The 1979 Ford F-250 short bed sat in the drive of the caretaker's cottage like it always did, patient and solid and entirely itself. Duncan walked around it once with the appraising eye of a man who understood old machinery and appreciated it.
"We'll take your truck," Duncan said.
Jake looked at him. "You sure?"
"I want to see Mark's face," Duncan said simply, and held out his hand for the keys.
Jake handed them over with the particular expression of a man making peace with something he can't control.
They showered together, which took longer than a shower strictly needed to take, Duncan's hands finding every reason to linger. Afterward Jake stood in the steam and watched Duncan produce a boutique shopping bag from the wardrobe with the satisfied expression of a man who had been planning this.
Jake took the bag. Looked at the logo. He knew the boutique — he had walked past it exactly once and kept walking because he couldn't have afforded a pair of socks from it.
"Your outfit for tonight," Duncan said.
The flared jeans sat so low on Jake's hips that when he moved wrong — or right, depending on your perspective — they showed the upper curve of his ass completely. The crop top tank had a unicorn on it. It was white and slightly sheer and the unicorn was rendered in holographic silver that caught the light every time he breathed.
Jake stood in front of the mirror for a long moment.
"I look ridiculous," he said.
"You look magnificent," Duncan said from the doorway, already dressed. Sequined white blazer over bare chest, slim white linen trousers, Chelsea boots. The blazer caught every light source in the room simultaneously. The linen trousers, in the right light, revealed that Duncan had made certain choices about what he was and wasn't wearing underneath them.
Jake looked at him. "You can see everything."
"Only in the right light," Duncan said pleasantly. "Are you ready?"
Jake got into the passenger seat of his own truck with the careful reverence of someone who has accepted that this is happening and has chosen to survive it. Duncan got into the driver's seat, adjusted the mirror, ran his hands over the steering wheel with genuine appreciation.
"Right," Jake said. "So the choke is—"
"I've got this," Duncan said.
"The gears are a column shift, so you—"
"I've got this," Duncan said again, with the complete confidence of a man who has never been wrong about anything in his life.
He looked at Jake. Smiled.
"What's the third pedal for?"
Jake stared at him.
Duncan's smile widened. "I'm joking. I had an M3 in high school. I know what a clutch is."
"That is a completely different—"
Duncan put the truck in reverse. It found the gear on the first try, smooth and clean. He raised an eyebrow at Jake.
Jake said nothing. They pulled out of the drive of the caretaker's cottage, the F-250's engine a low steady rumble in the September night.
Three blocks later Duncan found third gear with a grind that made Jake close his eyes briefly.
"I felt that," Duncan said.
"I know," Jake said.
"I'll get it."
"I know," Jake said again, and looked out the window at the dark road ahead of them, and said nothing more about it.
Mark was at the curb when the F-250 rumbled up to the club's entrance, the engine announcing itself well before the headlights came into view. He stepped forward with his usual professional composure, opened the driver's side door, and then took in the full picture — the 1979 short bed, the sequined white blazer, the unicorn crop top, Jake's low slung flared jeans — in approximately one second without letting any of it touch his face.
"Good evening Mr. Smythe," Mark said.
"Evening Mark," Duncan said, stepping out with the fluid ease of a man who had just driven a forty five year old truck through city traffic and intended to seem entirely unbothered by it. "Be careful with her. I'd hate to have you answer to my boyfriend."
Mark looked at Jake. Jake smiled with the expression of a man who meant it.
"I'll be extra careful with this classic Mr. Smythe," Mark said. He looked into the cab, assessed the column shift with the focused attention of a professional encountering an unfamiliar situation, and asked with complete composure: "Where's first?"
"Back and down," Jake said, the worried smile already on his face.
Mark nodded once. Slid into the driver's seat.
Duncan touched Jake's elbow, guiding him toward the entrance. "Mark's a pro," Duncan said. "He knew to ask where first was."
Jake glanced back once as the F-250 pulled slowly away from the curb.
"Eyes forward SubTank," Duncan said pleasantly.
Jake turned around. The two bouncers parted. The bass hit them like a wall.
The loft was exactly as they'd left it two weeks ago. Jayson on the velvet sofa, Preston arranged beside him with the practiced ease of someone who had found his place in the furniture. Celia appeared from somewhere with a drink in each hand, her eyes going wide when she saw them.
"Cousin," she said, kissing Duncan's cheek. Then she looked at Jake in the unicorn crop top and the low slung flared jeans and said with complete sincerity: "That is the best thing I've seen all month."
"It was a gift," Jake said.
Celia looked at Duncan. "Of course it was."
Jayson unfolded himself from the sofa, pulling Jake into the perfumed hug that Jake had learned to expect and had quietly stopped minding. "Last night before the great separation," Jayson said into his shoulder. "We're going to send you off properly."
"Mocktails?" Jake said.
"Mocktails," Jayson confirmed sadly.
They found the dance floor the same way they'd found it last time — Duncan's hand at the small of Jake's back, guiding him through the crowd. But this time they didn't separate. Duncan stayed on the floor, and they moved together in the particular way of two people who have learned each other's rhythms, the sequined blazer catching the strobe lights, the unicorn holographic silver blazing every time Jake turned.
They were deep in the crowd, lost in the music, when Jake felt a tap on his shoulder.
He turned.
Tyler Kowalski. Daisy beside him, her hand in his, looking at Jake with the particular expression of someone who has known you your whole life and is seeing you for the first time.
"Samuels," Tyler said, his eyes going briefly to the unicorn crop top and back up without comment. This was, Jake reflected, why he had always liked Tyler Kowalski.
"Kowalski," Jake said.
Daisy looked at Duncan. Duncan looked at Daisy. Ten years of shared history in a small community passing between them in a single moment.
"Duncan," Daisy said.
"Daisy," Duncan said.
She turned to Jake. Looked at him for a long moment with the careful eye of someone who has been forming an opinion about a situation for years and is now updating it with new information. Not about Jake. About Duncan.
"He was always terrible to you," she said.
"Yes," Jake agreed.
"And now?"
Jake glanced at Duncan beside him, the sequined blazer, the white linen, the particular way Duncan was standing close enough that their arms were touching without it being anything other than completely natural.
"And now is different," Jake said.
Daisy considered this with the thoroughness it deserved. Then she smiled.
"I'm assuming he dressed you," she said. "He's still terrible to you." The smile widened. "I would have gotten you a size smaller crop."
Jake laughed, the sound coming up from somewhere genuine.
Duncan looked at Daisy with the complete equanimity of a man who has never once in his life adjusted his behavior based on anyone's opinion and does not intend to start now.
Tyler glanced at Daisy the way he always did, the seven year reflex. Then back at Jake. "Good night?" he said.
"Good night," Jake said.
Tyler nodded. Daisy gave Jake's arm a brief squeeze, the kind that meant something without needing words. Then they moved back into the crowd, Tyler's hand finding Daisy's the way it always did.
Duncan watched them go. Then turned back to Jake.
"She always did have opinions," Duncan said mildly.
"She was right about the crop," Jake said.
Duncan looked at him. The sequined blazer caught a strobe light and blazed white for a moment.
"Dance with me," Duncan said.
Jake danced with him.
They danced until the loft crowd thinned and Jayson and Preston disappeared somewhere and Celia found someone who needed her attention more than the dance floor did. They danced until the DJ slowed things down and Duncan pulled Jake in close, his chin on Jake's shoulder, moving in the particular unhurried way of someone who was not thinking about tomorrow.
Jake wasn't thinking about tomorrow either.
He was thinking about this — Duncan's hand at his back, the bass moving through both of them, the holographic unicorn catching the last of the strobe lights, the sequined blazer cool and bright against his bare arm. The summer distilled into a single moment on a dance floor.
Dog Days Are Over came through the speakers.
Jake felt Duncan's hand tighten at his back.
Neither of them said anything. They just danced.
Mark had the F-250 waiting at the curb when they came out, the engine idling with its usual patient rumble. He handed the keys to Jake with the expression of a man who had successfully completed a difficult task and felt appropriately proud of it.
"She's a beauty," Mark said, with genuine feeling.
"She is," Jake agreed.
Duncan tipped him generously, shook his hand, and got into the passenger seat without being asked.
Jake got behind the wheel. Felt the familiar weight of it, the particular resistance of the column shift, the way the seat knew the shape of him.
The drive back to the caretaker's cottage was thick with unspoken tension. Two weeks. Fourteen days. The number felt like a chasm opening up between them. Duncan hadn't said a word since they'd left the club, but his hand had remained on Jake's thigh the entire way, a possessive, constant anchor.
When they walked inside, the silence of the caretaker's cottage felt heavier than usual. Jake went to the kitchen, needing to do something, to break the spell. He was reaching for a glass when Duncan's voice stopped him.
"Don't."
Jake turned. Duncan was standing in the doorway, a stark, beautiful vision under the soft kitchen lights. The sequined blazer caught every light source simultaneously, a constellation against his bare chest. The white linen trousers clung to his hips, and in the backlight from the hall, they became nearly transparent, revealing that Duncan was free balling, a fact that made Jake's mouth go dry.
"Come here," Duncan said, his voice low.
Jake walked toward him, his own outfit feeling both ridiculous and perfect. The flared jeans sat so low on his hips they showed the upper curve of his ass with every step. The sheer, white crop top felt like a second skin, the holographic unicorn shimmering with every breath he took. It was an outfit from a world he didn't belong in, a world Duncan was about to leave him in for two weeks.
Duncan reached out, his fingers tracing the outline of the unicorn on Jake's chest. "I want to remember you like this," he murmured. "A mythical creature I caught for one night."
He leaned in and kissed Jake, a deep, slow, possessive kiss that tasted of sweat, lip gloss and goodbye. His hands slid down Jake's back, cupping his ass through the denim, pulling their hips together.
"I'm going to fuck you like nobody nowhere has ever been fucked," Duncan whispered against his lips, his promise a raw, desperate vow. "I'm going to mark you so thoroughly that when you wake up tomorrow morning, every inch of your body will ache with the memory of me. So you won't forget who you belong to while I'm gone."
He broke the kiss, his eyes burning with an intensity that made Jake's knees weak. He took Jake's hand, his grip firm and commanding. "Come."
He led Jake out of the kitchen, not toward the stairs, but toward the large, plush rug in the center of the front room. This wasn't just a scene; it was a siege. A last, desperate stand against the coming dawn. And Jake was more than ready to be conquered. He followed willingly, his body already humming with anticipation.
In the center of the front room, Duncan stopped. He turned to face Jake, his hands going to the waistband of Jake's ridiculous, flared jeans. He popped the button, his knuckles brushing against Jake's stomach. With a slow, deliberate tug, he peeled the denim down Jake's legs, kneeling as he went. Jake stepped out of the jeans, kicking them aside.
Duncan stayed on his knees for a moment, looking up at Jake. The sheer white crop top, the holographic unicorn, the powerful, naked body—it was a contradiction that was pure Jake. He leaned forward and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Jake's hip, right next to his semi-hard cock.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.
He rose slowly, his hands tracing a path up Jake's body until they reached the hem of the crop top. He peeled it off, baring Jake's chest to the soft light. He took Jake's hand again and guided him down to the plush rug.
Jake lay back, his body a landscape of muscle and anticipation. Duncan didn't join him immediately. He stood over him, his own body a work of art in the dim light. He shrugged off the sequined blazer, letting it fall to the floor in a shimmering heap. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his linen trousers, pushing them down and stepping out of them. He was completely naked, his erection proud and demanding.
He knelt between Jake's spread legs, his weight settling over him. This time, when he kissed him, it was different. The desperation was still there, but it was layered with a deep, aching tenderness. It was a kiss of worship, of goodbye, of a man memorizing the taste and feel of the person he was about to leave.
He reached for the lube he'd left on the coffee table earlier, his movements sure and practiced. He prepped Jake slowly, his fingers gentle, his eyes locked on Jake's the entire time. This wasn't about control or punishment. This was about connection.
When he finally entered Jake, it was a slow, deliberate slide home. Jake gasped, his legs wrapping around Duncan's waist, pulling him deeper. Duncan began to move, his thrusts long and deep, a rolling rhythm that was designed to last, to be remembered. There was no rush. They had all night.
"Look at me," Duncan commanded softly.
Jake met his gaze, and in Duncan's eyes, he saw everything he was feeling—the love, the fear of separation, the desperate need to carve this moment into both of their souls. This wasn't just fucking. This was a brand.
"I love you," Duncan whispered, the words a raw against Jake's lips.
The words hung in the air between them, more powerful than any touch, more binding than any rope. Jake's breath hitched, his heart hammering against his ribs. He opened his mouth to say it back, but all that came out was a choked sob as Duncan drove into him, his hips snapping with a new, desperate urgency.
The slow, deliberate rhythm was gone, replaced by a frantic, punishing pace. This was no longer about marking or remembering; it was a raw, primal need to fuse together, to become one person so that the coming separation wouldn't tear them apart. Duncan's hands were everywhere, gripping Jake's hair, his shoulders, his hips, as if trying to memorize the shape of him through touch alone.
Jake met him thrust for thrust, his own body rising to meet Duncan's desperation. He wrapped his arms around Duncan's back, his nails digging into the smooth skin, holding on as if his life depended on it. The room was filled with the sounds of their frantic coupling—the slap of skin, the ragged gasps for air, the broken, whispered words of praise and possession.
He could feel Duncan swelling inside him, could feel the rhythm becoming erratic, uneven. "Duncan," Jake gasped, his head thrown back, his body arching off the rug. "I love you."
That was all it took. With a hoarse, broken cry, Duncan buried himself to the hilt and came, his body shuddering with the force of his release. The feeling of Duncan pulsing inside him, combined with the overwhelming emotion of the moment, sent Jake over the edge. He followed him a second later, his own orgasm tearing through him with a blinding intensity, his release coating their stomachs.
Duncan collapsed onto Jake, his weight a welcome, grounding force. For a long time, they just lay there, their bodies tangled together, their breathing slowly synchronizing. The frantic energy had burned itself out, leaving behind a profound, aching quiet.
Duncan finally propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes searching Jake's. They were red-rimmed and vulnerable, the confident mask completely gone. He leaned down and kissed Jake, a soft, gentle press of lips that was full of unspoken promises.
"I meant it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
Jake reached up and cupped his face, his thumb stroking Duncan's cheek. "I know," he said, his own voice barely a whisper. “I love you too, Sir.”
