Chapter Text
The Friday night rush was finally beginning to bleed into a manageable hum. Riley was in his element behind the mahogany bar, moving with a fluid grace that came from three months of dodging cocktail shakers and impatient servers.
Jack, usually the picture of professional authority or at least an attempt at it—was currently leaning against the service station, ostensibly "monitoring the floor." In reality, he was busy trying to impress Riley by recounting a gym feat that sounded more like an urban legend.
"I’m telling you, the bar hit the rack and I didn't even break a sweat," Jack said, crossing his arms just enough to make his sleeves look a little too tight. He gave Riley a playful, lopsided grin. "You’re just jealous because you spend your 'workout' lifting lemons and ice scoops."
"Keep dreaming, Bossman," Riley shot back, wiping down a condensation ring with a smirk. "While you’re busy checking your reflection in the mirror, I’m doing actual cardio. Try running three trays of glassware when the machine is down, then we’ll talk."
As the floor slowed further, Jack migrated. He slipped behind the bar—a territory he usually left to the staff and claimed the high stool tucked in the corner, right across from the industrial glass washer.
It was his "chill spot," a place to drop the manager act and just be Jack.
"Okay, okay, truce," Jack laughed, watching Riley work. The banter was easy, the smiles were frequent, and for a few minutes, the ten-year gap between them felt like nothing more than a footnote.
The shift happened when a server hurried past, dropping a heavy rack of dirty tumblers onto the counter. "All yours, Riley," they chirped before disappearing back into the dining room.
Riley didn't think twice. He turned, grabbed a handful of glasses, and moved to the washer. Because of where Jack was perched, Riley had to step deep into Jack’s personal space.
As Riley bent forward to slot the glasses onto the rack, the distance between them vanished. Riley’s hip brushed firmly against Jack’s knee –a casual, accidental contact that would have meant nothing five minutes ago. But in the sudden silence of the corner, it felt like an electric current.
Riley remained oblivious for a second, focused on the clicking of the glasses into the plastic tray of the rack. From Jack’s perspective, the view changed instantly. The playful manager persona evaporated. He was suddenly, acutely aware of the line of Riley’s back, the fit of his work trousers, and the fact that they were much, much closer than a manager and an employee ever needed to be.
The air in the small space behind the bar suddenly felt very thin.
Jack’s breath hitched. He had spent weeks convincing himself that his "flexing" was just harmless fun, but with Riley this close, the lie fell apart. From his vantage point on the stool, the view was devastating. He could see the way Riley’s shirt pulled taut across his shoulders and the curve of his body as he focused on the dishwasher.
When Riley finally stood up, he didn't move back. He stayed in that narrow gap, turning his head to find Jack staring. The cocky retort Riley had been prepping died in his throat. Jack wasn't laughing anymore; his dark eyes were hooded, tracking the movement of Riley’s mouth with a hunger that made Riley’s knees feel weak.
"Jack?" Riley whispered, the name coming out more like a question than a greeting.
Jack didn't say a word. He simply reached out, his large hand sliding firmly around Riley’s waist, his thumb hooking into the belt loop of Riley’s trousers to pull him those last few inches forward. The friction was immediate. Riley gasped as he was drawn between Jack’s parted knees, his front pressing against the manager’s chest.
"You move like that on purpose," Jack growled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that Riley felt in his own chest.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Riley breathed, though he didn't pull away. Instead, he let his hands find purchase on Jack’s broad shoulders, his fingers bunching the fabric of Jack’s dress shirt.
Jack’s grip tightened, pulling Riley flush against him. The "subtle" was gone. Riley could feel the hard line of Jack’s thigh pressing high between his own, and as Jack shifted on the stool, the slow, deliberate grind of their hips sent a jolt of heat straight to Riley’s core.
Riley’s head tilted back instinctively, and Jack didn't make him wait. He leaned in, his mouth crashing against Riley’s in a kiss that was anything but professional. It was hot, deep, and tasted of the mint Jack had been chewing and the sheer desperation they’d both been hiding. Jack’s tongue swept against Riley’s, demanding and possessive, while his hands wandered lower, squeezing Riley’s hips to keep the grinding contact steady and rhythmic.
The sounds of the restaurant, the clinking of silverware, the distant muffled voices—faded into a dull roar. In this cramped corner behind the bar, the only thing that mattered was the weight of Jack’s hands and the intoxicating heat of their bodies sliding against one another.
The friction was becoming unbearable, a slow, rhythmic heat that had Riley’s head spinning. Jack’s hands were firm on Riley's hips, pulling him closer until there wasn't a breath of air between them. Riley let out a shaky moan into the kiss, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Jack's neck, pulling the manager’s mouth harder against his own.
Then, the heavy swing of the front door echoed through the dining room, followed by the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of dress shoes on the hardwood floor.
"Excuse me? Is anyone working the wood tonight?"
The voice was loud, impatient, and far too close.
The spell snapped. Jack reacted with the lightning reflexes of a seasoned manager; he shoved his stool back an inch and dropped his hands, though his fingers lingered on Riley's waist for a fraction of a second longer than they should have. Riley scrambled back toward the sink, nearly tripping over his own feet, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Riley grabbed a clean rag and began wiping the counter with frantic, unnecessary force, his face a deep, betraying crimson.
A middle-aged guest in a sharp charcoal suit leaned over the mahogany bar, peering into the dim corner where they had just been intertwined. He looked between the dishevelled bartender and the manager who was currently adjusting his tie with suspiciously shaky hands.
"Rough night?" the guest asked, raising an eyebrow at Riley’s blown-out pupils and heavy breathing.
"Just... the dishwasher," Riley managed, his voice an octave higher than usual. He didn't dare look at Jack. "Steamy back here. What can I get for you, sir?"
"Macallan. Neat. No, actually, make it on the rocks," the man said, tapping a credit card on the wood. "Long flight."
"Coming right up," Riley muttered. He turned to the back rail, his hands still trembling as he reached for the heavy glass bottle.
Jack, meanwhile, had regained his "Manager Voice," though his eyes were still dark with leftover heat. He stepped out from behind the bar, smoothing his shirt and standing tall to block the guest's view of Riley’s flustered state.
"Apologies for the wait, sir," Jack said, his voice smooth but with a lingering huskiness. "We were just... auditing the inventory back here. Everything is under control now."
As Riley bent down to scoop the ice, he felt Jack’s gaze burning into the back of his neck. He knew Jack was watching him—watching the way his trousers pulled tight again, watching the pulse jumping in Riley's throat. The guest was oblivious, swirling his drink, but the air between Riley and Jack was thick enough to cut with a steak knife.
The "audit" was far from over.
The shift in the room was palpable as the last guest finally trickled out. Riley felt the weight of Jack’s gaze like a physical touch, tracking him as he wiped down the last of the mahogany. The "manager" mask Jack usually wore was barely holding on; his eyes were dark, hooded, and fixed entirely on the way Riley’s body moved.
Riley finished the last rack of glasses, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He headed to the staff room, swapped his apron for his hoodie, and stepped back out into the dim, amber-lit restaurant.
Jack wasn’t by the staff exit . He was leaning against the frame of the manager’s office, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. He looked powerful, steady, and completely focused on Riley.
"It’s late," Jack said, his voice dropping into that gravelly, low register that made Riley’s breath hitch. "I’m giving you a ride home."
Riley paused, a slow, playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. The adrenaline from their encounter behind the bar was still humming in his veins, making him feel bold. He shifted his weight, intentionally letting his gaze travel slowly down Jack’s frame before meeting his eyes again.
"A ride?" Riley countered, his voice dripping with honeyed mischief. "And what exactly am I riding on, Jack? Your passenger seat... or something else?"
Jack’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He took a single, predatory step toward Riley, the professional distance between them evaporating instantly. "Don't push it, Riley," he warned, though the hunger in his eyes betrayed him. "You have no idea how hard I'm trying to be a gentleman right now."
Riley didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped closer feeling even bolder than before , closing the gap until he could smell the faint scent of Jack’s cologne mixed with the sharp edge of whiskey. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of Jack’s ear as he whispered.
"Well, if you're worried about being a gentleman... you should know my parents are out for the weekend. The house is completely empty."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in. Jack’s hand shot out, his fingers threading firmly into Riley’s hair at the base of his skull, tilting his head back to expose the pale line of his throat.
"Empty?" Jack growled, his thumb tracing the line of Riley’s jaw with a possessive pressure.
"Completely," Riley breathed, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt Jack’s chest heave against his own. "No interruptions. No guests. Just... us."
Jack didn't say another word. He reached behind him, grabbed his keys off the office desk, and gripped Riley’s waist with a hand that promised a very long, very loud night.
"Get in the car," Jack commanded, his voice thick with a promise that made Riley’s knees turn to water. "Now."
The drive to Riley’s house was thick with a tension that felt like a physical weight in the small cabin of the SUV. Jack’s hand didn't just rest on Riley’s thigh—it claimed it. His large palm was heavy and warm, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles over the fabric of Riley’s trousers, occasionally squeezing with a firm, possessive pressure that made Riley’s breath hitch every time they hit a red light.
Riley sat back, his head against the headrest, watching the streetlights blur past. He felt bold, electrified by the heat radiating from Jack’s touch. Every time Jack shifted gears, his arm brushed against Riley’s side, a constant reminder of exactly how much "riding" was about to happen once they stepped through the front door.
"Almost there," Riley murmured, his voice a little wrecked.
"Good," Jack grunted, his knuckles white on the steering wheel while his other hand moved higher up Riley’s inner thigh. "Because if we stay in this car another five minutes, I'll pull over in an alley."
They pulled into the driveway of the quiet suburban house. The lights were dim, the driveway empty of his parents' sedan. Riley led the way, fumbling slightly with his keys, his heart hammering. As soon as the door clicked open, he stepped into the entryway, turning back to Jack with a playful, lopsided grin.
"Finally," Riley breathed, tossing his keys on the side table. "You want a drink first? I can make us something... to loosen you up."
He started to head toward the kitchen, his mind already picturing Jack pinning him against the counter, when he rounded the corner into the living room.
He froze.
Sitting on the sofa, a glass of wine in one hand and a laptop on her knees, was his mother.
"Riley? You're home late," she said, looking up with a tired smile that instantly vanished when her eyes landed on the tall, broad-shouldered man looming in the doorway behind her nineteen-year-old son.
Riley felt the blood drain from his face, then rush back in a wave of heat so intense it felt like he was sunburned. He looked like a total mess—his hair was tousled from Jack’s fingers, his hoodie was shifted to one side, and his eyes were still blown out with adrenaline.
"M-Mom?" Riley stammered, his voice cracking. He looked back at Jack, who had instantly snapped into "Professional Manager Mode," though the dark hunger hadn't quite left his eyes yet. "What... What are you doing here? You and Dad were supposed to be at the cabin until Sunday."
His mother set her wine down, her gaze travelling suspiciously from Riley’s flustered face to Jack’s expensive leather jacket and the way he was standing just a little too close to her son.
"There was a massive emergency at your father's firm," she explained, her voice cautious. "Some server crashed, and he had to go into the city. We had to cut the trip short and got back an hour ago." She paused, her eyebrows knitting together as she looked at Jack again. "And who is... this?"
Riley let out a panicked, high-pitched laugh that he immediately regretted. "This is Jack! He’s... he's my manager. From the restaurant. My car... uh... it made a weird noise? A very scary noise. And Jack was being a literal saint and gave me a ride to make sure I got home safe. Right, Jack? Saint Jack?"
Riley’s mom stood up, smoothing her lounge wear and crossing her arms. Her eyes—sharp and observant, just like Riley’s—didn't leave Jack’s face.
"A scary noise, huh?" she repeated, her tone dry enough to parching. "Well, we certainly can't have our son stranded. Especially not when he has such a... dedicated manager willing to drive him all the way to the suburbs at midnight."
Riley looked like he wanted to melt into the floorboards. "Mom, it’s really fine, Jack was just leaving—"
"Nonsense," she interrupted, stepping forward with a polite, razor-sharp smile. "It’s freezing out. Jack, is it? Please, come in. I was just about to put on a fresh pot of coffee while I finish these emails. I’d love to hear more about this 'audit' you and Riley were working on so late."
Jack cleared his throat, his posture shifting into something terrifyingly professional. He looked every bit the responsible authority figure, except for the fact that his pulse was still visible in his neck.
"I wouldn't want to intrude, Mrs. Bennett," Jack said, his voice smooth and steady.
"I insist," she said, gesturing toward the kitchen table. "Riley, honey, stop hovering and get Jack a mug. And maybe fix your hair? You look like you’ve been caught in a windstorm."
The next twenty minutes were a slow-motion car crash.
They sat at the small kitchen table, the bright overhead fluorescent lights feeling like interrogation lamps. Riley’s mom sat opposite Jack, sipping her coffee and asking "innocent" questions about the restaurant’s late-night safety protocols.
Under the table, the reality was much different.
Riley was a nervous wreck, his leg bouncing erratically. He jumped when he felt it—the heavy, unmistakable weight of Jack’s boot sliding against his shin. Jack was sitting perfectly upright, discussing quarterly earnings and labor costs with Riley’s mother, his face a mask of polite boredom.
But beneath the tablecloth, Jack’s foot moved with bold, agonizing slowness. He hooked his ankle behind Riley’s calf, pulling his leg still, before his foot began to slide upward.
Riley choked on a sip of coffee, coughing into his sleeve as he felt Jack’s toe press firmly, meaningfully, against his inner knee.
"Are you alright, Riley?" his mother asked, peering over her glasses. "You're very flushed. Do you have a fever?"
"Just... the coffee. It’s hot," Riley squeaked, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the table.
Jack didn't miss a beat. "He’s been working hard lately, Mrs. Bennett. I think the heat in the kitchen finally got to him tonight. He probably just needs a very... deep... rest."
Jack leaned back, his eyes locking onto Riley’s for a split second. In the reflection of the darkened kitchen window, Riley could see his mother looking down at her laptop, distracted by a notification.
In that heartbeat of privacy, Jack didn't pull away. Instead, he reached out blindly under the table, his hand finding Riley’s thigh and squeezing—hard—right in the exact spot he had been touching in the car.
"Actually," Jack said, his voice dropping an octave as his thumb dug into Riley’s skin, "I think I should probably head out. I have a lot to take care of tomorrow."
He stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the tile. Riley stood too, nearly knocking his mug over.
"I'll... I'll walk him out," Riley blurted.
His mother didn't even look up from her screen. "Don't be long, Riley. And lock the deadbolt behind him."
They made it to the front porch, the cool air hitting Riley’s burning face like a slap. The second the door clicked shut behind them, Jack didn't move toward his car. He spun Riley around, pinning him against the brick siding of the house, his shadow looming large and dangerous under the porch light.
"Your mother is a very lovely woman," Jack whispered, his face inches from Riley’s, his breath hot against his lips.
"Jack, she's literally ten feet away," Riley hissed, though his hands were already finding their way back to Jack’s chest.
Jack leaned in, his teeth grazing Riley’s earlobe. "I know. Which makes what I’m going to do to you later that much better."
He pulled back, his eyes burning with a promise that made the previous hour of torture worth it. He reached into his pocket and pressed something small and cold into Riley’s hand.
"My spare apartment key," Jack murmured. "I’m going to go home. I’m going to shower. And then I’m going to wait."
He backed down the steps, leaving Riley breathless and trembling on the porch.
"The question is," Jack called out softly from the darkness of the driveway, "how long is it going to take for your parents to fall asleep?"