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You turned up the radio, letting the familiar guitar riff of a Fleetwood Mac song cut clean through the noise. You were prone to drowning things out with music; it was a great way to avoid your own thoughts.

The car wasn’t new. You couldn’t afford new. But she had personality—a red 1970s convertible you’d found through a guy in Venice who insisted she “ran like a dream,” which was only true if that dream involved the occasional stutter uphill. You named her Cherry because subtlety was overrated.

Your whole life fit neatly inside Cherry: two suitcases in the trunk, a stack of half-filled notebooks on the passenger seat, and a battered guitar case in the back seat. 

You’d spent the last few years chasing inspiration across cities like it was a full-time job with no benefits. You’d written songs in shared kitchens, poems on bar napkins, and once had an Oscar-worthy breakdown in a Portland laundromat when someone stole your clothes and left you with nothing but the denim shorts and old Top Gun sweatshirt you were wearing.

Life experience, you called it. Character development, if you were feeling generous. But after your last roommate tried to start a kombucha brewery in the bathtub, you decided it was time to come home.

Once you passed San Diego, the road curved inland toward the base. You slowed down, mostly because you always did here. The air had that sharp metallic tang of jet fuel that never quite left your memory. 

You didn’t mean to look up. But then you did, and that was your first mistake.

Four jets cut across the sky in formation, sunlight bouncing off their wings. The sound reached you a few seconds later, deep and thunderous, vibrating straight through your chest. Your breath caught before your brain could even register why.

It always made you think of Bradley.

You wondered if one of those pilots was him. Seeing those jets reminded you that he’d stayed while you’d run.

You forced your eyes back to the road, heart doing that inconvenient nostalgia thing you pretended not to notice. You told yourself you were older now, grounded, emotionally evolved. 

By the time you pulled into The Hard Deck’s parking lot, the sky was washed in peach and gold. The sign out front was still a little crooked, still sun-faded, and the gravel crunched under your tyres exactly the same way it had last summer. You turned off the engine and let the quiet sink in.

Your reflection in the rear-view mirror looked tired, but you could pass it off as intentional—messy eyeliner, bitten lips, wind-swept hair. 

You got out and stretched, legs stiff from the drive, and reached into the back seat for your patchwork shoulder bag. The strap was a little frayed where it rubbed against your shoulder, but you liked it that way. It was the one thing you took with you to every city you’d called home. 

Inside, the bar hummed with life in that low, comforting way you’d missed. The clink of glasses, laughter, the faint buzz of a jukebox humming in the corner. You could have closed your eyes and known exactly where you were.

The Hard Deck hadn’t changed since you’d visited your dad last summer. The same scuffed floorboards. The same pool tables that leaned slightly to the left. The same smell of salt and spilt beer baked into the walls. 

Penny’s touch was everywhere. The neon sign over the bar gleamed a little brighter. The old jukebox, once half-broken and temperamental, now glowed in the corner like it had been restored within an inch of its life.

Eight years ago, it had been different. Louder, rougher around the edges. A full-on Navy haunt when Bradley was just another new aviator at Top Gun, eager to show you his favourite spots.

Bradley had taken you straight to the piano.

You could still see him there, sleeves rolled, hair too long, grin wide enough to make you forget how to speak. The room had been packed, people shouting, drinks sloshing, but he’d been completely lost in the song. You’d tried to keep up, but your hands knew guitar strings, not piano keys.

Bradley had only laughed, covered your hand with his, and pressed your fingers into the right chord. His touch had been light, sure, and entirely unfair.

“See?” he’d said, still grinning. “You’re getting it.”

You hadn’t been. You’d been too busy trying to remember how lungs worked.

Now, the jukebox played something jaunty, and you blinked as the memory desolved. The Hard Deck had changed since your first visit, and so had you.

“Well, look who it is!”

You turned toward the voice, already smiling. “Penny!”

Penny Benjamin was making her way around the bar, sun-kissed and grinning, all warmth and disbelief. She pulled you into a hug that smelled faintly of citrus and salt air.

“Pete wasn’t kidding,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “He told me you were moving back for real this time. I didn’t believe him. He’s been saying that for, what, two summers now?”

You laughed. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure I believed me either. But I think I’m ready to stay in one place for a while. Maybe even put down some roots.”

Penny’s smile softened. “Music to my ears. And if you need something to do while those roots take hold, I could always use another pair of hands behind the bar.”

You blinked, pleasantly surprised. “You’re offering me a job?”

“Only if you’re not too good for us locals now,” she teased. “Pete says you’ve been living the free spirited artistic dream. But I remember those drinks you made at the barbecue last summer. You’ve got some serious skills.”

You grinned, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “I could start once I’ve unpacked, assuming you’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” Penny ducked behind the counter, filled a glass with Coke, and added a wedge of lime. The ice clinked as she slid it toward you. “On the house. For my favourite Mitchell.”

You picked up the glass, hiding your smile behind the rim. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that.”

“Oh, please,” she said, smirking. “He already knows.”

You took a sip and let the comfort of being home settle in your chest. For the first time in years, you weren’t just passing through.

You were people-watching, entertained by the group of pilots playing darts and arguing about whose landing had been cleaner that day, when someone slid onto the stool beside you.

He was broad, blond, and cocky. The kind of man who probably practised his smirk on reflective surfaces. The service khakis gave him away instantly; neat, pressed, and impossible to mistake for anything but Navy. You knew more about pins than the average tourist, and the ones over his pocket told you everything you needed to know.

This man wasn’t just Navy. He was an aviator. Judging by the overconfident lean and movie-star grin, you’d bet good money this was the infamous Hangman you’d heard about from your dad.

“Well, hello there,” he drawled, flashing a grin that you could tell had a high success rate. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You visiting?”

You tilted your head, giving him your best imitation of a curious outsider. “Something like that.”

Hangman leaned closer, elbows on the bar, radiating charm. “Let me guess. You’re a tourist. Beach trip, maybe? Or did you come to watch the planes?”

You widened your eyes just enough to sell it. “Planes? You mean the Navy ones?”

Penny briefly caught your eye from behind the counter, her mouth twitching like she was desperately holding in a laugh.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Hangman said, grinning wider. “The Navy ones. You ever been on base before?”

You shook your head, sipping through your straw with deliberate innocence. “No, can’t say I have. But I’ve always heard the pilots around here are impressive.”

He straightened a little, grin turning self-satisfied. “That’s one word for us. I could show you around sometime, give you the full experience.”

You leaned in, mirroring his posture, voice just soft enough to make him listen closer. “The full experience?”

“Strictly professional,” Hangman said, not even pretending to mean it. “Though, fair warning—once you’ve flown with a pilot, nothing else really compares.”

You blinked up at him innocently, hiding your grin behind your straw. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely.” Hangman rested a hand casually against the back of your stool, confidence oozing from every pore. You were about to give in a little and see how far he’d go when a familiar voice cut in.

“Hangman, step away from my daughter.”

You’d never seen a man pale so fast. Hangman froze, his grin disintegrating as he turned toward the source. “Sir?”

You spun on your stool, already smiling. “Dad!” You jumped up to hug your dad, laughing against his shoulder while Hangman looked like he was praying for a time machine.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Maverick looked entirely too pleased with himself when you parted. Calm, casual, just enough smugness in his voice to let you know he’d seen the whole thing. “You two know each other?”

“Not officially,” Hangman said tightly, posture stiffening like he’d just remembered how to stand at attention. “I was just, uh, welcoming her to town.”

“Sure you were,” Penny said, sliding Maverick a beer down the counter without missing a beat. “Very hospitable of you, Hangman.”

You grinned, unable to resist chiming in. “Such a gentleman. It’s generous of you to offer to show me around my hometown, but I think I’ll manage just fine.”

A loud laugh burst from the pool table. Payback, naturally. “Hangman, you hitting on the boss’s daughter?”

The reaction was instant. Phoenix nearly dropped her cue, doubled over with laughter until Bob caught her arm to keep her from tipping forward. Coyote choked on his beer. 

Fanboy muttered something that sounded like “Oh, dead man walking.”

Hangman went very still. “I don’t know that I would call it ‘hitting on’ her,” he said faintly, but the damage was done.

You turned toward the group, the picture of composure despite the glee bubbling under your ribs. “Nice to meet you all,” you said sweetly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Bet you have,” Phoenix said, still giggling. “Didn’t think I’d ever see someone wipe the smug off Bagman’s face, but damn, I owe you a drink.”

Bob smiled shyly from where he stood beside her. “It’s nice to meet you,” he offered.

“Same here,” you said warmly. “You must be Bob. Dad’s mentioned you. All of you, actually,” you added, motioning to the group. “I’m really excited to finally meet you.”

“Damn, Hangman,” Coyote said, laughing as he clapped Hangman on the shoulder. “At least you went down swinging.”

“Yeah, straight into the ground,” Payback said, grinning. “Classic Bagman.”

Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “You all done, or should I start digging my own grave?”

“Don’t worry,” Maverick cut in, clearly enjoying himself. He clapped Hangman on the back with mock sympathy. “You’ll have plenty of chances to rebuild that ego in training tomorrow.”

That sent another round of laughter through the group, and you couldn’t help it. You reached up to hug your dad again, squeezing him tightly. “I miss you.”

No matter how far you’d run from his career, his shadow, or the kind of roots that terrified you, you always came back to this. Your dad had been the one steady presence in every stage of your life, the compass that never stopped pointing you home.

“Missed you too, kid,” Maverick said quietly, squeezing back before leaning away with a proud smile.

When you turned again, the rest of the squad had gathered around, curiosity replacing their laughter. Phoenix leaned her hip against the bar, Coyote nursing a beer beside her. 

“So,” Phoenix said, studying you with a spark of amusement, “you’re Maverick’s daughter. Explains the confidence.”

You smiled. “Confidence or trouble?”

“Both,” Coyote said immediately, and everyone laughed again.

Phoenix tipped her bottle toward you, still smiling. “So what brings you back? Visiting, or…?”

“Actually,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “I’m moving back home. Figured it was time. I’m crashing with Dad until I find my own place.”

“That’s brave,” Payback said. “Living with your old man again? You must really love him.”

Maverick just smirked. “She’s always had excellent taste.”

That drew another round of laughter and groans, and you rolled your eyes affectionately. “He’s already trying to recruit me as his new copilot.”

“Don’t tempt him,” Phoenix said, grinning. “You’d probably be better than half the guys in this room.”

You laughed, then nodded toward her. “I’ve been dying to meet you! How’s life in an elite squadron treating you?”

Phoenix lit up, leaning one elbow on the bar. “Aside from putting up with these idiots, it’s been great.” She broke off mid-sentence, gaze darting past you. “Bradshaw!” Phoenix waved him over with unfiltered enthusiasm. “About time.”

Your pulse stumbled.

Bradley paused in the doorway, tall and sun-browned, the golden bulbs casting a warm glow across his shoulders. The bar’s hum seemed to fade, or maybe it only did for you.

Phoenix glanced between you, her grin softening into curiosity. “You two must know each other, right?”

You tried to keep your tone light, though your smile wavered at the corners. “Yeah. We know each other.”

When you finally turned to face Bradley, his eyes were already on you—warm, surprised, a little disbelieving. Eight years apart, and it still hit like free fall.

You’d kept in touch for a while, after things between him and Maverick had soured. But life stretched the distance until texts faded to yearly birthday wishes, and visits stopped altogether. Maverick had moved off North Island, Bradley had been deployed more often than not, and you’d convinced yourself that growing apart was just the natural order of things.

Now, standing here, it didn’t feel so natural at all.

Bradley’s mouth curved, soft with disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you said softly.

The corner of his jaw ticked, just the smallest flicker of something you couldn’t read.

Phoenix glanced between you again, realising she’d just stumbled into something layered. “Okay,” she stretched the word out, raising her hands.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Bradley smiled, small and genuine and a little dazed, and closed the distance.

“Come here,” he said, and you were already stepping forward.

Bradley pulled you in without hesitation, his hand warm and solid against your back. The scent hit first: soap, sun, and that clean cotton smell that always clung to him. His shirt was rough with salt and sweat, the kind of texture that reminded you he lived half his life on tarmacs and flight decks. 

His breath was close in your ear, even and steady, until you realised yours wasn’t.

“I didn’t believe Maverick when he said you were moving back,” Bradley murmured.

You smiled against his chest, trying not to inhale like someone deprived of oxygen. “Surprise again.”

When you stepped back, the air felt thinner. His hands lingered a beat too long, brushing your arms before he dropped them like he’d only just remembered how intimate it was. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then away, and you pretended not to notice. 

You both pretended a lot of things.

“Still playing?” Bradley asked, his voice a little rougher than before.

“Guitar? Yeah. You still ignoring my playlists?”

He laughed, and the sound made your heart tighten. “Only the ones labeled ‘for when you’re feeling emotionally constipated.’”

You tilted your head. “So, all of them.”

That earned you a real grin. You hated how quickly it short-circuited your brain. He looked good—too good. 

“You look…” Bradley trailed off, as if the word was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go. “Different.”

You raised a brow. “Good different, or ‘emotional crisis’ different?”

“Definitely good.” His voice dipped lower, softer. “You were always beautiful, but you’re glowing now.”

And there it was again: the pull. The quiet, magnetic thing that never really went away, no matter how much time or distance tried. You found yourself leaning closer without thinking, caught between instinct and caution, until your hand brushed his where it rested on the bar.

The contact was brief but enough to send a quick jolt through your body before you both instinctively pulled back, hiding behind awkward smiles.

“So,” you said lightly, thumb swiping at the condensation on your glass. “How’ve you been, Rooster?”

He smirked, eyes glinting. “It’s so weird to hear you say my call sign.”

You gasped theatrically. “Rude!”

“You can call me whatever you want,” Bradley said, quieter now. “But you’re the only one who still calls me by my name.” Something flickered behind his eyes, unguarded and dangerous. “I guess I missed the sound of it in your voice.”

Before either of you could say something you couldn’t take back, a voice cut through the moment.

“Hey, nerds!” Fanboy was waving from across the room, grinning like a man who had just spotted a plot twist. “Come join us! We know you’re childhood friends, but we want a chance to get to know Maverick’s daughter.”

You smiled, eyebrows arched at your so-called childhood friend. “What do you say, Bradley?”

Hearing you say his name brought another wide grin to his face. “I wouldn’t want to deprive your adoring fans,” he teased.

When Bradley gestured toward the booth, you followed. His hand brushed the small of your back as you passed; light enough to seem accidental, but enough to make your heart trip over itself.

When your dad invited you to a beach day with Penny and the squadron, you’d said yes before he could finish the sentence. An afternoon of dog-fight football, popsicles, and sand in your sunglasses felt like the kind of chaos you used to live for in childhood summers with Maverick and Iceman. 

The afternoon sun brushed the waves with golden glitter. When Maverick called everyone over, you knew exactly what he was about to do. After the usual warm-up theatrics and fake groaning, teams were picked, and everyone persuaded your dad to join in.

Phoenix hooked your arm, already grinning. “Come on, you’ve got to see this circus up close. Hangman’s in peak insufferable form.”

You laughed, brushing sand from your shorts, and followed her. Bradley was already leaning back, shoulders flexed under the sun, tossing the ball to himself with that effortless control that made your stomach flip. 

He looked like he belonged in a recruitment ad for hot, emotionally unavailable Navy pilots.

Bradley caught your eye, winked, and sent the ball your way like a dare you weren’t ready for.  You jumped, barely keeping it from hitting your chest, and stumbled back laughing.

“Careful,” he called, jogging closer. “Wouldn’t want you spraining anything important.”

“Does my pride count?” you shot back.

“Absolutely,” Bradley said, grinning, and you had to fight the urge to glance at his hands. Lately, they had developed a suspicious habit of finding you. “I’m very thorough.”

Phoenix snorted, but gave no other commentary on his double entendre. You decided to ignore the very specific flutter that word sent through your chest. Thorough. Great. Fantastic. You were doomed.

You joined the team opposite Maverick and gave him the universal two-finger I’m watching you warning. The squadron hollered happily, and you could hear Fritz and Omaha exchanging bets on which Mitchell would be victorious.

Phoenix filled you in on the unspoken rules: always dive like it’s life or death, and never—under any circumstances—let Hangman get a free pass. It was easy enough to remember, especially with the Texan cackling at you from the other side of the beach.

The game started officially, Penny refereeing from the sidelines with exaggerated seriousness. You fell into a rhythm quickly, laughing harder than you had in years. Sand flew everywhere, the sun warmed your shoulders, and Bradley kept finding reasons to brush past you as you ran. He always seemed to be exactly close enough for your brain to short-circuit.

Every accidental touch made your heart skip.

“Hey, Mitchell,” Hangman called, standing close enough that you could smell his sunscreen. “You think you can take me down?”

“Cute,” you said flatly, flicking sand in his direction. “I may not be in the Navy, but don’t forget who raised me. I don’t do anything halfway, and I don’t lose.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender. “You’re scary. I’ll admire you from a safe distance.”

Phoenix groaned. “Emphasis on ‘distance,’ Bagman. She’s busy kicking your ass, not dodging your pickup lines.”

“Well said,” you declared, grinning and offering Phoenix a high-five.

“It’s nice to have you around,” she said earnestly. “Everyone’s already decided you’re one of us. Rooster’s obviously obsessed with you, but that goes without saying.”

Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who was laughing at something Bob had done. You told yourself you weren’t constantly glancing his way and dragged your eyes back to the game. You weret, of course, but denial was your favourite coping mechanism.

Hours passed in a blur, and you managed to avoid breaking anything. Hangman teased relentlessly, but with Phoenix and Bob around to back you up, you felt like you belonged. Bradley stayed close, subtly protective, saving you from catastrophic falls.

Eventually, Penny called out, “Snack and water break. You’ve earned it!”

Everyone collapsed onto towels in the setting sun. Bob handed you a towel, and Hangman leaned back, sunglasses low, pretending to evaluate your performance.

“Not bad,” Hangman said, pointing. “I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” you said dryly, wiping sweat off your forehead. “Your compliment is noted.”

You headed toward the coolers, only to realise the tie on your bikini top had loosened in the chaos. You made your way over to Bradley, your arm contorted behind you to keep the strings from coming undone. 

He was sitting on a towel near the coolers, arms resting on his knees, watching Yale and Harvard fight over the last rocket-shaped popsicle.

“Bradley?”

He looked up, eyebrows lifting like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah?”

You shuffled a fraction, smiling unsurely. “The tie on my bikini came undone, and I can’t quite reach it. Could you fix it for me?”

Bradley’s eyes went wide. You caught the faint hitch of a breath before he tried to mask it. You sat in front of him with your back turned, showing him how you held the strings together. 

He froze for a beat. Then another. His shoulders tensed, fingers twitching, too aware of the bare expanse of your back. Bradley shifted forward carefully. 

You felt him before he touched you. His hands hovered near the strings, uncertain, cautious, as if he could break something with a wrong move. Your shoulders tensed when his fingertips brushed the skin of your back. 

“Okay,” Bradley murmured. His voice was quiet, not commanding or joking. You caught the slight hitch in his breathing. Not fear, exactly; more like anticipation.

He looped the strings slowly, once, twice, adjusting. Gentle. So slow it felt like he was measuring time against your pulse. You were hyper-aware of the way his fingers pressed, the careful tilt of his wrists, how his arms flexed slightly with the tiniest tension. 

You tried to keep your breathing quiet, but his shallow inhales gave him away. It felt like Bradley was holding everything back, keeping his distance in every movement, even while he was behind you.

His thumbs brushed the dimples at your lower back and a shiver zipped up your spine. 

“There,” Bradley said quietly. His knuckles grazed your back again, lingering just long enough for heat to bloom where he touched you.

You felt every shift of his weight, every slow exhale that brushed your neck. The rest of the squad and your dad were chatting nearby, but you weren’t thinking about them. You were thinking about Bradley’s hands; how careful they were, how he couldn’t quite seem to stop touching you.

You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. He swallowed, his pupils dark, wide, and attentive. He was mesmerised by the shape of your shoulders, the tilt of your head, and the way you were biting your bottom lip subconsciously.

You wanted to say something clever. Something that wouldn’t make your knees fold. What came out was a whisper-soft, “Thanks,” which was neither clever nor steady.

Bradley didn’t move. He let his hands hover, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate lines into your skin. For a long moment, all you felt was the light drag of his fingertips.

You let yourself shift, just enough to meet him, just enough to let your bodies acknowledge what neither of you was saying. Not with words. Words would make this interaction real, and you weren’t ready to face that reality yet. 

Bradley started to say something, but Phoenix’s voice cut through the air. “Who wants chips?”

You cleared your throat and stood, brushing sand off your legs. “Me,” you said, pretending your voice didn’t wobble.

You had been in town for a month, long enough to get sand permanently stuck in your shoes and afford a deposit on a nearby apartment. You had Penny’s generous customers to thank for that one; they tipped better than any bartending job you had in bigger cities.

The new apartment wasn’t much, just one bedroom, a minuscule kitchen, and the world’s most dramatic plumbing—but it was yours. And you loved it, even if the previous tenant had painted the bedroom a colour best described as the dark blue of an existential crisis.

You wanted sage green; something calm that didn’t make you feel like you were sleeping inside a sad thought.

The squad had all promised to help paint, because apparently manual labour was their version of team bonding. You’d stocked the fridge with drinks and ordered enough pizza to feed your notoriously hungry friends. Then the texts started. Bob had “a thing.” Phoenix’s “errand” mysteriously lasted four hours. Hangman sent a single thumbs-down emoji, which you assumed meant “no chance in hell.”

So when you opened the door and found only Bradley standing there, you weren’t surprised. He stood holding up a six-pack like a peace offering. His shirt was faded and soft-looking, hanging loose over his jeans in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a second.

He raised the beers. “Looks like it’s just us.”

You pretended to find that funny instead of vaguely panic-inducing. “Lucky you.”

Bradley’s eyes flicked past you into the apartment. “You sure about that? That’s a lot of wall.”

You stepped aside to let him in. “Well, your cowardly pilot friends backed out at the last minute. I’m filing a formal complaint with their superior officer in the morning.”

“Getting Mav involved,” Bradley said, brushing past you. “Bold choice.”

“Desperate times,” you muttered.

You’d already tried to scrub the old navy-blue paint off the walls, but the result looked like an avant-garde crime scene. 

Bradley took it all in with an amused glance. “You started without supervision.”

“I’m an independent woman,” you said, reaching for a can of paint with exaggerated confidence. “I don’t need supervision.”

“You’re holding the can upside down.”

You looked down. “…That feels like an opinion.”

Bradley laughed under his breath, low and warm, and picked up a roller. “Come on, Picasso. Let’s paint ourselves a masterpiece.”

He crouched and opened the can for you, forearms flexing as he stirred the sage green paint and poured it into the paint tray. You tried not to stare and failed miserably.

The first few minutes were quiet except for the squeak of rollers and the hum of classic rock playing from your Bluetooth speaker. The playlist was mostly your doing: Tom Petty, Springsteen, and a few guilty pleasure tracks you hoped Bradley wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything.

Bradley painted like a man on a mission: slow and careful strokes, all precision. You, on the other hand, were a little more abstract. Less plan, more chaos with flair.

That had always been the difference between you. Bradley had his life plotted like a flight path, every box ticked and corner squared. You were impulsive, chasing whatever caught your interest in that moment. That probably explained why he was in the Navy, and you were affectionately known as the “anywhere but here” girl.

“Yours looks better,” you admitted eventually.

Bradley didn’t look over. “Years of repainting Navy housing.”

“Of course,” you said. “All those government-issued beige walls really sharpened your technique.”

He chuckled, rolling another line of paint. “Yes, I’m very well-rounded. Wait till you see me fold laundry.” 

You pretended to swoon, voice all old-Hollywood and dramatic. “Oh, Rooster, your talent is simply too much for a girl to bear! Do you also do your own taxes?”

Bradley rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to hide his grin. “Keep your pants on, Grace Kelly.”

You fought a grin and lost. “Actually, I was going for Katharine Hepburn, but thank you!”

It was ridiculous how easy it was, how quickly you fell back into this rhythm; the back-and-forth, the teasing. The kind of ease that made you forget how long it had been since you’d really laughed like this.

You both reached for the paint tray. Bradley’s fingers brushed yours,  touch, but it set off a spark in your stomach. Neither of you pulled away. You blamed the beer, the heat—anything but what it actually was.

“You missed a spot,” you said, because your brain was desperate to fill every silence.

Bradley leaned in to look, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. “No, I didn’t,” he said, squinting at the wall.

“You did. There.” You pointed, mostly to distract yourself.

Bradley sighed, mock suffering in his voice. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”

“And yet you love that about me.”

That stopped him for just a second too long. Bradley looked at you, smiled, and nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Something like that.”

You tried for casual, reaching for your beer. “You’re getting sentimental, Bradshaw. Careful.”

He wiped a streak of paint off his arm with a rag, the muscles in his forearm becoming taut. “Don’t tell Hangman. He’ll make it weird.”

“He already makes everything weird. What’s one more?”

Bradley laughed, that low, familiar sound that always seemed to settle somewhere in your chest. You couldn’t tell if the room was warmer now or if it was just you. Probably just you. 

The next song that came on made you pause. It was your favourite Otis Redding song, a soulful track that made everything feel too close, too soft around the edges.

Bradley stilled, putting the roller down to admire his painting progress. “I love this song,” he said, smiling faintly. “You really went for the classics.”

He hummed a few notes under his breath, low and rough around the edges. Then he sang along to the chorus, and you stilled like your body had turned to stone. Bradley’s voice fit the song perfectly; unpolished but warm, a little like arriving at home after a long trip.

“Still showing off, I see,” you teased to hide how your heart was doing double backflips. 

Bradley shrugged, eyes still on the wall. “Occupational hazard.”

“Yeah, right. I think you just like reminding people you’ve got range.”

He laughed, the sound soft and deep. “Well, I did say I was well-rounded. I’m just living up to expectations.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, even though your voice came out thinner than you meant. Bradley’s singing was doing something to your insides that you didn’t particularly feel like acknowledging.

Bradley must’ve noticed your silence because, without warning, he started singing along louder, like he couldn’t help it. His voice filled the room, easy and lazy and heartbreakingly good.

You rolled your eyes fondly, grinning. “Okay, rockstar, you’re ruining my productivity.”

Bradley dipped his roller, smirking. “You weren’t very productive to begin with.”

“Excuse me,” you said, gesturing to your wall. “I did this one all by myself!”

“Uh-huh,” Bradley said, mimicking your tone. “Meanwhile, I did the other three.”

By the time the playlist ended, the walls were painted a soft sage green. The room looked lighter, like it could finally breathe. Bradley stepped back, hands on his hips, inspecting the walls. A smear of green paint streaked his jaw, and somehow that made him even more endearing. 

“Not bad,” Bradley declared. “Could almost pass for professional work.”

You pretended to inspect your section. “Yeah, I feel bad. I’m too broke to pay you.”

“I’ll settle for the pizza that’s definitely cold by now.”

You huffed a laugh. “Big spender.”

He shrugged, grabbing his beer and taking a sip. “It’s the company I’m here for, anyway.”

You blinked at that and were suddenly too aware of how close he was; of how his shoulder brushed yours as he turned to look at the wall again. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—warm, clean, maddeningly familiar.

Just like that, the room fell away, and you were transported back eight years. 

After showing you all his favourite Navy spots on North Island, Bradley had driven you home in the same Bronco he’d driven in high school. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station that kept losing signal, and every few minutes, he’d reached out to fix the dial.

At the time, you hadn’t seen him in eight years. 

Bradley had cut you out alongside Maverick when you were both teenagers, and it wasn’t until your twentieth birthday that you finally reached out. By then, he’d been twenty-four, two years into his Navy career, and hoping you’d call.

There’d been a lot of phone calls, the occasional letter, the postcards you’d sent him from wherever you happened to be that month. But none of it had felt quite real until you were sitting beside him again, the windows rolled down, the salt air blowing through the cab.

Bradley looked older, of course. Broader through the shoulders, quieter in his movements. The loud boy who used to tease you about your terrible driving had been replaced by someone who carried himself differently—steady, restrained.

You’d tried to hide how much that unsettled you.

“Still got the same car,” you’d said, nodding at the dashboard.

Bradley smiled, eyes still on the road. “She’s reliable. Thought about upgrading, but I couldn’t do it.”

“Too sentimental?”

“Too broke,” he’d corrected, grinning.

You’d laughed, and the sound surprised you. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed the way Bradley looked at you like he was storing the moment away for later.

He’d finally achieved his dream and been sent to train at Top Gun, and when he told you, you hadn’t hesitated to drive down from Santa Barbara to see him. You’d told yourself you were only catching up, but the truth was impossible to ignore now.

“How’s Mav?” Bradley had asked after a while, voice careful.

You’d inhaled sharply.

You and Bradley had reconnected a few years ago, but you’d never once talked about your dad. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend the distance was because Bradley had devoted his life to following in his father’s footsteps, and you’d devoted yours to getting as far away from your father’s career as possible.

The truth was messier. Maverick had set Bradley back four years, pulled his papers to the Academy, and they hadn’t spoken since.

You’d shrugged. “Still flying. Still impossible to live with.”

Bradley had nodded. “Guess some things don’t change.”

“Guess not,” you’d said. “I’m just lucky Dad was too sentimental to sell the house, so I don’t have to pay for an overpriced hotel whenever I’m home.”

The silence that had followed hadn’t been uncomfortable. It had been the kind of silence you only had with someone who already knew most of your stories.

When Bradley had pulled up in front of your childhood house, the porch light flickered on automatically. You’d forgotten how small it had looked, how the paint had peeled from the railing where you used to sit and talk with Maverick for hours on end.

Bradley’d cut the engine and turned to you.

“Thanks for the ride,” you’d said, because it had felt like the safe thing to say.

He’d nodded. “Anytime.”

You’d unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t move. Bradley hadn’t either.

“So,” you’d said, “Top Gun.”

Bradley had smiled faintly. “Yeah. Guess I finally made it.”

“You always were the overachiever,” you’d teased.

“One of us had to be,” he’d teased you right back.

You’d rolled your eyes. “Hey, I got into college! I just decided not to go.”

Bradley had chuckled, and for a second, you’d seen the boy who used to sit on that same porch with you every summer. He and Carole used to make their way down from Virginia every year when you were growing up, and the two of you were always thick as thieves.

The memory had tugged at something in your chest. You’d cleared your throat. “You look good, Bradley.”

“Thanks,” Bradley had said quietly. “You too.”

You’d meant to leave it at that, but the way he’d said it had made your pulse jump.

He’d leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the steering wheel. “You ever think about those summers? The ones before—everything?”

“All the time,” you’d said before you could stop yourself.

Bradley had nodded once, eyes flicking down, then back to yours. “I missed you,” he’d said simply.

The words had hit like a wave. You’d imagined Bradley saying them for years, but now that he had, you hadn’t known where to put the feeling.

“You didn’t have to disappear, you know,” you’d said. “When Dad pulled your papers, he didn’t mean for you to disappear from our lives.”

Bradley had exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat. “I know. But I couldn’t call you. Not then. I was so angry; at him, at myself, at the universe. I didn’t want you caught in the middle.”

“You didn’t even give me a choice.”

His jaw had tightened. “You were still in high school. I was eighteen and angry at the world. You had your own life to figure out. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

You’d laughed softly, without humour. “You always think you’re doing the right thing.”

Bradley had looked at you then, and for a second, you’d seen every year that had passed between you. He might have looked the same, only broader and tanner, but Bradley Bradshaw wasn’t the naive eighteen-year-old he’d been ten years ago.

“Let me walk you to the door,” Bradley had said, because no matter how much time had passed, Carole had raised him to be a gentleman.

He’d got out of the truck and come around to your side, opening the door for you. It had been such an old-fashioned gesture that it made you laugh, but the sound broke halfway out of your throat. You’d stepped out and headed for the porch together.

The boards had creaked softly beneath you, and Bradley had come to a stop as you’d fished your keys out of your bag.

“Well,” you’d said, “this is where you say goodnight and make me regret every life choice that led to this moment.”

Bradley had smiled that familiar half-smile you’d heard through the phone every few days. “Something like that.”

He’d taken a step closer. The space between you had seemed to shrink without either of you deciding it should. For a second, neither of you had spoken.

When Bradley had reached out, his hand hesitated in midair before finding your face. His thumb had brushed along your cheekbone, the touch feather-light, almost reverent. 

Bradley’s voice had dropped, rough at the edges. “For what it’s worth, you are the most amazing person I know.”

You hadn’t answered. You couldn’t. You’d only tilted your chin up, and he’d leaned in at the same time. No hesitation now.

The kiss had been slow, too careful, like you’d both been afraid to break whatever fragile thing had survived all those years apart. Bradley’s hands had found your waist—tentative at first, then sure—and you’d sunk into the warmth of him.

When you’d finally pulled back, your heart was pounding so hard you could barely hear yourself think.

Bradley had looked a little dazed. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

“Two years?” you’d said. 

That had been when you’d noticed a shift in your phone calls. You’d been travelling the world, Bradley’d been trying to prove he deserved to be sent to Top Gun, and things didn’t feel so platonic anymore.

He’d grinned, soft and knowing. “Two years.”

You’d smiled back. “Go before I talk you into staying.”

“I’ll bring you coffee and pastries tomorrow morning,” Bradley had promised, still grinning.

Then he’d walked down the path to his truck. You’d watched him go, his figure lit briefly by the headlights as he started the engine. He’d waved once through the open window before pulling away.

The sound of the engine had faded, leaving the street quiet again.

And for a second, you saw another version of him in the same spot—a year later, walking away from the same porch, but with his jaw set and his eyes red from crying.

You’d watched him go then, too. But that time, he didn’t look back.

You blinked, and it was gone. Just Bradley again; older now, standing in your newly sage green room. He was still the person who’d known you when you thought you had the whole world figured out.

“Hey,” he said quietly, tilting his head. “You okay?”

You nodded too fast, trying to play it off. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

Bradley smiled a little. “Dangerous habit.”

“Tell me about it.”

You both stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wall like it held the answers to things neither of you was brave enough to ask.

You had never been the type to throw a housewarming party, but a ladies’ night felt doable. Low-stakes controlled chaos. You unpacked the last of your boxes that morning and figured it called for celebration. 

So you texted Phoenix and Halo. By eight o’clock, there were two bottles of wine open, pizza boxes on the counter, and a shuffling indie playlist in the background.

Halo sat cross-legged on your rug, her hair in a messy bun and her phone halfway across the room because she kept getting work calls. Phoenix had claimed the end of your couch and was already halfway through her second glass of rosé, shoes kicked off, legs tucked under her.

Your little apartment smelled faintly of pizza and garlic bread. You’d lit a candle on the coffee table for ambience, but now the wax had melted into a crooked puddle.

“So,” Phoenix said, pointing her wine glass at you, “how’s it feel being back? You’ve been here what, five months?”

“Six,” you said. “And surprisingly not miserable.”

“‘Surprisingly’?” Halo echoed, grinning.

You leaned back into the cushions. You could feel the wine in your cheeks, warm and loose, making honesty come too easily. “I’ve always wanted to get out of North Island. Like, the second I was old enough to dream about leaving, I was halfway gone in my head.”

Phoenix arched an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Not bad,” you said quickly. “Just… limiting. My dad’s great, he really is. But his great love has always been the sky, you know? Flying, teaching, all of it. And that comes with a certain lifestyle. Constant motion, waiting on calls, never really belonging to yourself. I spent my whole life watching him break the rules and still have to bend to someone else’s orders, and I swore I’d never do that.”

Halo poured herself another glass and nodded slowly. She shifted closer, her knee brushing your leg. “So you ran.”

You smiled. “Constantly. I was the ‘anywhere but here’ girl. New cities, short leases, jobs I didn’t care about. I convinced myself that if I kept moving, I’d eventually land somewhere that felt right.”

“And now?” Phoenix asked.

You hesitated, swirling your wine like it might spill if you said too much. “Now I don’t want to run. For the first time ever. Which is… weird.”

Halo tilted her head. “Weird how?”

You thought about it for a moment. “It’s kind of a relief, honestly. I like my job, I like my apartment, I even like that I can walk to the beach in under ten minutes. But it’s also a little scary. If I’m not running, what am I doing?”

Phoenix gave you a look that said she’d already guessed the answer. “Maybe you’re staying for a reason.”

You caught her smirk and groaned. “Oh, don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Phoenix said, all mock innocence. “Certain people seem to be one of the reasons you want to stick around.”

“‘Certain people’ who go by chicken-related callsigns?” Halo added, and Phoenix snorted.

You groaned. “Not this again.”

Phoenix grinned into her glass. “Come on, it’s so obvious! You and Rooster have been orbiting each other since you arrived. Everyone sees it.”

“Everyone?” you asked.

“Everyone,” Halo confirmed. “He looks at you like he’s trying not to. Which, honestly, makes it so much more obvious.”

You laughed softly, though something in your chest tightened. You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, your stomach fluttering with nerves. “You’re both reading too much into it. We’re friends.”

Phoenix leaned forward. Her voice dropped, low and sure, her eyes steady on yours. “Friends don’t look at each other like that. Friends don’t fix your shower head without being asked, or volunteer to pick up IKEA furniture over an hour away. I think the two of you are more than friends.”

You smiled, a little sadly. “Not so much. We, uh, used to date, though.”

For a second, both women blinked at you like you’d spoken in a foreign language. Then Phoenix choked on her wine, coughing into her hand as Halo’s eyes went huge. Her hand shot out, gripping Phoenix’s arm like she needed something to hold onto.

“I’m sorry, what?” Phoenix said once she recovered.

Halo’s jaw dropped. “You dated Rooster?” Her voice came out an octave higher than usual, and she squeezed Phoenix’s forearm for emphasis.

“Back when he first got sent to Top Gun,” you said. “I moved into my childhood house for a year, got a job waitressing in the next town over, and… yeah. We dated. I must’ve been twenty-four, Bradley twenty-eight.”

Phoenix straightened on the couch, her glass halfway to her lips and forgotten. “Hold on. That year? I was at Top Gun with him. He never said a word.”

You shrugged. “We weren’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops.”

Halo let out a scandalised gasp. She twisted toward Phoenix, and the two of them started hitting each other’s arms out of excitement. 

“Oh my god,” Halo exclaimed. “That’s why he used to skip out on bar nights?! We thought he was just being old and boring.”

Phoenix let out a snort, shaking her head. “You’re telling me I sat across from that man every day for months and he never once mentioned he had a girlfriend?”

You nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “He’d drive out to see me after training. We’d grab dinner or sit on the porch and talk for hours. Sometimes he’d stay the night if he didn’t have early drills. We decided not to tell anyone.”

Halo blinked, her expression softening as the air shifted. Her hand fell from Phoenix’s arm. “Why not?”

Your throat was tight, the words catching halfway up. Phoenix’s gaze softened when she noticed. Her hand settled over yours. You took a sip of wine before answering.

“My dad was still a taboo subject back then,” you confessed. “And I’m not a local celebrity, but being Maverick’s daughter means I’m a familiar face on North Island. We knew word would get back to him if people found out—or at the very least back to Uncle Ice. Besides, Bradley was in the middle of Top Gun, and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. It was supposed to make things simpler.”

Phoenix snorted. “Sounds simple,” she said sarcastically. Halo gave her a nudge, a silent reminder to be gentle.

You smiled. “Yeah, we really nailed that part.”

The humour in your voice faded a little. “It was a good year, though. He was the perfect boyfriend—thoughtful, steady, stupidly chivalrous. He’d make me coffee in the morning and kiss my hand before he left for work. He’d tell me about flying without realising his whole face changed when he talked about it. I really loved him. But…”

“But?” Halo prompted hesitantly. Phoenix exhaled quietly beside her.

You sighed. “But he was always going to belong to the sky. And I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be someone waiting for the next deployment or living by his schedule. I wanted to travel, to work, to not feel like I was stuck in my childhood house lying to my dad about who I was dating. We were in completely different places. So I left.”

Phoenix watched you for a moment; her usual sharpness softened. “Did he know you were going to?”

You nodded. “We both did. We just didn’t say it out loud. One day he dropped me off after dinner, and that was it. He hugged me one last time, and we pretended we weren’t both crying. He walked down the path, got in his truck, and drove away. I was in Nevada by sunrise.”

For a long second, none of you spoke. The music hummed quietly from the speaker, a slow song. 

Halo reached out, her hand resting briefly on your knee. “Hey,” she said quietly. “That sounds brutal.”

You shrugged, though your throat felt tight. “It was a long time ago. Now we’re friends again. Or something close to it. We painted my apartment—thank you for abandoning me, by the way. I know a set-up when I see one,” you added, giving them a meaningful look. Phoenix and Halo didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “We still hang out in group settings, and we never told my dad what happened between us. It’s easier than I thought it would be.”

“Except you still look at him like you used to,” Halo said, tilting her head and grinning.

You gave her a small, helpless smile. Your chest ached, a soft pull just beneath your ribs. “Yeah, maybe. But we’ve both changed. Things are different now.”

Phoenix set her glass down on your coffee table. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s still completely in love with you.”

You laughed softly. “You think everyone’s in love with everyone.”

“Maybe,” Phoenix said, grinning. “But I’m right about this one.”

The conversation drifted after that, back to work gossip and whether Halo should see her ex while she was in town.

You could still feel the warmth of their closeness long after the laughter faded. But the subject of your history with Bradley lingered long after they’d gone home, and the apartment was quiet. 

You stood by the sink, washing wine glasses. You’d spent years convincing yourself that staying meant settling. But now, standing there in your own little kitchen with three empty glasses and an ache in your chest, you weren’t so sure.

Your dad’s house still smelled the same. You’d expected it to feel different now that it wasn’t yours, but it didn’t. Just more lived in. There were photos on the mantel that hadn’t been there before, a new coffee mug beside the old ones, a few of Penny’s things scattered across the counter.

You heard them before you saw them, their voices mixing with the sound of the stove fan. Maverick was chopping tomatoes, Penny stirring something on the hob, both laughing at a story you couldn’t quite catch. 

You leaned against the doorway for a second and watched them. Your dad looked lighter than he used to, and so did Penny. A quiet warmth crept in and you were happy the two of them finally figured things out.

When they noticed you, you were smothered with hugs and affection until you pulled away, laughing. Penny finished up the pasta, Maverick opened a bottle of wine, and conversation flowed the way it always did when the two of them were together. You didn’t have to fill any silences or think too hard.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Can you grab that?” Maverick asked, wiping his hands on a towel.

You went to open it and stopped short when you saw Bradley on the porch.

“Hey,” he said, his voice even.

“Hey,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be. You smiled, because that’s what you’d always done around Bradley. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

Bradley shrugged, eyes flicking past you toward the kitchen. “Mav invited me. Guess he forgot to mention it.”

“Right.” You stepped back to let him in, trying to ignore the faint smell of his cologne mixing with the sea air. “Come on, they’re in the kitchen.”

He nodded, but his smile never reached his eyes. There was a tightness to him that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him. You told yourself it was nothing, but your pulse didn’t slow as you followed him inside.

Dinner didn’t go badly. If anything, it went almost too well. The four of you talked and laughed, the kind of easy rhythm you could fall into without thinking. You and Bradley had done this dance before; pretending you were just old friends, nothing more, nothing less. 

He sat across from you, relaxed enough to look natural. He passed you the parmesan, smiled when Penny teased Maverick, and joined in when your dad told stories from the hangar. You found yourself smiling back, and for a while, it felt like old times.

After dinner, you and Bradley both tried to stand, but Penny waved you down. 

“Absolutely not. You’re guests,” she said, already stacking plates. Maverick backed her up, grinning at your protests.

So you and Bradley ended up outside on the porch, on the same old bench that had been there since you were a kid. The wood creaked under your weight.

You sat with your hands clasped loosely in your lap. Bradley leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other, silent in a way that wasn’t quite comfortable.

“So,” he said eventually, his tone careful. “You told Phoenix.”

You turned your head toward him. “Told her what?”

Bradley gave you a look, eyes narrowing just slightly. “About us.”

You blinked, surprised. “Oh. Yeah, it came up.”

He let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “You didn’t think to give me a heads-up before dropping that little piece of history into squad gossip?”

You frowned, sitting up. “It wasn’t gossip. It was just a conversation.”

“About something between you and me,” Bradley said, voice low but edged. His arms crossed over his chest like he needed somewhere to put the frustration.

You shifted slightly, mirroring the gesture without meaning to. “Bradley, it’s been eight years. It’s not like I was giving them details or spilling your secrets. We were talking; we’re friends.”

Bradley turned toward you fully now, eyes catching the light from the kitchen window. “You think I want everyone looking at me like some guy who couldn’t hold on to Maverick’s daughter?”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “That’s what this is about? What other people think?”

His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek jumping. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make me sound shallow just because I care how it looks.” Bradley’s tone was clipped, defensive.

You exhaled, trying to keep your voice even. “I didn’t tell Phoenix and Halo to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t,” he said. His voice cracked a little on the words. “But it still did.”

That stopped you for a second. “Why?” you asked quietly.

Bradley looked at you for a long moment before answering, his fingers tapping once against his knee. “Because you didn’t just leave town back then. You left me too.”

You felt your throat tighten. “You were never really here, Bradley.”

His mouth pressed into a line. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You turned toward him, heat rising in your voice. “You were always chasing the next posting, the next mission, the next step. I couldn’t even get you to slow down long enough to talk about what you wanted for dinner without it turning into logistics.”

Bradley pushed a hand through his hair, eyes flashing. “I was trying to build something—to have a plan. That’s what people do when they care.”

You let out a short, sharp laugh. “You cared more about the plan than me.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t know what you wanted.”

“I was twenty-four,” you said, your voice rising. “I was still figuring it out.”

“And you decided you couldn’t do that with me around!”

“That’s not true!” You were on your feet now, before you realised it, pacing a few steps toward the railing. “I loved you, but I couldn’t keep being the girl waiting for you to come home.”

Bradley stood too, his voice rougher now. “You could’ve told me that.”

“I did,” you shot back. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”

Bradley let out a sharp exhale and turned away, hands on his hips. “You think it was easy for me? I had no one, alright? My mom was gone, Mav and I weren’t talking, and you—” He broke off, jaw tight. “You were supposed to be the one person who didn’t walk away.”

You stared at him, your chest tightened. “You’re kidding.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You think it was easy for me?” you said, your voice shaking. “Lying to my dad? Pretending I didn’t still talk to you, didn’t still—” You stopped, swallowing hard. “Don’t put it all on me.”

“I’m not putting it on you, I’m telling you how it was!” Bradley’s voice cracked with something raw. “You had a home here. You had Maverick—wherever he was deployed that year. You had people who actually gave a damn. I had empty apartments and transfer papers.”

“Yeah, I ‘had Maverick,’” you echoed. “Some relationship we had that year, what with me lying to him every day.”

Bradley’s mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw flexed. “I didn’t think you wanted to tell him.”

“He’s my dad,” you said, voice rising. “The only parent I’ve ever had. Deciding to lie to his face every time he asked if I’d heard from you wasn’t something I did lightly. But we agreed to keep it quiet, remember? You didn’t want anyone to know.”

“I was protecting you,” he said quickly, taking a step closer.

You gave a short, incredulous laugh. “No, you were protecting yourself. Protecting your perfect image, your golden-boy career, your chance to prove you weren’t just Goose’s son dating Maverick’s daughter.”

Bradley’s eyes flashed. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not,” you said, your voice shaking. “But it’s true.”

He groaned, frustration sparking again. “You think you were the only one carrying something? You had your dad—someone who was always in your corner. I had to do it all on my own.”

Your throat burned. “You had me!”

“Until I didn’t,” Bradley shot back. “Until you decided you couldn’t handle it anymore and ran.”

That one hit deep. Your arms crossed instinctively, a weak sort of shield. “You make it sound like I didn’t even try.”

Bradley’s voice rose. “You didn’t stay.”

You inhaled sharply, feeling your eyes sting. “And you didn’t even notice I was falling apart!”

He froze, chest rising and falling fast.

“I couldn’t breathe, Bradley,” you said quietly, voice breaking. “Do you know what that felt like?”

His expression softened for half a second, but then his shoulders straightened, defensive. “You were always the ‘anywhere but here’ girl,” Bradley said. “I should’ve seen it coming. You’ve been running your whole life.”

You took a shaky breath, blinking hard to keep your eyes clear. “And you’ve been chasing ghosts,” you said, voice low. “Your father, your career, whatever version of yourself you think you owe him. I wasn’t going to stick around and become everything I was scared of growing up—living life according to someone else’s orders.”

The words hung between you, heavy and hot. Neither of you moved for a long moment.

Bradley finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “That you ran. That’s not fair.”

You didn’t answer at first, watching the way his hand flexed at his side, like he didn’t know what to do with it.

“I was the one running,” Bradley said finally, quieter now. “From everything. Every mission, every deployment, every new posting—whatever kept me busy enough not to think.” He gave a small, tired laugh. “I thought if I just kept working, I’d never end up like my dad.” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “But I was scared all the time. Terrified, actually. Of chaos, of losing control, of you seeing me come apart.”

You turned toward him, your voice softening. “Bradley…”

“I didn’t want you to go through what my mom did,” he went on, voice rough. “The waiting, the worrying. I thought keeping it quiet would protect you. But maybe I was just protecting myself. Because if something happened to me, and you were still—” He stopped, clearing his throat. “I couldn’t live with that.”

You stood still for a moment, feeling the wind shift, the scent of salt in the air. “I knew all that,” you said quietly. “I knew why you did it. Why you pulled away.”

Bradley looked at you then, searching your face.

You gave a small, sad smile. “You weren’t the only one who was scared. I felt stuck. Living in my childhood home again, pretending I wasn’t lying to my dad every day… it was like being sixteen all over again, except worse, because I actually had something to lose.” 

You shook your head, the motion small. “Growing up with Maverick taught me to rely on myself, to move fast, to never get too comfortable anywhere. So when things started getting real with you, I panicked. I didn’t know how to sit still.”

Bradley’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. “You thought if you kept moving, you wouldn’t need anyone.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice low. “And then you ruined that theory completely.”

That drew the faintest ghost of a smile from him. “You think I meant to?”

You huffed a small laugh, the tension easing between you. “Pretty sure you didn’t. You just existed, and that was enough.”

Bradley ran both hands over his face, dragging them down to his jaw. “You know, I thought I’d made peace with it,” he said. “I told myself I was over it. Then you moved home, and suddenly it all came flooding back like it never ended.”

You let out a slow breath, your heartbeat still loud in your ears. “Tell me about it.”

Bradley huffed a quiet laugh, then went still again. “You really didn’t mean to tell Phoenix?”

You shook your head. “No. I wasn’t thinking. It just came up, and I trusted her not to tell anyone. I guess I didn’t think she’d bring it up to you.”

“She told me we were being dramatic,” Bradley admitted, chuckling.

“She’s not wrong,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth.

That earned you a smile back—tired, but real. The tension between you eased, but it didn’t fade completely. Bradley looked at you again, softer this time. “You look different.”

“So do you,” you said, the corners of your mouth twitching. “In a good way.”

His brow lifted just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you.

You took a slow breath. “You know, I’m proud of you.”

Bradley blinked, caught off guard. “Of me?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “You worked so hard for everything, and you did it without a safety net. Without anyone really holding you up. You built the life you wanted from nothing, and that’s—” you exhaled softly, searching for the right word, “that’s brave. Doing it scared, doing it alone, is a hell of a lot braver than doing it with the kind of confidence someone like my dad has.”

His expression flickered, somewhere between disbelief and something warmer.

“I know your parents are proud of you,” you went on. “You did all the things you used to talk about when we’d sneak onto the tarmac and you’d point at the sky like it already belonged to you.” You smiled faintly, eyes unfocused for a moment. “You made me want to find somewhere that actually felt like home. And the only place that’s ever even come close was North Island, that year I was here with you.”

Bradley stared at you, silent for a long time. Then he leaned back slightly, shaking his head as if trying to get a handle on whatever was building in his chest. “You always did know exactly what to say.”

“That’s not true,” you argued softly.

He smiled at that, small and rueful. “You know what I always admired about you? How easily you fit in anywhere. You could move halfway across the country, not know a single person, and by the end of the week you’d have a new routine anda new friend group. I used to think that was your version of magic.”

You laughed under your breath. “It was survival.”

“Maybe,” Bradley said, eyes lingering on you. “But it’s also something I wish I had. I still have all your postcards. Philly, Austin, Chicago. I keep them in the top drawer of my desk, like little reminders that there’s more to the world than checklists and orders.” He hesitated, his thumb rubbing along the edge of his jaw. “You never settled for anything less than what felt right for you. And I think that’s what I learned from that year: if I could be just a little more like you, I’d be a much happier man.”

You smiled, small but real. “You do look happier. I’m glad I got to be a tiny part of that.”

Bradley looked at you for a long beat, eyes softening in the golden porch light. “For what it’s worth, you’re still the most amazing person I know,” he said quietly. “You were always so beautiful. You still are, more than ever.”

You smiled sadly, your shoulders lowering. “You’re the most amazing person I know too, Bradley.”

He laughed under his breath, then after a beat, said, “I missed you.”

You froze, every nerve in your body alert. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” His voice was low now, quiet in a way that felt dangerous.

“Because it’s not fair,” you said, breath unsteady. “You can’t just say that now.”

Bradley shifted closer, eyes flicking to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “You think I planned this?”

“I think you always have a plan,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

He smiled, small and tired, running a hand along his thigh. “Maybe this time I don’t. Maybe I’ve learned that not everything has to be perfect. That life with the people you love isn’t about checklists and timelines.”

You blinked at him. “You really mean that?”

“I do,” Bradley said, voice softening. “Being with you showed me I could let go a little. So, I’m taking the chance to tell you I still love you.”

The space between you shrank. You could see the faint crease between Bradley’s brows, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he should.

“Bradley,” you said quietly.

He reached up anyway and brushed his thumb along your cheek. You tilted your head slightly, closing the tiny gap, your pulse pounding in your ears. His fingers slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, tilting your face closer, and you inhaled sharply.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this,” Bradley murmured before connecting your lips.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. The kiss started slow, tentative, but the second your lips moved, Bradley’s restraint shattered. 

His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and the rest of the world—the ocean breeze, the light streaming in from the kitchen window, the creak of the porch—faded out.

He groaned low in your mouth, and it made your knees weak. Teeth caught briefly on your lower lip, and you parted just enough for him to deepen the kiss, tilting his head so your mouths fit perfectly together. Every touch, every brush of skin against skin, was electric. 

You could feel the tension of the last eight years unravelling between you with every press, every gasp, every tiny, desperate shift closer.

Bradley’s hands moved to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips with a hunger that mirrored your own. You pressed against him, leaning into his warmth, letting yourself melt into the familiarity of him. It was reckless and indulgent and everything you’d wanted for ten years without ever saying it out loud.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bradley whispered between kisses.

You laughed, a soft, shaky sound, and kissed him again, harder this time. “I’ve been waiting—”

“For far too long,” he interrupted, nipping your jaw, then pressing his forehead to yours. “I know, gorgeous. But we’re here now.”

Bradley’s mouth moved over yours again, teasing then demanding, hands everywhere you wanted them. Your fingers tangled in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him close, shocked at how easy it felt to lose yourself in him again.

His lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He whispered your name against your skin, and it made something inside you shatter and mend all at once. 

“You’ve been mine all along,” Bradley murmured, voice urgent. “Even when we weren’t together, I still loved you. You were all I thought about, every single day, for ten years.”

“I love you,” you breathed, cutting him off with another deep, desperate kiss. “I always loved you.”

When you finally broke apart, gasping, you rested your foreheads together, both of you laughing breathlessly. Bradley’s hands stayed on your waist, yours on his chest.

“I’ve missed you,” he admitted, voice ragged.

“I’ve missed you too,” you breathed back, and it was impossible to say whose smile was brighter.

Inside, Penny froze mid-step, dish towel in hand, staring out the window. 

“Are they—” she started, eyes wide as she watched you and Bradley tangled together on the porch. “Are they kissing?”

Beside her, Maverick leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin slowly spreading across his face. 

“Did you—?”

“Of course I knew,” he said smugly. “Ice and I had a long-running bet about when they’d get back together.”

Penny tore her gaze away from the window to stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

He wasn’t looking at the three of you. Darlene, the singer, was staggering to her feet, looking unsteady and exhausted in a way that went beyond physicality, but you paid her little mind. You were more concerned about the man with his head half-bloody as he slowly approached the sobbing girl on the floor.

The girl with plenty of names, who all this revolved around. Rose. Rosie. Boots. She was sobbing over the man who’d called her the latter name, a sound all wild and complicated. She hadn’t cried like that over her sister, who was laying dead somewhere to your right. Something cold curled softly in your chest. You’d dealt with plenty of men like that fucknut before. You gathered your wits and approached her behind Miles, your feet soundless against the floor.

Miles had set his gun down, crouching unsteadily just behind her. He was so shaky, but he was still reaching for her, his hand resting on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” You heard him whisper softly.

The girl paused, her tears stopping as she slowly straightened. You saw it before Miles had any chance to—the flash of silver clutched in her hand. You had little idea how the girl had hidden a knife like that in her dress, but her intent was clear.

“I’m so sorry—” Miles started to say again just as you stepped forward and grabbed the girl’s wrist, stopping the knife a breath from Miles’ stomach.

Thunder boomed outside, like something had shifted in the air. Your hand curled decisively around the girl’s wrist, wrenching her hand back as the knife begged to dip into the man’s abdomen.

“Easy now,” You said lowly. “Easy, easy, easy—”

The girl screamed, struggling in your grip. Rage lit her eyes up bright. She didn’t even look at you—instead, she was still glaring at Miles like she wanted to tear him limb from limb. She struggled, but you pulled her back. She was a strong thing, but she was emotional, and you weren’t ready to let more people die today.

“Darlene,” you called, wrenching the knife away from the girl and kicking it aside somewhere. “The knife.”

The singer was quick to respond, shuffling somewhere behind you. Flynn was standing with a gun in his hands, but he lowered it as you held the girl’s arms to her side and let her scream and shake in your hands. Miles had moved a few steps back. He had tears in his eyes again, blinking at the girl and then at you as you made eye contact with him.

You nodded slightly. “It’s okay,” you said, not sure if you were talking to him or the girl you were restraining. “It’s okay.” It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. The hotel was on fire and everything was wrong.

The girl’s screaming turned back into crying. She cried and struggled until it stopped and she just leaned her head back into you and cried, shaking for breath. You weren’t sure what to think of her aside from her just being exhausted and brainwashed and traumatized, but you supposed everybody here was going through similar feelings.

“Miles,” you addressed him quietly, stroking the girl’s hair with one hand as she shook against you. “You got things here that you wanna save? Any belongings?”

He blinked at you, like he wasn’t sure he was really being spoken to. He reminded you of a rabbit. Big, wet eyes and a flinching face that had seen way too much. Miles nodded slowly after a moment. You nodded back.

“Go and get anything you want to keep. Fast. Now.”

That seemed to snap him out of whatever dazed state he’d been in. He stumbled over his feet, swerved through the burning lobby, and disappeared somewhere behind the front desk, a door slamming open in the distance. Darlene and Flynn were just standing there, staring.

“Get your damn money.” You spoke to them now. “And burn that fuckin’ ledger.”

Everyone snapped into motion. There was a haze that settled over situations like this, and the fire didn’t exactly help. You stood there, letting the girl cry into your arms as people moved around you. Everyone seemed to share the same grim understanding that there was only one route right now that didn’t involve death.

You spoke to the girl after a moment, watching Flynn and Darlene shove bills into a bag. “Your name is Rose, right?”

The girl managed a nod. That cemented it, then. She was still shaking. Didn’t seem entirely there, though you knew nobody would be in that situation.

“Alright. Rose. Listen to me.” You kept your voice low and soft and gentle as you possibly could. You decided Rose wasn’t exactly a rabbit. Maybe a cat. Still had claws, still hissed at you if you moved too fast, but you could picture her in a happier time, lounged somewhere in the sun with a smile on her face. “This hotel is going to burn and there’s nothing we can do about it.” You started. “I do not want to hurt you. Nobody here does. But if you try to kill or hurt any of us, we’re gonna have to restrain you. And I don’t wanna do that. Now, you can come with some of us, or you can stay here. It’s your choice. And I know it’s a big one. But we can’t save anyone here who’s on the ground right now.”

“... I hate you.” Rose whispered against your chest.

“I know.”

“Let me go.”

“Okay.”

You pulled back. Rose didn’t try to hit you like you expected. Instead, she stood there with balled fists, furiously staring at the ground until she sat right there on the floor next to the body of the man she knew. Billy Lee, you thought.

“I’ll come back." You promised her as you walked by, scooping up the gun leaning on a piece of furniture next to her. She didn’t acknowledge hearing you.

You walked past Darlene and Flynn and pointed in Rose’s direction. “Watch her. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Flynn asked.

“I said I’ll be right back.”

You walked out the main doors of the lobby to the sound of rain. It had lightened just slightly, but there was still a significant downpour. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the dreary parking lot for one heartbeat of a moment. You sighed, raising a hand to shield your face as you jogged through the rain to your room. You’d been lucky enough to know not to unpack. A single duffel bag and a backpack were all you had as you grabbed your things and headed back out into the rain. Thunder rumbled ominously above you as you yanked your car trunk open, shoving your luggage into the trunk before slamming it closed and returning to the lobby.

The fire was still spreading as you pushed the door open, fighting to wipe water from your damp face. Everybody but Rose turned as you re-entered, including Miles, who stood with a small bag at his feet, his hands shaking as Darlene inspected his face.

“You all packed?” You asked him. He just nodded again, blinking at you.

“The cars don’t work,” You addressed everyone as you descended the steps of the entryway. “Anyone know anything about that?”

“That man, the… cop, or something. He sabotaged the cars.” Darlene explained. She patted her dress, searching for something. “There were some kind of tubes he had on his body. I grabbed them all. They- they should be in my car.”

“Okay.” You nodded, slowly. “Did your car work when you put it in?”

“... kind of.” She said. “Didn’t really get a chance to—”

“Go and check it. We need to finish up in here.” You said. “When you find the other parts, put one in my car. Miles?”

“Yeah?” His voice cracked slightly as he looked at you.

“You come with me. You’re gonna put your things in my trunk.”

“Okay.” He whispered hoarsely.

You were vaguely aware of Flynn and Darlene exiting the building as you made your way to Rose. You crouched next to her, tilting your head to try and catch her gaze.

“Have you been thinking?” You asked, softening your voice again. She nodded. “You comin’ with?” She nodded again. “Okay. Come on.”

You stood and turned, gesturing Miles along with you. The rain was still loud outside, but you didn’t make as much of an effort to jog through it, instead grimacing and wiping at your face as you made yet another trip to your car. You popped the trunk, and Miles put his bag in, similarly blinking the rain from his eyes. You glanced through the rain. Rose was hugging herself as she trudged through the rain towards you. You went to Darlene’s car and opened a door, gesturing for her to get in. She obeyed wordlessly. There was an empty look in her eyes. You couldn’t decide if it was good that she was listening.

“Alright,” You told Miles. “Here, come with me.” You closed the trunk and returned to a hotel room. You didn’t bother to close the door, but Miles didn’t fully come in with you. Just stood in the doorway, shaking like a leaf, clothes damp and bloodstained.

Some people were very much like rabbits.

You found what you were looking for. Towels. You shoved them under an arm, ripped a pillowcase off a pillow, and gestured Miles inside. “Come here.”

Miles obeyed blankly, stepping inside. You nodded your head towards the bed in the room, and he sank down blankly, looking over at you as you got one towel wet.

“Can’t say this won’t hurt.” You said quietly as you walked back over to him. “But we need to look after your head.”

He swallowed up at you. “You sure?”

“At the very least, that blood needs to come off.” You said as you looked down at him. “Would you let me?”

Miles stared at you for a moment. Clearly debating. You didn’t blame him for how he was reacting. He’d had a hell of a night, and clearly a hell of a career from what Flynn had said to Billy Lee earlier. You found yourself unable to hate him for that in any way. Tonight had been one of the most insane experiences of your life. Trusting the shaking man sitting in front of you didn’t seem like the worst idea you’d had lately.

“Yeah.” Miles spoke finally, voice cracking slightly. “Yeah, okay.”

You nodded wordlessly, reaching forward to touch his chin. You tilted his head to the side, holding him still and dabbing experimentally at a bloody patch. He winced, squirming. You held firm and kept going.

“Ow,” Miles said, voice a soft whine, squirming slightly in your touch. You hated it, hated the pain that was always in people’s voice when you tended to them, but you kept going, dabbing away the blood on his face.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” You whispered softly. “You’re doing good, just breathe…”

It was a painful sort of rhythm. The rain continued outside. Miles squirmed and choked on half-sobs on the bed. You kept cleaning. When the blood was clear from his face, you took a closer look. Small impacts.

“It was a shotgun, right?” You murmured. Miles nodded, though you more felt the motion than saw it from how closely you were leaned in.

“Is it bad?” He stammered out. “She- she didn’t exactly say—”

“It might scar.” You said softly. “You’re lucky, these look like buckshot pellets, but it's not as extreme as it could've been.”

“What… what’s the difference?”

You looked down at him as you pulled back, working on tearing the pillowcase the way you wanted. “You just shot five guys and you don’t know the difference between shotgun shells?”

He flinched a bit, glancing down at his hands as he shrugged helplessly. “Shotguns… they aren’t really my thing.”

“Okay.” You softened your voice slightly. “Okay. That’s fine. Uh, buckshots, they’re… real lethal, usually. Bigger pellets. Then there are birdshot ones. Smaller. Considering you also didn’t get the entire blast, it’s better for you.”

He made a noise, almost bitterly amused. “It’s a lot to call this situation better.”

“Oh, a sense of humor. That’s good too.” You approached him again, starting to wrap his head. “Anyways–it’s a bit too early to tell. You might need some stitches, but I don’t have the supplies for that right now. We’re gonna wrap the wound, and you’re gonna tell me if you start feeling worse.”

“Worse?” Miles stared at you, flinching as you tied the pillowcase strips firmly around his head, his hair sticking in an odd direction.

“Whether that means pain or you start getting confused. I don’t want you havin’ a concussion. Or brain bleed.” You said quietly, studying your makeshift wrappings as you wiped a bit of blood off his neck.

“Oh.” Miles blinked. His gaze shifted to the doorway, and you turned just as knuckles hesitantly rapped on the doorframe.

Darlene and Flynn stood there, looking as wet and defeated as you felt. Flynn ran a hand through his hair, wincing. “Don’t suppose you can do a check-over on me?”

“If you're able enough to ask, you should be fine, but sure.” You gestured him to the other bed, and the not-priest sat down with a heavy sigh.

“You doing alright?” Darlene questioned Miles softly. He shrugged, then nodded, then shook his head, not meeting her gaze.

“I put the car part back in,” Darlene explained to you as you studied Flynn’s head. “We just gotta pray it runs.”

“Did your car run?” You questioned. Flynn grunted as you pressed at a spot on his head.

Darlene sighed, wringing her hands. “Finally, yeah.”

“That’s good. Mine will too, then.” You said. There was no room to be doubtful right now.

“How can you be so sure?” Miles asked hoarsely as he stared at you.

You shifted, shrugging as you avoided the pairs of eyes on you. “Nothing left but being sure.”

You glanced over at Darlene. “Where y’all headed?”

“Reno.” She shifted, holding her head high for a moment. “I’ve got a performance there tomorrow night.” She hesitated. “Tonight, I guess. It’s past midnight.”

“Damn.” You whistled. “Well, it’s reachable. Not too much of a drive, just a few hours north."

“Yeah.” She smiled a little, but it was still rather sad. “It’s odd how distant that feels now.”

“It’s not distant. It’s your future.” You made eye contact with Flynn as you pulled back from him. “You’re gonna be sore, but you’ll be okay. You heading off with her?”

He nodded. “Gotta look out for the singer.” He said, cracking a tired smile. "And… that poor cultist girl, I guess. We'll see where that goes."

You sighed, nodding as you looked over at Darlene. “Well, you’d better head the hell outta here.” You glanced outside. Still raining, but it was a little gentler. “Drive carefully, though. Rain’s still pretty serious.”

“And what about you?” Darlene shot a glance between you and Miles, who was still sitting on the bed and looking like he didn’t want to exist. “Where will you go?”

“Medical attention, first.” You said, turning your gaze to Miles. “After that… we’ll have to see.”

Darlene’s expression broke. She opened her arms and pulled you into a hug. You blinked. It surprised you, the tenderness behind such an action from someone you’d met just a few hours earlier. Trauma made bonds of everybody, you supposed. Still, you hugged her just as tight, forcing down the emotion swelling in your chest.

Darlene pulled back, hands on your shoulders. “You stay safe.” She whispered, blinking a few times in a way that was clearly disguising tears.

You nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Okay.” A small smile cracked over your face. “I’ll be sure to keep an ear out for the voice of Darlene Sweet on the radio, alright?”

She smiled, wet-eyed, squeezing your shoulders. “I’ll see you later.”

It felt better like that. Not a goodbye, just a possibility. Darlene left you, putting a hand on Miles’ shoulder. “You gonna be alright?” She asked softly. Miles paused, then dragged his gaze from her to you. His lip quivered slightly, wet eyes gazing at you like there was an answer inside you he was specifically looking for.

“I think so.” He said finally, looking back at Darlene.

Your chest felt tight.

“I’m sorry,” Flynn said to Miles as he stood, groaning slightly. Miles flinched at the movement, staring at him with wild eyes. There was a flicker of betrayal there, hurt that went deeper than you understood.

“I told you—” Miles started to choke out.

“I know. I know.” Flynn reached out, then hesitated, retracting his hand. “I’m sorry, Miles. I won’t tell anybody.”

The hotel worker just clenched his jaw, hands shaking in his lap, and looked away. “You’re not a priest,” he mumbled under his breath. “And I- and I told you everything, and you just let me do it—”

Flynn just looked weary. Guilty. He blinked a few times, like there was something he was remembering, and then he looked away too. “We ready, Darlene?” he asked.

“Mhm.” Darlene spared a worried glance to Miles, but she gave his shoulder a little squeeze before stepping away. “Let’s get going. It’s a ways to Reno.”

“Drive safe, y’all.” You said, raising your hand in a small wave.

The last sight you saw of the singer, the con man, and the cultist was the two of them getting into Darlene’s car, their forms plastered by the rain. Flynn raised an arm in a farewell, ducked his head in, and their car drove out through the rain.

You exhaled a breath, turning to Miles. “You ready to go?” You asked softly.

“I think I have to be.” He said, shuffling to his feet, all damp and sad.

Wet rabbit. You thought, but you didn’t say that. Instead, you nodded and tucked a bunch of spare towels under your arm. Nobody was getting hypothermia on your watch. “Then let’s go.”

You could’ve stolen more from the hotel.

But you weren’t greedy, and you weren’t stupid, and the hotel was on fire. So instead, you’d packed the gun in the trunk with everything else and you’d started driving.

Miles, occupying the passenger seat, stayed awake only a bit longer. For a time, he stared solemnly out the window, watching the rain and the dark with his unbandaged side. At one point, he’d clasped his hands and bowed his head and muttered to himself, praying, but it hadn’t lasted too long. He just seemed tired and wet and cold. You’d given him two towels. The two of you drove for hours—the direct opposite way from where the others had been headed. They went to Nevada. You went to California. It was silent, save for the road and the rain, and you weren’t going to start conversation right now, so you just kept driving, even if you had no idea where you were trying to go.

It was just past seven in the morning when you rolled into a town, which you only knew because you’d long ago stuck a watch in a part of your car. The town was small, tiny, had some name you didn’t remember. There was a diner, a pharmacist, and an inn, all along the little main road. It was everything you needed. You just hoped you could buy some clothes somewhere. You slowed the car to a stop in the back lot of the pharmacy. You took a moment to breathe in the silence. You’d been driving nonstop for hours after what was arguably one of the worst nights of your life, and you were just… exhausted. But too tense to back down now. Still, you rested your head carefully on the wheel, taking in slow breaths and making a mental list of priorities. You wondered if it was safe to leave Miles in the car like this. What if he was less okay than he seemed? What if he woke up and left you? What if—

“What’s goin’ on?”

Miles’ voice was a sleepy, hoarse sound to the side. You flinched, straightening in your seat as you carefully turned in your seat.

“Good morning. How you feelin’?” You questioned in a whisper.

“I… uh.” He shifted, swallowing noticeably. One hand reached up, patting lightly at the pillowcase bandages over the left of his face. He winced slightly, a whine in the back of his throat as he leaned back.

“Hurts.” Miles managed finally.

“I just parked behind a pharmacy,” You explained, chest tightening at the hazy look of pain on his face. “This town, it has an inn and a diner. Hopefully a store for some new clothes too.”

“Okay,” he said, his voice cracking.

“Can you stand?”

Miles sniffed, shuffling. “Um.” He blinked a few times, looking at you, then nodded his head as his visible eye watered. “I can manage.”

“Okay.” You reached for the handle of the driver’s seat, grabbing your key and your money. "Let's get going."

You gave Miles your jacket. He took it without argument, pulling it on and zipping it up to cover the dried blood on his shirt. He looked incredibly pathetic like this in the early morning, blinking around at the area there like something could hurt him. His hair was flat on the right from where he'd pressed it against the window, and you had to fight off the urge to gently run your fingers through it and fix the mess. The pharmacy was manned by a man with the biggest glasses you'd ever seen. He blinked at the two of you like you were ghosts, and maybe you were. You didn’t have much noticeable blood on you, had rolled your sleeves so the blood on there wouldn’t be visible, but you knew what you looked like. It didn’t help that Miles looked like he had been crying.

“Hi.” You forced a smile on your lips as you approached the counter. “We’re looking for some pain relief medication.”

“Uh… yeah.” The man looked at Miles, who was nervously huddling in the doorway, shoulders hunched like he could look any smaller. “That all?”

“You got any bandages?” You fished out your wallet, being sure to flash your money. It wasn’t anything incredible, but it was enough for a small town.

It worked. The guy’s eyes gleamed. “We’ve got some genuine medical supplies, yeah. I’m… not the town doctor, but we supply nonetheless.”

“Well.” You flashed a grin, blinking your eyes firmly at him. “We’d be ever so grateful to see what you have.”

You left the pharmacy with medication and medical supplies. You’d bought a lot of it, not sure how much would be needed. You figured bulking up was the best option right now.

“Here, take this.” You passed back some medication to Miles as the two of you walked to the diner. He took it and nodded wordlessly. You firmly told yourself you were not going to lose it.

The diner was alright. Filled with locals who were trying not to watch you. Miles’ hands shook as he took the menu and glanced at his options. You were trying your best to socialize with the waitress without seeming like the psycho who had fucked up the man next to you.

“So, where are y’all from?” The waitress asked. Minnie. Short lady in her mid-thirties with way too much makeup on for the morning.

“Further west. Near Los Angeles.” You answered, even though you were sure absolutely neither of you really were. Miles definitely wasn't even from California. Minnie nodded like it made sense.

You ordered bacon, eggs, and hash for the two of you. Miles’ voice shook when he murmured it to you. The rest of breakfast was silent. Both of you seemed lost in your own thoughts, and frankly, you were starting to wear thin. As the sun rose, the diner was cast in a warm light as you huddled over your individual plates of breakfast. At least your companion had a bit of an appetite. Miles nearly gagged with every couple of bites, but it was progress. You just prayed the peace would last. Minnie started asking too many questions at some point. You answered her with a hefty tip and a tight smile. She shut up fast.

“Anywhere to go clothes shopping in town?” You asked her as you started to stand.

“We’ve got a general store about two blocks down,” Minnie said with a nod. “They’ll likely have some things, though if you want my two cents, the quality isn’t the best regarding shoes.”

You stared at her for a moment, blinking. “Ah. Uh. That’ll be fine. We have fine shoes.”

“My shoes are still damp,” Miles murmured behind you as the two of you exited the diner.

“Worry about that at the clothing store, Miles.”

The clothing store was staffed by two people, two old men who were brothers with the thickest heads of hair you’d seen on people who were at the very least eighty. They murmured behind the counter, already smoking, heads swiveling in unison as a bell on the door announced your arrival.

“Hi,” you called. “You guys got clothes?”

One man took a long drag of his cigarette. “You guys got money?” He rumbled back, clearly mocking as his eyes swept over you judgmentally. You stared back at him, nearly twitching. You wanted to slap the guy. You’d barely slept in the last thirty-eight hours and this man had no idea what you’d been through and—

“We have money, sir.”

Miles’ voice was soft as he appeared at your elbow, staring down the men with that same nervous, customer-serving look he’d had on the first time you saw him. The men let you buy clothes. You didn’t get anything for yourself. Instead, you watched as Miles checked through clothing, holding things up to himself and feeling fabric. He kept glancing at you, as if unsure he was allowed anything he was holding. You made a point to shoot him a nod whenever his gaze found its way to you, and he'd always glance away like he'd been caught red-handed in a criminal act. Miles eventually decided on some outfit you didn’t fully see. You fished money from your wallet, paid for what he'd bought, and ushered the man out like you were guarding a lost puppy. The smell of smoke and the image of sullen, old faces followed you.

You didn’t remember checking into the inn, but you did. A room with two beds, a shower, a bathroom. It didn’t remind you of the El Royale. There was peeling wallpaper in a far-off corner. The radio barely worked. “If you want to, uh, take a shower or anything, feel free to. They’ve got towels and shit in there.” You plopped onto a bed, running a hand down your face. “I just… I need a few hours outta the car, to think ‘n whatever…”

“You okay?”

You blinked, raising your gaze. Miles had moved in front of you, sitting on the bed opposite of you. His clothes were to his side, hands patiently folded in his lap, his single visible eye focused on you.

“I don’t…” You laughed weakly. “I don’t even know how to answer that right now.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been going as long as you have.” He blinked at you, gaze soft. “I mean, you drove us for… hours. Even after everything. And you bought me clothes and you bought me drugs and I-” He rubbed at his eye. “I just… thank you for, you know. Everything. You didn’t have to bring me with.”

“And you didn’t have to come.” You returned quietly.

"There wasn't anything left for me." He swallowed, gaze ducking down. You watched him quietly, waiting for anything more. "Just… fire. And a lot of regrets. Better if they thought I went up with the place, I guess."

You studied him for a moment longer. "I'm glad you're here with me." You said softly.

Miles looked back up at you. He smiled a little. "I… yeah, I am too. But also, I’m… I’m tired.” He blew out a heavy breath, then chuckled a bit. “I, uh, think we both are, though.” He fixed his gaze on yours. “You should sleep.”

“Miles—"

“I’ll watch.” His response was clear and firm, the most firm thing you’d heard from him so far, but his voice softened slightly as he gripped at his pants. “... I’ll watch. We’re safe.”

"The walls are, like, thin enough to punch through."

“And I am very aware of that." He said quickly, nodding. "I just… you look like hell. And I don’t want you hurting when you’ve been helping so much.”

Oh, he was sweet. Sweet, helpful boy. You wondered who’d made him doubt himself so much in the past. You just nodded, blinking as you tried to shove down the emotion in your chest. “Thank you.” You whispered. “Don’t let me sleep past five.”

“... okay,” he whispered in return, like this was a secret held between the two of you. Then he pointed to the bed. “Sleep.”

You found it in you to laugh- the first real laugh since… you didn’t know how long. You nodded as you pulled aside the covers and nestled in, tarnished clothes and all. It had been a long time since you’d fallen asleep that fast, but there was something about having someone watch over you for once. Maybe you weren’t so alone.

One day ago. Parking lot of the El Royale.

You’d been driving almost nonstop for hours until you found the hotel.

You weren’t really sure when you’d exhausted all other options. The space between California and Nevada wasn’t somewhere you thought you’d end up. You hadn’t even known there was a hotel on the border of California and Nevada. You stared down at the line straight down the middle of the parking lot. California marked one side, Nevada the other. You didn’t see much of a difference from where you stood.

You lugged your bags through the parking lot, backpack slung over your shoulder, duffel bag on your arm. As you pushed through the door, you blinked as you took in the sprawling lobby. It was decked in two different color schemes, the red line still running all the way through like it had a destination to reach. Three sets of eyes turned to you, which looked like the start of a joke. “A priest, a lady, and some guy in an ugly jacket walk into a hotel…”

“Uh. Hello.” You greeted, halting your movement as you stood there awkwardly. Your gaze shifted behind them–an empty reception desk, a clear story emerging.

“... no receptionist?” You assumed as your gaze moved back to the strangers.

The man with the terrible jacket sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately, yes.” He pointed to a group of luggage on the ground. “Those are mine. I have first pick- honeymoon suite.” He said it proudly, puffing up his chest. You just nodded slowly.

“... oooookay.”

"You want coffee? We've been helpin' ourselves considering this bastion of influence has no influence to be seen." The man raised a small cup he held. Your eyes flicked from the priest to the woman, both of whom looked vaguely awkward. You pitied them for enduring this man longer than you had.

"Erm, no thank you." You shook your head as your eyes swept over the lobby. "You're familiar with this place?"

"Familiar with what it once was, rather." The man scoffed, but he kept talking as you walked around, scanning over old photos on the wall. He started spouting some story about influential figures and the life of extravagant gambling that used to live in the walls of this place. Your eyes fell on a few pictures on the wall. JFK. Marilyn Monroe. Big names indeed. "And so in the end, it's become quite the the place. However, I will say their rooms can still be kept to service, hence my wishing for the honeymoon suite despite not being on my own personal honeymoon—"

The woman moved past the man, walking behind the receptionist desk and putting her coffee cup aside. You stood there, blinking, watching as she slammed a firm palm several times on the door behind the desk. As you stepped closer, you distantly heard something thud and the distinct sound of someone groaning. You winced slightly. That sounded solid.

Annoying loud jacket man let out a chuckle. "The lady's got a harder hand than we do, Father." He said to the priest.

"It sounds like somebody just fell." You said slowly.

"Well, let's hope that kicked some sense into whoever it is." The man grumbled, just as the door behind the desk opened and the four of you swiveled your hands.

Your first impression of the hotel worker was a soft face and hair purposefully pressed into a short, nice hairstyle. The second impression was that he had on the wrinkliest nice shirt you'd ever seen. His eyes swept over all of you in an instant—bleary but big—and he exhaled a breath, shaking his head as he tugged on a nice employee's jacket. "Oh, I am… very sorry to keep you waiting." He cleared his throat, fumbling with his shirt and his jacket in a clear attempt to get himself ordered.

"Damn, boy, where you been?" Jacket man said, clearly scrutinizing the younger man. "Waitin' in this lobby so long, I could use a shave. What's wrong with you?"

"I am very sorry," the man mumbled again, shaking his head and avoiding the man's gaze. He cleared his throat yet again, raising his gaze, only to land on the priest who was wandering around the lobby. His mouth parted, a look of something that you almost dared to call terror flickering over his expression.

"… what are you doing here, Father?" He asked, his voice tightening slightly.

The priest stared at him, squinting slightly. "Do I know you, son?"

"N-noo." The hotel worker shook his head slightly, swallowing. "But I mean, this is not a place for a priest, Father. You shouldn't be here."

What did that mean, exactly, you wondered? Were the floors cursed? The walls? The picture of JFK accusingly stared eyes into your back, grumbling something like Well how do you think I turned out this way, huh? I came here. You glanced to your side, where the woman had a look on your face similar to what you probably did. She leveled a gaze at you, something quietly, like What is up with these people? You shrugged. Her lips twitched.

"We might need to work on your sales pitch, son." Jacket man said, chuckling as he spread out a hand. "'The El Royale, no place for a priest.'"

"There are other hotels, Father." The receptionist was saying, gaze still fixed on the priest. "Maybe closer to Tahoe. I could help you find one. I'm sure you would be…. happier, there."

The priest, who'd approached the desk again where the rest of you stood, squinted at the man's name tag. "Er, Miles, is it?"

"Mmm-hmm." Miles affirmed softly. You wondered if Miles ever didn't look nervous.

"If this is not a place for a priest, Miles, then this is exactly where the Lord wants me." The priest put his palms on the desk. You and the woman exchanged another gaze and you resisted the urge swelling in your chest to just ask if you could camp out in the parking lot for the night if you paid a little money. You weren't sure how worth it this was. People. Fascinating people, at that.

"Well, the Lord don't want you in the honeymoon suite. I can promise you that." Jacket man leaned forward, catching the clerk's gaze. "Miles, those are my accoutrement there and I stake my claim as such. But you can go ahead and check them in first, I don't mind."

Miles looked extremely nervous at all the attention. His gaze ran over the priest again, and he swallowed thickly. The priest shot him what he'd probably hoped was a reassuring smile. "It's all right, son."

The clerk had just about looked ready to relax when the other man spoke up again. "C'mon, boy!" He rolled his hand in a get on with it gesture. "Give 'em the whole spiel. The El Royale. And blah blah blah."

Miles cleared his throat. You watched with no small amount of pity as he moved out from behind the receptionist desk, standing to face the four of you. His posture straightened slightly, eyes scanning over all of you as he cleared his throat and took in a breath. "The El Royale is a bi-state establishment," He started, voice cracking slightly as he clasped his hands in front of him. "You have the option to stay in either the great state of California—" He gestured with one arm to the yellow side of the room. "—or the great state of Nevada." He gestured to the other side, all cool blues and purples, before folding his arms behind him. "Warmth and sunshine to the west, or hope and opportunity to the east." Miles nodded, gaze focusing in slightly on the priest. "Which would you prefer?"

The priest was standing there like he was vaguely regretting his life choices. "What's the difference?" He asked, old voice nearly sounding amused.

Miles' confidence faded with the end of his speech. He started fidgeting with his hands again. "… between California and Nevada?"

"Between the rooms."

Miles blinked. "Well for starters, rooms in California cost a dollar more."

Jacket man whistled. "Really? When did that happen? What makes 'em a dollar better?"

Miles shifted. "They're in… California."

"And that's worth a dollar?"

He raised his shoulders in a half-shrug. "Some people think so."

"You got a phone number for any of those people? Because I'd sure love to sell 'em one of these vacuums." Jacket man kicked one of his items and chuckled, awkwardly. You and the woman next to you looked at each other again. You were very genuinely starting to eye the door. "Hey, speaking of which, who handles your hospitality here at the hotel?" The man was asking Miles, who was looking nervous again.

"Currently… that is also me."

"Oh. Well… shit." The man said with a sigh. "We'll have to worry about that later."

"May I see a map of the hotel, please?" The priest asked. You were grateful for the distraction opportunity.

Miles passed a map across the counter. As the priest leaned over it, you leaned over too, getting as close as you dared to a stranger to glance down at the map. Miles was explaining something, rambling on about California and Nevada amenities, but you were more focused in on the map. The hotel was decently large, even if it was only the main lodge available. You wondered how gloriously busy it used to be. It was a thought that tugged at your heartstrings. Ghosted, once-loved places of glory got you weirdly emotional.

"So if we wanna drink," Jacket man was saying, "we gotta do it on that side of the room?" He gestured to California, which, while expensive, was apparently more accepting of alcohol.

"That is correct, sir." said Miles, who you were marveling at the tailored patience of. The clerk's eyes flicked down to the coffee cup in the man's hands, and he tilted his head slightly. "Also, coffee is twenty-five cents a cup."

The man was chuckling as he fished money from his pocket. "Let me guess, you're also the bartender?"

"That is correct, sir." Miles said softly.

"Alright. Well." He slapped a quarter on the table next to the priest. "Feel free to flip that if you need to make a decision, Father." He clapped the priest's back (who offered a small chuckle) and paced away, grumbling about how it was costing him money waiting around the hotel.

Your attention was pulled away from the urge to sock the guy in the face with the sound of a car ripping through the parking lot. All of you simultaneously leaned, trying to peer at whoever was making a racket. You only caught a glance of a blue car before you gave up on your attempt. The priest was still deciding on a room. He flipped the coin, smacked his hand on it, and smiled calmly at Miles. "Four. I'll take room four."

"I'll need one night in advance. Eight dollars." Miles was working at something behind the desk, and his gaze flicked to the cups of coffee. "And it's twenty-five cents for the coffee."

You wondered how hard his bosses were on him. What kind of bosses existed here, anyways? It was just him, as far as you'd seen, handling absolutely everything one could think of. The woman in yellow had sat down on a nearby bench, but you stood, leaned against the counter, watching as Miles pulled out a ledger for the priest to sign. He shot a small smile at the priest as he moved to grab a key, and something about it made your chest flip. You watched the priest sign the ledger—Father Daniel Flynn—and watched Miles pass the key over. His gaze swept over you, the woman, and the man remaining in the lobby.

"Who's next?"

Jacket man gestured for one of you to go. You nodded to the woman. "You were here first."

"Thank you," she murmured appreciatively before she stood. "May I have a room in Nevada please, Miles?"

You watched him retrieve a key, passing it over. "Room five."

"Uh…" The woman hesitated. "… is there another room available? Possibly further away?"

Miles was already apologetically shaking his head. "Um, those rooms have not been serviced and are unsuitable."

"He also does the housekeeping, remember?" Jacket man called unsuccessfully from where he was peering out at the parking lot, likely surveying whatever situation was unfolding outside.

"There are rooms in California available, ma'am." Miles said quietly to the women.

"Miles! She don't wanna be near the priest." The man exclaimed. Father Flynn awkwardly shifted on his feet as he turned to the man, pulling on his coat. "I mean, it's not like we didn't see her walkin' in here with her own bed rolls under her arms. No judgment on ya there, darlin'." Jacket man continued to ramble, chuckling at his own annoying ass. "Maybe you can talk to the Father here about, uh, Mary Magdalene and forgiveness and whatnot."

An awkward silence lingered for a moment. Miles and the woman were staring at each other with a sort of commiserative energy. The woman sighed slightly, shoulders shifting. "Room five will be fine." She declared softly.

The door opened rather loudly, bell above it dinging. You swung your head, watching a woman barge in looking all the part of a hippie. Sunglasses, outfit, general attitude as she stared at all of you, and then around the hotel lobby, surveying. You were still watching her as the woman gathered her money, only shifting aside when Father Flynn passed a quarter to the counter to pay for the woman's coffee. "Can I give you a hand to your room?" Father Flynn asked the woman as she finalized her payment, signed the ledger, and spun around with her key firmly clutched in her hand.

"No." She said quickly, then paused, taking a breath and slowly turning to face the man. "… sorry, Father, uh… that's very kind of you. But I can manage from here." She was quick to leave. The jacket man held the door for her and the priest, and as it swung shut, Miles shot a small smile at the three of you that remained. "Who's next?"

You glanced at the others, but considering you were closest to the desk and incredibly eager to no longer occupy the same room as the man with the jacket, so you stepped up to the reception desk. "Hi," You greeted with a small smile.

Miles' lips pulled into a small smile. "Hi."

"You are admirable for how well you've been handling everybody." You rifled through your bag. "I'd like a room in California, please. Closest one to the hotel."

"It's just… part of the job." He murmured, but you caught the smallest hint of a pleased look slip over his expression as he turned to grab a key. As you counted out the money—nine dollars, considering you were on the California side—Miles tapped at the ledger, voice softening.

"Please sign the ledger." He said quietly. You nodded, passed him the ledger, and picked up the pen.

Two names already marked the space of the page. Father Daniel Flynn, And Darlene Sweet, which firmly cemented the name of the woman in your head. You ducked your head down, clearing your throat slightly as you scribbled down your name. When you set the pen down and raised your head, you re-caught Miles' gaze, whose eyes flicked from your name to your face before he shot you another small smile and handed you the key. "Room 2A." He said softly. "Enjoy your stay."

"Thank you kindly, Miles." You said, nodding to him, before you turned, picked up your things, and started walking to the door. Jacket man held it open for you and you nodded. "Sir."

He nodded back at you. You spared a glance to the hippie lady one last time before you left. You couldn't see her eyes beneath the glasses. She seemed… off. Tense. Still, you shook it off. You were sure you were overthinking things.

You didn't have a destination in mind, but you drove north.

California was always California. Warmth and sunshine. You'd been in Nevada before the El Royale, surrounded by the jazzy life of Vegas for who knew how long, and the feeling of this was different. Gone were the slots, the applause, the alcohol. Instead, your car radio hummed The Beatles and you watched the world pass around you.

Miles was… Miles. He napped a lot, stared at the meds you’d bought him, looked out the window. You changed his bandages every morning with real bandages. You bought a cream that was supposed to help, something with aloe in it. He shivered when you applied it, avoided your gaze, but you could tell it helped, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He never really asked for anything, but you didn’t either. You’d burned the old clothes from the El Royale. The backseat was a nap spot when someone was exhausted. You didn't ask questions, and neither did Miles. But you didn't exactly talk, either.

One day, you found yourself parked on the side of the road, looking out over some landscape. You always seemed to be driving near national parks, but that was apparently what northern California had a lot of. You laid a spare blanket on the hood of your car, and you and Miles sat there, watching the sun creep towards the horizon as you studied his wounds.

"How's the stiffness?" You asked, blowing a light but purposeful breath against his face. Miles blinked, leaning back slightly as his gaze shifted from the landscape to you.

"Not as bad as yesterday," he mumbled. "It doesn't hurt too much when I grimace either."

"Well, that's good." You reached for the cream, humming as you dabbed some on your pointer finger and raised it to his face. "It's looking mighty fine."

"Really?" There was a mix of hope and skepticism in his voice. A raised eyebrow in your direction made your lips pull a little upwards.

To tell the truth? Of course it was different. But the damage hadn't been as bad as you'd initially feared. Miles' face was looking better. There was a bit of bruising now, but greater damages were starting to knit back together. His face still looked young, that same sweetness preserved. Nothing hindered his soft gaze, his lips parted slightly as he looked at you like you were holding everything up. You liked the way he looked. And the way he looked at you. But you didn't say that. You just nodded as you started to spread the cream over his face. "Yeah, really."

It was silent for a moment. You were so focused on your work that you didn't notice when Miles reached up and took your wrist in his hand. You paused, gaze shifting from his fingers to his eyes. "Sorry, did I hurt you?"

"No." He looked at you for a moment, possibly gauging your reaction to what he'd done, before he swallowed, cleared his throat, and scooted a little closer. "I wanted to talk about what we're doing."

"Oh. You mean…" You gestured loosely around you. Stupid car. Setting sun. Birdsong in the distance.

"Yeah." Miles released your wrist, and you let your hand fall in your lap as he blinked at you.

"What are we doing?" He said after another moment of silence.

You found you didn't have an answer for that. Your gaze drifted out over the landscape. It really was pretty. You hadn't had too much experience with California scenery like this—no, you were all about the beaches, before. Most of everybody liked beaches, they were easy to do. Push and pull of the California waves. Sticky ice cream and popsicles. That sort of thing. But you didn't know this. Any of this. At all. You didn't know what you were doing here, or anywhere, or where to go or what to do. You didn't know what you wanted. You didn't know why Miles had stuck around like this, or why you'd stuck with him. Were you both that much in the dark?

"… I don't know," you said finally, defeatedly, like you were confessing a sin. "I don't know what we're doing." The confession made you emotional for some reason, frustration bubbling in your chest. You sniffed, blinking rapidly. "I don't know." You said again, scrubbing at your face.

Silence for a moment.

"I don't know either."

You blinked over at Miles, feeling foolish for your tears, only to feel your shoulders easing when you found him looking at you with a small, almost sheepish smile.

"Isn't that good, though?" He said tentatively. "We can figure it out together."

You were too baffled to respond for a moment. You just stared at him. "And you want that?" You clarified finally, almost afraid to ask. "Doing… this together?"

He nodded very fast. Then paused, a pinkness spreading over his pretty cheeks. "I think it's worth it if you do. I don't have anything else to lose."

Well, that was a pleasant thought. For some reason, it made you smile, the fact that both of you had absolutely nothing anymore. You have him. A voice in your head said. You slapped it firmly and shot your smile at Miles. "I do think it's worth it." He smiled back, all shy and sweet, and that feeling in your chest shot you a raised eyebrow. You looked out at the scenery before it could deepen.

The two of you crossed the Oregon border and stopped in a small town. It was a nice town. Small, but established. You just needed a few days out of the car, walking around somewhere, feeling like you could live a somewhat normal life. You booked a room to stay in, actually unloaded your things from the car trunk, and let yourselves breathe for a bit. Miles slept for twelve hours straight. You let him. He deserved it. Nobody asked too many questions here, which you appreciated. You bought some new supplies, loaded up on gas, and came back just two minutes before Miles started stirring under the covers of his bed.

You turned your head from where you were organizing new supplies on the other bed. "Good afternoon."

"I'm very sorry to…" He yawned. "… keep you waiting, I didn't realize-"

"Miles." You interrupted him softly, lips pulling into a small smile. "We're not at the El Royale."

"Oh." He paused, raising his head slightly to blink around the room. "… right." He was groggy, sitting upright in bed and watching as you sorted through your newly purchased items. A new outfit for Miles, a shirt and pants, was tossed at him, and he caught it mindlessly, blinking down at the fabric. "How do you have so much money?"

You'd been expecting the question for a week now—you were surprised he hadn't asked you sooner. It was an honest question. You had a lot of money. The kind that wasn't rich, but comfortable. Miles didn't snoop, but he'd probably seen glimpses of you retrieving bills from your duffel bag.

"I… came from Vegas." You admitted. Your back was to him as you folded a new outfit you'd bought, fingers running over the fabric to soothe yourself. "I'd worked at a casino there for a few years. Learned all the ins and outs. But I got tired of the life there, and the people I'd meet."

You exhaled a slow breath, shifting uncomfortably. You'd entertained the idea of leaving for months previously, but it had never seemed probable. There was always something or someone in your way. The weekend rush, a special event, something for you to fix, an angry higher-up. You'd always been nobody, sneaking by on a decent wage that let you live in the most glamorous, hopeful place in America. Which was, of course, entirely bullshit. You cleared your throat, blinking away the memories, and continued. "So one night, I was off of work. I went to another casino nearby, another rich one, where nobody knew me. Thought I could maybe have a drink without someone trying to gossip about our bosses with me. But then I'm there, and this lady comes over to me and asks if I was any kind of lucky."

"Are you?" Miles asked quietly behind you.

You turned your head. He wasn't looking at you judgmentally, just quietly, a sort of light in his eyes. You realized this was the most you'd ever said to him at one time.

Lips twitching, you shrugged as you sat on your bed, hands in your lap as you faced him. "Well, I'll let you decide. I tell this lady 'sorta', and she takes my arm, drags me to this table with a bunch of rich people. This guy, either her husband or her lover, asks me if I know how to play poker. I say yes, because I do. Poker's everywhere, not just in Vegas. But it's always different in Vegas." You took in a breath, gripping at your pants. "The guy makes me stand next to him, and the lady's practically humping his back. But he's got a good hand. A great hand. Clearly doesn't think it's good, though. He asks me what I think. Everyone around the table's not paying any attention, because everybody's drunk. But I just nod and say 'do it'. And he does do it. And he wins."

"… a lot of money?" Miles asked quietly. You nodded. His eyes got a little bigger. "And you got some of it?"

"They gave me a quarter of the winnings. I barely even did anything and those rich folks just gave me some." You laugh a little. "Scared the shit out of me. I'd never had so much money just belong to me. I quit and left town as fast as possible before some coworker heard and tried to jump me."

His eyes widened even more. "People would do that to you?"

"People would do a lot for money." You said, falling a little quiet. Darlene. Father fucking Flynn. Even Billy Lee and his group. Everyone always searched for money, were desperate for it.

You cleared your throat slightly, turning your gaze back to the things you bought. "I'm trying to be smart about it." You said eventually.

"You're using it for me." Miles said it like he was coming to a realization, glancing down with that wide gaze at the clothes in his hands. He shook his head slowly, licking his lips. "You- you don't need to do this. Don't need to worry about me like this."

"Miles." You stopped him firmly, reaching over to touch his leg. He froze at the contact, staring at you. Rabbit eyes, you thought, that look he got when he was surprised and debating his level of reaction. "I don't want to spend this any way but for the two of us." You said firmly as you met his gaze. You were surprised by how fully you meant it, how the regret didn't wash over you immediately.

Miles stared at you like you'd announced your dreams to be a circus traveler. Which, hey, maybe that would be the best option for the two of you. However, before you could get that joke out, his hand reached out, closing over your own. Fingers curled slightly around your hand as he took it, squeezed it, and nodded. "… thank you." Miles whispered hoarsely. "That's all I can say."

"That's all you need to." You responded with a nod. "I'll keep saying that kinda stuff until you believe it." He squeezed your hand one last time, then let it go. The warmth stayed. And you let yourself believe it could last this time.

Two weeks ago. Room 2A of the El Royale. California side.

You were bored out of your fucking mind. You'd never been good at willing yourself to sleep. Nor were you staying long enough to unpack your belongings. Instead, you'd dragged everything inside, locked the door, and laid sprawled out on a bed while you stared at the ceiling. You tried to remember why you'd paid for such a damn expensive room. The others weren't serviced. What does that guy do all day behind that desk? There can't be that much to do, nobody else was even staying here.

You pressed your face into the sheets, where the faint smell of some detergent pressed at your senses. They really were nice beds. You couldn't remember the last time you'd slept on a bed this nice. Maybe a shower or a bath would be nice. Something to kill the time before you found something to eat. Now that you thought of that, though, had there even been anything to eat in that lobby? An image conjured in your mind. Miles the all-around hotel worker, nervous-faced, squinting over a pan while he poked at a chicken breast like it would hurt him. The El Royale's featured gourmet, anxious pretty boys and all.

You sat up and checked the bathroom. There was a shower and a bath. Sink. It was well-furnished… aside from the fact there were no towels. You restrained a groan as you shoved your key in your pocket. A journey it was, then.

The lobby was eerily empty when you came in. The door swung open and closed with a slight creak, and you cast an apprehensive gaze over the area. The late afternoon light still came in from outside as you descended the steps, glancing around. You located some kind of food machines in one section, beneath something titled Refreshments. The thought amused you—what kind of ex-famous hotel had food machines like that?—but you'd ask about it if you could get ahold of the man overlooking the place. You stood awkwardly at the desk for a moment before you tentatively tapped on the bell. It barely dinged, but the sound bounced off the walls. You dinged it a little firmer. There was another scuffling noise behind the door. A head poked out before a body did, Miles blinking over at you like he was deciding if you were real or not.

You offered a small smile, folding your hands in front of you. "Hello."

"… hello." His voice was hoarse. He cleared it and tried again. "Hi. Sorry if I took—"

"Don't worry, I just rang it." You said reassuringly. The man nodded, stepping out from behind the door and starting to struggle with his jacket. "You don't have to do that," you said, watching him. "It's just me."

"Company policy, I insist." He pulled it on, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "What, uh, can I do for you, uh…?" He trailed off, blinking down behind the desk. He murmured your name as he glanced up at you, and something about it made you smile a little wider.

"Oh. I, um, I wanted to take a shower or a bath but I didn't have any towels."

You could've told Miles the world was ending and he probably would've made the same expression of horror. His mouth dropped open, a small gasp leaving him. "I am very sorry, so sorry, that is a very big problem and I'm sorry you had to walk all the way over to tell me—"

"Woah, hey, no, it's alright." You blinked, almost laughing but ending it in more of an exhale. "Really, that's okay. You're handling this whole place alone, it must be rough."

"I should've remembered." Miles had ducked under the reception desk. You resisted the urge to lean over and look at him as he rustled around beneath. "I am so sorry, we have towels right here, they're cleanly washed and—" He raised up with a giant stack of towels in his head. You never thought you'd meet such a hotel worker who nervously overcompensated with insane amounts of towels.

"Oh. My." You blinked as Miles set the towels down and leaned to the side, looking at you nervously. "Thank you. This is more than enough, and really, it's no trouble. Again, you're the only person here, it seems a lot to take care of."

"It's… my job." He smoothed down his shirt, shooting a nervous smile in your direction.

"Well, thank you for the towels, Miles." You turned your head and nodded towards the food machines. "Are those the food options?"

"Yes, they are."

"Are they any good?" You swiveled your head back to Miles, whose eyebrows started raising so high you thought they'd leave his face and float into the ceiling. He paused, licking his lips, eyes darting from the distant food items to you. Then to the ground.

He shifted. "Um."

"Will I not get food poisoning, at the very least?" You said, lips twitching.

Miles caught the almost-smile. His shoulders relaxed just slightly, which you were relieved about, because he had almost looked ready to cry and you weren't sure if you could deal with that right now. He nodded after a moment, his own lips almost quirking. "I haven't yet." He said softly.

"You eat from those?" You said incredulously, gesturing to the machines with no small amount of alarm.

Miles fidgeted with his hands as they rested on the reception desk. "That… would be correct, yes."

"Well, gosh. What's your favorite? Got a recommendation?"

His eyes moved from you. To the food. To you again. A minute later, both of you were standing in front of the Refreshments section, awkwardly surveying the selection of dodgily preserved food. You decided this was the most fascinating hotel you'd ever been to. Miles cleared his throat, shifting as he pointed to the sandwiches. "Those are very bad. But they taste better in the morning, so I would… suggest that for a breakfast if you didn't want pie."

"Noted." You turned your head to him, more watching him now than the pie display spinning in an endless circle. "So pie's the best choice, then? No Fruit-o-Matic?"

"The Fruit-O-Matic is… operational," Miles said slowly. "Though the El Royale's pies are still revered as a staple of the resort."

"You don't have to sales pitch me." You said softly, tilting your head with a smile. You stepped past him, shaking some change into your palm to insert into the pie machine. "You want anything?"

"Oh, no, thank you. You're the guest, anyways." Miles said from behind you, sounding a little awkward at the question.

"Suit yourself."

The pie did look like the most promising item available, and it was appetizing. You shoveled it down quickly for an early dinner—you'd eat an early breakfast when you got up tomorrow—before you thanked Miles again for the towels, reaching for the pile. "Would you like some help?" Miles stood at the corner of your vision, hands clasped in front of him.

"You've done plenty already, Miles, don't worry about me." You shot him what you hoped was a reassuring smile as you juggled the towels in your arms. "I'd appreciate you holding the door on the way out, though."

"Oh. Yes, of course." He nodded, following you as you navigated your way back to the door, peering around the pile of towels and feeling half-blind. As Miles pulled the heavy lobby door open, you took in a breath, the smell of distant rain on your tongue.

"Hm. Smells like a storm's comin'." You murmured, peering up at the sky as you stepped out. You turned to Miles, smiling again, who was looking at the sky with the most sweetly befuddled expression you'd ever seen. "I hope you keep warm tonight. Thank you for the towels, I'm the most well-furnished in the hotel now."

He opened his mouth, lips forming a 'O'. "The El Royale tries to make sure all of its guests have equal accommodations—"

You shot him a look. "Miles."

His lips pulled up, just a little bit, which was a victory you hadn't expected to gain today. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Have a nice night, alright? I mean it when I say stay warm."

"Thank you," he murmured, gaze flicking away from you. "You have a good evening as well."

You nodded before you stepped away fully. The door closed behind you, and you watched the sky, eyes scanning over the distant clouds that would soon roll in. You just sighed and hefted the towels higher. It was bath time.

You woke to Johnny Cash on the radio and the familiar rumble-rumble of the road under your car.

For a moment, you didn't move, sleep still hazing the edges of your mind. It was late, so dark you couldn't see out the windows in the back. But you weren't scared. You were nestled comfortably in the backseat of your car, a warm blanket pulled over your body, and Miles was driving. He'd insisted on it more often lately. He said you drove too much, that you deserved your rest as much as he did. You hadn't been sure how to acknowledge it, much less how to thank him, so you'd just nodded, asked if he was sure, and let him take the wheel. Even with one eye compromised, he was a good driver. A safe driver. You couldn't remember the last time you'd truly felt safe with someone. You sat up slightly, exhaling as you rubbed at your eyes. A yawn stretched from your lips as you glanced at Miles.

"Hi." He greeted before you could say anything, voice quiet. He didn't turn his head, but you saw him glance in the rear view mirror at you.

"Hey." You cleared your throat, shifting in your spot. "How you doing?"

"I'm alright."

"How's the gas? What time is it?"

"We'll need to pull over and use the can soon. We're almost out." Miles shifted slightly, glancing down where your watch was resting on the console. "It's almost four in the morning."

Even though he couldn't see you, you nodded, rubbing at your eyes. "Well, just pull over whenever we need to refill." You murmured, leaning against one side of the car and gazing out at the window. Forest rushed by around you, mostly blanketed by the night. The two of you had been tracing through Oregon blindly, heading northeast. At the time, you were seeing where the wind blew you. Unfortunately, the wind didn't seem to want you to settle down yet.

It was silent for a bit. You couldn't find yourself falling back asleep, so you just… watched. Watched Miles drive without fear, his hands neatly at ten and two, the radio rumbling with the reassuring buzz of static. He seemed tired tonight. Weighted. You knew how long drives felt, how in silence your thoughts had plenty of time to catch up to you. You shifted forward slightly, elbows on your knees as you spoke lowly, brave after your recent awakening. "Can I ask you something? About the El Royale?"

There was a slight tightening of his posture. Miles cleared his throat before speaking. "I, uh. Why are you curious about that?"

"I guess I've just been thinking a lot about that place. Everything that happened there." You watched him as best you could, softening your voice. "I won't ask more if you don't want me to."

Miles shook his head quickly. "No, no, it's… it's fine." He was definitely lying, but his voice was convincing enough that you nearly believed him. "… what do you want to know?"

You took in a soft inhale, moving closer. The radio was mumbling something familiar—That Makes Two of Us—and it filled the silence as you took a second to organize your thoughts. "When did you start working there?" You asked finally. Maybe it was easier to start at the beginning.

Miles hummed, rubbing his thumb gently along the steering wheel. "I was freshly back stateside. When I got discharged… I didn't…" He trailed off, taking in a shaky breath. "I didn't want to go home. And, I couldn't, really, there was nothin' there. So, I worked service jobs. Nobody was nice to me. Nobody was ever nice to me. And one night, I meet this man." His thumb tapped anxiously against the steering wheel. You caught his lip trembling as he took in a breath. "Said there was a hotel that needed staff. And I was desperate. So I applied. Was, uh… was the only thing I had goin' for me. And the more I did things, the deeper I dug the hole, and I just… I couldn't leave. Because I had nothin'."

"You really don't have anyone out there anymore?" You couldn't keep the shock from your voice. The words of Flynn echoed in your head. Recordings and tapes and secret passageways. How long had he done that? How long had he been forced to? Thinking how it was his only option, the only way he could live.

Miles shifted, cagey, in the driver's seat. "… yeah." He mumbled weakly.

"What that man said a while ago," you started slowly. "about you recording people and sending it. Is that all true?"

"Yes." Miles' voice trembled, and for a moment, you almost apologized. But he took in a shaky breath, sniffing, and continued. "I… I didn't have anything, and I needed money so I could buy things to keep me feeling good, I just- I needed to, even though I didn't want to, but I didn't have anything—"

"Hey. Hey. Shh." You leaned forward before you could stop yourself, touching at his shoulder. Miles flinched slightly at the touch, but he didn't move away as your hand curled over his shoulder.

"Pull over." You instructed softly.

Miles pulled over. You refilled the gas wordlessly. Left the backseat of the car and stood in the middle of the night, ringed by woods and the most lonely road you'd ever seen. Strangely enough, though, it didn't feel lonely. Miles had cracked the window open, you realized. Soft notes of music drifted through the air from the crack. The car was alive and warm beneath your palm as you fought with the gas can. When you'd refilled the gas, you slid into the passenger seat, turning slightly to look at Miles. There was a tear tracing down his face, his head bowed as he looked down at his hands in his lap.

You leaned over, thumb gently smoothing away the tear. You let your touch linger, finding it moving to his chin as you turned his face your way. He let you, surprisingly enough. Miles Miller, you thought, almost surprised by how fiercely you liked even the notion of his name. You'd both shared things as you journeyed. You knew his name. You knew he was from Indiana. You knew he had nothing. You knew he liked music and cardigans. And you'd wondered, but never pushed, about the way he gazed at the different medicines you'd bought for him like they were a cliff he was toeing the line of.

So I could buy things to keep me feeling good.

"Do you think I'm terrible?"

It surprised you to hear him speak first. He hadn't moved from your touch—instead, his face lingered in your palm, pressing slightly into it. His one watery eye gazed at you, and you could picture his face without the bandages a mere few weeks ago, a teary and sobbing boy in the middle of a hotel. "No." You answered softly, swallowing down the lump in your throat. "I think you're quite wonderful, actually."

"I've done so much." Miles whispered, voice thickening. "You don't even know. The hotel, it was… it was barely anything. I've done so much bad."

"I know." You nodded, gaze searching over his face. You brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, watching it tremble beneath your touch, and wondering if you were toeing your own cliff. "You might think you're terrible. Or a sinner." You murmured. You'd seen him praying plenty since you'd started traveling together. You knew he was religious. He had bought a rosary a few weeks ago after leaving his old one in the hotel. "But do you want to know what I see? I see you lighting up when certain songs come on the radio."

"I've killed so many people." Miles choked out, shoulders shaking. Yet his eyes didn't leave yours. "I've watched men get blown up. I never flinched when I looked down the sights and took a shot."

"I see you in the early mornings, breathing in every sunrise." You countered gently. "I see you when you talk to people in restaurants and diners or read the paper in the morning with some coffee."

"I-I've watched women get beaten and I've done nothin' about it. I've cleaned up so many terrible things and never said a word." Miles continued, though his voice was a little weaker.

"And you helped that lady in that town a few days ago water her flowers," You said gently. "You help me unpack and repack the car every time we're going to a hotel, and you always ask me how I am the first thing in the morning."

"I'm terrible." Miles said quietly. "I killed five people in that hotel lobby."

"And you saved five." You said firmly.

He blinked, frowning slightly. "There were only four people."

You shook your head. "No." Your free hand reached over, settling on his chest. "You saved yourself too, Miles. And you have been trying every single day since then to be better. And you are good."

He stared at you for a moment like he couldn't quite believe everything he was hearing. For a moment, you thought he'd finally explode and slip and yell. You hadn't heard him yell before, and you couldn't help but wonder if he ever really had. Then one shaky hand covered your own on his chest, fingers curling around your hand as he squeezed softly. "Do you really believe that?" Miles asked, searching your gaze.

You held eye contact and nodded, letting your thumb brush over his chin. "With every piece of my soul." Miles exhaled slowly, like something trapped inside of him was being let out. His gaze fell away, and he finally retracted from your touch. You let him.

"I'm tired." He said finally, voice hoarse.

You just nodded and opened the passenger seat. "Get in the back. I'll drive."

It was raining outside, and Miles wasn't back.

You'd been trying to restrain your anxiety for the better part of a hour—and, of course, you had entirely failed. The hotel room had become ten times smaller. You'd paced the room more times than you could count. You'd anxiously reorganized your supplies twice. You had nothing left to do but worry. Three days since you'd talked with Miles. The two of you were still in Oregon, though you had no idea where. You'd been tired the last few days. Awkward and overthinking everything you'd said. Miles had felt different. Stiff and quiet and still, like he was afraid to move. The two of you had barely spoken. You felt like you'd messed everything up by pushing too deep, trying to gouge open old wounds and act like you knew anything about a man you'd traveled with for only a month. You'd told yourself repeatedly not to panic, but the facts were laid clear and plain. Miles had left two hours ago to take a walk and clear his head. It had started raining. And he wasn't back. You felt like you were losing your mind.

The wind rattled at the window, and you flinched from where you sat on one of the beds. You put your head in your hands, trying both to fight back your panic and block out the sounds of the steady downpour outside. In any other situation, you might've found it soothing, but this only increased your spiral. Had Miles left? Was he safe? Was he hurt? Had somebody seen his bandaged head and decided to mug him? Or had he just grown tired of you? Had he grown tired of your questions? Had he thought you were mocking him or a liar? You didn't want to hurt him. He was sweet. You'd been so sincere when you said all you did the other day. He was good. So, so good, and you wished he would see that, but maybe it was too damn late—

A hand rapped at the door.

You sat straight up, breath catching in your throat. Jumping off the bed, you didn't even check through the peephole to see who it was before you were unlocking the hotel door and throwing it open. Miles Miller stood in the hallway, soaked to the bone, your borrowed coat tugged close to his form as his nose dripped with raindrops. His gaze tracked from the floor to your face, and he started to open his mouth.

You didn't even think before you flung your arms around him. "Oh, thank God."

Miles froze, standing there for a second. Then, an arm snaked around your back, resting above your waist. You felt him exhale as he leaned his head down, nuzzling slightly against the top of your head, and relief flooded through you so surely at the motion that it made you light-headed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled against your head. "I was trying to find a way back quicker."

"Shh." You squeezed him, firmly. "I'm just glad you're alright."

Miles released a noise that sounded like a laugh—which was absolutely impossible, because Miles Miller didn't laugh, right?—when you suddenly felt something shift under the coat which was unmistakably not one of his arms. You paused. "Miles."

"Please don't be mad." He murmured, still holding you against him like he was trying to drink the warmth from your body. You slowly pulled back from the hug and lowered your gaze to the middle of his coat. With an expression so guilty you nearly thought he was smuggling drugs, Miles pulled the coat aside to reveal…

… a kitten. A shivering, soaked-to-the-bone, grey-furred kitten who blinked up at you and mewled like it was saying hello. "Oh." You said lamely.

"Please don't be mad." Miles repeated pathetically, blinking at you.

You bit down on your lip, but it didn't stop the smile from forming on your face. "Come in, you lovely man, and close that door behind you."

Miles blinked again, and then smiled a little, stepping inside. "Who is this?" You asked, gesturing to the cat as you ducked inside the bathroom. You rummaged around and grabbed a towel before returning. Miles slowly set the cat down on his bed, where the kitten curled up in a ball and blinked up at the two of you with a baffled expression.

"I… found them." He shed the coat, hanging it up near the door as he slipped off his shoes. "It had already started to rain when I started back, but I heard this little sound underneath the steps of the church—"

"You went to a church?" You cut him off, raising your head from where you were gently patting off the kitten with a towel. Miles paused, fidgeting with his hands in that way you'd grown irresponsibly fond of.

"There's… a church a ways away. I saw it when we pulled into town. I thought-" Miles paused, readjusting. "I wanted to go."

Your head pinged the date sluggishly, as if clicking a piece into place. How long had he wanted to go to a church for? How had you not asked yet? How had you been so stupid? "… shit, Miles, I'm sorry. I didn't realize." You softened your voice as you rubbed at the kitten, who had unsteadily started to rumble in your hands. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I… don't know." Miles admitted. He couldn't seem to decide whether to look at you or the kitten. "I just… I wanted to go. Needed to. I didn't want you to worry about me. I needed to… get some things off my chest."

"They had confession?" You asked, raising your head to him.

He nodded, slowly. He definitely wasn't looking at you this time. You scanned over him. Dripping, soaked-through form and a sort of mixture in body language. Heaviness and confusion. "… you didn't go." You realized slowly.

Miles flinched, like you realizing was another sin upon itself. "I-I couldn't." He said finally, all shaky and soft. "I just- I couldn't. The time wasn't right. I just sat there and prayed and it didn't work, I couldn't will myself to go in like everyone else." His gaze dropped to the kitten. "So I left. And I heard them beneath the church and I just… couldn't leave that. So I grabbed them and came back."

"Oh, Miles." You said softly. Your heart very often felt like it was ripping in half lately, but this was especially one of those cases. Sweet, tortured boy. You flashed back to the conversation a few days ago. How could someone be so scared for themselves that they even avoided something they thought could save them?

"I'm sorry." Miles mumbled.

"Don't apologize, please. You don't have anything to apologize for." You said firmly, blinking a few times so he didn't see you start to tear up. "I just want you safe. Will you go shower for me? I'll look after our new friend. Just… breathe for a moment in there. Take your time."

Miles locked eyes with you for a moment, as if checking you were sure, but he nodded eventually, disappearing behind weathered hotel doors. You only released a full breath when you heard the water turn on. The kitten in your arms was young, but not a baby. Nine weeks old, maybe. Still small and shaky, but with open eyes and a strong little body. The fur was matted, and they were underfed, but otherwise, miraculously healthy. No ticks or fleas. No injuries. No hurt limbs. Just a cold little kitten. You flipped them over. They were—she was—a resilient little thing. "No wonder the two of you found each other," you murmured to the kitten as she nuzzled into one of the pillows on Miles' bed, blinking at you quietly. "Kindred spirits, huh?"

You sat on Miles' bed, hands folded in your lap, for some unknown amount of time. Your thoughts wandered as you stared out the window, watching the rain hit the glass. The storm had intensified slightly, distant thunder now rumbling, but inside it was safe and warm. Warm lights and soft sheets. The kitten had wandered to your lap at some point and was curled up. You still felt guilty. Overwhelmingly so. Not even the soft fur of a little being could help you. Were you an asshole? Were you ignorant? You should have thought of Miles. Over a month of traveling together, of seeing him praying and staring at nothing at all sometimes. You should've been better. You'd been cowardly these last few weeks, you'd come to realize. You'd been too scared to toe at more than you absolutely needed to. Never pushing, never digging, never asking what he needed. You were experienced, you weren't an idiot to what people might need when they were going through things. You should've been more observant, more ready to try and help him. It was foolish to think that just words could soothe anything, especially from you. What the hell were you thinking-

A soft murmur of your name caught at your ears. You blinked once, then again, hard, and raised your head from where you'd been staring blankly at the floor. You were immediately met with the sight of Miles standing in a towel—and only a towel—with mussed hair and eased shoulders and the prettiest quirk to his lip and- holy shit, Miles was mostly naked.

You nearly snapped your neck with how fast you turned your head away. "Oh, Miles—"

"Sorry! Sorry." He shifted back, half hiding behind the bathroom door. "Sorry, I just… I didn't grab clothes and I was checking on the cat—"

"Right, right, no, it's fine." You were rambling over him as quick as you could. "It's… it's all okay. You grab your clothes."

Miles nodded slowly and re-entered the room. He leaned over on the other side of the bed, rifling through his recently purchased duffel bag. All you could see was his back, bare and still a little damp, and that was… entirely more than you deserved. Your neck was hurting from how hard it was turned around without disturbing the kitten on your lap, but you found you couldn't tear your gaze away from him. Miles' back was all pale and smooth, a few moles, muscles subtly flexing under his skin. You hadn't expected him to have any muscles, especially after everything he'd been through recently, but he did. Subtle yet certain. You took in a slow breath, fingers sinking deeper into the furry ball in your lap. Your fingers itched to reach out—trace lines between the moles, feel him breathing beneath your palm. You wanted to touch him. You wanted him—Miles leaned back up, and you tore your eyes away so fast it nearly gave you whiplash.

"How are they?" He asked softly. It took you a moment to realize he was asking about the kitten.

"Oh. She's- she's good. And she's a she." You looked down at the kitten, who was blinking up at Miles as he approached to glance down at her. "She's a bit malnourished, but no broken bones, fleas, ticks. It's honestly remarkable that she isn't more hurt."

Miles hummed softly, extending a finger. The kitten stretched out her neck, sniffing at him, then bumping her cheek against his finger. "Thank you, Lord," you heard Miles murmur. That tenseness in your chest eased slightly.

A few minutes later, Miles re-emerged with fresh clothes on. You had him sit on his bed, taking the time to reassess his facial situation. Over a month of constant care, with medication, creams, bandages, and constant cleaning, and his face was looking much better. More an issue now of muscle and skin tissue binding itself back together now. You'd honestly never seen wounds recover so well before. "They're looking really good." You murmured, leaning over Miles to study his face. You held your breath as you gently touched at his face, watching for his reaction. "You can start going without bandages, too. Looks like everything's closed up for the most part. Your skin tissue is mostly what's recovering."

"And that's good?" Miles asked. His gaze was focused on you, and for a moment, you lost your train of thought. Soft blue eyes and mussed hair gazed up at you. He looked so soft tonight—clothed comfortably, a dozing kitten in his lap. You were surprised by the sudden vision in your head of seeing him like this for the rest of your life. Your name being spoken pulled you from your thoughts, and you blinked. Miles' hand was touching at your wrist, his head slightly tilted. "Are you okay?" He asked slowly.

You swallowed and nodded. "Yes. Sorry, I'm fine, I'm just…" Preoccupied. Worried. Tired. Losing my mind. Questioning how I really feel about you. "… I was just focused. Yes, it's good. You'll scar, likely, but… you're healing really well, Miles."

"A miracle." His lips pulled into a small smile, the kind of expression you'd grown used to. His eyes ran over your face. "You're… you're a miracle. How are you so experienced with medicine? You seem… very knowledgeable in the areas of first aid."

You hesitated slightly, fingers lingering where his jaw met his neck. You pulled back, taking in a slow breath as you reached to grab some medicinal cream. The scent of medicine hit your nose as you opened the jar, smearing a small amount on your thumb. "… so you know how you were in Vietnam?" You questioned quietly. Miles nodded as your gaze returned to him, those intent eyes searching your expression. "Well… I was too." You murmured, leaning forward. Your thumb swiped cream over his wounded side, and you pretended not to see how Miles' eyes widened. You could practically see the thoughts forming beneath his gaze as he stared at you.

"You're- you were a nurse?" He stammered out.

"Mhm." You hummed, tongue poking out slightly as you concentrated to see where you had and hadn't applied the cream. "Served in three different stations. Twelve month tour."

"… wow." Miles' lips parted slightly, and he took in a shaky breath. "That… musta been hard."

"You were a soldier." You shot him a vaguely amused look, raising an eyebrow. "You know as well as I do."

"Some would argue it's worse to see someone die when it's your job to save 'em." He responded quietly.

"Who argues that?"

"… some people."

"Hmm." You smiled a little as you stepped back, screwing the lid back on the jar of cream and studying the face before you. "I dunno. I try… try not to think about it." As opposed to Miles, who had clearly thought about what he'd done so much it was trying to destroy him.

Miles' jaw wavered as he watched you grab more bandages. "How can you do it?" He whispered hoarsely. "Live with everything you saw? Everything that happened around or because of you?"

You hesitated, picking at the edge of a bandage. "I don't know, I guess I just..." You said. You made a downward pushing motion with one hand. "Not that it's healthy, but they never really taught us about mental health in wartime matters."

Miles smiled a little, which took you by surprise. His shoulders eased slightly as he looked up at you, a certain light in his eyes you hadn't seen before. "I guess… that makes two of us?" He said quietly. Almost hopeful, really. And how could you deny somebody their hope when you hadn't seen it in them before?

"Yeah." You took in a slow breath and leaned forward, starting to wrap his head carefully. "That's reassuring, I guess." You nodded down at the cat in his lap. "Three of us, I suppose."

"We're keeping her?" The hope in his voice bolted through you again. You nodded a little, looking at Miles.

"Would you like to?"

He stared at you. Maybe surprised that it mattered to you, what he wanted. You just held his gaze firmly as you finished wrapping his head. When you started to pull back, his hand caught at your wrist again. A thumb gently smoothed along the skin of your hand, those blue eyes locked on your own. Miles leaned in slightly, like he wanted to pierce your bubble and live in your space. "Thank you." He said softly. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." Your heart jumped in your chest. You prayed he couldn't feel your pulse under his fingers. His statement was so wholehearted. So honest. Forcing down the lump in your throat, you nodded and leaned closer to him, smiling a little in a way that felt anything but the casual expression you were going for. "You're welcome, Miles Miller. I think you're pretty wonderful too."

One and a half months ago. The El Royale.

It had been raining for some time now. You had only started to be bothered by it because there was a leak in your roof. The El Royale was a run-down hotel by now, an old kind of luxury that had been worn and sanded down. Failing reputation had left it as a bastion manned by one incredibly endearing worker, and you doubted anybody else checked in a lot. It seemed like way too much for one person to handle, so you didn't hold it against Miles for not being an expert in roof integrity. Still, it was beginning to worry you how much your roof was leaking. What had started out as a drip so light and infrequent you thought your mind was playing tricks on you had escalated into a near constant drip of water directly onto one of the beds in your room. You'd laid down all the spare towels from your earlier bath, but as you watched with your hands on your hips, you realized that this may be something that needed more. Like a bucket. Or ten buckets.

You peered out one of your windows into the storm. Night had fallen, blanketing the El Royale in a wash of neon lights (from the hotel's sign) that were only as bright as they were because the rainfall made every surface shine. You could see your car from here, getting a firm beatdown in the rain. No other signs of life. You wondered if anybody else had been unlucky enough to get a leaky roof too. You sighed, straightening your shoulders and turning around to grab your key. Even though you were already feeling absolutely terrible at the thought of trying to find Miles late in the night, you would feel even worse if you left in the morning to a ruined roof and bed. You took in a breath and opened your door to face the rain.

The downfall wasn't as bad as you expected. You found a way to edge under a roof most of the way, listening to thunder and watching lightning occasionally flash in the sky above. It felt good, honestly—you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt rain like this. Everywhere deserved a good storm from time to time. You could excuse getting a little damp considering your hotel room was going through the same thing. You wiped off your face and pushed the door open to the lobby, unable to stop the yawn pulled from your throat, when your eyes caught on the scene in front of you. There was a girl swinging from the chandelier in the middle of the room. The hippie woman from earlier was turning towards you. And Miles, sweet hotel worker Miles, was tied to a chair, the left side of his face bloody. You froze where you stood.

"What the fuck?" You exclaimed.

"Aw, shit—" The woman was reaching for something leaned against a chair opposite Miles. Pure instinct drove you, and you darted forward, ducking down behind some pillar in the room with your hands over your head.

"WAIT!" You shrieked.

"Get the fuck up right now!" The woman shouted.

"DON'T SHOOT ME, ARE YOU INSANE?!" You shouted back.

"I ain't never been more sure of somethin' in my life." The woman hissed out, her voice starkly cold. "I've got a gun aimed towards where you're hiding right now. Get. Up. Raise your hands. And move slowly."

There was still a girl swinging on the chandelier. It was creaking in the silence, thunder rumbling distantly. You blew out a slow breath and stood slowly, raising your hands above your head as you took small, careful steps out from behind the pillar. Indeed, there was a gun aimed right at your chest—shotgun, it seemed, though you supposed any gun would be bad and the make of it didn't matter. "There you go." The woman nodded, keeping a sharp-eyed gaze firmly on you. "Nice and slow. Come towards me."

You kept walking slowly, ever-constantly aware of the silence oppressively suspending the room. The only person who didn't seem to feel this tension was the girl swinging on the chandelier, who, although she was watching the interaction, seemed satisfied to continue having her own fun. As you stepped closer, Miles came into view, and your eyes found each other. He'd been crying, his shoulders shaking slightly as he choked back sobs. He bit at his lip, watery gaze looking at you with this mix of hopelessness and fear and pain.

"Miles," you called. "are you okay?"

"What kinda dumb question is that?" The woman scoffed.

You swung your head back to her. "The fuck happened to him? You shot him?"

"He was collateral."

Your blood went cold and your pace faltered. "You shot someone else?"

The woman stared at you for a moment. Her gaze was distant for a moment, almost remorseful, like she was looking down a long line of terrible, horrible things. "I did." She said finally.

"Who?"

"That's none of your damn business." She nodded her head to the chair opposite of Miles. "Sit down."

Your gaze went back to Miles, and you hesitated. "He's hurt," you addressed the woman. "Please, can I just check him—"

"He's alive." You didn't move as she stepped closer, but you did flinch when you felt metal press into your back. Her voice was lower, closer to your ear now when she spoke again. "And I have a very low thread of patience tonight, so I'd suggest doin' what I tell you."

You couldn't tear your gaze from Miles, who was just staring at the two of you. Color had drained further from his face when the gun had been pressed to your back. For his sake, at least, you decided to listen. You hoped your gaze apologized more than any words could as you slowly sank into the chair opposite of him. "You come alone?" The woman asked, then called over to the other girl. "Get down here. I need your help."

The girl didn't object, though she did huff as she stopped swinging. She dropped off the chandelier, boots thudding on the ground as she lightly skipped over. You met her eyes as she stood in front of you, tensing slightly. There was something else about these two. This girl—something sharp and hollow lingered in her eyes as she took a piece of rope from her sister's hands and wrapped it around you. The whole time, you kept your eyes locked on what part of Miles you could. He was teary, shaking, looking at you apologetically.

"It's going to be okay." were the first words out of your mouth. You'd never fancied yourself a liar, not before, but you couldn't stand the tortured way he was looking at you.

"Maybe." The girl chirped, sounding very cheerful for what this situation was. She scampered back over to her area, clambering up her setup of haphazard furniture to grab onto the chandelier again. Miles flinched at the noise, shoulders curving into himself, and you blinked as you watched her. What in the world was she—

"Why did you kill someone?" You found yourself asking, craning your head to lock eyes with the woman standing just behind you. "And why was he collateral?"

She looked down at you, jaw working, and you saw a flicker of something in her eyes. Remorse? Caution? "Do you know what's going on at this hotel?" She said finally.

Your gaze narrowed, nerves tensing your body. "What do you mean?"

"So that's a no." She took in a slow breath, shifting the gun in her hand and setting it aside. The woman's gaze flicked to Miles, and she raised an eyebrow—part pity, part sardonic. "You wanna say, or should I?" Miles swallowed thickly. He looked between the woman, and you, and suddenly hiccuped on another sob, shaking his head a little. Your chest tightened. "Hm. Alright." The woman rounded on you. "This is some kind of pervert hotel. They've got this hallway behind the mirrors in rooms." She jutted her chin towards him. "He told me he's seen things here. Bad things."

Your gaze moved back to Miles. He stared right back at you, shaking his head a little as tears spilled over his bloody cheeks. "I'm sorry." He whispered. You shook your head, opening your mouth, but a sudden crash interrupted the chaos. The three of you whipped your heads just in time to watch the chandelier crash from the ceiling, the girl giving a little yelp as she came down to the ground with it. Surprisingly, she stumbled up from it a moment after, wiping her hair from her face.

"Jesus, you alright?" The woman asked. The girl gave her a small nod, and the woman huffed, sagging slightly. You were guessing she had a lot going on in her life, but you weren't sure if you felt any sympathy considering the everything else that was happening right now.

"You gonna kill us?" You asked after a moment of tense silence, raising your gaze to the woman as you set your jaw.

She gazed back at you, her own jaw clenching. "Maybe I should." It was an attempt at being cold, but you could sort of tell she was just scared. "He might deserve it." She gave a flippant gesture of her gun to Miles, and you shifted in your chair, glaring harder.

"Don't fucking say that." You snapped. "You're gonna blame an employee instead of an employer? A victim?"

"He coulda done something-"

"And you 'coulda done something' about your situation instead of shooting two men, no?!" You exclaimed back, staring up at her. "Leave Miles out of this. Hell, leave me outta it. Nobody wants to pay for your damn mistakes. I don't care what kinda day you're having, but it shouldn't keep ending in death because you've got it rough." Everyone in the room was staring at you like your head was on fire. You kind of felt like it was. You took in a breath and sagged slightly back into your chair, but you didn't let your gaze leave the woman. Her eyes glistened for a moment, just a moment, and you wondered if something you said had maybe weaseled through whatever else was going on in her head. Instead of doing anything miraculous, though, she shifted away, walking to the front desk. You heard the sound of paper shifting, watched Miles' eyes follow her shakily. You craned your head to watch her take the ledger paper from earlier. Neat names signed in a row in different types of scripts, like targets on people's backs. She blew out a slow breath and gripped the paper tighter. "Where are the others?"

Miles named the kitten Sally. Sally was a very quiet kitten unless she was sitting on Miles' chest or face, in which case she purred so loudly she could mimic a car. She loved napping in the backseat and staring out the window, and she seemed firmly devoted to trying to lick away the wounds on Miles' face whenever you were trying to apply cream to them. In short, she was incredible, and both of you loved her.

You were still in Oregon. You liked Oregon, you'd decided. It was silent and foggy and forested and yet you never felt lonely, not lately. Because Miles was always with you. Always the two of you, sleeping in the car or in little motels and hotels. Yet still, there wasn't a full decision what next or when to stop. You couldn't decide if the two of you were still running or not. You also couldn't decide what you were doing. Regarding feelings, regarding personal things. It seemed like nothing one day and then the next it was the heaviest, thickest weight in your chest that followed you through every human interaction. Miles Miller. You liked Miles Miller.

It followed you through everything. Through the turmoil. Through him rarely falling asleep in the passenger seat instead of the back, head lolling, soft breaths leaving him. It followed you when he leaned into your touch on his face like he needed it, followed you when he looked at those with those soulful blue eyes. It followed you when he laughed, haunted you like a ghost in your dreams, made you want something that sat so close to you most days. It was eating you from the inside out. He was eating you from the inside out. He had no idea. And you couldn't find it in yourself to tell him.

"Seems like an alright place."You were shaken from your thoughts as Miles spoke. He was leaned slightly forward in the passenger's seat, eyes scanning over the town as you drove through. "It's… pretty."

"Pretty's one very simple way to put it." Small town. Ringed by woods and air and light. Small, but large enough. Something about it settled in your chest just right even looking at it. Maybe it was the flower decorations along Main Street, or the shop doors being propped open to let in the air. Either way, it was the kind of place that made you feel nice just by existing in it. "You seein' any sign of an inn with those peepers of yours?" You asked, keeping your gaze on the road. Miles had recently taken to having his bandages off from time to time. The air on the wounds would do him a little good. You were still monitoring, still giving medicine, still seeing if you needed to ever stitch him back together, but all signs were pointing towards something brighter. Recovery. Even despite the scarring, which Miles never talked about, he'd been surprisingly optimistic about his face.

He asked you what you thought of it every few days. Your answers were always the same. You look good. You wondered if he read into it as much as you did.

"There." His finger extended, pointing to the right, where a sign displayed about vacancies and open rooms and the nice, cheap price. Miracles did exist.

"Nice, Miles, thank you." You pulled into the parking lot and exited the car, leaning down to speak with him. "You wanna come in?"

"Sally's still napping," Miles murmured, glancing at the backseat. "So… sure, yes."

"We won't be long." You assured him as he stepped out. "Let's go see the situation." The small room and reception desk was unmanned when the two of you stepped in. A bell pleasantly jingled above you, which unpleasantly reminded you of the El Royale, but you pushed that thought away as you came to the front desk, glancing down at the bell there and then over your shoulder at Miles, who was studying the travel guides on the wall. "… hello?" You called after a moment, raising your voice softly so it would permeate all the way back to the half-open door behind the desk.

Movement from behind the desk caught at your ears. The voice of an older woman called out, voice frustrated. "Be right there!"

True to her word, moments later you were greeted with the bespectacled face of a woman in her late fifties, hair stuffed with two pencils and a pen, wearing the coziest (and most disorganized) outfit you'd ever seen. Her eyes moved from you to Miles, and she blinked a few times, the scowl on her face easing. You shot her a small smile. "Hi, good afternoon. We're looking for a room for the night?"

"Ah." The lady hummed, nodding. "Sorry for the hostility, I've been havin' these teens from town comin' by to book rooms and they always ding and ditch on me."

"Oh." You frowned. "Sounds frustrating."

"They always trash the rooms, too. Got no damn idea where they live either." The lady huffed, shrugging. "It is what it is. I got more to worry about than them."

"I used to work in a hotel," Miles offered quietly behind you. "I understand the experience of room servicing."

The woman softened slightly, her gaze moving to him. "Well, thank you, honey. Guess we've both been through our own experiences, huh?" She sighed, adjusting her glasses on her face. "Y'all said you needed a room?"

"Yeah." You nodded. "Just one night."

"Four dollars," the woman said, fishing for a key in a drawer. "Unless you'll be needing room services of any kind, in which case, it's six."

"Uh… no, we should be alright, thank you." You took out the money from your wallet. Money had been a little lighter lately. Consistent travel meant you were always spending, spending, spending, and it was beginning to worry you a bit, though you'd never say such a thing to Miles.

"Are all of these things really in this town?"

You glanced over your shoulder, finding Miles with a pamphlet opened as he read through. His eyes drew up, moving from you to the woman, and you couldn't help but soften at the curiosity in his gaze.

"Yup, that's all here." The woman affirmed. "Small enough town, but we've got lots goin' for us." She studied the two of you curiously. "Where y'all from?"

"… long story," you mumbled. "I came from Nevada."

She nodded to Miles. "And you?"

Miles lowered the pamphlet sheepishly, shrugging slightly. "… California and Nevada, I guess."

"You guess." The woman clicked her tongue, but it wasn't mean, more amused than anything. She gave you a look you couldn't quite read and passed the key over the counter to you. "Well. Room 1C. I'm Constance if y'all need anything. No askin' for shit after six pm."

"Thank you, ma'am." You said as you took the key. She just adjusted her glasses and took out a smoke as you left. Miles and you grabbed your bags from the car. Sally stirred as you did so, stretching and yawning in the backseat, and Miles offered her the crook of his shoulder. She jumped up, nestling and clinging to him with a satisfied noise, and you smiled at the sight.

"I still don't get how you inadvertently trained her to do that." You said as you both lugged your things to the room, watching Sally nudge against the scarred skin on the left side of his face.

Miles just gave you a small, sheepish smile. "She just likes being close to my face, I think."

Me too. You thought before you could stop yourself. You released your best attempt at a small chuckle and fidgeted with the key in your hand so you didn't have to keep watching him and feel that odd little jump in your chest any longer. "Well, that's good except for when she tries to smother you when you nap." You said as you inserted the key into the lock. "She doesn't exactly seem to grasp the idea of oxygen yet—"

You pushed the door open and paused at the sight in front of you. There was only one bed. "Ah, damn." You muttered.

"What?" Miles peeked over your shoulder. You couldn't stop him, considering he was taller than you, so you just stood there, half-frozen, as you felt his gaze lock onto the singular bed. Miles' pose shifted behind you, a small exhale leaving his lips and ghosting over you.

"Oh." He said quietly. "Guess… guess she thought we… were a couple?"

"Haha! Yeah. Probably." You awkwardly shuffled into the room, items in your arms, and Miles followed you. He immediately started rambling.

"If you're uncomfortable, I'm sure we could go back in there and… and ask for another room," he said. "I mean, it's not our faults she thought that about us, you know? We can just explain…"

He trailed off as Sally hopped off his shoulder, making a small oomph of surprise and watching with those wide blue eyes as the gray kitten crossed the room and scrambled up the large bed. She wordlessly plopped down in the center of it, curling up, and blinking at the two of you languidly as if saying she'd staked her claim.

Despite the tight little ball in your chest, you couldn't stop yourself from laughing. "Seems like our little companion has decided our fate for us." You turned to Miles, giving him a small smile. His eyes flicked down to your smile—to your lips? No, you couldn't think like that—as you spoke. "It's a big bed, I think we can manage. As long as you're alright with it."

Miles nodded slowly, eyes slowly dragging back up to yours. The tips of his ears went pink as he swallowed. "… are you sure?" He questioned softly.

"Positive." You affirmed with a smile.

All was well after that. The two of you organized your items and took stock of your supplies. You'd grab some snacks on the way out of town, but for now, the two of you headed out for a quick dinner.

Miles was practically plastered to the window of the car as you took a slow drive through town, taking in everything around you. You couldn't help but shoot him an amused glance.

"You really seem to like it here."

"I'm just… looking." He murmured softly, head swiveling to look at a restaurant both of you passed by which was absolutely crammed with locals. "I haven't seen a town like… this before."

"This?" You echoed.

Miles shrugged, head turning to you for a moment. "I grew up somewhere small. Farm town. Just… fields and barns and a little main street. The church and our home were the only places that mattered. This place feels… less distant. Like everything's sewn together and it fits."

You nodded a little, glancing at him as you pulled into a parking space. "I get it. Feeling good somewhere. I'm glad you like it."

He just smiled at you. You wondered how miraculous it was, having such an incredible person at your side despite everything that had happened.

The diner you ate at was busy, stuffed with locals. You'd apparently come in right during the dinner rush, though neither of you minded. The two of you sat at the counter, where Miles was swept into conversation by a few people to his right who insisted his opinion on some long-standing argument they'd gotten into. You propped your head in your hand after placing your order with the pretty lady your age and just watched him, feeling that tightness in your chest loosen. Miles looked… looser lately. He still kept his hair neat, but it had gotten a little longer, which was forcing him to improvise his hairstyles more. Color had returned fully to his face. His scars were healing nicely. He was dressed comfortably and he actually talked now, though there was still the nerves and the way his eyes darted away before he could ever look too long.

You cared about him so much it scared you. What a difference a couple months could make of you.

You were just starting to fish out the cash to pay for your dinners when one of the cooks came out of the back, wiping sweat off his face with a rag. He was about the same age as the two of you, and you hesitated when he pulled the rag down from his face and you spotted a scar against the left of his face. Blast scar, it looked like. You had experience from those during the war. None of them pretty. Most of them lethal. The fact that this guy was walking around with two good eyes was one of the most miraculous things you'd seen.

The man locked eyes with you, then Miles, who drew up short at the sight of him, probably thinking the same thing as you.

"Huh." A smile stretched across the man's lips, tugging his scar a different way. "New to town, huh? I'd remember a face like yours." He nodded at Miles, then tapped at his own scar. "You from overseas too?"

Miles tensed slightly, shoulders drawing together. He took in a breath, and you watched as his pupils dilated slightly, gaze unfocusing. He stepped back, shakily, nearly tripping over his own feet. Instinctively, you put a hand to his back to steady him, hoping he didn't hurt himself in front of everyone.

"We both are, actually." You answered softly, drawing the attention away from Miles. "You recently discharged?"

"Eh, somewhat." The guy shrugged. He passed a look of mutual understanding between the two of you, gaze assessing.

"It's a nice town." He said after a moment of silence. "Makes you feel whole again."

"Oh, you're mistaken." You shook your head, trying to raise your voice over the noise of the diner. "We're not staying—"

"Hey, you paid me a little extra!" The peppy waitress popped back into the conversation, sliding you some money back. "I mean, I appreciate the tipping and all, but y'all keep all the money you need. Hard times and all."

"… thank you." You slowly took the money back, gaze flicking between the waitress and the cook. "Thanks for the food. Y'all have a nice night." You stepped away from the counter, but Miles didn't move. He stood, blinking emptily at the counter, chest rising and falling shakily.

You leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze. "Miles?" You questioned softly.

He didn't respond.

You extended your arm, gently looping it through Miles' own. "Hey," you said softly. "you with me?"

He blinked a few times, startling like he'd violently come back to Earth, mindlessly leaning against you slightly like you were the only thing that was real. Which was… worrying. Very worrying.

"… um," he mumbled. "I—"

"Okay. You're okay." You waved at the waitress and the cook, who had been swept up in a conversation together but still spared you waves and smiles, and lead him out of the diner and into the car. "Are you gonna throw up?"

"No." He pressed pinched fingers to his nose, breathing shakily. "'m sorry."

"Miles, hey, no, don't- don't be. Stop that." Your hand was on his knee, reaching over the console to squeeze and tether. "Can you look at me?"

He did. Slowly. His eyes had the beginnings of tears in them, which made your heart ache for him. You reached up slowly, carefully rubbing under one eye, pressing ever so gently against his eyebags.

"Can you tell me what happened in there?" You asked gently.

Miles blew out a shaky breath. Though his gaze flicked away from you, he didn't move from your touch. Instead, his cheek nudged closer into the palm of your hand, skin of his cheek smushing slightly. You felt your chest give a little stutter, but you tried not to change your expression as you listened to him.

"It's strange," Miles started. "but even though I was a soldier, I jus'… is everyone just gonna think I got scarred from the war?"

You studied him, gaze softening. "You don't want people to keep bringing it up."

Miles nodded, and then sniffled, shoulders shaking. You frowned as a tear slipped from his eyes, bringing your hand up from his knee to cup the other side of his face and brush the tear away. His lip quivered, but he just pressed into your hands harder, shoulders starting to shake more.

"I just- it was so much easier to hide be-before, so much easier—" He choked on his breath, another wave of tears washing over his face. Before you could stop yourself, you pulled him closer, letting him rest his head on your shoulder as you held him. Miles responded instantly, hands curling into your shirt as he held you close, his body shaking as he cried.

"I could jus' go to work and work and film things and I had heroin—" Miles rambled into your shoulder, voice slightly muffled but still so, so legible with his voice close to your ear. "-but I don't have that now, I jus' sit and I think in the car about everything that happened and I can't, I can't do it no more, please."

"I know, baby, I know." You didn't pay any mind to the words slipping from your lips, just holding him close because he needed it. Needed you. You ran your hand up and down his back, keeping your voice low and soothing in the way you knew he liked. "I know it's hard. You've been so brave for so long. You don't have to hold it all in anymore."

"I can't do it." He repeated into your shoulder. "I can't. It's too much."

"It's not too much." You assured him softly. "You're still here, aren't you? Still existing with me, caring for Sally, driving all over the west with me. You're doing so good."

You turned your head slightly, making sure he could hear you. You needed him to hear you. You needed him to know.

"If you can't keep it in any longer," you murmured. "then start to tell me. Tell me everything you want to."

He went silent and still against you, trembling shoulders held back as he hiccuped on a breath. The car was so silent you could hear the world outside, the group of locals who were passing by all cheerful and loud.

"I can't- I can't burden you like that." Miles whispered into your shoulder, sounding horrified. "I seen things. I can't tell you everything, I can't- I won't do that to you."

"I've seen things too." You said firmly. You squeezed your eyes shut. It wasn't hard to recall everything you spent so much time burying. "Seen men's legs torn to shreds and bodies twisted at broken angles. I've had men start screaming themselves hoarse, tryin' to claw into my skin just so I'd stop treating them. I've seen dead kids and dead women and I've puked over the smell of dead bodies before."

Miles pulled back slowly, gazing at you with red and watery eyes. "You've—" He blew out a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry—"

"Stop." You cupped his face again, meeting his eyes firmly. "I just want you to know I'm here, okay? I'll listen. And I'll care. No matter what. I can promise you that."

Miles looked shaky. Like the world had been pulled out from under his feet again. You hadn't seen him this shaky in a bit and it worried you more than you could vocalize. But still, you stroked your thumbs over his face, praying to anything that might be listening that he would believe you this once.

"You don't have to answer me now." You said finally, when the silence had dragged long past comfortable and he had hardly moved an inch. Miles managed a nod at that, at least, and pulled away from your touch. The distance, too, worried you. You couldn't help but call yourself selfish for that.

Miles was silent for the rest of the night. The drive back to the hotel was doubly so—your radio kept fading in and out, products of a distant storm on the horizon, and there was some weird sound persisting in the car that wasn't exactly promising.

Still, there was little else to do but go on. Miles shuffled into the hotel room, and you pried open the hood of your car, frowning down at the arrangement of the machine beneath you like you understood anything about vehicles. After your thirty-second period of staring yielded no results, you decided there was nothing you could do. Rubbing your hand over your face, you shrugged and closed the hood of your car. Any good problem went away with time. You just looked up at the clouding skies and returned to the hotel room.

The bed was large enough for the two of you to fit comfortably. You arranged an extra blanket halfway down the bed, drawing a line for the two of you to follow. Miles sat in the chair in the corner of the room, Sally in his lap, a distant look in his eyes as he barely paid attention to anything. Which definitely, totally did not worry you.

Stuck in the shower, you let the warm water run over you, your forehead pressed against the cool tile. You felt like you were losing it lately, which wasn't saying much because you felt like that very often. But it felt different this time, like an ache, or a thorn in a metaphorical palm that you couldn't pull loose. You couldn't help but feel guilty about it too. It wasn't like life was easy right now, but it wasn't… bad. You actually couldn't remember the last time you'd liked your life as much as you did right now. You were safe, even if you didn't have a house or a bed to sleep every night. You spent your days with someone you cared about, who you were pretty sure cared about you as well.

And yet you had no home, no true safety, no stable job. You were running out of money, you had two other lives in your hands, and you were afraid to bring any of it up for fear of what it could spark.

The water was turning cold. You switched it off and got out, letting your thoughts spiral down the drain with the flow.

Getting into bed was an awkward ordeal. The two of you split the covers, with you giving Miles the thicker one despite the fact it was getting colder out and you'd probably regret it later. Sally chose her allegiance, settling by Miles' head and blinking at you as if saying Get your shit together. Which, yeah, thanks, cat.

"You're sure this is fine?" Miles mumbled in the dark. You could see the outline of his body if you turned your head slightly, though you were trying not to, because you were trying not to think about how close he was.

"I'm sure." You responded softly, feeling far too vulnerable even in the dark. "Sleep is what's important."

Of course, saying this meant you couldn't sleep afterward. Lying on your side, back to Miles, you stared firmly at the wallpaper across from you, thoughts running like a raging river. It was only after you'd gone down a line of thought following Miles leaving you that you told yourself you were being silly. There were rough patches. Such things were to be expected right now. A very small and a very great amount of time had passed all at once, and you needed to just… breathe. Just breathe. Both of you were safe and in one of the nicest towns you'd been to thus far.

So you breathed. You breathed and breathed and breathed until your mind unspooled into a dream where you were back in Vietnam and a doe-eyed soldier gazed at you from afar. You distracted him from drills and he always looked away too late, but you always smiled and waved. The other nurses teased you about your distant crush on Miles Miller, the sniper boy the soldiers called their savior. They argued killing machine and you argued kindness, seeing the remorse hidden behind his eyes when a mission went well and how his hands would often shake when he wasn't holding a rifle. You dreamt of speaking to him, how the two of you would share shy smiles and quiet glances and try to find each other in a room, even if the other definitely wouldn't be there.

And you dreamt of an attack, where the world was all fire and smoke and ashes in the night. Distant explosions, screams of the people you'd grown to know. Stumbling through the ruins of a camp, you screamed until your throat was raw, begging for help, for support. For someone, anyone to save you. You were blind and dirty, stumbling through the camp until you spotted a silhouette on a distant hill, illuminated by the explosion of a plane behind him.

Miles. Miles, your soldier boy, who stood on the hill, rifle raised unflinchingly. Shots rang out among the chaos as you stumbled closer, hoarsely screaming his name even as your voice squeaked out. Bodies fell nearby, the enemy indistinguishable from you, but all you could focus on was Miles on the hill. Miles, Miles, Miles, your Miles, your heart sang as you stumbled towards him. Yet you never seemed to get closer, no matter the bodies you stepped over or the tents you passed. There was just death, death, death, crawling up your throat and seeping into your nose.

And there was Miles up on the hill, shooting down countless people, never faltering, never freezing, until he reached to reload and a crack sounded through the air.

You watched his head jerk back. You'd seen so much death. Recognized a hit when you saw one. Yet it still didn't feel real as you watched his body rock back, limp, and fall to the ground.

All the air rushed back into your lungs. The world buzzed around you, sound slamming into you, and you screamed-

"Miles! MILES! MILES!—"

—and then you were surging up, gasping for air and clawing at the covers around you, breathlessly hiccuping on your sobs. You couldn't breathe, you were confused and scared and your last memories were of fire and smoke and death, death, death, the death of the only person left that you cared about—

"Hey. Hey, hey, hey."

Someone's hands cupped at your face. They were shaking. This was the first real detail you took in about the waking world.

Your name was murmured. Softly, insistently, shakily, but it was spoken nonetheless, dripping with worry. Your heart pounded in your chest, but the ringing in your ears was subsiding.

"It's okay," the person was saying. "I'm right here, don't worry, you're… you're okay. You're safe."

You blinked a few times. Every blink brought you back to the present, though you paid by it pressing out another wave of tears to slip down your face. Slowly, your gaze focused, and you blinked at the scene around you.

The room you were sleeping in. The bed, blankets disturbed and a pillow on the ground. You were sitting with your legs tangled, feeling the remnants of panic in your chest.

Miles was kneeling on the bed, hands cupping your face as his gaze shifted over you. His eyes were wide, slightly panicked, his hands shaking like he was unsure if he was even allowed to be doing what he was doing.

You took in a gulp of air, your chest burning still from the sobs that had been leaving you. "I'm so- I'm so sorry, did I wake you up?"

Miles blinked, like he hadn't expected that to be your first question. He shook his head softly. "N-no. No, you didn't. I was awake already."

"I'm so sorry." You repeated again, moving your hand to messily wipe tear tracks off your face as you sniffled. "I-I didn't—"

"Were you dreaming?" He interrupted. His voice was so soft and gentle and sweet. He was just so sweet. Your Miles Miller.

Your eyes scanned over his face. You got a flash of him on the hill, head jerking backwards as a bullet pierced his skull. You just nodded weakly, throat thickening.

"You were calling my name." Miles said quietly. "Jus'… shaking and sobbing and calling out for me."

You became very conscious of his shaking hands, his thumbs running along your cheeks.

"I… had a dream you were dead." You forced out eventually, scanning over the side of his face that was peppered with scars. "That you died in Vietnam, fighting. And I couldn't… do anything about it."

Miles' lips parted in a soft 'O' shape. "Oh." He whispered. "I-I'm sorry."

You laughed a little at that, though it was all watery and shaky. "Why on Earth are you apologizing?"

"You had a bad dream because of me." He was pouting slightly, that familiar look of guilt swimming in his eyes, and you shook your head firmly, raising your hands to rest over his own.

"I had a bad dream because of myself. Because I… care about you." Deeper words stuck in the back of your throat. Denial, denial, denial, you couldn't go down that path right now, couldn't say you felt that way.

Miles looked down slightly, taking in a sniffly breath. "I'm still sorry." He mumbled. "For… making you afraid I wasn't here anymore." A look of determination flitted over his features. "I am here. I am. Nothing in the world could make me leave you right now."

Not even a bullet?

That would probably ruin the moment if you said that.

Instead, some mixture of exhaustion and desperation and affection clouded your senses, and you nudged closer into Miles' touch, letting your eyes flutter shut as his words sank into you. I'm here. And he wasn't leaving.

Miles didn't move for a moment, though you heard him take in another small, slow breath.

"C'mere," he said finally. His voice was soft in the silence, like he was afraid to break it. When you pried your eyes open, he was pulling back from you, and you watched as he haphazardly picked up the small blanket barrier that had been separating the two of you and tossed it aside.

He laid back, patting your bed space. "Come here." He said again, voice so soft. Even in the dark, you could see him, his body outlined in every gentle nature it held.

Sweet boy. You were so exhausted and overwhelmed and relieved that you couldn't find it in you to ask what he was doing. You laid down.

Miles' arms encircled you slowly, and you released a breath as you turned to face him. Your own arms reaching out, you couldn't stop the sniffle that left you. You gripped his clothes, letting the two of you settle into a combined shape. Your head tucked under his chin. His breath fanned softly over your head as he held you and you held him.

"Is this… okay?" He whispered finally, into the silence.

"Yes." You answered, eyes slipping shut. Your mind stilled quicker than usual with the press of another body next to you.

"Okay." His voice had grown a little hoarser. You felt his breath pass over the top of your head again. "I'm here."

He's here.

The thought soothed you.

Two months ago. Lobby of the El Royale.

One could always be under the assumption that it couldn't get worse. And then it always did.

So it turned out there had been people searching for the two women. You didn't try to make much sense of it. There were people with guns and rope, and some creepy asshole with way too much chest showing, and there was so much going wrong all at once.

You should've stayed in your car. Or maybe kept driving, kept running. Instead, you sat, a hint dazed, as people moved around you.

Flynn and the woman, Darlene, had been retrieved from wherever they were. Their clothes were damp, a sign they'd been out in the rain that was still pouring constantly outside. Miles and you were ushered from one bound spot to another—Miles wide-eyed and shaking. You'd been trying to calm him down before this had happened, murmuring quiet words of encouragement and asking how his face felt, but now all of your work was unspooled and he was shaking as he took everything in. He seemed far more interested in pleading to the priest, Father Flynn, whose face was a mix of not right now and guilt and oh God oh fuck we might all die right now. Or maybe that was more like what you were thinking.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned," Miles rattled off next to you, teary eyes locked on Flynn. "Please, Father—"

"Hey, kid." The leader of this whole situation, the asshole with the open chest who'd been cradling the face of the girl in a way that made your skin crawl, annoyedly called out. "If you don't shut up, I'm gonna tie your mouth shut."

This did not stop Miles. "Father, please, forgive me for the sins of my life. Please, Father, bless- mmph—"

You jerked in your bonds on instinct as a gag of fabric was wrapped around Miles' head. You glared holes into the person who'd done it, but you were utterly helpless.

The man sauntered over, humming cheerfully, a cigarette hung from his lips as he tossed money and a tape onto the table, eyes locked onto Darlene and Flynn. He plucked up the ledger and gestured lazily. "So I'm guessing you're Father Flynn… which makes the dead guy Laramie Seymour Sullivan."

He eyed between you and Darlene, who was seated to your left. You glared back at him and imagined him turning into dust before your very eyes. He smirked a little, like your gaze amused him, and he murmured your name, tapping where it was on the ledger.

"Yeah, that's you. Ain't nothin' sweet about that expression. Then you, miss, must be Darlene Sweet." His gaze swung to Darlene, who stared back at him unreadably. The man chuckled as he looked at the ledger. "Well, I suppose you could be 'Fuck You', but, uh, something tells me that's my Emily here." He gestured to the woman with a cheerful smile, which she did not return. Instead, she—Emily—looked hollowed out, like hope had left her system. The man just smiled, looking over all of you.

"Any other people left in the hotel?" He questioned. Miles shakily shook his head when the man's gaze found him. You wanted to claw out of your bonds and stand in front of him and maybe punch the guy in the face, but you couldn't do that and it made you fume.

"Wade, Annabel," the man addressed the members of his group. "stand behind these five and if they try to get out of their seats, you just…" He made a little bang motion. "… shoot 'em in the back of the head. 'N Flicker, Roman, c'mere. Go to room seven, get the dead guy, and put all of his stuff and the body in the trunk of the car. Then go room to room, see if you can find anybody else. If you can, bring 'em here."

One of the people sent out jerked their head towards all of you. "What about them?" He called lazily.

"Well, first I got some questions that need answering." The man said with a hum, gaze returning to the five of you. "But… leave some room in the trunk."

The statement sobered the five of you even further. You glanced to both sides to see everyone's faces lose a bit of color. You couldn't say you were much better off. There was someone standing directly behind you and you knew they had a gun and you were terrified, icy cold and shaky. You clenched your hands into fists, trying to breathe evenly. Stay calm. You have to stay calm.

The man was greeting Emily cheerfully off to the side. You caught the slip of his name—Billy Lee—as the two talked back and forth, something about taking and leaving and not being ready. Your eyes slowly slipped between them and the girl sitting in the nearby couch, a story untangling slowly in your head.

The two ladies. Sisters. The man, something outside the familial picture, but connected and dangerous nonetheless. And now you were all stuck in the mix.

"Did you tell them what she did?" Billy Lee was asking Emily.

"What'd I do?" Asked the girl, blinking. Gazes flicked to her as slow remembrance dawned on her face, eyes going distant for a moment. She took in a breath and nodded. She was eating shitty pie, seated on a couch near all of you. "Oh, right. Sorry 'bout all that."

"It's all right, Boots. We'll deal with that when we get back to California." He swung his body towards the rest of you, where you sat over the state border line. "We got us a Nevada problem now."

His gaze wandered over the hotel. "So, uh, Miles… what is this, some sort of pervert hotel?"

How many times did you have to hear that line? You glanced over at Miles, who was hanging his head, distantly listening to Father Flynn defending the man to your right. You instinctively leaned, trying to catch Miles' gaze with a concerned frown, but you didn't get even a glance from him. He was millions of miles away and you were, unfortunately, still here with ropes digging into your body.

"And what," Billy Lee was saying to Flynn, who apparently had about the same amount of information you did about the hotel. "He just offered this up to you, did he?"

Flynn looked… a hint guilty and resigned. Which you didn't like. "I think he was trying to confess." He rasped, which Miles nodded quickly in response to. "I think… it's been weighing on him. I think he's trying to confess right now… because he knows how this is gonna go, and he fears for his soul."

Miles was nodding shakily, and Billy Lee was laughing a little, like he was in on a joke you didn't understand. You glared holes into him the entire way as he walked over and ducked down to look at Miles.

"Hey, buddy. Uh…" He rested his hand on Miles' shoulder casually, and you winced slightly. "Listen, if you're so worried about your soul, maybe you shouldn't have been doing all this bad shit in the first place."

Miles was still so hurt, all bloodied and pained, and it tugged at your chest. Still, he nodded shakily, sniffles leaving him, and Billy Lee nodded as he stood and clapped Miles' shoulder.

You watched him even as the world passed around you. The storm was thundering overhead, there were little things of fire in the hotel catching the light of crystals, and everything was terrible down to it's core. Billy Lee was arguing with Darlene and Flynn about tapes and money and singing and priests. You felt like everything was ending, and maybe it was. You couldn't decide how much you cared about that.

You were only really tugged out of your thoughts by the sound of music playing, something that started with howling and rolled into rock. You blinked up at the ceiling, then over to the others, who looked just as unhappy about the sudden music as you.

"Who is this?" Flynn muttered to Darlene.

"Um… Deep Purple, I think." She said.

"Newer song." You murmured. "'Hush'. 1968."

"… it's, um… not for me." Flynn grumbled as he leaned back in his seat.

Unlike the rest of you, Billy Lee seemed to be having a very nice time. He was dancing and swaying, his hips moving too much for what the beat was giving him as he continued to eat the pie the girl had been working on. He inserted himself back in-between Darlene and Flynn. "Now, I want you two to pay real close attention to what happens next, alright? And keep it riight up there in the front of your minds when I'm askin' questions lookin' for truthful answers, okay?"

He didn't really seem to be listening. He nudged between you and Darlene, shooting you a grin as he plopped the pie in front of your spot along the table. You blinked up at him and raised a slow eyebrow, silently asking what his problem was, but he was already moving on from you as he dusted off his hands. "All right. Emily. Pick a color." He slapped his hands on the table, one after another, over the colors of the roulette table. "Red or black?"

Emily did not seem happy to play his game. "No." She slowly turned her gaze away, glancing at her sister.

"No?" Billy Lee echoed as he strolled over to her. "Well, that's just not hardly nice. I'm offering you a chance here, right?" He rester his hands on her shoulders, squeezing lightly. "On account of the fact that we're practically family, all right? And that's downright charitable of me, considering…"

He turned to the younger girl. "Boots, you hearing what your sister's doing?"

"Em," the girl said—Rosie, Rose, Boots, she was so young— "if Billy Lee is offering you a chance, I think you should take it."

The silence stretched for a very, very long moment. Sisters locked eyes. You glanced around furtively and found absolutely nowhere to go and nothing to fight back with except a slice of half-eaten pie.

"Did you think you could just take what's mine, and I wouldn't come a'huntin?" Billy Lee was murmuring to Emily, who jerked away from his touch like he was burning her, eyes never leaving her sister.

"She ain't yours." She whispered.

"Rosie, are you mine?" Billy Lee called, barely even looking behind him.

"Of course." Rosie murmured.

Billy Lee glanced down at Emily. Smirked, sharp and victorious. "Of course." He echoed, giving a pointed look at the older sister.

Emily just looked sad. Her voice was quiet as she spoke. "There was no violence 'till you."

"Yeah, maybe. Maybe not." Billy Lee leaned closer, nestling his head uncomfortably against her. You froze slightly, tearing your gaze from the discomfort of the interaction, but you still heard them speaking, heard Billy Lee whispering all smug and strange against Emily's head. "But it's there now, isn't it?"

You all watched in petrified, heavy silence as he wandered to one of his recruits. You didn't dare crane your head, but you saw where this was going clearly enough as Billy Lee wandered back into view with a gun tucked into the back of his pants. One hand spun the roulette wheel in front of him as he took out the gun, slamming it on the table. "Pick a color, Em. I ain't gonna ask again."

Everybody around the table stiffened. Miles took in shaky breaths, a fresh wave of tears running down his face. Darlene and Flynn were stiff, wide-eyed. You flexed slightly at your bonds, which was futile, because you had nothing to do even if you got free.

"Pick a color." Billy Lee whispered. "Pick a color."

"… red." Emily whispered.

Billy Lee's demeanor shifted in an instant. Back to something cheerful, showmanship on full display as he straightened. "Well, I guess that makes you black, altar boy." He spun the roulette wheel.

"What?" Miles' head jerked up, his voice muffled as his gaze swung to the group of you. "No, nono no—"

"Ah, come here," Billy Lee sighed as he reached for his gag. "If you got some prayers, you can say 'em now."

The gag was barely off Miles' mouth before he was talking, eyes locked on Flynn, his voice wobbly and desperate. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned, I have done so much worse than you know—"

"Kid—" Flynn tried to start, pressing his lips together.

"Father Flynn, I have sinned and I repent!" Miles shouted. His voice was cracking, barley audible over the overstimulating spin of the roulette and music in the back. "Forgive me, Father! I-I-I-I have sinned and I- Father Flynn, please!"

"Do you want to tell him, or do you want me to do it?" Billy Lee said, smiling down at Flynn, and you hated him hated him hated him and you were fucking frozen as you stared at the scene before you-

"I have sinned and I repent!" Miles shouted hoarsely.

"Miles—" Flynn started again.

"Please!" You and Darlene exclaimed at the same time. Darlene was pleading for Flynn and you weren't sure what you were pleading to if anything but you were pretty sure it was Billy Lee—

"Forgive me, Father—"

"He's not a fucking priest, kid!" Billy Lee exclaimed sharply at Miles.

The wheel was slowing, the ball was hitting against something, and you watched as Miles stopped screaming, staring at Flynn with a trembling lip. His eyes flicked between Billy Lee and Flynn, and whatever he found there must have hurt, because he leaned back in his chair, too shell-shocked to even pay attention to the roulette wheel as the ball clack clack-ed its way into a spot.

You turned your gaze to the wheel and watched for the ball, finally finding it on a black spot. It was on black, that was his color, but did that mean he was safe or was he the one who—

"Well, looks like the Lord hasn't forsaken you yet." Billy Lee said with a hum.

He raised his gun and aimed it towards Emily. You had just enough time to register it before Flynn shouted, and the snap of a gunshot rang through the air.

The girl in the chair was knocked to the ground, hair astray as she faced her sister.

The song clicked off in the background.

The car was broken.

You got up early that morning. It had taken you a moment to gather your collected thoughts, because at first, you'd just woken up warm. Your chest had felt full, and you had felt so safe. And for a moment, you didn't remember anything from last night, until you'd really come to your senses and realized you were still cuddling with Miles Miller.

It had taken five minutes to convince yourself to move and another six to actually untangle yourself. Miles had barely stirred through the ordeal—his face angelic, breath evenly rising and falling, he'd had an arm tossed over your waist and his head still perfectly positioned over yours. He'd looked perfect. You tried to stop the influx of thoughts as you'd quietly cracked open some food to feed Sally (who was staring at the two of you from the room's chair as if to say get on with it, cowards) and left to check on your situation. Your attempts to shoo your thoughts away had been entirely unsuccessful until you got in the car and it firmly did not start.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." You stood, peering into the mess of the hood again, trying to see what looked wrong. Nothing did, though. You gave a quick peek under the car. Nothing was dripping or hanging or smoking. The car just wasn't starting and you didn't know why.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me." You groaned, grinding the heels of your palm into your eyes as you stood in the parking lot and attempted to not have your latest mental breakdown. Two in less than twelve hours would not do wonders for your reputation.

You took a deep breath, silently screamed, and walked back to your room.

Opening the door to the hotel room, you were greeted with Miles pulling his shirt on and Sally trying to eat one of his socks.

You blinked, watching a slip of his lower back disappear under a shirt as he turned to you. You raised your gaze in time to meet his, and he blinked at you.

An awkward silence lingered for a moment. Miles spoke first, his voice quiet.

"… what's wrong?"

"The car is broken." You said, shoving your hands into your pockets.

Miles' shoulders eased, and a look of… relief flashed over his face. "Oh, good."

Alarm filled his expression the second he said it, and he raised his hands. "I mean- not good that the car is broken—"

You giggled, despite yourself, the sound so unexpected that it surprised the both of you. "I- yeah, that part isn't good, you're right."

"What do we do?" Miles whispered, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

You sighed and shrugged. "Ask for help."

Constance was already smoking despite how early in the morning it was. You'd never understood people who did early morning smokes, though you would never say such a thing. Smoking was as natural as breathing in the world. Not for you, though. Being a nurse in the past had its advantages.

"G'morning," She greeted roughly as the two of you wandered in, blowing a puff of smoke into her room in the back instead of in your faces.

"Hi." You drummed your fingers on the counter. Miles was, once again, looking at the pamphlets on the wall. "Our car's broken. Do you guys have a mechanic in town?"

Constance sucked in a slow breath, lowering the cigarette from her lips. A look of sympathy crossed her face.

"Well… some bad news about that. Yes, we've got a guy. Ray's out of town, though. He takes a bi-annual trip across the country to visit family."

You stared at her. "… when will Ray be back?"

"You missed him by a few days." Constance looked very sympathetic. "He won't be back for a few months."

"Christ." You said exasperatedly. Miles mumbled something under his breath behind you, probably something about the Lord's name being used in vain, but you were a bit too despondent to respond to it. You rested your head in your hands, taking in a slow breath.

"Nobody else repairs cars in your town?" You mumbled.

"Most things in town are walking distance. Folks dig the exercise."

"Well, I don't dig what's happening right now." You said.

Constance's gaze moved from you to Miles. "You folks don't got anyone to get you?"

"No." You mumbled. "It's just us. And our cat."

Miles raised his head at the word us. Something in your chest warmed at that, and you took in a steadying breath as you looked back at Constance.

"I know this is probably way belong what you normally have to do for people, but I don't suppose anybody's looking for employees? Or renting a space?"

You didn't have the money for a new car. Lottery funds had slowly trickled into something normal over the last few months, whether you liked it or not. And now, being stranded in this sleepy little town, you were at a dead end that would bleed you dry if you didn't do something about it.

Constance hummed. She leaned back, studying the two of you.

"You two seem decent folks." She said softly. "I manage more than this hotel—I actually run realty for a few properties in town. We don't get many comin' through, so even if I do upkeep on homes, we don't get many buyers. I got a place you could stay in. Cheap rent as long as you keep it clean."

Your heart lifted from your ass back into your chest where it belonged. You gaped, blinking, words failing for once in your life.

Miles spoke first, stepping forward. "You really mean that?" His voice sounded how you felt. "You'd really let us do that? We… we hardly know you."

"I've lived a long time, honey." Constance put out her cigarette and started rifling around through her desk. "I try to trust when I get a good feeling about people."

She jerked her head towards the door. "Get yer things. I'll drive ya there and we'll talk jobs." She raised her gaze to the two of you. "Your cat like Yummies?"

"Um." Miles blinked. "She's never had them, but she'll eat just about anything you give to her."

"Good. Go."

You and Miles exchanged a glance, hope sparking between the two of you. You didn't need further encouragement. You went.

Sometimes there was nothing you could do in life but thank whatever unseen force was helping you out.

Maybe Miles was right. Maybe there was a God.

Or maybe people were just very, very good sometimes.

Constance explained the situation to the two of you as she drove. The diner you'd been to last night needed an employee, and so did the bookstore down the block. You glanced back at Miles, who'd taken to the backseat of Constance's smoke-smelling car with Sally in his lap, and nodded. "We'll take 'em."

Miles went for the bookstore job. You couldn't decide if he didn't want the social interaction or if he was afraid of working with the man from last night.

The house Constance drove you to was three minutes away from Main Street, a modest but comfortably-sized split level house. It was blue and it was beautiful and you had never been more relieved in your life.

"You gotta let me give my spiel." Constance struggled with the keys to the house, and you and Miles watched awkwardly as she struggled longer than any normal person should. When she finally managed to get the door open, you were greeted with the sweetest house you'd seen.

You supposed anything would look good to someone who was practically starving for a home. You couldn't remember the last time you'd been in a proper house—there had just been Vegas and hotels and businesses while on the road.

"Mild furnishings. Y'all are welcome to decorate and rearrange and toss as you please," Constance explained as you toured the house. "Three bedroom, two bath. Kitchen, dining room, living room, blah blah blah. Bit of a backyard. It used to have a garden, but… you know how gardens are when nobody's tendin' to them."

You peered into each room, eyes scanning over the furnishings inside. It was simple and sweet and insanely non-personal.

"Who… lived here before?" Miles echoed the question that had been on the tip of your tongue. He watched Sally curl up in a chair in the living room, and his lips twitched slightly.

"Old couple named Millicent and Bruce." Constance's voice took on a slightly wistful tone. "I grew up with 'em, actually. They were assholes, and they were my friends."

"These things often go together." You said with a nod.

"You get it." The woman ran a hand over the couch. "They're in a nursing home right now in Portland. Both of them got sick some time ago and their kids lived over there, so… naturally, that's where they went when they needed help."

You and Miles stood there for a moment. Miles' voice was soft. "You must miss them."

"Quite a bit." Constance agreed with a nod. "I get letters from them sometimes. It makes it a little easier."

She was silent for a moment, her thumb rubbing back and forth over the couch as her gaze drifted. You understood that. Nostalgia. The melancholy set to the shoulders of a woman you'd previously thought fairly unshakable made her seem very different now.

"Thank you." You said finally, into the silence. "You're a good friend for caring for their home like this."

Constance took in a breath and nodded, turning to you. She extended her hands, took yours, and dropped the keys to the house into it.

"Your home." She said firmly, then yanked out a folder of papers from seemingly nowhere. "Let's go over the paperwork."

Miles went out to grab your very minimal bags. Sally seemed satisfied to stay where she was, curled up in the chair that you made a silent note to absolutely keep.

"So…" Constance checked that Miles was gone, then raised her eyebrow at you. "How long have the two of you been together?"

"Oh." You paused, a flush creeping over your face as you paused in your paper-reading. "We're, uh, we're not—"

"Well, damn, why not?" Constance and Sally were both looking at you judgmentally now, which, great. Another addition to judging your cowardice. "He looks at you like you're perfect."

"Well, that's very far from the truth." You clicked at the pen you'd been provided, leaning down to sign the papers. "We just… found each other after a really rough time. We've been traveling together for a while now."

Constance was rolling her eyes as you looked back up. "Kids these days," she mumbled.

"We're adults."

"You're foolish, is what you are." She took the papers back, gave them a cursory glance, and sighed as she put them back in her folder. "I'll be happy to see when you two finally admit it to each other."

Sally mewed in response, something that sounded a lot like agreement. That damn cat. You loved her so much.

"Thank you for the house and the jobs." You said to Constance instead of taking her shoulders, shaking them, and exclaiming I am super in love with him and have no idea what to do, please help me!

Constance patted your shoulder as she moved for the exit. "Don't thank me yet. You and loverboy are stuck together for sure now."

You blinked. "How is that a bad thing?"

"I wouldn't say bad." She shot a grin at you, filled with the kind of mischief you didn't like. "Just… harder. You'll see."

It was surprising how quickly the two of you settled into a rhythm, considering so far your life had consisted of constant car rides and surviving off whatever random food you could find.

You left the house at 6:45 every morning. It was a ten-minute walk to the diner, where you'd pull on an apron, greet your coworkers, and take care of a few minor things before the diner opened at 7:00. Then you'd work until 3:00, running orders, cleaning tables, making conversation with the people of the town, until your shift was over. Another ten-minute walk back home, where you'd greet Sally and an empty home. You'd work on anything you could for the next two hours—sometimes it involved errands back to town, but it usually involved the house you lived in. The garden out back was a jungle of twisted, angry plants, and you were working to clean it up even though winter was closer than any growing season. You liked the work it gave your hands.

Miles came home at 5:00 every night after starting his own shift at 9:00 that morning. He came home smelling of paper and the faintest smell of coffee, his shoulders always slumping in relaxation as he took in a breath of the house and ran his fingers along Sally's back.

The two of you didn't have any set schedule to your nights. Sometimes you were alone. Sometimes you were quiet, but in each other's space. Many nights lately, you'd devote to a room of the house, deciding what should stay and what should go. You sold some things and kept others. The townsfolk were nice about it—usually you could trade one thing for something you liked better, as long as the cost was around the same.

It shook you, the normalcy in the town, the way people were so selflessly gentle. You weren't used to it, and neither was Miles. Your lives were full of rich people, customer service towards the uncaring and the rude and the broken, chipping away at the two of you until you felt broken too.

This town was so different. You didn't feel as broken anymore.

You would wake up in the mornings in one of the bedrooms, sunlight dappling over your face from a gap in the curtains, sleepy in the mornings. Some mornings, Miles would wake just to bid you farewell, his expression slow and sleepy and pulling at your chest.

"I wish you could sleep in." He muttered one day, watching you nurse a cup of coffee. His hair was mussed, a robe draped unevenly over his form that he'd bought the week before from a shop near the bookstore.

"I sleep in on weekends, M." You said softly, lips pulling into a small smile as you watched him waver on his feet. "You, on the other hand, should go back to bed, you look ready to topple over."

"I wish you could stay." Miles said, his voice groggy. He rubbed at one eye, shuffling forward, until suddenly he was pressing into your side, dropping his head to your shoulder. You froze slightly, but he didn't seem to notice as his hand curled into the back of your shirt.

"It's… weird waking up alone now." He whispered into your shoulder. "I keep thinking I'll be wakin' up in the car with you driving, or in a hotel where I can see your face."

You hesitated for a moment before you set the mug down, reaching up to press a hand to the back of his head, fingers curling slightly in his hair. His hair was growing, lately. More curls, a little less tamed to what you'd first seen him in. Miles still liked the order of his hair, still pressed it into neat shapes a lot of days, but it was getting harder the longer it got. And you liked it. You liked him, anyways.

"I'm here," you assured softly. "You know you can always come see me, I'm just down the block."

"I wish things were different sometimes." Miles mumbled into your neck.

You paused, fingers halting their strokes. "What do you mean?" You asked quietly.

Silence for a moment. Miles' breath fanned against your shoulder, warm and soft.

"Miles?" You pressed slowly.

He pulled back after a moment, rubbing at his eyes again. "… have a good shift. I'm tired." He mumbled, avoiding your gaze as he weaved back through the kitchen. You heard him ascending the stairs a moment later.

You just stood there in the kitchen, the memory of his warmth against your shoulder the only remainder of him.

Things changed. And they didn't.

Miles came into the diner on his breaks, took up a stool at the counter, sipped coffee and told you about his day so far. You always listened, always spoke back. The two of you discussed books, at home and at work and on walks you took on the weekends. Fall was digging its heels into the Oregon town. People were talking about Halloween and Thanksgiving and tradition in ways that tugged at your chest and reminded you that this town and its people loved being part of something.

Miles started talking to you. Sometimes the two of you would stay up late, and you would talk. He'd tell you stories—Kill #83, where the man choked on his own blood and died slowly under Miles' feet. Kill #27, who prayed to the same god that Miles did and made him sob his eyes out.

In return, you told him your own stories. The horrors you'd seen, the injuries you'd mended. You murmured about the man who'd cried the entire time you tried to save him, pleading for his mother and his father and his wife. You choked up as you talked about the man who had seemed in such good spirits, talking about how at home his wife had just birthed a baby girl. He'd died of his wounds. There was a girl out there whose father would never come home.

The two of you were stitched together at this point. Joined at the hip. On weekends that you took to town, the people there would tease the two of you sometimes. Your work shifts were filled with people, coworkers and customers alike, asking about Miles. The boyfriend. They knew he wasn't, yet they didn't stop asking, and sometimes you stopped trying to correct them.

Was that wrong? Or were you allowed to want that something deep in your chest, that feeling fueled by your late nights and the way Miles leaned into your touch.

Maybe you were selfish, seeing something that wasn't there. Or maybe you were right. Either way, you were too cowardly to take the next step.

Halloween was weeks away when the news came. Constance came rolling up to your home—and it some point it had become yours in the last few months, even though you were still working on furnishing it—with a cigarette in her hands and some strange expression on your face.

"Ray's back in town." She explained as she sat at your kitchen table. "He can swing by the inn and take a look at the car in a couple'a days."

Miles froze from where he'd been making coffee for Constance. He wasn't much of a coffee person himself—caffeine sometimes tugged him back to the days where he needed to drown his senses in something, so he'd taken to tea instead.

You observed him for a moment, then turned your gaze back to Constance, hands folded. "Well, that's… wonderful."

"I'll say." Constance huffed. "I'll finally get your damn car out of that parking lot. Your car's been takin' up some damn nice parking spaces."

"For what customers, exactly?" You replied, raising an eyebrow.

Constance scowled at you, though it was lighthearted. "You're lucky I like you two." She smiled up at Miles as he put a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. "Thank you, sweetheart."

Miles nodded, but he didn't sit down. Fidgeting with his hands, he stood at the table, looking between the two of you.

"So… he can fix the car." He said quietly. His gaze flicked to you. "Then what?"

You looked up at him and found that words failed you. Then what indeed? Pack up, keep driving, go forever? Keep running from the things that chased you?

You had settled here, no matter how quickly or strangely it had happened. Clothes filled your drawers now and you both had your routines, your people you liked in this town.

And that was the important thing, right? That you liked it here? You did. You had a cat and a bed and a job in the prettiest, nicest little town, where no war could touch or scar you, and that hotel and its sins were far, far away.

Yet something hadn't fully clicked yet.

Constance seemed to sense the turmoil. She cleared her throat to interrupt the awkward silence. "Sounds like a conversation the two of you need to have. There ain't no rush, though. The car'll get fixed up. You've still got the house. Just take it easy."

That last part seemed pointedly directed at you. You resisted a frown and nodded. "… yeah. Thanks, Constance."

She smiled, leaned back, and sipped at her coffee like she had all day.

Miles just looked ready to throw up.

Later, you found him sitting on the front porch of the house. The house—your house?—had a nice view ahead of it. Sprawling trees and the sunset casting golden shadows. The dry leaves rustled, some scattering across the street in front of you.

Sally was curled in Miles' lap and shot you an accusing look like you'd done something wrong. You stuck your tongue out at her and crossed your arms, leaning on the wall behind him.

"Do you wanna talk?" You asked quietly.

"You want to leave."

The coldness of his voice startled you slightly. You'd seen him like this once, only once, and that was at the El Royale. Locked jaw, tense shoulders, eyes dark. He didn't look at you. His fingers sank into Sally's fur, and she nudged closer to him quietly.

"… I…" You blew out a slow breath. "I guess, yeah."

Miles shook his head. "Why? Why don't you wanna stay here? Is this not… am I not good enough for you to stay?"

"What?" You blinked down at him, already shaking your head as you stepped in front of him. "Miles. Hey." Your voice softened and you started to reach from him. "Don't say that about yourself—"

"Stop." His voice sharpened, and his gaze raised to you. You froze, hand halfway to his shoulder, trapped under his eyes. He was shaking, like raising his voice scared him too, but he kept speaking.

"Don't be like this to me right now. Don't try to soften the blow. You want to leave this. It's… it's so good here. I feel good here. Why is this not enough for you? Do… do you not like it here?"

You stared at him, then pulled your hand back, tucking it against your chest. "I do like it here." You said quietly.

"Then… what's the problem?" Miles said, his voice quiet but no less tense as he searched your expression.

How could you tell him? Could you really reach under your chest and pry out that sticky, complicated part of you that you felt so guilty about holding onto?

"… I don't wanna hurt you, Miles." You said slowly, exhaling as you shook your head.

He just stared. You knew him well enough to recognize the flicker of disappointment in the back of his gaze.

He stood, standing over you for a brief moment as he tucked Sally to his chest like she was shielding his heart. "You already are."

Then he ducked back inside, leaving you outside in the setting sun and the autumn breeze.

Four months ago. Lobby of the El Royale.

"I can't do it anymore."

"Miles," you whispered softly. You leaned forward the best you could in your chair, swallowing the thickness from your throat. "Hey, it's- you're okay. Just breathe."

"I can't," he mumbled, gaze glassily focused somewhere around the ground. "I can't—"

"Hey, kid." Billy Lee raised an eyebrow, voice tinged with annoyance. "If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm gonna make you play the game again."

Your gaze flicked between them, your hands twisting in your bonds helplessly, but Miles had sobered, to your surprise. You wanted to fling yourself across the table and wring the man's neck for the situation he'd put all of you in, but you found yourself locked in place as Billy Lee's gaze fell on you.

"And you. You shut the hell up too."

You glared right back at him, but he didn't seem shaken. Maybe he knew you couldn't stop thinking about the new body on the floor. You paid little mind to the conversation to the left of you. Billy Lee was interrogating Darlene and Flynn again, and though the words passed into your mind, you didn't consciously register them.

The storm was loud outside, something rattling and huge. You couldn't help but long to be out there instead of inside. It was beginning to smell faintly of smoke, a distant scent carried by the fires in the California side of the lobby.

"Why you dressed up like a priest, then?" Billy Lee was asking, gesturing to Flynn's outfit.

Miles' head turned, his jaw clenching. His eyes were hollow of most emotion, but you could see the hurt inside them, the betrayal. You had little idea of his further connection to Flynn, but the fact that the older man had lied to him was clear.

Flynn, to his credit, looked a tiny bit guilty about this. "Didn't want too many questions." He murmured. "People tend to look the other way when you're wearin' a collar." His gaze flicked to Miles, whose jaw clenched as he lowered his eyes to the floor again. A tremor went through him as Billy Lee continued speaking to the other two, and you tried to lean closer to him, reassuring him the best you could.

There was nothing interesting about you. You were silent, and still, and had no story that nobody could discern from you. Just one unlucky motherfucker sitting in a chair alongside the most broken people imaginable. No wonder Billy Lee wasn't a bit interested in you. You were too collected. Too much of a damn rock.

You'd seen more than enough of your fair share of violence and death. The body on the floor was just another long list you'd been keeping in the back of your head forever. Since the war. Since your work. Since you tried to save people, foolishly, even when it didn't work.

You couldn't even save yourself now. All that surviving in Vietnam, and where had it gotten you? You took in a slow breath, shaky. You supposed you had to savor the air in your lungs while you were alive to feel them.

Tensions were rising at the other end of the table. Flynn couldn't remember his real name and Darlene was being gentle about it and Billy Lee was not.

"All right, all right, well- let's see if we can't jog his memory, huh, Darlene? Pick a color—"

He reached for the roulette wheel, and suddenly thunder boomed above all of you. Everybody in the room flinched as something sparked, crackled, and all light went out in the room in an instant.

Everybody stayed silent for a moment, faces illuminated by the firelight. Billy Lee was looking at the ceiling like it was about to crash down on him. Miles' breathing had intensified again. You squirmed a little in your bonds as coldness crept down your back despite the stifling temperature of the room.

"Now it's quiet again." Billy Lee murmured.

"I don't like it." The young girl said from across the room, her voice unsure.

"No, I don't like it either." Billy Lee's gaze swung to Darlene. "Hey, ain't you supposed to be a singer, huh? Why-why don't you sing something for us, Darlene."

"No thank you." Darlene said simply. Your lips twitched upward, and Darlene caught the motion, her gaze softening marginally as your eyes met.

"Hell, I'll tell you what- if you sing somethin' for us and you're as good as you say you are, I won't make you play the game."

"That seems like a trick." You blurted before you could stop yourself.

"Oh, you do talk." Billy Lee raised an eyebrow at you. "What, you volunteerin' to take her place?"

You just looked at him. Then at Darlene. "Don't do it."

"I agree." Flynn said roughly. "He's gonna do what he's gonna do, but he don't deserve to hear you sing."

Darlene shared a smile with him, her shoulders easing slightly, her gaze flicking to you with a similar gaze of appreciation.

"Suit your fucking selves!" Billy Lee exclaimed, huffing out a breath as he slammed a hand on the roulette wheel. You flinched, mentally preparing yourself for whoever was going to be picked for the round—you were sure it would be you—when Darlene spoke up.

"Wait."

You all stared at her for a moment. Darlene's eyes were filled with tears, but she blinked and took in a deep breath and then she was singing.

You hadn't expected singing to sound so good inside of the carcass of a hotel.

The sound of it, the way her notes drifted through the air. Something tugged slow and deep in your stomach, and your jaw wobbled as you clenched your teeth back and pushed down the sudden wave of emotions flooding you. She was good. She was brilliant, the voice of an angel tethered to Earth. She was—

Billy Lee's hand slammed down firmly on the roulette table again. Darlene's singing cut off abruptly, and you all watched as he sent the wheel spinning.

He shrugged, nonchalant and evil, at Darlene. "I've heard better."

The table was spinning, spinning, spinning, and someone else was going to die, and it was probably you or Miles first and then the other next and—

Suddenly, Father-not-Father Flynn was launching himself at Billy Lee, shouts exchanged, blows cracking over faces and bodies as the two went tumbling over the floor of the El Royale.

You shrieked, watching with wide eyes as the two grappled. Chaos had erupted in the flash of a moment—the two had knocked over a brazier of fire, logs were spreading over the ground and setting fire to the fancy carpet. One of the people who'd been minding you—Annabel, if memory served you correctly—had stepped up by Darlene, raising to take a shot, but Darlene was quicker than you'd expected, using her feet to shove the table over.

The action sent you, Darlene, and Miles tumbling. You winced, your head knocking against the back of the chair you'd been sitting in as you groaned and struggled against your bonds. Miles had backpedaled, back pressing against a structure as he clutched his bound hands in his lap. There was still violence that you couldn't see. A gunshot. The girl yelling about Billy Lee. The sounds of impact and pain.

Jesus Christ, you needed to do something. Flynn was an old man who was outnumbered and outmatched once Billy Lee and his followers got a handle on something, you had to do something.

Your gaze strayed to Miles and you paused. Between the two of you—the gun that had killed Emily.

Miles found your gaze, then found where your gaze was going. He froze, tightening up like someone had put straw in his clothes. He shook his head, eyes going a bit distant. "No, I can't do it." He whispered. "I can't do it no more. I can't. I can't do it."

"Miles." You and Darlene said at the same time, urgently.

"I can't kill no more people."

"Miles!" You exclaimed. His gaze snapped up to you, flicking between you and Darlene behind you (who likely looked as sorry a sight as you did). "Help us," you pleaded, nodding towards the gun.

He shook his head once, jaw working shakily. "I can't kill no more people."

You stared at him for a moment. The world dropped away, everything turning distant as you stared at him.

"What do you mean?" You asked, wetting your lips as you took in a small breath. "How many people have you killed?"

Miles turned his gaze forward, looking down at his bound hands, as he took in a shaky breath.

"One hundred twenty-three." He whispered.

You stared at him for a moment. You could feel Darlene staring too, though a million pieces were clicking into place in your head that hadn't before.

He'd been in Vietnam. Of course he'd been in Vietnam. He was your age, young but not too young to have seen shit. You should've guessed it. The haunt in his eyes. The familiarity of death. The flinching at loud noises.

It wasn't the right place or the right time to tell him you knew what that was like, that you'd seen the shit people like him had gone through firsthand. Instead, you just nodded your head, keeping your voice low.

"Alright." You said gently. "Alright."

"I can't do it." He shook his head, sniffling. "I can't kill no more people."

"Miles," This was Darlene now, tired but soft. "It's all right. You don't have to kill any more people."

He wasn't tearing up anymore. He just looked at the two of you, jaw clenching like a million thoughts were running through his head. The fear wasn't there anymore, though. You watched it slide away, curl into a ball in the back of his eyes.

He shifted, reaching out with both hands as they carefully curled around the gun on the floor. You stared, watching with wide eyes as he carefully shifted his position. His eyes locked with yours.

"You sure?" You asked, quietly.

He nodded, adjusted his hold on the gun, and stood, raising the gun in front of him.

You heard it, the vaguely nervous swagger of an uneasy Billy Lee. "Easy there, altar boy—"

Miles pulled the trigger.

You didn't see Miles for five days.

The El Royale was still stitched into his bones, after all. He knew how to slip through cracks and openings, skirt around the edges of people's vision. Miles had learned how to be unseen, existing quietly on his own.

It made sense in the hotel. But here, it just made you feel like you were living with a ghost. Even Sally would settle reluctantly in his normal spot at night, unable to find him, staring at you accusingly like she could feel how it was all your fault.

You missed him. You missed his soft voice and the tea he made in the mornings. There was a hole everywhere you went now, spaces he didn't fill.

It tugged at you like a loose thread in an article of clothing. You had ruined things. Again. The one good thing you'd had and you were ruining it because you were in love with him. Love, you supposed, ruined everything.

Work dragged at you and your coworkers both noticed your attitude and the vacated seat in the diner. People still didn't sit in the spot, and you realized for the first time how the town had really carved out a place for the two of you.

"Where's your man?" Your coworker Sadie, the girl from your first morning in town, nudged at your shoulder. "He hasn't been showin' up, you two in a little spat or somethin'?"

"Something like that." You said, then, more glumly— "He's not my man."

"You two live together and own a cat."

"We've been through this, Sadie."

"So what's the scoop, then?" She leaned on the counter next to you, wrinkling her nose. "You two have a bad date night or something?"

You exhaled, setting down the dish you were washing a little too hard. "I'm leaving."

Sadie stared at you, blinking. "What?"

"I'm leaving. They're finally fixing the car we came in on and I'm going." You said.

She was still staring at you like you'd grown a head, and maybe you had, because you still weren't sure if you were fully decided on going but you couldn't take it anymore—

"Why the hell would you do that? You're leaving him?" Sadie exclaimed. "You've been layin' out a whole life here for the past few months and you're just saying 'Alright, off I go!'"

"This was never meant to be permanent!" You exclaimed.

"Oh, don't give me that!" She jabbed a finger in your chest. "You've been furnishing a home and building a life with somebody you care about in a town that loves both of you. Whether it was meant to last or not, you live here. You and that sweet boy that everybody loves to hell and back."

You forced down the lump in your throat, glancing down at the counter. Maybe she was right. Maybe she was right and you belonged here and you could belong to him.

No, no, no, you needed to get that out of your head, you couldn't stay here and Miles didn't want to be with you. You refused to hurt him in a whole new way by making it seem like you'd never valued him beyond what he might offer to you as a romantic partner.

Sadie sighed, reading the look on your face. "Don't go." She said, putting a hand on your arm. "You'd regret it. And we'd all miss you." She pointedly squeezed your arm. "He would miss you."

You turned your gaze back to the dishes. "I'll think about it." You murmured.

And you did think about it. You thought about it for the last two days of the five-day period. You thought about it even as you packed up a lot of your things, even as Sally laid on top of your luggage like saying she wanted to be packed along.

"You're gonna stay here, sweet girl." You murmured, gently lifting her from the luggage. Sally mewed, soft little face pressing into your hand as she blinked up at you. "Please don't hate me." You said as an afterthought.

Sally just nuzzled into your arms. The wave of emotion that hit you nearly dizzied you, but instead, you took her into your arms and buried your face into her fur, trying very hard not to cry.

That next morning, you lugged your things to the front door. A duffel bag and a suitcase, your life packed back up on wheels. You hadn't been able to take anything. There were still clothes in your dresser. You were sure Miles would figure it out whenever he went into the room—someone would take them from town, and he could likely get decent money from them.

Sally was following you the whole way, meowing at your feet. She had never done this before, which confused you a little. You bent down once your hands were free, scooping her up and scratching under her chin. "What's gotten into you this morning, hm?"

"You're really leaving?"

You raised your gaze and froze. Miles stood several paces away from you, hands fidgeting at his sides in a way you'd grown used to. He looked like a wreck—eyes bloodshot, face gaunt, like he'd seen a ghost and was becoming one all in one.

"Where have you been?" You questioned, stepping towards him. "God, Miles, I was so worried—"

"You're leaving." He was shaking. You paused, fingers halting their scratching against Sally's neck.

"… Miles," you tried plaintively, but there was the sound of a car horn honking outside. Constance. Bringing you to the hotel so you could retrieve the car.

When you turned your head back to Miles, he'd straightened. You recognized the look from when you'd first met him, the 'customer service' look that was a professional attempt at not entirely losing his shit.

"I'll help you with your bags." He said quietly, keeping his gaze aimed down.

His distance hurt more than him raising his voice at you last week. You stared at him, blinking a few times as you tried to keep your voice steady. "… thank you."

The two of you walked out like it was a funeral procession. Constance was sitting with a cigarette dangling from her fingertips, the window rolled down as she squinted at the two of you.

"Mornin', Miles." She greeted.

Miles nodded at her quietly, loading your suitcase into the back of her trunk. It was a gray, dreary day today, like the sky itself was weighed down by your actions. Dark clouds were forming somewhere to the south, blotting out all remnants of light in the distance. After you shook your thoughts away and loaded your duffel bag into the back, the two of you stood there by Constance's car for a moment.

"Well," you said finally, slowly. "Guess this is it."

"Guess so." Miles was staring at you with a look in his eye you couldn't decipher. His jaw trembled after he'd been looking for a minute, and he ducked his head down.

A million unsaid things were left on your tongue, so of course, you didn't say a single one of them. "I'll be sure to call you when I can. Definitely when I'm settlin' somewhere."

"Alright." His voice cracked. "Be- be safe?"

You nodded. "I will."

"Please don't—" Miles started, then stopped, biting down hard on his lip. He was shaking harder now, but he took in slow breaths.

"We'll miss you." He whispered. Sally was curled on the front step, watching like she already knew what was happening and wanted no part in it.

"This ain't goodbye." You weren't sure why you were promising that when you were the one running in the first place. "We'll see each other again."

Miles shook his head, sniffled once, and then threw his arms around you.

The fierceness of the hug surprised you, but it didn't take long for you to return it. Nose pressing into the side of his neck, you inhaled all of him as the two of you clung to each other. Four months of life together had escalated everything more than you ever thought possible. A random clerk turned into a man that you cared for. A man that you—

Miles pulled back. "Go." He mumbled, swiping at his eyes in a motion nearly quick enough for you to miss. "Just- just go."

And like the coward you were, you obeyed him.

To her credit, Constance didn't say much on the drive there. The radio hummed soothing notes of jazz as you mindlessly pressed your forehead to her window and dazedly watched the town go pass. No signs of life today. There was a storm approaching.

Constance sucked in softly through her teeth as the two of you pulled into the motel parking lot. "Gonna be nice to have that spot open."

"You've said that, Constance." Your eyes fell on the car pulled up near to yours and the man bent halfway into your open hood. "That Ray?"

"Mhm." Constance got out of her car. "Let's get this over with."

That didn't seem like the greatest attitude, but you forced yourself up despite the stone replacing where your heart was.

"You nearly done with that thing?" Constance squawked at Ray, who straightened. He had exactly the face you'd expected—wide and friendly and experienced.

"Very nearly, yeah." He nodded to you. "You must be the owner. Honestly, it's a damn wonder yer beauty took you this far. Constance said you were travelin' a-near constantly the last few months."

"… yeah. We were." You said quietly.

"Well, lucky for you, ol' Ray's worked his magic." He wiped the sweat from his brow, then leaned to you. "Word to the wise? I wouldn't attempt any more cross-country trips with this one. Old girl's done you well, but she'd be better suited towards a small town like this one."

"Ah, don't bother, Ray," Constance scoffed and waved a hand. "I've tried everything with this one, but people make up their damn minds however they want these days."

You tried to smile, but it came out watery. Even the car didn't want to go.

Constance saw your expression, but made no further attempt to convince you. "Just get your damn bags." she said. Thunder boomed in the distance, and the three of you jumped.

"You'll wanna be outta here quick." Ray hummed, squinting down south. The storm clouds were nearly upon the town. They looked darker up close, angry. "That's gonna be one hell of a nasty storm."

You paused from where you were fishing your bags out of Constance's trunk. "How bad is bad?"

"Lotta thunder and lightning. Possibly hail." Ray shrugged. "Radio guys weren't sure, that's how damn bad it was."

He got into his truck, starting it up and giving the two of you a wave. "Safe travels. I'm headin' to the shop before this shit hits us."

You turned to Constance. "Is that why nobody was out? Because the storm's gonna be so bad?"

"Yeah, exactly, nobody wants to get swept up in that shit. Now hurry up! I gotta get going!" Constance exclaimed.

You shoved your suitcase and duffel bag into your trunk. You realized you'd subconsciously made room for bags that weren't coming with you, and you paused, eyes lingering on the empty space.

Something welled up deep inside you as thunder boomed again, loud and close and big.

"What about Miles?" You heard yourself asking. "He hates storms. Is he gonna be okay?"

"Goddammit." Constance swore as she got in her car. "Honey, you gotta decide if you love him or not, because you're breaking him in two. He's better off without you at this point"

"That's an old house." Your heart was racing now, mind running a hundred miles a minute. "Does it even have somewhere safe for him to be? What if it falls?"

"It won't fall."

"But what if it does?" You shouted, something breaking inside of you. "I don't want him to die!"

BOOM. The thunder clapped, as if saying bravo, you've finally got it, and the sky opened up on you.

Rain hit hard. And fast. Constance swore, ducking fully into her car, but you barely paid mind to the rain. The first time you met Miles, you endured the rain. And you were going to do it again. Because you loved him, and you didn't ever want to leave him.

You jumped into your car, starting it up firmly. The rain was still pouring, and it was dripping onto your open car door, but you didn't give a damn. You pulled yourself inside, slammed the door shut, and pressed on the gas.

You could see Constance watching you from her car, her mouth moving wildly—probably something about the parking lot or being safe or asking what in the goddamn hell you were doing, but you didn't have the time to listen or register her right now.

Windshield wiper practically useless, you sped down the streets of the town. It was dark out, practically nighttime from the storm, but you didn't care, not even when the thunder boomed so loud you could feel it shake the car. Screeching to a halt on the street in front of the house—your house—you scrambled, soaked to the bone, up the steps and slammed into the house, paying no mind to the hail beginning to fall around you.

It was chaos. The house rumbled as another thunder blast shook the place, the windows flashing from the lightning outside. You flinched as the sounds of hail began to hit, but you cast that worry aside as you glanced around the house.

"Miles? Miles?!" You exclaimed. You sped through the ground floor, nearly tripping several times from how your shoes slid against the floor, banging on every door you could until you reached the downstairs bathroom and wrenched open the door.

Miles was sitting on the tiled floor in the furthest corner, wedged as far back as he could get with Sally in his lap. When the door opened, he jumped, flinching hard, but his eyes widened as they found you.

He stammered out your name, blinking. "What- what are you—"

"Are you okay?" You asked, panting. "Are you- are you alright?"

"… yes." He was staring at you. "Are- God, you're drenched, what are you—"

You were crying. Actually crying, sniffling as you sank to your knees in front of him. Miles' expression turned alarmed, and he instantly leaned forward, blinking. "Hey, heyhey, what- what's going on—"

"I'm sorry." You said, your voice watery. "I'm so sorry. I-I didn't- I didn't want to leave you, but I didn't wanna hurt you even more. But I-I was so fucking worried about you, I couldn't go. I couldn't go, and I'm sorry I even wanted to—"

Your name again, a touch on your cheek. Miles' fingers trembled slightly as he looked you in the eyes, voice quiet.

"Hey, no, it's- please don't cry, don't cry."

You shook your head. "I'm sorry." You repeated. "I-I tried to tell myself I could go on without you, but it's not true. I need you. I love you, Miles."

His hand froze on your cheek, lips parting. Through the blur of your tears you could see him, hear him, feel him. There was nothing but him and the storm and Sally brushing against the hand you had let limply fall against the floor.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your lips.

You took in a sharp breath, blinking, but he pulled back just as fast. Eyes searching your expression, he brushed away a tear from your damp face like it did anything to help.

"I… I love you too." He murmured. His eyes suddenly went watery too. "Please don't leave me agai—"

You grabbed his shirt and kissed him.

There was tongue and lips and skin. He was warm and you were freezing and nothing mattered, nothing at all except him cradling your face like you were home and you clinging to him like you returned the sentiment a thousandfold.

And you did return it. Because he was home. And you loved him.

"It's alright, honey, it's alright." He was pulling back and already whispering to you, sniffling as his own tears fell. He pressed his forehead to yours, a sound between laugh and sob escaping his lips. "I love you too, loved you for so long."

He was perfect, free hand squeezing your own, and you squeezed it back. You both kissed, again and again, panting and moving back in as you desperately pressed into each other on the bathroom floor.

Miles pulled back eventually, still gripping your hand like an anchor as he leaned against the wall.

"Does this mean you're staying?" He whispered, which was a silly question and also so much him that you longed to kiss him again.

You smiled and squeezed his hand. "Oh, sweet boy, I'm stayin' as long as you want me to."

"Forever, then?"

You nodded, eyes moving over his face. "Mhm. Forever."

Miles flung his arms around you, and the two of you pressed together, uncaring about how wet or chilly you were. You held each other there for a moment, and for the first time, you felt Miles Miller breathe you in as much as you did him.

"… the house is gonna be a wreck after the storm, isn't it?" Miles spoke after a moment, voice muffled against your neck.

You released a sigh. "Definitely wrecked, yeah, definitely." You hummed and pressed a kiss to his neck. "We'll have plenty of time to fix it up, though. I'm not going anywhere."

Miles pulled back and kissed you again. You let him steal the air from your lungs as you stroked his scarred cheek and grinned at him like an idiot.

"You're a saint, you know that?" He whispered, voice reverent. "My saint."

You cupped his face. "If I'm a saint, I think loving you is what made me holy."

Miles blinked, eyes growing watery again, but the smile on his face was an indication that it was a good sign.

"I love you." He murmured.

"I love you too, Miles Miller. Very much."

Sally mewed and took the pause to crawl into Miles' lap. Both of you laughed. "We love you too, Sally." Miles said affectionately, his free hand stroking her fur as the other held your hand.

So finally, with a storm above your heads as you sat in the bathroom of a house, you held on to the love of your life and finally, for once, felt at home.

A/N PT2: FUCK TUMBLR FORMATTING FUCK IT SO MUCH FUCK YOU TUMBLR!!!

wow I have a lot to say but I'll say it quick. A million thank-yous to Kris and Mads for keeping me creative and making me feel like I could actually finish this fic. Love you guys!! <3

I've been a recent edition to the Lewis Pullman fandom after the Sentry Summer or whatever we're calling the post-Thunderbolts explosion but I must say after months of lurking that I'm really happy to have found a place where there are so many brilliantly cool people. Lewis' characters are absolutely incredible and I'm so excited to keep writing for them because from where I'm standing right now, the bug is so so so strong.

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Bull riding is a man’s world. You know that. You feel it every day - how they count you out before the gate swings, how their jokes look for places to land, how a camera climbs your body before it ever finds your rope hand. You learned to stop asking for room and start taking it.

Tonight the arena is three towns over from Wabang. Close enough that the wind smells like the same stubborn grass, close enough that your bones remember which way the evening cool comes down the draws. Close enough that some kid you used to outrun on a gravel road might be on the rail, not recognizing you until the light hits just right. You drive past a diner that used to burn the toast and a gas station that still sells cherry icees you can taste if you try. You do not stop. You are not a ghost visiting old corners. You are here to work.

Pre-rodeo is a hum that wants to be a storm. You feel it in the wrists first, a buzz under the tape like a live wire; in the lungs second, that skinny slice of air that only widens when you make it. You park, kill the engine, sit for one count. In. One. Out, One. Then you move.

Trailer light; mirror check. You slick the flyaways with water because you prefer competence to cosmetics but you know how optics buy you time. Simple red eyeliner, Black leather vest, laces snug. Chaps that move when you do, not before. A little spider stitched small and mean at your glove knuckles - red, the size of a thumbnail, private and public at once. You powder the tail of your rope with rosin, slow circles that smell like old pine and heat. The ritual is quiet on purpose; the show can be loud later.

You walk the alley in a line the boys think is swagger and you know is economy. A teenager in a borrowed hat sees you and elbows his friend; a woman in a work shirt and good boots gives you a quick nod that says go on, then. You nod back. The stock boys pretend not to stare. The bull in your chute tosses his head and plants a message in the dirt: he owes no one anything. Good. You don’t owe him fear.

The proximity to Wabang does the strangest thing to your spine: it stiffens it and softens it at once. Your throat remembers dust and August and the thin metallic taste of county fair lemonade. Your ear remembers Royal’s voice - Don’t fight the first jump, kid. Love it or it’ll teach you hard. Your mouth remembers the bite of salt from curly fries and a boy with a too-long grin who always sat next to you and called coincidence what it wasn’t. You do not go there. Not now. You put the memories in your back pocket like you would a pocketknife: useful later, dangerous if you play with it when you should be working.

Five minutes to call. You stretch the shoulder that sometimes whispers about December and Christmas with the Abbotts one year. You check the brace - not too tight. You flex each finger in your glove and watch the tendons rise like cables. The announcer is warming the crowd with a voice built out of gravel and promise; he says toughness like a brand and heart like a weather report. You roll out your neck until it clicks back into place and give your lungs what they asked for.

In. One. Out. One.

Boys on the rail try their lines. Cute. Predictable. You make them eat their comments with a look and a half-smile they’ll tell stories about later, and you keep walking. The chute boss gives you the courtesy he gives money makers and the respect he gives pros. “You good?” he asks, purely procedural. “Better than good,” you say, because it’s true and because you like how it sounds rolling off the metal.

Three minutes. You lay a palm on the bull’s shoulder and feel the engine and muscle under skin. Left spinner, heavy in the neck, mean little twitch in the right ear. Scar on the muzzle says he’s met a gate wrong. Breath says he’ll test yours. You call him handsome under your breath so only the hide hears it. He snorts like he knows flattery from fact.

You step onto the rail and the world tightens to the shape of a job done well. The leather is a rumor until it squeaks; the hat brim throws your eyes into your own shadow; the hourglass winks once in the floodlight like a secret you decided to share. Out beyond the chutes, the crowd rises for things they don’t yet understand and maybe don’t need to. You don’t ride for their understanding. You ride for the eight quiet seconds that silence the part of your head that thinks too many words.

The sound man hits your cue - a low guitar, a little dirty - and the announcer smiles into the mic like he’s been waiting to say it all week. “Back in town and hungry for it - make some noise for Black Widow.” There it is. The name that used to feel like a dare and now fits like armor. You don’t wink. You don’t wave. You adjust the vest. You settle your hips. You swing a leg and sit the hide like it invited you and you’re polite enough to accept.

Staging narrows to mechanics. Rope across your palm, tail in the fist, knuckles flat, elbow arrowed. Knees soft. Toes light. Chin tucked so the head follows the line your body already believes in. You set your jaw where it won’t get in the way. The gate man waits for your nod; the bull bounces under you like a thought trying to get free. You bring the whole world down to breath and bone.

Somewhere in the stands, Wabang watches. Somewhere at a rail, a man you could find by sound alone is counting with you whether he’s close enough to hear or not. Somewhere under your glove, a little scar you got on the Abbott farm one summer faintly itches like it remembers Wabang more than you do right now. 

You tip your chin. Clean. No drama. The latch clacks. And the chute opens like a held breath let go.

The bleachers tremble when the chute bangs. Rhett feels it in his boots, then in his teeth. He isn’t riding tonight - hat brim low, hands empty, family around him like a fence that breathes. The dust lifts in sheets. The floodlights flatten color into bone and shine. You drop into the seat like you were born to it - clean hip set, chin tucked, rope tail snug. The crowd hears Black Widow; Rhett hears summers full of flies and heat and winters of snow and tea and a girl who counted under her breath so the world would hold still.

Cecilia leans forward, elbows on her knees, the way she always did when it mattered. “Royal,” she says, soft and sure, “is that our little-” “Cricket,” Royal finishes, not asking. His mouth barely moves; his eyes do. He watches the way you check the bull’s shoulder with your palm, patient, interested, unimpressed. He doesn’t blink. “Heard tell of a woman in the arena,” he rumbles. “Never thought it was our Cricket.”

Perry squints, grin threatening. “Hell. Look at her.” Rhett looks. The leather is a show; the seat is the truth. You rides the first jump like you love it - Royal’s old lesson turned into muscle and proof. Left spinner, hard and mean; you let the bull have his line, kills the waste, eats the seconds. Floodlight kisses the red spider on your glove like a secret that got tired of hiding. “God,” Perry says, like he is half laughing and half proud. “Cricket went and made herself a myth.” “She made herself a rider,” Cecilia says. There is steel in her voice. She squeezes Rhett’s knee through his jeans. “You see her hands, honey?”

He does. You chalk, you settle, you breathe. He hears it even from here. In. One. Out. One. The alley narrows to a shape around you. Your show name burns hot and red. Your old name whirs under it, small and bright. Both are true. He knew it when you were fifteen and shared fries at the county fair. He knows it now when you put your palm on angry hide and make the world hold still.

A man behind them leans in with a chuckle that doesn’t belong to anything. “Damn,” he says to his buddy, “I want her to ride me like-” Cecilia’s glance over her shoulder could sand paint. He quiets. Rhett doesn’t even turn; all his attention is pinned to the dirt. He catalogues the changes, the sameness, because that keeps his breath steady. The braid - tidier and longer, tied off with a darker ribbon. The mouth - set straight for work, curved at the edges for when the count goes right. The hands - stronger, quicker, still telegraphing nothing. You look older. You look exactly the same. Mostly you look like yourself, the way you only ever did when you were on the ranch and around the Abbotts. He watches you with a feeling that won’t pick one name: awe, relief, and that old, unfair hate that belongs to the boy you left behind - the one for whom your leaving was the end of the world and maybe still is on nights when the stars won’t shut up.

You look like motion made you larger. You look like the world bent around the space you took and decided never to spring back. He hates that a little, the way a healed bone hates the weather - ache that proves it mended crooked and strong. You eat seconds. You eat their noise. You ride without wasting a single breath that doesn’t buy you another inch of control. Rhett hears himself counting with you before he knows he started. In. One. Out. One. First hook, you win the pocket and stay open; second, you let the shoulder roll; third, you check the jaw and leave the head alone so the body can follow. The clock eats. The clock obeys.

Rhett doesn’t smile. He can’t. He’s busy. He’s holding the entire night the way you hold a skittish animal: still, gentle, willing to be bit if it means not letting go. The announcer is a faraway thing. The crowd’s roar is weather he’ll notice later. Right now there is only your spine over mean power and the old county-fair lesson turning into another second survived. Perry slaps Rhett’s shoulder once. Royal’s jaw softens. Perry’s grin shows up slow, reverent against its will. “She looks pretty when she’s working,” he says, and for once there’s no tease in it. Just truth.

The buzzer hits like a door slamming on danger. You make the dismount look like choice. Dirt scatters; a bullfighter buy you clean air; you clear the pocket and sticks the ground, knees easy, shoulders square. You tip your chin to the chute boss. A wink. A wave. A bow. The crowd lifts and lifts you with them. 

Scoreboard clicks. Second place.

“Eight clean,” Royal says under his breath, not superstition - fact. Cecilia breathes, “Lord,” the way some people clap. “Cricket,” Perry says, laughter caught in his throat. “Damn.” Rhett finally breathes like he means it. The name lands right where it always lived. Not the brand the world bought, but the first one, the one Royal gave a kid who wouldn’t stop chirping questions and hopping rails. “She’s back,” Cecilia says. “She never left,” Royal answers, meaning the important parts. Rhett keeps his eyes on you as you walk the rail, letting the noise hit and slide off like weather. You are scanning, working, the arena still a job in your hands. But he knows - he knows - you will look up when it counts, and when you do, you´ll find the one thing he’s been able to count by for years.

He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t shout. He stands a fraction taller on the plank, jaw tight, eyes hard to protect what’s softer under them. He hates you for a heartbeat - for leaving, for growing, for proving the world could be survived without him - and then the hate folds itself into heat and respect and under it something he cannot name yet. Perry’s hand thumps Rhett’s shoulder again and stays there this time, a steadying weight. “She was a kid last time,” he says, wonder slipping out sideways. “Look at her now.” Ten years is a long time until it isn’t. Rhett does look. Twenty-six, same as him; ten years, same as a lifetime. The braid is tidier, longer, the smile rarer, the eyes older - in a way he recognizes from his own mirror. Mostly you look like yourself - the version of her that only shows up in situation where you fight to not look and feel small. There is more steel in your eyes. Your smile is different, more show and flash when you wave at the crowd. You take the walk along the rail. The arena bends a little around you; it used to try to make you small and now it doesn’t remember how. You jump the rail to take a picture with a little girl that wears a shirt with a spider and she looks at you like you like you brought Christmas and birthday gifts combined.

And then you look up. Suddenly he feels like ten, twelve, fourteen and sixteen all over again. The light flattens, the roar thins, and for one clean beat the distance between sixteen and twenty-six, between leaving and staying, between Black Widow and Cricket, collapses into a single line of sight. You drop anchor on Rhett like you did since you were ten. His mouth doesn’t move. His chest does.

You tip your chin - tiny, private, the exact measure of Good to see you again - and then you are moving again, back into the work, leaving him with the same thought he’s had since they were kids, only truer now that the years have had their say: You left and you came back. And he’s still right where you can find him.

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Second place tastes like dust and sugar - sweet enough to want more, gritty enough to keep you honest. Rhett watches the armor stay on all the way down the alley: the straight spine, the lazy-mean walk, the red spider winking on your glove. He thinks you’ll ghost the pen, vanish into your trailer and your ritual.

They’re where they’ve always been: the Abbotts, three abreast like a line the world forgot to erase. Royal with his hand on the rail. Cecilia with her shoulders pitched forward the way she leans into things she loves. Perry already grinning like he got away with something. Rhett - still as fence post, steel outside so the soft parts don’t get trampled.

The whole machine of you stutters and reboots into something he remembers: knees loose, hat tipped back, that fast bright grin that never made it to cameras. “Perry!” you yell like you’re twelve again, and you’re already moving, sprinting the last ten feet across the dirt. Perry doesn’t brace - he just catches you, all air knocked out of him and laughter back in, picks you up and spins you once. Your boots kick a crescent of dust; your braid whips his shoulder. You’re talking into his collar - nothing words, happy noise - and for a heartbeat Rhett is sixteen again, jealous of anything that gets your first look, even his own brother.

Cecilia steps in like a tide - hands on your cheeks, a thumb to the little scar at your brow, eyes wet and fierce. “Cricket,” she says, and the name lands like shelter. You try to play it cool; you fail immediately. “Cece,” you say, small on the exhale, and fold into her hug like you forgot how tired you were until now. Royal waits his beat, then offers what he always offered you first: steadiness. No fuss. Just a hand that pulls you in tight and thumps your back like you’re a rider he’s proud to claim. “You sit a bull proper,” he says into your hat brim. “Always did.” You nod hard, swallow hard, and for a second your eyes shine the way they did when you were younger and did not yet have the steel to defend you from people that wanted to make you smaller.

When you turn, Rhett is there. You finally look at him. Just him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break. He lets the smile lift one corner of his mouth. “Hi,” he says, and it’s nothing like a boy and exactly like a man who waited without making a scene. The noise falls away for him the way it always does when something matters. He takes inventory because it keeps his hands still: dirt on your jaw, a split in your glove seam (right where he could fix it), the high pulse at your throat. The show has slid off you in layers - what’s left is heat and truth and that stubborn light he’s been chasing since the ferris wheel summers. He feels ten again before he knows why.

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Gravel crunches. Royal’s truck rolls to a stop, door swinging wide. You jump out from the passenger side like you’ve been launched - truck too big for you by a mile, but you stick the landing anyway. Shorts, old T-shirt, one knee scraped raw and proud, braid shorter than it will be later with strands already escaping, a thin sunburn across your nose like a badge.

Rhett just stares.

Royal tips his hat toward his boys, half smile caught in his beard. “Couldn’t not take her,” he says, like you’re a force of weather. “Kid kept on begging to meet the calves.” 

Perry is faster. He plants himself in front of you, hands on hips, already grinning at the trouble you promise. “Hi,” he says, and it clicks in one second - older-brother energy snapping into place like a gate that knows where it belongs. You return the grin, then march straight up to Rhett and stop close enough to count freckles. You thrust out your hand, palm dusty, chin lifted like you intend to be taken seriously. He doesn’t take it. Not because he won’t - because he forgot how hands work for a second. You angle your head, unimpressed and amused. “Have you never seen a girl before?” Perry snickers loud enough to spook a pigeon. Rhett turns red to his ears and manages a grip; your shake is brisk, businesslike, done.

Royal hooks a thumb toward the porch. “Come on, kid,” he says, “Meet Cecilia before you charm the whole herd.” “Already did,” you say, not moving, eyes flicking past Royal to the small pen where the calves blink in the shade. Then you obey - because you decide to - trotting up the steps beside him, dirt-streaked legs, socks slouched, braid bobbing.

Rhett watches you go, feeling ten and brand-new at the same time, the day suddenly larger than it was five minutes ago. Perry elbows him once, delighted. “You’re doomed,” he whispers. Rhett doesn’t answer. He’s busy memorizing the sound of your feet on their porch and the shape of your hand in his, the beginning of a world he won’t know how to name for years.

A while later you walk through the west pasture. The grass is high enough to shiver against your knees, seedheads painting your shins with pollen. Royal takes the fence line at an easy pace, long shadow keeping you in the shade. Perry kicks through cow paths like he owns them. Rhett is there because he always is, half a step behind, hands in his pockets, watching the ground like it might tell him something.

You talk the whole way.

About the calves - how their eyelashes are ridiculous and how one of them has a white patch shaped like a boot. About the creek - is it cold all summer or just now? About your scraped knee - not from falling, from sliding like a champion, thanks. Every time Royal answers, you jump tracks to the next question like a grasshopper, landing, launching, landing again.

Royal hums to show he’s listening. Perry throws in commentary like he’s calling a game. Rhett mutters something that might be a laugh and might be a warning to himself. Finally - half exasperated, half enchanted - Rhett says it under his breath, not meant as anything but a grumble that escapes anyway: “Do you ever shut up? You’re like a cricket.”

You stop. You look back over your shoulder, sun in your eyes, mouth already curving. Then you stick out your tongue at him, quick as a dare. “You’re rude,” you inform him, then pivot and keep going, talking again before the grass settles. Perry snorts. Royal’s mouth almost smiles. Rhett pretends he isn’t smiling at all. 

The name hangs there for a few more steps, light as chaff. Then it drops into place with a small, satisfying click, like a latch finding its home. “Cricket,” Royal says once, testing it, and it fits like it was waiting. Perry repeats it with a flourish. Rhett doesn’t say it out loud. He files it away where he keeps things he plans to take out later when no one’s looking.

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“Cricket,” he says, soft, like the name might scare. Then, because you earned it and you chose it, “Black Widow.” You huff, a breath almost like a laugh. “Hey,” you say, as if ten years were a long lunch break. You pull him in, proper. You smell like chute nylon and hot sand and a summer that still thinks you are thirteen. He slides his arms around your waist and tucks his face into the rough of your neck. He stays there for a moment longer than needed, allowing himself to be sixteen and in love again. 

Perry elbows the rail because he can’t stand quiet when it turns tender. The two of you part. “Don’t just stand there, Rhett. Say something pretty.” Rhett doesn’t rise to it. He tips his hat instead, old language made new. “Rode clean,” he says, pride as plain as water. “Looked like first.” You huff, pleased. “Second pays enough to keep me hungry.”

Royal’s arm comes around again, a clamp and a thud between your shoulder blades. “You did good, kid,” he rumbles. You give him the small, satisfied nod you used to give when the calf finally took the gate. Then you turn to Perry with your mouth already twisting into trouble. “Heard you have a kid,” you say, tone pure mischief. “Who let you be responsible for a human on purpose?” Perry presses a hand to his heart, staggers like you shot him with kindness. “Not only that,” he says, delighted. “A wife too. You’ll come meet ’em.” “Yeah, of course,” you say, no hesitation, like you’ve had the address written on your palm for a year. “You think I’m passing up the chance to tell a small person all your secrets?” Perry whoops. “Bring it on.”

Somewhere behind his steady face, Rhett’s whole chest loosens. The word of course lands in him like a promise he didn’t ask you to make out loud. You will return home, he thinks, the thought as simple and enormous as fence meeting horizon. Maybe not every day. Maybe not forever. But home got bigger the minute you said yes to the kitchen and the kid and the idea that there’s a chair at their table with your name on it again.

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Late spring, the kind that forgets itself after sunset. The creek is fat with meltwater, cottonwoods just starting to fuzz, calves still wearing ears too big for their heads. You’re twelve, all knees and scabbed shins, braid unspooling, T-shirt with someone else’s name written on the tag. You’ve spent all day handing Royal tools and pretending not to race Perry between fenceposts. Rhett walks the line behind you, steady and quiet, like the fence might wander off if he looks away.

By dusk, you’re soft with tired. Hay clings to your socks; your head sports a new scrape you’ve already decided to keep. The Abbotts’ porch light glows gold through the screen. Inside, the table is crowded - bowls, bread, the smell of garlic and something simmered slow. You stop in the doorway, feeling that strange tug again: not home, exactly, but something leaning close to it.

“Shoes,” Cecilia calls without looking up, voice all quilt and sunlight. You obey. The thud of your sneakers on the floorboards sounds like permission. She turns, wooden spoon in hand, scanning you like she always does. “Any damage?” “Minor,” you report. “Fence two bit my head. I won.” Royal chuckles. Perry fakes outrage. Rhett smirks into his glass.

Dinner is easy - bread still warm, stew too heavy on the vegetables for Perry and just right for you. Royal tells stories about bulls with grudges. Perry interrupts for effect. Rhett rolls his eyes, but his mouth curves anyway. You talk with your hands, knock your spoon once against your bowl, apologize, forget, and do it again. No one minds.

When the dishes are stacked and the house hums quiet, Cecilia wipes her hands and nods toward the mudroom. “Come here, kid. Help me fold.” You follow. The mudroom smells like soap and pine. Towels wait in a neat stack beside a row of hooks - four coats, all sizes. Yours hangs there too, lighter and smaller, but there. You know it’s yours because last week you left it on the fence and Royal brought it in muttering and Cecilia hung it anyway.

She passes you a towel. You fold. She folds. The quiet between you feels kind. “You’re shooting up fast,” she says after a bit. “We’ll have to start marking that doorframe again. Been a year since the boys got measured.” “Rhett keeps cheating,” you say, grinning. “Do not,” comes faintly from the kitchen. Cecilia smiles. “We’ll see about that.” She gestures with her chin toward the kitchen doorway, where the frame still bears faded pencil lines and initials: R, P, and a stack of years like tree rings.

Later, when everyone’s gone to the living room for pie, you wander over with the stub of a pencil. You’re just curious, you tell yourself - want to see where you’d fit. Rhett is already there, marking something. “Adding this year,” he says, not turning. Then, half a beat later, “You too.” Before you can answer, he scribbles Cricket under the lowest line - your name small, careful, tucked between the years like it’s been waiting. You stare. “I don’t-”

Cecilia appears in the doorway, drying her hands. “It’s fine,” she says softly, seeing the look on your face. “You’re family, honey. You come often enough we might as well keep track.” It hits before you can brace: the word family, clean and simple, and the way it lands right in your chest. Your throat knots. Your vision blurs. You blink hard, then harder. “Sorry,” you mumble, wiping your face with the heel of your hand. “I don’t- I’m not trying to cry. It’s stupid.” “Oh, sweetheart,” Cecilia says, already there, arms open. You fold into her like it’s instinct. She smells like soap and stew and the day. “It’s not stupid. It’s twelve.” You laugh once, bent and watery. “Twelve’s the worst.”  “It is,” she agrees. “And you’re doing it beautifully.”

Behind her, the kitchen floor creaks. Perry has appeared, pie in hand, eyes wide. “We doing hugs?” he asks. “I’m great at hugs.” He swoops in before you can object, nearly lifting you off the ground in a bear squeeze that smells like cinnamon and dust. “Perry,” Rhett mutters, exasperated but fond. “What? It’s emotional!” Rhett stands there, awkward and too tall for the moment, hands half in his pockets. Then he scratches the back of his neck and clears his throat. “Hey,” he says, quiet. “If you keep crying, we’ll have to add a waterline under your name.” You laugh through your sniffles, a little hiccup of sound. “That’s not even funny.”  He shrugs, cheeks pink. “Maybe not. But it worked.” It did.

Cecilia gives your shoulder a squeeze before stepping back. “All right,” she says, brisk again. “Enough heart-to-heart. Someone cut this pie before Perry eats it with the pan.” “Too late!” Perry crows from the table. Rhett rolls his eyes, but when he passes you a fork, his hand brushes yours just enough to make it count.

Later, after pie, you find your coat hanging neatly on its hook, still beside theirs. You touch the sleeve and then look at the doorframe - your name small and straight, a new line among the old ones. For a second you let yourself imagine a chair with your name carved in the back, waiting here even when you’re not.

Outside, the crickets start up like a promise. You smile. You sleep that night in a borrowed blanket on a soft couch and the quiet certainty that someone would still measure you next year, too.

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The sponsor wrangler finds you first - logo shirt, clipboard smile, eyes on the hourglass at your glove instead of your face. He steers his patter toward the banner wall like you’re part of the furniture. You go three steps with him, then plant. The man blinks when the furniture suddenly has brakes. “Just a few shots, Black Widow. Little smile?”

You tip your head like a knife. “Little check,” you say, and glance at Royal. “You need me now or can I give him thirty seconds?” Royal folds his arms. “Thirty. After that I start charging.” The wrangler laughs like he isn’t sure if it’s a joke. You line up in front of the vinyl, hands on hips, hat low. Flash. Flash. He asks you to turn a little. You do. He asks for a wink. You give him a look instead - camera-hot, teeth nowhere in sight. The wrangler decides he has enough.

Then the reporter oozes in, the kind that calls women “sweetheart” and men “sir.” He doesn’t ask; he enters your air. “Widow, got a sec? Off the record, what’s the secret - tight clothes or tight grip?” Rhett feels his jaw go hard. Perry shifts his weight like he’s already bored of the man’s face and is looking for something more interesting to hit. Royal doesn’t move. Cecilia moves enough - one step forward, chin up, storm gathering.

You beat all of them to it.

“Good question,” you say, smiling like you just found a snake under a rock. “My secret is I don’t mistake a microphone for a personality. You want a quote? Try this: ‘It’s not clothes, it’s core.’ Spell that right.” The reporter opens his mouth to be offended, decides to laugh instead because the camera’s still on, and backs away muttering about “colorful.” You hand the mic back to the wrangler without looking at him. He takes it like it’s hot. You dust your hands off - nothing on them, the gesture pure punctuation - and turn back to the Abbotts with the steel off your eyes again.

A little girl in a plastic hat appears from nowhere like a rumor, two front teeth missing and a Sharpie clutched like a weapon. “Miss Widow?” she squeaks. “Can you sign my hat? My mom says girls can’t-” She doesn’t finish because she’s already second-guessing it. You drop into a crouch so you’re eye-level. Rhett thinks his heart might beat out of his chest. “Your mom’s wrong about interesting things,” you say, gentle as you get. “What’s your name?”

“Kaylee.” You print KAYLEE on the brim, then add a tiny spider next to it. “Count with me, Kaylee,” you say, soft. “In. One.” She does, slow and careful. You nod like she just roped the moon. “Good. Keep that. It works.” Kaylee runs off, hat too big and pride bigger. Rhett watches the way your mouth tightens when she vanishes into the crowd. It’s the face you make when the world gets under your vest - fast, then gone.

“Come on,” Perry says, voice back to loud. “We got a cooler and a tailgate with our name on it.” You go with them to the gravel, to the beat-up truck where all the good conversations always happen. Cecilia fishes a bottle of water from the ice and snaps it into your hand with maternal force. You drink like it’s pay. Royal leans on the tailgate and starts asking the questions only someone who knows stock asks - shoulders on that bull look heavier than his last run? You liked the pocket he set on jump three? You answer like a pro, words clean, hands unconsciously marking beats in the air.

Rhett stands close enough to watch the tendon in your wrist work as you talk. Close enough to notice the split seam in your glove again. He takes it from your hand like it’s nothing, like he’s done it a hundred times, which he has. Pocketknife. Rawhide lace. The ritual is muscle-deep. “Hold still,” he says. “I am holding.” You lean a hip into the bumper, eyes on him now instead of the stitches. “You carry that lace for all your girlfriends?” “Just the ones who will beat me in the arena.” He pulls the lace snug, neat square knot, thumb brushing your pulse on purpose and not at all by accident. “There.” You flex your hand once. Approving. “Useful Abbott.” Perry groans. “Don’t encourage him.”

Royal’s phone buzzes. He steps away, voice low, hat tipped, already a silhouette in the glare. Cecilia drifts toward a knot of neighbors who remember you as freckles and scabbed knees. For a minute it is just you and Rhett under the wash of lot light and slow moths. “Riding Wabang next week and the one after?” he asks. You nod. “I will. Both” “How does that sit with you?” You taste it before you speak. “Feels like coming home,” you say, truth and bravado talking at the same time.

He opens his mouth, something careful starting there, when Cecilia is back, warm and direct. “Good. Then when are you coming for dinner?” She does not make it a question so much as a plan. “Tuesday, if you roll in Monday. I will do roast.” “Tuesday,” you say, quick and sure. “I will bring pie.”

Royal reappears, folding his phone into his pocket. “Heard Wabang.” His eyes cut to you, weighing and approving. “Enter both nights if they will have you, on both weeks. Purse is better on Friday, stock is ranker, suits you.” “Then I will take both,” you say. “I like honest work.”

Perry materializes like he was listening from ten feet away. “And go easy on Rhett while you are at it,” he adds, grin already out. “Man has a fragile disposition.” Rhett does not look at him. He looks at you. In his head he thinks the thing he does not say out loud, the one that never learned manners. The hardest thing you did to me was leaving.

Cecilia pats your arm, oblivious to the thought but not the feeling in the air. “Text me when you hit county line. I will keep a plate warm.” “I will,” you say. Your mouth tilts. “And I will measure again on the doorframe.” Perry groans. “Here we go. Another inch and she will claim she is taller than me.” “Only if the pencil agrees,” Royal says, straight-faced. Rhett pushes his hat back a fraction. “If the pencil agrees, I will not argue.” You laugh, small and bright, and it loosens everything. The lot is cooling. Trucks turn over, taillights smear red, moths pass like lazy confetti through the floodlight. You shift your bag on your shoulder.

“I should go,” you say, not sorry. “Early loadout.” “Tuesday,” Cecilia reminds, already stepping into a hug that lands you back on your heels. Royal gives your shoulder one firm press that says he heard your ride and liked it. Perry leans in for a noisy squeeze and stage whispers, “Bring two pies. Insurance.” “I will,” you say, “And Perry? Looking forward to meet your little bug.”

You and Rhett are last. You do not reach for him. He does not reach for you. He tips his hat instead. “Drive safe,” he says. “Count for me,” you answer, the private request hidden in the simple words. “In. One. Out. One,” he says, soft, like a promise he will keep whether you hear it or not. You back away a step, then another, braid over your shoulder, spider winking at your knuckles. “Tuesday,” you say again, and turn toward the dark road that points you at Wabang.

Rhett watches your taillights shrink, hears Perry’s ongoing pie negotiations, feels Royal’s quiet settle, catches Cecilia’s glance that says she saw more than she will say. He thinks what he always thinks when the night gets honest. You left and now you came back. He is still right where you can find him. Rhett stands there until the taillights quit being red and turn into night. Tuesday is only four sleeps away and somehow feels like a mile and a minute. It isn’t. It’s roast and a doorframe and a house that still carries your name like you never left.

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Tuesday arrives faster than you think. You turn up the Abbott drive and you are sixteen with a new license, you are ten on your first visit, and you are every age in between. You aren’t even out of the car when a shape slips off the porch. You know it’s Rhett from the outline alone - taller than you remember, maybe just taller than he was - and you smile before you mean to.

“You beat the roast,” he says, taking the steps in two. “Barely,” you say. “Cece texted me a threat about Perry already eating all the sides.” “Accurate.” The corner of his mouth lifts. He reaches without asking for your bag and the pie, gathering what you’re carrying like gravity. You let him. The two of you walk in silence. Ten years feel like nothing and everything at once.

The screen door bumps once and swings. A woman steps out with a dish towel over her shoulder and a kid tucked behind her thigh. You’re already smiling at Amy when your brain catches up to the face above her. “Becky?” you blurt, then laugh at yourself. “Oh my god, Becky?” Her eyes go round, then brighter. “No way,” she says, already crossing the porch. “You are the infamous Cricket? Oh my god.” She pulls you in, towel and all, then holds you out by the elbows like she’s checking for proof. 

Behind you, the porch board creaks. Rhett is there, shoulder to the post, just watching - hat pushed back, that small private smile that lives in the corner of his mouth when the world organizes itself into a shape he likes. “Look at you. Back like nothing. Cricket aka Black Widow in my kitchen. What is this timeline.” “Please,” you say, grinning. “Look at you. The baddest baby from second period grew up and took over the Abbott porch.”

Perry hears that from three rooms away. “Confirmed!” he yells. “Married the baddest baby on purpose.” Becky rolls her eyes, same as high school, and tips her head toward the kid. “Amy, honey, this is Cricket. The one Daddy and Uncle Rhett won’t shut up about.” Amy slides out from behind Rebecca’s leg like she’s been released. “I heard so much about you,” she says carefully, like she’s reciting a spell she wants to get right. “Daddy says you ride a bull like you were born on it. “He’s right,” you say, solemn for her benefit. You offer a fist. She bumps it, examines your shirt, and spots the red spider on it. “Is that yours?” “Mine,” you say. “She’s small and mean and only bites if people are silly.” Becky snorts. “So, you.” “So, me,” you agree.

“Becky,” you say again, because it’s still funny, because it’s still true in your head. “You remember when you got sent to the office for starting a petition about vending machines?” Becky lifts her chin. “And we got the candy bars back by spring. You’re welcome for your childhood.” Amy gasps like this is legend. “Mom started a petition?” “Your mother started three,” Perry says, appearing with two forks he definitely does not need. “And a small riot over the dress code.” “Peaceful assembly,” Becky says, swatting him with the dish towel. Then to you, gentler: “You look good. You look… right.”

You feel it land - how time kept moving here without you, how chairs filled and a kid learned to say petition, how the pencil climbed the doorframe - and somehow there was still a space with your name on it the whole time. “Feels right,” you say. “We’re all older. Some of us taller.” You look up at Rhett for that part, on purpose. “By a hat,” he says, deadpan. “Cheater’s unit,” you fire back. Becky laughs, easy and delighted.

Amy is so excited she doesn’t stop for air. She leans in, conspiratorial, eyes huge. “And Uncle Rhett talks about you the way he reads the Bible. Slow. Like it matters.” You snort before you can help it. “That sounds dangerous.” Rebecca laughs into her sleeve. “He does,” she says, delighted and merciless. “Reverent, even.” Rhett goes a color you’ve only ever seen on ripe tomatoes. “Rebecca.” “What?” she says, all innocence. “Scripture’s scripture.”

Amy bounces on her toes, ponytail thwacking her shoulder. “He says you count. He showed me. In. One.” She inhales with theatrical care, chest puffed, then beams like she’s nailed a recital. You match her, just as solemn. “Out. One.” The two of you finish the breath together and the kitchen seems to land in the same place at the same time.

Cecilia, passing with a dish towel, taps Amy’s shoulder. “Let the lady breathe between questions, bug,” she says, fond. “Or she’ll have to start charging by the answer.” “I have allowance,” Amy says gravely, then turns back to you. “Also I lost a tooth. Wanna see?” “I was hoping you’d offer,” you say, and she bares the gap with pride. You put a hand to your heart. “Classic work.” Rebecca hooks an arm around Amy’s waist and peels her gently back. “Alright, press corps. Give the Black Widow an inch.” She looks at you, eyes soft around the mischief. “It’s good to see you, truly. Never knew I listened to stories about you in all my time here. Thought you were someone else. When Perry told me the infamous Cricket was back in town, I told him if he didn’t invite you I’d stage a coup.” You grin. “Always knew you had dictator potential, Becky.” “Don’t out me in front of my child,” she stage-whispers, then kisses Amy’s head. “Go wash up. Hands. Face. Forearms. Everything.”

Amy salutes and darts away, then skids back like she remembered something essential. “Friday we’re going to the rodeo,” she announces, breathless. “Daddy says Uncle Rhett might ride if his shoulder’s nice, and Grandpa says you’re braver than sense, and I think you’re both going to win.”

Your eyes flick to Rhett. There’s a split-second where the air warms and you feel like you are sixteen again. “Friday,” you echo, easy as you can make it. “We’ll see how the stock feels.” Rebecca’s grin tips sly. “Oh, she’s not the only one who’s heard things. Entries posted. Two Abbotts on the board. One by name and one by heart” She nudges Rhett with her hip as she passes. “Try not to make it a sermon in the chute.” He rubs a thumb along the seam of his pocket, not meeting your eyes. “I’ll try not to make it anything.” “Liar,” you say, gentle.

Cecilia rescues everyone by clapping her hands once. “Seats, heathens. Roast waits for no soul.” She touches your elbow as you pass her, a little grounding pressure that says welcome in a language you didn’t forget. “Good to have you where you belong.” Royal passes behind her, gives you a quiet shoulder tap that means he agrees with more words than he’ll use. You realize - sudden and bright - that the household grew and shifted without you and somehow kept you threaded through it anyway.

At the table, Amy claims the chair beside you like she called it years ago. “Can you sign my hat after?” she asks, already whispering though no one told her to. “Mom says you put spiders. I want two. One big, one little. So they can be friends.” “Deal,” you say. “But you have to promise to breathe on Friday.” She braces both little hands on the edge of the table and nods solemnly. “In. Out.” Across from you, Rebecca lifts her water glass in a mock toast. “To Friday,” she says. “To brave and foolish, in equal measure.” Rhett finally looks at you over the rim of his glass. The corner of his mouth lifts, rueful and sure. “To honest work.”

You tap your fork twice on your plate, a private drumroll you didn’t know you’d been saving. “To both of us starting the weekend right.” You don’t put teeth in it. You don’t have to. The tease is the truth. Perry whistles, shameless. “God help the bulls.” Royal only grunts, approval disguised as something else. Cecilia sets a mountain of roast on your plate like she’s building you a ramp back into the life you left.

“Eat,” she says. “Then we’ll measure the doorframe. I found the pencil.” Amy gasps. “Can I do the line? I’ll write CRICKET so neat.” “You can,” you say, feeling the old ache turn into something quieter. “Make it straight.” “Like a verse,” Rebecca murmurs, and you kick her lightly under the table. Rhett’s boot finds yours by accident-or-not, steadying you where the floor feels like moving.

Dinner goes the way time goes when you’re happy - loose, fast, and somehow full. Laughter bellies up to old stories; new ones wedge in without asking. Somewhere in the middle the house shifts a little to make room for you without really needing to. Dishes are a game. Amy crowns Perry with a foam beard; he poses like a sea captain; you bark a laugh you didn’t know you were saving. Cecilia clucks, secretly pleased. Royal dries exactly one plate and calls it supervision.

You take the towel and fall into the old assembly line. You dry; you pass to Rhett; he shelves. You still remember where every mug lives - Cecilia’s floral high, Royal’s chipped low, the blue ones stacked by habit - but you hand them to him anyway. Your fingers brush more often than necessary, the small, stupid electricity of it knocking politely and then staying. “Top shelf,” he murmurs, even when you already know. “I know,” you say, and let him tell you.

When the last glass clicks home, Amy tugs you towards the living room. The doorframe - still hosting years of lines and initials like tree rings - waits in the kitchen light. You back to the jamb. Rhett steps in behind you, palm to your crown, knuckles gentle at your jaw. For a moment, you feel like fifteen again and a buried memory resurfaces.

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July heat in the floorboards. A fly ticking the screen. Perry somewhere out back, singing off-key. Cecelia clinking spoons. Royal’s boots on the porch like punctuation. You’re barefoot, sunburned, still damp from the creek, hair rope-braided and shedding. Rhett says, “Back straight,” and you say, “Bossy,” and he says, “Honest,” and you both grin like you invented talking.

He marks you - CRICKET, 15 - and doesn’t step away. His hand stays a second too long, warm at your crown, his thumb a breath from your cheekbone like it’s checking for straightness that isn’t on the jamb. He smells like hay and laundry soap. You can count the dust freckles on his knuckles. Your pulse stutters. “In,” you whisper, because you need something to do with your lungs. “Out,” he answers, because he always does.

You tilt - moth-wing small - until the tip of his nose skims your cheekbone and your bottom lip brushes the edge of his. Not a kiss, not yet - just the promise of one, the shape of it, the sure knowledge that if no one speaks you will finish what you started. His breath catches. His thumb steadies your jaw like he’s making the line straight. Your hand finds his shirt, two fingers curled in cotton, tiny anchor. 

The house holds its breath with you. Then screen door snaps. “Pie!” Cecelia calls, miracle-loud. You both freeze; the moment blinks, breaks neat as twine. He clears his throat and underlines your name like he meant to all along. You study it with academic fury. The fly keeps time like nothing happened. Everything did.

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“Back straight,” he says. “Bossy.” The old summer flicker across his eyes too. You see it. You pretend you didn’t. Your throat does that treacherous, soft thing anyway. “Honest,”, he breathes out. Perry is suddenly there, scooping Amy under the arms and boosting her like a crane. “Steady hands, Picasso.” Amy bites her lower lip, all business, and drags the pencil slow and true. The graphite whispers. She adds the letters with her tongue caught in the gap of her teeth: C R I C K E T - crooked, perfect. “Attagirl,” Royal says from the table, proud like he invented handwriting.

Rhett’s palm lingers at your crown a heartbeat longer than needed, then slides away. He reaches past, steadying Amy’s sneaker against his thigh so she can dot the final T without wobble. Your shoulder brushes his chest; you don’t move. Neither does he. “Signature touch,” Perry proclaims, lowering Amy. “Gotta have one.” Rhett’s pencil clicks once. Quick as a secret, he inks the tiny spider beside your name. Your knuckles graze his wrist when you reach to blow the dust away. He doesn’t pull back; you don’t, either. “Straight,” Amy announces, satisfied. “Pretty as a verse,” Rebecca says, and you huff a laugh you can’t help.

“Still shorter than me,” Perry crows, rescuing the moment with exactly the right amount of nonsense. He slaps the jamb above his own line. “And definitely shorter than Rhett.” “I contain multitudes,” you say. “Short ones,” Perry says, delighted. Amy plants her fists on her hips. “Height isn’t the important part,” she declares. “Brave is.” “Listen to the management,” Rebecca says, kissing the top of Amy’s head. “She’s right.” Cecilia taps the counter with a spoon. “All right - jam taste, then bed for the brave one and planning for the fools.” She eyes you and Rhett. “Friday fools, specifically.”

Royal leans a shoulder to the doorway, comfortable as weather. “Neck-heavy stock on the sheet. Leave your chest soft on the first jump.” “Love it,” you say. “Ride it,” he corrects, but he’s pleased. Perry uncaps a jar and hands you a spoon. “Fig first. If you lie, it’s a sin.” You taste, close your eyes, let the porch and years and sugar do their work. “Holy,” you pronounce. “See?” Perry beams, vindicated. “God-tier jam.”

Rhett doesn’t touch the spoon. He touches the tiny spider he drew by your name instead, smudging an invisible speck with his thumb like he’s setting ink. “Friday,” he says, softer than the soap-smell in the room. “In,” you answer. “Out,” he finishes, and for a beat the house is so quiet you can hear the crickets outside. Then Amy yawns huge and theatrical, and the spell breaks into laughter. “Bed,” Cecilia says, ushering her out. Rebecca follows with a wave. 

You stand, pat your pockets for keys, lift the pie tins. “I should head out.” “I’ll walk you,” Rhett says, already moving, hat low, shoulder brushing the jamb as you pass your new mark. He takes your bag without asking. It’s nothing, it’s everything. Porch boards talk under your boots. Night smells like cut grass and dish soap drifting from the sink. The truck ticks as it cools. For a second you both just stand there in the wash of the porch light and moths.

“Thanks for dinner,” you say. “Thanks for being here,” he answers, like it’s simple. You set the pie tin on the hood.. The gravel is a dark ocean around you. “Friday,” he says. “Friday,” you echo. He opens his arms a fraction and you step in - one of those quiet, careful hugs that starts as courtesy and then isn’t. His chin finds the spot above your temple like it remembers the map. You count once together without speaking.

You step back first because one of you has to. “See you at the chutes,” you say. “I’ll be there,” he says. “Count for you. And watch you. Maybe steal your win.” “You will the do the first two,” you say, certain. Then you smile. “Maybe you will do the third.” You step into the car. He shuts your door. You roll the window down halfway, grin quick and mean as a promise. “Tell Perry I’m stealing a corner piece of pie next time.” “He’ll stage a coup,” Rhett says, lips tipping. “Drive safe.”

You put the truck in gear. The porch light skims your windshield; the moths spiral like confetti. You tap the horn once and go. He watches your taillights shrink until they stop being red and turn into night. His chest does the old, unfair thing. He feels sixteen again - standing where the drive meets the road, holding a lace he didn’t know what to do with - when you told him you were leaving.

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It’s the color of early morning that doesn’t belong to anyone. Gas station neon hums. The cherry Icee sign is lit for no one. The air smells like dust that hasn’t decided to rise. You’re already there when he pulls in: oversized shirt, braid a little crooked from sleep or nerves. He swings down from the truck and the door bang is too loud for the hour. If he speaks, it becomes real. He speaks anyway.

“Why here?” he asks, rougher than he meant. “Neutral ground,” you say, small smile trying to make it easier. “Didn’t want to make the porch sad.” “The porch will hear about it,” he says, and it’s not a joke. You nod toward the east, where the highway cuts a clean line. “I got a spot in a trailer. Stock contractor’s niece. It’s legit.” Facts; simple; like listing the parts of a rigging.

“What about-” he starts, and everything that could go in the blank crowds his tongue: us, me, the creek, Tuesday stew, Royal’s fence line, Cece’s towels, Perry’s dumb songs, the way your name fits on the doorframe. He picks none of them. “What about school?” he says, because he’s a coward and it’s safer. “I’ll finish,” you say, like that’s the easy part. “On the road. Night classes when I can. It’s not forever.” You grip the strap. “I just… I have to see if the world is as big as it feels from the chutes.” He hears: bigger than us. “Today?” he asks, and the word sounds like a test he’s already failed. “In a week,” you answer. “Next Friday.” You swallow and your eyes land on his shoulder - the place your hand knows. “I didn’t want to disappear on you.”

A week. It hits him sideways - relief and dread braided tight. Not now. Worse: not yet. A fuse lit in daylight. “You couldn’t wait longer?” It comes out thin. He means: pick us. He means: pick me. “If I wait, I’ll get good at waiting,” you say. “And I can’t be small that long.” “So I, we, this place - make you small?” His jaw tightens until it hurts. “That’s not what I said.” “It’s what I heard,” he says, too fast. “That’s not-” You start. “I can’t be my small. Not anymore.”

Wind flips the flag. A semi moans past and drags the horizon with it. He wants to grab you and shake a different answer loose. He wants to lie down across the road until the week changes its mind. He does neither. He shoves his hands in his pockets so he won’t reach and lose.

You pull a coil of rawhide lace from your back pocket and hold it out. “For your glove,” you say. “In case the next Friday in the chutes asks for more than you planned.” He stares at it like it might bite. “So that’s what I get? Lace and a countdown?” “You get the truth,” you say. “And time to hate me less.” “I don’t-” he starts, but the word is already wrong. He hates you right then in that specific way you hate weather for doing exactly what it promised: you were always going to go. He hates that the week will be a museum of lasts. He hates you because it proves the world is survivable without him at its center.

You see it land and don’t flinch. “Rhett,” you say - his name in your mouth is soft with teeth. “If I stay because you ask me to, I’ll punish you for it.” “I wouldn’t ask,” he says, the truest thing he owns. He doesn’t add that he wants to anyway. He doesn’t add that not asking feels like betrayal too.

The door chimes. The attendant yawns. Somewhere a radio mutters about weather three towns over. You step in close enough he can count the flecks in your eyes. You fix the curl at the edge of your braid because you can’t fix anything else. “In,” you whisper, offering him the only ritual you share. He clenches his jaw. “Don’t make me count you out,” he says, a plea dressed as anger. You nod, throat working. “Okay.” You lay the lace in his palm. He doesn’t close his hand.

“Next Friday,” you say, as if speaking the shape of it will make it less sharp. “After supper. I’ll come by first. I want to say goodbye right.” He wants to say don’t you dare make it pretty. He says nothing. You tip your chin like you do before a gate, turn, and go. You don’t look back. It’s the only mercy you give and he hates you for it.

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Thursday, two towns from Wabang, the cab smells like dust and coffee gone thin. Rhett needs to run some errands before the weekend. Then, his phone buzzes in the cup holder. Unknown number.

hi. this is Cricket. i can never sleep before a ride. you want to grab a drink at the Handsome Gambler?

He stares at the screen long enough for the next buzz to come - three gray dots that never quite resolve. He thumbs back:

On my way.

He sets the phone face down like it might bite and takes the next turn without thinking. Headlights comb the fencelines. Moths break themselves on the glass and keep going. The radio is low, some old station that knows better than to talk between songs.

What does it mean that you’re back? He chews it like a nail. It could mean everything, which is a bad idea, or it could mean exactly what the text says: a drink, because Friday is close and the world is loud. He decides - out loud, so he’ll hear it - to not make it big. Not tonight. A beer is a beer. A door in, a door out. He can do that. The Handsome Gambler floats up like it always does: neon sign, the first loud voices floating in. He kills the engine and the quiet is immediate.

You’re outside under the neon, arms folded against the breeze, boot toe worrying a crack in the concrete. The sign paints you in red and white and a little blue; it’s not flattering and it doesn’t matter. For a second it knocks the breath clean out of him - how you look the same and not the same at all. Same braid, tighter. Same mouth, older at the edges. Then you smile. His heart does the old, unfair skip. “Hey,” you say, like it isn’t ten years and three lifetimes. He doesn´t answer and wraps you in a quick but tight hug instead. 

He holds the door and you slip past, his hand hovering at the small of your back without landing. Inside the Handsome Gambler, the jukebox is losing a fight to a Hank Williams cover and a hard pool break. You pause, take it in - the neon blinking like a bad idea, the varnish worn to truth, the air thick with cigarette smoke and cold beer. First time past the gravel and myth. It feels smaller than the legend and exactly the right size for tonight.

Rhett angles you toward a corner booth - a little wedge of privacy in a room made of noise. “One second,” he says, and peels off to the bar. You watch him lean in, trade a few words with the bartender, easy as habit. A nod, a grin, two bottles set down with the thunk of people who know each other’s ways. His life moved while you were gone. Of course it did. Yours did too.

He comes back with two beers and slides one over to you before he drops into the booth right next to you. There is enough space yet he lands right next to you, shoulders and knees touching like it is coincidence. “Cold enough?” he asks. “Close to holy,” you say, bottle sweating against your palm. The jukebox coughs up another Hank chorus; a cue ball cracks; neon hums. Up close, he smells like soap and road and the faint ghost of cedar from a tack room. Your legs stay touching. Neither of you adjust.

“This place seemed like the coolest thing on earth when we were kids,” you say, watching the people around you. “We all tried to sneak in. No one ever made it past the gravel.” Rhett’s mouth ticks. “Perry got as far as the ice machine once. Claimed it counted.” “It didn’t,” you say, and your laugh goes soft. “I have spend many nights here,” Rhett says, proving again that he has also lived these past ten years, “And honestly? I’d rather be at the county fair again.” You nod, slow, smile tugging at your lips. The mirror behind the bar folds you together with neon and old bottles, and the room tilts into memory like it’s been waiting.

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Fifteen, heat slicking the midway. Grease and sugar in the air. Everything gold like the day’s been dipped in corn syrup. You and Rhett shoulder to shoulder at the fry stand, sharing a paper boat gone limp with salt. You pretend not to notice how your fingers keep finding each other in the ketchup. One soda between you because you’re “not thirsty.” You pass it back and forth without talking about mouths. The straw goes glossy. You learn how to sip without looking like you mean it.

You’re grinning when it happens. A boy from school - letter jacket even though it’s August, friend pack fanned behind him - sidles in with the exact smile that always looks for somewhere to land. “Well, if it isn’t Cricket,” he says, making it sound like a joke. “Heard you’re a real rider these days.” His buddy snorts. “She can ride me-”

Rhett’s head turns, slow, like weather rolling in. He doesn’t move otherwise. You feel your jaw lock. Your body knows this angle, this tone, this stage: the part where your throat forgets language, where you’re faster with a bull than a boy in a pack, where you go small because small used to be safe. “Walk,” Rhett says, very softly, to you, like a hand on the small of your back that no one else can see. You take one step, then another, paper boat in a death grip. The boys peel off, laughing at their own echoes. You don’t look back. The sound climbs your spine anyway.

You stop by the ring toss, like momentum let go. The whole fair breathes around you - lights, a loudspeaker begging the derby to work, children with blue tongues. Your hand rattles the ice in the cup because it needs a job. “This place makes me feel so small,” you say, and it’s too honest to be casual. “I ride bulls on weekends and whenever I can, but one boy opens his mouth and I shut up.” Rhett doesn’t say it’s fine. He doesn’t say don’t let it get to you. He looks at your white-knuckled grip and then at your face. “Okay,” he says. “Then we make a place that isn’t small.” “How?” He jerks his chin at the wheel. “Get higher.” You huff something that’s almost a laugh. “That’s not a plan.” “Sure it is,” he says. “Plan A: altitude.”

You let him tug you toward the ride. He buys two tickets like it’s not his last money and you both know it is. You get the last car - chipped paint, names carved into the steel: K+J, a heart that didn’t work out. The attendant kicks the bar with his boot and forgets to say don’t rock the seat. Halfway up, the wheel stutters and stops. Wind climbs your shins. The fair unrolls below: tilt-a-whirl trying to outspin itself, the demolition emcee feeding a dying microphone, neon that hasn’t learned to blink in time. Up here it’s just the two of you and a sticky straw and a horizon pretending to be forever.

“Guess we live here now,” Rhett says, light. His knuckles are white on the rail. “In,” you say, testing him, testing yourself. “Out,” he answers, and it lands low in your ribs like it always does. The car steadies. Your fists unknot an inch. “Do you think you’ll ever leave?” he asks, casual voice that isn’t casual. “Do you think you’ll ever ask me to stay?” you shoot back, then stare at the bolt head near your knee like it’s a quiz. He looks down at his hands. “I’ll… be where you can find me,” he says. It’s not an answer and it’s exactly one.

The wheel lurches and crawls a notch, then hangs. At the top, everything holds just long enough to turn your stomach into a pocket full of bees. You reach for the soda and miss the straw. Your knuckles bump his mouth. The car stutters a fraction, like the universe heard something it liked. “Sorry,” you breathe. “It’s fine,” he says, not fine. He taps the straw closer with two fingers, steady. You drink. He watches your throat like he found something on a map.

The wheel shudders, starts again, crawls. You don’t let go of the rail or each other. Down on the ground, the boys are already processed into background noise - cotton candy and bad aim. Up here, their words can’t climb. When your feet hit dust again, you both pretend to need air. You end up at the dart booth. The prizes swing in a light the color of melted sherbet. You spot it - small and mean: a ridiculous red spider plush with cartoon eyes.

“Want it?” Rhett asks. “You’ll never hit three,” you say, purely to be rude. “Respectfully,” he says, rolling his shoulder like a pitcher, “watch a professional fail twice.” He fails once, twice - far left, then an ugly bounce off the rim - and then he laughs, shakes his head, settles. In. Out. He hits the third balloon so clean the carny doesn’t even begrudge it. “Pick your poison,” the carny says, bored. You point up at the spider. He snorts like you’re kidding and then realizes you’re not. Rhett hands it to you with two fingers like it might hiss. You hold it by one leg. It’s silly and weightless and perfect. “Name her,” he says. “Later,” you say. “When she earns it.”

You end up at the ice cream stand again because everything ends at the ice cream stand. You buy ice cream for the both of you. Rhett leans his shoulder into yours like he’s making a wall you can lean on without anyone noticing. The boy with the letter jacket passes with his pack and doesn’t see you. It’s almost funny. “Still feel small?” Rhett asks, not looking at you. You twist the spider’s leg once and feel something in your chest unkink. “Less,” you say. “Altitude helped.”

“Plan A delivers,” he says, smug. “What’s Plan B?” “I don´t know,” he admits, “Maybe next time we say something smart back.”  You bump his boot with yours. He bumps back. Neither of you name the thing sitting between you, knees and elbows and something about to happen. A girl with blue tongue runs by shrieking. The loudspeaker finally dies. The night remembers how to be a sky. “Want the last of the soda?” he asks. “Always,” you say, and when your fingers touch on the paper cup, you don’t move them away first.

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“You know,” you say, breaking the silence, voice lazy but not casual, “I picked my name after that ridiculous spider you won at the fair. The red one with the crooked eyes.” Rhett’s head turns, slow. For a moment, the words hit him square in the chest - an ache and a flash, both. He can still see the booth lights smeared across your face, the balloon pop, the way you’d held that dumb plush by one leg like it was treasure.  “You didn’t,” he says, a half laugh caught on something softer. You grin into your bottle. “I did. Black Widow came from her. Figured she deserved an upgrade.”

He stares at you like he’s trying to place the years between then and now and keeps failing. That old night has lived in his head for a decade - your laugh, the fair lights, the way you’d said less small like it was a prayer. And now here you are, and tomorrow there will be a spider stitched on your glove, turning memory into armor. “Guess you didn’t forget everything,” he says quietly. You shrug. “You don’t forget the things that built you.” He takes a long drink, steadying himself. Maybe you left, but it turns out you didn’t really go missing. You carried the same pieces he did - just took them farther down the road.

The jukebox changes tracks. Outside, a truck passes slow, headlights sliding through the window like a promise that hasn’t picked a side yet. “Still got her?” he asks, teasing but almost shy. You nod once. Then you smile, real and small. “In my trailer. Never could throw her out.” For a moment neither of you speak. The neon hum fills the space where words could be, and Rhett thinks maybe forgetting was never the problem. Maybe surviving the remembering was.

The night thins over a second beer. Rhett yawns without covering and you click your tongue at him. “Rude,” you say. “Ancient,” he counters, then blinks, sheepish. “Sorry.” “Forgiven. We should both sleep. Tomorrow needs our brains.” You slide out of the booth. He stands when you do - old habit, no theater. Outside, the neon sign flickers like it’s practicing blinking. The lot is a shallow sea of gravel and truck chrome.

“At the chutes,” he says. “At the chutes,” you echo. You hug like you’ve learned how - brief, steady, nowhere to hide. His hand finds the middle of your back and lands this time. Your jaw brushes his shoulder; he smells like soap and dust and a little cedar. You count one breath together because you always do. “In,” you say, barely there. “Out,” he answers.

You break before the moment decides for you. He walks you to your truck; you walk him halfway to his. It’s dumb and perfect and exactly how you used to part after county-fair nights, or how you walked through the pastures - two kids orbiting in each others presence.

“Drive safe,” he says. “You too,” you say. “No sermons.” “No promises.” You laugh, get in, roll the window down. “See you, Abbott.” “See you, Cricket.” Engines turn. Headlights carve two clean paths out of the lot, angles that split then run parallel for a while, each holding the other in the corner of a mirror until the road bends.

On the way home, he keeps his hands at ten and two and lets the quiet talk. Ten years feels like a canyon until he remembers every mile before it - the creek dares, the doorframe marks, the spider at the dart booth. If a lifetime can start at fifteen, maybe ten years is just one hard winter a ranch survives.

On your side of the highway, the dash glows soft. You think about how leaving didn’t erase anything; it only stretched the thread. You think about the count, and the Friday draw, and a night at the county fair ten year ago. It´s a long time until it isn’t. There are still so many Fridays ahead. So many doorframe lines. So many small, honest seconds that make the big ones possible.

You both pull into separate driveways and sit there a beat longer than necessary, hands loose on the wheel, hearts running the same old count. In. One. Out. One.

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Friday evening comes fast when you’re excited and under pressure. The lot glows; the dust tastes like a dare. You dress the part and then sharpen it. Black leather vest, cut close and laced tighter than rumor - clean V that shows a slice of sternum and just enough curve to make the cameras blink before they find your rope hand. The back is matte, the edges burnished; the laces crisscross like a warning. Simple red eyeliner, no glitter - heat without apology. Chaps black as a shut gate, stitched with a thin red welt that flashes when you move; they sit low over your hips, swing clean over your boots. Jeans dark, no whiskers, no tears - work-first, second-skin. Glove snug, the tiny red spider mean on your knuckles. Hat brim pulled down to throw your eyes into your own shadow. Rosin dust freckles your collarbones like you walked through fire and didn’t mind.

You look hot - purpose-hot, weapon-hot. Heads turn and you don’t give them the satisfaction of noticing. Rhett does look too. He tries not to - fails immediately. His gaze catches on the deep V of the vest, the polished line of your throat, the way the leather frames strength instead of pretending to hide it. His jaw sets like he’s bracing against weather. His eyes keep coming back, guilty as a hand in the cookie jar and twice as careful. Perry clocks it from ten feet out and drifts in with a grin he can’t be trusted with. He doesn’t look at you - he looks at Rhett looking at you. “Eyes up, preacher,” he murmurs, just for his brother. “Sermon later.” Rhett doesn’t blink. “I’m appreciating craftsmanship,” he says, deadpan, which fools no one. “Mm-hmm,” Perry says, delighted. “Real educational.”

You’ve got your game face on - steel instead of softness, edges instead of grace. It only melts for a few minutes when you say hi to the Abbotts. Cecilia’s palm is cool to your cheek. Perry grins like he already got away with something. Rebecca and Amy hug you tight. Rhett’s hat tips, small and private. Royal comes in last, touches your shoulder on the pass like a blessing he doesn’t need applause for. “Heard your draw for today,” he says. “Neck heavy. Don’t fight the first jump.” “I’ll love it,” you say. “You’ll ride it,” he corrects, gravel warm. Pride, quiet and unshowy, lives in the space between his words. 

You adjust a lace at your side, checking nothing and everything. The vest creaks, subtle and expensive. Rhett swallows like he just remembered how throats work. Perry’s grin grows teeth. “All right,” Perry says, clapping Rhett once on the shoulder. “Let’s get you to heaven by way of eight seconds, yeah?” Rhett tips his hat to hide a smile he doesn’t trust. The armor slides back into place. You tip your chin, and the leather, the whole look says exactly what you intend: I’m not here to be looked at. I’m here to be watched. 

People try to take pieces. Fans get the good ones - Sharpie on hats, a crouch to eye level, the tiny spider drawn on a shirt, a photo if they ask nicely. Reporters earn exactly what they earn: one quotable sentence, no wink, no teeth. Hustlers crowd the rail with quick talk and slow hands; you give them the look that says not tonight and move.

Back of chutes is heat and engine. The bull in your slot tosses his head like he owes no one anything. You touch hide once - left spinner, heavy neck, mean twitch in the right ear - and the read settles in your bones. “Two minutes,” chute boss calls. Rhett ghosts in at your elbow, already taped, already squared. “You good?” “Better,” you say. It sounds like metal. It feels like breath. He nods toward your glove. “Spider looks mean,” he says, and it’s a joke and a prayer. You nod toward his wrap. “Looks honest,” you answer, and that’s both of you saying come back whole without spooking the stock.

The house voice booms the name that used to be a dare and now fits like armor. You climb: rail, knee, sit. Mechanics take the wheel. Rope across palm, tail in fist, knuckles flat, elbow arrowed. Knees soft. Toes light. Chin tucked. Jaw set out of the way. The gate man waits for your nod. You find your count where you always left it. “In. One. Out. One” 

The latch clacks; the world bucks. The first jump comes hot and hard and you love it like a problem you were born to solve. You give him his line, kill the waste, eat the seconds. Second hook - you win the pocket and stay open. Third - you let the shoulder roll. Fourth - you check the jaw and leave the head alone so the body can follow. Floodlight kisses the stitched red spider as if it’s claiming you for the camera. The clock eats. The clock obeys.

Buzzer. You hit the ground hard and yet it still looks like a choice; you can hear the Abbotts cheer; dirt sprays and you’re on your feet, hat low, shoulders square. You tip the chin to the chute boss; you breathe. Scoreboard climbs. First for now. You barely have time to be lifted by the crowd before it thins to hum. Rhett is already climbing. His draw throws a shoulder and quits dirty in the middle - one of those bulls that lies about rhythm. He sets like a blueprint you’ve memorized. Rope. Tail. Chin. Soft knees. The gate snaps and he goes to work quiet, eating noise the way you did, line by line. From the rail you count for him because that’s the job the world gave you. “In. One. Out. One.”

He wins jump two with a small mercy in his spine; jump five tries to throw ugly and he makes it beautiful. Buzzer hits like a door slamming on bluff. He steps clean, rolls the landing, hat brim low. He looks to you first without meaning to - habit, home - and you give him the nod you save for true things.

The floodlights still buzz; banners snap tired on their poles; the grounds smell like dust, diesel, and sweet hay. After a beer on the tailgate you and Rhett sit in the bed of Royal’s truck, shoulders touching, your weight finding his without asking. The PA coughs out one last jingle; somewhere a chute gate bangs like an afterthought.

“I’m turning in,” you say, voice soft from the adrenaline leak. Goodnights line up like a chute list. Royal’s one-armed clamp, a thud between your shoulders that reads approved. Perry’s noisy squeeze and a whispered, “Win us breakfast tomorrow.” Cecilia’s palms to your cheeks, a kiss to your brow, pride bright as the floodlights. Amy barrels in next. “Two spiders tomorrow,” she insists, tiny fist on your knee. “One brave, one braver.” “Deal,” you say, solemn. “But you have to breathe for both.” “In, one” she declares, filling up. “Out, one,” you finish, and she grins like she invented air. Rebecca hooks an arm around Amy’s middle and leans in for a quick hug of her own. “We’re bringing signs,” she warns. “Subtle, tasteful, deafening.” “Perfect,” you say. “Subtle is my brand.”

Rhett is last. No fuss - just open arms. You step in. It’s brief and steady, the kind of hug that lands in the middle of your back and keeps a hand there a heartbeat longer than needed. “If you can’t sleep,” he says at your ear, “call.” “I will,” you promise, toss him a smile that hits clean, and hop down.

“Walk her,” Cecilia says to no one in particular and exactly to Rhett. He’s already moving. You and Rhett take the gravel toward the trailers - string lights humming, generators thrumming, rodeo-boys laughter thinning to yawns. Amy waves with both hands until Rebecca turns her toward the parking lane; Perry mimes writing CRICKET ten feet tall on imaginary poster board; Royal and Cecilia fall into their familiar silhouette against the truck.

At your trailer step, you pause. The grounds breathe around you - stock quieting, rigs ticking as they cool, a bull snorting once like a closing argument. “Game face tomorrow,” he says, eyes warm under the brim. “Steel,” you say. “Count,” he answers. “In,” you breathe. “Out,” he finishes. You bump his boot with yours, small and sure. “Night, Abbott.” “Night, Cricket.” He backs a step, like you’re a gate he knows to honor, then turns for the truck. You slip inside the trailer, lights low, heart loud; outside, he walks back through the dust, and the whole place settles like it knows you’ll both be up before dawn, ready to try and make the world hold still again.

The next day blurs - stretch, ice, tape; sponsors, stock lists, a nap that doesn’t take. Afternoon heat lifts in sheets off the pens. You eat a sandwich you don’t taste. Amy appears twice to practice breathing and once to present a glitter poster that says GO WIDOW in letters that shed on everything. By evening the wind shifts down the draws the way it always did. Steel slides over you like it was made to fit.

The grounds are louder tonight. Saturday purse, ranker pen. You pass through the small gauntlet - fans get the good piece, hustlers get the look, reporters get one sentence and no sugar. The Abbotts pull you into the quiet between. Cecilia’s hand to your cheek, quick and cool. Royal’s thumb taps your shoulder once: read the neck, trust your seat. Perry kisses Amy’s head and declares himself head of optics. Rebecca waves the sign like weather. Rhett meets you in the alley, taped and squared. “You good?” he asks. “Hungry,” you say. He grins, rare and quick. “Good.” Today, Rhett rides before you. 

He draws early and ugly - compact, catty, a bull with a bad opinion about gravity. He tapes quiet, nods to nobody, and steps into the chute like a man walking into weather he deserves. From the rail you watch the set: rope, tail, chin, knees soft. He’s textbook until the gate hits. The first jump comes out dirty and sideways. He moves with it - almost. The second lies about direction; he buys the lie. By the third he’s a half beat ahead of the shoulder and you can see the math turn on him - hips chasing, chest firm when it should be soft. The bull throws a corkscrew you’d call personal. He lasts five and change, then skates off the front end with his hat still on and lands like he planned to, which he didn’t.

The buzzer insults him by being late. The crowd does its thing - sympathy claps, winces, a few men in caps whoop like it proves something about the world that makes them feel better. Rhett tips his brim and walks out hard enough to make gravel complain.

He comes down the alley dark, ripping tape like it owes him money. You meet him in the strip of shade that smells like rosin and old heat. “Left lied,” you start, clean. “He changed on four and - ” “I know,” he snaps, too sharp. “I was there.” You blink once. Hands up, palms out. “Okay.” He keeps moving - angry circles in a too-small pen. “Sat crooked. Opened my knee early. Rode the damned front like a rookie. Stupid.” The word lands like spit. He kicks a pebble into the sheeted steel. The clang makes two heads turn.

“Hey,” you say, low. “Breathe.” “Don’t tell me to breathe,” he fires back. Loud enough that a couple stock boys look, then look away. “Fine,” you say. “Don’t.” He laughs - empty. “Wonderful coaching.” “I’m not coaching,” you say. Steel slides behind your teeth. “I counted with you.” “Yeah?” He swings toward you, eyes hot, jaw wired. “Counted me right into the dirt, didn’t it?”

That one hits sideways. You hold your ground. “Don’t put that on me.” “Who else?” he throws, searching for a wall to hit. “Royal? The bull? God?” “Your chest got proud when he got ugly,” you say, simple as wire. “He baited you. You said yes.” He takes a step - close enough you can see the quake still living in his hands. “You think I don’t know that? You think I need -  what, a sermon? A compass? I don’t need you fixing my head every time it tilts.” “Then don’t tilt it at me,” you bite back, and the edge in your voice is the first you’ve allowed. “I came to stand next to you, not in front of your damn mirror.” “Of course you did,” he says, laugh breaking. “Always the savior. Ride your eight and save the room.”

There it is - the old, stupid vein you both know how to hit. It hums ugly. “Careful,” you say. “I am careful.” He’s not. He’s sixteen and furious and the floodlights just happen to be different. “You breeze in here with your new name and-” “And what?” Your chin tips a degree. The spider on your glove winks like a dare. “And do the job?” “And act like it doesn’t cost anybody anything.” “That’s not fair,” you say, flat. He flings his arms wide at the alley, at the pen, at the version of himself that just cratered. “Nothing about this is fair.”

Silence loads. From the apron, Perry starts over and then stops, reading the weather. Royal’s shadow doesn’t move. Cecilia appears at the edge of things and, with a glance like a palm to the air, holds everyone back. You keep your voice steady because one of you has to. “You’re mad you lost. I get it. Be mad at the bull. Be mad at yourself. Don’t swing on me.” “I’m not swinging.” His hands open and close, betraying him. “I’m-” “-looking for someone to bleed,” you say. “Pick a wall.”

He stares at you, and something ugly and old reaches for the steering wheel. “You know what?” he says, tone going quiet, dangerous. “Go ahead. Walk. Go put steel on and make the whole place forget I ate dirt.” Your nostrils flare. “I’m on deck. I don’t get to choose when the world calls.” “Yeah,” he says, voice climbing, “go again like you did when you were sixteen.” It hangs in the heat like a slap. You don’t blink. You don’t let the wince out of its cage. You give him your palms like surrender that isn’t. “Okay.” He looks like he wants to snatch the words back. He doesn’t. Pride pins his mouth shut. That old fuse you both know burns hot and mean. “Good luck tomorrow,” you say, and the way you say luck is surgical. “Don’t need it,” he lies. “Clearly,” you answer, and step past him.

He doesn’t follow. He lets you go - like he did at the gas station, like he did at sixteen when he mistook not asking for virtue. It makes him sicker, and he wears the sickness like penance. You walk. You don’t hurry. Steel finds your spine like it pays rent. The alley breathes around you. The bull in your slot plants his head and scrapes a warning in the dirt. You put your hand on hide. The engine under it says prove it. You nod - at the bull, at the job, at the part of yourself that only makes sense under lights.

Behind you, he finally finds air and wastes it. “Fine,” he throws after your back, loud enough to sting, not loud enough to be a scene. “Go. Be big.” You don’t turn. You lift one hand without looking, a small, dismissive wave that says not my fight and you don’t get to pick my size.

The gate boss catches your eye. “You good?” “Better,” you say, and step onto the rail. Up in the mouth of the chute, leather squeaks, rope lies across your palm, tail in your fist. Mechanics shut the door on everything else. You tuck your chin. Knees soft. Toes light. Elbow arrowed. Jaw set where it won’t get in your way. You find the count where it always waits. “In. Out.” 

Back in the alley, Rhett stands where you left him, hands shaking, the taste of old words in his mouth. Perry touches his shoulder and gets shrugged off. Royal doesn’t look over. Cecilia watches you climb and loves you and wants to throttle her son and says nothing because saying nothing is charity right now. Rhett puts his hat back on like armor and stares at the chute you chose instead of him. He hates you for a breath - for leaving, for growing, for refusing to be small enough to hold without burning. He hates himself more for helping you go by making the door easy to reach.

The latch clacks. The world bucks. Your name hits the PA and all his anger falls through a trapdoor into the same old vow he can’t stop making, even when he’s failing at everything else. He counts for you anyway. “In,” he says to the dust. “Out,” he finishes, and the word tastes like apology he hasn’t earned yet.

The gate snaps and the world comes out mean.

First jump: hard left, dirty step, the kind that asks who you are. You answer with your spine - soft chest, hips talking, chin tucked where belief lives. Second jump lies about right; you don’t buy it. Third jump corkscrews spiteful and sudden - hips high, shoulder quit, a twist that isn’t rhythm so much as insult. You stay with it, a whisper ahead, then the bull invents a fourth beat and throws it on top like a dare.

It works.

You go light for a breath. The rope teeth your palm; your wrist takes a wrong truth; the world tips. Your hat stays on out of stubbornness and nothing else. You pitch forward - close enough to smell the hot, sour breath under horn - then whip sideways, fingers scraping hide. The ground comes up as an answer nobody wanted.

Impact knocks the air out of you like a door slammed in your chest. Vision scatters - stars, dust, a floodlight broken into lake water. Sound goes narrow: one whistle, one woman’s gasp, the bullfighter’s boot thunder. The bull cuts, looking for you; the fighters sell their bodies and buy you clean daylight.

You don’t get up.

The ground is cold and hot at once; your wrists are a white-bone scream, bright and precise. Your lungs do a fish thing - open, close, nothing. Time makes a tent and sits on your chest.

In the alley, Rhett’s heart stops time with it. Shock hits first - the kind that empties your head and turns your hands useless. He’s already moving when he realizes he started; hat gone, stride long, every muscle on the wrong frequency. Regret pile-drives in behind it: the last words he gave you were sharpened on old ghosts, and now you’re in the dirt while his pride echoes. The math is ugly. He would take the whole sentence back in his teeth if he could.

He hits the rail at the same moment a bullfighter slaps your boot as if he can pound breath back in. Somewhere, Perry says your name like a swear and a prayer. Cecilia’s hand finds Royal’s sleeve and knots. Royal doesn’t move, because moving would mean the world is allowed to be this, and he’s not ready to sign that form.

Then your lungs find the number.

Air claws in, raw. Vision squeezes to a pin and then opens. You swallow dust and stubbornness. The pain in your wrists has shape now - rope-bite blooming, tendons angry, a bright rope of ache up to your elbow. You catalog it the way you’ve cataloged worse: left worse than right, fingers all talking, nothing loose that shouldn’t be.

You roll to your knees. The crowd makes a sound you can feel in your gums. The bullbellies are already gone, fighters between you and temperament, the gate clanging like a gavel. You push to your feet with more will than leverage, hat somehow still low, braid hooked over your shoulder like a banner that didn’t learn retreat. For a second the ground sways. You square your hips at it and it decides not to. You raise your fist. Not high - just enough. Leather creaks. The stitched red spider flashes mean under the lights. Steel comes back over your face like a visor. The crowd explodes. It isn’t pretty; it’s grateful. Somewhere a stranger screams your name like he’s earned it; somewhere a little girl on the rail jumps straight up and down until her hat flies.

Rhett sags against the rail like a cut wire found a post. Relief is violent; regret worse. You look like everything he loves and everything he’s been scared to touch. And something else hits him then, loud and simple: you’re older. Not old - older. Boys do not silence you anymore. The world can still knock wind out of you, but it doesn’t get to make you small. You stand up in front of it and show your teeth.

He has never seen you prettier.

Not because the vest is carved close and the V is a sin under floodlights. Not because the red liner makes your eyes look like they could set weather on fire. Because you are standing - hands hurt, lungs burned, dust on your mouth - and offering the night your chin. Because beauty, it turns out, is a stubbornness that doesn’t humiliate anyone.

You step off the dirt under your own power. The chute boss reaches; you shake him off with a thanks that sounds like law. The medic shadows you; you let him hover and don’t let him land. You run the math of your wrists again - open, close, open - wincing where it’s honest and hiding it where it’s none of their business.

Rhett meets you halfway down the alley before he knows how to ask. His mouth opens; all the wrong words crowd it. You give him a look that says not here and I’m standing and we will not put a crown on your guilt in public. He swallows them. What comes out is smaller and better. “Hands?” “Mad,” you say. “Not broken.”

He nods, because if he speaks the apology he wants to, it will crack. Perry ghosts in, already making noise at the medic, already offering to rip a sleeve for a bandage like it’s 1880. Cecilia smuggles a water bottle into your hand with quiet ferocity. Royal’s eyes meet yours and say a book without moving. You drink, slow. The burn in your chest settles into a coal. The ache in your wrists steadies into a fact. The scoreboard is a rumor you don’t chase. You came here to ride; you rode; the ground had its say; you took your turn back. That is the whole of it.

Rhett stands just inside your weather. He can feel the print of the last thing he said like a brand he didn’t earn. He wants to touch your elbow and then doesn’t. He wants to tell you that steel looks better on you than it ever did in his head. He wants to tell you that when you went down, the part of him that’s been angry for ten years shut up so fast it left skid marks. Instead he says, “In.” You could make him eat it. You don’t. You let your mouth tilt, a fraction. “Out.” The alley gives that breath back to both of you. The noise of the grounds returns - another whistle, a laugh that thinks too much of itself, the clank of a gate that needs grease. The world keeps being a world.

“Next week,” he says, because penance he can actually do is better than guilt he can’t spend. “We fix the front.” “We fix the front,” you echo, as if he’s talking about wire and not pride. He nods, jaw tight around every other sentence. You flex your fingers once, wince and then deadpan: “Tie my shoe?” He almost laughs. “Yes, ma’am.” He crouches, quick competent hands doing a small, ridiculous intimacy the whole night can’t see. You watch his hat brim and his ears and you let yourself breathe through the throb. Perry hovers, theatrically useless; Cecilia posts herself like a windbreak; Royal stays where he is because some approvals don’t need walking. When Rhett stands, your eyes catch and hold, no audience. “I’m-” he starts. “Later,” you say, not unkind. “Later,” he agrees, like a vow.

The PA barks someone else’s name. The dust lifts; the floodlights flatten; the night moves on like it always does. You slide the steel back over the soft and turn toward the place work lives. Rhett turns with you, a half step behind, the way he always has when he remembers who he is. He thinks again - harder this time - about how the boy who let you go at sixteen because he thought not asking was mercy has nothing to teach the man in this alley.

You roll your shoulders once, shake your wrists open to the ache, and nod like a gate about to give. You’re not smaller. You’re not. And you are - damn him, damn the years - the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Not because you shine, but because you don’t flinch from the parts that don’t.

They steer you toward the med corner - a folding table, a battered kit, a lamp that makes everything look like a confession. You perch on the cooler lid because the chair wobbles. The medic hovers, asks if you can make a fist, if you can feel your fingertips, if your vision ever went black. You nod where it’s true.

“I’ve got her,” Rhett says, voice low enough to be permission and not a challenge. The medic reads the room and steps back two paces. Rhett snaps the kit open like he’s done it a hundred times - and he has. Tape, elastic, a brace with tired Velcro. He kneels so your wrists are eye level. His hands are all gentled edges now, the fight shaken out of them. “Left first,” he says. You lay it there. He checks, not just looks - presses your nails, waits for the color to rush back, runs his thumb along the angry line where the rope tried to overstay its welcome. “Tell me if I’m too rough.” “You won’t be,” you say, and for once it isn’t bravado.

He smears cool gel where the heat is loudest, thumb careful at the tendon. The ache recedes half an inch. He wraps soft underwrap, then the brace, then the elastic, firm without cruelty. He tests the strap, retests. “Move your fingers.” You do. Pain flares, then resolves. “Mad,” you say again. “Not broken.” He nods, concentrating like a man rewiring a fence in gusting wind. “Right.” He does the same to the other wrist, slower. You watch the small things: how he steadies your hand over his thigh so you don’t have to hold your arm’s weight, how he keeps the tape off your skin where it’s already starting to bruise, how he doesn’t ask again if you’re okay because he knows okay is on layaway.

“Thumb spica,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and adds a loop that cradles your joint. It’s stupidly tender. Your throat does that treacherous knotting and you clear it before it thinks it won. He finishes, sits back on his heels, surveys his work like a man who trusts his hands when his mouth isn’t up to much. “There.” You flex, wince, huff a laugh. “Useful Abbott.” He’s looking at your face now, not your hands. The apology is still in there, wanting out. What comes up instead is something else - awkward, earnest, bigger than small talk. “Dinner tomorrow,” he says, then too fast, “You should - come. And, uh, stay a few days. Help on the place. If… if you want.”

You go very still. Not steel - just still. The breath you were about to take waits to see what he’s really asking. He sees your silence and backpedals like a calf that realizes the gate swings the other way. “I mean - Mum told me to ask. She - Cecilia - she said Sunday, roast, and we’re short on hands - and-” He grimaces at himself, keeps going. “And I- I’d like it. I would. If you… stayed. With us.” A beat. Softer, truer: “With me.”

Your mouth tilts and finally commits to a smile you don’t hand out for free. “Gladly.” He blinks like the word landed warmer than he braced for. “Yeah?” “Yeah,” you say, as if the syllable were obvious as weather. “I’ll come. I’ll stay. I’ll be useful.” You look down at your wrists, then back up. “And I’ll let you boss my braces for a couple days.” He exhales, and the breath has relief tucked inside it like a folded note. “Deal.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “We’ll make Perry do the heavy lifting.” “Perry was born for it,” you say. “Cecilia’ll set your chair,” he adds, then, quieter: “It never left.”

You don’t trust your voice for a second, so you bump his knee with the toe of your boot. He bumps back. The lamp hums; the grounds keep exhaling end-of-night; somewhere Amy’s laugh carries thin and high as she retells your ride to a patient Rebecca for the fourth time. Rhett stands, offers you his hand out of habit, not theater. You take it, let him lever you up without pretending you don’t need the help. The braces hold. So do you. “Walk you to the trailer?” he asks. “Yes,” you say, because some answers should be easy.

You move through the thinning chaos side by side, shoulders almost brushing, wrists bound neat, the fight settled for now. At your steps, he pauses. There’s too much to say and not enough night to say it right. He chooses small, the way you both decided to. “Tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow,” you echo. He tips his hat, old language made new. You open the door and breathe out once, careful around your ribs. When you look back, he’s still there, hands in his pockets, not in a hurry to make the distance bigger. “Night, Rhett,” you say. “Night, Cricket,” he answers, and the way he says it carries all the things he’s not letting himself say until the time is right. He waited ten years for you, he can wait a few days longer. 

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You pull into the yard with the windows down and the radio low. Before you can kill the engine, the screen door bangs and Amy launches off the porch like she’s been spring-loaded since dawn. “You’re here!” she yells, hair in a crooked braid that looks suspiciously like yours. She barrels to your door and then remembers something Cecilia must’ve taught her, skidding to a stop so you won’t open it into her forehead. You step out and she’s already on you - small arms cinched around your waist, that kid-weight that feels like a promise. When she lets go, she puts herself at your hip and stays there, quick feet matching yours like a shadow learning choreography.

“I made you a schedule,” she confides, solemn. “It says ‘Be With Amy’ and then it says ‘Lunch’ and then it says ‘Be With Amy More.’” “A very professional plan,” you say. “Who approved it?” “Me,” she says, scandalized you’d ask. “I’m the boss.” “Obviously.” You hook an arm across her shoulders and let her steer you toward the porch like she owns the house now. Maybe she does.

Cecilia meets you on the steps, hands to your cheeks, eyes bright and satisfied in a way that makes the word home sit down and behave. “Come on,” she murmurs. “We’ll get you fed.” Behind her, Rebecca leans in the doorway with a grin, and Perry calls from the kitchen, “She’s stealing all my help already,” like he didn’t hand Amy the marker and whisper what to write. Rhett is last, like he does on purpose now - time for everyone else to go first. He takes your bag without asking, tips his hat without fuss. The look you toss him is small and private and lands clean. He carries your things down the hall like the weight is familiar and good.

Dinner smudges into evening - the kind of gentle talk that sands away the road. Amy narrates your every move like a sportscaster (“Now she is sitting! Now she is drinking water!”), and you let yourself be adored because it seems to feed the whole room. The doorframe catches your eye on the way to the sink - pencil lines stacked like tree rings, your name right there. You touch it once, quick. It stays.

You sleep that night in the guest room that used to be a storeroom and now smells like lemon oil and sun. The window is cracked open to the slow choir of crickets. On the nightstand sits a chipped mug full of red and black markers and a note in Cecilia’s tidy hand: In case you need your spiders. You smile in the dark. Your wrists throb like honest work. You sleep hard.

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Monday dawn comes crisp and plain. Work boots by the door. Coffee that tastes like resolve. The whiteboard on the fridge reads: South pasture check. East fence check. Creek trough scrub. Fix latch - again. Perry has added heroic feats in the corner with a sword doodle. Amy’s added stickers.

The morning scatters you like seed. You go with Royal along the fence, staples clicking home with that tidy little sound that means right. He doesn’t say much; he never needed to. When he does speak, it’s to point with his chin at a stretch of wire and say, “There,” or to rumble, “Good,” like the word weighs something and he trusts you to carry it. Cecilia and Rebecca run the house like a treaty - bread rising, laundry snapping on the line, a choreographed exchange of tools on the porch with no wasted steps. Perry argues with a latch that insists it’s sentient. Amy patrols, clipboard in hand, assigning grades for “effort” and “attitude” and “style.”

By late afternoon the sun tilts gold, and heat blows itself out into a wind you can live in. You and Rhett end up in the west pasture, saddles creaking, horses swinging easy. You ride the fence, then the fence rides you - silence you don’t have to pad with anything, the kind of quiet that puts words in order before you spend them.

You pull up at the high spot where the land opens like a book. The light goes honey and then something softer. Dust hangs in the air like a promise not to last. “About yesterday,” Rhett says. You breathe out once. The world waits. “About yesterday.” “I was an ass,” he says, factual as a fencepost. No drama. No preamble. “I was mad at me, so I picked you. It was easy and cheap, and I’m sorry.” The apology lands where it needs to. You feel it settle; you let it. “Thank you,” you say. He looks out over the pasture like he’s checking for stray cattle. “I was mad for a long time,” he admits, quieter. “At sixteen, at you, at every version of me that didn’t ask you to stay. I made it into religion, almost. Felt righteous. Turns out it was just heavy.”

You run your palm down your horse’s neck; he leans into the touch. “Leaving was the best thing I ever did,” you say, the words clean because you’ve scuffed them smooth on the inside of your mouth. “And the worst. Same choice, two truths.” He nods like he’s been waiting for that exact sentence. “Proud and sorry,” he says, like he’s naming your weather. “Both hold.” “They do,” you answer. “I left because I needed to know if I could be big on purpose. Not because anyone here made me small. I left because I was afraid I’d punish whoever kept me if I stayed. I’m proud I went. I hate the parts that hurt you.” He swallows like that knocked around inside his throat. “Being away grew you up,” he says, not with awe, just with recognition. “You come back with-” he gestures, searching-“edges that fit you. It looks good on you. The leaving. And the coming back looks… better.”

It finds the soft part of you that you built armor around and taps. You tip your chin at the horizon because picking a fixed point helps. “Sometimes I wanted to call you when it was bad,” you say. “More often I wanted to call when it was good. That was the worst part. Wanting to hand you the good thing, and you not being there because I’d made it that way.” His mouth pulls, apology and smile in a tangle. “I would’ve picked up,” he says, a little helpless. “I know,” you say, and you both let the ache have its half-inch before you take the air back.

The apology settles. The horses flick flies; the wind minds its manners. Rhett shifts in the saddle like he’s got one more fence to fix between you. “So,” he says, mouth crooked, “penance.” You arch a brow. “Go on.” “I’ll make it up to you,” he says, like he’s offering to replace a gate he backed into. “I’ll drive us into town, open the door, carry whatever you pretend isn’t heavy. I’ll procure pie and one respectable beer.” A beat. “For medicinal purposes.” You let it hang, enjoying him. “Medicinal.” “Doctor’s orders,” he says, deadpan, then softer: “Cece’s, probably.”

He looks out over the pasture, pretending to check a draw for strays and absolutely not thinking, It’s not a date, it’s late, it’s just… making it right. I absolutely want it to be a date. He doesn’t say any of that. He says, “After chores, Wednesday. We’ll leave from the farm. You don’t have to lift a finger unless it’s to point at the biggest slice.”

“I can be persuaded,” you say, hiding a smile in your glove. “Door, pie, beer… that’s a compelling treatment plan.” He nods like a man who just set a post straight. “Good. I’ll… wash the truck.” You gasp, delighted. “A full miracle.” “Don’t get greedy,” he warns, warm. “I’m still picking you up - in the yard. I’ll honk once. Then I’ll walk you to the truck like I’ve got sense.” “And you’ll open the door,” you prompt, because it’s fun to watch him promise. “And I’ll open the door,” he echoes, shameless now. “And carry your stuff.” You let out a small, helpless laugh that makes both horses tilt an ear like they’re listening. “Deal.” “Wednesday, then,” he says, steady again. “Pie and beer.” He doesn’t call it anything. You don’t either. The word sits between you anyway, all dressed up and patient.

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Tuesday seems to move slow on purpose, all sunshine, warm weather and small chores. It’s the kind of day that looks ordinary from far away and feels like a pocket you keep checking just to be sure it’s still there. Morning starts with coffee and the good kind of quiet. You reach for a mug; Rhett is already setting one in your hand, eyes warm under the brim like he’s been up long enough to grow patient. Your fingers brush; neither of you make it weird. Rebecca clocks it over the rim of her cup and hides a smile in the steam.

Out in the yard, the list is a scatter: hose the dust off a trailer, stack a cord of wood that never ends, check the mineral blocks in the east lot. Amy attaches herself to your leg like a koala with a clipboard. “Shadow day,” she announces. “I am learning.” She writes LEARN on the paper in all caps and then draws a spider. Somewhere across the yard Rhett washes his truck like he promised. It is likely to be dirty again by the end of the day, but you appreciate the gesture. 

By the water spigot, Rebecca sidles in close and hip-checks you, conspiratorial. “Perry looked like that for a year,” she murmurs, chin tipping toward Rhett, who is doing something incredibly urgent to a coil of hose while very clearly not looking at you. “Like the sun was behind clouds and then realized it could just come out.” You shrug like it’s nothing. The shrug doesn’t explain your warm neck. “Uh-huh,” she says, amused and kind. “We see you.”

Late morning is the hose fight none of you intended. Rhett leans over the trough to scrub the green off the rim; you and Amy creep up behind him like cartoon burglars. “On three,” Amy whispers, hand on the handle. “One - two -” You spray. The arc hits square between Rhett’s shoulder blades. He jerks, yelps, turns, and you squeal and run, laughing hard enough to make your ribs complain. He gives chase, long strides eating ground, the hose hissing like a live wire.

You bank around the truck; he catches you at the curve, one arm cinching your waist from behind, momentum carrying both of you three more steps. You land against his chest with your hands braced on his forearm, breathless, water freckles on your face. Everything pauses - just long enough for you to feel the thump of his heart against your shoulder blade - then Amy’s war cry splits the air and soaks you both again. You break apart, laughing, dripping, alive.

At lunch, Cecilia puts a bowl of sliced peaches on the table and pretends not to notice the damp hair, the flushed cheeks, the way you take the seat next to Rhett like it was conincident. Royal passes you the bowl without looking and somehow it still feels like approval.

Afternoon heat settles but doesn’t smother. You and Rhett load the bed of the truck with fence posts in a rhythm that feels like a song you both know. He glances at your wrists, checks the braces without touching them. “How mad?” he asks, meaning pain. “Less,” you answer, meaning everything. He nods like that answer fits his bones.

Midafternoon, Rebecca swings by with a jar of lemonade and a sentence shaped like a question. “You good?” she asks, and it means is this okay, the way the day is doing it to you? You tip your head. “I am.” She grins like that’s what she wanted to hear and wanders off to find Perry, who is loudly losing an argument to Amy who swears the saw Big Foot the other day.

Little glances keep happening. By the gate; over the rim of a bucket; across Amy’s head while she narrates your lives like a podcast. Rhett is not a man who stares. He’s a man who double-checks. Today he double-checks you. You let him.

Evening slants gold and everyone drifts inside with the dust still on their boots. Dinner turns into after-dinner turns into the couch. Rebecca and Perry collapse first - she kicks her feet up; he pretends the remote is a scepter. Royal takes his chair like a landmark. Cecilia tucks a blanket into the corner and clucks at anyone who complains about the draft.

You end up on the couch beside Rhett. It happens without planning - you toss Amy a pillow, he shifts to make room, somehow the space you settle fills the shape between you two exactly. The movie starts (something with horses that get saved by courage and romance and contracts), and you are not touching until you are: thigh to thigh, the slow lean of shoulders that forget to hold themselves up. You could move. You don’t. He could move. He doesn’t.

Ten minutes in, fate intervenes in the form of Amy and Rebecca “accidentally” wedging themselves onto the other side, a tangle of blanket and elbows. “Plenty of space,” Rebecca says, deadpan, as she forces the geography of the couch to change. Physics does the rest. You end up tucked into Rhett’s side, the easy inevitability of it so complete it steals your breath for a second and then gives it back warmer.

His arm comes around you like it’s been trying to remember how - hesitant, then confident, resting along your shoulders with just enough weight to count. Your head finds the place under his jaw that smells like soap and dust and cedar. Your ribs let go of a long, old breath. Amy leans against your knee, eyelids doing the flutter. Perry whispers commentary he thinks is quiet. Rebecca shushes him with her foot.

When the hero horse clears the final fence and the music swells, Rhett tilts his head and presses a small, unassuming kiss into your hair. It is the kind of thing a person does when there’s nothing left to prove and everything to keep. You go still for the length of a heartbeat and then let yourself lean that fraction closer, the give of your weight a yes without ceremony. Across the room, Royal has his reading glasses perched on his nose and pretends to be studying the mail. He isn’t. Cecilia is very interested in mending a button that doesn’t need mending. Neither of them says a word, but the looks they trade are a hymn.

Credits roll. Amy is asleep, mouth open, one hand still clutching the corner of your sleeve. Rebecca peels herself up, stretches, and declares the ending “emotionally manipulative in a satisfying way.” Perry agrees with his whole chest and then tries to carry three empty bowls at once to impress no one in particular. You don’t move, not right away. Rhett’s thumb traces one absent-minded arc against your shoulder where the blanket slips. It’s not a promise. It’s not nothing. It’s the kind of touch you file under true.

Eventually, the evening sorts itself: Amy to bed, Perry to dishes with dramatic sighs, Rebecca to text someone a meme, Royal to the porch to check the weather by listening. You stand, stretching, and the loss of his arm around you is sudden and cool. He rises too - old habit - and walks you as far as the hall.

“Tomorrow,” he says quietly, like you’re both still on the couch. “Tomorrow,” you echo. “Pie and then a beer,” he adds, not overplaying it. “You will carry my things,” you tease, and the words puts a little star on the calendar in your chest. You trade a look that doesn’t need translation. Then you peel off toward the guest room with a warm ache in your wrists and a steadier one under your ribs, the kind that means something good is growing where nothing hurried it. Down the hall, Cecilia switches off the kitchen light and leaves the porch one on. Royal cracks the door to listen to the night. Somewhere outside, crickets pick up the count and keep it for you.

In. One. Out. One. And then the next.

The house goes quiet but your head doesn’t. You try the old tricks - left side, right side, count the breaths, count the fence posts you fixed - nothing sticks. The night is soft and blue outside the window, the kind that says come sit a while.

You pull on a T-shirt and cotton shorts, tug boots over bare feet, and slip out the back. The yard smells like cut grass and warm wood. Crickets run their metronome. You climb onto a hay bale at the edge of the stack, knees up, arms looped around your shins, and let the night take a little weight. It’s a small country out here - barn a dark shoulder, porch light a polite star, the wind nosing the leaves like it’s checking in. You breathe and it doesn’t behave, not at first. Then it does.

Footsteps, careful on gravel. You know them. He keeps to the edge of the yard like he’s not trying to spook a horse. When Rhett steps into the spill of porch light and sees you, his mouth does that slow, private lift. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. “Not for lack of trying.” You pat the hay beside you. He comes, sets a palm to the bale like he’s asking permission, then climbs up and settles a foot of space away. Knees up, forearms on them, hat hooked in two fingers and hanging off his knee. Close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, far enough to pretend you’re not. “Too quiet?” he says. “Too many good noises,” you say. “Brains hate that.” He huffs, not quite a laugh. “Hate that too.” A long band of quiet. The kind that’s true. Somewhere a cow shifts, blows, goes back to dreaming a salt block into existence.

“Thanks for today,” you say finally. “For - all of it. For letting Amy draft me into her calendar. For-” you hunt the right-sized word and don’t find it- “for keeping a place for me, even when I wasn’t here.” He could reach for the bigger truth - you never left, not where it counts - but he tucks it away for a braver hour and picks steady instead. “Amy runs a tight ship,” he says. “You make good crew.” Your mouth goes soft like that actually hit. “Best compliment I’ve ever gotten,” you say, dead serious, and he tips his head in acknowledgment.

Another piece of silence. He turns the hat once, slow. “You ever think about…” He stops, scoffs at himself. Tries again. “About the other kind of life?” “Which one?” “The one where you… don’t drive away every Sunday night.” He keeps his eyes on the dark yard. “The one with gardens that get watered regular, and a dog that’s too dumb to run off, and-” He gestures, helpless and fond, “chores that never die and don’t have a crowd.” “Sometimes,” you say, and it’s not a hedge. “Not as a replacement. As a… parallel universe.” You tip your chin at him. “You?”

“Sometimes,” he echoes. The hat turns once more. “Kept thinking I’d recognize it if it showed up. Never did.” A beat. “Or it did and I didn’t have the sense.” You watch his profile - the line of nose and mouth, the stubborn kindness of it - and let the thing that’s in the air do its own math. He doesn’t say not like you. He doesn’t have to. The words sit down between you anyway, polite, waiting. You pick at a strand of hay. “I tried,” you say. “Other kind of lives. Boys with trucks and good intentions and apartments that smelled like laundry and loss.” You roll the hay thin, then thinner. “One wanted me smaller. ‘For my own good,’” you add, fingers making quotation marks that look like claws. “He said the road was a phase and a phase was a thing you correct.” You blow out a laugh with no joy in it. “He didn’t make it to December.” “Good,” Rhett says, like a closing gate. “Another was kind,” you go on, softer. “Funny. Sent me videos of puppies trying stairs. We lasted almost a year. But the world would tilt and the first number I wanted to dial didn’t belong to him. That felt unfair.” You lay the hay back on the bale like a hair you don’t want the wind to carry wrong. “So I quit pretending I could make someone the first call by force.”

Rhett swallows, looks down at his hands, the big quiet of him going attentive and raw. “I didn’t… find anybody,” he says, simple. Then, as if the truth requires exactness: “Found somebodys. Plural. Good people. Smart. Strong. One girl could out-weld Perry, which I didn’t know was possible.” It draws a ghost of a smile. “But I kept feeling like I was taking up space I wasn’t built for in rooms that were perfectly fine without me.” He shrugs. “I didn’t want to be a placeholder. Or make somebody one for me.” You nod. The barn breathes. The wind changes its mind and then changes it back.

“Royal says love’s a ranch job,” he adds after a while. “Not a parade float. Shows up every day. Leaves mud on the floor. Puts the gate back on its hinges when the wind takes it. I figured I’d know it by the mess.” He tips the brim of his hat toward you, not quite looking. “Turns out I knew it by the quiet.” You feel that like a hand on the center of your chest. You answer it without stepping on it. “I liked the mess,” you say. “All the noise the world makes when you’re winning or losing. But I love the quiet where my head sits still and somebody else’s doesn’t feel like a test.” You risk a look and find him already there. The night carries your breath back and forth like a small boat. You don’t touch. You both think about it and then let the thought go because there’s too much honesty in the air to cheapen with a wrong move.

“Sometimes I think I ruined us at sixteen,” you say, surprisingly steady. “Like if I’d stayed, we would’ve grown crooked anyway, and I would’ve blamed you for the shade.” He shakes his head, once. “I would’ve tried to hold you still,” he says. “Which is worse.” He glances up, meets your eyes, decides not to run. “You didn’t ruin anything. You grew it somewhere else and brought it back alive.” You smile with only half your mouth because the other half is busy being wrecked. “Still mad at me sometimes?” you ask, no flinch. “Sometimes,” he says, honest and vulnerable. “But it’s quiet now. Comes like rain on tin. Leaves like steam.” “Same,” you say. “Like a bruise under a shirt. You forget it’s there until somebody hugs you.”

He makes a sound that might be a laugh, might be agreement, might be a prayer. He puts the hat down on the bale between you. His hands are empty, steady on his knees. “You cold?” he asks after a minute. “Little,” you lie, because you want him to ask. He risks an arm across the back of your shoulders the way a man tests ice he already decided to cross. You let yourself lean, slow, until your temple meets his shoulder and the shirt there smells like soap and sun and something in your bones named rest. He doesn’t pull you closer. He doesn’t have to. Your breath finds the count without instruction.

In. One. Out. One.

Crickets carry it for you when you forget. The porch light clicks off; Royal has decided the night can be trusted. You stay on the hay until your legs go pins and needles and the breeze raises gooseflesh you pretend you don’t feel. Rhett notices like he notices everything slow. “Come on,” he says, gentle, not bossy. “Before Cecilia wakes up sensing someone disobeyed a blanket.” You slide down first; he follows, drops to gravel, and steadies you with one hand around your forearm when your foot finds a hole it didn’t expect. His fingers slip to your wrist, brush the brace, linger a second too long to be accident and not long enough to be a declaration. You don’t pull away.

At the door, you pause, and he holds it, and the old language of the gesture sets the air to right. “Night, Rhett,” you say, and the smile in it is wider than yesterday. “Night, Cricket,” he says, and the softness in it is a little braver. You pad down the hall with hay in your hair and dust on your calves and a head finally willing to be quiet. In your room, you sit on the edge of the bed and count once just because you can. The house breathes. The yard breathes. Somewhere out by the stack, a hat waits on a hay bale like proof you didn’t imagine anything. You sleep, at last, like a person who set something down without breaking it.

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Wednesday sprints. Work always does when there’s something bright on the far end of it. You and Rebecca rake the loose grass Perry’s mower left behind, two conspirators turning windrows into neat green ribbons. “Art,” she declares, admiring your piles. “Agrarian minimalism.” You bow with your rake.

Later, you and Amy make the feed rounds - and, as Amy gravely adds, “the petting rounds.” She narrates each pat like a sportscaster. “Excellent muzzle. Ten out of ten ears.” A gelding leans his whole happy head into her shoulder. Perry strolls past and shakes his head. “These horses are spoiled.” You and Amy stick your tongues out in perfect sync. He snorts, busted.

Cecilia and Rebecca catch you on the porch like a pit crew. “Shower,” Cecilia orders, already holding a clean towel and the good soap. “We have objectives.” Amy appears at your elbow with solemn urgency. “Can I sit on the toilet while you shower? I will not peek.” Rebecca inhales to scold. You’re already laughing. “Permission granted, Peeping Not Tom. Eyes closed or you lose dessert.”

Amy squeezes them shut so hard her whole face crinkles. You sing under the steam and Amy belts along off-key, delighted. Perry’s laugh floats down the hall when he passes. “Concert tickets at will call?” Amy, eyes still screwed shut, hands the towel in like it’s the Olympic torch. “No peeking,” she reminds herself, turning her head with exaggerated dignity while you wrap up.

You let her be your stylist: she considers options with hands on hips, then selects black jeans, the soft tee with the tiny red spider at the hem, and the leather jacket that means business and mercy at once. “Hair braided. For old times sake,” she says like she is 77 and not 7. You let her pass you the elastic like a nurse in an OR.

From down the hall, a shower kicks on - pipes humming their familiar tune. You picture Rhett under that water, scrubbing off pasture and daylight, picking a clean shirt on purpose. The thought lands warm. Amy, entirely serious, tucks a spider sticker in your pocket. “For courage,” she says. You breathe. The house breathes back. 

The horn taps once - polite, practiced. Amy bolts upright on the couch like a fire alarm. “Date time!” she squeals, already windmilling toward the door. You don’t correct her. You just press your palms to your jeans to smooth nerves that don’t need smoothing and grin like you’ve been caught.

Cecilia appears with the pan - clean, shining, a hand on your cheek like a blessing. “Have fun,” she says, which in Cecilia means be careful and be brave. Rebecca fans her face with a dish towel. “I’ll allow kissing on the hand like a Regency ball,” she intones. “Anything more requires a committee.” “Committee is me,” Amy declares, spider sticker ready. “I will approve.” Perry hooks your elbow, solemn as a pastor and twice as dramatic. “All rise,” he says, and escorts you across the porch as if it’s an aisle and the lawn is full of witnesses. “I am giving this menace to pie.” Royal leans in the doorway, half a smile tucked in his beard, hat low. “Bring the truck back with four wheels,” he rumbles. Abbott for go on, then.

Rhett stands by the passenger-side fender, clean shirt, hair still damp, truck dusted to a shine he’ll deny caring about. He straightens when he sees you like the horizon just did something interesting. The nerves in his mouth tip brave. He steps forward, takes your bag with a quiet, “Got it,” and it’s nothing and everything.

Perry hams it up, placing your hand in Rhett’s like a ceremonial transfer. “Treat her gentle,” he says, eyes dancing. “Plan on it,” Rhett answers, simple, steady. He opens the door with old-fashioned care, palm out to steady you up the step. You settle; he tucks your bag at your feet and closes the door like it’s valuable. It is. Amy presses her face to the window, both hands on the glass. “Bring back intel!” she whispers, as if you’re off to spy. “Bed by curfew,” Rebecca calls, which earns her a dish towel flick from Cecilia.

Rhett rounds the hood, slides in, glances once at you and once at the road like he’s aligning two maps. “Ready?” “Born,” you say, and your knee finds the dash when the first bump hits. Neither of you apologizes. He eases the truck into the lane. Gravel crunches, the porch light throws a farewell across the yard, and the house recedes - a warm square full of people pretending not to watch. On the breeze, Amy’s voice chases you like confetti: “Kiss her hand! Regency rules!”

Rhett’s mouth curves. His right hand - the one not on the wheel - turns palm-up between you, a half-offer, half-joke. You lay your fingers there, light. He lifts your knuckles and brushes them with his mouth - quick, shy, perfect - like he’s been reading the same rule book. “Approved,” you say, a little breathless. “Committee satisfied,” he says, trying to be dry and failing. The road opens. The radio hums low. Ahead, neon and pie and a beer that tastes like someone else’s bad decisions wait to be investigated. He drives. You lean back. Between you, the quiet is not-empty in the very best way.

The diner glows like a lighthouse - neon fork buzzing, windows full of warm people and warmer pie. Rhett pulls into the slot that used to be Royal’s by unspoken law and cuts the engine. For a second you both sit in the quiet tick of cooling metal and the soft radio fade. Inside, the bell over the door does its old shy jingle. The waitress spots you before your eyes finish adjusting. “Well, look what the cat and good manners dragged in,” she says, already reaching for two menus she won’t use. “Same booth,” she adds, because of course she knows.

Rhett gestures you ahead, palm light at your back without landing. Third booth from the jukebox - the one the sky finds just before the sun goes all the way down. He slides your side of the table in with a little tug so you don’t bump your knee. It’s nothing; it’s everything. “Peach?” The waitress asks, pad ready but her mind already made. “Peach,” you and Rhett say together, then grin at your own cliché. “And coffee that’s flirting with good,” you add. She taps her pen, satisfied. “Two slices, two coffees. I’ll bring the good sugar.”

Rhett rests his forearms on the table, hands folded the way he does when he’s trying not to fidget. “I noticed,” you say, eyes dropping to his clean shirt, then back up. “You shine up nice.” His ears do the pink thing. “You, uh, look like you plan to win a pool tournament and a lawsuit.” “I contain multitudes,” you say, pleased. “Short ones,” he adds and there is no bite to it. 

Coffees arrive, dark and hopeful. The waitress sets down a little metal pitcher and winks. “Honey if you need it,” she says, as if she’s been informed by the grapevine. Rhett’s mouth tilts. Pie lands with the gravity it deserves - sun-warm, generous, the ice cream thinking about surrender. Rhett pulls the plates closer, and his knuckle brushes yours. Neither of you pull back. “To penance,” he says, and it’s half a toast, half an apology re-stated in sweeter language. “To penace,” you answer, tapping your fork to his like a bell. You eat the first bite the way you’d step into a river - careful, then all in. Peach, cinnamon, the cold slump of ice cream, the hot slide of honey he tips onto both plates without asking. The jukebox clatters into a song you both know by muscle memory and ignore on purpose.

You talk easy, in and out of old ruts that aren’t ruts anymore: the way the wind in Wabang always smells like it knows your middle name; Amy’s clipboard tyranny.  You trade tiny histories you hadn’t given to anyone else because they weren’t worth the postage until now - your worst rodeo motel (a carpet that crunched), his most heroic plumbing emergency (Perry, a wrench, and a prayer), the first time you both realized that counting worked. Somewhere in the middle you touch his wrist to make a point and forget to remove your hand for two breaths. He doesn’t move. You don’t say big things. You let the small ones stack.

When the plates are mostly crumbs and melted cream, he slips the bill away with practiced stealth.  “Beer?” he asks. Not casual, not heavy - just the next step on a map the day drew for you. “Beer,” you say. He stands. You stand. For the brief second before you move, the space closes - his hand at the small of your back, not quite touching, your shoulder tilted toward him like it’s found its favorite angle. The waitress says, “See you kids,” like she watched you grow up and is pleased with the edit.

You step out into evening - heat gone soft, sky low and kind. He holds the door because he was raised right. You brush past because you know exactly how close to get. In the glass you catch twin reflections - older, steadier, maybe braver. The Handsome Gambler hums like a bad habit that learned charm. The door swings open and the smell of beer, summer, and old country songs wraps around you like a dare. Same neon signs, same floor that sticks a little, but you don’t feel small anymore walking through it. The air feels yours.

Rhett follows half a step behind, his hat brim catching the amber light. The place looks smaller to him tonight - not because it is, but because you fill it better than the memory ever did. “You sure about this table?” he asks, nodding at the pool setup under a crooked light. “You scared?” you ask, already reaching for a cue. He huffs. “You used to apologize to the cue ball.” You chalk the tip with a little flourish. “Yeah, well. The road teaches you things.” He grabs his own cue, eyes still faintly amused, faintly uncertain. “Like what?” You bend, line up the break, and the crack echoes off the wood-paneled walls. Two solids drop clean. You straighten, give him that dangerous, slow smile. “Surviving bulls. And men. Turns out being good at manly things helps.”

He stares at the table, then at you. There’s surprise first, then something softer, more like pride, more like of course. “You practiced,” he says finally. “Practiced everything,” you say. “You have to, when the world keeps asking if you can.” You line up another shot, drop the three ball in the corner pocket. The little applause from a group at the bar makes you grin wider. You catch Rhett watching you instead of the game, the faint twitch of his jaw like he’s trying to reconcile the girl who used to miss easy shots with the woman who doesn’t waste a move.

“Your turn,” you tell him, stepping back, hips against the table. He leans in to shoot, misses by a hair. You whistle, low. “Guess all those years didn’t help your game much.” He laughs under his breath. “Been busy fixing fences.” “Figures,” you tease. “All straight lines, no corners.” He shoots you a look that says careful but it’s fond. “You talk more now.” “You listen better,” you return, and it lands somewhere between a compliment and a confession.

The jukebox slides into something slow, a song about dust and promises. You circle the table, chalk dust on your fingers, eyes glinting under the crooked lamp. When you pass him, he catches a faint breath of your shampoo and something else - warm, electric, the scent of a life lived at full speed. It hits him harder than whiskey. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the thought comes anyway, uninvited and loud: Ten years changed everything. And nothing.

You line up your last shot, the cue gliding against your fingers. “Eight ball, right corner,” you say. He knows that confidence; it used to scare him when you aimed it at the world. Now it steadies him. The ball drops, smooth as a promise kept. You look up, chin tilted. “Still scared?” He shakes his head, smiling small. “No. Not of you, anyway.” “Good,” you say, and rack the balls again. “First round’s yours. Second’s mine.”

He looks at you, the way your braid swings when you lean, the curve of your grin when you win, and he feels something like awe crawl under his ribs. You’ve got the same spark, but it’s grown teeth - and grace. “Guess the road did teach you a thing or two,” he says. You flash him a look over your shoulder, half challenge, half invitation.  “It taught me how to hold on when everything bucks.” He doesn’t ask if you mean the bulls, the years, or him. He just nods once, quiet, the same way he always did when he understood more than he could say.

You’ve just racked a fresh game when a shadow falls across the table - sponsor shirt, belt buckle loud, the kind of smile that thinks it’s a favor. “Well, if it isn’t the infamous Black Widow,” he drawls, eyes taking a tour you didn’t authorize. “Heard you can ride. Shame you gotta dress like that to-” You don’t let him finish. “Finish the sentence,” you say, mild as a butter knife. “I like to keep a trophy shelf of bad ideas.”

He blinks, recalibrates, chuckles like you’re being cute. “Just saying the brand’s the brand. Fans don’t come for fundamentals.” “Right,” you nod. “They come for tight cores and clean pockets. You’d know that if you’d ever made a whistle for something besides a bartender.” A couple stools down, someone chokes on their beer. The man shifts to square up, finds the floor suddenly uneven. He tries a different tack. “Could get you real sponsors if you smiled more. Wear my patch. I’ll make calls.” “You couldn’t book me a dentist,” you say, friendly. “And if I wanted to sell my smile, I’d charge per tooth.”

His mouth opens. Nothing useful emerges. He looks at Rhett like he’s expecting backup, bro-bond, purchase order for your time. Rhett doesn’t move. Hands in his pockets, eyes steady, he is the picture of a man who will haul you out of a fire but won’t take your hose while you’re using it. He gives the guy a polite, unreadable nod that translates to she’s talking; I’m learning. The man tries swagger again, thinner now. “You know who I am?” You tilt your head. “You’re the reason every committee now prints ‘Don’t Touch the Stock or the Riders’ on the back of the programs.” Beat. “Thanks for pushing policy.”

A laugh pops from the bar like a cork. Color rises under his tan. He looks at the eight ball, at your leather jacket, at the spider stitched mean on your shirt. “Tell you what,” you say, bright and bored. “You want a patch on me? Earn it. Pull your bull rope tomorrow. Eight clean. I’ll wear a sticker with your name on it for the drive home.” He sputters. “That’s not-” “Right,” you say. “It’s not.” Silence lands. The jukebox clicks, hunts for another song. He cocks his head like he might throw one last dart; decides against it; mutters something about “mouthy,” and peels off toward safer weather.

You watch him go long enough to be sure he’s gone-gone, then turn back to Rhett. You hook two fingers in his belt loop and tug, an easy little come on, like you’ve been doing it since you were kids. He goes willingly, heart doing that humiliating skip it has no legal right to. The casual claim of it - your fingers at his hip, the assumption he’ll follow - short-circuits him in ways a man shouldn’t admit in public. He catches up, close enough that your shoulder brushes his chest as you pass. “Thanks for letting me work,” you say, light. “Wasn’t mine to do,” he answers, softer. “Looked good, though.” “What did?” “Everything,” he says, and tries to make it a joke, fails, lets it stand. You bump his hip with yours, grinning. “Rack ’em, Abbott.” He does, hands steadying on the felt, and thinks - helpless, fond - drag me anywhere you want.

He watches you sink another shot - smooth, unbothered - and the felt tilts into memory. Not this room, not these lights, but that season when you were just starting to kick the small out of your life and make space for the larger thing you were building. Back when your hands moved faster than your mouth, when the words were still sharpening but your spine already knew the answer.

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They call it the Flats - a wind-scoured patch by the creek where someone’s cousin always had a truck, someone’s brother always had a lighter, and somebody’s uncle “didn’t see nothing.” A bonfire eats pallet wood and shoots sparks into a sky clear enough to shame you. Music leaks from a radio with one good speaker. Sixteen feels older there, and dumber.

Rhett leans on Perry’s tailgate with a warm beer sweating in his hand and watches you work a circle through the crowd, chin up, braid snared with dust, eyes on everything. You don´t smile much; when you do, it lands like a thrown coin. The boy who starts it - of course it was the boy who always starts it - blocks your path with a grin he wears like a badge. Big belt. Bigger mouth. He’s been loud all night, the kind of drunk that makes courage out of volume. “Hey, Cricket,” he says, sing-song, testing the name like he owns it. “Heard you like riding things that don’t got horns.” A couple of laughs snap like dry twigs. Rhett feels Perry go still next to him - statue still. He waits, because he knows you. You tips your head, loose and dangerous. “You heard wrong,” you say. “I ride anything that tries to make me small.”

“Cute,” the boy says, stepping closer, breath sour. “You wanna try riding me then? I’ll take it slow so you can count.” Perry’s boots scrape gravel. Rhett’s bottle turns to air in his hand. You lift a palm at both of them without even looking, a traffic cop in a torn denim jacket, and lock eyes with the boy. “Last chance,” you say. “Walk.” He snorts, leans in, makes the mistake of touching your braid like it was a bell pull.

The punch is simple. No warning. No speech. You step in and put your knuckles dead-center on his mouth, straight as a rulebook, hips behind it. The crack shuts the music off for a heartbeat. The boy’s head snaps; he goes down on his ass with a sound like surprise and pennies. Blood hits his chin like he’s been kissed by mean luck. Blood hits your knuckles as well, little red spots. 

Someone yells. Someone else whoops. An overeager friend’s fist clips your lip before you can duck. Quick, not full force, but it stings. You don’t waver. You don’t give ground. Your eyes lock, ready if he lunges again. On your left, the boy’s buddies puff up, more smoke than fire, until Perry slides between bodies with that grin he wears when he’s already decided to enjoy himself if it gets stupid. Rhett takes your right, eyes steady, shoulders loose, one hand free in case the pack has more guts than sense. “Everybody breathe,” Perry says, cheerful as a church greeter. “Or don’t. I’m not your mother.” The boy touches his mouth, comes up red, stares at the blood like it’s news. He starts to surge, then clockes the old Abbott steel staring out of two faces and the way your stance doesn’t shake. He thinks better of it.

“You good?” Rhett asks you, quiet. “Great,” you say, lip already swelling, eyes bright like fever and fun. “He’s done.” The boy decides he is. He spits, swears something about “bitch,” and gets hauled off by friends who suddenly believe in de-escalation. The ring of onlookers breakes into nervous laughter, relief, stories already growing new legs.

You shake your hand out once, wince, then laugh, too - sharp and real. The sound goes straight through Rhett like summer heat. “Illegal beer’s terrible,” you say, grabbing a bottle from the tailgate and pressing it to your knuckles. “But useful.” Perry barks a laugh and tosses you a clean rag. “You’ve got form.” “Royal taught me not to waste motion,” you say, dabbing at your lip. “He’ll kill me if he sees this.” “He’ll kill the other guy first,” Perry says, pleased. “Get in. We’re leaving before anybody decides they have cousins in law enforcement.”

He drives. You and Rhett climb into the truck bed - house rule when the night needs air to cool it. The road out of the Flats is star-stitched. Wind lifts your braid; the rag at your mouth blushes pink and you don’t care. You sit knee to knee with Rhett, boots braced on the toolbox, grinning like the world blinked first. Rhett watches you in profile: dust on your cheekbones, pride set hard under the hurt, the way you keep checking your knuckles like they’re a friend that needs looking after. He thinks of the steer in the demo pen that learned manners the day Royal stopped meeting it with force and gave it somewhere to put its fear. He thinks of how you count under your breath when things get loud. And he thinks, helpless and full: I have never loved you more than right now.

You catch him looking. You always do. “What?” you say, half dare, half laugh around the split lip. “Nothing,” he says. Honesty fails him, courage shows up late. “Just… good hit.” “Good target,” you say. “You were slow.” “I was admiring the form,” he says. It comes out like a flirt even though he did not mean to put teeth in it. “Besides, Perry looked eager.” From the cab, Perry thumps the roof like he can hear through the wind. “I was eager,” he yells, thrilled. “Next time let me at him first, Cricket!” You roll your eyes, grin wider, wince and all. “Boys,” you say. 

“Trouble,” Rhett says back, but it comes out fond. He takes the rag and holds it to your lip when the truck bounces. You let him. Your head tips toward his shoulder for a fraction before you catch yourself and sit up straight. He pretends not to feel the heat of you through denim. “Think Royal hears about this?” you ask after a minute. “He hears about everything,” Rhett says. “Cece is going to fuss,” you say, and the way you say Cece is warm enough to make his chest ache. The Abbotts are not just neighbors. They are the gravity you use to measure every other place.

“She’ll fuss and feed you,” Rhett says. “In that order.” “Payment for services rendered,” you say, then soften it with, “I’ll help with dishes.” Wind steals some of the quiet. Stars handle the rest. The road hums the truck into a steady rhythm that feels like counting. The bed jolts, your shoulder brushes his; you don’t move away. Neither does he.

“You always gonna swing first?” he asks after a long while - not judging, just checking where the map edges are. “Only when it’s worth it,” you say. “Only when someone tries to make me small.” You tip your chin at him. “You gonna keep catching me if I miss?” “I don’t think you will,” he says. “But yeah.” You nod once, like that’s a contract - both of you signing in road dust and night air. Your grin settles into something like contentment. The rag has gone pale, your lip has puffed, and the boy behind you has learned the hard way to keep your name out of his mouth.

“Hey, Abbott,” you say, voice lazy with victory and wind. “In.” He smiles before he can help it. “Out.” Your head falls on his shoulder and when he realizes that he goes very still. Out there, with the illegal beer skunking and the bonfire glow shrinking in the rearview, Rhett breathes with you like a vow he doesn’t know how to say out loud yet. He lets the night write it on his bones anyway: I’ve got you. I always did.

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Back under the crooked lamp at the Handsome Gambler, he watches you chalk, line up, drop the eight clean, and thinks: same fire. The fist learned grammar. The girl who swung first now speaks first, and the room remembers its manners. “You’re up,” you say, handing him the cue, eyes bright. He takes it, smiles crooked. “I was just thinking,” he says. “Dangerous,” you tease. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But accurate.”

He watches you rack up another game. The faint scar on your knuckles catching neon like a thin thread of old fire. You flick him a glance that’s half-tease, half truth. “I learned to talk like steel because I used to lead with bone.” Silence settles around you that isn’t empty. He looks at your knuckles again - the old story in new skin. Before he can talk himself out of it, he holds out a hand.

“May I?” he asks. You look at him, measure the moment, then offer your fist like a dare you expect him to pass. He takes your hand the way he handles skittish stock and expensive glass: careful, sure. He turns your knuckles into the light, thumb skimming the pale crescent. Then he bends, slow enough to warn you, and sets a kiss there - no show, no flourish. Just gratitude and apology and a promise he hasn’t said out loud yet. You don’t pull away. You go very still, the way you do before a gate swings. When he straightens, your eyes are warmer around the edges. “Sentimental,” you say, but there’s no bite in it. “Accurate,” he answers. His palm stays under yours a heartbeat longer, a soft brace, then lets go like respect looks when it knows its job.

Behind you, someone laughs too loud. The game picks up on a TV. The world resumes its ordinary spin. You lift your beer; he steals a sip like he used to steal fries, and you let him like you always did. He breathes the way you taught him. “In,” you murmur, almost smiling. “Out,” he says, soft, and feels the warmth in his chest settle into something steady and good - like a family fire burning low and watched over, like a promise kept in the small hours under a sky that doesn’t blink.

You play out the rack - clean, easy, both of you lighter for having said some of the heavy. He steals the eight by a breath and lifts his hands like a man who knows better than to gloat. You rack again, because you can. Next game goes to you on a long rail shot that makes two old boys at the bar whistle under their breath. You tip them a mock-curtain call, chalk your cue, then set it down.

“I want to head back,” you say, soft but decided. “Weekend’ll be here quick.” He nods. “I’ll drive.” Outside, the night’s settled and the truck’s cooled. He opens your door like it’s a vow he enjoys keeping. The road between the Gambler and the grounds is short - radio low, windows cracked, that good silence riding shotgun. He taps the wheel with two fingers when the song hits a line he likes; you smile without looking over.

At your trailer he kills the engine. The dark is kind out here, lights strung like low constellations. Neither of you moves. “Thank you,” he says, after a beat. “For what?” you ask, genuine. “For letting me be wrong and not making me smaller for it,” he says. “For coming back without pretending you never left.” You look at him full-on. The porch light rims his hat and softens his jaw. “Thank you for being mad,” you say. “And then not being. Both mattered.”

He nods once, satisfied and a little raw. You lean in. He does too. The hug is tight - no play, no show - his arms around your shoulders, your hands at his back. He breathes you in like he’s been underwater and forgot he could swim. Before you part, he dips, unthinking, and presses his mouth to your hair. It lands like a benediction he didn’t plan. You slide back, fingers trailing his sleeve. “Night, Rhett.” “Night, Cricket.”

You hop down, boots on gravel, take two steps toward the door - then pivot, quick. He’s still watching. You come back on your toes, catch his cheek in one palm, and kiss him there: warm, sure, a little sideways so it feels like a secret and not a siege. He goes very still, then blinks like a man memorizing. “Sleep,” you say, backing away. “Weekend’s mean.” “I’ll count,” he promises, voice gone rough.

You climb the steps, key in the lock, light on. You lift a hand at the threshold; he lifts his back. The door clicks; the light becomes a square on the gravel. He doesn’t turn the engine over yet. He sits with the window down, listening to the night tick. In his chest the old word he wouldn’t say out loud turns over and settles: home. Not a place so much as a direction - two steps from the Gambler, a truck length from your trailer, a long time from sixteen and the worst conversation of his life. Maybe waiting wasn’t noble. Maybe it was just stubborn. Either way, tonight it feels like it learned patience on purpose.

He taps the wheel, breathes in, breathes out. “Friday,” he says to the empty seat, and smiles. Then he starts the truck and drives back through the gentle dark, carrying the echo of your cheek on his skin like a brand he chose. Friday is only days away and also already here in the way everyone says it like a promise.

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Friday outruns your nerves. The grounds thrum - generators growling, mic checks snapping, stock rattling steel like weather with a temper. You pull the person you need to be over like a second skin: vest cinched tight, tape clean, spider winking mean across your knuckles. Black leather, low-cut V catching the floodlight, red liner sharp as a warning. You look like trouble on purpose. 

Rhett arrives late in that way only riders do - half-dressed in leather and dust, hat low, eyes already in the chute. He finds you by muscle memory anyway. No time for pretty. He catches your elbow, pulls you in for one quick, rib-straight hug that smells like rosin and sun and home. It lands like a promise and is gone in the same heartbeat. “Count for me,” he says into your hair, breath quick, voice calm. “In,” you answer, almost smiling. “Out.” Perry jogs past, clapping Rhett’s shoulder. “Quit flirting and go be heroic.” Cecilia’s look is softer: “Breathe, honey.” Royal just tips his chin toward the alley: Go.

Rhett steps back, thumbs the brim, something raw and ready in his mouth. “See you in eight,” he says, already turning. “See you in eight,” you echo, letting him go the way you never could at sixteen - palms open, steel in place. He disappears down the alley in three long strides, the crowd swallowing him, the gate man’s voice cutting clean. You set your feet on the rail and do what he asked, lending him your lungs from a distance as the latch clacks and the night decides what kind of story it’s going to be.

The arena sounds like a storm made of wood and lungs. Boards rattle. People stand, then sit, then stand again. Rhett does not move. He felt the bull fold under him in the eighth second, shoulder drop, head snap. He rode the twist, then the ground rose like a dirty wave and took him. Now the dirt is inside his mouth, iron and grit, and the sky is a bright white plate with dust on it. He tries to push up. His arm is a stranger. The world pulls left and keeps pulling.

The bull circles back.

You vault the rail without thinking. Black leather flashes, spurs catch the light, and you hit the dirt running. The pick up men are on the far side. The bullfighters are cutting the first angle, but the animal has Rhett in his eye like a nail set into wood. He stamps, snorts, throws clods. The crowd rolls into one long vowel. Rhett hears your name like a memory dropped in water. Older now, both of you. Lines at the eyes. Strength that does not brag.

You do not slow down.

You strip your hat and fling it past Rhett to the left, a snapping black bird. The bull flicks an ear. You take your vest half open and crack it like a flag. You are talking as you move, steady and low, voice made for skittish stock and men who will not admit fear.

"Hey. Big man. Right here."

The bull swings to you. There is a thin white line of scar on his muzzle, healed ugly. His breath is a hot engine. You plant your boots, weight forward, knees soft, hands out. You look at him like you look at a gate that sticks. Not angry. Deciding.

Rhett tries to get up again. Pain lifts the top of his head like a lid. He sees you draw the animal off his line by inches. He has seen you ride every kind of mean in the world, but he has never seen you like this, between horns and a man on the ground, making yourself larger than you are. "Count, Abbott," you call without looking back. "With me. In. One. Out. One." He obeys before he can argue. The numbers run like beads. In. One. Out. One.

The bull feints right. You go with him, a half step and a clap to keep him keyed on your hands. A bullfighter throws his body across Rhett's boots and hauls, boots scraping. The other tries to cut the hip. The bull hooks and misses by an inch. You slap your vest against your thigh and yell, not pretty, not brave, just loud.

"Here. Look at me. Come on."

He looks. For a second his eyes are nothing but night. You do not blink. Rhett sees everything in frames. The way your braid has come loose at the nape. The sweat at your temple. The small tremor in your fingers that you lock down by will. You have always been like this. Brave and reckless. The first summer, back when you were kids and Royal was teaching you both how to move around a cranky cow, you learned to square your shoulders and tell fear to wait its turn.

The bull charges.

You break left and cut right at the last possible breath, a small quick angle that makes him overshoot by a hair. He blows past your hip. A horn kisses leather where your thigh should have been. The crowd gasps, then swallows it. The pick up men are finally here, long reins, shouting. The bullfighters clap and kick and give the bull too many targets at once. He swings to them. You pivot and run three steps back to Rhett.

He is on his side, eyes open now, chest hitching like a bad engine. "Hey." You drop to a knee. Your hand finds the back plate of his vest, then his jaw. "Stay with me." “Hi,” he grits out. The tiny effort makes his lungs protest.  It comes out wrong. He tastes copper. He hates how small his voice sounds under the noise. Your mouth twists like you almost smile. "Hold still."

The bull stomps, angry at the new order. A pick up man gets a rope on him, turns him, gets him moving toward the out gate, shoulders leaning against power. You do not move away from Rhett until the gate slams. Your body shielding his in case the bull would go rogue again. The animal fights, but the angle is good, the door is open, and a second horse eases the line. The bull goes, still throwing his head, and then he is gone. The sudden lack of him makes the air feel thin. 

"You with me?" He blinks. The white plate of sky softens to blue. Your face comes into focus. Older, yes. Beautiful, yes. But more than that, present. The word hits him with more force than the ground did. "Yeah," he says. "I am now." EMTs are already kneeling. The backboard appears like a magic trick. You slide out of the way, still close enough that your knee touches his shoulder, still close enough that your hand can trap his if he starts to drift. The medic asks him questions. Name. Date. Where he is. Rhett answers because your thumb is tracing slow lines across his knuckles, and that tells him there is time to be gentle.

The announcer is trying to make it a lesson. He talks about heart. He talks about toughness. He does not have language for what you just did. Most people do not. They strap Rhett in. He hates it, but he lets them. When the medic moves to lift his arm, you are there first, sliding your hand under his wrist to help, your touch competent, not tender, but he feels the heat of it straight through. You meet his eyes.

"Do not do the macho thing," you say. "Let them look. You can curse at me later." He swallows. Dust scratches his throat. "You just stood in front of a bull for me." "Someone had to," you say, like you are talking about carrying in groceries. Then your jaw tightens. "And I knew you could not do it for yourself." Something opens in his chest he did not know was locked. It hurts, and it feels like relief. He wants to tell you everything he did not say when you left. He wants to ask why you came back. He wants to bury his face in your shoulder and count to ten. The stretcher bumps. You walk beside it. A kid leans over the rail and yells your name. You lift a hand without looking away from Rhett. "Keep counting," you say. 

At the mouth of the tunnel the light breaks into bars. It is cooler there, metal and shadow. The arena sound fades to a hum. You stop them with a palm on the medic's arm. "One second," you say. You lean down and set your forehead to Rhett's again, the exact shape of earlier. Your voice is closer. "You scared me." He almost laughs. It shakes in his chest. "You scared me back." "Fair trade," you say. Then you kiss his temple. It is small. It is the kind of promise that can survive daylight.

They wheel him on. You walk with them until the hallway turns and the rules say you cannot. You hand the medic Rhett's glove. You kept it in your fist the whole time without knowing. The leather is warm. Your fingers do not want to let go. Rhett watches you through the lift and drop of strangers' shoulders. For a heartbeat the crowd, the cameras, the long hard years, all of it goes quiet. There is only a girl who learned to run toward danger and a man who finally understands why she had to. He keeps counting your way until the room goes soft around the edges and the medic tells him to close his eyes. In. One. Out. One. When he opens them again, he promises himself two things. He will let them patch the body. And he will not be an almost to you, not anymore.

Later, you sit next to Rhett on a cooler. The medics have cleared him - pupils fine, pride bruised - just the usual bullrider blues blooming under the skin. The Abbotts drift at a distance on purpose: Cecilia and Royal by the gate, Perry narrating something for Amy. Rhett’s propped against his truck, hat tipped back, a crackling bag of ice pressed to his shoulder. Melt tracks down his biceps, silvering the dust. He winces once, breathes past it, eyes on nothing, mouth set in that almost-smile he wears when he’s hurting and pretending he isn’t. “Thought you retired from being stupid,” he says. “Tunnel rumor will say you just tried to get yourself killed for me.” You peel off a glove with your teeth and pocket it. “Would have been a waste. You still owe me fries.” That gets him. He huffs, which is as close to a laugh as pain will allow, and the sound bounces off cinderblock like a memory.

Inching just a closer, you tip your chin at Rhett’s shoulder. “You keeping that on as decoration or you going to hold the ice where the bruise is?” He shifts the bag up an inch. “Bossy.” “Alive,” you say. “You are welcome.” The Abbotts pretend not to listen. Somewhere, a radio crackles. The concrete smells like old water. “You look different,” he says, then decides to be braver. “You look the same and different.” “Older,” you say. “Meaner. Better boots.” His eyes go to your boots, scuffed at the toe, polished everywhere else. “I remember when you had to stuff paper in your left one because your socks had holes.” You laugh, quiet, soft and it stirs something in his chest. 

He thinks of fifteen. A shared order from fries on a Friday. He had licked salt from his thumb and said, dead serious, that he was going to ride anything they put under him and make it look easy. You rolled your eyes and said you were going to leave this town before it taught you how to be small. He told you not to, then pretended he had meant it as a joke. You both watched Royal set his shoulders against a twitchy steer and turn patient force into clean motion, and for a breath the world felt simple. 

“You left,” he says, softer now. It is not a charge. It is a pin dropped on a map. “Yeah,” you say. You do not apologize. “I had to.” He waits. You do not fill the silence. That is your oldest game. He breaks first, as usual. “And now you are back, and you are the one riding bulls.” “Looks like.” “That a problem?” he asks, too casual by half. “For who?” You lean one shoulder into the wall of his truck. “For the boys who cannot count to eight unless a girl spells it for them? For the men with opinions about my neckline? For you?” His grin shows up slow. “For me it is a story I am glad I get to watch.” You do not look away, which is what startles him. You used to look anywhere else when talk got honest. Ceiling. Dirt. The side of his face. Now you look right at him until he shifts again and the ice bag crackles. “Do not flirt if you are going to pass out,” you say. “It ruins the effect.” “Let me practice,” he says. “I am older. I need the reps.” “You always needed the reps.”

You could say more. You could say that every mile you put between you and this place was heavy with the shape he left next to you on the bleachers. You could say that the circuit chews and spits and that you learned to make teeth of your own. You could say that seeing him fall and not get up nearly knocked the air out of you. You do not say it. He watches you sitting there, legs dangling over the edge of the truck bed. He sees you at ten in a sunburned ponytail, your calves dusty, jumping out of his fathers. He sees you now in black leather and sweat, spine straight, the only person in the building who could make a bull look away. Between those pictures there is a long road but right here - and right here, he finds he doesn’t care. He loved you at ten, even if the word didn’t fit yet. He loved you at twelve and fourteen, and at fifteen when he almost kissed you. He loved you at sixteen when you left and it felt like the end of the world. He loves you now, ten years older, edges trued and soft places stubborn. He loves you now that you’ve come back - to the ranch, to the noise and the quiet, to the space beside him that never forgot your shape.

After another hour and another beer, you call it a night. “Try not to be an idiot,” you say. “I’ll work on it,” he answers. “Good,” you say. “I’m better at bossing people who live.” Perry, now within heckling range, barks a laugh. Rebecca and Amy materialize at your side to say goodnight; Amy’s gap-toothed grin is immediate and ferocious. “I like her.” “Excellent taste,” Perry declares, scandalized with pride. “Both of you.” He throws that last part at Rhett like a blessing disguised as a jab.

You make the rounds, saving Rhett for last because that’s what you do now. You step in; he meets you halfway. One-armed around your shoulders, his face finds the warm crook of your neck like it remembers the coordinates. You breathe once, steady. Perry groans in operatic pain. “Oh, for - get a room. Or a chute. Not right here. I’m fragile.” You tip a death-ray over Rhett’s shoulder that could fell a bull. Perry clutches his heart and staggers for cover. Rebecca is laughing into her sleeve. Amy claps like a tiny judge approving the scene. Cecilia’s smile is sunshine through the last of the storm. Royal’s mouth does that almost-smile it saves for family. You ease back, fingers trailing his sleeve, and the night feels properly finished.

Rhett watches you leave. Cecilia notices the way Rhett’s looking. Cecelia always notices. “You gonna tell me, or am I supposed to guess?” she asks, soft enough not to bend the air. Rhett shifts the ice, buying himself a second. “Tell you what?” She flicks her eyes toward where he just left. “Whatever that face is.” He tries a grin. It works halfway. “It’s nothing…,” he starts, then remembers lies don´t seem to work on his mother. He clears his throat. “It’s just - she looks like herself here. Even more at the ranch. Happy. Softer. Like that kid who stole the last fry and counted under her breath so the world wouldn’t get away from her.” He looks down at his hands, then back at his mother. Honesty gets easier once it starts moving. “Feels like her place has always been our table. I don’t know how to say that without making it sound like a net.” Cecilia’s hand covers his wrist, brief and warm. “No net,” she says. “Just tell her what you told me. Not a confession. The truth. A compliment she can use.” Her smile tucks at one corner. “She’ll appreciate useful.” Rhett nods. “I will, soon.”

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The night sits on Abbott land like a warm coat. Crickets work the fenceline. The stars are big enough to make a man feel honest. They’ve got the fire low and the chairs dragged out where the yard gives to pasture. Royal nurses coffee gone mean a long time ago. Perry has a beer sweating in his fist. Rhett turns a bottlecap over and over like it’s a prayer wheel.

No one talks first. It’s the Abbott way. Then Perry quits pretending to be polite. “So,” he says, aiming at the sky and hitting Rhett instead. “Why didn’t you ever ask her out?” Rhett doesn’t look up. He rolls the cap to its edge and sets it spinning on his knee. “Which her.” Perry snorts. “The only her we’re all thinking about. Cricket. Widow. Take your pick.” Royal doesn’t laugh. He looks at Rhett the way he looks at a skittish colt - still, patient, a little sad he knows what’s coming. “Boy,” he says, not unkind. “You used to watch her and pretend you didn´t. You scratched her name into the door like she belonged there. Don’t start playing dumb now.”

Rhett lets the cap fall. It dies in the grass with a small, final sound. “I was twelve, then fourteen and then sixteen,” he says. “And dumb.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “And then she left.” Perry leans back and props his boots on a stump. “It was obvious,” he says. “The way you always found your place next to her and called it coincidence. The way you brought water like you didn’t notice her lips on the bottle.” He grins into the dark. “The way you counted when she counted, like you were both stealing air from the same jar.”

Rhett almost smiles. It breaks before it lands. “You want the truth?” “We did drag you out here to make you say it,” Perry says. Rhett nods once, like he’s taken a gate he wasn’t sure about. “I didn’t ask because she was always leaving,” he says. “And she needed to. I didn’t want to be the thing she had to cut loose to be big.” He pauses. The frogs fill it. “And because I figured I was the almost. Second choice in my own damn head. I thought - hell, I thought she didn’t like me like that. Not really.” “Hmm,” Royal says, which is half a sentence when you know him. He looks out at the pasture like he expects it to answer. “Or maybe you were just scared.” “Both,” Rhett admits. “She scares me in the right ways.” He huffs a laugh that isn’t mean. “Always has.”

Perry tips his bottle toward the house, toward the empty stretch of dark where the road runs to town. “She hugged you like it didn’t matter who was watching,” he says.  “I saw your face. You looked like were fifteen again when she kissed you on the cheek that one day.” “Felt like it,” Rhett says. He tries for humor and doesn’t quite make it. “Thought I might drop a lemonade.” Royal’s mouth doesn’t turn up, but his eyes do. “You were kids” he says. “No crime in taking too long then.” He sets his cup down. “But you ain’t boys now.” Silence again. A coyote barks somewhere out in the draw. The fire pops. In his chest, Rhett hears the old metronome: In. One. Out. One.

“I didn’t ask because asking would’ve made it real if she said no. And if she said yes, well. That’d be a whole other kind of real.” Perry whistles soft. “So you are hiding in almost.” “Yeah,” Rhett says. “I hide in almost.” Royal picks up a stick and stirs a coal like it owes him money. “You know what almost is good for?” Rhett shakes his head. “Nothing,” Royal says. “It don’t feed cattle and it don’t hold a gate. It’s just noise you make to keep from hearing yourself breathe.” Perry claps once, satisfied. “There it is. Philosophy with a hat.” Royal ignores him. “She left to not be small,” he says to Rhett like it’s the weather. “You don’t make her small by asking. You let her say no if she means no. That’s respect.” He looks over, the kind of look that put the fear of God in sons and bulls. “And if she says yes, you make damn sure you can carry your end.” Rhett sits with it. The stars don’t blink. They don’t need to.

“I almost told her ten times since she came back,” he says. “Almost,” Perry repeats, rolling the word in his mouth like a bad seed. Rhett laughs, finally. “All right. I get it.” He loses the battle with his own honesty and lets the rest out. “When she hugged me, I felt sixteen. When she walked away, I felt twentysix and tired and like I’d waste another ten years if I didn’t move.” He taps his chest with two fingers, a little embarrassed. “I don’t want to be almost to her. Not anymore.” Royal stands, slow and easy. “Then don’t be.”

Perry raises his bottle like a toast. “Ask her out, you coward. With your mouth. Words.” Rhett looks at the house again, then the road, then the sky. He breathes the way she taught him, the way he taught himself to keep from breaking things he wanted to keep. “In,” he says under his breath. “Out,” Perry echoes, softer than he means to. Rhett nods. “I’ll do it,” he says. “Use my words. Ask like a person.”

Royal picks his cup back up. “Good,” he says, which is a whole paragraph when you know him. He starts toward the porch. Perry barks a laugh and follows. “And bring me some sense if she says yes, ’cause I’m gonna have to hear about it for the rest of my life.” Rhett stays a minute longer, just him and the stars and the quiet that isn’t empty. He thinks about the kid who counted under her breath, and the woman who steps between horns and the people she loves like it’s a job. He feels sixteen and steady at the same time. He flips the dead bottlecap into the fire and stands. Tomorrow he’ll ask. Tonight, he breathes. In. One. Out. One. Then he goes inside.

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Saturday comes in fast and mean and hot. You haven’t slept; the edges of you are sandpaper. Your wrist still hurts. Sweat tacky on your skin, tape itching, leather that usually feels like a second self now rides you like a bad idea. Little droplets climb under your wrist brace. Rhett climbs on against everyone’s advice and makes it look good - clean seat, smart saves, numbers that shut people up. You don’t have that gear today. Every jump feels like a dare you’re a half-beat late to meet. You hang on anyway. You finish. It’s enough to land second overall, Rhett a notch behind you in third. Usually second tastes like sugar with grit. Today it tastes like loss and failure. The scoreboard says you did fine; your chest says small and irritable and you can’t even name the reason. You strip the glove, shake the ache from your wrist, and the noise of the arena feels three sizes too big.

The fight starts stupid. Small tinder, big flame. You are still wired from the ride, from the cameras, from the way the sponsor rep said your name like a coupon. In the parking lot the wind picks up grit. Rhett reaches to take your bag. You yank it back like it bit you. “I can carry it,” you snap. “I know,” he says, soft as ever. “I wanted to help.” “That is the problem,” you fire back. “You always want to help. You are so soft. I do not deserve soft. I do not need it.” He does not step back. He does not lift his hands. He keeps his voice level. “You deserve not to be tired alone,” he says.

You laugh, sharp. “Cute. Put that on a shirt.” You pace three steps and turn on him. “I built this. I did it by myself. I got used to not expecting anyone. You show up with softness and something other that feels just as familiar and I do not know where to put it.” “Put it here,” he says. He taps his own chest once. “Or at our table. Or in the booth of the diner over pie. You do not have to do it by yourself. You have Perry. You have my parents. You have me. We are your family. You are not alone.” The wind takes the last word and throws it back at you. Not alone. Your mouth is still set. Your eyes are not. You brace your hands on your hips like you are about to tell the ground to fight you. It does not. It gives.

“I was alone for a long time,” you say. The first words come out like they are too big. The rest follow easier. “I thought I always had to be strong. Make it by myself. If I am honest, leaving the Abbotts, leaving you, that was the smartest thing and the dumbest thing at the same time. I needed to go so the world could not make me small. I should have brought you with me in my pocket.”

Rhett breathes once, slow. He takes one step. You do not retreat. He sets his hands on your arms, light. Not pinning. Not pushing. Anchoring. “You did the hard part,” he says. “Now let us do some of the rest.” You swallow. Something in your shoulders comes down. The fight goes out of your jaw. You put your forehead to his chest, fast, like if you think about it you might miss. He wraps you up and holds, gentle as a promise. You do not shake. You do not talk. You just breathe, and he matches you because it is the only language that has never failed either of you. “In,” you say, muffled. “Out,” he answers.

He drives you home, not to your trailer. To the farm. The road is quiet. The radio stays off. He keeps one hand on the wheel and one on the bench between you, palm up. You set your fingers there and leave them. You watch the trees go by and disappear into the dark night. You watch the stars and Rhett watches you. At the house he gives you a shirt without saying anything. It smells like cedar and dust and him. You disappear into the bathroom and come back with damp hair and bare feet, his shirt hitting mid thigh. He does not stare. He tries not to. He fails a little. His bed is bigger than it used to be, not for a sixteen year old kid anymore but now for a man that is taller and whose shoulders became broader as he got older. You both fit. You tuck into his side like you were carved to fit that space. He tucks a blanket around your legs like he has done this a hundred times in his head. The room hums with night sounds and the small click of the heater.

“I am not good at this,” you say into his collarbone. “You are doing fine,” he says. “You sure you want it,” you ask, and there is no steel in it at all. “Every night for the rest of my life,” he thinks, clear as a bell. He does not say it. He says the part that will not scare you. “I want this tonight. And tomorrow we can want tomorrow.”

You consider that. Then you take his hand and bring it to your mouth and kiss the heel of it once, quick. It feels like a signature. “Okay,” you say. He presses his lips to the small pale crescent on your knuckle, the one that will never quite fade. Your breath evens. Your weight settles. He watches the window until stars blink through clouds. He keeps his palm on your back, steady and warm, and lets the thought return, simple and strong, a tide that does not need words. I want this every night, he thinks. Every small softness. Every morning after a hard thing. Every counted breath. You sleep. He does not, not for a while. He is busy wanting and keeping watch, which feels like the same thing when the person under your hand is home.

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Morning smells like coffee and hay. The house is quiet in the way a place gets when everyone’s already been up an hour. You come down the back stairs with Rhett, bare ankles, his shirt tucked into your jeans, hair braided quick and clean. He keeps a respectful half-step, hand brushing your back only when the last step creaks.

Cecilia looks up from the stove, takes in both of you with a single, expert glance, and turns a biscuit in the pan like she’s considering the weather. “Morning, you two,” she says, warm as a quilt. Royal nods from the table, newspaper folded into obedient quarters. “Coffee’s fresh.” Perry lifts a brow, only because it’s a muscle he can’t stop using. “Y’all sleep all right?” he asks, faux-casual. “Fine,” Rhett says. “Like a rock,” you say, and steal a strip of bacon off his plate with a speed that makes Amy gasp-laugh.

They don’t make a scene. They make room. A second mug appears beside your elbow; a jar of honey slides your way like an apology for every hard thing you did alone. Rebecca forks over the last of the scrambled eggs with a conspiratorial tilt. Royal reaches without looking and sets a clean knife next to your plate because you always forget you’ll need one until you do.

Breakfast is the kind that happens to you: biscuits that split with a sigh, jam that tastes like last summer, talk that loops easy over fence repairs and a neighbor’s mule who never quite learned manners. You eat like a person who finally believes there will be enough. When the plates are messy and the kettle clicks off, Cecilia wipes her hands on a towel and says, “I need to run a couple errands. Up to the feed store and over to Mabel’s for pie.” Her eyes cut to you, soft and sure. “Ride with me?”

You nod before she’s finished. “Gladly. I just need to grab a few things from home.” “I’ll drive you,” she says, the decision already folding itself into the day. “Can I come?” Amy pipes up from her chair, bouncing once. “Can I, Aunt Cricket?” The room goes very still, like a deer lifting its head in tall grass. The name lands in the middle of the table and glows. You blink. Your mouth opens, closes. Rhett sees it - just the shine at the corner of your eye, gone as quick as it came. You reaches your hand across the table to Amy, palm up. “Of course, little bug,” you say, voice steady and bright. Amy slides her small hand into yours like it was always meant to. Royal’s newspaper settles. Perry looks away like he’s being polite to his own feelings. Rebecca hides a smile in her tea. Cecilia only nods, like a plan that started years ago just finished rooting.

Rhett watches you stand with them - his mother, his niece - and something inside him sets like concrete in sun. You pick up your hat, squeeze his fingers once under the table, and follow Cecilia and Amy toward the door. And Rhett sits there with the taste of honey and the certainty that the road ahead already knows all your names. The screen door sighs shut behind Cecilia and Amy. They leave. The house breathes. Tires crunch the gravel, then fade. The kitchen holds its breath for half a beat. Royal lowers his newspaper an inch. Perry leans back in his chair until it creaks. They both look at Rhett like he’s a colt who just squared up to a fence he’s been circling for years.

“What’s going on,” Perry says. Not a question. Rhett rubs a thumb over a coffee ring on the table. “I’m gonna tell her,” he says. Simple. The room seems to fit around it. Royal folds the paper. “Good,” he says - four letters worth a page. “Say it plain.” Perry kicks the table leg. “And say it where the whole county can’t hear you mispronounce your own heart,” he adds, grin crooked. “Or do - give me something to live for.” Rhett stands. He can feel the plan forming as he speaks it. “Back pasture,” he says. “South of the cottonwoods. No neighbors. I’ll take the truck. Blankets in the bed. Flowers. Compliments and truth.”

They move without making it a meeting. Perry raids the shed for an extension cord and a coil of fairy lights last used for Amy’s school play. Royal disappears into the barn and returns with a clean old quilt - the good one with the blue stars - folded over his arm like an offering. Rhett drives his truck out to the backpasture. On his way out, he stops by the fence line, wades into the ditch for a handful of wildflowers that don’t match and don’t need to.

Out back, the day rips wide and quiet. They idle the truck behind the cottonwoods where the pasture turns away from the house and the sky is big enough to keep secrets. Perry climbs in the bed like a raccoon, stringing lights along the headache rack and down the rails, swearing cheerfully when they tangle and more cheerfully when they blink alive. “Not too bright,” Rhett says. “Son, nothing about this is subtle,” Perry says, satisfied. “Also, if you’re gonna whisper about your feelings ‘where no one can hear,’ try not to park by the cattle gate that leaves like a tattletale in the wind.” He points. “Back it up ten feet.” Rhett backs it up ten feet. The gate hushes.

Royal shakes out the quilt and helps spread it in the bed like he’s laying a saddle blanket. He tucks a few worn pillows at the head, then steps back, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed at the symmetry like a man judging a fence line. Rhett rolls a blanket tight to use as a bolster for your wrist if the brace starts biting. He stows a spare hair tie by the thermos because experience makes good guesses. He sets the wildflowers in the jar and fusses the stems until they stop looking like he ripped them out of a ditch (which he did).

Perry puts two tea candles in old jam jars and wedges them safe in the wheel wells so they will look like fireflies that learned manners later. Then he places a lighter next to it. Royal eyes the scene. “You’re not gonna talk her into anything,” he says. “Just tell her what you told your mama. Truth. Complement she can use.” Rhett nods. “I know.” Perry hops down, wipes his hands on his jeans. “And if you get tongue-tied,” he says, “say ‘I like you here.’ Point at the quilt. Point at the stars. Point at your dumb face. That’ll cover it.” He tips his hat toward the trees.

Rhett flips him a look. Perry just grins bigger and saunters off, whistling something smug. Royal lingers. He reaches out and tugs a corner of the quilt, straightens it a fraction, then presses his palm once to Rhett’s shoulder - solid, proud, brief. “She’s family,” he says. “Act like it. The rest follows.” “I will,” Rhett says. It lands as vow and normal sentence both. Royal nods and leaves him to it. When the dust from their boots settles, Rhett stands alone beside the truck and listens to the pasture breathe. The fairy lights wink against the chrome. He smooths the quilt one more time. He sets the flowers so they don’t block the sky.

Then he leans on the fender, hat low, and waits for a car door out front, for the sound of Cecilia’s laugh and Amy’s running feet, for your step in the gravel - so he can meet you at the corner of the house, take your bag without a fight, and say it plain where only the cottonwoods and the cattle can hear: I like you here. You fit. The rest can come slow.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆₊⁺⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆₊⁺⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆₊⁺⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆₊⁺⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆₊⁺⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆₊⁺⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆₊⁺

Cecilia’s car crunches up the drive just as the light turns honey. Amy explodes out of the passenger seat before the engine’s even quiet, wearing one of your promo shirts two sizes too big - BLACK WIDOW across the front with the tiny red spider - and a grin that could blind a storm. She sprints straight for Rhett, skidding to a stop to model. “Look!” she says, arms out. “Aunt Cricket said I could!”

Rhett feels something in his chest kick hard enough to rattle his ribs. “You look perfect, little bug,” he manages, voice steady by a miracle. Cecilia closes her door, meets his eye over the roof, and smiles like a secret she’s kept since he was born. You come around the hood with a paper sack and wind in your braid. You’re flushed and easy, laughing low at something Cecilia says - soft, the way you get when you’re home. You tip your chin at Rhett, a hello that lands where a kiss might later.

Inside, the table fills itself: roast and beans, biscuits that split with a sigh, the tomato salad that only shows up when the garden’s showing off. Amy plants herself next to you, sits tall so the Widow on her shirt shows, and asks a mile of questions. You answer between bites, teaching her how to brace a plate with her forearm, how to count when nerves show up, how to say “no, thank you” in a voice that means it. Rebecca teases that the shirt’s worth ten points off fear; you say, “At least.”

Perry waits until everyone’s halfway full to get loud. “Y’all remember the night Cricket laid out Tommy Harwell at the Flats?” he begins, already grinning. “One punch. Man went down like a sack of wet feed. Illegal beer everywhere-” “Perry,” Cecilia warns, but she’s smiling. You point your fork at him. “Tell it right or don’t tell it.” “I am telling it right,” Perry says, wounded. “She gave him one warning, he touched her braid - boom, meteor strike.” He smacks a fist into his palm. “Royal, remember? Boy’s lip looked like a fresh brand.” Royal’s mouth does that almost-smile. “I recall,” he says. “Also recall driving over there because somebody called me and said my sons were going to start a war.” “Cricket ended it,” Perry says cheerfully. “Rhett looked like the ferris wheel got stuck at the top again.” Rhett glares at him without heat. “Eat your beans,” he says.

You lean back in your chair, laughing - real, head-tipped, eyes bright. “Tommy actually apologized to me at the supermarket a few days ago,” you offer, deadpan. “Said he found God. I said good, tell Him to mind your hands.” The table breaks. Even Royal chuckles under his breath. Amy claps, delighted. “Aunt Cricket, you’re a superhero.” You nudge her cap brim down with one finger. “Nah. Just stubborn.” Rhett watches you in the wash of kitchen light: the way you tease Perry back until he throws up both palms in surrender, the way you hook your ankle around the chair rung and listen when Royal asks about your next draw, the way Cecilia sneaks you an extra biscuit and you try to refuse and fail. It’s all so simple it hurts - like the world finally picked one key and stayed in it.

After dinner, plates scraped and stacked, conversation thinning into the sweet hum of work well done, Rhett catches your eye. He touches two fingers to the brim of his hat - old language, new meaning. “Walk with me?” he asks. Your mouth softens. “Yeah,” you say, pushing your chair back. You squeeze Amy’s shoulder as you pass - “Guard the pie” - and she salutes like she’s been given a post. Cecilia turns to the sink with suspicious efficiency. Perry suddenly remembers the barn needs checking. Royal pretends to read the paper and misses every word. Rhett holds the back door, lets the evening air spill over you both, and leads you out toward the cottonwoods and the quiet place where the fairy lights are waiting.

The cottonwoods made a hush big enough for two.  You round the tailgate and stopp. The last of the light goes soft over your face; something in your mouth loosened - the small shape you wear when you remember you were once younger and softer. “Rhett,” you say, warning braided with thanks. He climbs into the bed and holds out a hand. You take it - warm, sure - and let him pull you up. You lay down shoulder to shoulder on the quilt; your braid knocked loose against his arm, the sky a bowl overhead. For a while you just breathe. In. One. Out. One. Your laugh lands low and pleased. You tuck yourself under his arm - careful at first, then all at once when you decide the ground is steady and he is safe. He studies the wildflowers like they might help him line up the words. When he looks at you again, it’s steady.

“I’ve been thinking about how to say this since I was old enough to pretend I wasn’t,” he begins. “Back then I liked you so loud I had to act quiet about it or I was gonna embarrass us both. I sat next to you and called it coincidence. I brought water and carried your bags. I watched you and then pretended I wasn´t. I counted when you counted because it made the world hold still.” You tilt your head, that listening look you reserve for bulls and truths. “You were bad at pretending,” you say softly. He huffs a laugh. “Terrible. Then you left - and that was the smartest thing I’ve ever watched. You needed a place big enough not to make you small. I told myself I was proud. I was. I was also heartbroken and angry. I also got real good at being empty and loud about it. I hid in almost, because almost felt safer than a clean ‘no.’ Turns out almost is nothing. It doesn’t hold gates or feed cattle or get a man home at night.”

You watch his hands as he talks: the way his thumb rubs the edge of the pie tin; the way he keeps his palm open against the quilt like he’s reminding himself not to grab at what he’s offering. “I kept waiting for perfect,” he says. “Back then the county fair. Shared fries. Maybe the front porch. And then you left. I tried for perfect about five times since you came back. No cameras. No dust. No history. Thought I’d take a tidy shot. Maybe over pie at Mabel´s. Life never set that gate for me.” He quiets for a moment, then starts again. “And then you came back and you were you, but steadier. The way you sit a bull now - how you don’t waste motion? I want to be that for you. The quiet part that lets the rest work.”

You try to make a joke - habit. “That a job posting, Abbott?” “Yeah,” he says, surprising you by not laughing. “Soft where you’re steel. Steady where you’re tired. I want to carry some of the parts that don’t win buckles - braces and hair ties and the ‘later’ you hand to men who don’t deserve your now. I want to be the person who remembers your coffee order and your glove seam and the way your breathing shifts when you’re about to say you’re fine but you’re not.” Your breath catches. “Getting specific.” “I’ve always been specific about you,” he answers, and it comes out easy, like he’s been practicing honest longer than he knew. “You look like yourself here - around my folks, with Amy in that ridiculous shirt, with pie you didn’t have to buy. You fit. I like you anywhere, but I like you here most. With us. With me.”

You look up at the lights, buying a second. “And when I’m not here?” “Then I meet you where you are,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “Back road at dawn, airport curb at midnight, or behind a chute when the world’s loud and you need someone who won’t add noise. I’ll hold space. I’ll learn when to shut up and when to say, ‘Breathe.’ I’ll be proud out loud and angry in private, so you don’t have to spend yourself on other people’s feelings.” Your mouth softens; the line in your brow eases. “What do you want from me?” He considers that like it deserves care. “Truth. What you can give on days you’ve still got some to give. A chance to be a place, not a test.” His voice dips, gentler. “And for you to let us - me, Perry, Amy, Rebecca, my folks - count as your family when you need one.” “Big ask,” you say, but there’s no bite in it. “Worth it,” he says. “I don’t need you to be soft, but I won’t let the world punish you for not being. I can be soft enough for both of us when that’s what the moment needs.”

Silence folds warm between you. He lets it. The pasture breathes. Somewhere a cow coughs like an old aunt clearing her throat. The fairy lights hum. He clears his throat, and the last piece finds its place. “I liked you when we were kids. I like you now in the way that makes room for everything you’ve had to become. That’s the whole of it. No almost. If you want it, I’m here. If you don’t, I’ll still be proud and quiet about it and make sure you’ve got good braces for your wrist in every bag. And I will buy you these fries I still owe you.”

You turn to him. The expression on your face is sixteen and older at once - light with something settled, content like a question finally answered. You kiss him. No rush, no tilt of the world - just the clean click of something long lined up finally pushed home. His hand finds the back of your neck, gentle; you breathe against his mouth once, counting without numbers. When you pull back, your voice is steady and bright. “I liked you when I was sixteen,” you say. “And I think I love you now that I’m older.” He closes his eyes just long enough to feel the word settle into his bones. When he opens them, you’re still there - leg hooked over his, head under his chin like you were always designed to fit that way.

“Okay,” he murmurs, not to tame it but to give it shape. “Then we’ll do it like we do everything. Slow when it needs slow. Fast when it’s earned.” “Tell me something true and small,” you say, settling closer. “Something I can use.” He thinks for half a beat. “If you tape your wrist over the sleeve next time, the brace will bite less in jump three,” he offers, shy about the tenderness of it. “And-” he swallows- “and I sleep better when your braid’s on my shoulder.” You huff a smile into his shirt. “Both useful.” He kisses the pale crescent on your knuckle. You don’t pull away. “Another?” you ask, eyes half-lidded now, warmth moving through your voice like honey through tea.

“Amy’s never going to stop calling you Aunt Cricket,” he says. “And my mother already has a cupboard with your favorite mug. You name lived in my house since you were ten and in my heart for just about the same time.” Your throat works. You tip your face up and kiss him again - soft, grateful, certain. The stars burn through. When the night finally leans cool, he tucks the blanket tighter around your legs. You thread your fingers with his and set your joined hands on his chest like a stake in the ground.

“In,” you murmur, because habit, because home. “Out,” he answers, and the word rings easy and enormous and right. He holds you there in the quiet where truth doesn’t have to raise its voice, where a life can start by naming what’s already been true for years and promising to keep choosing it, breath by breath, until the sky runs out. The night settles over the cottonwoods like a blanket someone’s been mending for years. The fairy lights dim to a hush. The quilt holds your heat. You and he make a narrow country out of the truck bed: two pillows, one folded arm, your leg hooked over his like you planned it that way in another life. Wind ghosts the rails. Cattle breathe somewhere beyond the trees. You listen to the small sounds a body makes when it stops bracing: the way his chest slows; the way your wrist brace crinkles when you shift; the soft click of his teeth when a thought finds a place to land.

He speaks first, quiet so the stars don’t eavesdrop. “That night on Perry’s truck bed,” he says, “at the Flats - you with a split lip, grinning like the sky was your accomplice-” He huffs once, shaky and fond. “I thought I had never seen anything prettier. Every day since you have been back, you show up and challenge that view.” You turn your face against his throat to hide what that does to you. He keeps going, a little steadier now that the first admission is out. “You bite and claw,” he says, reverent as a prayer that doesn’t ask for anything. “At the world when it needs it. At fear when it shows its teeth. And I am in awe when you are.” You slide your palm up his ribs until your hand rests over his heart. “There will be times I will bite and claw at you,” you warn, even, honest. “Not because you deserve it. Because the habit has teeth.” His breath catches against your cheek. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck,” he says, and the vulgarity lands like a vow - rough-edged, simple. “If it’s me, I’ll take it. I’ll wait out the storm. I’ll still be here when your jaw unclenches.” You go very still, then softer than either of you thought you could be. “I don’t want to hurt you.” “You won’t,” he says. “And if you do by accident, we’ll fix it. That’s the job.”

You laugh into his shirt; he soaks the sound up like rain on old ground. He turns and kisses your knuckles in the dark, finds the small crescent scar by feel alone. “Tell me something you’re afraid of,” he asks, not pushing, just offering a place to set it. You swallow. “Slowing down,” you admit. “Finding out that if I stop moving fast, I won’t know who I am.” He tightens his arm around you just enough to register. “Then we’ll slow down together on purpose sometimes,” he says. “So it’s a choice, not a punishment.” You breathe that in. “You?” “Wasting time on almost,” he says. “I’m done with that. I want the whole thing.” The night tilts toward sleep. You kiss the corner of his mouth, lazy, certain. “You have it,” you tell him, and you feel the promise settle like a fence post finally sunk deep enough.

Later - half-dream, half-waking - you feel him brush your hair back from your face with careful fingers, like he’s checking a horse for burrs. You press closer; his hand slides to the nape of your neck, a steadying weight that says here. You sleep. He does too, eventually, counting with you by habit until the number becomes the kind of quiet that keeps.

Dawn shows up gentle. The fairy lights look sheepish in it. Mist hangs low over the pasture; the truck roof clicks as the air cools it. Birds clear their throats in the hedgerow. Your calf is asleep where it crossed his thigh; you wiggle it back to life and he groans like a man discovering new uses for pain. “Morning,” he says, voice wrecked and happy. “Morning,” you say, stealing the first kiss because you can. You stretch, wince at the brace, and he pretends not to notice while he shifts the quilt so it doesn’t bite. You sit there a minute, both of you, watching the day admit itself. 

“When we go in,” you say, eyes on the cottonwoods so you don’t get spooked by his face, “I want you to tell everyone I’m yours.” His head snaps toward you. You keep going, steady. “We were quiet about this for too long,” you say. “No more. I will kiss you in front of the cameras, and I will kiss you in front of your family-” you glance at him now, a quick, bright strike of a look- “because that means more.” For a second he just looks at you like the sun came up twice. His mouth opens; nothing smart comes out. He blinks hard. He laughs once, breathless, and you hear the edge of a man trying very much not to cry. “You just made me the happiest man on earth,” he says, voice thick enough to plant something in. He cups your jaw, thumbs careful on your cheekbones like he’s memorizing warmth. “God, you did.” You tip forward until your forehead meets his. “Good,” you say, satisfaction and promise in one syllable. “Let’s go make it official.”

He kisses you - nothing showy, just sure - and then hops down to the grass, turning to lift you like he always meant to. You let him, because letting someone love you is work too, and you’ve decided to do it. You straighten your hat. He smooths the line of your braid. The fairy lights flicker out in the growing day. Together, you walk toward the house where coffee and noise and family wait. 

The back door gives its soft old sigh as you step in together. Morning has already spread through the kitchen - coffee, toast, the low hum of people who know where everything lives. Cecilia looks up first. Her eyes take in the distance - or the lack of it - between you and Rhett, the way your hands are still linked like you forgot to stage it. Her smile arrives like sunrise. “Oh, honey,” she says, crossing the tile in three steps. “You were always part of this family.” Royal stands, chair legs scuffing. He doesn’t make speeches; he just sets his big palm on your shoulder, squeezes once, and nods to Rhett like a man co-signing a deed. “’Bout time you two quit wasting daylight,” he rumbles. Then, gentler to you, “Coffee?”

“Please,” you say, and the word lands like home. Amy rockets in from the hallway wearing your too-big promo tee and a ponytail that means business. She plants herself in front of Rhett, hands on hips, face serious as a judge. “Uncle Rhett,” she says, “don’t mess this up.” “Amy,” Rebecca warns, fighting a laugh. “No, she’s right,” Perry says, appearing with a jar of jam and a grin that should have its own warning label. He points the spoon at Rhett. “Because if you do, we’ll kick you out of the family and she’ll move in. I will help her hang shelves. I will repaint your room. I will reassign your chores.” “Perry,” Royal says, not quite hiding his amusement. Rhett raises both hands. “Message received.” You lean into his side, bumping him with your shoulder. “I like the shelves,” you tell Perry, deadpan. “And the room.” “See?” Perry crows. “Consensus.”

Rebecca slips a mug into your hand like she’s been saving it for this exact moment - the blue one with the hairline crack no one lets go of because it’s perfect anyway. “You take the corner by the window,” she tells you, quiet and conspiratorial. “Best light.” You tuck against Rhett’s hip and sip. The coffee tastes like home and family and love. Cecelia brushes a crumb from your cheek with the same absent tenderness she uses on Amy. Royal pulls another chair to the table without asking who it’s for. Amy threads herself under your free arm and stays there, proprietary and proud.

Rhett clears his throat, suddenly shy. “We were gonna-” He glances down at you; you tip your chin, go on. He squares up, hand warm at your back. “We were quiet. Too long. So, uh - this is me telling everyone. She’s mine. And I’m hers.” Cecilia’s hand flies to her throat; Royal’s almost-smile becomes the real thing. Amy squeals and claps like a firework in a small room. Perry slaps the counter. “Announced like a gentleman,” he declares. “No notes.”

You turn your face up and kiss Rhett in the kitchen, soft and sure - nothing to prove, everything to keep. Amy spins in a circle like she’s going to take off. Rebecca whoops. Perry stage-whispers, “Somebody get the good jam, it’s a holiday.” Royal murmurs something that sounds a lot like finally and pretends to be very busy with the kettle. Cecilia pulls you into a hug that smells like flour and safety. “You were always ours,” she says into your hair, then leans back to look at both of you. “Now you’re yours, too.”

Amy tugs your sleeve. “Aunt Cricket, can we make pancakes with chocolate chips?” “We can try,” you say, eyes bright, voice steady. “You’re on stirring duty.” “Uncle Rhett,” Amy adds, squinting at him. “Still - don’t mess it up.” “I won’t,” he promises, and the room believes him.

Perry claps his hands once. “Team picture around the griddle,” he commands. “Royal, smile like you own the place. Cece, wield the spatula of destiny. Rebecca, grab the plates. Widow - sorry, Aunt Cricket - apron up. Rhett, get the syrup and try not to cry on it.” Rhett flips him off with the gentlest expression anyone’s ever worn. You catch his hand, lace your fingers, and tug him toward the stove. “C’mon,” you say. “Let’s feed our family.”

You weren’t in love with the man currently asleep in the bed you’d spent the night in. In fact, you weren't together at all. You didn't like to dwell on it, for it only gave you a headache and left a bad taste in your mouth. You weren’t supposed to address your feelings, because feelings weren’t meant to be part of the equation.

Months ago, you’d met Lieutenant Thomas Keefer of the US Navy. At the time of your meeting, neither of you had been in a very good place. He was grieving the loss of his father. You were grieving the loss of a long-term relationship that you had been certain would result in marriage.

Two wounded souls found each other one night at a Navy bar. You never frequented such establishments, but your friends had coaxed you to go with them in an effort to lift your spirits. They hadn’t intended to set you up with anyone, so meeting Thomas was purely coincidental. Perhaps it was a cruel twist of fate.

He was at the bar when you came up to order another drink for yourself. A handsome man, sandy brown hair combed neatly to the side, features angular yet soft at the same time. Wide, observant eyes that followed your movements. 

Anyone that knew him, knew him as sharp and overconfident. A man who was well aware of his own intelligence, and wasn’t afraid to gloat about it. Yet, now, as he sat hunched over the bar, he looked less than confident and sharp. In fact, he looked just plain sad. 

You were drawn to him, against your better judgment. He was a flame, and you were a moth, drawn to the light. One thing led to another, and you were soon telling your friends that you would seek alternative transportation home. 

The night ended in Lieutenant Keefer’s bed. 

In an attempt to numb the ache, you'd fallen into the sheets together, bodies joined as one. He fucked you hard as fast, and made you forget your own misery, if only for a little while. It should have only been a one-night stand, and at first, it was. 

But the day after your night together, you noticed something. He’d sneakily put his number into your phone. And that awakened something within you. All self-control went out the window when it came to him, and you found yourself going against all rational thought as you shot him a text. 

You were tangled in his sheets again the following week. And the next. And the next. It wasn’t long before it became a regular thing. You found some sort of fucked up solace in one another. The sex wasn’t kind of gentle. It was rough, intense, the two of you taking out your pain on the other in a deliciously satisfying way. 

An attachment had begun to form. Or maybe it was an addiction. For those few short hours spent together, you felt whole again.

Thomas lit you on fire, and the burn was so delicious, you couldn’t get enough. You craved it, lived for it. And so did he. The amount of passion and intensity he experienced with you was unlike anything he'd ever felt in his life. What started as an unbridled lust turned into so much more, and after nearly three months of sleeping together, he found himself developing feelings for you. 

That realization was a jarring one, because, as a rule, Thomas didn’t catch feelings. Girls threw themselves at him, and he entertained their advances, spending a singular night with them before he sent them on their way. 

For whatever reason, you were different. And you’d made him reconsider his playboy behavior. How could he turn you away like all the other ones? There was something about you that made an odd sort of protectiveness well in his chest. 

He didn’t want to hurt you. And certainly not after you had been through so much. 

Of course, there was also the comfort he found when he was with you. The sharp, violent ache of grief lessened. It was still there, of course. But it was more bearable. And, foolishly, he leaned into that, and allowed himself to develop a fondness for you.

But you'd told him in the beginning that feelings weren't meant to be caught, that you couldn't deal with another relationship, and if feelings began to form, you would immediately walk away so they couldn't go any further. So, for fear of losing you, Thomas kept his feelings to himself. You were the only thing that made him feel whole, how could he lose you?

You continued on just like you always had. Seeking solace in one another. Nights spent in the warmth of his bed, memorizing one another’s bodies. This went on for quite some time. Months, even. And then, all at once, things came to a halt.

Thomas had to leave. A new deployment, he said. He would be gone for quite some time, which ultimately put your arrangement on hold. You told yourself you were fine with it. That you would be able to deal with it, no problem. He wasn’t your boyfriend, you had no reason to mourn his absence. 

And yet, tears streamed down your cheeks as you stood on the docks and watched his ship sail away. Angrily, you wiped them away with the back of your hand. What the hell was wrong with you? Why on earth were you grieving him as if he was your actual partner?

Those months that he was away proved to be the hardest few months you had to go through. And that was certainly saying something, because you had been a mess after the loss of your previous relationship. 

His absence made you realize something that terrified you: you were falling in love with him. And try as you might, you couldn’t shove those feelings away any longer. I should have told him. What if he dies out there and I never see him again?

That was your main fear while he was gone. How would you know if something happened to him? You weren’t listed as his emergency contact. You weren’t next of kin. You weren’t anything more than a fuck buddy. 

In your heart of hearts, you knew that if he did return from this deployment, you couldn’t let yourself continue this way. Either you had to end things, or admit you were in love. The question was, would you have the courage to do either?

To your relief, he did return home a few months later. A little more weathered than you remembered him, but just as strong and handsome as ever. When he showed up on your doorstep one afternoon, you threw yourself into his arms and held him close.

What followed was the most intense sex you'd ever experienced in your life. It wasn’t rough or punishing, like it had been in the past. No, this time, it was gentle, passionate, beautiful. And you hardly knew how to process it. Clearly, Thomas’s time overseas had rattled him. It had reminded him of what was important to him. 

And that night, while you lay in bed, covers draped over your figures as you basked in the afterglow, he felt the need to show you how important you were.

"Let's go somewhere," he spoke into the quietness of the room.

"What do you mean?" Came your inquiry.

"There's a cabin," he continued, "in Colorado. It belongs–belonged– to my dad. It’s pretty nice, he took good care of it. I was already planning to head there because I go on leave here in a couple weeks. Just thought I’d invite you to come."

You looked up at him from where your head rested on his naked chest. "I don't know..."

"It's not like we're moving in together," he continued, "it's just a little getaway. Something we both need."

He was right, after all. You hadn't slept well while he was away. And the thought of a little break from everyday life seemed rather appealing. So, after considering his offer, you decided to accept. "Sure, why not?"

His mouth curved into a pleased smile. “Alright. I’ll take care of plane tickets. You just worry about bringing your pretty little self.”

And so, it was settled.

Two weeks later, you were cozy and warm inside a rental car, the radio playing softly as Thomas drove the long, winding roads. It was late winter, and there was day-old snow covering the ground, sticking to the branches of the trees that lined either side of the road.

When you arrived at the cabin, it looked a lot like something out of a Currier and Ives painting. Entirely unexpected, because when you heard the word cabin, you’d pictured something more primitive. This was not primitive whatsoever. 

Once the car was in park, Thomas turned to you, rifling through the keys on his keychain before presenting one to you. "Here," he stated, "you can unlock the house, I'll get our stuff out of the trunk."

You obliged, climbing out of the car and scurrying up the driveway, snow crunching beneath your shoes. Once you reached the porch, you stopped at the heavy wooden front door, sliding the key into the lock and turning it with a satisfying click.

You were met with a quaint, cozy looking interior. A large living room with comfortable furniture, a stone fireplace, an open kitchen off to the side with lots of counter space. You shuddered at the draft running through the house when you stepped in, tugging your coat closer to your body. 

Already, you were imagining a warm, roaring fire in the fireplace, creating comforting warmth. 

The heavy scrape of boots alerted you to Thomas coming up behind you, bags held in his hands. "Bedroom is this way," he told you, nodding his head in the direction of the large staircase that branched off from the living room.

You quietly followed after him, letting him lead you up the stairs. "We don't have to sleep in the same room," he said, though you both knew you'd end up in the same bed more often than not.

Nonetheless, you put your bags in a separate bedroom, meeting Thomas back in the hallway. His rosy lips curled into that of a smile, and he offered his arm to you. You took it with ease, allowing him to guide you towards the stairs.

"We're gonna have to do some cleaning," he mused, "the house hasn't been used in a while so it needs some TLC."

And so the day commenced. The two of you setting about cleaning the house from top to bottom, keeping one another company. Thomas had dug out a record player that had been stowed away in the closet, placing a vinyl of Talking Heads under the needle.

You were comfortable with around one another, as if you were merely two friends having a good time. But Thomas couldn't help but steal glances at you when you weren't looking. He silently marveled at how beautiful you were. How at ease you looked. 

God, he was falling in love with you.

The way you sang along softly to the words of each song, swaying your hips slightly in rhythm with the music. You were busy dusting the fireplace mantle, standing on your tiptoes, your shirt riding up to expose a sliver of your tummy.

Thomas's chest ached as his mind played a sudden image of you bustling around the home you owned together, happy and content. Here he was, already thinking of spending the rest of his life with you. He was in over his head.

In the beginning of this all, he never could have imagined how far this would go, how you would change his life. He'd been the worst version of himself at that time. Plagued with grief, a shell of the man he once was. Inviting you into his bed had been a coping mechanism. An unhealthy one, at that.

For a while, sleeping with you was something to ease the pain, like a drug he’d been prescribed. He kept coming back for more, spending most of his nights wrapped around your body. You made him feel whole, you quelled the emptiness in his bones.

How could he not fall for you?

And now here he was, staring at you with eyes so full of adoration. He had to look away, pushing those thoughts out of his head. What good were they if he couldn't express them to you? 

Instead, he forced himself to be in the moment, enjoying your company instead.

Later that afternoon, he took you to the nearest town, where you bought groceries together. A domestic task that made things feel too real. As if he could pretend you were really in a relationship. 

Upon arriving back at the cottage, a simple dinner of pasta was made, paired with glassfuls of wine and a roaring fire burning in the fireplace. Warm and half-drunk, you fucked on the floor atop fur rugs, slow and deep, Thomas covering you with his entire body, safe and protected from the outside world.

By the time you were finished, sated and warm, you barely made it up to the bedroom–Thomas’s bedroom, not the bedroom you’d placed your things in–before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. And that's what brought you to the present moment, basking in the dawn of the next day, blanket wrapped around your shoulders as you breathed in the frigid mountain air.

Thomas was still sound asleep last time you checked, passed out in bed with the blankets strewn across his bare body. You'd snagged his shirt from the floor, pulling it on along with your own pants and snow boots, draping a heavy blanket over yourself before stepping outside.

You relished in the alone time, clearing your head and gaining your bearings. Yesterday had been quite the day. You'd spent more time around Thomas than you were used to, and you were overwhelmed.

It wasn't that he made you uncomfortable. Oh no, far from it. In fact, he made you feel safe. He made you feel wonderful. And that was what scared you. You had not felt this way for a long time.

You had sworn to yourself that you wouldn’t get involved in another relationship after the way your last one ended. You needed to spend time on your own. But Thomas was causing you to reconsider that, and you didn't know how to feel about it.

You still had that nagging fear that if you let him in, you would end up hurt and alone again. And you weren't sure you could endure that again. 

As you warred within yourself, your deep thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. You turned, finding Thomas standing in the doorway, two cups of coffee in hand. He'd slipped into clean clothes, sweatpants and a waffle knit shirt. He stood there with a broad smile on his face, holding a mug of coffee out to you.

Returning the smile, you stepped towards him, taking the cup from him. "Come inside," he said, "it's freezing out here."

"It's not so bad," you replied with a shrug, though your body betrayed you with a shiver.

"Just get in here," he continued. "I'll make French toast."

“The illustrious Lieutenant Keefer can cook?” You asked in disbelief. In all the mornings you’d spent together, you’d always been the one who made breakfast. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

He grinned. “There are a lot of things I can do. Now, are you gonna come inside or not?” 

You shrugged. "I can't say no to French toast." At that, you returned into the warmth of the house, realizing he’d started another fire in the fireplace, which cast an inviting warmth through the cabin. 

You took a seat at the island while Thomas sauntered into the kitchen. He set his coffee down before he began rifling through cupboards, in search of ingredients.

“Let's see...where'd you put the cinnamon we bought?” He questioned. 

“The spice drawer next to the sink.”

He turned, pulling open the drawer to find that it was indeed there. “Thanks,” he murmured.

A comfortable silence fell over the room as you watched him move about, throwing together ingredients with ease. He looked so beautiful and carefree, in his own element. And in your sleepy state, your mind began to drift, thinking of how he'd be if you were really in a relationship.

“Where's your pretty head at?” Thomas asked when he found you staring off into space.

“My pretty head is thinking about how hungry I am.”

He smirked at that. “Get some plates out of the cupboard, then.”

Happily, you stood, flouncing over to the cupboard that contained all the dishes. Quickly, you retrieved two plates, which you placed on the island. Forks and knives followed, set neatly beside each plate. 

“Step aside, ma’am” he spoke up, a pan of French toast in hand. You moved out of his way, letting him plate breakfast up as you took a seat back in one of the barstools. Moments later, the two of you sat with plates full of syrup-soaked toast, powdered sugar dusted on top.

“I was thinking,” Thomas stated after swallowing a sip of his coffee, “we could go on a hike after we eat. I used to hike these woods with my brother when I was little. I think I remember some of the paths we used to take, though I'm betting a lot of it is overgrown by now.”

"I'm up for an adventure," was your reply. It beat sitting in this cabin, being forced to think about your feelings.

At that, he grinned. “Good. Make sure you layer up so you don't freeze.”

You returned the smile. “You bet I will.”

As the morning carried on, and the sun rose further into the sky, you finished breakfast, taking time to clean up the kitchen together before you went your separate ways to change. You bundled yourself up from head to toe, looking rather like a marshmallow than a human.

When you made your way to the front entryway, Thomas paused to laugh, at which you pouted. “You told me to layer up!” You protested, almost falling over yourself as you attempted to put on your boots.

“Hey, I didn't say a word,” he replied, holding his hands up in defense.

“But you were thinking it.” You jabbed a finger in his direction, squinting at him in mock suspicion.

He shook his head. “Come on, let's go, little marshmallow.”

You playfully slapped his arm before you followed him out the door.

Off you went, trekking through the snow. Quite a few inches had fallen the night before, and everything was pristine and bright, fluffy snow mounds just begging to be jumped in. You followed Thomas like an eager child, taking in your surroundings with wide eyes as you ventured into the woods.

From then on out, he recalled stories from his childhood, shenanigans that he and his brother would get up to as they hiked these trails. He grew animated as he told the stories, eyes wide with laughter and nostalgia. He had you laughing along with him, putting you right at ease.

For a few hours, you forgot about your problems. You let yourself relax, enjoying the company of the man beside you. You went on for several miles, across snow and ice, having the time of your life.

“Look,” Thomas suddenly said, stopping you in your tracks and causing you to slam right into him. You looked up at him in annoyance, but he was pointing in front of you. So, you turned your head, catching sight of a beautiful river that sliced through the land.

There were trees dotting its shore, and right between them was a family of deer. A mama and her two fawns. Your lips curled into a smile as you gazed upon the sight. As you shared that quiet moment, Thomas gazed upon you, taking in the way your eyes sparkled in wonder.

You were so beautiful, even now, bundled up to your ears in your winter gear. 

And there it was again, that overwhelming ache in his chest. He was falling in love with you. No, not falling. He was in love with you, plain and simple. And he couldn’t deny it any longer.

The words came from his mouth before he could stop them. “I'm so in love with you.” Raw and vulnerable. Now it was out in the open.

But you said nothing.

You’d heard him. Loud and clear, in fact. But instead of replying, you stood there in silence, tensing beneath all the layers of clothing. The quiet was growing deafening, and soon, Thomas sucked in a breath, slowly turning towards you. “I know you heard me.”

You looked down at the ground then, suddenly finding your shoes very interesting. “Yeah, I heard you.”

“Then say something.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“I don't know. Maybe say it back? Or tell me how you actually feel?”

“You know how I feel, Tom.”

“Actually, no. I don't. Why don't you enlighten me.” His voice had taken a sudden sharp tone, and you winced, slowly turning to face him.

“In the beginning, I told you I didn’t want feelings getting between us. This isn’t a relationship.”

“But we're as good as in one right now. Taking a vacation together, doing things that couples do like making dinner together and going grocery shopping.”

“It still isn’t a relationship. We're friends with benefits, and nothing more. And don't tell me you love me, because you don't.”

Thomas's eyes widened then, and his mouth came open, irritation darkening his features. “You...you're telling me how to feel?! I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that you could just decide my feelings for me.”

“The last person who told me that ended up leaving in the end. Who's to say you won't be any different?”

“I'd never–”

You held a hand up. “What? 'I'd never hurt you'?. Bullshit. My fiancé said the same thing, and look how that turned out.”

Thomas waved his hands in exasperation. “I’m not him.”

No, he wasn’t. “Tom...I just can't handle another relationship. Not after all I've been through. I...I don't have any more pieces of my heart left to give.”

A look of hurt washed over his face, and you felt a little guilty. “Please.” His voice was soft, uncertain. You weren’t used to seeing him like this. "I never thought I'd be able to feel again. But then you came along, and you changed everything. I want to be with you, to try and make this work. If you give me your heart, I promise I’ll help you put it back together.”

You shook your head at him. “No. I'm sorry, but I can't do that. I'm not ready, and I don't think I'll ever be.” You turned away, readying yourself to begin the trek back to the cabin.

“That's it? You aren't even gonna give me a chance?”

“I said I was sorry.”

Sighing in exasperation, Thomas rushed after you, boots crunching against snow. "But-"

“I want to go home,” was what you finally said, quickening your pace. "This trip was a bad idea. I can't stay here anymore.”

Thomas paused for a split second before dashing to catch up. "Wait!" He exclaimed. 

You ignored him, marching away, even as he continued to call after you. So wrapped up in your own emotions, you didn’t realize you were on uneven ground. Before you even realized what was happening, your foot slipped out from under you, and you were free-falling.

A yelp of surprise ripped from your throat as you continued to fall, sliding right down the hill that led into the river. Ice hid beneath the snow, preventing you from stopping your fall, and you had no choice but to let it happen. 

The shock that washed over you was immediate and harsh, ice shattering to give way to freezing water beneath. Plunged into the river, your system barely had a chance to register what was happening, bewilderment clouding your brain as you fought to push yourself back to the surface.

The sound of shouting reached your ears, and suddenly, a pair of hands were gripping your arms, yanking you out of the icy depths. “I’ve got you!” Thomas. He’d immediately come to your aid, half stumbling, half sliding down the hill, desperate to get to you.

Moments later, you were sprawled against the frozen riverbank, breathing hard, staring up at the cloudy sky as your lungs fought to suck in oxygen. Thomas’s face appeared in your line of sight, eyes wide, expression frantic. 

“Jesus, is anything broken?!” He asked.

Barely able to feel your cold extremities, you replied, “I-I don’t think so.:

“We need to get you home.” There was a frightened edge to his tone. Soaked to the bone, you were in grave danger of developing hypothermia. 

He managed to pull you to your feet, and the two of you somehow managed to trudge back up the snowy hill. The cold had already begun to set in, cruel and vicious. Your teeth chattered.

“C’mon, I’ve got you. Just hold onto me, alright?” The raw fear in his voice unsettled you.

The cabin was two miles away, which wasn’t a long trek under normal circumstances, but right now, you were racing against time. He had to get you there.

It was an arduous hike, and with each whimper of pain you let out, Thomas felt his heart breaking. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t opened his big mouth, you wouldn’t have stormed off and ended up plunged into a frozen river.

“C’mon, baby. You can do it, we’ll be there soon,” he urged you, allowing you to rest your weight entirely on him. 

“I-I’m so co-cold,” you barely managed yo gasp out. You couldn’t think of anything else but the bitter chill wracking your body, your shivers so violent that they physically hurt. It was unbearable.

“I know. But you gotta keep going.”

By some miracle, you made it back to the cabin, and Thomas practically had to drag you through the door. The moment he had you inside the warmth of the house, he scrambled to get your wet clothing off you. 

Yanking his gloves off with his teeth, he set to work, yanking the zipper of your coat down, tossing the offending fabric aside. Then came your gloves, boots, multiple layers of pants, shirt, and, finally, your underwear. 

“I’m here,” he promised, “I’ve got you.”

You barely registered him stepping back to grab a blanket off the couch, but seconds later, the warm wool was wrapped around you. Thomas then ushered you toward the living room, guiding you to sit on the couch. Your shivering continued as he hurried to stoke the embers in the fireplace, replenishing them with several logs until the flames grew high once again. 

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he kept murmuring, quick to yank off his own outer layers, leaving him in his wool sweater and sweatpants. He reached for your face, hands pressed to your cold skin. 

“Look at me.”

When you did, he searched your face. “Just stay right here, alright? I’m gonna make you some tea.”

For good measure, he draped another blanket around your shoulders before he rushed into the kitchen to prepare the tea. As he worked, he kept an eye on you from a distance, making sure your condition didn’t worsen. The nearest hospital was thirty minutes away. If he couldn’t get your body temperature regulated, he was going to have to risk the trip into town, and he worried you wouldn’t fare well.

He couldn’t let himself spiral into what-ifs. What if you got worse? What if the damage was already irreparable? What if, what if, what if?

Instead, he threw his focus into making the tea, and a few minutes later, he was at your side again, this time with a hot cup of peppermint tea. He handed it to you, guiding your hands around its warmth.

“There you go. Drink it slowly,” he coaxed as he settled into the couch, directly next to you. 

Your body temperature was already slowly beginning to rise, though the bone deep chill you felt was still very present. The tea was a welcome warmth on your tongue, soothing your throat, warming your chest. 

When you felt Thomas slide a protective arm around your tense, blanket covered shoulders, you didn’t pull away. In fact, you leaned into him. 

He felt absolutely terrible that this had happened, and only wanted to make it better. Holding you was part of that. For several minutes, the living room was silent, save for the sound of the fire crackling and the noise that came from the chattering of your teeth.

Once you’d finished the tea, you leaned back against the couch, haggard and miserable, still shivering.

“I’m going to go look for a hot water bottle, alright? Just sit tight.” When he moved to kiss your temple, you let him.

His search for a hot water bottle was futile. Either there wasn’t one in the house, or it was shoved into a box somewhere in the cellar. He knew the doors would be hopelessly frozen shut, so he didn’t even bother to go outside and check.

Without a hot water bottle to help warm you up, he had to get creative. There was another heat source that would help. Body heat.

Without a word, he rounded the couch once again, resuming his seat beside you. “Couldn’t find a water bottle. Are you alright with some skin to skin? I think it’ll help warm you up.”

Your nod was immediate. At that point, you would do anything to be warm again. 

Thomas wasted no time in stripping down to his bare skin, and the second his clothes were discarded, he was pulling you into his lap, parting the blankets so he could wrap them around you both. He gasped softly at the chill of your skin, but remained steady as he tucked you into the warmth of his own body. 

“There you go, I’ve got you,” he soothed. 

Seeking comfort, you buried your face against the side of his neck, and let him hold you. The whole ordeal had left you shaken and disoriented. The steadiness of his body beneath you was what grounded you. 

You stayed like that for a long while, sharing body heat. The rhythmic sound of his heartbeat brought you back to yourself, providing immense comfort..

Lovingly, he rocked you back and forth. And after nearly ten minutes had passed, your shivering had stopped almost completely. By that time, you were simply enjoying the feeling of your bare skin against his.

Silence had lingered between you since he’d wrapped you in his body heat, but now, as you regained your composure, and reflected on the events that had led up to this moment, you felt the need to apologize. 

“Tom...I'm sorry,” you whispered hoarsely.

He hesitated a moment before gazing down at you, eyes so full of emotion. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung that bomb on you. If I’d just kept my mouth shut, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“No, I overreacted. You were being honest with me, and I should have been respectful of that instead of just walking away.”

Thomas sighed softly. “I overreacted too.”

“Guess we both did, huh?”

“Yeah.” 

He fell silent, your bare body still pressed against his, warmth blossoming between you, chasing away the cold. When he spoke again, his voice was wavering and full of emotion. “I meant it when I said I’m in love with you. I know we said we wouldn’t catch feelings when we started all this, but I did. And maybe that means I’m going to lose you, but I needed you to know how I feel.”

A beat passed before you leaned back to look at him fully. “You’re not going to lose me.”

“I’m not?” Hope softened his features. 

“No. Because I’m in love you, too.”

In the time that you’d known Thomas Keefer, you had never seen him cry. Yet here he was, eyes welling with unshed tears, disbelief in his expression. “Really?” He breathed, mouth parting slightly.

“Yes. I’ve been in love with you. And I realized it the day you left for deployment. I should’ve said something sooner, but I was scared, I guess. Scared to let myself love again.”

“I get it,” he murmured. “You went through a lot. But I mean it when I say I want to make something out of this. I want to be in a serious relationship with you, if you’ll have me. But we don’t have to rush into it, we can start slow. No pressure, y’know?”

At that, you let out a soft breath, partly in relief, partly in exhaustion. “What if…what if we’re not a good match? We both have awful coping mechanisms, and used each other to get through our own forms of grief. What if that–”

“Don’t start spiraling on me, okay? I’ll say this: I’ve never met anyone like you before. You changed me. I used to be so careless when it came to relationships, I could never commit to anything. But for the first time in my life, I want to commit to something. To you. I think something good can work here. All I ask is for your trust, and I’ll prove to you that I’m in it for the long haul.” 

For a moment, you were silent, allowing his words to settle in. There was something so safe about this moment. Here, wrapped in his warmth, with the fire crackling in the fireplace, you were suddenly struck with a moment of clarity. 

You needed to give him a chance, but more importantly, you needed to allow yourself a chance to love and be loved again.

You looked into his big, round eyes. So deeply blue, you could drown in them. They were filled with hope and tenderness, and something else. Something precious. Love. That's when you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his, sealing your fates together in a delicate kiss.

This was right, this was good. Thomas was offering himself to you, promising to love and cherish you. And somehow, you knew that he was going to keep that promise.

When the kiss was broken, you rested your forehead against his, breathing deeply. Your body trembled all over, but not from the cold this time. 

That's when you uttered the word that would change everything. "Okay.”

His face melted into a relieved smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I want to try a relationship with you, and see where things go from here.”

With a low hum, he leaned forward, nose brushing against yours. “I want that too, more than anything.” This time, your kiss held far more passion than the first one. A display of love and desire, warm and intense in all the right ways.

You were suddenly very aware of just how naked you were against him. The intimacy of skin to skin was a beautiful thing, and before this moment, it had not been sexual in nature. But now, something had changed. There was a flame that had been ignited between you.

Now that your feelings were out in the open, your souls bared to one another, there was nothing to hold you back. 

Breathlessly, you gasped into his mouth, "make love to me, Thomas."

His hands, big and warm, yet gentle as could be, came to rest upon your hips. “Are you sure?” He didn’t want to overwhelm you after all you had been through that morning.

“Yes. Take me right here, on this couch.”

The desperation in your voice broke what little self-control he had remaining. When he brought you closer, chest pressed against chest, his arms wrapped around your torso, enveloping you entirely. He handled you with a tenderness that hadn’t been there before. 

Something had changed between you. This was no longer about chasing a release, or needing a distraction. This was real and raw and vulnerable. 

The rhythm of your breath was rushed, chest rising and falling against his as you breathed his name against his mouth. It took great restraint to keep himself composed, forehead pressed against yours. He’d never taken the time to pause and drink you in. Nights spent fucking you in the dark of his bedroom were never like this. Now, you were illuminated by the morning light pouring in through the large living room window, and he swore you looked like an angel.

The look in his eyes was something you’d never forget. Pure, unadulterated reverence, as if he was beholding something holy. You were here, pressed against him, emotion pooling in your eyes.

He kissed you again, slower now, tongue delving into your mouth to taste you. His hand wandered down, fingertips light against the softness of your abdomen. When those same fingers pressed carefully into you, already slick for him, he took pause, searching your face for any sign of hesitance. When he found none, he continued, middle and ring fingers stretching you slightly as they entered in.

The stretch made you gasp, sharp and broken. His body drew taut as he froze, eyes wide and full of concern. Such a contrast to how rough he’d been with you in the past. How rough you’d begged him to be.

“Keep going,” you urged, reassuring him that you were okay, that you wanted this.

His fingers slotted deeper still, curling slightly, until they brushed against that deliciously pleasurable spot inside you that sent you shivering in his arms. Head thrown back, you gasped, and as his fingers moved within you, your hips began to rock against him, eager for more.

Your beauty was breathtaking as you writhed above him, unashamed of your pleasure. He knew he couldn’t draw it out much longer. He needed to be inside you. 

When he slid his fingers out of you, you whined lowly at the loss, but he kissed your protest away. “Hold on, baby. I’m gonna give it all to you.”

And he did. 

Carefully, he maneuvered you both so that you were on your back, still cocooned in blankets. Hovering over you, his eyes glimmered, mouth curving into a fond smile as he leaned down to nuzzle his nose against yours.

Then his hand was snaking down between your bodies, hand wrapping around his hardness, aligning himself with you. 

When he pushed inside, your mouth fell open, lashes fluttering at the feeling. Unlike the stretch his fingers had caused, this was different. More breathtaking. The slight pinch of your anatomy accommodating him was a welcome sort of pain.

He shuddered, breathing ragged as he inched into you little by little, until he was fully seated inside you. The intimate closeness, the press of skin against skin, stole the breath from your very lungs.

Time passed by, slow as molasses, but he didn’t move. Not yet. He merely held you to him, his forehead pressed to shoulder, breathing in deeply as he gave you time to adjust around him. When you finally shifted beneath him, urging him to move, he groaned open-mouthed against your skin and finally, finally, began to move.

It wasn’t frantic. It was slow, even, careful. The steady push and pull took your breath away as his hips rolled into yours. Pathetically, you moaned into his mouth, tongue tasting him as your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even closer.

You were one. One body, one soul, tethered together.

Brokenly, he sighed your name into your mouth. His control, his poise, was gone. He trembled above you, nearly losing himself. When his hand sought yours, you let him hold onto it, bringing it to pin above your head. Not harshly. His grip was light, you could pull away from it if you wanted to. But you didn’t. 

“Oh, oh Thomas, you…you feel so good,” came your whispered confession.

His response was a deeper, more deliberate thrust that sent you crying out into the heady warmth of the room. 

Your chest heaved against his, breath coming out in short bursts, heart racing within your chest. Instinctively, your body arched into his, molding against him like a missing piece to a puzzle. Your hips bucked, and you tightened around him. 

His body trembled with the effort of keeping himself under control.

Crescents were pressed into his skin as your free hand found purchase against his shoulder, and you saw stars as he thrust deeper.  “Please stop! Don’t ever stop!” You wailed, entirely gone, pleasure clouding your brain, stealing away all coherent thought.

Thomas groaned openly, eyes nearly rolling back in his head. “I won’t. Oh, god, I won't,” he rasped.

The kiss was filthy, salacious. Tongue and teeth, wet and hot, smearing across each other’s mouths. You drank each other in, swallowing moans and gasps, committing each other to memory.

When his free hand came down between your thighs, it was to press his fingers against your swollen little bundle. You whimpered, a pitiful sound that he adored. 

“I can feel you. You’re so tight, baby. You gonna come for me?” He coaxed, though his voice trembled.

Dumbly, you nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s it. Give it to me. Wanna feel you come all over me.” 

Perhaps it was his command that did it. Or maybe it was everything, all of him, all at once. Either way, the release hit you so hard and fast you hardly realized it was happening until it was upon you.

It vibrated through you, searing, all-consuming, robbing you of your breath as you clawed at his back. Mouth open, head thrown back, you convulsed in his arms. It was too much and not enough, all at once. 

Thomas gasped, mouth falling open at the feeling of you clenching around him, so tightly he could barely move. But he didn’t let that stop him. Determined, he shunted his hips against you, harder, faster, deeper, even as you cried out beneath him, still trembling from the aftershocks of your own release.

“Hold on, I-I’m almost there,” he soothed, kissing you deeply.

And then he was done for. The sound that ripped itself from his throat was raw and broken, his rhythm stuttering as he pressed into you as deeply as he could go. The warmth of him seeped inside you, release flowing freely. So much so that it soon began to spill out around the edges of his cock, surely creating a mess.

Twitching weakly, his body soon settled against yours, his chest heaving, mouth hot and open against the hollow of your neck.

For quite a while, neither of you moved. He remained within you, softening slowly, your shared releases dripping slick and viscous. As you both came down, settling into the afterglow, your hand moved to his hair, fingers threaded through honeyed strands, nails gently scratching at his scalp.

A strange, but welcome, sense of peace washed over you both, even as the realization of what had just happen settled between you.

When he lifted his head, his face hovered above yours, eyes shining with unspoken emotion. You met him halfway, lips capturing his in a sweet, loving kiss that took his breath away. 

When he eased himself out of you, he soothed your quiet whimper, soon settling beside you, pulling you toward his chest. He was increasingly grateful that the living room couch was so spacious. It gave him ample room to cradle you close.

The winter chill had long since been chased out of the room, replaced by a delightful warmth that bore the faint scent of sex. Blankets surrounding you both, you found yourself curling into him, sated and at peace.

“I’m sorry we didn’t resolve things sooner,” he finally spoke, breaking the silence. “Could’ve saved ourselves a lot of heartache.”

But you only shook your head, leaning in to brush your nose against his. “We weren’t ready yet.” But you were now. Ready to let him in, ready to love and be loved.

With a quiet hum, Thomas reached out, knuckles brushing over your warm cheek. There was something in his eyes. Soft and open, unguarded. “When you fell into the river…it scared me more than I want to admit. It made me realize that I don’t want to go another day without loving you. Life’s way too short not to be honest with the person you care about.”

Your head came to rest within the slope of his neck. “Well here I am, all yours to love.”

His lips pressed against your temple, warm and soft. “All mine. I like the sound of that.”

A soft yawn passed over you as you nuzzled further into his warmth. “Yeah. Me too.”

In the late morning light, exhausted from the ordeal you had endured, you began to drift to sleep. Thomas held you fast, steady and secure, your bodies wound together, until sleep claimed you both.

You were his. He was yours. And you were finally ready to take that step of faith and let yourself experience love again. 

But first, you would rest.

-

TAGLIST

@cosmic-marauder @thepurplelovewitch @auroralightsthesky @rainymitskicain @marymun

@mrcspectr @sebsxphia @westviewheartss @sadboyeddie @magicwithaknife

@goodvibesandglitter @sentrys-shadow @mashtonbunny @universallymoonwitch @live-love-be-unique

@sleepretreat @musicislove3389 @willherondale1937 @every-single-day @kehelsi

You had never liked going out in weather like this–not out of fear of course, it was just a little bit of rain, but it was more because of the mess that came afterward. Damp jeans, boots caked in mud, soaked hair, and sticky skin. And the inevitable guilt of calling Perry to haul Rhett and you home if the both of you overdid it. Which often happened when the both of you went out together, because there was something about being in each other's company that made the hours slip away unnoticed and the beer refills blur into a haze of multiple glasses.

So when those first droplets hit glass, Rhett didn’t hesitate to pivot your plans. He turned off the main road and ducking into a nearby gas station, with the rain hammering the tin awning above the pumps. Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of old coffee and freezer coolant. He had grabbed a six-pack from one of the fridges, the cardboard cold and slick against his palm as he paid and rushed back to his truck to make his way to your place. He had checked his phone to see if you had messaged but there wasn’t anything from you, or from any of his girls that assumed his night would be free for him to come over–which was a relief.

He drove slowly down the rain-slicked road, with the tires hissing against the water that pooled in shallow dips along the asphalt. The wipers kept their steady, rhythmic scrape, but the storm blurred the world into shifting shadows and the soft gold that scattered over the droplets from the streetlamps that he drove beneath.

Your street curved off from the main road, it was narrower and lined with a few old trees that bowed under the weight of the downpour, their leaves trembling with every gust of wind. The gravel driveway to your place was a little muddy, with puddles gathering in the ruts, but as he eased the truck in, the headlight steeped over the pale shape of your bungalow–small, a little weathered, but warm-looking against the storm.

The siding had been painted white years ago, but in the rain it gleamed silver, beads of water were chasing each other down toward the flowerbeds you’d let go wild this season. A single porch light glowed amber, catching the slick shine of the wooden steps and the faint sway of the two mismatched rocking chairs you had thrifted from a yard sale last spring that you had begged Rhett to carry. The porch roof kept the worst of the rain off them, but he couldn’t help but smell the damp scent of wet wood, and warmed soil.

Rhett parked beside the steps of the porch, killed the engine, and grabbed the six-pack from the passenger seat. The cardboard was already damp from the rain, but the cold glass of the bottle bit into his fingers as he exited the cab and jogged up the steps. The sound of rain on the roof almost deafening him now that he was up close. He gave three quick knocks before pushing the door open, knowing you never locked it–which was something he had given you grief over more than once.

”Y/N! It’s just me,” He called, stepping inside.

The shift in temperature was immediate, as the warmth of your place wrapped around him like a blanket. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and butter–like something had just been baking recently–layered over the softer, constant scent that he could only describe as you…Sweet cotton, almost close to candy, he never could put his finger on what it was that you used that made you smell this way, but he knew that you carried it everywhere you went. The living room opened right from the door, cozy and mismatched which always made him feel like he had stepped into somewhere safe. The honeyed wood floors creaked faintly under his boots, a faded quilt was tossed across the back of the corduroy couch, and the coffee table you owned was scattered with paperbacks and a couple of half-melted candles that you lit whenever someone was over. The rain outside made the light inside feel richer, and the golden glow from your floor lamp pooled warmly across the room.

From the kitchen, he heard the faint clink of glass on your counter before you appeared. Your oversized t-shirt hung loose over your frame, the thin cotton dipping off one shoulder and brushing high on your thighs. Beneath it, he caught the outline of soft, pale shorts when you moved. Your hair was a bit messy, and your skin had a slight sheen that told him you had been near the heat of the stove–or you were washing dishes.

When your eyes landed on him, then on the six-pack in his hand your mouth curved into that slow, easy smile he had always liked a little too much.

”Oh, you know me so well, Abbott,” You complimented, padding toward him, your bare feet sticking against the hardwood, “And…You got my favourite.” You joked, taking the pack of beer from his hands. The cardboard bent against your nimble fingers, as beads of condensation began to run down over your knuckles, dripping onto the floor. Rhett’s grin deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

”I knew you wouldn’t have wanted to go out,” He commented, voice warm and low over the soft percussion of rain against the roof, “So I figured we might as well make the most of it…And we won’t have to call Perry.” You huffed out a little laugh as you turned back toward the kitchen, hips swaying a bit, drawing Rhett’s eyes to the hem of your shirt, right where the skin of your thighs disappeared beneath the fabric.

“That’s true. I don’t think he would be a happy camper if he had to drag his ass out of bed to come get us in this weather.” You replied, while ripping open the cardboard. Rhett shrugged out of his jacket and hung it carefully by the door, the thud of his boots following closely behind as he stepped out of them, placing them on the mat so the water wouldn’t bleed into the wood. Droplets of water still clung to the ends of his pushed back, light brown hair, darkening it slightly, while a few of them tracked down the line of his neck and disappeared into the collar of his shirt.

You walked over to him, handing one of the dark brown bottles over, keeping one for yourself. You clinked glasses.

”To staying in,” You said, and the corners of his mouth twitched again–like he liked the sound of the idea more than he should’ve.

The evening settled into the easy cadence you’d known for years. The couch’s corduroy fabric was warm beneath you, the quilt tucked around your legs as the two of you swapped stories about the week. Every so often, you’d glance at the window, the rain blurring the outside world into shadow and streaks of light.

At some point, you flipped through the channels until you landed on a movie you’d both seen before. By then, you were each three beers in, the bottles standing like little sentinels on the coffee table. You shifted closer to him, drawn by the heat rolling off his body, and the faint scent of cedar and rain that was still clinging to him, creating this nice little bubble of warmth around him. His arm slipped over your shoulders easily–without a hint of discomfort–the weight of it was solid and familiar, but the slow drag of his thumb against your arm wasn’t–at least not in the way it felt tonight, especially with how it made you feel like he was causing heat to spread all over your skin any time he moved.

About halfway through the film, something between the both of you shifted. You couldn’t pin down what it was or how it happened–maybe it was the low buzz of alcohol, or the fact you hadn’t been touched in a month, or the way his laugh seemed to curl low in your stomach tonight, making it do somersaults in on itself. Whatever it was though, it coiled in the space between you, threading heat into every brush and every breath either one of you took.

You shifted against him slightly, a subtle movement that felt like more than just comfort-seeking. It was as if your body was testing the limits of how close you could get without it being obvious–though Rhett noticed, even if he didn’t catch on right away.

Your eyes began to wander, becoming hyperaware of him in a way you hadn’t been in years–maybe ever. Beneath the thin white cotton of his t-shirt, you could see the shadowed shape of his dark bull rider tattoo pressed faintly against the fabric, the ink stretching and shifting with each slow breath he took. The shirt clung in places where the rain from earlier still lingered in the fibers, outlining the lean muscle earned from long hours of ranch work–shoulders that rolled easy when he leaned back, and arms corded with slight definition from roping, hauling, and riding.

His chest rose and fell with the kind of measured slowness that came when he was comfortable, but you could see the faint tension in his posture now, the way the muscles along his side pulled under his shirt. Your gaze drifted downward almost without your permission, catching on the pale stretch of skin peeking out from where his t-shirt had ridden up throughout the night. It was warm-toned from the summer sun, faintly freckled, with a few light brown hairs that stopped just above the waistband of his jeans. The sight made something in your stomach pull tight, and your fingers itched with the ridiculous urge to touch it–just to see if the skin there felt as warm as it looked.

While you were busy taking him in, Rhett was doing the exact same to you. His gaze kept dropping to your mouth, lingering there longer than he should have, tracing the curve and fullness of your lips like he was memorizing them for his dreams. Then his eyes flicked lower, catching the edge of bare skin where the wide neck of your shirt had slipped further down, exposing the slope of your shoulder and the soft line of your collarbone. His thumb brushed over your arm again, and this time he noticed–really noticed–the smoothness of your skin under his fingertips, and the way it seemed to almost hum with heat.

Something in him twisted hard, and he didn’t know what to call it. Lust, maybe. Or the realization that he had wanted you far more than he had ever let himself admit, and now the moment was just…Here, pressing itself into the quiet space between you.

For half a second, he honestly wondered if he had fallen asleep during the movie and was dreaming the whole thing. Because you–warm against him, smelling faintly of that sweet cotton scent he could never quite place–felt too much like something he had made up in his head on long, restless nights. And if it was a dream, then it was cruel in how vivid it was–the heat of you seeping into him, the soft give of your body under his arm, the subtle weight of your hair brushing his shoulder…It was tortuous in a way.

Your fingers had begun to trace lazy, aimless paths over the soft cotton of his shirt, following the dips and curves of his ribs without really thinking about it. But when your gaze slid up, locking on his face–so close now you could count every little faded freckle, and every dark lash that framed that impossible shade of blue of his irises you knew the air between you had truly changed for good.

The warmth of his breath mingled with yours, heavy with the yeasty smell of beer and a very light tracing of mint–something that was distinctly Rhett in every way, and it made your pulse stutter in your throat. You’d never been this close to him without some joke between you, without the shield of playful distance, but now…Now there was nothing to hide behind. It was just the two of you with the movie echoing in the background and the pelting of rain echoing throughout the room.

His eyes flicked down to your lips–it was quick, but enough to be noticeable and send a hot flush racing up the back of your neck. Your throat went dry, and the words you had been half-forming crumbled before they could escape out between the both of you.

He didn’t seem to be having the same problem though. His voice broke the thick, molten silence, low and edged in silk–something that was unmistakable, “What’re you lookin’ at with all that lust?”

The deep rumble of his words vibrated under your hand where it rested against his chest, sending a little shiver through you. And when his other hand found the small of your back, rough fingers splayed wide and warm through the thin cotton of your shirt, it felt less like an idle touch and more like a quiet claim. Your lips parted, and the simplest truth slipped out before you could second-guess it.

”I’m looking at you…” You replied. His brow twitched, not in disbelief, but like the words hit somewhere just beneath his sternum, kick starting his heart, making it thump just a little harder. The corner of his mouth lifted slowly, and his thumb began to lazily drag against your back, each stroke coaxing you closer without actually pulling you toward him.

“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in just a hair, enough that his nose nearly brushed yours, “And what exactly do you see, hm?” You swallowed hard, the golden lamplight catching in his hair, throwing warm glints over the drops still clinging there. You didn’t answer right away–maybe because you were still trying to remember how to breathe, or maybe because you were thinking about how easy it would be to just close the space and press your mouth to his.

His tongue swept slowly over his bottom lip, the subtle movement catching the lamplight in a way that made your throat tighten, and your stomach turn. You followed the motion without meaning to, your eyes locked there as if you could feel the damp trace from across the breath of space. His hand left your back, his warm fingers trailing upward until they curled gently around the back of your head, fingertips disappearing into your hair. The weight of his touch was deliberate–not forceful, nor hesitant–just enough to keep you a mouth away.

A small, crooked smirk tugged onto your lips, and you lifted your head ever so slightly.

”I see a cowboy who looks like he’s about to kiss me,” You murmured, you sounded so daring in those moments even though your mind was screaming at you to retreat. You didn’t understand what was coming over you, but when you heard him let out a low, amused huff, you thought he was going to pop the bubble of sweetness and flirtation, to reveal the truth of what was happening. But then he smiled a bit.

”Guess I shouldn’t keep you waitin’, then.” Before you could say another word he leaned in, closing the final inch of space with a slow, certain press of his lips to yours. It was small, almost tentative at first–like he was tasting the moment before fully committing–but the warmth of it seeped into you instantly, stealing the air from your lungs. His lips were soft but sure, the faint drag of stubble brushing your skin, and the heat of his breath spilled into the little space between kisses as he pulled back just far enough to search your face for any sort of hesitance. Your lips parted, your chest rising and falling faster than you wanted to admit.

Your gaze broke from his briefly, as you swallowed, the motion tight in your throat, and then surged forward again–closing the gap on your own terms this time. Your lips met his more firmly, your nose brushing his as you shifted closer, the fabric of your shirt whispering against his when your body pressed to his chest.

His hand at the back of your head flexed slightly, deepening the kiss, and you felt a low, involuntary sound rumble out of him–half a groan, half a sigh, muffled between your mouths. The sound alone made your skin prickle with heat. You moved without thinking, your knee brushing his thigh as you shifted until you could climb onto his lap. The couch dipped under the change in weight, your thighs bracketing his hips. The position pulled you closer still, the press of your bodies aligning so that you could feel every slow inhale he took.

The kiss turned molten without either of you meaning to–it was still slow, but deeper now, lips parting slightly, the faint taste of beer lingering as your tongues brushed in a fleeting, electric touch. His thumb stroked the nape of your neck as he kissed you again and again, each one lingering just long enough to make the next feel inevitable.

Your hips rolled in a slow, deliberate drag against him, the rough denim of his jeans catching just enough against the center of your shorts to make your breath stutter. Beneath you, you felt him–hardening against the press of your body–and the small, needy sound that escaped you was matched perfectly by a low groan from his chest. The two of you broke apart for just a second, panting lightly against each other's lips. His blue eyes locked on yours, heavy-lidded and heated, before his mouth curved in a knowing smirk.

”You like how that feels?” He murmured, you breath hitching in your throat as you reached up to cradle his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing lightly along the warm stubble on his cheeks, feeling the subtle flex of his jaw beneath your touch, “You like what you’re doin’ to me?” He added, his words edged with that lazy, dangerous drawl that always managed to tangle something deep inside you.

Before you could answer, he leaned up, pressing a soft kiss just below your jaw–right where your pulse jumped against him. Your breath caught, and your spine arched as you tilted your head back, baring your neck to him in a wordless invitation.

”Didn’t know I wielded so much power over Casanova Abbott,” You teased, your voice breathy despite the playful lilt. You felt his lips curl into a smile against your skin, the faint tickle of his breath before his teeth grazed you with a teasing nip at the column of your throat.

”I’m a simple man,” He mumbled into you, his words vibrating against your flesh. A soft laugh escaped from your mouth, though it dissolved into a shiver as your fingers slid into his light brown strands of hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. You rocked your hips forward again, harder this time, pressing yourself more firmly against him. The friction made both of you gasp, his hands gripping your hips for a moment as if to steady himself before they began to wander.

His mouth trailed lower, following the path your shirt left bare–placing kisses that were wet and slow, lips brushing over the slope of your shoulder before dipping lower to catch the top edge of your collarbone between his teeth, earning a sharp gasp from you. He licked over the spot to soothe it, the heat of his mouth branding your skin as his hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt.

His calloused fingertips grazed your ribs first, feather-light, tracing upward until they flattened against the warm skin of your back. He pulled away just enough to meet your gaze, the heat there flickering with something softer–checking in, giving you the chance to stop this if you wanted to. Thinking that maybe you would come to your senses.

”Can I take this off?” His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. You didn’t hesitate, nodding immediately.

”Yeah,” You breathed. His hands squeezed your sides, before shimmying the shirt upward with slow, careful movements, his knuckles grazing the sides of your breasts as the fabric rose. The way his gaze never left your face made the air feel even heavier between you.

The shirt cleared your head in one smooth motion, the soft cotton tossed carelessly to the side. His eyes dropped instantly, and for a moment, he just looked at you.

The warm lamplight painted your bare skin in gold, making the gentle curves and lines of your body look almost unreal. His gaze caught on your breast–supple and full, the cool air in the room having already drawn your nipples tight. They strained for attention, and the sight made something low in his throat break free, a sharp swallow following as if he was trying to find a little bit of self control before touching you.

His hands came up first, broad and calloused, tracing lightly over the soft swell of each breast. His fingertips skimmed over the sensitive peaks, just enough to make goosebumps race across your skin. You shivered, arching subtly into the warmth of his touch, a quiet hum escaping you as his thumbs brushed slowly back and forth over your hardened nipples.

”Rhett…” You breathed.

”That’s it…” He murmured, the praise almost to himself, “Lookin’ so fuckin’ perfect for me.” He slid his hands down from your breasts to your hips, his palms heavy and warm as they settled just above the waistband of your black cotton shorts. His thumbs pressed in gently, coaxing your body forward. You obeyed without thinking, rolling your hips against him, dragging yourself over the thick ridge in his jeans. The movement pulled a deep groan from him, his eyes flicking back up to yours with a heat that made your stomach tighten.

Then he leaned in.

His tongue swept slowly across one taut nipple, warm and wet, and the sudden contrast from the cool air made your breath catch. His mouth closed over you fully, sucking deep until his lips pulled at you with an obscene wet sound. A soft gasp escaped your throat, your head tipping back slightly as his tongue worked against you, swirling and lapping before dragging over the peak in slow, deliberate circles. When his teeth caught gently, nipping just enough to send a quick sting through you, you jolted and gripped him tighter–one hand tangled in the back of his hair, tugging until he groaned around you, the other anchoring at the strong side of his neck.

“Fuck–” He breathed against you, hot and wet, “ Could stay here all night.” His voice vibrated through your chest as he sucked again, harder this time, pulling another sharp gasp from your lips. His spit was already slicking your skin, drooling past the swell of your breast as he pulled off just to lick it back up. Then he moved to the other, his mouth closing over it immediately, sucking until his cheeks hollowed. The wet sound was filthy in the quiet room, made filthier by the faint moan that broke free from your throat.

“Look at you rockin’ against me like you can’t help yourself,” He rasped between sucks, guiding your hips with firm pressure from his hands. “Gettin’ me harder with every fuckin’ move.”

You ground into him harder, hips rolling in a rhythm he set with the push and pull of his hands on your sides. His mouth never stopped–licking, sucking, letting his spit drip and smear until your nipples were slick and shining in the lamplight. Every time he nipped, he soothed after, lapping gently with his tongue, murmuring low, ragged praise against your skin. Your grip on his hair tightened with every wave of heat that shot down your spine, and his head tilted into your pull like he craved it, groaning into your chest.

His hands slid down from your sides, palms spreading wide as they cupped over the curve of your ass. The hardness of his grip was almost searing, his fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. He squeezed then shifted you against the unyielding line of his cock again. The movement wrung a sound from you that was half gasp, half moan, your thighs tightening instinctively around his hips. The rough denim caught against you in just the right way, sending little shocks up your spine.

“Rhett…” You breathed, but it came out sounding more like a plea than you intended.

He groaned low in his chest, still working you over him with steady pressure, his mouth dragging hot and wet over the tops of your breasts before he pulled back just enough to look at you.

Something bold sparked in your voice before you could stop it–words spilling out in a low, breathless tone. “If you’re trying to ruin me, cowboy, you’re doing a damn good job.” His brows ticked up, the corner of his mouth curling into that dangerous, knowing smirk you’d seen when he was about to win a bet. He gave your ass another squeeze, leaning in so his voice hit low against your ear.

“Is that what you want? Hmm?” He murmured. You nodded immediately, not trusting your voice, the need clawing up your throat too strong to disguise. That was all it took. He stood, shifting his weight so easily it was like you weighed nothing, then adjusted until your back hit the couch cushions. The quilt beneath you bunched slightly, the fabric warm from where you’d been sitting together.

Rhett’s gaze dropped as he reached down between your legs. The heel of his hand pressed first, then his fingers followed, rubbing over the damp patch already soaking through your shorts. The contact made your hips jerk without permission, your breath hitching hard.

“Didn’t know you were so sensitive…” He drawled, his voice low and edged in heat. His fingers worked a little harder over the wet fabric, the friction maddening. “You always get this wet when I’m close to you? Or is this all from grindin’ on me like the needy girl you are?” You arched your back a little more, your head tipping back into the cushion as heat pooled hot and insistent between your legs with the pressure he was placing against your core.

“Don’t tease me, Rhett…” You shot back, your voice breaking just enough to make his smirk widen.

That toothy grin appeared, wicked and smug, before he murmured, “Whatever you say.”

In one swift motion, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugged them down, peeling the fabric away from your thighs before tossing them off to the side. The cool air hit your skin, making you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the molten weight of his gaze.

He shifted lower, pressing his broad shoulders behind your thighs to push them up and open until you were spread wide for him. His eyes drank you in–every inch, every detail–like he’d been starving for the sight.

The first kiss landed just above your hipbone. The next pressed into the soft skin of your inner thigh. He worked his way in with maddening patience, his mouth warm, lips soft but purposeful. Every place he touched was everywhere but where you needed him most. Your hips shifted restlessly under him, trying to angle yourself toward his mouth, chasing the heat of his lips. When he still didn’t give you what you wanted, your hand slid down, threading into his hair with a firmer grip.

“Rhett…” You warned, tugging until his head tipped back just enough for your eyes to meet. “I said don’t tease.” He let out a small, breathy laugh, the kind that sent a ripple of anticipation through your body.

“Okay…Okay,” He said, voice dipping into something rougher. “I won’t tease anymore.” The moment the words left his mouth, Rhett sank lower, dragging the heat of his breath over the bare skin between your thighs before pressing his mouth to you like he’d been starving for it. There was nothing tentative about it–his lips sealed over you, tongue pushing deep through your folds before flattening and dragging upward in a slow, filthy stroke that had your hips jolting up from the couch cushions.

“Fuck…” You hissed, your voice sharp and breathless as your fingers fisted in his hair.

Rhett groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your swollen clit as his tongue swept another hard circle over it, then dipped down again to lap messily at the slick heat pouring out of you. He didn’t care about finesse–he wanted you to soak him, wanted to drown himself in your taste. Every wet lick and suck came with a deep, hungry noise that told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

“Goddamn, you taste good,” He rasped against you before sealing his mouth over your clit again, sucking until your thighs twitched against his ears. “Don’t you fuckin’ move–lemme eat you like I’m supposed to.” Your hips had a mind of their own, rocking up into his face, chasing the obscene slick sounds between you. He met you with equal force, tongue pushing harder, nose brushing your mound as he buried himself deeper, one arm locked under your thigh to keep you open for him. His other hand pressed firmly into the top of your hip, guiding your rhythm so you ground against his mouth exactly how he wanted.

You could barely get the words out between shaky breaths. “Rhett…Fuck…You’re so good at that–oh, my god–” That earned you another low, pleased groan that thrummed against your clit, his tongue circling and flicking with a fervor that had your vision hazing at the edges. Your hand clenched tighter in his hair, pulling, but he only groaned louder, sucking harder like your desperation was the fuel he needed.

Then his free hand left your hip, sliding down between your legs. Two thick, calloused fingers pressed to your entrance, stroking through the mess he’d made before pushing into you, slow but firm until you clenched around the intrusion.

“Jesus–look at that,” He muttered against you, his voice rough and muffled by your skin. “So fuckin’ tight for me, drippin’ all over my face. You like that? Like my fingers inside you while I eat your pretty pussy?” A choked moan ripped out of you as he curled those fingers just right, his tongue still working relentless circles over your clit. Your hips rolled up helplessly into him now, the wet slap of his mouth on you obscene, your arousal slicking down his chin and over his knuckles as he pumped into you. Your thighs started to tremble. Your breath came in sharp, high whines. You were twitching under him, barely able to keep your body still.

“Rhett…Holy fuck, I’m gonna cum,” You gasped, your voice breaking as your nails dug into his scalp.

“Yeah, you are,” He growled, sucking harder and curling his fingers again, stroking deep and fast as your body seized up around him. “Cum for me, make a fuckin’ mess all over my mouth.” It hit you fast, heat detonating in your core before ripping outward, your back arching off the couch as you cried out. Your thighs clamped around his head, but Rhett didn’t slow–if anything, he groaned into you, dragging his tongue through the pulsing ache and sucking you through every aftershock.

When you finally started to come down, shaking and gasping, he didn’t stop until he’d licked up every bit of slick he could get from you. His mouth was wet and shiny, chin slick, lips swollen as he pulled his fingers free and shoved them between his own lips. He sucked them clean, groaning low in his throat at the taste.

“Been missin’ out on this the whole time?” He murmured, smirking as he licked his bottom lip. “Should’ve done this sooner.”

You didn’t even think–you reached straight for his belt, yanking it open with a clink, dragging the zipper down as his cock strained visibly against the dark denim. He helped, shoving his jeans down his hips with quick, impatient tugs, and peeled his shirt over his head in the same movement.

The lamplight caught on his skin, painting lean muscle in gold. You’d seen him shirtless before, but not like this–not with his chest flushed and rising fast, freckles scattered across his shoulders, the deep shadows of muscle carved from work and riding. Your eyes dragged lower, catching the obscene outline straining against his boxer briefs, and your mouth went dry with want. All you wanted was to get your hands on him.

He leaned over you, bracing one palm beside your head as the other cupped your jaw, his lips brushing along your neck in a slow, hungry trail. His mouth found yours again, wet and deep, his taste mingling with your own as you slid your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.

You wrapped your fingers around him–hot, thick, and pulsing hard in your palm–and felt him groan into your mouth, his hips jerking forward into your grip like he couldn’t help it.

Your hand worked around him in a slow, deliberate stroke, your palm fitting perfectly around the thick weight of him. He was hot and hard, the velvet skin stretched tight over his erection, pulsing faintly in your grip. You felt him twitch when you tightened your fingers just a little, your thumb grazing along the ridge before gliding up to smear the bead of pre-cum over the flushed tip. Rhett broke from your mouth on a groan, his forehead tipping briefly to yours.

“Not fair that you get to tease and I can’t…” He breathed, voice gravel and heat. You hummed in mock sympathy, letting your lips brush his in a soft, teasing kiss.

“It’s payback, actually.” Your voice was low, almost smug, even as your hand gave another languid twist at the top, thumb dragging in slow circles across the sensitive head. His jaw flexed, his breath hitching when you squeezed him again.

“You’re fuckin’ killin’ me, Y/N.” You let the teasing drag on for one more slow stroke before your fingers hooked under the waistband of his boxer briefs. You pushed them down over his hips, the elastic snapping lightly against his skin before he took over, shoving them the rest of the way down and kicking them off. They landed somewhere on the floor with his jeans, forgotten.

His erection pulsed, the head red and swollen like it was begging to be seated inside you. He was huge, and you were kind of pleased that the rumors were true, even though you never really paid attention to them. Rhett had got around with a lot of people who mingled within your social circles, so it wasn’t much of a surprise seeing that he was this big.

He leaned forward, bracing one hand on the armrest above you, while his other cupped your jaw again, kissing you deeply–open-mouthed and messy, like he couldn’t get enough. While his tongue slid against yours, he released your jaw and let his hand drop between you, curling around his cock to guide himself.

You felt the blunt, hot head drag between your folds, the slick heat of you coating him instantly. He moved slowly at first, gliding along your clit before dipping down to your entrance, pressing in just enough to make you gasp before sliding back up to tease you again. Your eyes locked on his, your breath catching when he did it a second time

”Rhett…” You breathed, your voice somewhere between a plea and a warning. He smirked faintly, his forehead pressing to yours.

“You’re so fuckin’ turned on,” He rasped, dragging through your one more time before lining himself up properly, “Want you to look me in the eyes while I’m inside you, Y/N.” You held his gaze, feeling the stretch start as he pushed in. He sank deep in one slow, steady thrust until his hips met yours, filling you completely. The heat and size of him stole your breath, your nails already digging lightly into his shoulders.

“Fuck–” You gasped, your voice breaking. “You feel so good, Rhett…Filling me up like this.” He groaned low in his chest, his arm sliding beneath your neck to cradle you, holding you close as he pulled out and thrusted back in hard. The sound of your bodies meeting echoed under the steady drum of rain outside, joined by the mingled moans spilling from both of you.

You scratched down his back in a slow drag, your nails leaving faint, stinging trails that made him grunt against your ear. His mouth found your collarbone, biting down just enough to make you gasp before sucking over the sting, his breath hot against your skin.

“Take it, Y/N.” He muttered, his voice rough and uneven as he thrust into you again, deeper this time, “Take all of me.” Your thighs tightened around his hips, pulling him closer, forcing him to bottom out with every snap forward. The pressure built fast, his pelvis grinding against your clit with each deep stroke, the slick sounds between you growing wetter and filthier.

“Rhett…God, don’t stop,” You moaned, your hands gripping him harder, one sliding up to tangle in his hair and pull his face back up to yours. You kissed him messy, breathing into his mouth between moans. “You’re perfect…Fuck, you’re so perfect.” He groaned into the kiss, thrusting harder now, the couch creaking beneath you as his arm under your neck tightened, keeping you right where he wanted you.

“Gonna make you cum for me…Feel you squeeze around me.” Your head tipped back, your voice breaking on his name as the pleasure surged up and spilled over. You clenched hard around him, your back arching into the support of his arm as your orgasm hit–hot, intense, and unrelenting.

Rhett cursed low and harsh, his hips snapping faster, harder, chasing his own release as you pulsed around him. A moment later he groaned deep in his chest, shoving himself all the way in and holding there as he came, spilling into you in hot, thick waves.

He stayed buried inside you, breathing ragged against your jaw, his weight pressing you into the couch as the last pulses of pleasure worked through you both. You felt him dripping out of you almost immediately, the slick heat of him sliding down you.

Neither of you moved for a long moment, but you had known that everything had changed between the both of you.

————————

The morning after your hookup, Rhett had cooked you breakfast. You remembered distinctly because you were expecting him to have slipped out before sunrise to get back to his place so that he could start the day’s ranch work with his father like nothing had happened. You knew his routine, he had told you that’s what he normally did with the girls he hooked up with, so you thought you were going to get the same treatment.

Instead, the quilt from the couch was still draped around your shoulders when you stirred awake, with faint clatters and the low scrape of a spatula echoing through the living room. You pulled the quilt against you as your legs swung over the edge of the couch, hunting blindly on the floor for your shorts and t-shirt. The soft cotton felt cool when you pulled it over your head, the familiar shape grounding you as you padded barefoot toward the smell of bacon and coffee.

The air was warm and thick with the scent of eggs, smoky meat, and–faintly under it all–the cinnamon sugar of the leftover buns you’d made two days ago, the same ones Rhett had devoured like they were his last meal. Now the smell mingled with that golden morning light, sunlight pouring hard and bright through the east-facing kitchen window so that you had to lift a hand to rub the grit of sleep from your eyes before you could see him clearly.

”What’re you still doing here?” You asked, your voice scratchy from the dryness in your throat, curiosity knitting through your words. When your vision finally adjusted, you had to pause. He was standing at the stove in nothing but his jeans, the button still loose at the waistband, bare back and shoulders catching the light. Every freckle, every line of muscle, every fresh mark you’d left last night–faint red crescents of your nails along his shoulder blades, the bruise-dark bites at the curve of his neck–were on full display. He glanced over his shoulder at you, a flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Just makin’ you some breakfast,” He said, flipping the last strip of bacon onto a paper towel-lined plate. “Thought we could also talk about last night as well.” You let out a groan–not entirely from exasperation, if you were being honest it was more from the dread of the impending conversation that was coming–and made your way to the table. Sitting down slowly, your thighs and hips still sore from the way he’d driven into you, each step last night’s heat ghosting faintly through your body.

“What do you want to talk about?” You asked, leaning back against the chair as you watched him work. Rhett didn’t answer right away, focused instead on plating up breakfast. He divided the eggs, bacon, toast, and cinnamon buns with a precision that almost felt deliberate, then set one plate in front of you and one in front of himself. The silverware clinked lightly as he handed you a fork and knife before sinking into the chair across from you.

“Well…” He started, eyes flicking from his plate to yours, then finally settling on you, “I just wanted to make sure we’re still okay. I know sex can make friendships awkward and stuff, and I wanted to check in.” His tone was careful, almost tentative, but there was weight behind it–like he was bracing for an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted.

You picked up a piece of bacon from your plate, the warm strip still glistening faintly with grease, and took a quick bite. The salt and smokiness bloomed over your tongue, rich and satisfying, before you chewed and swallowed.

“We’re fine…” You said at last, your tone casual even though your fingers were idly fiddling with the strip of bacon like it was buying you time. “It was really good, actually.” Rhett let out a little laugh at that, a smile breaking across his face as the faintest blush spread over his cheeks. The sunlight from the kitchen window caught in his hair, giving him that warm, haloed look you hated noticing.

“Yeah? You liked it?” He asked, his voice pitched somewhere between cocky and genuinely curious. You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair with a shake of your head.

“Don’t let that boost your ego. You already knew this, I’m pretty sure.” He shrugged like the admission still pleased him anyway, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

“I did,” He agreed, spearing a forkful of eggs and shoving them into his mouth, chewing slowly, “But it’s high praise comin’ from you.” You took another bite of bacon, letting the crunch give you a moment before arching a brow at him.

“Why?” You asked.

He hummed around his next bite of toast, swallowed, then replied, “’Cause you’d tell me the truth if I wasn’t. Most of the girls I get with just don’t wanna be mean, and while they probably aren’t lying you couldn’t know for sure. Y’know what I’m saying?” You nodded, the faintest smirk pulling at your lips. A beat of silence passed between you, the only sounds were the faint clink of silverware against ceramic and the low hum of the fridge. The quiet wasn’t awkward–more like it gave your thoughts too much room to move around. Inevitably, they drifted back to last night: the weight of his body pressing you into the couch cushions, the way his mouth had claimed yours like he was starved for it, the easy way his hands had guided you wherever he wanted you.

The memory of his voice in your ear–low, rough, coaxing you apart for him–lingered like an echo in your bones. How careful he’d been at the start, how quickly it had shifted into something hotter, heavier, until you were sure the two of you had crossed a line that neither of you could walk back from.

Rhett Abbott, for all his recklessness, had been deliberate with you. He’d read you, adapted to you, made sure every touch was angled toward your pleasure until you were unraveling in his hands. He was…A rare lover. And sitting across from him now, with the smell of bacon and coffee curling through the warm air, that truth felt dangerous in ways you didn’t want to examine too closely.

“You look like you’re caught in your thoughts…Everythin’ alright?” Rhett’s voice cut through the haze in your head, pulling you back into the kitchen. You blinked, your fork still hovering above your plate, and licked your lips before meeting his gaze.

”Just thinking about last night.” You admitted, not bothering to sugarcoat it. The smirk that bloomed on his face was of pure joy–lazy, confident, and just a little smug even.

”…You want to do it again, don’t you?” A laugh slipped from you before you could stop it, the sound light but edged with truth. You sighed, leaning back in your chair.

“Yeah, kind of…Maybe without the beer in my system I’ll be able to give you some constructive criticism if I find anything wrong with what you’re putting down.” He let out a little huff of air, shaking his head a bit.

“Hmm…Okay. I’ll bite. Should I be prepared for this to be a more…Regular thing then? Like a friends-with-benefits arrangement?” You tilted your head, lips quirking up a bit.

”We don’t have to put labels on it…But I guess it would be classified as that.” He nodded once, like he’d just made some private agreement with himself, and took a few more forkfuls of eggs before pushing back from the table. The chair scraped lightly against the floor as he stood, still chewing.

With his mouth half-full, he mumbled, “Let’s do it in the shower, so afterwards we can wash up.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face, nor the way your pulse quickened in anticipation. “What a perfect idea.”

———————

Over the course of time, the arrangement became easier to manage. Easier in the sense that you’d learned the rhythms of it–his texts that came in late, sometimes not until the moon was already high; the way he’d slip into your space with that lazy grin, smelling faintly of cologne and hay and whatever bar he’d been at before ending up here. Easier in the sense that you stopped pretending it was anything more than what it was: a steady outlet for your sexual frustration, a guarantee that whenever you needed to be touched, Rhett would give it to you the way only he could.

But “easier” didn’t mean simple.

Because of course, putting yourself into the situation of consistently having sex with Rhett Abbott only made you want him more. It wasn’t even just the sex–though God, that was enough to ruin you all on its own–it was the way he moved through your space like he belonged there, the casual little acts that felt almost domestic if you looked at them sideways. Stealing sips from your coffee. Grumbling at your leaky faucet before crouching down to fix it. Turning up your porch light without being asked when he left late at night.

You’d known going into this there was a risk your feelings would grow teeth. You’d known, and you’d told yourself you could control it. And maybe you did, for a while. You came to terms with the fact that this–half-warmth, half-distance–was all you could get from him. That he wasn’t yours to keep.

It didn’t mean you weren’t jealous, though.

Especially when you’d see him leaning against the fence at the rodeo, smiling at some girl you didn’t know, or when he’d disappear for a week with vague excuses as to why he couldn’t come over to hook up. You swallowed it down, every time, because that was the deal. No questions. No claims. Just a friendship with sex involved.

That was until everything came to a head one night.

You were sprawled across your bed, body still loose and heavy from the second round Rhett had wrung out of you–and himself. The sheets clung damp to your skin, the scent of sweat and sex clinging to the air. He was stretched out beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest still rising and falling in that slow, sated rhythm you’d grown addicted to.

That was when his phone buzzed.

It was nothing at first–just the vibration against the nightstand. But it kept going, the screen lighting up and catching the corner of your vision. You weren’t even trying to look, not really, but your gaze caught on the preview of the message anyway.

“Had so much fun with you on our date. Can’t wait to do it again.” Followed by a winking emoji.

Your body went ice cold.

You stared at the words until they blurred, the crack in your chest starting small and splintering deeper with each beat of your heart. You’d known–of course you’d known–that he had other women. But seeing it there, stamped in glowing letters beside another girl’s name while you were still catching your breath from letting him have every inch of you… That was different.

It made your lungs feel too tight.

You turned yourself away from him before he could lower his arm and see your face, before he could read the flicker of hurt you couldn’t quite smother.

Your eyes fixated on the darkened window. The moonlight bled pale through the thin curtain, just enough to catch the reflection of your own face–flat, unreadable if only because you were trying so hard to keep it that way.

Behind you, the mattress dipped as he rolled onto his side. You heard the faint scrape of his palm over the nightstand, then the muted thump of him finding his phone. A swipe, the soft buzz of a new notification opening, and then the light, rhythmic taps of him typing. Your stomach sank with every one.

The sound of it–his thumbs dancing over glass like it was the most natural thing in the world–felt louder than your own heartbeat. Louder than the blood rushing in your ears.

You stared harder out the window.

A quiet click announced the phone locking again, followed by the low sigh that escaped him, unbothered, almost lazy. The same sigh you’d heard after he finished, like the evening was tying itself up neatly in a bow. Except now, all you could think about was how he couldn’t even wait to be away from you to message her back.

The truth hit sharp and cold–you’d truly become this outlet for him. A body that would take him in, no questions, no claims, no hesitation. And maybe that had been fine when you told yourself you were in on the deal, but now…Now it felt like something uglier. Something that stuck to your skin, that settled like grit in your chest.

You thought about the other girls. The ones who had been just as warm in his hands, just as breathless under his weight, before being shuffled off into the quiet blur of his past. You’d told yourself you were different–your friendship, your history, it gave you a leg up. But that shame crept in anyway, curling tight in your ribs, whispering that you were just another name on his list. Another warm body to fill the space until someone else caught his attention.

You were still deep in that spiral when you felt the shift in the bed. The rustle of sheets. Then the slow, inevitable slide of his arm across the mattress until it curved around your waist, drawing you back toward him. His chest pressed to your spine, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

You groaned–not from comfort–and rolled your shoulders forward, trying to ease his arm away without saying anything. He hummed, amused, like it was a game.

“Hey…What’s wrong? You don’t want me to touch you now?” His voice carried that joking lilt, the kind that usually made you smile. Tonight, it grated.

He moved in again, trying to mold himself against your back, but you pushed forward once more, muttering, “Stop, Rhett.” Something in your tone made him freeze. The lightness bled right out of him. You could feel the pause, the way his body went still behind you.

“What happened?” He asked after a beat, quieter now, no tease in it. “What did I do?” His voice was careful, but there was a weight in it–like he already knew the answer wasn’t going to be something he liked. You bit your lip hard, trying to swallow the sting building in your throat, but it broke anyway, your voice quiet and unsteady.

“I think we need to end this.” The words hung there, heavy and bitter. The bed shifted almost immediately as Rhett’s arm slid off your waist. The absence of his touch left a strange cold along your skin.

“What?” His voice was sharp in its disbelief, like he was sure he’d heard you wrong, as he leaned over you. “Wh–Y/N…Are you crying?” You clenched your eyes shut, swiping your palms over your cheeks quickly, like it would erase the heat there.

“No,” You lied, your voice breaking on the single syllable.

“Bullshit.” His weight shifted again, and you felt the dip of the mattress as he sat up fully behind you. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” You turned onto your back, staring up at the ceiling instead of meeting his eyes, your chest tight enough to hurt.

“I just…I can’t do this anymore.” Rhett’s jaw worked, his brows pulling together.

“Do what anymore?”

“This,” You said, waving a hand vaguely between you. “The sneaking in, the sneaking out. Pretending it’s nothing.”

“That’s the deal we made,” he shot back instantly, like that settled it.

“Yeah,” You replied, sitting up now, the duvet slipping from your shoulders. “But I didn’t think the deal meant you’d be answering other girls while you’re still in my bed.”

His expression flickered–guilt, then irritation–but he recovered fast, his voice taking on an edge, “You knew I wasn’t just with you.”

“Knowing and seeing it are two different things, Rhett,” You snapped, heat rushing to your face. “Seeing it while I can still feel you inside me basically is–God–it’s humiliating.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re makin’ it sound worse than it is.”

“Worse than it is?” Your laugh was sharp, humorless. “You want me to spell it out? You fuck me and then text her. Right after. Like I’m just–just some stop along your route before you move on to the next one.”

“That’s not fair,” He muttered, but it didn’t have much bite.

“No, what’s not fair is you acting like I’m supposed to be fine with it. Like my feelings are something I can just turn off because you don’t want to deal with them.” He straightened at that, some of his frustration bubbling up to the surface.

“I never promised you more than this, Y/N. You agreed–hell, you were the one who said no labels.”

“I know what I said,” You fired back, “But maybe I thought I could handle it. Maybe I thought we meant more than you treating me like a convenient lay.” His jaw tightened, and for a second he almost looked hurt–but then it hardened into something defensive.

“You’re twistin’ it. You think I just show up here because I’m bored? You think I’d keep comin’ back if it was just about gettin’ off?”

“Wouldn’t you?” You replied back without missing a beat. “Seems to be working out pretty well for you.” He shook his head, standing now like he couldn’t sit still under the weight of the conversation.

“You’re puttin’ words in my mouth.”

“I’m putting reality in front of you,” You snapped, matching his rise by getting onto your knees, letting them dig into the mattress, “You can’t have it both ways, Rhett. You can’t keep me here, keep touching me, fucking me, and then act like I’m nothing to you the second you leave.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, pacing a step toward the dresser before spinning back toward you.

“Then what do you want me to say, huh? You want me to say I’ll quit seein’ other people? That I’ll just…Stop my whole life ‘cause you caught a glimpse of a damn text?” The heat in your chest spiked.

“No, Rhett. I want you to admit that this isn’t just nothing to you. That maybe I’m not just another name on your list.” He froze at that, like you’d landed a hit–but then he blinked, shut it down, and looked away.

“I can’t do that,” He said finally, voice low, guarded. You stared at him, the answer slicing through what little hope you had left.

“Right. Because that would mean risking something real.” You scoffed.

“That would mean messin’ up what we already got,” He corrected, but there wasn’t much conviction behind it now, throwing in the towel, knowing that he couldn’t save this.

“What we’ve got is already fucked, Rhett. You’re just too scared to admit it.” His eyes snapped back to yours, anger flaring now, masking whatever was underneath, trying to bury the feelings that were laid on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out from his mouth.

“And you’re too damn stubborn to take what’s in front of you. I’m here, aren’t I? I keep showin’ up. Doesn’t that mean somethin’?”

“Not if you’re showing up for everyone else, too.” That landed, and you saw his jaw flex hard, his mouth opening like he was going to say something–something that might’ve cracked this whole thing open–but then he shut it again, exhaling sharp through his nose.

“Fine,” He said at last, voice clipped. “If you want to end it, we’ll end it.” You blinked, your throat tight.

“Just like that?” You asked in complete disbelief. He shrugged, but his eyes were too bright, too restless for it to be casual.

“Just like that.” The silence after was suffocating. Everything seemed to be louder in those moments, the sound of your breathing, the humming of your porch light outside, the sound of your heart beating in your ears–everything was amplified. He grabbed his jeans off the floor, yanking them on quickly, and putting his shirt on.

”Guess that’s settled, then.” You said, without looking at him. He stood there a moment longer, like he might change his mind, like he might say something–but instead he just grabbed his phone and shoved it into his pocket before heading for the door.

The slam rattled the frame.

And just like that, you were left on your own

——————————

After the argument, you and Rhett didn’t see each other for two months. You didn’t text. You didn’t call. Sometimes you’d pass by each other in town–at the feed store, in the grocery aisle, out by the rodeo grounds–but you didn’t so much as nod in each other’s direction, and it was mostly you enforcing that, Rhett practically went along with it and didn’t even try.

Perry had called once, asking what was going on, his voice carrying that brotherly mix of concern and curiosity. You’d given him vague answers, just enough to keep him from pressing too hard, but not enough to hide the truth. He was able to piece it together anyway–just from the way you dodged his questions, the way your voice thinned when Rhett’s name was even hinted at.

To say it was hard not seeing Rhett would be an understatement. Beneath the lust, beneath the sex, it had been your friendship that paid the steepest price. That quiet, unspoken thread of companionship between you had been ripped clean in two, and the absence of it was something you felt in the marrow of your bones, and throughout your days you spent without him.

You didn’t go out much during those two months. Not because you couldn’t face him–though the thought made your stomach churn–but because you weren’t ready to see him smiling at someone else the way he used to smile at you. You stayed in, buried yourself in work, let the nights pass you by in the same quiet humdrum rhythm.

But one evening, something in you snapped. Or maybe it wasn’t a snap–maybe it was just a slow, stubborn decision to stop sitting in your own self-pity. You showered, pulled on a pair of jeans that hugged your hips just right, a black corset shirt, and your cowgirl boots, and decided you’d go have a drink somewhere that wasn’t your kitchen.

That’s how you ended up at The Iron Hide.

The Iron Hide wasn’t much to look at from the outside–just a squat, weather-beaten building on the edge of town, with a faded sign that swung slightly in the evening breeze. The neon beer light in the window flickered like it was tired of doing its job, and the front steps sagged a little in the middle from years of boots stomping their way inside.

But inside…Well, inside was a different kind of world.

The air was warm and smelled of whiskey, cigarette smoke, and the faint tang of spilled beer that had seeped into the old wooden floorboards decades ago. A low hum of conversation rolled through the dim space, punctuated now and then by bursts of laughter or the crack of pool balls colliding from the back corner. The walls were lined with weathered photographs of rodeo champions, autographed in fading ink, alongside crooked shelves stacked with trophies that had long since lost their shine.

The bar itself was a long, scarred stretch of oak, its surface etched with the ghostly rings of a thousand drinks past. Behind it, bottles caught the warm amber glow from the overhead lights, their glass faces glinting like treasure. A jukebox near the dartboard played something slow and old–steel guitar sliding lazily through the speakers–and it set a kind of syrupy pace to the night.

It wasn’t glamorous, and it wasn’t trying to be. It was the kind of place where people came to drink without pretense, to let their voices get loud and their boots scuff up the floor without caring. The kind of place where you could disappear into the noise and the shadows if you wanted to, and that’s exactly what you planned on doing.

You asked for a gin and tonic without hesitation, craving something sharper than beer, something that would bite back when it slid over your tongue. The bartender–broad-shouldered, with hands as steady as a surgeon’s–had nodded and reached for the bottle of Tanqueray without a word, the faint clink of ice tumbling into the glass followed by the bright fizz of tonic. He topped it with a wedge of lime and slid it toward you with a practiced ease.

“Open a tab?” He’d asked, his voice a low hum against the background chatter.

“Yeah, thank you,” You’d replied, fishing your debit card from the worn leather of your wallet. His fingers brushed yours briefly when he took it, not lingering, just enough to let the cool air close in again as he stepped toward the register. With your drink in hand, you turned on your heel and took in the room. The air had that electric warmth of a bar in full swing–a rolling hum of voices layered with bursts of laughter, the clatter of cue balls from the pool table in the back, the jukebox murmuring a different song that sounded like the other guitar ballad you heard when you walked in from somewhere near the wall. Boots thudded against the scuffed floorboards, denim brushed denim as people moved past one another, and the glow of low lights made the amber in whiskey glasses gleam like honey.

You’d barely taken a sip of your drink when you caught the movement out of the corner of your eye–a man stepping out from the cluster by the dartboard.

He was cute in that easy, boyish way, with sun-browned skin and light brown hair that curled just slightly at the ends just where it met his shoulders. His jaw was square but softened by the warmth in his smile, a smile that revealed the faintest crookedness in one of his front teeth–something that only made him look more approachable. He had that same cowboy posture you knew too well: shoulders broad, stance loose but balanced like his boots had been worn into the earth a thousand times. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened when he smiled at you, a little lopsided and genuine. He looked like an off brand version of Rhett, and maybe that was what made you enamoured by his approach.

“You play?” He asked, nodding toward the dartboard.

You laughed softly into the rim of your glass. “Not well.”

“That’s alright,” He said, tipping his chin toward the board again. “I could use a partner, good or bad…What do you say? Wanna play?” The gin fizzed pleasantly down your throat as you smiled back at him.

“Sure.” He led you over, the space by the dartboard tucked into a cozy corner of the bar where the light hit warmer, pooling golden on the wood-paneled wall. A few empty beer bottles lined the narrow shelf nearby, and the floor was marked with the faint scuffs of boots pivoting toward the board. He handed you a dart, his fingers brushing yours as he did.

“Alright, so…Show me what you’ve got.” You squared your shoulders, set your feet, and took aim. The dart wobbled pitifully through the air and landed nowhere near the center. You let out a groan, laughing despite yourself.

“Yeah…That’s about what I expected,” You said, shaking your head. He chuckled, stepping in closer.

“You’ve got the aim of a drunk raccoon. Here, let me show you.” You smirked, feeling the faint warmth of the gin starting to loosen you.

“Be my guest.” He moved behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back. His hands were warm when they settled lightly over your hips, guiding you a half-step into what he clearly thought was a better stance.

“Feet a little farther apart,” He murmured, voice low but easy. One hand slid along your arm, fingers curling gently around your wrist as he lifted it into position. “Elbow up, eyes on the bullseye. Don’t overthink it–just breathe and let it go.” You let him guide you, your back brushing his chest every time you adjusted your weight. His palm lingered on your hip a second longer than it needed to, but you didn’t mind–it was light, teasing, and you weren’t in the mood to swat him away.

“There you go…That’s much better,” He said when you released the dart. It landed closer this time, and you let out a pleased hum.

“Guess you’re a good teacher,” You teased, glancing at him over your shoulder. He gave you that crooked smile again, the kind that lit his eyes from within.

“Guess you’re a good student,” He replied.

“Well, if you’re this good at teaching,” You said, voice dropping just enough to lace the words with suggestion, “I can only imagine what else you’re good at.” It made his grin widen, his teeth flashing under the golden light, and he leaned in just a touch–close enough that the faint scent of leather and whiskey clung between you. You laughed softly, taking a step back toward the shelf lined with empty bottles, your hips brushing his briefly as you reached for your drink. The lime caught your bottom lip on the next sip, tart and fresh over the lingering gin.

And that was when you felt it–the prickling sense of being watched.

From across the bar, in the amber haze of everything, Rhett’s eyes were on you. He was watching from his place at the far end of the bar, half in shadow, his eyes followed every inch of you with an intensity that made your skin warm even before his gaze traveled lower. He took in the black corset top–how the lace trim framed the curve of your chest, how the snug boning hugged your waist like it had been made for you. His stare lingered at the bare strip of skin it left when you shifted, then dipped down over the dark denim painted over your hips, the way the seams clung and pulled perfectly over the swell of your ass when you bent slightly to retrieve a dart.

It was enough to make his jaw tense. His throat went dry, and the only cure he could think of was the burn of a beer. He ordered one without taking his eyes off you, lashes lowering briefly when the bottle hit the counter in front of him. He took a long swallow, the bitter, cold liquid doing little to cool the heat thrumming through his chest.

The laughter–that damn laugh–cut through the bar’s chatter, threading past the clink of glasses and the hum of the jukebox like it was the only sound in the room. He’d heard it a thousand times before, always up close, always with him being the reason for it. It hit something raw in him to hear it now, spilling out for someone else.

God, he’d missed it.

He’d missed you.

Missed the easy way you used to lean into him without thinking, the subtle curve of your smile when you were trying not to let him see he’d made you happy. Missed the little things–the smell of your honey shampoo, the way you curled your fingers around the neck of your beer bottle, the softness in your voice when it was just the two of you. He’d spent two months pretending he could live without it, without you, and now here you were, a few feet away, lighting up for somebody else.

His lashes fluttered in frustration as his fingers flexed loosely around the bottle neck. Every instinct in him bristled watching the guy step closer behind you, his palm ghosting over your hip to adjust your stance, his mouth tipping toward your ear as if he had the right to get that close. Rhett could feel the muscles in his shoulders tighten, his pulse pressing hard against his collar.

The guy tossed another casual comment in your ear, earning himself another laugh, and Rhett’s grip on the bottle tightened. The jealousy wasn’t just a flicker–it was a slow burn, thick and choking, something he could taste as bitter as the beer in his mouth. He wanted to shove the guy back, plant himself in his place, and remind you–remind both of you–exactly who used to be the one making you look like that.

When you finally glanced up from the dartboard, scanning the bar as you reached for your drink again, your eyes landed on his.

The noise of the room faded in an instant.

Your chest stilled mid-breath. His hand stopped halfway to his mouth.

The air between you seemed to thicken, the distance suddenly too small and too wide all at once. His gaze locked onto yours–blue and sharp, but undercut with something deeper, something unguarded.

It wasn’t just jealousy there.

It was longing.

And the second your eyes met, you both felt it–like a wire pulled taut between you, humming with everything unsaid, everything you’d tried to leave behind. Rhett’s fingers flexed once more around the neck of the bottle before he lifted it, his gaze still locked on you as he took a long, slow pull. When he set it back on the bar, it wasn’t with the kind of idle patience that let things slide. No–this was the deliberate, measured sort of movement that said he’d already decided to act.

He pushed off the barstool, boots heavy against the warped floorboards, and made his way through the press of people without once breaking eye contact. He moved the way he always had–shoulders squared, head tipped just slightly forward, like there was nothing in his way worth slowing down for. By the time he reached you, that boyish curl to his mouth had been replaced by something sharper, tighter.

The dartboard guy straightened slightly, like he could feel the shift in the air before Rhett even stopped beside you.

“Didn’t know you have taken up darts, Y/N,” Rhett drawled, his voice warm in tone but edged like a blade. His eyes flicked over you, from the corset top to the way your hand still curled around the lime-studded rim of your glass, before landing on the man beside you. “Guess you’ve got yourself a teacher.”

The guy gave a polite little grin, clearly trying to keep things easy. “She’s a quick learner.”

“Mm.” Rhett’s gaze didn’t leave him now. “She’s always been good with her hands.” It was subtle, but the air seemed to pull tighter between the three of you. Your pulse kicked hard in your throat. The man’s smile faltered just slightly, his eyes darting between you and Rhett like he’d stumbled into something he hadn’t been warned about.

“Uh…Do you two know each other?” Rhett’s jaw ticked.

“Yeah. We know each other.” The weight in those four words was impossible to miss, and from the way the guy’s brows lifted just a fraction before smoothing back down, you knew he’d caught on.

“Well,” He said after a beat, stepping back a half pace, “I didn’t mean to intrude.” His gaze flicked to you–apologetic–before returning to Rhett. “Or step on anyone’s toes.”

“You didn’t intrude on anything, nor did you step on anyone’s toes…Right, Rhett?”

Your words came out smooth, but the steel underneath was unmistakable. You tilted your head just enough to let the glare catch him head-on, the kind that forced him to meet it or back down.

He didn’t back down–not right away. His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, like the drawl on his tongue was already curling into something sharp. But then…You saw it. That fractional change in his eyes, the stormy blue softening just slightly, the crease at his brow easing. He knew. Knew he’d stepped over a line. Knew this wasn’t his territory anymore–not in the way it used to be. A faint sigh slipped from him, barely audible over the clink of glasses and low hum of the bar.

“Yeah… yeah. No, man, you weren’t stepping on anything,” Rhett said finally, the words clipped but not unkind. “I just came by to say hello. Haven’t really seen her in a while, so…Y’know, thought I’d pop in.” The dartboard guy smiled, catching none of the barbed edges that passed between you and Rhett.

“Oh, you guys should catch up then! I gotta go back to my friends anyways.” He hesitated a moment, then turned to you with that easy grin. “Could I get your number before I go though?” Your stomach tightened–not because you didn’t want to, but because you could feel Rhett’s gaze burning into the side of your face, like heat from a stove. You flicked your eyes toward him, just long enough to see the muscle in his jaw tighten, before you turned back with a smile that was just a little too sweet.

“Yeah, sure.” He dug his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it to you. You typed your name and number slowly–deliberately–the screen tilted just enough for Rhett to see the letters appear. His eyes followed the movement like every tap was pulling something taut inside him. The guy took the phone back with a grateful nod.

“Thanks. I’ll text you later. Night, Y/N. Night, man.” Rhett gave a short nod, but his eyes didn’t leave you, even as the guy disappeared into the crowd. You took another slow sip of your gin, set it down on the shelf, and finally turned fully toward him.

“Well,” You started lightly, “If you wanted to ruin my night, congratulations. You nailed it.” Rhett’s brows pulled together, his jaw ticking as he stepped closer, the smell of cedar, wood and the faint bite of beer threading between you.

”Didn’t come over here to ruin your night.”

“Could’ve folded me,” You shot back.

“I just wanted to talk, Y/N. That’s all.” His voice dropped low, but the heat in it still crackled. “And he was here…So I got defensive.” You crossed your arms tight across your chest, nails biting into your skin.

“See, this is where I point out that you have absolutely no fucking right to be defensive over anything that involves me. Especially with everything that happened the last time we saw each other.” Rhett let out a sharp scoff, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you.

“What? Like when you decided you wanted to call our arrangement off and then cut me out of your life completely? Huh? Is that it?” Your jaw clenched, pulse pounding in your ears.

“Don’t twist this around on me–”

“I’m not twistin’ anythin’!” His voice was rising now, enough to catch a few curious glances from nearby tables. “You ended it. You walked away.”

“And you let me!” You fired back, heat rushing into your face. “You didn’t even try, Rhett. You just allowed it to happen like it was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothin’!” His hand shot through his hair, restless. “Goddamn, it was never nothin’ with you.” The air between you was so tight it felt like if you moved wrong it would snap. The crowd, the music, the clink of bottles–it all blurred, just the two of you locked in the push and pull.

“Then why didn’t you say something?” Your voice cracked on it, but you didn’t care. “Why didn’t you fight for me?” Rhett’s eyes darted away, his throat working.

“We’re not going to argue about this here…” He muttered, already stepping back, “Let’s go outside.” You hesitated for a moment, then followed.

The cool night hit your skin as soon as you pushed through the door, the muffled thump of the jukebox fading behind you. The gravel crunched under your boots as Rhett led the way toward the side of the building, away from the yellow porch light spilling over the entrance. It smelled like a mix of flowers and cheap cologne that many of the patrons probably sprayed on before entering the bar. It was almost headache inducing.

Once Rhett got you to the parking lot area on the side of the building, he turned then, with his jaw tight, and his hands flexing open and closed like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You want the truth? You wanna know why I didn’t fight for you that night?” His voice was rough, too low for anyone passing to hear but sharp enough to cut through the thick air between you.

“Yes,” You said, the word hitting the space like a dare. “I do.” He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you could see the strain etched deep into his face.

“Because I was afraid.” His voice cracked–not much, but enough to make your chest pull tight. “Afraid that if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me. That you’d think I was just sayin’ whatever you wanted to hear so I could keep sleepin’ with you.” Your breath caught, but he didn’t stop, he just grew more emotional and shaky.

“I’ve had feelin's for you for a long damn time, Y/N,” Rhett said, each word landing heavily against your chest. “Long before we ever crossed that line. You’ve been in my head, in my life, in everythin’ I do, and I didn’t know how to handle it without screwin’ it up. I figured if I asked for more, if I told you how bad I wanted you…You’d realize you didn’t feel the same and that’d be it. No friendship and no you…” The gravel crunched as he shifted closer, his voice dropping further, rawer.

“So I settled. I took the friends-with-benefits deal because it was the only way I could keep you close without riskin’ losin’ you completely. I told myself it was enough, even when it wasn’t. Even when every time I left your place I had to fight the urge to turn back and tell you I wanted all of it. Not just the nights we spent together. Not just the sex. All of you, Y/N.” You wanted to say something back, but it was as if Rhett couldn’t stop everything that was coming out of him, it was like he was talking as if it could be the last conversation the two of you would ever have and he needed to get everything out on the table.

“That night you ended it…I was gonna tell you. I’d been sittin’ on it for weeks, workin’ up the guts. But you were already hurt. You were lookin’ at me like I’d wrecked somethin’ important, and I figured if I said it then, you’d think I was lyin’ just to fix what I broke.” His eyes searched yours, raw and open and glazed over with a film of tears. “I didn’t want my feelings for you to sound like some cheap apology…”

You stood there frozen, staring up at him, the night air tightening against your skin while his words sank in. Two months of silence and hurt sat between you like a canyon, but you couldn’t find your voice to answer him. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, your throat locked up around all the things you’d wanted to say but never had the chance to.

Rhett’s jaw flexed, his gaze dropping briefly to the gravel at your feet before he dragged a hand across his eyes, quick and rough, as if to scrub the shine away before you could catch it.

“Y’know what…” His voice was low, splintered. “I’m sorry. I’ll just–” He gestured vaguely toward the bar, like he was already pulling himself back together, “I’ll just go back inside and you can go–”

“Fuck it,” You cut in, sharp and breathless. Before he could blink, you grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him down to you. Your mouth crashed into his with months’ worth of pent-up frustration and want, the kiss hot, greedy, messy from the start. His answering groan rumbled straight into you, and then he was kissing you back like he’d been dying for it–because he had.

His hands found your face first, thumbs pressing to your jaw as his mouth moved over yours with a hunger that left no space for air. Then he stepped in, crowding you back, every line of his body fitting against yours until the rough brick wall of the bar pressed firm against your spine. The cold bite of it only made the heat between you flare brighter.

You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the hard muscle there as his hips pressed flush to yours. He broke from your lips just long enough to drag his mouth along your cheek, his breath ragged, before finding your mouth again in another bruising kiss. Between them, his words spilled against your lips, warm and desperate.

“So…Does this mean…You feel the same?” You let out a quick, breathless laugh, your forehead tipping to his as you caught his bottom lip between your teeth in a playful nip.

“Yes,” you said, the word low and certain. “I feel the fucking same.” That grin–God, you’d missed that grin–flickered against your mouth for half a second before his lips were on yours again, deeper this time, his hands slipping down to grip your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or pin you right there forever. You kissed him back until your lungs ached, then pulled away just enough to pant against his mouth, your voice still heated but edged with warning.

“But if you ever fucking do this to me again,” You breathed, your hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close, “I’m going to roundhouse kick you to another planet, Abbott.” His laugh came low and rough, warm against your lips.

“Fair enough…” He murmured–right before claiming your mouth again. The kiss turned messy fast, teeth clashing softly, tongues sliding, every drag and pull dripping with all the times you’d almost reached for your phone and didn’t. His breath mingled with yours, fast and uneven, his chest rising hard against you. One broad hand braced on the wall beside your head while the other slid down the curve of your back, fingers pressing in as though he was staking claim. When his mouth tore from yours, it was only to trail down your jaw and into the hollow beneath your ear, his teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp.

“Missed this…Missed you,” He muttered against your skin, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. His lips dragged lower, finding the slope of your neck, sucking deep enough to make your knees soften under you.

You clung harder to his shoulders, rolling your hips forward without thinking, chasing the friction like your body had been starved for it. His answering groan vibrated through you, and then both hands were on your hips, rocking you against him in a slow, filthy grind that made the wall at your back feel even hotter.

Your breath hitched when his palm skimmed under the hem of your top, calloused fingers brushing your bare skin like he was already memorizing it again.

“God, Y/N…” He breathed, kissing you again–deeper this time, like he could swallow every sound you made. The heat spiked between you, sharp and consuming, and you knew if you let this go on against the wall you’d lose every shred of control. With a sharp inhale, you broke the kiss, your lips swollen, your breath ragged.

“Take me to your truck,” You said, the words low but edged with command.

His eyes–bright, wild, and blown dark with want–searched yours for a beat before the corner of his mouth lifted, slow and dangerous. “Yes, ma’am.”

His fingers found yours, rough and warm, threading between them tightly. He pulled you away from the wall, cutting a direct line through the gravel lot, boots crunching with each long, unhurried stride that belied just how tight his grip was. The yellow spill from the bar lights faded behind you as he led you toward the darker stretch of the back lot, where the silhouettes of a few trucks loomed in the shadows.

His was waiting at the far end, the familiar dent in the fender catching the faint light. He yanked the handle and swung the door open for you, his hand steady at your back as you climbed in. The second your boots cleared the step, he was right there–shutting the door behind him with a muffled thunk–already reaching for his belt.

You were ahead of him, fingers flying to the button of your jeans, tugging the zipper down with the kind of urgency that made your knuckles brush the hard plane of his stomach when he leaned in. The leather strap of his belt slid free with a sharp hiss as he shrugged out of his shirt in the same motion, tossing it blindly into the back seat. His jeans followed, pooling around his boots until he shimmied out of them, leaving him in nothing but his dark boxers–already tented and straining.

“C’mere,” He murmured, reaching for you before you could shove your jeans all the way down. His big hands gripped the waistband and dragged them over your hips, taking them completely off you, leaving you in just your black lace underwear, then his hands slid up, curling over the edge of your corset.

“Let’s get this fuckin’ thing off,” He muttered, voice thick with want, his fingers working fast at the tiny hook-and-eye closures down your back. “Been thinkin’ about takin’ it off since I laid eyes on you tonight.” You could feel the heat of his breath against your neck as each clasp came undone, slow enough to make you squirm, until the last one slipped free. The boning eased against your ribs, and he shoved it down your arms with a quick, hungry tug. The corset landed somewhere in the backseat with his shirt, forgotten instantly.

His gaze dropped, and he swore low under his breath like the sight of you bare made his knees weak.

“Goddamn…” His voice was rough as his hands came up, palms cupping your breasts with a reverence that didn’t match the hard throb of urgency in him. “Missed these…Missed the way they feel in my hands, in my mouth…” He ducked down, his mouth already on you before you could respond. The first kiss landed high on the curve of your left breast, hot and lingering, followed by another, and another, his stubble scraping deliciously over your sensitive skin. He worked his way in slow arcs, peppering kisses that grew wetter, more urgent, until his tongue was circling your nipple.

“Perfect…Fuckin’ perfect,” He whispered against you, the heat of his mouth sucking one peak deep while his other hand kneaded the other breast in his palm. “God, I dreamed about you… woke up hard thinkin’ about this mouthful.” You tipped your head back, a shaky breath escaping when he sucked harder, letting his teeth graze you just enough to make you gasp. He groaned at the sound, like it poured straight into his blood.

“Yeah…Missed those little noises too,” He rasped, dragging his lips across your chest to worship the other breast, his tongue swirling in slow, filthy circles over the tightened peak before sucking deep again.

“Oh my god…Rhett.” You gasped. His free hand left your breast and dropped lower, tracing down the slope of your stomach until his thumb hooked into the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t ask this time–he just slipped his hand beneath the lace, his knuckles brushing your mound before his fingers found you hot and slick.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” He breathed, his forehead briefly pressing to your sternum as if he had to steady himself. “Missed this even more… Missed feelin’ you like this, all ready for me.” His middle finger slid through your folds, parting them before circling your clit slow and deliberate. The heel of his palm pressed into you while his finger dipped lower, sinking inside with an easy push. You clenched around him instantly, and he let out a low, guttural groan.

“That’s it… that’s my girl,” He said, curling the finger just right before sliding another in to join it. “Grippin’ me so tight, like you’re tryin’ to keep me.”

”Fuck Rhett…I missed your fingers so fucking much.” You moaned out, your hips rolling into his hand, chasing each curl and thrust of his fingers. The pleasure made you bolder, as your own hand slid down between you until you found the thick, hot outline of him. Your palm cupped him through the heat of his boxers, and you felt the way his breath hitched, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he recovered–fingers curling inside you with more purpose, like he needed to remind you who was setting the pace.

“Mmm…You’re already so fucking hard for me,” You murmured, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Just from feeling me around your fingers, huh? Not even inside me yet and you’re leaking for it.”A low, ragged laugh rumbled out of him, his head tipping against your shoulder like the words hit deep.

“You think I haven’t been fuckin’ hard since the second I saw you tonight?” Your hand flexed over him, giving a slow, teasing squeeze that had his hips pushing into your palm without him even thinking about it.

“Maybe I like watching you lose it a little,” You whispered, dragging your nails lightly along the length before rubbing your palm over the wet patch forming at the tip. “Maybe I want you messy before I even let you inside me.” His jaw clenched, a low groan spilling out against your neck as his fingers worked faster, the wet sound between your thighs making your toes curl.

“Careful, baby…You keep talkin’ like that, I’m gonna flip you over and fuck you until you forget your own name.”

“Mmm,” You hummed, your hand sliding along his shaft again, slower this time, just enough pressure to make him twitch. “Big words for someone who’s about to make me come all over his hand.” He chuckled darkly against your skin, his thumb pressing harder into your clit, circling in tight, deliberate strokes.

“Oh, you’re gonna do that whether you like it or not,” He rasped. “Gonna soak my fingers just like you used to…God, I’ve missed feelin’ you gush for me.” Your breath caught on a sharp moan when he curled his fingers again, hitting that perfect spot deep inside, your hips rolling harder into his hand.

“Rhett…Fuck…Right there…”

“That’s it,” He coaxed, his voice dropping lower, more urgent. “Come on, pretty girl. Show me how bad you missed me. Mess me up.” The heat coiled tight in your stomach, and with a few more strokes, you broke–your thighs trembling as your climax ripped through you, wet heat spilling over his fingers. You gasped, clutching at his shoulder with one hand while the other squeezed him reflexively through his boxers.

“Jesus Christ,” He growled, slowing his fingers just enough to let you ride the aftershocks. Then he pulled them free, holding them in front of your face for a heartbeat, watching your chest rise and fall. “Look at that,” He murmured, his voice thick with heat. “Drippin’ for me like no time’s passed at all.” Before you could catch your breath, he brought those glistening fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low groan that made your pulse spike all over again.

“Goddamn…I needed that taste,” he said, licking the last of you from his knuckles, “I’m gonna eat you out when we get back to your place…But right now? I need to fuck you.” Your hand stilled on him, your thumb still resting against the thick head under the fabric. His words sank deep, and the look in his eyes–hot, wild, certain–made it impossible to think of anything else.

“Then what the hell are you waiting for?” You breathed.Rhett’s grin was slow and dangerous, a glint in his eyes like he’d just been handed the exact thing he’d been dying for. His big hands slid down your hips, curling under the lace at your hips before tearing them down your legs. The delicate fabric caught briefly on your thighs before he ripped them away and tossed them blindly into the dark backseat. He didn’t even watch where they landed–his eyes were locked on the glistening heat between your legs, his jaw working as if he was holding back from devouring you right then.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” He muttered, his thumbs brushing over the tops of your thighs before pushing his own boxer briefs down. They hit the floor in a heap, freeing the thick, flushed length of him–veined, heavy, slick at the tip. He wrapped a hand around the base, pumping once as he looked at you with that molten, knowing stare.

“C’mere,” He said, low and rough. “Come sit on my lap.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your knees braced against the seat, your palms flat on his shoulders as you swung a leg over, straddling him. The heat of his bare cock brushed your slick folds instantly, pulling a shudder from both of you. His hands clamped hard to your hips, holding you there, making you feel him before you even sank down.

“That’s it…My girl,” He rasped, tilting his head back to drink in the sight of you above him. “Look at you–wet and ready to fuckin’ take me.”

You leaned in close, your breath hot against his mouth, and let a slow trail of spit drip past your lips into his. He groaned deep, catching it with his tongue, swallowing like it was the only thing he’d been starving for. His fingers dug into you harder.

“Jesus Christ,” He growled. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.” You grinned, tangling your fingers into his hair and giving a sharp tug. His groan cracked into something darker, his eyes blowing wide as you used the leverage to tilt his head back and press your mouth to his. The kiss was all teeth and tongue, sloppy and devouring, your hips already starting to rock against him.

He broke away just long enough to guide you down–one hand still gripping your hip, the other steadying his cock at your entrance. The stretch as you sank onto him was obscene, every inch forcing your thighs wider until you were fully seated, your clit flush to the coarse hair at his base.

“Ohhh, fuck–” You gasped, your nails dragging over his shoulders.

“That’s it… Take all of me,” he murmured, his palm sliding up from your hip until it wrapped gently but firmly around your throat. The pressure was enough to make you swallow hard, your pulse thrumming against his thumb. “So fuckin’ tight…You were made for this.” You rolled your hips once–slow, grinding–and his head fell forward against your shoulder with a guttural groan. His hand on your throat squeezed just a hair tighter, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you aware of exactly who had you like this.

“Fuck…You feel perfect,” You panted, pulling back just enough to slam down on him harder. “God, Rhett–been thinking about this every fucking night, fuck all I’ve wanted was you.” That lit something feral in him. Both hands clamped to your ass, and the sharp crack of his palm meeting your skin made you gasp and clench around him.

“Yeah?” He rasped, spanking you again, the sound filthy in the confined cab. “You like that? My good girl likes it when I spank her?”

“Mhm—” You moaned, biting your lip before leaning forward to spit into his open mouth again. His tongue met it halfway this time, swallowing with a low, filthy laugh before kissing you deep, his hips thrusting up into you so hard the truck rocked on its shocks.

“Goddamn, look at you ridin’ me like you own me,” He groaned, his hands guiding your hips to slam down faster. “So fuckin’ gorgeous–so fucking deseperate, but only for me, hm?”

“Only for you,” You gasped, your hand sliding back into his hair, pulling hard enough to drag another groan from deep in his chest.

“Good girl,” he panted, his mouth latching to your neck, sucking until your skin burned. His hand returned to your throat, thumb stroking lightly over your jaw as you bounced on him, the wet slap of your bodies and your mingled moans filling the cab.

“Rhett…I’m so close,” You whimpered, your nails biting into his shoulders.

“Then cum for me, baby,” He ordered, his voice molten and ragged. “Wanna feel you gush all over me–make a mess, pretty girl. Let me have it.” His hips drove up harder, faster, his free hand spanking you once more, and the heat in your core snapped. You came hard around him, your vision sparking, every muscle trembling as you cried out his name. He cursed, slamming you down onto him as his own release tore through him, spilling hot and deep inside you.

You stayed there for a long moment, your breath hitching against his mouth, your pulse still pounding from the aftershocks. The truck smelled like sex and sweat, the windows fogged so thick you couldn’t see the parking lot lights anymore. Rhett’s forehead rested against yours, his breaths hot and uneven, his hands still holding you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You lifted one hand, threading your fingers into the damp hair at his temple, then smoothing your palm along the line of his jaw. His stubble rasped softly against your skin, grounding you. You tilted his face just enough to see him fully–the flushed cheeks, the blown pupils, the sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Fuck…” Your voice cracked, raw and quiet in the small space. “I missed you so much.” Something in his expression flickered–like your words landed somewhere deep and tender. His jaw worked once, but instead of speaking right away, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as though your hand was the only thing keeping him steady. When he opened them again, the heat was still there, but softer now, laced with something he didn’t bother to hide.

“I missed you too,” He murmured, voice rough. “More than I ever thought I could.”

His thumb traced over the back of your hand where it cupped his face, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the feel of you there. You leaned in and kissed him again–gentler this time, lingering–before resting your forehead to his. The quiet between you was warm, unhurried, almost fragile, but it didn’t feel empty.

After a moment, Rhett gave a low, steady exhale and let his hands slide up your back, holding you tighter against him.

A few chuckles rippled down the table.

“Traffic on Greek Row’s a killer,” Todd drawled, leaning back in his chair, arms spreading along the backrest like he owned the room. “Don’t worry, I’m here to save the night.”

Your jaw tightened. He always did this — pretended charm could excuse his lack of professionalism.

The faculty advisor cleared her throat. “Let’s get to the main item — Greek Week. We’ll review proposed events.”

You were ready. You’d drafted a proposal outlining philanthropic activities, inter-house competitions, and, yes, controlled social events that wouldn’t draw the kind of scrutiny Greek life had been under the last few years. Before you could begin, Todd spoke up.

“KNA wants to host the kickoff party,” he announced, voice casual, confident. “Full send, no half-measures. Live band, open invite, get everyone hyped for the week.”

Of course.

“That’s not on the agenda,” you said, finally lifting your gaze. He was already watching you, a smirk curling like he’d been waiting for the pushback.

“It’s Greek Week,” he replied. “We’re supposed to have fun, right? Don’t think anyone’s dying to start the week with another canned food drive.”

A few fraternity reps laughed. Your sorority sisters shifted uncomfortably beside you, waiting for your response.

You folded your hands on the table, controlled. “Greek Week is about showcasing responsibility and unity. Not about throwing the biggest liability event you can imagine.”

“Responsibility’s overrated.” Todd tilted his chair back, balancing on two legs like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Ask around — people want a party. We give them one, attendance doubles across the whole week.”

“And when someone ends up in the ER?” you shot back. “Whose name goes on the incident report then?”

“Mine,” he said smoothly, flashing a grin. “And I’ll take it.”

You stared at him, pulse spiking, not with flustered nerves but with irritation so sharp it almost felt good. He was reckless, arrogant, and far too aware of how easily he could get under your skin.

The room had gone quiet. You could feel everyone watching the volley like a tennis match.

“I’m sure you would,” you said, voice even, icy. “Since you clearly think Greek Week is all about you.”

Todd leaned forward suddenly, chair legs thudding back to the ground, arms braced on the table. His eyes caught yours, the smirk fading into something sharper. “No, sweetheart,” he said low, just for you. “It’s about everyone else. You just don’t know how to let people breathe.”

Your chest tightened — with anger, you told yourself. You matched his lean across the table, refusing to break eye contact. “And you don’t know how to lead without hiding behind a party.”

The faculty advisor cleared her throat loudly. “Enough. We’ll table this for later discussion.”

You forced yourself back against your chair, smoothing your notes as if you hadn’t just been rattled. Todd, of course, leaned back again, arms spreading wide, grin lazy like he’d won. But you saw the glint in his eyes — sharp, interested, almost hungry.

The meeting droned on. You pretended to take notes, but every time Todd’s voice chimed in — casual, joking, always undermining the seriousness of the discussion — you felt your spine stiffen. You didn’t look at him again, but you could feel his gaze flick to you, testing, like he was daring you to crack.

By the time adjournment was called, your temples ached. You slid your papers back into their folder, ready to escape into the night air.

“Great notes tonight,” a sorority sister teased softly as you stood. “You and Stevens gonna kill each other or finally hook up?”

Your head whipped toward her, sharp. “Not funny.”

But Todd was already across the room, laughing with his brothers. When he caught your eye over their shoulders, he raised his brows, gave a mock salute, and walked out without a word.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together.

This was going to be a long semester.

---

The quad was alive with the kind of early fall bustle that made campus feel like its own small city. Tables lined the brick walkways, banners bright against the sky as sororities and fraternities tried to outdo each other for attention. Flyers fluttered in the breeze, music pulsed from a portable speaker, and the scent of grilled food from one fraternity’s booth mingled with the crisp air.

Your sorority’s table stood neat and polished. A row of trifold boards displayed upcoming events, your chapter’s philanthropic initiatives, and photos of last year’s Greek Week service projects. The centerpiece — a carefully arranged vase of sunflowers in your colors — caught the light like a trophy. Everything about it was intentional and professional.

And then there was Todd Stevens.

Kappa Nu Alpha had set up two tables down, and where your presentation looked like a corporate pitch, theirs resembled a carnival. Loud music, neon flyers slapped together, guys in backwards caps tossing footballs over the crowd to get attention. Todd himself leaned against the table like it was his throne, sunglasses perched on his head, a megawatt grin aimed at anyone passing by.

“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen,” he called, voice pitched to carry. “Kappa Nu’s throwing the only Greek Week kickoff party worth showing up for. Free beer, live music, bad decisions guaranteed!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly.

“Don’t,” one of your sisters murmured at your elbow. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

But then a group of freshmen wandered past, pausing between your table and his. You plastered on your best welcoming smile.

“Hi! We’ve got sign-ups here for tutoring partnerships and volunteer hours,” you said brightly. “We pair first-years with opportunities all semester long. Great way to meet people and make an impact.”

The girls smiled, reached for your clipboard—until Todd’s voice boomed over the music.

“Or,” he said, swooping in with effortless timing, “you could skip homework for one night and come actually have fun. Free cover if you say Todd sent you.”

The freshmen giggled, glancing at each other before drifting toward his table.

Your smile thinned to a line.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.

Todd, of course, caught your eye. He raised his brows in mock innocence, then winked.

Heat prickled at the back of your neck. Not embarrassment — fury. You straightened, smoothing your blazer. If he wanted to play games, you could too.

Later that afternoon, you caught your chance. Kappa Nu had hung a banner crookedly, half blocking the fire lane behind their booth. You snapped a picture, emailed it to the Greek Council faculty advisor, and within the hour, campus safety was telling them to take it down.

When you walked by on your way to class, Todd was standing on a chair, wrestling the banner loose while one of his brothers groaned about citations.

He spotted you instantly.

“You’re ruthless,” he called down, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “Could’ve just told me instead of tattling.”

You paused, adjusted your bag on your shoulder, and gave him a look cool enough to chill the sun. “Maybe try following the rules next time, Stevens.”

His grin only widened. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You didn’t dignify it with an answer. You turned on your heel and kept walking, every nerve alive with irritation.

Later that night, sprawled across your bed with your laptop open and textbooks piled beside you, you realized you were still thinking about him. The smugness in his grin. The way he seemed to enjoy the sparring as much as you hated it.

You told yourself it was just a strategy — keeping ahead of him, making sure Kappa Nu didn’t derail Greek Week with their antics. That was all.

But when your phone buzzed with a group chat update and you caught his name in the notification — a stupid meme he’d dropped into the Greek Council thread — you found yourself rolling your eyes with more heat than usual.

Todd Stevens was infuriating.

And, annoyingly, you were starting to suspect he knew exactly how to make sure you couldn’t ignore him.

-----

The conference room smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and burnt coffee, the hum of the overhead lights settling into your bones. A long stretch of evening had already bled into night, the last streaks of sunset visible through the narrow window slats.

Stacks of flyers and half-scribbled notes littered the table, a casualty of too many voices arguing over how to balance Greek Week’s events. You sat near the head of the table, pen in hand, blouse crisp, skirt smooth against your thighs. You’d come straight from class, every line of your outfit deliberate, professional — armor against the chaos Todd Stevens seemed to thrive on.

“Alright,” one of the fraternity presidents muttered, rubbing his temples. “We’ve been here two hours. Can we just vote on the damn schedule?”

Another groaned, pushing back her chair. “It’s late. I’ve got a paper due tomorrow.”

One by one, they began to trickle out, mumbled excuses and quick waves trailing behind them. Within fifteen minutes, the room had emptied until only two voices remained.

Yours.

And his.

Todd lounged across from you, rolling a pen between his fingers like he had all the time in the world. His tie — if he’d even bothered with one — was long gone, shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows. The casualness of it gnawed at you. He treated everything like it didn’t matter, and somehow that only made people follow him more.

You cleared your throat, straightening your papers into a neat pile. “If you’re serious about your house hosting anything during Greek Week, you’re going to have to compromise. Safety, budget, optics—”

“Optics,” Todd cut in, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table. His eyes gleamed in the fluorescent light, sharp and amused. “That’s your favorite word, isn’t it?”

“It’s called responsibility,” you shot back.

“It’s called sucking the life out of everything.” He smirked, voice low, edged. “No one gives a damn about ‘optics.’ They care about having a week worth remembering.”

You bristled, the heat rushing up your chest. “And when something goes wrong, who do you think gets dragged through the mud? We do. All of us. You don’t get to just—”

“Relax,” Todd interrupted, his grin widening. “The world won’t end if people have a little fun.”

Your pen snapped against the paper. “You’re impossible.”

His gaze flicked down, caught the tension in your hand, the sharp set of your shoulders, the way your blouse stretched with the rise of your breath. He tilted his head, a smile twisting.

“And you’re wound so tight I’m surprised you don’t snap in half.”

The words landed like a spark on dry grass.

You shoved your chair back, standing, the skirt brushing your thighs as you leaned forward across the table. “At least I take this seriously. You—”

The rest of your sentence died in the air as he stood, closing the space in two steps. His hand pressed flat against the table beside your papers, his body angled into yours, heat radiating from him.

“You really hate me that much?” he asked, voice low, dangerous with amusement.

Your breath caught, not from nerves but from the sharp edge of adrenaline racing through you. “You make it very easy.”

Something shifted in his eyes then, the smirk curving sharper, hungrier.

And before you could move, he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. His mouth crashed against yours, teeth clashing, the scrape of his stubble against your skin. You gasped, shoved at his chest, but instead of pushing him away, your hands fisted in his shirt. The kiss turned brutal, consuming, his tongue forcing its way past your lips like a challenge you refused to lose.

The back of your legs hit the edge of the table, papers scattering to the floor. His hands found your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your blouse as if he could tear through it. You yanked at his shirt in retaliation, pulling him closer until his hips pressed against yours.

He lifted you just enough so he was able to bend you back against the table, the cool surface biting through the thin fabric of your skirt. His hand slid down your thigh, rough, urgent, and you gasped against his mouth, nails clawing at his shoulders.

“Still think I don’t take this seriously?” he growled against your lips.

“This?” You bit down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him hiss. “This isn’t serious.”

He laughed, dark and breathless, before gripping your blouse at the buttons and yanking it open. Fabric strained, one button snapping free and skittering across the floor. His mouth descended to your collarbone, teeth grazing your skin.

You shoved at his shoulder, meaning to push him back, but it only pressed you closer against the edge of the table. His palm slid under your skirt, dragging roughly over your thigh until his fingers hooked the thin band of your underwear and yanked it down to your knees. You gasped, clutching at his shirt as his hand slipped between your legs, two fingers sliding through your wetness before he pressed them inside you without hesitation.

“Fuck,” he hissed, low against your throat, pumping into you with sharp, impatient thrusts of his hand. “Already so wet—guess you don’t hate me as much as you say.”

Your breath caught, not with denial but with another shuddering moan when his thumb dragged hard over your clit. “Shut up,” you snapped, hips rocking against his hand anyway. “Just—do it.”

His laugh was cruel, but it broke on a groan as you fumbled his belt open, shoving at the waistband of his slacks until he swore and took over, jerking them down just far enough to free himself. He didn’t waste a second—dragged your hips to the edge of the table, hooked your skirt up over your waist, and pushed into you in one hard, unrelenting thrust.

You cried out, nails digging into the table beneath you as he filled you, stretching you until your breath trembled. He gripped your thigh, shoving your leg higher against his side, and slammed forward again. The sharp sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the empty office, his pace brutal from the start.

The table shuddered with every movement. You clung to the edge, blouse hanging open, chest heaving as he drove into you. Your head fell back with a groan, your voice breaking on his name before you caught yourself, biting hard into your lip.

His hand slid to your throat, thumb pressing just under your jaw, not choking but holding you there, forcing your gaze on his. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you want it harder.”

Your pulse hammered under his grip, your voice ragged when you finally gave in. “Harder.”

Something dark sparked in his eyes, and he yanked out only to turn you, then shove you down flat on your stomach across the table. Papers scattered to the floor. He kicked your legs apart, grabbed your hips, and rammed back inside you so hard the edge of the table dug into your ribs. You gritted your teeth, fingers clawing at the polished wood as he pounded into you, unrelenting. Every thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat, the pace so rough you could barely breathe.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, snapping his hips against your ass again and again. “Taking me so fucking good.”

Your skirt was bunched at your waist, his shirt clinging to his back as sweat gathered at his hairline, the slap of his hips sharp and steady. You pressed your forehead to the table, half a whimper, half a curse, leaving you with each thrust.

When you pushed back against him, urging him on, he snarled and hauled you up, flipping you onto your back again with reckless strength. You barely had time to catch your breath before he shoved back inside, the angle deeper this time, forcing another cry out of you. His hand slid under your thigh, driving it higher, giving him even more leverage to slam into you.

Your voice cracked on a moan, fingers knotting in his shirt. “Don’t stop—fuck—don’t stop.”

His mouth crashed against yours in a messy, teeth-clashing kiss, all heat and no tenderness, swallowing every broken sound you gave as his hips kept their brutal rhythm.

His pace grew vicious, every thrust hammering into you until your nails scraped red crescents across his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. The table rocked beneath you, squealing against the tile, but neither of you cared. His mouth dragged down your throat, biting, sucking, leaving heat in his wake as his hips slammed mercilessly into yours.

Your back arched, the rough edge of the desk biting into your shoulder blades, but you still hooked your leg tighter around his waist, urging him closer, deeper. The friction built unbearably, every drive of his cock hitting that raw, perfect spot inside you until your moans turned ragged.

“Harder,” you gasped, voice breaking as your nails clawed at his back. “Fuck—Todd—harder.”

He growled low in his chest, grabbing your hips in both hands and driving into you with a new ferocity that knocked the breath from your lungs. The slap of skin against skin was relentless, bruising. Each thrust dragged you higher, nerves sparking, your whole body trembling from the unyielding rhythm.

Your vision blurred at the edges, the knot in your stomach tightening past the point of control. You tried to swallow the sound, but it ripped out of you anyway—a sharp, helpless cry as you came, clenching tight around him. The orgasm tore through you in waves, your back bowing, body quaking as he kept pounding into you, refusing to let up.

“Fuck, that’s it—look at you,” he snarled, his voice ragged as he pushed through your release, hips still snapping forward. “So fucking tight—fuck.”

You rode it out in shuddering gasps, your body pulsing around him, every thrust dragging out the aftershocks until you were half sobbing, half moaning beneath him. He ground deeper, chasing his own edge, the pace faltering only slightly as he lost control.

Your nails dug hard into his biceps, clinging through the relentless drive until his rhythm broke. He slammed into you one last brutal time, hips jerking as he groaned against your neck, the sound raw and guttural. His cock pulsed inside you, hot and spilling, as he thrust through the final waves of his orgasm, buried deep.

For a moment, the only sound was your breathing—ragged, uneven, echoing off the office walls. The table creaked beneath your weight, your blouse hanging open, your skirt rucked around your waist. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his chest heaving against yours, both of you spent but refusing to acknowledge what just happened yet.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. His breath was still ragged against your skin, your own chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls. Heat clung to you both, the sweat on your skin cooling in the stale office air.

Then, as if the weight of what just happened hit at the same time, you both shifted. He pulled back first, his cock sliding free with a messy drag that made you flinch. You closed your legs instinctively, tugging your skirt down with trembling hands. He stepped back, shoving his pants into place, fingers jerking at the belt until it clicked.

Neither of you spoke.

You sat up, blouse gaping, one button missing. You smoothed it closed with shaking fingers, refusing to meet his eyes. The papers that had scattered across the floor looked absurd now, like a reminder that you weren’t supposed to be here for this.

He dragged a hand over his face, raking his hair back. His smirk was gone, replaced by something harder to read, but he found it quickly enough—the same armor he always wore. “Guess that’s one way to settle an argument.”

Your head snapped up, glare sharp despite the heat still crawling under your skin. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You hopped off the table, smoothing your skirt into place, forcing your blouse to close as best it could. You snatched your bag from the chair, bent to quickly grab the papers, then slipped the strap over your shoulder like it was a shield. Your pulse still raced, your body still humming from what you’d just done, but you clamped it down, shoved it deep.

His eyes lingered on you anyway, mouth twitching like he might say something else. But he didn’t.

You beat him to it, voice clipped and cold. “This never happened."

For a beat, his smirk returned—lazy, sharp, and infuriating. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. You pushed past him, heels clicking hard against the tile, the office door slamming shut behind you.

But long after you were gone, your scent still clung to the air. And Todd Stevens leaned back against the table, jaw tight, like he’d just started a fight he had no idea how to finish.

—

A few days later, you’re sitting for another Greek meeting. The conference room was too warm, the hum of the overhead lights giving the air a faint buzz that made it hard to focus. You adjusted the neat stack of papers in front of you, smoothing their edges against the polished table while the chatter of the other presidents filled the room.

Todd strolled in late, of course. No apology, just that easy swagger like he owned the place. He dropped into the seat across from you, leaned back with his arms spread along the chair’s edge, and gave you a smirk that was far too casual.

“Nice blouse,” he said, low enough that only you caught it. “Shame about the buttons, though.”

Heat flared across your cheeks before you could stop it. Your blouse was different today, crisp and perfectly buttoned all the way up, but his meaning was clear. You didn’t rise to it—not outwardly. You simply lifted your chin, voice cool. “Try being on time for once. Then maybe your input would matter.”

A few heads turned at your tone, then rolled their eyes. Another round, just like always.

The meeting dragged on, full of reminders about upcoming philanthropy events and rules for recruitment week. But every time you spoke, Todd had something to throw back. Not enough to be disruptive, just enough to needle you.

When you emphasized fundraising goals, he leaned forward, all mock sincerity. “Sure, but you can’t forget morale. People want fun, not just your boring spreadsheets.”

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Some of us value responsibility over empty keg stands.”

That earned a few muffled laughs from the others. One of the sorority presidents across the table nudged her friend and whispered—loud enough to hear—“God, they fight like a married couple.”

Todd grinned, basking in it. You stiffened. “Don’t lump me in with him,” you snapped, quicker than you meant to.

The table went quiet for a beat before chatter picked back up, but you caught the look Todd gave you: smug, knowing. Like he’d won something.

The rest of the meeting passed in the same vein—point, counterpoint, smirk, glare. By the time the council adjourned, you were wound so tight your shoulders ached.

You packed your bag neatly, methodically, while Todd leaned lazily in his chair, watching. You refused to look at him, refused to give him the satisfaction. When you finally stood, you caught his eye anyway.

“See you at the next meeting, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice thick with mockery.

You walked out without a word, but the sound of it clung to you all the way home.

Later, alone in your room, you tossed your bag onto the floor and sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your hands. No matter how hard you tried to focus on the agenda, on the neat rows of notes in your planner, all you could see was the flash of his mouth against your throat, the slam of his hips driving you against the table.

You pressed your palms hard against your eyes, hating that it lingered. Hating him for it. Hating yourself more.

---

The meeting had gone long. Too long. Your laptop screen glowed faintly in the dim room, the only bright spot among the scattered papers and half-drained cups of coffee.

Two of the other presidents sat across from you, leaning back in their chairs. The one from Lambda was still flipping through notes, brow furrowed in thought, while the Phi Kappa president seemed more than ready to call it a night.

You were explaining, patient but firm, how the sponsorship funds needed to be divided more fairly. Not all of it could be blown on the concert alone—events across campus needed support.

To your surprise, Lambda’s president actually smiled a little. “You’ve got a point. If we spread the budget smarter, the whole week runs smoother.”

You nodded, relieved at the support. “Exactly. We need balance if we want it to succeed long term.”

The door creaked open before you could continue. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

“Am I interrupting?” Todd drawled, leaning casually against the frame. His tie was loosened, shirt sleeves rolled, the look of someone who hadn’t cared enough to fix himself after his last class—or maybe his last drink.

The Phi Kappa president sighed. “We’re just wrapping.”

Todd pushed off the frame and sauntered in, sliding into the empty seat next to you. “Good. Thought I’d add my two cents before everyone makes the wrong decision.”

You stiffened but said nothing.

He started talking anyway. About how the concert should stay the centerpiece, how visibility mattered more than “boring logistics.” To your mounting irritation, Phi Kappa perked up, nodding along.

“Think about it,” Todd pressed, smirking faintly. “Big acts pull crowds, crowds pull sponsors. Simple math.”

You cut in, sharper than you intended. “Short-term gains. It’ll crash and burn in a year if we don’t build it right.”

The argument simmered until Lambda’s president finally held up his hands. “Look, you both have points. But it’s late.” He glanced at Phi Kappa, who gave a tired nod. “Let’s pick it back up tomorrow.”

They gathered their things quickly. A few muttered goodnights, a door shutting behind them—and suddenly, it was just you and Todd.

The silence felt thick, heavier now.

You tried to focus back on your notes, flipping a page with unnecessary force. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

He leaned back in his chair, watching you with that infuriating half-grin. “What? Thought we fucked the tension out of you already.”

You froze, lips parting in a sharp breath, nose slightly snarled. “You’re disgusting.”

“Maybe.” He shifted closer, facing you, and before you could react, his hand settled firm and hot on your upper thigh.

You jerked slightly in your seat, eyes darting to his, but you didn’t move his hand away. His fingers flexed slowly against you, testing, deliberate.

He caught that tiny flicker in your gaze—the one you tried to bury—the need you didn’t want him to see. His smirk curved deeper.

“You look like you want me to prove my point.” His voice was low, near your ear, whispering something that managed to crawl under your skin, both irritating and intoxicating.

Your breath hitched, and instead of shoving him off, your knees parted a little more.

He didn’t waste time, scooting his chair as close to you as possible. His hand trailed higher, tugging at your waistband, working open a button with unhurried ease. His fingers slipped beneath, brushing heat, teasing.

At the same time, your hand slid to his lap, feeling the hard line forming beneath the fabric of his slacks. His sharp inhale told you exactly how much he wanted this, too.

He pressed two fingers into you suddenly, no warning, and your head tipped back against the chair with a choked sound.

His mouth found your neck, lips dragging hot against your skin before his teeth bit down on your collarbone. The sting drew a moan from you, unwilling but raw, and it spurred him harder, rougher. His fingers worked deep, curling, steady.

You clutched his arm with both hands, body tightening, warmth spiraling low. He put his unused hand on the back of your chair.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin, voice thick with heat. “You hate me so much, don’t you? Hate me—and you still take me so damn well.”

Your whole body trembled as he drove you higher, not quite close enough but dangerous, your thighs twitching helplessly under his grip. Heat burned in your chest, sharp with frustration, and you shoved your hand down into his pants, wrapping around him and stroking with the same merciless pace he used on you. His hips jerked, a broken breath slipping through his teeth, but his rhythm on you never faltered. If anything, his fingers tightened, punishing, like he wanted to remind you who was leading.

And then—

Footsteps. A door slamming somewhere down the hall. Voices carrying faintly, growing nearer. You both froze. His hand stilled inside you, your hand still buried in his pants. The voices faded, moving away again. No one came in.

But the spell was broken.

You pulled back first, yanking your hand free, fumbling to fix your waistband with shaking fingers. He sat back, eyes dark, lips parted like he was caught between a curse and a laugh.

Neither of you said a word.

You grabbed your bag, avoiding his gaze, and stood. Your legs felt unsteady, trembling with what almost happened, what nearly consumed you.

You left without looking back, the door closing harder than you meant.

Todd sat there, jaw tight, still breathing unevenly, his hand flexing open and shut against his thigh.

---

The next council meeting should have been business as usual. The room was the same—fluorescent lights humming, papers scattered across the table, presidents trading half-baked ideas like poker chips. But something was different.

Todd was different.

He was there, of course, sprawled in his usual chair with the same loosened tie and careless posture, but the edge was dulled. Normally, he’d cut through conversation with a smirk and some needling remark just sharp enough to get under your skin. Today, he barely opened his mouth.

When someone pitched an idea about expanding the tailgate event, you braced yourself for his inevitable interruption—something about “bigger is better” or “leave it to the pros.” But Todd only hummed, flipping a pen between his fingers and glancing vaguely down at his notes.

You found yourself watching him more than you meant to. His eyes looked darker than usual, shadowed, and when he did finally speak, it came out flat. Not lazy-cocky—tired.

It unsettled you. You told yourself it was only because you weren’t used to the silence.

When the meeting finally adjourned, you left quickly, telling yourself not to linger. Still, you caught yourself wondering.

Later that week, an unplanned party at his fraternity house made forgetting impossible.

Music rattled the windows, laughter and shouts spilling out into the night air as people crowded the porch and the lawn. Your sorority sisters had dragged you along, eager for free drinks and the chance to flirt with frat boys you had no patience for.

You lasted just long enough to make an appearance before slipping away, weaving through the noise toward the exit.

That’s when you saw him.

Todd sat at the far end of the porch steps, alone. No drink in hand, no crowd orbiting him, no grin plastered across his face. Just him, elbows braced loosely on his knees, head tilted slightly down, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

Smoke curled faintly in the cool night, catching the glow of the porch light.

His expression was blank—not brooding, not calculating, just…gone. The carefully cultivated smirk, the spark in his eye, all of it stripped bare. He looked like someone who’d run out of energy to hold himself together.

You froze, half in shadow near the door. The Todd you knew—the Todd who needled you, pressed you against desks, whispered filth against your skin—was nowhere in sight.

This version of him wasn’t supposed to exist.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly, and you hated that. You hated noticing, hated the tug of curiosity, hated the quiet ache that crept in despite every good reason to ignore it. So you did. You stepped away, slipping into the night without a word.

Still, the image burned behind your eyes long after—the smoke, the sag of his shoulders, the tiredness he couldn’t hide when he thought no one was watching.

You told yourself not to care. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But the crack was there now, and you couldn’t unsee it.

---

Less than a week later, you had business to discuss with Todd. The bass from inside the house rattled through the porch steps as you knocked on the heavy front door, trying not to roll your eyes at the thrum of laughter and shouting spilling out. It took longer than it should have for someone to answer, and when the door finally cracked open, you were greeted by a wide, smug grin.

“Hey there,” one of Todd’s boys drawled, leaning lazily against the frame. His eyes dragged down your thigh-length flowy dress without even a pretense of subtlety. “You look good, baby. You lost? ’Cause I can think of about a hundred better reasons to be at our house than whatever you're here for, starting with me.”

You crossed your ankles where you stood, letting your shoulder rest lightly against the opposite frame; your posture remained cool, even as irritation curled in your stomach. “I’m not here for you. Go get Todd.”

He chuckled, moving far too close to you. “Todd doesn’t wanna talk to you, baby girl. But I’ve got plenty of time, and a room upstairs. You’d like it.”

Your mouth tightened, ready to snap back, when a voice cut through behind him.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Todd appeared in the hallway, his expression like steel. He shoved the guy lightly but firmly out of the way, planting himself in the doorway. His eyes cut to you—one sharp glance that softened into something heavier when he registered your dress. Then, back to his frat brother, his jaw clenched.

“You think I don’t see you running your mouth like that? Go. Now.”

The other guy muttered something under his breath and slunk back into the crowd, throwing you one last leer. Todd didn’t watch him go; his eyes flicked over you again, a quick up-and-down that was more of a performance for the boys still lingering in the hall than for you.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice flat, carrying just enough of his usual bite to keep up appearances. “Besides making my guys drool all over the entryway.”

You tilted your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction of reacting. “That urgent presidents’ meeting? Across campus? My ride bailed, so you’re it.”

His brows pulled together faintly. “Funny, didn’t hear about this meeting.”

A laugh slipped out, sharper than you meant it. “Maybe because you must not check your email like a functioning adult.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face before turning away. “Christ. Fine. Give me a second.” He disappeared down the hall toward his office. When he returned with keys dangling from his hand, he poked you in the shoulder with two fingers, nudging you off the doorframe. “Move.” You let the touch slide off you like nothing, stepping aside and following him out into the night.

The car was quiet when you slid into the passenger seat, the music from the house muffling as the door shut. He started the engine without looking at you, waiting as you reached forward and keyed the address into his GPS.

His eyes flicked to the screen, then back to the road as he pulled away. The silence stretched. He seemed almost wary, his usual snark subdued. You didn’t say a word.

The tires hissed faintly as Todd’s car rolled over cracked pavement, the echo of rubber bouncing off the concrete pillars. You told him to pull in, to park anywhere. He shot you a look, brows raised, but followed your instruction. His headlights washed over faded yellow lines across the abandoned parking garage before he cut the engine, the sudden silence making the space feel cavernous.

He glanced at you, confusion flickering. “Why the fuck are we—”

You didn’t answer. You just reached over, grabbed his hand, and pressed it against your thigh,  under your dress. His palm was warm, his fingers tense until you shifted, guiding his hand higher. Your own slid over the line of his thigh, thumb brushing the ridge of his zipper where he was already straining.

His lips parted, eyes darkening. “What the—”

“Move your seat back,” you said, low and firm.

He stared at you, disbelieving. “Why—”

“Do it,” you cut in, sharper.

Something in your tone snapped through the fog of his hesitation. He exhaled hard through his nose and reached down, the seat groaning as it slid back. Before he could even finish leaning, you shifted, straddling his lap in the driver’s seat, your dress falling around your thighs. His hands caught at your hips instinctively, fingers digging in.

“We won’t have to worry about getting caught here,” you murmured, leaning just close enough that your lips nearly brushed his ear.

That was all it took. His grip on your waist tightened, and his jaw flexed. “You’re outta your goddamn mind,” he muttered, but it came out ragged, almost reverent.

You kissed him hard, not giving him room to think. His teeth caught at your lower lip, his breath sharp as his tongue slid against yours. One of his hands pushed up your dress, bunching the fabric around your hips, while the other trailed down your back.

You ground against him, the hard line of his cock thick under his pants, and his groan vibrated into your mouth. He broke the kiss to tip his head back, eyes half-lidded as you undid his belt, your hands quick and sure. He shoved his hand between your thighs, thumb grazing your entrance through damp lace, and cursed low. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, fumbling his zipper down and sliding your hand inside his boxers. He was hot and hard, twitching in your palm.

“Bossy little—” He didn’t finish. Two of his fingers pushed past the thin fabric and slid into you, burying deep. Your head fell forward onto his shoulder, a sharp gasp tearing out of you as your nails dug into his arm. He worked his fingers ruthlessly, curling just right, his thumb pressing hard against your clit until your thighs shook around him.

You barely managed to get his cock free before he pulled his hand away and grabbed your hips, hauling you up. He shoved your underwear aside with rough efficiency, lined himself up, and in one hard thrust, he filled you. Your cry echoed in the cavern of the garage, muffled quickly by his mouth sealing over yours.

The stretch burned in the best way, his cock thick and deep, and before you could adjust, he was snapping his hips up, slamming into you. Each thrust jolted you, your back hitting the steering wheel once before he yanked you down lower in the seat, keeping you flush against him. 

You clung to his shoulders, your nails raking through the thin fabric of his shirt as you rode him, bouncing on his cock. The slap of your bodies filled the car, the windows fogging fast with heat. Soft moans escaped as you take his entire length, biting back the urge to say his name in pleasure. 

When your rhythm faltered, breath catching in your throat, he snarled against your mouth and took over. His hands locked on your hips, dragging you down hard as he drove up into you, punishing thrusts that made your whole body jolt.

“Take it,” he gritted out, his voice harsh, sweat dampening his temple.

You bit your lip so hard you tasted iron, your head falling back as his cock pounded into you, your walls fluttering tight around him.

He slapped your ass, once, sharply, and your cry only spurred him. He did it again, then gripped the sting, pulling you down harder, faster, until the seat creaked under you both.

“Look at you—” his words broke into a groan as your cunt clenched tight around him. “Can’t stand me, but you fucking love this.”

You couldn’t even form a retort. Your body was trembling, building fast, his relentless rhythm pushing you higher and higher. His thumb found your clit again, rough, circling as he slammed into you.

Your orgasm ripped through you suddenly and hard, your cry muffled against his neck as your whole body locked around him. You clutched his shoulders, legs tightening at his sides, riding the wave until you were shaking.

He groaned at the way you pulsed around him, but didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, his hips snapping harder, chasing his own edge. Sweat slicked your chest to his, the air thick with heat and breath and the sound of skin on skin.

“Fuck, fuck—” he gasped, his grip bruising on your hips as his thrusts lost rhythm. He buried deep, holding you down against him as his release hit, his whole body jerking under you. He cursed, ragged into your neck, grinding in deep as he spilled inside you.

The car went quiet except for your mingled panting, both of you slumped against each other, the windows dripping with condensation.

Neither of you said a word. Not yet.

You leaned forward, palms braced against the back of his seat, your breath coming in ragged pulls. Your thighs were still trembling where they straddled him, your body pulsing around him even as the sharp edge of release faded. Todd’s chest rose and fell beneath you, heat rolling off him in waves, his hands still gripping your hips like he wasn’t ready to let go.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of breath, skin, the tick of the cooling engine. Then, low and rough, he muttered against the space between you.

“What are we doing?”

The words cut through the fog, quiet but heavy. His eyes locked on yours, unguarded, searching.

You shifted back, ready to climb off him and slip into the passenger seat, but his hand slid down, fingers curling into the lace at your hip.

“Todd—”

The lace caught as you moved. You tried to tug them back into place, but he held on tighter, the delicate fabric giving way under his grip. By the time you’d pulled yourself free of his lap, settling shakily into the seat beside him, your panties were in his hand.

He leaned back, chest still heaving, gaze steady on you. Not smirking, not taunting. Just flat. Certain. As if the decision had already been made: they were his now.

You reached out once, halfheartedly, but he moved his arm away without smirking, without teasing. Not cruel, not playful. Just final.

You didn’t push.

Adjusting your dress, you smoothed the fabric down, your skin prickling from the night air that managed to seep through the cracked windows. Todd shoved himself back into his jeans, tugging the zipper up in one motion, his eyes flicking once to you, then away. No words. No jokes. Just silence thick enough to choke on.

He readjusted his seat back into place. When he turned the key, the engine coughed to life, the low rumble filling the space. He shifted the car into gear, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh. His profile was cut in pieces by the passing streetlights as he drove — sharp jawline, lips pressed tight, eyes hard on the road. You watched him out of the corner of your eye, but the mask was back in place.

Almost.

His hand flexed once against the wheel, knuckles pale.

Neither of you spoke the whole ride back. The hum of tires over asphalt, the thrum of bass from parties echoing across campus, the whisper of your own pulse in your ears — all louder than the words you weren’t saying.

At a red light, he shifted his weight, drumming his fingers of one hand once against the leather wheel, while the other hand tightened its grip around your lace underwear. His gaze flicked sideways. For a second, his eyes caught on your bare thighs, the hem of your dress resting high without your underwear. His jaw tightened, throat working, but he didn’t say anything. 

When he pulled up in front of your sorority house, he killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening. You reached for the door handle, your voice still caught somewhere in your chest.

Just as you pushed it open, his voice cut through. Low, almost flat.

“Guess we’ll just… pretend this didn’t happen.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The porch light washed you in gold as you slipped out, your legs still shaky against the pavement. You didn’t look back until you were at the steps, hand on the railing.

He was still there. Headlights glowing, his silhouette steady behind the wheel, watching.

Only when you went inside did the car finally roll away, tail lights fading into the night.

---

A week later, you take your friends to a house party at KNA. The music hit you first when you stepped inside — bass heavy enough that it shook the floorboards, laughter spilling over it, the sticky-sweet smell of alcohol clinging to everything. The house was alive, bodies pressed into every corner, drinks raised high, voices pitched louder than the music just to be heard.

For once, you let yourself lean into it. Your friends tugged you toward the kitchen, already shrieking with laughter, and someone shoved a cup into your hand. It was too sweet, some mix of juice and cheap vodka, but you drank it anyway, warmth buzzing in your chest before long.

The night blurred into something easy — a conversation shouted over the music, a familiar song pulling you into dancing, laughter breaking through your usual guard. It was good. Simple. Fun.

Until your gaze snagged on him.

Todd stood near the doorway, red cup dangling from his hand, posture loose in that calculated way he had. The memory slammed into you quick and unbidden — the press of his hips under yours, his hand fisted in lace, the words he’d breathed against your skin: what are we doing?

Your throat tightened. You forced your eyes back to your friends.

Except then he was there, cutting into your circle like he owned it.

“Well, look at that,” Todd drawled, grin already in place. His eyes slid deliberately to you. “Didn’t think you knew how to have fun. Guess you’re not as stuck-up as you look.”

Your friends howled, leaning into one another, delighted. You tilted your head, a smirk creeping in slowly, deliberate and sharp. “I’ll admit it—you nearly managed to walk in without being obnoxious.”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest, but the smirk never wavered. “And here I was trying to compliment you.”

Before you could cut him down again, one of your friends leaned closer, liquid courage bright in her eyes. “Todd, she’s not the only one who looks good tonight.” She gave a little grin, biting the rim of her cup. “I wouldn’t mind if you came around more often.”

The laugh that bubbled from the group stung in your chest. You buried it fast, schooling your face into something dismissive, sipping your drink as if it didn’t matter.

Todd’s grin sharpened. He knew. He knew.

“Careful,” he said smoothly, eyes darting back to you before settling on your friend. “You say things like that, I might start thinking you mean it.”

Your stomach twisted. Not with jealousy — you wouldn’t call it that, couldn’t — but with irritation hot enough to burn. At him. At her. At yourself, for caring at all.

Your friend made a show of sighing dramatically, and your other friends laughed, fanning the flames, nudging her shoulders.

You waved him off with deliberate disgust, flicking your wrist. “God, spare us.”

He leaned back on his heels, smirk lazy, and it was like the two of you were speaking another language in front of everyone. “Tragic,” he said, voice pitched just for you. “Guess I’ll have to find someone else who appreciates me.”

Your friends laughed louder, your friend pouted theatrically, and you kept your expression sharp and cool, even as the heat in your stomach refused to fade.

The moment passed. The music pressed back in, conversations picking up again, the party carrying itself forward. You forced yourself to laugh along, even danced when another song hit. For a while, it worked.

But then — the ripple.

It started in whispers, easy to miss over the music. Someone leaning too close, murmuring sharp words. A pair of girls slipping quickly upstairs, tight in the shoulders. Laughter shifted into uneasy glances.

You frowned, pausing mid-sip. “What’s going on?” you asked, but no one answered directly.

The whispers built, passing from group to group, until you caught a thread clear enough to understand: one of Todd’s housemates. A girl from another sorority. Something upstairs.

The sweetness in your drink soured on your tongue. You set it down, your pulse suddenly loud in your ears.

The music kept going, but the atmosphere shifted — joy tilting into unease, like a party gone stale in an instant.

And then — the sound that cut through it all.

Todd’s voice, sharp and furious, crashed over the crowd.

The bass still thumped, laughter and chatter still rolled, but the edges of the night were fraying. Uneasy whispers darted faster now, cutting through the haze of alcohol and music. You caught another clear fragment — “upstairs,” “his house,” “she said no” — and your chest tightened.

Then Todd’s voice cracked across the room like a whip.

“EVERYBODY OUT!”

The music kept playing, but it didn’t matter — his shout drowned it out, raw and furious in a way you’d never heard. He wasn’t smirking, wasn’t posturing. His face was thunder, his voice fire.

“I SAID OUT!”

The living room froze, laughter dying sharp in throats. Cups hovered midair. Then a rush of motion — bodies stumbling toward the door, confusion mounting.

Todd’s frat brothers scattered, panic flashing across their faces. Two bolted for the stairs, others ran from room to room, yelling half-formed excuses, trying to contain whatever had detonated upstairs.

“Shut it down!” one barked. “Turn the music off—fuck, turn it off!”

The music cut with a harsh click, leaving only the sound of voices overlapping, chairs scraping, the slam of the front door as people poured out. The air felt electric, jagged with tension.

And there was Todd, standing at the center of it all, chest heaving, jaw locked tight. His eyes cut across the room, daring anyone to question him. No one did.

“Party’s over!” he roared again, voice cracking with something deeper this time — rage, fear, desperation all tangled into one. “Get the fuck out of my house!”

And they listened.

The crowd broke apart like water, rushing toward the exits, laughter replaced with nervous chatter, with the occasional sharp voice asking what happened? Nobody stayed long enough to find out.

Around you, your friends shifted uneasily. One gave a half-hearted laugh, another mumbled about needing to go, and before you could say a word, they slipped into the current of people flowing out the door, leaving you rooted in place.

You couldn’t look away from him.

Todd’s mask was gone. No grin, no lazy arrogance — just exhaustion and fury, the weight of a house, a name, an entire brotherhood pressing down on his shoulders. For a moment, he looked older, sharper. Broken in a way you weren’t supposed to see.

And then, as the room emptied, he disappeared. One second at the center of the storm, the next gone, swallowed by the darkened hallway at the back of the house.

You stayed standing in the wreckage, chest tight, the sound of doors slamming and footsteps fading into the night.

The house felt hollow once the crowd thinned. Music silenced, chatter gone, only the stray clink of bottles against countertops and the muffled slam of a door upstairs breaking through the quiet. A sticky mix of spilled beer and sweat hung in the air.

You hesitated at first, still near the living room, hands wrapped tight around your empty cup like it was an anchor. You could leave. Slip out into the night with everyone else, let this storm settle without you. That would be the smart thing. The safe thing.

But you found yourself moving anyway.

Down the hallway, past discarded jackets and forgotten shoes, past a door that swung open to reveal two frat brothers in whispered argument before it snapped shut again. Your heels stuck faintly to the floor as you walked, each step carrying you deeper into the house.

You found him outside.

The back porch light was dim, casting long shadows across the wooden steps where Todd sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The noise from inside barely reached out here, just the occasional muffled voice, but mostly there was quiet.

For a moment, you almost didn’t recognize him.

He wasn’t performing. No easy grin. No sharp-eyed smirk. Just a man sitting in the dark, shoulders heavy, the weight of something invisible bowing him down.

You stood in the doorway longer than you meant to, hand curled around the frame, unsure if you should intrude. He must’ve heard you, because his head lifted slightly, eyes catching the weak light.

“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” His voice was low, rough, not cutting but tired. “I don’t need you hanging around. Pretty sure you don’t want to be here either.”

The sting of his dismissal should’ve been enough to push you back inside. But the words slid right out of your mouth before you could stop them.

“Yeah? I never want you anywhere, but you’re always still there.”

His gaze lingered, then—unexpectedly—he let out a dry, humorless chuckle. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t sharp. It was almost… sad.

Silence stretched between you. The kind that settled heavy instead of awkward, the kind you didn’t know what to do with.

Finally, he exhaled, the sound shaky around the edges.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, leaning back on his hands. His eyes drifted out over the dark yard, away from you. “Everything they do? It’s on me. Every screw-up, every fight, every party that goes too far. It’s all mine to carry. Doesn’t matter if I was in the room or not. It’s my name. My house. My responsibility.”

His jaw flexed, a shadow crossing his face as he added, quieter:

“And when it goes bad… it always goes bad on me.”

You didn’t know what to say. Words pressed at the back of your throat but stuck there, useless. So you didn’t speak. You just stepped forward, lowering yourself onto the step a few feet away from him. Not touching, not even looking directly at him—just there.

The silence thickened again, but this time it wasn’t empty. It was shared.

He didn’t thank you. You didn’t tell him it’d be fine. Neither of you moved.

But the crack was there now.

The mask you’d thought was unshakable had slipped, and you couldn’t unsee it.

---

The council room smelled faintly of stale coffee and polished wood, chairs arranged around the long table like they’d been waiting for hours. You slid into your seat, straightening your blouse, smoothing the crease of your skirt. Two weeks to Greek Week, and everyone looked just as exhausted as you felt.

Todd was already there, leaning back in his chair with that familiar crooked grin, eyes scanning the agenda in front of him. He caught your gaze almost immediately, and for a split second, you thought he’d flash that smirk directly at you, but he held it, just a tilt of the corner of his mouth, like a challenge.

The meeting started slowly, the other presidents taking turns rattling off final plans. Budgets, event orders, security, music — every detail methodically ticked off. You stayed sharp, responding clearly when asked, offering your own suggestions where needed. Todd chimed in occasionally, usually leaning on humor to soften critique, but you noticed the slight tension in the way he tapped his pen, the way his eyes flicked toward the room’s clock more than once.

He was back to his usual confident persona, but you could feel it — the cracks under the surface, the weariness he’d been hiding since the party. His shoulders stiffened when someone suggested changing a venue; his grin faltered when another president challenged the schedule. For anyone else, it would have been unnoticeable, but you’d seen the weight he carried before.

By the time the meeting drew toward the end, almost everyone was on the same page. Todd leaned over his papers, scribbling a few notes, his expression unreadable, and you quietly gathered your things.

You left first, stepping out into the brisk evening air, the hum of campus life wrapping around you. The tension of the meeting clung to your shoulders like a weight, but you forced yourself to inhale and shake it off.

Behind you, the conference room remained quiet except for the scratch of his pen on paper. Todd lingered, studying the itinerary as if it held some hidden code only he could decipher. You didn’t see him, but you knew he was still there.

You stopped on the sidewalk to text a friend, thumbs moving almost unconsciously. A moment later, you sensed movement beside you.

“I can’t believe you think this schedule makes sense,” a voice murmured.

You looked up, expecting him to be on a call. Instead, Todd was standing there, hands in his pockets, head cocked slightly, looking at you as if you’d grown three heads.

“…What?” you asked, frowning.

He shrugged, expression light, teasing — but there was a glint behind his eyes that didn’t fit the casualness. “Thought I’d check if you were keeping up with the real chaos,” he said casually.

You stared, blinking. “Are… are you on the phone?”

“Nope,” he said, grin widening. “All yours.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and glanced at him again, still baffled. He just tilted his head, hands slipping deeper into his pockets, silent except for that infuriating smirk.

For a moment, you fell into step beside him, neither of you speaking. The air between you was a delicate tension — unacknowledged, but heavy. Your mind briefly drifted back to the car, to the evening that still throbbed under your skin, and then you shook it off, stepping into the rhythm of walking side by side.

Half an hour of silence passed comfortably as you walked without realizing where you were headed. By the time you looked up, the familiar facade of his frat house loomed ahead.

“…How did we end up here?” you asked, frowning.

Todd’s grin stretched, smug and self-satisfied. “Oh, you followed me like the lost puppy you are.”

You bristled immediately, stepping back, feeling the sting of offense. “Excuse me?”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, leaning slightly back. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

You stormed a few steps forward, heels clicking against the pavement. “I don’t have time for your jokes—”

“Wait,” he said quickly, voice firm but not harsh. “I’m sorry. Don’t walk away.”

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes narrowed, but something in the vulnerability behind his smirk made you hesitate. He stepped closer, the quiet tension between you deepening, yet still charged with that teasing edge.

“I… I need your help with some Greek Week stuff,” he admitted, softer this time, voice almost pleading beneath the arrogance.

Despite yourself, you exhaled and nodded. “Fine,” you muttered. 

The air between you stayed tight, stretched thin, as you weighed whether to leave him standing there with his apology or give in to the softer edge in his voice. You finally exhaled through your nose, shoulders loosening just enough.

“I’ve got all the literature at my place,” you said, tone clipped, like you had to convince yourself as much as him. “We’ll just… go there. Easier.”

Todd’s smirk faltered, then reshaped itself into something quieter—half smug, half relief. “Lead the way, sweetheart.”

The two of you walked side by side down the dim campus sidewalks. Evening settled in, the streetlamps spilling yellow pools of light over the concrete, making the silence between you feel heavier than words. He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at you once or twice, but you didn’t bite. Neither of you needed to fill the quiet; it was thick enough.

Your sorority house was alive when you arrived, a low hum of voices drifting from the common areas, laughter echoing faintly from somewhere down the hall. No one paid much attention as you pushed open the door and held it just long enough for him to slip in behind you. A couple of sisters glanced up, then immediately turned back to their phones or conversations, too distracted to care who you brought in.

You led him up the stairs, the creak of each step far louder than usual. The closer you got to your room, the more aware you became of his presence at your back—the warmth of him, the sound of his boots against the wood, the way he didn’t say a single word.

Inside your room, you set your bag down, flipping on the lamp by your desk. The soft golden glow lit up the walls, familiar and safe, though the energy in the air shifted sharply with him in your space.

Todd stepped in slowly, gaze scanning the room like he was cataloging everything about it—your books, the blanket folded on the chair, the neat stack of Greek Week folders by your desk. He gave a low hum, like he was trying not to smile.

“You gonna give me the grand tour, or are we straight to business?” he teased lightly, but it didn’t carry the usual bite.

You ignored him, moving to your desk and pulling the folders into a pile. “Sit. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter.”

He chuckled under his breath but obeyed, lowering himself into the chair by the desk, arms folded loosely across his chest. You spread papers out, flipping through them quickly, your voice steady as you started to talk him through deadlines and assignments.

It wasn’t until you looked up mid-sentence that you realized he wasn’t listening. Not even close.

His eyes weren’t on the papers—they were on you.

His gaze lingered, steady enough that it made the hair on the back of your neck rise. You faltered mid-word, flipping through the folder in your hands even though you’d already lost your place.

“…You’re not paying attention,” you muttered, refusing to look at him.

“Not to the papers, no.” His voice was quiet, almost careful, but that ever-present smirk tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth.

You finally met his eyes, intending to glare, but the look on his face stopped you. He wasn’t mocking you, wasn’t wearing that cocky armor he loved to hide behind. He just stared, caught in something unspoken, like the room had gone still around the two of you.

Your throat tightened. You set the folder back on the desk with more force than necessary, stepping closer, driven by something you couldn’t quite name. His shoulders tensed as you approached, though he didn’t move.

“Then what are you paying attention to?” you asked softly.

He froze, lips parting just slightly, but he didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

The air thickened, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. For a heartbeat, you hesitated—then you knelt and reached out, your fingers brushing the hem of his shirt before sliding underneath. His skin was warm, firm beneath your palms, and his breath hitched as you smoothed your hands higher along his torso.

Todd didn’t move at first. He just sat there, caught somewhere between shock and surrender, until you tugged at the fabric like you meant to strip away the last of his defenses. That broke him.

In a quick, fluid motion, he stood, pulling his shirt off over his head, tossing it to the floor without care. You stood back up and mirrored him, slipping out of your blazer, then the blouse underneath, until the cool air brushed against your bare skin. His eyes darkened as they trailed down your body, not with the hunger of before, but with something softer, slower, far more dangerous.

The space between you collapsed when you grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled his mouth to yours. The kiss was hot, clumsy at first, both of you hungry but trying not to rush, trying to drag this out as though you both knew what it meant.

He stumbled forward, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You let yourself fall, the mattress dipping beneath you, and he followed, bracing himself over you as the kisses deepened.

Your hands fumbled at his jeans, tugging impatiently at the button, and he answered in kind, undoing yours with steady fingers. You laughed breathlessly against his mouth, helping him shove both pairs of pants down and off, the urgency less about lust and more about closing the distance that had been strung so tight for so long.

When he hooked his fingers into your underwear and slid them down, the teasing smirk was gone. He looked at you for just a moment, like asking permission without saying a word, and when you didn’t stop him, he lowered himself, lips pressing against your thigh before moving inward.

Your head tipped back, a soft moan slipping out before you could stop it, your hands threading into his hair instinctively. His tongue moved slow, deliberate, savoring every reaction, every twitch of your hips. It was nothing like before—no rush, no game, just him giving himself over to this moment.

When his lips left you, you nearly whimpered at the loss, but then his thumb slid inside, gentle but firm, and the sound that escaped you was sharper. You clamped a hand over your mouth, muffling yourself, heat flooding your cheeks.

Todd lifted his head, grinning faintly, and crawled back up your body, hovering over you until his mouth found yours again. His kiss was soft, lingering, his thumb slipping free as his weight pressed you deeper into the mattress.

Your chest rose and fell against his, and you whispered his name like you hadn’t meant to let it slip. The sound stilled him, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. He searched your face for a long moment, eyes flicking over every line as though making sure you were still there, still willing, still his to hold.

His hesitation held, his weight hovering just enough that you could feel the tremor in his arms. “Are you sure?” he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.

The question slipped past his usual arrogance, past the walls he carried. It was raw, unpolished. It was Todd, bare in a way you’d never seen him before.

You cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, and nodded. “Yes.”

That was all it took. He kissed you again, slower this time, as if sealing your answer into him. His hand drifted down, steadying at your hip, and then you felt the heat of him pressing at your entrance. He paused, searching your face one last time, and when you didn’t pull away, he eased forward.

The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your throat. He froze instantly, jaw tight, eyes darting back to yours as if afraid he’d pushed too far. You tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled him down to you, your lips brushing against his ear.

“Don’t stop.”

His breath left him in a shudder as he pressed deeper, inch by slow inch, until he was fully seated inside you. The closeness stole your breath—his chest against yours, his hands framing your face, the warmth of his body sinking into you until there was no space left.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You just held onto each other, his forehead pressed to yours, your nails biting lightly into his shoulders as you adjusted around him. When you finally shifted your hips, inviting him, he groaned low in his throat and began to move.

The pace was nothing like before. No reckless rhythm, no frantic push for release. He thrust slow, steady, every stroke measured, his lips finding yours again and again between broken breaths. You moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively as though to keep him there.

He murmured your name against your lips like it was the only tether he had. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pinning them above your head while his mouth trailed down your neck. He lingered there, sucking gently at your skin until you writhed beneath him, whispering for more.

“Please, Todd…” The words escaped in a trembling plea.

He answered not with words, but with a deeper thrust that pulled a cry from your lips. He adjusted you carefully, sliding a pillow under your hips, coaxing more pleasure from the angle. His other hand cupped your cheek, grounding you as he moved, the look in his eyes more intimate than anything he’d ever said aloud.

Your breath came fast, your body arching into his. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, soft and desperate, matched only by the ragged rhythm of his breathing. When you bucked your hips toward him, his jaw tightened, the effort to hold back plain on his face.

You clung to him, your moans muffled against his shoulder, and begged again. “Don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he groaned, thrusting harder now, chasing the shudder that wracked your body as you trembled around him.

The release crashed through you suddenly, white-hot, stealing your breath as your nails dug into his back. He gasped at the feel of you tightening around him, his rhythm faltering before he pushed harder, faster, chasing his own edge.

“God—” The word tore from his throat as he spilled into you, his hips stuttering against yours, his head burying into your neck as he groaned your name.

For a long time, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, chest heaving, sweat beading along his temple. Your hand found his hair again, holding him close, grounding him as the weight of what had just happened settled heavy and warm between you.

When he finally pulled back, his face hovered just above yours, his eyes glassy, searching. You lifted your head to kiss him—soft, lingering, not rushed or needy, but enough to say what neither of you had dared voice.

He sighed into your mouth, and you laughed quietly against his lips, the sound breaking the tension. He smiled faintly, brushing his nose against yours, before lowering himself beside you.

The air in the room was thick with heat, with the ache of bodies worn through, but you didn’t move. Instead, you curled closer into him, and when his arm wrapped around you, it felt like something that had been waiting to happen all along.

The quiet stretched, comfortable now, broken only by the sound of your breaths syncing against one another. You sat up just enough to tug the nearest shirt off the floor—his—and slipped it over your head, the fabric hanging loose against your skin. Your underwear lay nearby, and you gathered those too, slipping them back on as you eased back down into the bed.

Todd shifted, watching you with that unreadable gaze, before sitting up long enough to drag his boxer briefs back on. Then he moved again, deliberately, slipping down onto the mattress beside you. His arm looped naturally around your waist as he drew you in, his chest pressed against your back, his heat wrapping over you like a blanket.

You sighed, the tension finally draining out of your body. “You’re in the way,” you muttered softly, though your hand was already reaching back, searching for him.

He only smiled, his voice a low rumble against the crown of your head. “This is my side. Closest to the door.”

The statement was casual, offhand, almost—but there was something protective in it too. Something that made your chest ache. You didn’t answer, not out loud, just let your fingers find his. He caught them easily, twining his hand with yours, and you tugged it closer, pressing it to your chest where your heart still beat fast from everything you’d just shared.

The world outside your room went quiet. You could still hear faint laughter and footsteps down the hall, but it felt far away, unimportant. What mattered was the steady rise and fall of his chest at your back, the brush of his breath against your hair, and the solid weight of his hand in yours.

Little by little, your eyelids grew heavier. His grip stayed firm, steady, not letting go, as if this—this closeness, this quiet—was something he wasn’t willing to risk losing.

You drifted like that, the two of you wound tight together, until the pull of sleep finally closed over you both.

Early morning light slipped through the thin curtains, the kind that turned everything in your room hazy and soft. The air was still, the quiet only broken by Todd’s even breaths against the back of your neck, his arm heavy and loose around your waist. You hadn’t moved since drifting off, both of you tangled up the way you fell asleep—his body curved to yours, your fingers still threaded with his against your chest like you were keeping him there.

The knock was so light at first you thought you had dreamed it. Then your door creaked, hinges groaning softly, and a crack of hallway light broke into the room.

“Hey, did you—”

Your sister’s voice cut itself off mid-sentence. You shifted just enough to see her pause in the doorway, eyes flicking to the bed. All she saw was the shape of a man’s back—Todd’s broad shoulders bare, his arm draped over you like it belonged there. She blinked once, realization dawning too slowly, then blurted a startled, panicked, “Oh! Sorry!” before slamming the door shut again.

You froze, heat rushing into your face.

But Todd didn’t stiffen. He half-laughed into your hair, the sound low and still edged with sleep, and murmured, “Guess that’s my cue to climb out the window.”

You turned your head just enough to glance back at him, lips twitching. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”

His mouth brushed a smile against your temple. “Bossy.”

“Mm,” you hummed, burrowing back against his chest, tugging his arm tighter around you until you were cocooned again. The moment could’ve turned awkward—should’ve, probably—but instead it folded inward, softened. He kissed the side of your head like it was the easiest thing in the world, and the quiet stretched comfortably between you.

Neither of you moved for a long while. Time slowed in that warm, secret bubble, until you finally sighed and shifted, reality nudging its way back in. Todd groaned softly, rolling onto his back with a stretch, his arm falling away reluctantly. You sat up with him, tugging the hem of his shirt lower towards your thighs. His eyes flicked to it, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.

“Pretty sure that’s mine,” he drawled, voice rough with sleep.

You arched a brow but didn’t move, hugging the fabric closer. “Maybe. But it looks better on me.”

He laughed under his breath, leaning over to press a kiss to your temple before gently tugging at the hem. “True, but I kind of need it back if I don’t want to walk out half-dressed.”

Reluctantly, you peeled it off and tossed it at him, slipping into your own clothes, cute but comfortable, while he pulled his shirt on again, slightly wrinkled but passable.

The air felt lighter, but not careless. He was watching you as he tugged his shirt on, eyes lingering longer than they should, quiet in a way you weren’t used to from him. Finally, he exhaled and broke it.

“You know if word gets around…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. Not panicked, not dramatic—just steady, serious. “It’ll be a mess.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, lips curving faintly. “Relax. My sisters will gossip to each other, sure, but it won’t go farther than that."

He huffed a soft laugh, like he wanted to believe you, and shook his head. “You sound awful sure.”

“I am.” You closed the space between you, brushing against him as you passed, the deliberate lightness in your tone softening the weight of his words.

For a second, his hand caught your wrist before he let it go. He looked at you differently then, quieter, like the edge between you had shifted for good.

The next hour stretched lazily, neither of you in a hurry to break the quiet. You’d both already dressed—him back in the clothes from the night before, you in a casual top and soft jeans that felt more like yourself than the blazer from the meeting. Still, neither of you seemed eager to leave.

You sat cross-legged on your bed while Todd leaned against the edge of your desk chair, one knee bent, his backpack at his feet. Sometimes the talk was about Greek Week—details you hadn’t ironed out, places where your houses overlapped or clashed. Other times it drifted into nothing, easy silences that felt strange only because they weren’t strained.

At one point, you mentioned grabbing lunch later. He raised a brow, smirk tugging. “Might be too soon for me to be seen feeding you in public,” he teased, though there wasn’t much bite behind it.

“Then coffee first,” you countered, smiling faintly. “Play it by ear after that.”

His eyes softened in a way you didn’t want to think about too hard, and he nodded. “Coffee works.”

That small agreement hung between you, delicate and grounding.

When you finally started gathering your things, the spell broke a little. You reached for your bag and glanced at him. “Can I see what you’ve written down for Greek Week? I want to compare.”

“Yeah, hold on.” Todd bent over his bag, rummaging. He pulled out a folder, but as he shifted the rest of his things, something small and dark slipped free and landed on the floor between you.

Lace.

Your stomach dropped before your brain caught up—until recognition flashed sharp and hot. They weren’t just any underwear. They were yours. The pair he’d tugged off in the garage.

“Are those…” You started slowly, voice thinner than you meant. “Are those mine?”

Todd froze for half a second, eyes flicking from the fabric to you. Then his mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite sheepish. “Technically,” he drawled, reaching down to scoop them up, “they’re mine now.”

You stared at him, caught between outrage and disbelief, waiting for the punchline. But he didn’t give one. Instead, he fidgeted, running the lace through his fingers, not looking at you directly.

“…Why do you keep them with you like that?” you asked finally.

He shifted, jaw tight, and then admitted low, “I liked having something that reminded me of you.”

The confession landed heavier than you expected. You fought the smile creeping up, trying to keep your expression flat. “That’s weird,” you told him, the words soft, not harsh.

“I know.” His hand twitched as if to hold them out to you. “Do you want them back?”

You watched him a moment longer, then shook your head, reaching to push his hand closed around them. “Keep them,” you said quietly. “If they really mean that much.”

His eyes flicked up, searching yours for a beat. Then he nodded once and tucked them back into his bag with care, sliding the folder on top before holding it out to you. You took it, sliding it into your own bag without a word.

When you finally picked up your things and turned to him, nerves fluttered sharply in your chest. Walking out of your sorority house with Todd would be its own risk. But there he was, slipping his backpack over his shoulder with ease, watching you like he already knew you weren’t going to back out.

“…Ready to get coffee?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended.

He gave a small, certain nod, then leaned close enough to brush his lips against your cheek. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Outside, the morning air was brisk, the sun creeping higher. You walked side by side, closer than you’d ever allowed before. At the crosswalk, your hand lifted without thought, catching his arm to steady yourself as you stepped off the curb. You let go once you reached the other side, but the warmth lingered.

At the café, Todd held the door open for you, the kind of casual courtesy that made your chest ache. You ordered together, then waited in silence, standing close enough that your shoulders brushed. Neither of you spoke until you left the shop with cups in hand.

“So,” he asked lightly, “where do you want to meet later?”

“The library,” you said without hesitation. “I’ve got an exam coming up. We can kill two birds.”

He smiled, tilting his head. “Nerd.” But his voice carried nothing but fondness. He nodded in agreement.

Before you could answer, he caught you by the back of the neck, pulling you in. The kiss was soft, deliberate—more tender than any of the heat you’d shared before. You felt yourself smiling against him, your coffee warm in one hand, his other hand anchoring you.

When you finally pulled back, you hesitated, then leaned forward for one quick peck on his lips. He looked at you, surprised but not smug, and you turned away before you could second-guess yourself.

Halfway across the quad, you glanced back. He was still standing there, coffee in hand, watching you like he hadn’t decided if this was real yet. You caught his eye, and only then did he turn toward his own class.

Your heart was full, beating too fast, carrying the dizzy thrill of possibility. Whatever this was with Todd—it wasn’t reckless anymore.

The first time you saw Johnny Storm was when you were sixteen. On a golf course, as the sun, which beamed down on the grassy terrain, made sweat stick to your forehead. You huffed and puffed the entire time, cursing your brother under your breath for wanting to celebrate his birthday golfing, and for bringing you along, no less. When he knew you never touched a club in your life. You were convinced his birthday wish was to make you humiliate yourself and revel in it.

You were standing on the teeing ground, trying to adjust your stance and your grip, because that was important too, apparently. It felt more like rocket science than something you do as a leisure activity, you thought.

Your swing was off, yet again, prompting low laughs from your brother and his friends.

“This is totally unfair,” you grumbled, a permanent pout on your lips as you moved to try again, hyper aware that the next group was making their way over.

“You guys want to go now? It’ll be a while until the little Miss Professional Athlete finishes,” you hear your brother say to the group, making you hitch your club up, “She had a quadruple bogey on the last one,” he continued, making the other group laugh.

You turned to see the newcomers, chin raised slightly higher than usual due to your flat cap blocking some of your vision.

Which is the moment your eyes land on him. Tall stature, muscular, blonde— handsome. Very handsome.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m sure we can help her figure it out,” he said, looking over to your group.

“By all means, have at it,” came your brother’s response. 

Typical. Nobody even asked you what you wanted. Not that you’d deny a handsome fella trying to teach you, but still! It was the principle of it! You were still a lady— 

“So, what do you need help with?” he asked, “I’m Johnny, by the way. Johnny Storm.” he added, flashing you a charming smile.

“Well, Johnny, I need help with just about everything and I don’t even know what I’m doing wrong,” you huffed before remembering yourself, “I apologize, I’m just frustrated.”

Your little lapse of judgment along with forgotten manners made the corner of Johnny’s mouth quirk up in an amused smirk.

“Alright, then. Show me how you do it and I’ll give you pointers.”

You bent your knees and made sure your back is straight before leveling your club with the golf ball.

“And there’s mistake number one,” Johnny alerted “Cross your fingers on the club.”

Your brows furrowed on their own accord as you interlaced your fingers on the grey padding and turned your head to look back at him.

“Like this?”

“Yeah. Swing it. Not too hard, though,” he instructed, eyes trailing over your form as if he was a rule official.

“How hard is not too hard?” you questioned, making him laugh at how complicated you were being.

“A medium strength. Can you do that?”

“We’ll see,” you said, trying to follow his instructions as best as possible.

Fingers intertwined, medium strength. Swing and hit— 

“I did it!” you exclaimed, your eyes disbelievingly trained on the hole you managed to finish in just two tries.

“You did,” Johnny said, a smile on his face, “Good job.”

Your group gave their thanks to Johnny, ushering you away and saying something about ‘keeping the gentlemen for too long’. You turned around as they all but pulled you away, gaze locked on him and the self-satisfied smile that graced his face.

“Thank you, Johnny Storm!” you called out, giving him a big grin.

“You’re welcome!”

The first time Johnny Storm made you laugh was the kind of thing that could only happen if you weren’t expecting it in the slightest. Not even in your wildest dreams. Truth be told, he slipped your mind entirely since you met. You had more important things to worry about than a handsome stranger who helped you golf.

So, you were surprised when you saw him while making your way back home from school. Your Mary Janes clicked against the damp pavement, thanks to the summer rain that doused you this morning, your eyes squinted as you tried to assure yourself that the blond in front of you was really him.

Screw it, you thought. Can’t really lose anything.

“Johnny Storm!” you called out, watching him turn. Bingo.

“No way, golf girl?” he asked with a smile, halting his steps to let you catch up to him.

“In the flesh,” you answered as you hurried along to him, tightening the hold on your textbooks.

“Let me help you with that,” he said once you were by his side, taking the books from you, “Physics? You any good?”

“I’m okay at it. Not my favourite thing in the world.”

“Seriously? Physics is fun, though,” he said, making you look at him disbelievingly.

“Seriously?” you parroted back. “Are you a prodigy or something, Johnny Storm?”

He turned his head to face you, opting to not answer your question but instead shoot you a charming smile that told you everything you needed to know. He was some sort of genius prodigy.

“And you can call me just Johnny, you know? No need for the last name.”

“Alright, Johnny,” you hummed, “But Johnny Storm sounds better. Very outta sight.”

“So I should consider going by my full name at all times?”

“Maybe.”

Johnny snickered, shuffling through your books as you walked, clearly taking on the role of following you home without being asked to. Handsome, genius and a gentleman? Too good to be true.

“What’s so interesting about physics anyway?” you asked him, more so just to ask, rather than get an actual answer.

“Solving equations,” he said simply, “And the history behind it.”

“You gonna study physics in college, Johnny?”

“Aerospace engineering, actually,” he said simply. As if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Your eyebrows raised on their own accord, eyes widening a little. Not every day you meet a future aerospace engineer. 

“Wow… Impressive. Are you gonna work for ANSA?” you asked, pretending you knew what that fully entailed and not just that it was about space and being smart. But then again, that was the jist of it.

“That’s the plan. And maybe go to space one day.”

“So I’m talking to a future astronaut right now?”

“Possibly, yeah.”

Wow, you thought. Smart— hell, probably a genius if what he’s saying is true, confident, but not arrogant. Johnny Storm seemed like an alien more than anything, really. You knew guys who had nothing going for them but still managed to be arrogant bastards who thought they were God’s gift to mankind.

“Sounds scary. Impressive, but scary,” you concluded.

“Exciting,” he corrected.

“Being in a metal tube that launches you off to space at ungodly speeds is exciting?”

“Precisely. Space is exciting. And fascinating.”

“What are you gonna do in space?”

“Explore. Meet lady aliens,” he said smugly, making you let out a laugh.

No man was perfect and every single one of them had one thing on their mind, clearly. The only difference being that they usually thought of actresses, or models, or the hot girl down the street. But Johnny thought of hypothetical ‘lady aliens’. And for whatever reason that was more endearing.

“Of course,” you said through your giggles, “Lady aliens.”

The first (and last) time Johnny Storm asked for your number was a sunny Sunday, a few days after he walked you home. A soft wind rustled the trees, casting moving shadows across the concrete. You walked outside with a pep in your step, a study session not sounding all that bad if it was happening in your favourite diner with a float and some pancakes. And it was a perfect excuse to doll up and put on your new Go-Go boots.

Your pace was purposefully slower, trying to be present in the moment – enjoy the pleasant breeze which swirled around your dress.

That moment of peace was interrupted, albeit gently, with a soft tap to your shoulder. And you had something to see once you turned around. Blond. Handsome. Strong. Johnny Storm.

“Johnny Storm!” you grinned, “You again?”

“Me again, golf girl,” he drawled, the corner of his lip twitching upwards.

“You know I have a name, right? One that I told you. Or did you forget already?” your smile widened impossibly. The thought of him forgetting your name was more amusing than anything, considering his allegedly genius mind and your run-ins with each other which were just a tad absurd. 

“I do remember. I also remember telling you to just call me Johnny and that didn’t happen, did it?”

“It did, actually. A few times, if I remember,” you teased.

“Doesn’t count now that you called me Johnny Storm. Again.” he stated with a faux huff, but his big, baby blues gave him away.

“So you’ll call me golf girl until I stop calling you by your full name?”

“Precisely.”

“Alright, then. From this point on, you’re just Johnny, I swear on it.”

“Alright…” he trailed off, before saying your name with a silky smooth tone, making your smile softer, more real.

“Well, I gotta jet, but it was nice talking to ya, Johnny.”

“Can I ask where you’re going— Or, no, what’s more important than standing here with the person you’ve seen… three times in your life?” he asked, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Very funny,” you deadpanned, “I’m going down to the diner on West to get some studying in.”

“Smart girl. Tell you what, why don’t you give me your number, so we don’t have to rely on fate to bring us together?”

Your brows raised slightly at that, not being able to help but wonder just what his intentions were.

“You think our luck’s running out?”

“I mean, we’ve had first, second and third charm.”

“Alright, then,” you agreed, sifting through your notebook to rip out a clean sheet of paper and write your number on it. “Here,” you said, handing him the now neatly folded paper that you scrawled your number across.

“Thank you. I’ll give you a call then, so we can hang out.”

So, those were his intentions. To hang out. 

You couldn’t say you minded, really. Johnny seemed like a good friend to have, from the limited glimpses of him you got. A gentleman who’s also smart. Jury’s still out on the genius part though, in your opinion. You’ll believe it when you see it. 

You’d just have to stop calling him handsome in your head every time you see him. Piece of cake.

“Alright, you do that,” you said with a smile as you turned to leave.

“Have fun studying!” he called out.

“Bye Johnny!”

And yeah, maybe you walked with an even bigger pep in your step after that, feeling that familiar high of making a new connection bubbling up in your chest, setting your nerves ablaze. It seemed that the day would be kind to you, very much so.

The first time you hung out with Johnny Storm, you were seated in a booth, tucked away in the corner of a cafe, sipping on your drink as he all but devoured his pastries. All under the guise of being famished from the record store you strolled through earlier. 

“Y’know, maybe you should’ve gotten actual food if you were so hungry,” you looked at him, amusement dancing in your eyes.

“Tastes better,” Johnny mumbled with a full mouth, making you sigh with a sense of mirth.

Johnny was indeed a good person to have around. That conclusion settled in your mind when he not only let you talk his ear off about the new Etta James vinyl, but actively listened. 

“Don’t you think it’s weird how I want to thank you for listening to me talk earlier? I mean, it’s the base level of an interaction, y’know, but ‘s so rare these days. Someone who actually listens, I mean,” you said, pursing your lips in thought.

He hummed around his food, taking a moment to swallow and wipe his mouth.

 “Oh, we’re having a sociological debate now?”

“No,” you snorted, “Just expressing my gratitude for you. And concern for everyone else.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he met your gaze, his voice a little softer now. “‘s hard for people to care these days, I think.”

And that’s when you realized that beyond the very broad things you talked about, music, school, food, space, godawful golf — he hadn’t spoken a lot about himself beyond his interests, the thought sending something akin to protectiveness through you, even if it was maybe definitely too early for that.

“Y’know,” you started, “You never told me who you were at golf with that day.”

“Oh, yeah. That was my sister, Sue, and her husband.”

“Her husband doesn’t have a name?” you drawled.

“Reed,” Johnny said simply, going back to his pastries.

“Your sister’s pretty, I remember that. You have any other siblings?” you asked, sensing he didn’t really want to talk about this Reed guy.

“M-m. Jus’ her. You have anyone other than your brother?”

“Nope, just him, too. Blessing and a curse, really.”

“Why?” he asked between bites, reaching over to take a sip of water.

You shrugged at the question, not really knowing how to put the feeling of being a youngest daughter into words. Your eyebrows scrunched as you raked through your brain, before you settled for an answer.

“Just… Would be nice to be taken seriously from time to time, I guess.”

“Yeah, I get that…” a beat of silence. “Me too.”

You settled into a comfortable silence after that, both of you letting your minds wander. And you realized something then. Something only a teenage mind, stubborn and angry, could conjure up.

You’d always take Johnny seriously.

“So, about your whole genius, future-astronaut thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I have this physics project in like… Two months—”

“Yeah, I’ll help,” he butted in, a grin on his face. “What’s it about?”

“Physical optics. Have no idea where to even start.”

“Thought you said you were okay with physics,” his tone was laced with amusement, his smile turning into a knowing smirk.

“I am okay with physics. But why would I turn away from the opportunity of having a genius help me with it?”

“Fair point.”

“I’ll pay you in the form of a Beatles record.”

“I already have all of them.”

“How about Ben E. King?”

“That's better.”

The first time Johnny saw you cry was stupid. So incredibly stupid and downright embarrassing. It wasn’t who you are, you told yourself. You prided yourself in being strong, put together, being able to hold your own and now you were silently crying like a scolded kid, hoping he wouldn’t see it.

You stare at the papers sprawled over his bed, willing your tears away as he stands by the whiteboard, scribbling. Because of course he had a whiteboard in his bedroom, he was a genius, by unanimous jury verdict. The jury being you, crying over your physics notes.

“...Which is basically Huygens' principle, y’know, every point on a wavefront can be a source of new waves…” Johnny continued explaining as you tried to make sense of everything he went over.

Waves, wave motion, sinusoidal waveforms, superposition and now this Huygens guy. You were so unbelievably lost, unable to keep up with his brilliant mind.

“...And the secondary point—” he stopped himself when he absentmindedly turned around, only to see tears on your face. “Are you crying?” he asked, more confused than anything.

“No,” you stubbornly denied, despite knowing it was futile.

Johnny set the marker down, crossed the room in a few long strides and perched himself in front of you on the bed, looking at you with worried eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m sorry, ‘s stupid,” you managed to croak out, wiping your tears.

“Didn’t ask if it was or wasn’t. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“‘m just frustrated, I guess… I’m not really getting this and it makes me feel stupid and mad and I also feel like I’m wasting your time.”

“Wow, that is kinda stupid,” he said, his eyebrows raised. “Look, you’re not wasting my time, I wanted to do this. And you’re not stupid either, I probably just gave you too much info all at the same time.”

He placed a comforting hand on your knee, his thumb making soothing circles.

“You’re going to make fun of me for crying,” you stated

“Not now, give it a few days,” he smiled. “Let’s just kick back, have some pop. And we can get into this whole thing later ‘mkay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

As Johnny went downstairs to grab your drinks, you tidied up the notes while wiping the last of your tears. You didn’t know why it upset you so much, not really. But you also knew he wouldn’t push for an explanation, especially when you didn’t have one, and you were grateful for that, truly.

“Alright,” he announced when he strolled in, holding way too many things in his hands. “Probably not the same as the float from the diner, but even better because it was made by me,” he flashed you a charming grin, setting the home-made float on the nightstand, a bottle of Coke for himself and an array of Tootsie Rolls and Lemonheads that he dropped on the bed.

“Johnny!” you laughed, “You want us to be sick?”

But the gesture did warm your heart, very much so. You appreciated that he was so emotionally mature, so in-tune. A rare thing for guys your age.

“At least you’d be miserable for an actual, good reason. Can’t have you cryin’ over physics, can I? What kind of host would I be?”

“A horrible one,” you said flatly, reaching over to try the float. 

“Better than the one from the diner?”

And you didn’t have the heart to tell him that it wasn’t, that he messed up the ratio. Because he made it for you. To cheer you up. So it wins by default, crowned as the best drink ever made.

“Way better.”

“Ha! Knew it!”

“Thank you, Johnny,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. “This is really nice of you. All of this, I mean.”

“Anytime.”

The first time you celebrated Johnny’s birthday you were freaking out. Completely, fully in mental breakdown mode for two reasons. Reason number one being that you didn’t know if he would like the gift and reason number two, you’d be meeting his family. Well, officially meeting his family. You felt as if the brief meeting at golf didn’t count. If you could even call it that.

You knew realistically that he would probably love it. It was Johnny, damnit. Sweet, polite Johnny who would be grateful even if he hated it. Which was precisely the problem. You wanted him to actually like it. Really like it. You spent a lot of time thinking how to incorporate Lucky Charms into cookies and a decent amount of money on the Ben E. King vinyl (which you promised him anyway, so it didn’t fully feel like a part of the gift), a book on space casualties and a mug that said ‘world’s best astronaut’.

You clutched the gift bag tightly, knocking on the door, taking a nervous breath in. This was the first time you were ever antsy around Johnny but God, you just wanted to be half as good a friend to him as he was to you.

“Hey, you made it!” he said when he opened the door, a big grin on his face, dressed in a nice, dark button up with a sliver of his undershirt showing. 

You pulled him into a tight hug, not wasting a second, mumbling a ‘happy birthday’ into his neck.

“C’mon in,” he said, taking the gift bag from you before you even had a chance to offer and taking a peek.

“No manners, Johnny, seriously,” a faux sigh left your lips as you followed him inside, trailing behind him.

“It’s my birthday!” he protested, as if the fact that it was his birthday gave him the right to act however he wanted. It did. “Sweet seventeen.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s only for sixteen, genius.”

“Let me have my moment—” he cut himself off, abruptly planting his feet onto the floor, unmoving, making you bump into him.

“Jo—”

“Lucky Charms cookies?” Johnny looked over to you, a soft smile on his face.

“Yeah. I mean, among other things that are in there—”

He pulled you in for a hug this time, lifting you up from the ground, a surprised noise leaving your mouth.

“Thank you. This is amazing. All of this, really. You’re gonna make a grown man cry.”

“Well, grown man—”

“What did I say about my moment?”

“Fine, I’ll let you have your moment,” you smiled fondly. “But you still can’t interrupt me just because it’s your birthday.”

“Okay, deal,” he said in an overly serious tone, putting you down.

You didn’t even have the time to feel the nerves of meeting his family before he shouted through the place to Sue and Reed.

“Look what I got!”

You bit back a smile at him getting so caught up in showing off your gift that he forgot to properly introduce you. It was a very Johnny thing to do, you thought.

“Coolest things ever!” he said to them, taking every item out one by one. “And nobody is allowed to drink out of the mug,” he punctuated his words with a sharp glare.

Your eyes darted from Johnny to the couple. Sue seemed warm, fond. Reed on the other hand, was hard to figure out. You had the feeling he was staring through everything and everyone in this room. Weird.

“Johnny,” Sue warned, “Your friend?”

“Oh right, right,” he scrambled to introduce you, a hand on your back as he sifted through the formalities.

“He talks a lot about you,” Sue said to you, as everyone made their way to the dinner table.

“I talk about you a normal amount," Johnny corrected, “I talked about you a lot when we kept bumping into each other. What were the chances of that?”

“Fifteen point four percent,” Reed spoke the first time, the statement making you laugh, but he just furrowed his brows in confusion.

“Oh, you’re serious,” you said, wide-eyed. “Wow. Impressive.”

You made a mental note to ask Johnny if everyone in his family was a genius.

The first time you called Johnny your best friend was an accident. Slip of the tongue, not thinking about your words at all. Yet that’s what solidified them even more. You didn’t need to think about it. Not really. Not at all. Loving Johnny was as natural as breathing. Steady, ever-present.

Your back was against the headboard of your bed, your feet propped up on the side of Johnny’s thigh as you painted your toenails with a baby pink polish, your tongue peeking out the corner of your mouth.

“...And then she told me something about how she’s supposed to be my best friend and how I can’t do that to her, which is just ridiculous. I mean, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or somethin’ so I just didn’t say anything but everyone knows you’re my best friend,” you recounted the clash with one of your friends, Lydia, not even realizing what you said.

“Seriously?” he scoffed, “She thinks she’s your best friend? Same girl who ditched you for your boyfriend a million times? She’s lucky she’s your friend at all.”

“Right?! And I mean, not like she would say any of that if he didn’t dump her.”

“Exactly. I don’t know why you bother with her anyways.”

“I don’t know… I feel bad, I guess,” you sighed, making steady strokes with the brush.

“Did she feel bad when she kept ditching you?” he asked flatly.

“No.”

“No,” he repeated.

“I just… I don’t know, Johnny. Feel like, just ‘cause she made me feel bad doesn’t have to mean I have to make her feel the same, y’know? But ‘m not gonna be a pushover and let her pretend we’re best friends now that she doesn’t have anyone to fall back on,” you said, finishing the first coat of the polish, letting your feet rest atop his lap.

“Yeah, I get that,” he said, hand coming to pull at the spongy toe separators.

“Stop that,” came your futile protest. You knew Johnny did odd things just because and you could never bring yourself to actually be upset with him.

“Hey, best friend privileges. Your words, not mine.”

And that’s when you realized what you said. So casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it was. It definitely was.

“Don’t let it get to your head, Johnny.”

“It won’t. You have my word, scout’s honour,” he proclaimed dramatically.

“I always forget you’re a Boy Scout,” you giggled.

“Which is offensive, really. That you forget and that they’re still called Boy Scouts.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, should they be called Man Scouts?”

“Matter ‘a fact they should.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you giggled.

“Still your best friend,” he said, sending you a charming grin, paired up with a wink.

“You just said you wouldn’t let it get to your head.”

“And it’s not. It’s a simple observation.”

You mumbled a ‘nuisance’ under your breath as you moved to do your second coat of nail polish, in hopes that the little time you gave the first one to dry was enough.

“You’re my best friend too y’know?” his tone was more serious now, more soft.

“I know… I’m glad I am, Johnny.”

“Don’t think I say it enough, but I really do love you. You get me, y’know?”

Your heart could’ve broken right that instant, as you always thought it would when he starts repeating his ‘y’know’s’. A nervous habit, as if trying to convince himself and the other person that what he’s saying was widely known, a common knowledge. And it usually was, like right now. And that’s what broke your heart more. His unintentional show of insecurity, his way of saying ‘This isn’t crazy, right? You think this too? You’re listening to me, right?’

“I know,” you said softly. “And you get me too… And I love you too.”

“Even when I’m being really annoying?”

“Especially then.”

The first time you and Johnny cried together happened to be on your ‘sweet seventeenth’, as he so kindly put it.

It was nearing three AM, most of your friends filtered out quite a bit ago, leaving you and Johnny by yourselves, drunk on rum. You stayed upright on your bed, not trusting your brain to not spin your vision if you laid down. Johnny was not much better, sitting on the windowsill, his arm stuck out, feeling the cool night air.

“Y’ liked m’ gift?” he drawled, hooded eyes meeting yours.

“‘Course I did. Best gift ‘ve gotten,” you grinned lazily, making him laugh.

And it was, truly. Between the record, the book and the silly on-brand birthday card, it all screamed him. Johnny. Your Johnny.

“Think y’re not s’posed to say that. ‘S rude to the other people who got you gifts.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my best friend, so… Think ‘m allowed to say that when it comes to you.”

“First time I’ve seen you been rude,” he slurred, letting out a drunk giggle.

“‘m not rude!” you protested, a permanent grin on your face. “‘m jus’ bein’ nice to you, Johnny.”

“At the expense of other people.”

You groaned, throwing your head back, realizing your mistake when the room started spinning and loopily bringing yourself up again.

“I don’t really ‘care ‘f it’s rude. And… Not like there’s anyone else here.”

“‘m glad you like it,” he said, now with an air of  drunk seriousness which arguably, was the most serious a man could get.

“‘m just glad you’re here, Johnny. Gift enough.”

He stood up, sluggishly moving toward you to plop himself beside you, an arm around your shoulder.

“You’re gonna give me a huge head. Huuuuge.”

“Yeah, well… You’re the only person ever who actually deserves it.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“You’re you, Johnny,” you slurred, cuddling into him. “Thought you were an alien when we met the first few times. Y’re so smart, Johnny and so… Everything. And you’re still so nice. The nicest.”

“Yeah?

“Mhm… What did you think a’ me?”

“Thought you were… Cool… Opinionated, li’l hothead,” he smiled, ruffling your hair. “Best friend in the goddamn world. Would be lost without you. Dunno how I functioned ‘fore we met.”

“You’re my best friend too,” you said, voice growing higher in pitch, the waterworks threatening to come out. “You’re so patient with me and– and sweet and we never ever fight.”

Johnny looked down at you, his hand moving from your hair to your cheek, softly cradling it.

“And you listen to me,” he added. “That means a lot, ya know? To have someone actually pay attention—” his voice cracked, eyes welling up with tears. “—to the stupid shit I say, to be actually interested.”

Your bottom lip wobbled as you looked at him, your hand clutching at his shirt desperately, the first tears falling from your face.

“I’ll always listen, Johnny. You’re so sm-smart and funny and I love you so much.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I love you so much too,” he cried out, the sound of his broken voice making your hand fisted in his shirt hold tighter.

“You’re not allowed to stop being friends with me, ever, Johnny.”

“That’ll never happen,” he croaked out. “‘m taking New York, I tell you that?”

“What?”

“For college.”

“But Cali—”

“But Cali nothin’. It’s basically the same thing as here. Only you’re here too,” and then a quieter, more choked: “My best friend.”

“You’re crazy,” you sobbed out, holding him tighter, wanting him closer. And he obeyed, hugging you close, holding you more firmly. So you can both cry out your drunken gratitude for each other.

The first time you saw Johnny get sick was absolutely horrible. Downright depressing and objectively, would be annoying to anyone else but God, you were soft for him.

The gloom lifted, birds chirping and flowers blooming. Grass was no longer covered in muddy snow, everything radiated colour again — soulful, happy, projecting a sense of ease everywhere. But, the switch between the harsh winter and a warm spring which was followed by a sudden weather change was not good for anyone’s system. You warned him, one too many times, about the cold he picked up. Told him to stay home, eat some soup and rest a little bit. All to no avail, of course. All met with the protest that he was a ‘strong man’. That he could handle a little cold. ‘A sniffle’ as he called it, while stating how it would be crazy to stay inside when it’s finally so nice out.

All which led to you now being in his room, fretting over him, while he whimpered like he was on his deathbed. Men could be so dramatic, you thought.

You padded across the room, lowering the blinds on his windows in hopes that he would get a decent nap in, maybe sweat the fever out.

“That better?” you asked, only to be met with a grunt in response.

“Johnny, c’mon, you gotta tell me what you need,” you tried. Gently, patiently, not wanting to add onto his discomfort.

“Can you light a candle?” he finally croaked out. “The one you got me… That helps with sleep.”

“Lavender?

“Mm, yeah.”

You moved to the shelf on his wall, cluttered with books and little space figurines, the candle you got him sat untouched in the middle of it. You found a zippo lighter behind said books, making quick work of it and lighting the candle with a flick of your thumb.

Once you brought it over to the nightstand, Johnny wrapped his fingers around your wrist weakly and tugged you down to sit next to his laid out form.

“You still warm?” you asked, hand instinctively moving to press against his forehead. He was definitely still warm.

“You’re like a mother-hen,” he said, giving you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“And you’re acting like you’re dying.”

“I am dying. I feel horrible.”

“Get some sleep, Johnny, you'll feel better.”

“Mm, can’t… Everything hurts.”

“I know, just try though. You need some rest.”

You watched as he closed his eyes, shifting onto his side, his knee trapping you between him and the nightstand.

“Johnny—”

“Jus’ lay down next to me. Please? ‘m dying here,” he whined out his plea. And really, you were powerless against him.

You settled next to him with a huffed out “Only because you’re sick, Johnny.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled, curling up behind you.

You listened to his breathing even out, felt how his arms and legs twitched every now and again.

The smell of lavender spread itself in his room, invading your senses. You let yourself relax, just a smidge, just a little while until Johnny woke up and you had to be in nurse mode.

Not that you minded. Despite his dramatics, you knew he really was sick, even if that translated to acting like a whiney toddler. And you were worried, maybe a bit too much. So you didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to critiquing dramatics.

You just hoped he would feel better once he woke up. For both his sake and yours. You’d rather be in the kitchen for the purpose of making him ridiculously sugary cookies rather than soup, anyways.

Your eyes closed on their own accord, feeling warmth radiating from him, the little content hums he let out lulling you to a half-asleep state.

The first time you and Johnny had a serious talk about the future could be described with one word — somber. It happened, suddenly, unexpectedly, like everything did with you and Johnny. Like impulsively diving off a cliff headfirst.

Sue and Reed were out for date night, so here you were — perched in the living room, eating takeout while Johnny ate Lucky Charms straight out of the box, the display never not making you wonder how he’s still alive and healthy.

But other thoughts gnawed at your mind, too. Slowly at first, then crashing at you with full force.

You’d both be turning eighteen this year. Which meant graduating. Which meant college. Which meant both of you meeting new people. The everlasting ‘what if’ lingering inside your brain.

What if you meet other people who fit more?

What if you stop having time for each other?

What if you start losing interest in being around each other?

What if, in the grand scheme of things, you and Johnny just don’t make sense?

What if, what if, what if.

“Johnny?” you called out softly, mumbling around your food.

“Mm?” he answered absentmindedly, his focus more on the sport’s game playing on the TV.

“We’ll still be friends in college, right?”

His hand stops midway to his mouth, head jerking to face you. His gaze hardened, lips set in a thin line. “What?”

“I asked—”

“I heard what you asked. What kind of question is that?” his tone was terse, like what you said was offensive to his very being.

You placed the cardboard container on the coffee table with a sigh, eyes searching for his.

“I just meant… We’ll both be meeting new people, doing new stuff…”

“So you want us to stop being friends because of that?”

“Wha— No! I’m scared of us not being friends because of that. Big difference, Johnny.”

You swore he could be purposefully obtuse at times because there really wasn’t any other explanation. He was a genius!

“Oh…”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Of course we won’t,” he said matter-of-factly. “We swore on that didn’t we? When we got really drunk on your birthday.”

“Yeah, I know…” your hands seemed to have a mind of their own, pulling and rolling the loose threads of your sweater sleeves. “Just… It’s easy to say that, you know? I don’t want us to stop being friends.”

“And we won’t. We’ll make time for each other,” his hand reached out to grab your wrists and stop your fidgeting. “The worst that could happen is we see each other a little less, promise. I don’t want us to stop being friends either. You know that.”

“Yeah,” you said, the blue mood still not lifting, still swirling around, but you were trying to rid yourself of it. “We can study together… Grab coffee if our schedules end up lining up.”

“Exactly! We’re not letting an academic institution come between us,” he said, the way he described it making you let out a small giggle. Which you knew was the purpose.

You also knew that he probably shared your fears, but was playing them down for your sake, to make you feel better.

“I have another question.”

“Go for it.”

“Like… When we start seriously dating and whatnot… We’ll still, well, be us, right?”

Because up to this point, all your boyfriends were very much put off by Johnny, as were his girlfriends by you. You couldn’t imagine how it would play out in an actually serious relationship.

“Anyone who doesn’t get us isn’t really the right person for one of us, wouldn’t you say?” he asked. So simple, yet so… Soothing and right.

“Yeah… Yeah, you’re right.”

The first time you cried for Johnny happened a few months after that conversation. You graduated and Johnny did too, a few days after you.

It didn’t happen right away, not when he walked the stage, not when you felt an undeniable surge of pride and not when you made it a point to cheer the loudest.

No. It poured out of you during a quiet moment, just the two of you, in a jazz bar, riding the high of officially becoming adults.

And maybe a little too much rum, courtesy to Sue knowing the owners. That— rum —  seemed to be the pattern for the two of you, you figured in your two years of friendship.

You looked at him, his blond hair not as perfect as usual, a light green, form-fitting polo. Devastatingly genius, tipsy, handsome. Why did that thought just come back?

“Did I grow a second head or somethin’?” his question shook you out of your own head, writing away the thought that just occurred for the first time in a long time to just being drunk and proud.

Proud. God, you were so proud of him. You could be proud of him for just breathing, you realized.

“‘m just proud of you, Johnny.”

“Yeah? I’m proud of you too. Smartest girl in the world,” he said matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And it was to him, you knew that. You teased him for being your biggest fan more times than you could count, but right now it just left you overly emotional.

“Yeah, but you’re an actual genius—”

“Oh, no, no, no waterworks,” he said, hand coming to rub your back.

“‘m sorry, I’m just proud of you. And I love you a lot,” came your shaky answer, along with an attempt to reel your tears back in.

“Well, I love you a lot too… And, I mean by that logic you should be less proud of me because me being a genius means high school was pretty easy for me, so…”

“Smartass,” you huffed out with a shake of your head, a small smile gracing your lips.

“And you know, I didn’t know you could get so loud. I’m pretty sure people sitting by you got their eardrums blown out,” he smirked, going right back to teasing you because of course he would. Little shit.

“Hey, I’ll have you know that it’s my right both as an American citizen and your best friend to be as loud as I want in times of celebration.”

“You’re exercising your right to be a sap, is what you’re doing.”

“Like you didn’t scream your lungs out for me.”

“Of course I did, but we're not talking about me, are we? I own being a sap. That’s what makes me a cool one. You, however, are a very sore sap.”

“Sap police.”

“Horrible joke.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny!” you protested with a laugh, a warm feeling settling in your chest as you two fell into a comfortable silence, broken every now and then when he hummed the songs that were playing.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, but I keep forgetting,” you said as the fifth, maybe sixth round of drinks ended up on your table. You weren’t really sure anymore, you’ve lost track after the third one.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Well considering the fact that you turned eighteen not long ago, you’re no longer part of the boy sco—”

“Man scouts,” he corrected with a grin. You knew it didn’t actually bother him, yet he made it his life’s mission to correct you on it.

“Well I was going to ask you if you planned on transitioning from boy scouts to man scouts, but yeah sure. Are you going to transition from man scouts to even-more-manly scouts?”

Johnny chuckled, the sound low and deep. “Mm, I don’t think so. Think I’ll have my hands full between college and you.”

“Me?” your eyebrows raised, looking at him questioningly.

“Yeah, you. Obviously. Gotta make time for my favourite girl.”

You ignored the way heat bloomed in your belly at the words he’s never used before, writing it off to both of you being tipsy. Him, saying it because he was tipsy and you, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush because you were tipsy.

The first time you hated one of Johnny’s girlfriends — Anna, who he met halfway through the first semester of college. God, you don’t think you’ve hated anyone more than you hated her.

Usually, you were understanding. You knew how your friendship with Johnny could’ve looked to other people. Especially when it came to his girlfriends or your boyfriends. Relationships were sensitive, fragile, it was easy to get caught up in things that weren’t there, you told yourself. See things that weren’t there. 

But Anna was a whole different ballpark.

You mulled it over your mind a hundred different times, trying to figure out the root of the issue, if you maybe did something wrong. But the issue started as soon as she laid eyes on you.

You remember baking cookies for that day, the kind that Johnny liked, the extra gooey ones, so they could share after you and her finished brunch. But she took the box from you with minimal contact and a slight scrunch of her nose, like you were handing her disease wrapped up in a pretty box.

It didn’t end there, of course it didn’t. Your mere presence was met by comments like:

“Why do you have so much makeup on? I bet you look pretty without it.”

“Isn’t the fashion thing kinda a scam? There’s so many more important things in life than looking pretty.”

“I can’t believe you’d spend so much money on boots!”

“I just can’t stand gossip, I don’t know how you do it.”

None which were outright rude and could be passed off as just a playful jab, but they made your gut churn with a deep sense of rage. You had a feeling she was one of those girls, the kind that put other girls down just because.

Which left you wondering why, in God’s name, was Johnny with her?