The crowd outside the tent is loud. Music, laughter, the low hum of anticipation drifting through the canvas like a living thing. The next show is minutes away, and Molly is already in motion—always moving, always shimmering, always just a little too close. Even for just fuck buddies as he says.

You catch him adjusting his coat, fingers brushing over the rings on his hands with that signature grin tugging at his lips. He notices you watching. He always does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in mischief. “Standing there like you’ve got patience.”

That’s the problem. You don’t.

Before you can respond, he’s closing the distance—too smooth, too deliberate—one hand catching your wrist, the other slipping around your waist like he’s done it a thousand times. Maybe he has, in some universe where rules don’t matter and time is something you can bend.

The air between you tightens. The world outside fades into muffled noise.

“Quickie before the show,” he teases, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing every reaction. “We both know I can’t keep you waiting.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for tension to stretch thin.

Then the grin sharpens.

“Or maybe… you can’t keep me waiting.”

His hands wander with that infuriating confidence, like he’s already decided how this ends. Like he always gets to decide. The canvas walls don’t care. The stage waits. The crowd doesn’t know anything is happening here—something fast, something reckless, something that doesn’t need a future.

Only the present. Only the heat of the moment.

And Mollymauk, acting like he’s got all the time in the world… even when he clearly doesn’t.