“You need to go,” he said, and for a second, I thought he might actually cry.
I shrugged, casual. “Wouldn’t want to put a dent in the scone run.”
He flinched, just a hair, then looked away. “She’ll be here any minute.”
I zipped my jacket, then waited. “You want me to go out the window? Or just do the walk of shame?”
He looked up at me, finally, and something in his face cracked. “I’m sorry. I just—no one can know. Not right now.”
I bit my tongue, the reply sharp and sour on the tip. I wanted to tell him it was fine, that I understood, that I hadn’t expected anything different. But I wanted more than anything to tell him to go fuck himself.
Instead, I settled for a smirk. “Relax, Sheriff,” I said, grabbing my keys. “Your secret’s safe.”
He watched me from the doorway as I packed my things, double-checking the room for any evidence. I left the pillowcase unmarked, pulled the sheets up, erased the indents from where I’d lain.
In the bathroom, I wiped the steam from the mirror and made sure my toothbrush was gone. I moved through the house like a burglar, stealing only the memory of last night.
When I got to the front door, he was there, hands braced on the frame, body blocking the exit. “This isn’t nothing,” he said, low.
I wanted to spit back, “Could’ve fooled me.” But his eyes had gone soft again, the walls down just for a second, and I couldn’t do it.
“Yeah,” I said, softer than I meant. “I know.”
He stepped aside, and I slipped out into the early morning. The air was cold enough to make my breath hang, a ghost in the space between us.
I was halfway to my bike when I heard the door open again. He caught up to me in three strides, all coiled muscle and unshed apology. He grabbed my arm, spun me around, and for a second I thought he’d changed his mind. That he’d say fuck it to the scones and the secrets, and ask me to stay.
Instead, he kissed me. Hard. Desperate, messy, nothing like the control he tried so hard to keep. His fingers dug into my jacket, pinning me in place, and I kissed back just as rough. I wanted him to taste everything I wasn’t allowed to say.
When he broke away, he was breathing hard, eyes wide and raw. “Come back tonight,” he said, and then pushed me away, turning on his heel and heading for the house without another word.
I watched him go, my mouth still burning. Then I got on my bike and left, the rumble of the engine swallowing up everything else I felt.
The ride home was colder than it should’ve been for this time of year. Maybe it was just the wind, or maybe it was the way my body remembered the heat of him and shivered at the loss.
I gunned the engine hard at the first intersection, letting the rev echo off the houses until a porch light flicked on two blocks down. I smiled at the thought of waking half the town. At least they’d know I was still alive.
The morning was pale and blue, streets empty except for the one old guy who power-walked the park loop at dawn every day, wearing headphones like armor. I passed him at thirty, got a salute and a scowl.
Main Street was still asleep, the bakery not yet open, the windows of the sheriff’s station dark except for the glow from the dispatch desk. I resisted the urge to loop the block and see if Floyd was watching from behind the blinds.
Instead, I took the long way home, cutting out to the edge of town where the river flattened out and the woods took over. The road there was narrow and mean, lined with blackberries and half-rotted fence posts. I leaned into the first tight turn harder than I needed to, scraping the pegs, just to feel something bite back.
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be furious at Floyd, at his cowardice, at the town and its bullshit traditions. But mostly I was mad at myself—for wanting him so bad I was willing to be hidden away like an embarrassing tattoo.
I’d spent my whole life refusing to hide, refusing to play the game everyone else did. I’d lit myself on fire for the sake of a good spectacle, called out the school board for their hypocrisy, gotten my first tattoo just to piss off a Sunday school teacher. Now I was sneaking out the back door, the same as every closet case I’d ever mocked.
I throttled up and took the next corner so fast my back tire fishtailed, caught, and sent a jolt up my spine. For a second I let myself imagine what it’d be like to just keep riding—past the town, past the fields, until there was nothing left but the blur of trees and the hollow thump of my own heartbeat.
But the road always loops back. No matter how far you run, it brings you to the same place.
I pulled up to my place just as the sun burned through the low clouds, turning the front windows to mirrors. My housewas a mess of mismatched siding and old paint, porch half-collapsed, wild rosebushes strangling the mailbox. I killed the engine and let the silence settle in, broken only by the creak of cooling metal and the distant call of a crow.
I sat on the bike, helmet still on, and replayed the morning in my head. The taste of him, the way he’d clung to me in the dark, the way his hands had trembled when he said my name. The way he’d pushed me away as soon as the sun came up.
I knew, in that moment, that I wanted more than a secret. I wanted him in the daylight. I wanted him in front of everyone, not just in the dark or in the aftermath of a phone call from a woman who still owned his kitchen.
I swung off the bike, slammed the gate behind me, and stomped up the steps to my door. Every part of me was shaking, but not from the cold.
