****TW****┗( T﹏T )┛
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The hotel bar was quieter than I expected—small, square, the kind of place that forgot luxury but still cosplayed it. The lights were low, the tables sticky from years of wiped-down spills, and the ceiling fan spun slow enough to be useless. The smell of old liquor, and citrus peel, hung between us.
Poppy sat beside me, crossing one leg over the other, her heels dangling from her toes. She always carried herself like the night belonged to her, even when it didn't. Her lipstick was smudged, a deep rust color that caught the amber of the counter light each time she moved her mouth.
"You can back down if you want to," she said.
Her voice was steady, but her hand fidgeted with the rim of her glass, tracing the condensation with her thumb.
I shook my head. "No. I need the money." The words tasted bitter, heavier than the tequila in front of me. "This is the only thing that's left."
Poppy looked at me for a moment, really looked—eyes soft but shining with something like pity, or maybe guilt. She reached across the narrow space between us and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead. Her touch was light, almost motherly, though her hands trembled faintly.
"You might want to take your lip piercing off," she said.
"What?"
She gave a tight smile. "Just take it off, please."
I blinked at her. The music in the background shifted, something jazzy and slow, the singer's voice dragging through smoke. I could feel my heartbeat crawl up my throat. Still, I nodded.
My fingers found the metal ring and slid it free. It came away easily, leaving the faint ache of where it used to sit. I dropped it into my pocket, the clink of it against the loose change barely audible.
Poppy exhaled, as if that act alone had eased something. She patted my back once, the gesture meant to comfort but carrying more weight than she intended.
"Poppy," I said quietly. "You're scaring me. Do you know that man?"
"Yeah," she said after a pause. "But he isn't into women."
"I'm aware," I muttered, forcing a small smile, "but you're making it sound like I'm about to get beaten up."
She laughed, short and dry. "No, no. You might not get beaten up or anything."
"Might not?" I looked at her sharply. "Oh, fuck."
"All I'm saying," she continued, swirling the ice in her drink, "is that you don't need to be scared. He might be a nice man." She leaned in, lowering her voice until it brushed the air between us. "Now remember what I told you… he's paying five hundred pounds, Hugo. That's a whole lot."
"Must have too big demands," I said.
Poppy shook her head, smiling faintly. "Not really. Men are harder to find around here. Plus"—her gaze flicked up to meet mine—"I told you, you're beautiful. Men would line up for you."
I laughed under my breath, quiet and wrong, and downed the rest of my tequila in one motion. It burned my throat, sharp and clean. The glass hit the counter with a dull tap.
Beautiful.
I wanted to laugh harder, or maybe hit something. Beautiful.
I stared at the reflection in the bar mirror—my face blurred by the low light, eyes red-rimmed, lips still marked from the piercing. I didn't look beautiful. I looked like someone pretending to be useful for a night.
Poppy was saying something else, something about the timing, about the room number, but her words fell away under the low drone of the ceiling fan. My head felt full of noise that wasn't sound—just the rush of blood, the static of thought.
Oh, the irony, I thought, tracing the edge of my glass. How I wished it was someone else who would call me beautiful. To be the person I waited for instead of this stranger I'm about to meet.
I turned slightly toward her, but didn't speak. The light caught in her earrings and threw a shimmer across her neck, and for a second I thought about how easily we both wore our disguises. Hers painted in lipstick and laughter. Mine carved in silence and need.
Somewhere down the hall, a door closed. A man's voice laughed. The sound was distant, but it found its way into my chest all the same.
Poppy finished her drink and set the glass down with care. "You'll be fine," she said, though her voice had lost its certainty.
I nodded, though I didn't believe her.
The fan kept turning, the ice in my glass melting slow, and outside the window the city hummed in its usual way—alive, indifferent, waiting.
The man entered like someone who already owned the room. The door didn't creak, didn't announce him; it just opened, and the air shifted. Even the bartender straightened. The light hit him from behind—golden, slow-moving—outlining the pale of his hair before it touched his face.
He was tall, slender, the kind of build that looked carved rather than grown. His hair was a pale blond, almost white, brushed back but soft at the edges as though it refused discipline. The collar of his shirt was undone, revealing a long throat where a faint shadow of ink climbed from beneath the fabric. His eyes caught the light and held it—amber, sharp, unreadable beneath the thin frame of his round glasses. There was a cigarette between his lips, burning slow, the ember reflecting in the glass like a second, smaller sun.
When he smiled, it was barely there. His features didn't need to move much to hold attention.
He came closer, his scent finding me before his voice did—pine, lemon, something metallic underneath, faint but alive. It was the smell of money and distance.
He extended his hand. Poppy reached for it before I could, her bracelets clinking. "Hello, Garry," she said, bright, polished. "This is Hugo."
He nodded once, the gesture deliberate, his eyes already on me. Poppy leaned toward me and whispered, "I'll wait for you outside," then slid off her stool with a grace I envied. The click of her heels faded into the hall.
I looked up at him, still standing beside me, haloed by the amber light of the bar. Up close, he was too perfect to make sense—his skin smooth, unbothered, the cigarette balanced effortlessly between his fingers. My stomach tightened. He smelled like something I couldn't name.
"Hello, Hugo," he said. His voice was steady, even, the kind that filled the space between words. "Mind if I take a seat?"
I shook my head.
He sat where Poppy had been, unbuttoned his jacket with a small, practiced movement, and gestured to the bartender. "Bacardi," he said, then took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled a thread of smoke that unwound upward like it was following thought. "I'm Garrison," he added, turning his gaze back to me. "I prefer to be called Garrison, not Garry."
"Alright," I murmured.
He studied me for a moment, eyes catching the light again. "You have beautiful eyes," he said simply. "Very expressive. I can tell you're scared."
I cleared my throat. "I'm not scared."
He smiled faintly, looked forward. "Of course." Then, after a pause: "How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"Oh, wonderful."
I hesitated, then asked, "How… how old are you?"
"Forty-one."
"You don't look forty-one."
He smiled again. "I've been told, yes." He turned slightly toward the bar. "Want another drink, Hugo?"
I nodded, the motion too fast, too eager.
"Order whatever you want. My treat."
I ordered a double whiskey. The glass came sweating and gold, and I took it in one hand, steadying myself with the other. I needed to be drunk tonight. I needed to dissolve the noise in my head before I could be what he was paying for.
He watched me lift the glass. "Your lips," he said after a moment. "Did you have a lip piercing?"
"Yeah."
"Why did you take it off?"
I downed the whiskey in one go, the warmth spreading too fast to feel good. "Might get in the way," I said.
He leaned closer. "Put it back on," he said, his tone measured, almost polite. "And I'll add another five hundred."
My eyes widened before I could stop myself. I raised my eyebrows. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
My hand found the piercing in my pocket. The metal was cool, familiar. I pressed it through, the sting brief. When I looked up again, he was watching my mouth.
He reached across the small gap between us, fingers brushing my jaw as he turned my head toward him. The touch was confident, practiced—no hesitation, just ownership disguised as grace.
"That looks great on you," he said softly, eyes tracing my face. Then his fingers slipped higher, brushing through my hair, moving it from my temple. "You have a lot of piercings," he murmured, almost to himself. "They all suit you so well."
I forced a smile, tight but enough. "Thanks."
He smiled too, a little wider this time, and for a second, I thought I could see something behind it—something patient, something that didn't need to rush. The smoke curled between us, carrying his scent with it, and I realized I hadn't taken a full breath since he sat down.
The glass in my hand trembled faintly. I hoped he didn't notice.
He stood, slow and unhurried, smoothing the front of his shirt as though he'd been waiting for this cue all along. "Shall we go now?"
I nodded. My throat was dry; I wasn't sure if it was the liquor or the air that made it so.
Garrison turned toward the door, his movements precise—never wasted, never casual—and I followed him out. The carpet in the hallway was worn, patterned in dull golds and reds, swallowing our footsteps. The bar's music faded behind us until the silence felt physical, pressing against my ears.
Poppy had told me I should be thankful he booked a hotel room. At least it's safe, she'd said, clean, private. Maybe I should've been thankful. He didn't seem like a bad man, not cruel, not the kind you flinch from on sight. But there was something in his calm that made me uneasy—like a still pond that could hide anything beneath it.
We reached the elevator. The doors opened with a soft sigh, and the light inside was warm, the kind that made skin look unreal. I stepped in after him. The floor button clicked under his finger, six, and then the doors closed.
The moment they did, something in my chest twisted. The air felt thinner, sharper. I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wall—eyes too wide, face too pale—and tried to breathe normally. It didn't work. My lungs kept catching on the edges of breath.
Garrison turned his head slightly toward me, noticing. "You alright?"
"Yeah," I said quickly, but it came out too tight, too high. I pressed my palms together, grounding myself against the small tremor in my hands.
He reached out, placing a hand on my shoulder. The touch was light but deliberate. I flinched without meaning to, the reaction fast, uncontrollable.
"Sorry," I said at once. "Sorry, I was just… a little absent-minded."
He studied me with that same calm, unreadable expression. "Yeah, I noticed. And hyperventilating. Do you have a phobia of elevators or something?"
"Yes," I lied. "A bit."
He nodded, almost kind. "Why didn't you say? We could've taken the stairs."
"I'm fine," I murmured. "Thank you."
He didn't reply. The silence between us was close, humming with something that wasn't sound. My reflection looked stranger with every floor we passed, as if the elevator was distorting it a little more each second.
When the doors finally slid open, the air hit different—cooler, heavier, scented faintly with old wood and polish. Garrison stepped out first. I followed, feeling the carpet change beneath my shoes, thicker, softer.
Room 66.
He unlocked the door with an ease that felt practiced, the faint click of the key turning sharp in the quiet. The hinges groaned softly when he pushed it open.
The room was dim. Two bedside lamps glowed from either side of a broad, wooden bed covered with a quilt patterned in muted green and beige. The air smelled faintly of furniture polish, cigarettes, and linen that had been washed too many times. The wallpaper was brownish, the edges curled where the glue had surrendered to age. On the wall above the bed hung a framed painting of a crane bending its long neck into a wash of pink and grey—something bought cheap, meant to look elegant but failing.
The carpet was dark, patterned in square spirals that seemed to move when you stared too long. A small nightstand sat on each side of the bed, one holding an old cream-colored telephone, the other a lamp with a crooked shade. The bulbs inside buzzed softly.
A heavy wardrobe leaned against the wall opposite, its door slightly ajar. The mirror on its front had dulled, showing a warped version of whoever stood before it. Near the door, a luggage rack waited empty, gleaming dully in the lamplight.
I stepped in, closing the door behind me. The air didn't move. It was the kind of stillness that made you aware of your heartbeat.
Garrison set his jacket on the chair near the dresser, loosened the top button of his shirt, and turned toward me. "You can relax," he said, voice quiet, the same steady rhythm as before.
But I couldn't. My shoulders didn't get the memo.
The room felt preserved, like something that had been sealed and forgotten—too quiet, too orderly, too waiting. And in that waiting, I realized how loud I was: the sound of my breathing, the quick drag of my pulse, the whisper of my clothes as I shifted in place.
He looked at me for a long moment, then smiled. "It's not a bad place, is it?"
I forced a small nod. "No. It's nice."
But the word didn't fit. Nothing about this place felt nice. It felt suspended—like a place outside of time, where something was always about to happen, and nothing ever could be undone.
He sat on the edge of the bed first, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight. The quilt rustled, releasing a faint smell of starch and age. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees for a moment, studying me with the quiet patience of someone waiting for a signal that wouldn't come. Then he patted the empty space beside him.
"Come here."
I hesitated. My palms felt cold though the room was warm. The sound of the fan above us circled lazily, blades turning without force. I moved slowly, crossing the short stretch between us until my knees brushed the bedframe. When I sat down, the mattress sighed beneath the two of us, that small sound breaking what little air remained between our breaths.
He turned slightly toward me. "What do you like to do for fun?"
The question caught me off guard. For a moment I thought I'd misheard him.
"What?"
"You seem tense," he said, his voice soft, even. "So I thought maybe we could just have a conversation—"
Before he finished speaking, I leaned forward. I didn't want to hear the rest. Whatever rationale he was fumbling for would only sink like a stone in the silence already growing too thick between us. Words had begun to taste like guilt, and I needed something heavier on my tongue.
So I climbed into his lap.
His breath caught, shallow and tight. It wasn't a protest. It was the breath of someone who'd pictured this in the dark, too many times, and never trusted it would feel this real. My knees bracketed his hips, the denim of my jeans rasping softly over the quilt. The bed creaked—familiar wood under tension—and I smelled the clinging warmth of him again: smoke, clean citrus, a trace of skin still damp from a too-long shower.
I kissed him.
Not a test, not a tease. It was the kind of kiss you give when survival instinct kicks in and you stop asking if you're allowed to want. Desperate, graceless, a collision of need and heat. My hands gripped the collar of his shirt—creased, sweat-softened—and he exhaled into me like he'd been holding that breath for weeks.
He didn't stop me.
His fingers grazed my ribs, light enough to feel like accident, steady enough to feel like promise. Somewhere in the room, the fan buzzed on low, but even that faded under the weight of his silence. The air around us thickened with intent. It didn't feel like cheating. It didn't feel like a betrayal of anything but grief. Just hollow. Like breathing through lungs that hadn't realized they were empty.
I broke the kiss only when my body forced me to breathe. My forehead pressed to his. I could feel his heartbeat through his jaw. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, that amber stare threaded with something more than lust. He looked at me like he already knew I wouldn't stay—but that didn't mean he wouldn't take what I offered now.
He kissed me again before I could speak.
This time there was nothing cautious about it. No flicker of self-control. Just heat and hunger and want layered deep under the years we'd pretended we didn't. His lips crashed into mine with a sound, breathless and rough, like a man who had bitten his tongue too long and finally decided to bite back instead.
His palm cradled the side of my jaw. His other hand anchored my hip, and then—one lean twist, a shift of his weight and mine—I was on my back. The mattress caught me with a soft thud. The quilt scratched beneath my arms. I barely had time to register the change before he was above me, straddling with a kind of poised tension that didn't feel rushed. It felt inevitable.
Garrison hovered, breathing hard through his nose. His glasses had slipped, one arm crooked against his cheek. He didn't fix them. His gaze flicked over my face like he was memorizing a territory he'd finally been allowed to conquer. Not greedy. Not cruel. Just certain.
I reached up and slid them off.
He let me. His stare never faltered as I placed them carefully on the nightstand. He looked different without them. Younger, yes, but sharper too—like someone who had traded softness for control a long time ago and wore it like armor. His face was beautiful in that unkind way certain moments are: brilliant, hard-edged, unforgettable.
I started unbuttoning his shirt.
The buttons slipped between my fingers one by one, a rhythm I didn't know I remembered. The fabric parted slowly, exposing skin I hadn't seen in years—barely-there freckles across his collarbone, a pale line of old ink trailing toward his shoulder. I pushed the shirt from his shoulders. He let it fall.
Then his hands were on me.
He moved with restraint at first—dragging my shirt upward, fingertips catching on the fabric before I raised my arms to help him. When it came off, he looked at it like it was a memory, and then let it fall behind us without care. His palm pressed flat to the center of my chest. He didn't grope. Didn't stroke. He just held it there, as if checking to feel if my heartbeat was still mine.
I let him.
He leaned down and pressed his mouth to the dip beneath my collarbone. The kiss was warm. Deep. Intimate in a way that didn't ask for permission or forgiveness. The breath he left on my skin stayed there long after his lips moved on.
Downward, he went, every inch of my chest mapped with his mouth. Slow strokes of tongue. Soft edges of teeth. The deliberate drag of stubble as he kissed the place just beneath my sternum. Each movement intentional, measured. Like he was re-learning something he used to know by heart and didn't want to rush.
Then his fingers slipped under the waistband of my jeans.
He unbuttoned them with one hand, the other spreading wide across my lower belly. The metal teeth of the zipper sighed apart. I tensed instinctively—but he met my eyes, gaze steady, almost tender. Not asking. Not demanding. Just...knowing.
He slid them down.
The air hit bare skin. My breath hitched.
He didn't comment. Didn't leer. Just kept looking at me like this was a sacred act dressed in sin. His mouth found the line of my hip, then lower, over the crease of my thigh, trailing warmth as he moved between my legs.
His hands stroked my thighs—thumbs pressing into inner muscle, his palms smoothing outward. Not soft. Not rough. Just...thorough. Like he meant to calm me, undo me, claim me with nothing more than skin on skin.
And then—his mouth.
Hot breath. Slow tongue. A kiss pressed just beneath the base of my length, so careful it almost undid me.
I gasped. Not loud. Not performative. Just air drawn sharp through teeth as I arched faintly off the bed.
He didn't stop.
His mouth moved with obscene precision. Not hasty, not eager—experienced. The kind of practiced rhythm that only came from memory and skill and a complete lack of shame. His lips sealed over me with slow pressure, and his tongue traced every vein like it was something written in braille. His throat opened in a way that made my whole spine lock.
"Fuck—" It escaped, low and strangled.
His eyes flicked up briefly, smirking without smiling, before sinking again. His hand braced under my thigh. The other flattened against my stomach, keeping me from moving even as my hips twitched against instinct.
He kept going.
Wet sounds filled the room. The kind of sounds you don't talk about after. Rhythmic. Honest. Heat pooled at the base of my spine, curling there, tight and dangerous. My fingers found the bedspread, clenched it, and tried to hold onto something that wasn't him.
But there was nothing else.
The world had narrowed to breath and motion and the sharp ache of something I hadn't let myself feel since Riley died.
I stared at the ceiling.
Not because I wasn't present—but because I was too present. Because if I looked down at him—at Garrison, mouth full of me, eyes half-lidded with hunger and intention—I might lose whatever threads were still keeping me together.
He didn't stop until I grabbed him.
Fingers in his hair, tugging—not to pull him away, but just to hold onto something real.
His mouth finally broke away with a breath that stuck to my skin. My thighs trembled. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving mine. The quiet between us was not awkward. It was charged.
He kissed me again. Not my mouth—my hip, my stomach, the inside of my thigh. Reassurance, or maybe ownership. I couldn't tell. I didn't care.
Then he reached for the drawer beside the bed. No words. Just the snap of foil, the rustle of movement, the brush of his knuckles against my hip as he returned to me—naked now, hot skin against mine, the press of him unmistakable.
He positioned himself between my legs with a kind of reverent cruelty. No teasing. No hesitation.
Just inevitability.
His mouth found mine as he pushed in.
The stretch burned, full and slow, but he didn't break the kiss. He swallowed the sound I made, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other gripped my thigh, anchoring me.
And once he was fully inside—he stopped.
Not to ask. Not to savor. But because this, right here—this stillness, this moment—was the part he wanted to feel longest.
And I let him.