he shouldn't have come here. it was always the same; late night meetings in a different hotel each time, the lights low or off completely. it wasn't because he didn't want to see you— the opposite in fact. slade thought you were beautiful, despite you being a man.

he left the lights off due to his own burning shame, the familiar pool of guilt and arousal filling his gut as soon as he gently clicked the door open and shut. he never understood how someone, let alone some civilian, could make him feel this conflicted.

"i'm late. i know." slade breathed, his fingers flicking the lock on the door as he approached; slow, unsure steps. the only reason he was late was thanks to himself, trying to talk himself out of coming at all. you deserved more than this; shady meetings in a hotel, grasping onto these little moments like a junkie needing their next fix.

or maybe that was slade. he knew he should've ended this. he wasn't gay— or at least, he had convinced himself for the better half of two decades he wasn't, until he met you.

finally, his hands hovered above your waist. touching you felt wrong, but so good. being this close to you was enough to make his breath uneven and his fingertips to jolt with electricity.

you deserved happiness. to be with someone who didn't push you away and conceal you to the shadowy corners of their life, like slade often did. why you hadn't broken this off, whatever this was, remained a mystery. he was bad for you, you knew that. you were too good for him, he knew that also.

with you standing there, looking so perfect and so appetizing, who was he to deny either of you the real reason you both came? his hands, in a gentle grasp, finally pulled you closer; his lips meeting yours in a tender, exploratory kiss.