He showed up like he always did: a memory first, then a projection, then—if I let it go far enough—a full-on fantasy. I pictured him in the black t-shirt from earlier, sleeves straining around his biceps, the tattoo on his forearm flexing with every twitch of his hand. The way he stood, not just in his own space but in everyone else’s, like he was holding back a whole tidal wave of something reckless. The smirk, the fuck-you in his eyes, the way he could make “Sheriff” sound like a dare and a confession at the same time.
I’d known Ransom since I was seventeen. Back then he was just a kid—awkward, angry, always picking fights at the baseball diamond behind the high school. I’d watched him grow, watched his arms thicken and his jawline sharpen, watched the first streaks of ink crawl up his skin.
After the military, when I took the badge and started working the beats, he was already half outlaw, half local legend. I’d run him in for noise complaints, for trespass, for a fight at the Blacktail that broke three noses and a barstool. Never once did he give me a real reason to arrest him. Never once did he show even a flicker of fear.
For years I told myself I hated him: the trouble he caused, the way he called out my soft spots in public, the way he made a fucking art form out of disobedience. But then came that night outside Founder's Park, after the fireworks, when I caught him spray-painting “ORDER IS JUST A SLOW CHAOS” on the city hall steps.
Instead of running, he turned and smiled at me, paint still wet on his hands. “You gonna take me in, Floyd?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.
And I should have. I should have cuffed him, read the Miranda, and thrown him in holding. But instead, I stood there, heart jackhammering, and let the silence stretch until we both knew what was really going on. He didn’t even bother to run. He just waited, gaze steady, until I said, “Go home, Ransom,” and he did, with a laugh that still haunted me.
After that, it got harder to keep the walls up. I started seeing him everywhere: the way his hands moved when he was working, the way the tattoos on his neck dipped beneath the collar, the way he always seemed to be fighting gravity, and winning. I could feel him sometimes, even when he wasn’t there. Like a spark waiting for kindling.
I shifted in bed, trying to ignore the tension that’d been building all day. The sheets clung to my legs, trapping heat, making me sweat. I tossed the covers down, pressed a palm to my chest, and told myself to breathe. To let it go.
It didn’t work.
I thought about the case files, about the noise in my life, about the thousand tiny interruptions that made up my day. But every time, my mind drifted back to him. The way he smiled, like he knew something I didn’t. The way he held eye contact just long enough to make it hurt.
I told myself this was normal. That every man had thoughts he didn’t act on, especially in a town like this. That as long as I kept it buried, it wouldn’t hurt anyone. I told myself a lot of things.
Most of them were lies.
I turned over, face in the pillow, and tried to sleep. Ransom’s voice echoed in my head—“Sheriff”—and for a split second, I let myself picture his mouth, the heat of his skin, the way he’d pin me down if I ever let him get close enough.
I flinched, jerked upright, and ran a hand over my scalp. My heart wouldn’t settle. I thought about getting up, about hitting the weights in the garage or just sitting in the dark until I could outlast the fantasy. Instead, I lay back, closed my eyes, and promised myself that tomorrow I’d have better control.
That I could fix this, if I really wanted to, but as I drifted, the last thing I saw was Ransom’s face, smirking like he’d already won.
And maybe he had.
By midnight, the sheets were slick with sweat and I hadn’t slept a goddamn minute. I lay in the dark, one arm draped over my eyes, willing my brain to power down, but it only got louder.
I tried running through the day’s case files, tried planning tomorrow’s schedule to the minute, tried imagining the kitchen reorganized to the most efficient possible state.
None of it worked.
What did work—what always worked, even when I hated myself for it—was thinking about him. The way he’d leaned into my space at the station, the flash of white teeth when he called me “Sheriff” like it was a private joke, the way he looked at me like he’d already seen me naked and was just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
I slid my hand down my chest, over the flat of my belly, and let my fingers hover at the waistband. A long time ago I’d convinced myself that as long as I didn’t say it out loud, it wasn’t real. That I could file these moments away under stress relief, the way a priest might file away his confessions. But every night, it got harder to believe my own lie.
I let my hand slip lower, cupping myself, feeling the slow pulse of arousal that never really left. I squeezed, once, and then again, letting the sensation bloom and spread. My other hand found its way up to my chest, pinched a nipple, hard enough to sting. I told myself this was just a release valve, a way to bleed off the pressure, but I didn’t even believe that.
In my mind, Ransom was here, as clear as any memory. Not just standing over me, but crawling up the bed, every inch of him moving with that lazy, predatory confidence.
He wore nothing but a crooked grin and the ink that ran up his arms, across his chest, down to the sharp lines of his hips. His eyes were dark and bright at the same time, and he looked at me like he owned every part of me, like he was the only man alive who understood what I needed and wasn’t afraid to give it.
He straddled my legs, hands planting on either side of my head, and bent low so his mouth was just above mine. I could smell him: sweat, salt, the metallic tang of tattoo ink andsomething smoky I’d never be able to name. He didn’t ask, didn’t wait.
He just said, “Let go, Sheriff,” and kissed me, hard, while his hands found my wrists and pinned them to the sheets.
I stroked myself, slow at first, matching the rhythm of the fantasy. Ransom’s mouth was everywhere: my jaw, my throat, the pulse at the hollow of my collarbone. He bit, sucked, left marks. His hands squeezed my arms, then moved lower, rough and demanding. He said things in my ear I’d never heard out loud, filthy and specific and exactly what I wanted to hear.
I let my knees fall open, breath coming faster. I imagined his hands on my hips, holding me still while he ground against me. In real life, I would never surrender control, would never let anyone have the upper hand. But here, in the dark, with only the ache of wanting and the low hum of the house for company, I gave it up. I gave it all away.
“Come on, Floyd,” he said. “Show me.”
I pumped harder, faster, pinching the base, thumb rubbing over the slick head, chasing the edge. My body tensed, back arching off the mattress, muscles straining. I wanted to stop, wanted to make it last, but there was no going back now. In my head, Ransom was pushing me down, licking up my chest, saying my name in a way that made it sound like a sin and a prayer.
