The refrigerator chose that moment to shudder to life, its vibration making Briggs' half-empty beer bottle topple with a clatter. They broke apart with matching curses, watching foam pool across the chipped Formica toward Briggs' work papers.
Briggs lunged for the stack of invoices, but too late — the amber liquid had already seeped into next week's concrete pour calculations. "Goddammit," he growled, though Pietro didn't miss the way his gaze kept flicking to Pietro's exposed thighs where the flannel had parted.
Pietro stretched deliberately, letting the shirt gape wider. "Guess you'll have to keep me around," he purred, swiping a finger through the spilled beer and sucking it clean. "Someone's gotta help you rewrite those."
Briggs' nostrils flared. He reached across the table — slow, deliberate — and thumbed a stray grain of rice from the corner of Pietro's mouth. His calloused fingers lingered against Pietro's jaw, rough and warm and impossibly gentle.
"Stay," Briggs said quietly, his voice scraping like steel wool. "As long as you want." The words hung between them, simple and monumental. Pietro felt his pulse jump where Briggs' thumb rested against it.
Pietro swallowed the sudden thickness in his throat. "Is that a proposition, foreman?" His usual smirk felt unsteady, misaligned. The clock above the stove blinked 3:17.
Briggs exhaled through his nose, gaze dropping to where Pietro's fingers gripped his shirt cuff. "Call it a proposal," he muttered, so low Pietro almost missed it. The admission landed like a hammer strike — precise, reverberating through Pietro's ribs.
The silence stretched, filled only by the refrigerator's arrhythmic hum. Pietro realized he was gripping Briggs' wrist too tightly when the older man flexed his fingers — not pulling away, just reminding Pietro he was real. Briggs' pulse thudded against Pietro's fingertips, steady as a piledriver.
Pietro inhaled sharply — tasted soy sauce and spearmint and the lingering musk of them between the kitchen's stale air. His voice came out rougher than intended. "You're serious."
Briggs' shoulders tensed. "I don't joke about this shit." His thumb traced Pietro's knuckles where they whitened around his wrist. "This house is too goddamn big for one man."
Pietro barked a surprised laugh. The cramped bungalow couldn't be more than 800 square feet. But Briggs' eyes held something raw beneath the usual flint — something that made Pietro's gut tighten unexpectedly.
The spilled beer dripped onto Pietro's bare thigh, startlingly cold. Briggs swore and grabbed a dishrag, swiping at the mess with more force than necessary. His forearm brushed Pietro's erection through the flannel, making them both freeze.
Pietro caught Briggs' wrist again, still damp from the spilled Tsingtao. "Slow down," he murmured. The neon clock painted Briggs' stubble red when he lifted his head — revealing an expression Pietro had never seen on him: uncertainty.
Briggs exhaled sharply, his breath warm against Pietro's fingers. "Tell me what you're thinking," he ground out, like the words physically pained him.
Pietro studied their joined hands — Briggs' scarred knuckles against his tanned fingers, beer foam drying in the creases. He turned Briggs' palm up and pressed a kiss to the callused center. Felt the foreman shudder.
"I'm thinking," Pietro murmured against his lifeline, "that your bed's gonna need reinforcing."
Briggs' choked laugh sounded suspiciously wet. He dragged Pietro up by the collar of the borrowed flannel, their mouths meeting in something too desperate to be called a kiss. The chair legs screeched against linoleum as Pietro climbed into his lap, straddling him with the takeout containers digging into his shins. Briggs' hands settled on his hips — tentative at first, then firm when Pietro sucked his lower lip.
The refrigerator hummed. The clock blinked 3:23. Somewhere outside, a mockingbird sang to the streetlights. Pietro thought dimly that they should move — that the kitchen chair would leave marks on both their backs — but Briggs' mouth was hot and yielding beneath his, tasting of hops and MSG.
Briggs' hands slid up Pietro's thighs, pushing the flannel higher until cool air hit bare skin. His calluses snagged on Pietro's hip bones — not painful, just present. Real. The takeout carton dug into Pietro's calf when he shifted closer, the plastic crackling loudly in the quiet kitchen.
"You sure about this?" Briggs murmured against his throat. His fingers trembled where they gripped Pietro's waist — not from restraint, but something far more dangerous.
Pietro rocked forward deliberately, relishing the choked noise Briggs made when their erections brushed through thin fabric. He caught Briggs' earlobe between his teeth, breathing in the scent of his sweat and whatever drugstore shampoo he used. "Try getting rid of me now," he whispered, grinning when Briggs' hips jerked upward in response.
The chair groaned ominously as Briggs stood abruptly, hands under Pietro's thighs to carry him. Their foreheads bumped when Briggs misjudged the doorway, both of them laughing breathlessly against each other's mouths. Upstairs, the bed still smelled of them — salt and sex and Briggs' cheap detergent.
Briggs deposited him onto the rumpled sheets with surprising care, his thumbs brushing Pietro's hip bones like he was memorizing their shape. In the streetlight filtering through crooked blinds, Pietro saw the exact moment Briggs' usual bravado cracked — his Adam's apple bobbing as he stared down at Pietro sprawled in his flannel shirt.
"You keep looking at me like that," Pietro said, stretching to expose the bite marks Briggs had left earlier, "and I'll start thinking you've got feelings, foreman."
Briggs' answering growl vibrated through the mattress as he climbed over him. "Shut up," he muttered, but the kiss that followed was slow. Deliberate. The kind of kiss that answered questions neither had voiced aloud.
The clock ticked toward dawn. Briggs' hands — usually so sure with tools and steel — moved over Pietro with halting reverence, as if relearning every scar and sinew.
Pietro arched into the touch, and thought about kneepads left behind in Pennsylvania. About second chances buried under rebar dust and bad decisions. About how Briggs' pulse jumped when he whispered, "Again."
And then he stopped thinking altogether.
Briggs' mouth was hotter than the August sun when it slid down Pietro's thigh, breath humid against the back of his knee before teeth scraped the sensitive skin there. The groan Pietro let out sounded foreign to his own ears — raw and unguarded as Briggs pressed him face-first into the mattress, hands spreading him open like he was surveying a jobsite. The first lick made Pietro jerk violently, his fingers twisting in the sheets as Briggs chuckled against him, the vibration traveling straight to Pietro's cock where it lay heavy against his stomach.
"Never took you for a man who enjoys being eaten out," Briggs murmured, the words puffing damp heat across Pietro's hole. His thumbs pressed into the dimples above Pietro's ass, kneading the muscle there as his tongue lapped slow, wet stripes that had Pietro biting the pillow. The contrast was dizzying — this same rough foreman who'd split him open against a truck seat now working him open with unhurried devotion, beard scraping his perineum whenever Pietro tried to push back for more.
Briggs pinned him easily with one broad hand splayed across the small of his back. "Easy," he breathed against Pietro's twitching entrance, the word more caress than command. His tongue circled the furl of muscle with agonizing patience before pressing inside just enough to make Pietro sob into the mattress. The stretch burned sweetly. Briggs' beard was rough on his cheeks, his nose nudging Pietro's balls whenever he leaned in deeper.
Pietro lost time somewhere between Briggs' tongue fucking into him and the slick sound of the foreman jerking himself off at the same time. The mattress dipped as Briggs shifted, his free hand sliding up Pietro's spine to fist loosely in his hair.
"Turn over," Briggs murmured against his thigh, voice roughened by arousal. When Pietro obeyed, shivering as cool air hit his spit-slick hole, Briggs crowded between his legs with unexpected tenderness. His broad palms smoothed up Pietro's inner thighs, pushing them wider as he bent to mouth at the crease of Pietro's hip.
Pietro gasped when Briggs' tongue traced the head of his cock — not sucking yet, just swirling the bead of precum with agonizing patience. The foreman's stubble rasped against his shaft when he finally took Pietro down, working him with slow, wet pulls that made Pietro's toes curl in the sheets. Briggs hummed around him, the vibration traveling straight to Pietro's groin as one thick finger pressed against his still-loosened entrance.
Their eyes locked when Briggs pushed inside, his mouth still stretched obscenely around Pietro's cock. Pietro watched those dark irises flare as his body yielded easily to the intrusion, Briggs' finger crooking just right to make his back arch off the bed. Briggs pulled off with a filthy pop, licking his lips as he worked a second finger in alongside the first.
"Christ, you take me so good," Briggs ground out, scissoring his fingers to watch Pietro's hole flutter around them. He leaned down to lap at Pietro's balls, his tongue broad and hot as it dragged through coarse curls. Pietro's hips jerked when Briggs' thumb brushed his perineum, the dual stimulation making white spots dance behind his eyelids.
Briggs withdrew his fingers only to replace them with his tongue again, circling Pietro's rim before spearing inside with tantalizing thrusts. The wet sound of it filled the bedroom, mingling with Pietro's ragged breathing as Briggs reached up to tweak his nipples. The foreman's beard was soaked by the time he rose up on his knees, his own cock glistening as he lined himself up with Pietro's hole.
"Watch me," Briggs murmured, pressing in with excruciating slowness. Pietro gasped at the stretch — not painful now, just deliciously full as Briggs bottomed out, their hips meeting flush. Briggs paused there, letting Pietro adjust before beginning a slow rock that made their skin slap together softly. His hands framed Pietro's face, thumbs brushing the stubble along Pietro's jawline.
Pietro wrapped his legs around Briggs' waist, pulling him deeper as their foreheads touched. The angle changed subtly — Briggs' cockhead brushing that place inside him with every languid stroke. Briggs kissed him then, swallowing Pietro's moans as their hips moved in tandem. The sheets beneath them were damp with sweat, clinging to Pietro's back as Briggs rolled them sideways without breaking their connection.
Briggs' hand slipped between them to stroke Pietro in time with their thrusts, his grip loose and teasing. Pietro arched into the touch, his fingers digging into Briggs' shoulders where sweat made their skin slide deliciously. The foreman's breath hitched when Pietro clenched around him deliberately — a slow squeeze that made Briggs groan against his neck.
Their rhythm faltered as pleasure built — no longer controlled strokes but desperate lunges as Briggs' fingers tightened on Pietro's cock. Pietro came first with a broken cry, spilling hot sperm between their stomachs as Briggs shuddered through his own release, his hips stuttering erratically. They stayed joined afterward, Briggs' softening cock still inside him as they exchanged lazy kisses, tasting salt and exhaustion on each other's lips.
The fan overhead stirred the humid air as Briggs finally pulled out with a wet sound, collapsing beside Pietro with a satisfied grunt. His palm settled on Pietro's abs, sticky with sweat and cum, but neither moved to clean up yet. Briggs pressed his nose to Pietro's temple, breathing him in as Pietro tangled their legs together beneath the rumpled sheets.
"Pietro," Briggs murmured, voice rougher than usual — not from sex this time, but something else. His thumb traced Pietro's bottom lip, hesitating before he spoke again. "I ... fuck." He exhaled sharply. "I love you, okay? There. Said it."
Pietro blinked up at the water stain on the ceiling — the same one he'd studied earlier — before turning his head to face Briggs. The foreman's eyes held a vulnerability Pietro had never seen before, like steel beams stripped of their protective coating. He watched Briggs' throat work as he swallowed hard, clearly regretting the admission already.
"Christ, don't look at me like that," Briggs muttered, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling fan's wobbling rotation. The ancient fixture squeaked with each turn, mimicking the erratic thump of Pietro's heartbeat.
Pietro turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He dragged his fingers through the coarse hair on Briggs' chest, feeling the rapid pulse beneath. "Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to take it back," Briggs ground out, jaw clenched.
Pietro leaned down and sucked the tendon of Briggs' neck — not hard enough to mark, just enough to make him hiss. "Took you long enough," he murmured against Briggs' skin, tasting salt. "I love you too, asshole."
Briggs went utterly still beneath him. The fan continued its uneven orbit above them, casting shifting shadows across Briggs' stunned expression. He turned his face into Pietro's hair, inhaling deeply like he was committing the moment to memory. His fingers dug into Pietro's shoulder blades — not painful, just present. Real.
"Say it again," Briggs demanded roughly, pulling back to search Pietro's face.
Pietro grinned and kissed the corner of Briggs' mouth — that perpetually downturned spot that rarely smiled. "I love you," he whispered directly against Briggs' lips, feeling them tremble beneath his. "Even when you're being a stubborn bastard."
Briggs' responding kiss tasted suspiciously like relief.
"We got ourselves a situation here," Briggs muttered against Pietro's lips, his hands tightening on Pietro's hips —half possessive, half disbelieving. The streetlight through the blinds painted silver streaks across Briggs' trembling biceps, betraying the effort it took him to stay still when every instinct must have screamed to climb atop Pietro again, to seal the confession with bruises and sweat.
Downstairs, the forgotten takeout containers would be congealing into something unrecognizable. Pietro traced the scar on Briggs' collarbone — a souvenir from a falling beam last winter — and felt the foreman's pulse stutter under his fingertips. "What kind of situation, exactly?" he taunted softly, biting Briggs' earlobe just to feel him shiver.
Briggs exhaled sharply through his nose. "The kind where I wake up tomorrow and this turns out to be heatstroke hallucination." His fingers flexed on Pietro's midriff — not pulling away, just anchoring.
Pietro rolled them abruptly, pinning Briggs to the mattress with his full weight. The older man's surprised grunt morphed into a groan when Pietro ground their hips together, still sticky with drying spend. "Still feel like a hallucination?" Pietro murmured, dragging his teeth along Briggs' jaw.
Briggs' pupils blew wider, his hands sliding up Pietro's back to fist in his hair. "Christ, you're gonna kill me," he rasped, but arched up into the contact anyway, his body betraying the fear in his eyes. Pietro kissed him slow and deep, pouring every unspoken promise into the slide of their tongues — no more games, no more pretending.
When they broke apart, Briggs' gaze dropped to Pietro's mouth like a man memorizing scripture. "Say it once more," he demanded, voice scraped raw.
Pietro laughed breathlessly and pressed their foreheads together. "Ti amo, stronzo," he whispered — the Italian curling warm and familiar off his tongue. Briggs didn't understand the words, but the way Pietro's thumb brushed his cheekbone filled in the blanks.
The refrigerator hummed to life downstairs. Briggs' fingers tightened convulsively in Pietro's hair as if to say, Don't you dare take it back now.
Pietro didn't.
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