Chapter Text
The moment the elevator dings and heavy metal doors slide open with a disgruntled screech, your eyes hone in on the suspicious figure standing next to your car.
Of course, on all days, it’s when you drive the sports car to work that some creep sneaks into the faculty parking garage. You shove your left hand in your pocket, threading your fingers in between your keys like you’re slipping into brass knuckles. Your other hand is whipping out your phone, dialing the number for campus security as you stomp up to the stranger who has now taken to eyeing you down.
“Back off right now. I have security on the phone and they’ll be here any second,” you shout as you approach, your voice echoing through the darkly lit concrete structure. Unfortunately, you’re leaving ridiculously late like you always do, which means a quick glance at the remaining vehicles says the chances of someone else being around are few and far between.
Now that you’re closer, you get a better look at the figure leaning against the load-bearing pillar. He’s tall, dressed in dark blue coveralls with some sort of toolbelt strapped to him, tight, enough to show off a significant shoulder-to-waist ratio despite the bagginess of his clothes. His sleeves are rolled up his elbows, putting strong, thick forearms on display. From head to toe, he’s covered in what looks to be dirt or grease—it’s streaked across his chiseled jaw, like he went to wipe something else away but only managed to make a bigger mess of himself. Even his white hair is darkened in places thanks to smudges of God knows what.
His red eyes, however, soften with a gentle sincerity. “Easy, now. I promise I’m not trying to rob you. I’m faculty.” The man fishes into one of his many pockets and flashes what is unmistakably an employee badge.
You mumble an apology into your phone as you hang up, but not yet relaxing the grip on the keys in your left hand and keeping them stowed in your pocket. You drag your gaze up and down, knowing full well the incredulous look on your face as you evaluate him. “You’re a professor?”
“Part-time instructor,” he smirks, like he’s more pleased than offended at your insult. It’s a handsome smile, the kind that has women flocking to the feet of better dressed men.
“For… what? Janitorial?”
“Automotives.” Ah. Well, that explains the grease. Either that, or he’s a damn good liar. “And yourself?”
“Humanities. Ethics, specifically.” How easily he’s lulled you into casual conversation. Just a moment ago, you were convinced he was going to kidnap you or worse—steal your car. Judging by the state of him, he still might. Yet the power of a beautiful stranger prevails and you can’t help but humor him.
He whistles an impressed tune. “A philosopher, then? You must be an interesting date.”
Let’s grab dinner and you can find out, comes the gut response, a reflexive need to flirt when a charming man looks at you like that. But with a bite to your cheek, you catch yourself before you wade into dangerous territory.
Even so, your left hand burns with a scalding shame.
“Are you going to explain why you were hovering around my car?” you ask, pivoting the conversation back to somewhere safer.
“Just wanted to see if I was right.”
“About what?”
He walks over to your car, circling it, assessing as though he’s in a fine art museum and not underground in a cold, dark parking garage. Something about the way he judges it, even silently, speaks to a degree of expertise and reverence that comes only with years of dedicated passion. He pauses to take in the same minor details that ignited your own love towards this particular model, and it takes everything in you not to start gushing over it like a fangirl. You can tell just by looking at him that anything you could possibly say would be met with an expert’s agreement.
As you watch him drag his eyes along the smooth, intricate body lines of the chassis, you realize both are the same gorgeous shade of ruby red.
“I thought that anyone driving this is either ridiculously rich with something to prove, or just ridiculously beautiful.” Since when had he gotten so close to you? All the careful distance you had put between the two of you is suddenly closed. He’s only a breath away, and with him towering over you like this you can practically feel the vibration of his voice, a low tenor that soaks into your skin with every syllable. “And since you’re on a teacher’s salary, you can take a guess at which one I was right about.”
What an infuriating flirt, this man. The gall of him to hit on you so blatantly in a place like this. You should really not be blushing, come on, how are you so easy? You should also probably cut the conversation there, but for a reason you’ll find to lie to yourself later, you volley. “Please, I am not a teacher. I’m a tenured professor.”
“Tenure doesn’t get you a ride like this,” he laughs.
No, but a good investment portfolio does. And an early mid-life crisis, but that’s neither here nor there.
You cross your arms over your chest, fighting to create at least a modicum of space between you two. It’d be so much easier for you to just walk away. You don’t. “You seem like you’re fishing for something.”
“I am. Many things, in fact. Your name, your number, if you’d let me ride shotgun—to name a few.”
Ah. There it is—the dissolution of your plausible deniability. It shatters like tempered glass, an innocuous strike to the exact, fragile point where it has no choice but to break. No longer can you live in the flirty façade of innocence. His words are too direct with their interest, stripped of innuendo and to the point: he wants you. You cannot want him.
You take out your left hand from your pocket in a movement that feels all too practiced, holding it upright, palm towards yourself. Red eyes reflect a thin silver band with a small diamond mounted in its centre. “I’m married.”
It’s difficult to read his expression. You imagine this must be what disappointment looks like on him, though the way he steels his jaw and narrows his gaze feels something closer to challenge than dissatisfaction.
In a mirror of your movements, he brings up his own hand, bare of glimmering metal. “I’m not.”
“Excuse me?” You are baffled into a loss of words. What kind of response is that ? You’re used to the dejected puppy-dog look, or the frustrated tantrum, or even the loathsome begging you’ve received from other suitors. This is just… strange. Who the hell is this man? “You—why does that matter?”
“I don’t know, you’re the one who brought it up first.” He smiles like he’s holding back a laugh, sharp canines on display. Is he mocking you? There’s no way you misread his intent. Not when he’s close enough to touch.
“Because I’m telling you that I am not available,” you reply, unable to help your eyebrows furrowing in the way you know makes your forehead wrinkle unsightly.
“I asked for your name, kitten. Not for you to commit adultery. Though, I wonder what you were thinking to jump to that conclusion,” he says with a suggestive lilt to his voice and a smug, yet undeniably sexy, smirk.
So he is making fun of you. This is a new approach—no one has ever played the role of a bastard when you’ve rejected them. And that nickname… there must be something seriously wrong with this man.
“First of all, do not call me that. Second, you are a very frustrating person, do you know that?”
He crosses one arm over his chest, tucked under his other elbow, index finger tapping at his temple in an exaggerated display of thinking. “Hm, no, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before. Indulge me. What about me is so frustrating?"
If steam could burst from your ears, it would, along with a bulged vein in your forehead and a tomato red flush. Instead, you simply huff your agitation away. “It was a rhetorical—nevermind. I am not engaging with you any further. Have a good night.”
A charming beep denotes your car unlocking, and you shove past the stupidly tall man in front of you and get into the driver's seat. You’re careful not to slam the door, as much as you’d enjoy the punctuation to your departure. The leather seat hugs you in all the right ways, your palms feeling at home as they smooth along the steering wheel. When the engine roars to life with a familiar hum, you feel your annoyance soothed away.
Just as you are about to leave, there’s a gentle, single knuckle knock to your window. You roll it down just a smidge, if only to tell him off.
“I’m Sylus,” he says. A handsome name.
“Goodbye, Sylus.”
“Tell me yours. Please.” What a shame. He’s all too pretty when he begs.
You say nothing, closing the window and twiddling your fingers in a teasing wave goodbye. With a gentle foot to the gas, you pull out of your parking spot and leave for the night.
In your rearview mirror, Sylus leans back against the concrete pillar, watching you leave with what could only be a pleased, wistful smile.
You return to a dark, quiet house. Even the porch light is off, leaving you to fumble blindly with your keys as you open the door. There’s a beautiful relief to taking off your heels after such a long day, having worked too late in the cold of your office grading assignments. As if that wasn’t of your own, very deliberate choosing.
The lonely silence of your home is peaceful this time of night. You like coming back to this, to nothing but the gentle hum of the refrigerator and ticking of the clock. No obnoxious TV shows in the living room. No loud calls with friends you can’t stand, talking over video games you hate even more. No reason to repeat the same, tired conversations about each other’s day at work. No way for that to somehow blow up into a circular, unending argument. Just a pleasant silence.
And a sink full of dishes. And a countertop marred by an embarrassing attempt at cooking. And remnants of takeout containers purchased in the aftermath.
Of course he expects you to just clean up after him. Why wouldn’t he, when you’re already rolling up your sleeves to get it done? And tomorrow, you’ll be vacuuming in the morning while he sits at his desk without a spare drop of coffee left in the pot. Will he say even a single word about how nice you keep the house? No, of course not. He’ll be home all day, working until it’s time to sit on the couch, and then he’ll find a reason to besmirch you to his friends instead. How lucky you are to have such a doting, loving husband.
When you finish cleaning the kitchen and readying yourself for sleep, you enter the bedroom to find your husband under the covers, curled up on his side. Cool blue moonlight filters in from sheer curtains, illuminating the room in a melancholic glow. He faces the opposite wall. Always away from you.
You sit on your side of the bed, removing your earrings with care and placing them in the velvet-lined jewelry box on your nightstand.
When you hear him rustling next to you, you just can’t help yourself, a bitterness seeping out before you can stop it. “You know, the least you could do is leave the porch light on.”
“Last time you got mad at me for not turning off the lights,” comes a groggy, half-asleep voice that grates your ears by the very nature of belonging to him.
“The lights inside the house, yes, but I told you I’d prefer not trip up the steps when I get home late.”
“Fine.”
You’re well suited for the role of nagging wife, aren’t you?
It’s how you know that you deserve the condemnation of this abject misery. You can’t fathom surviving a day without stoking the flame of argument, needing to feel that sting of hurt to feel alive, to feel anything at all. Who else would suffer through the ordeal of loving you except your poor, doormat of a husband?
Back-to-back you lay in bed—another distant, sexless night between you.
As you feel yourself pulled into the depths of slumber, you wonder if Sylus also returned to a quiet home. If maybe, he’ll also fall asleep to the thought of a beautiful stranger he met in a parking garage.
The next day, your class ends without a hitch, students filtering out through the tall classroom doors as some linger to ask you questions or beg for extensions. The ones too nervous to approach you will likely flood your inbox by the end of the day, giving you just one more excuse to be stuck in your office well past normal working hours.
As you exit the lecture hall, the call of your name stops you in your tracks.
Leaning against the wall next to the door is a familiar, coverall-clad man. This early in the day, he’s far less doused in grease, only the permanent staining to his clothes a sign of his messy line of work. He’s somehow more handsome in this lighting, and you find your breath caught in your throat. You can’t help tracing over his features, drinking in the sight of him before you realize what a slack-jawed idiot you must look like.
You straighten yourself out, rolling your shoulders back and narrowing your eyes, reminding yourself that you do not like this man. Even if he’s pretty. “You again. How did you learn my name?”
Sylus taps the printed list outside the hall doors. The list of class times and professors is written out in plain, black ink. “There’s not that many people teaching ethics, you know.”
“So you’re stalking me?”
“If that’s what you call two clicks on the school’s faculty list. Anyways, I wouldn’t have needed to if you only had the courtesy to introduce yourself last night.”
“And I owe you that courtesy, because…?” You don’t bother to hide your tone or mask your annoyance in the slightest. Whatever it takes for him to get the hint.
He smiles that infuriatingly charming smile instead, not the least bit off-put by your behavior. “It’s polite.”
“Oh, please. You have been anything but polite to me.”
“Really, that’s what you think? What exactly have I done that’s been so rude?” He looks to you, expectant.
The list begins to form in your mind. Creepily waiting for you at your parking spot, for one. Mocking you when you rejected his advances, then continuing said advances like your marriage was an insignificant factor. Stalling you from taking a much needed break with this benign chitchat. That look on his face, like he still wants you, despite the fact that he very much cannot have you.
You decide then that you could either stay here and talk in circles with him all day, or actually have your lunch. As appealing as the first option sounds, you decide to roll your eyes and walk away instead. Your heels click against the linoleum floors, pleasant in their solidarity before steel toed boots follow with a rushed step.
“Persistent, aren’t you?” you say after some time, not bothering to turn to him. Maybe the less you look, the less you’ll want to engage.
“It’s one of my better qualities.” Even without seeing him, you hear the smile in his voice. Irritating.
“I’d hate to know your worst.”
He chuckles. “I’ll be sure you see only my best side.”
“Says the one wearing a greasy jumpsuit,” you scoff. It’s easy to insult his appearance when you are not looking directly at him.
“Judgemental, aren’t you?” He sounds not the least bit hurt. If anything, he’s mocking you yet again.
“And that’s one of my better qualities. So I suggest you leave me alone before you see how much worse I get.”
“Well now you’re just making me curious.”
“What do you want from me?” You stop just outside your office door, making no move to unlock it lest he get the wrong idea and think he’s invited inside. You finally turn to him, and he’s close again, invading your personal space like it belongs to him too. If you reached out even the slightest bit, arm still bent at the elbow, you could feel those broad, muscled forearms.
Where you find yourself faltering with this closeness, his confidence only seems to grow. “Your time, of course.”
One of the many things of yours that he can’t have. “I told you I’m married, didn’t I?”
“I don’t see a ring,” he says, pointing to your finger, near-touching.
Automatically, your right hand moves to cover your left, to rub at the spot where your ring, by all accounts, should be sitting. You think to the morning, to your precious routine of slipping off your ring as you step into your office, of wrapping it carefully in a handkerchief before stowing it into your desk drawer. It’s just… you hate to have any part of your career superceded by your marriage. Your skin crawls at the very idea of a student addressing you as missus, like you belong to someone else even in the sanctity of the one place that is wholly yours.
“That doesn’t mean anything.” You avoid looking him in the eye, like he might read something in you that you would rather not say aloud. “I just don’t wear it at work.”
“Why is that, I wonder?” There’s that infuriating persistence.
You roll your eyes and look off to the side. “Don’t get cocky. I don't want to risk damaging it.”
“Kitten, you’re a teacher. What’s the worst that can happen? A few chalk marks?”
“I told you not to call me that,” you snap, shooting him a glare you hope will burn holes through his skull.
“Sorry, a professor.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, I know.” Suddenly, he closes in on you, one hand pressing the wall above your head, forcing you back against your office door. It’s an incriminating position, should anyone see you. His voice comes quieter, more intimate with your proximity. “I didn’t see your car this morning.”
His other arm stays at his side, an escape route open for you to take. You debate it for a moment: slipping away, calling him out on this unprofessional harrassment—better yet, you could submit a complaint and have him fired for this. Which would mean, plainly, that his ceaseless flirting is unwelcome with you. But that wouldn’t be entirely true. There is a part of you—an insidious, treacherous part of you—that doesn’t want him to stop. That feeds off the taboo thrill of having such a beautiful man so unabashedly interested in you. That wants him even closer.
So instead of running, you tip your chin up to him, meeting his stare. You intend the words to sting, but they come out soft instead. “You really are a stalker, Sylus.”
“I just like cars.”
“Is that all you like?”
He leans in, your foreheads almost touching. He could kiss you. You could kiss him. It’d be so easy. You’d barely have to move. Just an inch closer, a head tilt away. If an earthquake struck right now, it wouldn’t even be your fault. Is the ground shaking, or is that just you?
“Sylus! What are you—”
You couldn’t move away from him quicker, though he does not make it easy with how he refuses to budge, barely even flinches from where he leans above you. All he does is grin, like he’s happy to be caught. Idiot.
Tara looks between the two of you with wide eyes. “What the heck, you guys didn’t tell me you knew each other.” She pouts with furrowed brows.
Quickly, you remember you hate him. “We don’t know each other. He was just leaving, actually.”
“Hi, Tara,” Sylus says, waving his hand, the other still propped against the wall in an act of natural nonchalance.
You feel something strange, with the knowledge that the two of them are acquainted. Perhaps you are just one in a long line of women Sylus pursues. Though, you’re well aware Sylus is far from Tara’s type.
Her pout is overtaken by a beaming smile. “You should join us for lunch!”
Before you can even protest, Sylus is already pushing himself off the wall. “As much as I’d love to, I actually do have a class to teach, believe it or not.” Tension instantly uncoils from your body and leaves through a sigh of relief.
“Aww, that’s too bad. We’ll have to hang out some other time, now that we know we’re all friends.” Tara slinks her arm through your own, a plastic bag full of food dangling in her other hand.
“Until next time.” Sylus waves a farewell, then walks down the hallway until his tall frame is but a speck among specks.
You open your office, and the two of you settle into your routine with ease.Tara arranging the food on your desk while you make coffee from the small machine set atop a filing cabinet.
As soon as you sit down to eat, Tara wastes no time getting into her interrogation.
“So. How do you know Sylus?” She looks to you with a raised eyebrow, cheeks puffed in her attempt at seriousness.
“I don’t, I promise. We’re barely acquainted.”
“You guys looked pretty close back there...”
Oh, God. This is your nightmare. It would have been better if your husband was the one who saw you so compromised. “No, no, that had nothing to do with me. That was… harassment. Last night he was waiting next to my car like a creep, and now he’s following me around campus. Seriously, you should be careful around him, Tara. Something is not right with that man.”
“What! He’s nice!” Tara guffaws like she was the one who was insulted.
“You think everybody is nice.”
“That is not true.”
“Well you think I’m nice, which I certainly am not.” Of all people, Tara has heard plenty of your ill-tempered rants over one thing or another.
“But you’re nice to me…”
“Only because you bring me lunch.” You quickly pivot to the question nagging in your mind. “How do you know him.”
“He’s sat in on a few of my classes and we’ve just been running into each other every now and then.” She pokes at her food, taking another bite before speaking with her mouth full, mid-chew. “He’s really not a bad guy, you know.”
“Well he seems determined to ruin my marriage, so I’m not so sure about that.”
There’s a weighted silence between the two of you, and you immediately regret being so honest. You should have skirted around the topic until your compromising position was lost to another train of thought. Instead, Tara swallows her mouthful and adopts a serious look on her face.
“Maybe… you should let him.”
“Tara.” You stab your fork into your salad, your grip on the silverware white-knuckle tight.
“You know I hate that guy,” Tara grumbles. It’s true, that you have heard many, many times exactly how much she despises your husband. It’s what makes her your favorite person to complain to—you know that you’ll hear the exact vitriol you need to feel right about yourself, even when you know you’re the one in the wrong.
“That guy is my husband. And I’m not going to cheat on him.” You’re trying to be good, these days.
“Then maybe you should just leave him,” she says, so easily. It’s far from the first time she’s pushed the idea—it’s as if every conversation between you two comes back to this, in one way or another.
“And you know I can’t do that either.”
“Can’t you, though?”
“I’m ending this conversation, Tara,” you say, curt and with a leveled glare.
She throws her hands up with a huff. “Ugh, fine. But just know I won’t stop you if it means you’re any closer to dumping him,” she whines.
It’s an awkward silence again for a moment and you can’t stand being left with your racing thoughts. You pivot to a guaranteed distraction. “So, how was your guest lecturer yesterday?”
Tara beams, eyes instantly lighting up and any thoughts of printing off divorce papers are drained from her mind. She chatters, almost endlessly, about what most definitely sounds like a very boring lecture that you do not have the background knowledge to understand. But it’s easier to listen to this than any more talk of the embarrassing state of your marriage.
Still, you worry you’ve lost a key pillar of support. Encouragement is the last thing you need. Your own disgust will have to do, instead.
Over the next few weeks, Sylus weasels his way into being a constant fixture in your life. Being part-time, he’s not on campus everyday, but when he is around he’s sure to be waiting for you outside your morning class. Your walks to your office become a begrudging routine, and though thankfully, he never stays for lunch, it’s still a bad habit to form. Ten minutes of your day, always reserved for him.
Now you find yourself anticipating it. The call of your name, the sound of his heavy steps beside you. You never reach out, but you don’t exactly pull back either. It’s a careful line you toe, wading the waters of deniability. His intentions couldn’t be more clear, even if he has enough decorum to hesitate.
And every night, you get into bed with your husband. You don’t talk about work. He doesn’t ask. These days, you run into each other so infrequently in the light of day that you might actually see Sylus’ face more than your husband’s.
The husband in question calls you out of the blue one morning, your phone sending him to voicemail while you’re in class. He doesn’t even know your schedule, has no idea not to call while you’re teaching.
You wait for your students to leave, then ring back without bothering to listen to his message. “What is it?”
“I need a car tonight. Work dinner.” He always needs something, doesn’t he?
“Well I drove the sedan today, not the sport, and you are not touching my car,” you scoff. Just the thought of him behind the wheel of your sport has your skin crawling. You’d sooner file for divorce.
Even through his voice alone, you can just see his eyes roll. “Come home and switch, then.”
“You’re kidding me. Can’t you just call a cab?”
“I already promised I’d drive a coworker home.”
It’s always like this. He makes promises he can’t fulfill, plans he won’t follow through on, and expects you to clean up his mistakes and organize his entire life in the aftermath. You can’t keep trailing behind him with a broom and dustpan every time he inconveniences himself. “So tell them you forgot to coordinate with your wife before she drove to work and now you can’t.”
“Come on. Why do we even have two cars if you’re the only one who gets to drive them?” God, you hate when he whines like this—a spoiled, petulant child.
“Because I’m the one who actually leaves the house and pays the lease.”
“Stop being such a bitch.”
The word comes like a slap. It cracks against your face, so quick and sharp and with such intensity that it takes a moment for the sound to catch up with the impact.
“Go fuck yourself,” you spit, hanging up the phone and throwing it in your purse.
You want to scream bloody murder. You want to pick up a chair and throw it across the room. You want to grab someone by the throat and squeeze until the light leaves their eyes. But instead you’re at work, a professional, in a classroom you need to vacate ahead of the next class entering.
“That didn’t sound like it went well.”
A familiar voice snaps you back to reality, and you look up to see your favorite-but-least-favorite mechanic standing in front of the door, inside the room with you. His arms are crossed against his chest, and for the first time, you see a serious look about him. There’s a tension in the way he holds himself, no sly smiles or eyes lit up in jest. He watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for you to make a move.
“Please tell me you didn’t hear that.” You feel your face heat up, embarrassed and furious and embarrassed about being so furious.
He raises an eyebrow, head cocked to the side. “Would you like me to lie?”
“Sylus, I am really not in the mood for this right now.” You gather your things, unable to help an aggressive force as you shovel your laptop and various papers into your bag.
“Then what are you in the mood for?”
“Depends. Do you know any hitmen?” A tinge of regret hits you as soon as you say it. Not for threatening your husband, but for the oath you made to yourself to avoid talking about him at all costs with Sylus. A silent boundary, always kept to short, curt remarks and never any more. These are two separate worlds not made to cross.
Strangely, his mask of intensity slips into a suspicious grin. “Well…”
“Don’t answer that, actually. I never know with you.” If there’s anything you’ve learned about Sylus, it’s that he always reads like he lives multiple lives and all of them are some sort of secret you would rather not poke. “I’m fine. I’m so, very, incredibly fine. Let’s just go. I’m going to be late for Tara.”
The two of you walk through the halls together in relative silence, as though your husband’s presence hangs over you like a trailing ghost. As you approach your office, you send a short, final text. Don’t touch my fucking car.
You don’t touch your phone for the rest of the day, leaving it shut off to keep yourself from antagonizing the situation any further. The last thing you want is another public spat.The second-to-last thing you want is any interaction with your husband. Work is supposed to be your sanctum, the one place you can be where you aren’t someone’s wife. Everything here, your degrees, your tenure, all of it is what you have earned on your own merit, what you’ve spent your entire life working towards. Nothing is more important to you. As long as you have this, you can suffer any measure of misery at home.
As always, you leave late, safe in the comfort of your office sanctuary until the sun sets and only you, a handful of cramming students and late-night janitorial staff remain.
When you get to the parking garage, however, something is distinctly wrong.
Maybe you were mistaken and got off on the wrong floor. You double check the signage and—no, it’s most definitely your parking spot. Just one problem. There is no car where there definitely should be a car.
You scramble to turn on your phone, hands shaking with rage. There’s only a single text waiting for you from earlier this afternoon.
Picked up the sedan. You can call a cab.
You scream at the top of your lungs, letting the concrete echo your voice as it fills the entire floor with your righteous indignation.
Every call is met with your husband’s voicemail, and every text goes unanswered. You fire them off rapidly anyways, flaying him with your words and making it ruthlessly clear that he’ll be sleeping on the couch for the next month if he knows whats good for him.
None of it makes you feel any better, a simmering fury in every step you take towards the elevator, a burning ire in the way you press the button for the ground floor. When the doors slide open, there’s a tall figure dressed in blue waiting for the next ride down. You almost shove past him at first, not recognizing him in your blind anger. But he stops you with a hand to your shoulder. A light touch, barely anything at all, and yet it sizzles the skin beneath your clothes.
“Hey. Are you alright?” he asks, gentle, even when you swat his hand away.
Of all people you could possibly run into in this moment of suffering, it had to be Sylus. A cosmic joke, just for you.
“Peachy.” You start walking away, but now you’re all too used to the sound of steel-toed steps behind you.
“Look, I heard your call earlier today. If something happened with your husband—”
“What? You’re going to seize the opportunity to try and jump into bed with me, is that it?” It’s not like you mean to snap at him with such venom, you just can’t help yourself when you get like this. Sometimes it feels too good to be cruel.
“I was going to say, I can give you a ride home. I know there was something with your car. No need to tell me the details, and no funny business either, I’m just offering out of the pure goodness of my heart. As your friend. I swear.” To punctuate his point, he draws a cross over his heart with his finger.
“We are not friends, Sylus.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, shaking his head with a frustrated huff. “Okay, fine, then as your coworker. We can carpool.”
It’s such a bad idea, isn’t it? To throw yourself so willingly into the maw of temptation. He can use words like friend or coworker all he likes, but you know better. This would be crossing a line, a step beyond the careful rules of engagement you have established between the two of you. Any time alone with him feels like a sin.
And yet, you are too pissed off to care. Your husband is driving a coworker home too, is he not? It’s only fair, when he’s left you stranded like this.
There’s hellfire in your eyes when you look up to Sylus. “Now that I think of it, I’d love to save on the cab fare, if you’re offering.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, all too pleased with your answer, as if he’s won.
“Perfect. I have a spare helmet in the shop.”