"Morning, Ed. Coffee's fresh." Hank slid a steaming mug across the worn laminate counter. His knuckles were thick, scarred from years of patrol work and fixing his own cruiser.
Ed grunted, wrapping both hands around the mug. He was built like a retired linebacker gone soft around the middle. Thick shoulders strained his uniform shirt. Gray streaked his sandy hair, especially at the temples.
Hank was taller, leaner muscle under his bulk, with sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. They'd both been deputies in this quiet Ohio town for over twenty years. Knew every pothole on Main Street, every gossip on Mrs. Henderson's porch. Routine was their religion. Mornings started here at Hank’s kitchen table before first patrol. The smell of cheap coffee and bacon grease hung in the air. Sunlight cut through the window blinds, highlighting dust motes dancing over Hank’s calloused hands as he stirred sugar into his own cup.
Their shift began slow. A fender bender near the high school. A lost dog report from the Andersons. They drove in comfortable silence mostly, the cruiser’s radio crackling with mundane dispatch calls. Hank took the wheel, Ed riding shotgun, elbow propped on the open window. They passed the diner, the hardware store, the single stoplight blinking yellow this early. Fields stretched beyond the town limits, corn stalks tall and green under the summer heat. Hank pointed out a broken fence line near old man Peterson’s farm. Ed nodded, scribbling a note. Their partnership was easy, worn-in. They’d backed each other up through bar fights, blizzards, and that awful standoff with the Johnson kid two years back. Trust wasn’t given here; it was earned with sweat and silence.
Lunch was at Millie’s Diner. They slid into their usual booth by the window. Ed ordered the meatloaf special. Hank got the tuna melt. Millie, her hairnet askew, refilled their coffees without asking. "Heard about the Jenkins boy?" she asked, lowering her voice. "Sneaking out again. Sheriff’s gonna have words." Hank exchanged a look with Ed. Another Tuesday in Oak Hollow.
The afternoon brought a call about a disturbance at the trailer park. Mrs. Gable’s ex was drunk and yelling on her porch. They found him swaying, clutching a half-empty bottle of bourbon. Ed’s voice was a low rumble. "Time to go home, Ray." The man spat, but Hank stepped forward, a wall of calm authority. "Don’t make this ugly." Ray crumpled, sobbing. They drove him to his sister’s place, the cruiser smelling of sweat and regret.
Back at the station, paperwork piled up. Ed’s handwriting was cramped, impatient. Hank watched him over the rim of his coffee cup. A scar on Ed’s jaw, faint now, from a bottle thrown in that bar fight behind Lou’s Tavern. Hank remembered pressing a wad of napkins to it, Ed’s blood warm on his fingers. "Still got that ugly mug," Hank said, voice rough. Ed didn’t look up. "Better than your face." The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken.
Days bled into weeks. They covered the Harvest Festival, directing traffic as kids bobbed for apples. Hank’s knuckles brushed Ed’s when they both reached for the same cider jug. Ed pulled back like he’d been burned.
That night, Hank drove them to the overlook past Miller’s Creek. The cruiser idled, headlights off. Moonlight silvered the cornfields.
"Been thinking," Hank started.
Ed’s profile was stone. "About what?"
Hank’s thumb traced the steering wheel. "Twenty years. All that time … wasted."
Ed turned. His eyes were dark pools. "Not wasted."
Their first kiss was clumsy. Hank’s hand cupped Ed’s neck, calluses scraping stubble. Ed tasted like coffee and the beef jerky he’d eaten on patrol. They broke apart, breathing hard.
Ed’s knuckles whitened on the dashboard. "Christ, Hank."
Hank leaned in again, slower this time. Ed’s mouth opened under his, a low groan vibrating between them. The cruiser’s vinyl seats creaked as Ed shifted, his knee bumping the gearshift. Outside, crickets sawed the night air.
Hank’s hand slid under Ed’s uniform shirt, finding warm skin. Ed flinched, then arched into the touch. "Your place," Ed rasped. "Now."
Hank gunned the engine, gravel spitting under tires. They didn’t speak. Streetlights strobed through the windshield, catching the sweat on Ed’s upper lip. Hank’s fingers drummed the wheel.
Twenty minutes later, Hank’s front door slammed behind them. Ed shoved Hank against the hallway wall, uniform buttons pinging on the hardwood. Hank’s laugh was breathless. "Easy, partner."
Ed’s teeth scraped his collarbone. "Shut up."
The bedroom was dim. Hank fumbled with Ed’s belt. Leather hit the floor. Ed pushed Hank onto the bed, climbing over him. Hank’s hands roamed Ed’s back, tracing old scars. Ed’s hips ground down, denim rough against Hank’s thighs. "Off," Hank growled. They stripped, fabric tearing.
Ed was hairy and thick everywhere, muscle and softness. Hank bit his shoulder. Ed hissed, fingers digging into Hank’s hips. They moved against each other, skin slick. Ed’s cock was heavy against Hank’s stomach. Hank reached down, wrapping a hand around them both. Ed’s head dropped to Hank’s chest. "Fuck."
Hank’s grip tightened. He stroked slow, thumb smearing pre-cum. Ed’s breath hitched. "Like this?" Hank murmured. Ed nodded, thrusting into the friction. The bedsprings screamed. Hank twisted his wrist, just how he liked it himself.
Ed’s back arched. "Hank —" His release hit hot, gushing sperm between them. Hank followed, teeth sunk in Ed’s trapezius. They lay tangled, sticky and spent. Ed’s hand rested on Hank’s ribs, rising and falling. Dawn grayed the curtains.
Hank traced the scar on Ed’s jaw. "Not wasted," he repeated.
Ed’s eyes closed. "Shower?"
Hank grunted, peeling himself off the sweat-damp sheets. They moved stiffly down the hall, avoiding each other’s gaze. The spray hit hard, sluicing away the night’s mess.
Hank scrubbed Ed’s back with a rough washcloth, knuckles digging into the knots along his spine. Ed leaned into it, water sluicing through his chest hair. "Shoulda done this years ago," he muttered against the tile.
Breakfast was eggs burned at the edges, bacon limp from the microwave. They ate at Hank’s chipped Formica table, uniforms crisp again, radios crackling with the morning’s first noise complaint. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable — just heavy, like the air before a storm. Ed’s boot nudged Hank’s under the table. A question. Hank didn’t pull away.
Patrol felt different. The cruiser’s vinyl seat creaked louder when Ed shifted. Hank’s hand lingered on the gearshift after turning corners. At Miller’s Creek, where the cornfields gave way to scrub, Hank cut the engine. Ed’s palm settled on his thigh, heat bleeding through the polyester uniform pants.
"Tonight?" Ed asked, thumb rubbing circles. Hank covered Ed’s hand with his own.
"Your place. Lou’s off."
Ed’s couch was a sunken relic, springs digging into Hank’s back as Ed straddled him, working Hank’s belt with impatient fingers. They moved faster this time — less discovery, more hunger. Ed took Hank in his mouth, rough and eager, until Hank came with a choked curse, fingers tangled in Ed’s thinning hair.
After, Ed traced the scar on Hank’s ribs — a souvenir from a knife fight at the grain elevator. "Still ugly," he said, but his voice was soft. Hank pulled him close, the couch groaning under their weight. Outside, the town slept. They didn’t.
The next week blurred. Stolen moments in empty parking lots, hands fumbling under steering wheels. Ed’s calloused palm sliding up Hank’s thigh during night patrol. Hank’s teeth nipping Ed’s earlobe behind the station dumpster. They moved like magnets, drawn and repelled by decades of restraint snapping. At Hank’s place, they explored. Ed pinned Hank face-down on the bed, licking a stripe up his spine before sinking into him with a grunt.
Hank’s knuckles whitened on the sheets. "Harder." Ed obeyed, hips slamming, the headboard cracking drywall. After, Hank returned the favor, Ed’s legs hooked over his shoulders as he drove deep, Ed’s choked gasps filling the room.
Rain lashed the cruiser windows one Thursday. Parked near the abandoned quarry, Hank slid his hand under Ed’s belt.
Ed’s breath hitched. "Someone could —" Hank cut him off with a kiss, fingers working Ed open right there in the driver’s seat. Ed came with a shudder, biting Hank’s shoulder to muffle the sound.
That weekend, Ed showed up at Hank’s with a six-pack and a determined look. They skipped the beer. Ed pushed Hank onto the living room rug, peeling off his flannel shirt. The fire crackled. Ed’s mouth traveled down Hank’s stomach, rough tongue circling his navel before swallowing him whole. Hank arched off the floor, groaning. Ed didn’t stop until Hank’s hips stuttered, emptying down his throat.
Monday brought chaos — a tractor trailer jackknifed on Route 17. They directed traffic for hours in the drizzle. Back at the station, soaked and exhausted, they locked the break room door. Hank pinned Ed against the fridge, fingers digging into his hips.
"Quiet," Hank warned. Ed nodded, eyes dark. Hank dropped to his knees, taking Ed in his mouth with practiced ease. Ed’s hand fisted in Hank’s hair, hips jerking. He came fast, salty and thick. Hank swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
That night, Ed’s bed. Hank rolled Ed onto his stomach, spreading him wide. He took his time—lube slicking his fingers, working Ed open slow while Ed cursed into the pillow. When Hank finally pushed in, Ed’s back bowed. "Fuck, yes."
Hank set a brutal pace, hands bruising Ed’s hips. The headboard slammed the wall in time with their grunts. Ed reached back, gripping Hank’s thigh. "Harder, damn it." Hank obliged, slamming home until Ed shouted, spilling onto the sheets. Hank followed, collapsing on top of him.
Morning found them tangled. Ed traced the scar on Hank’s forearm. "Sheriff’s got that budget meeting today."
Hank nuzzled Ed’s neck. "Screw the meeting." But duty called. They dressed in silence, the scent of sex still clinging to the air.
Ed paused at the door. "Your place tonight?"
Hank’s grin was all promise. "Bring the handcuffs."
Patrol was uneventful—a speeding tourist, Mrs. Peabody’s cat stuck in a tree. Hank rescued it, claws shredding his sleeve. Ed’s laugh rumbled. "Hero."
At lunch, Millie eyed Hank’s torn uniform. "Rough night?" Ed choked on his coffee.
Hank kicked his shin under the table. "Fell in some brambles," he lied smoothly.
That afternoon, a call came in. Domestic dispute at the trailer park—Ray Gable drunk again. They found him swinging a tire iron at his sister’s pickup. Ed moved first, tackling Ray into the mud. Hank wrenched the iron away. Ray spat curses, whiskey-sour breath hitting Hank’s face. "Fuckin’ pigs!"
Ed cuffed him, knee in his back. "Easy, Ray." Hank hauled him up. Ray’s eyes were bloodshot.
"You don’t know shit," he slurred. They stuffed him in the cruiser, the stink of rage and cheap booze thick.
Back at the station, Hank scrubbed mud from his boots. Ed leaned against the lockers. "Ray’s sister pressed charges this time."
Hank grunted. "About damn time."
Ed’s knuckles brushed Hank’s. "You okay?"
Hank caught his wrist. "Better now."
The locker room door creaked. They sprang apart. Deputy Collins walked in, oblivious. "Sheriff wants you two. Budget crap." Hank nodded, pulse hammering. Ed’s boot tapped his once. A silent *tonight*.
At Hank’s, Ed arrived with takeout. They ate cold Chinese straight from the cartons. Ed’s fingers brushed Hank’s when reaching for the last egg roll. Hank caught his hand.
"Forget the food."
Ed’s smile was slow. "Cuffs?"
Hank pushed him onto the couch. "Later." He peeled Ed’s shirt off, mouth finding the scar on his collarbone.
Ed groaned, fingers in Hank’s hair. "Bed. Now."
Hank nipped his ear. "Patience, partner." Ed’s laugh turned to a gasp as Hank’s hand slid down his jeans.
They moved to the bedroom, shedding clothes in a trail to the worn rug beside Hank’s bed. Ed pushed Hank backward onto the mattress, climbing over him with a predatory grin. His hands roamed Hank’s chest, calloused thumbs brushing nipples until they hardened.
"Turn over," Ed growled. Hank obeyed, bracing his forearms against the headboard. Ed’s lubed fingers pressed into him, slow and deliberate, stretching him open.
Hank hissed at the burn, pushing back into the pressure. "More," he demanded, voice muffled by the pillow.
Ed added a third finger, crooking them just right. Hank’s hips jerked.
"Fuck, Ed —"
"Ready?" Ed’s palm smacked Hank’s ass, leaving a red mark. Hank nodded, knuckles white on the headboard. Ed sheathed himself in one thrust, burying deep. Hank arched, a guttural moan tearing loose. Ed set a relentless rhythm, hips slamming, sweat dripping onto Hank’s back. The bedframe screeched against the wall.
Hank reached back, gripping Ed’s thigh. "Harder, you bastard."
Ed obeyed, slamming deeper, each thrust jolting Hank forward against the headboard. The friction burned — a delicious stretch that bordered on pain — as Ed’s cock dragged against his prostate. Hank gasped, vision blurring. Ed’s hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. Teeth scraped Hank’s shoulder, followed by the wet heat of Ed’s tongue.
"Feel that?" Ed growled, voice thick with exertion. "All for you, Hank. Every damn inch." He shifted, angling his hips to drive harder into that sweet spot. Hank cried out, the sensation like a live wire sparking up his spine — blunt pressure against his prostate that blurred pain into blinding pleasure. Ed’s calloused palm slid around Hank’s hip, gripping his cock in a tight, rhythmic stroke that matched the brutal pace of his thrusts. The dual sensation tore a ragged shout from Hank’s throat. Sweat pooled in the small of his back, Ed’s chest hair scraping against it with every lunge.
Ed’s free hand clamped down on Hank’s shoulder, pinning him in place as he pistoned deeper. "Gonna make you cum just like this," he rasped, breath hot on Hank’s neck. "Take it. Take all of me."
Hank’s muscles coiled, trembling on the edge. The friction of Ed’s fist, the relentless drag inside him, the bite of teeth on his trapezius — it overwhelmed, a storm of sensation. He came with a guttural roar, spilling hot sperm over Ed’s fingers and the rumpled sheets, body shuddering through the waves. Ed followed, hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt as he emptied with a choked gasp, warmth flooding Hank’s core.
They collapsed, sticky and spent. Ed’s weight pressed Hank into the mattress, his softening cock still nestled inside. Hank could feel Ed’s heartbeat thudding against his back, rapid and heavy. The air reeked of sex and sweat, sharp and primal. Ed’s breath was hot on Hank’s neck, his stubble scratching the damp skin. Neither moved for a long minute, the only sound their ragged breathing and the groan of the abused bedsprings.
Finally, Ed shifted, pulling out slowly. Hank hissed at the sudden emptiness, the cool air hitting his skin. Ed rolled onto his side, one arm flung possessively across Hank’s ribs. His fingers traced the old knife scar on Hank’s flank, the touch light but deliberate. "Still think you shoulda got stitches for that," Ed murmured, his voice rough.
Hank turned his head, meeting Ed’s gaze. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, etching the lines of Ed’s face – the stubborn set of his jaw, the crow’s feet at his eyes, the faint scar near his temple from a long-ago scuffle. "Worked out fine," Hank said, his own voice gravelly. He covered Ed’s hand with his own, calluses catching on calluses. The silence stretched, comfortable now, filled with the unspoken weight of years finally acknowledged. Outside, an owl hooted in the darkness.
Morning came too soon. The alarm clock’s shrill beep sliced through the quiet. Ed groaned, burying his face in the pillow. Hank slapped it off, the sudden silence almost louder. He swung his legs out of bed, muscles protesting. The smell of their night clung to him – musk and salt and Ed. He pulled on sweatpants, the waistband loose. "Coffee?" he asked, not looking back.
Ed grunted an affirmative into the mattress. Hank padded to the kitchen, the linoleum cold under his bare feet. He filled the pot, the gurgle loud in the stillness. Through the window, the first gray light of dawn touched the rooftops of Oak Hollow. Routine beckoned – uniforms, radios, the cruiser’s familiar hum. But everything felt different now, charged. The simple act of measuring coffee grounds felt like a promise.
He heard the shower start down the hall, the pipes groaning. Ed would emerge, damp and smelling of Hank’s cheap soap, and they’d sit at the chipped Formica table, avoiding each other’s eyes until Ed’s boot nudged his under the table. Just like always. Only it wasn’t. Not anymore. The coffee began to drip, its rich, bitter scent slowly overtaking the lingering traces of the night.
The shower cut off. Hank poured two mugs, black, just how Ed took it. He set them on the table, the steam curling upwards. Ed appeared in the doorway, a towel slung low on his hips, water beading on his chest and shoulders. He looked at Hank, then at the mugs, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes – maybe the same weight Hank felt settling over the kitchen. He didn’t move towards the coffee. Instead, he crossed the small space in two strides, crowding Hank back against the counter. His hands, still damp and cool, framed Hank’s face.
The kiss was slow, deliberate, tasting of toothpaste and something deeper, more essential. It wasn’t the frantic hunger of the night before; it was a claiming, a grounding. Hank’s hands found Ed’s waist, the towel rough under his palms, pulling him closer until their bodies aligned. The coffee steamed, forgotten. Outside, a car door slammed somewhere down the street. Duty called. But for this moment, suspended in the quiet kitchen, there was only the solid warmth of Ed against him, the shared breath, the undeniable fact of them.
Ed finally pulled back, resting his forehead against Hank’s. "Coffee’s getting cold," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something else. Hank just nodded, his throat tight. He didn’t let go. Not yet.
Patrol that morning felt like walking a tightrope. Every glance, every brush of shoulders in the cramped cruiser carried the weight of the night before. They responded to a shoplifting call at the Dollar General — Mrs. Henderson’s nephew, high as a kite, trying to stuff cheap headphones down his pants. Ed handled the cuffing, his movements efficient, but Hank saw the tension in his jaw. The kid spat, "You pigs got nothing better to do?" Hank’s hand landed heavy on Ed’s shoulder. A silent *steady*. Ed’s knuckles whitened, then relaxed. He shoved the kid into the backseat without a word.
Back at the station, the air thickened. Sheriff Davies waved them into his office, budget papers spread like a minefield across his desk. "Boys," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "County's slashing overtime. Gotta cut patrol hours starting next month." His eyes flicked between them. "Might mean separate shifts."
Ed’s boot tapped Hank’s under the desk. A jolt. Hank kept his voice flat. "We’ve covered each other twenty years, Sheriff. Splitting us up —"
"Don’t like it either," Davies cut in. "But the bean counters don’t care about partnerships." He slid a schedule draft across the desk. Hank’s name dominated nights; Ed’s, days. The divide glared back at them.
They walked out in stiff silence. The locker room was empty. Ed slammed his fist into a metal locker, the *clang* echoing. "Bullshit."
Hank gripped his shoulder, turning him. Ed’s eyes were wild, frustrated. "We’ll figure it out," Hank said, low.
"How?" Ed’s voice cracked. "You’ll be sleeping while I’m on duty. I’ll be in bed when you’re out there." He stepped closer, the anger melting into something raw. "Just got you, Hank."
Hank’s thumb brushed the scar on Ed’s jaw. "Got me for good, partner. Shift won’t change that." He leaned in, their foreheads touching. Ed’s breath hitched.
"Prove it," Ed whispered.
Hank glanced at the door. Locked. He pushed Ed against the cold lockers, his mouth claiming Ed’s in a kiss that tasted like desperation and coffee. Ed groaned, hands fisting in Hank’s uniform shirt. Hank’s knee slid between Ed’s thighs, pressing up. Ed arched into it, a low growl vibrating against Hank’s lips.
"Tonight," Hank breathed against his mouth. "My place. No cuffs. Just you."
Ed nodded, eyes dark. "All night."
Outside, footsteps approached. They broke apart, adjusting belts, the promise hanging thick between them as Deputy Collins’ whistling tune drifted down the hall.
The rest of the shift crawled. Paperwork felt like wading through molasses. Every tick of the clock above the duty desk hammered home the coming separation. Hank caught Ed staring blankly at the schedule pinned to the bulletin board, jaw clenched. When they finally clocked out, the silence in the cruiser was charged, electric. Hank drove straight to his bungalow, gravel crunching under the tires like a drumroll.
Inside, the door barely clicked shut before Ed had him pinned against it. No teasing, no preamble. His mouth was hot and demanding on Hank’s, hands already working Hank’s belt buckle with rough urgency. Buttons popped as Ed tore Hank’s shirt open. "Need you inside me," Ed growled, the words muffled against Hank’s neck, teeth scraping skin.
Hank shoved him back, just enough to steer them toward the bedroom. "Bed. Now." They stumbled down the hall, shedding clothes like armor. Ed hit the mattress first, pulling Hank down on top of him. His legs hooked around Hank’s waist, heels digging into Hank’s lower back. "Now, Hank. Fuck me like you mean it."
Hank fumbled for the lube on the nightstand, slicking himself with quick, efficient strokes. He pressed against Ed’s entrance, feeling the tight resistance.
Ed arched, pushing back. "Don’t you dare go slow," he gritted out. Hank drove in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one thrust. Ed cried out, head thrown back, tendons straining in his neck. "Yes! Like that. Don’t stop."
Hank set a punishing rhythm, hips slamming forward, the bedframe slamming against the wall in a frantic drumbeat. Sweat dripped from his brow onto Ed’s heaving chest. Ed met every thrust, his own cock leaking onto his stomach. "Touch me," he demanded, voice ragged. Hank wrapped a slick hand around him, stroking in time with his thrusts. Ed’s breath hitched, his body tightening around Hank. "Gonna —" he choked out.
"Let go," Hank commanded, pistoning harder, deeper. Ed came with a shout, hot ropes of sperm spilling over Hank’s fist and his own abdomen. The clenching heat pushed Hank over the edge. He buried his face in Ed’s shoulder, biting down as he emptied himself with a guttural groan, hips stuttering.
They collapsed, sticky and breathless. Ed’s hand found Hank’s in the damp sheets, fingers lacing together. Outside, the town slept. Inside, the silence was thick with the weight of the coming storm.
The next week was a blur of stolen moments and aching absences. Hank worked nights, the cruiser feeling cavernous without Ed’s solid presence beside him. He handled a drunken brawl at Lou’s Tavern alone, his knuckles splitting on a biker’s teeth. The sting felt hollow. At dawn, he’d find a thermos of hot coffee on his porch — Ed’s doing — still warm.
One rain-slicked Tuesday, Hank pulled into the station lot at 7 AM, exhaustion heavy in his bones. Ed’s cruiser was already there. Hank found him in the locker room, changing into civvies after his shift. The air crackled. Ed slammed his locker shut, turning. Dark circles bruised his eyes. "Missed you last night," he said, voice rough. "Heard about Lou’s."
Hank stepped closer, the scent of Ed’s sweat and cheap soap cutting through his fatigue. "Handled it." He reached out, thumb brushing the fresh scrape on Ed’s jaw — a scuffle at the trailer park, no doubt. Ed flinched, then leaned into the touch.
"Sheriff’s pushing the new roster," Ed muttered. "Permanent. Starting Monday."
Hank’s gut tightened. He crowded Ed back against the cold metal lockers. "Screw the roster." He kissed him, hard and desperate, tasting coffee and the metallic tang of blood from Hank’s split lip. Ed groaned, hands fisting in Hank’s uniform shirt. The kiss deepened, hungry and claiming, until footsteps echoed in the hall. They broke apart, breathing ragged. Ed’s eyes held a question Hank couldn’t answer yet.
That Friday, Hank showed up at Ed’s door at midnight, still in uniform. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead. Ed took one look at him, pulled him inside, and pushed him against the wall. "Trouble?" Ed asked, already unbuckling Hank’s duty belt.
"Just you," Hank rasped. He captured Ed’s mouth, pouring every ounce of frustration into the kiss. Ed’s hands slid under Hank’s wet shirt, palms hot against his skin. They stumbled to the couch, shedding clothes. Ed straddled Hank’s lap, taking him deep with a low groan. Hank gripped Ed’s hips, thrusting up into the tight heat, the rhythm frantic, almost angry. Ed’s head fell back, baring his throat. Hank bit down, marking him, as Ed came with Hank’s name torn from his lips. Hank followed, emptying himself with a shuddering gasp, holding Ed close as the storm raged outside.
Sunday dawned clear and cruel. Hank watched Ed lace his boots for the day shift through a haze of sleeplessness. Ed paused at the door, keys in hand. "Tonight?" he asked, the word hanging between them like a plea.
Hank met his gaze. "Always." But the cruiser pulling away felt like an ending.
The day stretched, endless. Hank tossed in sweat-damp sheets, Ed’s scent fading from the pillow. At dusk, he dragged himself to the station. Sheriff Davies waved him over, face grim. "Got a call from State Patrol. Missing kid — Jenny Gable. Ray’s niece. Last seen near Miller’s Creek overlook."
Hank’s blood ran cold. The overlook. Their place. He radioed Ed immediately, static crackling before Ed’s voice cut through, tight with urgency. "Already en route. Meet me there."
Night swallowed the cruiser as Hank sped toward the creek. Rain lashed the windshield, turning the dirt road to slurry. His headlights caught Ed’s parked cruiser, doors hanging open, empty. Hank killed his engine, drawing his flashlight and pistol. Mud sucked at his boots as he scanned the treeline. "Ed!" he shouted, the wind swallowing his voice.
A choked gasp answered from the darkness below the overlook ledge. Hank lunged forward, beam slicing through the rain. Ed lay sprawled on the steep embankment, one hand clutching a sapling, the other gripping Jenny Gable’s wrist. The girl dangled over the swollen creek, white-faced and silent. Ed’s uniform was torn, blood streaking his temple where he’d hit a rock sliding after her.
"Hold on!" Hank bellowed, scrambling down. Loose earth gave way under his boots. He locked an arm around a tree root, stretching his other hand toward Ed. "Grab me!"
Ed’s fingers, slick with mud and blood, fumbled against Hank’s. Their hands clasped — callous to callous, knuckles white. Hank hauled, muscles screaming, dragging Ed and the girl upward inch by inch. Jenny scrambled onto solid ground, sobbing. Ed collapsed against Hank, breath ragged, forehead pressed to Hank’s shoulder.
"Ray was here," Ed gasped. "Drunk, ranting. Pushed her when she tried to run." He winced, clutching his ribs. "Chased him ... lost him in the woods."
Hank’s grip tightened on Ed’s arm. "You’re bleeding."
Ed’s eyes locked onto his. "Shift doesn’t matter," he rasped. "We’re still partners."
Sirens wailed in the distance. Above them, Jenny wept softly in the rain. Hank didn’t let go.
They found Ray Gable passed out in a thicket half a mile downstream, reeking of whiskey and regret. Hank hauled him up with grim efficiency, cuffing him tight enough to bruise. Ed leaned against the cruiser door, pressing a wadded handkerchief to his bleeding temple while paramedics checked Jenny for shock. The girl clutched Ed’s sleeve, trembling. "He said he’d drown me," she whispered.
Ed’s jaw tightened. "He won’t touch you again." His gaze met Hank’s over the roof of the cruiser — a silent exchange of rage and relief.
Back at the station, Sheriff Davies clapped Ed’s shoulder. "Good work, boys." His eyes lingered on their mud-streaked uniforms, Ed’s bandaged head. "Separate shifts can wait. Get patched up."
In the locker room, Hank peeled Ed’s shirt off. A jagged gash ran from temple to eyebrow, stitches glistening under fluorescent lights. Hank dabbed iodine on it, fingers steady. Ed hissed. "Hurts worse than Ray’s whiskey breath."
Hank’s thumb brushed Ed’s cheekbone. "Should’ve waited for backup."
"Kid didn’t have time." Ed caught Hank’s wrist, pulling him close. Their foreheads touched — blood, sweat, and rain mingling. "Knew you’d come."
Hank’s mouth found Ed’s in a bruising kiss, salt and urgency. The locker room door rattled. They broke apart as Deputy Collins entered, whistling.
Later, at Hank’s kitchen table, they drank bourbon from chipped mugs. Rain tapped the window. Ed traced the rim of his mug. "Davies backed off the schedule."
Hank nodded. "For now."
Ed’s boot hooked Hank’s ankle under the table. "So. Still bringing the cuffs tonight?"
Hank’s grin was slow, dangerous. "Thought I’d try the bedpost this time."
Ed stood, chair scraping. He pulled Hank up, fingers digging into his hips. "Show me."
Against the hallway wall, Hank’s mouth claimed Ed’s — a promise sealed in heat and bourbon breath. Duty could wait. Dawn was hours away.
In the bedroom, Hank shoved Ed backward onto the mattress. Moonlight caught the silver in Ed’s chest hair, the fresh bandage stark white at his temple. Hank peeled off his own shirt, eyes never leaving Ed’s. "Bedposts," he reminded him, voice low.
Ed’s grin was wolfish. He rolled, offering his wrists. Hank looped the cuffs through the wrought-iron headboard bars, clicking them shut. The cold metal bit into Ed’s skin as Hank knelt between his thighs. No rush this time. Hank’s mouth mapped every scar, every ridge of muscle — the knife slash on Ed’s flank, the puckered bullet graze on his hip. Ed strained against the cuffs, a raw groan tearing loose when Hank’s tongue swirled around his nipple.
"Tease," Ed gritted out.
Hank’s chuckle vibrated against Ed’s stomach. "Patience." He palmed Ed’s cock through his jeans, feeling it thicken. Slowly, agonizingly slow, he unbuckled Ed’s belt, peeled denim and boxers down. Ed’s erection sprang free, flushed and leaking. Hank blew a stream of cool air across the tip. Ed cursed, hips lifting off the mattress. "Hank —"
"Shh." Hank swallowed him whole, deep and wet. Ed arched, wrists jerking against the cuffs, the metal clanking against iron. Hank worked him with lips and tongue, hollowing his cheeks, fingers digging bruises into Ed’s hips.
Ed’s thighs trembled, breath coming in ragged gasps. "Close … so damn close …"
Hank pulled off with a slick pop. "Not yet." He slicked two fingers, pressing them against Ed’s entrance. Ed pushed back, hungry. Hank worked him open, crooking his fingers, dragging moans from Ed’s throat. When Ed was loose and shuddering, Hank positioned himself, the blunt head pressing insistently. He leaned forward, lips brushing Ed’s ear. "This what you wanted?"
"Yes —" The word shattered as Hank sheathed himself in one smooth thrust. Ed cried out, back bowing, cuffs straining. Hank set a deep, rolling rhythm, each stroke dragging against Ed’s prostate. The bedposts groaned. Sweat slicked their skin where chest met back. Hank’s hand slid around, fisting Ed’s cock in time with his thrusts. "Now," Hank growled. "Cum for me."
Ed shattered, shouting Hank’s name, spilling hot sperm over Hank’s fist. The clenching heat pulled Hank under. He buried his teeth in Ed’s shoulder, hips slamming home as he emptied himself deep inside with a guttural roar. They collapsed, spent, the only sound their heaving breaths and the rain against the window. Hank fumbled with the cuffs. Ed’s freed hands pulled him close, holding him like an anchor in the storm.
Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across Ed’s sleeping face. Hank traced the stitches on his temple, the skin hot and swollen. Ed stirred, catching Hank’s wrist. "Still here," he murmured, voice thick with sleep.
"Always." Hank pressed a kiss to the bandage. Downstairs, the coffee pot gurgled. Duty called
— Ray Gable’s arraignment, Jenny’s statement. But for now, the weight of Ed’s body against his was the only law that mattered.
The cruiser hummed toward the courthouse, sunlight glaring off wet pavement. Ed drummed his fingers on the wheel. "Ray’s lawyer’s gonna fight it."
Hank stared out the window. "Kid’s testimony’s solid. And we got him dead to rights." He paused. "Jenny asked about you last night. Wants to bring you cookies."
A ghost of a smile touched Ed’s lips. "Tell her I like chocolate chip."
Inside the courthouse, the air smelled of lemon polish and dread. Ray Gable shuffled in, cuffed and sullen. His eyes, bloodshot and hollow, locked onto Hank and Ed. Jenny clung to her mother’s hand, shrinking back when Ray glared. Ed stepped forward, placing himself between them. Ray spat on the floor. "Faggot cops."
The judge’s gavel cracked like a gunshot. "Order!" Hank’s hand settled on Ed’s lower back, a silent burn. Ed stood straighter, shoulders squared. As bailiffs led Ray away, Jenny slipped from her mother’s grasp. She pressed a crumpled paper bag into Ed’s hand. Inside, two misshapen chocolate chip cookies, still warm. Ed knelt, his voice rough. "Perfect."
Outside, Hank watched Ed crouch beside Jenny on the courthouse steps. The girl’s laughter rang sharp and clear against the town’s murmur. Ed’s smile reached his eyes this time, crinkling the stitches. Some partnerships, Hank thought, didn’t need badges.
The afternoon patrol bled into routine — a barking dog complaint on Elm, Mrs. Peabody’s misplaced cat. Yet the cruiser felt different. Ed’s hand rested on Hank’s thigh at red lights, thumb rubbing circles through the rough fabric. Hank’s answering grip tightened.
At shift’s end, Hank pulled into Ed’s driveway. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words. Ed turned, knuckles brushing Hank’s jaw. "Stay."
Hank killed the engine. "Wasn’t planning on leaving."
Inside, Ed pushed him against the fridge, mouth hot and insistent. Hank tasted coffee and exhaustion. They stumbled backward, shedding uniforms like shed skins. Ed’s fingers traced the fading bruise on Hank’s ribs — a souvenir from Lou’s Tavern. "Hurts?"
"Only when you’re not here," Hank admitted, voice gravel-rough.
Ed’s answering kiss was softer, lingering. He led Hank to the shower. Steam fogged the mirror as water sluiced away grime and tension. Hank pressed Ed against slick tile, hands roaming soap-slick skin. Ed’s head tipped back, exposing his throat. Hank nipped the pulse point, feeling the jump beneath his lips. "Bed," Ed gasped.
They fell onto tangled sheets, damp skin cooling in the AC’s draft. Ed straddled Hank, taking him slow, eyes locked. Hank’s hands gripped Ed’s hips, guiding the rhythm — deep, deliberate rolls that drew ragged moans. No frenzy tonight. Just heat building like a slow fuse. Ed’s palm braced on Hank’s chest, fingers digging in as he rode him. Hank arched up, meeting every thrust, watching sweat bead on Ed’s collarbone.
"Look at me," Ed demanded, voice cracking. Hank obeyed. Ed’s release hit silently, jaw clenched, body shuddering as he spilled his seed between them. The clenching heat pulled Hank over seconds later, a low groan tearing loose as he emptied himself deep inside.
After, Ed collapsed onto Hank’s chest. The steady thud of Hank’s heartbeat filled the quiet. Outside, Oak Hollow settled into twilight. Ed’s finger traced the scar on Hank’s shoulder — a knife fight from ’09. "Separate shifts," he murmured against Hank’s skin.
Hank’s arm tightened around him. "Screw the shifts." He felt Ed’s smile against his chest. Dawn felt lifetimes away. For now, the only duty was the weight of Ed’s breath slowing into sleep against him.
The next morning, Sheriff Davies slammed a folder on the briefing room table. "Ray Gable lawyered up. Claims Jenny fell, he tried to save her." Ed’s knuckles whitened. Hank kicked his boot under the table — *steady*. Davies eyed Ed’s stitches. "You two testify Friday. Clean statements. No cowboy shit."
Patrol was tense. They pulled over a speeding pickup near Miller’s Creek. The driver, a kid with bloodshot eyes, sneered at Ed’s bandage. "What happened, pig? Fall down?"
Hank stepped between them, hand resting on his holster. "License and registration. Now." The kid complied, silent fury radiating.
At lunch, Millie slid two plates across the counter. Her eyes lingered on Hank’s bruised knuckles. "Heard about Jenny Gable." She lowered her voice. "Ray’s sister says he threatened that child before." Ed exchanged a glance with Hank. New evidence.
Back at the station, Hank typed the report while Ed paced. "Millie’s gossip holds up in court?"
Hank saved the file. "Worth a statement." He printed the page. "Meet me at the overlook tonight. Nine."
Ed arrived first. The creek murmured below, swollen from last night’s rain. Hank’s cruiser rolled up, headlights off. He stepped out, holding a thermos and two mugs. "Coffee?" Ed took one, warmth seeping into his palms. "Thought we were working."
"We are." Hank leaned against the hood, moonlight etching the lines of his face. "Davies got a call from Child Services. Jenny drew a picture for him." He pulled a folded paper from his jacket. A crayon sketch showed two stick figures with badges pulling a girl from scribbled water. Above them, jagged yellow lines — lightning or gunfire. Below, block letters: ED & HANK SAVD ME.
Ed’s throat tightened. He traced the crude badges. "Kid draws better than you."
Hank’s chuckle was low. "She gave Davies something else." He paused. "Ray’s hunting knife. Hidden under her mattress. Handle matches the tear in your shirt."
Ed stared at the sketch. "Proof he came armed." The creek’s rush filled the silence. Hank’s hand covered his on the paper. "Friday, we bury him."
Ed turned, pressing Hank against the cruiser. The kiss was fierce, coffee bitter on their tongues. Hank’s hand slid into Ed’s hair, avoiding the stitches. When they broke apart, Ed kept their foreheads touching. "After court," he breathed. "Your place. Bring the cuffs."
Hank’s thumb brushed Ed’s jaw. "Count on it." Headlights appeared down the road — Collins on night patrol. They stepped apart, the sketch safely in Hank’s pocket. Duty called. But the crayon lines burned in Hank’s chest, brighter than any badge.
Friday dawned brittle and cold. The courthouse steps felt like a gauntlet. Ray Gable’s lawyer paced, sharp-suited and smirking. Jenny clutched her mother’s hand, knuckles white. Ed knelt, adjusting the girl’s scarf. "Just tell the truth," he murmured. "We’re right here."
Inside, the air crackled. Ray’s lawyer tore into Ed’s testimony — the fall, the head wound. "Convenient, Deputy, that you recall every detail *except* why you pursued a child without backup?"
Ed’s knuckles whitened on the stand rail. Hank’s stare was a physical weight, steadying him. "She screamed," Ed said, voice raw. "I ran."
When Jenny testified, her voice was a whisper. The judge leaned close. "He said ... he’d drown me like Mama’s kittens." Ray’s snarl echoed in the sudden silence. Hank slid the crayon sketch across the prosecutor’s table. The hunting knife followed, sealed in evidence plastic.
Ray lunged, cuffs clanking. "Lying bitch!"
The gavel cracked. "Guilty." Jenny buried her face in Ed’s shirt as deputies dragged Ray away, spitting curses. Outside, winter sunlight felt like absolution. Ed pressed the crayon drawing to his chest, over his heart.
That night, Hank’s bedposts rattled. Ed’s wrists were cuffed tight, moonlight silvering the scars on his back. Hank’s mouth was relentless — biting the corded muscle of Ed’s shoulders, licking the sweat from his spine. Ed strained against the metal, every nerve alight. "Now," he demanded, voice shredded.
Hank slicked himself, pressing against Ed’s entrance. "Beg."
Ed’s laugh was a gasp. "Make me."
Hank drove in deep, sheathing himself to the hilt. Ed arched, a choked cry tearing loose. Hank set a brutal pace, each thrust slamming Ed into the headboard. The cuffs bit deeper. "Hank —" Ed gasped, "please —"
Hank’s hand fisted Ed’s hair, yanking his head back. "Louder." Ed obeyed, shouting curses and pleas as Hank pounded into him. When Hank’s hand wrapped around Ed’s cock, rough and demanding, Ed shattered, spilling hot sperm onto the sheets. Hank followed, hips stuttering, biting Ed’s shoulder as he emptied himself with a growl.
Later, uncuffed, Ed traced the fresh teeth marks on Hank’s collarbone. "Court’s adjourned," he murmured. Hank pulled him closer. Outside, snow began to fall, blanketing Oak Hollow in quiet. For once, the cruiser could wait.
Morning brought a muffled world. Hank woke to Ed’s warmth against his back, an arm slung heavy over his ribs. The alarm hadn’t sounded yet. Snow piled high against the windowpanes, softening the dawn light. Ed stirred, his breath hot on Hank’s neck. "Storm’s here," he rasped, voice thick with sleep.
Hank shifted, turning to face him. Ed’s stitches stood out livid against his temple, the skin angry and swollen. Hank brushed a thumb gently below the bandage. "Hurting?"
"Nah." Ed caught Hank’s hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Just stiff." His knee nudged Hank’s thigh under the covers. "You?"
Hank flexed his bruised knuckles. "Better with you here." He stretched, joints popping, and swung out of bed. The floorboards were icy underfoot. He pulled on sweatpants and padded to the window. Snowdrifts swallowed Hank’s porch steps. The cruiser was a white hump in the driveway. "County’ll shut the roads," he said.
Ed joined him, bare-chested, heat radiating off him. He rested his chin on Hank’s shoulder. "Good." His hand slid around Hank’s waist, fingers splaying possessively over his hip. "Means we’re stuck."
The coffee pot gurgled in the kitchen, its scent cutting through the chill. Hank poured two mugs. They sat at the chipped table, steam curling between them. Ed’s boot hooked Hank’s ankle. "No calls," he said. "No Ray Gabels. Just ... this."
Hank nodded. Silence settled, comfortable and deep. He watched Ed sip his coffee, the lines of his face relaxed in a way they rarely were. Outside, the world was hushed, muffled by snow. Inside, the only sounds were the tick of the old wall clock and the soft scrape of Ed’s mug on Formica.
Ed set his cup down. His eyes met Hank’s, steady and sure. "Separate shifts start Monday," he said quietly.
Hank didn’t look away. "We’ll steal the time." He reached across the table, his calloused fingers covering Ed’s. "Like we stole everything else."
Ed turned his hand, palm up, lacing their fingers together. His grip was firm, grounding. "Damn right we will." Outside, the wind howled, shaking the eaves. Hank tightened his hold. The storm could rage. They were anchored.
Ed pushed his chair back, the scrape loud in the quiet kitchen. He didn't let go of Hank's hand. "Bed's warmer," he murmured, a familiar heat creeping into his voice. Hank followed without hesitation, the cold floor forgotten.
In the dim bedroom, Ed turned Hank to face him. His eyes, dark and intent, scanned Hank's face before dropping lower. Hands settled on Hank's hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants. Ed pushed them down slowly, letting the fabric pool at Hank's ankles. Hank stepped free, his erection already thick and heavy against his belly. Ed knelt, his breath hot on Hank's skin. He nuzzled the base of Hank's cock, inhaling deeply before taking him into his mouth with a low hum of appreciation.
Hank groaned, fingers tangling in Ed's sleep-mussed hair. Ed worked him with lips and tongue, wet and slow, hollowing his cheeks until Hank's thighs trembled. Just as Hank gasped, nearing the edge, Ed pulled off with a slick pop. He rose, crowding Hank backward until his knees hit the mattress. "Down," Ed commanded softly. Hank obeyed, lying back, watching as Ed shed his own sweatpants, his erection jutting proudly.
Ed retrieved the lube from the nightstand, slicking his fingers generously. He knelt between Hank's spread thighs, one hand pressing Hank's hip firmly into the mattress. His slicked fingers circled Hank's entrance, teasing the tight furl before pressing one knuckle-deep. Hank hissed, arching slightly. Ed worked him patiently, adding a second finger, scissoring gently, crooking relentlessly to find the spot that made Hank gasp and jerk.
"There," Hank gritted out, pushing down onto Ed's fingers. Ed added a third, stretching Hank thoroughly, watching his face flush, his breath hitch. When Hank was loose and trembling, slick dripping down his cleft, Ed slicked himself, stroking his thick length. He positioned himself, the blunt head pressing insistently against Hank's entrance. He leaned forward, bracing one hand beside Hank's head, his eyes locked on Hank's.
"Ready?" Ed asked, voice rough.
"Now," Hank demanded, lifting his hips. Ed pushed forward steadily, relentlessly, sheathing himself inch by thick inch until he was buried to the hilt. Hank cried out, a sharp, punched-out sound, back arching off the mattress. Ed held still, letting Hank adjust to the deep, burning stretch. "Fuck," Hank breathed, clenching hard around him.
Ed groaned, dropping his forehead to Hank's shoulder. "So damn tight." He withdrew slowly, almost completely, then drove back in with a solid thrust that rocked the bed. Hank gasped, hands scrabbling at Ed's back. Ed set a deep, deliberate rhythm, each powerful thrust dragging against Hank's prostate. The slap of skin filled the room, mingling with their harsh breaths.
Hank's cock leaked steadily onto his stomach. Ed shifted, angling his hips, driving deeper. Hank's moans grew louder, fractured. "Ed — right there — don't stop —"
Ed hooked Hank's leg over his shoulder, opening him wider, plunging harder. His thrusts became sharper, more urgent. Sweat dripped from his brow onto Hank's heaving chest. He wrapped a slick hand around Hank's leaking cock, stroking firmly in time with his punishing thrusts. "Gonna make you come," Ed growled, his voice thick with strain.
Hank's eyes squeezed shut, his body tightening impossibly around Ed. "Yes — fuck — Ed!" Hank shouted as his orgasm ripped through him, hot ropes of sperm pulsing onto his stomach and Ed's fist. The fierce clenching pulled Ed over the edge instantly. He slammed deep, burying himself as deep as possible, hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside Hank with a guttural roar, his body shuddering violently. He collapsed onto Hank, their sweat-slicked chests heaving together. Outside, the storm raged on, unheard.
They lay tangled long after, Ed still buried deep, Hank's leg hooked loosely over his hip. Ed traced the old knife scar on Hank’s shoulder blade with a calloused fingertip. "Separate shifts Monday," he murmured against Hank’s damp skin, the words heavy.
Hank shifted, feeling Ed soften inside him. "We'll steal mornings," he rasped, voice raw. "Like this." His hand slid down Ed’s back, fingers digging into the hard muscle above his ass. "Before the world wakes up."
Ed lifted his head, meeting Hank’s gaze. His eyes, dark and serious, held a flicker of the same desperation Hank felt tightening in his own chest. "Steal nights too," he countered. "Your porch. Midnight." He withdrew slowly, the loss sharp.
Hank hissed softly. Ed rolled onto his side, pulling Hank with him, spooning Hank’s back against his chest. His arm banded possessively across Hank’s ribs. "Sleep now," he ordered, lips brushing Hank’s nape. "Storm’s got us."
Hank drifted, lulled by Ed’s warmth and the steady drumming of snow against the windowpane. The alarm’s shrill scream shattered the peace hours later. Hank groaned, fumbling to silence it. Ed’s arm tightened, pulling him back. "Five more minutes," Ed mumbled into Hank’s hair.
"Roads," Hank protested weakly, already sinking back into Ed’s heat. The cruiser could wait. Duty could wait. For these stolen moments, muffled by snow and anchored by Ed’s solid weight, Hank let the world fall away. The shift change loomed, a chasm opening Monday morning. But here, now, tangled in sweat-damp sheets with Ed’s breath warm on his neck, Hank held onto the only truth that mattered: they’d fight for this. They’d steal every damn second.
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