Dylan Garcia

The morning light cut gently across the room, softening the edges of everything it touched. I stirred, the faint ache in my muscles reminding me of last night, but what surprised me most was the warmth around me. The sheets smelled like Charles, clean and sharp, and his pillow was pressed against my cheek. I blinked slowly, disoriented, then realized I had fallen asleep in his bed again. 

I noticed that I was wearing a black silk robe that was softly covering my naked body underneath it. After-care. The thought crossed my mind, as for the past nights I was in and out of Charles’ apartment, he won’t miss the time to do after-care on me. He could’ve just left me to fix myself, but he insisted on doing it for me. I knew I shouldn’t feel anything for him since this is just a contract relationship, but I can’t help but feel like I'm slipping.

My fingers traced the edge of the robe, the smooth fabric cool against my skin, and I caught sight of a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers left neatly on the nightstand. A small bowl of cut fruit sat beside them, the kind of quiet detail Charles never mentioned but always prepared. My chest tightened. This wasn’t part of the contract—care, comfort, small mercies that made me feel… wanted.

I pressed my face into his pillow again, breathing him in, and cursed myself under my breath. It was dangerous, letting my heart wander where my head knew better. Because at the end of all this, when the contract ended, I’d be nothing more than another memory he discarded.

And yet, a part of me wondered, if all of this was an act, why did it feel so real?

The sound of clinking plates drew me out of the haze. When I turned my head, Charles was already at the side table, setting down two mugs of coffee and a plate of toast with eggs and a side of salad. The casual domesticity of it all sent my heart skittering.

“Morning, Dylan,” he said, voice low but gentler than it had been the night before. “Eat before it gets cold.”

I sat up slowly, tugging the robe to cover myself, though I knew he’d already seen every inch of me. He smirked at the gesture but didn’t tease me about it. Instead, he handed me one of the mugs. I accepted, letting the warmth seep into my palms, grounding me.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

We ate quietly at first, the silence broken only by the scrape of forks against the plates. It wasn’t uncomfortable, if anything, it felt oddly intimate, as though this had been our routine for years.

“So,” Charles said eventually, leaning back in his chair with his coffee in hand, “it’s Saturday. We both have no work today.”

“Yeah,” I just casually respond, chewing on my toast, though the words barely register. Something had been gnawing at me since I woke, and before I could stop myself, it spilled out.

“Is there really a reason… you haven’t made a move to have sex with me yet?” My voice came out smaller than I intended, but steady.

Charles froze for a fraction of a second, the porcelain of his mug catching the light as he set it down with deliberate calm. His eyes cut toward me, sharp and unreadable, and for a heartbeat, I almost wished I could snatch the words back.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. His hand raked once through his hair before settling against his jaw. “Because I’m waiting, Dylan. I don’t want to rush into something that will shock you… or push you further than you’re ready for.”

The firmness in his tone should have reassured me, but it didn’t. It wasn’t just restraint I heard, it was control, calculated and unyielding. A hesitation that wasn’t about me, but about him.

My brows furrowed as I studied him. “But I’m ready, Charles. I can take it. You’ve already done everything else—so why can’t I even have sex with you?” My voice wavered at the end, louder than I wanted it to be.

His gaze lingered on me, unwavering, steady enough to make my skin prickle. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even look away.

I swallowed, my heart hammering. “Charles, what’s the point of the contract we signed if you won’t even fu—”

His hand came down on the table with a sharp crack. “Watch your fucking tone, Dylan.” His voice cut through the air like a blade, low and lethal. My throat closed instantly, heat rushing to my cheeks.

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “I have my reasons for why I haven’t fucked you yet. Don’t cross the goddamn line by assuming you understand them.”

The silence after his words was suffocating, but he didn’t let me look away. His stare pinned me in place, unrelenting.

“And when that moment comes,” he continued, his tone softer now but no less dangerous, “you won’t doubt for a second why I waited. You’ll understand exactly why I’ve been holding back. So I suggest… wait. And know your place.”

Know your place.

The words stung like open flame. My chest constricted, torn between anger and something I hated to admit, expectation. I expected him to just ruin me, but his prolonging this that I don’t even know what in the world he wants with me. I looked down at my plate, my fork trembling slightly in my hand. My cheeks burned with humiliation, but underneath it all was a coil of heat, anticipation wrapping tight around my ribs. He was holding back. Deliberately. And I was supposed to believe it wasn’t because I was just a plaything, nothing more.

After breakfast, I headed back to my apartment, needing distance, needing space to breathe after the confrontation with Charles. The silence of my place felt jarring compared to the weight of his presence, but it was also strangely hollow. I sank onto the couch, robe still clinging to me, replaying his words in my head. 

Know your place. The command echoed like a bruise inside my chest. Part of me wanted to be angry, to tell myself I hated how he spoke to me. But another part, one I didn’t want to admit, thrummed with restless anticipation.

I forced myself up, shaking the thoughts off. My fridge greeted me with near-bare shelves and expired leftovers, a sad reminder that I’d been spending more nights at his apartment than my own. I grabbed my wallet and keys, deciding that maybe an errand like grocery shopping would help ground me. Just aisles of food, fluorescent lights, and normalcy—no contracts, no rules, no Charles.

The fluorescent lights in the grocery store made everything feel too bright, too loud. The hum of refrigerators, the chatter of shoppers, the squeak of cart wheels, it was all too much, grating against my nerves. My legs ached with every step, and I had to fight the urge to wince when I reached for a bag of rice. The soreness clung to me, echoing last night, the sting of Charles’s palm across my skin, the ache in my thighs from kneeling too long, the sharpness of his words. 

I adjusted the bag in my cart, trying to keep my movements normal. Ordinary. Just another salaryman picking up groceries, not someone walking around branded in invisible marks only I could feel.

“Dylan?”

I froze. That voice.

Turning, I found myself staring into the familiar face of Eric, one of my coworkers. He had the same easy smile I’d seen across desks and breakrooms, a reliable presence during late nights and impossible deadlines. Eric was always friendly. Maybe too friendly. In the office, people joked about him being ‘handsy,’ brushing shoulders, leaning in close, clapping backs a little too hard, holding onto arms a little too long. Most of us brushed it off as just his way, but there had been moments, quiet, lingering touches, that left me unsettled.

Until now, I hadn’t realized how suffocating it could feel.

“Eric. Hey.” I tried to sound casual, but my gut tightened, my throat dry.

“Wow, didn’t expect to run into you here.” He closed the distance easily, clapping a hand on my shoulder. Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but the pressure landed right where last night’s punishments still throbbed. My body betrayed me with a flinch.

Eric’s smile faltered. “You okay? You seem… off.”

“Yeah. Fine.” I forced a grin, stepping slightly back. But he followed, his hand sliding down my arm, lingering a second too long, too deliberately. Friendly had just tipped into something else.

I opened my mouth to put space between us, but then—

“Is there a reason,” Charles’s voice cut in, low and razor-sharp, “that your hands are on him?”

The air shifted instantly.

Eric blinked, then smirked—not nervous, not backing down. He slipped his hand casually into his pocket, the other still resting on the handle of his basket. “Relax, man. We’re coworkers. Friends, even. Dylan doesn’t mind, right?” He threw me a knowing glance, as if daring me to disagree.

My throat tightened. 

“What did you just—”

“Charles,” I warned him quickly, before he could turn volcanic. “This… This is Eric, my co-worker. Eric, this is Charles, my neighbour.”

Eric tilted his head, sizing Charles up like he was another rival in the office instead of someone radiating lethal intent. “Wait, aren’t you the director of the company from yesterday?”

“I am, why?” Charles' voice was stern.

“No wonder Dylan was ‘comfortable’ with you in yesterday’s meeting.” What did he mean by comfortable?

“ I guess you’re the reason Dylan’s been harder to catch for after-work drinks, huh?” His smile was practiced, infuriatingly smug. “Can’t say I blame him. You’ve got a presence.”

Charles’s expression didn’t shift, but the air around him darkened, sharp as broken glass. He stepped closer, his gaze pinning Eric like a blade point. “If you value your hands, you’ll keep them off him.”

Eric chuckled, low and amused, not cowed at all. “Territorial, aren’t you? Funny, never pegged Dylan as the type to go for that.” He winked at me, then leaned just enough toward Charles to make it clear he wasn’t afraid. 

“But don’t worry. I’ll keep it ‘professional’ in the office. Outside of it, though…” His smirk widened. “…depends on Dylan, doesn’t it?”

My stomach flipped. Charles’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t lash out, he didn’t need to. His silence was coiled, dangerous, the kind of silence that promised consequences.

Eric gave a mock salute, stepping back with infuriating ease. “See you Monday, Dylan.” He strolled off, completely unhurried, his confidence lingering in the aisle long after he vanished.

I stood frozen, heart hammering, palms damp on the cart handle. Charles finally moved, stepping around me. His jaw was set, his green eyes flaring with something I didn’t want to name. Possession. Control.

The walk to the register was silent. He didn’t ask what was in my cart, didn’t comment, didn’t look at me. Just loomed behind me like a shadow while I paid. He then took the bags from my hands before I could protest.

“I-I can carry those,” but he ignored me and just waited for me to finish paying up.

We didn’t speak until we reached the exit. We were walking back to the apartment. The silence was deafening. Only then did he face me when he stopped in his tracks.

“You are not,” Charles said, his voice low, each word deliberate, “to let another man put his hands on you. Not like that.”

Heat rose in my chest, anger, humiliation, something tangled between the two. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His tone didn’t waver. “You’re mine, Dylan. My sub. My plaything. His hands don’t belong on you.”

My fingers clenched around my keys. “Last I checked, Charles, this is an S and M relationship. Not a marriage. Not a romance. You don’t get to decide who I’m friends with or who pats me on the shoulder.”

His eyes narrowed, his mouth twitching into something dangerously close to a sneer. “It wasn’t a pat, Dylan. And you know it.”

“That’s not the point!” The words tore out of me louder than I intended. Frustration burned through the ache in my body, sharp and desperate. “You told me yourself; no love, no strings. Just pleasure. So don’t stand here acting like some jealous boyfriend when you made it clear this isn’t that!”

The words hung between us like broken glass, sharp and undeniable. Charles’s lips pressed into a hard line. I half expected him to lash out, to punish me right here in the parking lot with words that would cut deeper than his hand ever could. But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped closer. Too close. His presence pressed down, suffocating, his voice dropping low enough that it thrummed against my skin.

“Fine, if you insisted, I’ll give you space. I won’t bother you outside of our play.”

My heart thudded hard, trapped between defiance and fear. Anger and arousal knotted together inside me, choking me. Still, I lifted my chin, refusing to look away from him.

“Good,” I said, though my voice came out thinner than I wanted.

The silence that followed was heavier than any punishment. He didn’t speak, didn’t touch me, didn’t move away. He just stared, and the weight of it made my pulse race until my knees felt weak. Because the truth was, I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to step back. Or close the distance completely.