⋆˚࿔ 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Las Vegas sparkles like the sun on the ocean, thousands of tiny sequins glittering beneath you, the colours mixing into a cacophony that makes the world seem almost dreamlike. From up here, the strip is merely a blur, as though someone had dragged their fingers across a wet painting, leaving the image hazy. 

The balcony is suspended perhaps 24 floors high; the glass railing is so clean that it’s like a trick to the eye and the flooring is so sleek that it must cost more than your own apartment. But it’s not the luxury you’re focused on. 

You’re sat on one of the plush chairs, legs curled beneath you, crystal glass clutched between your fingers as you swirl the amber liquid, ice clinking against the sides. Your eyes track Rusty languidly, the same way a cat watches a passing bird, with carefully concealed interest. 

He’s been pacing the length of the suite for nearing on an hour, occasionally stopping to write on the blueprint spread out on the coffee table before huffing and resuming his steps. An unlit cigarette hangs between his teeth, shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. 

You don’t interrupt, instead lifting the glass to your lips and taking a steady sip. The sound of the ice makes him pause, his focus shifting to your lazing figure on the balcony.

Something moves through his expression and you notice the tension leak from his shoulders. He tosses down the pen clutched tightly between his fingers, places the cigarette on the table and moves out to join you. 

The air is cooler out here, a stark contrast to the stuffy atmosphere of the casino. The only sound is the distant cadence of voices and traffic below and the gentle sound of your glass hitting the small table beside your chair. 

“Are you finished?” 

Rusty shrugs, dropping down into the chair beside you. It creaks and he reclines backwards, running a hand through his hair. “For now.” 

You hum, expecting nothing less. As though the action is purely absent, you push an unwrapped chocolate bar towards him, watching as he breaks a piece off. 

“Did you make any changes that will make this whole thing fall through?” 

He shakes his head. “Nothing that we can’t handle.”

You give him a knowing look, brows raised as a tacit understanding passes between you both. “Then there’s no need to keep overthinking it.” 

Rusty lets out a long exhale, as though he’s been carrying the entire weight of the world. He reaches over, picking up the other glass that you’d left for him an hour ago in hopes he’d join you. By now, the ice has melted, but he doesn’t seem to mind, taking a long sip. 

“You’re not cold out here?” He eyes your outfit: one of his shirts from the bottom of his suitcase, buttoned just enough to expose your collarbone and a pair of silk shorts. Yet you still manage to look the epitome of composed wealth. 

“No. It’s nice out here. Makes a change.” You gesture vaguely to the lucent lights below as if that says enough.

Rusty nods once. “Yeah.” 

You watch him for a few moments longer, leaning your head back against the plush cushion of the chair. His eyes roam over the way his shirt hangs from one of your shoulders and he takes another sip from his drink.

Before he can say anything more, you’re standing, feet pressing against the cool slate floor, walking towards him. You sit yourself sideways in his lap, arms winding loosely around his neck, head resting against his shoulder. 

One of his hands settles at your waist, holding you against him while the other still clutches his glass. His eyes meet yours, steeling grey in the lighting, though softer than the current that laps at the sand on a calm day. 

Carefully, as though he’s afraid of shattering the calm that has finally blanketed you both, he sets down his glass, hands moving to run over your arms, goosebumps prickling along the surface of your skin. 

“Thought you weren’t cold?” He mutters, lips brushing your forehead. 

“I’m not anymore.” You lean in, mouth pressing against his in a kiss so tender that it surprises you both. His fingers slip past the hem of the shirt, finding your bare skin, skimming over every dimple of your spine until he finally pauses between your shoulder blades. 

The pads of his fingers trace the delicate line of ink that decorates your skin, invisible to the world but clear as crystal to him, a familiar path conjured after so many hours of committing every detail of your body to memory. 

“Still there then?” You mumble into his collarbone, your tone carrying a teasing lilt that never fails to make a smile grace his features, however small. 

He hums into your hair. “Checked last night. It’s not going anywhere.” 

“What about yours?” You lace your fingers with his own, lifting his spare hand to the light, marvelling at the way the shadows wrap around him like ribbon, the light glittering off of his wedding band. His skin is marked with the exact same intricate ink. 

“Also there.” He confirms, pulling back enough to meet your gaze. 

“Good.” You nod, running a hand through his hair, head tilting as you admire every small thing about him: the way his eyes hold so much more than just business when he’s relaxed, the subtle tug of his lips when he’s trying not to grin, the tender way he watches you, hands trailing up your spine. 

You glance briefly out over the skyline, admiring the way the lights shimmer, people going about their lives as if yours weren't a permanent crossroads. 

“Three more days,” you muse aloud.

Rusty hums, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You nervous?” 

“No.” You glance down at him. “Just… Where are we going to go? After all this?” 

“Somewhere with a beach,” he says it with such conviction that you can’t help but wonder if he’s been thinking about this, about the after. “Maybe Italy.” 

“Italy?” You raise a brow, a small smile gracing your features. “Ambitious.” 

Rusty doesn’t deny it, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. “Yeah.” 

“We have to get past Benedict first.” 

He shrugs. “Benedict’s easy.” 

“What about Danny? You think he’s going to let you go off-grid without a word?” 

Rusty leans in once more, though he doesn’t kiss you, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. “Danny’s too busy trying to get his wife back. I just want to take mine to Italy and live by the water.” 

You laugh, though it’s soft and airy, filling the space around you like a song. “By the water? You sound like you’re planning on settling, Ryan.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, sweetheart.” He grins, unguarded and carrying an indelible sense of cortis. “I want to buy a boat neither of us can sail, drink expensive wine on a private beach and let you rob me blind every single day.” 

You smile against his lips. “That sounds an awful lot like settling.” 

Rusty only rolls his eyes, nudging your hip as he rises to a stand. He opens the sliding door with his foot, fixing you with a knowing glance. The sillage of his cologne clings to you, filling the space.  

“Don’t start.” He herds you inside with a hand at your lower back. “Bed. We have an early morning tomorrow.” 

You don’t argue, content to step into the airy confines of the suite, letting the balcony door slide shut behind you, shutting out the rest of the world and leaving the two of you to your own.

The evening is alive with the jaunty laughter of men drunk on spirits and life, wine sloshing over their goblets, voices rising and falling like the waves that crash upon the shore. Candlelight flickers across their faces, highlighting every scar and delighted crease of their expressions. Their songs are of hope, of the great son of Peleus, his name roared by hundreds of drunken voices like a battle cry until his glory is heard by the heavens. 

They do not notice that the man they sing for is not there. They don’t go searching for him or calling upon him. They simply bask in their own triumph, still wearing their sweat and the blood of soldiers like it is a prize in itself. 

You find him sitting alone on the beach, his silhouette impressive even in darkness, his shoulders a broad expanse of sun-kissed muscle, forearms resting on his knees. His head is bowed, sea-green eyes downcast to the sand beneath his feet. His hair is tangled from battle, matted with dirt and blood, and he is stripped entirely of his bronze, leaving him in nothing but a sleeveless tunic. 

If one did not know his name, he might look like any other exhausted soldier. 

The waves crash against the shoreline once more, the churning waters reflecting the glow of the pale moon above, silencing the camp’s roars and cheers as another song starts up. 

Achilles does not move. Not when the sand shifts under your feet. Not when you stop behind him, fingertips grazing the tight-knitted muscle of his back.

“You are thinking loudly.” Your voice cuts through the silence, carrying across the desolate space surrounding you. 

He inhales sharply, the breath catching in his throat. He does not flinch but when he finally exhales it’s jagged with barely concealed exhaustion. His shoulders drop beneath your touch, his head tilting back enough that the moon catches the sharp cut of his jaw, making him look as though he has been carved from marble. 

“They are singing my name.” It comes out as a meagre whisper—it isn’t filled with pride, nor is it a boast. Instead, the words are stained with exhaustion.

“That is what you wished for.” You lower yourself down beside him, eyeing the shortsword that lies in the sand. The bronze is stained crimson, tainted with the blood of Trojans. 

“I wished for glory.” He trails a blood-stained finger through the sand. “I did not know it would feel like this.” 

You trace the line of his jaw, watching the way it twitches beneath your touch. “You wish for peace instead?” 

“No.” The response is sharp, spoken without any doubt. He takes a fistful of sand, the grains falling between his fingers. “Peace is for those who fear death. I am not built for a quiet life. I do not want children who will bear my name. I do not want to be forgotten over time.” 

You gently pry his fingers apart and he relents beneath you, allowing you to brush the coarse grains from his skin without word. “You let your pride get in the way, Achilles.” 

His gaze finally lifts from the horizon, eyes snapping to meet your own, drowning you in the sea that Thetis created. The glint behind them is not anger, never towards you. Instead, it is alight with something akin to amusement, a challenge that only you could face, unmatched. 

“You say it as though it were a burden. My mother promised me a name that will outlive the stars themselves. I will be remembered through songs, through stories that will be passed through generations. Is it pride to want the prize I have been promised?”

Slowly, he laces his fingers with your own, placing your palm against the solid expanse of his chest until you feel the steady thump of his heart. 

“Tell me.” Your voice has dropped, barely above a whisper, carried by the sea breeze. “When they sing of the great Achilles, will they sing of this?” 

His brow does not furrow, but you notice the slightest change in his eyes, the way they soften imperceptibly. “Of what?” 

Your fingers shift against his chest, pressing more firmly. “Of his wife. Of the woman who seeks him out after each battle. Of the way his heart races and his breath comes jagged. Will they sing of the human or the beast?” 

His eyes turn back to the ocean, to the black waves that conceal all beneath them. Yet, his hand covers yours completely, concealing you in warmth until you feel nothing but the beat of his heart. “History does not care for the mortal man inside. Nor do they care for his wife.” 

You swallow once, leaning into his side, your head resting upon his shoulder. “And what of Patroclus?” 

His body goes rigid beneath you, his grip tightening enough to make you wince. He loosens it just as fast, thumb soothing your knuckles. “He will be remembered. But not the way we know him.” 

“Then how?” 

“They will make a warrior out of a man who only fought to protect people. They will sing our names in the same breath. They will not know of his kindness.” 

Your breath leaves you in a slow, defeated exhale. Slowly, you take his jaw in your hand, turning his face with enough force that he looks at you once more. For the first time in a long while, he looks every bit the exhausted man he is. 

The lines marring his features seem to soften, his lips set in a straight line. You brush a loose blonde lock from his forehead, lingering a few moments too long before resting your hand at the base of his neck. 

“History does not matter tonight.” You whisper, forehead pressing to his until the air that passes between you is reduced to nothing but a shared breath. “Tonight it is simply me and the mortal man before me. Not the legend, nor the beast. The one nobody will remember.” 

His eyes slip shut, easing into your touch as though you are the last gentle soul living. 

The roar of the camp suddenly feels distant, drowned by the gentle song of the waves as they lap closer to you both, the sea foam fizzing and the spray dusting your skin lightly. The moon continues to reflect off the surface, bathing you both in its pale glow. 

For the first time in a long while, Achilles allows himself a moment outside of the prophecy, simply basking in the warmth of your touch and the tender way your lips press to his own. 

The sun warms the pavement beneath your feet, aureate rays slicing across the concrete and causing shimmers of heat to rise up from the ground below. It warms your skin, making your clothes feel too tight and your hair stick to your face. 

You’ve been sitting on the bottom step of your porch for the best part of an hour, your focus trained solely on the house opposite. Rick Dalton’s property is something to admire, with its sprawling driveway and yellow cadillac parked carelessly outside. But it’s not the house you’re interested in—it’s the man who's been posted on the roof all afternoon, sweaty and sun-kissed, glowing beneath the rays. 

He’s been toying endlessly with the antenna, muscles rippling beneath his skin the same way waves cascade over a flat body of water—completely mesmerising and all-consuming of your attention. The sun catches his hair just right, the sharp edge of his jaw emphasised by perfectly cut shadows, every line marring his complexion worthy of a painting. 

You’re not entirely sure what possessed you to leave the safety of your step and you still don’t understand how you ended up standing at the foot of the ladder, two sweating drinks in hand, ice clinking against the glasses. 

“You sure you shouldn’t be in the shade?” Your voice is a sweet song, carrying up to the roof with the minimal breeze, and you don’t miss the smile that tugs at his lips. HIs shoulders drop and he turns to face you. 

“I work in the sun, sweetheart. I’d like to think I’m used to it.” 

You let out a bemused hum, trying to ignore the way your cheeks warm at the nickname, one that comes as naturally as breathing, it seems. “It still isn’t good for you.” 

He scoffs, rolling his shoulders back enough for his muscles to ripple once more, your heartbeat stuttering. He descends the ladder with a languid grace, stopping just before you, his frame towering over you. 

He acknowledges the other glass in your hand, brows raised. “That for me?” 

"Mhm." you hand it over. “Thought you should at least hydrate if you’re not going to go inside.” 

He takes the drink from you with a grateful grunt, and you watch the way his throat bobs as he sips. Your silence must speak volumes because the smirk that graces his features is wicked, a criminal tug of his lips that has you wishing you’d stayed within the safety of your own fenceline. 

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, sweetheart, and I might start thinking you came over here for something other than being neighbourly.” 

His guileless words catch you off guard, the flush clawing itself up your neck now, the sheer recalcitrant way in which he speaks making your knees feel weak.

“I’m just being helpful.” You protest, but it comes out more defensive than you intend, all hopes of being modest entirely dashed by his smile alone. 

“I’m sure you are, honey.” 

He takes another step closer, something that could easily be passed off as casual to anyone watching from the outside, but to you… The action is deliciously illicit, the way he leans down enough to make your breath hitch as the sillage of smoke and musk envelopes you. 

His eyes, impossibly blue in the sunlight, the rays highlighting the faintest flecks of colour swimming in the irises, roam over your features, searching for the tiniest crack in your facade. 

“You been sat watchin’ me from that porch all day?” The words come out in a husky whisper, like a handful of coarse gravel underfoot. 

“No.” You say suddenly, straightening your back.

Cliff laughs, a sharp bark that comes straight from his chest, his eyes never straying from yours. “No?” 

“I was reading.” The defence is weak even to your own ears, and you know the moment it leaves your lips that Cliff isn’t going to buy it. 

“Funny. Every time I saw you, you weren’t even holding a book.” 

You raise your brows in amusement. “So you were watching me back?” 

Cliff shrugs, tanned skin catching the light that filters through the trees once more. He sets the glass down on the bottom step of the ladder. “Hard not to when you’re dressed like that.” 

“At least I’m dressed.” You retort, though this time it’s you who steps closer. 

Who closes the gap, you aren’t sure. It happens in a blur of colour, a haze of motion that’s clouded by the heat and months of pent-up attraction. He tastes like smoke and lemonade, a combination so addicting that you can’t help but sigh against his mouth. It’s not gentle so much as desperate, all tongue and teeth, his hands gripping your hips, your fingers trailing through his hair, tugging on sun-bleached strands. 

“Cliff…” His name leaves your lips in a shuddering exhale, pawing at him like you’re deprived. 

“I know, sweetheart.” He glances back at the house. “Got a little time ‘til Rick gets back.”

You don’t protest, gripping his bicep tightly as he walks towards the front door, letting it bang shut behind you both, loud enough to alert the whole neighbourhood. Brandy glances up from her place on the kitchen floor, wisely remaining where she is, her tail wagging once before she drops her head once more. 

Rick’s house is just as you’d expected—spacious and accented with browns and oranges, the walls lined with posters from his own films. The couch is sleek leather, cool beneath your skin as Cliff backs you onto it, and you allow your body to sink down into the cushions. 

“You’re sure he won’t walk in?” 

Cliff chuckles, a low rumble deep in his chest. “I’ve gotta pick him up, sweetheart. He ain’t gettin’ home unless I bring him.” 

Your body relaxes completely at that as you melt into another kiss, this one deeper, more passionate than before, as though the two of you have been holding back for months. Your hands run through his hair and trail down his back, your nails scraping at his skin. 

His run beneath the fabric of your shirt, his rough, calloused fingers a stark contrast to the smooth, gentle skin of your chest. He grazes just under your breast, eyes searching yours for permission before finally removing your shirt. 

He discards it languidly, letting it fall to a rumpled pile somewhere on the rug. Your bra goes next, closely followed by your shorts and his jeans, the tell-tale clink of his belt buckle making a shudder run through you. 

He hovers over you, hands hovering over your hips, not quite touching. “You okay?” 

You nod, giving him a seraphic smile, brushing a sweat-streaked strand from his temple. “Perfect.” 

When he finally pushes into you, it’s gentler than you’d ever expect, a slow and gradual stretch that coaxes a gasp from between your lips. Cliff hushes you, lips trailing down your jaw, and when he moves, it’s blissful. 

Blinding pleasure explodes across your visions, making you see stars of all colours as your eyes slip shut, your hands grappling for some semblance of grounding purpose, eventually settling on clawing at his shoulders once more. 

He grunts by your ear, low, animalistic sounds that have the gradually tightening knot in your stomach being pulled taut. 

“Cliff!” You gasp as he lifts your leg, wrapping it around him, allowing him to hit deeper. The new position opens you up, the head of his cock nudging that place inside of you that makes everything feel blissful. 

“I got you, sweetheart.” He thrusts again, driving deeper this time, and you can tell from the stutter in his rhythm that he’s drawing close. 

Your orgasm rips through you the same way a tsunami rips through a town, unrelenting and unexpected. Your back arches off the couch and you let out a sharp cry that reverberates off the walls around you. 

You clench around him, nails cutting in hard enough to leave deep indents, and Cliff finishes soon after with a loud groan, spilling across your stomach. 

By the time your head finally clears, the haze replaced with bone-deep exhaustion, he’s sprawled on the couch beside you, the two of you cramped together, tangled and heavy-limbed.

“You feelin’ okay?” The words are a low growl once more, that grit returning as he catches his breath, his chest rising and falling beneath your ear. 

You manage a nod, a smile touching your features. “Yeah…” 

His fingers trace languid patterns up your spine, his lips brushing your temple in a featherlight kiss. 

Outside, the California sun continues to spill through the windows, slicing through the room in aureate rays, warm and golden. Yet, wrapped up in Cliff’s arms, you find that maybe the shade of Rick Dalton’s house is far better. 

It’s quieter in the car, far quieter than the after-party could ever be with its blaring music and sleazy producers, drinks sloshing over their glasses, the whole entire room reeking of booze and smoke. Here, there’s only the low grumble of the engine and the muffled hum of the radio, broken by the occasional static. 

The windows are rolled all the way down, and the warm breeze hits your face, blowing through your hair and soothing the nerves that have been wired through you all day. Beside you, Cliff takes another drag of the cigarette between his fingers, his attention focused solely on the road ahead. 

Red and gold lights streak past, casting shadows across the side of his face, accentuating every line and scar that marrs his features. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to expose a slither of skin beneath, and his jacket is now wrapped snugly around your shoulders, draped over your dinner dress and enveloping you in the scent of his cologne. 

“You okay?” His voice is a low rumble in his chest, the kind that has your stomach flipping like you’re a young girl with a crush. Which, compared to him, you are.

“Tired,” you say, before dropping your gaze to your discarded heels in the footwell. “And my feet hurt.” 

“Told you to wear somethin’ more comfortable.” 

You roll your eyes, watching as he flicks the cigarette out of the window, the ember disappearing in the darkness. Immediately, his hand seeks out your thigh, his thumb rubbing gentle circles. “Oh, yeah, sure. Because that would be considered acceptable.” 

Cliff hums vaguely, taking another turn; you’re not sure where you’re going, and by the looks of things neither does he. But any destination is better than going back to that crowded rooftop bar with too many people. 

“You’re Rick Dalton’s sister.”

You fix him with a pointed look, shifting enough that you can face him fully. “All the more reason for me to dress nice.”  

Cliff lets out a soft snort, glancing at you long enough for you to catch the smile crossing his features. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it falls again, replaced with something far more solemn. “You looked miserable in there.” 

The guileless tone of his voice takes you aback enough for your brows to furrow. Your lips part, the words lodging halfway, prompting you to clear your throat awkwardly. 

“I just don’t like parties like that.” You admit, shrugging once as though every street lamp that streaks past doesn’t make your eyes glisten and your head pound. “They’re too busy.” 

“I know.” 

“And everyone is always staring.” 

Cliff’s thumb rubs over your knee absently, a gesture so tender that it makes your body melt further into the seat. “Let ‘em stare.” 

It isn’t until you reach a stoplight, the engine grumbling idly beneath you, that he finally turns to face you fully. His expression shifts, head tilting enough that you notice, something akin to concern etching itself in the lines of his face. 

“Your head hurtin’?” 

You regard the question for a fleeting second, considering lying, but another sharp wave washes through you, and you nod jerkily. “A little. Must have been the music."

Cliff doesn’t care for excuses. He reaches over, nudging your other legs gently out of the way to pop open the glove box. He rummages for a few moments before pulling out a pair of Ray-Bans. 

“Put those on.” 

There’s no room for argument, and the second you slip them on, the whole world is bathed in yellow, every sharp edge dulled down into dim shadows and streaks of gentle light. It immediately draws an exhale from you. 

The light changes and the car springs back to life, the tyres crunching on the tarmac once more. The turn he takes isn’t towards your house so much as your street, nor does it lead to his own. 

“Cliff…” 

He hums, fingers lacing with yours as you seek his hand out. 

“This isn’t the way to my house.” 

Cliff shakes his head in an attempt to prevaricate on the statement. “Figured we’d drive around for a while. Party won’t be done ‘til early hours.” 

You can’t help but grin, settling into the idyllic peace that the inside of the car has lulled you into. “Rick will wonder where we are.” 

“Honey, he’s too many drinks in to care.” 

Another turn, another endless road surrounded by palms, glowing neon lights, and billboards coated in flashy titles and another grinning, soulless actor. 

For a few moments, you allow yourself to bask in the silence, listening to the cadence of the tyres hitting loose rocks and the wind whipping through the cracked windows. Your eyes stray to the other side of the car, taking in his features once more—there’s something so still about him now, a stark contrast to the way he held himself on the rooftop and exchanged easy but terse words with people he has no care for.

“You weren’t enjoying yourself either.” The words leave you before you can stop them, though you don’t take them back. 

Cliff regards you with another hum. His fingers drum a tuneless rhythm against the steering wheel. “No.” 

“Why?” 

“Never do.” He huffs, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. “Too many people pretending to be someone they’re not.” 

You regard him with a silent raise of your brows, head tilting just enough. “Then why go?” 

His hand squeezes yours lightly, an action that would easily go unnoticed by most but makes your senses feel as though they are buzzing beneath your skin. He lifts your hand easily, lips brushing your fingers as though it were an absentminded thing, something so normal that he doesn’t even acknowledge it. “Rick would throw a fit if I didn’t.” 

That draws a gentle laugh from you, the kind that has your head tipping back against the seat, your whole face lighting up beneath the dim glow of the streetlamps outside, shadows casting across your features in a way that makes Cliff stare. Gently, your fingers guide his focus back to the road, your own lips pressing a kiss to his jaw. 

“When we get home.” 

Home. 

Whether that be your house or his trailer. His things reside at yours; your things reside at his. Some nights he spends curled beneath the warm sheets of your bed, eating meals that have been carefully prepared. Other nights, you spend sprawled on the tiny bed in his trailer, Brandy occupying the floor, his arm heavy around your middle. 

Wherever it may be, you know that home is a far better place than any party or dinner. Because, in Hollywood, both of those are fake. 

  The room reeks of rich perfume—vanilla and jade and something sweet that makes your lungs burn after a few inhales—so strong that it verges on dizzying. It clings to the silk bed sheets, to the drapes over the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittering below, lingering and clinging to the walls like a stain. 

The door doesn’t cry when you push it open, and you revel in the way the heavy oak slams behind you, a vast difference to the mangled and dilapidated ‘doors’ that separate the world and the inside of the Paper Street house. 

Your heels dangle from your fingers, the strands glinting under the warm lighting overhead—they’re Louboutins, the finest in the market, the black leather shiny enough that you can see your own reflection in them. Your hair is still held perfectly in place, the curls solidifying by enough hairspray to last the average person a year. They bounce around your face, framing it perfectly, your makeup glossy and dewy under the aureate glow of the lights. 

“You’re late.” 

The voice makes you startle, hand flying to your chest, lips parting in a choked gasp. Immediately, your expression morphs into one of annoyance, and you drop the shoes, storming over to where Tyler is sat in the plush armchair, the cushions strewn about the floor. 

He looks entirely incongruous, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke curling around him in waves. The TV is blaring in front of him, playing some infomercials you know he doesn’t care about, and there’s an empty plate occupying the coffee table beside his kicked-up feet. 

His jeans are worn, fraying in places, and his boots are even worse, the leather scuffed and the laces barely holding on. His shirt is a rich burgundy, unbuttoned enough to expose his bruise-mottled chest beneath, and his sunglasses are pushed up into his already tousled hair.

“What’re you doing here?” You snap, your voice an octave too high as you snatch up the pristine white robe that has been discarded on the bed, undoubtedly by him. Thankfully, it looks unused, and you bundled the soft material to your chest like it’s a child. 

“Waiting for you.” Smoke spills from his lips as he speaks, causing your brows to knit together in distaste. “You said you’d be done by 7.” 

“I said the runway would be done by 7,” you correct matter-of-factly, plucking the smouldering filter from his fingers and drowning the tip in the crystal tumbler of whisky, listening to the way it hisses before finally going out. “I never said anything about the after-party.” 

“Exactly.” Tyler, to his credit, doesn’t look the least bit affected by your action, instead leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “You forgot to mention that part.” 

“I didn’t forget.” Your voice is an exasperated drawl, and you feel his eyes trail after you as you flop back on the bed, body sinking into the mattress. “It’s my job.” 

Tyler snorts, fixing you with a knowing look, one leg crossed over the other. “No, it’s your contract.” 

“Same thing.” You sit up straight once more, reaching down to grasp your aching feet. The heels have caused the arches of your feet to cramp, your ankles burning in a way that makes you huff and pout. “Stupid things…” 

“Don’t wear them then.” Tyler flashes the shoes a dirty look, kicking them with the heel of his own boot, ignoring the protest you give as they scrape across the polished wood floor. “Nobody’s forcing you.” 

“Oh please,” you rise from the bed, snatching them up and walking towards the closet. It’s a whole different room in itself with mirrors lining the walls, sparkling under the lights, and your bags occupying the carpeted floor. Clothes occupy the hangers, and you carefully select a box from the shelf, settling the shoes inside of the tissue paper. 

For a place that’s temporary, you’ve made it a home within days. One filled with all the things Tyler hates.

“You could’ve called.” Your voice drifts from the room, a gentle sing-song that makes Tyler roll his eyes. He stands from the chair, moving towards the closet, letting the doorframe support his weight. 

His arms cross over his chest. “And said what?” 

“That you were coming over.” You set the box back down with more force than necessary, turning to face him sharply. “Hell, that you were in the area at all!” 

Your voice rises an octave, bouncing off the walls, refracting off of the mirrors and having very little effect on Tyler at all. His expression remains unchanging, his brow merely raising as though mocking you. 

“I wanted to see the spectacle you were making of yourself.” He doesn’t move as you make to shove past, your shoulder knocking his. The action simply sends pain shooting through your arm, and you grimace despite yourself. “You know, how many people told you you looked good tonight?” 

You refuse to glance back, heading toward the large vanity, the bulbs dazzling you, the faint buzz of electricity a cadence in the quiet space. 

“Plenty.” 

Tyler nods once, boorish as ever. “How many of them meant it?” 

“What?” You meet his recalcitrant gaze in the reflection. 

“How many of them told you that you look good? Not your makeup, not your hair, not your dress.” He steps closer until he’s practically looming over you, and you can smell the smoke and musk that clings to him, an aroma that could never be covered by expensive cologne no matter how hard you try to convince him. 

“You’re being ridiculous.” You grab your hairbrush, the handle engraved with your name in cursive gold letters, dragging the bristles through your hair with more force than necessary. They snag and you try to blink away the tears that form. “You think I don’t know that?” 

For the briefest moment, you swear something in his facade shatters, a limina of genuine concern showing through. It’s gone just as quickly as it arrived, replaced by his usual stoic and blank expression.

There’s something selcouth about it, as though he’s holding back something he refuses to let show. You don’t question it, simply keeping your gaze steady with his. 

“Do you have any idea how many people touched me today? Make-up artists, stylists, photographers, rich men in suits whose hands wander to my lower back in a gesture they think is fucking friendly.” 

You don’t realise how hard you’re dragging the brush through your hair until you hear a few strands snap and your scalp starts to burn. By now, the tears are flowing freely; whether from frustration or pain, you aren’t sure. 

Tyler steps forward once, hovering over you with an unreadable expression. “Give me that.”

He doesn't give you a chance to respond, instead taking the brush from your grip. It’s not gentle or tentative so much as it is a rough snatch. He sets it back down on the vanity with more force than necessary before his hands seek your shoulders.

His thumbs press into the muscles, and you don’t realise until a knot gives way beneath the pressure just how tense you are. 

“I don’t need help.” You say, but the argument feels weak even to your own ears, falling flat enough that Tyler doesn’t even acknowledge it. 

“Good. Because I’m not helping.” His fingers graze the hem of your dress, eyes meeting yours in the reflection. “You want out of this?” 

Your nod is automatic, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of just how tight the dress is. The fabric clings to you like a second skin; hours of parading around and partying now means that every little sensation is far too much for your brain to handle, the frustration finally setting in. 

Tyler seems to notice the shift in your expression, a wry smile tugging at his lips. It’s subtle, barely there, yet you’ve trained yourself to notice every minor change of his face. 

“What?” 

He shakes his head once, tugging the dress down far enough to relieve your chest, air seeming to rush into your lungs. You stand and step out of it, leaving yourself cold and exposed in nothing but a thin bodysuit. 

“Just looks like you’re finally getting it.” 

“Getting what?” You snap. You kick the dress aside, watching the silk fall into a crumpled, expensive heap that will no doubt be marred with deep wrinkles in the next few minutes—for once, you don’t care, distracted by the enigma of a man who's still grinning at you. 

“That you don’t do this job for yourself,” he says. “You’re doing it for others. You like the validation.” 

“Fuck you.” The words leave you in a breathy rush, fury flashing across your features. 

Tyler steps closer. “You know I’m right. You like seeing yourself in magazines, on billboards surrounded by labels and brand names. You love that everyone thinks you’re perfect. But you and I both know you're not even close.” 

“Oh, and you are?” 

“No. Nobody is.” His hands settle at your hips, cold and calloused but not claiming, and you find yourself melting into his touch easily. “You’re part of a construct.” 

“And you hate that, don’t you?” You hiss, leaning close enough that the scent of smoke and musk practically envelopes you, overpowering your sweet perfume. “You hate that I go against everything you preach.” 

Tyler doesn't answer. His lips slam against yours with such force that it knocks the breath from you, and your fingers drag through the hair at the base of his skull in a futile attempt to ground yourself. 

The kiss is brutal, all tongue and teeth, and when you both finally break apart, you’re gasping like fish on land. His hair is even more tousled, his lips swollen, and you don’t doubt that you look just the same. 

“You hate me.” You whisper.  

Tyler’s lips twitch into something akin to a smile; however, this time it isn’t smug. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist as he removes your hand from his hair. 

“No. I really don’t.” 

⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Rusty and you have never once struggled during a mission—it's something that comes naturally to you both, like riding a bike after not doing so for months. You never forget how to do it; you don’t become clumsy or clueless, you simply have to fall back into a rhythm. 

That’s hard to do when a deep-rooted anger is simmering under your skin, when the man you have to pretend to be married to is also the man your hatred is directed towards. 

Music drifts around you, that soft and melodic symphony that most rich-people weddings have where the guests simply float between each other, exchanging terse and irrelevant words and drink champagne in pricy costumes. The room is stuffy and reeks of strong floral perfume, hairspray and cologne so pungent it makes your heartbeat thunder behind your eyes. 

You tug at the collar of your dress, the fabric hugging in a way that’s just short of frustrating, the seam itching in a way that has your nerves on edge, your patience clinging on by a half-worn thread. Rusty isn’t helping—he’s gripping your hand tight enough that you can feel just how clammy his skin is, the cool press of his wedding ring cutting into your own fingers to the point that, if he squeezed any harder, he’d cut off the circulation entirely. 

“You know,” you begin, the words hissed through clenched teeth, with a poor attempt at a smile. “You haven’t got to grip me so tight.” 

“Thought you liked it.” His gaze doesn’t meet yours, instead staying focused on the bustling room itself, on every face that comes and goes, like he’s half-expecting one of them to recognise either of you and for the plan to fall through. 

You simply hum in response, so terse that it makes a passing woman glance back, concern etched into her features. Rusty flashes her a charming smile, raising his hand in apology, before dragging you both onwards. 

“Smile.” He whispers low in your ear, his voice a deep rumble in his chest. Usually, it would send you into a frenzy, would cause heat to flood through your whole body and your heart rate to pick up. However, now, it just makes you want to knock the fake facade he’s putting on for everyone off his face. 

“You smile.” You counter, dropping his hand abruptly in favour of the drinks table. You pour yourself a glass of red wine, the first sip making you wince as the dry liquid scathes your throat, forcing you to swallow a cough. “A wedding like this and they couldn’t even bother to buy the fancy stuff.” 

Rusty comes up behind you, chest pressed to your back, his hand dropping to your waist; it’s a familiar action, almost instinctive in the way you gravitate towards each other, yet there’s a tension behind it. He plucks the glass from your hand, eyes fixed on your own as he takes a pull from it, expression unchanging. 

“We’re not here to drink, sweetheart.” 

“Then stop being insufferable.” You snap, reaching to take it back. His free hand shoots out, catching your wrist so hard that a gasp slips free. His thumb smoothes over your pulse point. 

“People are staring.” 

You don’t look away. Something shifts between you. “Then let them. See if I care.” 

His grip tightens further and you tug against him, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass. “You could at least look like you love me.” 

Your scoff is boorish, the kind that says far more than words ever could. “You’re not making it easy.” 

Something in his expression seems to change then, the briefest flicker in his eyes, his jaw ticking and brow tightening. His eyes harden as he drops his tone, low enough for only the two of you, too quiet for anyone else. “It shouldn’t be hard.”

You fall silent, lips pursed as you exhale sharply through your nose. As much as it pains you to admit, he’s right… it shouldn’t be. Three years in a relationship means love comes unconditionally, and while that hasn’t exactly changed, going three weeks off the radar without so much as a word to you puts a certain strain on things. 

Nobody had told you where he was or if he was ever going to come back. He didn’t think to call or text. He just left in the middle of the night, leaving you to wake to an empty bed, his side of the mattress cold where his body had once warmed it. 

And then, three weeks later, after returning unannounced, after walking through the front door like he’d been gone no longer than an hour, he was expecting a celebration. You refused to give him the satisfaction, yet your plan of ignoring him until an apology comes seems to be uneventful.  

“I don’t mean to interrupt.” Danny’s voice crackles through your earpiece, vastly unammused. “But if we’re going to get anywhere tonight, we need you to blend in more.” 

“Right.” You mutter dryly. 

Around you, guests laugh, glasses clink together, and the music finally shifts into something with more of a rhythm. Bodies begin gravitating towards the centre of the floor in a formation that somewhat flows, couples following a routine that is purely their own, swaying and getting lost in one another’s eyes. 

Rusty seems to hesitate for a moment before his hand finds your lower back, guiding you towards the dance floor. 

“What are you doing?” You hiss as he spins you round to face him, taking your hands and placing them on his shoulders before his own drift to your hips. Your muscles are taut, and you look almost rigid as you try to match his movements. 

“Blending.” His smirk is infuriating as he twirls you around, and you find yourself purposely driving your heel into the toe of his shoes, relishing in his barely concealed wince. 

“Problem?” You ask sweetly, head tilting. Rusty gives you a tight smile, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“You know what you’re doing.” He whispers, his breath hot against your skin. Despite yourself, butterflies stir awake in your chest, your cheeks flushing. 

“Maybe.” You counter, gravitating closer towards him. The blue of his eyes looks brighter under the aureate glow of the chandelier, and for a moment you find yourself forgetting your grudge at all. He scans your features, expression unreadable.

“You’re mad.” 

You make a vague sound low in your throat, trying to focus on the cadence of the music, but any sort of fluidity has long since been lost. “Good observation.” 

“Stop it.” He grunts, spinning you again. He drags you in closer until your faces are a mere few inches apart. “You’re being difficult—” 

You cut him off with a sardonic laugh, trying to ignore the sillage of his cologne, the one you got for him a year ago, the one he wears because he knows you adore it. “I’m being difficult? You left, Rusty.” 

The couple next to you glance over, giving awkward smiles that you return with a heavy glare. Rusty clears his throat. “Thought you’d be over that by now.” 

"Well, I’m not," You snap, purposefully stepping on his foot again. “You could’ve called.” 

He nods once, and for the briefest moment, something akin to guilt flashes across his features. It’s gone before you can point it out, however, replaced with that usual stoicism. “Yeah. But I was doin’ a job.” 

“How was I meant to know that?” The music changes, as does your rhythm together. Easy, natural. Nobody around bats an eye; to them, you both look like the perfect couple. “You disappeared, Rusty. Nobody would tell me where you were; you didn’t return my calls. For all I knew, you’d found another woman and left me for good.” 

“I didn’t leave you.” He mutters, the reticence holding his facade together cracking just enough for you to see the exhaustion beneath. He scans the room once more. “I went dark. There’s a difference, sweetheart.” 

“Sure there is.” You roll your eyes. Now, the rest of the room feels unimportant. Suddenly, everyone around you has disappeared, the clinking of glasses and the sickly sweet scent of champagne that had been clogging your senses dispersing into nothing but a background buzz. “You know, I think you forget I’m in this business with you.” 

Rusty exhales steadily through his nose, chest rising and falling beneath your hand—you're not sure when it slipped there; the action was so unconscious neither of you realised it had happened at all. You don’t move it, nor do you comment when he slides to cup the back of your neck, pulling you close enough to smell the mint on his breath. 

“I don’t forget. I know exactly who you are and that’s why I came back.” his voice drops into a low, gravelly whisper. “But, if we’re going to do this, then I need you to smile, look like you love me, and tell me if the target is still at the head table.” 

He guides you into a slow turn, dress sweeping the ground, your gaze scanning the room as you go. “He’s still there.” You confirm, through a faux, serpahic laugh, that is purely for the benefit of those around you. “He’s on his third whisky and hasn’t stopped looking at his new wife for the last half hour.” 

Rusty looks almost proud, giving you a smile that, for the first time all evening, looks genuine. He drops another kiss to your temple, a real one this time, and you let your head drop to his shoulder, face tucked into his collarbone. You allow yourself a second to revel in his presence, in the warmth you’ve craved so much despite yourself. 

“We’ve got twenty minutes until they cut the cake.” You lift your gaze just enough to meet his eyes; he truly does look handsome, something you weren't blind to even in your anger. However, now you let yourself appreciate it. 

“Twenty minutes is enough.” He says softly, mouth brushing your ear. He shoots a glance to a waiter in the corner—Linus, adorned in a poorly fitted vest, balancing a tray precariously in one hand—and gives him the limina of a nod. “That’s our cue to get out.” 

The heavy oak door of the hotel room slams shut behind you, the scent of fresh linen washing over you. The air in here is clean, and light filters in through the large windows and balcony doors; the silence is something you sink into. 

You gravitate towards the large bed in the centre of the room, clearly there for a couple in their pre-wedding bliss, all duck feathers and soft silk sheets. Your dress pulls uncomfortably and you shift with a low huff, envy crossing your features as you watch Rusty shed his suit jacket easily. 

The tie comes next, loosened just enough that he can unbutton the first few buttons, exposing tanned skin beneath. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and that fluttering in your chest returns. 

“You okay?” 

You nod once, staying silent. Rusty huffs, sitting in the armchair opposite. “Alright, look.” He runs a hand over his hair. “I messed up. I should’ve said something or found a way to let you know what was going on. I’m sorry.” 

For a moment, the silence hangs suspended between you both. He rises from the chair, crossing towards you, and you shuffle to make enough room for him as he hovers over you. “Let me make it up to you.” 

That’s all you need—you pull him down into a kiss so fierce that it drags a surprised grunt from him. His hands cup your face, wandering over your body, resting at yourhips before gently manoeuvring you upwards. 

His fingers work the zipper of your dress deftly, pulling it down until the fabric loosens and air rushes back into your lungs. The garment pulls away easily, and he drapes it over the chair carefully, leaving you in nothing but your underwear and bra, exposed to the cool air surrounding you. 

“Look at you…” The words leave him in a breathy whisper, as though you’d knocked the air from his lungs completely. He eases you back against the pillows, lips finding yours in a gentle kiss. Your hands cup his jaw, fingers running up through his hair, his name spilling from your lips like a mantra. 

“Please… Rusty, please.” 

“I know, sweetheart. Hold on.” He shoves off his shirt easily, pants coming next, and he undoes your bra easily. It slips away, and he trails his lips down your chest, featherlight; his breath is warm enough to cause goosebumps to prickle across your skin, eliciting a small gasp. His teeth graze the curve of your breast before he soothes the sting with his tongue, and you find yourself arching into him. 

“Missed this.” He whispers against you, lifting his gaze. “Missed you.” 

You bite back a snarky response, because while you’re still mad, something about the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only person in the world, kisses trailing tenderly down your thigh—is enough to make you forget everything. 

His tongue drags through your folds in one tortuously slow stroke, making your toes curl and your breath stutter. Your hips buck and he reaches out to hold them down again, tutting under his breath. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing in tight circles.

A choked moan escapes you, muffled into the palm of your hand, fingers twisting into the sheets. 

“Still mad?” He whispers, the vibrations sending a shiver through you, the drag of his tongue maddening. You glare down at him, words silenced as his fingers join his mouth, a pace so blissful   that you can’t help but break off into a whimper. 

“Rusty, please. I can’t—” you gasp. He seems to catch the memo, fingers withdrawing as he sits up straight, the sudden loss of contact making your heart sink with disappointment. However, he quickly replaces the absence with the weight of his body, the blunt head of his cock pressing into you inch by inch. 

The stretch is unimaginable, something you could only have dreamt about these past few weeks, and when he finally bottoms out, he lets his head drop to your shoulder, face hidden in your neck. 

Your breath catches when he moves, hips rutting, cock dragging against your walls at a pace so tortuous you can only clutch his back in a weak attempt at grounding yourself. Your nails leave little moon-shaped indents, no doubt likely to reside until morning, red welts already marring his skin. 

“Fuck…” he rasps, pushing back in. “Missed you like this.” 

“Shouldn’ve been here.” You choke out, another moan slipping free. 

Rusty nods once, though it’s jerky and uncoordinated. “I know. ‘M sorry, sweetheart. Gonna make it up to you.” 

The headboard hits the wall behind you in a monotonous thump as his pace picks up, hips snapping, and you find yourself suddenly grateful that everyone is downstairs at the wedding. One hand slides to hold the back of your neck, the cool metal of his rings pressing against your skin, the other gripping your thigh to hitch your leg over his hip. The new angle steals your breath, and soon your moans are entirely unfiltered, reverberating around the space.

Your orgasm washes over you like a tsunami, dragging you under a current so strong it leaves you gasp, a scream ripping from deep within your chest. Your vision whites out, stars dancing across the ceiling, and you feel Rusty finish deep inside of you, cock twitching as he collapses against you.

For a moment, neither of you says a word.

The clock on the nightstand ticks onwards steadily, your breaths rising and falling rapidly, a soft groan leaving him and his lips peppering your sweat-soaked skin with kisses. Your fingers trace idle patterns across his spine, skating over the ridges of muscle and the sweat-damp skin. 

“Sorry I yelled at you.” You whisper into his hair. “And for the record, I do love you.” 

“I deserved it.” Rusty nods once. For once, you don’t disagree; simply let yourself revel in the feeling of his skin on yours, his lips against yours, and the way he watches you as though you are the only thing worth looking at. 

The apartment is filled with a comfortable silence, broken only by the scrape of cutlery on plates and the gentle cadence of rain hitting the windows. The city hums below, tyres on wet pavement and the occasional blare of a horn, everyone rushing home for an evening with their only family. 

You take another bite of food—you tried to keep the meal simple: steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, the kind you know David loves, the sort you cook when you know he’s on edge. However, tonight, he’s in one of those moods where everything feels light.

Somerset sits across from you. You’re not sure what possessed you to invite him, but he’s grown to be part of the family. That, and the fact that his presence may soften the blow of David’s reaction when you tell him about the phone call you got over lunch. 

You’d been expecting it for weeks, hoping and waiting, the emancipation so strong that you made yourself feel sick with nerves. You planned what you would say and how you would manage it, yet when the call finally did come, you could only go silent and grin.

“You want more wine?” 

You glance up suddenly, meeting David’s gaze, and realise for the first time that he’s been watching you, his brow furrowed in something akin to curiosity. You nod once, clearing your throat and plastering on a tight smile, a cheap semblance of composure.

“Please.” He fills it. You take a sip. “Is the food okay?” 

“It’s perfect.” Somerset responds, voice impossibly calm, cutting through the tension you hadn’t realised was simmering. “Best I’ve had in weeks.” 

“That’s not hard.” David scoffs, finishing off his beer and taking another bite. He continues to speak through his mouthful, and a part of you wants to reprimand him for his manners, yet you bite your tongue, not sure you’ll be able to even attempt normalcy when your blood is thundering in your ears. “Microwave food ain’t exactly comparable to this.” 

Somerset chuckles faintly, glancing back at you. The pull in his expression tells you everything; he can see right through you and knows exactly what’s going on, and if it weren’t humanly impossible, you’d expect he could read your mind. “Yes. But I have a feeling I wasn’t invited under the pretence of eating good food.” 

The silence returns—David’s eyes return to you, the curiosity replaced with concern when he catches the way you shift in your seat. The rest of the steak suddenly seems unappealing, and you find yourself pushing it around your plate much like the way a fussy child spreads out their food to leave the table sooner. 

“I have news.” 

The announcement feels heavy, as though someone has just dropped a weight on your shoulders unexpectedly, knocking the breath from you completely. Your stomach churns, butterflies startling awake and fluttering wildly as though disturbed, and the smile you give both of them is suddenly filled with such genuine excitement that David’s own lips twitch out of instinct.

“News?” he repeats. Somerset wisely remains silent.

You nod, wiping your palms on your thighs. “Yeah. I got a phone call at lunch from the law firm in Chicago.” 

Immediately, the smile disappears from David’s face, replaced with something unreadable. His eyes darken, though not with anger so much as fear. “Chicago? What for?” 

“I applied for a vacant position there last month as the assistant attorney in the homicide division. David… They want me to start next month.” 

The rain outside grows louder, a heavy onslaught now that pounds against the glass, droplets racing down the steam-hazy panes in rivulets. The traffic continues to crawl on the road below, horns still blaring, the occasional person yelling muffled profanities; the world continues on as normal, everyone going on with their lives as though yours wasn’t currently teetering on the brink of something colossal. 

“That’s amazing.” Somerset grins, the genuineness behind the words allowing you to exhale a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. He reaches over to squeeze one of your hands. “Really. That’s a big achievement. Congratulations.” 

“Thank you.” You smile politely, and while you genuinely appreciate his reaction, how happy he is for you, he isn’t who you want to hear it from. 

Slowly, you turn your focus back to David; he looks pallid, eyes distant as though focused on something miles away that only he can see. He drags a hand through his hair, swallowing thickly as he flicks aside the damp label he'd peeled from the empty beer bottle. 

“David?” 

“That’s amazing.” He manages, offering you a smile that on the surface might seem proud, like he’s thrilled at the prospect. 

Yet, the selcouth shimmer in his eyes tells you that, beneath the pride, there’s a dread that’s washing over him and dragging him under, like he too has anticipated this, though not with the same sickening excitement as you. 

Somerset rises from the table then, glancing towards the dogs who are stretched languidly on the rug, entirely content. “I’m going to take them out for a moment. Better now than later before the rain gets worse.” 

Neither you nor David mentioned that the dogs are in no need of going out or that the weather is already at its peak with no sign of letting up. Instead, you offer a gentle thank you, waiting until he's out of the door and it’s just the two of you, alone. 

“You don’t seem happy.” 

David shakes his head sharply, straightening his posture and reaching across the table to take your hand in his. Your wedding ring glints under the aureate glow of the overhead light, catching the reflection just right. 

“That’s not—” he trails off, gaze dropping to the table top, to your conjoined hands and the ring he’d put on your finger with a promise to stay with you forever. “I’m happy.” 

“David…” 

“I am,” he interrupts. “I just didn’t know. I didn’t realise that you were thinkin’ about leaving.” 

You realise then how it sounds, once it’s put into words and spoken into the oppressive silence. Worse than you’d intended, like you were moving cities and leaving him behind with a life half-finished before it’s even truly started. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No.” He shakes his head feverently, squeezing your hand tightly, a weak attempt to ground you. “It’s okay. It’s a good thing. You deserve it.” 

You hesitate for a few fleeting seconds, eyes scanning his features for a limina of anger; all you find is pride and a quiet sadness, neither quite what you’d expected. “But?” 

“Chicago is miles away.” 

A crack of thunder sounds outside, a deep rumble that shudders the walls of the tiny apartment, making you aware of just how tight the space is, how your world has been reduced to a crumpled, claustrophobic world in the midst of a city that never slows down nor sleeps. 

“I know.” Disappointment tinges your tone, because despite the achievement, despite how hard you’d worked for this, you always knew this would happen. That you’d have to have this discussion and inevitably come to a conclusion that would pain the other. “You could come with me.”

David huffs a gentle laugh, reaching out and gesturing for you to come around the table—you do, sinking into his lap as though all of the energy has been drained from you completely. The warmth that radiates from him thaws out the chill in your bones and soothes the constant buzz beneath your skin. 

“The department won’t transfer me just because my wife got a better job.” He mumbles, honesty seeping into the words. He tips your chin up so that you meet his gaze, lips grazing your temple. “Especially not after a few months.” 

“So what?” You whisper. “You just stay here?” 

For a second, he’s silent, and you can practically see the question turning over in his mind, followed by a thousand others, all of which can’t be answered. 

“I don’t know.” He admits finally, shoulders deflating. He reaches out to brush a loose strand of hair back from your face. “You accepted it yet?” 

“No.” You toy with the open collar of his shirt, exposing a slither of tanned skin beneath, not meeting his gaze until he drops a kiss to the corner of your mouth, featherlight and barely there. 

He offers a weak smile. “You should.” And though it clearly pains him to say so, the tightness in his shoulders telling you just as much, he continues, voice impossibly soft, pride still intertwined in each word. “You’ve worked your ass off for this.” 

You swallow thickly, struggling to bypass the lump forming in your throat, your eyes stinging with a concoction of pent-up emotion, all finally able to seep out as the first tear slips past the dam. David catches it with the calloused pad of his thumb, and you lean into his touch like a cat. 

“What about you?” The us lingers between you both, unspoken but clear nonetheless. David’s expression doesn't waver, that usual confidence returning once more. “What if we can’t make it work…” 

“We will.” He sounds so certain that you can’t help but believe him. His hand settles at the nape of your neck, pulling you close enough that your forehead rests against his, your lashes fluttering. “I’ll drive to Chicago every weekend if I need to.” 

“David…” Your laugh is wet with tears. 

“What?” 

You shake your head in disbelief, fingers running through his hair slowly. “That’s your plan?” 

He grins, eyes shining beneath the aureate glow of the lamp, and he shrugs once. “It’s worked pretty well so far.” 

⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The airport lights are bright enough to make you squint behind the dim lenses of your sunglasses, a sterile white that casts the most unflattering angles on everyone and highlights the jet lag etched across the sea of faces bustling to gates. 

Duty-free perfume permeates your senses, your wrists coated with an ungodly mixture of scents you had no intention of buying but tried anyway due to the low price and your newly found income. Perhaps ‘income’ is a generous term, though you can’t think of anything that isn’t scandalous to describe stolen money. 

Your seat is uncomfortable to say the least; the hard plastic is cutting into the ridges of your spine just enough that you can no longer feel your lower back; you cast a glance at the man sprawled across a row of them, head pillowed on his bag, clearly immune to the discomfort and selfish enough to ignore the hovering family nearby. 

 “You know,” You mumble, leaning towards the occupied seat beside you. “That family looks like they could do with a seat.” 

Rusty Ryan hums noncommittally, glancing up from his half-eaten sandwich, the packaging crinkling. Sunglasses shade his face from view, and despite the unattractive lighting buzzing overhead, it seems to do very little to diminish his tanned skin, haloing the blonde buzzcut he’s somehow kept perfectly clean. It seems if the European sun picked favourites, it was certainly him.

“They could just ask.” 

You fix him with a bemused look, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Or you could offer.” 

“Then you would have to move too.” He fixes you with a knowing glance, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And we all know you’re not doing that.” 

A small laugh slips free, seraphic and loud enough that the dozing man on the bench across shifts slightly. You roll your eyes before turning back in your seat, shifting just enough to alleviate the tingling that has started to creep its way up your legs, winding around the muscles. 

“You really coming back to LA with me?” Rusty asks, finishing off the rest of the sandwich and balling up the plastic. You take it from him and slip it into your jacket pocket before he can discard it elsewhere, nodding once.

“I didn’t waste my money on a ticket for nothing. Besides, I don’t exactly have anywhere else to go.” 

He raises a brow at you, finally slumping back, one arm stretching around your shoulders to rest loosely over the back of your own seat. “What about Danny?” 

“He has Tess now.” You muse, gravitating to his side enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him. “And something tells me they’re going to want their own house to themselves without me hogging the guest room.” 

Rusty scoffs and you feel his fingers dance along the curve of your shoulder, the touch so absentminded, you’re not sure he’s even aware of it. “You’re his sister.” 

“And Tess is his wife.” 

“So?” He shrugs once, as though your intrusion on their newly formed domestic life means nothing. However, he catches the look you fix him with, entirely unamused and knowing, and something tacit passes between you both. “What? You think they’re settling?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?" You finally push your sunglasses up onto your head, blinded momentarily. You catch the way his face morphs into a grimace, like the mere thought of your brother being domesticated is one he tries to avoid, one so unnatural that it’s unnerving in itself. 

“No.” He sniffs once. “Still doesn’t mean you can’t stay with them.” 

You let out a wry laugh, leaning into him further, the action a subconscious one that neither of you seems aware of nor bothered about. “You trying to get rid of me already, Ryan?” 

He scoffs once, and you feel his arm move from the back of your seat to around your shoulders, settling there heavily and without much ceremony at all. “I just got you back.” 

The statement brings with it a gentle, if not oppressive, silence; the tacenda of just how long the two of you have spent apart is still clearly a subject neither of you is willing to touch upon. Three years is a long time, long enough to move on and go elsewhere with your lives, and yet neither of you did; instead, you hung up onto a past that would undoubtedly resurface eventually.  

“Don’t sound so smug.” You mumble, finally turning away, though there's a hint of stolidity now, the fear that if you get too comfortable, he will leave again, creeping back, unwelcome, into your system. 

“I’m not smug,” he retorts, shifting so that he can look at you properly. You don’t protest when he grasps your chin gently, turning your head and forcing you to meet his gaze. There’s something genuine behind his eyes, his brows softened enough for you to read the guilt that’s been tugging at him for months. 

“Really?” You scoff, but it’s hollow, devoid of any true humour. Rusty seems to notice. “That’s rare—” 

“Don’t do that.” The firmness catches you off guard, enough that you blink once, entirely stunned, lips parted like a fish on land, mid-gasp for air. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t release his hold on your chin. Simply watches you with all the amorousness of a besotted man who's realised his mistake too late. 

“What?” You ask, though it comes out as more of a whisper, careful not to draw too much attention from bored and prying airport guests. 

“That thing.” 

“What thing?" You prompt again. Rusty heaves a sigh.

“The thing where you shut down and act like this is all over before it’s even started.” He swallows thickly, and you realise then that this may be the most emotional you’ve ever seen him. Calm, composed, veracious Rusty Ryan suddenly looks vastly apologetic, like you’ve stabbed him once and twisted the knife. 

“Can you blame me?” You shake your head, a breathy laugh pulling from you. “You left me, Rusty. After two years. You just left.” 

“I was scared,” he admits, and the genuineness almost breaks you. He doesn’t raise his voice or shake you to emphasise his point. He just stays completely calm and entirely patient. 

“Of what?” 

“Things were serious. We were living together. You were plannin’ stuff. And I didn’t know how to handle that.” 

“I hated you.” You admit, entirely guileless. “I really hated you afterwards.” 

“I know.” He nods. “I know.” 

Silence settles once more; however, this time it feels lighter. The weight of unspoken words no longer presses down on you both, and you finally allow yourself to sag against his side once more, your remaining dregs of energy finally dispersed and replaced with the faintest glimmer of hope.

“Are you going to leave me this time?” The words are hushed, barely audible, like speaking them any louder might shatter whatever fragile bridge has built between the two of you. 

He hesitates. 

“Are you going to come back with me?” 

“Are you going to keep trying to run your shitty hotel?” 

Rusty barks a laugh, one so genuine that you can’t help but smile. He drops a kiss to the top of your head, warming your body in a way you haven’t felt in years. It’s familiar—comforting—and you find yourself tilting your head just far enough to capture his lips with your own. 

The intercom crackles overhead, announcing the final call for Italy. A few people around you rise, bustling in the general direction, and you open your mouth to make a wry comment about getting there early, when Rusty stands too.

“That’s us.” 

He bends down to pick up your bags before watching you expectantly. 

You frown, brows furrowed as you glance at the board just to make sure. “They called Italy.” 

“I’m not deaf.” He counters, holding a hand out for you like a bored mother does for their child. “C’mon or we’ll miss it.”

You rise warily, taking his hand. “We’re going to LA, Rusty.”

Yet, despite that, he continues to walk to the gate for Italy, joining the queue of eager tourists and the occasional well-dressed businessperson. He shakes his head, handing you the boarding passes—immediately you scan them with all the fervour of someone afraid their boyfriend has lost it. 

“Rusty.” You begin, glaring up at him. “These aren’t for LA.”

“Hotels probably gone under by now," He shrugs, as though that answers everything. He seems to catch on as you continue to gawp up at him before adding. “I thought you wanted somewhere nice to settle down.”

Settle down? 

“The hotel—What—You own it.”

“Not anymore.” The queue shuffles forward. “I sold it.” 

“Sold it?” You echo, stressing each syllable as though you’re trying to get through to him, trying to make sense of what exactly he’s telling you. He remains completely stoic, as though what he’s doing isn’t completely out of the ordinary. “You’re telling me you sold your hotel in LA so that you could move to Italy?” 

“We,” he corrects languidly. He hands your boarding passes and passports to the lady at the desk. “So that we could move to Italy.” 

The woman wishes you both an enjoyable flight and you can barely muster a ‘thank you’ as he drags you, and your bags, through the gate, looking every bit as smug as you’d expect. 

“Rusty, where are we going to go?” 

He glances down at you, a wry smile tugging as he lips. He bends down to press another kiss to your lips and you melt into it instinctively. 

“We’ll figure it out.” 

⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭