#Mechanical Seals Manufacturers

[omegagraphite]

Demystifying Mechanical Seals: A Comprehensive Guide

Welcome to our blog, where we delve into the intricate world of mechanical seals. If you've ever wondered what exactly a mechanical seal is and how it functions, you've come to the right place. In this guide, we'll break down the basics, explore the importance of mechanical seals, and shed light on Omega Seals Company's role in this crucial industry.

What is a Mechanical Seal?

Let's start with the fundamentals. A mechanical seal is a device used to prevent fluid leakage between two mating surfaces in a mechanical system. These surfaces can be rotating or stationary, and the seal is typically installed in equipment such as pumps, compressors, and agitators where the containment of fluids is essential. Mechanical seals provide a higher level of sealing compared to traditional packing seals, offering greater efficiency and reliability.

How Do Mechanical Seals Work?

Understanding the workings of a mechanical seal is key to appreciating its significance. Essentially, a mechanical seal consists of two primary components: a rotating element (typically attached to a shaft) and a stationary element (housed within the equipment). These elements are held together under mechanical pressure to create a tight seal. The seal faces, usually made of materials like carbon, ceramic, or silicon carbide, come into contact to prevent fluid leakage. Additionally, a secondary sealing mechanism, such as an elastomer O-ring, provides further protection against leakage.

Importance of Mechanical Seals:

Mechanical seals play a critical role in various industries, including oil and gas, chemical processing, pharmaceuticals, and wastewater treatment. Their ability to withstand high pressures, temperatures, and corrosive environments makes them indispensable in ensuring the safe and efficient operation of equipment. By preventing leaks and contamination, mechanical seals help maintain product quality, minimize downtime, and enhance workplace safety.

Omega Seals Company: A Leading Provider of Seal Solutions

Based in India, with a presence in Mumbai, UAE, Saudi Arabia, and Brazil, Omega Seals Company is a reputable manufacturer of a diverse range of seal equipment. With a commitment to quality, innovation, and customer satisfaction, Omega Seals Company delivers reliable sealing solutions tailored to the specific needs of each industry. Whether its standard seals or custom-designed products, Omega Seals Company's expertise and experience make it a trusted partner for businesses worldwide.

Mechanical seals are essential components in various industrial applications, serving to prevent fluid leakage and ensure the efficient operation of equipment. Omega Seals Company stands out as a leading provider of high-quality seal solutions, catering to the needs of industries across the globe. With a focus on innovation and customer service, Omega Seals Company continues to uphold its reputation as a reliable partner in the field of sealing technology.

Contact us at: https://www.omegaseals.com/ | +91 9820045787 | info@omegaseals.com

[bestonseal]

What are PTFE Seals Used For?

Now, it is high time to consider the primary applications of the PTFE seals as well as the key reasons why they are in high demand in various industries.

[midseo]

Anti Vibration Mounts, Manufacturer, Mumbai, India

Find here to get more details of Anti Vibration Mounts, We are manufacturer, supplier, dealer and best service provider of Anti Vibration Mounts in Mumbai, India.

[stevejhones6801]

How Do Mechanical Seal Manufacturers Keep Machines Running Smoothly?

A mechanical seal manufacturer is a company that produces crucial parts known as mechanical seals. These seals act as strong barriers that stop machines from leaking fluids or gases. Think of a water bottle with a tight lid. That lid keeps the water inside and stops it from spilling out. Mechanical seals work similarly but are used in machines like pumps and mixers. They make sure that everything stays contained and prevent any unwanted leaks, which helps the machines run smoothly and efficiently.

What Exactly Are Mechanical Seals?

Mechanical seals are specialized components used in machines to prevent fluids or gases from leaking out. They work like a tight barrier placed between two moving parts in a machine. Imagine wrapping a rubber band tightly around a bottle to stop the liquid from escaping. Mechanical seals are made from materials like rubber, metal, or ceramic and are designed to fit snugly between machine parts. By doing so, they ensure that fluids stay where they are supposed to and help the machine operate without any messy spills.

Why Are Mechanical Seals So Important?

Mechanical seals are extremely important because they help prevent leaks in various machines. Leaks can cause serious problems, such as wasting valuable fluids or causing damage to the machine. For instance, a pump that leaks could lead to a significant loss of water or oil, which could be costly to fix. A high-quality mechanical seal keeps everything tightly sealed, which helps the machine function properly and reduces the chances of spills and messes. Without these seals, many machines would not be able to work effectively or safely.

Who Are the Key Players in Making Mechanical Seals?

A mechanical seal manufacturer is a company that specializes in creating these vital seals. One prominent example is BJSEAL. BJSEAL is well-known for making high-quality mechanical seals that meet strict industry standards. They use advanced technology and skilled engineers to design seals that fit perfectly into different machines. BJSEAL’s focus on precision and quality ensures that its seals work effectively in a variety of applications, making them a trusted name in the industry.

How Do Mechanical Seal Manufacturers Operate?

Mechanical seal manufacturers, like BJSEAL, have modern factories where they design and produce seals. They use advanced machinery to carefully shape and assemble the seals with great precision. Each seal must be crafted to fit its specific purpose exactly right. Additionally, these manufacturers perform rigorous tests on their seals to ensure they work well under various conditions. This careful attention to detail ensures that the seals are reliable, long-lasting, and effective in preventing leaks.

What Makes BJSEAL Stand Out?

BJSEAL is distinguished by its dedication to producing top-quality mechanical seals. They focus on innovation and use the latest technology and materials to create their seals. Their team of skilled professionals works hard to ensure each seal meets high standards of performance and durability. BJSEAL also values customer feedback and adapts its products to meet specific requirements. This commitment to quality and customer satisfaction helps them remain a leading choice for many businesses around the world.

How Are Mechanical Seals Used in Different Industries?

Mechanical seals are essential in many industries, including water treatment, oil refineries, and even aerospace. They play a key role in keeping fluids and gases contained, which ensures that machines operate smoothly and safely. BJSEAL provides mechanical seals for a wide range of applications, ensuring that their products work efficiently in different environments. By offering reliable seals for various industries, BJSEAL helps businesses maintain high levels of performance and safety in their operations.

What Are the Consequences of Mechanical Seal Failure?

If a mechanical seal fails, it can lead to significant issues like leaks and equipment damage. Leaking fluids or gases can result in wasted resources and potential harm to the machine. For example, if a seal fails in a pump, it can cause a loss of valuable fluids and lead to costly repairs. That’s why it’s crucial to use high-quality seals from a reputable manufacturer like BJSEAL. Their seals are designed to be durable and dependable, reducing the risk of failures and helping to keep machines running smoothly and efficiently.

[sealcare]

Celebrate the victory of the forces of good over evil. Let us celebrate this auspicious day to begin new things in life. Happy Dussehra! https://www.sealcare.org/

[bestonseal]

Explore essential tips for choosing the right multi-spring mechanical seal, including material selection, pressure handling, and application suitability for reliable sealing.

Reaf More : Choosing the Right Multi-Spring Mechanical Seal: What You Need to Know

[midseo]

Prover Tanks, Prover Tank Manufacturer, Supplier, Exporter, India

Prover Tanks, Manufacturer, Supplier, Exporter, Pune, Maharashtra, India, Saudi Arabia.

Prover Tanks, Loading Arm, Loading Arms, Unloading Arm, Unloading Arms, Loading Arms System, Loading Arms Systems, Unloading Arms System, Unloading Arms Systems, Swivel Joint, Swivel Joints, Floating Suction Assemblies, Floating Suction Assembly, Prover Tank, Prover Tanks, Storage Tank, Storage Tanks, Storage Tank, Storage Tanks, Rotary Joint, Rotary Joints, Mechanical Seal Support System, Mechanical Seal Support Systems, Thermosyphon, Thermosyphons, Heat Exchanger, Heat Exchangers, Test Aider, Test Aiders, Fluid Handling System, Fluid Handling Systems, Manufacturer, Supplier, Exporter, Pune, Maharashtra, India, Saudi Arabia.

[eldritch-spouse]

Eating at my own fingers for some Berle smut 😫😫😫

[Don't worry, he'll eat your fingers for you.]

TW: Foodplay; Dubious consent

Berle's steps echo around the inside of the manufacturing area.

" Lollipop! My sweet little gumdrop, my tootsie pie! "

Oh he wants something.

Finishing helping a fairly depleted chocolate flavor into a vat, you seal the exhausted slime in there and shiver as you come out of the frozen rooms, rubbing some warmth into your arms. It's crazy to think how much it must cost to keep this place so cool in the middle of literal Hell.

" Yes? "

" There you are! "

He announces, so close to the skin of your back that it nearly frightens the soul out of your body.

" Come come come- I need you to taste something immediately! "

That's half of your job nowadays. Running around taking note of which flavors are depleting, take them to the vats, and put a variety of sweet ice cream novelty flavors in your mouth. You're really hoping there's enough magic in these things to prevent you from getting cavities. Or maybe that's why he's always buying you "the best toothpaste out there for humans".

Part of you thinks sometimes Berle isn't even making you taste-test new flavors, he just wants to feed you. Which is fine by you, less time actually working.

You're dragged to the front of the shop, sort of. More like the area where people can choose to have independent scoops of ice cream from non-living samples. A sort of tasting booth, to make sure you don't just call a slime-cream to your table, taste them, only to make a face afterwards. You'd feel mildly offended in their place.

The thing is, "free tasting", in Gluttony, is about three or four fat scoops on an already large cone. You've been living here for a while, and less than that would probably be considered insulting.

In turn, that is also what Berle regularly attempts to shove in your mouth.

The prince is behind the balcony, reaching for a fresh container and twirling an original brand spoon in his hand. More than the excitement in his eyes, his own tail seems to dance behind the demon.

" New flavor? " Your eyes widen.

Berle hums brightly. " Perhaps! Oh yes, maybe! But not yet, too much to test, too much to think about legally ahah, providers, but I wanted you to test it out for me just this once, okay? Really fast- "

It's only after he retrieves a spoonful that you can see the ice cream itself. It looks creamy, swirls of soft lavender and salmon blending together nicely, a sugary sweet scent to it. Berle has such a talent for making any kind of ice cream look appetizing. This gift of his has made you reconsider an embarrassing amount of bizarre flavor mixes.

" Open wide! "

You do. Probably wider than you should have.

But it's reflex at this point. Like most gluttons, he's got this habit of simply overfilling a spoonful. Loading it with so much that one would guess his intent is to make you choke. But no such thing, Berle insisted when you pried, he merely forgot your limitations. He loved you, so he wanted you to have more, always.

Recently, the prince has gotten better with dosing for humans, in no small part due to the growing popularity of his establishment, bringing in customer diversity. You however, have choked and coughed food back out enough times to trigger a brand new survival mechanism at the mere utterance of 'open'. Your jaws part as much as your feeble human anatomy allows them to, sometimes popping in the process, and your tongue hangs to further keep things unobstructed.

Berle is bad at masking what pleases him.

He enjoys that you've learned to do this.

Seen by the tint to his cheeks as he eagerly shovels the spoonful into your mouth.

Predictably, it's so much that it makes your cheeks puff humorously, but it's manageable. You don't choke, just shiver at the coldness and try not to bite down. You let it sit in the gradually decreasing warmth of your mouth, mulling on the flavor.

Sweet, incredibly sweet, but light all the same. The burst of sugar isn't long enough to let you get sick of it, fizzing away to a pleasant freshness. You can't tell the ingredients used in this. Funnily enough, you almost never can, aside from the most common flavors such as strawberry, chocolate and caramel, for example. Maybe it's just that you don't have the same complexity in your tastebuds as a glutton does, so your brain mixes and mashes signals into something unreadable. You're aware of lot of Berle's subtle work goes entirely unnoticed to your dull palate- That he keeps trying to provide new taste experiences for you in spite of knowing you'll never get as much pleasure from any as one of his own is a testament to the prince's morbid love.

" So? So? " He grins so incredibly wide that his cheeks strain, offering you a second spoonful that is slowly accepted.

He's graced with a response as soon as you're not nearly drooling. " Amazing, as usual. It's not as heavy, I feel like I could have a lot more of this one than anything else but... "

" But...? " The demon's malleable horns shift as he tilts his head.

" But, I can't really tell what it's made of. " He hasn't even told you the name of it either, so there's hardly a hint.

" Ah yes yes, I expected you wouldn't. See, it's more uhm- Synthetic, than my usual work. Not at all like me, I think you'd know that of all people, lollipop, ahah- But part of my work does involve branching out, constantly, right? I'd usually be against something so err fabricated, so... Implicative, but I just couldn't pass this up! You understand, right? "

While he blabbers, you begin to sense a slight increase in temperature. You know damn right that Hell would blink out of existence faster than the air conditioning in this establishment could fail, so something's clearly amiss.

" -Especially after they said it would be perfectly safe for human consumption! Of course, I can't just sell this willy-nilly without being sure that things won't devolve into a rampant mess, it could be weaponized I know this- But perhaps as an offer to couples who come here together on their cute little meet-dates, right? The effects then would be harmless, like now- "

It's getting really hot. You're sweating. Should probably take that jacket off.

Wait, what did he say just now?

" The what-? "

" Hm? " Berle pauses.

" You said... " A fog clutches the creases of your mind, massaging it into a fine, aimless pulp. God fucking damn it, what did he just make you eat? " ... Effects? "

" Mhm, right right! This type of ice cream is made using material from a person, causing whoever eats it to feel madly infatuated for said person, ehh needy, if you will- This means it has to be commissioned obviously, so there's a certain wait time and the material has to be handled carefully! It could be blood, I think most people will want to use their blood, but I personally used... " Berle's peppy expression turns into something much less innocent as he watches you squirm in place, trying to keep up with his chattering. Your eyes linger on his mostly bare form and satisfaction carves its way into those mismatched eyes.

" Something else, you know? "

There's a flicker of recognition in your gradually muddling brain. You manage to offer the royal infernal an annoyed, near frigid look, reminiscing about the unsavory part of your role here. Getting to taste-test flavors is a euphemism for being a bit of a lab-rat. And while you're sure that Berle wouldn't deliberately feed you something he thinks could genuinely cause harm, he's not above this type of scummy behavior either.

A pulse of want has your teeth clenching while your legs propell you to him, causing the prince to all but giggle loudly, putting the spoon and container away when you grab onto his stupid pink apron.

" Let me... " You murmur, fevered with the desire to have him. Any way, any part, you have a strange urge to get Berle into your mouth. Flashes of you kissing and biting and tasting every inch of his skin assault your mind.

Bizarre, as if out of nowhere, you developed an erotic oral fixation that was simply overwhelming in intensity.

" Oh hoo hoo, working well working well! How are you feeling, gumdrop? "

It starts with a searing kiss.

It's less genuine affection and more of a need to cram your tongue as deep into him as you can. A laughable objective, given Berle has a tongue that puts plenty of his own kind to shame. If that weren't enough, he's always enthusiastic, so you never had a semblance of a chance. He kisses back and, sensing your fervor, generously supplies more of that multicolored muscle into you. You choked aggressively the first few times he was stupid enough to do this to you without thinking, nearly threw everything back out, but your time inside this Ring has changed you in many ways. Not only have you become more voracious, it's as if your gag reflex is often muted in select moments. Given the thing dragging over all crevices of your mouth and throat, you should have started to flinch and panic, but all that's there is an unnerving breed of glee and mild oxygen deprivation.

Berle dominates, much to your slight frustration, pulling you back when the embrace simply becomes too gross to prolong. Not that you care if your chin is soaked, not that you care if the taste of all the cloying sweets he had today is now imprinted on your own taste buds.

A shameless hand darts down, feeling what it had hoped to.

Behind the rather thin fabric of Berle's apron protrudes the very thing you're sure he'll have no problem letting you stuff yourself with. Berle shares a concubus rib somewhere in his lineage, that's likely why he wears so little all the time, why he even thought of this flavor as an appealing suggestion. It's also the reason he somehow always seems to be able to tug you away for some quick tomfoolery.

There's no doubt he's the one pleasantly surprised when you drop to your knees and swipe that apron aside.

Berle's now throbbing length has the exact same coloration as his tongue, that borderline rainbow-like hue, like a pastel gradient of sorts. You've asked him before if he was born this way, as unlikely as it seems, but he doesn't ever provide a straight answer. Rainbow body parts are something you'd expect of a mermonsters and fey types. Not a demon, certainly.

Part of you believes he just got body modifications because it makes his cock look like some kind of rare candy cane. Somewhat of a dangerous gambit, given another glutton could get confused enough to bite him, with those infernal teeth...

But you're no glutton.

All you do is lick across the length of him like he really is no more than a rainbow twister lollipop, earning yourself a shaky gasp, before putting the very tip in your mouth and swirling around it. You have no idea why this is what you want so bad, why it's making you so happy, you just know you needed to feel him exactly this way.

For all his usual rampant excitement, all Berle can do now is grab onto the counter and watch you work a sizable portion of his girth into your throat. Another perk of your prolonged stay in Hell, you could say. The you from a few months ago could never swallow this much of a partner without crying and gagging real ugly.

" O- Ohhn- I do thhink maybe some alterations should be made -Ahahn- For humans specifically? Mmmm it seems to be taking you by stohh- "

You can feel Berle pulse within the walls of your mouth, lips flush against the root of his cock, kissing his slit. Normally, this would take some effort from your part, some warmup. A nasty noise follows as you slurp all the way back to the top just to chase that hint of tang. Berle's eyes roll back for a second and a choked moan escapes him. You're relentless, pumping him while catching your breath, only to dip back down with a dirty vigor, proudly feeling him hit deep spots within you.

Berle has learned not to fuck your mouth. All larger infernals must learn this sooner or later when they pick smaller partners, and the prince is no exception. But that doesn't mean he's not digging his claws into the counter for dear life and flexing his legs for control.

The only thing that makes you pop off his candy cock is when the confectioner's phone starts ringing, this jarring tune reminiscent of a festive jingle, breaking the mood. Berle himself looks annoyed, studying the caller ID before smiling and making a 'continue' motion.

Alright then.

He's talking immediately.

" Old friend! " Pause, one hand falls to the back of your head. " Yes yes yess- " That last one must have been for you. " I did get the sample, tested it already- Why, with a volunteer of course, I have my ways... "

His scummy ways.

Perhaps it's mean of you, but you take the opportunity to tease Berle and drag him across your lips like some pervert's version of lipstick. He nearly frowns, exerting some pressure to make you quit it. Whatever gargle of surprise you make is covered by his loud tone.

" Yes- Uhuh- Look though, we'll have to tone it down a bit. " He gasps. " No, it's just- My volunteer was human, and it really took them for a spin, y'know? No, I'm serious! Not even two spoons in, they were already under, that's fast! Very fast hhnoly shit- "

You would have laughed at that slip up, but all that happens is a devilish contraction around his shaft.

" N-No, it shocked me. " Berle coughs. " You should have seen-... I don't think so, royal lineage wouldn't make it stronger just on hhh its own. I think maybe you could make it a little less sudden, give it a little buzz period, y'know, hahahn Lords fuck- "

The person on the other side of the call appears to be blabbering just long enough that Berle feels confident in distancing the phone a bit and growling, making the most out of their rant by urging you to move faster with curt bucks of his hips. Sometimes he slips out of your mouth entirely, frustrating for the two of you yet desperate in a whole other dirty way.

When Berle pays attention again, the person must have been calling for him.

" Ah- Ahah, sorry yes I'm here- Excuse me if I sound muffled I'm always running around you know it's just how the job is it never stops please continue yes- " How does he fit that much air into his lungs?

It feels like he's close to cumming. Normally, Berle would be moaning and snarling about it, but he can't be nearly as vocal right now, so all you have to guide yourself is the oscillation of his composure and his tensing lower abdomen.

At some point, the prince throws his head back and appears to lean onto the counter as if to balance himself, blowing steam through his nostrils in a way the caller might mistake for exhaustion. His tail wraps around your chest loosely, getting to your neck and squeezing briefly.

That's the cue.

No mercy.

" Hrrhn... Nno no, it's perfectly fine, I know how it is with newer products. It's perfectly fine no one got injured at ALL- It's totally okay, I'm not disappointed no nooh- " He slams a fist on the counter, mad that the call is going on for as long as it has.

You've never actually seen Berle get angry from a lengthy conversation. It would be hilarious if you weren't so fixated on getting him to cum.

" I have a lot of faith in you guys I'm sure everything will work out and I'dlovetoworkwithyouallinthefutureokaybyebyegottagotoodles- " He launches the phone at some unfortunate wall. " My pretty pretty lollipop you're gonna suck the soul out of me like that- "

And you do. Because his usual yapping is cut short only a few seconds after, becoming nothing but senseless noises as Berle hunches and pants open-mouthed, giving you the rewarding rush you wanted. Much to his distaste, you pull back to get to taste it, regretting it when it's predictably too much and forces you to pull away. The prince makes a mess of your cheek and neck, ruining even the top you had picked, before you try to get the last of it on your tongue again.

And as soon as you swallow, the urge that had possessed you earlier releases its clutches, the cloud of need turning your vision pink fading suddenly.

You're left with sore knees, an aching jaw, and the moderately gross sensation of hot ropes on cooling skin.

" Couldn't you at least have asked before starting all t- "

You're interrupted by Berle's cumstained fingers wedging into your mouth. Not even this you're allowed to waste.

" But aren't surprises so much more entertaining? I really think they are, didn't you have fun? Besides, it'll be my turn soon, don't you worry lollipop, what kind of lover would I be if I didn't thank you for such wonderful feedback- "

You wonder who that supplier is...

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 6

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Wyoming (Part Three)

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ]

Chapter Summary: Charlie strikes a deal with the mechanic.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.3k+

Content / Warnings: yearning, slow burn, horny thoughts, food mention, eating, handcuffs, one bed, shower, dog grogu, guns

Notes: None really. Hope you like it, thank you for reading!

A bell chimes when Din pushes open the door to Giddyup Auto, and again when he lets it swing shut behind you. 

It’s just as cluttered inside the shop as it is outside. Pornographic magazines have been stacked alongside NAPA catalogs and tattered notepads on top of tool boxes. Promotional branding from popular auto parts manufacturers patch the steel walls, occasionally broken up by snarky signs that read things like KWITCHERBITCHIN AVE and I CAN FIX ANYTHING EXCEPT STUPID. 

Country music crackles from blown speakers at the back of the shop, echoing off the tall ceiling. The rough, strained sound blends horribly with a high-pitched whir coming from beneath a 1989 Dodge Ram 250. 

Din inhales the scent of motor oil and metal shavings. Adolescent nostalgia wells up in his chest like pride, some vague understanding of what it means to be a man. The responsibility of maintenance. Caretaking and custodianship. 

He catches a glimpse of his adoptive father wringing his hands with an oil-soaked rag while rattling off the basic components of an internal combustion engine. Then he blinks it away.

Out of the corner of his eye, you adjust your grip on the wriggling dog, slipping one hand beneath his bottom and the other across his chest. Grogu huffs at the intrusion, but once he’s steadied to a higher vantage point, he seems pleased. His ears stand at attention, jowls sealed shut, the tip of his snout twitching with curiosity. 

Both you and the dog look around the garage with the same kind of wide-eyed wonder. Two explorers ready to investigate this whole new world. Din leads the way deeper into the automotive bay, following the shrill grinding sound to the old rusted-out truck. 

When he comes to a halt, so does the noise, then Paul slides out from under the truck on a creeper. 

“Hey there! Sorry, I didn’t hear y’all come in,” he gestures to the impact wrench in his hand as he sets it down. 

“Hi, Paul,” you greet him with a cheerful smile.

Rising to his feet, he beams, “Miss Charlie, how’re you today?” 

The twinkle in his bright eyes makes Din feel uneasy. Strands of gray streak his dark beard and pepper his slicked-back hair. Hard-earned wrinkles crease his face. He’s twice your age at least, and Din can’t quite determine whether his intentions are cordial or flirtatious. 

Either way, you hardly seem to mind. You perk up at the attention, taking a step towards him as you reply, “Can’t complain. Yourself?” 

“Oh, just fine. Annie get y’all set up at the motel?” 

“She sure did. It was nice to sleep in a bed for once, y’know, after being on the road for so long. Thank you for recommending it to us.” 

“‘Course. Yellow Seed’s been treatin’ you alright?” 

“Yeah! We got to poke around a little yesterday. Went and got supper at the Outlaw Saloon, which was good,” you glance at Din and chuckle a little, “The locals didn’t seem too keen on us. Got a few dirty looks, but that’s not surprising.” 

Paul laughs at this, crossing his arms as he leans back against the truck, “Well, you know, we small town folks don’t always like outsiders.” 

“I’m used to it,” you shrug dismissively, then your face lights up, “But, hey, I talked to the owner and they’re gonna let me play a couple sets tomorrow night if you wanna swing by.”

“No shit?” Paul grins and catches himself, “Pardon my language—”

“It’s fine,” you wave it off. 

“Playin’ a few sets at the Outlaw Saloon,” Paul repeats, shaking his head with amusement, “What kinda music you play?” 

“I know a little bit of everything. These kinds of gigs, I try to feel out the crowd. I catch a country music kinda vibe around here, so probably some Hank Williams Jr, Alan Jackson, Johnny Cash. Stuff like that,” you tilt your head at him, “Got any requests?”

“Know any Waylon Jennings?” 

“Sure, I have a few of his tunes up my sleeve. Any particular song?”

“Surprise me,” he winks. 

Din tries to retain his stoic demeanor despite the discomfort writhing beneath his skin. The dog must pick up on this, because he whines at his owner and starts to squirm in your grip. 

Struggling with Grogu’s protest, you ask Paul, “Is it ok if I set him down?”

“Go on ahead, darlin’,” Paul tells you, then turns to Din, “How about you? Settling in ok?” 

“How much will it cost to fix?” 

Paul raises his eyebrows and pushes off the truck, “Right down to brass tacks, huh?” 

“He’s not much of a talker,” you smirk as you set the dog on the cement floor and start roaming around the shop, leash in hand. 

“I can respect that.” His gaze lingers on your wandering form for a moment longer before he looks at Din and sighs, “Well, I had some luck calling around to a few junkyards lookin’ for salvaged or used parts. Found a good price for what I need. With that ‘n’ labor, it’ll run you twenty-five hundred, long as everything goes smoothly.” 

Din weighs the cost against his bank account, factoring in the motel room, gas to get to the next job, and food for a few days. It would run him dry. His stomach tightens and twists. Before he can formulate a response, you chime in. 

“Is there any way we can knock that price down?” 

Paul crosses his arms across his chest and gives you a sympathetic shrug, “Way it stands, ‘fraid I can’t.” 

You nod as you consider this, furrowing your brow at the floor, then look up at him, “What if we make a trade?” 

“A trade?” Paul frowns. 

“Yeah, or, you know. Some kind of a deal. We scratch your back, you scratch ours.” 

Paul’s blue eyes flick between you and Din, “Wha’d you have in mind, sweetheart?”

Din’s first instinct is to shut down the conversation. But when you glance at him as if searching for approval, he doesn’t protest. You turn back to Paul and nod over your shoulder, “I noticed your sign out front is pretty faded. I could paint it if you knock a couple hundred off?” 

Paul shifts his weight to one leg and wrinkles his nose. Not sold. You don’t let it deter you. 

“I’ve done murals before, so this would be a piece of cake. It looks pretty shabby now, but I can make it,” you smack your lips, “pop. Maybe it’d bring in some more business for you.” 

Shaking his head, he smirks at Din, “She’s persistent, ain’t she?”

“She is.” 

“I am,” you confirm with a wide, toothy grin, “Whaddaya say? I do the sign, take off $500?“

Paul works his jaw from side to side, then slackens and sticks out his hand, “Five hundred.” 

“Plus the cost of supplies,” you add. 

“Plus the—” he cuts himself off with an amused chuckle, “You’re somethin’ else. Fine. Five hundred plus costs.” 

When you shake his hand, a victorious, blinding smile spreads across your face. The corner of Din’s mouth turns up at the sight. He fails to correct his expression as you take a step back and glance at him. His heart skips in that brief moment where his eyes meet yours, before you drop your gaze to your feet and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. Blush rises to your cheeks and neck, rosy splotches that bloom soft and full in his chest. 

“Whaddaya think, should $100 do it?” Paul asks. 

“I think we can make that work,” you nod, “Do you have paint brushes or rollers? Sandpaper?” 

“Reckon I do. Hang tight, I’ll get y’all some cash, ok?” 

Once he’s out of earshot, Din studies you, wondering out loud, “Why are you helping me?” 

“Rule number ten: Be a stand up tramp,” you shrug, crouching down to scratch Grogu between his ears, “Plus, I don’t know, it just seems like… the right thing to do.” 

Your answer perplexes him. He can’t come up with a response other than, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” you grin up at him, then rise to your feet and change the subject, “I’m hungry. We should get lunch. And maybe get some groceries, too, so we—er, you don’t have to spend as much on eating out.” 

The authority with which you suggest this causes him to chafe. He wants to push back for no reason other than to reclaim the upper hand. Your reasoning is sound, though. It’s not a bad idea. 

“We can do that.” 

“Yeah?” 

He nods. 

Your gaze lingers on him for a moment, lips curving into a delicate smile. Something flutters in his stomach, frantic and timid, urging him to put up a wall between you. But he keeps his eyes anchored to yours despite his internal warning bells. 

The tight wire of tension slackens as Paul returns, counting a stack of wrinkled bills, “Here you go.” 

You step forward to accept the cash, “Perfect. Thank you, Paul.” 

“Are y’all gonna be able to carry everything back here, or do you wanna borrow my truck? Might be a little easier that way.” 

“Really?” you grin and knit your brows together into a gracious expression, “We were thinking of grabbing lunch and getting some groceries, too. Would that be ok?” 

“Fine by me, just bring it back in one piece,” Paul answers, fishing a set of keys from his jumpsuit pocket and handing them to you, “Ford F-150 out front.”

“Thank you, Paul. I—we really appreciate it,” you tell him, then look at Din and raise your eyebrows expectantly. 

“Yes, thank you,” Din nods in agreement. 

“Don’t mention it,” Paul says, then ambles back to the old rusted-out Dodge, whistling along to some old country song. 

Keeping pace at his side as he starts towards the exit, you jangle the keys and ask, “Do you want me to drive?”

“Dream on, kid,” he scoffs, holding his hand out. 

“Worth a shot,” you grin and place them in his palm. 

“Would it be too predictable to put a horse on the sign?” you ask, frowning at your rough outline, “I feel like there are a lot of places out here that lean into the western motif, so it might be overdone. But the place is literally called Giddyup Auto, so…” 

When Din doesn’t respond, you glance up and can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or something in your general direction. 

Stupid goddamn aviators. 

“You know, it’s considered polite to take off your hat and sunglasses when you go indoors.” 

Again, nothing. 

‘Off in lala-land’ if you’ve ever seen it. 

You blink at him a few times to no reaction, then raise your voice, “Did you hear me?” 

This seems to do the trick. 

It’s difficult to explain how you know his eyes are on you when they are. Maybe the microscopic tilt of his head or the twitch of his eyebrows. Mostly though, you would say that his attention carries a force. One minute you’re sitting there wondering if he’s looking at you and then—bam! It hits you. Absolute certainty.  

Anyway, he looks at you and asks, “What?” 

“Why do you insist on wearing your Unabomber costume all the time?” 

He frowns and shakes his head like he doesn’t understand. 

“You know, because—Oh for cripes’ sake, nevermind,” you scoff and sit up in your seat, turning your notebook to face him, “Here. Tell me what you think.” 

He looks down at your notebook and pulls it closer. As he quietly studies the sketches, discomfort twists your skin raw. Imagining all the criticisms lingering at the tip of his tongue, you can’t stop yourself from speaking preemptively. 

“The first one is pretty boring, but I think the font adds a little flair. I’d blend shades of orange for the background to make it stand out and white for the text.” You prop your chin up on the heel of your palm and lean forward, pointing to the second option, “I like the covered wagon as a concept, but it would take me a long time and I’m not sure if it fits the vibe since wagons are kinda slow. The horse is fast, obviously,” you tap the third sketch and shrug, “But, like I said when you so rudely ignored me, the western motif is sort of tired in this neck of the woods.” 

Nodding, he comments, “They look… nice.” 

Such a way with words. 

You stare at him for a moment, waiting for additional input to no avail. Raising your eyebrows, you release a big sigh and fold your legs up into the booth, “‘Nice.’ Ok, sure. Well, let me ask you this: Which one is your favorite?” 

After a few seconds of contemplation, he taps the bucking bronco silhouetted over a mountain range, then pushes the notebook back across the table. 

“Why that one?” 

He shrugs, “It’s called Giddyup Auto.” 

Instead of pointing out that you said the same thing earlier, you mutter, “Sure is, big guy,” and flip your notebook to a blank page, then start jotting down a shopping list, “We should get something for the pup while we’re out. I feel bad for leaving him behind.” 

You wrinkle your nose at his silence, looking up to confirm that once again, he has drifted away. 

Curiosity gets the best of you. You follow his line of sight, craning your neck over your shoulder to see the waitress approaching with a serving tray. Din straightens when she sets a plate in front of him. 

“Ok, we have a breakfast platter number two,” she sets another plate in front of you, “And french toast with fruit.” Tucking the tray under her arm, she smiles between you and him, “Anything else I can get for you guys?” 

“We’re fine, thank you,” Din tells her, a small smile gracing his lips. 

She nods before turning to go, dragging his attention along with her. You watch him watch her, studying his wandering gaze. A grin spreads across your face. When he notices you staring, he immediately becomes defensive.

“What?” 

Dead giveaway. 

Suppressing a smile, you grab a butter knife and shake your head at your plate, “Nothing.” 

“What?” he asks again, this time more pointed.  

“I didn’t say anything!” 

He scoffs and hunches over the plate to shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth. 

After smearing whipped butter on your french toast, you pour syrup over your plate, glancing up at him when you ask, “Do you have a crush on the waitress?” 

“No.” 

Denial sours the word in the most obvious way. 

Raising an eyebrow, you cut your food into bite-sized pieces as you tease, “I didn’t take you for a liar, Din. But I also didn’t take you for the kind of guy who has a soft spot for pretty service workers, so what do I know?” 

Of course, he doesn’t say anything. And of course, you decide to push the conversation further. 

“I just mean… If you do—you know, like her or whatever—you should ask her for her number. Take her on a date. See if you can’t live a little while you’re holed up in this town.” 

“And what am I supposed to do with you in that scenario?” 

Twirling a chunk of french toast around on your fork, you shrug, “Maybe she wouldn’t mind your prisoner third wheeling. That’s probably not a red flag, right?” 

“Not at all.” 

You snort at him and he lets a small smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. It seems to soften the atmosphere, both of you relaxing back in your seats. While chipping away at your food, you ponder a little to yourself, then out loud. 

“Suppose your line of work, you don’t go on many dates, do you?” 

Frowning at the strip of bacon pinched between his fingers, he tells you, “Not in the traditional sense.” 

“What does that mean?” 

Instead of answering the question, he pops the bacon into his mouth. When he swallows and you’re still staring at him, he shakes his head, “Forget I said anything.” 

“Come on, Din,” you meet his flattened expression with a grin, “You so know I won’t let this go. Might as well just spill the beans.” 

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares at you like a challenge. You narrow your eyes at him, tilting your head with equal determination. 

“‘Not in the traditional sense.’ So you do have romantic or sexual experiences, but society wouldn’t typically deem those experiences ‘dates,’ right?” 

He says nothing. 

“Hmmm… interesting,” you lean your elbows on the table, studying him, “You seem reluctant to talk about it, which indicates… Maybe you’re ashamed of it? Although, you’re pretty reluctant to talk about everything, so I don’t know how much weight to place on that. But you’re a trucker. Transient. Don’t seem like much of a ‘family man’ to me. So, what… you’ve gotta be a hookup guy or a sex worker guy, right?” 

The way he squirms at the question makes your chest tingle. 

“It could be both, too. I feel like you would be more of an opportunist than a strategist when it comes to fucking. Am I right?” 

His jaw shifts from side-to-side. He glances around before leaning in, “And you’re much different?” 

“No, not really.”

Most people would ask follow-up questions or awkwardly segue into a different subject, but not Din. He seems as content with your answer as you are with his. But where he goes back to eating, you feel a loose end rattling at the tip of your tongue and speak it into existence. 

“I think… I think people like us don’t lay down roots for anything less than the spectacular,” you search his face, “Right?” 

With his fork lifted halfway to his mouth, he pauses to look at you and nod, “This is the way.”

Din brings the shopping cart to halt in the middle of the aisle when you stop to examine jars of preserved nut and fruit spreads lining the shelves. 

You pull a big plastic container of generic peanut butter from the lineup and toss it into the cart, “Four dollars, twenty-nine cents.”

He jots down the price in your notebook and adds it to the running total while you wrinkle your nose at the ingredient list of strawberry preserves, then set it next to the peanut butter, “Three sixty-nine. Gotta love that food desert markup. What’re we at?” 

“Twenty seven, give or take,” he answers, crossing two items off the list. 

“What else we got here?” Sidling up to him, you peek at the paper, “Snacks. Wow, ok past me, very specific.” 

When you start walking again, he does too, and he wonders how you can possibly smell so good without the aid of perfumes. While not a definitive scent, it inspires a sensation much like when he’s parched and sets his sights on a glass of ice water. It’s enticing, like your very foundation radiates temptation. 

He cannot have this. This thing in his chest, gnawing at his bones, trying to escape. It snaps at the walls when you’re nearby, which is always. 

Maybe if he could relieve some of the pressure buckling under his skin it would quiet. But he can’t, so it doesn’t. 

It begs and pleads and promises to absolve him of consequence as long as he promises to move a little bit closer, hold his hand to your back a little bit longer—just one more second and I’ll be content. Maybe another. What if you slid your hand around her waist and pulled her body to yours? How would she react? I bet she would like it. I bet if you kissed her she would finally be speechless. Just a taste, please? 

He comes to a stop beside you and follows your gaze to the wall of chips. Hundreds of bags in all different sizes and colors, all of them glossy in the fluorescent light. 

“Well, big guy. What’s your chip of choice?” you ask without looking at him. 

Grinding his teeth together, he shakes his head. 

“Yeah, I don’t know, either. Too many of the same goddamn choices,” you step forward to narrow your eyes at a price tag, “Am I crazy or does that say five dollars?” 

“It says five dollars.” 

“What the fuck, that is obscene. Do we really need chips?” 

“Does anyone?” 

“I guess not technically,” you sigh and start wandering further down the aisle, so he follows you. “But we don’t have to be so utilitarian about it. Junk food is for the soul, not sustenance. And sometimes the soul needs something salty and crunchy, you know?”

Nodding, he comes to a stop and points to the display of microwave popcorn, “We could get this instead.”

“Six bags for four dollars,” you raise your eyebrows, “Salty, crunchy, and cost efficient. Hell yeah, I’m sold.”

He grabs the box of generic popcorn in question and walks it back to the cart while you meander towards the sweets. When he meets you in front of the cookies, you glance at him, “Original or chewy?” 

“Original.” 

“Ten four, good buddy.” You grab the blue package of chocolate chip cookies and toss it in the basket, “Do you ever get to say that on your radio? Have a real trucker moment?” 

“Yes.”

“Adorable,” you chuckle, catching his gaze for a moment before you look down and tuck your hair behind your ear, “Are you gonna help me with the sign today, or do you have other plans?” 

“What do you need help with?” 

You exhale through slack lips, then shrug, “Well, today is just prep. I have to scrape off the old paint, sand it down, and prime. It has to dry overnight, but I think I’ll be able to finish the rest tomorrow or the next day if we get up early…” Pausing to chuckle, you shake your head, “Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. What I mean is, you could help me with scraping and sanding. It’s a real bitch and would be easier with your muscle. If—well, you know, only if you want to. You don’t have to or anything…”

“I can do that.” 

Your eyebrows draw together as you search his face, “Yeah?” 

He nods, “It’s the least I can do.” 

As the two of you near the checkout line, a frail woman with closely-cropped white curls shuffles from a back office to the one and only cash register.

“How are we doing this? Splitting it?” you swing the backpack off your shoulder and start rummaging through it, “I should have some money in my wallet. It’s not much, but it should—”

He holds up a hand, “I’ve got it.” 

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure.” 

That thing in his chest whimpers when you smile at him, big and bright and gap-toothed, sparing him a polite, “Thank you,” before you start unloading the groceries onto the conveyor belt. 

Balancing the tips of your toes on the highest ladder rung, you stretch your roller towards the unprimed stripe of sign, but can’t quite reach it. 

“Goddamnit,” you mutter, returning all fours to the ladder with a huff, then look back at Din, “Hey, can I borrow your tall?”

Your question bounces off him with no reaction. 

Between the visor of his cap and the tablet glued to his face, you can’t quite tell if he’s ignoring you or if he just plain old can’t hear you. All that’s visible is his furrowed brow. So you shimmy down the ladder and set the paint roller in the tray, brushing your hands on your jeans as you approach his lawn chair, waiting for him to notice you. 

When the brisk October air nips at your dirt-caked, sweat-soaked skin, you skip closer, tapping your foot against his calf, “Hey.” 

He jumps as if broken out of a trance, then raises his eyebrows at you, “What?” 

“Can you help me with something?”

His mouth flattens into a straight line. He looks down at the tablet, then turns off the screen and sets it aside to look up at you. 

“See the top of the sign, how it’s all shitty still?” you point at the evidence, “Can you get it for me? I can’t reach.” 

“Use the big ladder.” 

“I didn’t think to grab it before Paul locked up for the night.” 

He releases a big dramatic sigh, glancing down at the tablet before rising to his feet. As he passes you the handle of the dog leash, you grin and plop down in the warmed-up lawn chair, “My hero!” 

“Uh-huh,” he shakes his head and starts towards the drop cloth. 

Beneath the lawn chair, the dog wakes from his nap and tries to follow Din, huffing and puffing when the leash goes taut, then walks back to your feet and sits on your shoelaces. His big satellite ears stand at attention while his person shimmies up the ladder with a roller brush in hand. 

The two of you sit there and watch Din with the same level of ardent attention, both perched on the edge of your respective seats, unable to tear your eyes away for a second. 

At first you try to tell yourself that you’re not even looking at him, just mapping out the illustration you’ll start tomorrow. But the truth is, it’s hard not to be drawn in by the view. By his panoramic shoulders and muscle-bound arms stretching out the fabric of his flannel as he rolls the brush up and down, back and forth, spreading thick white primer across the freshly smoothed wood… 

Despite the waning sunlight and icy gusts spilling off the mountains, heat bubbles up to the surface of your skin. 

You know that once he’s finished, you’ll go back to the motel for the rest of the night. Given the thick layer of grime you each accumulated throughout the day, showers will likely be in order. Which, of course, means stripping down to nothing while he’s in the bathroom with you. And vice versa, probably. 

Your imagination wanders to his naked body and how it would feel against yours. What if you argued in favor of water conservation, asking him to join you in the shower? What if he agreed? How would he look at you without those sunglasses covering his eyes? How would he touch you if morals weren’t involved? 

Din climbs down off the ladder and walks over, taking off his cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead, “Is that it for today?”

He replaces the hat and takes off his aviators, cleaning the lenses with his shirt as he meets your gaze. The full force of his big brown eyes turns your saliva tacky and makes your heart stutter. He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. 

Fuck, did he ask you something? 

“Is that—? Oh, um,” you clear your throat, then nod, “Yep, that should do it. Thank you, I appreciate it.” 

Flicking his eyes around your face, he nods, then turns back to the drop cloth, where he starts consolidating all the painting supplies. 

With his legs stretched out across the perimeter of the bathroom’s tile flooring, back resting against the tub, Din types ‘Tom Boucheron’ into the search bar of a Portland-based web forum. 

The search yields 83 matches. He starts sifting through the results, scrolling past subject lines that indicate general complaints about property management like rising rent and evictions and gentrification. Every once and a while he comes across subject lines that take on a more conspiratorial tone, though, mentioning the weight of his influence or his ties to police presence throughout the city. When he finds these posts, he clicks on the thread, copying and pasting the urls into a separate document. 

He can delve deeper into these later, once he’s able to better focus. But right now, with the roaring cascade of the shower behind him and your enthusiastic rendition of Tiny Dancer by Elton John, this mechanical sorting is the maximum concentration he can muster. 

Squinting at the screen, he wipes away the fog forming on his tablet. Moisture reclaims the area just as soon as it clears. He sighs and turns off the device when your vocals start ramping up to a volume he can’t ignore. 

“—But oh how it feels so real, lying here with no one near. Only you, and you can hear meeee, when I say softlyyyy, slooowly—”

“Are you almost done?” 

“You ruined the best part.” 

“We’re going to get a noise complaint.” 

You scoff, then he hears the thunk of you turning off the water. In his peripheries, your arm stretches out from behind the shower curtain to snatch the folded white towel off the toilet lid. 

A few seconds later, the curtain pulls back and you announce, “I’m decent.” 

He climbs to his feet while you step out of the tub, one hand securing the bath towel around your body, the other grabbing his arm for balance. Once sure-footed on the pink tiles, you let go and murmur, "Sorry,” before opening the door and padding off into the motel room. 

Grogu runs into the bathroom to investigate as Din slips out and takes a seat at the foot of the bed. He tries to anchor his vision to the floor, but finds his gaze drifting towards your movements out the corner of his eye. Humming to yourself, you comb your fingers through dripping wet hair and pull a few articles of clothing from your backpack. 

“Are you gonna hop in too?” 

His eyes tick to yours as you turn around, clutching a pile of clothing to your chest. 

“Because, you know… if you need me to be in there with you or whatever, that’s fine,” you cast your gaze to the floor with a shrug.

He studies your bashful demeanor for a moment before responding, “I’ll have you sit in there with me once you get dressed.” 

Without looking up, you give him a nod and walk over to the bathroom. As you put on clothing, Din uses all his will power to stare at the ground. 

“What do you wanna do after that? We could watch a movie.” 

His eyes cheat to the mirror on the wall, where he watches your reflection wrestle with a t-shirt. He catches a glimpse of your bare back before returning to the floor and clearing his throat. 

“I thought you weren’t much of a movie person.” 

“Well,” your footsteps soften onto the carpet, then your voice is closer, “If you have a better idea of how to pass the time in a seedy roadside motel, I’m open to suggestions.” 

He meets your heated gaze long enough for something to spark deep within his belly. The air between your body and his thickens with a palpable magnetism. His lips part to respond, but only one suggestion plays over and over again in his head. The mad yapping of that thing in his chest. 

Before he can say or do something stupid, though, you look away and start fidgeting, “So, I’m dressed. Are you ready?” 

Swallowing his tight throat, he pushes himself to his feet and locks eyes with you, “Go sit where I just was and put your head between your knees.” 

“Wow, you’re taking this very seriously.”  

“Let’s just get it over with, ok?”

You roll your eyes a little, but acquiesce. 

Din trails behind you into the bathroom, shooing the dog from the room before closing the door. When he turns around, he finds you curled up on the floor, back pressed to the tub basin with your face buried in your knees. 

“Like this?” 

“Perfect. Stay like that, I won’t take long.” 

For some reason he expected you would stay quiet while he disrobed, but you just continue talking as if you were accompanying him on any other menial task. 

“I think it’s funny how you have me do this whole thing so I don’t see your dick, but when I need privacy, the most you give me is a turned back.” 

Din glances at the top of your head while unbuckling his utility belt, then turns to spread it out across the bathroom counter, “That’s not the only reason I’m having you do this.” 

“Then why?”

“Are you familiar with the concept of involuntary captivity?” 

While you scoff and most likely try to come up with a rebuttal, he shucks off his flannel overshirt, then unfastens his shoulder holster and lines it up on the counter below the outspread belt. His hands work without much thought as he systematically unloads all three of his pistols. Eject the magazine, count the rounds, check the chamber.

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Ignoring the question, he moves the unloaded guns and utility belt to a high shelf over the toilet, then pulls off his undershirt. 

“Can you at least confirm you’re not gearing up to murder me right now?” 

If he wanted to tear your frayed edges, he could mention that you were begging him to do exactly that less than 48 hours ago. But since you’re somehow more irritating when in a foul mood, he doesn’t. 

“If I was going to kill you I would have already.” He turns on the shower and takes a step back to make sure you’re still covering your eyes, then takes off his pants. 

“Would you do it if you had to?” 

The question gives him pause as he pulls back the shower curtain. 

“Why would I have to?” 

“I don’t know, because they asked you to do it.” 

He frowns, “I wouldn’t do it just because someone asked me to.” 

“You wouldn’t?” 

The hopeful air in your voice eats at his stomach lining. Instead of answering or clarifying what he meant, he steps into the shower. 

“Ok, but let’s say they gave you a good reason, and you were going to do it… kill me, I mean. How would you do it?” 

“I’m not going to tell you that.” 

“Why not?” 

He shakes his head and grabs a bar of soap off the shower ledge and starts to lather it against his skin. 

“Are you ignoring me or thinking?” 

“Ignoring you.” 

“You know, I appreciate the honesty.“ Then, after a few seconds: “I promise not to leak your trade secrets, big guy. Come on, how would you do it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

With this, you go quiet. 

Silence fills the bathroom for the remainder of his time in the shower, but Din’s thoughts are as loud and intrusive as your questions. 

His mind becomes populated with scenarios in which you would end up in the sights of his pistol. Under what circumstances would he pull the trigger? 

He imagines you stealing from him. He imagines trying to escape. He imagines it coming down to you or the money. He even goes so far as to imagine it coming down to you or him. 

But each time the imaginary him goes to take aim, he falters. 

While Din tosses a bag of popcorn in the microwave, you survey the Room 10’s VHS collection. 

“Ok let’s see,” you tilt your head sideways and read the titles, “Aladdin, Batman Returns, Twister—”

“You choose.” 

Beeps sound from the microwave, then it hums to life. 

You pull Aladdin from the shelf and admire the familiar cover art. Little flakes of deteriorated plastic break off the exterior and stick to your fingertips when you trace the title. You wince and mumble an apology to the inanimate object before prying it open to pull out the tape. 

After feeding it to the VCR, you press rewind and hold up the cover to Din, “Ever seen this?”

When he takes a step closer to examine it, you note the details you’re not normally privy to. His damp curls and the heat of his pulse. Mostly, though, you become fixated on his eyes. Those devastatingly dark and warm eyes. His heavy brow and hooded lids, all the lines of age creeping out from the corners. 

He meets your gaze and you swear you hear the snap of his full attention locking onto you when he frowns, “Can’t say I have.” 

Somewhere far away, the popcorn starts popping. You feel yourself succumbing to his gravitational pull, subconsciously drifting towards him, and can’t really remember if you had a point in mind when you asked. 

“It’s-it’s good,” you nod, letting your eyes drift to his mouth for a moment before you shrug, “I mean, from what I remember at least. I was obsessed with it when I was a kid. It drove my grandma crazy cuz I’d make her watch it on repeat…” 

It doesn’t really register how much information you’re disclosing until his eyes get all wide and doughy, at which point you take a step away from him and tuck your hair behind your ear, “Sorry, um, anyway. I liked it.” 

He chuckles, causing you to grin, “What?”

“Nothing.” 

His face tells you it’s definitely not nothing. It’s something if you’ve ever seen it. Something so gooey and hot it makes you ache. Dangerous, that’s what it is. 

The VCR clicks and shifts gears, then the TV lights up with disclaimers. Taking it as a sign from above, you start back towards the bed and tease, “I totally get why you wear the sunglasses, by the way. Your eyes give everything away.” 

Rather than admit you’re right, Din raises an eyebrow at you, then turns around to pull the microwave open before the timer reaches zero. While you slide under the covers and prop the flimsy pillows up behind your back, he pries open the steaming hot bag of popcorn and brings it to you. 

“Thanks.”

He grunts in response and disappears into the bathroom for a few seconds, returning with the shiny metal handcuffs, “Lights on or off?”

“Off.”

When the lights go out, the dog jumps onto the bed, spinning around a few times before curling up into an adorable white ball. Din tosses the cuffs to your side as he crawls into bed beside you. Once you think he’s settled in, you offer him some popcorn, which he accepts. 

“Do I have to put them on right now?” you ask, in reference to the cuffs. 

He frowns and shakes his head, “I can wait until you’re ready.” 

Nodding, you study his profile in the dim illumination from the TV. You don’t even realize you’re staring at him like a full-on creep until he says, “Stop giving me goo-goo eyes and watch the movie.” 

Embarrassment flares up your neck and cheeks. You scoff, “I am not giving you goo-goo eyes,” and wriggle deeper under the covers, diverting your gaze to the TV. 

I will not look at him for the rest of the night, you vow. Even if he asks me to, or talks to me, I won’t look at his stupid face until the sun comes up tomorrow. 

You almost fulfill the vow, too. 

Well… almost might be an exaggeration, but you make it to the end credits and that’s further than you really believed you could make it. 

With the motel room all dark save for the faintest glow from the credits rolling onscreen, he asks, “Are you awake?”

You remind yourself of your promise and try to ignore him. If you say something, you’ll look at him. And if you look at him, you lose. 

“Charlie?” he nudges you. 

Fuck. 

“Yeah,” you glance over, and of course you catch his eyes, “Is it handcuff time now?” 

He nods, almost apologetically. 

“Can I use the bathroom first?”

“Go ahead.” 

When you exit the bathroom and turn off the light, you find the room cloaked in darkness. The only reference point you have is the red glow of 9:12 on the alarm clock. You stretch your arms in front of you and start taking cautious steps towards it.  

“Oh my god, I can’t see shit.” 

“Want me to turn the lamp on?” 

“No, I’ve got it.” 

Your fingertips brush up against the bedspread, then you follow the alarm clock beacon to the side table. 

“Here.” 

His hand finds yours in the darkness. You grab ahold of it, trying your very hardest not to dwell on the warmth of his palm against yours as he gently guides you. When you finally settle between the sheets, he releases your hand. You almost wish he didn’t. 

“Ready?” 

“Sure.” 

He closes the cold heavy steel around your wrist, then his. For a while, neither of you move. Anxious energy buzzes beneath your skin. You close your eyes in an attempt to trick yourself into being tired, but it only makes you notice how fucking quiet it is. 

Resigning from your motionless state, you start wriggling around in an attempt to get comfortable. Din is accommodating while you do this, letting his wrist ragdoll wherever you drag it. You lie facing the wall for a while, fondling the knife you have tucked under the pillow. It doesn’t feel right. You flip onto your back and stare at the ceiling. Same problem. 

Then, when you can’t stand it anymore—the dark, the quiet, the nerves—you roll on your side facing him. 

“Din.” 

“What?” 

“I can’t fall asleep.” 

He doesn’t say anything. 

“Din.” 

“What?”

“I said I can’t fall asleep.” 

“I heard you the first time. What do you expect me to do about it?” 

You open your mouth to ask him to fuck you, but nerves rob your tongue. 

“Just talk to me for a while.” 

“About what?”

“I dunno, whatever you want.” You tuck your cuffed hand beneath your cheek and scoot a little closer.

His silence holds the weight of contemplation, so you prompt him, “What would your genie wishes be?” 

“Hang on, let me think.” 

A few quiet seconds go by before he clears his throat and rolls on his side to face you. The back of his cuffed hand rests against yours, which brings you a shred of comfort. 

“Financial security. Property rights to some land and a house, something out in the country.” 

“Like a farm?” 

“Something like that. Self-sustainable and off the grid. Maybe get a few animals and so I could live off the land.” 

“That’s the dream, right? Fuck off to the middle of nowhere and not have to rely on anyone?” 

“Yeah, that’s the dream.” 

You hum, then ask, “What’s wish number three?” 

“I… I’d rather not say.” 

Your gut instinct is to push back, but you resist the urge and instead tell him, “That’s fine.” 

“Thank you.” 

There’s enough sincerity in his voice that a tinge of guilt twists in your belly, and you feel obligated to bring up an earlier conversation. 

“I’m sorry, by the way. For pushing you to answer me when you were in the shower. Sometimes I don’t know when it’s time to shut the fuck up and let it be.” 

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” 

“Ok,” you wiggle around a bit and manage to find the perfect position, then close your eyes and release a content sigh. 

“What are yours?” he asks. 

“Mmmm… you know, I’ve thought a lot about this question—” A yawn swells in your chest, cutting you off. When it passes, your limbs feel heavy and warm. You continue, “I’d wish for the genie to be free.”

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, “And what else, world peace? An end to climate change?” 

“I hear your snark, sir, and I don’t appreciate it. No, I wouldn’t wish for world peace or the end of climate change. I wouldn’t wish for anything. Tricky bastard can keep his wishes, I make my own luck.” 

“Tricky bastard, huh?” 

Another yawn takes over. Lethargy seeps through your body, making your worlds come out slow and murmured. 

“Yeah, y’know… all the, umm… the fine print. Too many strings attached, I don’t trust ‘em.” 

“You sound tired.” 

You hum, snuggling deeper into your pillow, “You sound tired.” 

“Get some sleep, kid. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” 

“Mmmkay,” you mumble, “Sweet dreams, Din.”