A/N: I have no beta. But I hope you enjoy. Ao3 link also in the cut.
Chapter One: Innocuous
Chapter Two: Opportunity
Chapter Three: Goodness
Chapter Four: Neighborly
Chapter Five: White Lie
Chapter Six: Friendly Enough
Chapter Seven: "Solitude"
18+ Only - MINORS Do Not Interact
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
There you stood, avoiding eye contact with the brass number plate before you, as if anticipating rebuke.
It had been five minutes. Knocking did not feel like an option. But it was all you needed to do.
Ten minutes passed.
In the dark of the hallway, the sensation in your limbs seemed like static and trickled away.
And he was inside, waiting.
How have I let myself say yes to this?
Have you forgotten who you are? Who he is?
It’s just dinner. It’s just dinner.
Is it really just dinner?
He asked for company. It’s just dinner.
What do you want?
You wanted to cry, futile as it would be. But this was happening.
Right here. What awful timing.
You closed your eyes, allowing the voice to envelope your heart and squeeze until you felt it rupture.
You just want to fuck, you unfaithful, hypocritical cunt. You’re a slut in denial. You just want to be near him for any morsel of attention, hungry for warmth, because you’re greedy and it’s pathetic. Ruined, unworthy, lying, manipulative, ungrateful. Women are whores with holes to fill. Nothing more.
There was a gentle vibration in your pocket.
You were still.
Standing.
In the hallway.
Nothing more.
Alone.
It was just dinner.
And the brass number plate read Unit 366.
The phone in your pocket was warm through the thin, silk skin atop your skin.
It vibrated again.
The synthetic air freshener drifted from down the hall.
Laughter came from Unit 365.
Mouth dry, you bit down softly on your tongue, breathing through the rush of saliva pooling behind your bottom teeth.
You took another breath and held it long enough to ache. Then you let it go.
Your phone vibrated again.
406: I am here.
406: Just picking up.
406: The door is open for you.
And it was. The handle turned with ease. You entered, closing the door quietly behind you.
A few steps in, you noticed the unassuming decor, the ceiling lit warmly by sconces scattered across the light gray walls of the studio apartment.
Against the far wall where a couch, a coffee table and a television would designate the living room area, you saw a set of studio lights and a camera tripod. Boxes were tucked into the corner near the open sliding glass door, leading to another prized balcony. Eyes trailing upward, you realized the ceiling medallion was a beautifully decorated hard point.
To the left, a small side table and a collapsible stool, the kitchenette, and a hallway leading somewhere. To the right, a murphy bed was pulled down in the center of a wall of ceiling high cabinets, the mattress covered only by a black duvet and no pillows.
Everything appeared in its place, utilitarian, with the exception of a few open moving boxes and stacks of books on the bed where you were sure another tenant would have placed a dining set for invited guests. Your Neighbor stood folding a box in on itself before removing it from the bed and sliding it away in a cabinet.
“Here. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to the bed with something in his hand, opening a cabinet and setting it inside.
There really wasn’t anywhere else.
You crossed the threshold of the room at his command, watching as he continued to clear space for you on the bed. He grabbed a box and disappeared down the mysterious, short hallway as you lowered yourself onto the bed. A stack of books tipped, sliding toward you. A cursory glance at the covers told you everything you would need to know about the purpose this space served for him, if you were not already aware. Manuals and texts, some on photography, videography… and others…
“Can I get you something?” The question was registered, distantly.
…specialization texts on bondage, dynamics, service…
A gentle magnetic pull found a book on kinbaku in your hands, your fingers tracing the rope taught against the model’s curves. Lifting the jacketed cover, you discovered writing in the margins.
All capitals. Slanted backward. Enough pressure applied to deliver a message without marring the surface and pages beyond.
They were notes to himself.
The side table appeared just within your field of vision, and shortly after, a small rocks glass of ice water was extended to you, his finger tips pressed into the condensation.
A mild panic set in. Through your lashes you looked up at him... and then to the glass. The moment was not lost on you. You swallowed thickly and nodded your thanks as you took the glass and sipped it, gripping it tightly. You’ve just arrived and you violated what might be a very personal boundary. It was his profession, but it felt like you’d been reading his diary.
“You really are curious.”
Relief replaced shame. Well. A portion of it. He didn’t seem offended.
You tried hard to sound mostly indifferent, thinking quick. “So… you’re a stuntman first… and… a, ah-”
You realized you have never needed to vocalize anything related to your depravity. You choked on your own embarrassment as if you had not been jerking off to him weekly like an act of religious zealotry.
His smile grew, head tilted ever so slightly. You were being watched. It felt like it too.
Helplessly, almost childlike, you locked eyes with him and lifted the book, presenting the open page of the bound woman and the ropes-expert creating a decorative knot as if to interpretively fill in the blank
“Mhm.”
Succinct, polite confirmation.
He was amused.
You were mortified.
There is no going back from this.
In the theater of your mind’s eye, a highlight reel of his most delicious and debasing streams played in Dolby Atmos surround sound, studded butterflies warring inside you, your soul sat strapped in a D-BOX seat.
He knows I know.
He does not know how much I know.
Do not let him know.
Palms sweating, you return your gaze to the depictions on the page, turning one after another to give your hands something to do. ...Until you landed on the familiar pattern of a pair of quick-tie cuffs with several overhand knots locking it in place.
You heard rather than saw him open the cabinet at his side, and you glanced up, noticing a relatively short length of rope. Within a second, he passed the rope through itself forming two loops, holding it up for you to view.
That same magnetic pull reappeared and you distantly worried it was entirely visible to him this time.
It had been too long. More than once before, even before you found him… you’d bound yourself when safe in solitude. It felt comforting, assuring you there was no where else you needed to be, no where else you were forced to be -- You needed only to exist right where you were in that moment. There was no other focus. No other task, no other duty. Just… to be.
Restraint held together all your pieces, creating immense and fantastic passages within you to sunlit depths,courtyards lush, emotions in full bloom.You lived, they breathed.
Too much. Your throat felt tight.
He helped others… He gifted them space… He took them apart and put them back together. He is a technician.
The book in your lap slid to the bed, forgotten. You sat upright, palms resting on your knees, gaze affixed to his hands. A half-baked thought was ejected before you realized it, and you were regrettably confident that your arousal bled into it.
“Can I?”
Seconds lived and died in the time that passed before he approached you, stopping only with inches to spare, mercilessly. Your knees parted just enough, but you were not certain for what.
Enough to demonstrate your want, your willfulness? Can I?
“For as long as you want to.”
“I’ll tell you--”
He smiled softly at this. “You promise?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
He stood before you, waiting patiently. You lifted your hands in offering, like you had seen so many other women before you, before him. He carefully guided each wrist through, letting the rope hang. Slowly, so slowly, he pulled the ends, the remaining length dragging along the insides of your thighs until the loops were tightened, just a whisper of an impression on your flesh. You feel warm fingers slip beneath the rope, loosening it a fraction.
“Okay?”
A nod. “Yeah, that’s good,” came as an exhale, short on breath.
“Good.”
He created two overhand knots with the remaining length, preventing the rope from tightening further.
You felt your pulse in your throat, heard it in your ears, and felt it low inside you, arousal licking your deepest center as you lived and died alongside each second, hands lowering to your lap.
He pulled from his right back pocket a pair of shears and set them down on the side table within reach, right beside your glass of water. Your gaze flittered, finding new landing on the table’s contents as you tried to focus.
And there you sat, tied, with your hands on your knees as you watched him return to organizing his belongings within the cabinets.
It was domestically quiet.
Near silent for a handful of minutes, apart from his movement, his breathing, and the doorbell.
Your thighs pressed together as heat rose, air in your lungs turbulent, a warm haze behind your eyes, wondering if he would release you.
As quickly as you had the thought, your Neighbor knelt before you, hands poised to expertly loosen the knots.
“No.”
He stopped, and looked up at you.
“Not yet.”
“Okay.”
The doorbell rang again.
He wore the barest trace of a smile, the curve surreptitious in nature.
Summary: If Saturday mornings were for coffee and people-watching from the balcony, Saturday evenings were for tea and people-watching from the balcony.
A/N: I have no beta. But I hope you enjoy. Ao3 link also in the cut.
Chapter One: Innocuous
Chapter Two: Opportunity
Chapter Three: Goodness
Chapter Four: Neighborly
Chapter Five: White Lie
Chapter Six: Friendly Enough
Chapter Seven: "Solitude"
Chapter Eight: Curious
18+ Only - MINORS Do Not Interact
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The sun was out and the dry, brittle tumbling leaves almost had you convinced it wasn't bonfire weather. A week out from Halloween and it felt like a false summer.
You stood in the mail office, fingering through the flyers, the bills, and the spam, letting the envelopes drop into the shred bin by Maria's end of the desk.
"It's just been boiling in here Gloria, I can't stand it. And -- oh for the love of Adonis -- quick, sweetie--" she tapped your hand with a newspaper, "look."
Your Neighbor walked in through the lobby and headed straight toward the office entrance, wiping his hands on a blue rag before opening the door. Grease stained the rolled sleeves of his light colored Henley, a stark contrast to his growing honeyed tan.
"Good afternoon, Handsome~" Gloria lilted sweetly. The woman brushed back her permed glossy black locks and leaned forward onto the welcome desk.
"Ms. Gloria," He gave a nod, and turned to Maria, a gentle surprise in his smile and words. "Ms. Maria." His eyes unexpectedly found yours and he nodded with an almost imperceptible smile, "406."
Immediately Gloria willed his attention back to her. "What're you doing out there all day, honey? You best get some shade, you're turning a deeper shade of golden delicious-"
"-Not that you mind." Maria retorted slipping into the back room, with Gloria in tow.
"Behave Maria! I am only sayin' it's burning out there... hot enough to fry an egg..." Her voice faded with the swinging of the backroom door.
You laughed aloud at the spectacle, drawing his undivided attention. He shook his head slowly, each brief glance up at you showing a faint rouge on his face as he sorted through the envelopes in his hand. You both could hear the brewing of a cheeky argument as the two married women fawned over collecting a package from the back for him. The playful "tsk" he let out at a particularly loud and affronted "Gloria!" released by Maria sent you on a wild emotional trip.
Your eyes roamed the shelves... then the bell sitting atop the worn wooden counter. With a leap of faith, you let them wander further.
He'd clearly been working on his car in the lot -- the grease marks on his forearm in competition for your attention with the grease stain on his pants and the vulgar vascularity of his hands back-pocketing a long envelope. Forget the faint sheen of sweat that must have covered everything.
"Here you go, sweetheart. Sorry it took a minute. You'll forgive an old lady-" she indiscreetly nodded backwards toward Gloria. "I have your package right here, doll.” She winked, “Handled with the greatest of care."
The dramatics - oh god - the subtext was not lost on him.
He politely coughed through a short series of laughs that bubbled up as he collected the last of the items. Ducking his head, he thanked her and as he backed toward the office doors he gave the ladies a wave. When his waist pressed against the push bar, broad shoulders propping the door wide, he threw you a small quip of a smile.
“See you later.”
A rush of oppressively warm air caressed your heated skin as you watched him leave.
x-+-x-+-x
Incredible.
She was screaming.
Everywhere had turned red.
Except for the shine on her patent leather heels.
She could barely hold herself up.
Your eyes rolled in euphoric disbelief as he collected the saliva from around the gag and coated the black silicone length, just seconds before it slid between the girl's bruised clefts, disappearing except for the large flared bottom. The black latex on his fingers shone with spit, kneading the rounded red flesh – almost indulgingly. Her guttural moan, muffled and intense, was offered up to him. Both a thank you and a plea.
He pressed his palm firmly against the base of the toy, sinking it deeper, but he gave her nothing more.
You were close enough to the edge you were sure you could read her mind. And then it happened.
A glance.
Right at the camera.
The fourth wall shattered.
You wanted him more than the breath you tried desperately to catch.
x-+-x-+-x
The sky was beautiful, revealing layers of cloud and a deep, dusky blue, backlit by the moon.
Your apartment was quieter than the stretch of pavement running below you, the occasional drunken hoard hopping from the bar adjacent to the café to the nightclub further down the row.
If Saturday mornings were for coffee and people-watching from the balcony, Saturday evenings were for tea and people-watching from the balcony.
Headlights lit the wrought iron balcony bars from underneath as someone parked, the growl of an engine cut off. A door opened and closed, measured steps taken up to the lobby entrance.
You relaxed into the chair, tightening the blanket around you as your chilled bare feet rested on the other seat. The choice of a new silken pajama set was surprisingly optimal seasonal wear and the color black felt luxurious.
A couple staggered out of a cab.
She clung to his arm as if her ankles depended on it, heels clicking, and the man greeting the doorman at the bar like an old college friend.
It was karaoke night. Middle of the road rock music and pop spilled from the massive pub door every few minutes.
Something about sitting high above felt safe.
Until a balcony door was drawn open.
Your neck nearly snapped.
Not my door.
His.
In the orange glow of the street lamps and the blue-white of the moon, your Neighbor stepped out onto the balcony. Unaware. And shirtless.
Your eyes had long since adjusted to the night.
You watched him enjoy the moment of “solitude.”
His hair looked wet and his jeans were loose at his hips, the button graciously neglected, metal teeth bit together mercifully -- much like your own in silence -- as he drew his phone from his back pocket and began to type, artificial light highlighting the dips and swells of muscle and the gentle dimple of his chin.
Nothing could have prepared you for the sound your phone made, your location betrayed.
You froze, eyes wide as he turned slowly to find the little screen lit up on your table.
Then he just laughed.
Your flaming cheeks felt purple in the glow of your lock screen.
The first text message read,
405: "Dinner yet?"
The second text message read,
405: "You're a bit too good at that."
You sat up slowly, reaching for you phone, as if doing so made you appear less eager. You entered the pin with stiff fingers as he tugged on a long sleeve shirt that hung from the railing.
406: "??"
406: "You think I'm creepy now. Don't you?”
There was a soft snort followed by gentle tapping.
He hit send, looking right at you.
405: "Definitely creepy.”
405: “Hiding in plain sight."
The remark carried layers of meaning.
Layers that you chose to leave right were they were, untouched for the moment.
But... surrounded by so much darkness, looking felt very natural.
You nearly missed his gaze trail down the buttons of your silken pajama set.
"I feel underdressed," smoothing a palm down the front of his thin shirt to rest at his belt. His restrained sense of humor was infuriatingly hot.
A beat passed.
“It is not a bad look,” you mutter, unsure whether you want him to hear your inner dialog.
Conveniently the volume of your confession and his subsequent eye-crinkling laugh were superseded by the car door slammed shut just below you, the force reverberating through the air.
"-the frigid bitch is always home. No, you can't come in."
You recognized the voice instantly.
…frigid? The shame of your Neighbor overhearing was enough to up-turn your stomach.
"I told you, baby, let's go back to your place. You can show me what that mouth can do."
The smarmy voice blended with a faint ringing in your ears, hands gripping the cold iron railing as you watched your husband kiss a woman much younger than yourself.
You released the breath you held, slow and steady as you willed your heart to pick a beat and stick to it.
If she kicked him out of the taxi, he'd be home early. A cold, leaden sensation settled in you.
You watched as your husband pressed the woman to the car door, his roaming hand slapped away with a giggle.
I should care.
That used to be us.
He stopped wanting me.
Why?
You distantly wondered when you became broken, when he began to find fault in you. Was it when you found fault in you?
Your phone lit again in the darkness.
405: "Have you had dinner?"
You gave a shake of your head as you glanced between your phone and the scene unfolding in front of you.
Your husband got in and shut the door. The taxi drove away, past the pub and beyond sight.
Your gaze dropped to his reply.
405: "Neither have I. Would you join me? Keep me company?"
Yes.
"Yes,” came your voice, quiet, but sure.
He tilted his head back toward the apartment as an invite. “I’ll let you in…”
You froze. If he came home, if I wasn't here... "Your other apartment... Could we meet there?" I could just tell him I was on a night walk, that I couldn't sleep…
A/N: I have no beta. But I hope you enjoy. Ao3 link also in the cut.
Chapter One: Innocuous
Chapter Two: Opportunity
Chapter Three: Goodness
Chapter Four: Neighborly
Chapter Five: White Lie
Chapter Six: Friendly Enough
Chapter Seven: "Solitude"
Chapter Eight: Curious
18+ Only - MINORS Do Not Interact
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
You return to your unit shortly after your conversation, the instant-replay of what just happened pausing as you take in your current surroundings.
The flicker of the television lights the room, casting your shadow against the wall as you creep toward your office. Carefully sliding the door shut, you turn to the balcony window and release a sigh at the beautiful city-scape. You’re grateful for each little light left on somewhere in the distance. Since you moved in, they became familiar, comforting. They too – whoever they were – were up and about.
Setting your phone on the little table nearby, you distantly note the soft glow of 3:12 AM. Without a care of being seen, you pop the button of your jeans and slide them past your hips to the floor, an unusual metallic clink hitting the cold wood floor.
Proof.
That your Neighbor offered you space… time… safety.
Pulling people apart. Putting them back together. He is the type of person who can.
In the dark, you quietly search for the tag and suddenly your face is lit, squinting, as you tap in the numbers. New contact saved.
You shove the tag back into the pocket and ball the jean fabric up around the evidence, dropping it to the ground by the chaise lounge.
Removing your bra without removing your shirt, you get comfortable and snatch up the plush throw blanket, settling into the floral fabric of the chair, snug, with eyes on the pollution-lit horizon.
Your thoughts meander back to earlier and you can somewhat imagine what your Neighbor must look like in his bed, tempting sleep to come for him.
Your eyes unfocused, you can see the breadth of his palms, the thickness of his fingers as he’d ripped open the bandage earlier. The neatly trimmed nails and gentle fingertips. The textured skin there told a story about who he is and suddenly you needed to shove the blanket off your heated skin.
Eyes slipping closed, you feel the memory of his duvet under your own fingertips, soft and maroon, plush like the blanket you grip at your sides now.
It only takes a few moments and a whisper of the same thoughts before you fall asleep.
x-+-x-+-x
And it was a good sleep, short though it may have been.
A vibration comes from somewhere above your head, waking you, but your reach and an aimless swat is enough to silence the sound.
Your first thoughts are of your Neighbor, eyes moving side to side beneath your lids as you imagine him… laid in his bed, sheets caught around his bare body, hand tucked between the back of his head and his pillow as the sun peers through the blinds, warming his skin in a golden glow, arm crooked and bicep curving deliciously as he shifts his lower half restlessly… The sheet is kicked away enough to reveal what is always frustratingly hidden by his thick black cargo pants. The attire you see him in the most.
Your snoozed alarm begins to vibrate needlessly. You are most certainly awake.
You reach up again to view half the screen through a squint. 6:59am. You slept in past your usual coffee time.
A slow, sludgy feeling sinks to the bottom of your gut.
You remember last night. And you remember your coffee plans.
Palms a little clammy, you pull up his contact – “405” – and hit Message.
“Hi there…”
“Good morning, I’m so sorry about last”
“Hey, I know it’s a little later than planned, but do you”
You let your head fall back against the pillow and take a few slow, deep breaths in through your mouth and out through your nose. Enough without feeling lightheaded.
A second later, you type something out and send the message.
You: “Hi there, 405.”
You hear a soft thump beyond the floral wall. Reflexively, you smile. It didn’t take more than a minute for a reply.
Him: “Good morning, 406.”
Worrying your lip between your teeth, you hope against hope.
You: “Are you in need of coffee?”
Him: “I am. Are you?”
A sigh is released.
You: “Eternally.”
Him: “Raspberry or cheese?”
You hear shuffling through the wall. He’s moved to the left... toward his hallway?
But the question catches you off guard. Neither of these flavors are coffee choices…
Confused, but willing to play along, you blink.
You: “Raspberry?”
There isn’t an immediate response. You drop the phone unceremoniously onto your chest to fit in a quick stretch. Arms above your head, a vibration thrums against your skin through the thin fabric of your top. And then another.
Him: “Chocolate it is.”
You smile stupidly at the phone, rereading his message. Cryptic. Cue the stomach growl.
Him: “Balcony in 15?”
Your fingertips flex against the ribbed casing of your phone as you consider the most appropriate response.
“Yes, Sir.” is your confirmation.
Restraint was becoming less and less of your strong suit.
You darken the screen and irrationally send out a prayer that he won’t read into your response.
You immediately stand and wrap the blanket around your shoulders, pinched between your fingers somehow, with your phone sharing the awkward grip. You press an ear to the wood of your office door. After a moment, it’s pulled open and you head for the bedroom closet. A warm and respectably cozy fall outfit is pulled on and you click off the closet light.
Each step is quieted by the persistent commercials and your husband’s generous snoring. With a glance at the several cans laying at his feet, you determine he’ll be out for at least another few hours. Long enough for you to go grab a coffee and enjoy your usual Saturday morning on the balcony before returning inside to start up breakfast for him.
A flare of guilt lights your insides.
What am I doing?
This is wrong.
As you make your way down the hall, you catch something white in the mirror in passing, and do a double take.
Taking in your appearance, you vividly recall the entirety of last night but find a numbness attempting to settle in to your limbs. Is it wrong?
As one commercial turns into another, you walk back to your office, slipping the door shut and locking it as tightly as your jaw.
Unfurling the jeans shoved under the lounge, you quietly slip the keys from the pocket and clip them along side the ones on your work lanyard.
You grab a marker and darken the penned phone number on the tag and scratch your own unit number over the original digits – unit 366 – deftly removing it from the ring. Now wrapped in a tissue, you drop it into the trashcan beside your desk.
What the hell am I doing?
A buzz from your phone in your pocket prompts you to grab the blanket from the chair and pull open the glass door.
There’s a subtle but freezing breeze, which will be refreshing soon.
Just once you finish wrapping yourself in the blanket. Not unlike a dessert crepe.
Once you step out, your Neighbor is caught carefully inching a cup of coffee along the warbled glass surface of your bistro table with the tips of his fingers. It’s is a hard task to not note his lean denim jacket clad torso leaned daringly over the tiny gap between your balconies… the curve of the back pockets on his dark wash jeans prompting you to bite your lip.
Once his apparent mission impossible is completed, he glances up to you, a youthful smugness expertly restrained.
The silence lingers between you two, each taking the unexpected freedom to observe the other while feeling observed by the other.
If you were not fascinated by the taper of his waist, the plain buckle, and the strained denim, you would notice that your inhales and exhales are a bit heavier. Intrusive thoughts winning. And you’re not entirely sure it’s not written on your face.
Mercifully, he is the first to break the tension, smiling wide.
“Here.”
Your eyes return to focus and he holds out a small bag for you to take, the familiar scent permeating the paper. A similar bag sits on his patio table.
“You said raspberry, so.”
You’re not trying to be coy – you’re sure it’s for you – but there’s genuine disbelief as you take the bag. “For me?”
He takes a sip of his own cup, grinning into the lid.
You track his features, from the slight squint of his eyes to the barely there stubble turned soft in the morning light.
The fantasy from this morning ricochets unhelpfully inside you.
“Please.” He gestures to your table.
You take your seat and find a subtle wealth of gratitude toward him for his thoughtfulness.
Sitting in the chilled city air, you hold dear the warmth of the paperboard cup with every rustle of the wax paper beneath your treat. From what you could see, he chose a cheese danish, but the coffee orders remained unknown.
Braving the billowing steam of your own, you gently sip to figure out what he chose for you.
The espresso perks your senses as a smooth chocolate coats your tongue. Mocha.
You let out a quiet “Mm” punctuating the next few sips.
Sweet caffeine is exactly what you needed this morning.
And the pastry is just yum.
The raspberry filling clings to your lips after every bite and as d i s c r e e t l y as you can, you savor licking them clean each time.
Half way through though and this heathen-like habit has gained his attention.
Feeling watched, and clearly on a sugar high, you guiltily and intensely justify your lewd food reactions with more absurdity.
“I’m sorry, this is just the absolute worst breakfast ever. I can’t handle it.”
His eyes are mirthful and expressive before slipping into a deadpan.
“I don’t believe you.”
Before he can commit to a dramatic sip for emphasis, he huffs a laugh, his eyes crinkled in the corners.
Disarming. Charming . Sweet.
Last night, you’d felt a level of vulnerability you were not sure you could come back from. He’d seen you, exposed. But as he crumples his wrapper into a ball, and holds open a palm for yours across the space between you, you feel like… maybe… maybe that’s okay.
He wordlessly stands and enters his apartment to – you assume – throw the garbage away.
Upon his return, he sits back down, watching the wind comb through the vibrant leaves and rush them across the sidewalk and street below you both. It gives you time to take him in. The gentle smile he wears tells you... he is very aware of what you’re doing.
He wets his lip and passes a thumb over the mouth of the coffee cup.
Your discipline falters. You should feel shame. About this. About yesterday and last night. About each of your Friday nights.
You acutely feel the pull of the bandage on your cheek.
W hat if he knew? What if my husband knew? What if he woke up to find us out here?
You swallow dryly.
He was out cold. And it’s just breakfast. We aren’t even on the same balcony… Of course, that wouldn’t matter, given the way it might look to him.
The door is locked.
A shiver runs through you and you tighten your grip on the blanket around you. Clearing your throat, you continue the conversation.
“How was work last night?” Sounds friendly enough.
His gaze shifts backward toward you, an easy but subtle smile sliding into place. A beat passes before his reply.
“It was okay.”
You resist the small urge to scoff in literal disbelief.
Is he being funny?
“Oh.”
You dig a nail into the ribbed paperboard sleeve on your cup, touching the little crescent indentations.
“That’s good then, I guess?”
Another beat passes.
“I took some inspiration from our last conversation.”
At these words, your attention shifts a sharp ninety degrees.
You nearly side eye him, “...inspiration?”
“The red rope.”
“Oh.”
You swallow. It was intentional?
It was ...intentional.
Composure must be maintained at all cost.
He smiles to himself, as if pleased by the memory. “I think the color added a little something extra.”
Brazen.
It was either the espresso or the calories kicking in. There was literally no fucking way he was making you sweat like this.
Searching for some neutral question or unassuming remark, you try to preempt and remove the timidity from your voice.
“Did it… w-work? Or look nice?”
You internally wince when you hear your voice. Those were not normal questions.The stuttered pause sent a rush of warmth to your cheeks again.
“I mean, what was it used for?”
You're sure he can read your guilty conscience. Every second you struggle to reign it the fuck in, you're certain. But are you really certain? He could just think your conversation skills are lacking...
You’re not ready for him to settle into the eye contact coolly, smile widening.
“Suspension.”
Your blood thickens.
Do not confess. Do not breathe. Do not break eye contact. He'll know.
You furrow your brow in attempt to divert his attention. Stay. Silent.
“Actually…” He shifts in his seat, taking something from his back pocket. “I don’t always sleep well after work. I try to keep my hands busy until I pass out.”
He holds out what appears to be a bit of the red rope. “It’s yours, if you want it.”
His words create a small but veritable and familiar whirlpool of fire within you, threatening to grow. You covertly allow your fingers to slip past the cuff of your sweater and you pinch the delicate skin there, determined to reenter your body. It seems to work.
Leaning forward, you take the bracelet and notice several intricate knots made of the outer sheath, beautiful and strong in their detail. The bracelet is continuous, and slips over your hand easily, hanging loosely just a bit.
“C’mere.”
You obey. He carefully pulls two knotted ends, tightening the rope around your wrist, slipping a finger between the fibers and your skin to check your comfort. Your eyes are on his as he notices a red mark on the inside of your wrist and he passes his thumb over the mark in a brief, soothing movement.
You breathe a soft thank you and change the subject without actually changing the subject. “Do you have to work today too?”
“I do.” He sits back, tucking a hand into one of the pockets of his denim jacket. “This afternoon.”
“Is it... dangerous?”
“Not very...” He opens and closes the other fist rested against the patio table’s laminated surface. He grins up at you, “I just make it look dangerous.”
He held your gaze and it felt like you were one shallow breath and slow blink away from losing it. A blessing and a curse that he was so open to talking about it and you could catch a glimpse of the man hidden behind the stoic expression and the screaming… that he should be so close...
“Curious...” You say slowly, touching the decorative knots on your wrist, almost as if to yourself.
You're wading in, with no forethought, unable to determine just how deep you're getting yourself. Either you’re remarking on his suspect interpretation of danger, or your own thoughts on the matter because you are, in fact, quite intimately aware of how dangerous he makes everything look… You let that be up for interpretation. He doesn't need to know what you know... yet.
