Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Tyler
I don't even realize I'm the one who moves first.
One second we're yelling, breathing hard, hands gripping and shoving and trying to prove something neither of us can even explain, and the next—
His lips crash into mine.
Or maybe mine crash into his.
I don't know. I don't care.
It's not soft.
It's not careful.
It's heat and anger and something sharp underneath it, something that's been building for way too long and finally snaps all at once.
He kisses like he fights—like he's trying to win something.
I kiss him right back like I refuse to lose.
My hands tighten on him without thinking, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer even though there's no space left between us, and he makes this low, frustrated sound that goes straight through me, like a spark hitting something dangerously flammable.
This isn't supposed to be happening.
I'm not supposed to want this.
I'm not supposed to want him.
But I do.
God, I do.
He pushes back against me like he's trying to regain control, like he hates this as much as I do—except he doesn't stop, doesn't pull away, just kisses me harder, sharper, like he's trying to make a point with it.
My brain is screaming at me to stop.
My body doesn't listen.
Somewhere in the mess of it, I shift, adjusting without thinking, and suddenly I'm straddling his lap on the couch, my knees pressing into the cushions on either side of him, his hands gripping my sides like he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
The position hits me all at once.
Too close.
Too much.
I move without thinking.
My hips press down, just slightly, just enough to feel the contact between us, and the reaction is immediate. His hard.
A sharp inhale.
A tightening grip.
A low, almost frustrated sound that gets swallowed between our mouths.
My head spins.
This is—
This is not happening.
And yet, it is.
I grind down again, slower this time, testing it, feeling the way his body reacts under mine, the way his hands tighten on my hips like he doesn't know whether to pull me closer or shove me off.
The kiss slows for half a second, just enough for us to breathe, foreheads brushing, lips barely apart, both of us hovering there like we're standing on the edge of something we can't come back from.
I can feel his breath.
His heartbeat.
The tension between us is unbearable.
"Aaron..." I start, but it comes out wrong—too quiet, too unsure.
And then he pulls me back in.
It's worse this time.
Deeper.
Less about anger and more about everything we've been trying not to feel, everything we've been shoving down and ignoring and pretending doesn't exist.
My grip tightens.
His hands press harder against me.
his head tips back slightly, breath uneven, and when I follow, kissing down the edge of his jaw, I feel him break just a little under me, tension snapping into something raw and open.
This is out of control.
We're out of control.
I drag my mouth back to his, even slower now but somehow more intense, less anger and more something else that I don't want to name, something that feels too close to real.
My hands slide from his shoulders to his chest, gripping, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, too fast, too shallow, matching mine like we're caught in the same storm.
And for a second—just a second—I let myself lean into it, let myself feel it instead of fighting it.
And that's exactly when it goes too far.
"Tyler?"
My entire body goes rigid.
The voice cuts through everything like a knife, sharp and sudden and real, dragging me straight out of whatever this is and back into the world I forgot existed for a second.
My mom.
From down the hall.
"Tyler, what was that noise?"
We freeze.
Completely.
I pull back so fast it almost hurts, my breath catching as reality crashes down all at once, heavy and suffocating.
Aaron's eyes are wide, panic hitting him instantly, like it takes him even less time than me to realize what just happened.
What we were doing.
"Uh—nothing!" I call out quickly, my voice rough, a little too loud, a little too forced. "Just—uh—dropped something!"
There's a pause.
A long one.
Too long.
"...Keep it down," she mutters eventually, her voice fading again as the silence settles back into the apartment.
But it's not the same silence.
Not anymore.
I don't look at him right away.
I can't.
Because now that everything's quiet, now that the adrenaline is gone, all I can feel is it—what just happened, what it means, what it says about me, about him, about everything I thought I knew.
Aaron moves first.
His hands drop from where they were gripping me, like he just realized they were there, like the contact suddenly burns.
"Shit," he breathes, running a hand through his hair, eyes darting everywhere except me. "I—this—this wasn't—"
I swallow hard, shifting back, creating space between us even though it feels wrong now, like something's snapping back into place too fast.
"Yeah," I mutter, because I don't know what else to say. "Yeah. It—"
I stop.
Because there is no sentence that fixes this.
He stands up abruptly, almost tripping over himself in the process, pacing once, twice, like he's trying to outrun whatever's happening in his head.
"I shouldn't have come here," he says, more to himself than to me. "This was a mistake. The race—this—everything—"
"Aaron—" I start, but he cuts me off immediately.
"No," he snaps, shaking his head hard. "No, don't—don't say anything. Just—don't."
That stings more than it should.
For a second, I think about stopping him.
Saying something.
Anything.
I don't.
Because I don't even understand it myself.
His movements are rushed, messy, like if he doesn't leave right now he won't be able to at all.
At the door, he hesitates for just a fraction of a second.
Not turning around.
Not looking at me.
Then he's gone.
The door closes.
Everything feels different.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at nothing, my heart still racing, my mind louder than it's ever been.
Trying to make sense of it.
Of him.
Of me.
Of the fact that I didn't stop it.
Of the fact that I didn't want to.
And that's the part that scares me the most.
⸻
Sleep doesn't come.
Not even close.
I lie in my bed staring at the ceiling like it's going to give me answers if I look hard enough, something that explains what the hell just happened on my couch a few hours ago.
Every time I close my eyes, it's there again.
Aaron's mouth on mine.
The way he grabbed me like he was just as pissed as I was and didn't know what else to do with it.
The way I didn't stop.
The way I didn't want to stop.
I turn onto my side.
Then my back.
Then my other side.
The sheets twist around my legs, my pillow ends up on the floor at some point, and my brain just keeps going, replaying everything in high definition like it's trying to torture me.
I've kissed people before.
Girls.
It's always been girls.
Easy. Expected. Normal.
This?
Aaron?
This was none of that.
This was—
I squeeze my eyes shut, dragging a hand down my face, jaw tight.
"No," I mutter into the empty room, like saying it out loud will make it true. "No. It was just... it was just the fight. Adrenaline. That's all."
Yeah.
That's it. It has to be.
Because the alternative?
I don't even let myself go there.
The clock on my nightstand blinks 6:12 AM in harsh red numbers, and I let out a long, slow breath, staring at it like it personally offended me.
I've been awake all night.
Perfect.
From the other side of the trailer, I hear movement—drawers opening, something dropping, my mom muttering to herself—and just like that, any chance of sleep disappears completely.
I sit up, running both hands through my hair, exhaling sharply.
"Yeah," I mumble. "Cool. Great. Let's just... start the day, I guess."
I don't even remember getting dressed.
It's all automatic—jeans, hoodie, boots—movements done on autopilot while my brain is still stuck somewhere between last night and what the hell does this mean.
By the time I'm outside, the air is cold enough to wake me up a little, but not enough to fix anything.
Nothing's fixing this.
The ride to work is quiet.
Too quiet.
Even with the engine roaring under me, there's still too much space in my head, too many thoughts bouncing around with nowhere to go.
I pull into the lot of the garage a few minutes early, killing the engine and just sitting there for a second, hands still on the handlebars.
I don't move.
Then—
"Yo, you planning on sleeping out there or what?"
I glance up to see Cole leaning against the open garage door, arms crossed, a smirk already forming like he's been watching me for a while.
"Shut up," I mutter, swinging off the bike and grabbing my helmet. "I just got here."
"Yeah, like ten minutes ago," he shoots back, pushing himself off the wall and walking over. "You looked real deep in thought for a guy who usually doesn't think that hard."
I snort, shaking my head as I walk past him. "Careful, man. You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you care about me."
"Too late," he says easily, falling into step beside me. "I care too much, bestie."
Normally, I'd keep going, throw something back, keep it light, keep it easy.
But today?
Today I've got nothing.
Cole notices.
Of course he does.
"You good?" he asks after a second, tone shifting just enough to make it real.
"Yeah," I answer immediately.
Too fast.
He raises an eyebrow. "That sounded fake."
"It wasn't."
"You sure?"
I sigh, dropping my helmet onto the workbench a little harder than necessary, running a hand over the back of my neck.
"I'm fine," I say again, this time slower, more controlled. "Just didn't sleep."
"Mm." Cole leans against the bench, watching me like he's trying to figure out if that's the whole truth or not. "Race got to you?"
"Something like that."
Not a lie.
Not the truth either.
He studies me for another second, then shrugs like he's letting it go—for now. "You rode like crap," he says casually.
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. "Wow. Thanks. Exactly what I needed to hear."
"I'm serious," he continues, nudging my shoulder lightly. "You were off. Both of you were."
Both.
The word lands heavier than it should.
"Yeah," I mutter, grabbing a rag and wiping down the nearest surface just to have something to do with my hands. "Well. It happens."
Cole hums softly, like he doesn't fully buy it. "You and golden boy finally talked to each other?"
I freeze for half a second.
Just half.
But it's enough.
Cole's eyes narrow slightly. "Oh, that's interesting."
"It's not," I say quickly, a little too sharp, turning away so he doesn't see my face. "We just... fought. Same as always."
"Uh-huh."
I can feel his gaze on me, heavy and knowing, and it makes something twist in my chest, something uncomfortable and tight.
"Seriously," I add, forcing a shrug like it doesn't matter. "It's nothing."
Nothing.
There's that word again.
Cole doesn't push this time.
He just nods slowly, like he's filing it away for later. "Alright," he says, pushing off the bench. "If you say so."
I do say so.
But as soon as he turns away, as soon as I'm left alone with the quiet hum of the garage and the distant clatter of tools, the thoughts come rushing back in.
Nothing.
If it was nothing...
Then why can I still feel it?
Why does my mouth still remember the way his felt against mine, rough and heated and wrong in a way that didn't feel wrong at all?
Why did I not stop?
Why did I start?
I scrub a hand over my face, exhaling sharply, frustration building again, but this time it's not directed at him.
It's at me.
"I'm straight," I mutter under my breath, like saying it enough times will lock it back into place. "I am. I've always been."
So what was that?
A mistake?
A fight gone too far?
Something that got out of control?
...Or something else?
I grip the edge of the workbench, staring down at nothing, my reflection faint in the metal surface, distorted and unclear.
I don't have answers.
I don't even have the right questions.
All I know is that whatever happened last night—
It didn't feel like nothing.
And that's the problem.
I'm still staring at the workbench like it personally betrayed me when something hits the back of my head.
"What the—" I turn around fast, already scowling, and find Cole casually tossing a bolt up and down in his hand like he didn't just assault me with garage equipment.
"You were doing it again," he says, way too calm for someone who just threw metal at my skull.
"Doing what?" I snap, rubbing the back of my head.
"That thing," he gestures vaguely at my face, like that explains anything. "The whole brooding, staring into the void like you're in a sad music video."
I let out a short, incredulous laugh. "I don't do that."
"You literally just did," he shoots back, walking over and leaning against the bench again. "If there was rain right now, you'd be dramatically standing in it."
"Shut up."
"I'm serious," he continues, grinning now. "All you were missing was, like, a leather jacket and some tragic backstory voiceover."
I roll my eyes, grabbing the nearest rag and tossing it at him. "You talk too much."
He catches it easily, still smirking. "And you're acting weird."
"I'm not acting weird."
"You are," he says immediately. "You came in here half-dead, didn't sleep, zoned out for like ten minutes straight, and now you look like you're questioning your entire existence."
I pause.
Then I shrug, forcing it casual. "Maybe I am."
Cole squints at me, like he's trying to decide if I'm joking or not.
"...okay, that was more honest than I expected."
"Don't get used to it."
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Man, I knew that race messed you up, but damn. Didn't think it was existential crisis level."
"It's not," I say quickly, grabbing a wrench just to keep my hands busy again. "Relax."
"Uh-huh," he hums, clearly not convinced. "So it's not about the race, not about your mom, and definitely not about—what's his name—Aaron?"
I almost drop the wrench.
"Wow," Cole says immediately, eyes lighting up like he just hit jackpot. "That reaction? Yeah, that's definitely about Aaron."
"It's not," I snap, way too fast, turning away so he doesn't see my face.
"Tyler."
"Cole."
There's a pause.
Then—
"...did you two kiss or something?"
I choke.
Actually choke.
"What?!" I cough, spinning back around, glaring at him. "Where did that even come from?!"
He shrugs, completely unfazed. "I don't know. You're being weird, you're defensive, you look like your brain is melting... seemed like a logical guess."
"Yeah, well, your logic sucks," I mutter, turning back to the bench, gripping the wrench a little tighter than necessary.
"...so that's a yes."
"It's not a yes!"
"It's not a no either," he points out.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "Oh my god, you're so annoying."
"And you're avoiding the question," he sings lightly, clearly enjoying this way too much.
"There is no question," I snap, even though my voice lacks any real bite now. "Nothing happened."
Nothing.
There it is again.
Cole watches me for a second longer, then—surprisingly—he lets it go.
He just shrugs, pushing himself off the bench. "Alright, I was joking." he says. "If nothing happened, then nothing happened."
I let out a quiet breath, tension easing just slightly.
"...but if you did kiss him," he adds casually, already walking away, "I expect full details. For scientific purposes."
I stare at his back, incredulous. "Scientific purposes?"
"Yeah," he calls over his shoulder. "I need to know if all that anger translates into something useful."
I grab a random cloth and throw it at him this time, harder than before.
He laughs when it hits him, not even bothering to turn around. "See? There it is. That's the Tyler I know."
I shake my head, but there's a small, reluctant smile pulling at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it.
"Idiot," I mutter under my breath.
"Love you too!" he calls back.
I don't answer that.
But the silence isn't heavy anymore.
It's lighter.
At least for a little while.