
She went very still.
Then she thought, with perfect clarity, about the nightstand in your bedroom. About the moment, weeks ago now, when she'd caught her earring on your pillow and unclipped it, setting it on the nightstand without thinking. You'd found it then, placed it back for her. But this time—
This time she'd been half asleep, gathered her things in the thin grey morning light, left quickly and quietly and—
The other earring was in your bed.
Tara sat on the edge of her mattress with one hand pressed flat on her knee and thought about this for a long moment.
She could text you. That was the obvious solution. Simple, practical, completely straightforward: hey, think I left an earring in your room, no rush. Normal. Fine. The kind of text that wouldn't require her to think too hard about why sending it felt like crossing a room that had gotten very complicated overnight.
She looked at her phone.
Put it face-down on the bed.
Lay back down.
Great, she told the ceiling. Great, fantastic, this is all going great.
The day did not improve from there.
------
She tried to read. She got three paragraphs in before she realized she'd been looking at the same sentence for eleven minutes without it entering her brain. She tried to watch something and couldn't find anything that required the appropriate level of not-thinking. She made herself tea and then forgot to drink it until it was room temperature, which was its own special kind of failure.
She wandered into the living room. Dook watched her from the armchair with the disdainful patience of a cat who had observed many human spirals and found them tedious.
"Don't," Tara told him.
He blinked slowly. Looked away. Which was, objectively, worse.
She cleaned her bathroom. Reorganized her bookshelf by color, then by author, then decided she hated both systems and put the books back roughly where they'd been. She did a load of laundry. She called Mindy and then didn't say anything interesting enough to explain why she'd called, and Mindy, bless her, just talked for twenty minutes about a film she'd seen and didn't push.
She thought about the earring approximately every four minutes.
She thought about the note—had to run out—approximately every three.
Sam appeared in the doorway of Tara's room around seven with the expression of someone performing casual concern and not quite landing it.
"What do you want for dinner?"
Tara was horizontal on her bed, one arm over her face. "I don't care."
A beat. "Thai?"
"Sure."
"I was thinking Italian actually."
"Fine."
"Or we could do that ramen place."
"Sam. Whatever. Anything is fine."
Silence. Sam didn't leave. Tara felt the specific weight of her sister's attention, the gathering pressure of it, the way Sam could weaponize a quiet room just by standing in it.
"You always debate me on dinner," Sam said. "Even when you don't actually have a preference. You still debate me on principle."
"I'm tired."
"You're not tired."
Tara moved her arm off her face and looked at her sister. Sam was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, expression carefully gentle in the way that always meant she was ready to catch something.
"I lost my earring," Tara said.
Sam waited.
"The gold hoops." Tara sat up, because suddenly she couldn't do this horizontal. "The small ones. From mom."
"I know which ones."
"I lost one." She looked at her hands in her lap. "I left it. In—" She stopped. Started again. "In Y/N's room."
Sam said nothing.
"We're not—" Tara's jaw worked. "Things are weird right now. Between us. It's—it's awkward, kind of. But also not? That's the thing, it's like, it's awkward but we're still texting, we're still studying together, we're still—it's the same as it's always been except it's completely different but from the outside you'd never even know that anything—" She stopped herself. Pushed her hair back with both hands. "This is so complicated. And it doesn't even have to be. It doesn't have to be complicated. That's the stupid part."
Sam unfolded her arms. Moved from the doorway to the edge of Tara's bed, slowly, the way you'd approach something you didn't want to startle. She sat down.
"The earring's in her room," Tara said again, flatly. "Because I've been sleeping there. Not—" she shook her head, "—okay, yes, like that, but not just like that. It's not just—" She pressed her fingers to her mouth for a second. "She got me coffee this morning. From the right place. And left a note that said she had to run out. And I'm sitting here losing my mind over a Post-it note, Sam, which is insane—"
"It's not insane."
"It's insane. She leaves a note, I take it personally, there's an earring in her bed, we spent last night—" She exhaled. "We said things. Last night. Real things. And now she's gone and I don't know if she ran because she got scared or because she had an actual thing to do and I'm just—" The word dissolved somewhere in her throat. She looked at her sister. "I don't know how to do this with her."
Sam was quiet for a moment, in the specific Sam way that meant she was choosing her words instead of just her tone.
"You've never known how to do it with her," she said, finally. "Since Woodsboro."
Tara looked at her.
"I watched you two then," Sam said simply. "You used to pick fights just to have a reason to be in the same room."
"That's not—I didn't—" Tara's protest lost momentum partway through. "She was infuriating."
"She still is. And you're still here." Sam reached over and smoothed a piece of Tara's hair back—a small gesture, the kind she'd made since Tara was seven and inconsolable about things she couldn't name. "What happened last night?"
Tara was quiet for a long moment.
"She's scared," she said. "Of—of being known, I think. Of letting someone—" She shook her head. "She acts like letting someone in means handing them something they can use against her. And last night I told her that I wasn't going to run and she said I know and she looked at me like—"
She stopped.
Like it was the most terrifying thing anyone had ever said to her. That's what she'd been trying to find words for since 3 AM and hadn't, quite.
"She believes you," Sam said.
"I know she does."
"That's what scares her."
Tara stared at the middle distance for a moment. Outside, the city was doing its evening thing—horns, voices, the particular ambient murmur that had started to feel like home in a way that surprised her sometimes.
"I want my earring back," she said.
"I know."
"And I want—" She stopped. Laughed, small and a little helpless. "I want it to not be so hard. That's the thing. It's hard in a way where I can see exactly why it's hard, I can see every step of the logic, and it still—" She gestured vaguely at the whole situation.
Sam nodded, slow and understanding. "Thai?" she offered, after a moment.
Tara looked at her. "You said Italian."
"I was testing you." A corner of Sam's mouth turned up. "There she is."
Tara wanted to roll her eyes and managed only a tired, involuntary smile. "Italian," she said. "But the good place. Not the one with the weird cheese situation."
"The weird cheese situation was one time."
"It was three times, Sam."
"It was—" Sam paused. "Okay. It was two and a half times. The third one is contested."
"It's not contested."
"Extremely contested."
Tara leaned sideways and put her head on her sister's shoulder. Sam adjusted, settled, let her.
"It's going to be okay," Sam said. Not as a prediction, exactly. More like a thing she was choosing to believe out loud.
Tara looked at the rabbit-shaped water stain on the wall across from her bed.
⚰ 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 : when london’s youngest duchess marries the city’s most scandalous secret—a centuries-old vampire who wears a tailcoat and answers to “husband”—love becomes new grammar for the city: devotion with teeth, a house-trained monster learning daylight for her wife, and an empire run by arithmetic and awe.
⚰ 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 : 18+, explicit sexual content, victorian era, 1800s london, 19th century england, gothic romance, immortality, established relationship, british high society, aristocracy, ensemble cast, duchess!cate, vampire!sydney
please note that each chapter will also have its own warnings!
⚰ 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 : when london’s youngest duchess marries the city’s most scandalous secret—a centuries-old vampire who wears a tailcoat and answers to “husband”—love becomes new grammar for the city: devotion with teeth, a house-trained monster learning daylight for her wife, and an empire run by arithmetic and awe.
⚰ 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 : 18+, explicit sexual content, victorian era, 1800s london, 19th century england, gothic romance, immortality, established relationship, british high society, aristocracy, ensemble cast, duchess!cate, vampire!sydney
please note that each chapter will also have its own warnings!
STAY SAFE!! [ID: the Gilbert Baker pride flag with the words “Happy pride to all those who are unable to celebrate openly and safely. You are loved and seen!” in all-caps black text over it. /end ID]
A trickle of dawn light enters the room through a crack between the heavy curtains, and a round silence orbits the bed with an air thick with slumber and a sordid feeling of helplessness as the sun rises over the horizon.
It glows and heats in a beam of skin from Wanda's pale forehead, and she blinks her glistening eyes away from the crisscrossing stream of light that glides over her appealing pale face.
It's just too clear for someone who just wants to drown in the hazy depths of obscurity and vanish into the confines of herself. This isn't the way her therapist taught her to handle strenuous situations, but it's not like she can care about it right now.
The sheets covering the mattress are rumpled and scuffed with droplets of sweat and cum; a wrinkled nightgown and rolled-up red lacy panties are strewn across the floor like stray dogs, as a sign of what happened between those four walls less than ten hours ago, when a touch and a whimper guided the ends of that brief meeting of two vulnerable spirits, both souls just looking to feel more and more of that taste between their teeth – their flesh and their honey.
But there is only one body prostrate in that room, in a bed that was the witness of an act and a tragedy. Only the pillowcase of a single pillow exhales the aroma of the person who is no longer with her head resting there.
There is a brief sob that seeps through the air and collapses in agony and disgrace.
Wanda has been awake since long before the first rays of sunlight that shine on this warm morning of a post-rain day, entering her room through the glass of the window framed on the wall opposite the bed.
She feels just… completely alone.
Her pale emerald eyes have been wide-open since Y/N left her bed without saying a word about what she was doing and, like a ghost escorted by the taciturnity of the night spectrum, put on her garments with her breath caught and then departed away, creeping out of the bedroom and into the gloomy darkness that awaited her empty soul far from that room where Wanda had given her a purpose in life again.
Wanda heard the hurried footsteps down the hall, down the stairs, stepping away like a memory that slowly fades from retention, until you can no longer remember clearly the facts portrayed by it.
The front door opening and then closing downstairs, with a creak that decreed what would become of her and Y/N from that night spent together, cuddling each other.
And she heard the disturbed thoughts haunting Y/N's unsteady mind, omens echoing curses to her core, like the elongated fingers of spectral hands keeping a grasp on her throat from the inside out — anxiety whispering demonic words to her, sighs of fear in the dead of night, preventing her from gasping for air to properly fill her injured lungs.
Go.
Go away.
Go away and don't come back.
And she did so. Without hesitating for a single second.
Walking out of the room with her head down like a character who finishes their speech and then, with a smile and a wave, leaves the scene. Clapperboard. Cut the scene. Curtains close. Clapperboard. Curtains open. And the character is no longer there. The purpose has been fulfilled. There's nothing else to do there.
The only certainty Wanda had in the silhouette of Y/N's opaque figure, standing restlessly in the middle of her room like a puppet without it strings, was the certainty that she would walk off again.
That she would leave her once more to wake up alone, without a pair of strong arms holding her by the waist and a needy nose-tip devotedly tucked between the brown strands of her long brunet hair, searching for more of the fresh strawberry scent she so claimed to be fond of.
And she did so without even addressing one last furtive glance over her shoulder at her ex-wife, without even once considering going back into her embrace and pretending they've always been waking up like this for the past few years.
Wanda was curled up in the thin sheets, just begging in her mind, holding back the thick tears accumulating within the waterline of her lugubrious gloomy eyes, hoping she'd go back to bed when she realized it was just a silly misunderstand, a daydream of her anxiety getting the best of her again.
But Y/N just put on her pants and left.
As if they were just a one-night stand, an impulsive mistake that should never be repeated. A secret forever kept and forgotten in the confines of the dense night. As if their bodies didn't fit together utterly, like the surest of puzzles.
Like a fugitive, a thief who ran off and took with her, compelled between the grasp of her strong fingers, the last pieces that persisted of the shattered heart that burns within the chest of her ex-wife.
A heavy silence, interspersed with long sharp gulps of air from Y/N. And then Wanda was all alone, being watched through the ominous walls of her lonely large room.
She was empty. Used and dumped on the bed as if Y/N had paid her for a night of pleasure.
Wanda wanted to get up and grab her by the hem of the shirt and beg her not to do this to her again (how could she?). Saying she doesn't know if she could handle yet another abandonment in her life.
That she can't take it anymore when Y/N is the reason for her breathed sobs when she's unaccompanied and desolate out of sight of her kids late at night, or just letting her tears run down the drain next to the shower water, cleansing her spirit from the impurities of nostalgia and longing.
But she just stood there like a damn mannequin, stagnant on her back on the mattress, listening to the erratic breathing of her ex-wife who had once again left in the dead of night, silent as a mouse.
Feeling her presence fade little by little, until the last vestige of Y/N's presence in the room was nothing more than the tenderly bittersweet flavor sliding smoothly into Wanda's tongue, to the depths of her stomach walls.
She knows Y/N assumed she was sleeping serenely in the blandness of the bed when she left her there, naked and alone, still with the memory of her pleasure flowing hot between her inner thighs, her flesh scarred with crimson fingerprints peppered all over her pale, creamy skin.
It was the same as the first time it happened, so many years before. The night Wanda never forgot—her victory and her defeat, her climax and her failure. When her orgasm was contemplated by Y/N's soul shouting in tears (and she could hear it, she could always hear her soul crying for help).
The last time, they'd alleged against each other’s lips, because the next day they'd take the pens on their way to the divorce sheet. Something was broken and they didn't know how to fix it.
She hated being so familiar with the rotten feeling of neglection. To be held hostage by an outpouring of hot copious tears cascading down her haggard face (over and over again).
It didn't seem right to Wanda that the reminiscences of Y/N that she kept in mind all alluded to an insipid and tired being, with an exhausted look at the misfortunes she had to face over the years, with her dense and overloaded shoulders, looking nothing like the gracious young woman she'd once known – a smart girl with an easy smirk and so much love to offer even behind her raw words and hard temper, who always had a sour comeback to everything and everyone on the tip of her tongue.
She was an amiable ray of sunshine turned into a turbulent storm, and which then dissipated into the emptiness of the void.
Y/N is hollow.
Her girlfriend, before her wife. Her best friend, before the mother of her children. A young girl exhausted by the weight of the unbearable agony of blameworthiness.
Hollow.
It’s like Wanda can’t even feel her anymore.
The Y/N of the post-blip world was a perennial den of wear and sorrow, having to deal with the burdens that her position as wife, mother and Avenger placed upon her, making it impossible to distinguish the three labels from each other when it came to the outcome of hers and Wanda's actions on the theater of war, actions that followed their next blunders – having to deal with the anguishes that they themselves inferred in the world in when they didn’t accomplish their assignment to prevent Thanos from taking possession of the Mind Stone fifteen years ago (both of them sweaty and bleeding in the midst of the scalding savannah of Wakanda’s ground).
Getting such a sublime and intangible creature back into her life, like the brightest of sunbeams, was for Wanda like a daydream turned into veracity, an intangible fantasy, crafted in flesh, bone, vein, and muscle.
A foolish delusion, which had been transmuted into an unthinkable momentary reality that, by all indications, goes against Y/N's real wishes. Not when her actions belie her words, no.
Their relationship was a mere remote memory, piling up cobwebs in a small, sealed, despised box holed up in her head.
As she had wanted so much, Y/N was there for her for a brief period of time, just as the moon and the sun were for the night and the day, never being able to really get in touch with each other per se. But then Y/N was gone just like that, far worse than the way she herself had left in the seconds afterwards the snap, between tears, blood and dust.
Wanda always knew that Y/N was her sadness and hope. But mostly, her love.
And that's why it aches for her that morning, her naked body sheltered by the caresses of a sheet that feels silky against her epidermis scarred by the ghost of Y/N's tongue. It hurts so much that it seems to eat away at her insides, her veins, her bones, her flesh, her pulsing crimson core. It seems to chew her up until there is nothing left of herself but desolation and solitude.
And Wanda brings the pale kneecaps of her bare knees to her chest, a knot of flesh and gall obstructing the path of oxygen to her lungs through her pharynx, wanting only to curl up into a ball and disappear, like a child who doesn't know how to deal with her enormous frustration anymore.
Her lungs etch as do her eyeballs. Her bottom lip quivers, and there's a mere second of hesitation before the first tear makes its way from her high cheekbone to the pillowcase.
And then she sobs. And it hurts again, a twinge feeling inside her chest – the oxygen inside her bronchi becomes ice cubes.
It hurts because love isn't supposed to hurt at all.
And she remembers when love was gentle and didn't harm her. She remembers loving and being loved, how sweet it felt at the time, so easy to chew and swallow. But mostly Wanda remembers being abandoned. And every time it hurts a little more than the last one.
She no longer bothers to try to stop her tears from falling; she knows that soon the twins will wake up in their beds, and it won't be long before the boys miss their other mother figure being around and then ask for her with big question marks taking shape in their immaculate, childish gaze.
They look up to Y/N, after all – bright, pristine eyes of puerile children gleaming with hopefulness and jubilation towards that enigmatic figure that she is.
She is their mother. Blood of their blood (as much as Wanda herself also is). The detachment makes her a new type of person to them every time they see her, and it's like bumping into a charming new individual all over again.
There are so many stories to tell and hear from a personality as dangerously captivating as hers, even though she is as reserved as she is.
Wanda is well acquainted with Y/N's enchants, so she knows what it's like – seeing her from afar and itching after her, but never being able to get close enough without corroding in the barrier of hostile blazes that edges her inner self. It's like trying to catch a butterfly in midair, but never succeeding.
And Wanda needs to be strong for them, for her children, even with thunder flashing in her heart. Even though now she doesn't want to be a responsible adult anymore.
So, she cries soundlessly, sobs suffocated by the gentleness of a pillow (so her children don't hear their mother crying because of their other mother), and Wanda breaks down in tears like a weeping tiny child, like the times when the world was too loud, and she was too young.
The compression constrained into her core is such that it feels as if it will boil, overflow and burst in a nebulous wave of scarlet melancholy any second now, swallowing the structures of that town into itself, turning that entire longitudinal radius that encompasses the Westview framework into a bodily edification of her crackling grief.
She just wished that damn finger snap had never happened. That it had never wrecked her wife in a way that seems to be irretrievable. That it had never ripped the happiness out of her and metamorphosed it to dust.
She just desired to be able to swap places with Y/N. To feel what she feels. Because she doesn't feel shit, and right now, Wanda doesn't want to feel shit either.
ᗢ
The thick, dark coffee in a china cup is cold and undrinkable, and only half a finger down the rim has been consumed so far – the liquid forgotten there, uninteresting and frugal. The receptacle is placed on a small low table of pale wood, next to a hard glass ashtray piled high with the crumpled butts of dozens of cigarettes already smoked, like a bunch of spaced-out pins spiked into a small pillow.
Some coffee would sure cure the slithering ailments of the recurring debilitation of a good hangover, but it turns out that for a hangover to settle into your bodily fatigue you must first stop drinking – which you haven't done in a while.
So, the coffee sits there and in due course, cools down.
A massive, compact haze of cigarette smoke hangs high above the light bulbs hanging from the bright ceiling. It's not necessary for you to barely touch your drink anymore, after brewing it so grudgingly, for you to realize that you have commitment issues.
A narrow slice of light from a half-open window frames a stack of cheap aluminum beer cans and the cracked glass cellphone screen that's been at least two weeks without a full charge from its charger – because you know that, after turning your back and running, the next step in your vicious cycle is to hide in whatever hole that shelters you from the judgmental gazes of the outside eyes and mourn until there are no more tears to cry.
And it so happens that the bitterness of alcohol makes the misfortunes arising from your actions (the consequences thereof) less painful to bear; or at least it makes you feel a little less guilty for doing something that you know would have left you feeling like a piece of shit in the first place.
But you know that even the most inebriating booze won't make you forget Wanda's warm skin against the digits of your clever fingers. Not when you can still feel the warmth of her flesh, her blood, aching like a ghost in crimson forever branded in your eternal affect. Not when she still moans the way she used to, responding so passionately to your own touches and needs.
Not when she still tastes like the addictive red color that glides across the face of your tongue, as if you could never fully satisfy yourself until you ate her alive – even when she was younger, Wanda was always pretty vocal in bed, after all.
And that awakened something very primal within you every single time you made her scream your name at the top of her lungs.
You fell face down on a pillow soaked in tears and cheap liquor, with an ancient stain of grape juice marking one of the four corners of the soft object; you rolled onto your side, into the shadow of your copious dark leather sofa set in the corner of the tiny room that smells of gloominess, burnt cigarettes and simply self-harm.
The apartment window is a square of dim, insignificant light.
Through the window raised by the singular narrow rectangular frame that covers the wall of the room (a cloudy and milky glass, with a finish in hints of dryness, a dewy and opaque appearance due to the mild climate that spreads, like a silent disease stuck by the system, in West of Midtown), the faint golden sparks flutter from a shy spring sun, almost dying in its flavescent dull glow, as solemnly imbibed through the thick clouds in the midst of the gray sky outside.
Outside, among the parallel streets saturated by an immoderate frenzy of people, by the sonatas of the morning birds and also by the sounds of cars skidding along the asphalt with their screeching engines.
It is possible to hear the sounds of the city; the sound of life happening right in front of your apartment. Life blossoming and life withering away, all together and at once. And you there, as a viewer, just watch and never interact. There is no life for you to live.
Not when your family is nowhere to be found in this goddamn city.
There are people out there, all varieties of them, carrying suitcases, in suits and ties, with children and pets, alone or in packs.
And conversations as they speak, snaking through the most disparate topics possible to parrot about, a veritable array of options – from the season's fashion apparel to the finishing touches of an assiduous sport match to the bewildering events of the latest chapter from a popular television show.
Or maybe even the political scandals involving some sloppy rookie vigilante, a ridiculously self-proclaimed superhero active in the city (one of those who came before them and the handful of others who will also come after them) and who you just don't give a damn about.
This is New York City. You want to sleep and never wake up again.
But a muffled rustling comes from outside your window, dangerously too close to come from the sidewalk below. Your brain goes into automatic mode. The smart knuckles of your fingers bend in combat mode.
There's the oscillating sound of metal compacted with something heavy on the fire escape, followed by what feels like a rhythmic thud against the glass. Your instinct speaks louder when you sit on the couch in readiness, stretching your spine, prepared to hit or run. The familiar shiver skitters along the entire contour of your body, and you hold your breath into your lungs for half a second.
Someone is trying to sneak in.
The sofa is leaning in the right corner to the side of the window, and being on its side, you don't see who is the figure that shades the fire escape.
You stand, and move silently with your knees moderately bent, just as Steve once taught you to do. The window glass lifts up in a horrible, crackling squeak. You feel a rush of adrenaline derail a corroding craving inside your veins.
Thick saliva dries up inside your mouth and you gasp for air, but your lungs lock in unease, a fist ready to sink into the intruder's skull.
A leg clad in stylishly worn jeans slips through the windowsill, and a foot clad in a battered combat boot steps into the walls of your apartment. You know how many punches it takes to shatter a jawbone.
And then strands of golden hair (a half-dirty, beer-colored blonde) stealthily guides itself when the head that holds these hairs makes analytical movements, scrutinizing with an attentive eye, like a radar or a security camera, over the entire square meter that comprises your tiny living room and then hovering over you, stunned, standing there by the window.
You're faced with a long flannel coat with plaid stripes in yellow, white and black, and irises in a sober half-amber piercing green that stands out even more when flanked by dark smudges of smoky black eyeshadow.
A half-confused, half-surprised yelp leaves the inside of your throat as you raise your eyebrows in a perplexed act at the intruder standing right in front of you.
“What the fuck, Yelena?!”
Of course it's Yelena Belova. Natasha's younger sister who is older than you.
She doesn't seem the least bit amused by your skittish reaction to her sudden presence, because she looks around, at every stain and every tiniest crack cracked in the dye of the morose walls, in an act filled with lethargy and sloppiness, then finally shrugs her shoulders casually inside her thick plaid coat, glancing amiably in your direction.
“Well, good morning to you too,” Yelena mutters casually in a heavy, hard, insistent Russian accent, opening the commission of her mouth too wide to pronounce the words in English, “It’s good to see you’re not dead yet”
And then you blink a confused once at the dirty blonde, relaxing the muscles in your back as you do.
"Dead…? Why the hell would I be dead?!”
“Because I sent like, ten messages letting you know that I'd be in town this week and you didn't reply, and then I thought that since you're… well, you, I should come to make sure you didn't hang yourself by the neck in the shower. Or that someone else hadn't done it for you. You know, because I'm actually a good friend"
“Huh” you then croak awkwardly, slumping down on the leather couch again, resting both your elbows on the kneecaps covered by the material of your battered jeans.
Your left hand reaches for the crumpled pack of cigarettes lying on the table, and you fit one of them to the commission of your lips, rolling your thumb across the flint of the lighter so that a spark ignites there, lighting the tip of the white paper cylinder.
And then you puff on the tobacco, smoke in and smoke out of your lungs, and you lean arbitrarily against the back of the couch, eyes darting toward the figure of Yelena still standing in front of the window.
“Right, sorry” and a lame sigh leaves your throat, “My phone died”
“Better the phone than you, I guess”
You glance at Yelena, devoting a little more attention to your actions as you do; her round face with a strong jaw and the tip of her nose slightly upturned (a characteristic that makes her carry an air of joviality and smartness), her thick and well-cut dark eyebrows, her blond hair tousled, looking like a wild lion's mane.
She looks younger than you, but maybe that's because you haven't been taking good care of your health in a while (and also because, since she was blipped and you were not, you aged five more years than she ever did).
“Still, you can't break into other people's houses whenever you want, Yelena. Fuck, I could have killed you!”
"What, you? Kill me?"
Yelena says mockingly, before uttering a long laugh that shakes both of her shoulders, squeezing her eyelids in two good-natured lines, which causes her nose to scrunch like a little pink bud.
You roll your eyes in their sockets, expressing a kind of sullen scowl.
“This one is good, very good. You were always a funny type, Y/N Y/L/N. Very funny”
Something in her posture always reminded you of the distinct figure of Natasha back in the compound, when you were just a bit older than your own children are right now; you realized this as soon as your paths crossed a few years ago, when you realized that this was the young little sister you had heard so much about in your life from Natasha.
Putting a face to the name, it didn't take any biological bonds to realize that Yelena couldn't be anyone's sister other than the original Black Widow herself. They have always been, for you, like the different sides of the same coin.
“But why do you still live in this dump, huh? No offense, of course,” she says, pacing a few examining steps around the room.
“None taken” you mumble badly.
“Tony Stark left a huge amount of money to every remaining Avenger, didn't he? I know it's been a while, but seriously, you could be living on Wall Street right now. Or any other expensive place around here, I don't know, I don't really understand how this neighborhood status thing works for Americans. But I watched American Psycho once. Crazy movie”
Yelena shrugs casually, strands of blonde hair slipping against the stylish chains fashionably wrapped around the contour of her neck.
You drag on more of the cigarette and let the smoke escape wistfully through your nostrils, looking at the floor between your bare feet, feeling a knot wrapping in your esophagus.
You don't really want to talk about Tony.
“Yeah, he did,” you mutter somberly, still not looking back at Yelena.
“But I never wanted to touch that money, no. I’ll leave everything to my kids, for their future. To college, I don't know. I mean, I know Wanda has her share too, but… it's… it’s the least I can do for them, after being such a shitty mom their whole lives. They deserve it much more than me”
Yelena lets out a rueful sigh. You exhale another cloud of cigarette smoke. She looks at you like she might just kick you in the face.
“Okay, okay, you know what? You are depressing me right now. Uhum, yeah. Big vibe killer”
And then she goes to a reserved circular table in the other corner of the room, and from there she pulls out a wooden chair, bringing it to her heels so that she can sit opposite to you, in front of the sofa by the low, rectangular table that is where you sit – right after the cup of cold coffee and the full up ashtray.
The amber color that surrounds her irises glows at you with shades of anticipation.
“Come on, come on, vent. Speak, you can talk to me. You look like you really need to talk to someone”
Yelena does as you do, and rests her elbows with interest on her knees. You remember the first time she did it.
The first time she just sat there and listened to you babble meaningless for hours and hours into the night, in the company of her favorite Russian brand vodka, back in the day that was supposed to be your wedding anniversary celebration with Wanda, and you were as drunk as a damn sailor as you did.
Ever since you met her, Yelena has always been a good friend to keep around.
(That is, except for that one time she tried to full-rage murder you on Christmas Eve, of course)
ᗢ
It had been some time since that long, cold, dry December night a few years ago had ebbed, and yesterday's snow still carpeted the ground beneath your feet, glistening in the red-and-green ruddiness of the Christmas ornaments.
The lights and decorations adorned the entire component miles of the longitudinal extent that made up the elongated streets that flowed through Midtown Manhattan, and everything was festive and comfortable.
You assumed with yourself that Billy and Tommy would enjoy it there, even if they were, at the time, just two tiny babies, and could barely comprehend what was going on around them with all their meager cognition at the height of their (little more than) one year of age, when talking about terms of biological age.
In the middle of the Rockefeller Center, the snow had been partially furrowed by hundreds of feet dressed in winter shoes, forming a dark, muddy mass, but on the curbs on either side of the long colorful streets and at the corners of the sidewalks, a thin sheet of profuse ice was heaped in flakes of shimmering whiteness.
The gray sidewalk had been cleaned and shaved, but it was still treacherously slippery for the sizable portion of lonely souls who had ventured out of the comfort of their homes in the middle of night in the closing stages of the Christmas Eve.
You, in all your shame and humiliation, had just signed the divorce papers, and was at last a solitary woman with a blank look coated on your somber face while you walked by the other people so aimlessly; so, there was no company for you in that festive period which allegedly brings people (family) together, other than the very torments inside your own head and the harmful smoke from your lit cigarette.
And, of course, the blonde woman in the tactical suit who had dug her heel in an act of proficiency right into the gap between your thick dark jacket-adorned right ribs, flinging you out of the crook of her knee with your back open on the frigid foggy floor, tumbling with a hollow thud, squeezing a painful grunt out of your lungs from between your clenched teeth.
She just stood there, panting for so long that her feet pressed against the snow leaved marks. She was a dark silhouette against the golden glimmering of the enormous Christmas tree set behind her. The shadow of a predator in a night pierced by snow white despondency.
“Before I kill you, Y/N Y/L/N, I need to ask you one question”
Her voice was harsh, thick with some compact Russian intonation within the enunciation of her own words, echoing inside your disordered ears as she stomped spitefully toward you, crunching snow with the tractor soles of her combat boots as she did it.
“I need to know what happened. I need to know how you had the nerve to kill her. How did you have the courage to kill Natasha”
From your lying place on the ground as you were, you lifted your eyes gleaming in watery misunderstanding towards the black-clad woman who surrounded you like a venomous hunter – even though there was, in those stern, cold amber irises of her, an murderous spark filled with rage smoldering in the flame of her soul, with vengeance shots being the fuel for such a fire, the passion that burned even more was the passion of desolation, of a broken heart partially melted by a sharp feeling of sorrow.
She was someone still grieving the loss, a bitter feeling that was already so familiar inside your cramped chest.
Then it was that something clicked in the back of your mind, as if a glow had put in the picture to your cognition, and you recognized someone you had never seen before.
Yelena Belova, a Black Widow assassin, the younger sister herself. You wish you had met her in a different situation than the one you found yourself in at that moment.
“I need to know what happened”
“You want to know what happened, huh?” you mussed in a bitter tone of voice, firmly pressing the palm of your right hand across your rib cage, against your aching rib.
You noticed when she swallowed hard.
“She sacrificed herself, Yelena” the assassin locked her knees at the mention of her own name, her steady, rueful gaze burning towards your eyes as she stood just a few feet away from you.
“She sacrificed herself to save the world and I couldn't stop her because I'm weak, that's what happened"
"You are lying"
“She sacrificed herself, she took the chance from me. It was… it was my choice” you panted feebly, blinking your eyes once, “And she took it from me”
“Shut up. Shut up! You are lying! Stop lying!”
“Denying reality won't make things any different, Yelena!”
"Stop fucking lying!" Yelena yelled in your direction, thick layers of tears suppressed within her waterline, making her eyes stormy and harried, "And even if it's true, she died because you left her! It's still your fault, Y/N!"
"Yes, she died because I wasn't strong enough to stop her!" on your knees, you yelled towards her, “Because I’m a fucking coward!”
You screamed until your vocal cords burned, until your lungs collapsed, and your throat clanged to the bottom of your neck. You just craved to scream, an instinct as visceral as a wounded and cornered animal.
“Do you think I don't know that the one who should be here in front of you is her and not me?! That I don't deserve to continue my life instead of her, instead of all of them?! But how the fuck am I supposed to move on with everyone else knowing she's the one who should be here and not me?!”
She blinked with foggy amber eyes towards you. You felt your jawbone twitch.
“I know I'm not the one who should be here! I know I should have jumped that fucking abyss instead of her, I know I should have stopped that purple bastard from ripping a hole in Vision's head, I know I could have saved my family, I know all of this! I know, okay?! I fucking know! I've known this for five fucking years, and still there isn't a damn day that I don't think about it!”
You started to slobber, and saliva and tears coalesced into one material as they poured down your chin, dripping hot into the snow below your bent knees, and you felt like you could throw up at any giving moment. But you couldn't care less about your weeping figure. Not when Yelena also collapsed right in front of you, her quivering knees supported by snow and ice in the middle of the Rockefeller Center.
“But I'm sorry, Yelena” you breathed out in a pitying voice, your throat scraping like you've swallowed a whole cactus.
“I'm really sorry, but you won't be able to kill me. Not with knives or guns or grenades, no. Not with this fucking body”
And then you let out a pathetic laugh packed with acidic sourness, which dripped from your mouth and leaked along with the tears that melted the snow around you.
“You know, that's what Nat said that day. That I shouldn't jump anyways because I'd probably just fall to the ground down there, get up and walk away. That's what she said, can you believe it? Fuck, that’s what… what she… she- fuck-”
The rest of the sentence died in your throat, but the grunt derived from you, coming into the world as cry for help, was in the form of a choking, contrite sob. And then some bell ding-donged in the distance, announcing the first seconds of midnight. Yelena looked at you and you looked at her through the wintry night air, two teary gazes colliding in midair, just seeking for some kind of support within each other.
You just missed her, Natasha, so much that it ached. And so did Yelena.
“I loved her” she muttered, more to herself than to you, “I loved her so much”
“Me too”
At the beginnings of Christmas that year, your newfound best friend wept with you in memory of the loved older sister you both lost back in Vormir.
ᗢ
A clipped draft of silence ensues after you clarify in detail to Yelena about what happened between you and Wanda during the last time you saw each other back in that remote day a few weeks ago. The only thing you can hear inside the crackling walls of your disdainful apartment is the sound of smoke drifting through a gap parted between your lips.
A car then passes on the street below. The bell of a bicycle echoes in three consecutive chimes that reverberate through the thin walls of the apartment complex where you live.
You search for sips of your third cigarette of the morning, swallowing gulps of the smoke so that it suffocates your unresolved feelings within you until they asphyxiate and rot inside your impenetrable body.
And Yelena raises both her thick brows in an act soaked in awe, crossing her forearms across her chest held by a brown wool vest beneath her thick plaid coat, leaning back with her spine spilling toward the back of the wooden chair.
“Wow” she whistles after a meditative time drowned in muteness, blinking her glaring eyes in your direction in an almost even dazed glow, “You fucked up”
“I know,” you hum back to her, moving your elbow and then your right wrist to bring the white filter cigarette to your mouth.
“No, but like, you really fucked up this time”
"Yeah, I know"
“You had everything in your hands and then you went there and threw it out the window”
“Yes, that's what I said”
“I mean, you were having contact with your kids after so much time. With her. And now you aren't anymore because you don't know how to keep it in your pants, you horny animal. And on top of that, you ran off in the middle of the night like a fucking asshole. Your relationship with those boys? Gone. Your relationship with your magical-ancient-goddess-of-chaos-ex-wife? That's gone also. Everything is gone. All is lost"
"You're not really helping anyone here right now, Yelena"
You grumble uncouthly in a whine, and the Black Widow rests both her elbows on the kneecaps of her pale jeans, taking a gulp of air, then exhaling lamentably in your direction.
“You need to go and apologize to her”
"Yeah, no shit" you mutter with your lips half-closed in a thin line, still sitting on the dark couch.
“Like, you really need to do this, it's really important” her compact accent makes the sentence sound more charged than it actually is.
You put out the end of the cigarette by pressing it against the dirty glass bottom of the ashtray. And then you sigh deeply, gazing toward the other woman with your eyes heavy with some torrential glance of regret and guilt, an emotion too smothering to be channeled through conversations, no matter how hard you try to do it.
“And what do you want me to say, huh? ‘Hey Wanda, I'm sorry I left after sleeping with you because I had a fucking panic attack and I thought the best thing would be to just leave without waking you up. Oh, and by the way, I'm also sorry for neglecting you and our newborn children when you came back after five years of being dead, it's just that in that time I've kind of discovered that really the only thing I know how to do right is bottle up my feelings and drink a whole six-pack alone without feeling sick. Hope you can still let me stay around our ten-year-olds after that!’”
“Yeah, I don't know if that would be a good thing to say after you dumped her to wake up alone in bed, no” Yelena shrugs, shaking her golden-haired head, not taking offense at your shot of acid cynicism towards her, “Maybe without the six-pack part, she doesn’t need to know that”
"Fuck!" you grunt like the abrupt barking of a pissed off dog, pouring your open palms down the length of your nauseatingly pale face, "God, I'm such a fucking idiot!"
“Yes, you sure are,” she replies to your daydream aloud, “Now the question is whether you're going to choose to remain an idiot, or if you're going to get your ass off the couch and go do something right for a change. Your family needs you, Y/N. And you need them too”
And silence erupts in the room. She looks serious as you look towards her, sitting in the chair set across the table like an impassable barricade. You then shrug in desistance, half embarrassed, half tired, breaking a smirk at the corner of your awkward mouth.
“And when did you get so smart about love relationships, huh, 'Lena?”
And Yelena smiles, lifting the corner of her full rosy lips toward you too.
“When did you get so dumb, Y/N/N?”
ᗢ
A fine tea set is placed on the vast dark rectangular table of beveled wood, right next to a copy of a thick olden book which, in its time-marked yellowish pages, deals with various amounts of (poorly) handwritten spells and invocations that Wanda already had read and reread so much before this day, studying it meticulously with a unique devotion worthy of a true witch's apprentice at the time.
It's been a good few years now since Wanda comprehended herself as the current bearer of the entitlement of the distinguished Scarlet Witch, the paramount of all the enchantresses of her generation, forged from an primordial spark of legacy-bearer magic that awakened a unstoppable fire of chaos energy when in contact with the enchanted waves of the Mind Stone (and not just being the fortunate fruit of a lab project, as she had long believed she had been).
It's just a fluke that she prefers to use such magical gifts to serve breakfast to dinner.
A silver tray, white porcelain vases, and stunning tulips adorn the corner of the table, and the peach-colored light of a warm spring morning in New Jersey streams through the thin windowpanes. A complete tea tray is readily placed on the face of the dark table, and food and drinks can be spotted speckled along the entire length of the canopy furniture.
There is a clink of cups and saucers and the low hiss of a still-warm porcelain kettle, fresh from the stove.
Through the clear glass of the window raised in front of the sink, Billy and Tommy are accompanied by the caution worthy of a prudent maternal gaze instigated by Wanda, the woman who follows the two boys with zealous eyes, irrigated with carefulness, as the pair of young brothers plays football back and forth on the green grass in her backyard outside.
She lets out a sweet little sigh at the sight of her children smiling and laughing, prim in the childhood perks they deserve; that she fought so hard, with the simple will that only a true mother would have, so that they could enjoy it to the fullest during their youthful days.
Just take seeing them, the two twin boys exuding a glow of innocent delight, for a soft, placid smile to draw across the commission of her lips, relaxing the tense muscles of her back.
On the other side of the table, however, opposite Wanda, sits the impassive figure that is Agatha Harkness dressed in a pin-on purple sweater with an oval brooch on the high collar, an item that once belonged to the unfathomable figure of her late mother; she is the witch of no coven, leaning back in her wooden chair, enjoying a cornstarch cookie with such care that it's actually funny to look at, from a certain point of view.
And her piercing blue gaze engenders a similarly clear one when she looks at Wanda sitting there in front of her, even though the table set for afternoon tea and all the bits and pieces arranged for it are what space them there, into Wanda's cozy bright kitchen, bathed in the banter of a warm three o'clock sunbeam.
“I beg your pardon, hon?”
Agatha half-questions, inferring high doses of puzzlement in her half-joking voice, almost even laughing, just before she can sip from her pale tea set into the distinct white cup standing just in front of her sharp face.
On Wanda's part, there is a long, silent sip of the warm liquid poured into the vessel she holds in her right hand.
“I...” she then mutters, as if trying to catalog the topics inside her head, “I slept with Y/N. She left afterwards”
Wanda still remembers well when she met Agatha a few years ago, yes.
She had just moved with the boys to Westview, looking for fresh air that felt like a new beginning, as she was still getting used to the binding trials of a life as a newly divorced single mother of twins, and that was why there was sought an environment more conducive to raising a family of three.
Somewhere as far away from whatever complications as possible, so that the backwaters of a quiet life could become her new standard of living, where she could just devote herself to raising her two boys, maybe getting in some gardening too, or even perhaps reading some of the austere books that she so desperately wanted to catch up on with. Just an ordinary, quiet life in an equally ordinary, quiet town.
The happy ending she craved so much to have.
Y/N had suggested New Jersey once, so that's where Wanda went looking to establish her new roots (even if the only thing missing from the picture was the very person who had told them to go in the first place).
But Agatha felt the chaos magic awaken, like the spark that burns in the firstfruits of a treacherous ignition.
The more experienced witch, however, had presented herself as a form of menace in the first instance and, in all cases, had also threatened to steal Wanda’s magical vitality for herself (because that's kind of her thing).
But all it took was assiduous combat waged amid the skies of the ordinary little town of Westview, showered in rays and twirls of a shimmering amalgamation of dull purple and crackling scarlet, for a overpowered Agatha in the town square to realize with herself the fact that, even with all of her knowledge accumulated thorough centuries of learning and studying magic, she would never be able to subdue Wanda's magical gifts by herself – who had all that instinctive and spontaneous power pulsing like a form of inheritance engraved deep in her bones, magical energy bristling within her veins like an endless supply of such scarlet-colored vigor.
Wanda exuded magic her whole life without even trying, after all. Without even being aware that she was doing it.
The friendship soon blossomed very rapidly between them when an arrangement was formalized at the end of their impasse, and Agatha became the tutor responsible for conducting Wanda's magical studies, not accepting less than that or even that another person less able to exercise the charge would do – see, for example, the Sorcerer Supreme or the other faithful coreligionists of his, the warlock battalion inhabiting Kamar-Taj, that ancient temple located in some remote location among the rocky mountains of Tibet.
Agatha had pompously stated that she had a duty to Wanda (to the Scarlet Witch herself) for the sake of the sisterhood of the witch community, and she would be the one to guide the legendary Harbinger of Chaos’s footsteps towards the meritorious attributes of such a formidable creature, to all the power and glory that Wanda was born to secure and maintain.
The years went by, and it didn't take long for Wanda to master the limping spells that inhabit the receptacle of magic that is her body by herself; however, Agatha's presence in her life as her confidant and adviser remained even after her emancipation as a full-fledged enchantress, and even if the other woman came to deny it, Wanda just knew she was also captivated by the young witch's uniquely charismatic personality.
And that's why Agatha was chosen to be there, at that moment, sitting right on the other side of the spacious dining table, listening to Wanda babble about sleeping with her ex-wife who ended up running away in the dead of night.
“Did I hear it right? Did you actually sleep with your ex-wife? And she just left right after you closed your legs? What a bitch”
“Please don't say that out loud” Wanda, a little ashamed to say it audibly and confirm to herself that she had indeed committed such a foolishness, sighs behind her cup of tea.
“I don't want the boys to ask me more questions that I don't know how to answer. It's enough to have had to explain to them why mommy left so early without even saying goodbye. Or why she just disappeared the last few days... they really do love her, Agatha. It's even harder when they really do love her”
Wanda voice is tiny as she makes a slight movement of her head in disenchantment. Suddenly, the chamomile tea that slips between her teeth taste too bitter to her fondness.
She wants to say that Y/N loves her kids a lot too, but in all honesty, she can't quite put those words inside her ex-wife's mouth by herself.
"Well, she's their mother after all. And turns out that some of us really like our mothers," mutters the old woman, a wisp of full brown hair streaming in front of her bustling face, chuckling slightly with a somewhat evil giggle, “Not that I would know, of course”
“Yes, she is their mother. That's why no matter how much she hurts me, she can't hurt them too. No, not them"
Something about Wanda sounds a little dismayed as she utters the words for her former educator to hear. Before Y/N's ex-wife, she will always be Billy and Tommy's mother.
“Well, that's just disappointing if you ask me” Agatha lets out a somewhat jaded exclamation, lowering her own cup towards the face of the table.
“Honestly, sweets, you always talked so much about this young heartbreaker that I even thought that someday you would end up reliving your old love days, that’s true, but… I just didn't count on her being the smash and dash kind of type. Damn, I was rooting for her”
She half undertones the last words to herself, but Wanda is able to hear her anyway, and an incredulous arc forms in both of her dark brows as she does.
“Really, Agatha?!”
“I mean,” Agatha chuckles, “I know that stallion is an eye candy, I'll give you that, but even so... I think I've heard enough about her to know that her little head is kind of cuckoo for cocoa puffs, if you know what I mean”
A long, exhausted sigh is expressed on the part of the other woman. She really just wants to disappear.
“I'm so, so stupid” Wanda whimpers, leaning both of her elbows on the face of the table, her palms pressing against the length of her sharp face, “I don't know where I was with my head”
“Oh honey, I think we both know all too well where your head was” Agatha says in response, exhaling a half morbid laugh as she does.
Through her fingers, Wanda looks at her former lecturer rather uncomfortably (the woman with a square, firm jaw and a wide white smile that always sets all her teeth up like a porcelain slab). A silence comes and goes like a passing intrusive thought.
Agatha kind of engage in recreation with her silver spoon slipping in a swirl of chamomile inside her cup of tea, turning the small cutlery from side to side in circular wrist movements.
“Was it good at least?”
Wanda raises her head in a lame movement, and then blinks one diffident time in a performance of pure confusion.
"What...?"
“The sex, love bird” Agatha rests her chin on her open palm supported by her elbow placed on the table, “Was it like the good old days?”
Wanda hesitates for a half-second-long lapse. “Yes”, she wanted to reply almost instinctively, the words slipping from the tip of her tongue, her lungs hankering to do it so, “yes, it was like the old days”. But deep within herself, Wanda knows well it wasn't like it used to be.
It was better.
It was an act that reconnected them, bringing together two fragments of a shattered totality that, when put together again, made a complete whole one more time. By consuming the human carnal and instinctive act, they united the spiritual and the physical – merging the two women with a momentary, vulgar and sweet perfection, a remnant of a lewd nature during countless lapses of physical and psychological pleasure.
It wasn't enough for Wanda to bodily possess her, no; she wanted Y/N as an entirety, body and soul, glowing red in her prism of feelings. There she found nothing but devotion and pleasure, all aimed at Y/N in a unique way that would never be seen by anyone but she herself.
So many years ago, still in their early adult life, an Infinity Stone and a snap of a fingers was what separated them; yet there, in her bed, they were together and were one – red and white curling up in the dead of night as the consolidation of a longstanding, forbidden desire.
The truth is that as much as Y/N suffered from the lack of affection, Wanda also wanted to be loved by someone in particular. And she knew she was being prized when, wrapping her arms around the back of her sweaty neck, pulling her close without saying anything, her ex-wife pulled her into a long, affectionate kiss that had almost made her feel burst into wails and start crying right there.
Her upper teeth chew the contour of her lower lip, as Wanda absently squeezes the fingertips of one hand through the fingers of the other placed on the table, yearning to speak, but not even knowing how to do it at all.
“It was… good,” she irrevocably acknowledges more to herself than to Agatha, staring at the pale porcelain cup placed between her crossed wrists.
A sudden petulant urge itches to say more about her comes over Wanda almost automatically. She wants to put it out, speak for the seven winds to hear, cry out to the world that, in that night, Y/N loved her again, like no one else has before or since.
“It was so good, Agatha. And it was special, you know? For me it was, and I know it was for her too, even if she doesn't want to admit it. It's been a while since I've seen her so… light. Self-confident, even. Y/N didn't used to be like this before, you know? So closed off and… distant. She was cheerful. Smiling. She was… she was everything to me"
The smile then quoted by Wanda ends up mirroring her rosy lips.
“Once, when we had just started dating, she told me that all she had to do was make me smile to feel happy, and I know that was true. There was a time when this was true. I thought that without Pietro I would never be able to feel whole again, but… she made me feel this way, so I know it was real. I know it was because that's how I felt too. But now..."
That's how the smile fades, like a ray of sunlight supplanted by a dense, dark cloud. A heavy color of stormy green falters in Wanda's limp gaze.
“Now… she's so different. Changed. It’s like… like I don't even know who she is anymore"
“Oh dear…” Agatha's friendly grip searches for the outline of Wanda's hand across the table, and the older witch gives her an almost apologetic motherly look as she does, “You know that things have changed, Wanda. A lot happened in those five years you were gone, even more so for her”
Wanda remains cuddled by her silence. Outside, Tommy lets out a loud laugh at something said to him by Billy. She knows what Agatha is talking about.
Y/N never willingly broached the subject with her in the last remaining days of their failed marriage, but she saw the news, the articles, the interviews. People talking about it left and right, all around the world. Damn, she talked to most of her teammates who stayed behind after she was blipped.
She knows well what Y/N has been through. She just doesn't know what goes on in Y/N's head after that.
“A lot of people have changed, hon. The remnants of the vanishing are still there for anyone to see and you know it, right? Some people still can't even talk about it openly. There are still support groups and probably many more years of therapy ahead for most survivors. The people who stayed… they are are no longer the same as before, and ten years is pretty much nothing on the space-time line. All of this is still very recent for some people. They still need to heal. That young woman… she still needs to heal”
And then, Agatha sighs. Her brooch reflects a beam of white light which is caught by Wanda's clever eye.
“I'm not saying what she did is right and fair, oh no, she's a cunt for doing that to you, hon. If I could I would turn her into a bug and feed her to Señor Scratchy right off the bat. But… you can't expect Y/N to be the same person as before, Wanda. Not after what she's been through”
Wanda looks up from her cup to aim at the other woman in front of her.
“How do you think you would feel if the love of your life and the children you had with them were ripped from you all of a sudden, huh? What it would be like if you felt how she feels. Think about it, child. There’s a lot to unpack there”
And no, she doesn't want to think about it at all.
But it's late at night, shortly after she's tucked the boys into bed with prolonged hugs and heartfelt goodnight kisses deposited on top of their childish heads, that Wanda finds herself checking just a single text message that glows on her phone's screen as a warning of a new concern.
can we talk? please
(seen)
And then she thinks.
Distress, anger, exhilaration and exhaustion merge into a single being that sprout inside her like a throbbing disease. But Wanda has always been the type to let her heart guide her, after all. The kind that always puts family above all else.
And Y/N is her family, there's no way she wouldn't be (not when she's the one who gifted her with Billy and Tommy, the best thing that ever happened to her). And that's why Y/N is there in front of her, sitting across the table, after she drops the boys off at school early in the morning.
She smells like a freshly smoked cigarette and wears a different jacket than the one Wanda last saw her in. It fits her well.
The coffee found inside the porcelain mug was specially brewed just the way Wanda knows she likes it, in the right proportions so it's full-bodied, but not too much bitter to swallow. But Y/N doesn't drink from it.
She just stares with demure eyes towards her hands lying in her lap, while Wanda follows her with a hard and unerring gaze. She wants to punch her in the face and kiss her in the mouth and hate her and love her all at once.
There is a moment filled with a piercing deafening silence. The neighbor's dog starts barking at the postman passing by on the sidewalk. When Y/N finally looks up and takes aim at her ex-wife, filling her mouth to start uttering rehearsed words, Wanda stops her from speaking before she even starts to do it.
