He'll make a last-minute stop after work - at any store that he thinks might sell some half-decent flowers, and wherever he can find the perfume you like. Maybe throw in some of your favorite chocolates if he can find them, or anything else that makes it seem like he didn't forget.

The man is a workaholic, and he often gets tunnel vision on his cases, so he tends to lack on the day-to-day opportunities to "spoil" you in the traditional sense.

He does like to eat out a lot though (because before he met you, he rarely had time to cook), so he'll often take you to nice restaurants and new spots you might want to try or places he hears about from Finau or Bell. He also takes cues from Sheppard sometimes for more creative date ideas.

As a Cali detective, he does get paid decently well, so be sure to remind him when the important days in your relationship are coming up.

What he'll do is treat you to expensive spa days on your birthday, and anything else you might have mentioned wanting off-hand.

One thing about Mark, he hangs onto the details when he knows what his target is.

So when he surprises you on Christmas day (the one holiday he definitely won't forget) with plane tickets to a place you've always wanted to go on vacation, you're genuinely shocked, and even a bit emotional before you practically smother him with affection.

Your reaction definitely makes him warm inside, as well as a bit smug and cocky.

He knows this just won him brownie points for the next ten years at least, and he'll be sure to remind you of this day - every fucking year.

᯽ Russell Shaw

Russell is also not the guy to remember important dates and inherently know how to be the boyfriend/husband who spoils you, because before you, his lifestyle didn't leave a whole lot of room for normal relationships.

I mentioned in his boyfriend training hc that poor Russ struggles with basic things, like checking in with you when he's away on a job, or remembering to close cabinets after he finds the thing he was looking for, or resisting the urge to toss your expensive pots and pans in the dishwasher along with all the other dishes. 

But he's good at the things that he thinks are important, like making the most of his time with you when he’s home:

Taking you out for dinner, to the movies, to street fairs and grocery store runs and whatever else you might come up with for you and Russ to do together.

He's easy going and rolls with most of your ideas, often indulging you even when it's not something he thinks would be fun - like walking around in the heat at a farmer's market, or that time you wanted to go to a "paint and sip." (He brought a six-pack of his freshly brewed beer and mostly watched you paint.)

Russell may not be the "big gesture" guy, but he shows his consideration for you in the little things that amount to the big things as he continues to learn how to be a man you can rely on.

᯽Beau Arlen

Beau's a sweetheart who will indulge you in most things you ask of him - whether it's picking up food from your favorite restaurant or taking you to a music festival, even if he's not crazy about the genre or band.

He's usually the opportunist spoiler, buying your favorite candle because he noticed it at the store while shopping for groceries, or remembering your favorite ice cream flavor. He might mess it up by buying the wrong brand, but the man's not perfect.

He's game for the farmer's market, the play you want to see, the museum you want to visit, the wine tasting, even the deep tissue couples massage you found on Groupon (and he openly admits that the hot stones and face mask were his favorite parts).

His work often takes up his focus and his time though, so like Mark, you'll have to float these ideas to him and be sure to remind him more than once, but one thing he puts his foot down on is glamping.

Aside from the bad taste in his mouth that Sunny Day Excursions left him with, he just flat out doesn't believe in that bullshit. Either he's taking you real camping, or he's renting a nice lake house to take you on a nice vacation - just you and him and the mountain air.

᯽ Dean Winchester

Dean, Dean, Dean...

Well, he may not be a big gesture guy either in the classic sense of expensive gifts and vacation getaways, but the way he shows he cares is through all the things he does for you -

Cooking for you: as much as he loves food, he really likes taking care of you and Sam this way and gets genuine enjoyment out of seeing both of you like something he worked hard to make for you. He put his all into that cheeseburger and homemade fries - whether he admits it or not.

Your car: he'll tune it up for you with the same care and attention to detail as he does his Baby.

His time: Dean's a quality time guy, much like Mark, Russell, and Beau. For Dean, he shows it best with movie marathons in the Dean Cave, chilling in bed watching TV and talking about everything and nothing in between, and long drives in the Impala, just you and him and the open road with his hand on your thigh and one of his cassettes setting the soundtrack of the day - one of his rare, perfect days with you.

Your protection: It's not "spoiling" or even "indulging," but it must be said how far Dean would go to protect you once you're under his skin and embedded in his heart. We know the man loves with his whole body and soul, even if his gruff exterior doesn't always allow him to express it.

If you're a hunter, he gets into the habit of cleaning and sharpening your weapons along with his because he wants to make sure you're safe. He follows you closely on hunts because he wants to make sure you're safe. He'll make the reckless choice every time if it protects you and Sam more than himself, because he can't afford to lose either of you.

Your body: The way Dean makes love to you is an act of service in itself. When you two have time to take it slow the way he likes, he's thorough, his hands mapping out and worshipping all his favorite places. Because he's learned your body so well, he knows exactly how to make you fall apart every time he touches you.

᯽ Soldier Boy (Ben)

lmfao I struggled to figure out Ben at first, because on one hand, he's the most inherently self-centered of all these guys.

He measures most of his actions by what he intends to gain from it, especially with his rich boi upbringing and his decades of debauchery and fame whoring.

On the other hand, I feel like he'd so be the one to try to hook you with expensive and over-the-top gifts if his version of "flirting" doesn't do the trick.

But once Ben's actually invested in an honest relationship with you, those random gifts don't change. He'll buy you a $5,000 necklace just because he was in the store buying himself a watch, and he saw something that he thought would look nice on you - especially bouncing between your tits while he's fucking you later.

(He jokes - mid stroke - that next he'll give you a "pearl necklace." Make it a matching set.)

If you're not into jewelry though, he knows other ways to spoil you as well as himself.

He'll take you to fancy restaurants, bypassing the waiting lists using his fame and a wink tossed at you as his big, warm hand spans the small of your back (definitely copping a feel of your ass when the hostess eventually leads you to your table).

You take all this with a roll of your eyes, but you smile and allow this cavemanish behavior because by now you know his intentions - it's not just about his pride, and a male ego the size of Empire State. He genuinely wants you to have a good time.

He orders an entire bottle of wine just for you, and scotch for himself. He always encourages you to order whatever you want, and he himself orders appetizers and dessert even if you're probably going to take most of it home - because he can, and he won't ever have it said that he doesn't spoil the fuck out of you.

Mind you, some of his gifts are more than a little self-serving lol

He'll buy you lingerie with the express purpose of ripping it off the first time you wear it - inch by inch.

He'll make you tremble and come with the wealth of experience in his hands and mouth, and he won't stop until the only thing in your mouth is his name.

But of course, this man fully expects some special attention in return for "how well" he treats you.

You may roll your eyes (again) and have a pointed retort ready about everything you already do for him. Aside from the obvious, you've created a home with him, showed him how to navigate the modern world, and you've been the only woman in his long life who's genuinely loved him.

"All right. Come on, sweetheart," he says. "I just ate your pussy like a three-course fucking meal. Had your thighs squeezing my head like a fucking grape, like you wanted me to suffocate down there. Think it's time you showed this cock some appreciation, huh?"

Despite his deeply smug, insufferable smirk that makes you want to slap him, regardless if it'll hurt him or not, it also makes you want to kiss him - half because it'll shut him the fuck up for a while.

But you can't help it. You love this insufferable asshole.

Your lips tug at a smile, and you repay him with a bit of spoiling too.

AN: lol honestly these were less so rankings and more just an exploration of how each guy would give you some special care and attention. Which one was your favorite? Any other takes on how he'd "spoil" you?

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One more drink. One more game of pool. One more kiss that hooked you into the backseat of his Impala. One more night before you went home in the morning.

That one more thing slowly became a lingering hold on your hand, something deeper and almost fragile in his eyes while he sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed, with words that neither of you were ready to say rolling underneath your skin. What actually came out was—

“You could stay, you know.”

Your slow smile, and, “You want me to?”

His smile had tugged at the corner of his mouth, pulling at the crow’s feet around his eyes.

You stayed. For the past six months, that had been working out for both of you. The reserved, knowing smiles Sam used to toss your way finally make sense. (You and Dean had a knack for spotting lies and reading a room of strangers, but apparently not each other as well as you thought.)

Now, Dean’s the one who needs to be cajoled into hitting the bar instead of driving right home. He sometimes claims he’s tired, doesn’t feel like drinking all night at a bar when he’s got plenty of booze back at the bunker. But you think it’s just because he’s gotten more used to saying, “Let’s go home.”

Well, tonight, Sam’s still the turn in early guy, opting to get dropped off at the bunker while you and Dean head to the bar to unwind. You know he’s just doing this for you, so you take advantage of being in the passenger seat to slip your hand into his, threading your fingers together. You earn his glance, a hint of his smile.

“Ramble On” continues crooning through 50-year-old speakers. He only lowers the volume when he pulls the car up to the front of the bar. The parking lot is crowded, and you can hear some country rock music playing inside, even through your window. 

“Looks busier than usual. Why don’t you get us started in there while I find somewhere to park,” Dean says. “I’m good with a beer, unless they’ve got Angel’s Envy back in stock.”

“What, are you in a rush?” you ask, a teasing edge. “Got a hot date with your other girlfriend?”

“Yeah, my mattress,” he retorts. “I drove us through three states in one day, sweetheart.”

You hum, brace a hand on his thigh, and lean in just shy of meeting your lips with his, hesitating long enough for his green-eyed gaze to dip down to your smirking mouth.

“You mean our mattress,” you say, patting his knee. “Guess that means we’re in a threesome.”

You pull away and climb out of the car. Dean blinks, then snorts and shakes his head. You’re fucking ridiculous, but that’s kind of what he likes about you.

More than likes, if he’s honest.

He watches the natural swing in your curvy hips as you walk up the steps to the bar in those dusty boots. He can’t help but stick around there for a second, with the Impala rumbling in idle. You’ve got a waist-to-ass ratio that could make a strong man stumble, and Dean’s knelt at your altar on more than one occasion—as often as you let him.

It reminds him of a song his dad had starred on the back of one of his most revered Zeppelin cassettes, Houses of the Holy. In the margin, John Winchester’s chicken scratch read: For Mary.

Dean has Page’s chords humming in his throat while he finally pulls forward to find a parking space away from the gravel.

“Ain't so hard to recognize, oh…these things are clear to all from time to time…”

Inside the bar, the lights are dim while Chris Stapleton plays loud in the overhead speakers. His soulful baritone competes with the football game on the corner TVs, where people are crowded around, shouting drunken obscenities when a player fumbles the ball.

You walk past weathered pool tables and manage to find a spot further away from the chaos, down near the end of the bar. You nod politely at the guy who’s already sitting in the last seat before you slide into yours, saving another stool to your right.

You flag the bartender, Greg. He recognizes you and holds up two fingers. Give me a minute. I’ve got you.

You nod in response, offering a short wave. Take your time.

You glance over to the man sitting to your left, only because he doesn’t seem like he actually wants to be here. He’s maybe early thirties, attractive, looking like a slightly disheveled tax accountant with his tie askew and his light blue dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. He’d remind you of Cas, actually, if not for the very human way he’s contemplating his bourbon while hedging a glance at you.

“Hey,” he says, trying his luck.

You almost smile. “Rough shift at Bank of America?”

His head tilts in surprise, but glancing down at himself, he huffs a laugh.

“Okay, guess I really should’ve changed,” he remarks. “I’m a realtor, for the record.”

“Business must be slow,” you say. “I don’t think they’ve built a new house in this town since the ‘70s.”

He nods in acknowledgement. “On the whole, it’s more selling than buying. You in the market?”

Your lips twitch. “Sorry, dude. I live with my boyfriend. He owns his own place.”

“Ah,” he nods again, taking you in with a certain wry smile. “Should’ve known you were, uh, off the market.”

You almost roll your eyes, but you’re still kind of amused. The guy seems relatively harmless, in a white-collar kind of way. 

“And you’re…” you trail, glancing over to see if you spy a ring. You do notice a pale tan line on his left hand when he begrudgingly raises it up for you to see.

“Recently divorced,” he says. But he offers you his hand. “And clearly out of practice. I’m Brandon.”

You laugh lightly and shake his hand, giving him your name, at least.

“It’s okay, Brandon. You’ve got a good smile. Keep flashing it with those baby blues, and you’ll get a girl to make you an offer,” you say.

He laughs, showing off that boyish smile before he ducks his head, a little embarrassed.

“Thanks, I needed that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Welcome to what?”

You raise your head in slight surprise to find Dean just behind you, grabbing onto the back of your chair while he settles into the seat you saved for him. You smile.

“Just some friendly advice,” you say, slipping your hand over his thigh. “What took you so long?”

“Couldn’t find a place to park. Had to wait for somebody to pull out,” he says. His hand moves to the small of your back, but his eyes flick up to the Michael Scott-looking dude, who sits up a little straighter and offers up a hesitant hand in greeting.

“Hey. Brandon,” he introduces himself. “You must be the boyfriend.”

Dean’s brow arches. “Guilty as charged, Brandon.”

You give him a pointed look, trying not to smirk.

Be nice. 

Dean acknowledges that with half an eye roll. He’s tired, veering on grumpy. But he breathes in the smell of greasy bar food coming out of the kitchen and lets his thumb brush along your back, until he notices your lack of drink.

“Have you ordered?” he asks.

“Haven’t gotten a chance. Greg’s pretty busy tonight,” you say, but Dean’s already flagging the guy down with an impatient set to his jaw.

What he thought was going to be a chill night with you and a couple of drinks, turns out to be you, him, and Brandon chatting your ear off. The guy tells you about his divorce and the dog they’re still fighting over and the house he might have to sell to pay for his ex-wife’s legal expenses.

Meanwhile, Dean broods over his whiskey. He has two more glasses without offering more than a few remarks, not all of them that agreeable. He catches the look you shoot him every time.

Be nice, my ass.

“You want to head out?” you suggest eventually.

He thought you’d never fucking ask.

Your second beer is half full, but he doesn’t second guess you. He just pays for the bill and waits for you to say your goodbyes.

“It’s such a small town, I don’t know how we haven’t bumped into each other before. Maybe I’ll see you around,” Brandon says. He aims it at both you and Dean, but the way his gaze lingers on you is obvious. At least to Dean.

Don’t bet on it, douchebag.

What actually comes out of his mouth is hot air, because you beat him to it.

“Maybe. We don’t come here that often,” you say. “Good luck with everything.”

Dean raises a brow as you slip a hand around his arm and begin walking with him toward the door.

“You don’t have to lie to your new boy toy on my account,” he says.

It’s meant to be a joke. It just doesn’t come out like one.

You pause at the door, giving him a look that tells him one thing.

Pissed off.

You drop his arm and walk out without him.

Releasing a sigh through his nose, he rolls his shoulders and follows you. He slips his hands into his jeans at the cooler night air. He knows the drive home is about to be more frigid than this.

The dirty hum of the Impala’s motor is all that breaks the silence after he pulls away from the bar. Dean sees the gears turning on your face, that slow simmer of your thoughts beginning to bubble and burst with steam.

It doesn’t take long before you reach a boiling point, turning to him with crossed arms.

“You know, if you didn’t want to come out tonight, you could’ve just said so,” you say.

Dean’s jaw clenches. “What, and me miss tonight’s episode of The Bachelor? Featuring Brandon, the stand-up guy, with his charming smile and ‘baby blue’ eyes.”

He gives you a knowing look. Your mouth falls open incredulously.

“Are you fucking kidding me? That’s not how I meant that,” you say, with an aggravated huff. “Dean, the guy was like a kicked puppy. I was just trying to be nice. And maybe if you would’ve talked to me for half a second tonight, he wouldn’t have felt the need to fill in for you.”

At that, Dean hesitates.

He takes his eyes off the road long enough to glance at you again, seeing just how upset you are. His gut churns with a measure of guilt as he begins to second guess himself. He reels back the night in his mind, like he wasn’t the one who was being ignored.

But, he does start to remember the way you tried to spark a conversation with him a few times, asking if he’d found that specialty part for Baby yet, and if he wanted to grab lunch at the diner downtown tomorrow, just you and him. 

He remembers. He was just too annoyed at the time to give you more than a short, gruff answer here and there, sometimes no more than a syllable. Sure. Fine. Awesome.

He kind of feels like an ass.

His pride won’t let him tell you that though.

Dean’s a professional at holding it all in as he follows you inside the bunker, locking doors behind him and watching the tension in your wake. He blows out a sigh.

It looks like Sam is in his room, most likely asleep or reading for pleasure, like the nerd he is.

It means Dean really has no buffer when he makes it to his room, finding you already undressing for bed with your back turned to him. Dean hesitates in the doorway, his fingers tapping against his leg. But he decides that this is a stupid reason to go to bed angry, especially when he’s not even the angry one anymore. He shuts the door behind him and sheds his jacket.

After you pull one of his old shirts over your head, he approaches you from behind and rests his hands on your hips. He steps in until your back meets his chest, and his thumbs dip under your shirt to brush small circles against your skin, right above the hem of your panties.

“’M sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to be a dick.”

Just like that, your lips quirk, and your tension melts under his warm hands. With a sigh, you turn in his arms and grab onto the open edges of his flannel.

“Then what was the problem?” you ask.

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

You grasp his chin, earning his gaze.

“Yeah, you do,” you counter. “You’re a protective guy, Dean, but I’ve never seen you that snarky and jealous. Not even with other hunters. You don’t honestly believe a random guy I meet at a bar is gonna turn my head, do you?”

Dean’s mouth tugs at half a smile, but when he looks into your eyes, he can’t help but dislodge the truth; it was stuck to the base of his throat.

“Truth is, maybe a Brandon’s got more to offer you than I do,” he admits. “God fucking knows I can’t afford alimony. At least he has a real house, a real job, something stable and, uh…respectable.”

You give him a flat look for that one, but you shake your head and guide him back to sit on the edge of the bed. You climb into his lap and twine your arms around his neck. He helps settle you with his hands moving to your soft thighs.

“Dean, we have a home. We have jobs that matter. And you and me? That’s all the stability I need,” you say. Though he sees the threat of your cheeky grin. “And if I wanted respectable, I’d fuck a doctor, not a real estate agent.”

He laughs, shaking his head. His hands slide back up to squeeze your ass. His smile warms at the way you hold his face and press a kiss to his stubbly cheek, followed by his lips.

“I love you, okay? I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

It’s not the first time those heated words have left your lips, but it’s the first time you’ve said them without him being balls-deep inside you, earning every choked cry and sinful utterance with the way he touched you, kissed you, made love to you with everything but his words.

Even now, it’s difficult for him to hear them. His eyes fall closed, his brows knitting together. But the way he kisses you back is an answer in itself. It’s an all-consuming need. It’s reassurance and solace. It’s a bright, warm flicker in the bloody, violent world you both have been forced to choose.

Dean helps you wrench off the sleep shirt first, so he can trail his hand up your spine and elicit goosebumps in his wake. He grabs a fistful of your hair and kisses you deeper, a filthy meeting of tongues and grazing teeth.

You yank back his layers, down to his watch and undershirt, followed by boots and jeans and anything else that doesn’t mean skin on heated skin.

He picks you up and rolls you underneath him on the bed, and wastes no time in kissing down your body, squeezing your breasts, teasing your nipples with his tongue, the a hint of teeth. You writhe against his mouth, your fingers digging into his arms.

His hand drags down your body and cups your warm mound, making your thighs fall open on reflex. You cup his face in your hands and breathe his name with both reverence and need when his fingers slip through your folds, teasing your weeping hole. Two of his thick digits carry some of that wetness up to your clit and rub tight, relentless circles that make flashes of pleasure pulse inside you. Your body shudders.

You whimper and bury your face in his neck as he takes you higher. You hold him to you as your body coils tighter, tighter, tighter.

But the angle of his hand shifts. His palm still brushes your clit, but he’s fucking you deep inside with his long fingers.

“Gonna come, sweetheart?” he whispers roughly in your ear. “Come on, give me the first one. Come all over my fingers, before I fill you up for real.”

You can’t help but give him what he wants. A long moan spills from you as he draws out your release. It pulses from your center and rushes out warm over his fingers.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Good girl,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

You blush, fighting a smile at the praise. As a grown-ass woman, you think it’s a little silly, but coming out of his mouth, it can only sound almost as good as it feels when he’s inside you.

After licking your arousal off his fingers himself, Dean strokes your cheek and positions himself better between the perfect cradle of your thighs.

“Okay. Ready for me, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Yeah, baby,” you say, with a sexy gleam in your eye that he knows well. "But are you ready for me?"

Hooking your thigh around his, you push him back, until you’re rolling yourself on top, sinking into his lap, and Dean is the one lying there panting, eyes bright with pleasure and a smirk across his lips.

Before he even has a chance to say something smartass, you lure him into a kiss and grind your bare pussy against his risen length. He almost chokes on a groan, his knees bending under your ass on reflex.

When you finally guide him inside you, his hands fly to your hips and ass, squeezing like he intends to brand your skin with his fingerprints.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His forehead presses against yours. “I love you too.”

A small gasp falls from your panting lips.

You pause, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. He stiffens, still holding you, but realizing what he just allowed to escape.

A soft smile lightens your face. You run your fingers through his hair and kiss him a little more gently.

It’s almost too much for him. He doesn’t fucking deserve it, he thinks.

But he lets you do it anyway. If there’s one thing that he wants, more than anything, it’s this.

You rock on him slow to start with. He always fills you so snugly, you have to swivel your hips a little just to help you adjust and find the right angle—the one that makes the head of his cock brush just right against your G-spot.

Your body shudders. Your breaths deepen, and your eyes meet his in a deeper connection. They speak without a word, promising devotion. Promising summer through rain, and gentle hands on old wounds.

Your hair falls messily around your shoulders, and he brushes some of it back. He caresses your shoulders, your arms, the sides of your breasts and the plush of your hips with his strong hands—all while he silently marvels. While he falls deeper into the feeling of you.

This is the moment he accepts it; if he holds onto you, you won’t let go.

So, he does. He sits up and cages you in his arms, buries his face into your hair as you continue to ride him into sweet oblivion. You purposefully clench your pussy on his cock, earning his ragged groan.

Your hand slips in between your bodies just to stroke your clit, until it swells again with a tingling pleasure. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to come again so soon, but you want to try to get there with him. You already feel him throbbing a warning inside you. Your nails curl through his hair and graze his scalp at the base of his neck, and it makes him shiver, like a dog getting scratched just right.

He manages to stave off his own release, just long enough to feel your inner walls begin to flutter around his cock. He wraps an arm around your waist like an iron weight, not only holding you to him, but giving him the leverage he needs to meet you with a few ragged thrusts, fucking you through your own orgasm as well as his own.

He swallows your choked scream with a deeper kiss. Your hold on him is just as fervent and desperate as his is grounding and possessive. It’s hot, panting breaths in between. Sweat-slick skin and a purple haze.   

His eyes are dark with hunter green afterward, when they meet yours.

He’s not letting go.

AN: 😘 How’d you like some jelly, grumpy Dean? I think an occasional ILY and some good hot TLC between the monster slaying could heal him. 🧡

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“I just… never really figured it out,” you admit, voice small. “It always felt weird. Or I’d get close and then chicken out.”

Dean’s expression doesn’t mock. It softens at the edges, but his eyes stay hungry. “Nothing weird about it, sweetheart. Everyone starts somewhere.” He pats the space beside him. “C’mere. Lean back against the pillows.”

You crawl over and settle in, back against the headboard, legs stretched out. The flannel rides up. You tug it down nervously.

Dean’s voice drops, low and steady. “Leave it. I want to see you.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t move closer. Just watches. “First rule tonight: you don’t stop until I say so. Got it?”

You nod, throat tight.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Good girl.”

The praise hits warm and low in your belly. You shift, thighs pressing together.

Dean notices. Of course he does. “Spread your legs for me. Nice and slow.”

You do—knees falling open until cool air hits wet skin. You’re already slick. Embarrassingly so. You bite your lip.

“Look at that,” Dean murmurs, voice rougher. “Already so wet and I haven’t even touched you. That’s fucking beautiful.”

Your face flames hotter.

He leans forward just a little, elbows on his knees. “Run your fingers down your thigh first. Light. Tease yourself.”

Your hand trembles as you obey. Fingertips brushing soft skin, inching higher. The anticipation makes everything feel electric.

“Up higher,” he coaches. “But don’t touch your pussy yet. Just the inside of your thighs. Feel how sensitive you are there.”

You trace slow circles. A tiny sound escapes you—half sigh, half whimper.

Dean smiles, slow and filthy. “There she is. Keep going. Tell me how it feels.”

“Warm,” you breathe. “Tingly.”

“Good. Now slide two fingers through your folds. No pressure. Just feel how wet you are.”

Your fingers dip between your legs. The slick sound is obscene in the quiet room.

You gasp.

Dean groans low. “Fuck, listen to that. You’re dripping, sweetheart. All for me?”

You nod frantically.

“Say it.”

“All for you,” you manage.

His eyes darken. “Now find your clit. Gentle circles. Real slow. Show me how you like it.”

You circle the swollen bud—light at first, then a little firmer when it sparks pleasure up your spine. Your hips twitch.

“Shit,” Dean mutters. “So pretty playing with yourself. Faster now. Little quicker circles.”

You obey. The pleasure builds sharper. Your breathing turns shallow.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he says. “Look at me.”

Your gaze snaps to his. Green. Intense. Locked on every flutter of your fingers.

“Slide one finger inside,” he orders softly. “Just one. Feel how tight you are.”

You push a finger in. Moan—quiet but real. The stretch is new, strange, good.

Dean’s jaw tightens. “Add another. Stretch yourself open for me.”

Two fingers. You pump them slowly, curling instinctively. Your other hand grips the sheets.

“Goddamn,” he breathes. “You’re doing so good. Listen to how wet you sound. Fuck yourself a little faster.”

Your wrist moves quicker. The heel of your hand grinds against your clit with every thrust. Pleasure coils tight and hot.

“Dean—” His name slips out, needy.

“Yeah, baby. Say my name while you finger that pretty pussy.”

“Dean…” Louder this time. Your thighs start to tremble.

He shifts on the bed but still doesn’t touch you. “Rub your clit again. Hard circles. Don’t stop fucking yourself.”

You switch hands—two fingers pumping deep, thumb rubbing frantic circles over your clit. The pressure builds fast.

“I’m— I think I’m close—”

“Not yet,” he says firmly. “Slow down. Edge it. I want you desperate.”

You whimper but obey, slowing your movements. The orgasm retreats just enough to ache.

“Good girl. Such a good fucking girl listening to me.”

The praise makes you clench around your fingers.

“Faster again. Give it to me. I want to watch you come.”

You chase it now—fingers thrusting, thumb rubbing slick and fast. Your back arches. Head tips back.

“Eyes on me,” Dean reminds.

You force them open. Meet his gaze.

“Come for me, sweetheart. Let me see it. Let me hear it.”

The coil snaps. Pleasure crashes through you—sharp, blinding. Your mouth falls open on a broken cry. “Dean—oh god—Dean—”

Your walls flutter hard around your fingers. Thighs shaking. Hips jerking uncontrollably as you ride it out, slick coating your hand, dripping onto the sheets.

Dean watches every second—hungry, proud, breathing hard.

You come down slow, panting, fingers still buried inside you.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Pull them out slow. Show me.”

You do—shiny, glistening fingers sliding free. He groans at the sight.

“Bring them here.”

You hesitate, then hold your hand out. He leans in, takes your wrist gently, and sucks your fingers into his mouth—tongue swirling, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he says when he releases them. “Sweet as hell.”

You’re still trembling, flushed everywhere.

Dean finally moves—crawling over you, careful not to crush you. He kisses your forehead, then your lips, soft and slow. “You did so good, baby,” he whispers against your mouth. “So fucking perfect.”

You smile—shy, sated, a little dazed.

He brushes hair off your damp forehead. “Next time, we’ll do it together. But tonight?” His grin turns wicked. “I’m just getting started teaching you everything you’ve been missing.”

You laugh—breathless, heart still racing.

And you already can’t wait to learn more.

You’re too busy dropping your bag and wincing as your body finally registers the damage from the hunt.

Shapeshifters are the worst.

“Son of a—” Dean groans, kicking the door shut behind him. “I think my spine’s outta alignment.”

Sam snorts, tossing his jacket onto the chair. “You got tackled into a police car, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, rude,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders with a grimace.

You glance over at him.

Bruised knuckles. Split lip. That familiar stubborn tension in his posture like he’s trying to pretend he’s not hurting.

“Sit,” you say, pointing at the bed.

Dean blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Sit down.”

Sam immediately perks up, sensing entertainment.

Dean narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re clearly in pain and you’re annoying about it.”

He considers that.

“…Fair.”

He drops onto the edge of the bed with a grunt.

You step behind him, hands hovering for a second before settling on his shoulders.

“Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re literally clenched like a brick.”

“Hunter instincts.”

“Dean.”

“Fine.”

He exhales dramatically.

You press your thumbs into the tight muscles at the base of his neck.

Dean freezes.

Then—

“Oh— wow.”

You pause.

“…That’s your reaction?”

“Don’t stop,” he says immediately, voice already dropping an octave.

You bite back a smile and keep going, working down his shoulders, easing the knots from hours of tension and adrenaline.

Dean lets out a long, exaggerated groan.

“Oh my God—”

Sam looks up slowly from where he’s sitting.

“…Dude.”

You keep your hands moving, trying to stay focused.

Dean leans forward slightly, head dropping as another sound escapes him—

Loud.

Very loud.

Sam stares.

“Are you—” he gestures vaguely, “—are you serious right now?”

Dean doesn’t even respond.

Another shameless groan.

You stop. “Dean.”

“What?” he pants.

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m in pain.”

“You sound like you’re not.”

Sam chokes on a laugh. “Yeah, man, I don’t think that’s what pain sounds like.”

Dean shoots him a glare over his shoulder. “Shut up, Sam.”

You press into another sore spot just to test something.

Dean melts. “Oh—there, right there—”

Sam stands up. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re not leaving,” Dean snaps.

“I am absolutely leaving,” Sam says, grabbing his jacket. “I am not sitting here while you—whatever this is.”

“It’s a massage!”

“Uh-huh.”

Sam points at you. “You’re doing great, by the way. Keep up the… work.”

“Get out!” Dean barks.

Sam laughs on his way out the door.

The room falls quiet again.

You let your hands slow, easing the last of the tension from Dean’s back.

He exhales, shoulders finally dropping.

“…Okay,” he admits. “That helped.”

You hum. “You’re welcome. Drama queen.”

He glances back at you, a small grin tugging at his lips.

“C’mere.” Before you can question it, he grabs your wrist and gently tugs you down onto the bed beside him.

You land with a soft huff. Dean immediately shifts, pulling you against him, arm wrapping around your waist like it belongs there.

You relax into him easily. “Better?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

A beat passes.

Then, from outside—“I can still hear you if it starts again!” Sam shouts through the door.

You laugh. Dean groans. And pulls you closer anyway.

“I’m in love.” She took a sip like that explained everything. You and Piper exchanged a look. Maybe she had found the right one this time.

“No, you’re in heat,” Priestly corrected. You shot him a look. He ignored it and pointed to the glasses he was cleaning. You rolled your eyes and went behind the counter to help him.

“Oh, look,” Tish started, “a man pretending to acknowledge the difference.” He flashed her an exaggerated, fake-polite smile. Tish lifted her chin proudly.

“You’re awful,” you muttered, stacking the clean glasses.

“I’m honest,” Priestly said quietly, leaning a little closer.

“That’s not the same thing.” He glanced at you, his smirk softening just a bit.

“Didn’t say it was.”

“Finally found an eleven, huh?” Jen asked, handing Tish a mug.

“Twelve,” she corrected. “I did things with Tadd I’ve never done before.” Her look said everything.

“Oh really?” Priestly shot back. “Like what? Wait for a second date?” Tish scoffed, already ready to argue, but Trucker walked in just in time.

“Well, the surf sucked,” he announced, tossing his keys aside. “What did I miss at our staff meeting?” He squeezed past you and Priestly, patting both your backs as he did.

Jen hopped up onto the counter. “Well,” she started, “Tish is in love. Or lust,” she added quickly, glancing at Priestly, “depending on who you ask.”

“Really?” Trucker grinned, stepping behind Tish. “I’m proud of you, angel.” They high-fived, and Tish smiled.

“Piper’s digging herself deeper and deeper into the pit of deceit with the Millers.”

“Good,” Trucker said cheerfully. “Nice to see our tradition of making the worst possible decisions has been passed on to the next generation.”

“Priestly has gotten in touch with his feminine side.”

You’d learned pretty quickly that with Priestly, this was just… him. Loud, unapologetic, impossible to ignore.

“I love my kilt,” he said proudly.

“And,” Jen took a deep breath, “I’ve reached a decision about meeting Fuzzy.” Every head snapped in her direction at once.

“And?” you asked, her cheeks burned.

“Well, I mean, we have the same interests, he makes me laugh all the time, and I tell him everything. It’s a no-brainer. We have to meet.”

The questions came fast after that.

“What if he’s a woman?”

“What if he’s fourteen?”

“Convicted felon?”

“Paralyzed?”

“Ugly as a rhino’s ass?”

Jen didn’t flinch once.

One last question made a smile tug at your lips—Priestly’s.

“What if he’s got crazy hair and more artificial holes in his head than real ones?”

Jen turned to him, smiling sweetly.

“I could never be that lucky.”

“Okay, so when and where?” Piper asked, cutting in before the teasing could start again.

“Halfway,” Jen explained. “Next Saturday. A club in Morro Bay. He’ll be the one with a white rose on his table.”

Something warm settled in your chest. She was really doing it. Taking the risk and letting herself be happy.

“Oh, that’s so romantic” the old woman with the dog sighed dreamily.

“And what about you, sweetheart?” Trucker asked, turning to you.

You shrugged, forcing a small smile. Everyone had news today. You didn’t.

He caught it anyway—the way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. He gave you an apologetic look. You shook your head slightly, with a silent it’s fine.

“Trucker,” Jen jumped back in, saving you, “I was wondering if there’s any way I could borrow the Cosmobile. I figured that way I could just camp out.”

“Of course,” he said without hesitation. “Anything for true love.” Tish was the first to sign up to accompany Jen. Piper joined too. You smiled a little guiltily watching them rally around her.

“Yep, count me in,” Priestly said, setting the last clean glass on the counter.

“Forget it,” all the girls shot back at once.

Their eyes flicked to you, waiting. Your lips pressed together.

“I can’t,” you said softly. “My mom needs me to watch my brother the next morning. She has the early shift. But I’ll be glued to my phone, I swear.” You slid your hand across the counter. Jen took it, squeezing once.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Can we get to work now?” Trucker asked, though no one was really listening.

“I’ll drive,” Priestly insisted, making you all laugh.

“No,” Piper said flatly.

“I’ll buy the beer,” he tried again. Jen laughed, touched by his persistence. Priestly sighed, tossing the rag onto the counter.

“Never get to do anything fun.” You patted his back as you passed him. He glanced at you then, mouth tilting into a half-smile.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he said amused.

And for just a second, you wished that it wasn’t a joke.

The shop slowly settled back into its usual rhythm. Laughter faded into the hum of the grill and the soft thud of bread hitting the counter. Everyone drifted back to their place, everyone except you.

Later that night, Trucker caught you while you were restocking the fridge.

“You okay?” he asked, leaning against the counter watching you work.

“Yeah.” You slid the last two drinks into place and shut the fridge with a heavier sigh than you meant to.

“You don’t seem okay.” You smiled. Trucker never asked things he didn’t already know the answer to.

“I’m just thinking,” you said, reaching for a rag you didn’t really need. He nodded toward the stool beside him. You hesitated, then sat. “I promise I’m fine.”

He didn’t rush you, that was his thing. He just waited the silence to do his job.

“It’s just…” You stared at your hands for a second. “Everyone’s moving forward. Falling in love. Taking chances.” You shrugged. Your gaze drifted past him to where Priestly mopped the floor, shoulders loose, humming under his breath. Trucker followed your line of sight. He didn’t comment. “And I’m still here,” you added quietly, “telling myself it’s better not to want anything.” Trucker’s expression softened.

“And is it?”

You shook your head, a quiet laugh slipped out. “No. But it’s safer.”

“Safer doesn’t mean happier,” he said gently.

You swallowed. “I want a chance too” you admitted. “I just don’t know how to go after it without feeling stupid.”

Trucker smiled, warm and knowing. “Love makes fools of all of us. The brave ones just decide it’s worth it.” You glanced back at Priestly. This time, he looked up and for half a second, your eyes met, he smiled at you and you smiled back.

“What if it’s not?”

“Then at least you tried,” he said. “That counts for something.” You nodded slowly, letting the words sink in.

“But I just need a little time, to prepare myself” you said with a small smile on your lips.

He patted your knee, standing up. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

·𖥸·

After a couple of days, Saturday finally arrived.

The girls left early, bags slung over their shoulders, excitement spilling out of them. You made sure to be there to see them off, hugging Jen a little longer than necessary.

“Text me the second you get there,” you said.

“We will,” Piper promised.

“Don’t do anything Tish would do,” you added in a mock whisper, glancing at her. Tish flashed you a fake smile. “I’m joking,” you said quickly. “I love you.”

Once they were gone, the shop felt quieter and bigger.

Priestly leaned against the counter, watching them disappear down the street. “So,” he said, glancing at you, “it’s just you and me.”

“Lucky you,” you replied, grabbing a notepad.

“Debatable.”

Trucker came out from the back, bag already slung over his shoulder. “I’m heading out,” he announced casually. “Should be a slow day. Close up whenever.”

You blinked, confused. “Whenever?”

“Whenever.” He shrugged. You caught the look he gave you before leaving.

“Please don’t,” you mouthed. He just winked, and the door shut behind him.

Priestly raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Guess we’re trusted adults now.”

“That’s a stretch.” He laughed, and you moved behind the counter with him. You worked side by side without thinking about it—passing things back and forth, stepping around each other like a practiced routine. After five years, you knew how he moved, when he’d reach, when he’d turn. He bumped your shoulder lightly when he passed, like he always did.

At some point, he glanced at the clock “You hungry?”

“Always.”

“Good. I can prepare something, but I need to go to the store. Wanna come?” you thought about it. It was already past four, the place was empty and quiet. You doubted anyone would come in for the rest of the day, so you agreed and suggested closing early, Priestly didn’t argue.

You flipped the sign to Closed while he grabbed both jackets, holding one out for you. Your chest warmed at the small gesture.

The walk to the store was easy. Priestly did most of the talking—you liked that about him. He made you laugh without trying, sometimes over something dumb, sometimes just the way he said things. Mostly, you liked how natural it felt to be beside him.

When you arrived, it might’ve been your introverted instincts kicking in, but you felt eyes on you. You glanced at Priestly. He seemed to notice too.

You leaned closer to him. “Why are they looking at us?”

He looked around and suddenly remembered his last visit a few days ago. "Ignore them."

He put a hand on your back and pushed you gently, guiding you down the aisle toward the mustard. The contact sent a small chill up your back. His hand didn’t leave you until he grabbed the yellow bottle. Neither of you said anything after that.

At the checkout, you noticed two boys standing nearby, each holding feminine hygiene products, grinning like they’d just won something.

“What—”

“Let’s go, baby.” Priestly interrupted you and basically dragged you out of there. You didn’t even see him pay.

Outside, you stared at him. He just smiled like nothing had happened.

Back at the grill, you dropped the mustard on the counter, grateful the store was only a block away.

“So,” he said, clapping his hands once “what are you craving? I’m all ears.” You thought about it for a second, eyes drifting toward the grill like it was an old friend.

“Something greasy. Something that’ll make me regret it later.”

He laughed. “Say less.”

You ended up sharing the small booth by the window, the one you’d sat in a hundred times before but somehow felt different now. Two plates landed in front of you—thick sandwiches stacked too high, toasted bread still crackling softly, cheese barely holding itself together. The smell alone made your stomach growl. Priestly always put his soul into every sandwich.

“You’re drooling,” he said, catching you staring.

“Shut up.”

He slid in the seat in front of you and took the first bite, sauce immediately betraying him. You smiled without meaning to, shaking your head as you had your first bite too. It was messy and perfect. Warm bread, salty meat, mustard just sharp enough to make your eyes flutter close for half a second.

“This,” you said through a chew, “is why I never quit this place.”

Priestly leaned back, watching you like he always did when you talked about things you loved. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

You ate in comfortable silence for a bit, trading bites, nudging each other’s plates, laughing when you both reached for the same fry. It wasn’t romantic in the obvious way. It was easy. Familiar. The kind of moment that sneaks up on you and makes your chest feel too full.

When you finished, the sun was already starting to dip. The light outside was turning soft and golden. “You wanna walk?” you asked. “Before it gets dark.”

He hesitated only a second. “Sure.”

This time you closed the store completely. You texted Trucker to let him know, not only that you had already closed, but also to tell him that you would finally do it, take a risk.

You didn't say a word on the way to the beach. You were preparing yourself, telling yourself that you were only going to confess, not swim with killer sharks.

The sand under your shoes and the salty air calmed you. You walked shoulder to shoulder silently and you were using the view of the sea as an excuse while you counted backward from one hundred to zero so you could speak, but Priestly spoke first. Of course he did.

“This is… surprisingly romantic,” he said teasing. “You trying to seduce me?”

You laughed, but your heart kicked hard against your ribs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He grinned, eyes on the horizon. “Too late.” You stopped walking without realizing it. He took two more steps before noticing, turning back to you with a confused smile. “What?”

You looked at him then. Really looked. The way the sunset caught in his hair, the familiarity in his face, the five years of inside jokes and late shifts and almosts sitting heavy in your chest.

“What if I am?” you said suddenly.

He blinked. “You are what?”

“Trying to seduce you.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. He stared at you like you’d just spoken in a different language.

“I like you,” you rushed on, your heart pounding. “I’ve liked you for a long time, and I’ve wanted to tell you, but I was scared. I am scared” You corrected yourself  “I—” You didn’t let yourself finish. You debated it internally.  Your hands curled into fists. You stepped forward, shut your eyes, and kissed him.

Priestly froze.

For a second, you thought maybe he was about to kiss you back. His breath caught, his eyes flicked down to your mouth, but he pulled away gently, just one step, but quite enough to make your heart clench.

He looked at you like he didn’t recognize the situation. Like it had happened too fast. “I—” He stopped himself and you waited.

Hopeful.

“I’m sorry,” he said and you wished something else would come after that, but that was it, no explanation, no softening, no buts. “I’m sorry.” He repeated and your chest tightened.

“Priestly—”

But he was already shaking his head, already backing away. “I shouldn’t have let that happen,” he muttered, probably more to himself than to you. Then he turned.

“Hey—” you tried but he didn’t stop. You watched him, how he walked down the beach, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders tense, his shape disappeared in the distance. You just stayed where you were. The ocean kept moving and the sky kept darkening.

The worst part wasn’t that he left, it was that he didn’t look back.

·𖥸·

You were thankful there was no work the day after the confession, even if it was because you’d called in sick. You regretted everything about that night, every word, every second, but there was no going back.

He’d left things clear when he walked away. He didn’t feel the same.

Now you were back at work. The heaviness in the air was impossible to ignore, and apparently you weren’t the only one dealing with a heart problem.

Piper had called you the night before. Jen had left the club without meeting Fuzzy. She hadn’t gone into details until that morning. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t need to. You knew that feeling too well, so you just hugged her.

Priestly arrived with his big entrance, his eyes met yours, but you looked away.

“All right,” he said, exhaling sharply. “I’m sitting by the phone waiting, wondering. I demand a full report.” The girls stood silent for a moment, Tish stepped in, taking him a few steps back.

“There’s a reason we didn’t call you” she said and leaned close to his ear, she whispered everything to him, his expression completely changed.

“You’re shitting me,” Priestly muttered, already moving past her, heading straight for Jen. “Jen,” he said, softer but tense. “Please tell me you didn’t leave Fuzzy just sitting there, wondering.” Jen didn’t answer. “God damn it, Jen.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said quietly.

His jaw tightened. “No, I understand. I understand you didn’t talk to him because you were terrified he’d judge you based on your looks.” He paused. “Yet you’re completely comfortable doing the exact same thing to him.” Piper rubbed her back gently, he was not being that gentle.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. He turned to the door and left, in a different situation you would’ve gone behind him, but now things have changed, even if it hurt to admit.

The next few days were torture. Trucker tried to ask what was wrong, but you always brushed it off. He didn’t push it.

Things between you and Priestly turned cold. The feeling was foreign, uncomfortable and something you hated. You spoke only when it was about work. Nothing else. If the girls noticed, they stayed quiet. Everyone seemed trapped in their own world, and the Grill no longer felt the same.

Now you were moving on autopilot like you had been doing all week. It was a quiet day, and you were already closing. As usual, Tadd showed up to pick up Tish. You had to admit, you didn’t like him, no one did.

“Ready to go, babe?” he asked, Tish hesitated. The happiness she’d carried just days ago was gone. She hadn’t said anything, but everyone could see it.

“Hey, Trucker,” she called. He looked up from the paperwork in his corner booth. You knew he’d stopped reading the moment Tadd walked in. “Can I leave ten minutes early?”

“Sure, angel,” he said. “Just be careful if you go rollerblading.”

She nodded, grabbed her things, and headed out. Before leaving, she turned and gave you one last small smile. You returned it, hiding your concern as best you could.

A couple of days ago she’d come in with a cut on her forehead. She said she’d fallen while rollerblading, hit an ice plant and lost control. It hadn’t been convincing, but you’d let it go. Now, you were sure of the truth.

“I wish she’d leave him,” you muttered, setting the broom aside. “She doesn’t look happy.”

“I know…” Trucker said softly, gathering his things and standing.

“Need a lift home, darling?”

You hesitated, then nodded. You were too tired to argue. “I just need to restock a few things.”

“Leave it. You can do it tomorrow.”

“It’s less than five minutes,” you said and he sighed, he could never say no.

“I’ll be outside.”

True to your word, it took only minutes. You double-checked the locks, turned off the lights, and stepped out the back.

That’s when you heard Trucker yelling.

Your stomach dropped. The scene in front of you froze you in place, Priestly was on the ground. Jen was holding Tish, both of them looked scared. Trucker had Tadd pinned beneath him, his foot pressed hard against his throat.

You ran straight to Priestly, dropping to your knees beside him. He was obviously hurt and there was no question on who had done it “You okay?” you asked, hands already scanning his face for injuries.

“I’m okay,” he said, letting you help him sit up. Jen and Tish rushed over, asking the same thing.

“If I ever see you around her again,” Trucker growled, “they’ll be using your picture on unsolved mysteries. You hear me?” He stepped back and let Tadd go. Tadd scrambled up, eyes flicking over all of you before he bolted.

Priestly let out a breath. “Does anyone else feel like Trucker’s got some explaining to do?”

Trucker sighed. “Let’s go to my pad” You helped Priestly to his feet and guided him to the Cosmobile. You called Piper, she didn’t take long to show up.

The drive was quiet. Priestly told Piper what had happened. Tish leaned against his chest, shaken, while he held her without hesitation. Piper wrapped an arm around her comforting her too.

When you arrived, you all sat in a loose circle. Trucker handed Priestly a cold beer for the bruises. You were genuinely worried about him, but you tried to avoid looking at him altogether. You didn’t want to think about it, not here, not now. Still, the way Priestly had held her on the way over, made the memories flash, old jokes resurfaced. Old almosts. Maybe it had never been a joke at all, and she was probably the one he liked.

It made sense to you.

Once you were all comfortable, Trucker finally told you the truth. He passed around an old photo album and explained everything.

Before Trucker, he had been Gordon Hancock, captain of his high school football team. Then he was drafted. Somewhere along the way, he discovered he was good at killing people, he did three tours. Lost count of the bodies sometime during the second. When he came home, he wasn’t the same.

The name Trucker was born after long, restless walks on the beach at night. He met a group of reckless surfers who, for the first time since returning, made him smile. He bought a board. Changed his name. Swore he’d never hurt another human being again.

That promise still stood.

Tish moved closer and kissed his forehead, apologizing for making him break it. Trucker only shook his head, he’d promised not to hurt humans, and he was fine with that.

The tension eased, laughter slipping in where fear had been moments before. Trucker asked Tish for one thing only: no more shitheads. Maybe a nice guy, for once but she admitted those guys never asked her out.

It led Piper to ask him of the quiet fear of being rejected by Zo for who he used to be. Jen found proof that they, Trucker and Zo, had known each other longer than they’d realized. Different lives but same place.

You stayed quiet through it all.

Trucker’s story lingered in the room even after he finished, heavy and sincere, settling somewhere deep in your chest. You understood why he’d told it, why it mattered and you were glad he trusted you all with something like that.

The apartment slowly emptied.

Piper was the first to stand, stretching awkwardly before murmuring something about it being late. Jen followed soon after, exhausted in that quiet way heartbreak leaves behind. Tish hesitated at the door, squeezing Trucker in a tight hug before Priestly guided her out with a hand at her back.

You stayed seated.

“Door’s not locked,” he said gently once the place fell quiet again.

“I know.” You didn’t look up. He took a seat in front of you and waited.

When you finally lifted your head, he was watching you the way someone does when they already know the truth but want to hear it anyway.

“You wanna talk,” he said. Not a question.

You exhaled slowly. “I think I need a break.” His brow furrowed concerned.

“From work?”

“From… everything.” You rubbed your hands together, . “From pretending I’m okay.”

He nodded once. “Okay.”

“I don’t want to quit,” you said quickly. “I love this place. I love you guys.” Your voice wavered. “I just can’t be here right now.”

Trucker nodded undesrtanding. “This about Priestly?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I told him how I felt.” Saying it out loud made it real in a way you hadn’t let it be yet. “And he… didn’t reject me. Not really. But he didn’t stay either.”

“I’m sorry,” Trucker said quietly.

“I know he didn’t mean to hurt me,” you added quickly, as if defending him out of habit. “That almost makes it worse.”

Trucker sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sometimes people don’t know what they’re feeling until it hits them in the face. And sometimes they run from it.”

You gave a small sad smile. “He’s good at that.”

“How much time you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “A few weeks. Maybe longer. I just… need to breathe.”

He studied you for a moment, then nodded. “You take all the time you need.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He smiled softly. “The place isn’t going anywhere. Neither are we.”

Your chest tightened. “Thank you.”

He opened his arms without a word and you stepped into them, resting your forehead against his shoulder, letting yourself be held just for a second longer than necessary.

“Go take care of yourself,” Trucker said quietly. “And when you’re ready… you come back. No explanations needed.”

And for the first time in days, the weight on your chest eases, just a little.

·𖥸·

You didn’t show up for three days.

At first, everyone assumed you were sick. By the second day, Piper started checking the schedule like it might explain something. By the third, they were all calling you.

You never missed work.

When you finally walked into the grill that weekday morning, the place went quiet for half a second. Not dramatic but noticeable. You felt guilty for leaving without an explanation. You knew they deserved one, not all the story but at least to know that you were leaving.

“Hey there, stranger,” Tish said, drawing everyone’s attention. Piper crossed the room and wrapped her arms around you like you’d been gone for years. Jen followed. Even Tish gave you a careful look. Priestly… well, he just gave you a quick look and got back to work.

You stopped trying to understand his actions a long time ago.

“Sorry I didn’t say anything,” you began, perching on one of the counter stools. The girls gathered around. Trucker stayed back, watching, already knowing where this was going. “I’m gonna take some time off,” you said quietly. “Just… for a bit.”

Piper searched your face. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, even if it wasn’t entirely true. “I will be.” They respected you didn’t want to say more, but they made you promise a girl’s night as soon as possible.

You grabbed the few things you actually kept there—your jacket from the back hook, the notebook you always forgot to take home, just little things. Enough to make it feel like you were leaving for good.

You were almost at the door when a voice stopped you.

“Hey.” Your body reacted before your mind did. You froze. Priestly stood near the counter, hands in his pockets, looking nervous “Can we talk?” he asked.

You hesitated just for a second but then nodded.

Outside, the air was warm. You were at the back of the place, the same place the incident happened. He was leaning on his car hood, you stood in front of him, waiting. His gaze avoided yours.

“I tried,” he finally said. “You didn’t notice—but I did.”

You frowned slightly. “Tried what?”

“Talking to you. Catching you alone. Joking like I used to.” He shook his head. “You shut every door before I could even knock.”

You crossed your arms, more to steady yourself than anything else. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But you don’t get to disappear and pretend I didn’t feel it.” Your chest tightened. “That day at the beach,” he went on, “you dropped something real in my hands and I panicked. And I hate that I did.” He swallowed. “But you avoiding me? pretending that it no longer existed? That scared me more.”

You looked down. “I thought you liked Tish.”

His head snapped up. “What—”

“She was hurting,” you continued with a quiet voice. “And I saw the way you held her. So, I assumed I finally understood.”

Priestly shook his head immediately. “She needed someone. That’s all. And I cared because she’s our friend.” His voice softened. “It wasn’t what you think.”

“Then tell me.”

He didn’t answer right away, instead, he took a step closer. Slow and careful. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the familiar scent you’d tried so hard not to miss. His hand lifted, he hesitated but stopped just short of touching your cheek, like he was giving you time to pull away.

“I didn’t even know I liked you like that,” he admitted. “Not until you kissed me. And not until you walked away.”

“That’s not fair.” You felt the tears forming in your eyes. You looked away from him, but he caught your cheek in his hand, guiding your gaze back to his.

“I know,” he said. Your heart was pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. “And I’m sorry.”

He leaned in then—not enough to kiss you, but close enough that the space between you felt charged. His forehead almost brushed yours. Close enough that you could feel his breath, see the way his eyes flicked to your mouth and back up again, like he was fighting himself.

“But you don’t get to leave without letting me try.” he softly said.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The almost-kiss still hung between you, then you nodded. Just once.

“Okay,” you whispered. Priestly’s breath left him slowly, relieved.

“Okay,” he echoed. This time, he didn’t stop himself. He leaned in, his hand finally found your waist, gentle. The kiss was soft and felt like a promise.