Chapter 2: Morning rush
The next morning, Tommy was woken by his alarm. It was early. Too early.
He let go of Chanse’s warm body long enough to silence it, the abrupt quiet ringing in his ears. Chanse stirred slightly against him, a soft, discontented murmur escaping his lips. He tried to pull him closer again, his sleep-heavy arm curling possessively around Tommy’s waist. He heaved a leg over Tommy’s body, grinding their naked hips together in slow, lazy circles, the friction immediately coaxing heat back into Tommy’s blood.
And this, Tommy thought, blinking at the grey dawn light seeping around the curtains, might be the only downside to having this chaotic, impulsive man staying over almost every night.
Because he still wanted to get to work on call time, preferred being early.
And Chanse, well he simply didn’t care.
“Stop,” Tommy whispered, but it was breathless, his body already betraying his schedule. “We have morning at 8..”
“Mmf,” Chanse argued into the pillow, his mouth against Tommy’s shoulder. He bit down, not hard, a sleepy claim. “We'll tell ‘em we got busy. Vital research.”
Tommy laughed, the sound choked off as Chanse’s hand slid between them. “Research?”
“On the debilitating effects of morning wood on productivity.” Chanse’s voice was a rough, delicious scrape. “It’s a pandemic.”
Tommy groaned, a sound of pure surrender, as Chanse’s clever fingers wrapped around him. The warmth of the bed and the sharper heat of Chanse’s palm were a narcotic combination. His protest died in his throat, replaced by a shaky sigh as he let his head fall back against the pillow, his body arching into the touch. Sleep clung to him, soft and heavy, making resistance feel as impossible as moving through deep water.
He turned his face into the crook of Chanse’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of skin and sleep, and allowed himself to be pulled under. His own hand wandered, sliding down the smooth, toned plane of Chanse’s back, rediscovering the dip of his spine. For a long, languid minute, there was only the shared rhythm of their breathing and the slow, building friction between them, a perfect echo of the night before.
The thought of the greenlit project, the pending notes, his meticulously planned day, all of it blurred into a distant hum. Chanse’s mouth found his again, hungry and insistent, and Tommy kissed him back, all lazy tongue and soft groans. He was melting, willingly, into the mattress and the moment.
Then his brain, that stubborn engine, flickered back to life. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 7:03 AM in relentless red. A vision of his own reflection from yesterday—professional, in control—flashed behind his eyes, violently at odds with the marked, pliant man he was right now. The momentum of Chanse’s hips against his own suddenly felt like a countdown.
“Wait.” The word was firmer this time, spoken directly against Chanse’s lips. Tommy placed both hands flat on Chanse’s chest and pushed, not with violence, but with a steady, unyielding pressure that broke their contact.
Chanse rocked back onto his heels, blinking, his lips swollen and his hazel eyes clouded with frustrated confusion. “What?”
“We really,” Tommy said, sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed, the cool air a shock to his heated skin, “need to get out of this bed.”
Tommy turned, a clean black henley in his hands. The cool cotton felt like a future shield. He saw Chanse still seated in the wreckage of sheets, his expression darkening.
Chanse didn’t move to follow or argue. He just sat there, the duvet pooled around his hips, and watched Tommy move around the room. His gaze was a physical weight, hot and disapproving, tracking Tommy’s every motion.
Tommy felt it, the pull of that stare. He busied himself with his drawer, selecting socks, his back to the bed. He knew what Chanse was seeing—the landscape of bites and scratches, the strong lines of his shoulders, the definition in his back as he leaned forward.
The silence stretched, taut and charged. It was broken by the rustle of sheets.
Chanse sat up straighter against the headboard. He let out a short, sharp breath that was more a scoff than a sigh. "So what do you want me to do about this then, Mr. On-Time?"
Tommy turned slowly. Chanse’s hazel eyes were narrowed, his jaw set. He gestured downward, one hand pointing angrily at his own evident, frustrated arousal. The casual dominance from moments before was gone, replaced by a blunt, simmering irritation.
He didn’t view the world in the same black-and-white way Tommy did. He did what he wanted, and it usually worked out. Right now, he wanted Tommy, not a quick shower and morning traffic.
"You’re a fucking tease, you know that?" Chanse said, his voice low.
Tommy felt the old, familiar knot twist in his stomach—the one that always showed up right before a long, tense day. “I’m not trying to be,” he said, the words coming out quieter than he intended. He ran a hand through his bleached hair, his silver bracelets clinking softly in the heavy quiet.
The sharp memory of last time sliced through him: Chanse, silent and scowling by the lunch table, every clipped answer during the sketch rehearsal thickening the air until Tommy could barely think. It had poisoned the whole shoot, that unresolved morning friction, and he’d spent the afternoon dodging people to avoid having to explain the vibe. He couldn’t do that again. They were still a secret, and it was hard enough to keep it like that on a good day.
“The location scout is at eight-thirty,” Tommy said, forcing his voice into something reasonable. “Bridge traffic will be a nightmare by seven-forty.” He took a step closer, the cool floorboards under his feet a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from the bed.
“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” he offered, his thumb brushing a slow arc over Chanse’s knee. “Promise.” Chanse kept his eyes on the far wall, his jaw working, the frustration sitting in the rigid line of his shoulders.
He exhaled, a long, controlled stream of air through his nose. “You always say that,” he muttered, but the venom had leaked out, leaving just weariness. Tommy crouched down, putting himself squarely in Chanse’s downcast line of sight.
He looked up, his brown eyes holding that earnest, dimpled plea he never used with anyone else. Chanse’s gaze flicked from Tommy’s mouth to his eyes, and a visible surrender loosened his posture. “Fine,” he sighed, the word a soft capitulation as he pushed himself off the rumpled sheets.
“Fine,” he sighed, the word a soft capitulation as he pushed himself off the rumpled sheets. He leaned in, catching Tommy’s mouth in a kiss that was surprisingly soft, a brief press of warmth that tasted like sleep and forgiveness. Then he shuffled toward the bathroom, the tense line of his back the only remaining protest.
Tommy was out of the shower first, trying to be quick to avoid Chanse trying anything again. He moved through the steam-wrapped bathroom with efficient, practiced motions, drying himself with rough swipes of a towel. He could hear the water still running, a curtain separating him from the temptation of Chanse’s slick, golden skin under the spray.
He managed to get about three sips of coffee, the bitter liquid scalding his tongue as he hopped on one foot, pulling on his jeans. With some stress and frustration, he got the still slightly sulky Chanse into his car, and parked at work just in the neck of time. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel from gripping it too hard the whole way, every slow driver feeling like a personal attack.
They got inside the doors just as the morning briefing was starting. Tommy hated being this rushed. They picked up their usual work facade quickly, pretending to be coworkers and semi-close friends rather than what they really were. A casual nod, a space of two empty chairs between them at the large table.
Sitting across from each other at one of the cast tables with Angela and Amanda chatting idly, pulling them into their unhinged conversation. Angela was dissecting a viral video of a raccoon opening a complex lock, her hands flying. “The sheer problem-solving! We should cast it!”
“You’re quiet,” Amanda said, nudging Chanse's foot under the table with her boot. “You look like you sucked on a lemon all morning.”
Chanse just shrugged, not looking up from his phone, his cap pulled low. “Just tired.” His voice was a flat monotone, the same one he’d used in the car. Tommy focused on his own notebook, scribbling nonsense, feeling the weight of the lie and the marks beneath his own shirt. The day stretched ahead, thin and brittle.
The day stretched ahead, thin and brittle.
It passed in a grind of polite emails and stifled yawns, the morning’s tension a low, constant hum beneath the fluorescent office lights. Just after one, the scent of chocolate chip and brown butter suddenly flooded the hallways, a distraction everyone flocked toward.
Chanse cornered him five minutes later, his hand closing around Tommy’s bicep near the photocopier. “Break room. Now.” His voice left no room for argument. Tommy allowed himself to be steered into the small, empty space, the door clicking shut with a finality that jumped in his chest.
Before Tommy could speak, Chanse was on him, his mouth hot and insistent against his own, a hand sliding to the back of Tommy’s neck to hold him there. Tommy’s protest died, melting into a muffled groan as he kissed back, the hunger from the morning roaring back to life.
Chanse broke the kiss, breathing hard, and guided Tommy’s hand firmly down the front of his own jeans. He was already half-hard, the heat and weight of him unmistakable through the denim. “It’s not going down, Tommy,” he said simply, his hazel eyes dark and unblinking. “I need you.”
The world narrowed to that point of contact. Tommy’s knees hit the linoleum, the cold shock a vague contrast to the fire in his gut. He looked up at Chanse, at the desperate want on his face, and for one dizzying second, he genuinely considered it. His fingers trembled near the button of Chanse’s jeans.
A loud thud from the hall—a dropped tray, a stack of boxes—shattered the moment like glass. Tommy flinched back, scrambling to his feet, reality crashing in. “Fuck, Chanse!” he hissed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “We could both get fired, HR would get involved—it’d be a fucking mess!”
Chanse’s face contorted, a storm of frustration and outright anger. This was the second denial of the day, and it wasn't even afternoon yet. “You know they wouldn’t do that,” he shot back, his voice low and tight. In one quick movement, he gripped Tommy’s jaw, forcing Tommy to meet his frustrated gaze. “We’d need to be found out to get in trouble.”
It was all getting too much. The scent of brown butter cookies, cloying and sweet, clashed with the sterile photocopier smell. The low hum of the office HVAC was a taunt. This tiny, beige room felt like a cage. Every denied morning touch, every suppressed flinch, every calculated distance for the sake of professionalism compressed into a single, white-hot point behind his eyes.
And Chanse knew that.
Tommy adjusted the cuff of his shirt, a precise, controlled motion. The citrus scent of his own body wash from this morning’s rushed shower seemed absurd here, under the flickering fluorescent tube.His hand came up and closed around Chanse’s wrist, trying to sound soft. "Let's go,” he said, the words bitten-off and final.
Chanse’s hand dropped from his face as if burned. He took a step back, the air between them suddenly cold and vacant. “Right,” he said, the single word flat and final.
They didn’t talk much more during the rest of the work day.
Luckily, they had no more shared shoots. Tommy was distracted, his script notes blurring into nonsense on his screen. He felt the anxiety and stress pooling in his stomach, a cold, heavy sludge. The loss of control and the heavy weight of not knowing what Chanse was thinking ate at him, gnawing quietly behind his ribcage with tiny, persistent teeth.
When they were getting ready to leave, the entire cast-group stood together in the lobby, just chatting. Chanse didn’t look at him, not really. He was laughing at something Angela said, his cap shading his eyes, the picture of easy charm. Tommy watched his own fingers adjust the strap of his bag, over and over.
“You need a ride home, Chanse?” Angela asked, jangling her keys. “I’m heading your way.”
Tommy held his breath.
“Thank you, Ang!” Chanse began, his voice bright and effortless. “But I left my laptop at Tommy’s and I need it tonight for rehearsing scripts.” The lie flowed easily out of Chanse’s mouth, smooth as syrup. He finally turned his head. “Is it okay if I come with you to grab it?”
He looked at him then. There was something in his eyes. Dark and unquestioning.
Tommy swallowed hard, his throat tight.
“Yeah—no—that’s fine, Chanse.” The drive back was silence, thick and soupy, broken only by the thrum of tires over bridge seams. Tommy kept his eyes on the taillights ahead, his fingers drumming a nervous pattern on the steering wheel, while Chanse stared out his window, the city lights painting fleeting stripes across his stony profile. They didn’t speak as the elevator ascended, or as Tommy fumbled his keys in the dim hallway light.
Once they got inside the door of Tommy's apartment Chanse was immediately on him, there was no softness to be found. Tommy didn't even have time to take off his shoes. The door slammed shut, the sound swallowed by Chanse's body as he pinned Tommy against the cool foyer wall, his hands finding the naked skin of Tommy's back underneath his shirt.
His fingernails scraped angry lines down his back as he spoke. "Never," he growled, his breath hot against Tommy's ear. He gripped his hips, hard, his thumbs digging into the bone. "...such a fucking tease."
Tommy didn't reply, just nodded, knowingly, and let himself be led over to the couch. His heart hammered a frantic beat against his ribs, a mixture of relief and raw want flooding his system. Chanse undressed him quickly, his movements efficient and rough, yanking his shirt over his head, unbuckling his belt with a sharp tug.
Chanse flipped him around and pushed him into the couch. Tommy braced himself on the backrest, knees planted firmly into the cushions. The coarse fabric scratched his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of Chanse behind him. Chanse stopped for a moment, a brief still point in the storm, his palm flat and warm on the small of Tommy's back.
He leaned close, his lips brushing Tommy's shoulder blade. "Okay?" The word was a rasp, stripped of all its earlier frustration, leaving only a raw need for confirmation.
Tommy inhaled, the air scraping his throat. He felt the hard press of Chanse’s body, the promise of his grip, the cool dread of the day finally dissolving under this singular, burning focus. He let his forehead rest against the rough fabric of the couch.
He nodded yes.
A rough, approving sound escaped Chanse. He didn’t waste another second. His teeth found the junction of Tommy’s neck and shoulder, biting down hard enough to wring a sharp, gasping cry from Tommy’s lungs. The pain was a bright, clean line through the fog of his anxiety, an anchor. Chanse’s hands slid down, gripping his hips with bruising force, pulling him back.
His hands slid from Tommy’s hips, palms skimming down the trembling backs of his thighs. Chanse’s fingers dug into the meaty flesh there, a firm, commanding squeeze that made Tommy gasp into the couch cushions. It was a silent instruction, and Tommy obeyed instantly, shifting his weight to spread his legs wider.
Chanse went perfectly still behind him.
The only sound was their ragged breathing mingling in the quiet apartment. Chanse’s gaze felt like a physical touch, heating the skin it traveled over—the broad line of Tommy’s shoulders, the dip of his spine, the new, vulnerable width of his stance. He let out a slow, controlled breath, a hunter savoring the sight of a sure thing.
"You look perfect," Chanse said, the words quiet and thick with something like reverence.
He moved then, a shift of weight, and Tommy heard the familiar scrape of the small side table drawer. Chanse grabbed the bottle of lube from inside, the click of the cap breaking the silence. Preparation was a quick, efficient task, the slick, cool sound unmistakable.
His blunt, slick fingers pressed against him without preamble, a firm, insistent pressure that made Tommy jolt. "You're fine," Chanse murmured, more a statement than a question, his other hand smoothing over the sweat-damped small of Tommy's back. He knew Tommy could take it, but he always asked, always checked. "Yeah?" he breathed.
"Yeah," Tommy choked out, pushing back against the pressure, seeking more, needing the bright, clarifying focus it brought. "I'm good."
He pushed in with a single, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The breath exploded from Tommy’s lungs, a punched-out sound swallowed by the cushion.
Chanse held there, immovable, letting the unbearable fullness become everything. "All day," he rasped, his hips shifting minutely, a cruel tease. "You made me wait all fucking day."
His hand fisted in Tommy’s hair, pulling his head back. "Now you get what you asked for."
Then he moved, a brutal, punishing rhythm that erased the office, the car, the photocopier room. Each drive forward was an answer to every clipped word, every moment of distance. Tommy’s world telescoped to the searing heat of Chanse inside him and the rough fabric abrading his cheek.
"You take it," Chanse grunted, his voice strained with the effort of his pace. "You take it so perfect."
One hand slid from Tommy's hip, skimming up the trembling plane of his stomach to his chest. Chanse palmed him roughly, fingers pinching and twisting a nipple, wringing a sharp cry from Tommy that was equal parts pain and blinding pleasure.
His spine curved sharply, pressing his entire back flush against Chanse's sweat-slicked chest. The new angle was devastating, friction igniting nerves he didn't know he had. A broken, continuous sound was torn from his throat.
Chanse moaned, low and approving, his mouth finding the exposed column of Tommy's throat. He bit down, not to mark, but to hold, to anchor them together in the frenzy. "There," he panted against the damp skin. "Just like that. Give it to me."
Tommy’s vision swam, the living room blurring into a smear of grey light and dark fabric. Every nerve was raw, singing with the brutal, perfect rhythm. He was unraveling, and the only thread holding him together was Chanse’s grip on him and the searing anchor of his body. The pressure built, a coil winding tighter and hotter low in his gut with every deep, brutal thrust. "Chanse—" he tried to warn, the name a shattered syllable.
"I know," Chanse growled, his rhythm never faltering, his hand splaying possessively over Tommy's stomach as if to feel it happening from the inside. "Don't touch"
"Don't touch." The command was a low growl against the sweat-salted skin of Tommy's shoulder. Chanse’s relentless pace didn’t slow; it intensified, each deep drive a calculated strike against that single, burning point of tension coiled in Tommy’s gut. Tommy’s fingers clawed at the couch fabric, his knuckles white, every muscle straining as he tried to obey, to just take it.
The world dissolved into a roaring static. He felt the exact, seismic shift inside him, a fault line giving way. A shattered, guttural sound was ripped from his throat, raw and unbidden. His body locked, arched impossibly tight against Chanse’s chest as he spilled untouched over the couch cushions and his own stomach, the release so violent it blurred his vision into grey streaks.
Chanse followed instantly, his rhythm fracturing into harsh, staggered thrusts, a choked curse muffled against Tommy’s spine. He held him there, locked together through the shuddering aftershocks, the only sound their ragged, gasping breaths harmonizing in the dim room. Slowly, carefully, Chanse lowered them both, turning Tommy’s limp, boneless weight until they were sideways on the cushions, a tangled, sticky mess of limbs.
He didn’t speak. His hand, suddenly gentle, came up to brush the damp hair from Tommy’s forehead. His thumb traced the hinge of his jaw, then the swell of his bottom lip, a silent, reverent question. Tommy just nodded, a slight movement, his brown eyes glassy and spent, all the day’s brittle edges finally smoothed away.