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The sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the desert in long strokes of amber and rust.
The air carried the dry heat of late afternoon, mingling with the faint, greener scent that drifted in from the distant tree line where sand finally gave way to soil and shade.
Up on the high ridge of weathered rock that Kell had claimed, the wind moved freely. He stood at the edge of what would eventually become his balcony, arms folded, yellow coat catching the breeze like a flag of quiet defiance.
Below, the land sprawled in every direction—empty enough to feel like possibility, harsh enough to demand effort. Most people were already staking out corners: low adobe-style houses, half-finished workshops, communal fire pits ringed with scavenged stone. Kell had chosen height instead.
The rock formation rose sharp and solitary; he’d spent days clearing ledges, carving out rooms, imagining glass that would one day frame the entire valley. From up here everything looked small and manageable. Controlled.
His gaze settled, as it so often did lately, on the patch of turned earth near the biome’s edge. Zachary Zucchini’s land.
Zach moved with the steady rhythm of someone who had long ago made peace with repetition.
Black tank top darkened with sweat down the center of his back, green overalls tied loosely at the waist so the bib hung down like an apron. forearms corded from lifting crates and turning soil. Hair caught in a messy half-knot, the rest falling loose around his ears and neck. A faded bandaid sat crooked across the bridge of his nose—probably from some minor collision with machinery or a low beam; he never explained it and no one asked. Black work gloves, black boots, both already dusted the same pale color as the ground.
Kell watched him kneel, press seeds into the furrow with careful thumbs, then smooth the soil over like he was tucking something fragile to sleep. There was an economy to the motion, nothing wasted. Nothing performative. Just work.
It irritated Kell more than it should.
In a place where the rules felt thin—where ambition could reshape stone overnight, where distance meant nothing if you were stubborn enough—Zach had chosen the slowest possible path. Farming.
Irrigation ditches scratched by hand. Rows of zucchini and whatever else he decided the soil could handle. He could have built machines to do it. He could have bartered for pre-grown stock or simply walked away and claimed something flashier.
Instead he stayed bent over the same patch of dirt every day, patient, methodical, like time itself was something he could outlast.
Kell’s fingers curled against the rough stone railing. He told himself the stare was analytical. Disdainful. That he was simply cataloguing another person’s baffling priorities.
But then Zach straightened, arched his back in a slow stretch that pulled the damp fabric of his tank tight across his shoulders and chest. He dragged the back of one gloved wrist across his forehead, leaving a faint smear of soil. The late light caught the sweat on his collarbone, turned it gold for half a second.
Kell’s throat tightened. Heat that had nothing to do with the desert crawled under his skin.
He looked away sharply, jaw set. Ridiculous. Pointless. Zach was everything Kell had walked away from—earthy, unhurried, content with small returns.
A mechanic who chose to play in the mud instead of building something that could fly. A man who smelled like motor oil and sun-baked soil and growing things. Who grinned too easily when someone passed by. Who looked entirely too comfortable in his own skin.
Kell adjusted his bow tie—still crooked, still defiant—and started down the narrow path he’d cut into the rock face. Supplies. He needed timber from the forest fringe, and the quickest route took him past the farm. What a funny coincidence.
The ground leveled out. Sand gave way to firmer earth. Voices carried from the central gathering area—laughter, the clink of tools being traded—but Kell kept his eyes forward. Until he didn’t.
Zach glanced up just as Kell drew level with the first row of sprouts. “Hey. Kell, right?”
The greeting was warm, casual, no edge to it. Zach leaned on the handle of his hoe, weight shifted to one hip. Sweat had darkened the hair at his temples; a single bead slid down the side of his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his tank. Up close the bandaid looked almost boyish, an afterthought on an otherwise steady face.
Kell stopped. “Yes.”
A beat of silence stretched. Zach tilted his head, studying him without hurry. “You’re always up there.” A small nod toward the rock tower. “Must be quiet.”
“It’s private,” Kell said. The words came out cooler than he intended.
Zach’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. “Fair enough.” He glanced at his own hands, flexed his fingers inside the gloves, then looked back up. “Heading to the trees?”
“Obviously.”
Another small laugh, soft and unbothered. “Path’s clear. Just don’t step on the seedlings on your left—they’re still babies.”
Kell’s eyes flicked down. Tiny green spears pushed through the dark soil, fragile and determined. He felt an absurd pang of something—annoyance, mostly. Maybe something else he refused to name.
He stepped carefully past, shoulder brushing Zach’s arm for the barest second. Fabric against skin. Warmth. The contact was gone before he could register it fully, but it lingered anyway, a low current under his ribs.
Zach didn’t react. Just returned to his work, bending again, the line of his spine visible through the thin tank as he reached for the next handful of seed.
Kell kept walking.
Behind him the rhythmic scrape of the hoe resumed. Ahead the first trees rose, dark green against gold. He gripped the handle of his axe a little tighter than necessary.
Up on the ridge it was easy to keep things distant. Easy to tell himself the pull was irritation, superiority, nothing more.
Down here the air smelled of turned earth and sweat and pine sap waiting just beyond the next rise. Down here the distance felt less certain.
The light fractured into soft gold coins on the needle-strewn ground. He paused just inside the tree line, axe still in hand, listening to the hush that always followed him out of the open desert.
Kell set the blade against the nearest trunk, tested the bite, then swung. The first chop rang sharp and clean; wood chips flew, pale against the bark. He worked methodically, shoulders rolling under the loose white shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows now that the sun no longer demanded the coat. The yellow fabric hung open, catching on low branches as he moved deeper into the stand. Each swing loosened something in his chest—frustration, maybe, or the low simmer that had started the moment Zach’s arm brushed his.
He told himself it was the heat. The climb back up the ridge would be brutal with a full load of logs. The bow tie felt suddenly ridiculous against his collarbone, so he tugged it free with one gloved hand and stuffed it into a pocket. The shirt gaped wider; a bead of sweat traced the line of his sternum and disappeared beneath the waistband of his red trousers.
Another swing. Another crack of splitting wood.
He was halfway through felling the second tree when the sound changed.
Footsteps—soft, deliberate—approached from the direction of the farm. Kell didn’t turn right away. He knew the cadence: unhurried, grounded, the faint crunch of boots on pine needles rather than sand.
Zach stopped a respectful distance away, close enough that Kell could smell him again—earth, faint machine oil, clean sweat. The combination shouldn’t have been pleasant but it was.
“Need a hand?” Zach asked. Voice low, easy, like he was offering to pass a wrench rather than haul timber.
Kell let the axe head rest against the half-felled trunk. He straightened slowly, wiping his forearm across his brow. “I manage.”
Zach lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Figured. Still. Two sets of hands cut the trips in half.” He stepped closer, eyes flicking over the felled logs Kell had already stacked. “Nice cuts. Clean.”
The compliment landed softer than Kell wanted it to. He glanced sideways. Zach had pulled the bib of his overalls back up, but the straps hung loose over his shoulders now, the black tank still clinging in damp patches. A fresh streak of sap marked one forearm where he’d brushed a low branch on the walk over. The bandaid on his nose had peeled at one corner; he hadn’t bothered to fix it.
Kell’s gaze lingered there a second too long—on the small, careless wound, on the way Zach’s mouth curved just slightly when he noticed the stare.
“You’re wasting daylight,” Kell said, turning back to the tree. He hefted the axe again, more force than necessary. The blade bit deep; the trunk groaned.
Zach didn’t move. Just watched for a moment, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “You always work like that? Like the tree personally offended you?”
Kell’s next swing faltered for half a heartbeat. He recovered, wood chips spraying. “Efficiency.”
“Mm.” Zach stepped forward, picked up one of the finished logs without asking, tested its weight, then slung it easily onto his shoulder. The motion pulled every line of his back and arms taut beneath the thin fabric. “Efficiency’s good. But you’re gonna snap that handle if you keep gripping it like you’re strangling someone.”
Kell’s knuckles were white around the haft. He loosened them deliberately. “I said I manage.”
“You do.” Zach shifted the log to a more comfortable perch. “Doesn’t mean you have to.”
The words hung there, simple and infuriatingly calm. Kell felt the old reflex rise—sharp retort, dismissal, anything to reestablish distance. But the forest pressed in close, muffling sound, and Zach was already moving, carrying the log toward the edge of the trees like it weighed nothing.
Kell watched the flex of muscle under sweat-damp skin, the easy roll of shoulders, the way the green overalls rode low on narrow hips now that the straps were slack. Heat coiled low in his stomach again, sharper this time. Unwelcome. Undeniable.
He cursed under his breath—quiet enough that the wind took it—and swung the axe one last time. The tree gave with a satisfying crack, toppling neatly away from them both.
Zach turned at the sound, eyebrows raised. “Show-off.”
Kell snorted despite himself. “Practical.”
Zach’s grin flashed—quick, unguarded, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made the bandaid lift slightly. “Sure. Practical.”
They worked in near silence after that. Zach took half the load without discussion; Kell didn’t argue.
The trip back across the open ground felt shorter with the shared weight, though the sun had dipped lower and the air had thickened with evening gold. Sand shifted under their boots. Zach’s breathing stayed even, steady; Kell’s came a fraction harder, though he’d never admit it was from anything but the load.
When they reached the base of the rock formation, Zach paused. Looked up the steep path Kell had carved, then back at him.
“Want these at the top?”
Kell hesitated. The idea of Zach in his space—dusty boots on stone floors that weren’t finished yet, callused hands brushing unfinished walls—sent a current through him he didn’t trust.
“I’ll handle the climb,” he said. Too quickly.
Zach studied him for a beat. Then nodded once, like he understood more than the words. He set his half of the stack down carefully, brushed sawdust and sap from his gloves. “Offer stands. If you change your mind.”
Kell didn’t answer right away. He bent to gather the logs, muscles pulling tight under his shirt. When he straightened, Zach was already turning back toward the farm, hands in his pockets now, stride loose.
“Hey,” Kell said before he could stop himself.
Zach glanced over his shoulder.
“Thanks.”
The word felt foreign on his tongue—small, unguarded. Zach’s expression softened, just enough to notice.
“Anytime.”
He kept walking. Kell watched until the green overalls blended into the lengthening shadows near the sprouting rows, until the only sound left was wind moving over sand and the distant, faint scrape of a hoe starting up again.
He slung the first log over his shoulder. Started the climb.
Halfway up, the ache in his arms felt almost welcome—something solid to focus on instead of the memory of Zach’s easy grin, the flex of his back under the weight of shared work, the way his voice had stayed low and warm even when Kell gave him nothing but edges.
At the top, Kell dropped the logs near the future balcony edge. He stood there a long moment, chest rising and falling, yellow coat discarded on a nearby outcrop. The valley stretched out below, golden and quiet.
And down there, small but unmistakable, Zach bent to his work again—same rhythm, same patience.
Kell exhaled through his nose. Ran a gloved hand through his hair.
He told himself the tightness in his chest was only fatigue.
He almost believed it.
Morning broke unevenly over the desert, light spilling across the sand in pale bands that made the world look newly forged and not yet finished.
The night wind had been unkind. It left the ground scarred—fine drifts piled where they didn’t belong, shallow channels softened, edges blurred. From the height of the rock, Kell saw it immediately.
The farm had shifted.
He stood still, sweetened coffee cooling in his hand, eyes narrowing as they traced the damage with practiced ease.
The trench had slumped overnight, one side collapsing inward under its own weight. Water pooled where it shouldn’t, darkening the soil in uneven patches. Seedlings leaned like they’d been pushed, some half-buried, others exposed too early.
Zach was already down there.
He crouched in the mess, black tank clinging to him from collarbone to spine, knees planted in wet dirt as he tried to coax the water back into line with a shovel better suited for brute force than finesse. He worked carefully, patiently, but the ground resisted him.
The trench sagged again. Zach froze, jaw tightening, then scrubbed a hand down his face, leaving a streak of mud across his cheek.
Kell turned away.
He made it three steps.
The irritation came sharp and familiar, coiling low in his gut—not annoyance at Zach, not really, but at the memory his body refused to let go of.
Early mornings thick with humidity. Rows that never ended. His hands raw before he was old enough to decide what he wanted to be. Kale’s voice over his shoulder, steady and instructive, showing him how to read the soil like it was a living thing instead of an enemy.
‘You don’t fight the ground,’ his brother used to say. ‘You listen to it.’
Kell’s jaw set.
He left the mug behind.
By the time he reached the edge of the farm, Zach had ditched the shovel and was using his hands, fingers sinking into the mud as he tried to rebuild the channel from scratch. He looked smaller like this—crouched, focused, unguarded. Kell stopped just close enough that his shadow fell over the pooled water and crept up Zach’s arms.
Zach stilled.
Slowly, he looked up.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just took Kell in—the yellow coat sharp against the muted earth, the way his posture cut clean lines even when he wasn’t trying, the contrast between the soft fullness of his face and the precision of his eyes. Baby fat at the edges, sure—but those eyes were all angles, dark and assessing, like they missed nothing. Or perhaps judged everything.
“Oh,” Zach said quietly. “Hey.”
Kell didn’t answer. He crouched without ceremony, reached out, pressed his fingers into the damp soil at the trench’s edge. His brow furrowed.
“You undercut it,” he said. “Night wind loosened the top layer. Water did the rest.”
Zach blinked. “I—yeah. I figured I’d just—”
“No.” Kell’s voice was sharp, reflexive. He caught it too late. He exhaled through his nose, slower this time. “You need a lip. Temporary support. Otherwise it’ll keep collapsing.”
Zach watched him with open curiosity now, mud drying on his skin, hands hovering uncertainly. “You know that how?”
Kell reached for a nearby plank without looking, set it at an angle, pressed stone against it to brace the side. His movements were efficient, unshowy—muscle memory doing the talking. “Because you can’t trust loose soil near water. It always gives.”
That was Kale again. Kell ignored the echo.
“Here,” he said, tapping the ground. “Widen it. Less pressure.”
Zach shifted closer, following the gesture. Their shoulders brushed—barely—but Kell felt it anyway, heat through damp fabric.
Zach did as told, packing soil where Kell indicated, reinforcing where Kell showed him. The water slowed. Redirected. Settled into place like it had been waiting for permission.
Zach leaned back on his heels, breathing a little harder. “Huh.”
Kell straightened, wiping his hands on his gloves. “It’ll hold.”
Zach looked from the trench to Kell’s face. Studied him. “You grew up with this, didn’t you.”
The question wasn’t accusatory. Just… observant.
Kell’s mouth tightened. “I grew up surviving it.”
Something flickered in Zach’s expression—understanding, maybe. He nodded once. Didn’t push.
“Thanks,” he said instead. “For not letting me drown my own crops.”
Kell scoffed, already turning away. “Try not to make a habit of it.”
The gathering didn’t feel official once night settled in. Whatever formality the Baron had intended bled out of it the moment the moon rose high enough to bleach the desert silver.
Lanterns burned low and warm, hung from half-built beams and fence posts, their light swaying gently in the breeze. Someone had dragged out barrels—water at first, then something stronger that smelled faintly of fermented cactus fruit and regret.
Kell arrived without his coat.
It was a deliberate choice. The night still held heat from the day, clinging to skin in a way that made layers unbearable. He’d left the yellow fabric draped over a chair back at the base of his tower, gloves tossed aside with it.
Out here, in just his shirt and trousers, he felt oddly unfinished—too visible. The sleeves were rolled, forearms bare, hands unshielded. He hated how much he noticed it.
People noticed too.
Not with awe, exactly. More curiosity. Kell usually wore his presence like armor—sharp lines, bright color, distance baked into the silhouette. Tonight, without it, he looked younger. Softer at the edges.
The softness he never quite outgrew rounded his pink cheeks, caught the lantern light when he turned his head. Green eyes sparkling under the stars.
Zach spotted him almost immediately.
He was leaning near one of the barrels, shoulder loose against the wood, drink in hand. The overalls were cleaner tonight, the tank replaced by a thin shirt with the sleeves pushed up anyway. He raised his cup in silent acknowledgment when Kell’s gaze snagged on him. Didn’t call out. Didn’t wave. Just watched.
Kell looked away first.
The Baron spoke, briefly—about shared defenses, about lighting the perimeter, about not wandering off alone now that the nights were getting louder. Monsters had started creeping closer after sundown. Eyes glinted at the edge of torchlight sometimes, gone as soon as you noticed them.
After that, the structure dissolved.
Conversations overlapped. Laughter bubbled up. Someone passed Kell a drink without asking; he took it, suspicious, then begrudgingly admitted it wasn’t terrible. The alcohol warmed his chest, loosened something behind his ribs. He found himself answering questions he normally dismissed outright—about the tower’s design, about materials, about how high he planned to go.
“How’s it feel,” someone asked, slurring just a little, “bein’ king of the rock?”
Kell scoffed. “Better than whatever you got goin’ on.”
A few people laughed. Zach smiled into his drink.
The question he didn’t expect came later, lobbed casually from someone half-sunk into a crate like it was a throne.
“So, Kell,” they said, grin lazy, “anyone waiting for you back home? Or you married to that home of yours?”
The words hit wrong. Not sharp—worse. Familiar.
For half a second, he wasn’t here anymore. He was younger, dirt under his nails, boots too big, standing in the doorway while his older siblings crowded the kitchen table. Kale leaning back in his chair, trying to sound casual. Someone snickering. Someone else launching into an explanation that made Kell’s ears burn before he even understood why.
‘You gotta know this stuff eventually,’ Kale had said, softer than the rest.
Kell had turned and walked out before they could finish the sentence.
The present snapped back into place.
“That’s none of your business,” Kell bit out, voice cold enough to frost the air. Eyes flickering between the group then to Zachary. The warmth drained from him all at once, alcohol be damned. “And I don’t entertain idle speculation.”
A beat of silence.
Then someone laughed. Blonde boy—or whatever his name was.
Not a friendly one or at least that’s how Kell took it. “Relax, penthouse. Was just curious. Though—” he tilted his head, eyes sweeping Kell up and down with consideration, “with that temper? Can’t imagine anyone lining up to deal with it long-term.”
The words landed like a slap.
Kell’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. Heat flared behind his eyes, sharp and immediate. “Say that again,” he said, stepping forward before he could stop himself. His hands curled, bare and ungloved, nails biting into his palms. “I dare you.”
Willerton opened his mouth—
The Baron’s hands clapped against each other. Hard.
“That’s enough.” His voice carried, calm but final. “This is a gathering, not a spectacle. Sit down. Both of you.”
The tension bled out slowly, like a held breath finally released. Someone changed the subject. Someone else refilled drinks. The moment passed—but not cleanly.
Kell turned away, chest tight, anger still buzzing under his skin. He didn’t notice Zach approach until he was beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.
“You good?” Zach asked quietly.
Kell shot him a look. “Do I look good.”
Zach considered him for a second. “No, that’s why I’m askin’…”
That only irritated him more. He huffed, took another drink, then realized the barrel was empty.
Around them, the lanterns burned lower. The moon climbed higher. Beyond the circle of light, something growled—distant, but unmistakable.
People began drifting off in pairs or small groups, torches lit, weapons slung over shoulders. No one left alone anymore.
Zach drained his cup and set it aside. “You heading back up?”
“I can manage,” Kell said automatically.
Zach’s mouth twitched. “Right. Just—statistically speaking, you do have a reputation.”
Kell bristled. “Excuse me?”
“For dying,” Zach clarified gently. “A lot.”
“That was—circumstantial.”
“Uh-huh.” Zach picked up a torch and lit it. The flame caught, steady and bright. He held it out, casual as anything. “Come on. I’ll walk you.”
“I don’t need—”
Another sound cut through the dark. Closer this time. Low. Wet.
Kell paused.
Zach raised an eyebrow, waiting. Not smug. Just patient.
“…Fine,” Kell ground out. “But I’m not slowing down for you.”
Zach grinned, wide and genuine. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They walked side by side through the silvered sand, torchlight throwing long shadows ahead of them. The rock tower loomed in the distance, stark against the stars.
Kell kept his eyes forward. Zach matched his pace easily.
For once, the distance didn’t feel quite so necessary.
The sand crunched softly under their boots, the torch in Zach’s hand casting a flickering halo that pushed back the encroaching dark. The night had teeth out here—low growls echoing from unseen crevices, the occasional skitter of something too large for comfort slinking just beyond the light’s reach. Kell kept his pace brisk, shoulders squared, refusing to glance sideways at the shapes that might or might not be watching. Zach matched him stride for stride, silent but present, the flame steady in his grip like an extension of his unflappable calm.
Neither spoke at first. The gathering’s residue clung to Kell like grit in his hair—the laughter that had turned sharp, Willerton’s jab that still stung like a fresh bruise. And beneath it, that old memory, unbidden and unwelcome, of his siblings’ teasing voices overlapping in the cramped kitchen back home. Kale’s awkward attempt at wisdom, the snickers that followed. It had always made him feel exposed, too soft in a world that rewarded edges. He clenched his jaw, tasting the faint bitterness of the fermented drink on his tongue.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Kell said finally, voice low, cutting through the quiet like a blade testing its sharpness. “Walk me. I’m not some fragile thing that needs escorting.”
Zach didn’t look at him, eyes scanning the shadows ahead. “Didn’t say you were. But the Baron’s right—nights are getting riskier. And you helped me out last time, take it as a repayment for your kindness.”
Kell’s steps faltered for half a beat. “That’s not—it’s not a big deal.” Heat crept up his neck, mixing with the night’s lingering warmth. He hated how Zach phrased it gently, like he was handling something breakable.
“Besides, what do you care? You’ve got your dirt patch to babysit.”
Zach’s mouth twitched, that small, infuriating curve that wasn’t quite a smile. “Maybe I like the view from up high too.” He glanced sideways then, eyes catching the torchlight, warm and unreadable. “Or maybe I just don’t like the idea of you getting chewed up out here alone.”
Kell snorted, but the sound came out weaker than intended. The rock formation loomed closer now, its jagged outline silvered by moonlight. The path up wound narrow and steep, carved steps slick with dew. They reached the base without incident—no lunging shadows, no sudden snarls. Kell paused, hand on the first ledge, ready to dismiss him.
But Zach didn’t step back. He planted the torch in a nearby holder Kell had fashioned from scrap metal, the flame guttering softly. “I’ll head back once you’re up.”
Kell turned, irritation flaring fresh. “I told you, I can—”
Another growl rolled through the dark, wet and hungry. It vibrated through the sand, up into their boots. Kell’s words died in his throat. Zach’s hand was on his arm before he could react—firm, steady, guiding him toward the path.
“Up,” Zach said quietly. No room for argument.
Kell yanked his arm free, but he started climbing anyway, heart pounding louder than it should. Zach followed close behind, boots sure on the uneven steps. The ascent felt interminable, the night’s chill seeping in now that the adrenaline hummed under Kell’s skin. By the time they crested the top, into the open expanse of the unfinished penthouse, Kell’s breath came short, chest tight with more than exertion.
The penthouse was a skeleton of grandeur, a dream of marble and glass still caught in the throat of the mountain. Inside, the roar of the desert wind softened into a low, haunting whistle as it snaked through the unglazed window frames.
Kell hadn't finished the walls, but he had smoothed them. The stone felt like cold silk under his palm as he moved deeper into the main room. It was lit by a single, expensive-looking chandelier—a salvaged piece of brass and glowstone that cast long, amber shadows against the floor.
There was a low table, a few high-backed chairs that looked far too elegant for a desert outpost, and a stack of blueprints weighted down by a heavy, polished geode.
Zachary stepped over the threshold, his boots sounding like thunder on the new timber flooring. He didn't look out of place, exactly, but he looked significant—a grounded, heavy reality in Kell’s ethereal high-rise. He let his gaze wander, taking in the precision of the joints and the stubborn luxury of the furniture.
"You really are building a palace in the clouds, aren't you?" Zachary said letting out a soft whistle, his voice dropping an octave in the enclosed space. The East Coast bite was still there, but it was muffled by a strange sort of gravity.
Kell didn't look at him. He walked to the table, his fingers tracing the edge of a blueprint he didn't need to read. "It's called progress, Zachary. Some of us prefer to look forward rather than down at our own feet."
"Is that what you're doing when you're standing on that balcony?"
The question was quiet, but it hit Kell with the force of a physical blow. He stiffened, his shoulders pulling tight beneath his thin white shirt. "I don't know what you're talkin’ about."
Zachary took a step forward. Then another. He didn't stop until he was standing just behind Kell—not touching, but close enough that the heat radiating from his body seemed to seep through the fabric of Kell's clothes. He smelled like the torch he’d just carried: smoke, ozone, and that persistent, intoxicating scent of sun-warmed skin.
"I’m a farmer, Kell. I spend my whole day watching things. I know when someone is watching me," Zachary said. He leaned in, his voice vibrating against the back of Kell’s neck.
"You’ve got a real habit of it. From up here. From the forest. Even at the gathering tonight, when those idiots were running their mouths... you weren't exactly looking at them. You were looking at me too."
Kell’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt exposed, stripped of the yellow coat that usually served as his armor. “Is that what you think? I wasn’t lookin at you..I was just looking around.”
"Bullshit," Zachary whispered. He reached out, his hand hovering inches from Kell’s waist before he pulled back, as if testing the air. "You look at me like you hate me. And then you look at me like you’re starving. Which is it, Kell? Because you seemed real bothered when Willerton asked if you were lonely up here. Made me think maybe the 'King of the Rock' is tired of his own company."
Kell spun around, his ears flushed a deep, frantic red. The “baby fat” Zach had noticed earlier was gone, replaced by the sharp, jagged lines of a man pushed to his limit. Accent thicker than ever. "How dare you. You think because you helped me haul some wood and patched a ditch that you have the right to dissect me? You’re a failed mechanic who plays with seeds. You understand nothing about what I’ve built—what I’ve had to leave behind to get here."
"I understand more than you think," Zachary countered, his eyes dark and unwavering. He didn't flinch at Kell’s outburst. Instead, he stepped even closer, invading Kell's space until they were chest-to-chest. "I see the way you handle a shovel when you think no one's looking. I see the way you look at my hands when I'm working the soil. You don't hate the dirt, Kell. You hate that you still want it. You hate that you want this."
Zachary gestured between them, his hand grazing the front of Kell’s shirt.
The contact was a spark on dry tinder.
Kell’s breath hitched, a jagged, broken sound in the quiet of the penthouse. He should have pushed him away. He should have delivered a scathing retort about priorities. But Zachary’s presence was an anchor, pulling Kell down from his heights and forcing him back into the earth he’d tried so hard to forget.
"You’re a nuisance," Kell hissed, though his hands, now bare and trembling, found their way to the front of Zachary’s work shirt. His fingers curled into the fabric, not pushing, but pulling him closer. "A crude, abrasive, unbearable nuisance."
"And you're a liar," Zachary breathed, his gaze dropping to Kell’s mouth.
The tension in the room snapped. It wasn't a gentle transition; it was a collision. Zachary’s mouth found Kell’s with a hunger that was as blunt and honest as the man himself. It tasted of the desert—salt and heat—and the faint, sweet sting of the cactus fruit drink.
Kell made a low, frustrated sound in the back of his throat, his eyes fluttering shut as the world narrowed down to the sensation of Zachary’s rough palms finally sliding up his back, gripping the silk of his shirt.
Zachary backed him up until Kell’s legs hit the edge of the heavy wooden table. The blueprints scattered, falling to the floor like discarded memories, but neither of them noticed.
"Still want me to leave?" Zachary murmured against his lips, his thumb tracing the line of Kell’s jaw with a surprising, agonizing tenderness.
Kell’s head fell back, his throat bared to the amber light of the chandelier. His Southern drawl, thick and syrupy with a vulnerability he’d never shown another living soul.
"Shut up, Zach," he whispered, his hands sliding up into Zachary’s hair, pulling him back down. "Just... shut up and stay."
Shadows stretched long and liquid, pooling in the hollows of Kell’s collarbones as Zachary pressed him back against the table’s edge.
The wood was cool and unyielding behind Kell’s thighs, a stark contrast to the furnace heat rolling off Zachary’s body.
Kell’s fingers stayed knotted in Zachary’s hair—half pulling, half clinging—as if letting go would mean falling the full height of the rock all over again.
Zachary kissed like he worked: deliberate, thorough, no wasted motion. His tongue slid against Kell’s, slow at first, then deeper, claiming the sharp edges until Kell’s frustrated little growl melted into something softer, needier.
Zachary broke the kiss only long enough to drag his mouth down the column of Kell’s throat. Teeth grazed the frantic pulse there—testing, not biting yet—and Kell’s head tipped back farther, exposing more skin to the cool draft slipping through the open window frames. The desert wind licked at the open vee of his shirt, raising gooseflesh along his sternum.
“You’re shaking,” Zachary murmured against the hollow at the base of Kell’s throat. His hands slid under the loose white fabric, palms broad and callused, mapping the soft give of Kell’s sides, the subtle curve where waist flared into hip. “Thought kings didn’t tremble.”
Kell’s laugh came out ragged. “You talk too much.” He yanked Zachary’s head back up by the hair, hard enough to sting, and kissed him again—messy, punishing, all teeth and desperation. His free hand shoved at Zachary’s shirt, impatient, nails scraping skin as he dragged it up and over Zachary’s head. landing somewhere near the scattered blueprints.
Zachary let him. Let Kell claw and pull and bite until the mechanic’s chest was covered, flushed dark from collarbone to navel, a faint constellation of old scars and fresh scratches from Kell’s nails.
Then Zachary retaliated—slow, inevitable. He hooked two fingers in the knot of Kell’s bow tie and tugged it loose, letting the silk slither free before he used it to bind Kell’s wrists behind his back in a single, practiced loop. Not tight enough to bruise. Tight enough to remind.
Kell tested the restraint once, twice—muscles flexing under soft skin—and hissed when the silk held. “You think this makes you clever green boy?”
“I think it makes you quiet for once,” Zachary said, voice low and amused. He pushed Kell’s shirt open wider, letting it hang off his shoulders like ruined wings.
Moonlight and chandelier glow collided across Kell’s chest—highlighting the gentle swell there, the way his nipples had already drawn tight from the chill and the attention.
Zachary’s thumbs brushed over them once, slow circles, then pinched—sharp enough to make Kell arch and swear in that thick drawl.
“Fuck—Zach—”
“There it is,” Zachary breathed. He dropped to one knee, mouth following the path his hands had charted: open kisses down Kell’s sternum, teeth catching the soft underside of one pec, tongue flicking over a nipple until Kell’s hips jerked forward involuntarily.
Zachary’s hands slid lower, working the fastenings of Kell’s red trousers with the same calm efficiency he used on stubborn irrigation valves. Fabric parted.
Trousers and smallclothes shoved down in one rough motion. Kell stepped out of them automatically, bare now except for the open shirt and the bow tie still binding his wrists.
Zachary paused.
His gaze dropped, dark and intent, to the slick heat between Kell’s thighs—soft folds already glistening, clit flushed and swollen, the pale soft hairs framing it damp with want. Surprise flickered across his face, brief and unguarded, before hunger swallowed it whole.
Kell’s chin lifted, defiant even with his hands tied. “What? Cat got your tongue, farmer?”
Zachary didn’t answer with words. He leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue up the length of Kell’s slit—slow, filthy, tasting every inch—until Kell’s knees buckled and a broken moan tore out of him. Zachary caught him under the thighs, lifted him onto the table in one smooth motion, spreading him wide. Blueprints crunched under Kell’s ass; the geode rolled off the edge and shattered somewhere on the floor. Neither cared.
Zachary ate him like he was starving—tongue circling the clit, then dipping lower to push inside, fucking him with slow, deep strokes while his thumbs kept Kell’s folds spread. Kell’s thighs trembled around Zachary’s ears, heels digging into his shoulders. Every pass of that wicked tongue pulled a new sound from him—high, fractured, Southern vowels bleeding into pure need.
“Zach—fuck—don’t stop—”
Zachary didn’t. He added two fingers, thick and callused, curling them against that spot inside until Kell’s back bowed off the table, a sob catching in his throat. The chandelier light danced across his chest, catching the sweat that had started to sheen his skin, the way his soft pecs bounced with every heaving breath.
When Kell was shaking, dripping, so close he could taste it, Zachary pulled back. Stood. Shoved his own overalls down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed dark, already leaking at the tip.
Kell’s eyes locked on it. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “You gonna stand there gawking, or—”
Zachary manhandled him off the table, spun him, bent him forward over the edge of the stone sill. The open window frame framed the drop perfectly—dunes rolling silver under moonlight, the faint glow of the community far below.
Anyone looking up with sharp enough eyes could see: Kell’s flushed face, open shirt showing a lewd display, Zachary crowding in behind him.
Zachary pressed the head of his cock against Kell’s entrance, teasing, not pushing in yet. “Still think you hate me?”
Kell hummed—shaky, furious, aching. “More than ever.”
“Good.” Zachary thrust in hard, one brutal stroke that seated him to the hilt. Kell’s cry echoed off the stone walls—raw, wrecked,and definitely loud enough to be heard. Zachary didn’t give him time to adjust; he pulled back and slammed home again, setting a punishing rhythm.
The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, underscored by the low whistle of wind through the window frames and Kell’s broken moans timed perfectly to each thrust. Pretty silver hair strands falling over his eyes.
Zachary’s hand gripped Kell’s hip—hard enough to leave fingerprints on the soft flesh there—angling him so every stroke dragged against that spot inside.
Kell’s bound wrists were used as anchors; his cheek dropped to rest on the window, body rocking forward with every impact.
“Fuck—Zach—harder—”
Zachary obliged. His hand left Kell’s hip, cracked down on the plush curve of his ass—sharp, stinging bloom of red. Kell jolted, clenching hard around Zachary’s cock, a fresh gush of slick coating them both. Another smack. Another. Each one punctuated by a deeper thrust, Zachary’s balls slapping wetly against Kell’s clit.
“You feel that dollface?” Zachary whispered against Kell’s ear, voice rough with want. Hand snaking up to press the Ash blonde deeper into the window by his hair. “That’s me filling you up. Gonna leave you dripping so every time you try to sit pretty up here and pretend you’re above it all, you remember exactly who fucked it out of you.”
Kell gritted his teeth—half rage, half pleasure—pushing back to meet every brutal snap of hips. “You—damn—bastard—”
Zachary’s hand slid around front, fingers finding Kell’s clit and rubbing rough, fast circles. “Come on, baby. Come on my cock while the whole valley pretends they can’t see you getting railed like you need it.”
The words—crude, possessive—tipped Kell over. His orgasm hit like a sandstorm: sudden, blinding, body locking down around Zachary as he came with a strangled cry, slick pulsing out around the thick length still pounding into him. His knees gave; Zachary caught him, held him up, fucked him through the aftershocks until his own rhythm stuttered—then buried deep with a guttural groan, spilling hot and thick inside.
They stayed like that for long seconds—Kell slumped forward, forehead pressed to cool glass, shirt hanging off, wrists still bound in blue silk. Zachary draped over his back, breathing hard, lips brushing the nape of Kell’s neck.
Eventually Zachary eased out, thumbs smoothing over the red handprints on Kell’s ass, the mess dripping down his thighs. He untied the bow tie with careful fingers, massaging the faint marks it left.
Kell turned slowly, legs unsteady. His eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth swollen from biting.
He looked wrecked. Beautiful even.
He reached up, cupped Zachary’s jaw, thumb brushing the peeling bandaid on his nose.
“Don’t get used to this,” Kell whispered, voice hoarse.
Zachary smiled—slow, knowing, soft at the edges.
“Too late.”
Outside, the desert wind kept whistling through the empty frames, carrying the sound away into the night.
Rip!
"Dammit! Why’d you do that?" Zach yelped, hand flying up to cover his face, his East Coast accent snapping back into sharp focus.
"Oops," Kell said, his voice a cool, unbothered drawl. He stood there with a bored tilt to his head, the dirt-smudged bandaid dangling like a trophy between two fingers.
“It was botherin’ me.”