Marek & Michael

Marek’s knuckles went white around the steering wheel. The silence in the truck was a physical thing, thick and humming with everything they weren’t saying. Next to him, Michael stared out the passenger window at the blur of pines rushing past, the hard line of his jaw working.

“You gonna tell me what’s eating you?” Marek finally asked, his voice a low rumble. Michael just shook his head, a sharp, dismissive jerk. Marek’s free hand shot out, landing heavily on Michael’s thigh. The muscle there tensed instantly under the worn denim. “Look at me.” The command was quiet, but it held an edge that made Michael turn his head. His eyes were stormy, resentful, and Marek felt a familiar, possessive heat coil in his gut.

He didn’t wait for permission. Marek pulled the truck onto a dusty forestry service road, gravel pinging against the undercarriage. When the engine cut, the only sound was their breathing. Marek unbuckled his seatbelt with a metallic click and leaned over the console, his hand sliding up to cup the back of Michael’s neck. “You’re not getting out of this truck until you talk,” he murmured, his lips a breath away from Michael’s. He could feel the fight leaving the other man’s body, replaced by a different kind of tension. Marek closed the distance, his kiss not gentle, but a claiming, a question answered with teeth and tongue.