Summary: At twenty-six, you never expected your life to look like this: a veteran, a college dropout, now running drugs to cover your late fatherâs debts. The military took you away for a brief moment, but now you're back in your hometown, keeping family at a distance to keep them safe. Your simple plan to clear the debt, one job at a time, unravels the moment Mabel steps into your life.
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warnings: suggestive language, violence, descriptions of a car crash, ferrari being ass (sorry), sexism, brainrot, family bullshit, SMAU, formula one.
featuring: olivia rodrigo, louis partridge, sabrina carpenter, gideon adlon, formula one drivers, etc.
tags: enemies-to-lovers, loser loves loser, formula one driver x actress, prime miscommunication.
authorâs note: kind-of new to formula one so bare w me okay?
this is purelyyyy fiction!!!!
SYNOPSIS:
Youâve spent your whole life racing against a name you never asked for. Being Lewis Hamiltonâs little sister meant you were treated like an accessory before you were ever treated like a driver - but speed didnât care who your brother was, and neither did the stopwatch. By nineteen, you clawed your way into the one seat everyone said you didnât deserve: Ferrari.
Your rookie season was brilliant and brutal in equal measure - points scraped out of chaos, overtakes threaded through impossible gaps, and the constant chorus of online hate insisting you were just a PR stunt. But you kept answering in lap times, not interviews. And very, very, very slowly, the noise seemed to softened.
But then, of course, everything changed.
Ferrari moved mountains, the sport tilted on its axis, and suddenly Lewis - the Lewis Hamilton - was joining you in red. The world completely lost its mind while you pretended not to.
And just when life felt like it was finally shifting in your favor⊠the crash happened.
You donât even know how it actually happened. If it was your fault, the engine, or even someone on the track - you truly had no recollection of the HOW or WHY but you did have the remembrance of the one impact that turned your season into fragments of carbon fiber and headlines you never wanted again.
Recovery meant living in London with casts on your arms and legs with forced time off. And - because the universe is hilarious and hates you - crashing at your British actress best friend Ivyâs apartment.
Which wouldâve been fine. Cozy, even.
If not for the third roommate.
Jenna Ortega, the American actress and global superstar/horror icon of your generation. The girl who also somehow hates you despite barely knowing you. The one who side-eyes you in her own kitchen. The one who has opinions about âspoiled athletes like you.â The one who was supposed to be on set 24/7 but spent more time arguing with you in the living room than her makeup chair.
So now youâre injured, emotionally exhausted, and trapped between Ivyâs relentless kindness and Jennaâs ice-cold disdain - all while the internet tears you apart, and Ferrari waits to see if their gamble can still pay off.
Youâve survived pressure, legacy, and the world watching you fail.
But even you arenât sure you can survive living with her.
And god help you if the hate between you ever shifts into anything else.
summary: reader is a poet publishing her third book. Jenna discovers the collection during a draining press tour, its words resonating with her own struggles. Their very different lives are thrown into each other's orbit by one very spontaneous choice.
Slow paced
pairing: jenna ortega x reader
genre: fluff
warnings: none, i think?
A/N: I've never posted any of my stories on here before, so bare with me while I struggle to format everything.
Anyways, I've had this idea stuck in my head for a while and I figured I might as well post it somewhere in the hopes that people enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!
Oh, and any poems in here are ones I like and have read somewhere, I'll always include the author for them in brackets. For the sake of the story just pretend you wrote it. Feel free to let me know what you think & if i should continue :))
WC: 7.6k
Part 2
please do not repost my work anywhere. if you do see my stories anywhere else, please let me know. thank you.
You always wake slowly, as if your body has an agreement with the sun not to hurry. You'd long ago stopped setting alarms, except for those rare mornings when you had to be somewhereâan interview, a dentist appointment, or any of the other mundane activities that filled your life. Not that you minded, the calm of daily life was grounding.
On most days, the light woke you up, a pale ray of dawn slipping past the intentional crack in your curtains, stretching across your bedroom floor. It caressed your cheek as you stirred awake, leaving kisses of warmth behind.
The routine was always the same. Wake up, make coffee, write. Again, and again, and again. Some might call it passion; you called it controlled madness. The urge to write crawled through your veins, and whenever you couldnât get your thoughts out, it would fill you with unrest until you did.
The apartment was small and homey, the top floor of a brick building that had probably been built in the seventies with nothing particularly romantic about it except that the windows were wide, and the ceilings were higher than average. It was enough, covering the two things that mattered to you: air and light.
The bed was pushed into a corner, tucked between two walls, creating a small safe haven. The sheets were soft, cotton, bathed in the scent of your vanilla fabric softener. They were a soft greyish blue, a color that felt like the ocean in the morning. You never minded the ocean when it looked like thatâquiet, light reflecting off the surface, with no expectation of swimming. Just a place to sit beside and think.
When you finally swung your legs over the side of the bed, you didnât rush to dress. There was an oversized, old sweater hanging over the back of your desk chair. You slipped it on, the sleeves swallowing half your hands. There was something poetic in that, you thoughtâhalf-hidden. Kind of like you, in a way.
The apartment was never entirely silent. The hum of the fridge, the croak of the old wooden floor as you moved around, and the muted sound of your neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, talking to her tv while she was watching her shows (your favorite). They werenât a bother, but they existed, a reminder of other lives outside of your own. There was a comfort in that, the nearness of strangers who had never spoken your name, and the reminder of strangersâthose whoâd lived before you, and those who would after you.
Coffee came first. You padded barefoot across the wood floors, which had been scuffed by tenants long before you. The kitchen wasnât much, barely wide enough for two people, though you rarely had two people in there anyway. But it was cozy, and you managed just fine in the limited space. Cooking was another escape, a love passed down to you by your grandma.
Your eyes wandered out the kitchen window that overlooked a narrow alley. A cat was perched on a trash bin lid, black with a streak of white down its chest. You had seen it often, though you couldnât tell if it belonged to anyone. Sometimes youâd leave food out. The reward was a purring companion whoâd greet you and curl around your legs whenever you left your building.
When the kettle whistled, you poured the water carefully over grounds in a ceramic dripper, the kind you had splurged on years ago and never regretted. The ritual mattered more than the tasteâthough you liked the taste too, sharp but not bitter, a flavor that seemed to anchor the mornings.
Cup in hand, you moved into the living room. Bookshelves lined one wall, though you had long since given up on arranging them alphabetically. Instead, they sprawled in clusters: poetry in one section, novels in another, with slim art books and battered secondhand volumes filling in the gaps.
Small notebooks were stacked wherever they fit, their leather covers mismatched, with bent spines and charms hanging off the elastic. You were incapable of throwing one away, even if youâd filled only half the pages. They represented specific times of your life, and youâd start a new one whenever something meaningful happened. A clean slate.
The most important partâyour deskâsat by the window, angled so that you could watch the street below if you arched your neck a bit. It wasnât much of a street, just a side road with a bakery at the end of it and a bus stop with a crooked metal bench. But you liked seeing people pass by, the same regular faces at certain hours. A man with his briefcase at 8:15, a woman in a red coat walking her dog just after nine.
You curled up in your favorite lounge chair, cupping the coffee between both hands, and glanced at the open notebook on the coffee table. Last night, you had written a few lines before bed, half-dreaming as you scribbled them down. The handwriting slanted, letters uneven, but you could read it:
But there is something that happens when you are told you are Too Much
You begin to ask everyone, how small would you like me?â(Mary Lambert)
I overthink. I over love. I over feel. Iâm the sea or Iâm nothing. (Juansen Dizon)
Itâs a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It is much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all. (Sylvia Plath)
I canât stand it to think my life is going so fast and Iâm not really living it. (Ernest Hemingway)
You smiled faintly, not because you considered them brilliant, but because they were honest. Real. In a world that so often was everything but. Maybe the words would survive revision, maybe they wouldnât. Your poetry was like thatâsome lines remained, most disappeared. Some stayed tucked away in journals that would only ever get to be seen by you.
Your third book was nearly finished now. It had been an insane rollercoaster from getting published for the first time, to the second book earning you enough of a livelihood that you quit your job and now were able to write for a living.
You had spent months arranging and rearranging the sequence of poems, listening to the way one piece brushed against the next. It was like putting together a playlist, except instead of songs, it was fragments of yourself. You always felt exposed when your work was published, like youâd walked into a crowded room without pants on, but you couldnât stop yourself from doing it.
Today, you told yourself, you would go through the manuscript one last time, spread the pages across your desk, and decide if it was ready. Not that the decision was ever finalâthere were editors and revisions and cover choices to be madeâbut the largest part of the work, the part that was fully you, that part was almost finished.
The poems from last night would probably make it in there as well. This bookâyour thirdâwas very anticipated. The first one didnât receive a lot of attention, but by the time you published the second, youâd gathered some fans, appreciators of your work. Critics were split, some argued your voice was too blunt or too modern, while others praised it. Either way, this third book was something else. So unlike the others. Raw. You were both nervous and excited for the response it would get.
You enjoyed the quiet while it lasted, with your work away from prying eyes who would disect every word, every sentence, arguing about stylistic choices as if you hadnât pressed your bleeding heart onto the pages.
By late morning, youâre forced to leave the apartment for a meeting with your editor.
Sheâs already there when you arrive at the restaurant. You spot her at a corner table, a neat stack of papers beside her, glasses perched on her nose. Youâve met her enough times to know the way she carries herself: precise, efficient, but softened around the edges. She isnât the kind of person to talk to you about numbers or contracts in harsh terms. She talks instead about rhythm, about voice, about how the market might hear what youâve written.
âY/N,â she greets you warmly, standing briefly as you approach. âI ordered you a cappuccino. Correct?â
The small gesture makes you smile, even though youâre for sure going to have a hard time sleeping tonight with the amount of coffee youâve consumed today.
âCorrect. Thank you.â
You set your bag down, sliding into the chair across from her. The table between you gleams faintly under the light, reflecting the soft cream of your sweater. The stack of papers seems to hum with quiet weightâyou know whatâs inside without needing to ask. Your manuscript, printed, annotated in her careful handwriting.
The cappuccino arrives almost immediately, the surface dusted with cocoa, steam rising in soft curls. You cradle the cup between both hands, savoring the warmth before you sip.
âSo,â your editor begins, folding her hands over the stack of papers. âYouâve done it again. Three books in, and youâre still⊠you. Which, I think, is exactly what readers are hoping for.â
You glance down at the rim of your cup, watching a bead of foam slide toward the edge. Compliments still make you uncomfortable; you never quite know where to put your eyes when they come. Whether to smile, or to be grateful even though your throat feels tight.
She notices, perhaps, because she smiles and adds, âThatâs a good thing. Consistency of voice is rare. And your themesâfinding the profound in ordinary gestures, identity, solitudeâthose are what people turn to you for.â
You nod softly, murmuring, âI hope so.â
She taps the stack of pages. âThis collection has an arc, doesnât it? More than the last two. It feels⊠hm, how do I say itââ She tilts her head, searching for words. âIt feels like youâre walking the reader somewhere. Not just giving them glimpses, but taking their hand and guiding them through a season of your life.â
The observation makes your stomach flutter. Itâs true. You hadnât set out with a map in mind, but the poems had pulled into orbit around each other until they formed something resembling a journey.
âI suppose so,â you admit. âIt wasnât⊠deliberate. Not entirely.â
She leans back slightly, folding her glasses into her hand. âThatâs often when it works best.â
You look around the restaurant as she speaks, half listening, half absorbing the scene. Sunlight washes across the floor, catching in the chrome edges of chairs. The air smells faintly sweet, like oranges peeled freshly. Conversations hum around youâstudents leaning over laptops, a man in a suit laughing too loudly into his phone, the clink of cups stacking near the counter. You tuck these details away in the back of your mind, where they might later spill into a poem.
Your editor draws you back.
âWhat weâll need to finalize soon is the order. Youâve already sent me one arrangement, but I wonder if we might shift a few things.â She flips open the manuscript, pages covered in penciled notes that curl like vines along the margins. Her handwriting is tidy but fluid, each word connected to the next as if she didnât want them to separate.
She points to a section. âHere, for example. You have three shorter poems in a row. Each beautiful, but together, they risk blending. If we insert one of the longer meditative pieces between them, it allows the reader to breathe differently.â
You lean forward, brushing your sleeve against the edge of the table. The thought makes sense; you see the rhythm she means, like arranging songs on an album.
âI see,â you murmur. âSo this oneââ You point, sleeve hiding half your hand, ââcould shift further back?â
She nods.
You sip your cappuccino again, considering. Foam clings to your lip, and you wipe it away absentmindedly with the back of your sleeve. You wonder, not for the first time, how much of yourself youâve hidden inside those poems, and how much youâve revealed. Whether people will read them and see your face, or only their own reflections.
Your editor continues with gentle precision, suggesting where to cut, where to expand. She never dictates. She offers possibilities, like holding out a handful of stones and letting you decide which ones you want to keep in your pocket.
At one point she says, âThereâs something different about this book, Y/N. I think your readers will notice. Youâve matured, but you havenât lost the vulnerability or depth.â
You tilt your head. âIs that⊠something you can lose?â
She studies you for a moment, then answers, âYes. Many do.â Her gaze flicks toward the window, where people stream past with hurried steps. âBut not you. Not yet.â
The words sit between you, warm and unsettling at once. You glance back down at the papers, at the scrawled notes in graphite.
Hours drift this wayâdiscussion, bites of lunch, small silences in which you stare out the window and let thoughts wander. The sun shifts gradually, shadow crawling across the floor, and the restaurant grows busier as dinner time approaches, voices rising like a tide.
When the meeting finally winds down, your editor gathers her notes, slipping them into a folder. She tucks her glasses back on, smoothing the edges of the papers with practiced hands.
âIâll email you the marked-up sequence,â she says. âYou can sit with it for a few days. Let it breathe. No rush.â
You nod. The idea of âno rushâ feels like a gift.
As you stand, sliding the strap of your bag over your shoulder, she reaches out and touches your arm lightly. âItâs going to be a beautiful book, Y/N. One of those that stays on bedside tables.â
The city air feels different when you step outsideâcooler, dusk already leaning into the edges of the sky. You pull your sleeves over your hands again, hugging yourself lightly as you walk.
You think about what she said: softness, journey, bedside tables. You picture your book resting beside someone elseâs bed, pages dog-eared, poems read and reread in the middle of sleepless nights. The thought both comforts and unsettles you. To be that close to a stranger without ever seeing their face.
The cat is gone from the alley when you return home. The lid of the trash bin is empty, reflecting the dim streetlight. You climb the stairs slowly, keys cold in your palm, and step into the familiar quiet of your apartment.
Inside, the light is fading. You donât turn on the lamps right away. You set your bag down, cross to the window, and watch the street below until the sky deepens from pale gold to indigo.
Finally, you move back to your desk. You drop the new manuscript on your deskâit creates a âthunkâ as thick paper hits wood. You pull the lamp chain, letting warm light spill across the pages.
You slide into the chair, tugging your sleeves down until the cuffs swallow your palms. The comments from your editor hum at the back of your mind, but you donât touch the pages just yet. Instead, you press your forehead against your hand, breathing slowly. Thereâs a tension here, something unfinished, even though the book is nearly done.
Thatâs when your phone buzzes, face-down beside the lamp. The sound cuts through the quiet, a small vibration against wood. You flip it over. A text, from a friend who has read your first two books, who has always taken a keen interest in your work.
The message is simple:
âSo, whoâs the dedication this time?â
Your stomach knots.
You stare at the words for a long moment, thumb hovering above the screen but unmoving. The first book you had dedicated to the standard collection of peopleâyour parents and sibling, because without them and their encouragement from a young age, there would be no book. The second, to your dearest friendâthe one who carried you through adolescence with shared laughter and secrets whispered across late nights. Both dedications had felt inevitable, obvious, necessary.
Now, though?
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. The truth is, you donât know. There is no name pressing against your ribs this time, no figure standing firmly in the doorway of your mind demanding recognition. The book itself feels personal, yes, but it belongs less to one person than to a feeling, a theme you canât quite distill into a single face.
You type back.
âStill deciding.â
The reply arrives quickly.
You donât look, too stuck in your head to hold a proper conversation. You set the phone aside again, but the question lingers, louder than before. Who will be the first name someone sees when they open the book? The place of honor, usually reserved only for the most influential people.
The thought unsettles you.
You lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling where the lamplight fades into shadows. Names flicker through your mind like passing trains. You dismiss each one. Not because the people arenât important, but because none of them fit the heartbeat of this book. This one is differentâit isnât about gratitude or loyalty. Itâs about something harder to name, something like not bending to the pressure of the world. Like sticking with yourself in the face of everything and the struggles that come with that. Something like survival.
A sigh escapes you, thin and resigned. You reach for your phone again, not to answer the lingering message, but to distract yourself. You scrollâaimless, restless, letting the glow of the screen wash over you in the dim room. Photos and videos blur past, clips playing without sound.
And then, by chance, fate intervenes.
You stumble on an interview clipâJenna Ortega, sitting opposite Elle Fanning, a quiet seriousness in her eyes. You donât follow her closely, not more than anyone else. Yet tonight, for reasons you canât explain, you pause. You turn the volume up, leaning slightly closer to the small screen.
Her voice is wobbly, tinged with something raw. She speaks about how hard it is to truly be yourself when the world is always looking at you. About the difficulty of growing into yourself while everyone else is forming opinions, about the almost impossible task of staying true to that self when you live beneath constant eyes.
The words strike you like a sudden draft through an open window. They cut across the quiet of your apartment, threading themselves into your skin. You feel a strange sense of recognition.
Your poems arenât about fame, not directly. But they are about identity, about the fragile act of holding onto who you are when the world presses in, shaping and reshaping you. Youâve written about masks, about the quiet rebellion of choosing not to perform, about the secret strength of stillness in a world that wants noise.
As Jenna speaks, you realize: she would understand. Not because you know her, not because she knows you, but because the distance between your words and her voice feels suddenly very small.
You watch the clip twice, maybe three times, until the glow of the screen feels too bright. Then you set the phone down beside the manuscript. For a while, you sit motionless, sleeves curled against your palms, heart humming with something you canât fully name.
The dedication question still plagues at your mind, but this time it doesnât feel hollow. It feels⊠guided.
Sleepiness tugs at you, that fragile edge of exhaustion where thoughts loosen and clarity slips through the cracks. You know you should wait, think more carefully, but your editorâs deadline presses faintly at the back of your mind. Tonight, the decision feels like a thread dangling in front of you, and you canât stop yourself from reaching out.
You pull a fresh sheet of paper toward you, slide your pen free from its case. The ink flows smoothly, dark against the white.
Your handwriting tilts slightly as you write:
For J.O.
You pause, the letters stark and simple, a mystery to anyone but you. Then you add a single line, brief, almost hurried, as if to trap the thought before sleep steals it away. Something about understanding, about knowing she would relate.
Thatâs all. Nothing more. No explanation. No clarity for anyone else.
You stare at the words for a long moment, then set the pen down and exhale. The room is heavy with quiet again, but different nowâcharged, almost, as if the dedication has stitched something shut inside you.
You slip the page on top of the manuscript, stack neat and final.
The decision has been made.
You donât question whether itâs fate, coincidence, or something stranger.
----&----
The weeks blur. The book is published. Your quiet life goes up in flames.
At first, there is only a ripple: a few reviews, a handful of blog posts, mentions here and there in corners of the internet that discuss poetry. That much you expectedâyour publisher had told you to anticipate a modest response, something steady but quiet, the way poetry usually moves through the world.
But then the ripple becomes a current.
A larger outlet features your collection, calling it a voice that refuses to shout but is impossible not to hear. Another describes it as poems that donât perform, but simply exist in their own necessary way. You scroll through these words late at night, heart skipping at the sight of your name in headlines.
Then comes the sudden rush.
More reviews appear. Praise accumulates, gathering weight like fresh snow. Phrases repeatâmature beyond her years, a tenderness that feels radical, an emerging name to watch. Your age often becomes a part of the headline. You wonder if they would phrase it differently if you were older, if you were a man.
And then, something stranger.
The internet seems to latch onto youânot just your words, but you. Photos from old events resurface, pictures snapped at a reading where you stood in an oversized sweater, hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders, hands curled nervously into your sleeves. Screenshots of your interviews circulate, comments piling beneath them.
sheâs so soft omg
this is my Roman Empire.
sorry but can she step on me??
You scroll through some of these comments late at night, cheeks burning in the quiet of your apartment. The words leave you unsettled, though not entirely unpleasant. You never thought of yourself as someone people would talk aboutânot like this, not with hunger laced through their fascination. You had imagined readers connecting with your work, not thirsting over you.
But fascination grows. People begin making edits, pairing your photos with your lines, sharing videos of you reading aloud, your voice quiet but steady, the cadence of your poems carrying through dim-lit recordings. Fans caption them with things like sheâs unreal or the poet of our generation. The kind of attention that rarely touches poets at all has suddenly landed on you, uninvited but undeniable.
Your editor calls one afternoon, voice bright with something close to awe. âY/N, do you know whatâs happening? Your bookâyour nameâis everywhere.â
You swallow, gripping the phone tighter. âIâve seen a little.â
âMore than a little,â she says, almost laughing. âYouâre being compared to the greats. Andâwell, brace yourselfâthe interviews are coming.â
----&----
You sit in a small studio, the kind youâve only ever seen in passing. Black walls, a soft chair angled toward another where the interviewer sits. Lights hang from scaffolds above, warm but merciless, and the air smells faintly of dust and makeup powder.
The interviewer is kind, professional, dressed in crisp neutrals. Youâre dressed as you always areâsweater draping over your shoulders, sleeves grazing your knuckles, hair loose in soft waves. They fit a small microphone to your collar, the wire slipping down beneath the wool, and you try not to fidget.
The questions begin predictably: What inspired this collection? How did you start writing poetry? Did you ever imagine reaching this point so young? You answer gently, slowly, choosing your words the way you choose lines on a page. You speak about quietness, about how you believe the smallest moments carry the most weight. You admit you never expected this kind of responseâthat you write to understand yourself, not to become known.
The interviewer nods, listening carefully, then asks: âPeople online are fascinated not only with your poetry, but with you. Youâve become a sort of figureâgentle, mysterious, beautiful.â
The word beautiful hangs in the air like a flare. You donât flinch, but inside, something twists. You never speak of yourself that way. You donât see yourself the way the internet apparently does. But you know better than to protestâit would sound false, defensive. Instead, you smile faintly, tugging your sleeve tighter over your hand.
âI suppose,â you say softly, âI canât control what people see. I can only keep writing the truth as I know it. But Iâm very grateful for everything, truly.â
Itâs the best answer you can manage.
When the interview airs, clips circulate immediately. People post about your mannerisms, the way you tilt your head slightly when listening, the softness of your smile, the quiet cadence of your voice. They describe you as gentle but with a somber undertone, as if life has brushed against you more than once. You read their observations in silence, not confirming, not denying.
The effects of being knownâpopularâbegin to seep into your life.
The quiet life you once wrapped around yourself like a sweater is loosening at the seams. Your apartment remains the sameâhomey, cluttered with books, the same cat still appearing in the alleyâbut you spend fewer hours there. Instead, you exist in transit: between events, between questions, between versions of yourself.
And still, online, the fascination grows. People dissect your choice of clothing (always a sweater, or a blouse, something simple but comfortable), your expressions, even the cadence of your pauses. They pair screenshots with your poems, writing captions like this woman makes me believe in love again.
Your editor calls again, voice brimming with something between pride and disbelief. âYou know, Y/N, this is rare. Poets donât usually become⊠this. Whatever this is.â
You stare out the window as she speaks, city lights flickering in the glass. âI didnât ask for it.â
âNo,â she agrees. âBut it found you anyway.â
You donât answer.
Because deep down, youâre beginning to wonder what it meansâthis collision between the quietness you live by and the spotlight now turned toward you. You wrote about staying true to yourself, about identity under pressure, about stillness in a noisy world. And now, as if fate has decided to test you, the world is watching to see if you can live the very words you wrote.
----&----
The days had started to blur together, strung out in a rhythm that didnât feel like living so much as enduring. Wake up in a different bed. Hotel curtains drawn shut against the wrong skyline. Coffee she didnât like but drank anyway because it was there. Cars waiting to drive her to the next destination. Studios, soundstages, hotel conference rooms, red carpets that glared beneath the flash of cameras. Interview after interview, the same questions twisted into new shapes, the same answers repeated until they no longer sounded like words but like lines from a scriptâhollow, practiced, automatic.
Jenna Ortega had done this beforeâpress tours, promotional runs, the endless carousel of appearancesâbut this time felt heavier. Maybe because the movie was bigger, the stakes higher, or maybe because she was a little older nowâmore awareâcarrying herself in ways people still wanted to flatten. Whatever the reason, she found herself drifting, moving through the weeks like a ghost who looked like her but had little to do with who she was.
The hotels all blurred, too. None of them smelled right. Some were too polished, sterile in a way that made her chest ache. Others were all velvet curtains and chandeliers, decadent and suffocating. She missed the smell of her own sheets, the chipped mug she always used for tea, the quiet walks with Twigs. Here, everything was temporary. Even her reflection in the mirror.
She felt like a shellâan outline being carried from one obligation to the next. And yet she smiled when she needed to, answered with grace, tilted her head at just the right angle for cameras. She had learned how to be present without being there at all.
It was during one of those endless daysâafter the junket interviews, before the late-night tapingâthat someone handed her a book. She couldnât even remember who, not exactly. Maybe a stylist, maybe a hair-and-makeup assistant who had been reading between breaks. They had finished it and, with a small shrug, pressed it into her hands. You might like this, they had said.
The cover was simple. Black, with clean lines and muted colors. The title in quiet lettering.
Later, in the thick hush of night, when the city outside still roared and she couldnât seem to close her eyes, she opened it.
The poems werenât what she expected.
She thought she was stepping into someone elseâs world, but somehow they slipped into hers instead.
Line after line seemed to reach for her, pressing against the places she had carefully sealed off. Poems about identity, about how it bends and strains under the weight of other peopleâs eyes. About masks, and silence, and the invisible work of holding yourself intact when the world insists on writing you differently. Poems that were quiet, but sharp.
She read one, then another, and another. The words seemed to hum in her chest, familiar in a way that unsettled her. She could almost hear them, not in her own voice, but in someone elseâsâthe poetâs, whoever she was.
For the first time in weeks, Jenna forgot about the schedule. The callsheets. The next morningâs 4 am alarm. She folded herself into the corner of the hotel bed, hair falling loose around her face, and read as though the pages were speaking to her alone.
She hadnât expected that. She hadnât expected to feel seen inside someone elseâs words.
By the time she finally decided to close the book for the night, her eyes were stinging. The room around her was still a hotel, still impersonal and temporary, but something had shifted inside her chest.
She turned off the lamp and let the dark press close, her thoughts still tangled with the words sheâd read.
For the first time in a long while, Jenna didnât feel entirely hollow.
She felt⊠understood.
But the days still pressed forward, relentless. Jenna hardly noticed where one ended and another began. The press tour carried her through cities like a tideâLos Angeles, New York, London, Berlin, Paris, Tokyo. Each one blurred into the next.
The book stayed with her.
It traveled at the bottom of her bag, edges scuffed from rubbing against chargers and cosmetic cases, its black cover slowly wearing down. The color dulled at the corners, flecks of white showing through where it had scraped. She never left it behind, though. No matter how rushed the morning, how early the call time, she checked her bag twice to make sure it was there.
Sometimes she opened it in the backseat of a car, the city flashing by in blurred streaks of light while she traced her finger down the narrow columns of text. Other times she read in hotel beds after midnight, the lamp too bright, her body exhausted but her mind unwilling to sleep.
The poems sank into her quietly, threading themselves through the empty hours. They became something like a mirrorâthough not one that showed her face, exactly. More like one that showed the outline of her inner self, the parts she rarely let anyone touch.
At first, she read them as they were. But slowly, she began to leave marks.
A question mark in the margin beside a line that puzzled her.
An asterisk next to a stanza that lodged in her chest.
A single wordâyesâpenned in the slant of her hurried handwriting next to a poem that stuck with her.
Sometimes she underlined, the pen snagging lightly against the page when the car hit a bump. Once, she wrote out almost a paragraph, squeezed into the blank space beneath a poem about silence: her own confession about how silence could sometimes feel like safety, and sometimes like suffocation.
The book was becoming hers, covered in notes and highlights and pages bent at the corner. She spent a lot of time with the poems, never bothering to pay much attention to anything else.
It was curiosity that made her look up the author one night, after reading the same poem three times in a row. She typed the name into the search bar while curled in another hotel bed, her hair still damp from the shower, room-service tea cooling on the tray beside her.
Clips came up immediately. Interviews, readings, features. Headlines calling her an emerging literary voice, one of the youngest poets to capture this much attention.
Jenna clicked on one video almost at randomâa recorded interview from a small studio. The camera framed Y/N in soft lighting, hair falling in gentle waves over her shoulders, sweater sleeves tugged down over her hands. She spoke slowly, thoughtfully, as though each word was weighed before leaving her lips.
Jenna found herself leaning closer to the screen, not because she couldnât hear, but because the rhythm of the authorâs voice was quiet in a way that demanded attention. She spoke about poetry not as performance, but as survival. About finding meaning in the smallest textures of life. About writing to hold onto herself.
It wasnât just what she said, though. It was the way she said it. Her eyes lifted now and then toward the interviewer, but often drifted downward, as if she was half-speaking to herself. A small smile would touch her face, fleeting and unforced, softening her whole expression.
Jenna blinked, realizing after several minutes that she hadnât moved. She pressed pause, the still frame holding Y/N mid-thought, eyes thoughtful, lips curved in that almost-smile.
She was⊠cute. That was the word that rose up, unbidden. Cute in a way that didnât feel curated, not polished like the industry people Jenna was surrounded by every day. There was something disarming about her gentleness, the way her presence seemed to invite rather than demand attention.
Jenna shook her head lightly, as if to clear it. She closed the video and set her phone aside, but the image stayed. The sound of Cairoâs voice lingered in her mind as she turned back to the book, running her thumb over the worn edge of the cover.
Life moved on, though. It had to.
The schedule remained heavy, unforgiving. Jenna woke at dawn to cameras and stylists, spent afternoons answering questions she had answered a hundred times before, nights on stages where the lights were too hot and the clapping too loud. She laughed when she needed to, posed when expected, moved from city to city like a shadow of herself.
But in every hotel, no matter the city or the hour, the book waited. In the quiet moments between, she found herself reaching for it.
Opening its pages.
Folding herself into its silence, until the noise of the world dimmed.
----&----
When your next interview is scheduled, you brace yourself. The press has begun circling you more hungrily, hungry for novelty now that your initial rise has been digested. Youâve sat in so many chairs lately, beneath so many lights, and answered the same questions so many times. Where did this collection begin? What inspires you? How does it feel to be young and already recognized? You have perfected the rhythm of your responsesâtruthful, but contained. Enough to keep them satisfied without spilling yourself dry.
This interviewer is different, though. You notice it almost immediately. She sits forward, her notebook balanced on one knee, her expression attentive but kind. Her questions weave more carefully, not just about the poems but about the silences between them, about how your writing handles restraint, about why you think readers have connected with your gentleness. You relax, almost without meaning to.
And then she asks it.
âThe dedication,â she says, glancing down at her notes before lifting her gaze back to you. âItâs short, almost cryptic. Just initials. Readers have been speculating endlessly, but⊠Iâd like to ask you. Would you be willing to share who you wrote it for?â
The air shifts.
You freeze for a moment, the smile caught halfway on your lips. The question lingers between you, delicate but heavy. You feel the beat of your heart pick up, loud enough that you wonder if the microphone could catch it.
Your fingers curl into your sleeves. A nervous habit surfacing at the rise of discomfort.
You could laugh it off. You could refuse. You could say it doesnât matter, that itâs private. Youâve seen plenty of writers do that, and no one would blame you. But something about the way she asksâgenuine, not fishing for scandalâmakes you pause longer than you meant to.
You take a breath.
Carefully, you begin. âItâs⊠funny. Because itâs not anyone I know. Not personally.â
The interviewer tilts her head, curious.
You glance down at your hands, at the threads of wool fraying along your cuff. âI had already dedicated my first two books to the people closest to meâmy friend, my parents. But for this one⊠I kept feeling like it wasnât about gratitude toward someone I knew. It was about connection. About⊠recognition, maybe.â
You let the silence stretch, giving yourself room. Then you go on, softly. âIâd seen an interview with Jenna Ortega. She was speaking about the difficulties of growing into yourself when the world is watching, about how hard it is to stay true to who you are under that kind of pressure. I donât keep up with her much, beyond admiring her talent, but in that moment⊠it struck me. Because those were the very things I felt, and had written about. Not fame, specifically, but identity. The feeling of being stretched thin by perception. And it fascinated me, that our lives could be so different and yet we could feel the same. Or at least⊠similar.â
Your cheeks feel warm. You tug at your sleeve again, wishing for the desk of your apartment instead of this spotlight, wishing for the safety of your journal. But you keep going, because to stop now would feel dishonest.
âSo I dedicated it to her,â you admit, your voice almost shy. âNot because she knows me. She doesnât. Not because I know her, either. But because I recognized something in her words. And I thought⊠maybe she would recognize something in mine.â
The interviewer is silent for a moment. Not the uncomfortable kind of silence, but the kind that respects weight. She smiles, gently, and her voice lowers when she says: âDo you think she knows? Itâs a beautiful sentiment.â
You shrug slightly, awkward under the compliment. âItâs just honest⊠and I donât know, honestly.â
She doesnât press further. The conversation shifts again, back to the poems, back to your process.
Later that evening, you write in your journal.
The trinkets chime faintly as you open it, pen sliding into your hand like a familiar friend. Your handwriting is looser here, sprawling, less careful. You jot down the memory of the question, of how it felt to say the truth out loud for the first time. You write about the strangeness of dedicating words to someone you donât know. You wonder whether Jenna will ever hear about it, whether she would care if she did. You suspect notâher life is far too full of other things.
And yet, in the privacy of your journal, you admit something you didnât say in the interview: that the thought of her reading your poems, even once, even in passing, feels both impossible and quietly thrilling.
You close the journal, listening to the charms tinkling softly as you do.
This one will never make it into a book.
This one is just for you.
----&----
Press days had a way of eating time whole. Jenna had been through so many in the last few weeks that they all seemed to blur together.
But this one was different. This one was lighter.
She was seated in a bright studio chair, her black tote bag on her lap, cameras positioned at gentle angles. The concept was simple: Whatâs in My Bag. She had done versions of it beforeâsometimes with a magazine, sometimes for a video series. This time, it felt almost easy. Familiar. Like a game.
The host, a cheerful woman with a notepad, introduced the segment, then gestured for Jenna to begin.
âAlright,â Jenna said, leaning down to pull the bag into her lap. The leather was soft, slightly worn at the edges, the strap fraying where it brushed against her coat every day. She smiled faintly, setting it on her knees. âThis is my everyday bag. I carry it pretty much everywhere.â
She reached inside, pulling out the first object: a packet of mints. âNecessary. I think Iâve bought like fifteen of these since the tour started.â
The next item was a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer. Then a pair of wired earbuds, tangled as always. The host made a joke about everyoneâs earbuds ending up that way, and Jenna laughed, her shoulders loosening. The cameras rolled on, capturing her ease.
She pulled out a small Polaroid photo next, worn around the edges. She explained softly that it was of her family, something she kept with her when she was away from home too long. The host cooed appreciatively, and Jenna tucked it carefully onto the table.
Item by item, she worked her way through the bag: tinted lip balm, a phone charger, a notebook filled with quick scrawls of thoughts she never wanted to lose. She kept the rhythm light, smiling, making little jokes that felt unforced.
And then her hand brushed against the familiar texture of a book.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second before pulling it out. The cover was black, worn around the edges, flecked where the color had rubbed away. The spine bent slightly from the way she shoved it into her bag too often, pages soft from use. Her pen marks peeked faintly at the edges where she had written in the margins.
She set it on her lap and ran her hand over the cover almost unconsciously. âAnd this,â she said, her voice softening. âThis is⊠probably my favorite thing Iâve been carrying.â
The host leaned forward, eyebrows raised. âOh, a book! What is it?â
Jenna lifted it so the camera could catch the title. âItâs a poetry collection.â She said the name gently, as though tasting it. âIâve been reading it during the tour, whenever I get a moment. It kind of keeps me grounded.â
Her fingers pressed against the edge of the cover, thumb stroking the crease there. She didnât explain further, didnât confess how she had filled the margins with her own thoughts, how the book had become a strange kind of anchor in the blur of these weeks. She only smiled faintly, the kind that wasnât for the cameras so much as for herself.
The host tilted her head. âThatâs wonderful. Iâve heard itâs been getting incredible reviews.â
âIt deserves them,â Jenna replied simply. âHer writing is⊠thoughtful. Quiet, but powerful. It makes you stop and really feel something.â
The cameras caught her eyes softening as she spoke, caught the sincerity threading through her words.
And then the host, in that offhand wayâlike she didnât even consider the wordsâadded with a smile: âAnd itâs especially nice, I imagine, since it was dedicated to you.â
The world screeched to a halt.
For the barest moment, Jennaâs mind went completely blank. The words struck like a stone shattering glass. Her stomach flipped, and she froze mid-breath, eyes widening just slightlyâjust enough.
The cameras caught it. They would later freeze-frame it, loop it, dissect it.
But in that moment, Jennaâs thoughts scrambled. Dedicated to her. No. That couldnâtâ She hadnât even read the dedication.
She flipped the book open, even with the camera pointed at her, and just stared. There, on the page, staring back at her, were her initials. It could be anyone. And yetâ
She forced herself to recover quickly, her actress training snapping into place like armor. Her smile returned, smaller now, tempered. âOh,â she said lightly, forcing a small smile. âI- uh⊠I hadnât heard about that.â
Her tone was careful, as though brushing it aside without denying it. The host moved on smoothly, sensing perhaps that the comment had landed heavier than intended. Jenna exhaled slowly, too quietly for the microphone to catch, and tucked the book back into her bag with deliberate care.
Summary: it was in the grain, or at least thatâs what they say. Five years of this new way of living, though you canât truly complain. Your past is dead like the ones who now hunt you, or so you think, until she comes into your life. With your new way of living you find yourself in a position, she brings you to question everything you know⊠and everything you thought you knew.
Pairing: Jenna Ortega x Reader
Tags/Warnings: mature language, mentions of unsettling and disturbing events, post-apocalyptic, trauma, substance abuse, gore and violence, angst, character deaths, slowburn; suggestive themes(18+)
AN: hi friends :) Iâm alive, and yes itâs my own take based in The Last of Us Universe â inspired by the beautiful writing of @highprettybabyy that Iâve found myself obsessed with recently, which Iâll happily tag here.
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Summary: At twenty-six, you never expected your life to look like this: a veteran, a college dropout, now running drugs to cover your late fatherâs debts. The military took you away for a brief moment, but now you're back in your hometown, keeping family at a distance to keep them safe. Your simple plan to clear the debt, one job at a time, unravels the moment Mabel steps into your life.
previous part <--> next part
You stare at the list, the names burning into your memory without effort. Itâs not intentionalâyou just canât help it. Your eyes flick toward Erin and the other detectives. Theyâre focused, immersed in their own investigations, but you can feel their scrutiny like a weight pressing down on you.
You shouldnât be here. You know that. But the urgency of the situation has pulled you in too deep to back out now. Each name on the list feels like a warning, a reminder of the tangled web youâve become ensnared in. Worse, every name represents someone who could be in danger because of you.
Your eyes stop on a name you recognize, and your brow furrows in confusion. Your pulse quickens as you lift your gaze to Erin, meeting her eyes immediately.
âWhy is my dadâs name on this list?â you ask, pointing at it.
Erin steps to your side, glancing at the list. Her expression shifts from confusion to realization in seconds. âErin,â you press, your voice lower now, more pointed. âWas my dad a CI?â
She pulls the list from your hands, shaking her head. âThis is the fake one we came up with,â she says quickly, her tone controlled. Her eyes flick to the other detectives, who exchange subtle nods. âYou didnât think weâd give you the real list, did you?â
You know her too well. Even now, after all these years, you can see the lie plain as day.
âErin,â you say again, calmly this time, though the storm brewing inside you seeps into your tone. You meet her eyes with a look you hope she understands. Her lips press into a thin line, her head giving the faintest shake. A silent plea: donât pull on this string.
But the glance she shares with the other detectivesâit tips you over the edge.
âErin, quit looking at them,â you snap, your fists clenching. âThe list is real, isnât it? My dad was a CI.â This time, itâs not a question.
Erin sighs heavily, her shoulders slumping. âThe list is real,â she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.
Your heart pounds loudly in your ears. The revelation hits like a physical blow, but the pieces fall into place almost too easily. Of course. It all makes sense nowâwhy your dad was found outside the hospital after an apparent overdose. Why the security footage from the ER entrance mysteriously disappeared. His death wasnât an accident.
Your chest tightens as anger surges through you, hot and unrelenting. âHe was working for them, wasnât he?â you demand, your voice trembling with rage. âThatâs why he got involved with those people in the first place.â
The betrayal cuts deeper than you expected. Your dad wasnât just caught in their worldâhe was a part of it. And now, because of them, heâs gone.
Erin's expression darkens. "Y/N, listenâ"
"No, you listen!" you interrupt, your voice rising. "He didn't tell me anything! I could have helped him! I could haveâ" You cut yourself off, frustration spilling out in shaky breaths. "Why didn't he tell me? I could have helped him!"
You're out of breath, eyes are filled with tears and you feel...horrible. Here you thought your dad was doing it out of selfishness but really he was helping the police. What may have started as stupidity winded up him helping to end this for good. Not just for him, but for everyone involved.
Erin steps closer, her voice gentler now. "I know this is a lot to take in, but he did what he thought was right. He was trying to protect you, Y/N. He didn't want you dragged into this mess."
You wipe at your eyes angrily, shaking your head. "But I am dragged into it! And now he's dead because of it. What good did any of it do?" You look at her, hoping she had the answers. You know she does. She's had her nose in those files for the last six hours.
"Your dad cooperated in a lot," Erin finally speaks, smiling sadly. "He tried to work his way to the top. Things slowed down with Weeks' death but he still managed to get intel during those times. We had suspicions of Ronald Betancourt but we could never prove it...is the guy you guys call Ronny?"
Erin takes a photo from another detective and shows you a photo, from a still of a video. You stare at the photo in Erin's hand, your stomach twisting. The man in the picture is unmistakableâRonny, the one who threatened you, the one pulling the strings now. "Yeah," you mutter, your voice barely audible. "That's him."
Erin sighs, putting the photo down. "Your dad was close to connecting him to Weeks' crew, but he didn't get enough time. That's why they took him out." She pauses, glancing at you. "Ronny must've found out your dad was working with us."
Your hands ball into fists at your sides. "So, what? Now it's on me to finish what he started? Is that what you're saying?"
Erin's eyes soften. "Y/N," she says softly, and your anger decreases when you hear her say your name. "He did this because of you."
You blink, confused by her words. She moves to grab a file then moves back to you, opening it to show you what the original detective on the case wrote.
Informant reason for approaching the station:Â wants to be like his daughter and save lives.
Your breath catches in your throat as you read the note. Wants to be like his daughter and save lives. The words blur for a moment, and you can barely process what you're seeing.
"Heâhe wanted to be like me?" you whisper, staring at the paper, your mind racing. All this time, you'd thought your dad had fallen into something dark for selfish reasons, but it was because of you. Because he wanted to do good, just like you.
The wall of fame he had for you and now this. He really was proud of you.
You look at the list again, the names blurring in your vision. Your father gave his life to protect youâand othersâfrom these people, because of you.
Tears well in your eyes as you realize the depth of his sacrifice. Everything he'd doneâgetting involved with dangerous people, risking his lifeâwas because he believed in you. All the anger and confusion you'd felt over the past months start to shift into something else, something heavier but clearer. Pride. Sadness. A strange, painful mix of the two.
You wipe your eyes, the weight of the list in your hands suddenly feeling much heavier. Your face switches to one of determination, almost like a switch flipped. You look at Erin, setting your jaw.
She nods, understanding the look very well. She turns back to her colleagues and they nod as well.
"Grab some pen and paper, I got a lot of information to give."
\\\\\\
You finish the call with Rudy, thanking him profusely for taking care of your family. He tells you they have questions, and you instruct him to tell them the truthâthat the police are involved. He urges you to cooperate with them fully, to go along with whatever plan they have and you can only assure him everything will be fine. No matter what happens to you, as long as at the end of everything your family and Mabel are okay, you will be happy. You hang up, anxiety creeping in as you rush up the stairs, two at a time, hoping Mabel is home.
You want to see her before she leaves.
Knocking three times, you wait, chewing on your nail nervously. You hadn't messaged her, thinking this conversation needed to happen face to face.
After a minute, Mabel opens the door, her expression cold and guarded. She glares at you, and you instinctively raise your hands, trying to ease the tension.
"Let me explain," you start, watching as she leans against the door frame, silent but giving you the chance to speak.
Before you can get more than a few words out, Mabel stops you, her tone sharp. "You don't get to explain away what's happening."
"Wait, Mabel, pleaseâ" you plead, but she doesn't let you finish.
"Let's go," she orders, her voice leaving no room for argument. You stand there for a moment, stunned by her tone and demeanor. You've never seen her this angry, this hardened, and it's throwing you off balance.
"Mabel," you call out, hurrying after her as she storms down the stairs. She's moving fast, almost too fast for you to keep up. "Mabel, stopâslow down, at least."
When you finally catch up to her outside, you grab her hand, desperate to slow her down, to talk this through. She immediately flinches out of your grasp, her glare even more intense now. You step back, lifting your hands in surrender.
"I'm sorry," you offer, the words feeling hollow. Her glare doesn't soften, and you let your hands drop to your sides, sighing deeply. "Mabel, you shouldn't be involved in this. I donât wantâ"
"I'm in it now," she cuts in, her voice level but laced with anger. "Now get in the car. We have to meet the guys."
Your brows furrow in confusion. "What guys?" She turns to you, eyes narrowing like you're supposed to know. Then, realization hits. "No. Absolutely not. You need to get out of town. This is my problemâ"
"You made it mine now, too!" Mabel's voice rises, startling you with a volume and intensity you hadn't expected. It leaves you momentarily speechless. "You thought I didn't care, but I did. I do care. So I went out of my way to find out what you were hiding..."
A cold wave of guilt washes over you, and you swallow thickly, staring down at your feet, shame twisting in your gut.
âYou really think Iâm just going to leave town, leave you, to do whatever stupid plan youâve conjured up alone?â she waits for your input and when you remain silent, she scoffs.
"I was right," she mutters, her voice softening as if the weight of the situation is settling on her shoulders. "This town just drags you down, just when you think you're out."
You take a small step forward, wanting to close the emotional and physical distance between you. But Mabel steps back, shaking her head.
Your shoulders slump, the guilt heavy on your chest. "I told you, Mabel. I didn't wantâ"
"Yeah, I get it," she snaps, her frustration clear as she turns and heads toward the driver's side of the car. "Let's go. We have to pick up Charlie." She climbs into the car, leaving you standing there, regret burning in your chest with every passing second.
You sigh quietly, glancing to your right when you see a car pull up behind Mabel's. You furrow your brows, recognizing it from somewhere. The glass is tinted so you aren't able to see inside but something about it doesn't feel right.
You get in the passenger seat, looking at the side mirror to see the car pull off the same time as Mabel. You sit back, buckling up as you glance over at Mabel. She's tense, her hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly. You want to say something, anything, but the words stick in your throat. The weight of everything hangs in the air between youâwhat you've dragged her into, the danger looming over both of you.
You reach to turn the radio on but stop when you see her eyes flicker to your hand. You sit back with a huff, crossing your arms like a scolded child. You glance at the side mirror again, finding the same car again, but lagging behind. It's trying to hide its following you.
There's an uneasy feeling creeping up your spine. Glancing at the side mirror again, you try to place where you've seen it before. The tinted windows give nothing away, but there's something about it, something that makes your gut churn.
"Umm," you speak up, nervous, afraid she would yell. You clear your throat and sit up, turning your body to look out the back window. "Make a left here."
"What?" Mabel asks, sending you a glare.
"Make the left, just make the left," you order quickly, and with her driving skills, she does it perfectly.
Mabel grips the wheel even tighter, her knuckles turning white as she takes the sharp left without hesitation. The car screeches slightly as she turns, but her skill keeps it under control. You twist in your seat, watching through the rear window as the car behind you hesitates for a second before making the turn as well.
Your heart pounds in your chest as the uneasy feeling solidifies. "It's definitely following us," you mutter, more to yourself than to Mabel. "There's a car following us." You tell her.
"How long has it been there?" she asks through clenched teeth, her eyes focused on the road ahead but her voice laced with frustration.
"Since we left your place," you admit. "I recognized it earlier, but I couldn't place it. Now I'm sure. They're tailing us."
Mabel curses under her breath, her face hardening with anger. "Who the hell are they?"
You shake your head, the pit in your stomach growing heavier. "I don't know... but we need to lose them."
Mabel's jaw clenches as she accelerates, weaving through the narrow streets. The car behind you speeds up as well, keeping pace but struggling to stay hidden now.
"Oh, they know we know," you mumble, sitting up slightly to grab your gun from your waistband.
"What are you doing?" Mabel asks, glancing at you as you check your magazine.
You cock the gun. "Popping their tires."
"How about we try the gun-free method?" You scrunch your nose, unfamiliar with said method. "We try to lose them. Give me a minute."
You pause, your hand tightening around the grip of your gun. "A minute?" you mutter, your anxiety bubbling up. You glance at Mabel, her focus unwavering as she handles the car with precision. She's determined, and it sparks a small sense of reassurance in you.
"Not literally a minute," she grunts as she makes a sudden turn.
"Fine," you say, sliding the gun back into your waistband. "But if they catch upâ"
"They won't," Mabel cuts you off, her eyes narrowing as she takes a sharp right turn, the tires squealing in protest. The car behind you follows but starts lagging, clearly not expecting the maneuver.
You grab the handle above the door, bracing yourself as Mabel floors it down the next street. "I hope you know what you're doing."
She spares you a quick glance. "Trust me."
Another quick turn, this time down an alley, and the distance between you and the tailing car grows. You peek out the back window, watching them struggle to keep up. Mabel swerves into a side street, and for a split second, the pursuing car disappears from sight.
"Now what?" you ask, your heart racing.
Mabel takes a breath, slowing down just slightly. "We take another turn and lose them for good." She does as she says and soon, you're back on a road you're unfamiliar with.
"I think I want to be a writer," Mabel says all of sudden. You raise a brow, confused by the topic but intrigued. "I donât know. The wholeâŠradio silence between us had me writing a lot more than usual and when I realized I turn to writing in any kind of situation, the first thing I thought of isâŠâ
She glances at you, like sheâs debating whether to tell you this or not.
âThe first thing I thought of is, I wanted to tell you,â she confesses.
You look out the window, jaw tightening. You canât believe you put her through such a hard time these last few days.
You donât deserve her.
You lean back in your seat, considering her words. "Youâd be a great writer," you say softly, picking at the loose string on your pants. You look at her and smile, loving the way her lips curve slightly at your words. âIâve heard you talk, I like hearing you talkâŠI bet your written words are just as incredible.â
Mabel smiles slightly, though it's faint, weighed down by the tension still lingering in the car. She shakes her head. "I'm still mad at you."
The light turns green, and Mabel accelerates, driving a little more calmly now. The streets are quiet, and it feels like you've finally shaken the tail.
You nod in understanding, unable to find other words besides "I'm sorry," to say to that. You sit in silence for a moment, staring out the window as you process everything. You stare at her as she drives, heart aching for putting her in this situation.
Sheâs been nothing but supportive and communicative with you. You feel like youâve given her nothing while sheâs given you nearly everything. You want to be supportive.
You want to communicate.
You donât want to lose her.
"My dad was a CI," you tell her, and has to force herself to keep her eyes on the road when she hears your words. "His accidental overdose...not so accidental." You share with her.
Her walls shatter then, the need to console you breaking it. "I'm so sorry," she says quietly, her voice full of empathy.
You look at her and shrug. "I guess in some sort of way, I was being like my dad. Hiding the truth from the people I love, thinking I was protecting them but really..." you pause, and she meets your eyes when she stop at another red light. "I was just putting them in danger."
She doesn't say anything. Instead, when the light changes green, she takes your hand and intertwines your fingers, squeezing your hand.
Once. Twice.
Three times.
You know what it means but don't say anything. Just squeeze her hand three times back. You see her lips twitch into a smile as the car rolls to a stop outside of a big house. You eye the house, then the street. You have never seen this side of town before.
Mabel leans over after parking, connecting your lips with hers. She pulls back just a few centimeters. "We're going to get through this, okay?" Her hand goes up to your cheek, running her thumb gently along your skin. Her eyes search yours, full of determination and something deeperâsomething that feels like hope, despite the storm swirling around you both.
You nod, swallowing hard as you let her reassurance sink in. "Okay," you whisper, your voice barely audible but filled with resolve. You connect your lips with hers once again, wanting to express what you're unable to say aloud. When you pull apart, she glances out the window and sits back in her seat.
The back door opens and you glance back, finding Charlie sitting in the backseat awkwardly. You don't blame him. He just caught you kissing his ex-girlfriend, who he still has feelings for. You're positive the only one who isn't feeling awkward is Mabel, because she's shifting the gear to drive.
"Nice to see you too, Charlie," Mabel says without missing a beat, her tone light but edged with a certain defiance.
Charlie clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "You sure about this, Mabel?" he asks, his voice low and tight.
You glance at him in the rearview mirror. His jaw is clenched, his gaze fixed on Mabel like he's trying to will her to change her mind.
"Absolutely," she replies, her eyes on the road as she pulls away from the curb. "If you have something to say, now's the time."
Charlie shakes his head. "You shouldn't even be back in this," he says pointedly and you can hear the way its directed to you.
You turn in your seat to look at him. "Have you tried arguing with her?" You hear her let out a quiet chuckle. "I don't want her involved in this either, Charlesâ"
He opens his mouth to correct you but you don't give him a chance to.
"âbut here we are," you continue, cutting him off before he can protest. "You think I want this? Any of this?" Your voice rises slightly, frustration bubbling to the surface. "But Mabel made her choice. Just like you did."
Charlie glares at you, his expression a mix of anger and guilt. "Yeah, well, at least when I was doing it, I kept her out of it," your glare doesn't waver and he slouches slightly under it. "I never wanted to rope her in to this. She doesn't belong back in this world."
Mabel scoffs, her grip on the wheel tightening. "Stop talking about me like I'm not here," she says firmly, her tone carrying the weight of someone who refuses to be sidelined. "I know exactly what I'm walking into, Charlie. And for the record, I don't need you to save me."
The silence that follows is heavy, filled with unspoken tension. Charlie shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. You don't turn back around, keeping your gaze on Mabel.
"Fine," Charlie mutters after a long pause. "But when this blows upâand it willâdon't say I didn't warn you."
You rest your elbow on the doorsill, huffing. "That's just the positive attitude we need."
Charlie lets out a grunt as he tries to find a comfortable position to sit in. "What even is the plan?"
You and Mabel share a look, and a grimace crosses your face. You think Charlie sees because you hear him groan.
"There is no plan, is there?"
"Iâll explain when weâre with the others,â you say simply, sharing one last look with Mabel. Itâs not much but you understand; she trusts you.
Charlie throws his hands up in exasperation, slumping back against the seat. "Great. Just great. We're driving straight into the fire without a damn extinguisher."
You glance at Mabel then over your shoulder at Charlie. "You want a hint, kid" you start and Mabel slows to a stop at a red light. He grunts at the nickname, like a child. âIt involves my ex-girlfriend."
Charlie sits up and looks between you and Mabel. "That's only fair, since mine is involved." Mabel sends him a glare that makes him sit back silently.
"And your ex-girlfriend is..." Mabel asks slowly.
"A cop," you say and Charlie huffs out a laugh. "Hear me out, I went to her alreadyâ"
"And she didn't arrest you? Wow. Feelings are still there, clearly."
You turn to make sure he can see your glare. "Charles, you want to walk out alive from this plan, stop talking." He crosses his arms like a scolded child and huffs. With a head shake, you turn back around and look at Mabel. "She has an idea and it may get us all out of this...safely."
Charlie hears the hesitance in your voice at the last word but he does what you told him, stop talking. He glances between you and Mabel, waiting for his ex-girlfriend response to this.
Mabel drums her fingers on the steering wheel, her lips pressing into a thin line as she considers your words. The light turns green, and she pulls forward, her gaze locked on the road ahead.
"A cop, huh?" she says finally, her tone cautious but not dismissive. "You really trust her? Because if this goes sidewaysâ"
"I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't," you cut in. "She wants to help. And I have gone over it with her alreadyâshe's the one who told me about my dad."
Mabel glances at you at that, aware of the weight behind your words. Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and her eyes flicker with something unreadableâconcern, maybe, or anger on your behalf. She exhales slowly, nodding for you to continue.
"We went over this case and apparently, my dad was close to revealing who was behind all these drug runners, which is why they had to shut him up," you say, feeling anger rise in the pit of your stomach as you recall the information on the case file. "They just need one major deal to go down, catch these guys red handed to shut it all down. Erin wants to help."
Charlie huffs in the backseat. "I don't buy it. There has to be more to this." He leans forward again and looks at you directly. "There's no way any of us walk out of this scot-free."
You hesitate, and since Mabel is focused on the road, she doesn't see it, but Charlie does. You send him a look, silently pleading with him not to ask anymore questions. He sits back quietly, but the tension in the car thickens. Charlie's eyes narrow slightly, clearly unsatisfied with the lack of answers. He doesn't press further, but the weight of his skepticism hangs in the air, making everything feel fragile. And despite not liking you entirely, he trusts you wouldn't put Mabel in a situation that could get her hurt or into anymore trouble.
Mabel, ever perceptive, picks up on the subtle shift in the atmosphere. She glances briefly at you before turning her attention back to the road, her voice low but steady. "If you think this is our best shot, I'll back you. But..." she hesitates, her fingers tightening on the wheel, "if it comes down to a choice between her plan and keeping you safe, I'm choosing you. Every time."
The sincerity in her voice makes your chest tighten. You nod, swallowing hard. "I know. And I'll do everything I can to make sure it doesn't come to that."
The car falls into a tense silence, the weight of the situation settling over all three of you. Charlie finally breaks it with a low sigh. "So, what's her play? She's got to have something if you're putting this much faith in her."
You glance back at him, then at Mabel. "Ronny asked for a list. He wants to know all the names of the CIs and UCs in the area." You inform them then shake your head as the list of names flashes in your head. "I have to meet him tomorrow to let him know the names. We can go over what else will go with the guys." You say as Mabel searches for a place to park at the docks.
When Mabel finally finds a parking spot, you all exit the car and follow Charlie to his brother's boat. There, Costa, Tommy and now Nunes is there waiting for you all.
"Nunes?" You greet him with furrowed brows. He shrugs and pulls you in for a short embrace.
"Mabel needs helps, she's got it." Nunes says with a shrug.
You glance at the girl and she smiles, moving closer to you and don't waste time into pulling her into your side. Her hands go around your waist and you look around the group, noticing the tension that still lingers between everyone.
You go over what's expected of them during the plan. All they have to do is be there, and since Tommy has to be the one to move the larger products, he's already expected. Nick and Ronny won't be suspicious of his presence but they will of Charlie, Costa, Nunes and Mabel. So you had to play this right.
"Ronny will want me there," Mabel says, glancing up at you for a second then the others. "You said he thought we would make a good team and he's rightâwe'll use that and make him think we'll work with him. I'll be there."
You hate the idea, but you know there's no point in arguing with her. All you can do is nod and look over to them, hoping Mabel won't see your obvious disdain for that part of the plan.
"Costa, Nunes," you look at them, then look at Charlie. "Charlie."
Charlie arches a brow at the use of his actual name. It means you're serious.
"Be on standby. I'll let Erin know about you guys." You tell them.
Charlie's brow furrows, and for a moment, it seems like he's about to argue, but then he catches your serious expression and settles back with a resigned sigh. "Alright," he mutters, "but I still don't like this."
Costa chuckles lightly, crossing his arms and looking out at the water. "Yeah, well, none of us do," he says, his tone neutral. "But we do what we gotta do."
Nunes shrugs. "Rangers lead the way, right?"
You smile in his direction, surprised he remembered. That's for damn sure, you think as you nod in his direction. Which is why you're going to make sure they come out unscathed. Especially Mabel.
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logged off two months ago after posting and got caught up with school work. semesterâs almost over so Iâm hoping I can dedicate more time to posting. I wanted to get this out as soon as possible since I know the wait has been long so there will be grammar errors so i apologize.
Thank you for your patience and for sticking around. See you in the next one
Oh, I'm so ready for an angry Mabel! I can't wait to see her yell at R and tell her what an idiot she is.
Iâm waiting for my chihuahua Mabel!
haha the next chapter will come soon and youâll see what her reaction is. Sorry for the late reply and thank you for your patience and for reading!đ„°
Summary: At twenty-six, you never expected your life to look like this: a veteran, a college dropout, now running drugs to cover your late fatherâs debts. The military took you away for a brief moment, but now you're back in your hometown, keeping family at a distance to keep them safe. Your simple plan to clear the debt, one job at a time, unravels the moment Mabel steps into your life.
previous part <--> next part
You grip the railing tightly, the sea breeze blowing your hair out of your face as you stare bitterly at the waves. The idea of living at sea comes to mind, its simplicity calling to youâthe freedom, the distance from all of this. But there's no escaping now. No amount of crashing waves can drown out the chaos you've gotten yourself into.
The world around you feels vast and endless, yet here you are, caught in a storm you never saw coming.
You try to cling to a simpler time. You remember that weekend your dad took you out to sea, teaching you the ropes. It wasnât just a lesson; it was a glimpse into a life you dreamed of. You told him you wanted to stay out there forever, anchored in the middle of the ocean, free from the noise of the world.
He didn't shut down your dream but he did tell you that it's best to not wish for that. He said to just buy a boat and to take the trip here whenever you needed to. You swore you would do it; mostly to make it up to him and take him to the middle of the sea one day. On your own boat.
Your grip on the railing tightens as the salt air fills your lungs. That dream died the day you found out what he really did out at sea. The memory of your father lingers, clearer now than you expected. His voice, his lessonsâthey come back, one by one.Â
You were just a kid then, but what you remember most is his smile. Not his words, just that smile. Even when the rain poured as you both reeled in fish, his smile outshone the storm. Maybe he was just happy youâd tagged along. He could never convince your sister to join him, no matter how hard he tried.
Maybe thatâs why he wasnât thrilled when you joined the army. Youâd always followed his advice, done what he asked. But the one time you didnât listen, it was to make a choice that put you in danger. Looking back, it mustâve hurt him more than you realized.
You think about the lighthouse in the distance, the one he always looked for before bed when he was at sea. âItâs not just a light,â heâd said. âItâs a reminder. It doesnât just mean safetyâit means home.â He told you the same about your nickname: it didnât just mean you; it meant home.
âAlways look for it,â heâd said, âwhenever you feel lost or need to find your way back.â
Youâve never felt more lost than you do now. Part of you wonders if there was a deeper meaning to his words, but all you know is that you wish he were here. You wish you knew what heâd do in your position.
You shake your head, forcing the thoughts away. The weight of your current situation presses down on you, heavy as a storm gathering on the horizon. But thinking about your dad makes one thing clear: he wouldnât want you to be scared. He wouldnât want you to let fear make your decisions.
"Aye, Faro," you hear as he joins your side. You lower your head, feeling the tears brimming your eyes. He pulls you into his side and rubs your back gently. "What do you need?" He asks, his voice above a whisper.
You sniffle, rubbing your face in the inside of your arm. You look at him and shrug. "I fucked up, Rudy," you tell him, shaking your head when you hear your voice crack. "I was selfish. And now it's putting the people I love in danger."
Rudy smiles sadly.
"I don't think I'll be able to make this right," you confess, swallowing thickly. "God, at least my dad didn't get any of us hurt. I should've been smarterâI'm a fucking Ranger. How didn't I see this coming?"
Rudy shakes his head. "Y/N," he says your name, catching you off guard. "You're not super human. You're human, just like the rest of us. We all make mistakes. It doesn't mean you're not capable or strong. It just means you're living life.
"Your dad wouldn't want you to beat yourself up over this," Rudy continues, his voice steady. "He'd want you to find a way through it, just like he taught you on those fishing trips. You can't control everything, but you can control how you respond."
You take a deep breath, feeling the warmth of his presence grounding you. "I just feel so helpless," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "He was right. Maybe instead of going to the army, I should've gone to college. I'd probably have the money in cash and paid it off in one go instead of having to work it off." Your jaw tightens at the thought.
Rudy chuckles, standing up straight. You follow his gaze and he nods, silently telling you to follow him. You follow him, but the path you take is familiar. Until you reach the back of his restaurant, this part of it is unfamiliar.
He unlocks the back door then pulls on a string, a bulb turning on, brightening up the room. You still, unable to believe your eyes. The room is filled with several of your accomplishments. From your first perfect attendance award in elementary school to the Medal of Honor you got for saving the lives of some children on tour.
You step further into the room, your heart swelling with a mix of pride and disbelief. It's a small gallery dedicated to you, a testament to your journey and achievements. The walls are adorned with framed certificates, medals, and photos of you in various uniformsâeach one telling a story of resilience and courage.
"Rudy, I..." You struggle to find the words, overwhelmed by the unexpected display. "Did you..."
"This is your father's doing," Rudy informs you, admiring it all himself. He looks at you and shrugs. "He may not have showed it or said it, but he was proud. I caught him once raving to the crew about the Medal of Honor. I was on my way to give him an earful for not having picked you up at the airport but...then I heard him."
Your heart races as Rudy's words sink in. The realization that your father held such pride for youâdespite the weight of your current situationâsends a surge of emotions through you.
"He never mentioned it," you whisper, your voice cracking. "He always acted like he wanted me to be something different. Like joining the army was a disappointment."
Rudy shakes his head. "You know how men like him can be. They don't always express their feelings the way we want them to. But trust me, he saw you as a hero, and he wanted everyone else to see that, too."
You turn back to the wall, studying the framed photos. One catches your eyeâyour younger self, beaming with pride as you held up your first award for perfect attendance. It feels like a lifetime ago, a reminder of a simpler time before the world got complicated.
"He was proud of me," you whisper, feeling a lump in your throat. You clear your throat, hoping to get rid of it. "You just let him do this here?" You asks after.
Rudy shrugs. "Your father needed a place to vent. He couldn't share his feelings with your mother because he knew she would disapprove so I told him to use this space. I thought he would make his own gym or something. But then he brought the perfect attendance, soon after your first photo in your uniformâI think he was glad you slowed down a bit because he was running out of space."
You chuckle, looking around the room and not finding a single empty space in the walls.
"I can't believe he kept all of this," you say, shaking your head in disbelief. "I thought he didn't care."
Rudy crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe with a knowing smile. "He cared more than you realized. Sometimes it's easier for people like him to show pride in other ways, even if it's not direct. This was his way of celebrating you without putting it all out in the open."
You scan the walls again, each item a testament to your journey, and a deep warmth fills you. It feels like a balm for the wounds you've been carrying. "I wish I had known," you murmur, swallowing hard. "I spent so much time feeling like I disappointed him."
"You didn't disappoint him, Y/N," Rudy says firmly. "He was proud of you every step of the way. You just couldn't see it through your own doubts."
You nod slowly, absorbing his words. The weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter. "I need to remember that," you say, taking a deep breath. "I've got to fight for Mabel. I can't let fear hold me back."
"Exactly," Rudy encourages. "Now that you're ready to act, we'll plan how to get that list from the police. You've got the skills to pull this off, and I'll help however I can."
You shake your head. "I have another idea." He raises a brow. "I need you, first, to get my mom, sister and nephew out of town. While you're at it, you and Jodie too. I can't do this knowing you guys are still close to danger."
Rudy nods, crossing his arms as he listens.
"I'll figure out a way to get Mabel to leave town, too," you say after, pausing to think. You meet his eyes and he sees them sparkle as your plan starts to come together. "Remember Erin?"
"Yes. The best tipper in the town."
You don't bother to argue right now. "She's a detective now. I know what I need to do."
His eyebrow raises again, so you step forward and decide to loop him in to your train of thought.
\\\\\
When you step into the police station, it eerily silent. The woman behind the front desk looks bored and chewing her gum obnoxiously. You sigh quietly, feeling something stir in your stomach. Your gut is screaming at you that this is a bad idea, but you fight against it and walk up to the woman.
You wait, hoping she would greet you in some form. When a minute passes with silence between you two, you clear your throat. She looks at you, bored and exhausted.
She sits up and grabs a slip of paper, slides it in front of you and says, "Fill out the form and an officer will get back to you as soon as they can," she recites, like she memorized it from a script.
You slide the paper back to her. "Umm, no," you say, clearing your throat. She looks up at you through her eyelashes. "I'm here to see Erin Hollandâsorry, Detective Erin Holland."
The woman's expression doesn't change; she merely raises an eyebrow. "Detective Holland is busy. If you want to file a report, you can do it through the form," she replies, her tone flat.
You take a deep breath, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "I really need to speak to her," you insist, trying to keep your voice steady. "It's important."
She rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair, twirling a pen between her fingers. "Everyone thinks their situation is important," she replies dismissively. "Unless you have a badge or a court order, I can't just call her out of a meeting."
Oh she is lovely, you think to yourself bitterly.
You bite your lip, weighing your options. The knot in your stomach tightens, urging you to back down, but you push through. "Look," you lean forward, lowering your voice. Her interest piques and she does the same. "Between us ladies, I'm trying to surprise her. We used to date and I'm back in townâkinda wanna surprise her."
The woman's demeanor shifts slightly, her bored expression giving way to a hint of curiosity. "You're trying to surprise Detective Holland?" she asks, tilting her head.
You nod.
"And you think surprising her at her job is the right move to get back together with her?"
You shrug. "Can't know 'til I try," you retort, forcing a smile.
The woman shakes her head, but a hint of amusement flickers in her eyes. She studies you for what feels like an eternity, and you assume she's trying to gauge whether you're a threat. After a moment, she points to her left and presses a button.
"Her desk is somewhere in there," she tells you, returning to her earlier tasks. "Good luck finding it."
It doesn't take you long to locate it. The years you dated Erin taught you that she was the cleanest person ever, so finding her pristine desk in the far left corner, surrounded by cluttered ones, is easy. You know she must avoid being at her desk because of the chaos around her.
Now you have to wait for her to return. You chew on your nails, anxiety rising as your leg bounces restlessly. Your eyes dart around the room, taking in the bustling officers and the sense of order they embody. It's almost overwhelming.
You used to be Army, for God's sakeâwhy do these guys intimidate you?
You immediately get on your feet when you see her. When Erin spots you, surprise flickers across her face.
"Faro?" she asks, walking around her desk. You rock back and forth on your feet, watching her secure her gun in its holster. You swallow thickly, the gravity of what you're about to say hitting you. "Everything okay?"
"I need your help," you say, taking the seat in front of her desk again. She eyes you, a hint of concern in her gaze, before settling into her chair. "It's bad, Erin. I fucked up big time."
Erin glances around the office, then nods. Without another word, she stands and gestures for you to follow. You quicken your pace, trying to keep up with her as she strides purposefully through the station.
She leads you to a secluded part of the building, into a room filled with boxes of files. The scent of paper and dust fills the air, and your curiosity briefly outweighs your nerves. You peek into one of the boxes but flinch when Erin places her hand over it, stopping you.
"Talk, now," she orders, her tone leaving no room for argument.
You swallow again, the weight of your confession pressing down on you. You start from the beginningâyour father's reckless decisions, the bets he made, and his disastrous choice to run drugs to pay off those debts. You explain how he believed he was in the clear, how the money seemed to flow in and out easily, and how he got in deeper by making higher bets, thinking he was helping the family.
"And now I'm just as stupid as he was," you continue, the shame washing over you. "I did what he did, thinking I could pay off his debts, only to find out that I'm stuck in this mess."
You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the worst part. "And now, I'm putting the people I love in danger. The first and last straw was that car crashâthey hit me on purpose. I might have let it slide if it was just me, but my sister and nephew were in the car too."
"You idiot!" Erin's voice rises, her frustration evident.
As expected, she launches into a rant. "What were you thinking? How could you let yourself get caught up in this?"
Your shoulders slump, taking the reprimand silently.
But she appears to be done. For now.
"Who is it you're working for?" She asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Ronny." You answer. She quirks a brow, waiting for more. "Oh, yeah, I didn't ask his last name. I was too busy getting threatened." You add sarcastically, earning yourself a glare.
She shakes her head. "Look, I need more than that. And quit with the sarcasm, this is serious," you bite your tongue, having a sarcasm rebuttal on the tip of your tongue. "You want my help, so give me more."
You take a deep breath, nodding as you prepare to give her every detail you know about this crew. Her surprise of all your knowledge is shown but you don't question it now. You give her names you know, deals made, money exchanged, transactions made; hell, you think you may have even heard them kill someone. You're not sure.
"How did you retain all this?" Erin asks, looking at you in bewilderment. It occurs to you that she doesn't know about your photographic memory.
You shrug, trying to downplay it. "I've always had a good memory, I guess."
Erin narrows her eyes. "Good memory? You just rattled off names, dates, and details like you've got a dossier in your head. This isn't just 'good.'"
You rub the back of your neck, feeling a little exposed now. "I have a photographic memory," you admit reluctantly.
Erin stares at you, processing the new information. "And you never mentioned this before... because?"
You offer a weak smile. "Never really came up?"
"We dated for three years," Erin counters, raising a brow. You shrug and she shakes her head in disbelief, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Erin lets out a deep breath, as if she's recalibrating her approach. "You know, that's kind of important, Faro. It could've been useful. But no, you just kept that little talent to yourself."
You offer her a sheepish grin, trying to ease the tension. "It wasn't exactly first date material."
She rolls her eyes. "Right, because 'Hey, I can remember every embarrassing detail of our relationship' would've gone over great."
You chuckle lightly, though it feels out of place in the middle of all this mess. You never really thought of that. But the humor doesn't last. Erin's expression hardens again as she brings the conversation back to the gravity of the situation.
"Alright," she says, pacing slightly. "This Ronny guy and his crewâwhat's their next move? Did they say anything about escalating or coming after you again?"
You grimace, recalling the order they gave you. You should really explain everything; including Mabel. How exactly do you tell your ex about the girl you're in love with without it being awkward?
"So, um," you begin, scolding yourself for stuttering already. "I told them about my photographic memoryâin hopes it would get the people I care about out of this world and they could just use me. Well, that backfired because they want me to get a list...from the police..."
She waits for you continue, hearing your pause.
"A list of CIs and UCs." Her eyes widen and you shake your head, letting her know you're not done. "I should mention I said I would do it because there's this girlâ"
Erin groans. "Ugh, Y/N, you are such a simp," Erin finishes, pinching the bridge of her nose. Your jaw drops at the name calling. It's unnecessary. "You're telling me you volunteered to steal a CI/UC list from the police... because of a girl?"
You cringe inwardly, feeling the weight of your poor decision hanging in the air. "Not just any girl," you say quietly. "Her name's Mabel. She means a lot to me."
Erin shakes her head, exasperated. The conversation isn't awkward thankfully, but you wish it was if it meant less name calling. "Do you even realize what kind of trouble you're in? Do you know what happens if you get caught with something like that?"
You nod, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "I know, Erin, I know. But I didn't know what else to do. I thought maybe I could trade myself and keep everyone else safe."
Erin stands there for a moment, her eyes searching yours, trying to make sense of what you're telling her. "You're in over your head, Y/N. And believe me, I know you were in a war zone but that was in a different countryâthis is right in the middle of your hometown."
You look down at your feet, well aware of the circumstances. But it still stings to hear how dumb your decisions were.
"I get that you care about this girl, but putting yourself in the crosshairs like this... it's reckless."
You swallow, knowing she's right but unwilling to back down. "I couldn't just stand by and let them hurt her. Or my family. I needed to do something."
Erin exhales sharply, clearly frustrated. "You should've come to me sooner. You could've brought this to me without making deals with criminals, without putting yourself in even deeper shit."
"I didn't think you'd want to help," you admit quietly, avoiding her gaze.
"I'm a cop!" Erin shouts then lowers her voice when she remembers where they are. "I help people. It's my job. And had you come to me, I would've helped you despite our past."
The weight of Erin's words hits you hard, her frustration more palpable now. She takes a deep breath, regaining her composure, and looks you straight in the eyes. "Despite everything, I would've been there for you."
You swallow, your throat tight. "I didn't want to drag you into this," you mutter. "Not after everything."
Erin shakes her head, her expression softening but still stern. "Y/N, this isn't about us. This is about your life, your family, and this girl you care about. You can't handle this alone, and you don't have to."
The silence between you stretches, heavy and charged with unspoken tension. You shift in your seat, guilt gnawing at you. "I'm sorry," you finally whisper. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt, especially not you."
Erin lets out a sigh, running a hand through her hair. "Well, it's too late for apologies now. What matters is what we do next."
You nod, finally meeting her gaze. "What do we do?"
Erin straightens up, her voice steady and commanding again. "First, you need to stay out of Ronny's way. I'll dig into his crew and see if I can get enough to take them down. But youâ" she points at you, her tone firmâ"are done with this. No more deals, no more risky moves."
You nod, your heart pounding, hoping this plan works before things spiral even more out of control.
"But..." Erin raises a brow, and you chuckle nervously. "He gave me two days."
Erin clenches her jaw. She shakes her head and inhales a deep breath, calming herself down. "Then we should get started."
\\\\\
Mabel yanks the blanket off the boy, causing him to roll off the bed. He grunts when his body collides with the floor, groaning soon after when he tries to get up with the help of his injured hand. He glances up and his eyes widen, the sight of his ex-girlfriend towering him frightening him.
"What do you know?" Mabel asks him.
Charlie sits up and rubs his chest, confusion crossing his face. "About?" He asks, the question lacking any kind of specifics.
"About Y/N," Charlie tilts his head and she rolls her eyes. "Faro."
"Ooh," Charlie scratches the back of his neck. He shrugs and sits back against the wall. "I don't know anything."
Mabel tilts her head at him. He swallows thickly, not having received this glare from her in a while. "I'll give you a minute." She kneels to be eye level with him, glare much more intense than before. "And if you don't tell me what I need to know, I will make sure your hand stays broken."
Charlie hasn't seen this side of Mabel before. In the two years he's known her, or in the year he dated her.
Charlie swallows hard, his injured hand cradled against his chest. He's not sure if Mabel's bluffing, but the cold, determined look in her eyes tells him she means business.
"Mabel, I swear, I don't know much. Just... bits and pieces," he stammers, his voice trembling slightly. "Y/N, she'sâshe's in deep. She's mixed up with some dangerous people."
Mabel narrows her eyes, leaning in closer. "What people? What exactly do you know?"
Charlie shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, glancing toward the door as if hoping for an escape. But there's none. "I'm not sure who exactly," he finally admits, his voice a little shaky. "But I overheard her talking to Weeks' crew... something about debts. It sounds bad, Mabel. Real bad."
Mabel's jaw tightens, her eyes flickering with a mix of anger and concern. "Why didn't you tell me this sooner?" she demands, her voice low and dangerous.
Charlie looks down, guilt washing over his face. "I didn't want to drag you into it. You're better off not getting involved with them again." He sighs when he sees her face, a look of betrayal. "I warned her to stay away from you." He tells her.
Mabel's eyes narrow. "You're not my keeper, Charlie," she huffs. "I can take care of myself. I was in this life before I met you, and her."
Charlie frowns. "But you got out," he says quietly, like it's a secret. "I wanted you out of this. She said she would make sure you didn't get in this either."
Mabel stands up, her hands clenched into fists. "Well, now I am," she says, her voice laced with resolve. "And I'm not letting her handle this alone."
Charlie watches her, knowing better than to argue. This wasn't the Mabel he once knewâthe one who stayed back when things got tough. This was a Mabel ready for a fight, and it scared him almost as much as whatever danger you were facing.
Charlie finally stands up, looking at her in worry. "What are you going to do?" He asks, following Mabel out of his room.
"Get you all out of this," Mabel says, sighing quietly as she pulls her phone out. She checks her messages again and scoffs when she sees you still haven't responded; to any of her messages. She even tried calling you, no answer. "Call your brother and the guys."
Charlie hesitates, standing in the doorway as Mabel moves with determination, already scrolling through her phone. "Mabel, calling my brotherâ" he starts to protest.
"Just do it," Mabel snaps, her frustration boiling over. "We need every advantage we can get. If she's already tangled up in Weeks' old mess, it's only a matter of time before things get worse."
Charlie sighs, reluctantly pulling out his phone, and steps aside to make the call. He glances at her, still worried, but knowing better than to question her any further. As he walks into the next room, Mabel leans against the wall, staring at the screen of her phone, her fingers hovering over your contact.
He comes back from calling his brother and sees her, sees how worried she is.
Charlie walks back into the room, his phone still in his hand, and pauses when he sees Mabel leaning against the wall, staring at her phone. Her expression is hard, but he can see the worry etched in the tension of her jaw and the way her fingers hover over your contact without pressing call.
"You really care about her, huh?" Charlie asks quietly, stepping closer but keeping his distance.
Mabel doesn't look up, her eyes still fixed on the screen. "Yeah, I do," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. The vulnerability in her tone is new to him, something he hadn't heard from her in the time they were together.
Charlie shoves his hands in his pockets, unsure of what to say. "Sorry," she looks at him, wondering what he's sorry about. He shrugs. "I wanted to prove we can be friends so I took you to the pier. Then I had to knock your bag into the ocean...kinda my fault you guys met."
Mabel smiles slightly, amused by his words.
"She's pretty tough," Charlie adds with another shrug. "Tommy said she saved their asses. Even Costa's. Bargained herself to get Costa out of the deal."
Mabel's small smile fades as Charlie's words sink in. "She bargained herself?" Her voice is calm, but her eyes darken with anger.
Charlie nods slowly, sensing her shift in mood. "Something about a photographic memory," he shrugs. He sees Mabel's jaw tighten and he regrets sharing. "Mabel, she didn't want you or anyone else caught up in it."
Mabel clenches her fists at her sides, trying to keep her emotions in check. "She's such an idiot. That's exactly why she hasn't been answering me," she mutters. "She's trying to handle this alone."
Charlie hesitates, not wanting to say the wrong thing. "She's probably doing what she thinks is best," he offers. "Protecting everyone."
Mabel straightens up, determination hardening her features. "Well, I'm done with people trying to protect me by keeping me in the dark." She pushes off the wall, her jaw set.
Charlie follows her out of his place. "What exactly is your plan?"
Mabel looks back at him. "I'll let you know when I have one. Be ready, okay?"
Charlie nods, watching her get in her car then drive off.
Summary: At twenty-six, you never expected your life to look like this: a veteran, a college dropout, now running drugs to cover your late fatherâs debts. The military took you away for a brief moment, but now you're back in your hometown, keeping family at a distance to keep them safe. Your simple plan to clear the debt, one job at a time, unravels the moment Mabel steps into your life.
previous part <- -> next part
You manage to leave at nine, telling your mom and sister you have an early morning. They buy the lie and let you go, while Devin pesters you with questions about Mabel. He mentions she promised to bake a cake with him, which twists the knife even deeper as you head out the door. The guilt gnaws at you, but you push it down.
When you get home, you want nothing more than to hide under the covers and shut the world out. But you know better. There's no avoiding tonight. You sigh, forcing yourself into action, and head for the closet.
You open it, punch in the code on your safe, and scan your fingerprint. The door clicks open, revealing the gun, an extra magazine, and some cash laid out neatly. You stare at the gun for a moment, a bitter reminder of what you're getting pulled into.
Devin is a curious kid, which is why you had to upgrade to this new safe. You caught him playing with your old one, punching in random numbers for fun. The last thing you needed was for him to accidentally figure out the code, so you got one with a fingerprint scanner to avoid any risks.
You grab the gun, checking the current magazine before tucking the extra one into your pocket. The gun slides into your waistband, but you wince at how uncomfortable it feels. You've been meaning to buy a holster, but never got around to it. After tonight, though, you need to make time. Especially after that threat.
With about an hour left until you need to be there, you decide to walk around and clear your head. But the regret hits when you circle the block, your mind filled with thoughts of Mabel. The memory of her hurt, disappointed face plays over and over, making it impossible to focus on anything else.
As you finish your walk, the weight of the gun against your waistband feels heavier than it did before. No matter how many times you adjust it, the discomfort doesn't go away. The uncomfortable thoughts of Mabel mix with the sharp reality of what you're about to face tonight. You knew this would catch up with you one day, but you never thought it would happen like thisâwith someone like Mabel getting caught in the crossfire.
You check your phone. Thirty minutes left.
You make your way back to your apartment, mentally running through every scenario you can think ofâways to handle Nick, what to say if he pushes too far. But none of them feel right. You're too distracted. You can't shake the memory of Mabel's face, the way her voice trembled when she asked for her keys.
You shake your head, trying to refocus. Nick's the priority tonight. This isn't the time to let emotions mess with your judgment.
You get into your car and drive towards the meeting point, the streets eerily quiet at this hour. Each red light feels like a countdown ticking in your head. You park a block away from the spot, hands gripping the wheel as you watch the clock on your dashboard.
The lot isn't as empty as you close in on it. There are a few cars littered here and there. There's one specific car that's been here since your first drop with these guys. You think about asking around town for it; the car looks in good condition. You don't know why someone abandoned it here.
Nick hops out of the van with Oliver and Isaac in tow. There's a truck parked next the van and Costa and Tom hop out of it, and you feel a breath of relief come out of your mouth at the sight of the father.
You greet them with a nod then silent follow as they take the lead. Costa walks alongside you, head down, same as you.
"He knows about you and Mabel," Costa's voice is low, eyes focused on the back of Nick's head. You glance at him, giving him a look he understands well. He nods, pursing his lips in a thin line. "Charlie tried to get him to back off butâ"
"Broke his hand?" You finish, and he nods. All you can do is shake your head.
"Listen," Costa sighs, waiting to see if Nick is listening. When the man keeps walking, he continues. "Mabel may say she can handle this but...she wants outâshe is out. Keep it that way."
You swallow thickly. "I am," you tell him, and by the look on your face; he frowns. He understands and it break his heart. "I don't want her anywhere near this. Or you, man." You add, sending him a pointed glare.
Costa shrugs. "That dive you took, remember?" You nod, furrowing your brows. "That was suppose to be my last. But they needed an extra guy, and with Charlie outâI got pulled in. But this is my last one; no way they're reeling me into another one."
You nod, tucking your hands in your pockets. You were going to make sure of it.
You guys come to a stop towards the end of the lot. Some men stand there with a large container behind them. You crack your neck, hoping to relieve the ache and tension there. Something tells you this is bigger than the last. How these guys are moving big things without getting caught is beyond you. You'll worry about it later.
Nick exchanges some words with one of the men, too quiet for you to hear. You glance at Costa and he shakes his head, silently telling you not to ask. Tom steps forward, a large duffel bag in his hands you hadn't noticed before.
"It's all there," Nick says to one of the men, narrowing his eyes. Another one takes the duffel from Tom, practically snatching it from him then unzips the bag. You catch a glimpse of some stacks of one hundred dollar bills.
You look away, clenching your jaw. A cash exchange for whatever is in that container? This is ridiculous.
"Looks and feels like one mill," the man says, handing the duffel to his boss. You control your expression; one million dollars? That's more than you have ever heard them handle.
"Now, show me yours," Nick orders, crossing his arms.
The shorter one turns and begins to unlock the container. He struggles to open the doors but once he does, the sight of a powdered drugs fills the scene. From floor to ceiling of the container is filled.
Nick glances back, at all of you, a proud smirk on his lips. "Ronny is gonna have a field day," he whistles, tipping an imaginary hat at the drugs. "Alright. Pleasure doing business," he extends his hand towards the taller one and they shake hands before they leave.
Once they're out of sight, Nick turns to Tom with a sharp grin. "Last shipment, crew."
Tom scoffs, arms crossed, his unimpressed expression etched deeply into his face. Then again, that's his natural look. "You said that last time." He spits on the ground, eyes narrowing. "We're only here because Charlie back-talked you. We're done."
Nick's laughter is dry and humorless, cutting through the silence like a blade.
He scratches his chin, his grin fading into something darker. Without a word, he nods at Isaac. The man moves like a well-trained dog, pulling his gun and leveling it at Tom.
The crew tenses as Nick steps closer to Tom, who stiffens but doesn't back down. "I think you're confused," Nick says, his voice low and venomous. He looks over at Costa, flashing him a smile that's too friendly to be anything but a threat. "None of you are done. Not until I say you're done."
Your jaw tightens as Costa shifts beside you. He's done. You can feel it in the way he won't meet your gaze, his shoulders slumping under the weight of Nick's words. Tom's done. Hell, even you're done. But none of that matters to Nick.
You glance at Oliver. His eyes meet yours, pleading silently: Don't. But your inner voice-the one that remembers your father's mistakesâwon't stay quiet. Don't let Costa turn out like him.
Your decision comes fast. Too fast. Before you can think, your hand shoots out, grabbing Isaac's wrist. There's a sickening crunch as his fingers bend unnaturally, and the gun slips from his grasp. He yells in pain, stumbling back, but you don't stop. You raise it with certainty, aiming it squarely at Nick.
The shift in the room is instant. Nick's smirk vanishes, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. Around you, the crew freezes, their breath caught in their throats. Even Isaac's groans fade into the background as the blood roars in your ears.
Nick's eyes narrow, flicking to Oliver. The silent command is clear: Do something.
Oliver hesitates, his hand hovering near his holstered weapon. For a moment, he's unreadable. Then you see itâhesitation, uncertainty. It's a crack in the soldier's armor, and it shifts the balance in the room.
"What the hell are you waiting for, Oliver?" Nick snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut. "Do your damn job!"
But Oliver doesn't move. His gaze drops to the floor, fists clenched. It's a small rebellion, but the defiance radiates from him. You catch the flicker of frustration in Nick's expression, and the tension tightens like a noose.
Oliver's fingers twitch toward his weapon. Instinct takes over. You pivot, leveling the gun at him before he can even draw. He freezes, hands slowly rising as his glare burns into you. He's angryâprobably humiliatedâthat you outmaneuvered him. For a soldier with more time in the field, it's a bitter pill to swallow. You're surprised yourself, but there's no time to dwell on it.
Without breaking your aim, you step forward and yank his gun from its holster. The weight is familiar now, your grip steady. You toss it to Tom, who catches it with a quick nod and points it at Nick.
"Now where did a pretty girl like you get the balls do all this?" Nick asks, sarcastic, like he has no gun on him. His arms raise when Tom waves the gun at him, and he glares back.
"The Army, jackass," you retort, clenching your jaw. His eyes flicker to Oliver, who avoids his gaze. He looks pissed, angry that Oliver knew and didn't share this information. "New deal. You leave them out of this; you got me. I was Army, a Ranger...and I have photographic memory." You add, hoping he bites the bait. You can't have Costa in this anymore.
Costa's eyes widen, along with Tom's. Oliver's face changes from anger to impressed.
Nick snarls. "Bullshit," he huffs, glancing at each of them for their reaction.
You raise a brow. "Yeah? I caught one glimpse of your license once, six months ago," you start and he raises a brow, unsure of where you're going. "S51973690. I also know Isaac and Oliver's license number by heart. And every location you've made a deal at. Every face, every plate number that's crossed my path. You think I can't take this all to someone higher and have them hunting you down within the hour?"
Nick's smirk falters, the confidence in his eyes dimming as he weighs your words. The rest of the crew stands frozen, exchanging uneasy glances. Costa's jaw tightens, clearly surprised by your sudden gamble, but he doesn't say a word. Tom's grip tightens on Oliver's gun, keeping it steady on Nick as he watches for any sudden movements.
"You're bluffing," Nick spits, but his voice has lost some of its edge. "You wouldn't anyway. I may go down but two more will take my place. Ronny isn't an idiot. He covers his bases."
You tighten your hold on the gun. You know. That's why you haven't shot him yet.
"So take my offer," you say back, voice firm as your glare. In the corner of your eye, you see Costa's need to argue but you shut him down with a glare. "You leave them out of this, and I'll be your fall guy. It's your choice."
Nick looks at you, his eyes narrowing as he calculates his next move. His fingers twitch, like he wants to call for backup or grab a weapon, but the power has shifted. He knows it, and so do you.
After what feels like an eternity, Nick lets out a frustrated sigh. "Fine," he growls, lowering his hands slowly. "Alright. "
You nod, lowering your gun but keeping your gaze locked on his. "Understood. But if you step out of line, I'll make sure no one comes out clean."
Nick glares at you for a moment longer before signaling for Isaac and Oliver to fall back. You can feel Costa's tension ease beside you, but the air between you all is still thick with distrust. This isn't over, but for now, you've bought them some time.
"We still need someone with a boatâ" Nick's eyes flicker to Tom, "to take this shipment."
Tom lowers his gun. "I'll do it." You open your mouth to disagree, but he shakes his head. "Nah, kid, it's just me. No one else will be on that boat but me." He sends a pointed glare to Costa.
Costa lowers his gaze, but you don't miss the frown on his lips. He wants to argue, but he's now selfishly not; for his kid. Finally, you think.
Nick nods then leans to grab Isaac off the ground. The guy grunts as he stands, holding his broken hand close to his chest. He glares at you as they all walk away, sullen and two of the three feeling castrated. As Nick and his crew turn to leave, you glance back at Costa. His face is a mix of relief and concern, but he gives you a slight nodâa silent acknowledgment of what you just did for him.
Tom hands you back Oliver's gun, his eyes filled with questions, but you don't answer any of them. Instead, you tuck it in your waistband and exhale shakily. You may have just stepped deeper into the fire, but at least for now, Costa is safe.
For now, that's all that matters.
\\\\\\
Nick is not one to get revenge. The disrespect he receives, he plans to give back. The same way people say "you get respect when you give respect," is the same way he plans to get back at you.
The plan is simple. Isaac happens to have a piece of technology that can change the traffic lights with the flip of a switch. So, on your way home, you'll end up in a car accident.
Simple and brutalâjust the way Nick likes it. The plan would leave no trace back to him, just an unfortunate "accident." A part of him wants to linger behind, so you can see it was him. But he knows you'll get the message. Isaac, always eager to get his hands dirty, agrees without hesitation. There's a sense of thrill in his eyes that sends a chill through anyone who notices.
Oliver being MIA makes things easier for Nick. He knows Oliver wouldn't approveâhe's not as cold-blooded. But Isaac? Isaac has no reservations. They don't need Oliver for this. They just need the right moment.
It happens two days later. You're driving home with your nephew in the backseat. He's full of excitement like he always is after a day at the beach. Your sister is in the passenger seat, humming every once in a while to let her son know she's listening.
You're too in your head to focus on what either of them are saying. At this rate, you're just moving by nature. You're used to the drive back to your sister's place after a day at the beach. You can do it with your eyes closed.
As you drive, your nephew's chatter fades into the background, and your sister's humming becomes white noise. Your thoughts circle the events of the last few days, especially Nick's warning glares, and the unease that's been gnawing at you since. You can't shake the feeling that something's off, but you tell yourself it's paranoia.
The intersection ahead is coming up, the same route you've taken countless times. The light turns green, and without hesitation, you begin to drive through.
Then it happensâtoo fast for you to react.
The flash of headlights to your left, a truck barreling toward you. Your heart jumps to your throat as you slam the brakes, but the truck is moving too fast. The sound of screeching tires and the deafening crash of metal against metal fills the air as the truck slams into the side of your car.
The force sends your vehicle spinning. Glass shatters, your sister screams, and all you can think about is Devin in the backseat. Your hands grip the wheel, trying to regain control, but it's too late. The car skids off the road, coming to a violent halt.
Silence. The world seems to stop for a moment, save for the ringing in your ears and the ragged breaths coming from your chest. You blink, your vision blurry, and then you hear itâyour nephew's soft, terrified whimper from the backseat.
Panic floods your body as you struggle to turn around, pain shooting through your side. "Devin," you gasp, your voice hoarse. You see your sister moving, clutching her arm, but she's alive. Devin looks shaken, but unharmed. Relief washes over you.
But as you sit there, adrenaline still coursing through your veins, you knowâthis wasn't an accident. This was Nick.
And as you hear several people around your car asking if you are all okay, you see in the distance the van. The all too familiar van. The windows are tinted but you know he's behind them with a smirk on his lips.
Your teeth grit as you attempt to shove the door open, wanting to chase after him. But you stop the instant you hear your sister stir beside you.
As the sirens get closer, you see the van drive off. You huff out a breath, tired and in pain. You glance up and see a drop of blood roll down your forehead. You look to your sister, guilt rising in your entire system as you see her face with cuts.
Eventually, the ambulance arrives and a paramedic rushes over to help you all out with the help of some firefighters. You urge them to help your nephew and sister out first, and thankfully they listen. But once you're out, adrenaline overcomes you and you feel no more pain.
You decide now isn't the time to face Nick. You ride to the hospital with your sister and nephew, your heart racing as you try to shake off the worry flooding your mind. You watch as the paramedics tend to them, checking for any serious injuries. Devin clutches his mother's hand, wide-eyed but trying to be brave.
"Mom, I'm scared," he whispers, glancing between you and your sister.
"It's okay, buddy. We're going to be just fine," she reassures him, her voice strong despite the pain etched on her face. You feel a surge of protectiveness towards both of them, a fierce determination to keep them safe.
Once inside the ambulance, you sit next to your sister, the paramedic checking your forehead. "Just a small cut, but we'll clean it up," he says, his hands gentle but firm. You nod, barely feeling the sting as he dabs at the blood.
"Where's the driver? Is he okay?" your sister asks, her brow furrowed with concern.
"They're checking him out," the paramedic replies, glancing back at the driver, who is being treated by another team. "You were all very lucky. It could have been much worse."
You don't feel lucky. The image of the van, Nick's smirk, haunts you, reminding you that he's still out there, still a threat. The urge to find him burns in your chest, but right now, you need to focus on your family.
As the ambulance jolts to a stop outside the hospital, you grab your sister's hand. The doors open but you pause to check the surroundings.
Once inside the hospital, the chaos of the emergency room swirls around you. Nurses and doctors bustle about, tending to patients in varying degrees of distress. You're ushered to a waiting area, the bright fluorescent lights harsh against your eyes.
"Devin, I need you to stay close to me," your sister says, her voice steadier now. You watch as she holds onto him tightly, the bond between them a source of strength
As they're taken to a treatment area, you step away for a moment, your heart pounding. You pull out your phone, mind racing with thoughts of how to find Nick. You need to know where he is, how to track him down.
Mabel comes to mind then. He attacked you, got you, your sister and nephew. He can't be after her either. Why would the idiot come after you anyway? You guys made a deal.
As you sit down, staring at the bustling activity around you, you resolve to gather your strength and figure out your next move. Nick thinks he can intimidate you, but he has no idea what you're capable of when it comes to protecting the people you love.
"Hey, are you alright?" a nurse asks, snapping you out of your thoughts. You nod, forcing a smile, but inside, you know this isn't over. Not by a long shot.
You stand, grateful for the interruption on your thoughts. "I have to go but my sister and nephew are being treated," you tell her, and she nods to inform you she's listening. "Could you tell her I had to go? I have something to do."
The nurse seems unimpressed, a look of judgement flashes across her face but she's quick to hide it. She nods then walks off in the direction the room your sister is in.
You're rushing out of the hospital, completely missing Mabel's screeching stop as she arrives. You're walking towards your house with determination, the adrenaline still pumping through your veins. The weight of what just happened hangs heavy on your chest, but you push it down, focusing on the task ahead. Nick can't be allowed to get away with this.
As you walk, thoughts of Mabel swirl in your mind. The idea of him targeting her ignites a fire within you, fueling your urgency.
The night air is cool against your skin as you approach your house. You glance around, making sure no one is following you. Once inside, you lock the door behind you and immediately head for your room. You need to gather anything you might needâyour phone, your knife, your gun, and whatever else you can grab in case you need to make a quick escape.
You sit on your bed for a moment, your heart racing as you pull up Mabel's number. You stare at her number, exhaling a breath as your thumb hovers over the call button. You stop, deciding now isn't the best time to call.
Mabel receives your message as she sits with Devin, his head rested on her shoulder while your sister is getting her wrist splint. With the adrenaline, she hadn't realized it was broken.
I know we aren't talking but...
Are you okay?
Mabel frowns. When she didn't find you in the room with your sister, she assumed you went out to do something stupid. She glances at Devin, who remains sleeping peacefully as if this whole thing didn't just happen.
She's still mad at you. For pushing her away and not fighting for her to stay. But when she heard the news of your crash, she rushed over, her anger disappearing. Here she is now, angry while also worried sick about you.
I'm fine. I'm at the hospital with your sister and nephew. Where are you?
You know where she is. That's all you care about. You lock your phone, choosing not to answer and double check the items you have on you. Once you're done, you head out in search for the bastard.
You don't know where he is but you're going to find out. He's not stupid enough to be at his home but you check there first. You come up empty. So you go to Oliver's place, pounding on his door when you arrive.
You step back, he towers over when he opens the door. He raises a brow and frowns. "You look like shit." He comments.
"Where is he?" You asks, tightening your jaw. He tilts his head in confusion. "Nick. Where is he?" You repeat, voice much harsher than ever.
Oliver's expression shifts from confusion to concern as he takes in your urgency. "I don't know. I haven't seen him sinceâ"
"Since the crash?" you cut him off, frustration boiling over. He's confused again. "He caused an accident, a crash. My sister and nephew were in the car with me." You practically shout.
Oliver's eyes widen. "Is that why you're all fucked up?"
You send him a deadpan glare. "Thanks." You shake your head. "Where is he?"
Oliver shakes his head. He steps back, allowing you to enter his apartment. "Slow down. You need to calm down and think this through. You can't just charge in without a plan."
"Calm down?" you snap, your voice rising. "Did you not hear me? My sister and nephew were in the car! You think I'm going to sit back and wait for him to make his next move?"
Oliver runs a hand through his hair, clearly torn. "Okay, okay. Just give me a second. Let me think." He heads toward his living room, motioning for you to follow.
You huff, watching him search for something. You glance around his living room, eyebrows furrowing. "What were you doing?"
Oliver glances back, looking at you in between his search through some papers. "I wasn't with him," he tells you, returning to what he's doing. "He probably knew I wouldn't help him."
"That's reassuring," you mumble, gripping your side when you feel an ache. You shake it off and exhale a breath.
Oliver pulls a piece of paper out and smiles. "Here." He walks over to you and hands you the paper. "I had to do a run for Ronny, the boss himself. Nick put in a good word for me, the biggest pay day I ever had."
You take the paper, eyeing it. You memorize it then look at him in silent question.
"He should be there. He hides out at Ronny's when he knows he's done something stupid," Oliver tells you. You nod, a grateful look crossing your face. Before you move to leave, he stops you with a stare. "Be careful. I'd go with you but...I told them I'm out. Told them I go back for a tour next week."
You pause, holding his gaze for a moment. "How'd you manage that?" There's a hint of surprise in your voice, but deep down, you're glad to hear it.
Oliver chuckles with a shrug. "I lied." You crack a smile, extending your hand out to him. He takes your hand, gripping it tightly. "But if you need me to stay to help, say the word. I've been wanting to kick his ass for a while now."
You shake your head but you're grateful. "You're done, Cap. Get outta here." You say in your best authoritative voice. He chuckles and releases you, allowing you to leave.
You rush out, trying to figure out the best way to get to this place on foot. You look left then right, before finally coming up with the idea of flagging down a cab. You can't afford to waste time walking, not when every second counts. The streets are still busy enough at this hour, and as luck would have it, a cab pulls up after a few minutes. You hop in, giving the driver the address Oliver gave you.
As the car weaves through the city, you can't stop your mind from racing. You think about your sister, your nephew, and Mabelâeverything you've been through and everything you stand to lose if you don't stop Nick. Your hand unconsciously moves to your side, feeling the soreness from the crash.
The cab pulls up a block away from the address, and you pay the driver before stepping out. The area is quiet, too quiet. You can feel the tension in the air, knowing that Nick is nearby, hiding out like the coward he is. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself as you approach the building. You pull your knife out and grip the handle tightly.
It's an old warehouse, one of those places you wouldn't look twice at. But now, it feels like the center of the storm. You glance around, making sure no one's watching before slipping inside. The place is dimly lit, and you can hear faint voices in the distance. You grip your knife tighter, knowing this could be your only chance to end it.
You move through the shadows, inching closer to the sound of the voices. You spot Nick, laughing with a couple of guys, his back turned to you. The anger bubbles up inside you, but you force yourself to stay calm. You need to wait for the right moment.
But then, you feel a hand on your shoulder. You still, feeling their grip on your shoulder tighten.
"Ahh, the one with the memory, right?" You can smell the smoke on his breath. He allows you turn to face him and he smiles, like he's just seen a long time family member. "Please, join us." He pushes you and you stumble, stepping into the center of the warehouse.
All eyes fall on you and your jaw tightens as Nick smirks in your direction. They knew you were coming.
Nick feigns a grimaces. "Ooh, that looks bad," he jests, earning laughs from the others. "Did you get in a car accident or something?"
You lunge at him but you're stopped by two large men, who grab your arms and hold you back with ease. The knife in your hand clatters to the floor and one of them kicks it off in some direction. The laughter continues as Nick stands there, looking smug and completely in control. His smirk deepens as he steps closer, eyeing you up and down. The men take the chance to disarm you, taking your gun away from you now. They even take your phone from you.
One of the men clicks the lock button and your phone screen brightens, he then shows Ronny the screen.
Ronny brightens. "Aww, you're the one with my precious Mabel Black Label?" Your jaw tightens, the hold on you getting tighter the more you fight. "You know, she's a special one. She helped her mom a lot, made us a lot of money. It was sad to let her go."
Your heart races as Ronny's words sink in. The mention of Mabel, her name coming from his mouth, twists your stomach into knots. You clench your fists, struggling against the iron grip of the men holding you.
"You see, we let her go," Ronny continues, reading over the message on your phone from Mabel. He clicks his tongue three times. "But I'm thinking we made a mistake. Maybe it's kismet, you know? How she always comes back here, like she wants to belong somewhere. And maybe she belongs here...with us."
Nick cracks a smile. "We should be thanking you, Faro." He teases, using your nickname. It sounds like a curse word coming from him.
Your muscles tense against the hold of the two men restraining you. Every fiber of your being wants to tear him apart, but you know you're outnumbered and outgunned.
"Leave Mabel out of this." You get out through gritted teeth, narrowing your eyes.
Ronny frowns, shaking his head. "No. You see, with you two together;" he pauses, pocketing your phone. "The cash flow will be endless. Your memory, her smarts, your fight, her feistinessâI can see it now. We'll own this town by the end of the year."
Your stomach churns as Ronny's words sink in. The thought of Mabel being dragged back into this life makes your skin crawl. You feel the weight of the situation pressing down on you, but you refuse to show weakness.
Ronny pats your cheek gently, then pinches your cheek. "You're like your father. Talked a big game. Said he would have the money by the end of the week, blah blah blahâit was an endless cycle." He shrugs, shaking his head with disappointment.
The mention of your father makes you lower your guard. It always does when these guys mention him. You wanted information on how your father was around them, because you couldn't figure how he got himself in this mess. Sure, there was gambling but...what else?
"Here's the plan," Ronny nods, silently ordering the men to release you. You nearly fall over, but manage to stable yourself to stay standing. "You care about Mabel, I care about Mabelâhell, everyone in this room cares about Mabel, right, guys?"
You flicker your gaze to them all when they nod. You even hear one of them say they saw her take her first steps. Your jaw tightens, feeling overloaded with the need to fight. But this is a lost battle. You know it.
"So, here's the thing," Ronny takes a deep breath. "We got people wanting to shut us down. Cops, they always wanna ruin the party." He scrunches his nose.
You're not sure where this going.
"Find a way in to the police station," he continues, crossing his arms. "Get the list of CIs and UCs because we can't have them ruining our party." He smirks.
Your mind reels as Ronny lays out his twisted plan. He wants you to infiltrate the police station, betray the very people trying to take down his operation. It's a trap, one that pulls you deeper into the criminal underworld you've been trying to escape.
The thought of betraying anyone, let alone risking the lives of copsâpeople who could be trying to keep Mabel and your family safeâmakes your blood run cold. But the weight of Ronny's leverage, the looming threat to Mabel, presses down hard.
"You're insane if you think I'm going to help you with that," you say, your voice steady despite the whirlwind inside.
Ronny smirks, unfazed. "Oh, I know you don't want to do it. But you will. Because if you don't, well..." He glances around at the men before lowering his voice. "Let's just say, Mabel won't have a choice. She'll come back, and she'll come back worse."
Your fists clench as the reality hits you. He's not bluffing. If you don't comply, Mabel will be dragged into this nightmare, and she won't come out the same. You can't let that happen.
"How the hell am I supposed to get in?" you ask through gritted teeth, knowing you're already losing this battle.
Ronny shrugs casually, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. "You've got connections, don't you? Family ties, friends in the right places. You've been around long enough to know how to get what you need."
You want to punch him, break free, anything but play his game. But the threat against Mabel lingers heavy. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. "And what happens when I get the list? You think they're just going to let me waltz out of there with classified information?"
Ronny grins. "You got that memory thing," he taps your forehead and you fight back the urge to slap his hand away. "Get the list, bring it back here or write it down after memorizing it, and you'll never have to worry about us again. No one will touch Mabel, or you, ever again."
You don't trust him, not for a second. But right now, it's the only way to keep Mabel safe.
"And that's it? We're done?" You ask, glancing at all of them.
Ronny shrugs. "She is. You're not." He answers. "Consider it your way of paying her mother's debt off. She tried to do that for a while, in more ways than just running drugs if you know what I mean?"
The men surrounding you laugh and your hands tightened into a fist.
"Get the list and Mabel is safe." You wait to see if he has more to say. He looks around for a second then leans forward. "As for her boyfriend, he's a different story. But it works well for you because you'll have no competition."
You furrow your brows. "Charlie? What does Charlie have to do with any of this?"
"Well, his brother's father killed one of my best," Ronny responds like it's obvious. "Left a woman a widow and a daughter without his father. And well, a daughter needs her father, right?" He sends you a knowing smile.
Your face twists into a snarl, causing him to laugh. He pats your shoulder then reaches for your phone in his pocket. He hands it to you and waits for you to take it.
It's his way of seeing if you'll take his offer.
You hesitate, staring at the phone in Ronny's hand as if it's a loaded weapon. Accepting it means you're agreeing to his twisted deal, putting yourself deeper into this mess. But if you don't, Mabel's lifeâand now Charlie'sâhangs in the balance.
The mention of Charlie's brother, Tom's father gnaws at you. You heard the story. About the old man who shot Weeks dead. He's Tom's father. And the guy is still working with this crew? How much of an idiot are the people in this town.
Right, you're not one to talk.
But now, Ronny's threatening to use that against him, against you all. He's putting more than just Mabel's life in your hands. Charlie warned you. Stay away from Mabel.
You should have listened.
You reach out slowly, gripping the phone as the tension thickens in the room. Your stomach churns, but you force yourself to stay composed. This isn't just about you anymore. It's about keeping Mabel and her friends safe from this maniac.
Ronny smirks as you take the phone, satisfied. "Good. Now, you've got two days. Make it happen, and maybe this all blows over for Mabel. Maybe."
You turn on your heel, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing any more reaction from you. As you head toward the exit, the weight of the situation settles heavy in your chest. You glance back just once, seeing Nick leaning against the wall, smug as ever.
But this isn't over. One way or another, he's going to get what's his from you.
As you step outside, the cool night air hits you, and you finally allow yourself to breathe. You look down at your phone, wondering how you're going to pull this off without losing everything, or worseâwithout losing Mabel.
~~~~~~
hi, hello,
sorry for the delay on this chapter. I hope you all had a great holiday and have a great new year. my classes started up again and the next couple of chapters may take some time to post as I already have a butt load of homework (and itâs just the first week). thank you guys for liking my writing, all the support actually encouraged me to post this Mabel story so really thank you.
Iâll see you on the next one, thank you!đ«¶đŒ
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how many parts do you plan on writing for the lighthouse?
Thatâs a great question. I have about 8 parts written total right now but I am not done with the story yet. I know I donât want to exceed 10 parts so weâll see
Summary: At twenty-six, you never expected your life to look like this: a veteran, a college dropout, now running drugs to cover your late fatherâs debts. The military took you away for a brief moment, but now you're back in your hometown, keeping family at a distance to keep them safe. Your simple plan to clear the debt, one job at a time, unravels the moment Mabel steps into your life.
previous part <--> next part
The diner gives off the same energy you get from the beachâwarm, familiar, and buzzing with the chatter of regulars and clinking dishes. You feel a sense of relief wash over you as the door closes behind you, the chaos of the outside world fading for a moment. The smell of your uncle's cooking greets you like an old friend, grounding you.
Rudy waves you over from behind the counter, his grin wide and welcoming. "If it isn't my favorite niece! And Mabel! Come sit!"
You smile at Rudy's loud enthusiasm, but your mind still lingers on the distant pops you heard before. Mabel tugs on your sleeve, guiding you to a booth by the window. She's already chatting away, but you glance outside for a split second, keeping a watchful eye on the street.
"Hey," she says, her tone soft but insistent, pulling your attention back to her. "You with me?"
You nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just... keeping an eye out."
Jodie comes over with some water, smiling at how close you two are. You can already tell she has a few things to say just by the look on her face.
"I see you finally got her to let her guard down," Jodie says as she sets some utensils on the napkins she sets out. You purse your lips into a thin line, exhausted by this conversation already. "She's like her mother in that way."
You sit back, rubbing your temples when you hear Mabel chuckle.
She senses your discomfort so she shrugs. "I get the whole having your guard up," she bumps your shoulder with her gently. "But I showed her it's okay to relax around me."
You wish that were true, but right now, you're more on guard than everâjust not towards her. Your eyes keep scanning the diner, examining every person, every potential threat. You hate it. You hate not being able to fully relax around her, not showing her the side of you that she deservesâthe dorky, carefree version that you know is buried somewhere under all the layers of vigilance.
Jodie hums, happily and almost dreamily. You raise a brow at her and she gets the hint. She raises her hands up in mock surrender then excuses herself. She tells you Rudy is whipping up a special specifically for you two, leaving you two alone.
Mabel pulls a journal out of her bag, something you've seen her do twice since you've met her. The first time at the beach after you avoided her for a couple days and now. The journal looks worn out, crinkled at the edges and you wonder if the journal was in the bag that fell in the water.
Mabel glances at you, noticing your gaze lingering on the worn-out journal. She flashes a small, almost sheepish smile as she flips it open. "You curious?"
You shrug, but you can't help the slight raise of your eyebrows. "I mean, yeah..." you admit, shrugging again. "I suck at writing. I was always envious of people who were able to transfer their thoughts onto paper easily. And handwriting wiseâI mean, I have chicken scratch for handwriting," you tell her, scoffing at yourself.
She chuckles softly, thumbing through the pages before stopping at a blank one. "It's nothing deep. Just a place for me to jot down thoughts, random ideasâsometimes things I want to say but can't."
You nod, trying to imagine her sitting down to write after the beach or in moments when you're not around. "It looks like it's been through a lot."
She glances at the worn edges, smiling. "It has. It was in my bag when it fell in the water. Got lucky though, most of it survived." Her fingers trace the cover as if she's remembering something.
You're tempted to ask more, but instead, you lean back and offer her a genuine smile. "It suits you. Mysterious, a little beat up, but still standing strong."
Mabel laughs, shaking her head as she looks down at the journal. "I'll take that as a compliment." She pauses, then adds, "Maybe one day I'll let you read some of it... if you're lucky."
Your smile widens, and a warm feeling stirs in your chest as you realize just how much Mabel trusts you. She's offering you a glimpse into her inner world, a place where her most personal thoughts and ideas live.
Then it hits you; the trust she has shown you. Yet you haven't shown her not even half of the trust she's shown you.
"You know I trust you, right?" you say, voice suddenly quiet, glancing at her. Mabel raises an eyebrow, her expression curious but kind. "I trust you, really, I do." You're not sure if you're trying to convince her or yourself.
"Of course. Why wouldn't you?"
You shrug, forcing a smile. "I just hate that I can't turn it off sometimes." Her head tilts, confused by your words. "I feel like...like I'm not here. I want to be present, really be here with you."
Mabel tilts her head, her eyes searching yours. "You are here with me," she says softly, her hand finding yours under the table. "Even if you're keeping an eye out, I know you're still with me."
Her words bring you a sense of calm you weren't expecting, a reminder that even if you're cautious, she sees through the armor.
You feel relief wash over you, her words sinking in. They say the transition to civilian life is difficult and you wanted to prove that wrong but you find yourself proving it right more times than not. To know that Mabel has some sort of understanding about it settles your nerves a little. You can protect her, be on guard, while not having to worry you're making her feel unwanted.
It's hard to let go of the instinct to always be on alert, but with Mabel, it feels like there's a part of you that can start to relax. She's patient with you, understanding in ways you didn't expect, and that makes you want to give her more of yourselfâmore of the version you want to be around her.
"Thank you," you say, your voice low but filled with sincerity. "I promise you, I'm trying. I want to be here. With you."
Her hand squeezes yours, twice and you glance down at your intertwined fingers. You nod in understanding, no words shared anymore, and allow her to write in her journal.
Just as the moment settles between you, Rudy appears from the kitchen with plates in hand, breaking the tension. He gives a knowing look as he places your food on the table. "Special order for two."
You both dig in, with Rudy taking a seat to join you. He starts to talk and takes advantage of times you have your mouth full to tell Mabel embarrassing stories. You can only glare, defending yourself after you've swallowed what's in your mouth.
In the end, you both have a great time. You enjoy hearing Mabel's laugh, seeing her smile and feeling the lightness of the moment. It's a simple thing, sharing a meal and listening to stories, but it feels like a step forwardâa step towards the peace you've been chasing.
As the meal winds down, Rudy excuses himself, leaving you and Mabel alone once more. She's still smiling, her fingers tracing the rim of her water glass absentmindedly, and you take a moment to just watch her. You realize that in this moment, surrounded by the sounds of the diner, with her laughter still echoing in your ears, you feel more present than you've felt in a long time.
You lean back in your chair, feeling something shift inside of you, a sense of gratitude for her patience and the ease she brings to your life. For the first time in a while, you let yourself just beâright here, with her, and nowhere else.
\\\\\\
Days pass, and you and Mabel are practically inseparable. She joins you at your nephew's field day, laughing as she cheers him on louder than anyone else. You watch her out of the corner of your eye, her enthusiasm infectious, making you smile more than usual. She fits into your world so seamlessly, like she was always meant to be here. She cheers you and Devin on in the three-legged race and cheers him up when you guys wind up in third place.
Then comes the last day of school. The two of you stand outside the building, waiting for your nephew. When the bell rings, he runs straight to Mabel, throwing his arms around her in excitement before even greeting you. You roll your eyes, pretending to be jealous, but deep down, you're glad they've bonded so easily. He hops into her car and practically begs her to go fast; because she's infamous for her driving.
Mabel laughs, ruffling your nephew's hair as she buckles him in. "I'm not getting in trouble with your aunt today," she teases, glancing at you with a playful smirk.
You cross your arms, shaking your head. Your nephew looks at you, arms crossing in a way that reminded you of your sister.
You look between them. "I'm not liking this duo...I feel outranked." You frown, earning a laugh from Mabel.
Devin pouts, slumping in his seat. "You're no fun," he mutters, but it's clear he's just teasing. He can't help but grin when Mabel cranks up the music, and soon enough, he's singing along, his earlier disappointment forgotten.
As you drive back home, you find yourself watching them interact in the rearview mirror, feeling a warmth spread through your chest.
When you pull into your sister's driveway, Devin hops out of the car and races inside, yelling something about showing Mabel his latest toy car. He claims it can go as fast as Mabel's car. You chuckle, shaking your head at his excitement, but then your heart skips a beat when you notice a familiar car parked in front of the house.
Your mom.
"Shit," you mutter under your breath, suddenly remembering she had planned to stop by today.
Mabel glances over, noticing your tension. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, I just... forgot my mom was coming over," you admit, rubbing the back of your neck. "She doesn't know you're here."
Before you can say anything else, your mom steps out of her car, already waving as she approaches. There's no backing out now.
"Faro!" she calls, then her eyes immediately land on Mabel. Curiosity flickers in her expression, but she smiles warmly. "And who's this?"
You clear your throat, suddenly feeling like a teenager caught sneaking someone into the house. "Mom, this is Mabel."
Your mom's smile widens, and she looks between the two of you knowingly. "Mabel." She says it like she's testing the name. Mabel nods, smiling at your mother shyly. "Well, it's nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you." She raises an eyebrow at you as she says this, clearly enjoying your discomfort.
It's a lie. You've never mentioned Mabel to anyone except your aunt and uncle. They only know because they've butt into your personal life.
Mabel, to her credit, handles the situation smoothly, shaking your mom's hand with a warm smile. "It's nice to meet you too. Faro, here, has told me some great stories," she laughs, glancing at you.
You sigh quietly, hearing Mabel use your nickname making you... feel different. You've never minded the nickname, but Mabel had always called you by your name until now. You like hearing her say it. Now, you only think of the nickname as something you once wereâa version of yourself from before everything changed, before you met Mabel, before life started feeling more complicated. It doesn't bother you, but it belongs to that past self, one that doesn't quite fit anymore.
You want to be that person again.
Mabel's use of the nickname stirs something inside you that's hard to explain, even to yourself. Mabel notices the subtle shift in your expression. Her brow furrows, like she's tempted to ask, but instead, she offers you a small, reassuring smileâone you're starting to understand more and more.
Your mom gives you that lookâyou know the oneâthe one that says she'll be grilling you about this later, but for now, she's on her best behavior. "Well, had I known you were coming, I would have brought more stuff to cook," She waves toward the bag of groceries she brought, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
You clear your throat, realizing you hadn't planned to stay for dinner. You only meant to hang with Devin until your sister got home.
"Umm, ma," you start but she cuts you off, like she knows what you have to say.
"Nope," she shakes her head and grins. "I'll go in and get set up after I check on that little monster," she laughs, leaving no room for you to argue.
Mabel attempts to follow your mother but you grab her hand gently, halting her movements. She looks back at you, curiosity filling her eyes. Your mother, with that extra mother sense, glances back at you both.
"There a problem?" She raises a brow.
You clear your throat awkwardly. "You need more ingredients, she needs more ingredients," you say to Mabel, and she laughs at your flustering mess of a speech. "We're gonna go get some more ingredients for you. We'll beâ"
"Ahh," your mother wiggles a finger at you, shutting your idea down. "You can go. Mabel, come with me, I want to show you how to make the most popular Peruvian dish," your mom finishes, already pulling Mabel toward the house with a wink thrown in your direction.
You blink, left standing there as Mabel gives you a playful, helpless shrug before following your mom inside. You know exactly what's happening hereâyour mom is trying to get to know Mabel in her own way, and by the looks of it, Mabel's more than willing to humor her.
As you stand there, it hits you how quickly things have escalated. If the kiss is the start of a relationship, then technically, you and Mabel have only been together for a week. And she's meeting your mom already?
Mabel meeting your mom wasn't on the agenda today, or even for the next month and half she's here. But here they are now, bonding over dinner prep. You feel a strange mix of pride and nervousness. Part of you wants to storm in there and interrupt, but another part knows this is good. Maybe it's time to let your worlds mesh a little more, even if it feels like it's happening too fast.
You rub the back of your neck, chuckling to yourself as you glance toward the door. You can already hear your mom's laughter inside, and Mabel's responding with something you can't quite make out.
It's strange, hearing those two get along so naturally, but it also fills you with warmth. With Erin, it took your mother some time to even acknowledge her as your girlfriend. Your sister claimed she was being protective of her baby but you knew it was because your mom didn't think Erin was a good fit for you. She had been polite, sure, but it was clear your mom kept her distance. Things felt different with Mabel already. Your mom's openness, her immediate warmth toward Mabel, caught you off guard, and maybe that's why it feels like it's happening so fast.
Maybe, just maybe, you've found something real with Mabel, something that fits into your life in ways you hadn't expected.
A couple minutes pass and Mabel sneaks out of your sister's house for a second. You assume she managed to convince your mom to let her go but she tosses you her keys, and you catch it with your jaw dropped.
"Drive safe," she calls out then returns back into the house. You blow out a huff, shaking your head at her actions. Seconds later, her head pops out again and your hopes are up again. "Your mom said to buy limesâokay, bye!"
You stand there, keys in hand, still processing what just happened. Mabel's playful energy and the ease with which she's won over your mom leaves you stunned. You can't help but laugh, a mix of disbelief and affection bubbling up inside you.
Shaking your head, you hop into Mabel's car and start the engine. As you drive toward the store, your mind races, replaying the day's events. It's like everything is happening faster than you ever planned. But, at the same time, it doesn't feel wrong. It feels... right.
There's a comfort with Mabel that you can't quite put into words. Like all the pieces are finally falling into place.
When you arrive at the store and park, your thoughts are filled with Mabel, as they have been since you first met her. In the corner of your eye, you spot a familiar black van with some faded lettering on it. A chill runs down your spine, but you quickly shake it off, dismissing it as a coincidence. You don't want anything to ruin the warmth you feel today, so you rush to grab the items on your list, your mind focused on getting back to Mabel and your mom. You head inside, scanning the aisles with a distracted smile. Everything feels light, but a flicker of unease brushes against your subconscious.
You dart through the produce section, tossing a few limes into your basket, and then head toward the checkout. As you wait in line, your thoughts drift back to Mabel, imagining her laughter and the way her eyes light up when she's excited.
"Glad I caught you in person."
You furrow your brows and turn to see Nick standing there, appearing out of nowhere. You hadn't even noticed him beforeâlost in your thoughts, you hadn't scouted the store before going about your shopping.
"Nick," you say, forcing a smile. "Doing some shopping?"
Nick chuckles, but it sounds humorless. "Sure," he replies, clicking his tongue as he gestures toward the line that's moved up. You take a step forward, and he isn't far behind. "I got tired of your one-worded messages. And you've managed to dodge my calls pretty well. I got patience, but... to a limit." He grits out the last part, the tension in his voice rising.
You grip the basket's handle tightly, searching for more self-control, trying to ignore the unease twisting in your stomach.
"There's a tradeoff going on tonight at the usual place," he continues, lingering close behind you as the line shifts again. "One of the guys from the docks can't make it, and the other... well, he's a shitty liar, so he's out of commission until his hand heals."
You whip your head back, your heart racing as you try to hide your worry. You hope to God it's Charlie's hand that's broken and not Costa's. Not that Charlie deserves it but Costa is the least deserving of the two.
"Be there at eleven, or if rumors are true..." he lowers his voice, stepping closer to you, his breath brushing against your ear, "Mabel's face will be covered in bruises again."
A chill runs down your spine at his threat, and you take a shaky breath, forcing your expression to remain neutral. How does he know her name?
His lips quirk into a smirk. "Yeah," he drags out, almost giddily. "Mabel isn't a stranger to this world. She knows how things work. As do you. You know how things work in our world. You owe me, and I expect you to fulfill your end of the deal."
Your jaw clenches. You don't care how well Mabel may know of this world. She isn't part of this and you're not going to let them force her back in it.
"I'll be there," you say, narrowing your eyes as you fully turn to face him. "But if you go anywhere near her, I swearâ"
"Swear what?" Nick interrupts, leaning in with a condescending grin. His eyes trace your face and his smiles widens. "You're cute when you're mad. But you have no leverage. Pay your idiot of a father's debt by doing what we ask, and if you do it right; no one gets hurt. Cool?"
A mix of anger and dread bubbles inside you. He nods, taking your lack of response as an answer of agreement. You turn back around and move up the line, noticing you're up next to checkout.
"Be happy it's just your girlfriend," Nick says still right behind you. "Had Mabel not showed up, it would've been your mom, sister or that little rugrat of a nephewâman, that kid is adorable." He laughs gently.
Your experience with the military is unknown to him. You're unsure if threats would be less if he knew. What you do know for sure is if he knew you were military, he would use that as an advantage. Oliver is military and they clearly use him to their advantage, so you can only imagine how Nick would spin your past to manipulate you further. The thought sends a cold wave of anger through you. You tighten your grip on the basket, fighting the urge to turn around and confront him again.
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't test my patience if I were you," you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel.
Nick chuckles softly, as if he finds your bravado amusing.
You step up to the cashier, scanning your items quickly and trying to focus on the mundane task at hand instead of the threat looming over you.
"I'll see you at eleven," he pats your back, harsher than any man should push any average person. Lucky for you, you're not average. He earns stares with his actions but he doesn't pay any mind to it. "Don't be late." He winks, taking an apple you had on the conveyor belt.
Your heart races as you finish checking out, your mind racing with possibilities. You can't let Mabel or your family become collateral damage in Nick's twisted games.
As you leave the store, you take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in your head. You need a plan. Knowing your mother, she plans on talking Mabel's ear off until the late hours of the night. You hope you can get out by ten, have Mabel home by ten-thirty and be at the place by eleven.
You hop into Mabel's car, your heart still racing from the encounter with Nick. The thought of that apple in his hand irks youâan innocent gesture that feels loaded with intimidation. You shake your head, trying to focus on the road ahead.
As you drive back home, you mentally rehearse your plan. Your mother can talk for hours, but if you time it right, you can slip out before Mabel gets too comfortable. You glance at the clock on the dashboardâonly a few minutes have passed since you left the store, but it feels like an eternity.
When you arrive home, you find your mother in the kitchen, excitedly chatting with Mabel about the dish they're preparing. The aroma of spices fills the air, mixing with the sound of laughter, and for a moment, the warmth of the moment makes you forget about Nick.
"You got the limes?" Your mother breaks you out of your stupor. Mabel's eyes are on you and you can tell she sees something is off about you. Either you're easy to read or she's just caught on to how you try to pretend everything is okay when it really isn't. You realize you left the groceries in the car so you excuse yourself to get them.
You're grabbing the stuff from the backseat when you see Mabel join you outside. She walks over to you, quiet and tentative, treading carefully as to not trigger your fight instinct.
Mabel stands in front of you, her eyes scanning your face for answers. She's always had this ability to see through the walls you put up, and today is no different. You can tell she's waiting for you to say something, but you're not sure where to start. You close the car door, trying to mask the tension you're feeling, but it's no use.
"What's going on?" she asks softly, taking a step closer. "You've been off since you got back."
You exhale, looking down at the bags in your hand as if they'll give you an excuse to avoid the conversation. But Mabel isn't going to let it go, not this time. Her voice is gentle but firm, and you know she won't let you keep avoiding the truth.
But you don't want her in this. Not after what Nick said. The less she knows, the better it is for her.
"Just saw an old friend," you lie with a shrug, forcing a smile.
Mabel narrows her eyes, clearly not convinced. She knows you too well to fall for a half-hearted answer like that. You have to be easy to read; which is shameful. You were trained to hide any sort of emotion. But it's like Mabel sees right past that. Her lips press into a thin line as she studies your face, searching for the truth you're holding back.
"An old friend?" she repeats, her voice calm but with an edge of skepticism. "And that's why you've been acting weird ever since you came home?"
You swallow hard, trying to maintain your composure, but it's difficult under her gaze. She steps closer, her eyes never leaving yours.
"Weird? I just forgot the bags in the car," you shoot back, furrowing your brows.
Mabel nods, still not convinced. "Who was this friend?"
You still, fumbling with the bags in your hands. "Umm," you fumble with a lie. "A guy from an old job," your words comes out like a question, which doesn't help you.
"Old job?" Mabel arches a brow, stepping closer. "What old job?"
Your heart skips a beat as the lie begins to unravel. You can't tell her about Nick or the threat he made. Not when she's already too close to the fire. You avert your gaze, trying to focus on anything but her piercing eyes.
"Just a guy from a side job I did before," you mutter, shifting the bags in your hands to avoid her scrutiny. "Nothing important."
Mabel's expression hardens. She knows you're deflecting, and her patience is running thin. "Why do I feel like you're not telling me everything? You're acting like there's more to it than that."
You clench your jaw, frustration boiling inside. She's rightâthere's so much more, but you can't risk dragging her into this. Not with Nick's threat still hanging over your head. "Mabel, just drop it, okay? It was an old friend; he's a dick, and I don't like the guy."
Mabel's eyes narrow, clearly not satisfied with your answer. Her frustration is starting to show, but she takes a deep breath, trying to keep calm. "A guy you don't like, from a job you barely remember. And that's why you're acting so weird? That doesn't add up."
You're better off starting a fight than telling her the truth. Nick called her your girlfriend, and technically, she isn't.
"Why are you bombarding me with questions? It's not like you're my girlfriend," you scoff, walking past her, not missing the stunned expression on her face.
Mabel's face hardens, the hurt flashing in her eyes before she quickly masks it. She's not one to let emotions show easily, but you can tell your words stung.
"Right," she says, her voice cold. You turn to look at her, guilt troubling your stomach at the hurt expression on her face. "I'm not your girlfriend. So I guess I don't have the right to care about you, or to ask questions when you're clearly upset."
You pause, guilt creeping in as you realize what you just said, but before you can respond, Mabel steps back, distancing herself from you.
"Give me my keys."
Her words hang in the air, and you feel the weight of them pressing down on your chest. You didn't mean to hurt her, just shut her down, but now you've made things worse.
"Wait, Mabel, I'm sorryâ"
"Look, I get being guarded, but have I not shown you that I'm here for you?" Mabel interrupts, her voice steady but tinged with frustration.
She's better at controlling her emotions than you are. Maybe you should have stayed in college. Maybe you have been more emotionally mature if you had.
She's staring at you, her arms crossed tightly, waiting for an explanation you're not sure you can give. "I've been patient, giving you space, but thisâthis is different."
You run a hand through your hair, the guilt and frustration mixing with the growing pressure of Nick's threats. "It's not like that," you say, your voice quieter now. "I just... I'm trying to protect you."
"Protect me?" Mabel repeats, her tone incredulous. "By pushing me away and lying to me? How does that protect me?"
You don't have a good answer. Not one that will fix the way she's looking at you right now, as if you're slipping further away from her.
"I don't want you involved in something you don't deserve to be a part of," you admit, voice low.
Mabel's eyes soften, but only slightly. "I can take care of myself. You don't have to shut me out. But I'm not going to stick around if this is how you're going to deal with things."
Her words sting more than you expected. You've been trying to keep her safe, trying to keep her at a distance from all of this, but in doing so, you're pushing her awayâmaybe for good.
"Now," she ignores the pained look in your eyes, "my keys." She holds her hand out.
You ignore a voice in the back of your head shouting at you to stop, to not give her her keys. To not let her walk away. But you're an idiot, who gives her her keys.
"Tell your mom I'm sorry," she snatches keys from your hand then walks to the driver's side. She pauses and looks at you.
The silence between you stretches painfully as Mabel pauses by the driver's side, her hand resting on the door handle. You can feel the weight of the moment, the finality in her movement, and it gnaws at you.
"You're not going to say anything?" she asks, her voice quieter now, almost fragile. She looks at you, waiting, hoping maybe you'll give her a reason to stay.
But you don't know what to say. Everything you've been holding back, all the fear, the threats, it's locked inside, and you can't bring yourself to drag her into that mess. You are your father's daughter. He never said anything either.
Then be different, you hear your grandfather's voice in the back of your head.
"Iâ" you start, but the words die in your throat. You see the disappointment flicker across her face as she turns away.
"Take care of yourself," she says, the sadness in her voice unmistakable before she climbs into her car.
You watch as she drives away, the tail lights fading into the distance, leaving you standing there in the cold emptiness of your driveway, feeling like you've just made the biggest mistake of your life.
Seven days. It's fitting, considering it's your favorite number.
You had seven perfect days with Mabel. It was bound to end someday. Whether with her leaving at the end of the summer or by your stupidity. How your father managed to keep your mother is beyond you. Your father was worse than you.
How did he do it?
You don't bother to even think of it, returning back into your sister's home with your head down. Your mother asks for Mabel and you come up with a better lie to her than you did Mabel. She makes you swear to invite Mabel over again, to treat her well because she loves her.
And you hate yourself for already disobeying your mother. You hate yourself even more because you do, too.
Three weeks since you met her. Seven days since you kissed her. And already, you love her.
i sit down to write and suddenly i am the most distracted human alive. the chair is uncomfortable. my coffee is too hot. my playlist isn't quite the vibe. i need to research what victorian houses smelled like in 1872 for exactly 45 minutes even though my story takes place in space. and yet the moment i'm trying to fall asleep? every single sentence i've ever needed just lines up perfectly in my brain like some kind of creative parade i'll never get back.
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Summary: At twenty-six, you never expected your life to look like this: a veteran, a college dropout, now running drugs to cover your late fatherâs debts. The military took you away for a brief moment, but now you're back in your hometown, keeping family at a distance to keep them safe. Your simple plan to clear the debt, one job at a time, unravels the moment Mabel steps into your life.
previous part <--> next part
You check your mailbox again, sighing at the lack of mail. Nothing but advertising which is beginning to upset you. All this wasted paperâoh look, a new Chinese buffet is opening this weekend.
Your stomach growls of the thought of the restaurant, but you stuff it back into the mailbox with a groan. You don't plan on leaving your place for the rest of your life. You shut the mailbox shut and enter back into your place, the dark room a stark contrast to the bustling world outside. You flick the light on, illuminating the cluttered but cozy space. Your shoes squeak on the hardwood floor as you step inside, kicking them off in a corner. The familiar scent of takeout containers from last night still lingers, but you ignore it, sinking into the couch with a heavy sigh.
The silence feels oppressive, a constant reminder of the choices you've made to keep to yourself, avoid getting caught up in things outside your control. But lately, that isolation has been harder to bear. As you stare at the blank TV screen, your mind drifts back to the mailbox. Even a stupid coupon for a Chinese buffet feels like a reminder that the world keeps moving, even if you don't.
It's times like this when you wish you had given in when you saw those puppies for sale at the nearest grocery store. You'd have a dog that would force you to go out during times like these. You just want to crawl into your bed and sleep your life away.
You pause.
"That's death," you mumble, throwing your head back with a loud groan.
The realization hits you harder than expected. You've been avoiding the world for so long, sinking deeper into isolation, that it feels like you've hit a wall. The emptiness isn't just in your apartmentâit's creeping into your life, seeping into the corners you thought you could ignore.
It's been three days since that swim for that shipment and you have managed to avoid having to go out. No sale has been made for those weapons and you, shamefully, lied to your sister about being sick so you didn't have to pick up your nephew at school. Mabel even texted you, apparently Rudy gave her your number. You were too busy freaking out about her having your number to be pissed he gave your number out. In the end, you told her the same lie you told your sister.
You sit up, staring at the clutter around you. Takeout containers, unwashed dishes, laundry half-done. It feels like a reflection of how you've been livingâputting things off, hiding from the inevitable, from the people and choices you know you need to face.
With a frustrated sigh, you push yourself up from the couch. "Alright," you mutter to yourself. "I'm not doing this anymore."
You walk over to the kitchen, grabbing a trash bag and starting to clean up the remnants of your quiet retreat. As you toss old containers and forgotten leftovers, you feel a small sense of relief. It's not much, but it's a step.
Your phone buzzes on the counter, pulling your attention away. You unlock it to see a message from Mabel.
Hey, your uncle sent me to bring you some soup.
You freeze, the bag in your hand dropping, spilling all the contents in it on the floor. "Oh fuck."
Your heart races as you stare at the message, trying to process what's happening. Your uncle sent Mabel? You weren't prepared for this. The lie you spun to avoid facing everyone has come back to bite youâand now Mabel is about to show up at your door with soup, of all things.
You quickly glance around your apartment. It's a messâtakeout boxes everywhere, laundry half-finished, dishes piled up. There's no way you can let her see this, let alone face her with the lie hanging between you.
"Shit, shit, shit," you mumble, scrambling to pick up the trash you just spilled on the floor. Your mind races with excusesâmaybe you can pretend you're asleep, maybe you can text her back and tell her not to comeâbut it's too late.
A knock on your door echoes through the apartment, sending your anxiety into overdrive.
It can't be Mabel. That was too quick.
"Who is it?" You call out, waiting for a response.
There's silence before, "Mabel?" she sounds confused. "Did you not get my message?"
You grit your teeth. You should have pretended you weren't home. Now its too late for that.
"Uhh," you clear your throat. "Just leave it at the door. I don't want to get you...sick," you grimace, your words coming out too slow and hesitant.
"Open the door."
She figured you out. The pound she hits on your door just serves as proof.
Your heart races as you stare at the door, the weight of the lie pressing harder with each second of silence. Mabel knows. There's no hiding it now.
You can almost hear the impatience in her voice. "Come on, I'm not leaving until I see you."
You let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through your hair. There's no escaping this. You pick up the trash you dropped early then move to open the door.
Mabel stands there, arms crossed, her brow furrowed in concern. "Seriously? Sick?" she says, her voice softer than you expected. She steps closer, peering into your eyes like she's searching for the real reason behind your avoidance.
You shift uncomfortably, looking away. "It's... complicated," you mutter, trying to dodge her gaze. "And you lied too. Where's my soup?" you shoot back.
Her eyebrow raises. "Seriously?" She huffs and you step aside, allowing her entrance. She walks in and her eyes examines your place. "I knew you were faking. I asked your uncle where you lived since he told me you were most likely hiding like the natural hermit you areâhis words, not mine," she adds quickly, raising her hands up in defense.
You huff, shutting your door then leading her to your kitchen. You pick up as much as you can in your kitchen as you do, glancing over your shoulder at Mabel. "Well, he's not wrong," you mumble, tossing a takeout box into the trash. "But it's not like I wanted to be this way."
Mabel leans against the counter, watching you clean up with a knowing look. "So, why are you?" she asks, her voice steady but gentle, like she's trying to pry without pushing too hard.
You pause, hands gripping the edge of the sink, the weight of everything threatening to spill out. The weapons. The lies. The guilt gnawing at you. But you swallow it down, just like you've been doing since that swim. "I'm just... dealing with a lot," you admit. "And when things get too overwhelming, I shut down. Or go for a swim but..." you trail off, frowning because your past time has been ruined.
A silence fills the space between you two and when you look at her, really look at her, you remember Charlie's words. I'm not risking her getting hurt again. Again.
You don't want Mabel getting hurt at all.
"Makes sense why I haven't seen you at your usual spot," Mabel breaks you away from your thoughts. You lean against your kitchen counter, crossing your arms as you avoid her eyes. "You said you would teach me how to swim, remember?"
Right. That's backfired on you.
You feel a pang of regret at her words, the memory surfacing like a distant wave. "Yeah, I remember," you reply, your voice low. "I just... I haven't felt up to it lately."
"That's fine," Mabel shrugs, taking a seat at your kitchen table. You rub your temples, missing the way she looks at you.
The way she's waiting for you to confess. She went out to look for answers on how you managed to stay under the town's radar, avoiding the rumor mill this town always has spinning. She found little because she knew if she wanted to find out more, she had to go to some people she swore she would never interact with again.
You can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers fidget with the edge of the table. It's like she's waiting for a confession to slip from your lips, but all you can muster is silence. The truth hangs between you, heavy and unyielding, but you can't bring yourself to share itânot yet.
"Look, I get it," she says finally, her voice softer but firm. "You don't want to talk about it, and that's okay. But I want you to know that I'm here for you. You don't have to handle this alone."
You have a feeling her offering help to people she barely knows got her into whatever mess Charlie was mentioning before. That thought lingers in your mind, making you hesitate. Mabel's willingness to help people, to care for them no matter what, could be what got her tangled up in a dangerous situation before. And now, here she is, offering the same to you.
You search her eyes, the guilt already creeping in as you think about how to push her away. If she won't leave on her own, maybe you can hurt her enough to make her back off. It's cruel, but if it keeps her safe, then it's worth it.
"What are you doing?" You ask, your tone switching to a much firmer one. She's stunned, the sudden raise of volume catching her by surprise. "You talk about knowing what real mess is, so what are you doing? Offering help to strangersâis that the same way you met Charlie?"
Mabel's eyes widen at your sudden change in tone, and she flinches slightly, but quickly recovers, her gaze hardening as she processes your words. "What does Charlie have to do with this?" she asks, her voice steady but edged with tension.
"You said it yourself," you continue, pushing forward despite the guilt creeping up your spine. "You're always getting mixed up in other people's messes, trying to fix things that aren't your problem. It got you into trouble before, didn't it? So what's stopping it from happening again? What's stopping me from being the next one to drag you down?"
Mabel's jaw tightens, her arms folding defensively across her chest. "That's not fair," she says quietly. "You don't get to make assumptions about my life, about the things I've been through. And you definitely don't get to use Charlie to push me away. You don't even know the half of it."
You feel the sting of her words, but you press on, hoping she'll see the danger before it's too late. You scoff, rolling your eyes. "The half of it, please," you shake your head, "fine, maybe I don't, but I know enough. You get involved, you get hurt. Why can't you just walk away from this?"
Mabel stares at you, her eyes searching yours for a moment before she speaks again, her voice trembling just slightly. "Because I care about you. And I'm not going to walk away just because things are messy. You might think you're protecting me, but shutting me out isn't going to help us either."
Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, you're torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer.
That word lingers in your mindâus. It feels foreign, like it doesn't belong in the mess you've created. But hearing it from Mabel... there's a part of you that aches for it to be true.
You want to believe there could be an "us," but you know better than anyone that dragging her into your chaos would destroy whatever hope there is for that. You can't risk it, not when she's already been through enough.
If she's been hurt once, you don't want her to get hurt again. You wouldn't be able to live with yourself.
But she's stubborn, you don't need to be a genius to figure that out. Not when you turn your back to her, to avoid her eyes because you felt yourself wanting to give in.
Mabel steps closer, her voice firm but filled with that same stubborn determination that both frustrates and captivates you. "I'm not trying to save you. I just want to be there. If you push me away now, you're making that choice, not me."
"Maybe it's the right choice," you whisper, gripping the sink, knuckles turning white.
Mabel lets out a quiet chuckle. "Then it's time I make the wrong one," you glance at her, eyebrow raising, and she shrugs. "I've chosen what I think are the right choicesâwhat I believe was the right thing to do. Maybe it's time I do the wrong thing." She finishes, her voice soft but unwavering.
You're out of fight, at least when it comes to her. You want to be selfish for once. Pick yourselfâby choosing her. Fuck the consequences. You'll worry about it later.
So in one swift move, you turn and grip her waist, bringing your lips to her, connecting them. Mabel freezes for a moment, caught off guard by the suddenness of your kiss, but then she melts into it, her hands finding their way to your shoulders. The tension that had been building between you two seems to shatter in that instant, replaced by something raw and undeniable.
You don't know what's going to happen nextâif this is a mistake, or if it's the right kind of wrong. All you know is that in this moment, being with her feels like the only thing that makes sense.
When you finally pull back, both of you are breathless, her eyes wide as they search yours. Neither of you speak, but the silence says everything. You've made your choice, and so has she.
Mabel smiles softly, her forehead resting against yours. "Guess we're both making bad decisions now," she whispers, and despite everything, you find yourself smiling back.
"You're going to regret it," you tell her, some teasing in your voice but she can hear how serious you are.
She shrugs, her fingers brushing your hair gently. You practically melt, haven't experienced something like this in a long time.
"I'll take my chances," she murmurs, pulling on the back of your neck to bring your foreheads together. You shut your eyes at the connection, feeling her fingers continue to play with your hair. "Quit with the mystery. I'm not going anywhere. You can't scare me away."
You open your eyes to meet her eyes, and just the thought of her getting hurt because you infuriates you. You make a promise with yourself to make sure she stays safe, no matter what. Even if it means keeping her closer than you'd originally planned. She's not going anywhere, like she said, and you find yourself grateful for that.
You nod wordlessly, lifting your hand to her cheek. You run your thumb over her cheek, inscribing every detail of her face in your memory. Not like it's difficult. This photographic memory thing really comes in handy.
I won't let anything happen to you, is what you want to say but instead you connect your lips with her again, but in a slow, deliberate kiss. It's not just about the desire anymoreâit's about the promise you're making, even if it's one you'll never speak aloud. She deserves to know, deserves to feel that you're not just pulling her closer to push her away later.
When you finally pull back, you linger there, foreheads still touching, both of you breathing the same air. Mabel opens her eyes, her lips curving into a small smile, like she understands what you're trying to tell her without words.
"You don't have to say it," she whispers, reading you better than you thought possible. "I already know."
That's the thing about Mabelâshe always knows. And maybe, just maybe, that's why you can't seem to push her away, no matter how hard you try.
"Wanna go for a swim?" Mabel asks, dimple on her cheek appearing. You chuckle, but nod, brushing your thumb over her dimple. She bites her lip then takes your hand, dragging you into your room to get your stuff ready.
\\\\\
"Think you can go in a few more steps?" you ask, a hint of teasing in your voice as you stand a few feet away, watching her carefully. She eyes you, a mix of determination and hesitance crossing her face, and you can't help but chuckle.
It's not just the apprehension that you find amusing; it's the sight of her in your old high school gym shorts and that tattered soccer jersey hanging loosely on her frame. It makes her look small, almost adorable, but definitely small.
"Come on, this was your idea," you say, splashing her lightly. She jumps back slightly, her glare shooting daggers at you. "At least let the water hit your waist," you encourage, standing tall as the waves lap at your chest.
Mabel hesitates, her determination flickering, but you can see her resolve slowly building again. You bend your knee, letting the water hide half your face, and you wait patiently for her to take the leap. Another wave crashes against you, and you duck under, mentally laughing as you hear her call out for you.
"Mabel! Come on, you can do it!" you shout, surfacing to see her still standing at the edge, glancing back and forth between you and the water.
"You scared the shit out of me," she exclaims, once again, glaring. You wipe your face, laughing gently. "The waves are bigger than last time. Are you sure it's safe?"
You forget the teasing and joking, noticing the genuine worry behind her words. You walk over to her and take her hand, pulling her into you carefully. Her arms go around your waist, like a habit, naturally, and you feel a sense of warmth radiate between you.
"It's safe," you say softly, meeting her gaze. "I won't let anything happen to you."
You finally say the words out loud to her. A smile is on her lips, probably figuring out you mean it more than just right now in this moment. She pecks your lips and you wish she had kissed you longer. But she turns and looks at the water with determination, and you don't want to break her concentration.
"Okay, I can do this," she mumbles, mostly to herself but you hear her loud and clear. She tugs on your hand and you take it as your cue to walk further into the water, hoping she follows.
You wade deeper, the cool water rising to your chest, glancing back to see Mabel right behind you, her expression a mix of excitement and resolve. The gentle waves lap against you, and you feel the rhythm of the ocean pulse around you.
Soon, she's in front of you, shivering slightly but still grinning ear to ear. You take her in your arms and kick your feet to have you both floating. She stills, but only for a moment, relaxing as the waves appear to settle around you.
Her arms wrap around your neck, practically clinging onto you like a lifeline. For a few minutes, she just rests her chin on your shoulder, the sound of the ocean filling the silence between you two.
You admire the sun in the distance, still hanging high, giving you a positive outlook for the rest of the day. How your day started is completely different from how it's going. You didn't expect for it to go like this at all.
"Who taught you how to swim?" Mabel ends the silence, but her voice is above a whisper. In the distance, you can see some fishing boats and some teenagers who most likely skipped school since the school year is almost over.
You turn your head slightly to catch a glimpse of the fishing boats bobbing on the waves, their silhouettes framed by the sun's golden glow. You smile, the warmth of the moment wrapping around you like the gentle waves.
"My dad," you reply, your voice barely above the sound of the water. You watch the boat disappear, sort of like you did whenever your father went away on a job. "He took me out here every summer. Said it was important to know how to swim, especially around the ocean."
Mabel nods, her fingers playing with the ends of your hair. "I wish I had someone like that. I just...never really learned. Was always too scared, I guess."
You smile sadly, tucking your face into her neck. You hide your face for a moment before you decide to share a little more.
"I was terrified," you admit it, chuckling at the memory of your first swimming lesson. "My dad bought those above ground pools, and as soon as it was full of water; he tossed me in thereâno warning."
Mabel pulls back slightly, an amused smile on her lips. "Seriously?"
You shrug. "Forced me to learn," you say, as if it's no big deal. And it wasn't. Because it was a great first lesson. "I knew how to doggy paddle which saved me from drowning but then he further advanced my skills. Once I learned, they had to drag me out of the pool."
Mabel laughs, the sound bright and infectious, echoing against the backdrop of the gentle waves.
You don't see the amusement until you hear her laugh again. You raise a brow, unsure what's so funny.
"Oh, my god," she covers her mouth, laughing in between apologies. "You're secretly a dork." She says and your jaw drops.
You splash her gently and she splashes you right back, giggling.
"I'll take that as a compliment," you shrug, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
"Well, Sergeant Dork," you tilt your head, deadpan at the joke. She cracks up even more before continuing. "I hope you know our fingers are pruny, so..."
You look at your fingers and hum. "Not pruny enough," you say, pulling her into you. She laughs but doesn't argue, returning her chin back to rest on your shoulder.
Time appears to slow down, and you find yourself lost in the warmth of her presence, the gentle sway of the water cradling you both. The sun shines down, casting golden rays that dance on the surface, illuminating the moment.
Mabel's laughter fades into a comfortable silence, and you breathe in the salty air, the sound of the ocean providing a soothing backdrop. It feels as though nothing else mattersâno worries, no past mistakes, just the two of you suspended in this perfect moment.
That's why you love the ocean. It made you forget about what was happening on land. So what you did a few nights ago? It was like your two worlds colliding. The only way they collided before was when the waves crashed into the sand, so it hurt that it was you crashing into the ocean.
"Hey," she whispers, breaking the stillness. "What if we just stayed out here forever?"
You wish. No, literally. You wished for that as a kid.
"I think we're better off leaving the city than staying in the ocean," you say with a huff, your words coming out tiredly. That was another one of your wishesâto leave the city without having any guilt.
Mabel pulls back slightly, studying your face. "What do you mean?"
You take a deep breath, the salty air filling your lungs as you weigh your words. "When I was little, I used to imagine running away to live on a beach somewhere. No responsibilities, just the sound of the waves and the warmth of the sun. I thought if I could just escape my reality, everything would be different. But then I grew up, and... well, life happened."
You laugh gently, recalling a specific moment in your childhood. "I actually packed a bag and took some pillows and blankets from the closet to build myself a fort out here," you say, turning your head to look for the spot where you planned to make the fort.
"What happened?" Mabel asks, watching you search the shore.
"My parents caught me," you mutter, frowning as Mabel laughs at your expression. "I mean, I couldn't exactly sneak off. I had a giant suitcase with the blankets and pillows; it was just easier to carry. Plus, I think my sister snitched on me. That's what I get for inviting her," you huff at yourself.
Mabel laughs again, her fingers returning to play with the ends of your hair. Her mouth opens to say something, most likely to tease you, but then you hear a pop in the distance. To anyone, it could just be some random noise. But with your knowledge of what was picked up a few nights ago and your training, you're on edge.
"You okay?" Mabel asks, feeling how stiff you are. You look to where the sound came from, your jaw tightening; you hope Nick's friends aren't dumb enough to sell in broad daylight.
You hum, Mabel's question processing in your mind. "Oh, yeah," you answer, but the unease lingers. You were trained to trust yourself and your instincts, and right now, they're screaming.
In the Army, you had your team with you, who looked out for you while you looked out for them. But here, you just have Mabel to protect, and she doesn't have your training.
"Let's head back," you say, placing your hands under her thighs to pick her up. She gasps in surprise but quickly wraps her arms around your neck, her laughter fading into concern as you carry her back toward the shore.
As you wade through the water, you can feel the tension coiling in your chest. You scan the beach, looking for any signs of trouble, your senses heightened. Mabel notices your demeanor and leans closer, her voice low. "What's wrong?"
"Just... a noise I heard," you reply, keeping your tone casual but focused. "Let's not stick around to find out what it was." You push through the waves, feeling the cool water lapping at your legs, but your mind is elsewhere, concentrating on getting both of you back to safety.
As you reach the sandy shore, you set her down gently, scanning the beach once more. Everything seems normal, but that unsettling feeling still lingers. "Stay close to me," you say, taking her hand and leading her further away from the water's edge.
Mabel squeezes your hand, her eyes darting around as if sensing your unease. "Was it that popping sound?" You glance at her, closing in to where you left your towels. "I know you were at war and all that, but...this is still America. People shoot their guns randomly when they're bored."
"Near the beach?" you ask, trying to keep your tone light despite the tension in the air. You don't want to scare her, but the instinct to protect kicks in fiercely.
She shrugs. "People are idiots," she says as she reaches for your towel, then hers. She hands you yours, then uses her own to dry herself. However, she looks at you, not even acknowledging the towel in your hand, scanning your surroundings. "Heyâ"
You flinch, her touch surprising you. A mix of regret and guilt crosses your face when you see her stunned expression.
"Sorry," you stutter out, exhaling a breath. "I didn't mean to... You just caught me off guard."
Mabel's brow furrows, her expression softening as she studies you. "It's okay," she says gently, placing a hand on your arm. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright."
You take a moment to breathe, the warmth of her hand grounding you. "I'm fine," you reply, forcing a smile. "Just... instinct, I guess. I'll let my guard down in a second."
Mabel nods, then reaches for your bag and hers. "Let's grab a bite to eat," she points down the street, and you already know where she wants to go. "Your uncle's place is actually pretty good. Come on," she squeezes your hand.
She gives your hand an extra squeeze, and it's like someone lowered the volume of your surroundings. You still feel the need to protect her, but it isn't as over-heightened as before. You're on the lookout while you walk to your uncle's diner, keeping her at arm's length as you scan everything and everyone around you.
Despite your vigilance, you manage to listen to her as she talks. You can tell she's trying to settle your nerves, sharing little anecdotes about her day and making jokes about random things she's seen around town. It isn't until she mentions her classes for the fall do you decide to join in.
"And it's my third semester, still no major declared," Mabel sounds resigned, almost disappointed in herself. "I'm on my last two prerequisites, and I've taken random intro classes like psychology, business administration, and music appreciation, but I just don'tâ"
"Hold on," you plant your feet, stopping both of you from moving. Mabel looks at you, probably surprised you were paying attention. "You do understand it's totally okay not to have it figured out yet, right? I mean, that's what college is all about."
Mabel nods, but there's still a frown on her lips. "Yeah, but," she sighs, "all the people I've had classes with all have their majors declared or know what they're working toward, but I'm just... taking it one class at a time." She shrugs.
"So what?" you say back with a shrug. "You got financial aid, right?" She nods, and you nod in return. "Good. I mean, they usually have a timeline for you, but they also can't control if you have a major declared or not. You could decide on... marketing today, but you could always change your mind and switch to... lawâI don't know," you add when you see her facial expression.
Mabel laughs, but you can tell she's taking your words seriously.
"Look at me," you say, gesturing to yourself. "I had my major declared, but I dropped out a semester later. Figure out what you want to do on your own time, and if financial aid or the world has a problem with that, tell me; I'll deal with them."
A small smile begins to form on her face. "You really would?"
"Absolutely," you reply, feeling more confident now. "I'll even call them up and say, 'Hey, Mabel's doing just fine figuring things out. Back off!'"
She chuckles softly, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."
"Maybe," you admit, "but I'm serious about this. You don't have to rush into anything. Everyone's path is different, and just because they seem ahead doesn't mean they have it all figured out."
Mabel's eyes soften as she considers your words. "You know, I think I needed to hear that. Thanks," she replies, her voice sincere.
You shake your head, realizing you've settle down from earlier. Your heart rate has slowed down and that disturbing feeling in your gut is gone. It's a dangerous world but you know and feel that Mabel is safe right now.
"Thank you," you say, and she only nods, pulling on your hand to lead you both to your uncle's diner.
As you walk, the familiar scent of your uncle's diner begins to fill the air, a comforting reminder of home. The noise of the street fades as you focus on Mabel, her laughter echoing in your mind like a soothing balm. You feel a sense of ease settle over you, grateful for her presence.
When you finally reach the diner, you hold the door open for her, and she walks in with a smile. As you follow her inside, you can't shake the feeling of being grateful for this momentâof being here with her, where laughter feels lighter and worries seem a bit further away.
Rudy and Jodie greet you both, loud as always; so loud, you miss more gun shots pop off in the distance.
