Hazel & Ethan

Dan Savage had the kind of face that melted into crowds—soft jaw, unremarkable nose, eyes the color of dishwater. If you passed him on the street, your brain wouldn’t bother filing him under "memorable." Even his clothes seemed deliberately forgettable: Wrangler jeans, plain tees, the uniform of a man who had no interest in standing out.

Which is why Hazel’s stomach flipped when she saw him again after seven years, sitting in the dim booth of some midtown dive bar, sipping a non alcoholic beer. Time hadn’t reshaped him—just deepened the grooves around his mouth, the ones that appeared when he smirked. That smirk.

"You look exactly the same," Hazel lied, sliding into the booth beside Ethan, who was vibrating with nervous energy.

Dan chuckled, swirling his near-empty bottle. "I've got less hair and more cynicism." His gaze flicked to Ethan—deliberate, assessing—before returning to her. "But you? Fuck. Time’s been kind."

Ethan cleared his throat, fingers drumming the sticky tabletop. "So, uh—you two used to...?" He couldn't even say it. The question hung there.

Dan leaned back, against the booth's cracked vinyl. "Yeah. For about six months back in '16."

Hazel's fingers twitched against her wineglass. Six months—the longest she'd ever kept a secret from her parents. Dan had been pumping gas at the Sinclair station off Route 9 when she'd first noticed him. College girls from Bryan Mayer weren't supposed to glance twice at locals like him—who could tell you which backroads led to dead ends. But she'd leaned out her car window one October afternoon, the crisp air biting her cheeks, and asked him if he knew any good diners nearby. His grin had been slow, knowing. "You're gonna get in trouble," he'd said, wiping his hands. She'd already known she would.

He told her Sinclair Diner, like no one in the town of Sinclair could come up with a business name that didn’t have Sinclair in the name. Sinclair Pharmacy, Sinclair Grocery, Sinclair Coffee Shop. All local places.

Hazel came in one week later, walking—not driving—into the Sinclair Gas Station, her sneakers scuffing against the oil-stained concrete. Dan was elbow-deep under the hood of some rusted-out Chevy, changing oil. She hovered near the air pump, fingers twisting the strap of her backpack until he finally glanced up. "Car battery died," she said, like an accusation. "Bought a new one from Walmart. Had my friends take me." Dan just wiped his hands on a rag, slow, deliberate. His smile was already forming.

By mid-November, she'd been in his bed six times—all of those occasions in Dan’s shitty one bedroom apartment. The thrill was in the secrecy: lying to her roommate about weekend trips home, scrubbing his scent off her skin before Sunday brunch with her sorority sisters.

Dan never asked for more than she gave. Once, he'd pinned her wrists to the mattress and asked, voice thick, "You ever let anyone mark you up?" Hazel had shaken her head—too scared, too careful—and he'd kissed the pulse point beneath her jaw instead. That was Dan: dangerous enough to make her skin prickle, but never reckless with her.

Then she met Ethan the love of her life end of her freshman year.

Now here they were in a booth with Ethan—the man she married after graduation, Dan vanished from Sinclair without so much as a note.

Dan slid his beer aside, fingers spread on the table like he was considering the weight of every word. "You look happy," he said, eyes cutting past Ethan to Hazel. That smirk again—half-challenge, half-memory. "Guess you got the white picket fence after all."

Ethan exhaled sharply, knee bouncing under the table. "We're—we're actually here because—"

Hazel's wineglass hit the table with a clink. "Two years ago," she said, voice slicing through Ethan's stammer, "on our fifth anniversary, you rolled over looking like a fucking golden retriever who'd just solved quantum physics." Dan's eyebrow twitched. Ethan flushed. Hazel kept going: "You said, 'What if we invited someone else into bed sometime?' Like it was some grand revelation. Like you hadn't been edging around it for months." She leaned forward, close enough to catch Dan's scent—leather and cheap soap, unchanged. "Two years of him begging. Two years of me pretending to consider it." Her fingernail scraped her glass.

Dan's thumb rubbed the condensation on his bottle. "And?"

Hazel exhaled through her nose. "I told Ethan I'd pick the person. If it happened at all." Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass. "One time. That was the deal."

Ethan leaned forward, eyes bright with **** hope. "And—and Dan you were her choice."

Dan didn't react immediately. He studied Hazel—then exhaled. "So," he said, slow, deliberate, "you want me to fuck your wife while you watch?"

Ethan’s breath hitched. His fingers flexed against the tabletop—equal parts dread and arousal—before he nodded once, sharp.

Dan didn’t move. Just watched Hazel with that lazy, knowing stare. "You sure about this?" His voice was low, rough with amusement. Not asking Ethan. Asking Hazel.

Ethan squirmed in his seat, gripping his knees like a kid promised dessert if he behaved. "Yes," he blurted. "We talked about it—"

"No." Hazel's voice was a blade slicing through the sticky bar air. She didn't look at Ethan. She watched Dan. "But he won't let it go," she breathed, low enough that the couple at the next booth wouldn't hear.

Dan's fingers paused mid-tap against his bottle. A slow blink. Then—"Christ. You're still terrible at saying no to people, huh?"

Hazel's mouth twisted. Not a smile. Not quite.

Dan's fingers traced the rim of his bottle—slow, idle circles. The bar's neon sign flickered outside, casting red streaks across the table. "One time," he repeated, voice dropping lower. "That's the deal."

Hazel exhaled, fingers tightening around her wineglass. Ethan squirmed beside her, pulse visibly hammering in his throat. She could practically hear the buzz of Ethan’s thoughts—yes, yes, yes—like a trapped fly against glass.

"You ever think about how weird it is?" Dan said, in a nonjudgmental tone, like he was commenting on the weather. "The shit we agree to for people we love. Not saying it's bad." A shrug. "Just saying." His eyes flicked to Ethan, then back to Hazel.

Ethan’s knee bounced faster. "We—we have rules—"

Dan snorted. "Ethan, your wife just told me she doesn’t want this." He tapped his fingers once, hard, against the table. "But she’s gonna let me fuck her anyway because you won’t shut up about it." He leaned in.

Ethan's face crumpled—then rearranged itself into something pleading. "Hazel—" His voice cracked. "You can say no."

Hazel rolled her eyes so hard her skull ached. "Right. And then you'll spend the next six months bringing it up in bed, at dinner, in the fucking Target checkout line." She took a slow sip of wine, letting the bitterness coat her tongue. "We're doing this. Once." The glass clicked sharply against the table. "But if I change my mind mid-fuck, it stops."

Ethan's hand trembled when he reached for his whiskey. Hazel didn't need to glance down to know his cock was straining against his jeans—she could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the sharp tang of sweat mixing with cheap cologne. His breathing had gone shallow, lips parted like he was already imagining the sounds she'd make. Pathetic. Endearing. Infuriating.

Dan didn't move. Hazel recognized that look—the same one he'd given her seven years ago when she'd straddled him in his truck, whispering that she'd never done this in a vehicle before. Patient. Calculating. Like he knew exactly how her pulse would jump before she did.

She drained her wine, letting the cheap tannins coat her throat. Ethan was practically vibrating beside her, fingers twisting the napkin into shreds. The plan had already formed in her mind like slow-spreading ink: she'd let Dan take her exactly once, let Ethan have his pathetic little fantasy, then shut it down halfway through with some dramatic performance about discomfort. They'd go home, Ethan would apologize for pushing, and the matter would be closed forever.

Dan stood first. He grinned—that same lazy, knowing grin—and clapped Ethan on the shoulder. "Saturday, then. You pick the place." His thumb brushed Hazel's wrist as he leaned in for the obligatory goodbye hug—too brief, too casual. Then he was gone, weaving through the bar crowd like smoke.

Ethan's exhale shuddered out of him the second the door swung shut behind Dan. "Holy shit," he breathed, hands shaking as he fumbled for his wallet. "He's—fuck, Hazel, he's perfect for this." His laugh was giddy, uneven.

Hazel watched the neon sign outside paint Ethan's face in garish pink light. "Rules," she said flatly. "No pictures. No touching either of us. You don't speak." She traced her wineglass. "And when I tap out—which I will you don't bring this up ever again."

Ethan swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "I promise." His knee kept bouncing. "But—" His fingers twitched toward hers. "Are you—?"

Hazel pulled her hand away, swirling her wine. "No, Ethan. I'm not excited about letting some guy I fucked seven years ago fuck me while you jerk off in the corner."

Ethan flinched, but she saw his cock twitch through his jeans. Fucking predictable.