elliot .ᐟ.ᐟ

“Sofia’s coming to Midsummers with me, by the way.”

The boat cut smoothly across the water, leaving the Figure Eight shoreline shrinking behind you. Kelce was stretched across the back bench with his sunglasses slipping down his nose, and Topper had been complaining about the playlist for the better part of twenty minutes.

It should have been another ordinary afternoon.

You looked up from where you were sitting beside Rafe.

“With us?”

Rafe glanced at you, his eyebrows pulling together slightly.

“What?”

“You said Sofia’s coming.”

“Yeah.” He pulled a beer from the cooler and cracked it open against the edge of the console. “I asked her.”

The wind caught your hair and swept it across your mouth.

For a moment, you did not understand what he meant. Or perhaps you understood perfectly and simply needed him to say it again, differently this time.

“You asked her?”

“To Midsummers,” Kelce supplied, lifting his head. “Try to keep up.”

Rafe smirked. “Thank you, Kelce.”

You looked toward the water before any of them could see your expression change.

The sun was bright enough to hurt. It scattered across the surface in sharp white pieces, forcing you to squint even behind your sunglasses.

“Oh.”

It was the only word you could manage.

Rafe took a drink. “Figured I should bring someone this year.” 

Something inside your chest folded in on itself. You had gone with him every year. Not officially. Neither of you had ever called it that.

But he picked you up. You sat beside him at dinner. You fixed his tie when he inevitably loosened it before you even reached the country club. When the dancing started, he found you in the crowd and held out his hand with a dramatic sigh, as though the entire tradition had been forced upon him.

You had never needed him to call it a date.

You had thought the fact that it was always you meant more than the word ever could.

Apparently, Rafe had been waiting to bring someone who counted.

“That’s great,” you said.

The lie came out smoothly enough that you almost believed it.

Topper did not.

You could feel him watching you from across the boat, but you refused to look at him. Topper had always noticed too much. It was one of the things you usually loved about him.

Right now, you hated it.

Kelce pushed himself upright.

“How’d you pull that off?”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious. Did you ask her, or did you just stand around staring until she felt bad for you?”

Rafe threw a bottle cap at him.

Kelce laughed, and the conversation moved forward without you.

You listened as Rafe told them he had asked Sofia the day before. She had apparently smiled. Said she would love to go. He had already made plans to pick her up.

Each detail settled somewhere beneath your ribs.

You tried not to picture it.

Rafe arriving at her house. Rafe waiting while she finished getting ready. Rafe looking at her when she opened the door. Rafe telling her she looked beautiful in the careless, almost dismissive way he gave compliments when he meant them too much.

The same way he had looked at you every year. Or maybe not the same.

Maybe that was the problem.

“You’re still coming, right?”

You turned toward him.

Rafe was watching you now, one hand loose around the wheel. The concern in his expression was so small it might have been imagined.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’ve said about three words in the last five minutes.”

“Maybe I’m enjoying the view.”

Rafe looked pointedly around at the open water. “You’ve seen it before.”

“And I’ve heard you talk before. I wanted a break.”

Kelce laughed from the back of the boat.

Rafe rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “There she is.”

The words should not have warmed you. They did anyway.

He reached over and tugged lightly on the end of your hair before turning his attention back to the water.

It was the kind of touch that had ruined you slowly.

Rafe had never been careful with his affection. He leaned against you when he was tired. Rested his arm across the back of your chair. Called you in the middle of the night because he was bored and knew you would answer. He remembered which drinks you hated and which songs you pretended not to like. He let you drive his truck even though he complained about it the entire time.

He had given you years of almosts without realizing you were collecting them.

You moved away from the console and sat beside Topper.

Rafe noticed.

His eyes followed you for half a second before Kelce distracted him with another insult.

Topper waited until the engine and music were loud enough to cover his voice.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He tilted his head. “You look fine.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

You reached for the drink beside him and took a sip. Topper let you.

Across the boat, Rafe looked back at the two of you.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. He smiled back.

It was instinctive for both of you.

That was the worst part.

— ᨳଓ .

The black dress had been hanging from the outside of your closet for nearly three weeks.

You had sent Rafe a picture of it from the fitting room, along with a second one in pale pink.

His response arrived less than a minute later.

Black.

No reasoning. No compliment. Just a single word.

You bought it anyway.

Now you stood in front of the mirror wearing a dress chosen for a boy who would be arriving with someone else.

The material skimmed your body and fell softly toward the floor. Your hair was pinned away from your face, though a few pieces had already started escaping around your temples. You had spent longer than usual on your makeup, carefully covering every trace of the sleepless night you had spent imagining the evening ahead.

You looked beautiful. It felt useless.

Your phone buzzed on the vanity.

topper: outside

A second message appeared before you could answer.

topper: don’t make me come in there

Then, almost immediately:

rafe: kelce is already drunk rafe: hurry up

You stared at his name.

Every previous year, Rafe had been the one waiting outside. He would lean against his truck and complain that you had made him late, even when he arrived twenty minutes earlier than necessary.

Last year, he had looked at you for so long that you finally asked what was wrong.

He had shaken his head and opened the passenger door.

“Nothing. You look nice.”

You had replayed it for months.

Now Topper was outside, and Rafe was somewhere across the island waiting for Sofia.

You turned your phone facedown.

For one weak second, you considered taking off the dress.

You could tell them you were sick. You could climb into bed, scrub the makeup from your face and avoid seeing Rafe’s hand on Sofia’s waist. You could preserve the version of Midsummers that existed in your memories.

Then Rafe would call.

He would ask what was wrong.

You would hear music and Sofia’s voice in the background.

And you would have to lie anyway.

You picked up your purse.

Topper was leaning against his car when you walked outside.

His mouth opened, probably to make some impatient comment, but whatever he had planned to say disappeared when he saw you.

“You look—”

“Don’t.”

He stopped.

You walked around him and opened the passenger door.

Topper watched you climb inside before joining you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he started the car.

“You don’t have to go.”

You looked out the window. “Of course I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“He told me beforehand.”

Topper’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “That isn’t what I said.”

You swallowed. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say he did.”

“So why are you acting like I’m heading toward my execution?”

Topper glanced at you.

“Because you look like you are.”

You turned the radio up.

He let you.

— ᨳଓ .

Rafe was already there when you arrived.

You saw him before he saw you.

He stood near the entrance with Sofia beside him, listening while she spoke. Her dress was a soft cream color, simple and elegant, and her dark hair fell over one shoulder.

She was beautiful.

You had hoped she would not be.

It was petty, and you knew it, but some part of you had imagined discovering something about her that made Rafe’s choice easier to understand. Maybe she would be rude. Maybe she would be painfully dull. Maybe she would look wrong standing beside him.

She did not.

Rafe leaned toward her so he could hear her over the music. His hand rested against the small of her back, casual and warm.

He looked comfortable. That hurt more than if he had looked infatuated.

Topper stepped closer to you. “We can go around.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m fine.”

Rafe looked up.

The moment he saw you, his face changed.

His smile came easily, familiar enough to make your heart betray you. He said something to Sofia and started toward you.

“You finally made it.”

Before you could answer, his arm circled your waist and he pulled you into a quick hug. His palm pressed against your side through the thin fabric of your dress.

You hated how naturally you leaned into him.

When he stepped back, his eyes moved over you.

“You wore the black one.”

You stared at him.

“You remembered?”

“Obviously.”

Hope was a cruel thing. It arrived even now, bright and immediate, because he remembered a dress.

Then Sofia joined him.

Rafe stepped back to make space for her, his hand returning to her waist as though it belonged there. “This is Sofia.”

Sofia smiled. “Hi. I’ve heard so much about you.”

You wondered what Rafe had said.

Whether he had told her about the time the two of you snuck onto the golf course at two in the morning. Whether she knew you were the only person he trusted to drive his truck. Whether he had mentioned that you knew every expression he made before he lost his temper and every joke that could pull him out of it.

You forced yourself to smile. “Hopefully nothing too bad.”

“Mostly bad,” Rafe said.

You looked at him. He grinned.

It was the same stupid exchange the two of you had shared a hundred times.

Sofia laughed politely.

Rafe looked between you. “You two will get along.”

You were not sure why that sentence hurt.

Perhaps because he wanted Sofia to fit into the group so easily. As though there had always been a place waiting for her.

As though it had not been yours first.

“I’m sure we will,” you said.

— ᨳଓ .

Nothing terrible happened.

That was what made the night unbearable.

Sofia was nice.

She listened when you spoke. She laughed at Kelce’s stories even when they were not funny. She remembered Topper’s name and asked questions about how the four of you had met.

Rafe was not cruel.

He still included you in conversations. Still looked toward you whenever Kelce said something ridiculous. Still nudged your foot beneath the table when Rose began discussing something painfully boring.

He wanted you there.

He simply wanted Sofia beside him more.

The losses came quietly.

Sofia stood beside him in the group photograph.

You stood beside Topper.

Rafe brought Sofia a drink without asking what she wanted. When he returned, you waited for him to hand you yours too.

He did not.

Topper appeared a minute later with your usual order. “Thanks,” you said.

Rafe looked at the glass in your hand. “Oh, shit. I forgot.”

“It’s fine.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“It’s really fine, Rafe.”

He studied your face for a second. Then Sofia asked him a question, and he turned toward her.

At dinner, Sofia sat beside him.

You sat across the table, directly in their line of sight.

Rafe’s hand disappeared beneath the table. Sofia smiled down at her plate. You tried not to imagine where he was touching her.

When he loosened his tie, Sofia reached over and fixed it.

Your fingers twitched uselessly in your lap.

Every year, he had arrived with it crooked.

Every year, you stood close enough to feel his breath against your forehead while you straightened it.

“Stop moving,” you would complain.

“You’re taking too long.”

“You’re welcome to do it yourself.”

“You know I can’t.”

It had never occurred to you that anyone else could.

Rafe looked across the table and caught you staring.

“What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

His eyes remained on you for another moment.

Then Sofia touched his arm, and he looked away.

Topper’s knee bumped yours beneath the table.

You did not look at him.

— ᨳଓ .

The band began playing shortly after dinner.

You recognized the song within the first few notes.

Of course you did.

It was the song Rafe always found you for.

Not because either of you particularly liked it. The first time you danced to it, you had been fifteen and making fun of the older couples around you. Rafe had bowed dramatically and nearly dropped you while trying to spin you.

The following year, he had found you again.

Then again.

Somewhere along the way, the joke had stopped feeling like one.

You stood near the edge of the dance floor, pretending to listen while Kelce talked about someone you did not know.

Rafe was across the room with Sofia.

You told yourself not to wait.

Still, when the music softened, you looked at him.

Rafe turned toward Sofia and held out his hand.

She smiled as she took it.

He led her onto the dance floor.

There was no moment of hesitation. He did not search the room for you. He did not seem to remember that the song belonged to anyone else.

Because it had never belonged to you.

You had simply been the girl available every time it played.

Rafe placed one hand on Sofia’s waist.

She rested hers on his shoulder.

He said something that made her laugh. When she stepped too close to his shoe, he shook his head, smiling down at her.

Your vision blurred.

Topper moved into your line of sight.

“Dance with me.”

“No.”

He held out his hand. “Come on.”

“I don’t want to dance.”

“I know.”

Behind him, Rafe bent his head closer to Sofia.

Topper stepped forward, blocking them completely. “You don’t have to keep watching.”

Your throat tightened. You put your hand in his.

Topper led you toward the edge of the dance floor, keeping enough distance between you that it could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was.

A rescue.

You rested your hand on his shoulder. His palm settled carefully at your waist.

“You can stop looking over there,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You looked over his shoulder anyway.

Rafe was already watching you.

For one suspended second, neither of you looked away.

His expression shifted.

It was small. Barely anything.

His gaze dropped to Topper’s hand at your waist before returning to your face. His eyebrows pulled together, confusion passing over his features like a shadow.

Your heart jumped despite everything.

Then Sofia said his name.

Rafe turned back to her.

Whatever he had felt disappeared.

Topper exhaled quietly.

You lowered your head.

“Take me outside.”

— ᨳଓ .

Rafe found you before you made it there.

You were standing near the drinks, trying to convince Topper that you needed a minute alone, when Rafe appeared beside you.

“There you are.”

You looked at him.

His tie was loose again.

Sofia was nowhere in sight.

“I’ve been here all night.”

“You’ve barely talked to me.”

“You’ve been busy.”

Rafe glanced over his shoulder toward the ballroom.

When he looked back, something guarded had entered his expression.

“Are you mad I brought Sofia?”

Your stomach dropped.

This was the moment. You could tell him.

The words had lived inside you for years, growing around every late-night phone call and shared cigarette and careless touch.

You could tell him that you had bought the black dress because he chose it. That every year you waited for his truck outside your house. That you had mistaken his habits for promises because you had wanted them to be.

You could tell him that watching Sofia beside him felt like being erased from a place you had never been allowed to claim.

But Rafe was looking at you with genuine confusion.

Not fear.

Not hope.

He had no idea why you would be upset.

“No,” you said.

His eyes narrowed. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You tried to smile. “Maybe I’m tired.”

“You’ve been weird since the boat.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

Rafe took a small step closer.

For a moment, the noise of the party seemed to disappear. He was close enough that you could smell his cologne, close enough that you could reach up and fix his tie.

His expression softened. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

You looked at him.

That was the tragedy of Rafe Cameron.

He believed you would.

He believed he knew every important thing about you because you had spent years making yourself easy for him to understand.

You swallowed. “Of course.”

Sofia called his name from across the room.

Rafe closed his eyes briefly, irritated by the interruption.

Then he looked back at you. “We’ll talk later.”

You knew you would not.

“Go.”

He hesitated.

It was not enough.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He walked away.

He looked back once.

That was not enough either.

— ᨳଓ .

You found Sofia alone on the terrace twenty minutes later.

For one terrible second, you considered turning around before she noticed you.

Then she smiled.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

She rested her arms on the railing beside you. Music floated through the open doors behind you, softened by the ocean wind.

“I was actually hoping I’d get a second alone with you.”

Your heart lurched. “Why?”

Sofia laughed nervously. “I was kind of scared to meet you.”

You turned toward her. “Me?”

“Rafe talks about you constantly.”

Hope rose so quickly it made you dizzy.

Sofia looked toward the ballroom.

“I knew if you didn’t like me, this probably wouldn’t last very long.”

The hope died just as fast.

You stared at her profile.

She was not jealous. She was not warning you away from him. She simply understood that your approval mattered to Rafe.

Not because he wanted you. Because you were his best friend. Because he trusted you. Because he loved you in the only way he ever had.

Sofia looked back at you.

“I know that probably sounds stupid.”

“No.” You forced your mouth into a smile. “It doesn’t.”

“He really cares what you think.”

You nodded.

“He cares what everyone thinks, even when he pretends he doesn’t.”

Sofia smiled. “That’s what I told him.”

You looked toward the water.

“You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The relief on her face made something inside you ache.

You had reassured her that Rafe was hers.

And she had no idea what it cost you.

— ᨳଓ .

You did not mean to see them kiss.

You had gone looking for Topper.

The ballroom had become too warm, the conversations too loud, and you needed someone who would not ask you to explain why your hands had started shaking.

You stepped outside and followed the stone path around the side of the building.

Then you heard Sofia laugh.

You stopped.

They stood beneath a string of lights near the hedges.

Rafe’s back was partially turned toward you, but you could see Sofia’s face. She was smiling up at him, her fingers curled loosely around the front of his jacket.

Rafe said something too quiet for you to hear.

Sofia’s expression softened.

Then he kissed her.

It was not rushed. That might have been easier.

His hand rose to her cheek, his thumb resting gently beneath her eye. Sofia leaned into him, and Rafe smiled against her mouth before kissing her again.

Tenderly. Like he had nowhere else to be.

You had imagined Rafe kissing you more times than you could count.

In your imagination, it was always sudden.

A confession pulled out of him by jealousy or fear or one drink too many. He would look at you as though he had finally understood something, and then his hands would be in your hair, his mouth desperate against yours.

You had never imagined him kissing someone else with such care.

Topper found you standing there.

He followed your gaze.

His expression changed.

You turned away before he could speak.

“I knew,” you whispered.

Topper said nothing.

“He told me.”

Your voice broke. You covered your mouth with one hand and started walking.

Topper followed. Behind you, the music continued.

Rafe never called your name.

— ᨳଓ .

You made it to the dock before the tears came.

Your heels caught between the wooden boards twice before you finally tore them off and carried them in one hand. The music from the country club faded with every step, replaced by the quiet movement of water against the posts.

You sat at the edge of the dock.

For several seconds, you could not breathe properly.

Topper lowered himself beside you without saying anything.

You stared at the dark water beneath your feet.

“This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s not.”

“He didn’t even do anything.”

“I know.”

“He told me he was bringing her.”

“I know.”

You laughed, but the sound came out broken. “So why does it feel like he lied to me?”

Topper looked toward the distant lights of the party. “He didn’t lie.”

The answer hurt, even though you already knew it.

“I know.”

Your first tear slipped free. You wiped it away angrily.

“He never said we were going together. He never asked me. We just always did.”

Topper remained quiet. “I thought that meant something.”

“It did.”

“Not to him.”

“You don’t know that.”

You turned toward him. “He asked her.”

Topper’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t erase everything else.”

“It doesn’t have to erase it.” Your voice shook. “It just makes it what it always was.”

“And what was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

“It wasn’t nothing to me,” you corrected. “That doesn’t mean it was something to him.”

Topper looked at you then, really looked at you.

You hated the sympathy in his face.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you feel sorry for me.”

His voice softened. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because I spent years convincing myself he just needed time.”

The admission cracked something open. You looked back toward the country club. The lights were blurred now.

“I didn’t think he already loved me,” you continued. “I’m not that stupid.”

Topper did not interrupt. “I just thought maybe one day he would.”

Your chin trembled.

“I thought eventually he’d look at me and it would be different.”

Topper swallowed.

You stared down at your reflection in the water.

“But he already looks at me exactly how he wants to.”

The first sob escaped before you could stop it.

You bent forward, pressing one hand against your mouth.

Topper moved closer.

His arm came around your shoulders carefully, giving you enough time to pull away.

You did not.

You turned into him and cried against his jacket.

Every breath hurt.

You cried for every time Rafe had held your hand without thinking. Every night he had called because he could not sleep. Every Midsummers dance you had treated like evidence.

You cried because Sofia was kind. Because Rafe had remembered the dress. Because he had almost noticed.

Almost was beginning to feel crueler than never.

Topper held you without trying to fix it.

The party continued behind you.

Every so often, footsteps sounded along the path, and your head lifted before you could stop it. A couple laughing. Someone searching for a cigarette. Kelce’s voice in the distance.

Never Rafe.

Topper noticed.

He did not say anything.

You waited anyway. Minutes passed. The music changed.

Your breathing slowly steadied, though tears continued sliding silently down your face.

“Do you think he noticed I left?”

Topper went still.

The pause lasted only a second. It was still too long. “Yeah,” he said.

You stared toward the lights. “Do you think he knows why?”

Topper looked at you.

You already knew the answer.

“No.”

Somehow, that hurt more than seeing the kiss.

Rafe was not ignoring your heartbreak.

He did not know it existed.

You lowered your head back onto Topper’s shoulder.

Across the lawn, hidden by darkness and distance, Rafe stood near the edge of the ballroom with Sofia’s hand in his.

Kelce had asked where you and Topper had disappeared to.

Rafe looked toward the dock. “She’s been weird all night,” he said.

Kelce shrugged. “Probably tired.”

Rafe kept looking toward the water.

For a moment, a faint unease settled in his chest. The strange sense that something had shifted while he was not paying attention. That there had been a conversation he was supposed to have, a moment he had somehow missed.

Sofia tugged lightly on his hand. “You coming?”

Rafe glanced at her.

Then he looked toward the dock one final time.

He could not see you from where he stood.

He let Sofia lead him back inside.

At the dock, you cried for a love Rafe Cameron had never known he was being offered.

You rise early. Too early, maybe, but you’re well rested and you feel warm. Dell is sprawled out in the bed– just like Peter used to– sleeping soundly. 

You try to move and his small hand grips your nightgown.

“No, Mama,” he mumbles. 

“You think them chickens is gonna feed themselves, sweet boy?”

He curls up to your side. 

“Hey, baby boy.”

“You talk in your sleep, Mama,” he whispers.

“I do? What’d I say?”

“Daddy’s name. Pete.” 

You hum in recognition, unable to say anything back. You’d been dreaming of Roy, in truth. Dreaming of him raising up your boys and getting along with Joe. 

“Mr. Goode was here,” Dell says, interrupting your little daydream.

“I was talkin’ to him.”

“‘Bout what?”

“About your daddy and… when I was younger.”

“My age?”

“Older than you.” 

You smooth a hand over his hair and kiss his forehead.

“You wanna help me fix some breakfast for our critters?”

You send him to get dressed and step out the front door, leaving Tommy to sleep in. Your older boy deserves a little rest, he works so hard. Dell joins you and you tell him what to do as you enter the stables.

“The horses get two scoops and Samson gets?”

“One,” he chirps, holding up one finger.

“Good job.”

You find Banjo missing from his stable and look out, seeing a distant horse and rider out on the ridge. You recognise Roy’s silhouette. You can hardly believe Banjo is warming up to anyone, let alone a strange outlaw.

Roy brings the horse around as you feed the chickens. He trots over to the stable and finds Wendell frozen.

“What’sa matter, Dell?”

The boy whimpers and Roy hears a familiar, sickening, ch-ch-ch sound. 

His stomach drops.

“Wendell, don’t move.” 

He dismounts his horse slowly, hand on his holster. He steps over, just behind the boy, and sees a hissing rattlesnake. Dell winces, trembling. 

“You stay still now.”

In one swift motion, he grabs the boy’s suspenders and yanks him out of the way, shooting the snake dead as it lunges. The gunshot echoes over the land, reaching everyone’s ears. Dell hugs Roy’s leg tightly. 

“Y’alright, boy?”

“How’d you do that?!” the boy shouts in amazement.

You come racing over.

“I-I heard a gunshot-”

“Mama, look!” 

He points to the rattlesnake.

“Oh, God…” your eyes go wide, then you faint. Roy catches you just in time.

“I never seen her do that before,” Dell mumbles. 

Your eyelashes flutter and you look at them both.

“Mama?” 

“Huh?”

“You fainted, ma’am.” 

“Oh, God, Dell, baby, are you okay?”

“Mr. Goode saved me, Mama! He shot it right in half!” 

“It didn’t bite you?”

He shakes his head.

“I fell down and scuffed my hand,” he says, showing you his scraped palm.

“Let’s… let’s all go inside for a little while.” 

You all walk back to the house, Roy supporting you, as you still feel faint. Tommy taps his foot on the porch anxiously and Roy sees Frank and Gatz coming over from the barn.

“Mama, I heard a gunshot!”

“Mr. Goode shot a rattlesnake in half!” Dell answers him.

“You did now?” Frank asks, eyes shooting daggers at Roy.

Roy nods silently.

“Holy cow, I missed it? Dang!”

You could faint again.

“Mister… Mr. Griffin I… I’d be happy to make coffee in-in a moment-”

“We gonna get dressed for the day, get that cattle grazin’. You take all the time you need, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” you sigh. 

“Let’s take a seat, boys. Let your mama have a second to breathe.” 

Roy and the boys sit at the table together, as you go to collect yourself in your room for a moment. 

“How come you’re up so early?” Tommy asks. 

“You was here last night,” Dell says to Roy, ignoring his brother’s question.

“I was,” Roy answers honestly. 

“How come?” Tommy presses, squinting at Roy. 

“I was talkin’ to your mama.” 

“Do you love your daddy?” Dell asks. 

Roy bristles. He doesn’t think about Frank with words like love. 

“Sure I do,” he says. 

You come out and sigh.

“You wanna go back to bed, Delly?”

He nods.

“Okay, go on.”

Dell hops off his chair and makes his way upstairs. 

“Yeah, me too,” Tommy sniffs. 

“Thanks, Mr. Goode.”

“Sure thing, Dell.”

You watch them leave and turn your head back to Roy.

“You are… somethin’ special”

He shrugs.

“I am what I am.”

You walk over to him. 

“You’re a good man. You got a good heart,” you tell him tenderly, your thumb stroking his face.

He wants to pull you into his lap and prove you wrong, but he just looks up at you.

You step to the stove, lighting a fire and beginning to cook breakfast. You swallow nervously. This man has your head swimming and your temperature boiling. 

“I think I like playin’ house with you, Roy,” you tell him in a coy tone.

You can hardly recognise your own voice. It’s one you haven't used since the balmy September night you met Peter. Roy stands slowly and stalks over. He stands behind you, pushing you up against the counter across from the stove. The edge presses to your stomach, making your gasp. He kisses your cheek and your jaw.

“You let me in that bed again, I’ll fuck you so good, I mean it.” 

“You done it pretty good already, cowboy.” 

He can tell you're playing a game. You're not really so demure and coquettish as this.

“You deserve it all,” he murmurs, kissing behind your ear. “You’re such a good mama, you work so hard.” 

You hum happily, leaning back into his touch. 

“Maybe I wanna take care of you,” you counters. 

He chuckles against your neck, kissing it softly. 

“I’m a bad man, darlin’. Wicked as sin.”

“I ain’t a saint neither, Roy.”

“Dunno ‘bout that. I do know this pussy is achin’ to get filled up again, ain’t she?”

You nod, your eyes closed.

“Yeah. What’s she want? She want my tongue? I just need another taste, baby.”

He plants his hands on either side of your body, pressing himself flush against you.

“Or does she want this again?” he murmurs in your ear. 

His breath is hot and the husk of his voice has you biting back a moan. 

“I want you so bad,” he breathes. “Need you so bad, wanna break that horse ‘n teach those boys to ride proper… wanna take care of you…”

“Roy…”

“Ain’t nobody ever t-touched me like you,” he’s babbling now, his eyes shut and his hips grinding against you as his knuckles go white from his grip on the counter. 

You turn slowly in his arms, your hands cupping his face. 

“What’d you mean, ain’t nobody touched you like me?” 

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, eyes locked with yours.

“I… I had ladies before… not… not like you. Never like you. Nobody been so…”

He struggles to find the words.

“Y’so gentle with me.”

You hear distant talking and the sounds of horses waking.

He takes a step back, leaving you to swallow down your desire and tremble for a moment.

“You want me in that bed again… you just say the word,” he murmurs.

You help out more than usual that day, thinking that maybe some rough labour might keep you from feeling so wild. Roy’s words just keep running through your head, rolling over your skin like rainwater. You feel that want rushing down your spine. Warm, heavy. 

Maybe it’s just been too long since a man loved on you proper. Maybe he doesn’t even mean it– he’s just a dirty outlaw who wants you and doesn’t really give a damn about your boys. But it feels real, it feels raw and ugly, like the way you felt for your husband that night.

You wipe at your brow as you lug a heavy bag of feed to the chicken coop.

“Lemme help you with that,” Frank offers.

“No need,” you chirp. 

You set it down and sigh.

“Your boys resting?”

“Roy talked to you about this mornin’?”

“Said there was a snake.”

“That’s all he said?”

“He’s a man of few words, Roy.” 

You can think of a few words he said this morning.

“Well… my little boy almost got bit by a rattlesnake and your son shot that critter right in half.” 

“He’s always been a good shot. Took him huntin’ first time… I believe he was seven years old.”

“I don’t know how I can thank him-”

“You’ve done enough kindness for us, ma’am.” 

Out on the ridge with Banjo, Roy sees Tommy struggling with Tambourine.

“C’mon, horse. Let’s go.”

The boy clicks his tongue and squeezes his legs.

“You gotta do it tighter.”

Tommy whips his head around and scowls at Roy.

“I know how t’ride my own horse, thank you.”

Roy whistles and Tambourine trots to Banjo’s side suddenly, making Tommy grasp for his reins.

“Man should never be able to call another man’s horse.” 

Roy sits up and gestures to his legs.

“Look. Like this.”

He squeezes around Banjo, making the horse walk forward, then pulls the reins.

“See?”

“How’d you do that?”

“Gotta talk to the horse, boy. Let it know what you want, listen to it.” 

“Horses can’t talk.”

“You ain’t much for dancin’ around words, huh?” 

Tommy narrows his eyes, like he has something to say.

“Did I offend you, partner?” 

“I ain’t your partner,” the boy spits. “You ain’t my daddy, neither.”

“I ain’t tryin’ t’be your daddy.”

“You was in my house with my mama. Sneakin’ in the dark like a dang coyote. Sh-she’s nice. And she didn’t hafta be my mama, she w-wanted to,” he explains, unable to meet Roy’s eye. 

Roy sighs.

“I really care for your mama. She’s… the kindest lady I ever met. I wouldn’t hurt her, not ever. Or you or your brother.” 

“You ever killed somebody?”

Roy nods and Tommy shifts nervously in his saddle. 

“More than… five?”

“More than five.”

“The other two men… not your daddy… would you shoot them? If they hurt Mama?”

“In a second.”

The boy nods thoughtfully.

“Sun’s goin’ down.” 

“Yeah.”

“You comin’?”

“Right behind you.” 

Frank glares at Roy as the men turn in. They ate supper at your table again and Frank watched Roy the whole time. His boy, watching you like a puppy beholden to its owner, gazing at you like he loved you his whole life. 

“Did you fuck that widow?”

Roy hesitates.

“Answer smart.”

“I did.”

“Damn it, Roy.”

“She’s a good lady, Frank. We oughta ride out now before the rest of the gang can catch up.” 

“We’re comin’ here. She’s got four good horses, and we need ‘em. Whether you like it or not.” 

Roy reaches for his gun and Frank presses his piece to the shell of Roy’s ear. 

“Boy, I will take your ear off. Put your hand down.”

Roy stays still.

“I said put your fuckin’ hand down.” 

Roy glares at him and holds up his hand.

“You can’t stop me walkin’ up there ‘n doin’ it again.”

“Oh, I can’t do that, no. Not without scaring her too bad, and we don’t want that. But tell me, Roy. Where’s she gonna go? Hm? She gonna leave her boys all alone with four outlaws?”

“She trusts me.”

“She does, doesn’t she? So you’re gonna tell her that the gang is comin’ here.”

“No-”

“You’re gonna tell her-”

“No, Frank, please-”

“You beggin’, boy?”

The sun sets and cool darkness settles over the ranch. You knock on Tommy’s doorway.

“Tommy?”

He looks at you over his book.

“S’time to turn in, baby.”

He nods and slips a strip of fabric to mark his page.

“You like that book, huh?”

“Tom Sawyer’s got a half-brother, too.”

“Delly doesn’t like it when you call him half-brother,” you remind him softly.

“I wouldn’t say it to his face.” 

You sit at his side.

“Mama?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why’d you love Daddy?”

“Your daddy was… so gentle. ‘Specially with you. He was so big, and you were such a little baby. He looked at you like you were the best thing he ever saw. To him ‘n me, baby, you and Dell? You are the best thing in the world.”

You brush the hair from his face.

“Gosh, I remember when I met you, first time. Held you in my arms. You were so sweet. Just the cutest thing.”

“Maybe Mr. Goode isn’t so bad,” he says without prompting. 

“Yeah?”

“We was ridin’ today. I got Tambourine to run.” 

“Did you?”

“He helped me.”

You kiss his forehead.

“I love you so much, Tommy.”

“I love you, Mama.” 

You wait on your porch again, hands in your lap.

“Ma’am,” you feel Roy’s voice in your chest before you see that face.

That wicked grin and those mischievous eyes. 

You stand up and enter your house, leaving the door open behind you. He follows you eagerly, all the way to your bedroom. He shuts the door behind him and you start to take off your dress, eyeing him as you do. He undresses, tossing his clothes to the side. 

You look down at him as you lay down. He kneels at the edge, slowly kissing from your knees up to your inner thighs, crawling up the bed. 

“Couldn’t hardly ride today, thinkin’ ‘bout this sweet pussy,” he purrs, kissing closer to your cunt.

“She don’t need that tongue, outlaw.”

“Shit, this ‘lil thing don’t know what she need. She just achin’… all wet ‘n tight waitin’ for somethin’ to make it all better.” 

He crawls up your body, pressing soft kisses all over you. You hold his face.

“Talk to me nice, Roy. The way you done today.” “Yes, ma’am.”

He kisses the palm of your hand.

“I want you so bad. Y’so pretty…” 

“Then give it to me,” you say softly. 

He groans.

“Fuck. You’re damn near perfect, darlin’.” 

He eyes your breasts, the soft curve of them in the moonlight. 

“Now, I ain’t gave these enough love, that’s for certain.” 

He kisses your breasts, licking and nipping at the soft peaks. 

“Oh, shit,” you gasp softly.

“Yeah, mama, you buck them hips up,” he murmurs, teeth around your nipple as he sucks on it. 

He kisses between your breasts and moans.

“What?” 

He looks up at you and you watch his face turn crimson red. You grin at him.

“Well, now you gotta tell me.” 

“I… I’s just thinkin’ about you feedin’ a baby,” he admits, cupping your breast. 

You card a hand into his hair and he looks up at you, kissing your collarbone. 

“You’re so sweet. S-so gentle, I… s’a pretty thing to imagine, you with a ‘lil baby.” 

“I fed Tommy first,” you tell him. “Didn’t know I could but… one day he cried ‘n I-I just had to feed him.”

You smile, remembering the look on Pete’s face. He had come home to you frantically feeding the baby, and grinned at you. You felt so anxious and scared, which hadn’t stopped until Tommy had latched. 

“Darlin’?”

Pete rounded the corner and saw you cradling Tommy, your dress unbuttoned and your face wet with tears. 

“Look at that,” Pete breathed, kneeling by your side.

“Though I wasn’t gonna…” you smiled at Tommy, suckling peacefully, “but I did.”

“You his mama, ain’t you?” 

Tommy lost his latch and you kissed his head. 

“I think he done, sugar. You done, Tommy?”

Pete reached up to take the baby from your arms, making you whimper as you turned away.

“No, Petey, d-don’t take him…”

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s alright, I’m gonna burp him-”

“No, I can do that-”

“I got him,” he said softly. “I got him, honey. I’ll give him right back.” 

He lifted the baby to pat his back. 

“You done so good, angel.”

You reckoned it was something animal in you. Tommy wasn’t just your stepson, he was your baby. You hated being apart from him, you always wanted him in your arms.

You also remember the way Pete had snuggled up and had you from behind that night. 

He held your hips, kissing your shoulder blade as he rocked up into you. 

“Fuck, you don’t even know how riled that gets me, seein’ you take care’a him like that.”

His voice dropped low as he spoke to your skin.

“Makes me wanna give you another.”

Roy rests a hand over your womb, his mind completely blank and his cock achingly hard.

“Roy, if you don’t get to it right now,” you threaten.  

He grips your hips thrusts forward, making you squirm when he misses the spot, sliding slick against your clit.

“Oh, Roy,” you moan.

“I got you. I got you, m’gonna take care’a you,” he comforts you, the tip of his cock stretching you slightly.

You sigh as he pushes in all the way, hooking your arms under his as he kisses your shoulder. 

“That’s it… c’mon now.” 

You whine, your eyes closed as you bite your lip. 

“Atta girl, c’mon. Just a ‘lil more.”

“Y’so big,” you breathe.

“I ain’t no bigger ‘n last time. And you lettin’ me in so nice,” he teases. “Yeah? Shit, pullin’ me in like that…” 

He bottoms out and you puff out air, feeling completely filled. You moan softly, gripping his sun-loved skin.

“There we go,” he murmurs, running his hand up your tummy and between your breasts. 

“Goddamn,” you wince. 

He hooks your legs over his hips and covers your mouth until you’re breathing quietly, gazing at him. 

He’s just looking at you. Just gazing, admiring. Roy can’t believe you. The kindness you’ve instilled in your boys, the mercy in the way you touch him. 

Your hand holds his face– so gentle he could cry– and you speak.

“Y-you can move now, Roy.” 

He pulls out just a bit and pushes back in, making you hum. His fingers find your clit, strumming you expertly as he watches your eyes. You watch his fall shut when you gasp and squeeze his cock. 

“Look so handsome like that,” you muse quietly, tracing his face with your fingertips. You take a shaky breath that makes him whimper. “So handsome when y-you’re lost in it…”

“F-fuck… m’not gonna last long,” he blurts. 

“S’alright,” you comfort him. 

He continues to circle your clit, kissing your neck and squeezing your breast with his other hand, trying to please you as much as he can. 

“Wanna cum with you, please… please, I-I’ll pull out-” 

You make him meet your eyes.

“Don’t pull out.”

“What?”

“Don’t pull out, Roy.”

He winces, making a face you think is just so cute. 

“Wh- b-but… are you sure?”

“Don’t you wanna fill me up, cowboy?”

He nods, his chin dipping down quickly. His speed picks up, making your voice shake. 

“You wa-nt me to ma-ke you a da-ddy?”

You whine your final word and he nods feverishly, settling your hips in his lap again. He almost folds you over, planting his hands by your head. He’s hardly thrusting now, just buried deep in your cunt and grinding himself against your clit. You can’t meet his movements at this angle, just stuck taking it. He holds your face with one hand, his thumb on your bottom lip. 

“Fuck, look at you. Look at you- pretty fuckin’ thing- take this dick so fuckin’ good-”

You kiss his thumb and take it in your mouth. His cock twitches inside of you. 

“Fuck,” he moans, already wrecked. “I wanna stay, please, please, I-I’ll be a good husband, a-a good daddy, I-I’ll take good care’a you ‘n them boys-”

He feels a cord inside of him pull taut. 

“Cum for me, baby, please, please,” he begs you, taking his hand from your face and roughly rubbing your clit. You gasp and dig your nails into his shoulder.

“Roy- fuck- there! Right there, d-don’t- oh, m-more- push harder, yes, shit, oh my God,” you babble, that warmth in your womb washing over the both of you.

His hips jerk and you feel his cum, thick and hot, spilling inside of you. 

He mumbles sweetness to your skin, kissing it as he gasps and whines, fighting overstimulation as your little aftershocks squeeze him tight. Your cunt is throbbing, pulsing around him, which makes him half-blind. He finally pulls out of you with a soft whimper.

“Oh, baby… fuck, y-you… you look so pretty like this,” he whispers, hardly audible. 

His hand gently covers you, kissing your cheek.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

You both lay in the bed, Roy’s arms around your body as you lay your head on his chest. He had dressed again to go back to the barn, but you had held his hand and asked him to stay so sweetly. 

He just can’t say no to you.

You cup his hand, running your finger over callouses and little scars. He faintly feels your tracing shapes on his palm and watches your face change, your lip caught between your teeth. 

“You writin’ your name?”

“You got so many scars.”

Roy is quiet.

“How come?”

“We’re bad men.”

“Does Frank hurt you?”

“I’m a sinner. And… Frank thinks himself a penitent man.”

“He’s no good, ain’t he?” 

The outlaw shakes his head.

“Why don’t you leave him? Stay here with me?”

“He won’t like that. Once he sees I ain’t in that barn… he’ll prob’ly beat the hell outta me.” 

You hold his face, giving him that sweet look.

“I bet your brother-in-law wouldn’t like me here neither.” 

“Joe’s a Ranger too,” you admit. “He’s in Corpus Christi huntin’ the gang that shot Pete.” 

Roy’s heart sinks. The rest of his gang got split up there. 

“You don’t know when he’s comin’ back?”

You shake your head.

“He… he left early mornin’ two weeks ago. Hardly said a thing to me. Boys weren’t even up.”

Roy looks at you. Studies your face like he’s trying to memorize every curve, the depth of your eyes, the colour. The deep sadness in them. The shape of your lips and the feeling of them against his own. The warmth of your skin and the soft touch of your hand against his face. 

“Stay with me,” you murmur.

Your voice seems distant. As though you’re not in the same room, like you’re both somewhere else in that moment. 

“Stay here, Roy. Stay with us.”

Us.

“The boys just love you… gosh, I ain’t seen Tommy so happy since-”

Roy hears you choke up.

“Frank’s gonna bring our gang here.”

You sit up. 

“What?” 

“And then we’re gonna leave-”

“No, Roy-”

“We’re gonna leave you alone. You and your boys. And we ain’t comin’ back.”

“B-but-”

“Listen to me,” he says firmly. “You don’t want me. I ain’t no Texas Ranger come to save you. I’m a bad fuckin’ man. I’m trouble.”

You hug him around the neck, bawling as you do. You cry hard and he holds you tight, just lets you. You sob like a baby, uncontrollably, gasping for air until you finally pull from him and take a shaky breath.

“Roy, please… I can’t- I can’t do all this alone… and they love you. God, they love you.” 

He sees your eyes drop to his lips as you start to form the words and crashes his mouth against yours.

“I luh’ you,” you pant out when he breaks for air.

“You don’t love me,” he denies, “you don’t. You don’t want me here neither.”

“Why you beggin’ for it, then? Puttin’ a baby in me and runnin’ away,” you growl, pushing on his chest. 

“I ain’t put a baby in you-”

“The fuck you think we just done, Roy?”

You catch his eyes and stop, hands on his bare chest. You can see his little scars and nicks, every mark another memory that put that sadness in his blue eyes. 

You’re interrupted by the sound of horses. You panic, thinking it’s the rest of Frank’s gang. You peek through the blinds, seeing a posse on the ridge.

“That’s Joe,” you gasp.

“Frank is gonna fuckin’ kill him.”

You scramble to your knees, looking under the bed for the Winchester that Joseph had left you. You clumsily load it as you hear voices outside. 

“Texas Rangers! Come out with your hands up!”

A gunshot stops you in your tracks and you see one of Joe’s men fall off of his horse. 

“Roy!” Frank bellows, exiting the barn and pulling up his britches as he aims his gun at you. 

You clutch the rifle close to your chest and Roy yanks you away from the window as a bullet comes flying toward you, landing squarely in the wall two inches where your head had been a moment prior. Roy quickly fires back– you hadn’t noticed that his gun was with him– narrowly missing Frank.

“This ain’t my death, boy!” Frank repeats that tired mantra, making Roy see red. 

Joe and his riders speed down the ridge, firing at the three men who take cover behind fences and hay bales. You can hardly move as you witness a full-blown shootout on your property. 

“Mama!” 

“Mama, what’s happening?”

“Boys, you stay put now! Stay put and get down!”

Red-hot bullets light up the desolate New Mexico night as Joe’s men fire and miss at these outlaws. From the window, Roy has an advantage, but he doesn’t want to risk Joe’s men thinking he’s another hostile.

“Joe!”

Joe calls out your name, reaching for the rifle on his back. Roy moves to the front porch, hiding behind your front door as he peeks out to shoot at his so-called father figure. 

“Joe! One in the house!” one Ranger shouts, aiming for Roy.

“Joe, no!” you scream.

A bullet from Gatz rips through the skull of that Ranger, now down from four to two. As quickly as that man dies, Gatz is dispatched by a Ranger in a poncho riding a roan.

“Goddamn it,” Frank shouts, shooting at Joe’s horse.

“Joe, this one is with me!” you call. 

“The hell he is!” Floyd replies, aiming for your upstairs windows.

Something takes over, some primal mama bear instinct, and you aim at Floyd and squeeze the trigger on the Winchester, hitting him in the arm. 

“Shit! You fuckin’ bitch!”

He aims for you again and Roy shoots at him, getting him in the chest. Another Ranger’s shot to that fucked-up eye of his takes him to the ground, and his own bullet ends that Ranger. 

Only Joe is left, pinned under his horse as Frank takes his aim. You fire wildly, missing.

“Now, that was very rude, Ranger!”

Roy runs out and Frank quickly shoots at him, not even looking. The bullet grazes his side, the same side you had fixed up not so long ago. Roy is pushed back, falling and hitting his head on the dense dirt below.

“Roy!”

“You stay in that house, Mrs. Redd, or I’ll give you one too.” 

Joe scrambles for his gun and you run out to help Roy, abandoning the rifle at the door. You fall to your knees by his side, shaking him. 

“I said stay in there, girl.”

Your boys call out for you.

“Uncle Joe!”

Frank aims at Joe and thumbs back the hammer on his pistol. You squeeze your eyes shut as a gunshot sounds, almost feeling as though it hit you. You smell smoke and open your eyes quickly, finding Frank has crumpled to the ground, dead.

Roy sits up slightly, gun in his hand and finger still on the trigger as his eyes glaze over and he collapses back onto the dirt. 

“No, Roy. Roy, c’mon-”

Your name is called as Joe tries to crawl out from under his horse.

“Help me- goddamn it! Help me get out!”

You reluctantly leave Roy’s side, watching his blood gush out onto your land as you use all your strength to pull Joseph free. You both make your way back to Roy.

“Get him inside. I got this,” Joe tells you. 

Roy comes to later that night with a pain in his side in a soft bed. He mumbles your name.

“Just me, partner,” a man’s voice says.

He looks to the side slowly, seeing Joe leaning forward in a chair, gun in his hand.

“I’m gonna ask you a few questions… and you’re gonna answer me honestly, or I will just fuckin’ kill you, fella. Got that?”

“Yessir.”

“Was that Frank Griffin?”

He nods.

“You Roy Goode?”

“Yes, Mr. Redd.”

“That’s Captain, son," Joe growls.

“Captain Redd,” he corrects.

“We rounded up the rest’a that gang already, shit, all scattered over Texas like damn rats. Half's dead, other half just waitin' for the hangman. So why the hell should I make this any different?"

Roy sits with Joseph, detailing the crimes of his past and the events of the past four days.

“I love that woman, sir,” he says earnestly.

“She don’t know who you are. She never goes to town. If she knew-”

“She knows. Sir, I just wanna start over.”

“Start over here? With my damn sister-in-law? My nephews?”

“However I can.”

TWO YEARS LATER

Roy and Joe ride up and tie off their horses– Roy’s Banjo and Joe’s Washboard– they can hear the boys running toward them.

“Uncle Joe, Uncle Joe!” Dell shouts, speeding to hug his uncle.

“Hey, buddy. Whew, you gettin’ tall.” 

“Daddy!”

“Hey, Delly. Where’s your brother?”

“You better wash up, Mama says it’s time for breakfast,” Tommy calls matter-of-factly.

The two men wash up and Tommy plates up the food. He puts down plates, fried eggs for each of you– except for him, he only likes his scrambled– with grits. 

“Mama!”

You come out from the room holding your baby son– your little Petey– on your hip. 

“Hey, honey,” you greet Roy. 

He grins and kisses your cheek, taking Petey from your arms. 

“There he is. There’s my boy. Hey, Petey.”

Petey babbles, reaching for Roy’s face.

“Can we go ridin’ today, Daddy?” Dell asks. 

“If we can keep up with Tommy ‘n Tambourine, sure we can,” he answers. 

Tommy beams.

“You’re gettin’ so good on him, baby.”

“Thanks, Mama. I just um… just learned to talk to him.”

Roy grins, sitting Petey on his lap. 

“You makin’ that baby fat, woman,” Joe jokes, mouthful of food.

“Uncle Joe, you’re not ‘posed to talk with your mouthful,” Dell reminds him.

Joe glares at you as you look at your plate, trying to hide a smile. 

“Nah, he’s perfect.”

Roy looks at his son, then back to you. You, glowing in your happiness and your safety. You who cradles his boy and loves him until your dying days.

The four men look out at the ridge to see a mid-sized ranch that seems fairly empty. A small herd of cattle graze on a patch of brownish grass. Two riders on horseback corral the animals with the help of a dog. Looking longer, Roy realises one is a horse and the other is a pony, and both riders are young boys. Neither one can be any older than twelve, and the one on the pony is especially little.

“If it’s just them herdin’, prob’ly they’re the only men down there” he says out loud. 

“Might be,” Frank agrees. “You think their mama’d be kind enough to give us some shelter for the night? Maybe patch you up?”

“I’m fine.” 

“I think let’s find out,” Gatz grunts.

Your youngest son Wendell sits at the table, exhausted.

“That’s good work you done out there, boys,” you say. 

You wipe Dell’s face with a wet towel, kissing him on the head.

“Thank you, Mama,” he chirps, panting. 

“Of course, baby.” 

Your older boy Thomas cleans off his own face, and you put a cup of water in front of him. Tommy drinks it down, wiping off his mouth.

“When’s Uncle Joe comin’ back?” Dell asks, his voice dry from the dust. 

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” you tell him softly. “But if we really need him, we can send a telegram to Corpus Christi.”

“Okay.”

“Now, who’s gonna say grace?”

“Oh, me, me!” Dell volunteers.

You all grasp hands and hear the sound of hooves beating on the ground. 

“You think that’s him?”

“Prob’ly just people goin’ West. Go on, baby.”

“Thanks for all the food and watch over all the horses and the chickens and Mama and Uncle Joe and Tommy and Daddy in heaven-”

Tommy clears his throat and nods to the dog by the window.

“And Dusty. Amen.” 

The sound of horses gets closer, and you can feel the earth moving. Tommy jumps up to peek out the window.

“It’s four men comin’ this way,” he relays grimly.

“You think they’re Texas Rangers? Maybe they know Uncle Joe!” 

Two of the men dismount and walk up to the door. An older man and a younger one. Your heart pounds.

“You two sit now. I’ll go talk to ‘em.”

“I’m the man of the house,” Tommy insists.

“I said sit.”

You open and close the front door, looking out.

Roy thinks you look like a scared lizard, your eyes wide and blinking. Like you might dart off if they take another step forward. He expected to see a rugged Western wife, but you’re lovely. Your hair frames your sweet face, and your eyes are lit by the golden warmth of the setting sun. You’re young for a mother of two, but he won’t ask.

“Evenin’, ma’am.” 

“Evenin’. How can I help you gentlemen?”

The older man smiles at you. He’s got a short gray beard and wears a Stetson. The younger man has a wide brimmed one with a tie hanging loose under his chin. Stormy eyes look at you from under that brim, and scruffy bronze facial hair adorns his lip and chin. 

“Ma’am, I’m Frank Griffin, this here’s my son Roy. That’s Gatz, and that’s Floyd.”

Roy manages to hide his surprise at Frank using their real names. Your face didn’t change when he said it, though. Either you know already and you’re smart enough not to react, or you don’t know at all. He can see you’re frightened. You’d have to be crazy not to be. 

You squeak out your name, giving the last name your late husband gave you, Redd. 

“Your husband here, ma’am?” Frank asks. 

Your eyes flick away.

“I… I’m a widow, sir.”

“Very sorry to hear that.”

“This’s my brother-in-law’s ranch.”

“He here?”

“Not presently, sir. He’s on business,” you lie. 

“Those two we seen herdin’ cattle, they yours?”

“Yes, they’re my boys,” you confirm. 

“You ‘n them ‘lil boys runnin’ this whole place alone?” 

“We manage, sir,” you say. 

You try to present an air of comfort. As though you are not terrified and your heart is not pounding at four strange men in the dark of night searching for shelter. As though you are not one lone woman with two little boys alone on a cattle ranch one hour from any other people. 

“Are you Texas Rangers?” the smaller boy shouts from the window. 

“Dell, I told you sit,” you scold them softly.

“C’mon out here, son.” 

You don’t like these men addressing your boys, but Dell scurries out to your side, his brother on the other side.

“This is Wendell and Thomas,” you introduce them, a hand on Dell’s head and Tommy’ shoulder. “Boys, this is Mr. Griffin.” 

Roy can tell you’re gripping them tight, like any one of their gang might lunge forward and snatch them up from your arms. Dell hugs your leg and stares with wide eyes, but he doesn’t look scared. Tommy scowls at them. 

“Whew. You two are some strong young men.” 

“I ain’t a man, I’m only six,” Dell says. 

“Taller ‘n I was that age,” Roy jokes.

He sees the boy grin at that, and that he’s missing a tooth on the top and bottom. 

Tommy glares at them. A dog growls from inside.

“You tell that dog to stop it now,” you chide.

Tommy whistles and the dog whimpers, then quiets. 

“How old’re you, boy?” Frank asks, an odd grin on his face.

Tommy crosses his arms.

“Nine, and I’ll be ten in April,” he answers, puffing his chest. 

“Man of the house, ain’t you?” Frank says, which makes the boy hide a grin. 

“You fellas lookin’ for some place to stay?”

Frank nods.

“That we are, Mrs. Redd. Reckon it’ll storm tonight.” 

“I got no food to spare.”

“No need,” Gatz starts.

“We got our own,” Floyd finishes.

“But I got some room in the barn- oh, Lord, are you bleedin’?”

You point to Roy’s side. You can see he’s soaked through his shirt, and the bulge of bandages wrapped beneath.

“Ain’t nothin’-”

“No, please, come in. Y’all can tie up your horses and settle up in that barn,” you tell the two other men.

“That’s very kind, ma’am, thank you,” Frank says.

Your boys sit and eat their supper as you carefully clean Roy’s bloody wound. You know this is what a fresh graze from a bullet looks like, you saw enough on your husband and his brother. 

Roy can tell you’ve dealt with an injury like this.

“Are you Rangers?” Dell asks again, a splotch of soup by his mouth.

“Eat your supper, baby. Don’t bother them.”

You look up and meet eyes with Tommy.

“Would you clean his face?” 

Tommy takes a cloth and wipes the food off of his brother’s face. 

“You pretty good on that pony, for a boy your age,” Roy tells the younger boy.

“His name is Samson, cause Uncle Joe used to have a doggy called Delilah too.”

“Young man knows his Bible.”

“Mhm! Uncle Joe taught me.”

Roy hisses when the wet cloth touches his wound.

“I’m sorry. I-I’ll try to be gentle,” you comfort him softly. 

“Nothin’ I can’t handle, ma’am.” 

“Is it really just you three out here all alone?” Frank asks her.

Tommy stares at the two men. 

“Well, my brother-in-law is here, usually.”

You glance at Frank. You can tell these men are no good. Wicked men always have a silver tongue and a kind smile. But your little boys are so tired. You can’t spend another morning coaxing them out of bed and drying tears. 

“If y’all could help any with the land, I’d be inclined to let y’all stay longer.”

Your voice drops.

“Them two can’t do all this alone. And you fellas seem strong-”

“We’ll help,” Roy speaks before Frank can, gazing at you. 

Frank side-eyes him, and smiles at you. He knows Roy has a soft spot for pretty women who need help, and it’s gotten them in trouble more times than he’d like.

“Why of course, ma’am.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You tie a bandage over Roy’s cut and stand.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Wendell holds out his bowl.

“All done!”

“You ate it all? You were really hungry, huh?”

“Mhm.”

You take his bowl and kiss him on the head, wiping his mouth with your apron. 

“I’m tired, Mama,” Dell whines.

“Let’s wash up and we’ll get you and Tommy in bed.”

“I ain’t tired,” Tommy grumbles. 

“Well, wash up anyway and you can read for a little while, alright?”

“Do we hafta?” 

“Yes, we do.”

“That’s a smart lady, your mama. Hygiene is important, son,” Frank urges.

“That’s right.”

Dell reaches up and you sigh.

“You too big, sugar,” you tell him softly. You pick him up anyway, you can never say no to your sweet boy. He rests his head on your shoulder. “Say goodnight now, boys.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Griffin.”

Tommy stares at them.

“Night.”

“G’night,” Frank and Roy mumble.

“I’ll get them settled and bring you some blankets. I only have a few.”

“We’ll be appreciative of anythin’ you can spare, ma’am.”

They smoke together outside of the barn as they watch the shape of you move in the window. You tuck Dell in and kiss his head, then put out the lamp by his bed. 

“You like that filly,” Frank tells Roy.

“Maybe.”

“She’s the kind you like,” Gatz teases.

“What’s that mean?”

“You like them scared ones. The ones who need a hero.”

“I ain’t no hero.”

“We know you ain’t,” Floyd grumbles.

“I like how she is with them boys. Real gentle.”

Gatz scoffs.

“What?”

“Goode wants a mama,” he jokes to Floyd.

“Real sweet, Roy.”

“Mr. Griffin,” you call.

“Mrs. Redd.”

You walk over to them carrying a basket and a lantern.

“Some blankets for you. Some uh, extra socks too.”

“Socks?”

“Ridin’ men always need socks,” you say knowingly. 

You aren’t wrong. Roy can feel his toes touching the inside of his boots.

“Mighty thoughtful, ma’am,” Frank tells her.

“I put an extra bandage in there for you,” you say to Roy.

He feels strange under your gaze. You look at him like a wounded animal, or a spooked stallion ready to kick. 

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be up at dawn for the chickens. Boys need help with the cattle the most. The horses-”

“Our boy Roy is mighty fine with horses,” Gatz adds.

“I’ll take any help I can get,” you sigh in full honesty. “Well, goodnight. Please um… let me know tomorrow if you need anything else.”

“Night, ma’am.”

“Goodnight.”

You turn back and head to the house. They watch the light go out. Gatz and Floyd turn in, leaving Frank alone with Roy. He sighs, shaking his head.

“I think she’s hidin’ somethin’.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“She wouldn’t look you in the eye.”

“Suppose she was just scared?”

He shakes his head.

“No, this was different.”

“Hm.”

“I don’t want them botherin’ her,” Roy grits, jerks his thumb back to the barn where Gatz and Floyd sleep, “or them ‘lil boys.” 

“I’ll see to it. We best get to bed if we’re playin’ ranch hands tomorrow.”

“G’night, Frank.”

“Goodnight, son.”

The next morning the men rise with the rooster and the roadrunners. The four men make their way over to the house, dressed and ready. Frank opens the door and they see the two boys eating breakfast, bed-headed and droopy-eyed.

“I wanna go back to sleep, Mama,” Dell complains softly. 

“You don’t hafta work so hard today, baby. We got a lotta help.”

“Sirs,” Tommy greets them.

You turn around, surprised.

“I’m sorry, I would have fixed somethin’ for you, but we-”

“No need, ma’am, we had some jerky.”

“I did brew some coffee, if you’d like that.”

“That’d be very nice,” Gatz says.

Roy feels uneasy watching Gatz and Floyd play at being gentlemen. 

You pour the men coffee as they crowd around your table, only Frank sits in one of the two empty chairs.

You hand Tommy his hat and kneel to help Dell pull on his suspenders as he sniffles and rubs at his eyes.

“Oh, my big brave boy,” you coo quietly. 

You brush the hair from his face and put his hat on. You pretend to gasp, putting both hands over your heart in mock fear. 

“Why, it’s that wicked outlaw, Texas Redd!”

He cracks a smile at the game and points a finger at you, pretending it’s a gun. 

“We’re gonna get all your cows!”

“Don’t rustle up all my cattle, outlaw, I beg you,” you continue.

“Only if you make us cornbread,” his brother adds to the game, pointing his finger and thumb just the same.

“Oh, whatever will I do?” you glance at Roy with a cheeky smile.

“Cowboys cain’t help you now, lady,” Tommy says in a thicker twang. 

Dell breaks his scowl and giggles, hugging you. Roy can’t help but grin at how sweet it all is, how he longed for love like that when he was a kid.

“It’s just me and Tommy, Mama,” Dell tells you, taking off his hat. 

“Oh, I was so frightened,” you play along even more. 

You kiss his cheek and lightly push him to the door.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, Mama!” 

Tommy turns and you look at him expectantly. He bristles and kisses your cheek.

“I love you, Tommy.” 

“I love you, Mama,” he mumbles, hiding under the brim of his hat, embarrassed. 

“C’mon,” he grumbles to his brother, and whistles to the dog, “let’s go, Dusty.”

The boys walk out and you watch Tommy help Dell saddle on the pony, smiling at them.

“Go with ‘em,” Frank says to Gatz and Floyd. 

They finish their coffee, joining the boys.

“Six and nine, they said?” Frank asks.

You nod.

“Tommy is my stepson, actually. His mama passed just before I met my husband, he was only a baby. So… I’m the only mama he’s ever known. Dell’s mine.”

“How long has it been since your husband passed?”

“About one year. We were livin’ with their grandmother a while, in Texas.”

You wipe at a stray tear.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. Awful thing, losin’ a love,” Frank says. 

“It’s hard. Real hard, ‘specially with Joseph gone.”

You smile at your boys, watching them ride.

“But my little fella is happy as can be.”

“Does he leave often? Your brother-in-law?”

You blink, like you were in a trance.

“He comes and goes.” 

You’re lying again, your eyes on the mug of coffee in your hands.  

“We should get to work.”

The men ride circles around the boys. Eventually, Tommy rides over and slumps down by you at the bench on the porch. He takes off his hat and pats the dust off. You give him a cup of water that he guzzles down quickly. 

“You’re ridin’ that horse well, baby.” 

Tommy ignores your compliment. 

“I don’t like the way he looks at you, Mama,” he says, nodding to Roy. 

The cowboy is gazing at you as he follows your little boy around on his pony. You laugh softly at your son’s naïvety.

“That’s just how men look at women, sweetheart.” 

You know all kinds of looks, true, but the kind Roy is giving you is a strange one. 

“Uncle Joe don’t look at you like that.”

“Well, Joe sees me as his sister, seein’ as I was married to his brother.”

“I think they’re bad men, Mama.”

“I think they’re lost, Tommy.”

“What if they killed people?”

“Joe kills.” 

“That ain’t the same.” 

“How?”

“Uncle Joe’s a Ranger. He’s fightin’ for somethin’. Bad men kill for nothin’.”

You sit with it for a moment. Maybe your boy isn’t as innocent as you wished. You remember Joe telling Tommy what had happened to his father. 

Joe’s brother. Your husband. 

Your little boy took those words like a man, stoic and strong. But you know he crawled under your covers and cried on your shoulder all night long. 

“I promise we’re safe, honey.”

He nods and puts on his hat again. You pat his shoulder. 

“Get on back out there. I’m gonna go feed the horses.”

You put a scoop of feed into each horse’s bucket hung on the front door of each stall. There’s three left when Tommy rides the buckskin and Dell takes the pony. A palomino, a pinto, and a roan that Joseph calls Banjo, Fiddle, and Lady. 

“They’re good lookin’ horses,” Roy says.

You flinch and put a hand to your heart.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am.”

“I’m easily frightened. Just like Lady over there.”

“She’s the only female?”

“She was a gift. I was too scared of Banjo and Fiddle, there. Tommy’s horse and Dell’s pony were, too.”

“Your brother-in-law sounds like a good man.”

“He didn’t like me at first.”

“Why’s that?”

You hesitate.

“I was… um, I was engaged when my husband met me.”

Roy’s eyebrows raise.

“He was a wicked man. Pete saved me from him.”

He nods somberly, feeling some pity as he does. He approaches the palomino, shushing it as he pets it on the muzzle. 

“So… is this Banjo or Fiddle?”

“That one’s Banjo.”

He chuckles at the name, eyes on the animal.

“He’s a real menace, that horse. He kicks hard.” 

“Aw, I bet I could handle him.”

“I’m better with people than horses.”

“Well, that’s alright. I’d say I’m the opposite.”

“I think you make fine conversation, sir.”  

Roy feels something tugging at his heartstrings. Something raw and ugly. He tugs down the brim of his hat and focuses on the horse.

“You mind if I take him out?”

“If you don’t mind gettin’ bucked.” 

“I can handle buckin’, ma’am.” 

He glances back and sees you looking away, flushed and embarrassed. Oh, hell. 

Roy rides out to the edge of the land, where the wire fence blocks your livestock from roaming free. He sees a lone coyote out on a ridge, and draws his gun to shoot by its feet and spook it. He thinks about how scared you and the boys would be at the sound of gunshot, and slips the weapon back to its holster. 

Roy knows who he is, knows what he is. For some reason, even with this sick soul inside of him, he wants to show you kindness. To shelter you and your boys from Frank, Gatz, Floyd, the twins, every filthy outlaw in their gang. 

Hell, even his own damn self. 

“Let’s g’on back now,” he tells Banjo, patting his side and giving him a light squeeze with his legs. 

He brings Banjo into the stable and dismounts, gently leading him to his stall.

“Why, Mr. Banjo, I had no idea you could be so friendly,” you joke, Dell at your side. He rubs his eyes, his hat in his hand.

“He alright?”

“Oh, he just needs a nap is all.”

“No! I’m not tired,” he protests

“C’mon inside, and I’ll getcha some water.”

Roy follows you and Dell drags his feet. 

“Baby, you’re gettin’ too big for me to carry you now-” 

Roy lifts the boy up, throwing him over his shoulder playfully. Dell giggles, kicking his feet. 

“It’s naptime, boy,” Roy teases. 

“No!” 

He carries Dell upstairs and lightly tosses him on the bed. He lands on his back and blinks slowly. 

Roy ducks out of the room and closes the door. 

“But I’m not tired, Mama,” the boy protests.

“I know, baby. But let’s try anyway, okay?”

A moment later, you open the door and close it. You smile at Roy.

“Thank you,” you mouth to him. 

He shrugs and gives you a grin.  

You both head downstairs and you pour him a cup of water. 

“Could I ask you a favor, Mr. Griffin?”

“I’m Goode, actually.”

“Pardon?”

“My name, ma’am. It’s Roy Goode, not Griffin.”

“Oh. Mister… Goode.” 

He raises his brow in a gesture for you to speak. You take a breath.

“I ain’t been able to stock up in town with Joe gone. I can’t leave the boys alone and we can’t leave the animals. Would you… come with me tomorrow?” 

“Of course.”

You stand in front of him as he sits. 

“I ain’t stupid, y’know. I know what y’all are.”

“Ma’am-”

“I just said I ain’t stupid.”

He feels like a little boy being scolded. 

“Don’t gotta worry about me tellin’ nobody.”

You look at him with pleading eyes.

“Are my boys safe if we leave?”

Your tone is tense, serious.

“Yes-” 

“I mean it. They’re all I got,” you insist, voice breaking. “I got a Winchester in here. I don’t know how to use it, but that won’t stop me firin’.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Roy walks over to Frank, who’s sitting with Tommy as he drinks from a canteen. 

“My daddy was six feet tall, so I reckon I’m gonna be ‘bout that.”

“That right?”

“Frank,” Roy calls.

“Hey, son.”

“Where’s Dell?” Tommy asks.

“Your mama put him down for a nap.”

The boy scoffs. 

“Dang crybaby,” he mutters, putting his hat on. “C’mon, Dusty.”

The dog follows him and Roy looks at Frank.

“Widow asked me to take her to town tomorrow morning. To stock up.”

“That’s alright. Rest of the boys should be comin’ up on us in three days or so. I think I’ll send Gatz out to find ‘em.”

“Don’t bring ‘em here,” Roy says firmly. 

“No. Not yet.” 

“I mean not at all, Frank.” 

Frank eyes him.

“You gettin’ real bold, Roy.”

“She’s a nice lady, and she’s scared enough.”

“You sure it’s a good idea to go to town? Might be wanted posters around.”

“Shit, Frank. Might as well be in Texas, this close to the border.”

Frank raises a brow. 

“I’ll wear my hat ‘n keep my head down.”

The next day you deal with more tears rousing your little ranch hands. Dell can't stand the idea of you leaving, bawling as you cradle him in your lap.

“It’s only for a little while, baby-” 

“No, Mama, d-don’t go,” he cries. “What if there’s a coyote?” 

You wipe his face with your apron and kiss his forehead.

“Mr. Goode is comin’ with me.”

“What can Mr. Goode do?” Tommy mutters, side-eyeing the outlaw. 

Roy slowly pulls out his pistol, putting it on the table. Your older boy’s eyes go wide. 

“Ain’t no coyotes gettin’ past me, boy.” 

Roy lets Dell reach out and touch it. He pulls his hand back fast like the metal is red hot, retreating into your grasp.

“I’ll be back real quick, baby. Mr. Goode is gonna keep me very, very safe.”

“You swear?” Tommy asks. 

“Cross my heart,” Roy answers, drawing an x over his chest. 

You ride into town with Roy, which is really just a small outpost with an inn, a general store, and a Western Union office. 

You tie up your horses and step into the general store.

“Mrs. Redd. Been a while,” the girl at the counter says. 

“Irene, honey. You’re gettin’ tall.”

She eyes Roy.

“Um, this is my new ranch-hand, Mr. Smith.”

Roy is impressed that you know to use a fake name, but still tilts his hat down. 

“Well, what can I get for you?”

You give her the list. Feed, oats, rice, flour, molasses, beans, and salt. Some salted pork and beef, too. Roy looks around the shop. 

“You got bullets?” he asks. 

“For huntin’ rifles ‘n shotguns, yeah. Just over there.” 

“And whatever he grabs too, Irene.”

“Sure thing.”

Roy helps you fix everything over Lady’s saddle and you head back. 

Tommy gets his horse Tambourine settled in the stall as he hears the sound of horses coming near.

You and Roy ride up, and he helps you unload. Both horses are carrying a lot, which they’re happy to be free of. Roy takes Lady to the stable and gets her in her stall, Banjo follows.

“Hey, Tommy.”

“Mister,” Tommy greets him.

“Your mama’s gettin’ supper started.”

Tommy glares at him.

“She wanted your help, I think.”

“Hmph.”

The boy treads out, his dog following. 

You wait on the porch.

“Mr. Goode,” you call as he passes.

“Ma’am?”

“I’m fixin’ supper for everyone, if you wanna tell yours to wash up ‘n join us.”

“That’s mighty kind of you. I’ll fetch ‘em.” 

You have no extra chairs, so the men eat standing, save for Frank.

“You boys were hungry, huh?” you ask as they wolf down the chili you made.

“Thank you, Mama,” Dell chirps.

“You’re welcome, baby.” 

“This is some good cooking, ma’am.”

Gatz and Floyd nod and hum in agreement. 

“This is so damn good,” Roy groans, his mouth full.

You blink in surprise and Tommy shoots Roy a look.

“You ain’t ‘posed to swear ‘round ladies,” the boy says, no doubt repeating your words. 

“Not ‘posed to talk with your mouth full neither!” Dell adds. 

“Boys,” you chide them softly.

“Sorry, ma’am.” 

“Oh, I’m just glad you like it,” you say softly, unable to meet his eye.

“You’re raisin’ up two fine young men, Mrs. Redd.” 

“Thank you.”

You carry Dell on your hip as supper finishes up. He rests his head against your shoulder, drifting off.

“Say goodnight, now.”

“Goodnight!”

The men mutter their own goodnights, and Tommy nods to them quietly. 

“Night, Mama.” “Goodnight, baby,” you tell him, kissing his head. He goes upstairs. 

The men collect their things and leave slowly. Roy takes his sweet time, wanting to linger in your presence just a bit longer. 

“Mama, can I have a story?” Dell asks. 

“Yeah, baby. Which one?”

Dell whispers in your ear and your eyebrows raise as your eyes flick to Roy.

“Mr. Goode?”

“Ma’am?”

“Would you… mind readin’ Wendell a story before you turn in?” 

Roy knows he can’t read, but he’s sure Frank has told him enough Bible stories that he could repeat one. He smiles at the boy.

“Sure, kid.”

You tuck in Dell and sit on his bed, brushing the hair from his face. Roy watches your careful fingers flip through a well-loved, leather-bound Bible. The pages are crinkled and a few of the corners folded in. Roy’s eyes pass over the words, though he doesn’t know what they say.

“Which story do you want, baby?”

“I want Mr. Goode to tell one…”

“He’s gonna read it.” 

“No, I want him to tell a story.” 

“Oh.”

You glance at Roy, with that sweet embarrassed look on your face.

“You don’t have to, Mr. G-”

“Hey, that’s alright. Lemme think’a one.” 

Your little boy claps his hands together. 

Roy leans back in the chair, thinking of a story. You can’t help but shift at the way his legs are spread wide and the stance he takes, hands rubbing up and down his thighs in thought. He points at Dell, clicking his tongue.

“Now, I’ll tell you this story, boy. But you gotta promise me you’ll never do what I did.”

Dell nods, grinning. 

Roy spins a yarn, intriguing both you and your son. It’s tense and even a little spooky, making the boy hide under his blankets. Roy leans forward, an elbow on his knee. Your heart aches watching your baby drift off to the outlaw’s voice, remembering when Peter used to tell Tommy about his adventures around Texas. 

“And that’s that,” Roy finishes in a soft voice, Dell curled up on his side.

“Goodnight, baby,” you murmurs, kissing his forehead and smoothing a hand over his hair.

You both exit the room, closing his door quietly.

“Thank you, Mr. Goode,” you say as you descend the stairs. 

“Anytime.”

You linger for a moment, looking at each other in the low light of your kitchen. It feels like each of you is waiting for the other to speak as you stand there.

“He likes you,” you finally break the silence, and the eye contact.

“He’s a good kid, they both are. And you’re a good mama.”  

“I do my best.”

“I was an orphan. And if anyone loved me as much as you love those boys?” 

He sucks his teeth.

“Shit, I’d be a different man.” 

“I had no kin when Peter met me, I just got too much love to give, I suppose.”

You look up at him and kiss his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mr. Goode”

You pull back and he grabs your wrist, meeting your eyes.

“You can call me Roy.” 

He feels your warm breath puff against his chin.

You tell him to call you by your name, your voice faint. 

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“G’night.” 

He speaks your name softly, right against your skin. 

“Goodnight, Roy,” you breathe.

The next day is more of the same. The men mutter to each other as they work and drink your coffee. You hope it isn’t laced with the acrid taste of your fear. You feel something terrible coming, a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach that danger is lurking just over that hill.

That evening, you sit up at night, looking out at the empty corral from the bench on your porch.

“You up mighty late,” Roy says softly.

“Roy.”

“Mind if I join you?” 

“Please.”

He steps up to join you on the porch. 

“I can’t sleep,” you tell him.

He sighs and leans on the wall next to you. You hesitate.

“Sit with me,” you urge him softly.

He takes a seat on the bench. 

“I was sixteen when I met that man, the one who I was gonna marry,” you start. “Now I got no kin, so… I think I’ll be a nun, so I’m on my way to a church in Illinois, but I meet a man called Rip Carter at the train station. He takes me in. Not like a daddy. He wants me too much to make it like that. Six months later, I’m in a nice new dress in a ginhouse in Texas and I’m there to make men spend money on… blackjack, faro, craps. Nobody lays a hand on me- because Rip would put a bullet through ‘em if they did, I just talk sweet and bring them to the tables.”

Roy shifts in place. 

“Rip says he’s gonna marry me. He just keeps sayin’ it for a few years, but he don’t do it. And then a man called Peter Redd comes in… and everythin’ is just different about him. He’s older than me, big ‘n tall. ‘Bout six feet. The sorta man that could really hurt me if he wanted. But he’s kind. He don’t look at me like I’m supper. And I want him to take me upstairs, I really do. And he whisks me to his hotel room across the street, and he… he’s so gentle with me. So tender. ‘Course… he’s extra gentle cause his wife has just passed, and his mother is with his new baby boy. And this big man, this Texas Ranger, he just breaks down ‘n cries. I know he’s gonna be my husband that night.”

Roy moves closer to you, leaning forward.

“And I tell him so in the morning. I say, ‘sir, I think I’m meant to be your wife’. And he laughs. But he thinks about it, he really does. I tell him… I’ll be a mama for that baby, and you ain’t lived till you tasted my chili.”

Roy chuckles.

“I know that’s right.”

“And he says yes. Now Rip don’t like that none, seein’ as I’m makin’ him two hundred dollars in a week.”

Two hundred. Holy shit, Roy thinks.

“Course I don’t really get any of it. Rip keeps most of it, gives me a few dollars when I ask for it. He tries to make a fuss and Pete socks him in the face. And he takes me away to Lubbock the next day. We’re married in a week, and next thing I know I’m swaddlin’ Tommy and I’m fallin’ asleep in Pete’s arms.”

Roy puts a hand over yours. 

“Sounds like you need someone to take care of you,” he murmurs. 

You look at him for a moment and nod thoughtfully.

“Joe tries. He even asked if I wanted to get married, just so… I wouldn’t be alone, so the boys would have a daddy. But he’s like a brother, and he ain’t nothin’ but an uncle. He’s kind, though.” 

Roy’s never been particularly kind to anyone since he joined up with Frank. He doesn’t care for whoring like the other men, but he likes a good woman now and again. He can’t say he’s any kind to them either. 

“I… I’d like to take care of you,” he tells you cautiously, eyes on your lips.

They sit in a soft pout as you look at him.

“Just… for tonight? Please?” he asks, voice just above a whisper.

He would never let the other men hear him talk to a woman like this. He’s just too proud.

You touch his face, your thumb swiping over his cheek.

“The boys are upstairs,” you whisper. 

“I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” he insists, an inch from your lips.

You take his hand and tug him. He follows gladly as you make their way to your bedroom.

It’s modest and simple. When he sees a bed big enough for two people, he realises this must be Joseph’s room. The door closes and he holds your face, finally kissing you. You lean into it, your breath hitching when he puts his hands on your hips. He holds you tight, one hand pressing on the small of your back.

“Be gentle with me,” you plead softly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He pushes down his suspenders and unbuttons his shirt, tossing it on the floor. He pulls up his undershirt and you hesitate before unbuttoning your dress. He helps you, undoing the ties underneath and leaving you bare in front of him.

“Siddown, darlin’,” Roy husks.

You could melt at the sweet name, sitting on the bed. He sinks to his knees in front of you and parts your legs.

“Roy,” you squeak out.

“Just lemme look atcha.”

He groans, seeing your glistening, wet cunt.

“Oh, baby,” he purrs. “You’re soakin’.” 

You squirm in place and he licks his lips.

“She ever been licked?” he husks. 

You hide your face and shake your head.

He groans at the thought of being the first man to service you like this.

“Lemme do my damndest then.” 

You pant, hands planted on the bed. He moves closer on his knees, hooking his hands below your thighs to bring you to the edge of the bed.

“Now you just put these legs up here on my shoulders like so,” he explains, kissing your inner thigh. “And don’t be afraid to grab my hair.” 

“I don’t wanna hurt you-”

He looks up at you.

“That ain’t gonna hurt me.”

He leans in, parting you with his fingers. He presses a soft kiss to your clit, making you jolt. You cover your mouth.

“Oh!”

He licks a stripe upward, swirling his tongue around your clit. He pushes in a finger and curls it up.

“God, that f-feels so go-od,” you moans out, praising him. 

His hand grips your thigh tighter as his tongue slips inside of you, making you gasp and card your fingers through his hair. You grab a handful of his bronze curls and your grip tightens as he licks at your clit again. 

“Oh, Roy… yes, honey, right there. Oh… y-yes…” 

Your pitch changes as he adds another finger, pressing around for that soft spot that makes ladies go wild. 

He curls his fingers and you yank on his hair, clapping a hand over your mouth. 

He moans against you and you feel faint. You slowly lay back and buck your hips against his face.

“Please, darlin’, I gotta taste you cummin’ on my tongue,” he urges, his tongue pushing inside of you. 

You twitch and twist your upper body, gasping. 

“Don’t stop, Roy, right there,” you pant as quietly as you can. 

He won’t stop, not until he’s drunk up every drop he can get. He feels like he’s been walking through the desert for years and he’s finally tasting water. 

“Give it to me, c’mon,” he begs you, panting against your bare skin. 

His hips rock in place as he searches for some kind of friction. Your thighs squeeze the sides of his head. He’d take dying here like this over a hangman any day. 

“Yes, honey… oh, you- shit, Roy, yes!” 

You grab your pillow, muffling yourself with fabric and feathers. He feels you bucking against his face and holds your hips to the bed, kissing your center softly as you pant, coming down. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he murmurs against your thigh. “Fuck, thank you.” 

He looks up at you with eager eyes that make you laugh hoarsely. You sit up and wince, and look down at him.

“Ain’t you handsome like that?” you say softly, cupping his face with one cheek. He pushes into your touch. He needs you to touch him all over, to talk to him in that sweet voice. 

You point to the rag in the wash basin on the chest of drawers. 

“Clean your face off so I can kiss you.”

He darts over, wiping off his mouth and chin so he can crawl on the bed and kiss you again. You lay back, arms open and waiting for him. 

“C’mere,” you urge him.

He stops between your legs, still panting. Your delicate hands undo his britches and pull them down. He looks away. It’s too gentle. 

“Oh, wow,” you gasp quietly.

“What?”

“Don’t tell me no lady never told you it’s big.”

He hides a grin and you swat his bare thigh, making him twitch.

“Don’t be prideful now.”

He moves closed and you grip him at the base to line him up. You're so wet, your thighs sticky and shiny with your own slick. He groans, his eyes shutting. He thrusts to find purchase and you both gasp when he does. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers. 

He pushes in and out, rocking slightly as he pushes in further.

“You takin’ it s-so good,” he stammers, overwhelmed by the feeling.

He wants to play the suave outlaw and have you begging for him. Gatz’ words bounce around in his head. Goode wants a mama.

You rest your palms on his chest as he slides in, skin to skin, flush against each other. 

“You so tight, darlin’,” he mumbles. 

He lets out a quiet wince, looking at the place you connect. 

You sigh contentedly, giving him a soft kiss. He huffs, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“You got me filled right up, cowboy,” you murmur. 

He nods silently. You hold him as he rocks into you, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“Y’so damn pretty,” he breathes, kissing your neck and collarbone.

“Y-you just keep on like that,” you encourage him, pressing your hands to his chest. 

He lifts your hips into his lap, planting his arms on either side of you. You bite your lip, looking at his bicep. He pushes a little noise out of you every time he leans in again, peppering your face with kisses as he does. You giggle, a light, soft sound. One that reminds him you’re around the same age.

He feels your fingers touch the scar on his side. He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles, burying himself in you once again. You lead his hand between your legs and he brushes at your clit, making you buck up and grab his arm.

“Oh, Roy… oh, y-you’re doin’ so good, honey,” you praise him.

He can’t help the whimper that leaves him when you hold his face and look at him so sweetly. His hips stutter and he roughly circles your clit as he chases his release.

“Cum for me, honey, please,” he begs you, face against your chest. “Please, I-I gotta feel you ‘round me ‘fore I pull out, please…” 

“Shit,” you hiss. You dig your nails into his shoulder, holding him tight as you tense up.

Your cunt throbs, milking his cock tightly, gushing on him. He kisses you and swallows down your moans and the squeaky whine you make when he grinds against you, filling you up all the way.

“‘S too much, ‘s too much, I-I gotta- fuck,” he babbles, pushing back to pull himself out. He grunts, spilling on your bare thigh. 

You're shaking and sweating, panting as you look up at him. 

“Damn,” you sigh, laughing.

You both wash up with the cloth and basin. You admire his bare body and how carefully he cleans himself.

You kiss his cheek as you pull your nightgown on.

You share the bed together, tucked into his side. You're sweet like this. Like you finally get a moment to be free, to be taken care of. He could play daddy if he tried hard enough, he thinks. 

He thinks he’d do just about anything for you now. 

“Mama?” Dell’s voice sounds from outside your door.

“Shit. Go out the window,” you whisper. 

He opens the window and climbs out, pulling on his shirt as he does. You lean out and give him a kiss before turning around. He waits under the window, listening. 

You open the door and see Dell clutching the little quilt his grandmother made when he was born. You kneel down. 

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“Yeah,” he pouts, nodding. 

You kiss his head.

“I dreamed I got bit by a rattlesnake and it hurt, Mama,” he cries. 

“Oh, baby. You want to sleep with me tonight?”

“Mhm…” 

Roy sleeps in the barn, hat over his eyes. He dreams about you, your hands, your sweet voice.

In his dreams, he’s teaching your boys to ride proper. He’s tending the ranch with you and the boys. At night you share supper, and Wendell sits on his knee as he tells stories. There’s no Frank, no gang, just you and him and these boys. Your belly, round with his baby, and your pretty face being the last thing he sees at night and the first thing he sees in the morning. 

Roy never imagined himself as a father, but he could be. Just maybe.

The crisp winter air carried the scent of woodsmoke and decaying leaves, a fitting backdrop for the warmth that had taken root in your heart. You’d spent the afternoon with the Hendersons, cooing over their newborn son, his tiny fists waving in the air. It was a familiar, wonderful ache, one that you knew well. You and Patrick already had your own sweet joy, your daughter, a little girl of three with your eyes and Patrick’s tinge of red hair. Watching her sleep in her bed just last night had filled you with a love so profound it hurt.

You thought of your daughter, an only child, and imagined her as a big sister, her small hands carefully holding a baby, her voice whispering secrets to a new sibling. The thought completed a picture in your heart you hadn't realized was unfinished.

Now, you sat by the fire in the parlor, the house quiet save for the crackle of the flames and the scratch of Patrick’s pen. He was hunched over his desk, a good, steady man, the best father you could have imagined for your little girl. You watched the firelight catch the dark strands of his hair, and the longing intensified. A brother or sister for your daughter. Another piece of him and you.

Rising from your chair, you went to him, your hands resting on his broad shoulders. He stopped writing, leaning into your touch with a soft sigh.

"What is it, my love?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head, your fingers tracing the line of his tense shoulders. "Just thinking," you murmured, your lips brushing against his hair. He tilted his head back to look up at you, his dark eyes warm in the firelight, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

"About what?" he asked, his voice a low vibration you felt through your hands. "About our little girl? Or about the Hendersons' new lad?"

"Both," you admitted, moving to stand beside his chair, your hand sliding down his arm to lace your fingers with his. "Seeing them today…holding their baby. It made me think."

His thumb stroked over the back of your hand. "Think what?"

You took a breath, the words feeling both terrifying and thrilling on your tongue. "I was thinking about our daughter. About how she'd be as a big sister. And I was thinking… I want another one, Patrick."

His smile softened, his gaze turning impossibly tender. He let go of your hand, his large palms coming to rest on your waist, pulling you closer until you stood between his strong thighs. "Another one?" he repeated, his voice dropping to that intimate rumble that made your stomach flutter. "Are you sure, my love?"

You nodded, your heart thudding against your ribs. "I've never been more sure of anything. I feel a little silly- the ravenous need I have for you is unlike any other, and I want to have your child again, I want to be filled.”

Patrick let out a slow breath, his eyes searching yours. Then, a different kind of understanding dawned in his gaze, a look that was both doctor and husband. "My love," he said softly, his voice a low, intimate caress. "Are you aware of what day it is?"

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "Tuesday?"

A slow, handsome smile spread across his face. "It's the fourteenth," he clarified, his hands tightening on your waist. "The fourteenth day of your cycle." He watched as the realization washed over you, the scientific precision of his words colliding with the deep, emotional yearning in your heart. He knew your body as well as he knew his own. "You're at your peak. You're most fertile."

The air crackled with a new, potent energy. It wasn't just a wish anymore, it was a possibility, a tangible, scientific fact. "Oh," you breathed, the single word full of awe.

"Oh, indeed," he rumbled, his eyes darkening with a primal heat. "So you see, my love, we have a very small window of opportunity." He surged upward, his arms wrapping around you as he buried his face in the soft fabric of your dress at your stomach. You tangled your hands in his hair, holding him close, the desperate ache in your chest finally easing, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated want.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his hands sliding down to cup your backside, squeezing gently. “It's your body telling you- it’s nature.”  

He rose from the chair in a fluid motion, his strength effortless as he swept you into his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and his mouth found yours in a searing kiss. It wasn't gentle or questioning; it was a kiss of agreement, of a shared purpose, deep and full of all the love you had for one another. He carried you from the parlor.

In your bedroom, he lay you down on the soft quilts as if you were something precious, his body following yours, covering you with his familiar weight. His hands were everywhere, pushing up your skirts, his calloused fingertips tracing the sensitive skin of your thighs. "You're so perfect," he murmured against your lips, his voice a reverent praise. "So ready for me. Your body knows what it wants, doesn't it? It knows it's time to be bred."

You arched into his touch, a soft gasp escaping you as his thumb found the slick clit between your legs, circling slowly. "Patrick," you whimpered, need coiling tight in your belly.

"Shh, I know, my love," he soothed, his mouth trailing down your neck. "I'll give you what you need. I'll give you everything." He freed himself from his trousers, and you felt the thick, hard press of him against your entrance. He looked down at you, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath. "Right now," he said, his voice a low growl, “Big stretch like always, sweet girl, breathe in-”

With one slow, deep thrust, he was inside you, stretching you, completing you. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.  

"Your cervix is soft, open, ready. I'm going to push my seed as deep as it can go, right where it needs to be." Each soft, steady stroke was a declaration, a promise. "That's it," he grunted, his forehead pressed against yours. "Take it. Take all of me. You feel that? M’right in there, sweet girl. That's me giving you our future."

The pleasure built, a blinding, all-consuming wave. His words were a litany of praise and desire. "So good for me. Always so good. My beautiful wife. The mother of my children.”

"Tell me, love. Tell me what you want."

"You," you gasped, your head thrown back against the pillows. "You, Patrick. A baby. Our baby."

"God, yes," he groaned, his pace quickening just enough to make your toes curl. "Say it again."

"Give me a baby," you whimpered, the words tumbling out, broken by his powerful strokes. "Please, Patrick. Fill me up."

"That's my girl," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "I'm going to. I'm going to flood this sweet little womb until it can't hold anymore. I'm going to make sure you're carrying our child by morning." He lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours, and the raw, possessive love you saw there was your undoing. "Look at me when I give it to you. I want to see your eyes when I put our baby in you."

You blinked your eyes open, your vision blurred with pleasure, and held his gaze. The connection was electric, a circuit of pure, unadulterated need. "So so big- ngh!" You choked out, “feel so full,"

"And you're going to stay that way," he promised, his voice a low, commanding growl that sent you spiraling. "I'm not going to let a single drop go to waste. I'll keep you plugged up all night if I have to. You'll go to sleep with my seed inside you, hmm?" His hand slid down your body, his palm pressing flat against your lower belly, right above where he was buried so deep inside you, and he gave you a sweet, wet kiss to your cheek. "Right here. Ngh! S’where my come belongs-”

The thought, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure of his cock, sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, a violent, beautiful wave that ripped a scream from your throat. Your inner walls clenched around him, a greedy, desperate pulse, milking him.

"Fuck, yes," he snarled, his control finally shattering. He drove into you one last time, impossibly deep, and his whole body went rigid. “Look at me, honey, look at your husband- let me see those beautiful eyes,”

You felt the hot, thick flood of his release, a powerful, endless surge that seemed to fill every part of you. He pulsed inside you again and again, his groans a sound you would cherish forever.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of your own heart in your ears. He was a heavy, welcome weight on top of you, but he didn't move. He didn't pull out.

"Patrick," you breathed, your voice hoarse. "I can't, I can't feel my legs."

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated against your skin. "Good," he mumbled into your shoulder. "Means you won't be going anywhere." His dark eyes soft and hazy with satisfaction. "We're not done, my love."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting. With a strength that never failed to astonish you, he wrapped an arm around your waist and rolled, taking you with him until you were straddling his lap, his cock still buried deep inside you. You gasped at the new angle, the way it filled you to the hilt.

"There now," he murmured, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your pebbled nipples. “Shhhh...” He watched you, brushing back the little baby hair stuck to your sweaty forehead.

"You're going to take another load, aren't you? You're going to take everything I have until I'm sure it's taken."

He began to move you up and down, with a slow, subtle rocking of his hips that sent jolts of pleasure through your oversensitive body. You whimpered, your hands bracing on his chest. "Patrick, I can't, it's too much."

"No, it's not," he soothed, his voice a hypnotic caress. "It's exactly enough. It's what your body was made for. To take me. To carry my child." He leaned up, capturing a nipple in his mouth and sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the peak. The dual sensations of his mouth and his hips rocking into you were overwhelming, stoking a fire you thought had been extinguished. "Just one more, sweet girl. One more to make sure. Give me one more, and I'll give you everything."

His words were like a drug, the pleasure began to build again. You began to move with him, matching his rhythm, your body knowing exactly what to do.

"That's it," he praised, releasing your nipple with a soft pop. "Ride me, love. Take what you need. Show me how much you want that baby." His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, his own hips rising to meet yours, each thrust a deliberate statement. Your husband takes your chin in his handa nd guides you to look down at the bulge in your tummy at each thrust. "Look down. Look at us. You feel me there, angel?"

Seeing him disappear into you again and again. It was the most erotic thing you had ever seen.

“Y-yes!”

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his eyes fixed on the same sight. "My beautiful, fertile wife. Taking my cock so well." He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. "I'm going to fill you again. I'm going to make a mess of this pretty little pussy, and you're going to thank me for it, aren't you?"

"Yes," you sobbed, the pleasure cresting, a sharp, blinding peak that stole the air from your lungs. "Yes, Patrick, thank you..."

Your second orgasm tore through you, and this time, he followed you right over the edge. With a guttural roar, he slammed you down onto him, his hips jerking upwards as he spilled himself into you for a second time. You felt the heat of it, another thick, copious flood that mingled with the first, filling you to overflowing until you could feel it beginning to leak out, trailing down your thighs.

“There- there-” he cooed between pants,

He held you there, his arms wrapped around you like a vise, his face pressed against your chest as he fought for breath. You were boneless, spent, a complete and utter mess, and you had never felt more loved.

After a long moment, he kissed you, a slow, deep kiss full of lingering passion. Patrick lifts you gently and grabs a pillow to place under your hips, guiding you to lie down.

"Stay just like that, angel," he whispered against your mouth, his hand coming to rest possessively over your lower belly. "We'll give it a little while. Let gravity do its work. We want to be absolutely sure."

“Do not laugh at me,” she says, low and sharp enough that even the fridge seems to mind its business.

Banks presses his lips together. His shoulders shake once.

Her eyes narrow. “Banks.”

“I’m not,” he says, which would be more convincing if the words didn’t come out rounded and wet around a laugh. He lifts one hand, palm out, all sloppy innocence and inherited audacity. “I’m not laughing. Sorry, Mom.”

“You’re absolutely laughing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re drunk.”

He blinks at her very seriously, like this is an important legal distinction and he's about to represent himself poorly in court. “I can be sorry and drunk.”

The terrible thing is that he sounds exactly like Rafe when Rafe is wrong and still thinks charm might drag the body out of the water before anyone notices the crime. 

Same blue eyes gone too bright under the kitchen lights, same unfair mouth trying to hide a grin, same broad-shouldered Cameron posture beginning to happen in him like bad genetic weather. 

He’s still soft in places Rafe was never allowed to be at sixteen, still boyish around the jaw and long in the limbs, but there are moments where she looks at her son and sees the precise shape of the man she has loved since high school arriving in fragments: the pride first, the deflection second, the fear buried so far down he may not even know where he put it.

And tonight, because she’s tired and Rafe has been gone for four days and Lila cried at bedtime because Daddy always does the second voice in her dinosaur book wrong but better, it does not move her into tenderness. It moves her toward violence.

“You took the boat,” she says.

Banks’ face changes just enough to tell on him before his mouth can lie.

She exhales through her nose. “Unbelievable.”

“I didn’t take it far.”

“Oh, okay. Thank God. You only stole your father’s boat a little bit while drunk.”

“I wasn’t drunk when we went out.”

Her eyebrows lift.

His gaze drops to the counter. “Ish.”

“Ish,” she repeats, and the word comes out so calm it should scare him. It doesn’t scare him enough, because he’s sixteen and male and temporarily possessed by whatever evolutionary defect makes teenage boys believe consequences are a rumour invented by mothers. “You are standing in my kitchen at twelve-thirty in the morning smelling like beer, lying badly, and trying not to laugh while I speak to you. Do you understand how much trouble you’re in?”

Banks nods, too fast and not sober enough to make it respectful. “Yeah. Yep. Totally.”

“Don’t yep me.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

There it is again. The laugh tucked behind the apology. Small. Stupid. Careless in the way teenagers are careless when they’re too loved to understand yet that care has weight. 

Her jaw tightens. Something hot climbs the back of her neck, gathering under the loose collar of Rafe’s shirt, and she feels suddenly, dangerously close to becoming the kind of mother who says things like I am not one of your little friends, which is devastating because she’s always considered herself too self-aware for that and also because it would be true.

Then, from the front of the house, the lock clicks. The soft mechanical turn of the front door opening into the cool dark hallway, followed by the low thud of a suitcase wheel catching over the threshold and one tiny, ecstatic gasp from somewhere upstairs that proves Lila Cameron has either been pretending to sleep or was born with sonar specifically tuned to her father.

“Daddy!”

Banks goes still.

It’s immediate. Beautiful, actually. Horrifyingly satisfying. One second he’s loose and drunk and grinning at his mother like he’s negotiating a parking fine; the next, his spine straightens so fast he nearly looks sober.

His eyes flick to the hallway, then back to her, and for the first time all night there is real awareness in them. Not guilt. Not yet. Survival.

She shouldn’t enjoy it as much as she does.

From the stairs comes the sound of small feet hitting wood at a speed that will one day end in urgent care, then Rafe’s voice, rough from travel and smiling through exhaustion. “Hey, hey, slow down– Jesus, Lila.”

A tiny shriek. A deep grunt. 

Then Rafe again, closer now, laughing under his breath as he catches their youngest daughter somewhere near the bottom of the stairs. “There she is. C’mere, baby girl.”

Her body reacts to his voice before her brain has finished resenting everything else. It always has, which is frankly embarrassing after this many years and three children.

Some soft, tired part of her loosens toward the hallway, toward the low scrape of his shoes, the familiar weight of him moving through their house. 

Relief hits first, warm behind her ribs and low in her stomach. Then the smaller, less noble flicker of panic over how much he heard. Then, because she’s learned nothing from building an entire life with a man who still looks like trouble with a mortgage, something far worse and lower when he walks into the kitchen with Lila on his hip.

Rafe Cameron has no right looking like that after a business trip.

He’s still in his button-up from the flight, white with a thin blue stripe, the top button undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows because he knows. He has to know.

There’s no other explanation for the forearms, for the watch, for the faint crease at his waist where he’s been sitting too long, for the buzz cut making every line of his face sharper under the kitchen lights.

He looks tired in a way that only makes him more unfair, mouth slightly rough from the plane, jaw shadowed, eyes cutting across the room with the kind of focus that can still make her stomach drop even when there’s a six-year-old attached to him in unicorn pyjamas and one sparkly sock.

Lila has both arms locked around his neck and her face pressed to his cheek like she’s trying to absorb him through contact. “I waited for you,” she announces, loud and proud and absolutely incriminating.

“Yeah, I see that,” Rafe murmurs, kissing her cheek once, then again when she giggles and shoves at his face.

His eyes flick to his wife first. Always first. A fast, dragging look that takes in her bare legs, his shirt on her body, her tired mouth, the tightness in her shoulders. Something in his face shifts, almost imperceptible. Then his gaze moves to Banks.

The air changes. Rafe doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. He just looks at his son, and all the warmth that had been wrapped around Lila stays there, held carefully against her little back, while everything else in him goes still and cold and awake.

Banks swallows.

Rafe kisses Lila’s temple, eyes never leaving him. “Go to your room, baby girl.”

Lila pulls back immediately, offended. “But you just got home.”

“I know.” His voice softens for her without weakening. It does something horrible to her chest, the way he can split himself like that now, the way fatherhood hasn’t made him gentle so much as more controlled about where the sharp parts land. “I’ll come say goodnight in a minute. Gotta talk to your brother.”

Lila looks at Banks, who’s standing by the island like a drunk little defendant. Her nose scrunches. “Is Banks in trouble?”

“Yep,” Rafe says.

Banks mutters, “Thanks.”

Rafe’s eyes cut to him. Banks shuts up.

Lila, being six and therefore a violent little opportunist, kisses Rafe’s cheek with great ceremony before he sets her down. “He smells like outside,” she whispers, not quietly.

Their mother presses her lips together.

Banks closes his eyes.

Rafe gives one short breath that might have become a laugh in another room, another night, with fewer felonies. “Room, Lila.”

“Are you gonna do my story?”

“In a minute.”

“Promise?”

Rafe crouches enough to fix the twisted hem of her pyjama top where it has ridden up under her arm. Even with the anger held in him, his hands are careful. Ridiculously careful. He smooths the fabric down, taps two fingers beneath her chin, and says, “Go.”

She goes, but only after one suspicious look at Banks and a skipping little run out of the kitchen, like she isn’t leaving behind a scene with the emotional temperature of a gas leak.

For a second, nobody says anything. The house holds around them. Somewhere upstairs, Lila’s door clicks. The fridge hums. Outside, beyond the dark glass, the pool lights ripple blue over the patio and the humid night leans against the windows.

Rafe sets his phone and keys on the counter with too much control. His suitcase remains abandoned in the hall.

Then he looks at Banks fully. “What’d you say to your mother?”

Banks’ mouth opens. “I didn’t–”

Rafe’s chin lowers a fraction. “Try again.”

She watches their son work through three separate versions of denial and abandon all of them because, drunk or not, he knows his father. Knows that tone. Knows the precise danger of Rafe calm.

It’s one thing to be yelled at by his mother, who loves him with her whole exhausted body and will still make him eggs in the morning if he looks pale enough.

It’s another thing entirely to stand in front of Rafe Cameron after midnight, smelling like beer and boat fuel, while Rafe has just come home from four days away to find him disrespecting the person Rafe has spent most of his adult life orbiting like a badly behaved planet.

“I was just–” Banks starts, then stops when Rafe’s eyes narrow. He drags a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I was being stupid.”

“Yeah,” Rafe says. “I got that.”

“Rafe,” she says quietly, because she can feel it in the room now, his temper pulling tight beneath the shirt, beneath the rolled sleeves, beneath all the years of trying not to become his father and all the years of sometimes sounding like him anyway.

He glances at her. A brief, grounding look, like her voice puts a hand somewhere inside him. Then he looks back at Banks.

“You can be stupid,” Rafe says, low. “You’re sixteen. You’re gonna be stupid. You can sneak out, and you can lie badly, and you can get drunk with your little friends like every other idiot kid on this island.”

Banks’ jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move.

“But you will never,” Rafe continues, each word placed with frightening care, “stand in this kitchen and laugh in your mother’s face while she’s talking to you. You understand me?”

Banks nods.

Rafe’s expression does not change. “Use your mouth.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

Banks’ throat moves. “Yes, sir.”

His wife feels it move through her, which is unfair and frankly inconvenient given the current disciplinary context. The low tone. The rolled sleeves.

The sheer exhausted authority of him standing in their kitchen, furious because he heard enough, careful because the boy in front of him is theirs, protective because there has never been a universe where Rafe knows how to love her quietly. Her body warms under his shirt, a traitor in cotton.

Rafe breathes out through his nose. “You took the boat?”

Banks looks at his mother.

“Don’t look at her,” Rafe says. “Look at me.”

Banks looks back. “Yeah.”

“Were you drinking before you took it out?”

A pause.

Rafe smiles, but it has no humour in it. “Careful.”

Banks’ face flickers. Younger suddenly. “A little.”

She closes her eyes for half a second. Rafe goes very still.

That’s worse than yelling. Banks seems to know it too, because his shoulders lose some of their drunk looseness at last. The kitchen lights catch on his face, and beneath the beer and bravado, he looks scared now.

Rafe steps closer, not crowding but near enough that Banks has to tilt his head up slightly. “You ever do that again,” he says, “you won’t touch that boat, my truck, your car, or anything with a key until you’re thirty.”

Banks nods quickly. “Okay.”

“I’m not done.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologising to make people stop talking.”

That lands. Their son’s eyes flicker. Rafe sees it and, for one strange second, the room folds backward. She can see him at sixteen, at seventeen, at twenty-one, all sharp elbows and swallowed panic, saying sorry like a door slam, sorry like a weapon, sorry like a receipt he could hand someone so they’d stop holding up the wound. His mouth tightens once before he continues.

“You scared your mother,” he says, rougher now. “You put yourself in danger. You put your friends in danger. And then you came in here and acted like she was annoying you by caring whether you made it home alive.”

Banks looks down.

“No,” Rafe says.

His eyes come up again, wet and angry in that teenage way that means humiliation and fear are fighting over the same chair. “I know. I’m sorry.”

This one sounds different. Smaller. Better.

Rafe holds his gaze another second, then nods once toward the back door. “Go get water from the outside fridge.”

Banks blinks. “What?”

“Water,” Rafe repeats. “Then onto the boat.”

The boy’s face empties. “I– what?”

“You took it?” Rafe’s eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re gonna clean it, buddy.”

“It’s one in the morning.”

“Then you better move fast.”

“Dad.”

Rafe’s face hardens.

Banks stops, then recalibrates with the visible desperation of a drunk teenager choosing life. “I mean– yes, sir.”

“And before that,” Rafe says, “apologise to your mother properly.”

Banks turns to her.

The change in him almost breaks her. Enough that the tight thing around her ribs loosens by one painful notch. He looks like Rafe and not like Rafe at all. Tall, messy, drunk, ashamed, still with a softness around the mouth that was his before the world got to him.

Her baby, horribly. Her ridiculous, six-foot, beer-smelling baby.

“Sorry, Mom,” he says, and this time the words come without the smirk. “I was being a dick. I love you.”

She stares at him for one second too long because she wants to stay angry cleanly and motherhood never lets anything be clean. Then she lifts her chin. “I love you too. I’m still furious.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Fair.”

He comes around the island and bends to kiss her cheek, awkward and quick and smelling like salt air, beer, and the expensive shampoo he steals from Rafe’s shower because apparently no man in this house can respect ownership as a concept.

Her hand catches briefly at his elbow before he pulls away. A tiny squeeze. He squeezes back, barely, then wanders toward the back door with the tragic dignity of a boy headed to scrub consequences off teak flooring.

Rafe waits until the door slides shut behind him. Then she exhales so hard her whole body bends with it.

The silence he leaves behind is huge for half a second, stretching through the kitchen, over the spilled shapes of their life on the island, across the mail and the marker and the cold cup of tea she forgot to drink three hours ago.

Rafe stands where Banks left him, shoulders still tight, jaw still working, eyes on the back door as their son disappears toward the boat dock.

She looks at him. Really looks now that the immediate crisis has gone outside with a water bottle and a hangover still under construction.

The sleeves are still rolled. The buzz cut is still unfair. His face is tired, older than the boy who used to pull up outside her parents’ house in high school with too much cologne and not enough emotional regulation, but not less beautiful in any useful way. Worse, maybe.

More dangerous to her specifically because every line in him now has history attached. The faint crease between his brows from years of bills and business and children and loving badly, then better.

The hard set of his mouth that softens only when he forgets to guard it. The biceps under the cotton because God and airport lighting had both been committed to her personal ruin.

“Hi, honey,” she says softy.

Rafe’s eyes come to her. Whatever was left of his anger changes shape so fast it almost makes her dizzy. It doesn’t vanish. Rafe isn’t a man anger leaves politely. It just moves aside for her, making room for the thing underneath it.

Relief. Want. The exhausted, private ache of coming home and finding her still there, barefoot in his shirt, holding the whole house together with her teeth.

“Hi, baby,” he says.

That’s all it takes.

She crosses the kitchen like her body has been waiting for permission and pushes up onto her toes, arms sliding around his shoulders. Rafe catches her immediately. One arm locks around her waist, the other spreads hot and broad across her back, pulling her into him with a force that makes the breath leave her in a small, relieved sound she will later deny if questioned by anyone with legal authority.

He buries his face in her neck. For a second, he just breathes her in. His nose presses beneath her jaw, his mouth warm against the side of her throat, and his hands tighten at her waist like he’s checking something. Like four days away have left him with some private, irrational suspicion that she might have evaporated in his absence, replaced by laundry and children and the kind of competence that scares him because it proves she can survive without him even though he would strongly prefer the universe not explore that option.

Her fingers slide over the back of his buzzed head, then down to his neck. “Rough flight?”

“Long,” he murmurs into her skin. “Missed you.”

Her eyes close. The kitchen is still too bright. Her son is outside cleaning a boat as penance. Their youngest is upstairs waiting for dinosaur voices. Their middle child is asleep at Sarah’s, probably sprawled diagonal in a guest bed like she pays property tax. There’s nothing sexy about this moment except her husband, unfortunately, has never needed conditions to be ideal to ruin her.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she says.

Rafe’s mouth moves against her neck. Not quite a kiss yet. Almost worse. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

His hand slides higher up her back, bunching the loose fabric of his shirt. “House still standing.”

“Barely.”

“Kids alive.”

“Also barely.”

He huffs once, and the warmth of it hits her throat. “Banks drunk?”

“Very.”

“Took the boat?”

“Apparently only a little.”

Rafe lifts his head enough to look at her, eyebrows raised.

“I know,” she says. “I nearly became my mother.”

His mouth curves, tired and mean and fond in the way that still makes her stomach flip after all these years. “You’d be hot as your mother.”

“Do not ever say that to me again.”

“What?” His grin deepens. “You’d be hot.”

“I’m ignoring you.”

“No, you’re not.”

She isn’t. Obviously. She has never successfully ignored him a day in her life, not in high school when he used to lean against her locker like an expensive warning sign, not in college when they broke up for three months and she still knew exactly when he entered a party by the shift in her own bloodstream, and certainly not now, married with three children and a mortgage and a teenage son outside reenacting several of Rafe’s worst instincts with worse alcohol tolerance.

Rafe’s gaze drops to her mouth.

Her grip tightens around his shoulders. “Marlowe’s at Sarah’s.”

He nods slowly, like this information has been placed into a private and immediately inappropriate filing system. “Yeah?”

“Sleepover.”

“Mm.”

“Don’t mm me like that. Your six-year-old is awake upstairs.”

“Our six-year-old,” he corrects, already leaning in.

“She adores you and has terrible boundaries.”

“Gets that from you.”

“I have excellent boundaries.”

“You married me.”

“That was charity.”

His laugh is low against her mouth. “Yeah? Feeling generous?”

She answers by kissing him.

It starts sweet, or close enough. The kind of kiss that belongs to the front end of a reunion, the relieved press of mouths after days of bad hotel pillows and solo bedtime routines and phone calls cut short because one of the kids was crying or someone in Charleston needed Rafe to pretend not to be angry in a conference room.

His lips are warm and a little dry from travel. His hand comes to her jaw, thumb settling just beneath her cheekbone with that steady pressure that still makes the world narrow, and when she opens for him, his whole body pulls tighter around hers.

The kiss deepens hard enough to make her fingers curl into the back of his shirt. Rafe steps her back into the island without looking, his other hand low at her waist, fitting her against him like he has been thinking about exactly this in airport lounges and rental cars and whatever polished hotel room he slept badly in without her.

The edge of the counter presses into her lower back. Somewhere outside, a hose turns on, then Banks swears faintly at the dock, which should make this less hot and doesn’t, because marriage is an illness.

Rafe smiles against her mouth when she makes a sound.

“Missed you so much,” he says, low and rough, the words scraped into the kiss rather than set apart from it.

She nods, because talking would require more dignity than she currently has available. “Missed you more.”

“No.”

She laughs into his mouth. “Competitive freak.”

“About you?” His thumb drags along her jaw, tilting her face higher. His eyes are dark now, still blue but nearly swallowed by the kitchen light and whatever he’s been carrying home for her across state lines. “Always.”

Her stomach goes warm and loose. “That was almost romantic.”

“Almost?”

“You were doing so well.”

“I’ll try harder.”

He kisses her again, and this one is worse. Slower. Deeper. His hand on her jaw, his body pressing closer, the familiar shape of him pinning her lightly to the island while her toes lift off the tile for half a second.

She feels the hard line of his watch against her back, the heat of his palm through the shirt, the little groan he tries to swallow when she bites softly at his bottom lip because she knows him and his restraint and exactly where both start to come apart.

Then, from upstairs, Lila yells, “DADDY, WHERE ARE YOU?”

They freeze.

For half a second, neither of them moves. Rafe’s forehead rests against hers. Her mouth is still open beneath his. His breath comes out rough and amused, and then she starts laughing, quiet and helpless.

Rafe’s mouth twitches against hers. “Coming, baby girl!”

“NOW?”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah. Now.”

She laughs harder, and he kisses the corner of her mouth once like he can’t help it, then the other corner, then her lips properly but too quick to count as anything satisfying.

“We’ll pick that up later,” he murmurs.

She hooks two fingers in his collar before he can pull away entirely. “Promise?”

His eyes drop to her mouth, then lift again with the kind of look that makes her deeply grateful their oldest child is outside and their middle child is elsewhere and their youngest has the patience of a lit match.

“Baby,” he says, voice low enough to land under her skin, “I’ve been thinking about that since I left.”

Her breath catches. “Go read the dinosaur book.”

Rafe grins, awful and bright and tired around the edges. “Bossy.”

“You love it.”

His face softens so quickly it almost hurts. He kisses her once more, softer this time, like even now, even with Lila beginning to chant daddy from upstairs and Banks probably spraying himself in the face with a hose outside, he has to put the love somewhere before he leaves her.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Then he steps back, dragging his hand from her waist like it takes effort, and starts for the stairs.

Halfway to the hall, he turns around. “Hey.”

She lifts her brows.

His eyes move over her again, slower this time, lingering on his shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, the tired set of her mouth, the bare legs, the whole unruly shape of the life he came home to and still looks at like he cannot believe he gets to touch it.

“You look ridiculous in my shirt,” he says.

She smiles. “That means hot, right?”

His grin cuts sideways. “Stupidly hot.”

Warmth blooms low in her stomach, pleased and familiar and still somehow girlish after all this time. “Go upstairs, Mr. Cameron.”

“Yeah,” he says, backing toward the stairs, eyes still on her. “Don’t go anywhere, Mrs. Cameron.”

She looks around the kitchen – at the markers, the mail, the cold tea, the open back door, the damp footprints Banks has left on the tile, the whole beautiful disaster of what they’ve made together – and then back at him.

“Where would I go?”

Rafe doesn’t answer right away. His smile shifts, something quieter slipping through the heat and humour and fatigue. Something almost young. Almost wounded. Almost the boy who used to ask impossible things badly and the man who still sometimes does.

Then Lila yells, “DADDY!”

He looks toward the stairs and exhales. “Jesus Christ.”

“Your favourite child calls.”

“They’re all my favourite.”

“That’s not true.”

“No,” he says, already heading up, “but it sounds good.”

She laughs, and from the stairs he glances back once more, catching the sound like it belongs to him. Outside, Banks curses again under his breath and the hose clatters against the dock. Upstairs, Lila launches into a detailed complaint about dinosaurs waiting. And in the bright, messy kitchen, with Rafe home and the house loud around her again, she finally lets her shoulders drop.

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Instead, they sit in his office while the late-afternoon sun falls in expensive gold strips across the rug, Ward behind his desk and Rafe beside her on the leather sofa, one knee bouncing so subtly she only notices because his hand is resting over hers and the movement travels through both of them. 

She’s been nauseous since breakfast. The smell of Ward’s scotch isn’t helping. Neither is the way he keeps looking at her stomach despite the fact there’s nothing to see yet, only the soft fold of her dress when she sits and Rafe’s palm spread low against her thigh like he could physically keep the conversation from reaching her if he held on tightly enough.

“You’re both very young,” Ward says finally, voice arranged into something calm and reasonable. It’s the same tone he uses with contractors who have disappointed him and waiters he intends to have fired later. “You’ve only just finished school. Rafe’s barely started at the company.”

Rafe’s jaw moves. “I know how old I am.”

“I’m trying to be practical.”

“Then be practical.”

Ward’s eyes harden slightly. “There are options here. You don’t need to announce anything until you’ve had time to think clearly.”

Beside her, Rafe goes still. Still in the particular way he gets when anger has moved past heat and found somewhere colder to live, his thumb stopping against the side of her hand, his shoulders settling beneath the pale blue cotton of his shirt. 

She feels her own fingers curl inward before she can stop them, nails pressing into her palm, and Ward notices. His gaze flicks toward her face with something almost sympathetic in it, which is somehow worse.

Rafe sees that too. “Don’t look at her like that,” he says.

Ward blinks. “Like what?”

“Like she– she did something to me.”

“Rafe–”

“She didn’t.” His voice stays low, but she can feel the pulse beginning to beat hard in his wrist beneath her fingertips. “We came here to tell you we’re having a baby. Not ask what you think we should do about it.”

“I’m your father. I’m allowed to be concerned about your future.”

“My future’s sitting right here.”

The words leave him before he can seem to decide whether he wants them exposed. For half a second, something young and naked moves through his face, the boy who’s spent most of his life waiting for Ward to approve of the next version of him and finding each one slightly wrong. Then Ward leans back in his chair, mouth thinning, and it disappears beneath Rafe’s anger.

“You need to understand what this looks like,” Ward says. “People are going to assume she–”

Rafe stands so quickly the leather cushion lifts behind him. She catches his hand before he can do anything else. She doesn’t think he’ll hit Ward. She doesn’t really know what she thinks he will do, and that uncertainty is the problem. 

His fingers close around hers instantly, and when he looks down at her, the whole room seems to drop away from his attention.

“You feel sick?” he asks.

“A little,” she mumbles. 

“We’re leaving.”

Ward says his name sharply, but Rafe has already bent to collect her handbag. He puts his hand at the small of her back and guides her toward the door with none of the usual uncertainty he carries through this house. Ward calls after him once more. Rafe doesn’t turn around.

His hands shake when they reach the car. Only slightly. Enough that the key scrapes once against the ignition, then again, and she covers his wrist before he can try a third time.

Through the windshield, Tannyhill sits huge and white against the water, every window catching the sun. Rafe stares at it with his mouth pulled tight, breathing through his nose like he’s run here instead of walked.

“You didn’t have to fight with him,” she says softly.

“Yeah, I did.”

“He’s shocked.”

“So am I.” His head turns toward her, eyes bright and furious and scared in a way he would hate anyone else for noticing. “But I’m not making you sit there while he talks about you like you trapped me.”

“I know I didn’t.”

“I know.” Rafe’s grip loosens beneath her hand. His thumb turns, dragging once over the inside of her wrist. “I was there. Very involved, actually.”

A laugh catches unexpectedly in her throat.

His mouth twitches, but the anger doesn’t leave his eyes. “Enthusiastic participant.”

“Rafe.”

“What? It’s an important distinction.”

She looks down at their hands and feels the nausea settle somewhere lower, becoming something else. Still fear. Still the enormous, impossible shape of a life arriving before they’ve bought a dining table. But Rafe lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses the centre of her palm with a tenderness that doesn’t suit the hard line of his jaw, and the fear no longer feels like hers alone.

“We’re not going back in there tonight,” he says.

“Okay.”

“Maybe not tomorrow either.”

“Okay.”

“Could be a while.”

She smiles faintly. “Start the car, baby.”

Rafe looks once more at his father’s house. Then he turns the key, puts the car into reverse, and takes her home.

Marlowe begins causing problems before she’s developed fingerprints. At twenty-five weeks, she’s turned her mother’s ribs into a private climbing wall, made the smell of coffee unbearable, and inspired Banks to completely reject the concept of sisterhood. 

He’s two and a half, deeply suspicious of change, and has spent the past week responding to any mention of the baby by shouting no with the sombre conviction of a tiny, corrupt villain.

“No baby,” he says when they show him the painted nursery.

“No baby,” he says when Sarah brings over a bag of miniature dresses.

“No baby,” he says directly to her stomach one morning, then bursts into tears because Rafe tells him he cannot cover Mama’s belly with a couch cushion to make the problem go away.

That night, after Banks throws half his dinner onto the floor and kicks the bathroom door because she cannot physically fit beside him and the tub anymore, she leaves bedtime to Rafe. 

Her back aches. Her ankles have begun disappearing by late afternoon. She stands beneath the shower until the water goes lukewarm, then pulls one of Rafe’s old shirts over her head and walks down the hallway with moisturiser still cooling against her legs.

Banks’s bedroom door is open by three inches. Through the gap, she can see Rafe sitting on the rug beside the toddler bed with his work trousers still on and his tie pulled loose around his neck. 

He has one forearm resting across his raised knee, the other hand wrapped around Banks’s small bare foot where it sticks out from beneath the dinosaur quilt. Banks is lying on his stomach, cheeks swollen with the final remnants of a tantrum, glaring at his father with wet lashes and exhausted hostility.

“I don’t want her,” Banks mutters into the pillow.

Rafe rubs his thumb over the soft curve of his heel. “Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear, buddy.”

“Baby takes Mama.”

“No.” Rafe’s voice loses its dry edge. “Nobody takes Mama.”

Banks turns his face enough to look at him. “She’s mine.”

Rafe’s mouth moves like he has to bite back the first response that occurs to him, probably because it’s difficult to explain marriage-based territoriality to someone who still eats bath bubbles. “She’s everybody’s,” he says after a second. “But she was mine first.”

From the hallway, she closes her eyes.

Banks considers this grave injustice. “No.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

His little brows furrow. “No, Daddy.”

“Ask her. She’ll tell you.”

The mattress squeaks as Banks shifts, little fingers twisting into the quilt. “Mama likes me best.”

“Probably,” Rafe says, then lowers his voice to a whisper. “You’re shorter. People fall for that.”

But Banks doesn’t laugh. His mouth wobbles instead, and Rafe’s expression changes immediately. He leans closer, forearm sliding onto the edge of the mattress.

“Hey. Listen to me.” His voice is quieter now, shaped for the dark room and the boy inside it. “You’re allowed to be mad. New baby’s weird. She’s gonna cry, and she’s gonna take your stuff, and everybody’s gonna look at her all the time because babies can’t do anything for themselves.”

“I can do things,” Banks huffs.

“I know. You can put your own shoes on the wrong feet.”

Banks frowns, uncertain whether this is relevant. Rafe squeezes his foot once and continues before he can argue.

“But you don’t get to be mean to Mama because you’re mad. Mama’s making your sister right now. That’s hard work. Makes her tired. Makes her back hurt. Makes her cry when the grocery store doesn’t have the cereal she likes.”

“That was one time,” she whispers beneath her breath in the hallway.

“So we’re easy with her,” he says. “We help her. We don’t kick doors, and we don’t throw food, and we definitely don’t try to hide her stomach under couch pillows.”

Banks looks mildly ashamed. “Baby was gone.”

“Baby was still there.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Rafe brushes Banks’s hair away from his forehead, awkwardly gentle in the way he still is sometimes with softness, like he knows what he wants his hands to do but has to think through every movement first. “You know how Daddy looks after Aunt Sarah and Aunt Wheezie?”

Banks nods.

“Even when they’re annoying?”

Another nod, more enthusiastic.

“That’s you now. You’re the big brother.” Rafe taps two fingers lightly against his chest. “We look after our girls. You look after your Mama, and when your sister gets here, you look after her too.”

Banks is quiet for long enough that her throat begins to ache.

“What if she’s mean?”

“Then you come get me.”

“What if she takes my truck?”

“You take it back.”

“Rafe,” she murmurs from the hallway.

His eyes flick toward the door. “Politely,” he adds.

Banks pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Can I hold her?”

“Yeah.”

He tilts his head. “She little?”

“Very.”

“Smaller than me?”

Rafe’s eyebrows lift. “For a while.”

That seems to satisfy something in him. Banks lies down again, turning onto his side this time, his face pointed toward Rafe. “I look after her.”

“Good man.”

“And Mama.”

“Especially Mama.”

Banks’s eyes begin to close. Rafe stays where he is, hand resting around his son’s ankle, until the soft resistance goes out of the small body beneath the quilt. When he finally rises and steps into the hallway, she’s leaning against the opposite wall with both hands folded beneath the curve of her stomach.

He takes one look at her face and exhales. “Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re crying.”

She sniffles. “I’m pregnant.”

“You’ve been using that one a lot.”

She laughs wetly and catches the front of his loosened tie, drawing him closer. Rafe puts both hands around her waist, careful of the belly between them, and bends his head until his forehead rests against hers.

“‘We look after our girls’?” she whispers.

His eyes move over her face, suddenly wary beneath the humour. “Too much?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Sounded better than telling him I’ll throw him off the dock if he makes you cry again.”

“He’s two.”

“Mm. He’ll bounce.”

Her laugh presses them closer. Rafe kisses the damp corner of her eye, then crouches without warning and puts his mouth against the stretched cotton over her belly.

“Your brother’s being difficult,” he tells the baby. “Don’t take it personally.”

She places her hand on the back of his head. “She’s a Cameron. She’ll make it everyone’s problem.”

Rafe smiles against her stomach. “That’s my girl.”

By the third pregnancy, protection has become an administrative position. There are vitamins in her handbag, the kitchen, Rafe’s truck and both upstairs bathrooms because he’s decided folic acid should be available at emergency exits. 

There’s a standing grocery order every Tuesday, three numbers written beside the house phone even though everybody owns a mobile, and a family group chat called DO WHAT YOUR MOTHER SAYS that includes Sarah, Wheezie, ten-year-old Banks, six-year-old Marlowe, and, briefly, the plumber until Rafe notices and removes him without explanation.

The baby wasn’t planned. She had stood in their bathroom at thirty-one with the test in her hand and laughed once, sharply, because crying felt too obvious. Rafe had stared at the two pink lines, then at her, then back at the test as if one of them had committed accounting fraud. 

After nearly a full minute, he said, “I thought you said that app was accurate,” and she threw a hand towel at his head.

Now she’s seven months pregnant, Rafe is in Charleston twice a week overseeing a development project that appears to require his physical presence whenever the universe senses she has slept badly, and the children have developed a coordinated ability to need separate, urgent things at the exact moment her pelvis begins to feel as though it’s been assembled incorrectly.

He gets home after ten on a Thursday night and finds her halfway up the stairs carrying a laundry basket against the underside of her stomach while Marlowe trails behind in fairy wings, explaining that tomorrow isn’t technically costume day, but could be if her teacher was flexible. Banks is calling from the kitchen that the dishwasher is making a noise. One of Rafe’s socks is stuck to the side of the basket by static.

He leaves his suitcase in the foyer. “What are you doing?”

She looks down at him over the towels. He’s still dressed for work, sleeves rolled, collar open, travel sitting beneath his eyes in dark, tired shadows. “Laundry.”

“I can see that. Why are you carrying it?”

“Because towels remain tragically unable to climb stairs.”

Rafe comes up three steps at a time and takes the basket from her before she can object, his jaw already tightening. “Banks!”

From the kitchen, their son calls, “What?”

“Get over here.”

Banks appears at the bottom of the stairs with the wary expression of someone summoned by his father’s business voice. He has Rafe’s height beginning in him already, all knees and shoulders and hair that refuses to lie flat. “What happened?”

Rafe hands him the basket. “New rule. Your mother doesn’t carry laundry upstairs.”

Banks looks at the towels, then at her stomach. “Okay.”

“And fix the dishwasher.”

Banks frowns. “I don’t know how.”

Rafe sighs. “Neither do I. Press buttons until it stops.”

“That’s not how appliances work,” she says.

“It’s worked for me so far.”

Marlowe pushes between them, wings scraping along the wall. “What’s my job?”

Rafe looks down at her. “Keep your mother’s water full.”

Marlowe’s face lights up with the dangerous purpose of a child newly granted jurisdiction. “Always?”

“No,” she says quickly.

“Yes,” Rafe says at the same time.

Marlowe runs downstairs.

“Rafe,” she sighs. 

He puts a hand against her back and guides her up the remaining steps, slower now. “What?”

“I don’t need a household task force,” she grumbles.

“You were carrying a basket you couldn’t see over.”

“Also can’t see over my belly, why don’t you snatch that from me?”

“You nearly stepped on Marlowe.”

“She has wings. She should’ve flown.”

His mouth twitches, but the tension remains beneath it. In their bedroom, he sets his watch on the dresser and begins unbuttoning his cuffs with the short, irritated movements he uses when the anger isn’t really anger and both of them know it. She sits on the edge of the bed, pressing her fingers into the soft swelling above one ankle.

Rafe notices immediately. He drops into a crouch in front of her and takes her foot into his lap before she can pull it away. His thumbs press carefully along the arch, then circle the puffed skin beneath her ankle bone, his gaze fixed downward. 

The buzz cut has grown out slightly around the crown. There’s a faint crease through his shirt from the plane seat and a missed call glowing on the phone beside him.

“I’m fine,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“I am.”

“I know.” His thumb moves along her heel. “You’re always fine.”

Something in the way he says it makes her stop. Not sarcastic. Frustrated by the word and everything she manages to hide inside it.

Rafe looks up. “Banks said you fell asleep at the table Tuesday.”

She groans and rolls her eyes. “He’s a snitch.”

“He’s ten.”

“He’s your son.”

“Exactly. No loyalty.”

She tries to smile, but his hands have gone still around her foot.

“I can move Charleston,” he says.

Her brows draw together. “You can’t move a city.”

“The meetings.”

“Rafe–”

“I don’t need to be there twice a week,” he mutters.

“The project’s yours.”

“So is this.”

His eyes drop briefly to her stomach, then travel around the room as though this means the house too: the costume wings abandoned against the doorframe, the pile of school forms on her nightstand, the laundry moving down the hallway in Banks’s arms, the life waiting for Rafe every time his plane lands and continuing, somehow, on the days it doesn’t.

She brushes her fingers over the back of his neck. “I’m not asking you to stop working.”

“I know.” His jaw shifts. “That’s not the same as me pretending none of this is work because you don’t send an invoice.”

At twenty-two, he would have needed an enemy – Ward, the world, somebody standing close enough to push back against. At thirty-two, he sits on the bedroom floor with her swollen foot in his lap and understands, slowly and unwillingly, that sometimes the thing wearing her down has his name on the travel itinerary.

His phone lights again. Rafe picks it up, opens the email containing his flight confirmation for the following Thursday, and presses cancel.

She watches him. “You’re going to make everyone hate me.”

“They already hate me. You’re safe.”

A small set of footsteps comes charging down the hallway. Marlowe appears with a water bottle filled so completely it spills over her hands and onto the carpet. “Mama! Water duty.”

Rafe nods approvingly. “Good job.”

She takes the bottle before their daughter can flood the room. “Thank you, baby.”

“Drink it.”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“Daddy said.”

Rafe looks down quickly, suddenly very interested in her ankle.

“Rafe.”

“What? She’s taking the position seriously.”

Marlowe stands over her until she drinks, then races away to report her success to Banks. Rafe’s shoulders begin to shake beneath her hand. She nudges his thigh with her foot, and he catches it before she can pull back, pressing his mouth to the inside of her ankle.

“You’re an idiot,” she says.

“Mhm.”

“And bossy.”

“Yeah.”

“And you cannot turn our children into your private surveillance network.”

He kisses her skin again, smiling now. “Already did.”

The baby moves beneath her ribs, a long, slow roll that makes her inhale and place one hand against the side of her stomach. Rafe’s palm leaves her foot and spreads over the movement, broad and warm, waiting until the small body shifts against him again.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

“She’s been there all day. On my bladder.”

“Missed me,” he grins.

“She doesn’t know you left.”

Rafe looks up at her. “Yeah, she does.”

She could argue. Usually would. Instead, she runs her fingers over the soft growth at the back of his head while his thumb moves absently over her stomach, his cancelled flight still open on the phone beside them and his suitcase untouched in the foyer downstairs.

Outside the bedroom, Banks tells Marlowe she’s giving Mama too much water. Marlowe tells him he’s not in charge of water duty. The dishwasher makes one final, miserable clunk and falls silent.

Rafe glances toward the hallway, then back at her. “See? Everything’s handled.”

“The dishwasher may be dead,” she sighs.

“I’ll buy another one.”

“You say that about everything.”

“Usually works.”

She smiles despite herself, and Rafe watches it happen with the same intent attention he has given her since they were teenagers, like every version of their life still begins with checking her face first.

Then he leans forward, rests his cheek against her stomach, and stays there while the house keeps moving around them.

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He noticed your smile always faded when he entered your line of sight. You usually bolted with a weak excuse of being busy, or gave him clipped, terse responses if he managed to get you to speak to him. Even then, it felt like he was talking at you, and you were responding like you had a gun to your head.

Perhaps you thought you were too good for him. That fancy college you were going to was getting to your head. Maybe you were dating some douchebag econ major... He didn't even realize the family left and he was just staring at you. You're probably even more creeped out by him now. You have this odd look on your face and there's a stiffness in the way you stand now, like you're trying to shrink yourself without being obvious.

He takes a sharp breath in and walks over to you, hands sliding into his pocket to hold out the pretty necklace he bought you today. He was planning to ask you out. For the second time this week already.

He fidgets with the necklace in his pocket, running his thumb along the delicate little charm he'd picked out earlier that day. It reminded him of you, all soft and bright and way too expensive for someone scooping sherbet in the heat. He'd thought about just leaving it in your locker. But no, that'd be weird. Creepy, even. He wasn't creepy.

Your shift is almost over. He can tell by the way you've started glancing at your phone, counting down minutes. You don't look up when he stops at the counter. But you freeze for just a second. Your hand lingers too long on a napkin dispenser.

"I g-got you something," he mumbles, voice low and a little nervous, like a child speaking to their first love. He pulls the necklace from his pocket slowly, afraid you'll turn him away. You finally look up. Not at the necklace but at him. Your face is guarded.

"Rafe…" Your voice is soft, but there's weight behind it. You sound tired. "I told you not to-"

"You didn't let me finish last time," he says, setting the little box a little too hard onto the countertop. "You never… you never let me finish. I'm not trying to buy your attention. I just… think about you a lot." He swallows, tongue darting across the inside of his cheek. "You don't even have to wear it. I just thought it was pretty. Like you."

You blink, eyes scanning his face. It almost sounds like he's rambling, and your cheeks warm up at the compliment. Still, wearing something a man bought you is far too intimate for your liking. He notices your hands twitch slightly at your sides.

You shift your weight like you want to step back but don't want to make it obvious. The silence that follows is thick. Your eyes drop to the box, then lift again to meet his. You're not smiling. He wishes you'd smile at him. The cute one with a hint of a dimple. You're so adorable.

"I don't want to owe you anything," you say quietly. "And I don't want you thinking that this means anything. Because it doesn't. I don't feel that way towards you."

Rafe's feels his heart sink like a rock in a body of water, his eyes trained on you as you lower your head, gnawing on your plump lower lip. You're a coward. He thinks to himself. Mumbling that to him while being incapable of looking him in the eyes. He reminds himself that this happens every time he makes a move on you, but it still stings.

"Why not? How do I make you want me?" The words tumble out before he can stop them. He feels like such a loser. He's practically begging for your attention.

"You dont, Rafe." You mumble. You don't meet his eyes again as you gather up your things, shifting uncomfortably as you turn away. There's no venom in your voice, like he's not even worth the time or energy to get mad at. "Stop wasting your time with me and go hang out with the girls your speed."

He frowns, pushing his body against the counter as he watches you lock everything up. His eyes drift to the way your tits push against your thin polo when you lean forward to grab your phone charger. Fuck, he wants you.

His mind returns to your last couple words. "What do you mean my speed? You're my speed. I want you to be my speed."

You scoff lightly, shaking your head. You think he's clueless. He knows you do. As you slide out of the concessions stand and come around to roll down the security shutters and lock it. He stares down at you, admiring the way your body moves. You're not answering him, so he holds onto your upper arm and turns you with little to no effort so that he can look at you. You're just… so out of his league, and yet, he can't let go of this hope. This stupid, selfish hope that you'll turn to him one day. That you'll see him the way he's seeing you now.

"I don't know why you're doing this," he continues, his voice rougher than he means. "But I'm not the bad guy here, alright?" He steps closer to you, leaning in. His heart races, his voice low but urgent. "I know you... you don't want me anywhere near you. But I can't stop thinking about you. Every damn day. Every time I see you, I-" He pauses, his breath catching in his throat as the words spill out before he can stop them. "It h-hurts. It fucking hurts, you know?"

The silence between you two stretches, and Rafe's chest rises and falls rapidly like he's been holding his breath for too long. His hands shake. He's not sure if he's angry or desperate, but either way, he can't let it go. He needs something from you but he knows it's not something you can give so easily. You stare at him silently through long lashes, your brows furrowed. You hate him. "I'm going home, Rafe," you say, not acknowledging his desperation. "I suggest you give this a rest."

He watches as you tear your arm out of his grip to brush past him and head toward your dingy little car, hips swaying as you walk. The pretty necklace he bought you is still in his possession. Like he's out of his mind, he stalks after you from a distance just as you get into your car. He walks to his own truck and decides to tail you to your home.

-

Rafe shows up the next morning like he didn't follow you home the night before and sit in his truck outside your house for hours with his hands clenched tight on the steering wheel, replaying your voice in his head on a loop. 

"I don't want you." "Stop wasting your time." 

He'd been a fight with his dad this morning, and that, paired with yet another day going by with you refusing to open up to him, had pushed him over the edge. The fight had been loud, ugly, and violent and had left his voice hoarse and his knuckles raw from punching drywall. He'd stormed out without a plan, just his keys in hand and the necklace in his pocket.

You're working in the stupid concessions stand again, your face a little sleep ridden, but so so cute. He stares at you like it hurts to look and hurts worse not to.

When you see him storm up to the front, you frown immediately "I told you to stop coming here," you murmur softly, stepping back just a little, but you don't yell or swear at him.

"I know, I know," he rushes out, his voice low and breathless. "But I-I need this. I'm going through some shit right now, alright? I'm not okay. I swear I'll leave right after, I just.. fuck, I just need to hold you right now. Please."

You blink, staring at him from behind the counter with furrowed brows and pursed like you're unsure. Your voice is soft. "Rafe…"

He talks over you before you can turn him away "I'm not trying to pull anything. I'm not here to freak you out. I…" He drags a hand through his hair, pacing outside the snack shack like he's going to have a meltdown. "Please. I really, really need this. God, I miss you and I don't even have you yet."

That makes you pause, your brain scrambling to process the sheer desperation in his words. Your face is warm for a reason you don't comprehend right now. Your eyes flick up to his, and you sigh. "Fine," you whisper, stepping aside to move to the side door and open it. "Just for a bit." He's inside before you finish the sentence.

He practically throws himself on you, arms around your waist, head buried in your neck as he exhales into your skin. You stumble a little because he's so big and heavy, but he wraps his arms around you tighter to keep you steady. Your hands go instinctively to his shoulders, and he relaxes, grounded against you the second he has you in his arms. You're so warm and soft and you smell sweet, causing his body to relax against yours. He can finally breathe.

You tentatively reach up to touch his hair gently, voice unsure. "Did… something happen?"

He just hums, not answering right away, eyes fluttering shut against your collarbone. "You feel so good," he mumbles. "Shit… I don't know what's wrong with me…"

You don't respond. You just let him hold you, fingers threading through his hair, and for a moment, he actually feels calm. He doesn't even care that you're not kissing him or telling him you feel the same. This is enough for now.

He holds you for a long time. Too long, probably, but you don't push him off. Your fingers are still gently threading through his hair, and Rafe presses himself against you tighter like he can fuse the two of you together if he tries hard enough. Feels like he wants to be in your skin. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just soaks in the warmth of your body, the comfort of your scent, the softness of your voice when you ask, "Are you feeling any better?"

He is, really. Much, much better. So much better that he forgot all about Ward and all his other stupid problems, but he needs more. You've got him hooked. "Can I come hang out with you in the stand today?" he asks quietly, nuzzling into your throat. "I'll sit in the back, I swear I won't bother you, I swear."

You hesitate, and he feels it immediately in the way your fingers pause in his hair. You pull back slightly, and he lifts his head to meet your eyes, already expecting the no before you whisper it. "I can't, Rafe. I'll get in trouble. I can't have people hanging around,"

"But I'm not just people," he interrupts, frowning. "I'd be quiet. Just… just let me be near you, please. I can't go back there. Can't go home. Just wanna be with you."

"Rafe…"

"Okay," he says quickly, licking his lips and pulling his hand from his pocket. "Okay, fine. What about the necklace, then?" You blink as he holds out the box again, careful this time, not slamming it on a counter or shoving it in your hands. Just opening it slowly, almost reverently. "Will you wear it? Please?"

There's a pitiful look on his face that makes your resolve falter. His eyes are shiny, lips red and swollen from biting and licking, his face flushed. He's holding you tightly with his free hand. You sigh softly, giving in. "Fine. Just… just for today."

His whole face lights up. "Really? You will?" You nod, reaching for the box, but he stops you gently, one hand brushing yours. "C-can I put it on you?"

You hesitate again, and he's already behind you before you can think of a reason to say no. His fingers tremble a little as he pushes your hair aside, letting the soft strands fall through his hands like silk. You smell like something clean and dreamy, like vanilla and sunlight, and he swears it makes his head spin.

He hooks the necklace around your throat, clasping it carefully, and then just lets his hands rest on your shoulders for a second too long. You're wearing his necklace. Surely that means you're closer to becoming his, right? You're being so nice to him today, he thinks. "You look s'pretty, angel" he murmurs, eyes trained on your skin. "It looks perfect on you."

You turn to face him, not frowning so much anymore. "Thank you… but, seriously. You should go now, my boss does rounds in the morning, and-"

"I know, I know." He nods quickly, eyes dropping to your lips, voice barely above a whisper. "Do you... do you think I could kiss you? Just once?"

You pull back slightly, unsure. "I don't think that's a good idea…"

"Please," he breathes, his hands grabbing onto your arms to make sure you don't run from him. "I swear I won't ask again. Just once. I'm not okay, alright? I need to know what it feels like. Just one. I'm begging you."

You pause. He's looking at you like he's breaking and one kiss could fix something inside him. You furrow your brows, caught between your own better judgment and the way his voice sounds all wrecked and shaky when he speaks, and you know that he won't let this go, so yet again, you give in. "…Just a small one."

He doesn't wait, pressing his mouth to yours with such desperation it makes you reel back slightly. His hands come up to your face, thumbs grazing your cheeks like you're made of glass. He makes sure not to go too fast or try to shove his tongue in your mouth. He wants to savor every last bit of this before you pull away and go back to ignoring him. When his lips move against yours, it's reverent, and his lips seal around yours, making soft smacking sounds. He can't help the breathy groans that leave him. When you finally pull back, he's not all there.

You're warm in the face, wide-eyed, and still close enough that he can feel your breath fan against his lips. "Rafe…" you whisper, gently guiding him back by the shoulders. "You should go." He doesn't say anything, just nods, eyes still glassy and dazed, letting you push the door open and give him a soft little smile, biting your lip to hold it back, as he stumbles outside, like he's in a fog. The door shuts behind him.

He walks to his truck like he's drunk, heart pounding, lips tingling, mind still wrapped around the way your mouth felt on his. He's never felt this before. Not with anyone. He sits in his truck for a long time after that, tasting you on his lips and listening to his heart drum in his ears.

-

Rafe doesn't leave his room for hours after the kiss.

He's lying on his bed, shirt thrown onto the ground and breathing way too hard. The way your mouth felt on his feels like it's been carved into his brain. Burned into it, more like. He can't stop thinking about how it felt to hold you and press his lips to yours all desperate and sloppy no matter how many times he tries to get it together. He can still faintly taste your strawberry lip gloss on his mouth and hear the soft little moans you made when you kissed him back, even if they were quiet. Next time, he'll make you scream.

He turns over in his bed, running his fingers through his hair. He wonders if he's drowning. Nothing feels real right now. You kissed him. He didn't force himself on you or make you do anything you didn't want to. You gave yourself to him, and now he needs more, but you're so difficult. Sweet and soft but just out of reach like you like watching him go crazy.

He sits up too fast, legs bouncing with nervous energy as he grabs his phone and opens your social media so fast it feels like muscle memory. He scrolls through your posts until he finds one he's seen many times before. One where you're at a kegger with friends in a little crop top with shorts where he can see the bottom piece of your bikini underneath.

You look like his wet dreams come to life. He likes this picture because it looks like you were made for him. All sunkissed, wearing his favorite colors, smiling all cute and innocent, fuck…

He tosses his phone to the floor like it burns to hold it and closes his eyes until all he can see is your mouth parting against his, the way your lashes fluttered. The heat of your body under his hands, how easy it would've been to just keep going, to press you up against the wall and devour you like he wanted to. He can't breathe.

He's sliding his hand into his pants before he can think, not bothering to take off his shorts or boxers, just easing his cock out of their confines and groaning at its sensitivity, hunching forward and slowly beginning to pump his hand up and down. He thinks about you in his necklace, bending you over the counter of your dumb little snack store, kissing you again… God, he thinks you're it for him. You're all he wants..

He moans softly, quietly, the sound muffled into his pillow. His hips buck up into his fist, and it's not just lust driving him, it's panic. It feels like you crawled into his veins and rewired every cell of his body. "Shit… can't last…"

He fucks into his hand harder, chasing the feeling with a frustrated groan. It's not enough. It's not enough. He wants your voice in his ear, wants your thighs around his waist, wants your little breathy moans right against his mouth.

His hand moves faster, messier, thumb dragging over the tip just to feel the way his cock twitches, but it's not the same, not even close to how it felt when you touched him. He tightens his grip on his cock a little to try and imagine how it would feel being inside you for real. Wetter, he thinks, and he leans back to spit in his hand, then going back to milking his cock with his hand, forehead pressed into his pillow. His voice is quiet and wrecked, whispered little groans into the pillow as his hips twitch, fucking up into his fist like your pussy's the only thing that could calm him down. "Fuck... fuck... want you s'bad, angel, mngh"

His hand stutters, hips jerking, and he cums with a low, guttural groan that's more desperate than anything, thick, creamy spurts coating his fingers, his chest, his boxers, but the second it's over, the second he catches his breath, the ache only sharpens.

When he checks up on you the next morning like a routine at your place of work, he swears he's gonna puke when he pulls up to the country club and you're not there.

At first, he tells himself maybe you're just late. Maybe you overslept or your car broke down or you're inside and he didn't see you. But after he walks in and asks your manager, only to be told with a shrug that "she's taking a chill day," it's like the floor falls out from under him.

Why didn't you tell him? You gave him no explanation, no warning, no clue about what you're doing or or where you are or who you're with and his brain is going fucking crazy. He drives around for thirty minutes, chewing his nail and shaking his leg and refreshing your socials like a psycho, until finally he pulls up outside your house, parks crooked, throws it in park, and marches up the steps like a man possessed.

He knocks once. Then again, and quickly, he's pounding on the door, then with both fists. His heart is racing. His hands are sweating. And then you open the door and he just sags, a shaky breath leaving his chest. You're in a giant t-shirt with and little shorts, holding a spatula in one hand and blinking up at him like you just woke up. "Rafe?"

He's already crowding the door, peeking behind you like he's trying to find a way to barge in. "Why weren't you at work?" You frown up at him, still surprised at the sheer unexpectedness of his arrival. Why is it that he shows up wherever you go? "I... I just took the day off."

"Took the day off?" he echoes like you just told him you're moving to another continent. "Why?" You blink, stepping back a little because of how close he is. "Just wanted a day to myself. I'm going to a bonfire later and didn't wanna be tired."

"A bonfire," he repeats, stepping over the threshold without waiting for an invite. "With who?" His gaze flicks over to your exposed legs, then your thighs and your lips, plush and a little swollen. "You never take days off. Since when do you go to bonfires?"

You furrow your brows, confused and still kind of sleepy. "Rafe, what's going on? Are you okay?"

"No," he says immediately, eyes flitting over your face, down your neck, lingering on the dip of your collarbone, where the charm of the necklace he bought you is still resting. "No, I'm not. You weren't there. I-I didn't know where you were, cause you never told me."

Your expression softens as you see that he's not doing so good right now. Feels like he needs you. "I'm fine. I was just making pancakes."

"Who else is going?" he asks, voice hard and words coming out fast. "To the bonfire."

You pause. "I dunno. A few people."

"Guys?"

You blink. "Probably?"

His jaw clenches. "What are you wearing?"

You splutter again, this time caught off guard. "To the bonfire?"

"Yeah."

"Ah... not sure yet, I guess"

He stares at you like he doesn't believe you. Like you're lying just to mess with him. "Are you gonna drink?"

You finally realize the absurdity of his comments and scoff lightly. "Why are you acting like my boyfriend?"

Rafe takes a step closer to you, his breath coming out shaky, his jaw tight. His eyes are dark, gaze heavy with something you can't quite place. "Because I will be," he says, low and determined, like it's a promise. You're caught off guard, but you don't let him see that. You cross your arms over your chest, clearly trying to hold on to your composure. "What?"

His eyes never leave you. He looks dead serious; there's not a single flicker of hesitation in his voice. "I'm gonna be your boyfriend," he repeats, firm this time, almost like he's daring you to contradict him.

You stare at him, the weight of it settling over the room like a thick fog, and Rafe takes a step closer, like he's trying to prove something just by you letting him be so close to you.

"You can't just disappear like that, okay?" he says, sounding bossy. "I thought you were gone. Like...gone gone. I had to talk to your boss, cause I don't like when I don't know where you are," he rambles, eyes locked on yours. "I don't like not knowing who you're with, or what you're wearing, or if someone's getting you drunk and trying to take you home."

Alarmed by how he's starting to sound frantic, you think this would be a good time to give him some space and angle the door just enough that he can't get past it. "Rafe, go home." you say quietly, not looking him in the eye as you tuck the spatula behind you and lean into the door like a warning. "You're freaking me out."

Rafe's face twists, first in confusion, like he's still catching up to what you just said, and then in disbelief, then anger.

"How am I freaking you out, huh? You're just overreacting, like always. Trying to treat me like I'm a goddamn basket case."

"I don't like this," you continue, more firmly now, your pulse speeding up. "You show up at my house and start asking all these questions like you own me or something,"

"It's cause I care about you," he snaps, voice rising a little as his eyes burn into yours, his chest lifting with every breath. "You don't get it, do you? You think it's nothing, but it's not. You disappear, you don't text, and now you're telling me you're going out to get wasted with God knows who." His hands are clenching and unclenching rapidly and he keeps raking his hands incessantly through his hair.

"I don't owe you an explanation."

"Yes, you fucking do!"

You flinch, just slightly, and he sees how your fingers curl tighter around the edge of the door, and it makes him panic. He steps forward like he's going to force his way in and you push the door tighter with a hard look, shaking your head.

"I'm not doing this," you say, voice cold now, your tone clipped and unfamiliar. "I'm not gonna let you guilt trip me just because I wanted one night to myself."

"You're not just trying to have a night to yourself," he says bitterly, jaw tight as he takes a shaky breath, eyes wide and manic-like, as though he's about to unravel right in front of you. "You're going out so you can slut yourself out, right? So you can get drunk and let some random guy put his hands all over you, and then you're gonna let him fuck you."

"Excuse me?" you hiss, eyes wide as your entire body goes still.

"You think I don't know?" Rafe seethes, running a hand through his hair, pacing back like he's physically trying to keep from grabbing you. "You think I haven't seen the way you look when you're flirting? You get that sexy little look in your eyes like you're begging to be bent over. Like you want guys' attention. A-and you post shit, you wear tiny hooker shorts and laugh at every guy that breathes near you and then act like I'm the one who's crazy when I don't want to fucking lose you!"

"You are crazy," you snap, voice rising for the first time. "You're out of your fucking mind. You don't get to walk into my house and tell me what I can wear or who I can be around just because we kissed."

"IT WASN'T JUST A KISS!" he roars. "DON'T YOU FUCKING GET IT? YOU'RE EVERYTHING TO ME!"

You flinch back when he screams at you, and your breathing goes shallow, lips parting like you want to say something else, but nothing comes out. "Rafe," you say instead, voice low, scared. "P-please, you need to go."

"No," he whispers immediately, shaking his head like a child. "No, don't shut me out. Don't do this. You don't mean that-"

"Go away, Rafe!" you cry out, and slam the door in his face before you can change your mind. The sound echoes through your house, bouncing off the walls and rattling your chest. You lock it.

On the other side, you hear nothing for a long moment. And then the soft thud of his fist hitting the door once, twice. Not to knock, just because he doesn't know what else to do. Then footsteps. Then silence.

You slide to the floor and stare at the spatula still clutched in your hand, heart thudding against your ribs like it's trying to claw its way out, meanwhile he storms away to his truck, immediately driving at an obscene speed. He cruises down the road with one hand gripping the wheel and the other twitching restlessly on his thigh, his head pounding. The sun's going down and the sky is darkening, and all he can think about is you in some tiny little outfit, smiling at some guy who doesn’t fucking deserve it.

He goes home to pass the time with whatever helps take his mind off you. Lifting weights, doing jobs for his dad, golfing...

By nightfall he's buzzing and out on the road, headed to your stupid bonfire.

He hits the brakes too hard pulling into the dirt road leading to the beach. Gravel kicks up under the tires and his pulse doesn’t slow. He leans back in his seat for a second, staring out at the distant flames and silhouettes gathering around them, and he mutters under his breath.

He's met up with some friends, his pupils are blown wide and there’s a girl clinging to his arm, some mutual friend who laughs too loud at everything he says and keeps taking hits to impress him. He doesn’t even remember her name.

He’s already smoked, he did a line back at the house, and now everything feels loose and hazy except the fire and the blurry shape of you. He spots you instantly. You’re standing near the fire, laughing with someone he doesn’t recognize, hair tucked behind your ear, drink in your hand, face lit up by the flames.

He drops his arm from the girl like she’s heavy and annoying, snatches the joint from someone's hand without acting, and leans back into the circle of guys while his eyes never leave you.

Every time you smile, or tilt your head to listen to someone who isn’t him, it feels like his skin is burning. He’s bouncing his leg. Grinding his teeth. His fingertips twitch like he’s about to do something reckless, like walking up to you and grabbing your wrist and dragging you off to somewhere private.

The heat of his stare pricks at the back of your neck, even as you try to ignore it and keep sipping your drink, laughing with your friend and pretending you don’t feel your skin flush for no reason at all. But it gets worse with every passing minute. Every little sound around you starts to blur and all you can feel is him staring.

When you finally turn your head, you find him sitting with a group of guys by the fire, his legs bouncing.

You tear your gaze away and pretend you didn’t see, but it only takes a little while before you go off to talk to your friend and there's a warm, huge body pressing against your back, hands snaking around your waist. Music thrums in your ears, and you feel him nudging his hips against your ass as the scent of weed and expensive cologne fills your nose.

Rafe's voice comes out as a quiet slur against your ear. "M'sorry, angel" he mumbles, pressing his face into your hair. "Don't... d-don't want you mad at me. Couldn't stay home. You're not a slut, I didn't mean that...I swear I didn’t mean it."

You push his arm off, stepping away and whirling around to face him. "Rafe! Are you serious right now? You show up here with some girl all over you and now you’re grinding on me like nothing happened?"

His face twists up in shock or hurt. You can't tell. "No...no, what? No!" he says, voice cracking. "I'm not playing you, why the fuck would I be? I did not do anything with her, I just...fuck, I needed to see you. You slammed the door in my face and I thought-"

"Thought what?" you snap. "That you could get a rise out of me and show me how replaceable I am?" Your words make his eyes go all glassy, just for a second, then they darken. He looks feral. He's tired of you and your inability to understand him or his feelings. His jaw tightens and his breathing spikes, and all of a sudden, he snatches your wrist.

"Come here."

"Rafe, let go of me!"

He doesn’t listen. He’s pulling you off the beach, down the sand while ignoring your scattered protests, all the way until you’re stumbling up the wooden steps of a closed lifeguard shack just off the edge of the bonfire. You yank at his grip but he’s too strong, too frantic, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear entirely.

He opens the door and drags you inside, then slams it shut and locks it behind him. The noise of the party dulls outside. Inside, it’s just heavy silence and the sound of both your uneven breaths. You shove at his chest, not a fan of being in such an enclosed space with him. "You're being just as insane as you were at my house, Rafe. You're not even sober right now, are you?"

He stares at you like you just stabbed him. "You don’t get it," he mutters, almost to himself. "You don’t fucking get it."

"I do get it!" you bite back. "I get that you're a manipulative and controlling bast-" That’s when he loses it.

"You think I'm playing games with you?" He screams, grabbing you and shoving you up against the back wall. Your body slams back against the solid surface, and he gets up in your face, nose pressed into yours. "You think I'm playing games? You think this is some fucking joke to me? You have no idea what I feel when I look at you. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can’t fucking think without you taking over every single last FUCKING one of my thoughts. I've never..!” His voice catches, and his breathing picks up so much that he sounds like he's hyperventilating. "I've never needed someone like this."

You gasp out loud, heart doing a little jump at his words. You dont know if you're confused or nervous or flustered, but he's starting to panic all over again, like he didn't mean to say that. Not in the way he did, at least.

Rafe stares at you like he’s just realized what he said. Like the words ripped out of him before he could pull them back. His eyes are huge, chest rising and falling fast.

“You need me?” you say, and your voice comes out soft. Disbelieving.

His lips part, and he nods, just once. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I need you so fucking much I think it's killing me. And I know I act like an asshole, I know I say shit I don't mean, but when you slammed that door in my face I thought I was gonna lose my goddamn mind." His voice breaks at the edges again, cracking away. "And then I saw you laughing with someone else and I wanted to kill him. I couldn't take it. You're supposed to smile at me. Only me."

You're quiet for a beat, not knowing what to say. You know you should be more angry and hold your ground, but he's looking at you so desperately. Like always. He squeezes your shoulders and looks intently into your eyes. "I didn’t touch her," he says again, voice barely above a whisper. "I...I-I didn't kiss her, didn't want her. She was just...there. I didn't even look at her. I was looking for you."

Your heart pounds and he comes closer to you, needing a response. Your reaction is difficult to read for him, filling him with uncertainty. He knows you probably don't feel the same towards him, and it crushes him. The silence between you stretches long enough to make him nauseous. But then you ask, in a quiet little voice, "Tell me again."

His brows furrow. "What?"

"That you need me."

He steps in again, and this time his hand comes up, shaking slightly, to brush your cheek. "I need you," he says, firmer now. "I w-want and need you so bad it makes me do stupid shit. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry baby, I just... fuck-" He trails off by attaching his lips onto yours to show you how bad he needs you, lips slotting over yours as he moans at your taste. His hands slide up under your shirt like he has to feel your skin, making their way to your bra, which he lifts up over your breasts to squeeze the soft mounds under your shirt.

You whimper softly against his mouth at the suddenness of it, the heat of his palms rough and eager as they mold over you, and that sound makes Rafe groan from somewhere deep in his chest, kissing you harder and messier. He tastes faintly of mint.

"Missed you," he slurs into your mouth, thumbing over your nipples with clumsy desperation, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. His forehead knocks against yours as he breathes you in, the two of you barely able to catch a breath between kisses.

You jolt, moaning and halfheartedly pushing at his chest, but he pinches your nipple as a punishment, needing you against him. "Mnh! Rafe, we shouldn't," you gasp when his mouth moves to your neck, trailing open mouthed kisses over your pulse, and you feel him nodding against you like he agrees, even though he's still doing it.

He kisses a path down your throat, dragging his nose along your skin. His hands stay under your shirt, squeezing and cupping your breasts. You feel him shudder when you don't push him away again, when instead you tilt your head to the side, granting him more access to your neck. He groans low and desperate, hands smoothing down your waist to your hips, pulling you closer until there's not a sliver of space between your bodies.

You feel how hard he is, grinding against you with slow, needy rolls of his hips. His cock strains against his pants, pressing hotly against you through your clothes, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

"Fuck," Rafe hisses into your skin, voice wrecked. "Fuck, baby, please..." He presses his forehead against your shoulder, panting, grinding his hips against yours again like he physically can't help himself. "Want you so bad. Been losin' my mind thinking about you, can't stop." His hands grab at your hips, your ass, trying to feel everything he can at once, desperate and frantic.

He pulls back enough to catch your face in both hands, making you look him in the eye. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, chest heaving. "Tell me you want it," he says, low and rough. "Tell me you want me, angel. Please." His thumbs stroke your jaw.

You blink up at him, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. You don't say anything at first, and that moment of silence just makes him even crazier, and he lets out a broken noise, grinding against you harder, hips stuttering like he's about to lose it just from this.

"Say it," he begs again, voice breaking. "Say you want me."

You finally oblige with a little nod, head spinning. "I-I want you, Rafe. I want it..."

The second the words leave your lips, it's like something inside him snaps. "Fuck," Rafe groans, diving back in to kiss you feverishly, his hands already fumbling at the hem of your shirt, yanking it up over your head. He's frantic, crazed, muttering under his breath: "so pretty, so fucking pretty", as he tosses your shirt somewhere behind him. His hands are everywhere, roaming your skin like he's starving, like he’s trying to devour every inch of you.

He makes quick work of your bra, practically ripping it off and letting it fall to the floor. His mouth drops open when he gets a look at you and he immediately ducks his head, mouthing hotly at the tops of your breasts, whining against your plush tits, moaning at the taste.

His hands can't decide where to stay, cupping your breasts, sliding down your sides, gripping your hips, your ass, he's frantic like he's scared you'll disappear if he lets go even for a second. His mouth trails desperate, sloppy kisses down your chest, tongue flicking out to circle one nipple before sucking it into his mouth with a greedy groan, like he needs it to breathe.

Your fingers find his hair without thinking, threading through the soft strands, and he moans into your skin at the contact, bucking his hips into you harder, unable to stop himself.

He ruts against you like he's in heat, hips grinding up into yours in slow, messy rolls as his cock strains painfully against the fabric of his shorts. Every desperate push of his hips presses his hard length right up against your core, and you feel the heat of him even through all the layers between you.

"Fuck," Rafe gasps, drooling on your tits. His hips jerk forward harder, and the friction makes you both groan. He drags his mouth up your chest, laving his tongue over your breasts and sucking hickeys onto your cleavage, all while rutting against you like he's trying to get off just from the contact.

You feel him shudder, breath hot and shaky against your throat, and his hands fumble clumsily at the waistband of your shorts. "Need you," he mumbles. "Need you now."

He doesn't even try to be smooth, just yanks your shorts down your hips in a couple frantic tugs, letting them fall around your ankles, tugging your panties next. You're helping him too, panting and moaning against his face as you tug down his pants and his boxers, freeing his fat, leaking cock, flushed an angry red from built up arousal. You give pause at the sheer size of his cock, resting heavily against his tummy, looking up at him with wide, glassy eyes. "I-it's big, Rafe... " You trail off, nervous.

He shakes his head and pushes you back onto the wall and hovers over you. "It's okay, it's okay... I'll make it fit. Won't hurt my angel." He slides a hand under your thigh, lifting it so you have no choice but to let him grind against your bare pussy, the length of him dragging right along your slick folds.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groans, rutting against you slow and messy. He's trying to savor you but can't stop how badly he wants you, and so his cock ends up slipping and sliding against you, catching between your wet, flowery folds with every other thrust. "Rafe" Your eyes flutter as you call out his name, clinging onto him. It feels so good that you're starting to leak wetness down your thighs. "You feel that?" Rafe pants, forehead pressed to yours, eyes fluttering closed as he rocks against you harder. "Feel how bad I want you? How fucking crazy you make me?"

You nod, breathless, overwhelmed, and Rafe lets out a wrecked little moan, rubbing his cock along your soaked slit again and again, like he's trying to carve the feeling into his memory forever. "Angel..." he moans out, voice loud and unrestrained. You wonder if people can hear you two inside the shack.

He continues holding onto your thigh with one hand and his cock with the other, sliding back and forth against your sopping little pussy. "I'm gonna put it inside you, okay?" He whispers, making direct eye contact with you. "Won't hurt you," he restates, voice low and sincere. You don't see how excited he is deep down to finally have you to himself. He's going to finally fuck you. Then, he's going to make you his girlfriend and never let you out of his sight again. You nod, whining softly and angling your body so he's lined up completely with your pretty pussy.

When the tip notches in your tight hole, you cry out at the intrusion, tears sparking in your wide eyes with the discomfort of having something so big beginning to fill you, so he presses his forehead against yours and coos softly, stroking your hair. "I got you, I got you. Shh... almost halfway," he uses the phrase to coax you, even though he's only got his bulbous head and an inch of his length in you. By the time it's really halfway, you can't take anymore and push on his shoulders. "Rafe! 'm too full, I can't..."

"You can, see? Look at me, look." He cups your cheek, nodding to you and slowly thrusting in and out to get you accommodated, nearly bottoming out entirely. Then, he shoves and stretches you out inch by inch, kissing you deeply to keep you distracted, and he feels you squirming and whining loudly as he gets deeper and deeper, and then he feels the wet squelch of his pelvis against your pussy, and he knows he's filled you up all the way.

You're so goddamn tight, and he lets out a low, drawn out moan. He looks down at where his cock disappears into your stretched out, dripping cunt. He can't believe he actually managed to fit the whole fucking thing inside you. Your little pussy is so goddamn tight, gripping him like a vice now that he's buried to the hilt inside you. Your thighs are trembling, and your back's arched off the wall because of the fullness of him inside you.

Rafe grunts as he slowly starts to thrust, his hips jerking forward to spear his rigid length deeper into your pliant body. Your slick walls flutter around him, trying desperately to accommodate the thick girth stretching you out. The way you feel is incredible, your pussy gripping him like you never want to let him go.

"That's it," he grunts, his voice rough and gravelly with arousal. "Angel, shit... your pussy was made for my cock." He starts thrusting faster, driving into you with more force as he enjoys the way your tits bounce with each snap of his hips. You're barely holding yourself up, legs quivering as he spears into you and angles you so he can hit every sweet spot in your warm, gummy pussy.

The thick length of his cock, pulsing and throbbing, spears into your soaked, gripping walls over and over again. He slams into you and grinds his pelvis against yours, his heavy cock burying to the hilt with each thrust inside your flutter walls. "Feels so good, Rafe," You whines softly, panting into his ear. Your praise fuels him and encourages him to fuck you harder, better. He rolls his hips against yours, stirring his huge length around in your stuffed hole.

Rafe fucks into you deep and you can feel him in your stomach, stretching you out, claiming every inch of your body. He's fucking you like he wants to fucking destroy your pussy and rebuild it to be a perfect mold of his cock. "Mhm? Feels good?" He pants, fucking into your cunt and grabbing your jaw with his free hand so he can see your cute, fucked out expression.

"You feel so good. So fucking good...only for me, right?" He demands, wanting your reassurance, and you nod, throwing your head back and moaning when he bumps against a really sensitive spot way too deep inside you.

He grits his teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead, his whole body working just to keep himself from cumming too fast because you're squeezing the life out of him. "You're fuckin' mine," he rasps against your cheek, thrusts getting sharper, rougher, more desperate.

His cock drives deep, grinding right against that sensitive spot again and again until you’re crying out for him, fingernails digging into his shoulders, your eyes glossy with unshed tears. "Say it," he breathes, grinding his hips up into you so deep you swear you can feel him in your ribs. "Tell me you're mine, angel."

"M'yours," you mewl helplessly, clinging onto him, and Rafe groans louder. He keeps pounding into you with a rough, messy pace, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. Your pussy clamps down harder around him, spasming, and Rafe lets out a wrecked moan, feeling you start to fall apart around him.

"Shit, gonna cum, angel. Gonna cum inside you so everyone knows who you belong to," he says, thrusts getting sloppier as his balls hit your ass slow and lazy, and he moans, eyes fluttering shut as he spills inside you, heavy, thick cream filling you completely. He doesn't stop until every last drop is buried inside you, and even then, he's still thrusting all rough all slow so you feel every ridge and vein on his heavy cock as he pumps you full. He won't stop till you cum too, and he rolls two fingers over your hardened clit, licking up your throat until he gets to your lips, and slides his tongue over yours.

One last bump of his fat cockhead on your womb has the coil in your tummy snapping, and with a loud moan, you cum all over his cock, splurting pearlescent juices on his cum covered cock. He groans, feeling his cock twitch inside you as you squeeze him impossibly tighter while you cum.

His eyes are glassy as he looks at you, lips parted, and he's still buried deep inside your pussy and holding your jaw, but his voice is gone. During the silence, you notice a flicker in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate as his eyes bore into yours. His mouth keeps opening and closing, making it clear he wants to tell you something.

He wants to say he loves you.

But he doesn't.

He pulls out, making sure your panties and shorts are on as he pulls out, letting his cum slip out of your pussy and rest in your clothes. He grins at the mess between your thighs, wiping off any residue to ensure that it isn't too obvious that you've got his load in you. He kisses your forehead and grins through low eyes, nuzzling your forehead. "Keep it in so you've got a part of me in you all through the rest of this fucking party."

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You were bored.

You were utterly, painfully bored. Rafe had been gone for less than forty-eight hours on a business trip to look at some new development properties, and the house felt too big and too quiet without him.

And after hours of stewing in your own boredom, you'd shamefully resorted to blowing up his phone.

You i miss you rafeeee look at the tiktoks i sent you what are you doing rn helloooooo respond to me or i'm deleting your save file on gta

A few minutes later, your phone finally buzzed on the desk. You swiped it open eagerly, only to deflate at his dry responses.

Rafe In a meeting Can’t talk right now Stop texting.

A prickle of irritation flared in your chest. You knew he was working, but a little bit of effort wouldn't kill him. Your fingers flew across the keyboard, attitude bleeding into your words.

You whatever forget it

And not even thirty seconds passed before your phone screen lit up entirely, vibrating against your palm.

You pressed answer, sliding the phone to your ear with a stubborn huff.

"What's your problem?" Rafe’s voice came through the line, low. You could hear the muffled echo of chatter in the background—he had clearly stepped out just to make this call.

"I don't have a problem," you lied, leaning back in your gaming chair and spinning a slow circle.

"Clearly, you do," Rafe countered, stern but laced with an undercurrent of fond exasperation. "Because you're blowing up my phone like a kid while I'm trying to close a deal. The quicker I do that, the quicker I can come back home to you. You do know that, right?" He reprimands softly. "Talk to me." He asks, concerned. "What is it?"

"I'm bored, Rafe," you complained, trailing a finger over the edge of your desk. "I'm not trying to annoy you but," You sighed, throwing your head back. "What do you want from me?"

"You're bored?" Rafe let out a dry, disbelieving laugh, a sound that was too attractive for how annoyed he was supposed to be. "There is no way in the world that you're bored right now."

"What's that 'posed to mean?"

"It means, considering of all the shit I buy you," he said down the line, his tone turning into an authoritative lecture, like he was checking items off a list just to prove a point. "There shouldn't be a single second of the day where you're bored in that house. I bought you the Switch you wanted, twice actually after you told me you wanted a different color," He starts, amused. "I just bought you a new laptop after you killed the first one with mods 'n shit. And what about the iPad? Even that damn PC I literally just ordered and set up for you, so you could play Sims without it lagging."

You bit your lip, listening to him rattle off.

"And don't forget," Rafe continued, a faint smirk evident in his voice now, "I just dropped a shit ton of money buying you a fuckin' mountain of new games last week, because you did this the last time I had to go away for work." He chuckles lowly into the phone. "What d'you want next? A puppy?" He muses.

You softened a little, the attitude draining out of you at the reminder of how indulgent he was with your hobbies. He loved making sure you had the best version of whatever made you happy.

"I mean... I appreciate it," you murmured, your voice dropping to a softer, more honest tone. "Obviously. But I miss you."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Rafe was a sucker for you, and hearing you admit you just wanted him was enough to undo his frustration.

"Yeah?" Rafe asked, his voice a gentle rumble. "You miss me?"

"Yeah, I miss you..." You whisper, pouting slightly.

"Alright," he murmured softly. "Then why don't you go play that game you just made me buy you?"

You blinked, momentarily distracted. "Which one?"

"The one on your Switch. Tomodachi somethin', with the Wii people," he said, a faint chuckle escaping him. "Go take care of our little Miis or whatever you call 'em."

"I just got done playing that," you admitted, a small smile breaking onto your face. "Me and you just had a beach date."

"We did, huh? Did mii-me treat you well?" Rafe asked. Before you could answer, he moved along to the next solution. "Alright, well... did you ever finish building our house on Sims?"

"Not completely..."

"Then how 'bout you finish that? It was comin' along nice," He praises. "How many kids we got now?" he questioned, recalling the random details you had rambled to him about weeks ago. "Did you ever end up giving us that dog like you wanted?"

"No, not yet," you mumbled, warmth creeping up your neck.

"Then there's somethin' for you to do." Rafe instructed, tone sliding back into that smooth, authoritative register. It was gentle, but left no room for argument. "Go build the house, get the dog, fill it up with whatever you want. And once you're done with all of that, and I'm out of this boring ass meeting..." He paused, his voice dropping into a low whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. "...I'll FaceTime you and make it worth your while. Alright?"

"...Okay."

"Good girl," Rafe murmured, satisfied. You could hear the rustle of his suit jacket as he checked his watch. "I gotta get back in there before they think I dipped." He sighs. "Go play your games. And I made you a new spotify playlist to listen to while I'm gone," He throws in as if he just remembered. "I love you."

"I love you, too," you whispered.

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Aerion's question pulled you from the peace of your mind, drawing your attention up to your husband. A weary smile pulled at your lips, face still glistening with sweat from the efforts it took to bring new life into the world. “The maester says all is well.”

Aerion only nodded, pleased with your tired reply for now. His brow wrinkled just slightly, and with a touch too tender for a man of such cruel nature, he reached out and touched the newborn's forehead. The babe stirred slightly, a small, humming sound as she shifted in her swaddling clothes and settled again. His forefinger traced her soft hairs, then down the line of her nose. His nose.

“A girl, I hear,” the prince said thoughtfully, withdrawing his hand to admire both mother and child. He had never been a man fond of soft things, but something deep within his chest tightened at the sight of the fragile being in your arms. His expression showed none of his confliction, carefully blank as he tilted his head.

“Does that upset you?” Your voice trembled faintly, eyes searching Aerion's impassive expression. This was different from Maegor's birth. Your husband had taken your firstborn into his arms, declaring him a strong little dragon. Now, there was only silence — thick and dreadfully brittle.

“No.” His reply came low in his throat, a mere mumbled word as though his thoughts were elsewhere. The babe stirred again, her small brow pinching as she blinked her eyes open. Violet irises fluttered up, a silent, innocent gaze meeting his own. Aerion swallowed. “Visenya.”

“What?”

“Her name.”

“Husband, I had hoped we would decide to-”

“Her name is Visenya.”

His tone was firm and unwavering, leaving no room for discussion. Aerion knew his children were strong, fierce dragons just as he was. They deserved names befitting of their lineage and succession. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping along the bone as he met your gaze to await submission. You sighed, but offered a weary nod. Some fights were not worth pursuing, and this was one of them. Visenya was a strong name for a strong girl.

Aerion seemed pleased with your reluctant acceptance, a small smirk tugging at his lips before he forced it away. He looked back down at the small creature in your arms, reaching out to stroke her round cheek. “She has eaten, yes?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, laying further back against the plush pillows that had been stacked behind you, the cushion a well-needed respite from some of the ache in your spine. “I've never met a newborn with such an eagerness to feed. Even her brother was not so hungry when he was born.”

“She already has the greed of a dragon, then,” Aerion said with the faintest curve of his lips. His brief amusement was replaced with a quiet concern when he met your gaze. “You should rest. I know the turmoil of your labors has been taxing. I will see to it that the maester and nursemaids attend to you both. Here, hand her to me.”

With a quiet relief, you handed your husband your new daughter. Visenya stirred lightly, whining at the change of hands, but she settled down in her father's hold. Her small lips parted slightly around noisy breaths, her head cradled reverently in one of Aerion's hands.

It came to pass that Aerion held his greatest treasure in his arms. Not gold. Not a crown. Not a scaled dragon of his own. But her.

He leaned down, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Hello, Visenya.”

Evening had settled over Summerhall, and you had returned to the familiar comfort of your marital chambers from the birthing chambers. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting odd shadows against the walls as the last light of the sun slipped through sheer curtains. It was quiet and warm and serene, and you had once again grown accustomed to the weight of an infant in your arms.

Aerion sat on a velvet-lined settee by the hearth, dressed down to a loose tunic and breeches, a goblet of wine hanging haphazardly from his grip. The arbor gold had scarcely been touched, save for a few idle sips. The prince's attention was aimed towards you as you stood over Visenya's cradle. She was cradled in your arms, her small hands curled around your breast as she nursed eagerly. His gaze couldn't help but follow that loosely-fitted nightgown that slipped from your shoulder, revealing the delicate line of your throat and the curve of your spine as he admired you from behind. The picture before him was one of softness, the warm sunlight painting your figure in an angelic view, your face pulled into a tender look of love as you tended to his daughter.

Aerion exhaled slowly, his chest tightening up once again. He had never been a man prone to tenderness, but the sight of his wife and child did that odd thing it always did. It brought up warmth, like the fire within a dragon's belly.

He set his goblet down with a faint clink, rising to his feet. He approached with slow strides, careful not to disturb the delicate atmosphere that had taken over the chamber. He stopped behind you, peering over your shoulder to watch as Visenya drank hungrily. "Always so demanding, the little hatchling," Aerion murmured, though his eyes never left the baby’s face. He stepped closer, closing the small gap, his presence looming and warm. "She has her father's appetite for what is hers, it seems.”

He reached out, not for his daughter, but to catch a stray curl that had escaped your hairpins, winding the thick strand around his finger. His touch was deliberate, a silent claim. He already envied the ease with which Visenya could command your attention, much like Maegor, yet he found a twisted sort of pride in the way their newborn mirrored his own voracious nature. "Let her have her fill," Aerion commanded softly, his voice dropping to a velvet rasp as he leaned down, his breath ghosting against her ear. He placed a delicate kiss to the shell of it. "And once the little one is sated and dreaming of dragons, perhaps you might find a moment to attend to your husband. He has been quite patient, has he not?”

“Aerion,” you said his name lightly, head tilting just a bit when his lips grazed your ear. “You know we cannot do anything. The maester says it will take my body time to heal after this birth.”

“I am no fool, wife,” he said, the words heavy with a bit of sharpness at the offense he felt. Aerion knew well enough that your body needed rest, and he had not intended to imply otherwise. “Can a man not simply hold what is his? You look beautiful like this, my brave girl. Soft with motherhood, still rounded and mine. Besides, I fear this may be the one night I have until things return to as they were. Tomorrow, Maegor will meet his sibling, and once again, I shan't be able to tear him away from your side. The little wyrm is as clingy as a leech.”

You sighed quietly, a bit of tension leaving your shoulders. It was odd that your husband was not demanding anything more from you, but perhaps that was the reward for all of the hardships it took to bring forth life. A faint smile touched your lips, amused. “Are you asking me to cuddle, Aerion?”

“Cuddle,” he scoffed, repeating the word as though it had personally attacked him. “I am not asking to cuddle, I am asking to hold what is mine.”

Your smile didn't waver, but you knew better than to poke the dragon. “That sounds lovely.”

A faint, hesitant knock on the door broke the gentle moment.

Aerion exhaled lowly, pulling away from you and Visenya with a noise akin to a growl. He reached for the iron-wrought handle on the door. It swung open quietly, his hand firmly gripping the wooden edge. Whatever frustration he had felt now mounted to its peak, glaring at the nursemaid in front of him, and little Maegor holding onto her skirts. “The boy is supposed to be in bed.”

“Y- yes, your grace,” the nursemaid stuttered, avoiding his gaze like the plague. “But the prince insisted that he could not sleep without bidding goodnight to his mother.”

“Our lady needs her rest after childbirth. You know this.”

“Yes, my prince-”

Maegor stepped forward, reached to tug on the loose hem of Aerion's tunic. His lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, his little brows furrowing as he looked up at his father. “Please, papa,” the boy pleaded, tugging on the red silk in his hands. “I want… I want to see mama!”

Aerion let out a heavy exhale, glancing over his shoulder to share a look with you. You relented, nodding. “Fine, then,” he said grumpily, guiding Maegor by the shoulder to enter the room. He didn't spare a glance at the nursemaid before dismissing her with a flippant wave of his hand. “Begone, wench.”

The door closed.

“You must be quiet, sweet Maegor,” you said gently as the boy approached. He appeared hesitant, his features — which were now beginning to look more and more like his father's with each passing day — were pinched with a quiet worry. He toddled across the bedchamber, violet eyes glued to the small form in your arms. “This is Visenya,” you explained, turning to face Maegor when he stopped by your side. “Your baby sister. Once she is done eating, you may hold her if you wish.”

Baby sister.

Those words lingered in the air, light on your breath but heavy as they landed on Maegor's ears. His frown deepened, his small chin quivering and something close to fear struck your heart. Your son looked seconds away from weeping, but startled at the sound of Aerion's voice.

“It seems you are no longer the one vying for your mother's attention. She won't have much time for us any longer.”

That did it. Something shattered on Maegor's small face, tears beginning to roll down his fat cheeks. He let out a small cry; high-pitched and hoarse in his throat before he turned away from you. For once in the two years of his life, he turned to his father for comfort, his arms wrapping around his leg.

“Aerion!” You hissed his name like a scathing scold, jaw trembling from how tightly it was clenched. Aerion had always been a jealous man, even when it came to your own son. He had always been prone to cruelties, but antagonizing Maegor was not something you would let happen while you sat idly by. “How dare you say such horrid things?”

“It's the truth.”

“No, it is not and you know it!”

Aerion pouted at that, one hand sliding down to rest upon Maegor's silver curls.

“Don't pout, it's unbecoming of a prince who calls himself a dragon,” you quipped, before your gaze landed on Maegor. He looked so pitiful, face hidden against Aerion's breeches. Once Visenya had unlatched, which only took a few seconds more, you settled her into her cradle. She didn't whimper or cry, clearly unperturbed by the chaos that had erupted around her. “Maegor.”

The boy didn't respond at first. He merely whined, sniffling against the fabric of the pants he now clung to. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head to meet your gaze. You smiled gently, approaching him. You offered your hand, a bridge between the distance that had suddenly been put between you. Maegor took it, his chubby hand slotting against your own as his tears began to slow. You guided your son to the shared bed in the center of the room, offering your arm to help him climb up onto the mattress.

Aerion watched from a few strides away, gaze darkened as you gently wiped away Maegor's tears with the sleeves of your nightgown. “Do not listen to your father. He says cruel things because they amuse him, not because they are true,” you urged, pressing a kiss to his forehead. You straightened up, one hand settling onto your son's small shoulder before you turned to adress both him and Aerion.

“My love is not a finite thing. It does not have to be split. All three of you are my family now, and I love you more than anything. You both should know that.” It was a statement mainly directed towards your husband, the last words laced with a hint of anger at his childish whims. “I will always have time for you.”

Aerion felt his cheeks flush with something he would not name. Guilt? Embarrassment? He blinked, avoiding your gaze as shame washed over him like a second skin. There were few who could tame the dragon, but your words made him see reason when his jealousy blinded him. He closed the distance between you, hands sliding down to gently cradle your hips as he stood behind you. “I'm sorry, my love,” he whispered so that only you may hear, ashamed that he had to stoop so low to begin with. He had been frustrated with the interruption, anger coiling in his chest when the quiet moment he had shared with you and Visenya had been shattered. But it was not fair to his son, and your words rang true in his mind. His lips found your neck in a slow kiss, a silent apology. “You just brought our daughter into this world. You should be resting, not dealing with my actions.”

Maegor sniffled, his hands reaching for the front of your gown. His little fists clenched around the soft linen. “Mama, I'm sorry, too,” he whined. He had no need to apologize, but he had watched with wide eyes as Aerion had done so first. You only breathed out a sigh, and ran your fingers through his silver.

“Now, Maegor, would you like to meet your sister?”

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He groans, laying back against his headboard as he watches you. "But I miss you so bad," He sits up a little, taking your lack of focus on him as an opportunity. Normally, he’d ask you to shut your laptop and notebook for a couple minutes so he can enjoy all of you after a whole day of not hearing the sound of your voice, but he’s so pent up and he doesn’t have you to take care of him.

"Tell me about your day, baby," he mumbles, one hand moving off his phone to discreetly slide his hand lower, lower… until it was at the waistband of his pants, slowly pushing them down so the camera doesn’t shake.

He doesn’t feel obligated to mute his microphone as you start talking, either. Maybe because there’s a thrill of you catching him and scolding him. Or better, you catching him and stripping and giving him a show as you touch yourself along with him. The thought sends a shiver down his spine and a twitch to his hardening cock.

Either way, he just wants your attention.

"It was mostly just classes today. Nothing special," You say, and he whines, not wanting you to stop talking. You smile, continuing to write notes and study. "Okay, okay. You’re such a baby, Rafe."

"I am not."

"You are."

"Fine. You never let me disagree with you anyway."

You laugh softly, a pretty twinkling sound that literally gives him butterflies. He grunts softly as his fingers brush against his hardening cock. He's been thinking about you all day, imagining all the things he wants to do to you when he sees you again. He's not sure how much longer he can last like this.

"So tell me more," He coaxes through a grunt, hand wrapped firmly around his cock. Just seeing you in your skimpy little clothes while you chew on the end of your pen while making direct eye contact with him is enough to make him throb. You huff teasingly, eyes rolling playfully as you get started on elaborating on your very boring day, unaware that his pants are off and he's rubbing his thumb back and forth on the drooling slit of his mushroom tip, panting softly into the receiver.

You're still not noticing. He's partially disappointed. It's not hard for you to take notice of it either. The camera's bobbing unnaturally, he's flushed and grunting softly, and his responses are soft 'uh huh's' and 'mm... yeah's'. Regardless, his eyes roam your body, landing on your plush lips through the screen as he imagines you wrapping them around his cock and sucking him off when you see him again during break, your ass up and back arched while he lays down and you give him a nice view while your tongue swirls around his tip, fuck, he moans loudly, squeezing his cock with his fist.

"Rafe?"

He looks up, eyes hooded and hazy. You look confused, and he hopes you're finally starting to catch on. He grins, sweat trickling down the side of his jaw. He hasn't stopped. With neither of you talking, the schlick schlick schlick sound of him milking his cock is quite audible. Just his luck though, you still don't catch on.

"Just asked you a question, baby."

He groans, partially annoyed, extremely turned on. "What's that, gorgeous?" You smile so adorably at the compliment. He wants to ruin you. "I wanted to know what gifts your family would want for when I come over. I think Wheezie mentioned a Squishmallow."

"The hell is that." He grunts, now looking at the way the light reflects off your tits. You laugh, and he frowns, wanting you to see. He lowers his phone just enough for you to see the flushed tip of his cock if you really focus, still stroking himself. His eyes flutter and he bites back a moan, now thinking about you sucking him off again, but this time using your breasts too.

You tilt your head curiously, still not quite catching on to Rafe touching himself. "A kind of stuffed toy? I'll ask her to make sure," you reply distractedly, flipping through a few more pages of your textbook. Rafe growls lowly, your casual demeanor only encouraging him. He wants nothing more than to reach through the screen and grab you, to pull you onto his throbbing cock and make you feel every inch of his pent-up desire.

But for now, he's left to grind his teeth and stroke himself, hoping like hell you'll notice his telltale movements and sounds. Sometimes you could be so blind. "What about me? What do I get?" he murmurs suggestively, almost letting you see his hand gliding up and down his shaft, the camera angle unmistakable now. He squeezes his thick cock from base to tip, lips parted slightly. His cheeks are a pretty pink.

"Me, duh." You smile. "Why? Want me to get you a gift with the money you keep putting in my account? You'd basically be getting a gift for yourself, Rafey."

You lean over to grab your pen, your breasts strain against the thin fabric of your bra. The flimsy material does little to hide your hardened nipples, clearly visible in the dim light of your dorm room. Just then, you hear a loud groan over the phone, startling you. "What's wrong, Rafe?" you ask, brows furrowed with concern.

Rafe grits his teeth, desperately trying to hold back a moan as he realizes you've finally noticed his predicament. "N-nothing, baby. I just… I got a cramp, that's all," he lies unconvincingly, his voice strained.

His hand moves faster, milking his cock intently. The obscene sound of his strokes fills the otherwise quiet room. You notice his labored breathing, the way his chest rises and falls rapidly with each panting breath. A flicker of realization crosses your face as you realize what's really going on. "Rafe, are you...?" you start to ask, a hint of amusement and surprise in your voice.

Of course he'd be touching himself to you. He's always been kinda pervy for you. He tells you all the time which of your pictures make him cum the hardest, but jerking himself off to you in real time is sort of different. Before you can finish your question, Rafe lets out a deep, guttural moan, his hips bucking up off the bed as he starts to come undone. "F-fuck, baby. I can't... I need you so fucking much," he growls, his hand moving in a blur beneath the sheets.

He thrusts into his hand, head tipping back. He fully lowers his phone, letting you watch what he's doing. It adds to the thrill he experiences, and he groans loudly, not bothering to hide anything from you anymore as he brings himself to the edge, hot spurts of cream coating his long fingers.

He rocks himself through his orgasm, mumbling your name under his breath and imagining he came inside you instead, causing him to leak a little more. He squeezes out all he's got, panting and leaning back against his bed as he comes down from his high.

He lowers his head to make eye contact with you, a lazy grin spreading across his handsome face. "Did you see that, baby? Did you see what you do to me?" he asks teasingly.

You blush deeply, suddenly feeling the warmth of your own arousal spreading through your body. "mmm.. mhm," you hum softly, shifting in your seat to relieve some of the pressure building between your thighs.

He leans back against the headboard, his head falling back against the wall with a soft thunk as he groans. "Fuck, I need to be inside you. You better be ready for me, hm? Gonna fuck you like I hate you."

ᥫ᭡.

Rafe likes to watch everything when he wrecks you. He has your legs shoved upwards as his body slots between you, drilling into you in a mating press on his bed.

The second you came to visit him during the holidays, he made light on his promise. He had picked you up, shoved your suitcase by his front door for later, and swung you over his shoulder like a caveman. You had merely squealed and giggled, squirming playfully when he gave your butt a little squeeze. It was cute, he'd thought then, how you had no idea what he was going to do to you. You just thought he was playing with you.

You're a little more conscious now about what he wanted as he thrusts into you hard and sloppy, your face scrunched up in pleasure while needy whines leave your kiss swollen, bitten lips. He rolls his hips rough and firm into you, and you're so soaked that each thrust had filthy gushing sounds resounding through the room as your slick coats Rafe's cock and your thighs.

"Rafe!" You scream, heart slamming against your chest with each thrust. Perhaps the time apart has made him sloppy in bed, or maybe he's so desperate that he can't control himself, because his thrusts are uncoordinated and hard and rough.

He moans, loud and unashamed, spreading you apart further as he shoves his fat cock into you sporadically, his strokes rough and hard enough to jolt your whole body. "Fuck, this fucking pussy," He groans, using every bit of his willpower not to bust his load in you each time you squeeze down on him or dig your nails into his broad shoulders. "Drives me... ugh, fucking insane."

Each time he bottoms out of your creamy hole and drags his cock against your walls up up up until the flushed tip of his cock is nestled against that really soft spot deep inside you that makes your toes curl, he doesn't stop until he hears that telltale squelching sound of his cock filling you to the hilt, with his bulbous mushroom tip hitting the very back of your cunt, kissing all your little sweet spots all at once.

Rafe grunts in satisfaction as he feels you clench around him, your velvet walls gripping his thick cock like a vice. He knows you can feel every ridge and vein as he grinds against your most sensitive spots. Because you're screaming, legs shaking and fat tears of pleasure rolling down your cheeks.

"Fuck, knew you wanted me to fuck you like a whore," he grunts, feelings the pleasant sting of your nails dragging down his back and leaving red welts in their wake. You moan, eyes locked onto his, which are hooded, the pretty ocean blue replaced with a dark, stormy color. He looks rabid. "Mngh yeah… 'm your whore, Rafey," You mewl, reaching up to grab onto his face and push your mouth against his.

He swallows all your little cries, tongue shoving into your mouth and tangling with yours while his leaking cock rams into you. "Fuck yeah, you are. My little slut. Allll mine. Fuck, you're fuckin' made for me, you know that? Listen to how your little pussy takes me in. She doesn't want me to leave," he moans into your mouth, practically slurping on your tongue. "We aren't meant to be apart, pretty girl,"

He nips and sucks on your lower lip, laving his tongue over it, before trailing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. He latches onto your pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a vivid mark. "Got so fucking sick of daydreaming about you all the time." He moans against your neck.

"All the time. All I did was think about my perfect little girlfriend. I can't fucking take being without you." You keen, back arching as he gropes at your tits, the pad of his thumb rolling roughly over your swollen nipples as he practically slobbers onto your throat, marking you up. "Missed you too, mmm… f-fuck… more, Rafe," You babble, and he almost, almost cums when you moan his name like that. Gosh, he can't handle you.

He can feel his release building, his heavy balls drawing up tight as the telltale tingling starts at the base of his spine. But he grits his teeth, refusing to let go just yet. He wants to make this last, wants to linger in the exquisite torture of bringing you to the brink again and again before finally allowing you the sweet relief of climax.

He slows his thrusts, rolling his hips upwards to hit that gummy spot in you without fail with each thrust, simultaneously stimulating your clit with each pass. He pinches your nipples one by one, before licking your clavicle. "Yeah? Feels good?" he moans, hips driving forward mercilessly. Each thrust drives his fat fucking cock deeper into your pussy, stretching you around him until you swear you can feel every throbbing inch of him pulsing inside you. "Feels real fucking good for me, princess. Can't get enough of you."

Unable to muster an intelligable response at this point, you cry out his name, voice slurring as your hips buck up to meet his. Your needy sounds in response are all he needs to come down. He leans down to sink his teeth into the meat of your shoulder, biting down as he slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his orgasm crashes over him.

His cock pulses and throbs as he shoots thick ropes of hot cum deep into your hungry womb, painting your walls white as he fills you up just like he promised. You both cry out all loud and wanton as you cum with him, your hips jerking as you ride out the intense waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

He collapses against you, weight pressing into the mattress as he leaves sloppy kisses over your tits, sucking on your breasts to help your orgasm crash down long and hard.

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