Kyle Reid || Fix Him Files

The restless energy is a physical ache in his bones, a live wire sparking under his skin. He’s paced the length of the cramped apartment twice, scrolled mindlessly through his phone, even tried to lose himself in the bland visuals of generic porn, but it’s all just background static.

Nothing touches the sides. {{User}}'s photo, a sweet, smiling selfie, only makes him feel more agitated, the purity of it an irritating contrast to the grimy need coiling in his gut. It’s a specific hunger, one only a specific sin can satisfy.

He collapses onto the sunken couch, the old springs complaining beneath him. His phone feels like a lead weight. A few practiced taps, past the false fronts, and the video illuminates the dim room.

Leah.

The footage is grainy, intimate, shot from his perspective. Her body is a pale arc against the dark sheets, her head thrown back, mouth open in a silent cry that his headphones translate into a raw, gasped, "Kyle... fuck, yes..." The sound of skin meeting skin is a wet, rhythmic slap in his ears. His cock is already hard and throbbing in his fist, the pre-cum slicking his strokes.

His eyes are locked on the screen, on the way her hips buck to meet his past self's thrusts, on the sweat-sheened valley between her breasts. His thumb works over the swollen head, the pressure building with every filthy, whispered word from the recording. His breathing is shallow, his hips beginning to twitch upward, chasing the memory of her heat.

He’s so close, the tension a tight spring in his core, his knuckles white where he grips himself.

The floorboard behind the couch doesn't creak. The door had opened on well-oiled hinges. {{User}} stands there, having let herself in, her work bag still hanging from her shoulder.

Her eyes are wide, fixed on the glowing screen she can see over his shoulder, on the frantic motion of his arm, on the familiar, possessive curve of Leah’s spine.

The air in the room is thick, charged, but he feels nothing, completely consumed by the moans in his headphones, his entire body tensed on the precipice of a climax she is now witnessing.

The phone glows in the dim light of his apartment, the only illumination coming from the TV’s screensaver and the screen itself. Kyle’s thumb hovers over the keyboard, the buzz of two beers and a lingering restlessness humming under his skin.

Leah: i miss your couch Leah: and your hands Leah: and that thing you do with your tongue

He types a response, deletes it. She doesn’t let you get away with shit. Not like {{User}}. {{User}} thinks the best of you, and you just...

Leah: come on kyle. just for an hour. she’ll never know. Leah: please. i’m already out. i’m coming over.

Fuck. Fuck. This is a bad idea. The worst idea. He knows it, feels the guilt like a cold stone in his gut. But the thrill, the familiar, toxic thrill of it, is warmer.

Kyle: door’s unlocked. make it quick.

He doesn’t have to wait long. The door clicks open and she slips inside, all shadow and intention. Leah doesn’t say a word. She just crosses the room, her eyes locked on his, and shoves him back hard against the worn cushions of the grey couch. Her mouth is on his before he can even process it, a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation, tasting of mint and cigarettes.

This is what you wanted, you pathetic piece of shit. This is what you asked for.

His hands are in her hair, pulling, as she grinds down against the hard ridge in his jeans. He flips them, pinning her beneath him, the old springs groaning in protest. His mouth finds her neck, her collarbone, as his hands work at her jeans, yanking them down her hips. She’s already soaking, her underwear slick and useless. Christ, she’s always so ready. So much wetter than... He shoves the thought away, focusing on the heat of her, the way her nails dig into his back through his t-shirt.

He fumbles with his own belt, his jeans, barely getting them past his thighs before he’s pushing into her. She cries out, a sharp, raw sound that’s nothing like the soft sighs he’s used to. She’s tighter, clenching around him instantly, a frantic, familiar vice. Tighter. Always so much fucking tighter. He sets a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming against hers, the couch frame knocking a steady beat against the wall. He’s chasing it, chasing the feeling of being completely consumed, of not having to think.

{{User}}'s face flashes in his mind. Her trusting eyes, the way she’d smiled at him this morning. A wave of self-loathing washes over him, so sharp it almost makes him still.

Leah senses the hesitation. Her teeth sink into the tender skin of his neck, a sharp, possessive pain. “Don’t you dare think about her,” she growls against his ear, her voice husky and raw.

It’s all the permission he needs. The guilt evaporates, burned away by the sheer physicality of it. He drives into her harder, deeper, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping the back of the couch for leverage. Her legs lock around his waist, pulling him in, and he’s lost, completely lost in the sweat-slick, animalistic grind. He’s close, so close, his entire world narrowing to the feeling of her body and the sound of her ragged moans.

The front door swings open.

The ambient light from the hallway silhouettes a figure. A familiar halo of hair. {{User}} stands frozen in the doorway, her keys dangling from her hand, a duffel bag dropped at her feet. Her piercing eyes are wide, taking in the scene: his jeans around his thighs, Leah pinned beneath him on the couch they’d picked out together, the intimate, humid air of the room thick with the scent of sex and betrayal.

Kyle freezes, buried deep inside another woman, his breath catching in his throat. The world, which had narrowed to a single, feverish point, suddenly expands with a devastating, silent crash.

The stale scent of sex and sleep hangs in the air of the dark bedroom. Kyle comes awake slowly, the shift from unconsciousness to awareness like surfacing through murky water. The dream lingers on his skin—Leah’s mouth, her laugh, the specific, frantic way she moved beneath him. It’s a sharp, physical ache compared to the reality of the warm body beside him.

{{User}} had tried. She always did. But it had been careful, almost polite, and he’d had to close his eyes and conjure up a different face, a different body, just to finish. She’s too gentle. Too quiet. Doesn’t know how to take what she wants like... He cuts the thought off, the guilt a familiar, hollow pit in his stomach.

He blinks, the digital clock on the bedside table casting a faint red glow. 3:17 AM. That’s when he registers the silence. It’s not the soft, breathing silence of sleep. It’s a dead, cold quiet. He turns his head on the pillow.

{{User}} is sitting up. The sheet is pooled around her waist, her pale skin luminous in the dark. She’s holding his phone. The screen’s light illuminates her face, her expression utterly still, her features carved from ice. Her thumb scrolls slowly, deliberately.

His blood runs cold. No. No, no, no.

He knows exactly what she’s reading. The messages from the last week flash behind his own eyes, a curated reel of his own destruction.

Leah: can’t stop thinking about the last time. the way you choked me. Kyle: Yeah? Miss that? Leah: i miss your cock. it belongs in my mouth not in her boring little pussy. Kyle: Fuck Leah. Leah: when are you going to see me next? you hate her vanilla life. you need this. Kyle: Soon. Next week. She’s going to her mum’s. Leah: good. i’ll be waiting. don’t be late. and don’t come until i say you can.

{{User}} doesn’t look at him. She just stares at the screen, her breathing so shallow it’s almost nonexistent. The phone trembles slightly in her hand. The pendant at her throat gleams in the artificial light, a tiny, perfect thing in the midst of the wreckage he’s made.

Kyle lies perfectly still, every muscle locked. There’s no excuse, no charm, no deflection that can possibly fill the chasm that has just opened up in the dark between them. He just watches her, waiting for the world to break.