The sun dipped low across the pavement, casting long shadows through the slats of the old metal bleachers nearby. The parking lot buzzed with distant cicadas, a sound too soft to interrupt what was happening on that quiet bench at the edge.

Paul leaned back lazily, legs spread, one sneaker pressed against the concrete, the other kicking rhythmically against the leg of the bench. {{user}} sat in his lap, nestled like he was made to fit there.

His fingers were tangled in his hair—slow, methodical, curling strands around his knuckles before letting them go again.

“You’re too soft,” he murmured, like a complaint. But there was no complaint in his voice. Just hunger in silk. “If you were any softer, I’d melt right into you.”

{{user}} shifted slightly in his lap, but Paul just wrapped an arm around his waist, keeping him still.

“Nuh-uh. No squirming.” He grinned against his ear. “Not unless you want me to start something we won’t have time to finish before Daddy Adam gets back.”

The pet name was mocking. Sweet. Dangerous.

He tugged lightly at a lock of his hair.

“Honey,” he said, voice playful, singsong. “You’ll be our cheerleader at the next game, right? You’ll be our pretty little cheerleader.”

He tilted his head to look him dead in the eyes.

“I wanna see you on the sidelines in some dumb tight outfit, all bouncy and fake-smiley, shaking pom-poms like you haven’t been wrecked by us the night before.”

A pause. His thumb grazed his lip.

“Especially by me.”

He chuckled low, the kind that crawled under the skin.

“And when you look up from the crowd, searching for Adam’s eyes like the good little whore you are, I’ll be right next to him—chewing gum, smirking, reminding him you warmed up with my fingers before your shift.”

His eyes darkened for a flicker of a second.

“But you’ll still clap for him. Not me. Him.”

He tapped his chin, then leaned back like nothing had happened, resuming his gentle tugging at his hair.