Michael De Santa/Reader one-shot. Set around the end of the game. No gender pronouns. Influenced by Lana Del Rey's song, "Shades Of Cool".

The two of you first met one humid morning at a bustling Bean Machine in West Vinewood. The man introduced himself by the name of Michael as he occupied the empty, wooden chair to your left. The gall of this stocky man, after only ten minutes of casual conversation, to place a hand on your thigh and give it a gentle squeeze. You couldn't see it beneath the table and you hadn't been concerned enough with his introduction to spot it earlier, but you could very well feel the cool, hard nodule of what you assumed to be a wedding band pressing against the fabric of your denim jeans.

You had even smiled politely and brushed his thick hand away. It was only then that he stood, making you feel infinitesimal in a matter of milliseconds. The half smirk, half smile on his worn, handsome face didn't help the nausea tickling at the back of your throat. The mild-mannered mask you displayed through the uneasiness must have made for a fantastic cover. That, or this jackal just didn't have a care or consideration for his spouse as he wrote a phone number down on a napkin then pressed it into the palm of your hand during his goodbye handshake.

When you made it home after work that evening, you withdrew the wrinkled napkin from your pocket and stuck it to your refrigerator with a magnet. His voice echoed in your head and he had a weird accent which clung on to certain words, which wound up sticking to you. You stayed behind your boundary through the next few days. You had half a mind to begin digging as best you could in order to find this man's lover and let them know what he was up to and that they deserved better. And even though you walked past that napkin day in and day out without picking up the phone, he reclaimed his seat with you at the same busy Bean Machine exactly a week later.

Michael took the seat across from you this time. He didn't touch you once as you both discussed the weather. He kept his hands wrapped around the bleach white mug in front of him, but you could tell the gesture alone was itching at him. Part of you grew disgusted. The other part was too busy feeding off the pressure he was emitting to get closer. You could see it clearly now. The pale yellow band wrapped around one of his thick fingers. It glistened like some sort of trophy. You wanted to ask why he was doing what he was doing.

However, you never did. Week after week, you waged war with yourself. It was just coffee, you mentally reasoned. Week after week, he kept returning to the shop. It was like clockwork, every seventh day. You're just talking. You had't even realize you had begun to look forward to it. Sitting across from this man for almost an hour had been warped into some subconscious reward for surviving the week.

I play tennis. I love to golf. No way, golf isn't boring. You should try it some day. I'll be making movies soon. I know a guy, that's how. I wish it would rain less. Yeah, I know it barely rains, but oh when it does? It fucking pours and it feels like my entire life. I was sort of retired. Haha, I'm not that old. It's called experience and maybe a little bit of cunning... Well, what about you?

And that was where something about his bright blue eyes always diced you to pieces. When the conversation pivoted your way. Every time you talked about yourself, he listened like he was in the front row of a Presidential Inauguration. His arms were often crossed or propped on the table, crinkling his expensive looking suit - he always wore a suit - but never touching you. It struck you as odd but it would only transform into another notch on the list of things you never questioned him about. He was a man of a certain business. He wasn't malleable and you knew it already.

Divorce.

The word stuck out further than anything else he had ever said. He appeared to be rubbed the wrong way, but he still buzzed after he claimed his seat at the small table another day. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes always grew deep from his laughter at your stories when you attempted to cheer up the flat tone slipping into his voice these days. Whenever it didn't work, he let out a sigh or two. He still wouldn't talk about his lover, or soon to be ex-lover, but he felt comfortable enough with time and you to bring up this one personal aspect. Your curiosity was starting to turn into a physical pain. And ever since he dropped the news about the D-bomb two weeks ago, you let yourself give him more attention.

You noticed how he licked his bottom lip and used it to wet the top. You noticed how he scratched at his cheeks, stubble or not, when he was contemplating on anything. You noticed the slight tick he had in his neck. His cuff-links were adorned with the letter P and were more than likely from a store you had never ventured into. He wasn't from around here, not originally. You wanted him to sit right next to you again. You wondered what his hand looked like without the ring. Did the gray hair come from the marriage? Just how terrible did it have to be to seek divorce? How did they meet? Was it in a coffee shop, just like this? Can he touch you again? Can you replace what he was going to lose soon?

The thought scared the hell out of you. It surprised you all the same. You knew it was there, brewing. You had been squelching it down for months upon months now and although he hadn't talked about his aforementioned divorce a single time after its initial announcement, you had ran with the information. Perhaps once it was finished, the two of you would get together more than once a week. Outside of the coffee shop, too. It would be a while. He would have to recover, but you would be there by his side every step of the way. You planned on it. You even stood in the mirrors at home and practiced.

I care about you... Michael, I have feelings for you... Mike, I think I like you...

There were butterflies in your stomach the next time you sat at your usual table at Bean Machine. You felt anxious and excited. You had news to break. For once, maybe you would steer the conversation into uncharted territory. However, when he sat in front of you with a long sigh, you couldn't even mutter the words you had rehearsed at home. Instead, you found yourself gawking at the green bruise about his eye socket, the sutures in his brow, and a red welt along his cheekbone. His right arm was in a sling.

My, uh, ex-wife... She hired a few men to jump me, he explained after you asked if he would be okay. We shouldn't be out like this. I don't want you to get hurt. Can you meet me somewhere?

Anywhere.

Anywhere turned out to be room 11B at a dingy motel in west Los Santos. When you pushed through the door, you found him sitting on the edge of a double bed covered in floral print sheets. His eyes were glued to the old television on the dresser across the room. You offered over one of the coffee cups in your grasp, but he declined. You sat beside him and sipped your own warm drink. The two of you were silent when you suddenly grew aware of the fact both of you were along for the first time. At one point, you had had dozens of things to discuss with the stick-straight man, but now your tongue was dry and glued to the roof of your mouth. You fidgeted, nervous. Michael reached over, placed his hand over yours, and gave it a reassuring pat. You could feel the coolness of his wedding band again. On the inside, you had slowly grew anxious for the day he would take it off, but for now, you were content with finally feeling his touch again.

Crazy, isn't it?

What?

He gestured to the television where a news anchor was spitting out information about a shootout in a meat factory in Cypress Flats. Michael said something about life, but your heart had been beating too loud in your ears for you to hear. His hand was still on top of yours. You had to go to work in a few hours. His eyes finally broke away from the television and met yours before darting down to your lips. Your cheeks burned.

"What're you thinking about?" he asked.

"Whether I should kiss you or not," you quietly let out, to which he rumbled out a chuckle.

"Don't you want to?"

"I do, but should I?"

"You can..."

His passive answer plucked at a few nerves, but you could feel that cool band on your face as he brushed at your cheek and nothing had ever felt as painfully soothing. It didn't take but a small push for your lips to end up on his. Finally. He jerked away with a wince as you pressed hard against him. Your cheeks flushed with heat.

"Sorry-"

"It's fine. It's..." he carefully wriggled the sling over his head then stretched out his arm. You watched, both worried and awe stricken.

"I'm fine," he said before pulling you closer. Your eyes flickered over his visible bruises and welts. God only knows how much else he was hiding.

"Everything's fine. Don't worry about it. I'm fine," he reiterated.

It had been one week since you laid down in room 11B with Michael. Your hands felt as cold as the wedding band had felt against the skin of your bare back and shoulders. You gripped the cup tighter in your hands, clinging to the warmth of the caramel espresso in front of you. Thunder from overhead gently rattled the quiet, tiny shop. A woman pushed her way into Bean Machine, shaking her damp umbrella. Droplets of water flecked your tabletop, rousing a grimace out of you.

"Sorry," she nonchalantly shot over her shoulder in your direction. "Come on, Michael. I'm freezing!"

"Mandy. I'm moving as fast as I can, my darling."

Your eyes closed and you held your breath. You waited for the chair opposite you to scrape against the tiled floor as your ill-fitted suitor claimed his usual seat. You waited for his body heat to radiate across the small table and consume your frame. None of that ever came. You knew it never would, but you let it happen anyway. You knew it last week as soon as he let "I don't want you to get hurt" leave his lips. And now, you were hurt.

You finally opened your eyes, exhaling through your nostrils. He stood in line with a dark-haired woman who was going on about how long it was taking for their order to be filled. There are a half dozen cafes on this side of town and you bring her to this one, you think. And at this exact time of day. Of course. He wanted to get a point across. He wanted get one thing clear and blow the smoke out from over the water. You took a sip of your drink in an attempt to do away with the goosebumps pricking up beneath your jacket.

A week ago, you had been so warm alongside him in a scratchy, foreign bed. You began to wonder if the divorce had even been real or if he felt bad about anything he had done in the previous months. You looked away as he pulled the dark-haired woman into a hug. Of course he didn't feel bad. Look at him. When you turned your attention his way once more, he had an arm wrapped around her lower back and was pressing his lips to the side of her face in a succulent kiss you felt he owed to you. His wounds were faded, almost gone. He wasn't wearing a suit, donned instead in denim jeans and a carefree Hawaiian shirt. Of course he didn't feel anything. His icy blue eyes were distant and cold, but focused in your direction. You hadn't been concerned enough when the two of you first met to try to spot it earlier, but now, it was as clear as the sky had been the day you two met - you realized his gaze had always been as cold as the pale yellow band around his finger.