Prologue
Orren’s fingers drummed against the chipped Formica tabletop, each tap echoing like a misfiring piston in the cramped silence of Easter’s studio flat. Rain outside lashed the single-pane window, distorting the neon sign across the street into a smear of pink and green. He’d rehearsed this in front of his bathroom mirror three times, throat dry as the potted cactus wilting on her windowsill. Now the words lodged in his trachea, sharp as a fishbone. His foot started to twitch, joining the rhythm section of his fingers, as if his body was trying to invent some new, awkward dance—the Orren Shuffle. Easter slouched in the sagging armchair, combat boots propped on an upturned crate, peeling the label off a bottle of Polish lager with her thumbnail. Her gaze flicked to him—brief, assessing—before returning to the task. He was the human embodiment of a car alarm going off in the middle of the night—loud, obnoxious, and impossible to ignore. And yet, there was something oddly endearing about him, like watching a trainwreck in slow motion. You couldn’t look away because, deep down, you were rooting for the bastard to pull through, even if you knew he’d probably fuck it up worse than a nun at a poker game.
“You’re twitchier than a meth-head at a police auction,” She says in encouragement. “Spit it out, yeah?” He cleared his throat. Even the cactus seemed to lean in in anticipation.
“I, uh… wondered if you’d maybe… consider. With me. Not like—not like properly, just… experimental. Hypothetical.” His Adam’s apple bobbed like it was trying to escape the prison of his neck. “Sex.”
The label tore. Easter set the bottle down, careful now, like she was handling a live grenade. “Hypothetical… sex.” Her mouth twitched, one corner pulling up. “That the posh way of saying you want to fumble through it like toddlers in a ball pit?”
Orren’s neck burned as he swallowed hard with sound of a sink draining. He stared at the bottle, then at her boots, then at his own hands, like he’d never seen fingers before. Easter rolled her thumb over the shredded label, keeping her eyes on the job. “Just so I’m clear: you’re suggesting we have a go, but only in theory. Like a fire drill with more sweating.”
He coughed. “Not… entirely in theory.”
“Right.” She leaned back, boots thunking onto the cracked plastic crate, looking him up and down as if deciding whether to fix his nerves with a wrench or just leave him to short-circuit. “You do know I’m not the romantic type, yeah? I don’t do fireworks. You want poetry, find a different disaster.”
Orren shook his head. “No, no poetry. I just—” He stopped, chasing the right words and coming up empty. He focused on the water stain blooming across her ceiling, slowly eating through plywood wall with stapled pictures of engines. “I’ve read theory. Kinsey, Masters-Johnson, some… diagrams.”
“Diagrams.” She snorted, rolling to her feet. The floorboards creaked protest as she crossed to him, the scent of diesel and spearmint gum cutting through the damp plaster smell. Her calloused thumb brushed his jawline, tilting his face up. “Orren. Look at me.”
He did. Her pupils looked like someone had punched holes in her eyes, all focus and calculation—the same look she wore while breaking down an engine block. Clinical. Curious. “You want to learn,” she said, not unkindly. “Like changing spark plugs. Hands-on. Won’t be neat.”
He nodded, jaw clenched so hard he felt it in his molars. Easter stepped back, yanking her grease-stained Henley over her head. She popped her bra loose with a flick, like she was clocking out after a long shift—efficient, no drama.
“Ground rules,” she said, steady as a torque wrench. “No love letters, no declarations. No pet names. If we cock it up and laugh, we roll with it. Deal?”
Orren’s fingers trembled on his shirt buttons. “What if I… malfunction?”
“Then we troubleshoot. No mystery there.” She kicked her jeans into the corner where a stack of car manuals served as a bedside table. “But if you start quoting Kinsey or any of that sex-lab shite while we’re in the middle of it, I’ll revoke your meal privileges.”
He choked on something between a laugh and a whimper, half mortified, half relieved. The fluorescent tube overhead buzzed, making the only sound in the small room. He tried not to look at her body, failed, then tried to look casual about it. Never in his life had he felt so much like a kid at his first job interview. Outside, the neon sign blinked out, plunging them into the liquid dark. Easter’s bare feet slapped against floorboards worn smooth by a decade of pacing. The neon resurrection across the street bathed her in intermittent magenta, turning the scar along her ribcage into a hieroglyph Orren couldn’t parse. He finally managed to fumble his shirt open, third shirt button pinged off the radiator. He felt like an idiot, but then, he’d signed up for this.“That’s hopefully a good sign,” she scoffs, toeing the button into the void beneath the fridge. Her hands—still faintly grimed with gear oil—closed over his. “Christ, you’re shaking like a shitting dog. Breathe.”
She’d already gone bare from the waist up, standing there with her shoulders back, shaped by years of hauling engine parts and fighting off anyone dumb enough to cross her.
“You all right over there, or do I need to get the jaws of life?” Her voice cut through the dark, blunt and practical as ever.He tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. “I’m—I’m fine. This is just… new territory. Uncharted.”“Not for long.” Easter jerked her chin at the cot, metal frame creaking under their combined weight when they sat. Orren’s elbow connected with the cactus pot. Easter caught it mid-swing, her snort warm against his ear. “S’alright. Thing’s been suicidal since I rescued it from B&Q.” Exhaled a stuttered apology. Her thumb found the notch between his collarbones, pressing as a mechanic testing suspension give. Theory evaporated. Kinsey never mentioned how beautiful a woman’s neck curved with tension, like a cable straining against a heavy load, how a swallowed moan vibrated against teeth. Easter’s knee jammed into his thigh as she rolled them sideways, her curse muffled against his shoulder. “Fuck’s sake—your hipbone’s trying to stab my liver.”
“Sorry, I—”
“Don’t.” Her teeth grazed his earlobe. “Just shift your—there. Now we’re not auditioning for Casualty.” She pressed her palm to his chest, steadying him. “Just remember—if this goes sideways, you don’t get to file an incident report.”
He snorted, nerves buzzing just under his skin. She leaned in, close enough that he could smell soap, sweat, and old engine oil. Not a hint of perfume. Nothing soft.Orren’s glasses fogged. Easter plucked them off with a click of tongue against teeth. “Better. Was starting to feel like I’m shagging a nervous librarian.” “I am a—” Her mouth cut him off, all spearmint and impatience. The cactus toppled with a thud. Easter snorted. “Relax. You’re tenser than a torque wrench.” Her thumb circled the dip of his hip.
“Bloody hell, you’re smoother than a fresh piston.” “Exfoliate,” he croaked. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her palm skating southward with deliberate slowness. Orren’s brain short-circuited between this is happening, and oh god, the diagrams lied. When her fingers brushed the wiry thatch below his navel, he jerked like she’d hooked him to a jump lead.
“Steady.” Her voice held the same flat patience she used explaining carburettors. “You’ll crack your skull on the headboard.”
“Sorry, I—”
“Stop apologising to your own dick.”
A hysterical giggle burst from him. Easter’s mouth twitched, the closest she’d come to a proper smile all night. Outside, the rain shifted tempo, drumming a samba rhythm on the rusted AC unit.
Her hands were warmer than he expected. Softer, too, despite the ground-in grease under her nails. Orren’s hips stuttered upward of their own accord, chasing the friction. Easter clicked her tongue. “Easy. You’re not pumping brake fluid.”
“But the—”
“Theory’s bollocks here.” Her thumb pressed just shy of brutal under his jaw. “Breathe through it. Like getting tattooed.”
He tried. Failed. Tried again. The fluorescent tube’s buzz synced with the blood roaring in his ears. When her fist moved, it wasn’t the clinical motion from Kinsey’s line drawings—it was all Easter, rough and rhythmic as a diesel idle. His fingers scrabbled at the sheets.
Easter moved first, efficient, not tender—setting the pace, making sure things didn’t stall. She nudged him down, the mattress groaning like it hated both of them, and straddled his legs without ceremony.
“Hands,” she muttered, grabbing his wrists and placing them where she wanted—no room for confusion. He let out the air in his lungs and did as he was told. For a moment, he forgot about his father, the council, the rules—all of it. There was just the two of them, the battered cot, the hum of the outpost, and the ugly thrill of being alive in a place that mostly wanted to kill you.Outside, something heavy thudded against the wall—probably a supply crate flying with the wind. Orren thought about making a joke, but Easter’s mouth was already on his, shutting down any clever comments.
In the end, it wasn’t neat.
When Orren fumbled, she adjusted him without comment, like tightening a bolt that had come loose. Rain blurred the world beyond the streaked glass. The fluorescent tube buzzed like an angry hornet trapped in its fitting.
“See?” she said, hair in her eyes, voice rough from laughing. “Not theory. Real life. Messy as hell, like bleeding radiators. But it counts.”He nodded, still catching his breath. “Yeah. It counts.”
