“Hey. You okay? Did I hurt you?”
He gives me a look—equal parts fond and exasperated. “I’m fine. Just…normal aftermath stuff.”
“Right. Sorry.”
I’ve never done this before—not with a guy—and suddenly I’m hyperaware of every way I might’ve fucked it up.
Carter stretches awkwardly into the front seat, reaching to open the glove compartment. The movement gives me a perfect view of his bare ass, and, yeah—no chance I’m not touching that.
I run a hand over it.
“Thomas!” he yelps, nearly smacking his head on the dashboard.
“Sorry,” I say, not even pretending to mean it.
He glances back at me, trying to look stern—and failing completely.
I grin. “You can’t expect me to keep my hands to myself after waiting sixteen years.”
Something shifts in his expression—softens. For a second, we just look at each other. Then he shakes his head, smiling, and turns back to his search.
“Got them,” he says triumphantly, pulling out a travel pack of wet wipes.
He hands me a few, and we set about cleaning ourselves up. It’s awkward—cramped in the backseat, our skin sticking to the leather with every movement—but there’s something oddly intimate about it too. This quiet, unglamorous aftermath. The part they never show in movies. The part that makes it real.
I deal with the condom, tie it off, wrap it in a wipe, then glance around for somewhere to put it. Carter catches the hesitation and reaches into the pocket behind the driver’s seat, pulling out a small plastic bag.
“It’s concerning how prepared you are for this,” I say, dropping the bundle in.
He laughs, and it feels good—this easy rhythm between us. Not strained or awkward. Just…like it used to be, before I fucked everything up.
We start getting dressed, which turns into a full-on comedy of elbows and knees in the cramped backseat. Carter smacks his head on the roof and curses loudly. I almost knee him in the groin trying to wrestle my pants back on. It’s ridiculous and perfect, and we both end up laughing like idiots the whole way through.
Once we’re finally dressed, I pull him back against me. His hands are still cool to the touch, so I take them in mine and rub them, trying to coax some warmth back into him.
“Better?” I ask.
He nods, leaning in. “Much.”
He settles against my side like it’s second nature—head on my shoulder, body fitting against mine like it belongs there.
The car’s freezing now that we’re no longer generating heat, our breath fogging in soft clouds in the air between us.
“Let me check my phone,” I say, reaching for where I tossed it on the front seat. “See if the tow company called.”
My screen lights up with a flood of notifications—all from Jason.
Twenty-three messages. Four missed calls.
“Shit,” I mutter, scrolling through the increasingly panicked texts.
“What?” Carter asks, peering over.
“Your brother’s having a meltdown,” I say, holding out the phone. “He sent all these while we were…busy.”
Carter’s eyes widen as he takes in the timestamps. The most recent message, sent just three minutes ago, reads:I’m coming to get you guys if you don’t answer in the next 5 minutes.
Carter winces. “Shit. I forgot to check my phone. He’s probably texted me too.”
