Julien and Romain in the newsroom

“Don’t publish that.”

Romain’s voice cuts through the silence of the room, clearer than the buzz of the servers behind the glass partition. He’s placed both palms on Julien’s desk, close enough that their breaths mingle. The screen between them still displays the raw feed: a name, a time, an address that no one should have seen before dawn. The rest of the newsroom has left. All that remains is the cold light of the monitors and the smell of burnt coffee clinging to their shirts.

Julien doesn’t back away. He looks up, slowly, and the gaze he locks with Romain’s holds no hint of refusal. Twenty years in the field have sculpted the same physique in both of them: broad shoulders, thick necks, veiny forearms peeking out from rolled-up sleeves. Romain feels the heat rising from this closeness. He should have spoken more quietly. He can’t bring himself to do it.

“It’s mine,” says Julien. “I’ve checked. Three sources. You know that.”

“What I know for sure is that if you spill the beans now, we’ll both end up in the line of fire.”

Romain leans in again. The wood of the desk creaks under his weight. Their foreheads almost brush against each other. Julien smells the aftershave, the sweat of the day, that tension that has nothing to do with the scoop anymore. For weeks now, every argument has ended with them getting too close. Every silence lasts too long. Tonight, the pretext has a name, but the real issue lies elsewhere—in the way Romain is looking at his mouth.

Julien stands up. The chair rolls backward. They’re standing there, chest to chest, and the desk is nothing more than a ridiculous obstacle. Romain doesn’t move. He waits. It’s Julien who places his hand on the back of Romain’s neck, his fingers firm, his thumb against the warm skin.

“Do you want to stop me from publishing,” he whispers, “or do you want something else?”

The answer doesn’t come in words. Romain grabs him by the shirt, pulls him close, and their mouths lock with the brutality of a disagreement held back for too long. It isn’t gentle. Teeth clash, breaths catch, and Julien responds with the same hunger. He opens his mouth, letting Romain’s tongue slip inside, and a low, almost shameful groan escapes him, only to be immediately stifled. Their hips collide. Beneath the fabric, everything is already hard, obvious, impossible to deny.

They pull apart for a second, just long enough to look at each other. Their pupils dilated, their lips moist, their shirts askew. Romain nods once, clearly. Julien does too.

“Here,” says Romain. “Now. No one’s coming back until six.”

Julien pushes him against the glass partition. There’s a dull thud. Romain spreads his legs, welcoming him, and his hands slide down, unfastening Julien’s belt with a sure gesture. The metal clicks. Julien does the same, less patiently, and when his palm closes around Romain—first through his boxers, then without them—the other’s breath crashes against his ear.

Damn.

They caress each other face to face, foreheads pressed together, without trying to be elegant. The skin is warm, taut, alive beneath their fingers. Julien squeezes just enough to make Romain’s thighs tremble, then lets go, starts again, finding the rhythm that the other returns stroke for stroke. Their cocks rub together, heavy, already slick with desire. Romain spits into his palm, goes back to work, and the contact becomes more direct, wetter. Julien swears through clenched teeth.

The glass feels cold against Romain’s back. Up front, everything is on fire. He grabs Julien’s buttocks, spreads them apart through his lowered pants, and Julien understands. He turns halfway around, rests his forearms on the desk, offering the curve of his back, the arch of his lower back. Romain stops, his hand flat between Julien’s shoulder blades.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go ahead. I want you.”

Romain takes his time. Saliva, fingers, slow pressure. Julien breathes through his mouth, his forehead pressed against the wood, and pushes back when it’s enough. The entrance is wide, burning, almost too much. Romain thrusts in short, jerky strokes, one hand on Julien’s hip, the other under his stomach to hold him steady. When he’s all the way in, they remain still, giving their bodies time to adjust. Then Julien moves first.

The pace picks up quickly. The desk scrapes against the floor. The monitors shake. Romain hits the spot just right, deep, and each thrust wrings a sound from Julien that he no longer tries to hold back. The empty room echoes with their voices, the slap of flesh, the rustle of shirts still draped over their shoulders. Romain leans in, his mouth against the nape of Julien’s neck, and whispers his name like a threat and a prayer.

Julien touches himself at the same time, his fist clenched, in sync. The tension of the night, the scoop, the fear—it all converges there, in this back-and-forth motion that knows no restraint. Romain picks up the pace. His fingers dig into his hip. Julien feels the wave coming—too soon and right on time.

“I’m going to…”

“Me too. Look at me.”

Julien turns his head. Their eyes lock just as he gives in. He comes in his hand, long and spasmodic, while Romain empties himself inside him in hoarse, jerky bursts, his forehead pressed against Julien’s shoulder, Julien’s name broken between two gasps. They remain entwined, trembling, until their heart rates slow.

Romain withdraws carefully. He grabs some tissues from the desk, wipes up, and tidies up without a single unnecessary word. Julien gets dressed, his legs still weak. On the screen, the cursor blinks at the end of the document.

Romain places two fingers under his chin, forcing him to look at him. His voice is low, but it no longer trembles.

“Post it. At six o’clock. And then, come over to my place. We’re not done yet.”

Julien smiles, barely, and clicks “send.”