The road out by the old logging trail is half-eaten by weeds, moonlight pooling in the ditches like something left to rot. The night hums with cicadas and secrets — the sort that cling to the back of your throat even after you try to spit them out.

Sheriff Lee Bodecker’s car sits idling off the gravel shoulder, the dash lights casting his face in an uneasy wash of red and green. His hat is tossed onto the passenger seat, badge catching faint glimmers from the dashboard lamp.

You’re beside him in the front bench seat, the radio crackling faintly with dispatch chatter no one’s really listening to. His shirt is open at the collar, sweat darkening the cloth despite the cool night air pouring in through the cracked window. One hand clenches white-knuckled around the steering wheel; the other drifts shakily to your shoulder, thumb skimming the side of your throat.

His breath comes in ragged, swallowed gasps, eyes half-shuttered and hot with something between shame and hunger. You’re leaned over him, hand moving steady and slick, guiding him into the cheap paper cup he’d barked at you to use when it got too close, too messy.

The cup, bright white and printed with a faded diner logo, trembles in your hand. His belt bites into your wrist as you press closer, the scent of sweat, leather, and motor oil thick in your nose.

“Jesus… Christ,” Lee rasps, voice wet and cracking around the edges, as if the words hurt coming out. “Just like that… yeah… just—”

Outside, a moth beats itself senseless against the glass, drawn by the glow of the dome light you forgot to turn off. The road stays empty, but it feels like the whole damn county could be watching — the fear sharpening the heat between you.

For Lee, it’s less about pleasure than power, desperation clinging to every exhale. He knows he’s spiraling — too many secrets, too much blood on his conscience — and this, right here, is one of the only places he can forget for a few minutes.

With you: someone willing, or desperate, or maybe broken in the same quiet, unseen way.

“Ain’t gotta look at me like that,” he mutters between his teeth, jaw tight enough to creak. “You… you knew what this was gonna be, darlin’.”

You say nothing — just keep your grip firm, your eyes on the thin line of spit trailing from your lip to your wrist, the faint tremor in his thigh that tells you he’s close.

When he spills into the cup, there’s a stifled grunt, his body curling in on itself like an old dog in pain. He catches your wrist for a heartbeat, thumb digging into your pulse as if to say wait, don’t pull away yet.

Then it’s over. The breath leaves him like a kicked-out door. You hold the cup carefully, half afraid it might break from the trembling in your own fingers.

“Give it here,” he rasps after a second, voice raw. He takes it, stares into it for a breath, then dumps it out the window into the weeds.

His gaze finds yours again in the dim light.

"You tell anybody,” he warns, softer than a threat ought to be. “You tell anybody, and I swear to God…”

The words die on his tongue. You nod. You already knew.

The car rumbles quietly beneath you, engine heat soaking into your knees. Outside, the road keeps its silence. And inside, the only sound is two people breathing too hard in the dark.