His jaw flexed, the vein in his temple making a slow, deliberate climb, and for a second I thought he’d finally found the bottom of his well of self-control.
Instead, he turned away, put two steps between us, and then started pacing the line between my counter and the back wall. Each pass was a new study in misery: hands through his hair, hands in pockets, arms crossed like he could corral his own pulse.
He stopped at the window, made sure the blinds were all the way down, then pivoted back to me. “You don’t get it,” he said, voice raw. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About what we did in the tack room.”
I should have gloated. I should have made a joke about small towns and smaller closets, but the confession landed too close to the bone. Instead, I found myself just watching, waiting to see if he’d go further.
“I went home and…” He shook his head, looking disgusted with himself. “I didn’t sleep. I just kept seeing it. Over and over.”
I crossed the room, slow so I didn’t spook him. When he didn’t move, I closed the last gap and crowded him against the edge of the counter. “Then tell me what you really want,” I said, low and steady.
He held my gaze, desperate and cornered, and in the end he caved first. “I want—” But he cut himself off, biting down on the words.
I planted both hands on the counter, bracketing him in, and leaned close. “You want what?”
His breath hitched. “I want it again. I want to stop pretending I don’t. But if anyone finds out—”
“Screw anyone else,” I said. “Just say it.”
He hesitated, then finally let it out. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for years.”
I didn’t wait for a written invitation. I moved in, face inches from his, watching for the split-second of flinch that would mean stop. Instead, he tilted up, closed the distance, and this time when we kissed it was a hundred times worse because it wasn’t a surprise.
It was consent, deliberate and hungry.
His hands went to my sides, fingers digging in like he meant to leave a mark. I tasted last night’s regret and this morning’s desperation, the combination enough to fog the inside of my skull.
I let one hand slide from the counter to his waist, slipping under the shirt, palm flat on the hot, trembling skin. He shuddered, then pushed into me so hard the edge of the counter left an imprint on my ass.
This kiss wasn’t a car crash like the last one; it was a controlled burn. He let me in, let me lead, but I felt him fight for it too—a kind of battle of equals, both of us unwilling to give the other the upper hand for more than a second. His mouth tasted like mint, his stubble scraped my jaw, and I never wanted to stop.
He broke it off first, head tilted back, breathing so hard it almost scared me. “We need to be careful,” he said, voice shredded. “No one can know about this.”
I wanted to throw his words back at him, make him feel the shame he was trying to put on both of us. But when I looked at his face—all the hope and fear wound together—I just felt tired.
“I get it,” I said. “You’re the Sheriff. This place eats its own. But if I’m your dirty secret, you need to own it.”
He nodded, quick and sharp. “I will. Just—not here. Not now.”
“My place isn’t safe,” I said, thinking of my grandfather and the way he could read a lie off your face before you’d even learned to tell it. “He’s always around.”
“My house,” he said, fast. “Tonight. After midnight.”
I let myself smile. “You gonna frisk me at the door?”
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. “Maybe. You want me to?”
“I want you to show up,” I said, and meant it.
He stepped away, fumbled for the door lock, and then looked back at me like he might say something else. But he didn’t. He just nodded, once, then left.
The bell over the door was too loud in the empty room. I stood in the center of the shop, still tasting him, my skin buzzing with every place he’d touched.
I wanted to believe this could be something real. But the way he walked out, eyes never quite on me, told me exactly how much of myself I’d have to hide if I wanted to keep him.
For the first time, I wasn’t sure if it was a price I could pay.
I tried to work, honest. I lined up my machines, set the ink caps, prepped the station with the obsessive care of a surgeon prepping for triple bypass. For a guy with a reputation for chaos, I liked my shop tidy; today, I liked it sterile. The smell of alcohol wipes soaked through the walls, fighting a losing battle against the ghost of Floyd’s aftershave.
