The apartment wore its darkness like a bruise, the under-cabinet lights bleeding a low amber across the kitchen counter like honey poured over rot and called sweet.
Jake eased the door shut behind him, the click of the lock landing like a confession he wasn’t ready to make.
“Late night,” came a voice, slicing through the dark.
Jake turned toward the kitchen table where Clay sat, his silhouette framed by city lights that bled through the blinds. His T-shirt was worn thin and his sweatpants sagged low on his hip, while a glass of bourbon rested in his hand.
“Yeah. Sorry,” Jake said, dropping his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door before kicking off his shoes. “You know how it is. Gotta grind if I want the big payout.”
He could taste the stink as the words left his mouth.
Clay’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve always been good at the grind.” He swirled the bourbon, the liquid catching the light like a slow-burning fuse. “It'll pay off sooner or later, I’m sure.”
Jake moved to the fridge, the low hum filling the space where truth should’ve gone. He cracked open a water bottle, took a sip, and let the silence do the talking.
“It’s been a while since you’ve had time for us,” Clay added, setting his glass down with a quiet thud. “I miss you.”
Jake kept his back turned, his eyes locked on the bottle like the label might offer something worth saying, while the air pulsed with everything he’d buried under Haven’s touch and sin-soaked sheets.
Clay stood, moving with the slow certainty of a man who never needed to raise his voice to get what he wanted. “You’ve been distant lately.”
Jake’s shoulders tensed. “I’m just tired.”
Clay stopped just behind him, close enough that Jake could feel the heat of his body and the faint brush of his breath against the back of his neck.
“I know,” Clay said, his voice softer now. “The job takes a lot out of you. Makes you forget what’s waiting at home.”
Jake’s grip tightened on the water bottle. “I haven’t forgotten.”
A hand found the small of his back, tracing his spine through the fabric. “I thought we could try something,” Clay said. “Help us reconnect.”
Jake glanced over his shoulder. “Reconnect,” he echoed. “Like therapy?”
Clay’s lips twitched. “Therapy’s for people who talk about their problems. I’d rather fix them.” His fingers hooked into a belt loop with a gentle tug. “Let me take care of you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Clay cut in, his voice like hot wax.
He tugged again. “Come sit.”
Jake let himself be guided to the couch, the leather groaning under his weight. Clay kneeled in front of him with the grace of a man performing a rite long perfected. His hands settled on Jake’s thighs while his thumbs drew lazy circles. “What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t take care of you?”
Jake didn’t answer.
Clay’s fingers moved to his belt, the buckle’s soft clink echoing the one from Haven’s penthouse hours earlier. The memory of black silk and neon lights flashed in Jake’s mind, but he shoved it down into the place where his better judgment kept losing, forcing himself to focus on the familiar weight of Clay’s hands as they tugged the waistband of his jeans lower, exposing him to the dim light.
Clay leaned in closer, his breath hot against Jake’s inner thigh as his lips trailed upward. He nuzzled against his skin, his stubble grazing lightly, sending sparks up Jake’s spine.
“Relax,” Clay whispered, his voice vibrating against Jake’s thigh. “Let me remind you why you come home to me.”
Jake’s hands clenched the cushions, the leather sticking to his palms as Clay’s mouth hovered over him. His tongue darted out in a slow, flat lick from base to tip, tasting him with a patience that made Jake groan. His hips shifted involuntarily as Clay repeated the motion, slower this time, savoring every inch.
The warmth of Clay’s mouth enveloped him then, taking him in inch by inch until Jake felt the back of Clay’s throat. Clay’s tongue swirled lazily against the underside, while his hands slid higher, one cupping Jake’s balls with a gentle squeeze, rolling them in his palm while the other gripped Jake’s hip, holding him steady.
Clay hollowed his cheeks, the suction tight and perfect, drawing a broken moan from Jake’s lips.
“Fuck,” Jake breathed, his fingers finally tangling in Clay’s hair despite himself, the strands soft and familiar under his grip. Clay hummed in response, the vibration sending a jolt straight through Jake, making his toes curl against the carpet. Clay’s pace quickened just enough to tease the edge, then slowed again, dragging it out, his tongue flicking relentlessly.
The heat built slow and electric, curling in Jake’s gut. Clay’s free hand trailed lower, his fingers brushing between Jake’s cheeks, circling the sensitive skin there without pushing in, just teasing, mirroring the way Haven had earlier but with a tenderness that felt like a lie Jake wanted to believe.
His hips bucked, chasing more, the guilt fading under the wet slide of Clay’s mouth and the firm press of his fingers. Jake’s vision spotted, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the ache bloomed into something unbearable. He came hard, a shuddering release that tore through him, his body seizing as he spilled into Clay’s mouth.
Clay took it all, his movements steady until Jake was spent, then pulled back slowly, licking his lips with a casual swipe of his tongue. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes meeting Jake’s as he stood, picking up his bourbon from the table and taking a slow sip, the ice clinking like a quiet victory.
“Feel better?” he asked.
Jake let out a long breath, his mind still reeling in the haze. “Yeah,” he managed.
Clay smiled. “Good. Your job’s hard enough without you carrying all that tension.”
Jake tugged his jeans back up, the zipper loud in the quiet room. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he said as he stood. “I can handle it.”
“Oh, I know you can,” Clay said, his voice smooth as the bourbon in his glass. “But we’re a team. We’re in this together.”
Jake grabbed his water bottle and headed toward the hallway. “I’m gonna shower."
Clay didn’t follow, but Jake could feel his gaze watching him before he disappeared into the bathroom.
Clay stood alone in the kitchen, sipping the last of his bourbon as the sound of running water filled the silence.
His phone buzzed on the table.
He picked it up and tapped the screen.
New message from H.
When do I get to be your dirty little secret again?
He stared at the text.
Then he raised the glass to his lips.
And smiled.
