Between the Studs
By Sunday night I had to admit the town hadn’t changed at all. The streets were still mostly shuttered shops and that single sad pub that looked like it hadn’t seen fresh paint since the ’90s. But somehow, walking it with Scott made everything feel different.
We spent most of the weekend outside of the hotel: cheap breakfasts at the café across from the gas station, a farmers’ market that sold more rusted tools than actual vegetables, a tiny bookstore where the owner hovered like we were about to steal the last Stephen King paperback. None of it should have been fun, yet it was.
We laughed a lot. Scott had this way of pointing at things, road signs, crooked fences, a forlorn dog sleeping in the sun, and making them sound like the punchline to a joke I hadn’t seen coming. I kept telling myself it was just the company, that the beers and the good sex had me seeing everything in softer light.
But sometime between the second farmers’ market coffee and watching him tease a kid at the arcade basketball hoop, I realized the boring town hadn’t gotten better. I had. Or worse. I was falling for the guy who still checked his phone whenever I reached for another joke.
The issue was that we got on too well. We were very similar in terms of humor, a kind of dry sarcasm that makes other people think you’re fighting when you’re actually just trying to one-up each other for a laugh.
We’d both spent years living out of duffel bags on short-term contracts, so neither of us needed fancy dinners or big plans to have a good time. A couple of beers and the back of a pickup was enough. We knew the language of early mornings, sore backs, and bad hotel pillows.
Where we differed was what made it work. I was the restless one, always talking about the next job, next location, the next break from routine. Scott was quieter, the guy who could stand in one spot for ten minutes watching birds in a field like it was a national sport. I filled silences; he let them stretch until they became comfortable.
That balance made the weekend feel easy. He steadied me effortlessly, and I made him laugh harder than he expected. We could tease each other about our calloused hands and bad tan lines, then slip straight into arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
It almost felt like a holiday romance, two guys blowing off steam in a small town, but it was edging into something else. That was the problem.
For me it was anyway.
Sunday late afternoon, after we’d beaten the same path on Main Street for the umpteenth time, we headed back to the hotel, both dragging our feet from the long day.
“Our last week on the job. I was expecting to be done by about Wednesday, then maybe hover around for an extra day and make sure it’s perfect. Then I guess it’s time to head home. What’s next for you?” I asked, already feeling a pit of dread in my stomach.
Our arms lightly brushed a few times on the walk back.
“Probably hang around until Friday anyway, begin the drive early Friday so I’m home by late afternoon. A few days off, then got a small job lined up in Tampa,” Scott said, leading the way into the hotel.
I followed him to the lifts, nodded politely to the hotel receptionist who didn’t seem to care if we existed.
The lift hummed as it climbed. We were both dusty-tired, dragging our boots like the weekend had wrung us out and the easy spark from yesterday seemed to have drained away.
Scott shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder.
“Think I’m gonna crash early,” he said. “Might just shower and zone out in front of the TV.”
He didn’t look at me when he said it, just stared at the glowing floor numbers.
“Yeah, good call,” I said, as if I hadn’t already pictured us lying on his bed doing that together.
When the lift opened at my floor I gave a small wave and stepped out. He stayed inside, eyes already on the door-close button.
Back in my room I dropped my bag by the door. The room felt bigger than it had on Friday, like the silence had stretched it wider. I showered, scrolled my phone, thought about texting him something dumb like “Movie?” then deleted it.
The TV flickered through hotel cable shows I didn’t care about. I ended up lying on the bed staring at the ceiling fan, missing the sound of his laugh more than I’d expected to.
I had to sit with the realization that something about Scott had already knocked me sideways.
By eight that night I couldn’t stand the four walls anymore and went out for a walk. I walked around town for a few minutes, but soon felt even more alone when I walked past places only hours earlier I’d visited with Scott.
Everything was suddenly a memory of him.
An hour later, I was back in my room, lying on my bed, still resisting the urge to text him.
I fell asleep with my phone in my hand, still deliberating over texting him.
At 6:30 a.m., I was at breakfast downstairs, which was included in the package. My routine was to load up for the day and be on-site by 7.
Scott came in, a smile on his face and looking way too chipper for that hour.
“Last week!” he said, too happy as he went off to get his breakfast.
I didn’t share his excitement. The dining room smelled of burnt toast and those little cartons of orange juice. Plates clattered as the breakfast server set tables and brought out more food.
Scott dumped a pile of bacon and eggs on his plate as if the weekend hadn’t happened. I stirred the last of my coffee, wondering how we’d gone from sharing pizza and beers in bed to this polite breakfast silence.
We ate without much talk beyond the usual: weather, the drive home, how bad the coffee was. By seven we were in Scott’s pickup, which we’d retrieved the morning before, heading to the site, the fan blowing dust that smelled faintly of sweat and sawdust.
The drive was short but quiet. Scott hummed along with the radio; I stared out at the flat stretch of road, counting the dead gum trees along the fence line just to keep from thinking.
When we rolled up to the building, the only vehicle out front was mine. When we went inside, only our pickups were out front.
The building looked half asleep without the usual swarm of hi-vis vests.
“It’s so weird to see the whole site so empty,” I said to Scott as we entered.
He nodded. “Rarely happens.”
Inside, the echo of our boots on the concrete floor made the place feel even larger. Light came in through the uncurtained windows in long bars that caught the dust drifting in the air.
Scott hauled his toolbox to the ground-floor corridor to start testing outlets.
“Gonna make this stretch out so I’m not sitting around twiddling thumbs the last two days,” he said.
“Shout if you get bored,” I muttered, hauling my own gear upstairs to finish the last bit of trim near the conference room, not entirely sure why I’d said that.
For most of the morning the only sounds were the occasional drill, the snap of a tape measure, and the muffled thud of my nail gun upstairs. Every so often Scott called up, his voice echoing through the empty hall.
From downstairs Scott called up, “You’re not gonna set the alarm off with that nail-gun, are you?”
“Only if you short the breaker first,” I yelled back.
The banter was light, but nothing like the weekend’s easy teasing. The silence in between felt heavy, as if the building itself was listening.
By midday we broke for lunch on the back steps, each with our own sandwiches and bottled water. I noticed the bush where we’d both peed as I sat next to him.
Scott scrolled his phone while he ate; I watched the wind push dust across the undeveloped land and tried not to notice how far away he suddenly felt.
That afternoon, as Scott worked in his area, I continued at my pace, not wanting to accelerate as I had been, because I was dreading leaving.
We left that day, drove our own pickups back to the hotel, where Scott disappeared.
Tuesday morning, I went to breakfast a few minutes later, and discovered Scott had gone down a little earlier.
He grinned as I sat down with my tray of hot food.
“Sleep in, did we?” he said with a laugh, reading on his phone, like we hadn’t shared a bed all weekend.
“Something like that,” I said, picking up my phone and checking messages.
“We need to time our breakfasts better,” he said, smiling, not taking his eyes off his phone and shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth.
Tuesday became an exercise in control for me, forcing myself to focus on myself, my next steps and what was right for me. I’d come to realize that Scott and I had fulfilled a fantasy, but that was it. A great weekend, never to be repeated.
That afternoon, I wrapped up and put my things away, then went to see if Scott wanted a lift or planned to stay longer.
I found him leaning against the wall, arms resting on his knees, looking across the room at nothing in particular.
“Hey, are you alright?” I asked him, standing in the doorway.
He looked at me, but I couldn’t work out what his mood was about.
I stepped into the room, watching him but not saying anything.
He kind of nodded, but didn’t really say anything, so I walked up and sat next to him, back against the same wall, my arm brushing his. The concrete felt cool through my shirt; his arm was warm where it pressed against mine.
We both stared at the opposite wall.
I didn’t know what else to say. “What color do you reckon they’ll paint it?”
He gave a small sigh, eyes still on the wall. “White. Or something safe. They always go for safe.”
I smiled at that. “Safe’s easy to clean. Hides nothing though. Shows every mark.”
“Yeah,” he said, still studying the wall. “But you don’t have to think about it. No risk of choosing wrong. No one complains about white.”
We both sat there staring at the empty stretch of drywall like it was trying to tell us something, as if it might crack first if we stared long enough.
I ran a finger across the seam of the baseboard next to me. “Kind of feels like a shame. Could be anything right now. Doesn’t have to be safe.”
His shoulder shifted just enough to brush mine. “Sometimes safe keeps the place standing,” he muttered, almost to himself.
The compulsion to turn and hug him was strong, but also felt wrong. Whatever conflict he was dealing with, was his to work through.
I pushed myself off the wall, brushed the dust from my palms.
“If you want to talk, I’m here,” I said, and started to turn for the door.
“Ever order pine for a frame,” Scott said suddenly, his voice low, “and end up liking the hardwood they shipped by mistake… but it changes the whole build?”
I paused, hand on the doorway, then looked back at him. His eyes stayed on the blank stretch of wall as if he’d spoken to it instead of me.
“Yeah,” I said after a beat. “Then you just paint over it.”
He let out a rough breath, thumb tracing a line through the dust at his boot as if he needed his hands to be busy.
I crossed back and dropped beside him again. “If it makes the structure better, you keep it,” I said quietly. “You just stop worrying about the invoice.”
We stayed like that for a long minute, shoulders touching, both staring at the wall as if the drywall might answer first.
After a while he rested a hand on my knee, gave it a quick squeeze, then stood and held out a hand to haul me up.
We stood close, silent, the smell of sawdust still clinging to his shirt. His eyes looked like he wanted to ask something he couldn’t frame in words.
“You know,” I said finally, “I always thought I was a white-picket-fence guy too.”
That drew the ghost of a smile out of him.
He stepped in and wrapped me into a rough hug, chin on my shoulder.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” he said into my neck.
“You don’t have to call it anything right now,” I murmured. “Just stop fighting it for a minute. See where it goes.”
He laughed softly, his shoulders shaking against me. For a heartbeat we both went still, caught between stopping and giving in. Then I felt the slow press of his cock against mine.
I pulled back just enough to glance around the empty room.
“You know what this room’s going to be?”
He nodded. “Probably someone’s office.”
I smiled. He was probably right. “Late one night, someone’s going to have sex in here.”
He laughed, eyes locking with mine again, blue eyes sparking. “Maybe we should christen it, while we’re still here.”
Scott didn’t have to ask twice. I moved in and kissed him, tasting sweat and sawdust on his lips.
We went from that kiss to backs hitting the wall, hands dragging at clothes like we’d run out of patience.
My shorts slid down to my boots; his belt clinked to the floor. Scott pressed in until my spine met the concrete, one hand cradling the back of my head so I didn’t hit the wall too hard.
The first time our cocks brushed skin-to-skin we both swore under our breath.
His breath was hot against my ear, our mouths still finding each other between ragged kisses, tasting of salt, dust and coffee.
I felt his hips move against mine, a slow grind that made me push back before I even thought about it.
His other hand found my waist, slid down over the curve of my ass, pulled me in tighter.
We didn’t speak; the room filled only with our ragged breathing and the faint squeak of our boots on the dusty concrete.
His grip tightened on my hip, my fingers dug into the back of his neck, and for a moment the whole site narrowed to the scrape of concrete at my spine and the heat of him pressed against me.
Scott dropped to his knees, pulling my cock into his mouth and sucking on it. I lifted my head, the sensation of his hot mouth taking me in, suddenly consuming me. My hands grabbed his head, as though to slow him down, but also because I didn’t want him to stop.
There were sounds outside, birds, wind blowing, cars somewhere in the distance as he took me all the way into his mouth.
I tried to catch my breath, and knew if he kept at that pace I’d blow, so quickly lifted him gently by the head.
He kissed me again, pushing his body into mine, and his cock against mine.
I turned him roughly to the wall, pushed him against it and dropped to my knees, taking his already familiar cock into my mouth.
“Fuck!” he said, as I swallowed all of him, savoring him.
My hands massaged his balls, my mouth sucked on the head and then the whole shaft, gently and also with urgency, wanting to taste all of him.
“I’m too close!” he whispered, as though the room would judge us.
I got up, bringing my hand to hold both our cocks in my fist while our bodies pressed close.
We kissed with more urgency, both in the same place, both ready and knowing we had choices after.
He breathed heavily into my mouth as he climaxed, I felt him throb in my hand at the same time as my own exploded between us. I didn’t care about the mess we made and where it went, only that I had Scott with me, kissing me as we blew our loads between us.
We kept going, enjoying the kiss even as I felt the last of it drip down the root of my cock, around my balls, and down my legs.
Scott and I stood with each other for a while, neither of us wanting to move. Just enjoying that closeness, with the smell of our semen wafting up as I kept him pinned gently to the wall, holding him tight and breathing into his neck, our lips connected, trying not to think about what might happen next.
Scott pulled my face towards his, and kissed me, looking into my eyes.
“I’m sorry, I tried to push you away because…”
I shook my head. “Don’t. You have shit to work out. I get it, and I’m not going to push you.”
He smiled, with a look that showed his conflict.
“Let’s have dinner.”
I nodded. “I’d like that.”
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