I unlocked the door and stepped in. Laura was right where I'd left her—on the couch, beer half-finished, one leg tucked under her, TV playing something nobody was watching.
She looked over and smiled. "Well, if it isn't the man of the hour."
I shut the door behind me and tossed my keys into the bowl. "You waiting up for me?"
"I live here, remember?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "But if you want to pretend it's some kind of wifely devotion, I'll play along."
Her tone was light. Teasing. Her eyes didn't look like she'd been crying. No smudged makeup. No fresh cracks. Just Laura, still in that tank top and those lounge shorts, legs bare, hair tied up like she didn't give a damn.
Good. She was holding it together. At least on the outside.
I stepped closer and dropped onto the armchair across from her. "I got a new job."
She leaned forward slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. It's... better pay. Way better pay."
She studied me for a second. "Garry find a pot of gold under the grease trap or something?"
I smiled. "Something like that."
She didn't push, just took another sip. "Well, long as you're not stripping. I mean—I wouldn't complain, but I'd hate to see the neighborhood jealous."
I chuckled. "Not yet. But I'll keep that as a backup plan."
And for a minute, it almost felt normal.
Almost.
"Too late," I told her. "You should get some sleep."
She waved me off with a lazy smirk and flicked the TV off. "You're the birthday boy. You go first."
I did. Eventually.
But sleep didn't last.
Something stirred—too light for thunder, too heavy for a creaking pipe. I opened my eyes. Darkness. Dead quiet. Then again—movement.
I sat up.
The clock read 3:02 AM. I blinked. Listened.
A shuffle.
I reached for the pen on my nightstand. It wasn't much. But it was sharp enough to break skin. Held it in a reverse grip, just in case.
The hallway was cold on my bare feet. I stepped slow. Quiet. I didn't breathe loud.
The door creaked open, just an inch.
Then I saw her.
Laura.
She was on the couch. Reclined. Not asleep. Not moving. Just staring at the ceiling like it was talking to her.
No lights. No sound. Just her, and whatever the hell was chewing at her in silence.
My grip on the pen loosened.
I stepped out fully. Let her notice me, if she hadn't already.
"You okay?" I asked.
Her eyes flicked to me. Slow. Unbothered.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Just thinking."
She didn't explain. I didn't ask.
But neither of us went back to bed.
"You can't sleep?" I asked.
She didn't answer right away. Just kept her eyes on the ceiling, like she was still watching something only she could see.
Then—soft, quiet—"I'm scared."
I walked around the couch, crouched beside her. "They're not coming back."
She nodded, but didn't look convinced.
"You should get to bed," I said. "Sleep usually shows up once you lie down and pretend you don't want it."
She cracked a tired smile at that. "Says the guy who used to play video games till 4 AM."
"Now I play watch dog."
That got a chuckle. It didn't last.
I offered her my hand. She hesitated, then took it. Her fingers were cold. I walked her to her bedroom, one slow step at a time. She sat on the edge of the mattress but didn't lie down.
"I keep picturing them," she said. "What if they come back? What if it gets worse next time?"
"It won't," I said.
"How do you know?"
"I don't," I admitted. "But I'll be here."
She looked at me. And for a second, I saw the flicker—fear, guilt, and something soft underneath.
"You don't have to stay. Don't bother yourself," she said. "Seriously, Lucien."
I didn't answer. I just grabbed the bean bag from the corner and dragged it beside her bed. It was old, misshapen, and probably filled with broken dreams and packing peanuts, but I sank into it anyway.
She shook her head, but her lips twitched.
"Suit yourself," she murmured.
And when she lay down, finally, I stayed.
Just breathing.
I heard her shift on the bed before she said a word. Just the quiet creak of the mattress, soft in the dark. My eyes cracked open, and there she was—laying on her side, watching the ceiling like it had answers.
"Lucien?" Her voice had lost that fear. Now it sounded... amused.
"Yeah?" I muttered from the bean bag, neck already starting to ache.
"You always this noble, or just angling for me to let you in bed?"
I smirked into the dark. "Depends. Is it working?"
She turned her head just enough for me to see the curve of her cheek, the glint of her eye in the dim light from the window. "You look pathetic down there."
"Trying to seduce me, or just concerned about my lumbar health?"
She laughed—short, soft, unbothered. "Get in before I change my mind."
I didn't need a second invite. I stood, crossed the room, and slid under the sheets beside her. The bed was warm from her body heat. Too warm. Close.
"You happy now?" I asked.
"I was happy before," she said, back still to me. "But this is... nice."
We didn't touch. Didn't speak. Just breathed the same air, shared the same heat, and let the silence stretch.
The kind of silence that hums. That dares you to break it.
I didn't sleep. I laid there thinking about the last twenty-four hours. My black eye. Smith's offer. Laura's breakdown. Her voice still trembling when she said she was scared. Now she was steady. Teasing. Still herself.
And right there. Inches away.
I closed my eyes. Didn't move.
She let out a breath and broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I can't believe I fucking cried," she said. "I haven't cried in years. Not even when the divorce papers came in."
I didn't say anything. Just traced lazy, invisible lines along the curve of her waist.
"It's not me," she continued, almost laughing. "I'm the one who takes shots at 3am, who tells guys to grow a pair when they get emotional. And now look at me... hugging you like I'm in a romcom."
"You sayin' I give romcom energy?"
She snorted. "You give trouble energy. Which makes this worse."
I smiled against the back of her neck. "Still think you're just tired?"
She paused. I could hear her blinking in the dark.
"Maybe. Or maybe it's just... you. I don't know. You've always been here, and tonight, you weren't. And that scared me."
She didn't look at me when she said it. And I didn't push. But her hand slipped over mine and held it there, right on her stomach. Anchored.
"You wanna know what scared me?" I asked.
She tilted her head, just a little.
"You. In that bar skirt, walking through that door like nothing could touch you. And then telling me it almost did."
She didn't reply. But her fingers laced with mine.
She stayed facing away, but I could see the corner of her mouth twitch. A smile. Not a polite one. The kind you hide when you're playing with fire.
"Comfortable?" I asked, my voice low, lazy.
"Mmm." She stretched just enough to press back, her ass grazing my thigh. "You?"
My hand flexed around her waist. I could've said yeah. I could've let it hang. But instead, I dipped my fingers just under the hem of her shirt, enough to feel the skin beneath.
"Getting there."
Her breath hitched. Brief. Controlled. But real.
She kept talking. Rambling, maybe. Something about how she couldn't believe she cried earlier, that it wasn't her style. But I wasn't listening to the words—I was listening to the way her voice slowed. Dropped an octave. Grew softer, looser. She was relaxing. Or maybe unraveling.
When her shoulder brushed my chest, I leaned in closer. Close enough that her hair tickled my neck. I didn't kiss her. Not yet. I just let her feel the weight of me behind her. Let the tension stretch and tighten between us.
And still… no one moved.
Not really.
Just… drifted closer.
Like gravity.
Only dirtier.
She didn't move. Neither did I.
But my body was already betraying me. That familiar throb was back, steady and deliberate, brushing her ass through the sheets like it had a mind of its own. My hips twitched before I could stop them. Just once.
She shifted slightly.
Still nothing said.
And then—
"You're hard," she murmured.
Fuck.
"Yeah," I said, quietly, like an apology I didn't mean.
She didn't pull away. Instead, she adjusted—arched, just barely, like her body was offering an answer without ever posing the question.
"You always get hard when you're spooning someone who just cried on you?" she asked. Her tone was dry, teasing, but her voice cracked near the end.
"Only the hot ones," I muttered.
Her soft laugh made the room feel smaller.
"Could've fooled me," she said. "You didn't even try anything."
"Didn't think it'd be… welcome."
"It's not. Not officially." She leaned her head back into me. "But unofficially…"
Her hips pressed back—slow, subtle. Testing. Measuring the shape of me with the curve of her ass.
I groaned. Couldn't help it.
"That a yes?" I breathed.
She didn't answer. Just kept shifting. Grinding so softly it might've been involuntary. But it wasn't.
My fingers clutched the sheets to keep from grabbing her, from bucking forward like a desperate kid. I buried my face in her hair instead, breathing her in—shampoo and cigarettes and something warm, skin-warmed, woman-warmed.
"You wanna stop?" I asked.
She didn't say anything for a long moment.
Then: "Ask me again in five minutes."
She shifted again, and this time it wasn't subtle. Her ass rolled back into me, slow and deliberate, grinding just enough to make sure she felt my cock—hard and pressed tight against her. She didn't flinch. She leaned in. Rubbed back harder, dragging herself along the shape of it like she wanted it inside her already.
I let out a breath—sharp, strained. My hand slid down, palm firm on her belly. She caught it mid-route, fingers wrapping mine. Not to stop me. To guide me. She pressed my hand lower, over the curve of her panties, then let go.
Still no words.
I kissed the nape of her neck—slow, open-mouthed, claiming. She arched into me. I could feel the heat between her thighs, soaked through thin cotton. Desperate. Needy. Mine.
She rocked back again, dragging her ass across my cock. I pushed into her, the friction dirty and perfect. She moaned—low, wrecked, just for me.
We weren't fucking.
Not yet.
But every grind, every breath said we were close. My hand slipped beneath the waistband of her panties and cupped her ass—bare, warm, trembling under my touch. She gasped, hips jerking back, chasing it.
I bit her shoulder—just enough to make her squirm.
"Say the word," I growled, right in her ear.
She didn't.
She just kept rubbing her soaked little pussy against my cock like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And I let her.
She didn't say a word as she tugged the covers higher, just enough to slip her hips back against me. Her breath was slow, steady, like she was asleep—but her ass was pressed right against my cock, and the fabric between us felt like a joke. My hand was still at her waist, fingers twitching. I shifted. She didn't move. Or maybe she moved first—hard to tell now, with the way we started grinding slow and lazy, pretending we didn't notice.
Friction built up in quiet rebellion. I felt her warmth, the way her body welcomed it, pushed into it. No words, just motion. Her panty line rode higher as her thighs parted slightly. My cock ached, pinned and pulsing, dragging along the swell of her ass. She kept it silent. Deliberate. Like we were playing a game to see who'd admit the truth first.
My breath hitched when her hips rolled back with more intent. She was wet—I could feel it, even through the layers. I palmed her slowly, hand sliding down to cup between her legs, and she gasped—just once, soft and sharp like she didn't mean to. Still no words.
I dragged my fingers up, tracing the seam of her panties. She squirmed. Not to stop me. Not even close. Her body said yes in a hundred small ways. She tilted her head just enough for me to feel the shift in air—so close, I could taste her exhale.
Still pretending.
Still quiet.
My fingers hooked the waistband, and this time, she reached back and stopped me—just one hand on my wrist.
Not to say no.
To say wait.
That pause carried weight. Heavy with something unspoken.
I let go. Let the ache hang there in the air. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest.
We didn't speak.
Didn't move again.
Just stayed there, tangled in heat and tension, letting the storm wait one more night.
She pressed her ass tighter against me, and this time there was no fabric between us. I felt everything—warm, slick, the heat of her center grinding slow into my cock. My hands dug into her hips without meaning to. She let out this sound, low and caught in her throat, and pushed back harder.
We weren't saying anything anymore. Just breathing. Moving. Letting the rhythm take over in slow, agonizing waves. Every pass of her skin against mine sent another jolt up my spine. I could feel how wet she was, could feel her pulse every time she rolled her hips. It was maddening.
I clenched my jaw, trying to hold on, but she reached back, tangled her fingers in my hair, and pulled me down to her neck. "Don't hold back," she whispered.
I didn't. My body locked. My hands bruised her waist. I pressed hard against her and came—thick, hot cum spilling between her thighs, soaking her skin as my breath stuttered into her shoulder. It was filthy. It was perfect. It was mine.
Then she breathed out a laugh, low and wicked. "Happy birthday, again."
I woke up with her thigh slung over mine, her body molded into me like we'd been sleeping like that our whole lives. Skin on skin, tangled sheets, the scent of her everywhere—sleep-warm, faintly floral, with a whisper of sweat and something sweeter underneath. For a second, I didn't move. Just breathed her in.
She shifted, eyes fluttering open, that lazy smile already pulling at her mouth as she looked at me over her shoulder.
"Don't get used to it," she said, sleep-thick and teasing, but not all the way joking.
I didn't argue. I kissed the curve where her shoulder met her neck and slipped out of bed without another word. My body ached in the right places. The wrong ones, too. The cold floor bit at my feet on the way to the bathroom, grounding me in the day after.
The shower took a while to heat. I stood there waiting, staring at my reflection through steam-streaked glass. My eye was better—less bruised, more faded violence. But the tightness in my jaw hadn't left. I shaved with slow, deliberate strokes, like I was carving the tension out of my skin.
In the mirror, I looked... cleaner. Still marked, but cleaner. A man who'd taken a hit and fucked it out of his system. But that wasn't quite true, was it?
She was still in my bed. That weight in my chest hadn't lifted—it had just found a new place to settle. And maybe I didn't mind carrying it, not if it smelled like her and pressed its body against mine in the dark.
She slipped into the shower right after I stepped out, leaving the bathroom full of fog and her hum echoing off the tiles. I dried off and pulled on the shirt I'd set aside—brown and black checkered flannel, sleeves rolled, collar sharp—and grey denim that clung in all the right places. Something solid. Something simple. I ran my fingers through my hair, still damp, grabbed my motorcycle keys off the counter, and headed toward the door.
The morning light cut through the living room, washing everything in a soft gold. For a second, it felt almost normal. Domestic, even. But just as my hand found the doorknob, her voice called out behind me.
"Lucien."
I turned.
There she was—still damp from the shower, wrapped in a towel that clung low and loose. Her skin glistened, her collarbones sharp, legs bare, one hip cocked with that effortless sensuality she never seemed aware of. Water still dripped from the ends of her hair, trailing down her neck.
She crossed the floor slowly, deliberately, and wrapped her arms around me. Her towel brushed my jeans; her cheek pressed to my chest.
"Be safe," she murmured into my shirt. Not a request. A need.
I held her for a breath longer than I should've. My hand slid along the curve of her back. "I will," I told her. Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth.
I pulled back before I changed my mind, gave her one last look, and stepped out into the sunlit street.
The world outside was waiting. And it wasn't gentle.