Living in Sin
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 11: Hiding in Plain Sight
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 11: Hiding in Plain Sight - Two single-parent sheriff’s deputies move into a wealthy, uptight neighborhood and accidentally set off a storm of paranoia, lust, and suburban meltdown. As judgmental neighbors spiral, sexually frustrated housewives come calling. Amid threesomes, gossip, and chaos, Scott and Maggie discover their friendship hides something deeper. Darkly funny, raw, and fearless, Living in Sin is a satire of morality, desire, and the lies we live behind picket fences.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa
The wind was already kicking up when Scott stepped out into the driveway, helmet clipped, gloves tucked under one arm, and that tight ache behind his left knee that always showed up in cold weather. Southwest wind, steady, cold, dry. Not awful, but enough to make the ridge loop a bastard on the way out.
Leaves scratched across the sidewalk like dry whispers. A light sheen of dew still clung to the grass. Somewhere down the block, a leaf blower groaned to life. Probably Reyes again. That guy loved blowing leaves more than Scott loved fucking.
Scott was crouched beside the rear wheel, checking pressure, when he heard the soft pad of paws and the jingle of tags.
He didn’t look up right away. He knew who it was.
“Morning,” he said casually, standing up and brushing his hands on his bib tights.
Ranger came first, all golden goofball energy, wagging like his tail was on a metronome. Lena followed two paces behind, slow, composed, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of her slate-gray jacket. Her hair was up in a casual twist, sunglasses perched on top even though she wasn’t wearing them.
To anyone watching, she was just another mom out walking the dog after the kids went to school.
But Scott knew better.
They had planned this over the weekend—casually, quietly, during one of their neighbor chats that looked like nothing from a distance. Maggie had taken the kids to school today. Judith had already left for her school run, as had most of the other moms in the hood. It was clear.
Lena turned up the driveway like she belonged there.
Ranger sat politely at her side.
She looked at him—really looked at him, from the damp collar of his jersey down to the snug cut of his bibs—and smiled.
Then she said it.
“So ... do you still want to fuck me?”
Scott blinked. Not because he was shocked—he knew it was coming—but because she’d said it like she was offering a cup of coffee.
The wind blew a fresh swirl of red and gold leaves across the street. A dog barked two blocks over. Scott glanced once, casually, at Judith’s driveway.
Still empty.
He looked back at Lena.
Her expression hadn’t changed. Smooth. Calm. A hint of amusement in the eyes. Like she was testing a theory and already knew the result.
He let the corner of his mouth lift, slow and sly.
“You’re really going with that as an opener?”
“It’s Monday,” she said. “I thought we could start the week honestly.”
Scott gave a low chuckle and nodded once. “Yeah. I still want to fuck you.”
She smiled. “I can’t wait,” she said. “Have you come up with a plan for us to do that without arousing suspicion?”
That was what she had tasked him with during their Saturday discussion after he had come home from work.
“I think I have,” he said.
“You did say you would figure something out,” she said with a smile. “Your exact words were, ‘if you need a sneaky plan to do some inappropriate shit, ask a cop. We deal with criminals and we know how they could have gotten away with it if they’d just tried.’”
He returned the smile. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“Lay it on me. I can’t wait to hear it.”
Scott leaned against the seat post of his bike, glancing once more down the quiet street before answering. The wind caught a few brittle leaves and tossed them into the gutter like confetti for something slightly wicked.
“How about we do this tomorrow?” he suggested. “I’ll slip over to your place while Judith and the other moms are all taking their kiddos to school.”
“How are you going to slip over to my place without being seen?”
“By being bold and looking like I’m doing nothing wrong,” he said. “It’s one of the most effective ways to pull something off, I’ve found. You leave your side gate unlocked. That spot’s around the corner and mostly blocked from street view—only a few second-story windows could see it, and nobody’s likely to be up there looking down at 8:10 in the morning.”
“And once you’re inside?” she asked, voice soft, even—like they were discussing mulch delivery or roofing estimates.
“I stay until Judith leaves again for pickup. Somewhere around two-thirtyish? I slip out the way I came.”
Lena raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You’ve thought this through. Are you sure no one will see you come into my backyard? If they do, it will be kind of hard to explain.”
“Not really,” he said. “I have a cover story ready in case there is an enquiry.”
She tilted her head, intrigued. “Oh? Let’s hear it.”
Scott straightened slightly, arms folding across his chest like he was back in briefing. “If someone sees me enter your yard, or thinks they saw me near the side gate, I say I was helping your husband with your pool motor.”
“Our ... pool motor?”
“Yep. It’s acting up. Making a weird buzzing noise. He asked if I could take a look.”
“And you know how to fix pool motors now?”
He gave a small shrug. “That part doesn’t matter. I used to be a pool cleaner before I became a cop. That’s my line if anyone asks.”
She gave a soft laugh. “You were a pool cleaner?”
“No. But I look like one. And that’s enough for this neighborhood.”
Lena grinned. “Okay ... I’m your hot neighbor with a malfunctioning pool motor. My husband’s at work, you’re doing us a favor, and you used to clean pools. Nothing naughty going on here.”
“Exactly. If it comes up, that’s the story. We keep it simple and matching and do not deviate from it no matter what.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Say it again. Like I’m the HOA president.”
Scott didn’t miss a beat. “Your husband asked me to take a look at the pool motor. It’s buzzing weird. I used to clean pools and do simple repairs before I was a cop.”
She repeated it back, mimicking his cadence: “You used to clean pools and do simple repairs before you were a cop. Pool motor’s buzzing. You’re just helping. Saving us a few bucks.”
“Perfect,” he said.
Lena took a breath and looked at him like he’d just handed her a master key to some forbidden lock. “You’re giving me a crash course in strategic lying, aren’t you?”
He gave her a lazy smile. “You’re catching on.”
“You’re ... really good at this. Maybe too good? Can I trust you?”
Scott shrugged his shoulders. “That’s a call you’ll have to make yourself, but I’m not a pathological liar. I prefer honesty in my dealings with other. But I learned from my job how to lie if necessary. Virtually every person I deal with at work lies to me. Suspects. Victims. Witnesses. Doesn’t matter.”
“Victims lie?”
“All the time. Usually about something they don’t think is relevant. Embarrassed about their boyfriend, embarrassed about their drug use, didn’t want someone to know where they really were or what they were really up to. Shitty lies, mostly. They always trip themselves up.”
Lena blinked, absorbing that. “So how do you know how to do it right?”
“Because they teach us. Not how to lie—how to spot them. But it’s the same skill set in reverse. If you want a lie to hold, you plan it before the moment comes. You keep it small. Specific. Plausible. You close every loophole and seal up every window that can be peeked into. You make it ironclad—or at least give it the illusion of being ironclad.”
She stared at him for a moment, then let out a low breath, eyes slightly wider than before.
“That’s ... honestly kind of hot.”
Scott gave her a half-smile. “So is being smart enough to pull it off.”
Lena laughed softly and gave Ranger’s leash a small tug. “All right, Scott Dover. I’ll leave the gate unlatched tomorrow. You handle the motor.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to get your motor running,” he said, deadpan.
She smiled. “How about you text me your number,” she suggested.
He shook his head. “Bad idea.”
Lena arched an eyebrow. “Why?”
Scott straightened a bit, his tone calm but firm. “I don’t generally arrest people for cheating, but I’ve been to hundreds of domestic calls where someone got caught—or accused—because of a phone. Both sexes. Doesn’t matter. The number one thing that makes a spouse suspicious is sudden phone secrecy.”
“You mean ... like turning it over all the time, or hiding who you’re texting?”
“Exactly. People start guarding their phones like they’re holding launch codes. And the partner notices. Always. Then the snooping starts. They find a way into the phone. They read the texts.”
“And that’s how it blows up,” Lena said, more thoughtful now.
“Every time,” Scott said. “You can’t read a text that doesn’t exist. You can’t find a contact I never gave you. The absence of my number actually works in your favor. If your husband ever looks? You’re clean.”
She looked at him for a long moment, like she was trying to decide if she found this worldview disturbing or brilliant. “Do you look at everything through the lens of lying and cheating?”
Scott shrugged. “You asked me to fuck you. I am looking forward to doing so. But I don’t want us to get caught. That’s not a bad way to look at things, is it?”
Lena didn’t answer right away.
She just watched him.
And then, with the same cool, unreadable calm she’d had since the start, she said:
“Sammie said you are incredible at eating pussy. Is this true?”
Scott blinked—just once—and then smiled like someone quietly winning a bet.
“Maybe you’ll find out tomorrow.”
He mounted his bike and headed for the hills. As he suspected, coming back against the wind was a bitch. But it gave him a good workout. He pulled into the driveway one hour and fifty-one minutes after leaving it. After putting the bike away and stowing his helmet, he walked back out to the driveway and just stood there.
The wind was colder now, blowing a little harder too. It was sharper, biting across Scott’s damp jersey as he let it wash over him, breathing slowly, letting the chill work through his skin like a reset button, drying the sweat.
His muscles ached in that clean, post-ride way. Not pain. Not fatigue. Just that heavy, satisfied heat under the surface. He drank the last of his water bottle, swishing it around in his dry mouth a bit before swallowing it.
His eyes—sharp as ever, even in the diffuse light of a November morning—tracked motion without consciously deciding to. A flicker behind a ground-story window.
Judith’s house.
The blinds had twitched. Just barely. A human shadow lingering too long behind the slats. She was watching.
Of course she was.
He debated it. Just a little flick of the hand. A small wave, maybe even a smile. A petty shot across her invisible bow.
But no.
He turned without acknowledging it.
No sense tipping his hand.
The garage door rumbled closed behind him as he stepped into the house.
The kitchen smelled like toasted bread and eggs. Maggie was at the table in a sports bra and yoga pants, bare feet tucked under her chair, hair loose and flowing like it always was when she was off duty. She had a ham and egg sandwich in hand, a paperback open beside her, and a second sandwich resting on a paper plate across the table—Scott’s.
Just the way he liked it. Light mustard. Over-medium. Wheat bread, toasted but not crunchy. Pepper jack cheese.
He poured himself a glass of orange juice from the fridge, took a long sip, then sat down across from her.
“Thanks,” he said, picking up the sandwich.
Maggie nodded without looking up from the page. “Figured you’d be hungry. Wind’s up already?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Out of the southwest. The cold damp wind that came in from the ocean.”
Routine words, routine morning.
But as he took the first bite—perfect bite, exactly how he liked it—he felt that quiet moment of appreciation rise up behind his ribs. Not romantic. Not nostalgic. Just real.
Maggie knew him.
Not in the poetic sense, but in the practical, day-to-day kind of knowing that came from living in the same house with him. She knew what kind of mustard he preferred. What kind of cheese he preferred. When he’d want juice instead of coffee. How long he’d stand in the cold after his ride before finally coming inside.
And that, Scott thought as he chewed, was something to be grateful for.
Maggie turned the page of her paperback, then glanced up over the top of it. “How were the streets last night?”
Scott wiped his fingers on the napkin and took another bite before answering. “Made a decent arrest, actually. Good stolen car stop just after midnight. North and Don Julio.”
She raised an eyebrow. “The very heart and soul of Northwood.”
“Yep,” he said. “Saw this guy roll by in a pretty nice Tacoma. Looked way too sketchy to be driving something that clean. He had the kind of energy you can smell from inside your unit. And his tags were expired, so there’s my cause.”
“I love expired tags,” Maggie said.
“Dude’s name was Justice.”
Maggie gave a short laugh. “Come on.”
“Swear to God. Justice Fields. Twenty years old. Already two convictions—simple possession and petty theft. No warrants, no probation, but the truck registration comes back to a guy named Gordon Stillman, Morning Heights address.”
“People from Morning Heights don’t generally find themselves in Northwood after midnight,” Maggie said.
“They do not,” Scott said. “Justice gives me his story. Dude he knows let him borrow the truck. ‘Why did you need to borrow the truck?’ I ask. ‘To pick up a refrigerator,’ he tells me. ‘Where at?’ I ask. ‘One of them warehouses off North,’ he says. ‘Which one?’ I ask. He doesn’t know. His plan was to just drive around until he found the right one. And of course there are refrigerator warehouses open past midnight. He goes there all the time. But he doesn’t know where it is.”
Maggie laughed. “We don’t catch the smart ones,” she said. “Why would you steal a truck with expired tags?”
“They really should teach this stuff in school,” Scott said. “Justice also gave me what he believed to be a reasonable explanation for why the ignition had been ripped out of the steering column and there was now a screwdriver handle protruding from the resulting hole.”
“Was it a good one?” she asked.
He shook his head in disappointment. “He said that his friend whose name he doesn’t know—the one who let him borrow the truck for the midnight refrigerator warehouse run—dropped a bowling ball on it by accident a few weeks ago and has been using the screwdriver ever since because he can’t afford to fix it.”
“And you didn’t believe that?” Maggie asked.
“If he would have said anything but ‘bowling ball’ I might have entertained the thought. Live chicken, a half-sized pony keg, a cartoon anvil, a piano, that would’ve been more believable than a fucking bowling ball.” He shook his head. “Kids these days have no imagination.”
She chuckled again.
“So, anyway,” Scott continued, “I get Stillman’s number from dispatch. Wake him up.”
“Late night call from the cops. People hate that shit.”
“Yeah. He answers, groggy as hell. I say, ‘Hey, just wondering—do you know where your truck is?’ Stillman says, ‘In the driveway as far as I know.’ I tell him, ‘Might want to check.’”
Maggie snorted, setting the book down.
“He checks, comes back to the phone and says, ‘It’s not here.’ So I tell him, ‘I’ve got someone named Justice who says you let him borrow it. And that you always start it with a screwdriver in the ignition slot ever since you dropped a bowling ball on it one autumn day.’”
She laughed, shaking her head. “And?”
Scott shrugged. “Stillman asks me if I’m Stan fucking with him, because if I am, he’s going to kick my ass. I assure him that I am not Stan but that I would be arresting Justice for stealing his truck and would need to come get a statement from him once Justice went to the jail and the truck went to storage.”
Maggie grinned. “Justice is behind bars now,” she said. “If you could just find a dude named Truth before he gets out, you could go hunt up your tweaker-schizo friend from the other night and tell him where the two of them can be found.”
“That would be deeply profound if that happened,” Scott said.
He took another bite, chewed, swallowed, then looked up casually.
“You mind taking the kids to school tomorrow morning?”
Maggie raised an eyebrow over the rim of her juice glass. “Why?”
“Lena wants me to come over and fuck her,” he said, as if announcing he had a dentist appointment. “Best window is while Judith’s doing her school run. That’s when I’ll slink over.”
Maggie pondered this, then nodded. “That’s actually a solid plan. No car out front. No ducking down. Just slide in while the Queen of the Neighborhood is occupied playing Uber.”
Scott lifted his sandwich in a half-salute. “Exactly.”
“Are you just gonna hang out there all day?”
“I’ll find something for the two of us to do,” he said, tone perfectly dry.
Maggie grinned and shook her head. “If she’s really gone without good sex since college, you might wanna stretch out first. Hydrate. Do some active recovery.”
“Thanks for the reminder, Coach.”
She took a sip of juice, then asked, “You’ve still got training during the day Wednesday, right?”
Scott nodded. “I got your back, Winslow. Far be it from me to stand between you and a MILF pussy. I’ll catch a movie or something. Burn a few hours.”
“Appreciate it,” she said. “I’ll text Stacy and let her know we’re go mission.”
Scott looked up from his sandwich. “You gave her your number?”
“We’re women,” Maggie said. “Communicators, gatherers, nurturers. Not exchanging numbers with someone you want to trib with nakedly until orgasm occurs is not an option.”
“Interesting,” Scott said. That had never occurred to him. The things you learned when your best friend was a lesbian. It was like having a spy on the other side. “Does she know about phone security?”
Maggie smirked. “I established rules. Only essential information gets texted and all messages are deleted immediately. No texting me while hubby can see you doing it. I won’t text during typical husband-at-home hours. And absolutely no flirty texts of any kind.”
Scott nodded, approving. “Good. That’s how people get burned. Not the act—just the receipts.”
“She looked a little startled when I laid it all out,” Maggie said. “But I told her—this is just common sense. How Not to Get Caught Having an Affair 101.”
Scott grinned. “We should teach a seminar.”
“I was thinking a podcast,” she said. “Title it ’Don’t Be Stupid About It.’”
“I’d listen,” Scott said.
Maggie raised her juice glass like a toast. “To professionalism in adultery.”
Scott clinked his glass against hers. “Amen.”
Scott came out of the bathroom toweling his hands dry. He was already dressed—slacks, belt, and a genuine imitation cashmere sweater that hugged just right across the shoulders. His hair was combed and he had a dab of expensive cologne on—just enough to catch, not enough to linger.
In the kitchen, Maggie was rallying the troops.
“Let’s go, people!” she called. “Shoes! Backpacks! We roll in five!”
Katie was still chewing a bite of toast and giving zero indication of urgency. Christopher, already fully dressed and buzzing with energy, was tightening the Velcro on his sneakers like it was a tactical procedure.
Katie sniffed the air theatrically as Scott walked in.
“You smell like you’re going to court.”
Scott grinned. “Something like that.”
Christopher squinted at him. “You’re not wearing your suit.”
Both Scott and Maggie were subpoenaed to testify in various cases—most of which they barely remembered—about twice a month. Unlike Hollywood cops, they didn’t show up in uniform. They wore professional clothes to make a good impression on a jury. The kids were used to seeing them dressed that way, and they’d learned to associate it with one thing: “going to court.”
Maggie, without looking up from packing the last lunchbox, said, “It’s just a deposition. You know how it is.”
Christopher nodded solemnly. “I do.”
He did not. He did not have the slightest idea what a deposition even was. But he wanted nothing more in the world than to be a cop when he grew up, and pretending he already understood the lifestyle was part of his persona.
Maggie zipped up the lunchbox and tossed it into his backpack. Then she looked up and gave Scott a once-over.
“You do smell good,” she said. “And you even shaved.”
Scott nodded. “Whisker burn is a real thing. Can totally derail a second encounter.”
Maggie pondered this for a moment and then nodded. “It’s interesting living with a hetero guy. The things I learn.”
Maggie and the kids left a few minutes later—a minute or two behind schedule but there was reserve time built into the system.
Scott stood by the window, watching them pull away. Katie waved from the back seat. He gave a little wave in return and then turned back into the quiet house.
Judith was probably gone by now too.
Probably.
But he hadn’t seen her leave. Not this morning.
What if her kids were sick? What if her husband stayed home and took them instead? What if she was sitting in her living room right now, sipping tea and watching the street like a goddamn HOA sniper?
Scott exhaled slowly. “I should have watched her house to make sure she left,” he mumbled to himself, hardly aware he was speaking aloud.
And then another thought hit.
Why the hell am I dressed like this?
Slacks? Genuine imitation Cashmere? He looked like he was about to facilitate a goddamn team-building workshop. It’s hard to be the friendly neighbor helping with a pool motor when you’re dressed like you’re about to open a PowerPoint and whip out a fucking laser pointer.
What was I thinking?
He wasn’t sure he was cut out for this kind of shit. It wasn’t the morality—he’d not only made peace with it, he’d never even been at war with it. After all, he wasn’t cheating on anyone. But the theater that was involved. The timing. The story. The goddamn choreography of it. This was the simplest plan possible. And he had already fucked up two things. What else hadn’t he thought through?
Maybe I should abort mission, he thought. Tell Lena the next time I see her that I suffered some kind of gastrointestinal deal.
And then he remembered that ass.
The onion ass, as Maggie called it.
“Makes you cry to see it.”
That helped.
He pulled in a breath, centered himself, and walked to the front door.
Unlocked it. Stepped out. Locked it behind him.
Then he walked—calm, casual, purposeful—in the direction of Lena’s house.
Her house sat on the premium lot at the corner, which made it considerably more valuable than Judith’s, even though the floorplans were identical. Twice the backyard. More sun. Better resale. A pool. Scott could only imagine how much that must eat at Judith’s insides every time she saw it.
He didn’t look around as he walked.
Not noticeably, anyway.
His posture was relaxed, arms swinging loosely at his sides. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t linger.
But his eyes moved.
Second-story windows. Corners. Sightlines.
He rounded the bend, took a last glance at the street behind him, and stepped confidently into Lena’s side yard.
The gate was unlocked, just as promised.
He slipped through as if he had every right in the world to do so, latched it quietly behind him, and was gone from view.
The backyard was exactly what a premium lot was supposed to buy you.
Twice the space of the average Gardenville yard, bordered by high stucco walls and lush privacy hedges trimmed to exact HOA standards. A rectangular pool sat in the center, clear blue and unnaturally still, with a gentle waterfall cascading from a raised stone feature at the deep end. A built-in hot tub occupied the far corner, steam barely curling from the surface in the cold morning air. Everything was clean, expensive, and expertly maintained.
The landscaping was subtle flex. No bright colors. No wild growth. Just elegant palms, stone paths, soft ground lights, and a few perfect pops of green. It looked like a magazine spread for a real estate ad titled You’ve Made It.
Ranger, the goofy golden retriever, was lying in the sun with his muzzle resting on his paws. He woke from his nap when Scott entered the yard, and for a brief second, Scott had a flash of worry that the dog might go full protective rottweiler on him.
One look at his face put that fear to rest. Ranger’s usual dopey grin was in place, like he was saying, Wassup, homey? You here to ball the den mother? Don’t blame you. I watch her undress and stick my nose in her crotch whenever I can.
Scott walked calmly across the concrete path to the sliding glass door. No hesitation. Just purpose. “Hey, Ranger,” he said. “Good doggy.”
Ranger yawned and put his muzzle back to paws and closed his eyes again.
The door slid open as he approached and there was Lena.
She stood just inside the doorway, barefoot, hands at her side. Gray yoga pants. A plain black t-shirt. No bra. Her breasts were shaped like reality, not implants—firm, natural, beautifully unbothered by gravity. Her hair was down, parted down the middle. No makeup. Not a drop.
She still had her wedding ring on.
If she was nervous, she was hiding it well.
“Hey,” Scott said, his voice low but easy.
“I watched you come over,” she replied. “You carried yourself like you were walking into a bank—not a bedroom.”
He smiled faintly. “It’s called hiding in plain sight.”
“Well,” she said, stepping back to let him in, “you do it well.”
Scott crossed the threshold into a large, high-ceilinged family room. Dark wood floors. Cream walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows along the rear side, with sheer curtains that filtered the daylight. A massive sectional dominated the space—gray fabric, deep cushions, expensive as hell. Flat screen mounted above a sleek, gas-insert fireplace. Built-in shelves full of books arranged like a catalog, with just enough personal photos to say we live here but not enough to feel messy.
It was the kind of room that had been professionally staged once—and stayed that way.
Scott took it in with a practiced eye.
Lena closed the door behind him.
Lena turned toward him slightly. “Would you like a drink?”
Scott shook his head. “No, thanks.”
She gave a little nod and stepped past him toward the living room. He followed her lead, but the question hung in the air longer than it should have.
A drink? Before sex? Is that the etiquette here?
He wasn’t sure. They both knew why he was here, had spelled it out without possibility of ambiguity the day before. He was here to fuck her and she wanted that to happen, as did he. This rendezvous had been premeditated, planned out like a tactical entry. But now that he was in the room, it felt a little unclear how to kick things off.
This situation was outside of his sexual experience. Samantha had made things easy for him by attacking him with her hands and mouth the moment they were alone. Lena wasn’t attacking him. She was offering him a drink. Now what?
Lena gestured to the sectional. “Have a seat.”
He did. She sat too—but not close. Not touching. Not even trying. Just there. Hands folded in her lap.
After a few seconds, she gave him a sideways glance and said, “Does this feel as awkward to you as it does to me?”
Scott let out a low breath through his nose. “Yeah. It kinda does.”
He looked at her then, fully, and remembered what she’d told him. She’d never cheated before. Not once since meeting her future husband and throughout her marriage. She had said it plainly, and he’d believed her.
He was a cop. He knew when people were lying to him and wasn’t lying.
“There’s no protocol for this kind of thing,” he said. “No checklist. No ‘how to fuck a married woman’ flowchart.”
Lena smiled a little. “My pre-marriage experience was mostly drunken hookups or vague ‘we’re dating’ situations. None of which required any kind of ... planning.”
Scott nodded. “Same. Only replace ‘vague dating’ with ‘extremely poor decisions.’”
She laughed softly, then shifted slightly toward him. “So how do mature, sober adults initiate a planned act of adultery?”
Scott met her gaze and shrugged. “I guess we talk about it. Figure out what we want. What we’re comfortable with.”
“Makes sense,” she said. “Emotionally responsible fucking.”
“Exactly.”
They sat in that space a moment—just two people who knew what was about to happen but were trying to do it with some version of grace and tact.
“I suppose we should talk about protection,” Lena said.
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