People wondered how they worked. Jack—twenty-one, tattooed from knuckles to collarbone, the kind of guy who looked like he'd been raised by a motorcycle gang and a bad attitude. And Timothée—the boy who spoke five languages and was polite in every single one of them, like he'd been handcrafted by a committee of grandmothers.

Honestly? Jack wondered too.

It had happened the way most impossible things happen: by accident. Football, of all things. They'd ended up on the same team, and Timothée—for reasons known only to God and possibly Timothée's therapist—had decided he wanted to be friends with Mr. Womanizer himself. And Jack... Jack liked him. Turned out the golden boy wasn't nearly as much of a goody-two-shoes as everyone gave him credit for. There was something underneath the perfect grammar and the pressed shirts. Something that laughed at Jack's worst jokes and never once flinched at his tattoos.

So when Jack found himself drowning in German—because apparently choosing German as his second language had been a genius idea at the time—Timothée just shrugged and said, I can help you.

And Jack was not in a position to say no.

The worst part? Timothée was actually a good teacher. Patient. Clear. He didn't even flinch when Jack butchered the pronunciation for the hundredth time, just corrected him gently and moved on like it was nothing.

"Okay," Timothée said, closing the textbook with a satisfied little snap, "I think that's mostly what you need to pass your next test." He looked up, and something mischievous flickered behind his glasses. "Now—do you wanna play games?"

Jack grinned. "Sure."

"Alright. I'll be right back."

He returned a minute later balancing a tray of sodas—classic Tim, a whole array of choices, most of them loaded with enough sugar to kill a small horse.

"My mom will bring us popcorn later."

"Oh, you mean your mommy?" Jack teased, leaning back with a smirk. "I almost forgot you're a mommy's boy."

"I am," Timothée said, without a flicker of shame. He grabbed the remote and dropped onto the couch beside Jack like it was the most natural thing in the world. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with it."

Jack chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a real spoiled brat, aren't you?"

"I'm not spoiled," Timothée said, cracking open a soda with theatrical dignity. "I'm cherished. There's a difference."

"Cherished." Jack snorted. "That's what rich people say when they don't wanna admit their kid gets everything he points at."

"I don't get everything."

"Name one thing you wanted and didn't get."

Timothée opened his mouth. Closed it. Took a long sip of soda.

"That's what I thought," Jack said, victorious. "Spoiled. Rotten. Absolutely ruined."

"You know what?" Timothée set his can down and turned to face him fully, eyes narrowing. "At least I don't look like a walking crime scene. How many tattoos is that now? Did you run out of skin and start on your organs?"

"Nine. And they're art."

"They're intimidating children at the grocery store."

"That was one time—"

"You made a seven-year-old cry, Jack."

"She was staring at me!"

"She was seven."

Jack threw a couch pillow at him. Timothée caught it one-handed without even looking, which was honestly infuriating, and tossed it aside with the smug grace of someone who'd never lost a fight in his life.

"You're insufferable," Jack muttered.

"And yet here you are. In my house. Drinking my soda."

"Your mom's soda."

"Same thing."

Jack opened his mouth to fire back—something about how Timothée probably still had his baby teeth in a box somewhere, something good, something devastating—when a soft knock came from the doorway.

Both of them turned.

And Jack's brain just... stopped.

She stood in the doorframe with a bowl of popcorn in her hands, and she was—God. She was the kind of beautiful that made you forget words existed. Dark hair swept over one shoulder, warm eyes, a smile that looked like it had been designed specifically to ruin men. She couldn't have been more than a few years older than them. Maybe late twenties. Maybe early thirties. It didn't matter. Jack's brain had already packed its bags and left.

"Thanks, Maman." Timothée reached for the bowl without looking, casual as anything.

Jack did not move. Jack stared like a five-year-old with a crush, because what pretty boy's mom had any business looking that hot?

"Hello mom—I mean, hello Tim's mom."

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The past few weeks, Jack had been spending more time at Timothée's house than his own. Timothée thought he was taking German seriously. Timothée thought he was being a dedicated student, a reformed slacker, a guy finally getting his act together.

Jack knew the truth. And the truth had nothing to do with verbs.

He'd sit through ten minutes of Timothée explaining conjugations, nodding along like any of it was sticking, watching his friend's mouth move and hearing absolutely nothing. Then he'd stretch, yawn, mutter something about needing to pee—and escape.

The bathroom was on the first floor. He passed it every time.

The kitchen was where she was.

Mrs. Tim. That's what he called her in his head. That's what he called her out loud, too, with that lazy grin he'd perfected somewhere around his sixteenth birthday—the one that made girls at parties forget their own names. She was always there in the afternoons, moving through the kitchen like she owned it, because she did. Dark hair. Soft curves. That smile that made him forget German existed.

He was going to hell. He knew that. But he'd always been a shameless bastard, a sucker for a pretty face and a nice ass, and he'd never pretended otherwise. He respected Tim. He did. But respect and wanting were two different things, and Jack had never been good at choosing the right one.

Today, he lingered in the doorway for a moment, just watching her back. She was at the counter, doing something with her hands—chopping, maybe, or stirring. He didn't care. The view from behind was enough. His tongue darted out, wetting his lip.

Damn.

She looked like she'd stepped straight out of a fantasy. The kind of woman who made men do stupid things—things like fake-study German for three weeks just to catch glimpses of her in a sundress.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to look casual. Trying to look like he belonged there. He flashed his most handsome smile—the one that had never failed him—and spoke.

"And, Mrs. Tim," he said, his voice low and easy, "I didn't know you were home."

Liar.

All Friday, Timothée and his girlfriend went to the movies.

It was their thing—their sacred, snobbish little ritual. The kind of thing Jack, a guy who liked riding his motorcycle at eighty miles per hour just to feel his heart pound, could never understand. Sitting in a dark theater, holding hands, sharing popcorn like a couple of geriatrics? Pass.

But now, he found it very convenient.

He stood outside Timothée's house, his motorcycle parked at the curb, helmet tucked under his arm like he'd just happened to be in the neighborhood. Casual. Spontaneous. His knuckles rapped against the door—light, friendly, the knock of a guy who definitely wasn't here for the reason he was here for.

He tried to arrange his face into something resembling Timothée's innocent puppy eyes. Wide. Harmless. Who, me?

The door swung open.

And there she was.

Mrs. Tim. Standing in the doorway with an apron tied around her waist, her hair loose and messy in a way that made his mouth go dry. The apron was soft pink, dusted with flour, and it hugged her curves in a way that should have been illegal.

Jack felt his cock twitch in his pants.

Fuck.

He scrambled to pull his expression back into something resembling respect. Something that didn't scream I've been thinking about you for three weeks straight. His grip tightened on his helmet, knuckles going white.

"Hi, Mrs. Tim," he said, and his voice came out only slightly strangled. "Is your son home?"

The kitchen smelled like sourdough and sex.

Whatever she'd been baking sat forgotten in the oven, slowly turning to charcoal while Jack fucked her hard from behind. His fingers were in her mouth—two of them, knuckle-deep—and she was sucking them like they were the only thing keeping her upright. Her saliva coated his skin, slick and warm, and he watched over her shoulder as she took what he gave her.

He and Tim were supposed to go to the club that night. But Tim—princess Tim—had to shower first. Had to do his skincare routine, his hair, his whole ritual of preening that a guy like Jack, who washed his face and his ass with the same bar of soap, could never understand. No judgment. Just facts.

And while Tim was upstairs scrubbing himself clean, Jack could seize the moment.

He looked down between them, licking his lip.

Fuck.

The sight of it—his dick soaked in her juices, sliding in and out of her, her ass jiggling with every thrust—was enough to make him lose his mind. She was bent over the counter, one hand braced against the marble, the other clutching a dish towel like it was a lifeline. The apron was still on. Just the apron. Nothing else. The pink fabric was bunched around her waist, and Jack had never seen anything more obscene in his life.

"You're going to be the death of me," he whispered against her neck, his breath hot on her skin. He nipped at her earlobe, felt her shiver around him. "But you gotta be quiet now."

He thrust deeper. Slower. Deliberate.

"Wouldn't want your son to watch you taking his friend's cock like a greedy whore, would you?"