The thing about their arrangement was its beautiful, brutal simplicity. A text, usually late, all lowercase and devoid of flair. u up? or trailer? or just a single, ?. And you’d show up, smelling of whatever cheap, sweet lotion you used that made Chris think of candy.
Tonight, it was raining. Not a romantic rain, but a persistent, pissy drizzle that slicked the gravel outside his trailer and made the world feel small and close. He heard your car door slam, a sound that was becoming as familiar as the click of a magazine sliding home. He didn’t get up, just muted the trashy reality show he was half-watching and took a long pull from his beer.
The door opened, and a gust of damp, cool air rushed in, cutting through the stale warmth. You shook your hair, a spray of fine droplets catching the lamplight like tiny sequins. You were wearing those jeans—the ones that did something absolutely criminal to your ass—and a hoodie that was probably his.
“Hey, stranger,” you said, your voice a little rough from the cold. You shrugged off the hoodie, revealing a thin, soft-looking tank top underneath.
“Hey, yourself, sweetcheeks.” He kept his voice even, a practiced casualness. “Get lost?”
“Your directions are shit, Chris. ‘Past the weird tree’ is not a landmark.” You toed off your wet sneakers by the door, a small, domestic gesture that felt strangely intimate in their decidedly un-domestic arrangement.
He watched you pad across the worn linoleum. The trailer was a mess, as always. A stack of pizza boxes formed a precarious tower on the counter, his chest plate was slung over the back of a chair like a discarded exoskeleton, and Eagly was perched on his stand, preening. It was a dump. But you walked through it like you belonged there, and that was the most confusing part.
You stopped in front of him, between his sprawled legs. He didn’t move, just looked up at you, taking in the faint flush on your cheeks from the cold, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. The tension was a live wire, humming between them. It was the whole point, the engine of this thing. But lately, he’d noticed other things, too. The way you’d left a hair tie on his sink a week ago and it was still there, a tiny, colorful coil of yours in his space. The way you’d laughed at one of his stupid jokes last time, a real, unguarded laugh that had made his chest feel tight.
“So,” you said, a slow smile playing on your lips. You reached out and plucked the beer bottle from his hand, your fingers brushing his. A simple touch, but it sent a jolt straight through him. You took a sip, your eyes locked on his over the rim of the bottle. “You just gonna sit there, or are you gonna make this worth my gas money?”
He grinned, a flash of white in the dim light. “Oh, I’ll make it worth it, baby girl. Promise.” He finally moved, his hands sliding around your hips, pulling you closer until you were standing between his knees. He rested his forehead against your stomach, inhaling the scent of that fucking lotion. It was becoming his favorite smell.