Chapter 6

.

He had to say goodbye to Voldemort before he left for three days, though.

Three days…

He strode past the guard seated at the desk. The blond man watched him, eyes resolute and almost challenging. Harry scoffed, unintimidated, as he pushed open the door and walked down the hall.

Voldemort was standing, naked as always, his long, lean form resting against the wall. The red eyes found him as soon as he came into view and Harry felt his breath stutter.

He opened the door of the cell and walked in, his gaze never leaving Voldemort's. The other man did not react. Harry let his eyes search that pale body, looking for new injuries. The concave belly had vicious red scars from where he had been recently stabbed, but they seemed to be healing well. He was dirty and starved, but did not seem to have anything pressing.

"How are you feeling? You were pretty bad yesterday."

Voldemort's shoulders hinted at an elegant shrug.

"I have had worse."

Harry felt his lips quirk.

"Yeah, I suppose you have."

The cell was cold and damp and Harry wondered how the man had not caught pneumonia yet. Or perhaps he had… and even died from it. Merlin, this whole situation was so bizarre.

"Listen, I'm being… forced away for the weekend."

Harry looked away from those eyes that had darkened when he'd spoken. I don't owe this man anything. He's not my responsibility.

"Here, I brought you some food. Who knows when they'll feed you while I'm gone."

Harry took out the wrapped sandwich that he had made for the man at home. Voldemort made no move to grab it so Harry stepped forward and held it out right in front of him. Those arms remained behind his back.

"Here, take it," Harry said, exasperated.

Why was he being so difficult? It wasn't like Harry wanted to leave.

"Forced," the man repeated, in his high, cold voice.

Harry raised his eyebrows, bringing the sandwich right into the man's line of sight. Voldemort ignored it and continued staring intently into Harry's eyes.

"Yeah," Harry answered, taking the rude and surprising hint that the Dark Lord wasn't hungry. "It seems that Kingsley thinks I'm… getting too close to you."

And wasn't that the most awkward thing he'd ever said.

Voldemort's eyes gleamed redder for a moment, but then he seemed to settle himself.

"I was not aware that you could be forced to do anything."

Harry smirked.

"It's complicated. Kingsley is becoming a bit paranoid. It's like he's playing matchmaker."

"Matchmaker."

What, was Voldemort suddenly a parrot?

"Yeah. He's… strongly suggesting I take Ginny away for the weekend. To…" was it a betrayal of his job to tell his enemy this? "…remind myself why you are here. He thinks I've forgotten who you are."

"And have you?"

Harry started to laugh, but then looked at the man and saw the intensity in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, and he stifled it.

"I don't know," Harry answered honestly.

They stared at each other and Harry felt as naked as Voldemort was. He was sure that the man could read the confusing feelings that he kept suppressing in his gaze. It was alarming, but Harry felt his foot slide along the floor towards him.

Voldemort's eyes blazed again, widening as he watched Harry take another step closer. They were inches apart when Harry finally realized what he was unconsciously doing. A surge of panic raced through him. He drew in a deep breath and lowered his head, his gaze becoming helplessly seized by that band of metal.

His body shook.

He needed to know.

He was overcome with a compulsion to find out if it was warm or cold to the touch. His heart was slamming against his ribs, but before he could stop it, his finger reached out and made contact with that sodding, irresistible collar.

It was warm.

So very warm and smooth and Harry heard a low groan escape his throat as his fingers slid along the metal, his eyes fluttering closed. He swore he felt power surge through the band, tingling his digits.

A quick rattling sound and the body under him jerked, both arms making an abortive movement. It was as if Voldemort had tried to reach out to him but had stopped himself.

Harry's eyes flew up to catch those red ones, so close, so dangerously close, and then gasped at the possessive, ravenous look in them.

"Harry," the man hissed, but Harry couldn't listen to whatever it was he was going to say, so he used his other hand to place an index finger over those thin lips to silence him.

Voldemort's eyes flashed and he felt warm breath ghost against his skin.

Harry had both hands on the man now, he realized with a kind of panicked awe. His right hand, the one caressing that collar, moved up and suddenly, he was touching skin. He moaned again, feeling reckless, feeling bold, and let his hand gently stroke that pale, beautiful column. The tendons underneath his fingers were tense as stone, he could feel slight twitches— and a pulse that was raging as fast as his own.

Harry leaned forward, following his bizarre instinct to smell the man. He regretted it right away when the scent met his nostrils and it was so… feral. He smelled like sweat, mildew, blood, and there was the unmistakable pungency of natural body odour— but Harry had never smelled anything so intoxicating in his life.

He pressed his nose against the warm skin and distantly heard Voldemort pull in a sharp breath, his body jerking again, but Harry could focus on nothing more than his hands on that soft skin, his nose inhaling that heavy scent, and this confusing, bewildering sense of familiarity.

"Harry," Voldemort said, against his finger, and Harry realized that his other digits had since been joined by the rest of his hand and he was currently clutching the Dark Lord's chin and face. Grasping him roughly.

Harry looked up and what he was doing abruptly hit him.

He pulled away, staring into those red orbs.

"I'm— Oh god, I'm so sorry, I don't know…"

Harry turned, intending to flee, when the other wizard spoke.

"Wait," he rasped, and it was low, urgent.

Harry stopped, but would not turn. What had just happened?

What the actual fuck?

"The sandwich."

Voldemort's words were strained. Harry felt heat still swirling in his body. It was with mortifying shock that he realized he was rock hard. For Voldemort.

What the fuck is happening to me?

"My hands," that voice whispered. "They are shackled to the wall."

Harry turned before he could think, confused by the non-sequitur.

"What? Oh— your hands. They're… tied?"

Harry was at once struck with the fact that he had just molested a man who was chained in place. A prisoner. A prisoner who had absolutely no rights and had been raped and sexually abused for years in this cell.

Now Harry was just like the rest. He was a monster.

Voldemort's eyes were narrowed when Harry met them, but Harry refused to ponder why. He had to get out of here.

"The sandwich," Harry mumbled. "Uh, do you want me to…"

Oh Jesus, the man didn't want him to feed it to him, did he? He was not sure that he would be able to get through that.

"Release my hands," came the low command.

Harry bit his lip, weighing his options. In for a penny…

"Yeah. Okay."

Voldemort nodded once and straightened up. Harry walked towards him, his wand out, and quickly tapped the metal bands around those thin wrists.

The shackles fell heavily against the wall, but before Harry could turn, he was grabbed by the throat and the front his robes and shoved backwards into the wall.

Breath huffed out of his lungs and was immediately swallowed up as lips crashed against his own. Harry made a high, shrieking sound into that mouth as he felt those long fingers release his clothes and curl into his hair, tugging it roughly and pulling Harry's mouth greedily closer.

Harry couldn't breathe, couldn't think, but his hands didn't wait for his directions and settled brazenly onto those scrawny, smooth shoulders. He moaned, sinking down against the wall, but a long arm wrapped around him and hauled him back up.

Harry felt weak, destroyed. What was happening?

Voldemort.

Those searing lips, those seeking fingers, that taste…

It was Lord Voldemort.

Gasping, Harry shoved back against his torso and managed to rip himself away from the other man.

The look in the Dark Lord's eyes was deranged. His vertical, black pupils were blown wide and he had a flush to his cheeks that Harry had never seen there before.

They stared at each other, breathing roughly. At a distance, Harry found his gaze sweeping down that intimidating body and he jolted when he realized that Voldemort had a sizeable erection.

For him.

Harry's eyes snapped back up to Voldemort's and took in the unhinged look on the normally unaffected man.

Voldemort was hard. Because they had kissed. Voldemort had kissed him.

"I have to go," Harry breathed, and then stumbled towards the cell door, but as he strode down the hall, he heard a quiet voice speak into the silence.

"Goodbye, Harry."

.

.

It's all the Horcrux Hole's fault. It doesn't mean anything. It's his soul I want, not him.

Harry repeated this mantra all the way out of the Ministry until he slammed the door to his flat and collapsed against it.

He breathed alone, in the dark, until the count of fifty. Silently. Unmoving. Eyes open and staring straight ahead.

Now.

Now, he could finally fall apart.

Voldemort.

Those searing lips mercilessly attacking him. The way the man had grabbed him once released, thrown him against the wall, and devoured his mouth.

Claiming him.

He had kissed his nemesis.

And it had been electric.

Harry groaned, thumping his head back against the door.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

This was reckless, even for him. He was engaged! He was an Auror. He was— not gay. Right? Fuck, the way that lean, tall body possessed him, made him feel insignificant in a heady way. Merlin, how he took control…

Ah, shit. This was not good.

Ginny. He would have to tell her. She had always been understanding before about his… extra-pre-marital excursions with men, but this one was surely unforgivable. He couldn't tell her even if he'd wanted to. Which he didn't. Because that would certainly cull his chances of a repeat.

Bollocks.

Touching that collar had been a mistake. It didn't quench his strange desire at all. Now, Harry knew how it felt, how it thrummed with power. He had felt it in his fingertips when he'd touched it. He yearned to run his tongue along the length of it, feel Voldemort hold himself back, allowing Harry to touch that spot that kept his magic caged.

"Harry?"

Ginny's voice floated out from down the hall.

Fuck!

Harry jumped up and tried to will away his inconvenient erection. He did not feel at all ready to confront her. Maybe he would never be. He thought he'd had more time, what was she doing here?

"Gin?" he said, venturing into the bedroom only to find her carefully reposed on his bed, hands cuffed to his headboard and legs spread wide.

Completely nude.

Harry stopped dead, staring at the restraints and instantly his mind conjured images of someone else in her place. Long, lean arms crossed over each other, shackled, face thrown back, neck exposing that glorious collar—

"What are you doing here?" Harry blurted out, and Ginny frowned, a look of anger and embarrassment clouding her expression.

"I would have thought that was obvious," she drawled.

And closed her legs.

"No— sorry," Harry stammered, rushing to the bed and climbing on top of her, willing his erection back, please, he knew he was on perilous ground here.

Ginny was still frowning at him, but she spread her legs again and Harry settled between them. He looked down at the body beneath him.

He knew he was lucky. She was perfect in every way; slim, good breasts, nice hair, pleasant enough face. She had told him many other guys had come on to her at work, both teammates and fans, and yet she had turned down every one of them. For him.

Harry buried his face into her neck, allowing himself to close his eyes and try to focus. She deserved this. His left hand trailed up her stomach, feeling the muscles writhe and his brain supplied him with images of how her skin felt compared to his. Softer. Warmer. But there was no electricity.

He moved his hand up to her breast because that would certainly remind him who was underneath him.

As he touched her, felt her naked body respond to him, an uncomfortable feeling suddenly struck him. This felt like a betrayal. Which was ridiculous. He belonged to Ginny, they would be married. Voldemort was just… he was…

"Harry, are you okay?" Ginny asked, and Harry lifted his head to meet her concerned, slightly irritated gaze. "You keep stopping."

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, and bent his head to capture her lips.

Ginny undulated her hips, teasing him to move until his cock was pressed up against her naked pubic bone. It felt good. When he was kissing, it was less demanding and he could just enjoy the sensations.

"Take off your clothes," she said, nipping his jaw.

Harry pulled back and stood on the floor to take all his layers off. Looking down, he saw that his shirt had a button missing and Harry realized guiltily when that must have happened.

Those long, thin fingers fisted in his clothes as he was shoved up against the wall.

Harry surreptitiously crossed his middle finger over his index and squeezed until the pain was enough to ground him. He briefly closed his eyes, before he returned to the bed, covering his fiancée whom he loved and wanted very much to have sex with.

"Put your hands around my throat," Ginny whispered, and Harry tried not to wince.

He had confessed, over the years, what he was into. Ginny had been so accommodating, likely hoping that if she did everything he liked, then he would desire her.

Maybe it was because they had grown up together. Maybe she was too athletic, not traditionally feminine—

Didn't stop you from thrusting your tongue down Lord Voldemort's throat and there ain't nothing feminine about that man.

Harry growled, wrapping one of his hands around her neck, even biting down on her ear lobe. She moaned and Harry enjoyed the rush of power he felt when he did this. He did like power, even if he preferred having it taken away from him.

Her nipples were hard when he tongued them and he allowed his canines to gently nip. She groaned and Harry continued making his way down her body. His lips and tongue traced her stomach, circling around her hip bones, before dipping down and working through that coarse bush until he found her clit. Already, it was quite swollen and, when he inserted a finger into her vagina, it was slick. Harry had no idea how. He felt like the clumsiest oaf in existence.

Settling down between her legs, he closed his eyes and got lost in the task at hand. She tasted clean, like soap, and something faint that reminded him of all these other encounters he'd had with her, bearing varying results. He was not a natural at this and had endured many explicit lessons on the subject.

Harry's tongue repeated the gentle circles he knew got her off fastest. She was quiet now, which was a good sign, he remembered. Lifting one hand, he found her nipple and twisted it lightly, feeling her legs tremble.

"Harry," she moaned, and he was immediately transported to earlier when another voice had moaned his name, red eyes searing.

"Don't stop!" Ginny scolded, and tightened her legs around him, as if to hold him there.

A slight twinge of claustrophobia swept over him, but he beat it down. She had to be close, he could do this for her. Her vaginal muscles were clamping down on his fingers and it was becoming slicker inside, some fluid creeping down his hand. He continued his consistent tongue sweeps, feeling her legs start to sweat and her body grow tense.

She was completely silent now, and Harry knew she was almost there. He dared to press his tongue a little firmer against her—

"Too hard! Go back to what you were doing!"

—and resumed his gentler ministrations, tongue going round and round as he wondered if he should tell her about the kiss with Voldemort and what she would say. She might—

Ginny released a deep moan and her legs trembled harder than ever. Harry felt her internal muscles spasm and continued to draw those little circles until she told him to—

"Stop, oh, Merlin, Harry. That was wonderful."

Harry lifted up, licking his lips and chin, and smiled down at her. She really was beautiful; her face flushed and lips plump from obvious biting. She smiled lazily up at him, but her eyes were challenging.

"Your turn," she said. "Release me and I'm all yours."

Harry tried to grin. This was what he wanted, right? He'd done his part now she would let him make love to her any way he pleased.

Harry leaned over the bed to get his wand and then vanished the bonds. She immediately wrapped her arms and legs around him, pulling him down and into a passionate kiss. Her lips were everywhere and Harry soon found himself pinned on his back, her knees on either side of his hips.

Oh thank Merlin, she's going to ride me. Harry could just lie there and watch her breasts bounce up and down, letting his mind wander.

Ginny reached down between Harry's legs— and then froze.

"Harry," she said, confusion and hurt in her voice. "What's wrong?"

He went into white hot panic mode.

"It's not you! I'm just tired and work has been crazy lately— you're so sexy and amazing, I'm so sorry, it's not you, I swear!"

Ginny was already climbing out of bed, picking up her discarded clothing around the room.

"I'm so stupid," she cursed to herself, and Harry was terrified.

Sure, he and Ginny were not ideal, but his world was overwhelming right now and he needed something familiar to hold onto until he could sort it out. Ginny had always done that for him. She was his rock and he needed her now more than ever.

Harry caught her hand before she reached the door. She turned, furious, but Harry fell to his knees and clutched her fingers tight in his own.

"Please. Please don't leave me," he said, voice breaking. "I am so sorry."

Ginny's face softened, but she did not speak.

Harry brought her hands to his lips, such soft, feminine hands, and kissed them, looking up at her desperately.

"I'll take the weekend off. Let's go away somewhere, just you and me. Let me make it up to you."

Ginny continued to stare at him, her expression hard, but there was a genuine look of anguish on her face.

"Anywhere. You pick." Harry pressed her hands to his forehead. "Just don't leave me," he whispered.

He heard Ginny sigh. She freed her hand and Harry looked up, meeting her eyes.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes," Harry answered, immediately. Honestly.

He did love her… It just wasn't the kind of love she wanted. He couldn't help that, but he owed her so much and right now, the thought of being abandoned amidst the chaos that was his life was frightening.

Ginny snorted, but she looked happier. She ran her fingers through his hair and Harry let her, trying to be in the moment and not wince thinking of other fingers that had recently touched his locks.

"Alright," she said, and her smile touched her eyes again. "You're taking me to Paris."

Harry grinned.

"You're on."

.

.

Voldemort was sitting, pressed against the wall, fingers steepled together. Reminiscing. The taste of the boy was still on his lips, the delicious sounds he had made still murmuring in his ears.

It defied logic.

Certainly, Harry was drawn to his soul, but more than that seemed preposterous. Harry had a fiancée. Voldemort had never considered that the boy was a homosexual, but the proof was irrefutable. He had felt it straining against his leg as they had kissed.

They had kissed.

This was uncharted territory for him. While not his first kiss, the interaction was certainly the first done without motivation for manipulation. In his youth, Tom Riddle had been required to appear enamoured with a few women and it had even been necessary to kiss at times, but since emerging as Lord Voldemort, he had forsaken the performance. Kissing was far too intimate an act for him to engage in now and, furthermore, who would be worthy of touching the Dark Lord? Indeed, the superfluous operation had always repulsed him when he had been obliged to partake in it during his youth.

Yet with Harry, it had been imperative. His body had taken control from his intellect.

This would certainly complicate things. He knew he needed to remain detached. The physical manifestation of the trust they were building was to be celebrated, so long as Voldemort could remain resolved that it was a ruse and nothing more. Potter was a means to an end and Voldemort would not destroy his precious opportunity for freedom under any circumstances.

Footsteps sounded down the hall and Voldemort recognized them at once. He stood.

Grayson entered the cell and Voldemort leaned against the wall, watching him. The vermin smirked darkly and stalked towards him, his eyes spearing Voldemort.

"I saw what happened, Tom," the guard whispered daringly, coming closer. "There's a monitoring spell, you know. You fucking faggot."

A gob of saliva hit him in the forehead and Voldemort bristled with furious incredulity, fists clenching to stop himself from reacting. He kept his head down, making eye contact under his brows, and refusing to acknowledge the discharge on his face.

"I can't wait to tell the others," the rat enthused, ominously.

When he arrived at Voldemort's side he ran the back of his fingers softly over Voldemort's cheeks, a mocking caress.

"I'm going to ruin him."

Voldemort felt a surge of unfamiliar protectiveness ignite in his chest. They would not touch the boy.

The vitriolic words belied the intimacy of their position, as the cockroach stepped right up against Voldemort and pressed their lips together.

Voldemort recoiled, pulling back and shoving the swine off of him, but that action alone, due to the force of it, was enough to activate that damnable failsafe and Voldemort collapsed to the ground, hitting his head hard on the floor and jarring his molars from the impact.

His vision swam and he felt instantly nauseated. Grayson's face materialized inches above his own.

"Perfect," the cretin whispered in his ear, licking it. "I was hoping you were still fighting. It's been so long since you were like this."

The guard trailed his clumsy fingers across Voldemort's face, touching his lips, his cheekbones, and then they sunk deeply into his nostril slits. Voldemort wanted to hiss in pain, but was unable, so he took it. He took it all, but he would remember every action for when it was his turn.

"Do you remember how you were when you first came here? Back then, it was a novelty to have you not all limp and helpless. You had fire. You were terrifying, I'll admit that to you. You fought us every single time."

The parasite flexed his fingers and dragged his nails into the skin on Voldemort's face.

"Watching you with Potter… It made me a little jealous, I have to admit. We've been trying to get you to participate since we started babysitting you. Best we get are some tears and pathetic pleas for mercy. Then along comes Potter and suddenly you're full of passion. So, answer something for me."

The flea crawled on top of Voldemort and insinuated his tongue inside of Voldemort's open and panting mouth. The vile muscle prodded at his own and Voldemort was desperate to sink his teeth into it and taste blood, but the insufferable collar denied him even that.

"Do you fancy him? Or are you just using him?"

Voldemort felt the worthless peon lift off of him for a moment and then unbuckle his belt. A surge of primal fear froze Voldemort's spine at the sound.

No, not again.

"That's more like what I'd expect from a psychopath like you," he continued. "Should I be worried about our Dear Saviour, maybe warn the Minister about your perverted fantasies?"

The beast was shuffling forward on his knees and, by the foul odour, Voldemort could tell his erect penis was both exposed and approaching. He tried to control his panic. This unwilling act was debasing, depraved.

The mule barked out a derisive laugh.

"And you're like a hundred years old! That's some messed up shit right there. Epic robbing the cradle."

Voldemort's lips were parted with a putrid finger and then the spongy head of a cock was thrust completely down his relaxed throat. In this condition, his body could not protect itself with the pharyngeal reflex nor react to show a lack of sufficient oxygen. Not that they would cease if he was in danger under regular circumstances.

"Just imagine it's Potter you're doing this to," the rat said breathlessly, as he sunk his cock into Voldemort's lax mouth.

He could feel his teeth grazing the skin, but this did not seem to cause upset. Voldemort longed for silence, to have more control over what images or words he took in. He did not want to think about Potter right now.

"I saw how hard you were for him, Tom," the imbecile said, above him. "I waited to see if you were going to masturbate after he left, but you were boring and just sat down staring at nothing. Creeped me the fuck out."

It was almost impossible to breathe like this, the coward was lingering fully sheathed and Voldemort's heart was beginning to race. This would be one of the times they killed him, he was sure, could see it in the callous cruelty sneering down at him.

"Fuck, this feels so good, I bet you can't wait to do this to Potter, eh? Ha—"

The guard laughed, reaching down and gouging his nails across the skin on Voldemort's head.

"So, who would be the top? He's the Saviour and he's free, so maybe him? And he's an Auror, whereas you're pathetic and weak and a failure. But you were also a Dark Lord and I bet you like control. Fuck yeah, I saw how you took control with him a few minutes ago."

The cock in his throat was punishing, hard as a broomstick, and the testicles were drawn up tight. His experience here taught him to recognize when an orgasm was imminent and he knew one was.

"I bet you're going to fuck that arse soon, huh? And I'm going to watch. I'll sell tickets. Oh, fuck, I bet he cries."

Rough pubic hair was grinding against his face and the guard finally came down his throat.

Voldemort suffocated, silently, passively, as terror froze his veins. He was going to die, there was no air, how long would he stay buried in Voldemort's esophagus? His vision began to cloud, his pulse accelerated perilously.

Get out, get the fuck out, please Salazar, I cannot breathe, I do not want—

Grayson pulled out and Voldemort sucked in oxygen like a windstorm, even limp as he was, but it did not save him. He began to choke, vomitus collecting in his throat and, unable to roll over and eject it from his mouth, he was obliged to try and breathe in the bile and semen.

Unsurprisingly, this was not possible, and Voldemort succumbed.

.

.

"You've hardly eaten, Harry, aren't you hungry?"

"Hmm?"

He blinked and turned towards Ginny, giving her as bright of a smile as he could muster.

Something feels wrong, why did he want me away so badly? He couldn't stop the relentless images racing through his mind of what Voldemort was enduring at this moment. With no one around to—

Jesus. Protect him? One kiss and suddenly he was the man's knight in shining armour.

"Harry."

He looked up, meeting her pissed-off gaze. Shit.

"Sorry." He looked down at his plate. "I, uh. I don't really like this."

Ginny raised her eyebrows.

"French onion soup? You're the one that wanted to find some."

"I know. It's just that this one tastes weird."

She rolled her eyes and then looked away, out at the picturesque landscape they were beside. He let his eyes linger on how the light was hitting her beautiful red hair, how it emphasized her freckles that he had always adored.

It was a bloody miracle that she was even here, that she bothered to look twice at scrawny, orphan, Harry Potter.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, and reached out to place his hand on the crisp, white tablecloth.

She eyed his offering, gave him an exasperated look, and then threaded her fingers through his.

"What's really on your mind?" she asked gently, stroking the skin of his fingers.

Oh, just whether Lord Voldemort needs the Chosen One to rescue him.

"Work stuff," he replied. "Sorry. I'll try and focus."

She was frowning. Crap. Don't lose her.

"You look stunning today," he said, extending his hand and touching her face. "After this, let's go for a walk to the Louvre."

"Muggle art?" she asked skeptically, tilting her head.

"Nah, I don't give a toss about the art. I just want to grope you in the shadowy corners."

She laughed and his heart immediately felt lighter. Good. It's working.

"Pervert," she said, with a smile. "You don't need to sneak around to grope me, you know. Open-ended invite here." She pointed at her chest and torso. "Grope away."

"Maybe I will," he said, with a roughish grin and moved his hand towards her chest, which she batted away.

"Not here, you berk!" she laughed, and all felt right in the world again.

He smiled, watching the way her cheeks were slightly flushed, and then dipped his spoon into his soup, tasting it. It was divine, greasy as hell, and rich.

"You can talk to me, you know," Ginny whispered, after a few minutes of companionable silence.

Harry looked up at her.

He suddenly had a mad impulse to tell her everything. She knew about his… proclivities, knew he often saw men on the side. Maybe he wouldn't tell her who, just that he was…

Obsessed?

Distracted. By someone. But that it didn't mean anything—

Lies.

And she was exactly what he wanted—

Blatant lies.

And that they were going to be together forever and nothing would ever change that.

Lies lies lies.

Instead, he squeezed her hand and smiled, looking back out at the sunset.

"I know."