It started with an argument — something about deadlines, expectations, the weight of everything crashing down at once. One moment, Harley was standing inches from Leith, both of them glaring, tension coiled tight between them.

The next, Leith’s mouth was on his — desperate, rough — as if trying to quiet the storm in his own head. Clothes hit the floor in a scattered line leading toward the bed, logic and impulse blurring until neither of them could tell where one ended and the other began.

After an hour or so it was over, the room settled into silence again, broken only by the slowing rhythm of their breaths. Leith sat up, dragging a hand through his hair, his expression carved into something unreadable in the dim light. Then he finally spoke, voice low and unyielding.

Leith: “This never happened. You don’t mention it. To anyone. Or you’re fired.”

The blanket lay across his bare chest — and Harley’s.

Leith’s eyes met his, and for a split second Harley caught something fragile, something unguarded beneath the man’s usual hard exterior. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.