Fire & Ice (Extended Edition)

Chapter 3

Tripp is fucked.

And not only in the literal, obvious way that’s currently making his throat and ass ache in equal measure, although that’s true, too. Ironically, that’s also the one thing between him and Lee that’s going very, very right.

Alright— fine . Tripp’s man enough to admit that it’s possible he’s being a little dramatic, in that respect. After all, he and Lee are technically fine, at least as far as Lee has any idea. Tripp is the one that’s messed up in the head, the one who’s feeling guilty for enjoying this whole “aftercare” thing a little bit more than he should.

It’s just that Lee gave him a free pass to press up against his chest and to tangle their legs together. To lean into Lee’s caressing fingers as they slip through his hair while another soothing hand runs down his flank. Doing so is definitely not assuaging his mental turmoil, but it isn’t like Tripp’s turning it down, either.

No, he’s definitely doing this to himself, but at least his cover is solid. If Tripp’s going to lie here risking his sanity just to revel in getting Leander’s affection exactly the way he’s always dreamed of having it, he can at least take comfort in the fact that this is technically what he’s supposed to be doing. As far as Lee is concerned, Tripp is simply taking what’s on offer, accepting the care that Lee believes he needs following their scene. The end result— cuddling on steroids —is both the worst and best situation he could imagine, and it would once again take a stronger man than Tripp to turn it down.

Another complicating factor is that Tripp is so damn new to this whole scene. By default, he isn’t familiar with what “ aftercare ” normally involves or should entail, and he’s been relying on what Lee has told him and what he’s read about online to gauge his own boundaries and limits. He can guess, but he really wouldn’t know if he was going too far or being too obvious about his secret desires in the first place.

Regardless, Lee clearly believes that everything he’s doing is important—necessary, even—which kind of makes it easier to accept. That’s definitely something to fall back on, should the guy ever become suspicious of Tripp’s intentions and motives. The whole, “Shit, sorry, I dunno what I’m doing here, man,” dumbass shuffle is as perfect an excuse as Tripp could hope to keep in his back pocket.

Push comes to shove, though, Tripp’s fairly certain that these internal conflicts—the things he can’t stop himself from wanting or from taking when they’re offered, no matter how much guilt it piles on his conscience—aren’t even blipping Lee's radar.

The guy is focused, Tripp will say that much. While he was busy basking in the afterglow, toes still tingling from the mind-numbing orgasm gifted to him, Lee was practically jumping off of the bed and back into action. He was adamant about rubbing Tripp down thoroughly, meticulously working even the memory of strain from his shoulders and arms, and he spent nearly an hour following their scene doing exactly that.

Not that Tripp is complaining—far from it. Hell, it was one of the best massages of his life, and he enjoyed every damn second of what felt like pampered luxury. Lee's hands are magic, and the weight of his body, his knees bracketing Tripp’s hips from behind—well, Tripp would be hard-pressed to think of any other place in the world he’d rather be than the meat in that thick-slice sandwich.

And then there was the touching —that was nothing to sneeze at, either. As if he could sense Tripp’s needs, Lee barely left him alone on the bed. Less than a minute, in fact—only as long as it took him to grab a pack of clean-up wipes, a bottle of juice from the little playroom fridge, and some massage oil. Then he was back, and ever since, some part of his skin has been in constant contact with Tripp’s. It’s impressive, how careful and thoughtful Leander can be, how he always is when it comes to Tripp.

It’s just that—well, Tripp can’t help but suspect that most of those things were items Lee had on his agenda. Things he planned for and was prepared to deliver in advance. They don’t amount to anything more than a BDSM checklist, stuff Lee felt like he needed to do, not because they were specific to Tripp’s wants and needs or rooted in actual concern and affection.

Leander performs aftercare because it’s right, and necessary.

Perform is a good word for it. Unlike Tripp, Lee’s post-sex, post-scene actions aren’t based on any emotional desires or a desperate need to touch, to hold Tripp close in the same way Tripp himself craves being held. He knows that, but with the orgasm hormones raging, it messes with his head a little. He has to repeatedly remind himself that Lee is his friend, and he does care in his own way. Even if it’s not the way Tripp wishes he would.

Those intrusive thoughts kept popping up during Lee's rubdown, annoying and preventing him from relaxing completely, and to Tripp’s chagrin, Leander took notice. Fortunately, he assumed that the uneasy discomfort was related to Tripp’s pain level, force-feeding him a handful of ibuprofen and setting him up with alternating ice and heat for his shoulders, no matter how vehemently Tripp protested that he was fine .

Tripp has been learning rather quickly that Dominant Lee isn’t someone you argue with. Not for fun and definitely not for keeps, and in the end, it seemed patently easier to just let Leander fuss over him. So Tripp gave in, allowing himself to savor the touching and the attention, and to be fair, the pampering wasn’t anything approaching terrible. If Tripp’s being honest, he might even admit that he liked it more than the sex.

Hard to regret.

While Tripp was laid up with his ice packs—definitely unnecessary, but it did feel good—Leander ordered them delivery from Tripp’s favorite burger joint. He brought the food into the playroom spread out on a fancy-looking lap tray and plated with real utensils, like he was trying to mimic a five-star restaurant. At Lee’s own insistence, he hand-fed Tripp the entire meal, kissing his mouth between bites and praising him generously, as though by opening his mouth and chewing Tripp was doing something difficult and burdensome, not literally being finger-fed like a spoiled, lazy prince.

Aftercare that was arguably as intense as the actual scene initially made Tripp feel somewhat uncomfortable, but Leander won him over. He just seemed so pleased, so damn into what he was doing, that Tripp couldn’t help but follow the vibe. He found himself (slowly) relaxing into it, enjoying himself, smiling dopily and kissing Leander back without overthinking it. Despite his lingering embarrassment over just how much aftercare Leander apparently thinks he needs, Tripp has to admit, it’s not the worst feeling in the world—being cared for so thoroughly.

Almost like he’s special or important, words he struggles to apply to himself in any way outside of this liminal space.

Here, Leander’s easy way of making moments like that feel natural, his fierce determination to treat Tripp with care and respect—it spills over into Tripp’s inherent ability to accept those things for what they are. And maybe, maybe a tiny part of him can admit that he wants to do precisely that, but only inside his own head.

Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a fuckin’ day.

At the end of this day, though, here Tripp is, laid out on Leander’s playroom bed with his belly full, his mind and muscles sated and relaxed, staring aimlessly up at the ceiling and feeling borderline euphoric. At some point, Leander slipped on a pair of sweatpants, but Tripp hasn’t bothered. He’s enjoying the feel of crisp, clean sheets against his back and the gentle airflow from the overhead fan whispering across his bare skin.

Leander is sitting propped against the headboard, his legs crossed casually at the ankles and Tripp’s head in his lap, where it’s been for at least the past half an hour.

All told, they’ve easily spent twice the amount of time recovering from their scene as they did engaging with it tonight, and Tripp wonders somewhat absently whether that’s normal or not. It’s not like he has any frame of reference to know, and he’s just about to open his mouth and ask when Leander clears his throat, thighs shifting underneath his head.

“How are you feeling, now?” he asks, one hand moving down to smooth over Tripp’s chest before cupping his chin. “Still sore?”

“I’m good,” Tripp replies honestly, tipping his head back in time to catch a glimpse of Leander’s soft smile directed his way. “Really, I swear. Sir ,” he adds smugly, tacking the moniker onto the end of his reply like an afterthought, intentionally bratty.

“I believe you, Tripp,” Leander assures him, ignoring Tripp’s dangling bait, and then it’s silent for a moment while Lee's finger traces over his collarbone and down the line of his sternum. “I know you don’t wish to debrief, but may I at least ask whether or not you enjoyed yourself?”

Caught off-guard by that particular twist in the conversation, Tripp barks a laugh and grins up at his Dom when he’s able. “Uh, yeah, you could say that,” he replies, pulling his lip slowly and provocatively through the cage of his teeth. Lee seems pleased with that answer, his face practically glowing in the dim light, and Tripp likes the look on him, wants more than anything to be the reason Lee looks like that all of the damn time. All because of him .

“It’s late,” Leander tells him gently, soft fingers continuing to stroke across his chest and the curve of his face. “Time…got away from us this evening, not that I’m complaining. However, I may fall asleep on you shortly if I don’t admit that between my difficult shift and tonight’s activities, I’m quickly running out of steam. And we wouldn’t want that.”

“Oh,” Tripp says weakly, surprised and unprepared for Leander to be kicking him to the curb after everything, but he sits up and moves to start gathering his things all the same. It makes sense. Lee is tired, Lee deserves some time to himself. The last thing he needs is a high-maintenance sub hanging out in his space, sapping his energy, and—

“No, Tripp, wait—” Leander reaches out an arm and catches his wrist, tugging him back down onto the mattress. “I wasn’t attempting to subtly suggest that you should leave. On the contrary, if you’re interested in doing another scene tomorrow morning, I would very much like for you to stay.”

The earnest look on Lee's face, paired with those wide blue eyes practically pleading for Tripp to accept his offer, have him feeling like putty in his best friend’s hands. Who on earth could deny someone who looks like that when they want something?

“You know, you can pretty safely assume that the ‘yes’ reply to a ‘wanna do it again?’ is a given with me,” he replies, pasting on his best smirk, if only for Lee's benefit.

“Be that as it may, the scene that I have in mind is exciting but intense, and I—well, you said that you didn’t want any spoilers. Now that I know you’re up for it, I suppose I have what I need, and can let you be.” With that, Leander works his way off of the bed, sauntering over towards the door, and Tripp doesn’t need to see his face in order to know that Lee is wearing a smirk of his own.

“Oh, that is cold, Le— Sir, ” he corrects himself, just in time.

When Leander twists at the waist in the doorway, he’s sporting a full-on predatory grin, and Tripp can’t help but marvel at how he’s supposed to be the brat in this relationship. Damn . But then he sees Lee stifling a yawn, and Tripp’s instantly back to wishing he hadn’t left the bed, that they were about to curl up together and just be— no rules, no boundaries, no expectations. They’ve only really done this twice, and it’s already becoming difficult for Tripp to switch gears, to turn his outward desire towards Lee off and on like a lightswitch.

“So you’ll stay?” Lee is asking, when Tripp tunes back in.

“I’ll stay,” Tripp allows, scooting back onto the bed and spreading his arms wide on the pillows. “You know, this mattress is huge,” he adds, shooting for casual. “Plenty of room for two. No reason we can’t sleep in the same place again, right? I thought it was pretty nice last time. I mean, you know, if you wanted company.”

To Tripp’s dismay, Leander’s face does about a thousand things all at once, none of which mean anything good for him. Oh fuck, he thinks, realizing with some horror that he’s just made a huge mistake that’s about to turn things incredibly awkward. Lee doesn’t want to sleep next to him—of course he doesn’t. That’s not what this is, not what either of them agreed to, and now, thanks to Tripp’s selfish idiocy, Lee thinks he has to figure out how to say so without coming off like he’s the major-league dick.

Shit.

So Tripp does what he does best—he rushes to make a joke.

“Dude, relax,” he says, offering what he hopes is an easygoing laugh as he tucks his hands casually behind his head. Lee is so obviously distraught that he doesn’t even catch the slip, doesn’t remind Tripp that he’s wearing his collar, and that it’s ‘Sir’ right now. “You should see your face. I was just messing with you, didn’t think you’d take it so seriously. Go on, get out of here. Tripp Truett does not cuddle.” He punctuates the last sentence with a pointed finger and an equally sharp look that has Leander’s expression melting into one of pure relief.

After that, Lee can’t seem to bolt from the room fast enough, although he does take the time to remind Tripp that there’s more juice in the fridge, and that he’s welcome to come out and watch TV if he can’t sleep, or to utilize anything else in the apartment to make himself at home. It’s cute and unnecessary, and it makes Tripp’s chest tight to watch Lee try and compensate for not wanting to stay in the same bed with him overnight.

When the door finally clicks shut, leaving the room dark and empty, the smile Tripp’s wearing immediately drops from his face. Inwardly, he vows to be more careful, to never let something like what just happened do so again. Lee is in this for one thing and one thing only, and that shit was on the label. Like fuck is Tripp going to allow his inconvenient emotions ruin this for the both of them.

Before Leander ran away, he also let Tripp know that he could remove his collar if he wanted, for sleep. That he was under no obligation to stay in “sub-mode” overnight or into the morning—not if he didn’t want that. If he’s being honest, for the first time since Leander presented him with him the collar, the temptation to take it off is there . Seeing his best friend reject the offer to stay in the same bed was tough, and Tripp would be lying if he claimed that a little distance from the whole arrangement didn’t sound good right now.

On the other hand, his emotions are on the edge. He hasn’t experienced any sort of “drop” for himself yet, nor has he seen any signs of it on Leander, but the potential is certainly there—Tripp can feel it. While he may not fully grasp all the specific minutiae of aftercare or the details particular to ‘ Lee’ versus ‘ Doms in general ’, Tripp definitely gets the importance of the process. And Lee did do a stellar job with him tonight, but there’s still…something. A lingering instability in the back of his mind, a crawling worry or fear that he can’t quite articulate just yet.

Tripp’s not an idiot. He knows perfectly well that those feelings are an indicator of drop, but they’re not overwhelming him, not taking over or monopolizing his thoughts in any way that he can’t control. So instead of tracking Lee down and filling him in— especially knowing how much Lee wants to be in his own bed, not trapped in here with an annoying sub—Tripp fights off the creeping gloom.

He goes over to the armoire containing the fridge, grabs a juice, and retrieves his phone from the pocket of the pants he left crumpled and kicked to the side of the bathroom. Settling uneasily back into bed, he thumbs through a mindless internet game, and after popping virtual soda bottles for the better part of half an hour, Tripp feels a little more solid. Better, but not fully like himself.

He lets out a sigh and glances around the darkened room. His widened pupils take in the shadows of various pieces of equipment, his gaze drawn to the armoires towering overhead. They look at least twice as big with the deep pockets of darkness reaching like arms to envelop them.

The collar sits weighty on his neck. It itches and feels tight, whereas usually, it makes him feel free. Right now, there’s nothing Tripp would like to do more than rip it off, but just the idea of doing so has him feeling worse. What if he wakes up in full drop and can’t find his collar? Or shaking hands keep him from buckling it back together? What if he goes to the bathroom to piss, panics, and his collar isn’t nearby? Lee made the rules crystal clear—he won’t touch him when he’s not wearing it, and Tripp can’t risk that right now.

As he scoots down into the mattress and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, Tripp grumbles quietly to himself. It’s frustrating, having these emotions swirling around inside of him, but most of all, he’s annoyed. Annoyed that he’s feeling some type of way at all, annoyed that he needs Leander and can’t have him, annoyed that Leander would apparently rather be anywhere else than by his side.

Tripp closes his eyes and pushes a few slow, calming breaths through his lungs. The irritation, the prickly attitude —none of it passes or starts to ebb away. Ultimately, Tripp is cognizant enough to come to terms with what’s up and not coming down here, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to ruin Lee's night over it.

Instead, Tripp decides to go deep. Squeezing his eyelids tight, he thinks back on their scene, on the adoring way Leander looked at him, and some of the things that he said.

“Good boy,” Leander had murmured, his voice warm and rich and appreciative. Tripp can still hear the words ringing in his head, feel Lee's breath soft against his skin.

“Perfect. You’re perfect.” That one was whispered against Tripp’s mouth, leaving him greedily swallowing every word, gulping them down desperately, flaming with embarrassment to hear such praise directed his way, and yet—it all felt so damn good.

He treasures the memories now, digging for more, and there are so many. Tripp drowns himself in each recollection, savoring them one at a time.

“An incredible creature,” Leander had called him. “So deserving of my affection, my attention.”

Those are the words Tripp clings to, here in the lonely dark. He lets the tone of Lee's voice in his head, the memory of the gentle caress of his hands soothe and pacify him. When the impact of those things starts to fade, Tripp moves on to thinking about how Leander cared for him after the scene finished. The way he spoke softly, the way he tipped juice into his parched mouth. The incredible massage, the ice packs, the heating pad. His favorite burger ordered from memory and fed from Lee's fingertips— bliss.

It works.

The tendrils snaking out from the darkest corners of Tripp’s mind retract, dissipating slowly but surely back into the ether. His mood evens out and stabilizes, no longer setting his teeth on edge or making him clench his fists in raw irritation. In fact, the entire day starts catching up with him fairly quickly, making Tripp’s eyelids heavy and his thoughts turn fuzzy. Even as he drifts off to sleep, Tripp continues to wish that he wasn’t alone, but there’s nothing he can do about that now.

The best he can hope for at this point is more of whatever Lee is willing to give, tomorrow.

Tripp already knows he’ll take it, whichever parts of his friend end up on offer.

Tripp will take it all.

***

Waking up is confusing. The warm body pressing flush against his back is something Tripp feels extremely sure was not there when he went to sleep. A quick glance towards the covered windows reveals the barest fringe of bright light leaking out from one curtain’s edge— morning. Despite the fuzziness in his head, Tripp’s dick is having none of the same qualms, fully on board with the big, warm hand stroking it firmly.

“Hello, Tripp.” Leander’s sleep-rough voice rumbles in his ear and against his skin, warm breath ghosting over the curve of Tripp’s shoulder and down the back of his neck. There’s a knee nudging its way in between his thighs, and Tripp finds himself parting his legs instinctively, letting Leander manipulate him in whatever way he likes.

That includes, apparently, mouthing at his collar, nosing at the leather, and nipping the sensitive skin just beneath. Even in Tripp’s sleep-groggy state, the possessive show has him rolling his eyes.

It would be going too far to say that Tripp doesn’t like his collar— hell no, he loves it. Loves how free he gets to be while wearing it, loves everything that it represents. At the same time, he would be lying if he claimed that Lee's obsession with the thing wasn’t starting to grate. Waking up to his friend worshipping the little strip of leather first thing in the morning automatically brings Tripp right back to the negative headspace he worked so hard to rid himself of the night before. Being left alone with his thoughts was no freaking picnic.

Still, it’s hard to argue with being jerked off in Lee's arms, his hand functioning as an alarm clock, though how that happened Tripp can’t begin to figure. He supposes—like everything else lately—that he should probably just sit back and enjoy, and not question it.

Just when he’s finally starting to relax and sink fully into Leander’s grip, it disappears completely, as does the man’s reassuring presence behind him. Unable to suppress the urge in time, Tripp groans and smacks the mattress with his palm, growling his friend’s name as he buries his face into the bedding.

“ Lee,” he grunts, voice muffled significantly by the pillow’s bulk, but not enough. Leander catches the slip and swats him— hard— right on the meat of his ass. “Ouch!” Tripp yelps, rolling over swiftly and sitting up, rubbing a hand protectively over his stinging skin as he does.

The lights are on, causing him to blink groggily against their glare, still not entirely awake. Small mercies, they’re dim, but plenty high enough for Tripp to see the room and that Leander has been busy while he slept. Narrowing his eyes, Tripp glowers at the man as he strides—buck naked and clearly very pleased with himself—around the bed to stand at his side.

”What the hell,” Tripp mutters, rubbing at his eyes and trying to figure out why there’s a foam mat on the floor to his left and a hefty- sized dildo sticking jauntily out from the wall above it. He’s sure—well, ninety-five percent—that particular monstrosity wasn’t there when he drifted off to sleep, any more than Lee was in his bed.

“What was that?” Leander asks smugly, cupping a hand around his ear to blatantly mock Tripp while simultaneously assessing exactly how much of a brat he’s intending to be. When Tripp doesn’t answer, Leander hums and cards a hand through his hair, tightening his fingers at the back in subtle warning before abruptly letting go.

“You kept your collar on,” he says, tone thoughtful but pleased. “And you’re familiar with the rules, yes?” It’s an olive branch, an out (or at least a last chance of sorts), but Tripp is grumpy this morning, and while he does want Lee to fuck him six ways ‘til Sunday, he’s irritated enough to fuck around and find out what happens.

Glaring up at his friend through his lashes, Tripp licks his lips and holds steady eye contact while he carefully annunciates, “Fuck the rules, Sir .”

Tripp’s cheek is stinging before he even fully registers what happened, his head whipping violently to the side as Leander’s palm makes sharp contact with the side of his face. No time for recovery—or even to take a breath—given that Leander grabs his chin in one hand and forces him to make eye contact, his own blue eyes glinting with both amusement and promise.

In the aftermath, Tripp has zero— count ‘em: fuckin’ zero— regrets.

Hit me again, his brain supplies, and Tripp wants it so badly, he can taste blood on his tongue—he nearly says so out loud.

“Color, Tripp,” a righteous Leander demands, and even if Tripp didn’t have a front-row seat to the guy’s dick filling out against his thigh right beyond the tip of his nose, he’d be able to see the arousal, the intention coloring his face.

Before answering, Tripp works his jaw back and forth and then pauses, just to piss Leander off. “Green,” he says finally, right as Lee is opening his mouth to do God-knows-what, Tripp’s never going to find out. Against his better judgement, he smirks a little, and Leander grabs him by the thighs, yanks him towards the edge of the bed, and then tosses him over onto his stomach in one incredibly swift—and hot —motion.

“Fuck!” Tripp yells, mostly in surprise, because he’s certainly not hurt. Actually, the way his face smarts from Lee's hand feels seriously fuckin’ awesome, and Tripp’s not entirely sure what to do with that information.

Sure, he’s messed around with mild masochism in the past—a tweaked nipple here, some biting there, even a little spanking once in a blue moon (though nothing like what Lee dishes out). He’s always known that he likes it, that razor’s edge where hurt cuts into the sweetness of pleasure, amping it up, but he’s never sought out or experimented with pain as a concept. Not until now, anyway.

Seems like Lee might be the one to change all that, and Tripp’s body thrills at the possibility. He decides not to overthink it—he’ll trust Lee, stay in the moment, and worry about the details later.

Good thing, because Tripp has barely three seconds to grapple with the fact that Lee can throw him around like an inflatable pool toy if he so chooses before the sound of a tube snapping open behind him can be heard. Soon after, Lee's hand is pressing between Tripp’s shoulder blades, holding him down while he pushes not one, but two fingers inside of him. They’re slippery and cold, and Tripp wriggles beneath his Dom, just because he can.

“Color,” Lee demands, his fingers stilling inside Tripp while the hand on his back bears down more firmly and Tripp grins into the bedsheets, forgetting that Lee can’t see him.

“Green, Sir, ” he replies enthusiastically, and Leander’s answering murmur of acknowledgement sounds positively predatory .

“You’re still fairly loose from last night,” he declares, and Tripp fists his fingers into the sheets, somewhat embarrassed by that announcement, although Lee seems pleased. “Very fortunate for you, since I’m not in the mood to reward your brattiness with careful prep.” Despite his words, Lee lingers where he is, scissoring his fingers and running them along the edge of Tripp’s hole. It’s partly perfunctory but mostly teasing, which Tripp only realizes when Leander dips his fingers in far enough to brush intentionally over his prostate, making him gasp and jerk.

The laugh Leander lets out at his expense is low and dark, and perhaps for the first time, Tripp wonders if he really knows the man at all.

The insistent weight of Lee's knees against his thighs vanishes suddenly, alongside the fingers toying with his ass, and the mattress shifts as the Dom moves away.

“Stand up, boy ,” Leander demands, and the way he says it makes both the hair on Tripp’s arms and at the back of his neck prickle and raise.

Disobedient mood aside, something tells him to stow his bullshit, at least for a minute. As such, Tripp scoots backward off of the bed without a word, turning to find Leander wiping his hands off with a towel and scrutinizing him with focused interest. He steps forward, well into Tripp’s space, and touches a finger to his own lips, his other arm wrapped across his naked chest. Cocking his head to one side, he says nothing as his eyes search for something in Tripp’s face, in his posture , and fuck if Tripp knows what the hell he might be looking for.

Shifting uncomfortably beneath Lee's gaze, Tripp does manage to keep his mouth shut, but it’s a close thing. As Lee's eyes continue to roam, he struggles not to blurt out, “See something you like?” Or, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” but he does think about it. If the glint in Lee's eye is any indication, he knows it, too.

Fuck that, Tripp thinks, obstinate. If that’s what Leander wants to provoke, he’ll fuckin’ give him the opposite. After several minutes, though, the silence gets to be too much for his emotional energy, and he breaks.

“Sir?” he asks warily, struggling to maintain eye contact and not glance away from Leander’s unrelenting, unapologetic stare.

Abruptly, the tension in the room breaks, Leander’s reaction to Tripp’s unsure question entirely unexpected—he grins. Finger still tapping against his lips, Leander grins, and yeah, Tripp was right about the laughter, because that sound is definitely predatory.

“Oh, now it’s ‘ Sir’ ?” Leander taunts, rocking back on his heels before stepping forward so that they’re toe-to-toe. He relocates his finger from the pad of his lips to the middle of Tripp’s chest, just lightly touching.

Barely two inches shorter, Leander tips his head up, and he’s so beautiful, he’s almost ethereal. Dark eyelashes contrast softly against his cheeks, blinking wide to reveal rings of dark blue that Tripp’s stupid brain wishes he could drown himself in forever. He’s close enough now that Tripp could lean forward and kiss him, but in all honesty, Leander’s never felt more untouchable, never seemed more out of his reach. He’s all effortless power and control in the way he holds his body, emanating confidence and security that Tripp can’t even fathom owning for himself.

The way Lee is looking at him right now, Tripp wouldn’t lift his hands from his sides for all the money in the world. This version of Lee—from the way he moves, to the way he speaks, to the way he pins Tripp in place with just his gaze—is something a guy can’t help but respect. To Tripp’s surprise, he finds his bratty attitude evaporating like an early morning fog, replaced by the pure, burning desire for Leander to give him another chance to kneel.

Fuck, he really wants to kneel for this Lee.

“I could make you submit,” Leander says softly, so quietly that Tripp almost misses it. “I could and I will, if that is truly what you desire. But…” He hesitates, cupping Tripp’s jaw with a surprisingly gentle hand, considering the still-throbbing print it recently left on the side of his face. “For today, at least, I’d prefer if you’d go willingly.”

And that would have been enough. Tripp absolutely would have dropped to his knees right then and there, but Leander apparently isn’t done.

As soon as he stops talking, he leans forward, one hand on Tripp’s shoulder and the other on his waist as he presses an impossibly tender kiss to his lips. It’s so in contrast with the threat, with what Tripp expected to happen next, that he’s essentially rendered powerless to do anything except kiss back. The only thing Tripp manages to keep control of in the situation are his hands and his feet, which he only barely stops from first grabbing Leander by the sides of his face and then walking him backward towards the bed.

Focus, Truett, he scolds himself internally, keeping his eyes closed for a moment in order to gather his shit while Leander steps away. When he opens them again, Leander’s staring at him in amusement, tapping his mouth and pointedly raising his eyebrows.

“If you’re ready,” he says, the ghost of a smile flitting across his lips, there and gone. “Over on the mat, next to the armoire. Kneel and face me.”

Taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly, Tripp complies, this time without argument or complaint. How could he not, after all of that? As he walks over, he digests the way the mat is pushed all the way up against the wall, the way the enormous dildo is secured only a couple of feet— not even —off of the ground, and then it clicks.

Oh.

Unable to fully believe how slow on the uptake he’s been, Tripp fails to control the flush in his cheeks when he thinks about the scene that Leander is setting. In fact, for once, he’s struggling to not allow the litany of questions currently flying through his head to fall from his lips, but on the other hand, he really doesn’t want to worry about any of it. So, instead of leaning into the rising anxiety and mounting anticipation, Tripp simply turns away from the dildo and faces Lee, sinking to his knees and letting it all go.

One more deep breath: five seconds in, five seconds out, and Tripp is ready.

“Very good,” Leander praises, and Tripp—with his eyes closed—lets him, nearly sighing with relief when he feels Lee's hand in his hair after that wave of jittery apprehension. “There’s my good boy. Now, get down on all fours.”

The vinyl of the mat is cool against his palms, slightly sticky on his skin, and Tripp already knows that if he’s stuck in one place for a long period of time, he’s going to be peeling himself off of this thing later. Whether that’s an intentional slight on Leander’s part or not, he has no idea, but he works himself into place without a word. No longer in the mood for games, Tripp doesn’t make any bones about spreading his legs and backing himself up into position, the wide head of the silicone cock bumping against an ass cheek as he does.

“Do you like it?” Leander muses, the question obviously rhetorical as he trails a hand over Tripp’s shoulder and down his back, grabbing the fake cock and teasing it into his crack, but no further. “It’s screwed to the wall, so we can be as rough as we like, it won’t come off. I’ll bet you didn’t notice the various mounting hardware I have all over the place, hmm?”

It’s clearly a suggestion and Tripp obliges, opening his eyes to glance around the room from this new angle. From down here, he sees what Leander is referring to—an assortment of inconspicuous, tiny holes in the wall interspersed with screws sticking out less than an inch, all at varying heights. The display is not as intimidating as his friend maybe means for it to be, but Tripp for sure makes a mental note to ask Lee to review in detail all of the shit he has hidden around this room at some point. Preferably soon.

For now, though, Tripp’s got other things on his mind, like how the fuck that giant cock is going to fit inside his ass. Lee is big, and his fingers this morning felt like nothing but a good time, but the fake dick-on-a-stick is no joke. While Leander rummages in an upper drawer of the armoire to his left, Tripp works on breathing and centering his mind, understanding fully that relaxation is going to be the key to making Lee's plan work.

Strangely, he’s not nearly as concerned about the potential pain or discomfort as he is with the possibility of disappointing his Dom, or worse, giving Leander the idea that he’s not actually trying. Now that’s a terrifying thought. Thankfully, Lee returns to distract him, hovering above his back to prod some more at his rim, and Tripp reflexively jerks away when he feels an item being inserted. It’s not the dildo, though—it’s something thin and slick that barely registers, except that Lee uses it to inject something cold inside of him.

“Lube,” Lee explains easily, as if this is a thing Tripp should have expected, and okay, yeah. Technically, he’s read about it, but being bitch-slapped by the reality of functioning as a well-basted turkey is genuinely fucking confronting.

“Jesus Christ,” Tripp murmurs as Leander spirits the syringe away. Shifting and clenching, he wiggles his hips in protest against the feeling of lube settling inside him.

“Still just ‘Sir’,” Leander replies with amusement, and then he’s back kneeling at Tripp’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist to take hold of his flagging erection and stroke him hard again. While he does, Leander turns soft and affectionate, kissing over Tripp’s shoulders and spine, propping a hand next to the one he has braced on the mat, presumably to keep as much surface area of their bodies touching as humanly possible.

“I can’t wait to see you take this cock,” he murmurs quietly, plainly , like he’s innocent, like this isn’t one of the dirtiest things Tripp’s ever done. “You know, I’d love to see you take a real one besides mine, but I’m far too possessive to share.” Tripp shivers at the suggestion, his body relaxing minutely, because that does sound really hot. Not that he’d want to bring someone else into this messed up thing he has going with Lee and his wayward emotions, but even Tripp can admit that the fantasy is sexy as hell.

“You like that, do you?” Leander takes notice, because of course he does, pushing himself upright so that he can stroke a hand down Tripp’s flank and over his ass to finger his rim, teasing the head of the fake cock against it. “Perhaps we’ll explore the concept more, then. From your list, I know that you’re not interested in sharing, so is it more the idea of being watched? Is that a fantasy of yours, Tripp?”

Nailed it, Tripp thinks, but he bites at his lip instead of speaking, because Lee is lubing up the cock and guiding him back onto it, just the tip pushing slowly past his tight ring of muscle. He moans a little as the head pops inside, struggling past the pressure to breathe deeply, fighting to relax against the significant intrusion. The thing feels even bigger than it looked, and it didn’t look small.

“I think it is,” Leander continues, undeterred by Tripp’s lack of participation in the conversation. “I think that you would get off on the idea of someone—anyone—watching me take you, of being naked and vulnerable beneath my hands in public, or where others could happen by and see us. I wouldn’t let anyone touch you, you know that well enough. You know that I’d protect you, surely, but do you know that I’d show you off? I’d be so proud, Tripp.”

Leander hums, his giant hands soothing tracks up and down Tripp’s sides, encouraging him to slide back, to take more of the dildo, to rock against it until he can.

Tripp, for his part, just lets it happen. He revels in Leander’s dirty talk, flexes fingers against the mat beneath him, moans low and long when the dildo finally brushes against his prostate. Eyes falling shut, his mouth drops open and he pants as he adjusts to being so increasingly full. It doesn’t hurt—not really, but it’s not easy to accommodate something this big, so it takes time and patience for Tripp to find himself ready to move .

All the while, Leander just kneels beside him, watching and touching him gently, adding lube when he thinks he needs it, and talking. It’s his voice that’s grounding the scene, leading Tripp, spurring him on.

“Yes,” Lee encourages, a thumb dragging over Tripp’s lip as his own very noticeable erection bumps against Tripp’s thigh. “I would be so proud of you, taking my cock so easily, letting me bend you over the nearest surface with every eye in the room focused solely on us. You’d be gorgeous, a work of art, just as you are now—ass cheeks pink from my hand, of course, eyes glazed over, just perfect. Perhaps I’d grab your hair—”

Reflecting his words, he does exactly that, yanking Tripp’s head in a way that jerks his body backward and settles him nearly all the way onto the dildo. Using his hair to steer, Lee tilts his upper body this way and that, like he’s really showing him off.

“—Let them see your face, how hungry and desperate you are for my cock, what a slut you can be for me, only me. Would there be tear tracks running down your cheeks? I do love when you cry. Think of how jealous they’d be, that they can’t have you. Think of how their eyes would roam over your body, watching greedily as I slid in and out of your holes. Oh, the envy they would feel when I stroked your cock, just like this.”

The mewling whine Tripp lets out when Leander touches him again is truly pathetic, but he can’t care, so lost in Lee's praise and flagrant appreciation, he can hardly focus on anything but hearing more.

At this point, the dildo is moving fairly easily in and out of Tripp’s ass, its girth wide enough and the angle hitting just right to provide his prostate with some major stimulation on nearly every stroke. While he hasn’t before, Tripp’s seriously starting to think that he could maybe come like this, especially if Lee keeps talking.

But then, suddenly, Leander moves, leaving Tripp’s side to shuffle over and kneel in front of his face. There’s no warning, but Tripp is still one step ahead of him, mouth already open and seeking when Leander deftly rolls a condom over his dick and offers it up.

“My God, you are perfection,” Leander praises, and Tripp revels, eyes drifting closed as he takes whatever Lee sees fit to give him. Letting his mind float away, Tripp fucks his body on the dildo while sucking and swirling his tongue around the cock in his mouth, handling it all like a goddamn pro. The condom tastes like ass, and a nearly completely-spaced-out Tripp knows that he’s probably drooling, but if the increasing thrusts, the tight hand in his hair, and the one cupping his cheek are any indication, Lee likes what he sees, and that makes Tripp happy.

It also makes him work harder, the toy creating slick sounds as it slides in and out of his ass, the pressure building deep in his gut and at the base of his spine. It’s clear from the way Lee’s tumbling words begin to slur that he’s close, too—Tripp can’t even make out what he’s saying anymore, but that doesn’t matter. The pattern and the tone are soothing, and the message is clear: Lee is pleased, Lee is proud, Lee thinks he’s a good boy—that’s all Tripp needs to know right now.

His orgasm sneaks up in the background, building and cresting slowly, making him moan and cry and shake as his vision goes blurry and he comes in spurts with nothing but the fake cock milking his prostate. Even after he orgasms, Tripp doesn’t stop moving, because Lee didn’t say he could.

That’s probably because Lee is busy gasping and shoving his cock into the back of Tripp's throat one last time, shuddering and releasing spend so hot, he can feel it through the latex. Twisting the hair wrapped around his fingers more securely, he holds Tripp’s head in place as he finishes. Ready and willing, Tripp swallows around him, wishing desperately that he was sucking Leander dry, continuing to lick around his (annoyingly) condom-covered shaft instead, at least until Leander releases a pained noise and pulls away.

It’s strange how—sore and exhausted as Tripp might be—he misses him already.

“So good, Tripp,” Leander is saying, gentle as he stops Tripp’s rocking motions with a firm hand to his shoulder, carefully guiding him off of the dildo and into his arms. “Are you able to walk with me to the bed?”

Things are slightly hazy. Tripp is still very spaced-out, and Lee's chest is warm and inviting. He’s tired, so instead of answering, he sinks into it, following his base instincts. “Whoa, whoa,” he hears Leander say, and that snaps him out of it—at least enough to lift his head and register the pair of sensitive blue eyes looking down at him, crinkling at the edges and softer than he’s seen them appear at all today.

“Hello, Tripp,” Lee says, and Tripp manages a weak smile in return. “The bed?”

“Right.” Tripp grits the single word out, his voice rough and throat sore, but the next time Lee tries, he allows himself to be pulled to his feet. They stumble together over to the bed, the strong line of Lee’s body barely adequate to keep him upright.

“‘M fine,” he mutters, letting Leander dump him onto the mattress and step away to retrieve the things he likes to use for aftercare. “Just tired.” He yawns, as if to punctuate the point.

“Yes,” Leander agrees, returning with a cracked bottle of orange juice and tipping it high so that Tripp is forced to drink at least half of it in one go. At the very least, it washes the plasticky aftertaste of the condom away.

“It’s early yet. Probably around eight, now,” Lee is saying. “We can nap together as aftercare, if that sounds agreeable to you. I woke this morning in somewhat of a mood, as you may have noticed. I planned to clean up and only came in here to retrieve the items we used last night, but I saw that you kept your collar on…” He trails off, touching the side of Tripp’s face with a soft, appreciative expression that Tripp isn’t sure he’s ever seen on Lee before.

“I couldn’t resist, and somnophilia was on your list of things you were very interested in trying.”

“It was great,” Tripp says sincerely, leaning back against the pillows and stretching. “All of it. Best damn way to start the day.” When Leander just stands there staring down at him, Tripp smiles and jerks his head toward the empty space next to him. “You comin’?”

Seemingly shaking himself off, Leander returns the smile and rounds the bed to slide in beside him. “Anything particularly sore? I could massage you again, if you’d like.”

Finishing off the juice, Tripp leaves the bottle on the side table and turns into Leander’s chest, tucking himself flush against the man’s side without shame or hesitation. Fuck it—Tripp’s starting to get the hang of this give and take thing, and after last night, he’s not about to set himself up for failure in the form of major drop. If Lee is willing, then Tripp’s going to grab what he needs and hold on, and right now, what he needs are some extremely unmanly cuddles. It’s just a fact, and he’s too damn tired to pretend that it’s not.

For a short moment, Leander tenses beneath him, leading Tripp to think that perhaps he’s made a mistake. Thankfully, after a second or two he relaxes completely, wrapping both arms around Tripp’s body and pulling him close. Lee settles back into the pillow with a contented sigh, and the way he curves into Tripp’s shape is both welcome and reassuring.

This is good, Tripp thinks. This is what I need.

Damn right, he’s going to take it.

***

Contrary to what Tripp expects after falling asleep in Lee's arms, the next time he wakes, he’s completely alone. As he pushes himself to a sitting position and runs a hand through the disastrous state of his hair, he can’t help but feel just a little bit frustrated. If this was a normal relationship, he’d ask Lee outright, like, hey man, is this hot and cold bullshit you’re doing intentional? Is this just how these kind of things go? Are you an asshole or am I just needy? Maybe just, Am I seeing shit that isn’t there, or what?

But what they’re doing isn’t “normal”, at least, not according to what Tripp is used to, and because he can’t think of a single, concrete example to point at in order to explain how Lee might be acting outside of their agreed-upon boundaries, calling him out feels dangerous.

So instead, he keeps his mouth shut, showers quietly, and pulls yesterday’s clothes back on his body. They’re the ones he changed into at the station, just something to ditch his work uniform, and they were off mere minutes after entering Lee's apartment. By every reasonable standard, they’re basically clean, and yet somehow, they make Tripp feel a little bit dirty.

Because he’s heading home, he avoids using Lee's toothbrush again, opting to simply swish some mouthwash around his mouth and hope that Lee doesn’t want to kiss him goodbye. Or maybe it’s an excuse to get out of doing exactly that—Tripp’s not exactly in the best mood for self-reflection. As he stares at himself in the mirror, he makes the abrupt decision to take his collar off and to not give Lee the option, period.

Fully-dressed and fairly clean, Tripp finds the man in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on two enormous sandwiches that look stuffed to the brim with meats and cheeses. That offer alone would normally be enough to drop Tripp to his knees all over again, but standing here, considering it, he just feels…itchy.

He should be hungry. He hasn’t eaten anything since Lee hand-fed him last night, and it’s— what the hell time is it, anyway?

Checking his phone, Tripp realizes that it’s later than he expected, nearing three in the afternoon. That explains the sandwiches and probably Lee being out of bed, but Tripp can’t focus on anything logical right now. All of a sudden, he feels claustrophobic and caged. He wants to be anywhere but here, in Leander's space and under his thumb, whether he’s wearing his collar or not.

It’s an unpleasant sensation, and while the rational part of Tripp knows that he wouldn’t trade the things they’ve done for all the normality in the world, there’s another part of him that just wants his friend Lee back.

“Hey,” he says, doing his best to sound casual and put together when he feels anything but those things. Across the kitchen and facing away, Leander starts at the noise, but he’s boasting a big smile on his face when he turns around. Better believe Tripp is looking for it, and he has to fight back a grimace when his top worry manifests, Lee's eyes flicking to his neck and registering the missing collar, his smile dimming accordingly.

It shakes Tripp—more than he’d like, and while he’s pretty sure Lee doesn’t actually feel this way, it makes him equate his self-worth to the collar and this submissive role he’s taken on.

Somewhere in the back of Tripp’s mind, he knows this isn’t right. Knows that the feelings and emotions coursing through him are something off-kilter, something he should communicate with Leander about and lean on him to fix. On the flip side, Tripp also feels embarrassed and unsure, because how much of this is normal sub-drop, and how much is intrinsically tied to his stupid emotions, the feelings he has for Leander that he’s been hiding and lying about almost constantly over the past few days?

Isn’t there a good chance he did this to himself? That he’s at fault here, for being stupid and selfish enough to jump into this type of relationship with a dude he’s secretly in love with? Whatever the truth is, Tripp knows one thing for sure. He has to get the hell out of this apartment, right the fuck now. In fact, he barely registers Lee's “good morning,” or any of the other small talk he’s attempting to make. Heading straight for the front door, Tripp gives him the blatant brush-off and hopes that it doesn’t come off as harsh as it feels when he mumbles something about having places to be today.

“Oh,” Leander replies, disappointment clouding his face as he stands there in the little foyer, still shirtless and fiddling with his hands as Tripp pulls on his boots. His entire subdued demeanor only makes Tripp feel worse and more determined to leave, before he makes a serious misstep or blurts something out that he can’t take back.

Leander clears his throat. “I was only—well, it’s just that you took your collar off and I thought, perhaps you might like to go to the bar tonight? You know, as friends, like we—”

“Yeah, no, not tonight, Lee.” Tripp cuts him off swiftly, breezily, though he pauses when he sees the obvious hurt on Leander’s face. “I’ve got plans with Beau,” he adds, trying to sound apologetic, relieved when Lee nods with supposed understanding.

“Of course,” he says, before patting his pockets absently—he’s wearing pajama pants and doesn’t have any—then looking around like he’s misplaced something. There’s a box sitting on the table beside the catch-all bowl, smaller than the one to which Tripp returns his collar, and Leander retrieves it. He holds the item out until Tripp accepts, albeit warily and with an eyebrow raised.

“It’s just something that I thought you should have,” Leander rushes to explain, suddenly looking shy.

Inside the box is a key. It’s a normal hardware store copy, but it features a cute version of the Maltese Cross and the fire symbology printed on both sides. It’s not hard to figure out that this is a house key, that it was specifically made for him, not just anyone Lee might need to give one to. The gesture is thoughtful and miraculously does aid in assuaging some of the irritation bubbling beneath Tripp’s skin. This means that Lee has been thinking about him and his potential needs, and Tripp genuinely does appreciate that.

The gift forces him to stop for a moment, to slow down. To haul in a deep breath and then let it out slowly, to look Leander in the eyes at least once before leaving. When he does, what he finds there is somewhat surprising—Leander looks unsure, too, and if Tripp didn’t know better, he might even use the word vulnerable .

The realization has him stepping forward and tugging his friend into a hug, the significance of which should not be understated. Contact like this between them was rare before their arrangement—even the hug he gave Lee at the ER the other night was somewhat out of character, though he’d do it again in a heartbeat. Didn’t take a genius to see that Lee had really needed someone, there.

But this—a hug just because? Tripp is treading into dangerous waters, putting risky toes over the line in the sand, the boundary between their contract and their friendship as it’s already been defined.

And yet, he can’t deny that it feels incredibly fucking good. Incredibly right. Leander is solid and warm in his grasp, and he hasn’t showered so he smells musky and just faintly like sex, which is not unwelcome. More than that, he clings to Tripp, similar to the way he did the other night, his embrace full of both need and relief at being given something that he didn’t know he wanted.

When Tripp pulls away, Leander seems a little reluctant to let him go, but less sad overall. That change is enough for Tripp to feel comfortable putting himself first, which he really feels like he needs to do at the moment.

“Alright, Lee,” he says gently, extricating himself from Lee's grasp and stepping away. Raising his hand to wave as he opens the door, Tripp offers up what he hopes reads as a kind smile. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Of course, Tripp,” Leander replies, already back to tugging on his fingers as he holds himself back, looking a little bit lonely, a little bit lost. Tripp just can’t deal with that right now—he can’t. He lets the door slam closed behind him and walks away, the key weighing heavy inside his pocket.

On the ride down in the elevator, Tripp swipes open his phone and shoots off a message to Beau. Thankfully, his brother is on a similar rotation as him and Lee, and he should be off work tonight. So long as he’s not already tied up with Briana—and doesn’t that invasive thought make Tripp cringe with unwanted mental imagery, considering what he’s been up to himself—he’ll probably be into hanging out.

A guy can hope.

Even though they still live together—hey, city living is expensive—both Truetts have their own lives, plus Beau and Bri are planning a wedding. That doesn’t always leave an assload of extra time to just hang out and be brothers. In fact, Tripp’s pretty sure that it’s been over a week since he and Beau shared more than a cup of coffee in lieu of a meal, or exchanged any words beyond bleary good mornings.

Maybe that’s why he’s all off-kilter and weird. Yeah, that must be it. He just needs some family time to help relax and unwind. Needs to bounce a few things off of Beau's big brain and make fun of his too-long hair over a couple of beers.

By the time he’s stepping out the front door of Leander’s apartment complex, Tripp’s already feeling moderately better. The wind is cold and sharp as it whips and stings at his face, but the fresh air helps, too. He sucks it in, driving home with the windows down, despite the cold.

As he’s pulling into the parking lot adjacent to his and Beau's building, Tripp’s phone buzzes twice in a row. Throwing his car into park, he fishes in his pocket and swipes the text message open without pause. He’s inordinately relieved to see Beau's reply, even more so when he reads that Beau is at Bri's but wants to hang out. His brother suggests that they meet up at their usual haunt, the Hot Plate.

The Hot Plate is a shitty dive bar just down the street from their place, but it’s close to Tripp’s heart. The place is owned by Station Eleven’s Captain, Reina, and it’s a regular hub for off-duty fire, police, and EMS personnel, for obvious reasons.

In fact, a lot of the EMTs and firefighters that work for the City also take shifts waiting tables and working the bar there: it’s Reina’s way of giving back to the community that can’t afford to pay them the living wage that they deserve. No firefighter or EMT should have to work two, even three jobs just to make rent and put food on the table, but such is the world they live in. Tripp himself has been known to do the Hippy Hippy Shake behind the bar a time or two, but only when he’s desperate enough to be scrounging between couch cushions for spare change.

Honestly, he’s got better things to do on his nights off, like drink or binge soapy medical dramas. Or hang out with Lee. And that was before they were fucking.

Speaking of Lee—how the guy affords such a kickass apartment on a medic’s salary, Tripp will never understand. He has a working suspicion that Lee comes from money, that he has a trust fund or stocks, maybe some other kind of inheritance or passive income Tripp wouldn’t know anything about. Whatever it is, Lee doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t share about his family at all, actually, ever. Tripp’s known the guy for the better part of a decade, and he always spends his holidays alone or with Tripp and Beau, and previously, with Autumn and her crew.

Within that oddball group, they’re all very different people, but the one thing the five of them have in common is their distinct lack of blood-related parents. Whether by unfortunate circumstance like Tripp and Beau, or choice (definitely Autumn and presumably Lee), the outcome is the same. It’s part of why Tripp never disliked Autumn as much as he maybe should have—she was alright to Lee, and from what Tripp knows, life didn’t hand her the greatest shake, either.

Still, Tripp’s pretty fuckin’ glad she’s out of the picture. Not that she ever had a chance with Lee in the long run (or Tripp wouldn’t be in this mess), but his complex emotions about Leander are screwed up enough without adding that into the mix.

Those thoughts about Lee start to make him itchy again, so Tripp shoves them away and refocuses on his excitement at getting to see Beau. With a renewed spring in his step, Tripp jogs up the stairs to their shared apartment on the second floor and quickly swaps clothes, runs a brush over his teeth, and throws some gel in his hair.

While looking in the mirror of their tiny bathroom, he can’t help but notice that there’s a trail of hickeys running down the side of his neck, towards his collar bone. Scowling at his reflection, Tripp buttons the front of his flannel a little higher and it (mostly) does the trick—bruises hidden. The twinge in his ass when he takes a seat isn’t so easily ignored, but at least no one can see that.

Despite the cold, Tripp opts to walk the five or so blocks down the street to the bar. Parking’s a bitch outside the Hot Plate at this time of night, and Tripp’s not keen on leaving his vehicle on a busy street outside of a rowdy bar in the bad part of town, anyway. Or maybe all of those things are excuses to avoid admitting to himself that he’s planning on getting so smashed he can barely walk, because apparently, that’s the only way Lee is going to stop popping into his goddamn head uninvited.

Letting out a frustrated growl, Tripp stomps a little heavier than necessary down the street, his breath puffing clouds of white into the frigid evening air. A few people eye him curiously or worriedly, giving him a wide berth as he passes on the sidewalk, and he wonders what kind of angry expression he must be wearing to merit that.

Sighing in defeat, Tripp rubs at his face and runs a hand through his hair, but that only makes him think about Lee doing the exact same thing in various but equally appealing ways. Traitor that it is, Tripp’s dick twitches in his pants, and he directs his scowl towards his crotch, albeit with lackluster results.

There’s a decent-sized crowd loitering outside the bar, which isn’t surprising for a Saturday, even so early in the night. Tripp catches sight of a few of his platoon members talking and laughing, and it drains him. Theo and Mac are hanging out next to the door sharing a smoke, so he basically has to engage, even though small talk with his co-workers is pretty low on the list of things he wants to be doing right now.

“Trippster, haven’t seen you around in a few days,” Mac comments, the slight glaze over his eyes and the tang in the air suggesting that the smoke he’s puffing on is not a cigarette. When Mac offers it up, Tripp hesitates, but ultimately decides, what the hell? He did come here to get fucked up.

No, he scolds himself. You came for Beau.

“Thanks,” he says anyway, taking a small puff and handing the joint off to Theo, who surprises Tripp somewhat by partaking. Then again, Theo’s always been kind of a ‘rules are for when they benefit me,’ sort of guy, so maybe it’s not surprising at all. Truthfully, Tripp doesn’t really care what anyone else is doing to cope.

“So what’s up?” Mac prods, jerking his head towards the door before accepting the joint back from Theo. “Saw your bro come in a few minutes ago. You guys up for a game later?”

“Pool?” Now that, Tripp can get behind. “Hell yes,” he replies enthusiastically. “For money, right?”

“Ain’t no other kinda game here,” Mac says, shooting him a grin and a knowing nod.

“Sure you can afford it, Truett?” Theo teases. “I’ve seen those boots you drag your sorry ass to work in, they’ve sure seen better days. Maybe you should keep your money and buy some new ones, before you walk right out of them soles. Or are you saving up to finally buy Leander that diamond engagement ring he’s always wanted? Let him make an honest woman out of you?”

Tripp just rolls his eyes, outwardly unfazed. The guys he works with teasing him relentlessly about his feelings for Lee—that’s nothing new. The resulting sharp pang that stabs him straight through the heart and wraps icy tendrils around it to squeeze, however— that is. He’s not upset, though, not really. His co-workers are decent enough to only bust his balls when Lee isn’t around, and Tripp’s more grateful for that than he could ever say.

On the other hand, he sure wishes he could get ten goddamn minutes without his brain being sucker-punched and cornered and basically drop-kicked into thinking about Lee, Lee, Lee all over again.

Fuck.

“Forget Lee, your mom rocked my world last night, maybe I’ll give that ring to her,” Tripp shoots back airily. He can play this game in his sleep. Flashing his widest, most unbothered smile, Tripp tips his head to the side and rocks some disastrous finger guns in Theo’s direction.

“ Someone rocked your world last night,” Mac comments, waving the joint around. “Shit, it’s been years since I had even one hickey that big, and here you are with a whole fleet of ‘em.” He whistles, leaning away from the wall and into Tripp’s space, trying to get a better look, but Tripp bats him away and tugs his collar back into place.

Rookie move, dumbass, he tells himself, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to move towards the entrance to the bar.

“So I’ll catch you guys inside,” he replies evasively, purposefully ignoring Mac's comment and the hollered complaints about “ details ” that chase Tripp inside the Hot Plate as he slips through the closing door. Thankfully, Mac's bitching is lost to the din of the bustling bar, and Tripp breathes a sigh of relief as he looks around. Sure, it’s dark and dirty with shitty lighting and a layer of stickiness on the floor that no amount of mopping is ever going to remove, but the Hot Plate is as much a second home to Tripp as his station.

Not just the place, but the people, too. Mood already improving, Tripp waves to several friends right off the bat, catching Reina’s eye from where she’s surveying her territory behind the bar. He raises an arm in greeting, and in return, she offers a warm smile and a hollered demand to come talk to her before he leaves.

The walls of the Hot Plate are covered with police, fire, and EMS paraphernalia: patches, flags, photos of big, local incidents, and framed gear belonging to fallen firefighters. In the middle of the rear wall is a giant tribute to Bill, Reina’s late husband and both the former City Fire Chief and the one who opened the Hot Plate with her, way back when. He died in a fire going on ten years ago now, back when Tripp was brand-new to the job. Tripp wasn’t working the day that it all went down, but like every firefighter in this town, he can recite the story like he was, and like it happened yesterday.

Scanning the room is a formality, since Tripp finds his brother seated in their usual spot, the booth set right below Bill’s montage. Beau is relaxing on the bench beneath his framed bunker jacket, leaving the seat across from him—the one under Bill’s picture and the hook that holds his helmet—open for Tripp.

Same as it ever was. The familiarity is welcome tonight.

Tipping his head in greeting, Tripp shucks his jacket and slides onto the worn vinyl covering the bench seat easily, sighing with the kind of happiness that only comes from being in one of his favorite places, with one of his favorite people. There’s a cold beer dripping condensation onto the table in front of him, matching the one sat opposite in front of Beau, and if Tripp knows his brother the way he thinks he does, dinner will be along shortly.

Best guess: rabbit food for health-freak Doctor Beau, red meat for him, if he’s lucky. Beau hasn’t been in his presence enough this week to bitch about his diet, so there’s a good chance he’s just going to let Tripp have what he wants without picking a fight.

Left upside down on the table, Tripp’s phone buzzes, but he ignores it.

“Hey,” Beau says, a big smile gracing his face that reminds Tripp of home and family and everything that’s freaking good with the world. Not that he’d ever admit that shit out loud, even under penalty of death. “So, what’s up with you?”

“Same old,” Tripp says with a sigh, and although there are a million things he wants to blurt out, to beg Beau's advice on, to just unload from his shoulders, not one of them makes it past his lips. Two minutes in and already halfway through his beer, Tripp sees Ro (Reina’s daughter and another firefighter at Eleven), passing by with a tray, catching her eye to signal for a refill. On the table, his phone vibrates again.

“You…gonna get that?”

“Nah,” Tripp replies, shaking his head before reaching across the table and smacking Beau's arm with the back of his hand. “What about you, how’s wedding planning?”

“Dude,” Beau says, with a meaningful look and a long sip of his own beer. “I’ve never been happier to get a text from you. My eyes are crossing from looking at flowers and favors and fabric samples all day. Do you know the difference between crimson and claret? ‘Cause I do, now.”

“Uh, no, Bozo, my manhood is intact, thanks for asking.” Tripp fiddles with the glass in his hand, smirking but softening when he sees the dopey expression on Beau's face as he stares down into his glass. “All worth it, huh?”

Lovesick. That is, without question, the only way to describe how Beau looks when he raises his eyes to meet Tripp’s. He scoffs a little, maybe even blushes, and Tripp’s heart swells with genuine happiness and pride for who he’s become.

“Yeah,” Beau replies dreamily. “I get that it’s dumb, but you know, after the way we grew up, always out on the road and without Mom…I dunno, Tripp. This was something I always dreamed about, but never thought I’d get to have.” His eyes flick somewhat anxiously between his beer and Tripp’s face. “Silly?”

“Nah,” Tripp reiterates, because he gets it, more than he can ever let on. Except, in his case, there’s no happily ever after on the horizon. No obnoxious wedding planning, no flowers or favors or colors Tripp secretly does know way more about than he’ll admit (claret is superior). All that’s ahead in Tripp’s future is a bunch of really good sex for as long as it lasts and a few stolen moments he’ll—pathetically—carry with him and think about constantly for the rest of his life, once Lee has moved on.

With impeccable timing—since Beau is starting to look like he’s way too intuitive about what Tripp is thinking—Ro appears next to their table, tray full of an assortment of food and drinks balanced on her shoulder. As she sets the whole thing down on a collapsible stand, Tripp’s phone vibrates yet again.

“Dude, pick that up,” Beau tells him, shooting Tripp a skeptical side-eye. “What, you avoiding someone? Accidentally give your number out to the dregs of last call and now suffering buyer’s remorse?”

“Psh,” Ro interjects as she sets their beers down on the table before sliding a chicken-topped salad in front of Beau and a truly monstrous, onion-laden burger in front of Tripp.

God bless Bozo, Tripp thinks, rubbing his hands together with poorly-concealed glee.

“Tripp hasn’t been here in days,” Ro continues, complaining. “Whoever’s texting him ain’t someone he picked up at the bar.” She pauses and reconsiders. “Unless you’re cheating on us, is that it? You got something going with that flashy new place down the street? The one with the little umbrella drinks and the neon lights in the windows?”

To be fair, Tripp does like those fruity umbrella drinks, they friggin’ come with pineapple and a cherry, but he’s sure as hell not admitting that to Reina or Ro. And anyway, if he is having an affair, it’s the bar’s fault. It totally seduced him, all flirty and sexy with its Air Supply soundtrack and its clean floors.

Trampy bar , Tripp thinks, accusatory. “You’re high,” he scoffs back. “What, a man can’t take a few nights to himself? Grab a bubble bath, get in touch with his feelings?”

“Whatever, Tripp,” Ro says with a shrug before turning to Beau. “I’m pretty sure he only puts up this act when he’s been hooking up with dudes and thinks we’re gonna judge him.”

“I don’t care what you douchebags think of me,” Tripp fires back around a half-chewed mouthful of burger that makes both Beau and Ro cringe.

“Right.” Ro rolls her eyes and tucks her serving tray underneath her arm. “The real mystery here is how you attract anyone with manners like that. We’re all heathens here, but you are truly disgusting, Tripp Truett.”

In response, Tripp just grins toothily, food in his teeth and all. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says with a wink as she ruffles his hair roughly and saunters away. For a minute or two, he continues munching happily on his burger, still ignoring the buzzing of his phone. It’s only when Tripp realizes that Beau is sitting stock still, staring him down from across the table, that Tripp pauses and sets what’s left of his nearly-demolished meal back down on the plate.

“What?” he asks. “Do I have sauce on my face?”

“Uh, yes,” Beau says flatly, his eyes narrowed, “but that’s not my issue.”

“Okay,” Tripp replies. He wipes inelegantly at his face with the napkin that came wrapped around his silverware before shrugging and digging back in, speaking again around another giant bite. “What is your issue, Bozo?”

“Lee,” Beau says slowly, deliberately, and Tripp nearly chokes on his food. “Nice,” Beau adds as he recovers, swallowing and trying (failing) to look nonchalant.

“What about Lee?”

“Well,” Beau says pointedly, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I just watched you do a non-ironic spit-take at the mention of his name, so why don’t you tell me?” Silence being the only defense Tripp has left, he keeps his mouth shut, except to shove the last bite of burger in-between his teeth.

“Fine,” Beau continues. “Then I guess I should tell you that I talked to Lee about some groomsman stuff this morning and he said you guys ‘hung out’ last night. That you stayed over.”

“Okay, first of all,” Tripp replies, wiping both hands on his napkin and propping an elbow on the table so he can point an accusatory finger in his brother’s direction. “Were those actual air quotes? Because, seriously, don’t pick up Lee's dumb habits. Bad enough I have to deal with it from him. Second, I don’t like what you’re implying. And third, me and Lee hang out all the time, so whatever ‘gotcha’ moment you think you’re pulling here, it ain’t gonna work.” Tripp realizes way too late that he did the air quotes himself and silently curses Leander’s name.

“Tripp,” Beau says, wholly exasperated now and leaning forward over the table to emphasize his point. “I’m a doctor, you walnut. I’m a trauma surgeon, my specialty is literally trauma. It’s my job. Do you really think there’s any bruise on any human walking this planet that I can’t stage and identify from a passing glance?”

Confused, Tripp’s mouth drops open slightly before snapping closed again in horrifying realization. His hand flies reflexively to his neck, where he can feel that his shirt is hanging open just a smidge too wide.

“Ro's right, you know,” Beau continues conversationally, stabbing at his salad with a fork, but not even pretending to eat. “This is exactly what you do when you’re on a Grindr kick. Disappear from the Hot Plate scene for a few days, sleep away from home, show up weirdly satisfied and think none of us can put two plus two together on why. Except—”

“Don’t do it, Beau,” Tripp pleads, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“I know where you were last night, all night,” he persists, undaunted. “And now—” Beau flips Tripp’s phone over without asking, and sure enough, Tripp can see without even directly looking that there’s a string of text messages from ‘Lee Grigori,’ the only angel in Tripp’s life. Although, he’s starting to think that name might be an ironic coincidence, since right now, he feels like Beau is about to uncover his deal with the devil.

Frustrated, Tripp throws his hands up in the air before crossing them over his chest defensively and saying nothing. “Tripp,” Beau continues, puppy-dog eyes out in full force. “Dude, I’m happy for you! You know I’ve always thought you and Lee had a good thing going. I dunno why you’re hiding it, everyone we know would be thrilled to hear you guys finally—”

“Just shut up, Beau,” Tripp mutters miserably, fixing his gaze on the door at the far end of the room. “Seriously, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Deflated, Beau sits back and raises his hands in defeat. “You know what? Fine, Tripp. I was trying to be supportive, but if that’s how you want to act—”

“It’s just a hookup,” Tripp announces blandly, finally turning his gaze to meet his brother’s and hoping he’s at least semi-suppressing his shame. He shrugs. “Okay? You happy? Lee and I are hooking up, but we’re not…anything else, nothing like whatever you thought you Nancy Drew-ed into a conclusion there.”

To his credit, Beau looks genuinely confused, as if he’s never heard of the concept before. “But I thought—”

“Dude,” Tripp groans. “Why are you doing this to me, man?” He slumps back against the booth and glares at Beau, irritated all over again, worse than when he left Lee's apartment. There’s an itch crawling beneath his skin and something calling to him, something strong and unrelenting that he’s determined as fuck to ignore. Also being ignored are his previous thoughts about confiding in Beau, because right now, being a bitter asshole just feels more satisfying.

“You know that I don’t do the touchy-feely crap, alright? Just leave it.” There’s a long pause while Beau looks Tripp up and down and considers the totality of whatever he’s projecting right now, but ultimately, he nods, raising his eyebrows as he sighs.

“Sure, Tripp,” he relents. “It’s your life.” It’s quiet again while Beau pokes at his untouched salad and then, “One thing. Just one, and then I’ll shut it, I swear.” Reluctantly, Tripp makes the ‘proceed’ motion and waits, but Beau hesitates, staring down at his plate for so long that Tripp almost checks to see if he fell asleep. “I wasn’t kidding, earlier,” he says finally.

“About what?”

Beau looks up. “About how good it feels to have someone like Bri in my life. About how I never really thought I would. You shouldn’t give up on yourself, Tripp. You shouldn’t shut Lee out because you think…whatever it is you think.”

Tripp just snorts and averts his eyes. “Alright, well, thank you for the pillow talk,” he mutters, picking up his phone and scrolling absently without even realizing what he’s done.

Lee: I hope you’re having a nice night with Beau

Lee: Just so you know, I spoke to him earlier and said you were here, perhaps ensure your bruises are covered.

Despite the discomfort twisting inside of him, Tripp snorts again and has to bite back a smile. Figures—he should’ve checked his messages, after all. Considering that, he keeps reading, but the next few lines wipe the happy look right off of his face.

Lee: I’m going to have dinner with Autumn later.

Lee: As friends, of course, there is no ambiguity in our relationship status. I just wanted to tell you, in advance of it getting back to you some other way.

Whatever good mood Tripp had grappled with and nearly recovered dissipates immediately, replaced with something sour and vexatious that churns his stomach and makes his skin feel like it’s too tight. He shoves his phone into his pocket without replying and slides out of the booth, heading directly for the bar. Beau will follow—Tripp knows him well enough to be sure that he won’t take any of this personally—but before they can get on with the night, he’s going to need a lot more liquor dulling his system.

That, at least, he can fix. That, he can take care of and control. In fact, Tripp plans to exercise said control to the fullest extent.

In his pocket, his phone is finally silent.