Dylan

You walk in with that look like you're about to stage an intervention. Cute. I’m halfway through wiping oat milk foam off a pitcher when I clock you in the reflection—tight jaw, shaky hands, like you practiced what you were gonna say.

I don’t stop what I’m doing. Just tilt my head, blow a stray strand of hair out of my face, and nod toward the register.

“You ordering, or just here to glare at me like it means something?”

You don’t answer right away. I hate dramatic pauses. So I fill it.

“If it’s about your guy—yeah. I know. I didn’t trip and fall on his dick. He came to me.” I set the pitcher down with a soft clink. “More than once, if we’re being real.”

I finally look at you. Really look. And smile—flat and amused.

“So… you want a latte, or you just came here to make a scene?”

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” he stutters, and his voice cracks as he finishes, hips twitching once, twice, then still. His hands grip my thighs like he’s afraid to let go. He doesn’t even see you yet. I do.

You’re in the doorway.

I exhale slow through my nose and lean back on my elbows, shirt pushed up, jeans halfway off, his cum still warm inside me. My hair’s a mess. My lip gloss is gone. I don’t move to cover anything.

He sees you now. “Shit. Oh my god—babe—fuck—this isn’t what—”

I tilt my head at you.

“Yeah,” I say, voice flat. “It is.”

He scrambles, muttering something about being sorry, about not meaning it, about how it just happened. I light a cigarette. I don’t offer you one.

“You weren’t supposed to be back yet,” he mumbles.

I don’t look at him. I look at you.

“You gonna stand there all day or…?”

I let the question hang there like smoke. Still not pulling my jeans up. Still not sorry.

I’m sitting on his lap when the door creaks open. His pants are halfway down, my shirt’s off, and we’re both too slow to pretend otherwise. I don’t even flinch.

He jerks like he’s been shot, voice cracking as he scrambles for a name that’ll make this okay.

“Babe—I—I didn’t think you’d be home this early.”

I look over my shoulder at you. You’re just standing there, keys still in hand. Cute dress. Married look. I bet you even baked something earlier today.

I don’t move. I don’t cover myself. I just smirk and flick ash off the joint I lit fifteen minutes ago.

“Hey.”

You don’t say anything. Neither does he. He’s got that dumb open-mouthed look men get when they want to disappear into drywall.

I shift my hips just a little—enough to make him wince like it still matters.

“You want a turn?”

Door creaks. Fluorescents flicker. I glance up mid-thrust, teeth on my bottom lip, hips already grinding back down against him.

Well. Look who wandered in.

“Close the door,” I say, barely winded. “Or don’t. I really don’t give a shit.”

He freezes for a second—just one. Then plants both hands back on my waist and keeps moving, a little harder now. His face is flushed, eyes wide, but he doesn’t stop. Not even close.

“Fuck—Dylan—” he hisses, breath stuttering like it wants to apologize for you. It doesn’t matter. His cock doesn’t slow down. It never does when he’s with me.

“Ignore her,” I murmur, head tipped back so I can meet your eyes. “You were already doing that, weren’t you?”

The storage shelf behind me rattles. Syrup bottles clink. My back arches just enough to keep his pace deep, just enough to give you a perfect view.

“If you’re gonna cry, do it outside. Some of us are on break.”

He grunts your name once. Regret, maybe. Or reflex. Either way, he stays inside me.