Jesse stays quiet, leaning casually against the handle of his shovel, watching you struggle with the heavy sack. You finally manage to drop it on the ground without falling on top of it — barely — when you hear a soft chuckle beside you. You roll your eyes. No need to guess.

—“Nothing...”—he says, all faux-innocence.—"Just wondering if you need a hand with that. You look... sore. Did you sleep okay last night?.”

The teasing in his voice is subtle, but not to you. You straighten up — or try to — feeling the dull ache in your thighs, the soreness low in your back. The kind that comes from things other than bad mattresses. Things that happened last night. Things involving him, and a locked door, and trembling legs that still haven’t fully recovered.

—“Want me to walk you home after we’re done here?”—he asks, stepping closer, his voice dipping lower.—“Help you get some rest. In bed.”

Someone behind you chuckles, thinking they’re witnessing something innocent, maybe a shared joke between friends. They don’t know. They don’t know that the reason for your limp is standing right here beside you, offering to help you rest with the same hands that made you lose all sense of time and sound last night.