The engine idled rough, the way it always did when it was cold, and Tyler sat with both hands on the wheel and watched the cracked concrete of the lot through the smear of his windshield. 6:03 AM. His phone was dead on the passenger seat, and he'd been sitting here since 5:47, long enough for the heater to go from hot to lukewarm to nothing, long enough for his jaw to stop aching and start just existing, a strange smooth presence in his mouth that he kept running his tongue over like a worry stone.

He hadn't slept. He'd tried. He'd lain on his floor in his apartment—he'd made it home somehow, Wednesday night or Thursday morning or whatever the hours had been—and stared at the ceiling and felt the phantom pressure of straps across his chest, the way the chair had held him. He'd replayed it all. The brackets. The shadow in the doorway. The word Friday falling out of Renata's mouth like it was already behind her, like he was already behind her.

And now here he was. Friday. 6:03 AM. His Corolla was the only car in the lot except for the van.

The van sat at the far edge, past the cracked path, dark windows, no plates visible from this angle. Black or dark gray, the paint dull with road grime like it had been driven through weather that never quite washed off. Tyler's thumb tapped against his thigh, a nervous beat he couldn't stop, and he watched the front window of the office for movement.

And there she was.

Renata stood just inside the glass, visible through the grime, and she was already looking at him. Not like she'd just noticed the car pull in—like she'd been standing there waiting, watching him sit in the dark with his engine running. Solid black scrubs, no pastel today, no mint. Her red hair was down instead of in the ponytail, falling loose around her shoulders, and she had a cigarette between her fingers.

The orange tip flared as she took a drag. She didn't look away. The ash fell and she didn't brush it off.

Tyler killed the engine. The silence that rushed in was louder than the motor had been, a cold empty hum in his ears. He sat there a moment longer, hands still on the wheel, and then he opened the door and stepped out into the 6 AM air.

The cold hit him through his shirt. He'd worn the only clean one he had left, a plain gray tee with a collar that was starting to fray, and he'd tucked it in like he was going somewhere that mattered. The cracked path was worse than he remembered. Fissures ran through the concrete like dry riverbeds, weeds pushing up through the breaks, and his boots sounded loud in the quiet, a scuff-scuff rhythm against the broken ground.

Renata watched him the whole way. She didn't move from the window. The cigarette came up, she took another drag, and the smoke curled around her face, and her green eyes never left his.

The front door had a bell on it. It jingled when he pushed it open, a cheerful sound that didn't belong in the same building as the back room, and Renata dropped the cigarette and ground it under her heel without looking down.

"You came," she said.

Not a question. Not surprised. Just a statement, flat and certain, like she'd known the second his car turned into the lot.

"Yeah." Tyler's voice came out hoarse. He hadn't used it since—when? He'd said nothing in the car. He'd said nothing all night. "I—"

The deadbolt turned behind him. The sound was solid, a heavy clunk that settled into the door frame, and Tyler felt it in his chest, that lock engaging, the click of the trap closing. He didn't turn around. He watched Renata's hand finish the motion and come back to her side.

"You're shaking," she said.

He looked down at his hands. She was right. His fingers were trembling, a fine vibration he hadn't been able to feel until she named it. He curled them into fists. "I didn't sleep."

"I know." She stepped closer. The office was dim, the fluorescent lights not all the way on, and the fish tank gurgled in the corner, its blue glow making shadows under her jaw. "You look like it."

She didn't smile. That was the strangest part. Every other time she'd been all warmth, all crinkled eyes and dimples and girl-next-door charm. Now her face was still, watching him with a patience that felt like it could wait forever.

"What now?" Tyler asked. His voice cracked on the second word. "You said—Friday. You said the real—"

"I said the real work starts now." Renata's hand came up and found the waistband of his jeans. Her fingers hooked over the top button, and there was no hesitation in the motion, no asking, just a hand settling where it had been before, like she had a right to it. "And it's Friday."

She backed him toward the exam room. Her palm was flat against his stomach now, pushing, and Tyler's boots scuffed against the linoleum as he let himself be moved. The hall was short. The door to the exam room was already open, and the light inside was on, and the chair was waiting for him.

His back hit the vinyl. The chair was cold through his shirt, and sticky in a way that made his skin crawl, and he could hear the drill—no. He couldn't hear the drill. The drill was silent. But his jaw remembered it, a phantom vibration that made his teeth ache, and he pressed his palms flat against the armrests and looked up at her.

Renata followed him down. Her weight settled onto his lap, her knees finding the vinyl on either side of his thighs, and her hand was still on his waistband, thumb hooked over the button now, pressing against the fly of his jeans.

"You came," she said again, softer this time. "I knew you would."

Her mouth found his before he could answer.

The kiss wasn't like the one in the back room. That one had been a test, a claiming, a hand on his jaw and a tongue in his mouth to see if he'd push back. This one was slower. Her lips parted over his, her tongue sliding against his lower lip, and her hand left his waistband to cup the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there.

Tyler's hands came up off the armrests. He didn't know what he was going to do with them—push her away, pull her closer, grip her hips—but they found her waist, her black scrubs rough under his palms, and he held on.

She made a sound against his mouth. Low, approving. Her tongue pushed deeper, and she shifted her weight, settling more fully onto his lap, and he felt it—the heat of her through the denim, the pressure of her cunt against his thigh, the way she rocked, just a little, just enough to make his cock stir.

"You're hard already," she murmured against his mouth. "That's sweet."

Tyler's face burned. "I—"

"Don't." Her hand left his hair, found his jaw, held it. "Don't apologize for it. You came. You're here. You want this." She kissed him again, quick and hard. "That's why you're here."

He wanted to say something. He didn't know what. He didn't know if there was a word for the thing he'd driven an hour to do, the thing that had kept him awake all night with his heart pounding and his hands shaking. He didn't know if wanting was the right word for it, or if there was a better one, a truer one, a word that meant I couldn't not come, I couldn't stay away, I'm here because there was no other place I could be.

She kissed him again, and he stopped trying to find it.

Her hands went back to his waistband. The button came open with a pop, the zipper a rough rasp in the quiet room, and she pushed his jeans down over his hips, the denim catching on his thighs before she worked it past his knees. His boxers went with them. The air hit his cock, cold and electric, and he twitched, a full-body jerk that made Renata smile.

"Cold?" she asked.

"Little bit." His voice was thin. He watched her hands, the way she worked the fabric down his legs, the way she left his jeans bunched around his ankles. "You're—you're not taking yours off."

"No." She sat back on his thighs, and her hand closed around his cock. Her fingers were warm, warmer than the air, and she stroked him once, slow, from base to tip, and his hips bucked into her grip. "I'm not."

She was wet. He could feel it through her scrubs, a damp heat against his thigh, and she rocked against him as she worked him, her thumb circling the head, spreading the slickness that had already started to bead there.

"God," Tyler breathed. His hands found her hips. "Renata—"

"Shh." She shifted, one hand bracing on his chest, the other guiding him. He felt the head of his cock press against the damp fabric of her scrubs, against the shape of her cunt beneath them, and then she hooked the fabric aside with her thumb and he felt her—bare, hot, slick, the wet heat of her pussy against his skin.

"You're bare," he said. Stupid. Of course she was bare. She'd been planning this. She'd been waiting for him in the window with her cigarette and her black scrubs and no underwear beneath them, and he'd driven an hour to walk into it.

"Mm." She rocked forward, and the head of his cock caught against her—not inside, just against, the slick slide of her cunt lips parting around him. "I wanted to feel you. No barrier. Just you, inside me."

Tyler's hands tightened on her hips. "Renata."

"Say my name again," she said, and she sank down onto him.

The heat was blinding. She was so wet, so slick, and she took him in one slow motion, her cunt stretching around him, the walls clenching as she settled, and Tyler's head fell back against the vinyl chair and he made a sound he didn't recognize, a broken groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, Renata—"

"That's it." She braced her hands on his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and she started to move. "That's it, Tyler. Feel that. Feel how wet I am for you."

He felt it. Every inch of it. The slick slide of her cunt around his cock, the heat of her, the way she clenched when she lifted and loosened when she sank back down. Her scrubs were pushed up around her hips, bunched at her waist, and he could see where they joined, could see his cock disappearing into her, slick and shining with her wetness.

"Look at me," she said. "Look at me while I fuck you."

He looked. Her green eyes were dark, her pupils blown wide, and there was color in her cheeks now, a flush that hadn't been there before. She rode him slow, deliberate, grinding her hips at the bottom of each stroke, and he felt her clit against his pubic bone, felt the way she shuddered when she pressed down.

"You feel that?" she asked. "You feel how much I want this?"

"Yes." His voice cracked. "Yes—"

"I've been thinking about this," she said, and she leaned forward, her mouth finding his ear. "All week. Since you walked in with your cracked tooth and your sad eyes. I've been thinking about riding you in this chair, feeling you come inside me."

Tyler's hips bucked up into her. He couldn't help it. The words were doing something to him, something that made his cock throb inside her, and she gasped when he thrust up, her cunt clenching around him.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, that's good. Do that again."

He did. He gripped her hips and thrust up into her, and she rode him harder, her hands fisting in his shirt, her breath coming in short gasps. The chair creaked under them, the old vinyl protesting, and Tyler could feel the sweat starting to gather at his temples, the heat building low in his belly.

"Renata," he said. "I'm—I'm close."

"Not yet." Her hand came up, pressed against his mouth, held there for a moment. "Not yet. I want to come first."

She moved faster. Her hips rolled against his, grinding, and he could feel her clit against him, feel the way her body was tightening around his cock, the way her rhythm was starting to falter.

"Touch me," she said. "Tyler. Touch my clit."

His hand found her. Slick, swollen, hot, and she cried out when his thumb pressed against it, a sharp sound that echoed in the empty office. He circled it, clumsy at first, then finding the rhythm she was pushing into, and she rode him harder, her nails digging into his chest through the fabric of his shirt.

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, yes—there—"

She came with a shuddering moan, her cunt clenching around him in waves, her hips grinding down as she rode out the orgasm. Tyler watched her face, the way her eyes squeezed shut, the way her mouth fell open, and it was too much—the feel of her clenching around him, the sound of her, the way she said his name like it was the only word she knew.

"Renata," he said, and he came inside her.

It hit him like a wave, his hips thrusting up into her, his come spilling into her cunt as she kept riding him, slow and gentle now, milking him through it. He saw white behind his eyes. He felt his own pulse in his cock, felt her still clenching around him, and he sank back against the chair, gasping, his hands shaking where they gripped her hips.

She was still for a moment. Then she leaned forward, her forehead pressed against his, her breath hot on his mouth.

"Good boy," she whispered. And then she sat back, and looked at him with those green eyes, and said it.

"Now the real work starts."