The Weight of the Uniform

[TheUniform]

So Bare with me. This is my first short story, I'm trying really hard to build the emotion and tension between my characters.

I plan for around 10 chapters. Please leave any feedback! I hope you enjoy!

-------

Chapter 1: The Kiss

We joined the job together, me and Preston. Fresh-faced probationers with uniforms too stiff and boots too clean, standing awkwardly in the morning briefing room not knowing where to look. He was the first person who spoke to me. He sat down next to me and nudged me with his elbow like we’d known each other for years. Asked if I thought the food in the cafeteria looked like dog vomit or if it was just the lighting.

That was seven years ago. Since then we’ve chased suspects through alleyways together, stood side by side at cordons for hours in the pouring rain, pulled lifeless bodies from car wrecks and walked survivors out of nightmares. There’s a kind of bond that forms on the job, one forged in adrenaline, silence and shared trauma. But with Preston, it was more than that. Somewhere along the way we became inseparable. Holidays, birthdays, family barbecues. He was my person. Still is.

Preston’s always been the straight one. Straight as they come. Long-term girlfriend named Rachel, who he complains about affectionately. He watches football religiously, talks about tits like a teenager, and teases me constantly about my taste in men. It’s harmless. Comfortable. I never thought much of it. Never thought it was anything other than what it was supposed to be.

So when he texted me just after ten on a Tuesday night asking if I was up, I didn’t think twice.

"You up? Need a hand with something at mine if you're not busy."

I replied without hesitation. "On my way."

Fifteen minutes later I pulled up outside his flat, already knowing he wouldn’t need help moving furniture or fixing anything. This was a man who once used duct tape to hold his TV remote together instead of buying a new one. He didn’t ask for help unless he wanted company.

He opened the door in joggers and a plain white t-shirt. Barefoot. His hair looked like he’d been running his hands through it for hours.

"Appreciate you coming, mate," he said, stepping aside to let me in. "Bit of a shit night."

I nodded and followed him through to the living room. The TV was on but muted, some late-night game show playing in the background. There was a half-empty bottle of whisky on the table and two glasses, one already poured.

"Rach not here?" I asked.

He shook his head and flopped down onto the sofa.

"She’s staying at her mum’s for a few days. We had a row. Nothing major, just... the usual."

I didn’t ask what the usual was. He’d always been cagey about the details of their fights, like saying it out loud would make it more real. I sat beside him and took the glass he handed me, the amber liquid warm in my hand.

We drank in silence for a minute or two. I let the whisky burn its way down. He stared at the muted screen like he was trying to distract himself but couldn’t focus.

"You ever get tired of pretending everything’s alright?" he said suddenly.

I looked over. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Sometimes," I said. "You mean with the job?"

"With everything."

He leaned back, head resting against the cushion, and exhaled through his nose. He looked drained. Not tired, not like he needed sleep. Just hollowed out.

"You know what it’s like. Being on edge all the time. Trying to keep your shit together. Smiling when you're fucking dead inside. Rach doesn’t get it. She thinks I’m cold because I don’t cry at funerals. But if I let one crack show, it all comes out, doesn’t it?"

I swallowed. I knew exactly what he meant. That creeping numbness. That way the uniform wraps around you like armour and never really comes off.

He turned to face me then, resting his arm along the back of the sofa, his knee brushing against mine. It wasn’t accidental, but it wasn’t aggressive either. Just... there.

"Sometimes I think you’ve got it easier," he said.

I raised an eyebrow. "How do you figure that?"

"Being single. No pressure. No one waiting for you to be someone you’re not."

I laughed under my breath. "You think being gay makes life easier? Christ. Try navigating this job when your colleagues still crack jokes about bending over in the showers."

"Yeah, but..." he trailed off, searching for the words. "I don’t mean because you’re gay. I mean because... I don’t know. You don’t have to pretend with me. We talk about real shit. You see me. Rach sees the version I let her see."

I felt my chest tighten. There was a rawness to his voice, something cracked open that I hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be.

He looked at me then, and I felt it. The shift. The air between us changed. His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a second before flicking back up to mine. My stomach flipped.

"Preston," I said quietly, unsure of what I was even warning him against.

He didn’t answer. He just leaned in.

It wasn’t fast or messy. It was slow. Intentional. His hand slid around the back of my neck and he kissed me, firm but gentle. Lips warm. Whisky on his breath. His thumb grazed my jaw, steadying me, as if I might bolt.

For a moment, I didn’t move. My brain short-circuited. I felt the kiss before I understood it. His touch, his mouth, his scent, all achingly familiar, but suddenly charged.

Then I pulled back. Not angrily. Just enough to put space between us.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I asked, voice low.

He stared at me, breathing uneven.

"I don’t know," he said. "I just... I needed to."

I stood up, heart pounding.

"I can’t do this," I said. "I can’t be some confused moment you regret later."

He didn’t try to stop me. Just sat there on the sofa, lips slightly parted, eyes unreadable.

I grabbed my keys off the table and left without looking back.

My hands were shaking by the time I reached the car.

 

[TheUniform]

Chapter 2: Silence Between Sirens

The next morning felt like I hadn’t slept at all. I had, technically. A few hours of something that resembled rest, my brain looping over the same ten seconds again and again. His face. His hand on the back of my neck. The way he said I needed to.

I sat on the edge of my bed staring at my boots for ten minutes before putting them on. My stomach was hollow, not from hunger, just that same gnawing sense of... something. Guilt, maybe. Confusion. I didn’t even know what I was guilty of.

I didn’t text him. Didn’t reply to the “You alright?” message he sent just before midnight. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know what to say. Every version I wrote in my head sounded stupid.

You kissed me.
Why?
Do you want more?
Do I?

I drove to the precinct in silence. Radio off. No music. Just the hum of the road and my fingers clenching the wheel. I prayed I wouldn’t be paired with him. That he’d be off or sick or called to court. Anything.

But of course, he was there. Standing at the lockers when I walked in, the same old smile on his face like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t crossed a line and kissed me in his living room then let me walk out without a word.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, sipping a coffee like we were fine.

I nodded, stiff. "Alright?"

"Yeah. Long night?" he asked, eyes lingering on me a second too long.

"Something like that," I muttered, unlocking my locker.

He didn’t push it. Just leaned against the wall and scrolled his phone while I changed. I felt his presence like a hand on my back. That awareness of someone watching you even when they’re not looking directly. I could still feel his lips. Still taste the whisky.

We got paired for early patrol. Of course we did.

The shift started quiet. A few welfare checks, a minor vehicle accident. Nothing that needed adrenaline, which only made the silence worse. I tried to focus on the road, the radio chatter, the paperwork piling up on the MDT screen. Anything but him.

But he kept stealing glances. Kept opening his mouth like he was going to say something and then not following through. It was driving me mad.

Eventually, I broke.

"You’re not going to talk about it then?"

He looked over, eyes narrowing slightly. "Talk about what?"

I scoffed and shook my head. "Right. Course."

"I didn’t think you wanted to talk," he said quietly. "You walked out."

"Because I didn’t know what the hell that was, Preston. You kissed me. That’s not something we just ignore."

He shifted in his seat. I could feel the tension radiating off him.

"I was drunk," he said.

"No. Don’t do that. You were drunk, yeah, but you knew what you were doing. That wasn’t some sloppy mistake."

He was quiet for a long time. I drove through a roundabout without really seeing it.

"It felt right in the moment," he said eventually.

That hung in the air between us. Heavy. Loaded.

I looked at him. "And now?"

He didn’t answer.

We pulled up at a shoplifting call, and just like that, the moment passed. We put on the uniforms, did the job, wore the roles we’d practiced a thousand times. Professional. Efficient. Detached.

But later, back in the car, it crept in again.

He rubbed his hands over his face and leaned back. "I’ve been all over the place lately. With Rach. With everything. It’s like… I don’t even know who I am outside the job anymore."

"That doesn’t explain what happened," I said, more softly now. "You kissed me, Preston. You don’t get to pretend it didn’t mean anything."

"I’m not pretending," he said, suddenly fierce. "I just don’t know how to explain it."

We sat in silence for a while. The radio cracked with background calls, officers updating on foot pursuits, dispatch asking for availability.

"I think about you more than I should," he said finally.

That stopped me.

"I shouldn’t, but I do. And I don’t know what that makes me. I love Rachel. I do. But when I’m with you, it’s different. Easier."

My heart was hammering. I didn’t know what to do with that. With the look in his eyes or the admission hanging between us.

"You’re not gay," I said.

"No," he said. "I’m not. I don’t think. But I feel something when I’m around you. And it’s not just friendship."

We got called to a domestic halfway through that sentence, and the rest of the shift passed in a blur. Responding. Writing. Paperwork. Radios. Distractions. I barely looked at him again, but I felt him. Always.

Back in the locker room at the end of shift, he hovered like he wanted to say something else. But I was already half out the door.

"Dan," he said, voice low.

I turned back.

"You didn’t imagine it," he said. "What happened. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t matter. I just... need to figure it out."

I nodded, unsure whether to feel seen or strung along.

Then he added, quieter, "Don’t shut me out."

I didn’t answer. I just left. Again.

But this time I wanted to go back.

 

[TheUniform]

Chapter 3: Out of Uniform

The weirdest thing about the days after it happened was how normal everything looked.

The locker room still smelled like stale coffee and spray deodorant. The precinct printer still jammed every third page. Dispatch still called us on nonsense calls, broken taillights, prank 911s from teenagers, neighbors arguing over trash cans. Everything looked the same. But nothing felt the same.

I avoided him. Not overtly. I wasn’t rude. I just... found excuses. Swapped shifts. Took leave I hadn’t planned. Offered to ride solo where I could. Told myself it was just space I needed. But truthfully, I didn’t trust myself. Not around him. Not after that night.

He didn’t push. No texts. No calls. Just a silence that made everything worse.

I wanted him to chase me. To explain. To say it wasn’t a mistake or an accident or some drunk impulse he’d already buried. I wanted clarity. Or closure. Or maybe something that would help me let go of whatever it was I thought I felt.

I didn’t get any of that.

What I got was Tuesday night drinks at Donovan’s, same as every month. Off-duty ritual with a few of the guys. A couple beers, shared fries, someone ranting about overtime or the promotion board or dispatch messing up a call. I almost bailed last minute. Would’ve, if Russ hadn’t texted me saying he was already there and had a seat saved.

I walked in late, tried to pretend I didn’t scan the room for him the second I stepped inside. He was there, obviously. Propped at the bar, laughing too hard at something one of the newer guys said. Beer in hand. That bloody easy smile on his face. He always knew how to perform comfort. But when he looked over and saw me, the smile slipped, just for a second.

He raised his glass like nothing had changed. I nodded. Sat with Russ. Laughed where I needed to. But I felt him. Across the room, burning into my side like a quiet stare I didn’t want to return.

About an hour in, he came over.

"Room at the table for another?" he asked, voice easy but his eyes searching mine.

I didn’t answer. Russ slid over, gave him space.

He sat beside me. Close enough that our knees brushed under the table. I moved mine. Barely.

"Been quiet lately," he said after a few minutes.

"Busy," I replied. No heat. Just distance.

"You avoiding me?"

"Would it matter if I was?"

He looked down at his beer. Tilted it toward his lips. Didn’t drink. Just held it there.

"You walked out. Twice."

"And you let me."

That stung more than I expected. More than I wanted to admit. He didn’t reply. Just sat there, his jaw tight, thigh bouncing. Like he wanted to say something but couldn’t work out the words.

Someone at the end of the table cracked a joke about taser training. Everyone laughed. We didn’t. We just sat in it. That heavy, humming silence between us, louder than anything else in the bar.

Eventually, he said, "I didn’t want to make it worse."

"You think saying nothing makes it better?"

"No. I just..." He paused. "I didn’t want to fuck up what we have. What we had."

"You already did."

That landed. I saw it. The flicker in his eyes. The way he shifted, defensive and raw all at once.

He stood up a few minutes later. Said he was heading out for a smoke.

I stayed. Finished my beer. Pretended I wasn’t watching the door.

When I finally stepped out front for air, he was leaning against the far wall, the glowing tip of a cigarette between his fingers. He barely smoked. Only when he was stressed. Or drunk. Or both.

"You know I keep thinking about it," he said before I even got close.

"About what?"

"You know what."

I exhaled. Slow. Frustrated. Turned away to face the dark road instead of him.

"You kissed me, Pres. You can't undo that. You can pretend it didn’t mean anything. Or you can deal with the fact that maybe it did."

"I don’t know what it meant," he said. "That’s the problem. I’m still trying to figure it out."

"You don’t get to use me as your experiment."

His voice dropped. "It wasn’t an experiment. It was..." He faltered. "It was a moment."

"And what kind of moment was it? A drunk one? A regret? A test to see how far you’d go?"

His voice was low, rough. "It was a real one."

That stopped me. I turned to face him. He was staring at me, eyes glassy, not from the beer, not from the cold. From something deeper. Something he hadn’t said yet and didn’t know how to.

We didn’t touch. Didn’t move closer. But it was more intimate than if we had. That shared weight of words unspoken. That ache in the chest when someone finally says the thing you thought you were imagining.

I didn’t sleep that night either.

He texted me at 01:42.

“You still awake?”

I stared at the screen for ten minutes. Deleted a dozen replies.

Finally I typed, “Don’t do this if you’re going to disappear again.”

No reply.

But the next morning, he was at the precinct early.

Waiting.

 

[TheUniform]

Chapter 4: Close Quarters


He was already waiting when I walked into the precinct.

Seated at his desk, coffee in hand, chatting to one of the day shift guys about a call from last night like everything was normal. Like he hadn’t kissed me. Like he hadn’t told me he thought about me more than he should. Like we hadn’t stood outside Donovan’s in silence, staring at each other like a dam was about to break.

When he saw me, his expression barely changed. Maybe a flicker of something around the eyes. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A tension, so subtle anyone else would've missed it.

I didn’t miss it.

He nodded toward the empty chair beside his. "You're riding with me today."

I opened my mouth to argue, but Capelli beat me to it, tossing a clipboard toward us. "Reynolds, Carson, you're zone 3. Check-ins on the hour. Try not to break anything."

Just like that, I was locked in for eight hours in a squad car with Preston.

Great.

We didn’t talk much for the first hour. Just radio traffic and updates. A noise complaint. An abandoned vehicle. The usual crap that fills the dead space between real calls. He drove. I worked the MDT. Every now and then, he tapped the wheel like he wanted to say something.

He didn’t.

It wasn’t until we parked behind the grocery store on Ridge, grabbing a break and a second round of caffeine, that he finally spoke.

"You look tired."

I didn’t answer.

"You sleeping okay?"

I stared at him. "Are we really gonna do small talk?"

He looked at the steering wheel. "I don’t know what we’re doing."

I let the silence sit.

"You’re not making this easy," he said finally.

"I’m not here to make it easy."

He huffed a breath and leaned back, resting his arm on the window. "It meant something. That kiss."

"Then act like it."

He turned to face me fully now. "You think I’m not trying?"

"You’re trying to pretend nothing’s changed."

"Because everything’s changed," he said. "And I don’t know what the hell to do about it."

The radio cracked with static.

Unit 3A, report of possible domestic, 602 Evergreen. Verbal only. No weapons reported. Caller disconnected.

"Copy," he said into the radio, his voice snapping back to professional like muscle memory.

He threw the car into drive and peeled out like nothing had happened. Like we hadn’t just ripped something open between us again.

The house on Evergreen was calm. No screaming. Just a couple whose fight had fizzled out the second they saw uniforms. He took lead. I backed him up. We got statements. Cleared the scene. Logged the call.

On the way back to the car, he said, quietly, "She’s coming tonight."

"Who?"

"Rachel."

I stopped walking.

"She’s staying for the weekend. Thought I should tell you."

"Why?"

"So you don’t… I don’t know. Get surprised if she texts. Or shows up somewhere."

"Are you warning me in case you slip and say something you shouldn’t?"

He didn’t answer right away.

"I’m warning you," he said, "because I don’t want her to see something I can’t explain."

We drove the next call in silence.

We were back at the precinct around 1600. Report writing. End-of-tour paperwork. Just background noise and the clack of keys.

Rachel showed up twenty minutes later.

She walked in like she owned the place, blonde, tanned, tight jeans and a leather jacket, that easy confidence some people are just born with. She gave Preston a kiss on the cheek, then smiled at me like we’d never shared a moment of complicated silence.

"Hey, Daniel, right? Long time no see."

"Hey," I said, trying not to look directly at her. Or at him.

She leaned against his desk, talking about traffic, what wine to pick up, whether he wanted takeout or to cook. He nodded along. Played the part. I watched it all like I was outside myself.

He caught my eye once. Held it just a second too long.

Rachel noticed.

She turned her head. "Everything good?"

Preston cleared his throat. "Yeah. Just tired. Long day."

She gave me a half-smile. "Try working retail during holiday season. You’ll pray for a long day in patrol."

I laughed politely.

She left a few minutes later. Kissed him again, a little longer this time. Her hand slid down his arm. I turned away.

When she was gone, I stood to leave.

He followed me into the hallway.

"You okay?" he asked.

I didn’t answer right away.

Then I turned to him, voice low. "Does she know?"

"About what?"

"You. Me. Whatever this is."

He looked like I’d slapped him.

"No," he said. "Of course not."

"You’re not gonna be able to hide it much longer."

His jaw tightened. "You think I want this?"

"I don’t know what you want."

He took a step closer. We were in the narrow hallway between the report room and the exit. Anyone could walk by. Any second. My pulse thundered.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I want to stop thinking about you when I’m in bed next to her."

I felt it like a punch to the gut.

"You think I don’t feel guilty?" he said. "I do. Every goddamn day."

"Then stop."

"I can’t."

Neither of us moved. The air between us was electric. Dangerous.

Then the hallway door banged open.

Capelli stepped through, scrolling his phone.

Preston stepped back. I swallowed hard and kept walking.

That night, I couldn’t sleep again. Every time I closed my eyes I saw his face. Heard that whisper.

I want to stop thinking about you when I’m in bed next to her.

I got a text just before midnight.

“You still awake?”

I typed and deleted ten different replies.

Then settled on:

“You need to figure out who you are before you destroy everything around you.”

He didn’t reply.

But I saw him typing.

Then stopping.

Then typing again.

Then nothing.

 

[TheUniform]

Chapter 5: Locker Room Heat

I didn’t expect him to follow me.

It was late. Past midnight. The precinct was half asleep, night shift stretched thin and most of the squad already out in their units. I’d ducked into the locker room to clear my head. To change out of my uniform and go the hell home. I was halfway through lacing my boots when I heard the door click shut behind me.

He stood just inside, back against the door like he’d walked in without a plan. Like he didn’t know what the hell he was doing but couldn’t stop himself.

Neither of us said anything.

My fingers froze on the laces. My mouth felt dry.

"You shouldn’t be here," I said.

He didn’t move.

"I know."

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. One of the lockers rattled every time the AC kicked on. Somewhere down the hallway a radio squawked, distant and distorted. We were alone. Just barely.

I stood up slowly. Turned to face him.

He looked tired. Not in a shift-worn way. In a haven’t-slept-in-days kind of way. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. Like he’d been holding something down so long it had started to push back.

"Why did you text me last night?" I asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor.

"Preston."

"Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you."

That hit harder than it should have.

"You don’t get to say shit like that and expect me to wait around in silence," I said. "I’m not your secret. I’m not your crisis."

"You think I don’t know that?"

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch me. Just enough that I could feel it — the pull of him, the energy coiled between us like a wire ready to snap.

"I’ve tried," he said. "To shut it down. To ignore it. To do the right thing. But it’s still there."

I shook my head. "You don’t know what you want."

"I know I want you."

That stopped me cold.

The way he said it, low, steady, like it cost him something, made the air shift. My pulse kicked up. My body knew before my brain did.

I stepped in.

He didn’t flinch.

"You want me?" I asked. "Or you want to feel something?"

He looked at me, jaw tight. "Both."

"Then stop hiding."

He reached for me.

It wasn’t slow this time. It wasn’t tentative. It was rough and quiet and immediate, like something inside him finally broke loose.

His hand curled around the back of my neck and he pulled me in fast. Our mouths collided, not in romance, but in need. Hot and urgent. Teeth scraped. Breath hitched. His other hand gripped my side, fingers digging into the fabric of my uniform shirt. I kissed him back, harder than I meant to, but not enough to stop.

We backed into the wall between the lockers. Metal clanged. I gasped when he bit my lower lip and exhaled through his nose like he was finally breathing again.

I pushed his jacket off his shoulders, yanked at the front of his shirt. He grabbed my belt, not undoing it, just holding on. Anchored. He kissed me like it was punishment and apology all at once.

Then a voice, faint but close, called down the hallway. Someone on the radio.

We both froze.

He stepped back, eyes wild, chest heaving.

I didn’t move. My back still against the lockers. My mouth swollen. My whole body shaking with whatever that just was.

He ran a hand through his hair. Looked toward the door.

"I shouldn’t have," he said, voice ragged.

"You did."

He looked at me again. And I saw it. The fear. The desire. The guilt.

But I also saw something else. Something real.

"I can’t take it back," he said.

"I don’t want you to."

He nodded once. Then turned and left.

The door clicked behind him.

I stood there alone in the silence, lips still tingling, the imprint of his grip still burning through my shirt.

And I knew, no matter how much either of us tried to pretend, we had passed the point of no return.

 

[TheUniform]

Chapter 6: After Hours

It started with a text. Not a full sentence. Just a time and a location.

"1:40 AM. Range garage. East side."

No explanation. No apology. No are you coming.

I stared at it for ten minutes before I moved. Drove with my stomach in knots, palms sweating against the wheel. The streets were dead, cold under orange streetlamps, every light on the dashboard brighter than usual. I didn’t question why I was going. I already knew.

I parked behind the east side of the precinct, out of view from the street cams. No patrol units in the lot. The garage sat quiet and dark, its concrete shell wrapped around old gear and rusted lockers that hadn’t been used in years.

I found the side door slightly ajar. The keypad light was off.

Inside, it was dim. The kind of dark that wasn’t total, just murky. Dust hung in the air, lit by a sliver of light spilling in from the open loading dock. I smelled oil, sweat, and faintly, the cleaner they used on the mats.

He was there.

Leaning against the back wall near the storage cages. Hoodie on. Cap low. Hands in his pockets.

He didn’t speak. Neither did I.

My boots echoed across the concrete as I walked to him. I stopped about a foot away. Close enough to feel the warmth off his body. Close enough to see his chest rising and falling under the fabric.

I could hear myself breathing.

I waited.

He moved first.

His hand reached out, slow, fingers grazing my chest. They curled into the front of my shirt and pulled me forward, just a little. He didn’t kiss me yet. He just looked. Looked like he’d been starving for something and didn’t know if he deserved to take it.

When he kissed me, it was different from every time before. It wasn’t clumsy or frantic. It was deliberate. His mouth found mine like he’d been practicing it in his head for weeks. Warm. Open. Deep.

His tongue slid past my lips, slow and steady, and I opened for him, tasting breath and sweat and silence.

He pressed me back against one of the metal beams. It groaned slightly behind me. His body moved flush to mine and I felt it then, the full hardness pressed against my thigh. No hesitation. No apology. Just need.

His hands gripped my hips, strong and sure, pulling me into him. Our groins met. My breath caught. His mouth never left mine.

The heat between us exploded. Months of restraint collapsing into touch.

I fumbled with the hem of his hoodie, pulled it up. His skin was hot beneath it. His abs tense. My hands roamed over the dip of his waist, the trail of hair that led down beneath the band of his pants.

He groaned low in his throat. It vibrated against my lips.

His hands moved under my shirt, palms flat against my ribs, fingertips dragging down slowly like he needed to memorize the shape of me. My stomach flexed at the contact. I felt exposed and grounded all at once.

I let my head drop back against the beam. He kissed down my neck, sucking once just below my jaw. I gasped, sharp and quiet.

His breath was warm. His tongue traced along the curve of my throat. His hands tightened on my belt.

Then I felt his hips grind into me. Harder this time.

I moaned before I could stop it. He heard it. His mouth twitched into something like a smile, still pressed to my skin.

He kissed lower, down to the base of my throat, then moved back to my mouth. This time his kiss was deeper, more urgent, tongue slow but demanding. I matched him. Opened for him. Let him take whatever he wanted.

I slid my hand into his waistband. Just fingers. Just enough to feel the heat and shape of him through his boxers. His breath stuttered. His hips twitched.

"Daniel," he whispered, his voice broken at the edges.

I looked up at him. His eyes were wild. Chest heaving. Mouth swollen from kissing.

"You okay?" I asked, my voice barely there.

He nodded slowly.

"I need this," he said.

I didn’t need to ask what he meant. Not sex. Not a quick release. Just this. The contact. The closeness. The break in the ache.

I pushed his pants down just enough to feel him fully. He was hard and hot in my hand, twitching against my palm. I stroked him slowly, deliberately, while his mouth hovered just beside my ear.

He gasped, barely holding it in. His hands braced on the beam behind me, fingers clenched so tight I could see the whiteness in his knuckles.

I whispered his name once. Felt his whole body react to it.

He thrust gently into my hand, not fast, not rough, just rhythm. Quiet. Controlled. Intimate in a way I hadn’t expected. He was giving in, but still holding back. Afraid of how far he’d go if he didn’t.

He came fast and quiet, his forehead pressed to mine, his body shaking. I felt every pulse, every tremor, every shiver.

His breath caught once. Then again. Then he sagged against me, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

I held him there. One hand on his back. The other sliding out of his pants.

We didn’t speak.

There was no need.

Eventually he kissed me again. Soft. Slow. Almost apologetic.

"I shouldn’t ask you to keep doing this," he said, his voice thick.

"But you will," I said.

He looked at me. Nodded once. Then slipped out the side door without another word.

I stayed.

Hands still shaking.

And every part of me already wanting more.

 

[TheUniform]

Chapter 7: The Fallout

The shift back to silence was worse than the silence before.

I didn’t hear from him the day after. Or the day after that. No texts. No calls. Nothing waiting at the end of shift. It was like that night in the garage hadn’t happened at all.

Except I could still feel him.

His body pressed to mine. The sound he made when he came. The way his breath shook when he whispered my name.

It haunted me.

And then he vanished.

At first I told myself I was overreacting. That maybe he needed space. That maybe he was still figuring it out.

But by the fifth day, I knew it for what it was.

Avoidance.

Complete. Deliberate. Meant to create distance. Meant to make a point.

He still showed up to the precinct. Still did his job. But we weren’t paired up. We didn’t speak. I’d walk past him and he’d look at the floor. I’d nod and get nothing in return. And if I caught his eye, even by accident, he looked away like it hurt.

I tried to corner him once. In the break room. Quiet. Just the two of us.

"You gonna keep pretending I don’t exist?"

He didn’t even turn.

"Not here," he said.

Then he walked out.

That was the moment it really sank in. He wasn’t just scared. He was shutting it down. And I was being erased right along with it.

That night, I sat in my apartment with a beer in my hand and the TV on mute, wondering how many times I was going to let him do this to me before I finally stopped letting it hurt.

And then the next punch landed.

Rachel showed up at the precinct.

I saw her from across the lobby. She was glowing. Dressed better than usual. Smiling in a way I hadn’t seen before. She was holding something in her hand, a little envelope or card. A congratulations balloon tied to her wrist.

I stood still. Watched her walk toward Preston. Watched him rise from his chair, his expression frozen in a mix of panic and obligation.

She held the card out to him. He took it.

She said something, and I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw it.

He staggered back half a step.

She laughed. Reached out and touched his arm.

I didn’t need to hear it. I knew.

I turned and walked out.

The door slammed a little too hard behind me. I didn’t go far. Just outside, into the heavy afternoon air, trying to breathe through whatever the hell was happening inside my chest.

Ten minutes later, he followed me.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His shirt was wrinkled. His hair messy. His face hollow.

"She’s pregnant," he said.

I nodded. "Of course she is."

"I didn’t know. She didn’t tell me until now. She didn’t even say she was late."

I didn’t speak.

"I didn’t plan this, Daniel."

"No," I said. "You planned something else."

He looked like I’d slapped him.

I turned away, leaned against the metal railing near the side lot. The sun was low and orange against the pavement. I hated how quiet it all felt.

"You’ve been avoiding me," I said.

He didn’t answer.

"You don’t even have the guts to explain yourself."

He rubbed a hand over his face. "What do you want me to say?"

"That you used me. That you regret it. That you never meant it. Pick one."

He flinched. "It wasn’t like that."

"Then what was it?"

He walked a few paces away, then stopped. His shoulders heaved.

"I don’t know," he said. "I just know I feel like I’m falling apart."

I looked at him. Really looked.

And I saw it.

Not the guy who kissed me like I was the only thing anchoring him. Not the man who whispered my name like it meant something.

Just a man. Lost. Scared. Swallowed by choices he didn’t know how to live with.

I stepped toward him.

"You okay?" I asked.

He laughed once. Bitter. Shaky.

"I’m about to be a father. I cheated on the mother of my child with my best friend. I can’t look at myself in the mirror."

He sat down hard on the curb, head in his hands. Shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself disappear.

I sat beside him.

We didn’t speak for a while.

The sound of the city hummed around us. Cars passed. A siren in the distance. Someone yelling on a corner. But right here, it felt still.

Eventually, he said, "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

"I know."

He looked at me. Eyes glassy. Vulnerable in a way I hadn’t seen before.

"I can’t be what you want," he said.

"I didn’t ask you to be."

He nodded slowly. Rested his elbows on his knees. Let his hands dangle between them like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

"You’re still my best friend," he said.

"You’re still mine."

He nodded again. Then stayed quiet.

And then something in him gave out.

He brought both hands up to his face, elbows on his thighs, and I watched his shoulders shake. A quiet sound escaped him. Not a sob. Not yet. Just a breath that came out wrong. His spine curled inward like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I just waited.

And then he cracked.

He let out this broken, quiet sound, like a gasp turned inside out, and his whole body folded. Hands over his face, breath hitching. He tried to muffle it, like even now he couldn’t let go all the way, but it came anyway.

"I don’t know who I am anymore," he said, voice raw. "I feel like I’m losing everything."

He shook his head. Rubbed at his eyes like he could wipe the tears away fast enough to pretend they didn’t happen.

"I’m scared of being a dad. I’m scared of marrying someone I don’t feel close to anymore. I’m scared of what I felt with you. I’m scared I’ll want it again. I already do. And I fucking hate myself for it."

His voice broke. A real sob hit him. Quick and sharp. He caught it in the back of his throat like it embarrassed him. His hand covered his mouth.

I reached over. Just put my hand on his back. Nothing more. No words.

He didn’t pull away.

After a moment, he leaned into me. Not fully. Not in some cinematic fall-into-my-arms kind of way. Just a tilt. A slow collapse. His shoulder brushed mine and stayed there.

"I feel like I’m drowning, and no one sees it," he whispered.

"I see it," I said. "I always have."

He wiped his nose on his sleeve, breathed deep, exhaled like it hurt.

"You’ve always been better than me," he said. "More honest. More brave. You know who you are. You don’t pretend."

"I do. Just differently."

He finally looked at me. Eyes bloodshot. Jaw tense.

"Why are you still here?"

"Because you’re still you."

His face crumpled. And this time, he didn’t fight it. He leaned his forehead to my shoulder, pressed his hands together in front of him like a prayer he didn’t know how to say.

I wrapped one arm around his back. Rested my chin lightly on the crown of his head. Didn’t speak. Didn’t ask for anything more.

He cried. Quiet and ugly and real. Like he hadn’t let himself in years.

And I stayed with him through it. Holding nothing back except the words I wanted to say but knew he wasn’t ready to hear.

We sat there long enough for the streetlights to click on. Long enough for his body to still. His breathing slowed. His hands uncurled. The weight of him against my side started to ease, but he didn’t move away.

Finally, he said, so low I almost didn’t hear it, "Don’t let me go."

"I won’t."

Even if I should.

-------

Just so you get an idea, Daniel is on the left, Preston is on the right. This should allow you to visualise them more throughout the story. I'm loving writing this so I hope youre enjoying the read! I've been writing all day today on my day off, so most of the chapters are just being tidied up now

 

[TheUniform]

Chapter 8: The Door

Three weeks passed.

Rachel was still pregnant. Preston was still avoiding eye contact. And I was still showing up to work pretending I hadn’t lost my best friend, my once-something, and my emotional compass all in the same month.

The garage incident hadn’t been repeated. Not physically. But I could feel it. Every time we passed in the hallway. Every time we stood across briefing tables with other people around. The pull was still there. The heat. The ache.

But I’d buried it. I had to.

We kept things professional. Clean. Sharp. Robotic. It was easier that way.

Then the first Tuesday came around again.

Donovan’s.

I hadn’t planned to go. I’d stared at the text from Russ twice and almost bailed both times. But some part of me didn’t want to give up the tradition just because Preston had ruined everything else.

I got there late. Sat at the far end of the table. Talked to a few of the guys. Laughed at the right moments. Pretended not to feel his eyes on me from four seats away.

He was drinking faster than usual. Not messy. Just deliberate. Controlled.

About forty minutes in, he moved.

Slid into the seat beside me like we hadn’t burned everything to the ground and walked away from the fire.

I didn’t look at him.

"You ignoring me now?"

"Thought we were already ignoring each other."

He leaned back. Exhaled through his nose. "I didn’t come to fight."

"Then don’t."

"Can we talk?"

I glanced at him. His face was tight. Like he was already losing the argument he hadn’t started yet.

"Out back," I said.

We stepped through the side door and into the alley behind the bar. The streetlight cast long shadows. It was quiet. Too quiet.

"I know I’ve been distant," he said.

"That’s putting it mildly."

"I’ve had a lot going on."

I turned to him, arms folded. "You mean Rachel? The pregnancy? Or your guilt about everything you’ve done?"

He didn’t like that. I saw it in his jaw.

"I didn’t ask for this."

That was it.

That was the sentence that broke me.

I stared at him, blood rushing hot to my ears.

"You didn’t ask for this?" I repeated. "You kissed me. You pulled me in. You told me you thought about me all the time. You let me touch you. You came to me when you needed someone to fall apart with. And now what, it’s all too hard, so you blame the situation?"

His mouth opened, then shut.

"You created this," I said. "You don’t get to pretend it happened to you."

He looked like he’d been slapped. Good.

"I’m not your secret," I said. "I’m not your escape hatch when life gets too loud. I’m not the mistake you bury under whiskey and guilt. I’m a person, Preston. I bleed just like you."

He stepped forward. "That’s not what I meant."

"But it’s what you said."

I could feel my hands shaking. Not from fear. From anger. From grief. From exhaustion.

"You made your choices," I said. "You chose silence. You chose guilt. You chose her. And I let you. I let you use me because I wanted to believe it meant something. But it didn’t. Not enough, anyway."

"I never meant to use you."

"But you did."

He looked down. Swallowed hard.

"And now," I said, voice quieter, steadier, "you don’t get to keep me in your life like nothing happened. I can’t be your friend anymore. I can’t sit across from you pretending we’re just colleagues. I’m done."

He flinched. Took half a step toward me. "Daniel—"

I held up a hand. "Don’t."

"Can we just talk about this somewhere else? Please."

"There’s nothing left to say."

I turned. Walked past the dumpster. Back into the bar. Picked up my coat from the hook and left without saying goodbye.

The night air felt colder than it should have. I walked three blocks to my car. Drove with my chest tight, eyes forward, music off. When I got home, I locked the door behind me and sat on the edge of my bed with my coat still on, waiting to feel something other than hollow.

Then I heard it.

A knock.

Three soft raps. Hesitant. Uncertain.

I stood. Walked to the door. Opened it.

He was there.

Hoodie up. Eyes red, as if he had been crying the entire journey to my apartment. Shoulders hunched like he’d shrunk since I left him.

We stared at each other. No words.

The hallway light buzzed above us.

My hand stayed on the doorframe.

He didn’t ask to come in.

I didn’t tell him no.

The silence between us felt like a question.

And I didn’t have the answer.

Not yet.

 

[bmagic]

Chapter 7: The Fallout

The shift back to silence was worse than the silence before.

I didn’t hear from him the day after. Or the day after that. No texts. No calls. Nothing waiting at the end of shift. It was like that night in the garage hadn’t happened at all.

Except I could still feel him.

His body pressed to mine. The sound he made when he came. The way his breath shook when he whispered my name.

It haunted me.

And then he vanished.

At first I told myself I was overreacting. That maybe he needed space. That maybe he was still figuring it out.

But by the fifth day, I knew it for what it was.

Avoidance.

Complete. Deliberate. Meant to create distance. Meant to make a point.

He still showed up to the precinct. Still did his job. But we weren’t paired up. We didn’t speak. I’d walk past him and he’d look at the floor. I’d nod and get nothing in return. And if I caught his eye, even by accident, he looked away like it hurt.

I tried to corner him once. In the break room. Quiet. Just the two of us.

"You gonna keep pretending I don’t exist?"

He didn’t even turn.

"Not here," he said.

Then he walked out.

That was the moment it really sank in. He wasn’t just scared. He was shutting it down. And I was being erased right along with it.

That night, I sat in my apartment with a beer in my hand and the TV on mute, wondering how many times I was going to let him do this to me before I finally stopped letting it hurt.

And then the next punch landed.

Rachel showed up at the precinct.

I saw her from across the lobby. She was glowing. Dressed better than usual. Smiling in a way I hadn’t seen before. She was holding something in her hand, a little envelope or card. A congratulations balloon tied to her wrist.

I stood still. Watched her walk toward Preston. Watched him rise from his chair, his expression frozen in a mix of panic and obligation.

She held the card out to him. He took it.

She said something, and I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw it.

He staggered back half a step.

She laughed. Reached out and touched his arm.

I didn’t need to hear it. I knew.

I turned and walked out.

The door slammed a little too hard behind me. I didn’t go far. Just outside, into the heavy afternoon air, trying to breathe through whatever the hell was happening inside my chest.

Ten minutes later, he followed me.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His shirt was wrinkled. His hair messy. His face hollow.

"She’s pregnant," he said.

I nodded. "Of course she is."

"I didn’t know. She didn’t tell me until now. She didn’t even say she was late."

I didn’t speak.

"I didn’t plan this, Daniel."

"No," I said. "You planned something else."

He looked like I’d slapped him.

I turned away, leaned against the metal railing near the side lot. The sun was low and orange against the pavement. I hated how quiet it all felt.

"You’ve been avoiding me," I said.

He didn’t answer.

"You don’t even have the guts to explain yourself."

He rubbed a hand over his face. "What do you want me to say?"

"That you used me. That you regret it. That you never meant it. Pick one."

He flinched. "It wasn’t like that."

"Then what was it?"

He walked a few paces away, then stopped. His shoulders heaved.

"I don’t know," he said. "I just know I feel like I’m falling apart."

I looked at him. Really looked.

And I saw it.

Not the guy who kissed me like I was the only thing anchoring him. Not the man who whispered my name like it meant something.

Just a man. Lost. Scared. Swallowed by choices he didn’t know how to live with.

I stepped toward him.

"You okay?" I asked.

He laughed once. Bitter. Shaky.

"I’m about to be a father. I cheated on the mother of my child with my best friend. I can’t look at myself in the mirror."

He sat down hard on the curb, head in his hands. Shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself disappear.

I sat beside him.

We didn’t speak for a while.

The sound of the city hummed around us. Cars passed. A siren in the distance. Someone yelling on a corner. But right here, it felt still.

Eventually, he said, "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

"I know."

He looked at me. Eyes glassy. Vulnerable in a way I hadn’t seen before.

"I can’t be what you want," he said.

"I didn’t ask you to be."

He nodded slowly. Rested his elbows on his knees. Let his hands dangle between them like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

"You’re still my best friend," he said.

"You’re still mine."

He nodded again. Then stayed quiet.

And then something in him gave out.

He brought both hands up to his face, elbows on his thighs, and I watched his shoulders shake. A quiet sound escaped him. Not a sob. Not yet. Just a breath that came out wrong. His spine curled inward like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I just waited.

And then he cracked.

He let out this broken, quiet sound, like a gasp turned inside out, and his whole body folded. Hands over his face, breath hitching. He tried to muffle it, like even now he couldn’t let go all the way, but it came anyway.

"I don’t know who I am anymore," he said, voice raw. "I feel like I’m losing everything."

He shook his head. Rubbed at his eyes like he could wipe the tears away fast enough to pretend they didn’t happen.

"I’m scared of being a dad. I’m scared of marrying someone I don’t feel close to anymore. I’m scared of what I felt with you. I’m scared I’ll want it again. I already do. And I fucking hate myself for it."

His voice broke. A real sob hit him. Quick and sharp. He caught it in the back of his throat like it embarrassed him. His hand covered his mouth.

I reached over. Just put my hand on his back. Nothing more. No words.

He didn’t pull away.

After a moment, he leaned into me. Not fully. Not in some cinematic fall-into-my-arms kind of way. Just a tilt. A slow collapse. His shoulder brushed mine and stayed there.

"I feel like I’m drowning, and no one sees it," he whispered.

"I see it," I said. "I always have."

He wiped his nose on his sleeve, breathed deep, exhaled like it hurt.

"You’ve always been better than me," he said. "More honest. More brave. You know who you are. You don’t pretend."

"I do. Just differently."

He finally looked at me. Eyes bloodshot. Jaw tense.

"Why are you still here?"

"Because you’re still you."

His face crumpled. And this time, he didn’t fight it. He leaned his forehead to my shoulder, pressed his hands together in front of him like a prayer he didn’t know how to say.

I wrapped one arm around his back. Rested my chin lightly on the crown of his head. Didn’t speak. Didn’t ask for anything more.

He cried. Quiet and ugly and real. Like he hadn’t let himself in years.

And I stayed with him through it. Holding nothing back except the words I wanted to say but knew he wasn’t ready to hear.

We sat there long enough for the streetlights to click on. Long enough for his body to still. His breathing slowed. His hands uncurled. The weight of him against my side started to ease, but he didn’t move away.

Finally, he said, so low I almost didn’t hear it, "Don’t let me go."

"I won’t."

Even if I should.

-------

Just so you get an idea, Daniel is on the left, Preston is on the right. This should allow you to visualise them more throughout the story. I'm loving writing this so I hope youre enjoying the read! I've been writing all day today on my day off, so most of the chapters are just being tidied up now

View attachment 183544061

Based on the photo, I thought it was the opposite lol