Chapter 4: Aftermath
The rain had stopped, leaving the barn heavy with damp silence. The only sounds were their breathing—Wayne’s slow and satisfied, Junior’s still ragged—and the occasional drip of water through the roof’s gaps, hitting the hay-strewn floor with soft, irregular taps.
Wayne rolled onto his back, his forearm thrown over his eyes. His chest rose and fell steadily, the sweat cooling on his skin. Junior lay beside him, one knee bent, tracing the fresh bruises on his own ribs with absent fingertips. The hay stuck to them both, itchy and persistent.
"You look like hell," Wayne muttered, not moving his arm.
Junior snorted. "Whose fault is that?"
Wayne’s mouth curled. "You started it."
"Bullshit." Junior turned his head, glaring at the side of Wayne’s face. "You ripped my damn pants."
Finally, Wayne lifted his arm, just enough to glance down at the torn denim still tangled around Junior’s thighs. His smirk deepened. "Worth it."
Junior kicked at him half-heartedly. Wayne caught his ankle, fingers tightening just enough to make him freeze. The warning was clear.
Neither of them moved for a long moment.
Then Wayne sighed and let go, swinging himself up to sit. The muscles in his back flexed, the old scars standing white against his tan skin. He reached for his shirt—what was left of it—and tossed the shredded fabric aside with a grunt.
Junior watched him, throat dry.
Wayne caught him looking. His gaze darkened, but he didn’t say anything. Just stood, stretching lazily like a cat in the sun, before grabbing his jeans from where they’d been kicked off near the stall door.
"Gonna pretend this didn’t happen?" Junior asked, voice rough.
Wayne paused, one leg in his pants. He didn’t turn around. "You want an encore?"
Junior sat up, hay falling from his shoulders. "I want to know what the hell this was."
That made Wayne turn. His expression was unreadable, the dim light carving harsh lines across his face. "You’re the one who kissed me first."
"Because you were—" Junior cut himself off, teeth clicking together.
Wayne raised an eyebrow. "Because I was what?"
Junior looked away, jaw tight. He could still feel the grip of Wayne’s hands on him, the way his breath had hitched when Wayne’s teeth sank into his skin. It pissed him off.
Wayne let out a quiet laugh and finished pulling on his jeans. "That’s what I thought."
The barn door creaked as a gust of wind hit it, sending a sliver of late afternoon light slicing through the dim. Outside, the world was washed clean from the storm, the air sharp with the scent of wet earth.
Junior grabbed his own ruined pants, wrenching them up with more force than necessary. The torn seam caught on his thigh, and he swore under his breath.
Wayne watched, arms crossed. "You’re welcome to walk back naked."
"Go to hell."
"Already there, sweetheart."
Junior glared at him, but Wayne just grinned, sharp and knowing, before turning to push open the barn door. The sunlight hit him full-on, turning his bare back golden for a second before he stepped out.
Junior hesitated. Then, with one last glance at the wrecked hay and their discarded clothes, he followed.
The farm stretched out before them, quiet except for the distant lowing of cattle. Wayne was already halfway to the house, moving with the same easy confidence he always did, like nothing had changed.
Junior’s hands curled into fists.
Something had.
And Wayne damn well knew it.
The screen door banged shut behind Wayne, leaving Junior standing in the yard with gravel digging into his bare feet. The house loomed—old, stubborn, its white paint peeling like sunburnt skin. Inside, a faucet ran, then stopped. A chair scraped against linoleum.
Junior spat into the dirt. His ribs ached where Wayne’s knuckles had pressed too hard, his mouth still tasted like hay and sweat and something metallic. He should’ve walked away. Should’ve kept his damn hands to himself. But the way Wayne had looked at him—like he already owned him, like he was just waiting for Junior to figure it out—that shit burned worse than the bruises.
He climbed the porch steps slow, each creak of wood a warning. The kitchen smelled like coffee and gun oil. Wayne leaned against the counter, shirtless still, nursing a beer. He didn’t look up.
"You gonna stand there all day?"
Junior grabbed the fridge handle. The cool air hit his skin, a relief against the sticky heat clinging to him. "Got a problem with how I stand now?"
Wayne’s laugh was low, mean. "Got a problem with how you do a lot of things."
The beer bottle was cold in Junior’s grip. He cracked it open on the counter edge, took a long pull. The hops bit back, bitter. "You’re such an asshole."
"Takes one to know one."
Silence settled like dust. Outside, a tractor coughed to life down by the south pasture. Wayne finally pushed off the counter, moving close enough that Junior could see the old scar twisting through his eyebrow—the one he’d gotten in a bar fight years back, before Junior was even working here.
"You want this to mean something," Wayne said, voice rough. "It don’t."
Junior’s fingers tightened around the bottle. "Then why’d you—"
"Because I could."
The words hung between them, ugly and true. Wayne’s breath smelled like cheap beer and the wintergreen dip he always had tucked in his lip. Junior remembered the way that mouth had felt on his neck, teeth first.
He swallowed hard. "Fuck you."
Wayne grinned, all teeth. "Already did."
The screen door banged again—someone coming up the porch. Junior stepped back just as old man Miller’s boots hit the kitchen floor.
"Damn radiator’s shot in the Chevy," Miller grunted, shaking rain off his hat. He glanced between them, eyes narrow. "What’re you two dickheads standing around for? Barn ain’t gonna clean itself."
Wayne drained his beer. "On it."
Junior watched him go, the screen door swinging shut behind him. Miller scratched his belly, oblivious. "You look like shit, son. Get a shirt on."
"Yeah," Junior said. He didn’t move.
Out in the yard, Wayne lit a cigarette, the flare of the match bright in the gathering dusk. He didn’t look back.
Junior’s pulse jumped, traitorous.
He knew damn well this wasn’t over.