18+ Only

Black ops work tends to attract a particular type—Alphas and Betas. You’re a bit of an odd one out as an Omega, but you’ve determinedly proven yourself capable of the work time and time again. Still, you’ve never actually been out in the field. You’re a medic, and you stay behind at headquarters, ready to help when the team gets back from missions, fixing Emilia’s shoddy emergency-med work that keeps them alive en-route to you.

“That is not how you pack a fucking bullet wound, Emilia,” you have said countless times. Or “Jesus Christ, how many times, Adrian, have I told you to leave the knife in after you get stabbed?” Or “What kind of drug did you accidentally inhale? If I was in the field with you, maybe I would have seen it and been able to tell—”

And you are itching to get out there and help. You’ve been begging for months. Even if all you do is stay in the van with John, you can do more, be there for the team more effectively, if you are out there in the field with them instead of waiting at the Checkmate office or whatever temporary HQ has been set up for long-distance missions.

Still, Chris and Emilia have been reluctant to let you—as the only Omega of the group, they tend to baby you, maybe a bit too much. But you’ve been there through it all—the butterflies, the alternate universes, standing on the sidelines as quiet, caring support for the others. 

Being a good friend to Chris when he desperately needed one, after he got out of prison. Reminding John of his value when he’s feeling unimportant. Helping nurse Em back to health after Coverdale Ranch. Standing by Ads when her relationship with Keeya was falling to pieces. Comforting Adrian when Chris made the dumbass decision to fuck off to Nazi land. Welcoming Fleury, Bordeaux, and Judomaster into the pack with open arms and managing everyone’s emotions as the group adjusted to the three new Betas added into the mix.

But you’re more than a caretaker, and you’re ready to prove it.

“I am not a child,” you insist when Chris tries to bench you, yet again. “I have just as much training as the rest of you. I can handle a gun. I can handle myself. I am a professional, and I am qualified.”

“We need you here.”

“John gets to go with you all the time!” you cry. “He might be a Beta, but he’s a bigger pussy than I am!”

“Hey!” John protests.

“Sorry,” you mutter, not sounding at all sorry.

“She deserves to go,” Adrian cuts in, from a few desks away. “She’s worked just as hard on this as the rest of us. You can’t keep treating her like glass because she’s an Omega. I know you have this weird Alpha need to like, take care of her or whatever, but she’s also more than capable of taking care of herself. She takes care of the rest of us all the time.”

You’re grateful to have someone on your side. Adrian is your best friend, and he never lets anyone give you shit for your designation. You’d asked him about it once, and he’d said something vague about his shitty Alpha brother and not wanting to be like him. 

If he was an Alpha, he’d be the perfect one, in your eyes. He never gave a shit about social convention, he understood you better than maybe anyone else in the world. You catch yourself wishing some days that things were different.

Emilia sighs. “It’s not that. You know we respect you. You also know that your designation makes you a target.”

“So we’ll keep an eye on her,” Adrian says. “She’s not going to go out there alone. If we’re watching her back, and you know we will be—”

“Fine!” Chris says, giving in. “You can come on the mission tomorrow. But Adrian stays with you the whole time.”

“Gladly,” Adrian agrees.

“Thank you,” you say delightedly. You hug Adrian, and he laughs.

He hates it when anyone else touches him, but—he’s never minded it from you. You smell nice. He takes the opportunity as you wrap your arms around him to quietly tuck his head into your neck and inhale, right where your comforting scent is the strongest. He hopes it lingers, for the rest of the day. On his clothes, on his skin, in his hair.

Adrian might be a little bit in love with you. A lot a bit in love with you, actually. But that doesn’t matter. He’s never had a shot with you anyway. He’s not an Alpha, he can’t give you what you need.

But he can give you this. He can watch your back so you have the chance to go out in the field with the rest of the pack, like you’ve always wanted.

“No problem,” he says, trying his best to pretend that everything is okay. That it doesn’t kill him a little bit inside when you let go, step back, move back to your desk.

He watches you and swallows hard, and tries really, really hard not to be consumed with irrational jealousy. 

Jealous of whatever Alpha, one day, will get to keep you to himself.

Jealous of his alternate self, who he spends every day trying not to think about. Who you will never meet, thank god, because—he was an Alpha. And he would have been able to be with you, in a way Adrian never can be. Maybe—maybe he was. He had a mark. Right there, high on his neck. Adrian hadn’t been able to stop looking at it, couldn’t help but wonder. The question had been on the tip of his tongue the entire night, but he kept deflecting—talking about Pokemon and cloud-men and shag carpeting, skirting around the question he really wanted to ask, because he was too afraid. Because if it was you—if the only thing keeping him from you is his fucking designation—

He snaps himself out of the thought. It’s never happening, not for him. All he can do is take advantage of the time he has with you now, before some asshole Alpha steals you away to another pack. So he pastes on a smile, saunters up behind you, and taps you playfully on the shoulder.

“Better go practice your aim,” he teases. “Make sure you’re 100% field ready—”

“Oh, fuck you,” you laugh, but you start walking in the direction of the weapons room anyway. “Come with me?”

He follows you with a smile on his face. He always will.

Everything goes sideways fast. Your informant fucked you all over. It’s an ambush.

Adrian has heard pained or panicked shouts from everyone—Chris, Harcourt, Ads, Economos. He ignores them all, because he was given a prerogative from his Alphas. To protect you. 

“Stay here,” he tells you, hands on your shoulders, pushing you behind him, away from the danger. “Stay here, stay low, stay behind me. Do you hear me?” You nod, eyes wide as you look up into his visor.

“Okay,” you agree, cocking your gun. “I’ll do what I can from a distance—”

“No, don’t waste your ammo,” Adrian says. He hands you his guns, instead, and draws his machete. “In case—if they get closer, you need to defen—”

“I got it,” you assure him, accepting the weapons. “Go, Ade, I’ll be okay.”

So he stays focused, takes out as many attackers as he can, slashes out with his machete, chopping off limbs, sending blood spraying through the air while you shoot from higher ground, just behind him. He doesn’t stray far, keeping you in earshot, no more than a quick sprint out of reach.

There’s some part of him that feels sickly satisfied, like he always does, as the bodies hit the ground. There are dozens of them. Far too many. Whoever sent them here is going to die, he decides. Whoever put his pack at risk like this, whoever put you at risk like this.

Even still, this is what he’s good at. The killing. It’s what he enjoys. He’s smiling under his Vigilante mask as he looks at one of the last assholes in his vicinity and slashes out. The guy gets off a couple shots, but they fly wide, missing him. Adrian laughs as he shoves his blade through the guy’s neck.

Adrian looks back at you to check in, to crack a joke about how of course your first field mission goes right off the rails, and—you’re not where you’re supposed to be. You’re not where he left you. His eyes dart around frantically until they land on you, and he breathes a sigh of relief, but the feeling only lasts a moment. You look at him, in that split second, frozen with shock. 

Then he sees the blood soaking through your uniform. He watches you go pale, a hand pressed a wound he’s too far away to see clearly, and you hit the ground. His blood runs cold. He can smell your blood on the air—your scent, familiar, but also wrong. Tinged salty and metallic, thick, like he can taste it on his tongue.

The transformation happens in an instant. 

Adrian goes fucking ballistic. 

Something takes over him. Something vicious, and aggressive, and panicked, and he yells your name, but you don’t answer him. Two more people try to corner Adrian, and he doesn’t even bother with a weapon. He just snaps their necks. Then he races to you, bolts as fast as he can, his heart pounding harder than it ever has.

His vision is already tinged red by the Vigilante visor, but it goes even redder with rage when he sees you slumped on the ground, lifeless. His knees hit the ground beside you, and he rips his mask off. It feels hard to breathe in it, suddenly, as he looks down at you, strangled by the strongest fear he’s ever felt. His hands reach frantically for your face, and he says your name over and over again, interspersed with pleas, as he tugs you into his lap.

No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be moving you. He needs a medic, he needs you, but—he curses. Goddamnit, fuck, what would you tell him to do, what have you trained him to do when the others get shot—

“Put pressure on it,” he tells himself out loud, but even as he does it, his voice is shaking, his hands are shaking, because he never, ever, thought he would have to use this knowledge on you. “God, please, wake up, look at me, please—”

“Adrian,” says a voice behind him, and he turns and bares his teeth, brandishing his machete defensively.

“It’s me!” Emilia says, holding her hands up. “It’s me!”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Adrian logically knows—it’s Harcourt. Harcourt isn’t going to hurt you. But even as he lowers his weapon, something feels bad. Wrong. And when she reaches for you, to assess your injuries—

“Don’t fucking touch her,” Adrian snarls, gloved fingers digging into your skin, shielding you from the threat that his body is telling him is right there.

“What?” Emilia says, completely caught off guard.

Adrian turns back to you, tense with fear and worry. His hands press harder against the places you’re bleeding from—your shoulder, your side near your ribs, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood even as it soaks into his gloves. “Come on, wake up, look at me—”

You blink awake only briefly, your eyes unfocused, but you say his name, very softly, and your weak fingers clutch at the buckles on the front of his uniform. The possessive feeling roars back up Adrian’s throat times a thousand, drowning out everything else. All he knows is protect and need and mine.

“They’re all dead,” Chris says behind him, breathless, and Adrian tenses up again without knowing why. “I think John’s arm is fucked up, we need her to set it—” Then Chris’s eyes land on you. “Oh, fuck—she doesn’t look good, we gotta get her out of here—”

Adrian sees Chris’s arms reach for you, and he growls, something deep and primal and uncontrollable. A sound he has never made. A sound he shouldn’t be able to make. Chris freezes, bristles, looks at Adrian.

“What the fuck was that?” Chris says, more confused than angered by the intensity emanating off of Adrian in waves.

Then Chris takes in the whole scene. The way Adrian’s clutch on you is so tight it might leave bruises. The way he hunches over you protectively. The way he snarls when Chris looks at you for a moment too long.

Chris pauses. He inhales. His eyes go wide, and he takes a giant step back.

“Holy fucking shit,” he says. “Adrian—”

“Whoa, what the fuck is going on?” Ads says, confused as hell. John stumbles up behind her, also looking confused, nursing a wound of his own on his arm. They both look worried when they see you unconscious on the ground.

“You smell it?” Chris asks Emilia, and her brow furrows. She sniffs the air, and her mouth falls open.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “Oh my god. Is he—”

“Ads, I need you to run to the van and get me a tranq dart,” Chris says, voice low. “Now.” She does as he asks without asking any questions.

“Adrian,” Emilia says softly, trying again to approach, even slower, calmer. “I need you to let me look at her injuries. I’m not going to hurt her.” She pauses and thinks, tries to rephrase into the particular words he needs to hear right now. “I’m not going to take her from you.”

But it’s no use. He’s too far gone for logic. When Emilia reaches forward, he panics.

“No,” Adrian says desperately. “No, no—she’s mine—”

His eyes are wild, unfocused, filled with such animal fear and rage and need that it’s clouding every other feeling. He’s vibrating, shaking, breathing hot and heavy, on the verge of falling over entirely into animal instinct, of going completely feral.

“Please, let me help—” Emilia says, trying to gentle her voice and approach again slowly, and Adrian snaps.

“Get the fuck away from her!” he shouts. “Don’t—”

As soon as Ads returns and hands Chris the tranquilizer gun, he shoots. The dart hits Adrian right in the neck, and everything goes dark.

When you wake up, blinking blearily, Adebayo’s face comes into your field of vision. When you turn your head to the side, Emilia is sitting at your bedside, holding your hand.

“Hey,” she says, sounding a little relieved. “We were worried about you.”

“What—”

“You got shot. Like, three times,” Emilia says. You look around. You’re in the Checkmate infirmary, hooked up to a couple IVs. Blood, some other fluids. There are a few dull aches in your side, your shoulder, but they don’t hurt nearly as bad as they should. They must have given you the good painkillers.

Your brain still feels a little foggy, though. You try to remember what happened, and it comes back in snapshots. The ambush. The pain. Adrian shouting for you.

Clarity washes over you in an instant, and you sit up in bed, wincing as the movement irritates your injuries in a way even the painkillers can’t mask. “Fuck—”

“What is it, what do you need?” Emilia asks. “Stay down, I’ll get it—”

“Adrian,” you say. You don’t know why, but something inside you wants him, right now, more than anything or anyone else. “Where is Adrian? He was—”

Emilia and Adebayo exchange a look. You glance between them worriedly.

“Is he okay?” you ask, almost afraid to hear the answer, your heart sinking. You got hurt, you weren’t there to take care of him if he got hurt. 

“He’s going to be,” Emilia says. “He’s…sick.”

You frown, unimpressed. “Bullshit. Stop fucking lying to my face, please. Adrian has a healing factor. He doesn’t get sick.”

Adebayo sighs. “She’s gonna find out eventually, Em. There’s no point.”

“Find out what?” you demand, starting to get panicky. “If there’s something wrong with Adrian, I want to know, and I want to know now. He’s my best friend, if something happened to him—it’s my fucking job to take care of the pack, and he—”

“While you were unconscious,” Emilia says, “something…unexpected happened.”

“Stop being cryptic and just fucking tell me.”

“Adrian presented,” Ads interrupts, ripping the bandaid off. You jerk back from her like you’ve been slapped.

“Adrian…presented?” you say slowly, your heart pounding against your chest, a pit of dread forming in your stomach. “What do you—”

“He’s spent his entire life thinking he’s a Beta,” Emilia says. “Hell. We all thought he was a Beta.”

“What do you mean? He’s not?”

“Not anymore,” Ads says. “He’s an Alpha.”

You look between the two women in front of you again and let the information sink in. You lay back against the pillows slowly, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet nervously. Because this is the kind of thing that could change everything. And the fact that they’re so reluctant to tell you the whole story tells you that it already has.

“Adrian is an Alpha,” you repeat, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“John and I looked into it. Delayed presentation affects less than 1% of the population,” Adebayo continues. “It’s incredibly rare. Usually triggered by the presence of a compatible genetic mate, or a traumatic circumstance.”

Compatible genetic mate. Traumatic circumstance.

“Traumatic circumstance,” you say, a little frantic. “Did he—is he hurt—”

“He’s not hurt,” Emilia says. “All of us got a little banged up. You got the worst of it. When it was over, by the time we got to you, he was freaking the fuck out, radiating Alpha pheromones in waves like I have never seen.”

“You’re telling me Adrian’s life changed overnight because I got shot? Not because of his own traumatic injury, but because of mine?”

The girls are quiet.

“It’s probably more complicated than that,” Ads says softly. “It might be…a little bit of the other thing, too. That’s what me and John are theorizing, anyway. He said—while you were unconscious, he said—you were his.”

A compatible genetic mate. You swallow as you absorb the implication of her words.

“Is he?” you ask, afraid to raise your voice. Afraid to hope. To make it real. “Is he mine, Em?”

“Listen—” Emilia starts.

“Is he mine, Em?” you repeat, your throat tight. “Is Adrian my Alpha?”

Emilia stares at you.

“I think so,” she says softly. “That’s what triggered it. You were hurt, and you’re his, and something inside him recognized that you needed him. He was—he was a mess. He probably still is. When you got hurt, if Chris wasn’t there to keep him in check, bring him back from the brink, he might have gone feral. As it is, we had to tranquilize him so I could treat your injuries. He wouldn’t let either of us get anywhere near you.”

You’re quiet for a minute, feeling strangely guilty. That you’re the cause of all this trouble, throwing the pack dynamics out of whack. But there’s no going back, now, and there’s some part of you that hopes—maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this is the best thing. Because haven’t you thought a million times that you’d wished Adrian was an Alpha? That he could be yours?

If Adrian is yours, though—why isn’t he here? Does he not want you in return? But then you think—if Adrian just presented, for the first time—

“He’s in rut, isn’t he?” you whisper worriedly.

“He is,” Emilia says hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to admit it.

It hurts you, a terrible pang in your stomach, to think about Adrian suffering, confused, alone.

“I want to see him.”

“You are in no condition,” Emilia says, “to be near an Alpha going through his first ever rut. Adrian needs time to adjust to his new reality. Introducing an Omega into the equation when he’s already volatile is not a good idea. And you are hurt. You need to heal.”

“He needs me,” you say, your throat tight. You think you might cry. “If it’s true, if he’s mine. I need to be there for him.”

“Chris is with him,” Ads says, reaching for your hand and squeezing. “Adrian will be okay, but—he’s wild and unpredictable right now. You got shot. Multiple times. If you went over there, and he ended up hurting you worse, imagine how guilty he would feel.”

“He would never hurt me,” you say, and you know, in your heart, that it’s true.

“You can believe that all you want. I’m not willing to risk it. After he’s…over the hill,” Emilia says, “then you can see him.” 

It’s firm. It’s final. And—she is your pack Alpha. What she says goes.

“Can I at least talk to him?” you ask, quiet and nervous. “Please?”

“Let me talk to Chris,” Emilia says. “See how he’s doing. And then maybe we can arrange that. For now, you focus on getting better. You scared the shit out of us. All of us. So let us take care of you, okay?”

You nod, and she squeezes your hand. But you bite your lip and think about how the one person who you really wish was here to take care of you is the one you’re not allowed to see right now.

When Adrian wakes up, he’s sweating buckets, half-naked, strapped down to a mattress in…he looks around. Chris’s old trailer? There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut, and his head is pounding, and god, why is everything so bright and loud?

“What the fuck,” he pants.

“You’re awake,” Chris says. “Good. Sorry I had to tranq you, bro, but you were acting a little crazy.”

“You—what?” Adrian says, bewildered, still a little out of it, trying to blink away the haze of whatever Chris apparently drugged him with.

Then, in a flash of clarity, he remembers what happened. He remembers you, bleeding out in his arms, and the pain in his gut intensifies tenfold, and just the thought of you makes him crazy with want. He needs you. He doesn’t know why, but he does. Instantly, he starts pulling at the restraints.

“Where is she Chris get me the fuck out of here I am not fucking around I will fucking kill you I need her is she hurt—”

“Calm down,” Chris says in his Alpha command voice. Then he remembers it won’t work now. He softens his voice and tries again. “Hey, calm down, Adrian. She’s okay. I promise you, she’s okay.”

Adrian looks at him, still squirming, but present enough to be puzzled, because Chris’s command did not do a damn thing. And a little bit pissed, because he hates it when his best friend uses his Alpha voice on him, like he’s a fucking kindergartender.

“Where is she?” Adrian repeats, low and growling, a command of his own, fueled by the extra power of his recent presentation, the lingering feral energy he can’t contain, and—it works. It shouldn’t, but it works.

“She’s with Emilia and Ads, at her apartment,” Chris says, the words spilling out of him like he can’t stop them. His eyes are wide, his mouth dangling open. “Did you just fucking—use your Alpha voice on me?”

Adrian pauses tugging at his restraints to look at Chris like he’s insane. Because he is. “Use my what? I—dude, why the fuck am I tied to the bed? Why did you bring me here?”

“Because you’re in rut,” Chris snaps. “And I don’t trust you not to go chasing after her. You are out of control right now. And I brought you here because I figured you wouldn’t want your mom around for this.”

Adrian flushes a furious red color. “I am not in rut. I’m a Beta. You know I am.”

“I thought I did,” Chris says. “I believe you thought that too. And then yesterday happened. And you are in rut, and you are an Alpha.”

“I’m not a fucking Alpha!”

“It happens,” Chris says. “People present late in life.”

“I am thirty-four! I would know—”

But even as he says it, he cuts himself off. Because he remembers—his alternate self was an Alpha. So maybe, just maybe, he is too. He just didn’t know.

And selfishly, he thinks…maybe, just maybe, this is his chance. To have you. To love you, the way he’s always wanted.

“You’ve always been a late bloomer, Thimble.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Adrian says, but he swallows roughly. At least, he tries to. His mouth is too dry. “Can you fucking untie me please? God, I’m so fucking thirsty. And itchy, and uncomfortable, and horny, Jesus Christ—”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “Because you’re in rut, Adrian. Your first one. Historically, the worst one you will ever experience. So if I untie you, you have to promise me that you will not run after her. I will tranquilize you again. I know you want her. Hell, she probably wants you. But she’s hurt. She’s in no shape to help you through this.”

“You said she was okay,” Adrian says, panicky. “How—how bad is it?” His breath feels short, his hands are shaking. A terrible, awful guilt sinks in his stomach, adding to the pile of a dozen other terrible sensations he’s feeling right now. “It’s—it’s my fault, I was supposed to protect her. I convinced you to let her go on the mission in the first place. Fuck, Chris, is she okay I need her please—”

“Fuck,” Chris mutters. “I wanted you to be in better shape before—but—goddamnit.” He pulls out his phone and dials while Adrian practically hyperventilates in front of him, trying desperately to yank himself out of the ties holding him down. He tries to bite at the ropes with his teeth, the muscles in his neck straining, but he can’t reach them.

“Emilia,” Chris says. “Put her on the phone.” A pause. “Yeah. I know we said we were gonna wait. But he’s freaking the fuck out. He needs to talk to her.”

“Please,” Adrian says. He tries to get up, but he’s still tied down. “Please, please, I need—”

Chris puts the phone on speaker.

“Adrian?” Your voice rings through the room, and Adrian whimpers audibly at the sound. He closes his eyes and throws his head back roughly against the pillows, trying to take a few settling breaths. You’re alive. You’re well enough to talk to him, at least. 

It should make him feel better, but it sends another bolt of agony through him. God, he’s so fucking hard. He wants you so bad. He wants to scent you, he wants to fuck you, he wants, he wants, he wants.

“If I untie you, are you gonna flip?” Chris asks him. Adrian takes a deep breath.

“No,” he says, chest heaving. “Please, just let me talk to her, Chris. Please.”

“You have him tied up?” you cry. “He’s not a fucking animal, Chris!”

“He was borderline,” Chris says seriously. “You were unconscious. You didn’t see how close to feral he got.”

“Untie him,” you demand, and Adrian’s heart skips a beat, hearing you so fiercely defending him.

Chris cuts the ropes, and Adrian instantly reaches for the phone.

“No funny business,” Chris orders, holding it just out of reach, and Adrian starts begging.

“Please give me the phone please let me talk to her please Chris I promise I won’t do anything I just need to talk to her—”

Chris tosses him the phone. Adrian snatches it out of the air, takes the call off speaker, and brings it right up to his ear. When he says your name, it’s shaky, nervous, but also a little bit relieved.

“Adrian,” you say, and half the tension leaves his body, just hearing you say his name, all soft and concerned. Then it roars back as another bolt of pain shoots through him, because—god, he wants you so bad, and he can’t have you right now. A pained noise escapes him, and you must hear it, because you ask worriedly, “Talk to me, Adrian, are you okay?”

“Am I—” He cuts himself off and laughs humorlessly, hissing through the pain. “Am I okay? You—you got shot. I saw you go down, you were—you were bleeding out in my arms. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” you assure him. “All patched up, at least. It hurts like a bitch. But I can take painkillers for that. You…you can’t. If what they’re saying is true. Are you really…”

Adrian rubs a hand over his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. God, he’s so hot, but even as he thinks it, he shivers.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says. His voice is hoarse, and he feels like he might cry, he’s so overwhelmed. “It hurts.”

“What’s happening is your body wants you to find something to knot and breed,” Chris says bluntly. “So your sex drive is through the roof. For the next four days, at least, you’re going to be an irritable, horny asshole, and probably feel generally like shit. It’s gonna suck ass, because you don’t have an Omega or a bonded partner to help you through it. Headaches, feverish, dehydrated, oversensitive. This is basic high school sex ed, dude, you should know this.”

“I never paid attention to any of that Alpha shit, because I thought it didn’t apply to me,” Adrian says hoarsely. “How—why is this happening?”

“It’s my fault,” you say, your voice soft and regretful. 

“No,” Adrian says, because he hates the thought that you’re blaming yourself for this. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” you say, sniffling, and Adrian thinks you might be crying. It breaks his heart. “I’m so sorry. Ads said—she said that late presentation can be triggered by compatible genetic mates and traumatic events, and I got hurt, and it was just—both, at the same time—”

“Mates?” Adrian croaks. “Are you saying—”

But before he even asks, he knows. He remembers the way he felt, holding you in his arms. He feels it again now, his lungs constricting, knuckles going white, pupils dilating as a wave of it washes over him. Possession. Want. Need.

“You’re mine,” he whispers.

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The porch sits right on the edge of it, a little island of yellow lantern light with you cross-legged in your chair, enamel bowl in your lap, fingers slick with bean juice. Crickets grind away in the ditch, frogs answer from somewhere near the pond, and the heat that pressed on your skin all day finally lets go a little, turning soft and damp and heavy instead of mean.

Your daddy, Joe, stands out by the road with a cigarette, just that small orange coal drifting up and down whenever he draws on it.

He’s mostly shadow, hat brim pulled low, shoulders a dark cutout against the pale strip of dirt lane. The smoke hangs around him in thin gray strands, catching the lantern glow before the breeze worries it apart.

The wagon makes itself known before you see it.  A tired rattle carrying over the fields long and low, iron and wood complaining in a way that could belong to any old rig on any old night. 

The mule steps out of the dark first, ears flicking, hooves whispering in the dust, harness creaking, then the wagon-bed, then the man riding it, the whole shape of him hunched against the evening like the road’s been sitting on his back.

He climbs down slow, not careless, one boot testing the ground, then the other. He isn’t tall; not one of those long, scarecrow boys you see come through town sometimes. He’s put together closer to the earth than that, thick through the shoulders and arms, weight settled in the meat of him instead of stretched out. 

Shirt pulls across his chest where the fabric has been asked to hold too much too often, sleeves rolled to his forearms, muscle and old work written in the dust and veins there. Suspenders run straight over his torso, holding everything decent, but there’s something loose under the neatness, a restless set to the way he carries himself, like he’s got more energy than his frame knows what to do with.

His hat sits low enough to shade most of his face until he steps up nearer and the porch light reaches for him.

“Evenin’, Sir,” he says, voice a slow scrape, low and worn, like it’s been dragged over gravel and cigarettes for years. 

The vowels don’t belong to your county, not exactly, but he leans into them like he’s been practicing, trying to make them fit the dirt under his boots.

“Evenin’,” Joe, flicks ash toward the ditch without turning. “You Remmick?”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes off his hat then, presses it to his chest in a gesture that seems to be humble, and in that little bow you see the line of him clear. 

Hair dark and close-cropped, stubborn where it’s tried to wave up and been tamed with water and a hand. Jaw rough with stubble that looks more forgotten than stylish. 

There’s a hardness around his mouth, something that could tilt into a grin or a snarl with not much provocation either way.

When he straightens and lifts his eyes, they cut toward the porch, and you feel it right away when they land on you, as sure as if somebody laid a hand on your bare ankle.

A limp green bean hangs between your fingers, ends torn and wet.

His gaze drifts, following your calves where your skirt’s ridden up, running along the slope of your shins and the span of your knees pressed together, sliding up the line of your apron and the thin open V between your collar buttons where the night air pushes in against your skin. 

He looks like he’s reading you, not just seeing you, taking his time over every line.

You go still, sharp-aware of every place your dress touches your body and every place it doesn’t.

The bean pieces drop into the bowl as you lower your eyes to the boards. The porch wood is dark and warped from years of feet, knot-holes winking like little eyes in the dim.

You fix on those, on the small wet snaps and soft taps of beans piling against enamel. Anything that is not the feeling of a stranger’s stare walking up and down you like a man checking fence.

“Baby,” your father says, voice flat, cigarette smoke curling out on the word. “Say evenin’.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and stand, bare feet quiet on the boards. “Evenin’,” you say, polite as sunday, letting the rest of what you feel sink down where it won’t show on your face.

Remmick smiles like he hears it anyway. It isn’t wide or warm. Just a slow tug at one corner of his mouth, a small, crooked tilt that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Evenin’, miss,” he answers, and there’s a drag in that word miss, the s held just long enough to make it catch.

Miss, when he could have asked for your name, when any decent man might have. Your father hasn’t offered it yet, so you keep it closed up in your mouth.

“Girl oughta be in bed this hour,” Joe mutters, eyes on the yard, not on you. “Ain’t no call for her to be sittin’ out like some boy on watch. Night’s for men workin’, not for women gawkin’.”

The words land on your shoulders like an old coat, familiar weight, old smell.  You bite down on what you want to say and feel it burn on the way down.

“I’m finishin’ the beans,” you tell him instead, hands tightening on the bowl till the rim bites into your palms. You don’t bother trying to explain that the dark sits easier on your skin than the hard white noon does, that the night gives you a little space to stretch.

You can feel Remmick watching you still, not with that sloppy hunger you’ve seen from boys in town, all elbows and gawking.

This is like he’s comparing what he sees to something he’s held in his head a long time. 

“Don’t reckon there’s any harm in her gettin’ some air, Sir,” he says after a moment, pitched low, as if he’s offering reason and not meddling. “So long as she stays where you can see her.” He tips his head, and his eyes make another lazy path over you, unashamed. “World’s rough for a girl on her own.”

Your daddy snorts, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “You just worry ‘bout them fields, son. I didn’t hire you to advise on my girl.”

The almost-smile on Remmick’s mouth doesn’t quite leave. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll give all my attention to what you’re payin’ me for.”

He keeps his words aimed at your father, but his gaze is not that obedient. It flicks back to you when he says attention, and there’s weight in it, promise, something that makes your skin prickle fine all over. Something in you bristles right back, lifts its head like a barn cat whose tail’s been stepped on.

You draw a breath and set the bowl against your hip. “Where you want him sleepin’?” you ask your father, eyes fixed out over the yard so you don’t have to meet either man’s stare straight on.

“In the old place.” Joe jerks his chin toward the smaller farmhouse slumped beyond the well—a squat little shape where the lamplight doesn’t reach, half-eaten by shadow. “Closer to the barn. Got a bed and a stove. Man don’t need more than that.”

Remmick turns to look at it, and the lantern light catches his eyes in a strange way, making them flash for an instant like there’s something slick behind them.

The little house sits there like it’s been waiting, windows dark, door shut up tight, roofline sagged just enough to look suspicious.

“That’ll do,” he says. “I’m a night sort myself. Easier workin’ when the sun’s gone and the air ain’t tryin’ to boil you clear through. Less trouble all around.”

He says it easy, like it’s about sweat and shade and nothing else, but you hear the way he shapes night in his mouth, the soft way he lets it roll off his tongue, and something in your belly curls up smaller and sharper.

“Heard you don’t care much for daylight,” Joe says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Remmick’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like it wants to answer on its own. He glances at you, quick and bright, before he looks down at his boots. “Sun don’t care much for me,” he finally drawls. “Burns me to char if I let it. Always been that way. Doctor said I got delicate skin.”

The word sits wrong in your ear as soon as it’s out, delicate, dangling over this stocky man with forearms roped up in tendon and dirt ground into his knuckles, hands that look like they were made to break things, not handle them gentle. 

It slips out of you before you can catch it, quiet and skeptical. “Delicate,” you repeat, eyes finding his without meaning to.

He catches that and settles into it like a cat into a warm spot. “You don’t think so, miss?” he asks, voice a touch softer now, gaze steady and unblinking.

You ought to let it pass. Ought to dip your head and let the men talk over you, let delicate lie between them like some joke you weren’t meant to get. 

Instead you hold his stare in the lantern glow, take your time looking back the same way he did to you, tracing the faint hollows under his eyes, the line of his nose, the mouth that looks used to biting down on words and maybe on other things too.

“No, sir,” you say finally, after a beat that stretches long. “You don’t look delicate at all.”

Something shifts behind his eyes at that, something pleased and sharp that makes your heart knock once, hard, against your ribs. The corner of his mouth tugs just a shade higher.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to live up to what you see,” he murmurs. “Would be a shame to disappoint you.”

Your daddy grinds his cigarette out under his heel, done with this line of talk. “You can unload what you got, then I’ll show you the place,” he says. “Got work waiting for nobody. You ain’t too tired from sittin’ on a wagon all day, are you?”

Remmick rolls one shoulder, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The stretch shifts his shirt over his back, pulls the fabric across solid muscle there.

You feel your breath snag for half a second and hate that it does.

“Wagon ain’t heavy,” he says. “I’ll get settled quick, then you can put me to whatever needs doin’.”

Joe nods and starts toward the dim outline of that little house, his boots crunching through the loose gravel near the well. The lantern light falls behind him with each step until he’s just another moving patch of dark.

Remmick lingers at the foot of the porch. He settles his hat back on his head, brim bringing his eyes into shadow again, but you can still feel them.

“You finish them beans,” he tells you, voice gone softer, aimed up at you like a secret. “Man works better with a full belly.”

There’s nothing in the words you could point to and call wrong, nothing on the surface you could carry to your father and hold up like proof.

Still, the way his gaze drifts down and back up as he says them leaves something slick and uneasy under your ribs. Heat crawls up your neck, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the air.

“I’ll see to what’s mine,” you say, gripping the bowl till your fingers ache. “Same as you should see to yours.”

His laugh is low, a rough little sound that lives in his chest and doesn’t quite make it to his teeth. He dips his head a fraction, like you’ve handed him a dare instead of brushing him off. “Oh, I intend to,” he replies. “You can count on it.”

Then he turns and walks after your father, stride easy, body moving with a loose sort of purpose. His shadow stretches out along the yard behind him, tossed strange and long by the lantern, then swallowed up as he and Joe move past the well. 

The small farmhouse waits ahead, black windows staring, door a darker cut in the wall. It looks, for one breath, like it’s swallowing the two men whole.

You stand there with the lantern hissing softly at your elbow and watch the dark take them. 

When the yard settles again, when their footsteps fade and the crickets creep back up to full volume, the space between the barn and the house does not feel the same. It’s as if something else has stepped into it and sat down, something you cannot see but can sense just the same, like a pressure change before a storm.

You sit again, bowl back in your lap, fingers finding another handful of beans by habit alone. The wet snap of them breaking sounds too loud in the hush, echoing in the hollow boards under your feet. 

Every few seconds, your eyes drag toward that low silhouette out past the well, toward the little house that is not empty anymore.

You tell yourself you’re only minding where your father put a stranger. 

The first night after he arrives, he walks the fence line while you wash dishes.

You hear his boots dragging through the loose gravel near the yard, then the softer sound of steps in the grass. 

The screen door hangs open to let the air move, lantern burning low over the sink. Your arms are wet to the elbow, suds creeping up your forearms as you scrub at a pan that’s older than you are. 

Out past your own reflection in the dark window, you catch a small shape of motion—the swing of a lantern out near the barn, then the shorter, solid outline of him moving along the fence, checking posts, rattling wire. 

He doesn’t look up at the house that you can tell, doesn’t lift the light toward you, just keeps on with that steady pace, head bent. 

Still, your shoulders hunch like you’ve been caught at something you haven’t done. The glass fogs a little with the breath you don’t remember letting out.

You tell yourself it’s good your father found a man willing to walk the property at night. That’s what you tell yourself as you rinse plates and stack them, as the little yellow circle of his lantern slides back and forth along the edge of your sight.

The second night you have to bring him his supper, because your father ‘forgets.’

It’s late by the time the last of the pots are scraped and put away, your back aching from standing, hair pasted to your neck. Joe leans back in his chair, radio humming low on the table, and says without looking up, “That boy eat?”

You still your hands on the dishrag. “Ain’t seen him at the table.”

“Damn it,” He grumbles, more at himself than you. “Told him come in if he heard me holler and I ain’t never thought to holler. Fix him a plate and take it down. Man don’t work right hungry.”

You swallow whatever you were about to say about whose job it is to feed farmhands, scrape together a plate from what’s left—two biscuits gone hard at the edges, a ladle of beans, a piece of ham with more bone than meat—and cover it with a clean cloth. 

The air outside hits your damp skin and feels cooler than it ought to. The night smells like dirt and hay and whatever’s blooming along the ditch. 

The smaller farmhouse sits out near the barn with a faint thread of light leaking around the edges of its curtain, not bright enough to spill onto the yard. You walk out there, skirt brushing your ankles, plate balanced careful in both hands.

You knock, knuckles soft on the wood. For a second there’s nothing, then the faint scrape of a chair, the hush of someone crossing a small room. 

The door opens only halfway. He fills the gap, shoulder and chest just there, heat and sweat.

“Evenin’,” he says, voice a little rough, like he hasn’t used it since sundown. “You lost?”

You hold the plate out, not stepping any closer than you have to. “Daddy forgot to call you in. Told me to bring your supper.”

His eyes go to your hands first, to the way your fingers wrap the rim of the plate, then to the food, then back up. 

He doesn’t reach right away; he lets the moment stretch, his gaze traveling from your wrists up your arms, lingering on the damp on your skin, on the few stray strands that have worked loose at your temple and stuck there. 

“That’s mighty kind,” he says at last, taking the plate so slow his fingers brush yours. 

They’re not as rough as you expected, just warm and solid, the pads of them catching against your knuckles. “Hope he didn’t drag you out here from your bed on account of me.”

“I wasn’t in bed,” you answer, because lying feels worse than telling him anything true. “Kitchen don’t clean itself.”

He makes a small noise at that, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “No, ma’am. World’d fall apart if it weren’t for everything women do men don’t think about. Least he can do is call me in for a plate now and then instead of sending you.”

You don’t like that it sounds almost gentle, that there’s no clear edge you can grab onto and call wrong.

You nod once and start to turn away, wanting the room behind that door to stay his business and not have to wonder what’s in it.

“Miss?” he says, and you stop even though you don’t want to. “You tell your daddy I’m obliged. To him and to you.”

You keep your eyes on the yard. “He’ll hear you tomorrow.”

“Maybe I like the thought of you carryin’ my thanks,” he says, voice dipping lower.

You don’t answer to that. You walk back toward the big house with your empty hands and you feel his eyes between your shoulder blades all the way to the porch steps.

Another night you pass him by accident at the pump.

You come around the corner of the house with a pail in each hand, too focused on not sloshing well water onto your skirt to notice him right off. 

He’s just there suddenly in the lantern’s edge, sleeves rolled high, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair damp with sweat or water; you can’t tell which. 

The pump squeaks once as he lets go of the handle. Moonlight catches the wet on his forearms, the curve of muscle there, the scar that runs pale along his left wrist like a rope burn that never faded.

You stop short, pails swinging. “Didn’t know you were usin’ it,” you say. “I’ll wait.”

He tips his head, that same little crooked half-smile thinking about showing up. “You scared I’m gonna dirty the water, standin’ too near?” His accent is thicker tonight, as if he’s tired of smoothing them for everybody’s sake.

“I ain’t scared,” you say. Your voice comes out flatter than you mean it to, which only makes him watch you harder. “Just got taught not to crowd folk when they’re at work.”

“And here I thought you were just bein’ polite,” he murmurs. He steps back from the pump, gives you room to pass. “Go on, then. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Joe’s girl haulin’ from the ditch ‘cause I hogged the handle.”

You move past him, the damp of his skin ghosting near your elbow, the smell of iron and sweat and something like tobacco clinging to him. You set a pail under the spout and work the handle, arm moving in a practiced rhythm.

The pump groans, then warm water shudders up from below, splashing cold over your fingers when you misjudge the first rush.

His gaze sits on your hands again, on the bare forearms you didn’t bother covering because it’s night and there’s no sun to scold you. “You do all that yourself?” he asks. “Water, cookin’, everything inside?”

“Me and Mama,” you say, though your mother’s cough has been bad enough lately you both know it’s more you than her. “Daddy’s got the fields.”

“And now he’s got me,” Remmick says, watching your arm work. “Guess I’m supposed to make life easier ‘round here.”

“Then do it,” you answer, a little sharper than you meant. The second pail fills and you swing it away, careful not to splash your toes. “Don’t stand around talkin’ about it.”

For a heartbeat there’s quiet. Then he laughs, low and delighted. “There she is,” he says under his breath, as if he’s been waiting on that bite. 

When you glance over, he isn’t offended. He looks satisfied, eyes bright, lean mouth curled up. “You keep snappin’ at me like that, miss, I might start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

“Or you might start thinkin’ wrong,” you shoot back, lifting both buckets. The weight drags at your shoulders, but you’d sooner drop in the yard than ask him to carry them.

He doesn't offer, just watches you walk away, and you can feel that as keenly as the pull of the water on your arms.

There are other little moments like that, small as splinters. Like, when you cross paths in the barn one evening when you go to check on a cow that lowed funny through your window. 

He’s already there when you reach the threshold, one hand on the animal’s neck, murmuring something soft and nonsense in her ear. 

She calms under his touch, sides heaving slow, eyes rolling less. The lantern hangs from a nail overhead, throwing golden light over the dust in the air, over his shoulders, over the cow’s hide. 

He glances up when he senses you, and for a blink his irises flash almost too light, as if the lantern’s in them and not above him. Then they’re ordinary again, a color you could name if you got close enough, and he’s saying, “She just didn’t like the thunder,” even though the sky’s been clear all day.

You lean on the stall rail, arms folded, watching his hand move in slow strokes along the cow’s neck. 

The steadiness of him with animals makes something twist in you, something like reluctant respect and something like fear, because if he can soothe two thousand pounds of nervous flesh with a voice and a touch, what could he do to yours if he ever decided to try.

On another night you fix a tear in one of his work shirts at the kitchen table because your father plops it there and says, “Stupid fool’s gonna walk around with his arm hangin’ out if someone don’t thread a needle.” 

You mutter that Remmick has two hands and surely they can manage a seam, but you fetch your sewing basket anyway. 

The fabric smells faintly of him, sweat and field and that odd metallic thread that’s been nagging at the back of your senses since he arrived. 

You push the needle through worn cotton and wonder how a man gets a rip that clean across the bicep, by snagging it on barbed wire or nail head, without a single bloodstain around the torn edge.

He shows up to collect it before you take it down yourself. Don’t know how he knows it’s ready, but he’s at the door not long after you knot the last stitch, hat in hand like he’s paying a call.

Your father’s gone out back to piss or smoke or both, your mother’s dozing in her chair, so it’s just you in the quiet kitchen with your fingers still sore from the work.

“You didn’t have to,” he says when you hand the folded shirt over. “Could’ve walked around indecent a day or two, see if anyone complained.”

“My father would,” you say. “Don’t like loose things on his land.”

He takes the shirt with his good arm, the other rolling his shoulder like it aches. The lantern throws his eyes into little warm coins. 

Some nights you only see him from a distance.

Through your bedroom window when you should be sleeping, you catch the sway of his lantern again and again, marking his rounds. In the moonlight, his stride is compact, efficient, not showy. 

He moves like someone who’s spent a long time walking alone, someone who knows better than to waste steps. He never seems to stumble, never misjudges a rut or loose stone.

You watch him slip between the barn and the smaller house, in and out of shadow, and you tell yourself you’re just making sure he’s where he should be, that you are only doing what your father would want.

You notice, too, the nights when the light in his window stays on longer than makes sense. Long after your father’s snores have settled and your mama’s breath has evened into sleep, after you’ve lain there staring at the ceiling until your eyes burn, that far-off square of yellow will still be sitting out there at the edge of your sight. 

Sometimes you think you see the shadow of him cross it, head bowed, shoulders hunched, moving back and forth in a tight little path, but when you squint it’s gone.

Once, you step out onto the porch for air and catch him already looking.

You don’t see him at first; you just feel that prickling awareness that has become his signature in your body. 

Then your eyes find him where he’s paused near the barn, one hand on the fence post, the other hanging loose at his side. No lantern this time, just moonlight on his face, flattening all the hard parts, making his eyes look too bright and his mouth too soft. 

He doesn’t look away when you notice him. He doesn’t call out or tip his hat in greeting. He just stands there in the dark, steady as another post, and lets you decide whether to step back inside or stay where the night can see both of you.

You stay a breath longer than you should, chest tight, heartbeat stepping up loud between your ears. Then you reach for the door, fingers curling around splintered wood, and it feels, for a strange second, like you’re the one retreating and he’s the one who lives here.

By the time a week has worked itself around, his presence has braided into the place.

The horse knows him, ears twitching toward his voice before dawn. The dogs have quit barking when his boots scrape the yard at dusk. Your father has stopped watching him like he might bolt and started calling for him when something heavy needs lifting. 

The small farmhouse doesn’t look so empty now; you’ve grown used to the idea of a man’s breath in there, a man’s boots by the door, a man’s shadow on the curtain.

You’re the one still wary, nerves still stretched thin every time you feel his eyes, even if nobody else in the house seems to notice how often that is. 

You catch him in little reflections—a sliver of him in the pump’s metal, in the window glass, in any surface that throws back light—and he’s always looking your way. 

Not always outright, not always rude, but always aware of you. Always clocking where you are in the yard, whether your sleeves are rolled, whether your hem rides high on your calf or hangs proper at your ankle.

You tell yourself it’s just because there’s not much else worth watching out here.

You don’t quite believe it.

Clouds bruise up toward the horizon, swallowing the moon a few bites at a time. You’re at the kitchen table with mending in your lap when you hear it—one sharp, panicked bawl from the barn that cuts straight through the hum of crickets and the low murmur of your father’s radio.

You’re on your feet before you think about it, thimble still shoved on your finger, needle stuck tight in a loop of thread. 

Your father says something about “damned horses spookin’ at their own shadows” but doesn’t move from his chair.

His back’s been bad all day; he’s been walking like every step hurts. Mama’s dozing, her breath a thin whistle. 

So you grab the lantern from its hook, light blooming up in a hot bloom that stings your eyes, and head out barefoot into the yard.

The grass is cool against your soles, damp from the thick air. The little farmhouse where Remmick sleeps has a strip of light at the curtain-bottom, but you don’t see him outside. The barn looms ahead, big and dark, door standing half-open like a mouth. Another low, fretful sound comes from inside, not as sharp as the first but enough to hurry you along.

“Easy now,” you call as you slip in, lantern held high. “Hush yourself, girl, I’m comin’.”

The barn swallows the outside sounds. In here it’s hay and dust and the soft shuffling of hooves, the rustle of wings up in the rafters. 

Your mare stamps once, snorting, eyes rolling white when the lantern light hits her. You cross the packed dirt quick, set the lantern on a hook so you’ve got both hands, and reach for her halter, stroking her long face.

“It’s just the weather actin’ strange,” you murmur, words more for yourself than her. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you.”

She settles a little under your voice, but her muscles are still tight, skin twitching under your palm.

You’re so focused on her that you don’t hear him until he’s already in the doorway.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

His voice slides through the gloom, low and rough. 

You jerk a little, head snapping toward the barn entrance. He’s just inside the threshold, lantern in his hand turned down low, throwing more shadow than light. Sleeves rolled, suspenders hooked proper tonight, hair damp at the temples like he’s just come in from a hard walk. 

“Lord,” you mutter, heart kicking hard. “You move too quiet. Thought you were a ghost.”

He lets out a short huff of a laugh. “Not yet.” The lantern swings by his knee as he steps inside, setting the hay shadows dancing. “Heard her fussin’. Figured I’d check before she took it into her head to kick through a stall.”

“She just spooked,” you say. “Storm brewin’ somewhere.”

He comes up nearer, close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat along his throat, the bead of something darker at the cuff of his shirt where it brushes his wrist. 

His gaze does a quick, automatic sweep of the stall—manger, bucket, the mare’s flanks, your hand on her halter—and then it hooks on you, like it always does, like there’s a string between his eyes and your skin.

“You shouldn’t come out here by yourself at night,” he says, quiet, not rebuking exactly but not gentle either. “Barn full of spooked stock, any one of ’em could knock you right off your feet. Ain’t proper for a girl to be runnin’ around after dark alone.”

“That girl’s got ears,” you answer, voice tight, stroking the mare’s neck to hide your own nerves. “She can hear you fussin’ without talkin’ over her head.”

His mouth does that little tilt again, amused. “Reckon she can,” he says. “Reckon she don’t listen half as good as she ought, neither.”

You’re just shaping a sharp reply when it happens.

Something cracks outside, a dry, sharp sound—maybe a limb breaking, maybe a board settling wrong, maybe thunder grumbling way off where the clouds are thickest. 

It doesn’t matter what it is. The mare flinches hard, shoulder slamming sideways. The stall rail shudders under the hit, and you’re standing too close, lantern throwing crazy shadows as the world jolts.

Your first instinct is to get out of the way. You jump back, skirts swishing, hand flying off the halter. You pivot toward the stall opening and catch—not air, not clear space, but the edge of an old nail head that’s been working itself loose from the post for years.

The sound of fabric tearing is loud as a gunshot in the barn.

It rips from just below your hip down the side of your thigh, a long, rude run that opens your dress like a mouth. 

Cool air hits bare skin where cotton should be.

You gasp, more from the exposure than pain, and slap your hand down, fingers clutching at the split to keep it from gaping wider.

For a heartbeat you stand frozen, lantern light swinging, breath shallow, your leg half-bared through the torn seam.

You don’t have a slip on under this dress, not a proper one. It’s too hot. You’ve got plain cotton drawers and a whole lot of skin, and you know without looking that the tear has gone high, high enough that if you weren’t grabbing it shut he’d be seeing places no man has any business looking at on you.

“You all right?” Remmick’s closer before you register him moving, his boots whispering over packed dirt. His lantern clanks against a beam as he hangs it up. He reaches for you by pure reflex, hands coming to your arms, steadying you where you’ve stumbled.

“I’m fine,” you snap, too quick, humiliation burning your face, neck, chest. “Let go.”

You twist away from his grip, turning your hip, trying to angle the torn side away from him. 

The dress shifts anyway, hem dragging through straw, and there’s a flash of thigh where your fingers don’t quite cover everything. You feel the rush of blood under your skin like you’ve been slapped.

His eyes drop before you can stop them.

It’s an instinct with him just like yours, hungry and automatic. His gaze hits the split, the glimpse of your leg, and sticks. Time slows down around that look. You see it happen, see the way his pupils widen, see the quick, sharp inhale he tries to hide.

“Jesus,” he breathes, almost soundless.

You yank the torn fabric tighter, the motion making the rip strain up higher, edge brushing the curve where your thigh meets your hip. Your whole body feels like a lantern flame, exposed and flickering. “Don’t you look,” you hiss, low and furious. “Turn around.”

One of his hands lifts, like he might actually offer to cover the tear for you, fingers curling as if they want to fit over the place you’re guarding. He stops himself, hand hovering for an awful second near your hip, close enough that you feel the heat of him even through the thin cotton. 

“Ain’t my fault you went tearin’ yourself open on every nail in the county,” he says, tone trying for light and landing somewhere rougher. 

His eyes drag up slow, from your knuckles clenched in the fabric, up the bare strip of thigh he already saw, up the shape of your waist and the heave of your chest. “Maybe you should let me look and make sure you didn’t cut that pretty skin to ribbons.”

The way he says pretty makes your stomach flip and your teeth set.

“I ain’t cut,” you spit. “And I sure as hell don’t need you inspectin’ me.”

He should look ashamed. Though, he doesn’t. There’s color high in his cheeks now, not from heat, not from work. His mouth’s gone a little slack, like he’s holding back words. His gaze keeps sneaking back to the place your hand guards, greedy, any time you aren’t staring right at him.

“If you say so,” he murmurs finally. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

You hear the echo of his earlier lie in that word, delicate, and decide if you stay here another minute you might do something you can’t take back, like slap him or cry or both.

You shift your grip to catch more fabric, bunching the torn side up in your fist so nothing shows. It makes walking harder; you’re hobbling, half-skipping, desperate not to let the skirt fall. “You see to the mare,” you manage, chin up, eyes burning. “I’ll fix my dress.”

He steps back enough to let you pass. As you squeeze by him in the narrow space, your shoulder brushes his chest, your bare calf bumps the hard line of his boot. 

“Careful,” he says, voice quiet, right by your ear. “Would be a shame if the rest of that dress gave up and left you standin’ in nothin’ at all.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You duck your head and hurry out, every step measured so the torn seam doesn’t pull, one hand clamped between your thighs, lantern bumping at your knee. 

The night air on your exposed skin feels wrong, every stray breeze finding its way up under the rip.

You keep your eyes fixed on the glow of the house, on the square of the kitchen window, on anything that is not the barn behind you.

You slam the kitchen door with more force than you mean to, startling your mama awake, mumble something about a nail catching you and make straight for your room. You don’t light your own lamp; you don’t want to see what he saw. You stand there in the dark with your back to the door and your dress torn open under your hand, heart hammering, ears roaring, shame and something hotter and uglier twisting up together in your belly.

Down by the south fence, in the smaller farmhouse, Remmick sits on the edge of his narrow bed with the easy, humming satisfaction of a man who’s been saving something up.

He lit the lamp as soon as he stepped in, not out of any real need for light but because he likes the way it throws shadows, likes the way it paints dim gold over bare wood and gives him something soft to look at while his mind runs back over the evening. 

The room is small and warm from his own body heat, close enough that every breath feels shared with the walls. Old wood, dust, a curl of tobacco from the roll-up he finished outside, and under it all the ghost of you clinging to his clothes—soap and starch and sweat—make a thick little stew in the air.

He shrugged out of his shirt as soon as the door shut, tossing it over the chair without bothering to check if the seam you mended had held. 

The rip in the fabric is nothing next to the rip in your dress that he can’t stop savoring. He works the buttons of his trousers loose without hurry, fingers moving with the contented patience of a man about to sit down to a meal he’s been smelling all day.

He doesn’t try not to think of you. That would be a waste of a perfectly good night.

He leans back against the wall, boots kicked off, pants open at the fly, and lets the picture come as easy as breath. 

You in the barn with your hand clapped between your thighs, dress split wide, that slick little strip of thigh flashing when the cloth slipped. The way your eyes flared when you realized he’d seen, outrage and mortification and something bright under both. The sound of your voice when you told him not to look, like you already knew he was going to anyway.

“Hell,” he mutters, half laughing under his breath as his cock swells heavy against the thin barrier of his briefs. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I’d rather think on.”

His palm drifts down over his belly, fingers tracing a slow path to the bulge at his groin. Even that light touch makes him suck in air through his teeth. 

He presses his hand over the outline of himself, feeling the hot, solid weight of his cock straining upward, and a low, pleased sound curls up out of his chest. He palms it once, a lazy roll, enjoying the way it kicks against his fingers like it’s eager too, then he slides his hand inside.

Warm cotton gives way to hot skin. He wraps his fist around the thick base of himself and exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the barn, relief and hunger tangled up in it. His cock sits heavy in his grip, veins standing up, the head already wet where precum has gathered from how long he’s been walking around hard on the memory of you.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb smearing that slickness over the swollen tip. “Worked up over one little tear. You’d laugh yourself sick if you saw me now, wouldn’t you?”

The thought of you seeing him like this, spread out on his narrow bed with his trousers open and his cock standing full in his hand, only makes him harder. 

He drags his fist down slow, savoring the drag from head to base, then back up again, the friction sharp and sweet all at once. The first few strokes are measured, a man settling into a rhythm he plans to enjoy, not something hurried and guilty he has to choke down.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping shut so he can see you better behind his lids. 

Not the church version, not the good girl with the hem tugged just so and the buttons done up high. 

The barn version. Lantern light sliding over your bare thigh, the tremble in your fingers when you clutched at the rip, that split second when your hand wasn’t fast enough and he got the clean, unearned look he’s been replaying ever since.

“Shit,” he breathes, hand tightening, the slide of skin on skin picking up a little speed. 

He drags his fist down again, slower, getting a feel for every inch, for the way his cock swells harder in his grip with each pass. Arousal slicks his thumb, gathers at the crest of the head, and he spreads it with an easy, greedy little twist, working it around until the slide turns wet and smooth. 

His hips lift into his own hand without much prompting, body eager after nights of walking around with you on his tongue and in his teeth and under his nails.

“Bare leg,” he mutters, watching his hand move now, eyes half-lidded, lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks. “Goin’ about your business like you ain’t got that tucked up under your skirt. Like I ain’t seen it now.”

He remembers exactly how the tear opened, how the cotton gave and the seam surrendered, how your thigh flashed in the jumpy lantern light. 

That first raw glimpse lives in his chest like a hot coal. Skin smooth and soft-looking, the curve of muscle under it, the sweet thickness where it met your hip. 

He remembers your drawers too, plain white cotton clinging to you, riding that line between demure and lewd when the fabric shifted wrong.

His hand moves faster at that, instincts catching up with memory. He curls his fingers a little tighter, pulling from the heavy base up to the slick crown, milking a fresh bead of precum up with each stroke. 

“Bet you went home and stitched that dress up neat as a Sunday virtue,” he says, voice roughened by breath. “Head bowed, lips bit, pretendin’ that leg ain’t still there underneath, smooth as cream and just as soft. Bet you can’t stop thinkin’ about me seein’ it neither.”

He can picture you at your little table, lamp burning, needle in hand, fingers trembling just enough to make the thread snag. Your face hot, your mouth set, your thighs pressed together under the cloth as you sew shame into every stitch. He imagines you tugging that seam tight, that same hand that clutched the torn fabric now working the needle, every pull a memory of his eyes on you.

His free hand slides down his belly, fingers pressing over the flexing muscles there, holding them tight as he fucks up into his own fist. The bed creaks under him, wood complaining, but he doesn’t slow. He spreads his legs wider on the mattress, giving himself more room to move, and the extra slack lets his strokes lengthen, his hips roll, everything turning into a slow rhythm.

“You know what I see when I close my eyes?” he asks the ceiling quietly, dragging his thumb across the slit. “Not that pretty little mouth tellin’ me not to look. I see that hand of yours slip. I see that dress fall open just a little more.”

The picture in his mind sharpens: you, back against a stall post, hand too busy clutching at rough wood to hold your skirts closed, light catching on the full line of your thigh as the rip edges skid higher. 

He imagines the flap of cloth falling aside, full view of your leg from knee to hip, drawers pulled tight over the mound between your thighs, a faint darker patch where heat and sweat have gathered.

His cock throbs in his grip at that. He grits his teeth, pushes his palm down hard, and his hips jerk, chasing the pressure.

“Yeah,” he growls softly. “That’s it. Dress up around your waist, showin’ all that sweet flesh. You holdin’ on to that wood like it’s gonna save you, eyes full of righteous fury while your body’s tellin’ on you.”

His fingers slip lower on the stroke, pausing to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, feeling the tight, heavy pull there. The sensation punches another sound out of him. He goes back to his cock with renewed urgency, arm working harder now, hand pumping.

He lets himself wander further than any real moment has gone. Lets the memory of that tear turn into something else, something he can taste.

He imagines stepping in close before you can bolt, one hand catching your wrist, the other gathering your torn skirt up and out of his way. Imagines your gasp, that little sharp intake he already knows, your bare thigh hitting his hip as he pins you to the stall. Your panties stretched tight over the soft swell of your cunt, his fingers pushing up against the dampening cloth, feeling how hot you are through the barrier.

“Pretend you don’t want it,” he murmurs, throat rasping. “Try to act like you ain’t gettin’ wet for me while you fuss.”

The words sound vulgar and right in his mouth. His cock swells at it, the head aching now, sensitive with every pass. He squeezes at the top, thumb pressing just under the crown, and his whole body shudders, pleasure rushing up his spine.

“Be a good girl,” he hears himself whispering to the woman in his head, the one pressed to barn wood with her dress in tatters. “Spread ’em for me, let me see what you’re hidin’.”

His hand flies now, finding a quick, dirty rhythm. His breath comes rough, each inhale catching, each exhale spilling out in curses and half-formed praises.

“You’d flush right up to your hairline,” he pants, head rolling against the wall. “Act all offended while your thighs tremble and that pretty thing between ’em throbs. Might even cry a little, wouldn’t you? All sweet and scared and soaked.”

The image of you crying—eyes bright, lashes wet, lips bitten—while your body betrays you sends him right to the edge. His balls draw up tight, cock jumping in his fist, veins standing out under his skin. Heat coils at the base of his spine, that familiar pull gathering everything in, ready to snap.

He spits into his hand for more slick, doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth. The added wetness turns his strokes into something obscene, the sound echoing in the small room. His forearm snaps, muscles burning, chasing the crest bearing down on him.

“Come on then,” he grits. “Show me.”

He imagines hooking a finger under the edge of your drawers and pulling the cotton aside. Imagines the first sight of you bare between your thighs, folds swollen, maybe already glistening, all that heat finally out in the lantern light instead of tucked away in shadows and good manners.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice breaking, hips jerking harder into his fist. “Knew you’d be pretty there. Knew you’d be soft.”

The wave hits with no ceremony; it slams through him like a mule kick. His whole body locks, stomach clenching, heels digging into the thin mattress, head thumping dully against the wall. 

A groan tears out of him, rough and strangled, half-swallowed behind clenched teeth. His cock jerks in his hand, once, twice, then again, spilling hot over his fingers and across his stomach in thick, pulsing ropes.

He rides it out, hand still working, strokes shortening but not stopping, milking every last drop. Cum coats his knuckles, drips over his fist, slicking his grip until his palm slips on the softening length. 

“Fuck,” he breathes when he can breathe again, voice low and wrecked.

His strokes slow, then ease off altogether, fingers loosening their grip. 

For a moment he just sits there, chest rising and falling, wrist slick and heavy, cock giving a few last, half-hearted twitches in his hand. Sweat cools on his forehead, a bead sliding down along his temple.

He looks down at the mess on his belly, streaks shining in the lamplight, dripping off the side of his hand. There’s no disgust in the way he examines it; if anything, there’s pride. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and satisfied.

“Look what you pulled out of me, and you weren’t even here,” he murmurs, more pleased than ashamed. 

He wipes his hand across his stomach, smearing instead of cleaning, fingers drawing idle patterns through the stickiness before he drags them off onto a wadded-up shirt at his side. 

The cotton takes the worst of it, darkening where it soaks, but he doesn’t fuss about the rest. Let it dry on his skin. Let it sit there as a reminder.

He tucks himself back into his briefs, though he doesn’t bother fastening his trousers all the way, leaving the fly gaping a little for air. 

His body feels loose and heavy now, bones sunk deep into the thin mattress. The edge is blunted, that sharp hunger dulled to a warm, low thrum, but it’s not gone.

He leans his head back and lets his eyes drift half-closed, the lamp still burning low. 

In the quiet, he can almost hear you tossing under your own quilt up the rise, feel the echo of your indignation, imagine the way your fingers might trace absent circles over the mended seam of your dress while you tell yourself you hate him.

He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, savoring that thought as much as any touch.

“Gonna see it torn again,” he says softly, not quite a promise, not quite a threat. 

The lamp flickers, a tiny flame fighting sleep. Outside, crickets scream and something small scurries through the grass. 

The little house settles around him with soft creaks and sighs. He closes his eyes fully at last, the picture of your bare thigh and your furious face smoothing together into one sweet, ripe ache he’s already wondering how soon he can taste again.

Most nights Remmick does his rounds like he’s supposed to, lantern swinging at his knee, gate latches checked, fence wire plucked and listened to like strings. 

But once he knows the map of the place in his bones, once he has counted every post and measured every path, his feet start wandering off the straight lines your daddy would like him to walk. 

He learns where the shadows fall thickest under the pecan tree by the side yard, where the dark under the eaves hides a man from anyone glancing out through lamplight. 

He learns just how far back he can stand and still see into the kitchen window when you’re up late, sleeves rolled, forearms wet to the elbow, talking to your mama while you scrub a pan. 

He learns that when you think everybody’s settled, you lean your hip against the counter and tilt your head a little while you dry your hands, and that little shift of weight does things to your dress you’d never let it do in town.

He finds out you like the back porch at night even more than you like it at dusk. That when the work is done and your parents are loud in their sleep, you slip out with a glass or a cup and sit with your legs stretched, ankles crossed, toes tracing idle circles on the board beneath them. 

From the fence line he can see the shine of lamplight on your bare shins when your hem rides up, can see the loose, tired way you soften back into the chair. 

He watches you tilt your face toward the dark yard like you’re asking it questions it hasn’t answered yet, listens to the little sounds you make—half-sighs, half-hums—that never show up when anyone else is awake. 

He leans on a post with a cigarette hanging from his fingers and looks until he’s had his fill, no hurry in him, nothing but a lazy, steady satisfaction in knowing you have no idea.

He learns your bedroom window, too. Where it sits in relation to the oak, how far up the slope he has to stand to see its square of light. 

The first time he notices the curtain isn’t quite shut, it’s by accident; he’s walking back late, boots slow on the path, when a slice of movement catches his eye. 

Curtain gapping, lamp turned low, you moving around your room in that soft circle people make before bed. 

He stops in the shadow of the tree without even thinking, shoulder to rough bark, the leaves above him murmuring in a wind that doesn’t get down into the yard. 

From there he can see you in fragments—an arm as you reach up to unbutton, a brief glimpse of the side of your neck, the line of your shoulder as fabric slips. 

He tells himself he’ll move when you’re done, that he’s only making sure you got in safe. He stays until the lamp goes out.

The night he sees you in the bath, there’s not even that thin excuse.

It’s late enough the frogs have worn down to a sleepy chorus and the crickets sound drunk. A low, warm fog sits over the fields, pressing scents in close: damp earth, animals settled in their pens, soap drifting thin from the open kitchen window where somebody forgot to latch it right. 

He’s finished his rounds early, all the work of the night sitting behind him instead of ahead, and he feels that restless itch under his skin again, that soft, prowling urge that has nothing to do with fences and everything to do with you.

The house is a square of softer dark against the sky, only a couple of windows holding light. 

He knows which is which now without having to think about it. Kitchen, front room, your parents’ room. The little back room off the side where the big galvanized tub sits when somebody’s been lucky enough to haul enough water. 

Tonight it’s that one glowing gentle behind its thin cotton curtain, lantern hanging somewhere just out of sight, making the fabric look like a pale, breathing thing.

He circles wide, slipping along the edge of the yard where the grass meets the packed dirt of the lane, where the shadows from the trees throw him one more thin cloak. 

The bath window is low, glass fogged a little from steam. The curtain is drawn but not all the way, left a thumb’s width open on one side—enough for light to leak out in a narrow spill. Enough, if a man stepped in close and angled himself just right, to see inside.

He comes up under the sill, breath slow, boots quiet, and lays his palm flat against the siding to steady himself. The boards are cool and rough under his fingers. He leans his shoulder into them and tilts his head, lining his eye up with that careless little gap.

Heat hits him first, a wet, sweet breath rolling out into the night. The lantern inside throws shadows high on the wall, flickering over the curve of the tub, over the length of you in it.

You’re sunk down in the water with your knees bent, one leg drawn up just enough for him to see the shape of it under the surface, the other stretched straighter, foot braced on the far side. 

The water glows around you, gone cloudy with soap, clinging in beads to your skin where it’s out of the tub. 

Your shoulders show above the rim, bare and slick, drops running down in slow trails. 

Steam curls off your chest, off the slopes of your breasts where they rise from the water, soft and heavy, nipples pebbled tight from the heat or the air or both. The lamplight loves them, catching on every curve, laying little gold crowns on each peak.

Your head is tipped back against the rolled towel you’ve wedged between neck and tin, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for breath. One arm drifts along the tub’s edge, fingers dragging lazy patterns through the thin scum of soap there, the other resting across your stomach.

He watches your ribs move with each inhale, the slight swell and fall of your belly under your palm.

You're so unaware of him that it feels almost holy.

He drinks it in like it’s what he came here for all along, no flinch in him, no apology. His gaze roams where it will. 

From the line of your throat down to the hollow between your collarbones, where a small puddle has gathered and overflowed in slow rivulets; down over the slick, shining hills of your breasts, the way they shift just a little with every breath, the way the waterline cuts across them. Lower, to where the curve of your stomach disappears under the opaque water, hinting at more, promising everything.

You shift, lifting one arm to drag the washcloth over your shoulder. The washcloth trails over the round of your shoulder, down the outside of your arm, across the swell of your breast, nipple tightening even more when the rough cloth skims past.

You don’t seem to notice the way your own body responds; you’re too busy chasing day-dirt away, lifting your arm to scrub your neck, tilting your head to give yourself better reach.

From his vantage, he sees everything. His hand tightens on the siding, knuckles going white, that buzzing hunger flaring up bright and hot behind his eyes.

He stares, not making a sound.

You work the cloth down your arm and set it aside, then slide both hands into the water, scooping and pouring over yourself. 

You lift your leg a little, knee rising higher, water spilling off in sheets, showing him the smooth length of your thigh all the way to the place where it vanishes back under the cloudy surface. The muscles there flex as you shift, your toes stretching, calf defined a moment before settling again. 

For a brief second, the water thins enough he can see the shadowed shape where your thighs meet, softened by the haze but there, real and mouth-watering.

His eyes go dark on it, pupils swallowing light. He leans in a fraction more, cheek almost touching the glass, breath fogging the edge of the pane where it meets the frame. 

Every small move you make sends little waves across your body, playing light over the parts he can see, hinting at the parts he can’t.

You sigh, the sound faint through the wall but clear. Your head tips a little to the side, cheek turning toward the window without quite facing it. 

One hand skims over your sternum, following the center line of your body until it disappears under the water. 

Your fingers paddle lazily there for a moment, moving along your own stomach, over the soft give of your lower belly. 

He imagines exactly where they’re drifting, what warm, slick places they’re brushing, even if you’re not thinking of it like that. Your face gives nothing away but relief, a tired little slackness, the expression of someone finally easing aches out of their bones.

“You ain’t got a clue,” he breathes, lips ghosting the words against the flaking clapboard. There’s satisfaction in it, not cruelty. “Bathin’ like Eve in a picture book with the curtain open and the devil on the outside lookin’ in.”

His hand, the one not braced on the wall, shifts restlessly by his side, brushing the front of his trousers. 

He doesn’t touch himself proper, not yet; this is looking time. He wants to be empty enough of the last time to fill up on this one entire. 

His fingers flex anyway, his palm pressing for a moment against the growing bulge, acknowledging it. His cock swells quick and eager, remembering the barn, welcoming the new fodder.

You lean forward to reach the soap, and the angle changes. 

For a breathless few seconds he gets the long line of your back, the way it curves from nape to waist, the hollow above your hips, the dimples that show when you move just so. Water slides off you in glittering trails, trickling down along your spine, pooling in the small of your back before spilling lower. 

As you sit back again, that same water slips over the round of your ass where it breaks the surface, catching the light along the curve, then vanishes under the cloudy bath.

He closes his eyes briefly, just to fix it, then opens them again. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

You lather your hands, work the soap into your skin, fingers massaging into your shoulders, down along your collarbones. 

The more you scrub, the slipperier you become, water beading and running, foam clinging in thin streaks before melting away. 

When you finally slide your hands under the water, scrubbing lower, your elbows move in a rhythm that makes something low and obscene curl in his gut. 

He knows you’re only washing, just doing what needs doing, but to him it looks like a preview, looks like a rehearsal of things you haven’t yet learned to want.

He watches until the waterline creeps lower on the lantern as the bath cools and you sink down, chasing warmth. Watches as you finally let yourself relax fully, shoulders sliding under, just your face above the surface, eyes closed, breaths slow and even.

Only when you sit forward and reach for the towel hanging on the peg beside the tub does he ease back from the window. 

He knows if he lingers another second, if he sees you stand, water sheeting off every inch as you step out, he’ll plant roots under this sill and never leave. 

There will be other nights, he tells himself.

He peels himself off the wall, body humming, and slips back into the darker yard, breath still measured, strides easy. 

By the time he’s at the edge of the light, he has his lantern in hand again, held low, the picture of a man just passing through on his way to some small piece of work.

He doesn’t feel a lick of shame. What would be the use of it, when the memory of you in that tub is already lodged in his body like a polished stone, something he can roll under his tongue whenever he chooses. 

You’ll go to bed clean and soft, thinking maybe about chores and storms and the seam you mended this morning. 

He’ll go back to his little house with your wet skin behind his eyes and no confusion about what he plans to do with it.

The day’s been long, the kind that starts with a rooster and ends with your back feeling twice your age. 

By the time supper’s put away and the kitchen wiped down, your father’s in his chair with his boots off, socks so full of holes you don’t know why he bothers wearing them, radio mumbling low out of the corner. Your mother’s gone to bed early with a headache, door cracked just enough that you can hear her cough now and again.

You’re halfway through folding the dish towels when you remember.

Mama’s good jar of salve.

You can see it plain in your mind’s eye: small tin with the blue lid, the one she guards like treasure. 

She sent you looking for it just after dinner, when she noticed the raw place on your father’s wrist from rope burn and the darkening bruise on your own hip from where the stall rail caught you days ago. 

You’d gone to fetch more wood for the stove first, meaning to get the salve on your way back, and somehow it slipped right out of your head, chased off by smoke and scolding and the rush to get biscuits off the fire before they burned.

Your father’s already grumbled twice about the barn nail and told you if you’d been paying mind you wouldn’t have torn your dress, wouldn’t have bruises, wouldn’t have needed fussing. 

You can hear him in the morning if he finds that wrist still angry and your hip still tender. Can hear that disappointed click of his tongue.

You’d seen him hand the tin to Remmick earlier in the week, mumbling something about “keep this on hand, boy, in case you tear yourself up,” and watched the new hand tuck it into the pocket of his coat before heading down to the little farmhouse.

“That’s where it is,” you murmur, more to the quiet kitchen than to anyone. A little knot between your brows loosens when you place it. “Down there.”

You glance at the clock. It’s late enough the newsman’s gone off the air, early enough the world hasn’t quite tipped into the dead hours where the dark feels thickest. 

Outside the window, the yard is quiet, the barn a heavy shadow, the smaller house beyond it just a darker square against the field.

“Where’s that boy?” Your father mutters around his cigarette, not really expecting an answer. “Ain’t heard him come in for coffee. He out checkin’ fence or sleepin’ on my dime?”

“Out, I reckon,” you say, folding the last towel with a sharp little snap.

Truth is, you haven’t heard his boots either. You haven’t seen his lantern bob by the window. It’s been a soft, blank stretch of night, no sign of him.

You tell yourself that means he’s at the far end of the pasture or walking the ditch line. Exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“I’ll fetch Mama’s salve,” you add, already untying your apron, tucking it over the back of a chair. “She’ll want it first thing in the mornin’.”

Joe nods, smoke curling out of his nose. “Don’t you linger,” he says, not looking up. “Get what you need and bring your tail back in this house. I don’t want you down there visitin’ like it’s social hour.”

You bite back the urge to say you’d sooner visit the pig pen. “Yes, sir,” is what comes out instead.

The night air catches you on the porch, damp and soft, smelling of cooling dirt and a hint of something sweet blooming out by the fence. 

You step down barefoot, skirts whispering around your calves, the boards’ splinters familiar against your soles. The big house’s light spills just to the bottom of the steps, then gives up, letting the yard roll out into dark.

The little farmhouse sits a ways off, past the well, past the worn track where the wagon turns. All its windows are black. No orange seam under the curtain, no silhouette rising and falling against the glass. The barn is quiet too, doors thrown shut, only a thin line of moon-silver along the roof.

You latch onto the sight of that dark little house like proof. He’s not there. He’s out somewhere with a lantern and a bad attitude. 

You’ll be in and out before he knows you’ve even left your room.

You wrap that thought around yourself like a shawl and start across the yard.

The grass is cool and a little slick with dew under your feet, clinging between your toes. Crickets saw at the edges of things, frogs mutter down in the low spots. The well’s stone lip rises out of the ground like something old and patient; you ghost past it, keeping your eyes on the squat shadow of the farmhouse.

Up close, it looks smaller, somehow meaner. The door is shut, the porch bare save for his boots lined up neat off to one side. You take in that detail with a little flick of relief—boots off means man in bed, not loose in the yard—before another thought slides in behind it: or just inside.

You hesitate only a heartbeat.

The want to not get scolded in the morning, the want to have Mama’s salve where she can lay hands on it, outweighs the whisper of sense telling you this is foolish.

You lay your palm on the door and push.

It gives with a small, tired creak, the smell of the place rolling over you in a warm wave: wood, straw, tobacco, sweat, and that faint metallic thread you’ve started to think of as his alone. There’s a lamp turned low on the table just inside, wick pinched till the flame is barely more than a coal in a glass throat, enough to lay out the shapes of things and nothing more.

“Remmick?” you call, voice barely above a whisper, more habit than hope. When nothing answers—not a word, not a shift of boards—you let your breath out slow and step over the threshold.

The door eases halfway shut behind you, not latched. You don’t bother with it; you don’t plan to be here long enough to worry about what’s open and what isn’t. 

The room is small and spare, just like your daddy said it was. Bed against one wall, blanket rumpled from someone sitting, if not lying. Chair with a coat thrown over the back, shirt draped careless on top. Table with the lamp, a chipped cup, a folded knife. A shelf holding a few tin plates, a jar of coffee, the heel of a loaf.

You move quick but careful, eyes trying not to linger on the smaller things that say a man’s been living here—his belt coiled on the chair seat, his hat hanging from the peg, the empty space on the floor where his boots were. 

You head straight for the coat, remembering your father’s hand dropping the salve tin into its pocket.

You pinch the fabric between your fingers, easing it aside, but the weight you expect to tug at the hem isn’t there. The coat hangs light. You pat the pockets; they’re empty, save for a wadded rag and a stray button.

“Damn,” you breathe, annoyed, under your breath.

Maybe he moved it. Maybe he took it out so the tin wouldn’t fall and get lost when he shrugged the coat on.

You cast your eyes around the room, searching high shelves, low boxes, any place someone might set a small, important thing.

The table catches your attention next. You circle it, gaze skimming over the knife, the cup, the lamp. 

There, near the edge, half in shadow—a squat little tin no bigger than your palm, blue lid dulled with age.

You smile in spite of yourself and reach for it. “Got you,” you murmur, closing your fingers around the cool metal.

You pop the lid just enough to see the salve inside, pale and thick, smelling faintly of herbs and camphor, then press it back down with a soft click. The job’s done. Simple as that.

You turn, already thinking about the path back to the house, about slipping this into Mama’s hand and letting yourself be proud she won’t have to wonder where it is in the morning.

You don’t make it two steps.

There he is.

Standing in the doorway that leads to the small back room, shoulder braced against the frame like he’s been leaning there a while, like he grew right up out of the wood.

He’s shirtless, skin slicked faint with sweat, the rise and fall of his chest slow and easy. Suspenders hang loose against his hips, clipped to his trousers but fallen off his shoulders, framing the cut of his torso in dark lines. 

The lamp’s low light paints him in gold and shadow both, dipping into the hollow between his collarbones, skating over the plane of his stomach, catching on the trail of hair that runs down from his navel into the waistband of his pants. 

His arms cross over his chest, veins standing faint along the backs of his hands where they rest against his biceps.

His feet are bare. His eyes are not gentle.

“Find what you was lookin’ for?” he asks, voice soft, too soft, the scrape of it wrapping around the words like a touch.

Your heart gives one wild jump, slamming up against your ribs hard enough to hurt, then starts to run. 

You hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t heard the back door, hadn’t heard the floor protest, hadn’t heard anything but your own little fussing search and the tiny pop of the salve lid.

For a foolish second you think about hiding the tin, tucking it behind your back like a child caught in a pantry. You don’t. There’s nowhere to put it he wouldn’t see, and you refuse to give him the pleasure of watching you scramble.

Instead you hold it up just enough that he can see the blue lid glint in the lamplight. “My mama’s salve,” you say, surprised at how even your voice comes out. “Daddy gave it to you. He forgot where he put it. I came to fetch it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the tin for more than a passing glance. His attention stays on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades. He rakes his gaze from your face down to the salve, then lower, slow as a man looking over a field he’s about to plow.

You suddenly know exactly how your dress is sitting—where the fabric pulls across your chest from turning too quick, where the skirt clings to your thighs from the damp in the grass, where your collar gapes just a breath more than it should because you didn’t bother with the top button in the heat. Your skin prickles under each place you picture his eyes touching.

“You always just walk yourself into a man’s house without knockin’?” he asks after a beat, one brow ticking up.

“This ain’t a house,” you reply, chin lifting a shade. “It’s a shack my father stuck you in so you’d be closer to the barn.”

Something like amusement flickers across his mouth. “Still mine for now,” he says. “Door was shut, wasn’t it?”

“You left the lamp on,” you shoot back. “Anybody with decent sense would take that as invitation in case of emergency.”

He uncrosses his arms then, letting them drop to his sides. The motion makes muscles jump in his chest, the lines of his shoulders shifting under skin. “And what’s the emergency, miss?” he asks. “That your mama’s medicine was sittin’ ten yards farther than you like it?”

His tone isn’t mocking. It isn’t kind either. It’s something in between, something testing. Like he’s poking at you with words just to feel where you’re soft.

You swallow, the salve tin suddenly heavy in your hand. “I said why I came,” you answer. “I’ll be goin’ now.”

You move to head toward the front door, the one you came in, but the room is small, and he doesn’t move. One pace brings you close enough to smell him. Another pace would put you near enough to brush him if you misjudged your route.

He shifts his weight to fill the doorway more fully, one hand lifting to rest on the frame to the side of him. It leaves his ribs bare, that patch of hair under his arm catching the lamplight. There’s a faint scar along his flank, pale against the warmth of his skin, old and ugly, like something tore him open once and he lived anyway.

“Seems a shame,” he says, looking at you. “You comin’ all this way just to snatch up a tin and run.”

Your pulse hammers harder. “It ain’t far.”

“For you,” he agrees. “For me it’s a long, lonely walk most nights. I might be grateful for a little company.”

“You got company,” you say, words a little sharper than you intend. “You got every cow, every dog, every fence post on this land. You don’t need me.”

He lets that roll over him like water off a duck’s back. “Maybe I’m tired of talkin’ to things that can’t talk back,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to the salve again, then to your hand, to your wrist where your pulse beats visible in the hollow. “You tore yourself up any today, or you just borrowin’ this for show?”

“Bruise on my hip,” you admit before you can remind yourself you owe him nothing. The words come out stiff. “Ain’t your concern.”

“Everythin’ that happens on this farm’s my concern when it means workers showin’ up busted in the mornin’,” he says. “You do work, don’t you? Or are you just here to keep the place pretty.”

Heat flashes through you, quick and mean. “You've seen me work,” you say. “You've seen me at that pump, at that stove, out in the yard. Don’t you stand there half-dressed and ask if I do my share.”

His mouth twitches at half-dressed. He doesn’t bother to hide the way his gaze drops, quick, down the front of himself and back up, as if to say he knows exactly how much he’s wearing and how much you’re seeing. It’s deliberate, that small, shameless acknowledgement of his own body.

“Believe me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “I’ve seen you.”

The words land between you, heavy and thick. They mean more than they say. Every peek he’s stolen presses into the space they open up: your bare leg in the barn, your shoulders shining in the bath, your tired posture on the back porch, one strap slipping careless down your arm before you hitched it back up.

You don’t know about most of that. What you do know is enough to make your throat go dry.

“I ain’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” you say, trying to wrestle the conversation back onto some ground that feels steadier. “My father told you that when you got here. Told me too.”

His eyes gleam at the mention of your father, some dark amusement sparking there. “He told me to show you respect,” he says. “And I have. Haven’t laid a hand on you that you didn’t walk too close to yourself.”

Your mind trips over the memory of his fingers catching your arm in the barn, steadying you when your mare spooked. The way his hand hovered near your torn dress, heat just shy of your hip. The way he stood in the yard with his eyes on your mouth and called you miss like it was something he wanted to lick.

You draw yourself up as tall as you can manage in the little room, salve tin tight in your grip, refusing to yield the step he’s trying to take without moving his feet. “Then you’ll move,” you say, voice low but steady. “So I can go on home and keep livin’ my life with all that respect you’re so proud of.”

For a moment, you think he might laugh in your face. His lips part, teeth catching on his bottom lip, eyes glinting.

Instead he just looks at you.

It’s worse than if he’d laughed. He looks like a man deciding how honest he feels like being tonight. Like he’s weighing whether to keep playing at politeness or lay something sharper on the table between you.

The lamplight flickers, shadow jumping along his jaw as he tilts his head. “You walk out that door,” he says finally, nodding toward the porch, “and I’ll let you. I ain’t gonna drag you nowhere you don’t step first.”

Relief and something colder flick through you at the same time. “Good,” you start to say, but he isn’t done.

“But,” he adds, and that one little word lands heavy, “you come walkin’ into my place after dark again, all alone, dressed like that, lookin’ at me like you don’t know whether you wanna slap me or cry on me—well.” His gaze drops to your mouth and back. “That’s you steppin’. And I’ll take it as such.”

Your heart stutters, one hard misstep in its rhythm. “You overestimate yourself,” you snap, even as your fingers twitch on the tin.

He smiles then, slow and wolfish, the expression finally reaching his eyes in a way you haven’t seen yet. 

“We’ll see,” he says.

For a long, tight second, nobody moves. The walls feel closer, the air thicker, the lamplight too intimate. You hear the frogs outside, the creak of the house settling, the little wet sound of your own swallow. His bare chest rises and falls, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then he steps to the side.

The doorway opens up behind him, a narrow slice of night visible over his bare shoulder. It’s more space than you expected him to yield, less than you’d like.

You duck past, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest, the heat pouring off him making your skin prickle. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, on the line of your throat, on the way you have to hitch your skirt just a little to keep from tripping as you step over the threshold.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says softly, right by your ear, breath warm as it ghosts over your neck. “You be careful now. Dark’s full of things you don’t know about.”

You don’t trust your voice not to shake, so you don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it. You just walk, bare feet hitting the packed earth hard, fingers biting into the salve tin so tight the metal cuts a little crescent into your palm.

Rough wood presses into your hips, edge digging a little where your nightgown’s ridden up, breath catching in short, shallow pulls because he’s got one big hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there, and the other is on your ass, fingers clawed into the thin cotton, bunching it up and away from your thighs. 

The lamp in the corner throws a low, mean light over the kitchen, just enough to show you the knot in the tabletop and the chipped plate someone left on the shelf, just enough to catch the shadow of his arm when it moves.

You came down here hot with it. Anger, mostly. 

At him for looking at you how he does, for crowding doorways and talking low in your ear. At yourself for feeling anything besides disgust when he does it. 

For weeks that feeling has sat under your skin like a burr under a saddle, rubbing everything raw—every brush of his eyes, every sly comment, every late-night glimpse of his lantern out in the yard when you should’ve been sleeping. 

Tonight it tipped over. Tonight you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling and saw his bare chest in that little house instead, heard his voice saying we’ll see, felt your own body answer in a way that wouldn’t quit.

So you got up after the house went quiet, barefoot on the boards, heart in your throat. 

You didn’t bring a lamp. You told yourself you were just going to tell him off, to say plain that you didn’t want him looking, didn’t want him speaking to you sideways, didn’t want the innuendo and the smirks and the way he made you feel peeled without ever laying a proper hand on you. 

That was the story you wrapped yourself in as you crossed the yard, nightgown clinging to your knees.

He opened the door before you could knock, like he’d been standing right on the other side with his palm on the handle, listening.

You remember the way his eyes moved over you, slow, no shirt, just those loose trousers hanging low on his hips, lamp behind him making his shoulders look broad and his face unreadable. 

You remember his mouth forming your name, quiet and satisfied, like he’d been waiting to say it like this. 

You remember the way all that anger and want surged up together in your chest, wild and tangled, and how you said something too sharp, voice shaking, about him needing to keep his eyes to himself if he wanted to stay on your daddy’s land.

Now here you are with his hand on your back, pressing, holding you down exactly where you came—over his small scarred table in his small farmhouse kitchen—your own fingers gripping the edge in a white-knuckled clutch.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” he drawls above you, breath warm near your ear, words rolling over your spine. “That what you told me?”

You glare at the knot in the wood like it did you personal harm. 

Your face is hot, your body even hotter, a slow, heavy throb deep between your thighs that started halfway across the yard and hasn’t done a thing but grow. 

“I ain’t visitin’,” you say, the words a little muffled by the way he’s got you folded. “I came to talk sense into you.”

His laugh is low and pleased, hand on your back sliding a little, fingers spreading, thumb settling along your spine. He presses down just enough to remind you who’s holding you where you are. 

“Is that what you call it,” he says, “showin’ up in your bed things after dark, sneakin’ through my door with your hands empty and your eyes wide? Talkin’ sense?”

His other hand cups your ass through the thin fabric, palm wide over you, squeezing like he’s testing a piece of fruit at the market. 

The nightgown has twisted up, hem caught high over your hips, leaving the bottom curve of you bare to his touch, only the cotton of your drawers between his fingers and your skin. 

Heat floods that spot, a sharp, shameful pulse that makes your breath catch.

“You been walkin’ around twitchy as a cat for days,” he goes on, hand kneading, thumb digging into the give of your flesh there. “Snappin’ at me, snappin’ at your daddy, gettin’ that look on your face every time you see me like you don’t know whether to spit or spit somethin’ else.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, mortified at how true it feels in your bones. 

You shift your hips, trying to wriggle away from that hand, and all it does is grind you back against his palm, soft cotton dragging over the swell of you, catching on the seam that runs right over the place you’re trying not to think about.

He makes a sound at that, low in his throat, rough and appreciative. “Yeah. There she is,” he says, words coming a little thicker now. “All that fire. You walked your own self down here, girl. Nobody dragged you.”

“I came to tell you to stop,” you manage, though the way your voice climbs at the end takes the bite out of it. His fingers curl, grab a little handful of your ass cheek through the cloth, and you feel the ache spike hotter. “Stop lookin’. Stop talkin’ like that. Stop—stop–”

“Stop makin’ you feel all twisted up?” he supplies, not unkind, just plain. 

His hand on your back softens, spreads, rubbing along your spine like he’s soothing a spooked animal even as the other keeps kneading at you. 

“Stop remindin’ you there’s more to be had in this world than hymns and beans and mendin’?”

You suck a breath in through your teeth. “You ain’t the only man alive,” you snap. “You ain’t special.”

His grip tightens, a hard squeeze that makes you gasp. “No,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the only one you marched down here to cuss out in your bare feet and nightclothes, so I’d say I’m doin’ something right.”

You hate how your body answers that, how something low in you liquefies at the thought of it, at the truth you don’t want to name. You hate the way your thighs press together of their own accord, seeking pressure, seeking relief, even as you hold yourself rigid under his hand.

He feels it. His palm slides down, fingers curling under the heavy curve of you, thumb dragging along the crease where your ass meets the top of your thigh. 

You’re hyper-aware of every inch, every callus on his skin, every place the old wood digs into your hips. When his hand moves inward, fingers bumping close to the center of you, you flinch.

“Don’t—” you start, panic and want knitting together, but the word thins out when his touch presses just a little firmer over the damp cotton there.

“You’re soaked,” he says softly, no mockery in it, just raw, hungry wonder. “Walked through my door mad as sin, all full of pretty speeches, and your cunt’s already cryin’ for somethin’ to hold on to.”

Shame scorches up your neck. “Don’t call it that,” you choke, mortified, the word hitting you deep and low and making everything worse.

He hums, thumb tracing a slow circle over that swell, pressing right where the cloth is clinging. The pressure is perfect, unbearable. 

“What you want me to call it, then?” he asks, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. 

“Your virtue? Your purity? That sweet spot between your legs that ain’t nobody touched?” His thumb moves again, firmer, and your hips jolt against your will. “’Cause I see it all over you, darlin’. You came here wantin’ me to stop, but your body came here wantin’ somethin’ else entirely.”

You shake your head, even as your toes curl, even as your lungs drag in another sharp breath that tastes like him and the lamp smoke and the hot, close air of this little house. 

“You’re—you’re foul,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. “You been lookin’ at me, watchin’ me, talkin’ to me like—”

“Like I know what to do with you,” he cuts in, a hint of impatience threading through his heat. “And I do. You think I don’t see what’s eatin’ at you every time you glance down at my hands, or my mouth, or lower?”

His fingers slide along the seam of your drawers, finding the little ridge where cloth meets cloth and pressing right there. 

It sends a jolt through you big enough you can’t muffle the small sound that drops out of your throat. 

His hand on your back pushes down, keeping you bent, letting you grind into that touch without rising off the table.

“Listen here,” he says, voice roughening, patience fraying. “You came. You’re here. You can tell me to stop and I will. I ain’t gonna take what you don’t hand me. But don’t stand there in my house, drippin’ on my floor, and try to lie about what you’re feelin’.”

The room seems to shrink around those words. 

You know he’s right. You also know how far you are from where you were supposed to be, from the girl who said she’d never let a man like him get close, from the girl who swore she’d keep herself intact till some tidy, respectable husband came along with a ring and a house and his hat in his hands.

You think about those men. Faces you’ve seen in church, in town, men who look at you when they think you’re not noticing with a hunger they don’t know what to do with. Men who’d apologize if their fingers brushed your wrist too long.

Then you think about this man, bare-chested behind you, hard and unashamed, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the other on you like you’re his to handle. 

You think about his eyes in the barn, on your torn dress. About the words he said in this very room, about stepping. About how you’ve been walking around with your jaw clenched and your thighs pressed together ever since.

“Tell me the truth,” he says, thumb pressing a little harder, his other fingers spread wide over the swell of you. “You want me to let go of you and send you back up that hill with your temper, you say it. I’ll move. You can go pray extra loud come Sunday.”

The lamp crackles softly, a tiny sound in the heavy dark.

“And if I don’t?” you hear yourself ask, voice small but steady. “If I say I don’t want you to move?”

His hand stills on your back for one beat, then both of them tighten—one pressing you down, one grabbing a handful of your ass like he’s staking a claim. A breath leaves him in a long, shuddery exhale that ghosts hot over your neck.

“Then I’m gonna take real good care of what you brought me,” he says, tone gone hoarse and thick, the restraint in it the only thing keeping you from shaking. “Gonna give you somethin’ to think about next time you lay awake in that bed of yours. Gonna fuck you on this table till you don’t remember what you came down here mad about.”

The word fuck lands hard in you, a punch and a promise all at once. 

You grip the edge of the wood like it’s all that’s keeping you upright, though you’re already bent, already braced.

“Say it,” he murmurs, leaning in until his chest brushes your back, bare skin hot where it touches the thin cotton. 

The admission sits in your throat like a hot stone. It feels enormous. It feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I want—” The word catches, but his thumb flicks over you again, sharp and sure, and your hips roll without permission, a little helpless grind that betrays every fight you’ve been waging with yourself. “I want you,” you gasp, shame and relief crashing together. “I want you to—to do somethin’ about it.”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a groan, almost a laugh, almost a curse, his body crowding you tighter, his weight a solid wall of heat at your back. “That’s my girl,” he says, and the possession in it makes your knees wobble, makes that core of you clench hard around nothing.

His hand leaves your back long enough to grab a fistful of your nightgown at the hem, yanking it up in one rough motion that leaves it bunched around your waist. 

Cool air hits your drawers, the bare backs of your thighs, the soft part just under your cheeks, and then his palm is there, skin to skin at last, cupping you hard. 

His fingers dig in, thumbs pressing outward, spreading you slightly, mapping the give.

“You’re shakin’,” he says, sounding pleased. “Ain’t even touched you proper yet.”

“You’re takin’ your time,” you manage, though the words shake too.

He chuckles, low. “First time’s never good when a man rushes,” he answers, matter-of-fact. “And I know you ain’t had nobody in you yet, feelin’ the way you do under my hand.”

Before you can answer, his fingers hook into the waistband of your drawers and tug. The fabric resists for a second, elastic biting into soft flesh, then slides down, dragging over your hips, over the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs until they tangle around your knees. 

He leaves them there, trapping your legs just enough you can’t kick or close up, just enough that you’re open and vulnerable and aware of it.

Cool air kisses you everywhere the cloth just left. 

You feel filthy, bare from waist to mid-thigh, bent over his table with your nightgown rucked up, your cunt exposed to the room, to him. It makes your head swim.

Then his hand is back, and there is no room for anything else.

He cups you from behind, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds, and you hear a sharp breath hitch out of him. “Oh, hell,” he says, reverent.

You make a broken, helpless sound that doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. 

No one’s ever been there before, not like this, not with fingers spreading you, rubbing through you, middle finger catching on that aching bud you’ve only ever touched in the dark with guilty hands. 

The sensation is lightning-bright, stabbing up your spine.

“Easy,” he murmurs, palm flattening across your low back again, his body curving over yours, caging you. “I got you. Gonna make it good for you before I stretch you around me. Don’t want you too scared to enjoy your first fuck.”

The way he says first fuck, like he’s staking a flag there, like he’s carving his name into it, makes something fierce flicker through you, a strange pride knotting up with the fear. 

You push back against his hand without meaning to, chasing more.

He feels it. “That’s it,” he encourages, fingers pressing deeper between your lips now. “Ask for what you want with that pretty body. Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” you pant, honesty ripped out of you on a wave. “It hurts everywhere.”

He laughs, breath hot against your neck, mouth close enough you feel the shape of it. “That ain’t hurt, girl,” he says. “That’s need.” 

His fingers finally find your entrance, slick and hot and clutching, and he presses the pad of one inside, just the tip, testing. Your whole body clenches around that intrusion.

“You relax for me,” he tells you, tone sliding into something commanding. “Breathe.”

You suck in air, lungs burning. 

He slides the finger in a little further, thick and probing, opening you. 

The stretch is sharp, uncomfortable, but there’s an undercurrent of relief in it. He works it in and out slowly, letting you get used to the feel, letting your body learn the shape of him.

“That’s good,” he murmurs when he feels you soften around him, the praise lighting up something small and hungry in your chest. “See? You take my finger just fine. Gonna take my cock too when I’m done with you.”

He adds a second finger before you can brace, and this time the stretch makes you gasp loud, muscles clamping down. It burns, a deep, insistent ache, like you’re being pried open.

“Shh,” he soothes, his index finding that little bundle of nerves again, circling steady, sending sparks to chase the hurt. “I know. I know. We gotta loosen you up some or you’ll split yourself on me.”

The blunt truth of it makes you squeeze your eyes shut, face hot against your forearm. 

You can feel him behind you, solid, his chest glued to your back, his arm moving between your legs. When you manage to breathe past the initial shock, the burn eases, replaced by a full, pressurized feeling that fills your head with nothing but sensation.

He moves his fingers, slow at first, pumping them in and out of you in short strokes, stretching, coaxing. 

Your body starts to answer despite itself, hips rocking back in tiny motions, seeking that deep, sweet drag. 

Every thrust brushes against something inside you that makes your legs tremble, makes your breath hitch. 

“Listen to that,” he says, voice thick, and it takes you a second to realize he means the wet sound loud in the little kitchen as his fingers work in and out of you. “You hear yourself takin’ me in? That’s you wantin’ it.”

It’s filthy and true and you can’t deny it. 

There's a coil tightening low in your belly, every nerve in your body funneling to where his hand is. Your grip on the table edge goes slippery with sweat.

“Remmick,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re asking for, only that you’re strung too tight.

“There you go,” he groans, fingers driving a little deeper, curling just right.

It hits without much warning. One second you’re climbing, the next you’re over the edge, everything snapping. 

Your body seizes around his fingers, clenching so hard it almost hurts, that coil unspooling in a rush of pleasure so intense it blanks your mind.

A breathless moan tears up your throat. Your thighs shake, knees nearly buckling, if it weren’t for his hand on your back and the table under your palms you’d be on the floor.

“That’s it,” he groans, riding you through it, fingers still working, still moving until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, twitching with each little aftershock. 

You sag against the table when it finally lets you go, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your neck. He eases his fingers out of you slow, gentle for the first time since you walked in, his hand sliding up to rest on your hip. You can feel his other hand at your back again, rubbing small circles, keeping you grounded.

“First one’s always a little wild,” he says, sounding almost fond. “You doin’ all right?”

You nod, or try to. Your head feels full of cotton, floaty and heavy all at once. “I—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re more than fine,” he says, and there’s a smile in it. “You’re perfect.” He shifts behind you, and that’s when you feel it, really feel it—his cock pressed up against the back of your thigh through the fabric of his trousers. 

He’s been hard this whole time, you realize dimly, all that while he was working you open. The blunt head drags over your skin when he adjusts, the thickness of him obvious even through cloth.

Your stomach flips, fear and anticipation knotting together. “You’re really—”

“Oh, I’m really.” He sounds almost amused. “You wanted me to take you on this table, remember?” 

His hand leaves your back and you hear the soft, familiar sound of a belt coming loose, a buckle clinking, the rasp of leather through belt loops. Then buttons, quick and practiced, fabric shifting.

You suck in a breath, every sense straining.

A moment later, something hot and slick—not his fingers this time—nudges against your entrance. He slides the head of his cock through your slick folds slowly, up and down, coating himself in you, bumping your clit on the downstroke, making you twitch.

“Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You feel that? How you’re grabbin’ at me already and I ain’t even in?”

You do feel it, and it’s terrifying. Your body recognizes him as something it’s meant to hold, meant to take, even as your mind stumbles over the size of him, over what this means.

“I—wait,” you say, panic flaring for a second, the reality of it looming. “Remmick, I’m—”

“I know,” he says, and for once there’s no teasing in it. “You listen to me. It’s gonna burn at first, then it’s gonna feel like you never should’ve gone without it this long. You trust me?”

You hesitate. He feels it in the way your muscles tense around the head of him. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat from behind, thumb tipping your chin just a little. The touch sends a different kind of shiver through you, sharp and grounding.

“I ain’t gonna break you,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “I want you comin’ back to this just as bad as I want you right now.” His hips roll just enough that the blunt tip presses hard against your opening. 

The hand at your throat, the tone in his voice, the memory of his fingers and the way your body just came apart on them thirty seconds ago—they all crash together, and you find yourself nodding before you know you’re doing it.

“Go,” you whisper, the word trembling, but there.

He makes a sound then that’s half-growl, half-groan, all man. His grip on your throat tightens just a hair, his other hand clamping down on your hip.

“That’s my girl,” he says again, rough with need. “Hold on.”

The head of him breaches you with more resistance than his fingers ever met. 

Your body tries to clamp down, to keep him out, muscles fighting the stretch. He doesn’t slam in, but he doesn’t baby you either. He works himself in slow, steady pressure, teeth gritted, hips driving forward inch by thick inch.

The burn is real. It’s sharp, like you’re being split open from the inside. You gasp, nails scraping at the wood, whole body bowing. For a second it’s too much.

“Breathe,” he grunts through his own strain, hand at your throat sliding up to your jaw, thumb pressing at your cheek. “Breathe through it. You’re takin’ me. Look at you. You’re takin’ me.”

He isn’t wrong. Beneath the pain, there’s this breathless awe—at the size of him, at the way your own body yields, at the feel of being filled in a way you never have before. 

You force yourself to inhale, exhale, again, again. Your muscles flutter around him, protesting, then slowly easing.

When the broadest part of his head passes the tight ring of your entrance, the rest slides in easier, still stretching, still burning, but less violently. 

He sinks deeper, stopping only when his hips are flush with your ass, his pelvis pressed to your backside, balls snugged up against your cunt. You can feel him everywhere, heavy and solid in your core, pulsing faintly.

“Christ,” he rasps, the words hot against your neck. “I can barely think straight. Sweet girl, you just swallowed every inch of me.”

You exhale shakily, overwhelmed. Full doesn’t begin to cover it. You feel stuffed, stretched to the point of coming apart, and yet under the ache, something else is already starting—a low, thick pleasure that moves like honey, spreading outward from where you’re joined.

He holds still for a long moment, breathing hard into your hair, chest rising and falling against your back. His hand at your hip rubs little circles, the one at your jaw softening its grip.

“You tell me when it stops hurtin’ so sharp,” he says. “I ain’t in no rush, even if my cock’s yellin’ otherwise.”

You try to focus. The worst of the burn ebbs, leaving a throbbing soreness, but the sense of him—deep, impossible, yours—is starting to bloom into something almost good.

“Move,” you whisper, surprising yourself. “Just a little.”

He laughs, breath short. “Greedy already,” he says. “Alright.”

He pulls back, just an inch, maybe two, dragging that thick length along your walls. The friction is intense, raw and tender and electric all at once. Then he pushes in again, slower, watching for any flinch. 

Your fingers dig into the table, but you don’t cry out, don’t tell him to stop. Your body clutches at him on the way out, sucks at him on the way back in.

He does it again. And again. Each shallow thrust smooths the hurt a little more, replaces it with deeper sensation. The initial sting fades into a deep, stretching fullness that makes your knees weak, that makes heat lick up your spine in waves.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand sliding from your jaw back down to your throat, wrapping around it more firmly this time, not cutting your air, just pinning you, reminding you where you are and who’s holding you. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

He lengthens his strokes, pulling back farther, pushing in harder. The wet slap of his hips meeting your ass starts up, quiet at first, then louder, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the still night. 

Every push drives him deeper, nudging at something inside you that makes your breath jump, that sends little shocks through your belly, like he’s bumping the edge of something tender and secret and his.

Your body has learned the shape of him, stretching you from the inside. 

You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way the fat head spears through the tight clutch of you and then disappears into that deep, hot place that was empty your whole life and now is nothing but him.

His hand at your throat tightens, just a little. Not enough to cut your air, but enough to make each breath a thing you have to pull for, chest heaving against the table edge. His palm is broad and warm, thumb resting under your jaw, fingers curved along the side of your neck. 

Every time his hips snap forward, that grip reminds you he’s there; it pins you in your own skin so you can’t float away from what’s happening, can’t pretend it’s anything but what it is: you getting fucked open on a man’s cock in his kitchen like you were meant for it.

Then his hand drops. It slides down the column of your throat, over the dip of your collarbone, fingers spreading wide as they drag lower, rough palm grazing the top swell of your breast through the thin cotton. 

He cups you from behind, big hand wrapping around the weight of it, lifting, squeezing. The nightgown bunches under his fingers as he kneads, thumb rolling over your nipple until it stiffens hard, the fabric rasping just enough to make you whine.

“There,” he mutters, voice gone thick, like he has to taste every part of you. “Knew these’d feel good in my hand.”

He squeezes once more, harder, the pressure sending a sharp line of sensation straight down to where he’s buried in you, your nipple trapped between his thumb and the heat of his palm. 

Your back arches, pushing more of your tit into his grip even as his cock grinds deeper. 

For a second you’re caught between the drag inside and the rough, greedy hold on your breast, pleasure ricocheting between the two.

Then his hand is moving again, leaving your aching nipple peaked under the cotton, skimming back up over your breastbone, returning to your throat like it owns the place. His fingers curl back into their collar around your neck, thumb settling under your jaw, holding you where he wants you while his hips keep driving.

“Listen to you,” he groans, and you realize he doesn’t just mean your voice—wrecked and breaking on every inhale—but the wet, filthy noise your body’s making, the slick drag of his cock pulling out of you, the obscene squelch when he pushes back in, the slap of his balls hitting the curve of your cunt. “You hear that? That’s this pussy lovin’ every inch I’m givin’ her.”

The word makes your stomach flutter and your cunt clench down around him so tight he curses, hips stuttering. 

There’s no room for modesty now; everything between your legs is wide awake and telling on you. 

Every time he pulls back, your inner muscles chase after him, hugging, clinging, like you’re frightened of losing that fullness, like your body’s praying he’ll push right back in—and he does, like he’s answering a call.

He adjusts his stance, feet shifting on the rough floor, and angle changes. The next thrust lands different, deeper, the thick head of him driving up and forward to grind against a spot inside you that makes your vision white out around the edges for a beat. 

You jolt, a strangled noise ripping out of you, fingers scraping along the tabletop as your whole body goes tense.

“There it is,” he pants, catching that reaction, chasing it. 

He does it again on purpose, hips rolling instead of just snapping, driving that same path, making sure he hits that spot with the crown every time. 

“You feel that? Right there? That’s what you been needin’, girl. That ache way up high you ain’t never had a name for.”

He's right on it now, relentless. 

Each stroke is a steady assault, steady enough your body starts to learn the pattern, tension building with every collision. The soreness from taking him the first time smooths into a deep, hot throb that wraps around the pleasure, one feeding the other. 

Your toes curl, your thighs tremble, your stomach ripples around the intrusion like you’re trying to swallow him even deeper.

He slides the hand from your hip back around your front, into the slick heat between your thighs, and finds your clit like he’s been doing it all his life. 

His fingers are slick with your own mess, rough pads moving in tight, ruthless circles over that swollen bud. It sends lightning directly up your spine, straight to the base of your skull. 

You choke on a sound that isn’t quite a word and jerk against his hand; his arm around your throat holds you in place.

“Goddamn, you’re twitchy,” he groans, grinding his hips down so the bone of him presses your ass, so his cock bruises into that soft spot inside while his fingers roll your clit. “You gonna fall apart on me again? You gonna let me feel you squeeze all over my cock proper this time?”

Your answer is a breathless, broken, “Please,” your voice ragged, half sob, half prayer. 

The table shudders under the force of his thrusts now, the legs complaining in small creaks that match the rhythm of his hips. The lamp flame jumps in its glass, throwing wild shadows against the wall—a tangle of your bent body and his frame hunched over you, shoulders rolling as he works inside you like he’s plowing up hard ground.

Spit slicks your lips; you realize at some point your mouth fell open and just forgot how to close, breath dragging in ragged, wet pulls. 

You couldn’t be bothered to care if you tried; everything is narrowed to the hot place his cock is sawing through and the bright, brutal pulses from his fingers on your clit.

He can feel you climbing, feel your body drawing in tight around him, feel your channel starting to flutter. He growls, low and guttural, the sound pressed against the back of your neck. “That’s it. That’s it, squeeze me.”

His hand at your throat tightens a hair more, narrowing the world to his breathing and yours, the rush of blood in your ears, the drag of wood under your palms. 

The smallest bit of pressure makes every sensation hit harder; your body goes light and heavy at the same time, limbs tingling, cock-deep pull inside you the only thing that feels solid.

He pistons into you now with a steadier, punishing rhythm, cock dragging from the fat base at your entrance all the way to that deep end that makes your belly flip, then back again. 

Your ass jiggles from each impact, flesh rippling under his grip. His fingers at your clit don’t falter.

You can hear yourself now, high and ruined, begging without even knowing what for. “Don’t stop—don’t—Remmick, don’t—oh—oh God—”

“Mhm, use my name,” he hisses, hips crashing into yours, the wet slap echoing off the close walls. “You say it when you can’t hold yourself together no more.”

He leans forward, the sweat on his skin slick against the thin cotton of your nightgown bunched at your waist. 

His mouth finds the side of your neck, teeth scraping over the delicate skin there, then biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. He sucks, draws blood closer to the surface in a hot sting that only makes your cunt flutter harder around him.

Between the choke of his hand, the sharp pinch of his teeth, the relentless grind of his cock, and the ruthless attention on your clit, you don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm slams into you hard enough your knees buckle, your body trying to curl in on itself while he holds you stretched over the table. 

Everything constricts at once—your throat around his hand, your belly around the deep ache, your cunt around his cock. You clamp down on him with startling force, walls seizing, milking, clutching like you’re trying to suck him straight out of his skin.

You cry out. There’s no pretty word for it. Sound rips out of you high and raw, your voice cracking on his name. 

Your vision goes fuzzy with white at the edges, the kitchen shrinking to the rough wood under your hands and the thick, unyielding length splitting you and the brutal roll of pleasure ripping through you in waves.

“Fuck—fuck,” he grunts at your ear, the feeling of you spasming around him cutting through every ounce of control he has left. “That’s it, that’s it, girl, grip me—Jesus—”

He doesn’t stop moving, not really; he grinds through it, forcing his cock to keep sliding, short, deep thrusts, using the vice of your orgasm to wring everything he can from you. 

You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling so hard your feet skid a little on the floor, toes digging uselessly for purchase. 

Another rush of slick gushes around him, soaking his cock, dripping down over his balls, sliding warm along the inside of your thighs.

Your body keeps clenching in pulses, the pleasure cresting and breaking over and over until it tips toward something sharp, too much. You whimper, the sound small and shredded. His hand leaves your clit finally, stroking shaking skin instead, but his hips don’t stop.

The rhythm goes ragged, less measured, more frantic. His thrusts turn into short, hard ruts, like his body’s the one begging now. His fingers flex around your throat, then loosen just a little, thumb stroking your jaw instead as his breathing unravels.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, voice pitched low and rough. “You want that? You want me shootin’ deep in you, huh? Want to feel me leakin’ out you all the way back up to that house?”

The words, filthy as they are, punch right through your oversensitivity and light up something molten in your gut. 

Your sore, flooded cunt tightens around him involuntarily at the thought of carrying him inside you, his spend rolling down your thighs later when you climb into your own bed. 

You can’t shape the answer into full words; what comes out is some strangled mess that sounds like y-yes and a choke.

“Yeah, you do,” he snarls like he heard it. “You greedy little thing, comin’ down here pretendin’ you just wanna talk when your cunt’s hungry as hell.”

He drives in hard, once, twice, three more times, each thrust bottoming him out, pelvis grinding against the round of your ass. 

The slap of his hips is loud now, sloppy, wetter, your combined mess making the impact slick.

Then his whole body locks.

His stomach clenches tight against your back, jaw clamped against the side of your neck. A sound tears out of him, not quite human, something between a growl and a groan. His cock jerks inside you, swelling even thicker for a heart-stopping second, and then you feel it—hot, heavy spurts of him spilling deep, pounding against your cervix, flooding that space that’s been empty your entire life with a hot, liquid fullness.

He curses low and hoarse on each pulse, hips rocking in tiny, helpless movements as he empties himself, his own climax dragged out by the way your slick, oversensitive walls keep squeezing and fluttering around him. Every time your cunt milks him, another rope of cum kicks out of him, painting you inside.

“God—damn—” he grits, shuddering, one hand sliding from your throat to slap down next to your own on the table, fingers splayed wide, knuckles white on the wood. “You feel that? Feel me givin’ it to you?”

You do. You feel all of it. Every pulse, every twitch, every deep throb of him lodged inside, filling you, staking a claim. Your whole body feels stuffed, weighty, like he’s poured something molten into your bones.

The shakes take him then. You feel them where his chest is plastered to your back, quivers running through him in waves as his orgasm tapers off. 

His cock softens a little inside you but doesn’t slip free; your swollen entrance and the spent thickness of him keep you plugged together. Each small movement sends a slow, slick ache radiating outward.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

He slumps more of his weight onto you without meaning to, and you sag under it, cheek pressed to the tabletop, breaths coming in harsh, uneven pulls. 

Sweat has glued your nightgown to your ribs where it’s still covering your upper body; where it’s bunched around your waist, the fabric clings damp to your skin with a mixture of your own wetness and his.

Eventually, he finds his voice, though it’s wrecked, scraped raw at the edges. “Jesus,” he mutters, words ghosting hot over the shell of your ear. 

For the first time since he pushed into you, he eases his hips back.

You gasp, a little shocked moan slipping out as his softening cock drags along your raw walls. 

When his head slips past your entrance, your muscles clench on instinct, reluctant to let him go, but gravity wins. He slides free, leaving you empty in a way that feels sharp, unfinished, even with his cum already starting to seep down, warm, from inside you.

Something thick and wet trickles out immediately, a slow, viscous roll that slides over your swollen folds and down the curve of your inner thigh. You feel it clearly, a hot trail in the cooler air of the kitchen. The knowledge of what it is, whose it is, makes your face burn and your belly tighten all over again.

He sees it too.

“Look at that,” he says softly, voice full of rough, satisfied awe. 

His hand leaves yours and slides down, palm cupping the underside of your ass, thumb catching one of those white streaks, spreading it lazily over your sensitive skin. You flinch, a little gasp escaping before you can stop it.

“Too much?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, breath still stuttering. 

He makes a pleased sound at that, thumb dragging one last lazy stripe through the mess before he rubs his hand off on his own thigh. 

He straightens slowly, the absence of his weight making you sway for a second. His hands, empty now, come to your waist, smoothing down the bunched nightgown. He tugs it back into place over your hips, hiding what he’s done as best cloth can hide it.

Then he crouches a little, fingers catching the waistband of your drawers. They’re still tangled around your knees, sticky with your slick. 

He coaxes them up, guiding the cotton over your tender flesh, covering your cunt, trapping his spend where it is. 

The pull of the fabric against your oversensitive skin makes you hiss and bite your lip, but it also feels lewd and intimate in a different way—his cum pressed up against you, soaked into the cloth that sits right over your entrance.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, sealing you up like that. It shows in the way his thumb lingers a second too long at the gusset, pressing lightly, as if to make sure the material is snug, as if to feel one more time that he’s right there even with clothes between you.

“Gonna be walkin’ home with your panties stickin’ to you and a piece of me tryin’ to leak right back out,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr. “You’ll be thinkin’ of me every step.”

You make a weak noise, somewhere between a protest and something softer. Your legs feel unsteady when he finally helps you pull them fully into place, when he urges you upright with hands at your waist. 

When you stand, it’s like your bones have gone wrong—heavy at the hips, light at the knees, a deep, interior throb that makes you aware of your own body in a way you’ve never been.

He turns you gently, so your hip leans back into the edge of the table instead of your chest, so you’re facing him. His hair is damp and rumpled, a curl fallen low over his forehead, chest and stomach slick with sweat. 

His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the mussed nightgown, the bite marks blossoming at your throat and shoulder where his teeth worried your skin, the slackness of your mouth, the glassy shine to your eyes. 

Confidence sits easy on him; he looks like a man who’s put in a long night’s work and is proud of the job he’s done.

“You’re gonna cuss me tomorrow,” he says, voice low and a little smug. “When you sit down. When you walk. But you ain’t gonna regret it.”

You swallow, throat thick, his words settling warm and heavy between your ribs.

“No,” you admit, even quieter than before, and there’s no sense lying now. “I don’t… regret it.”

His mouth curves. “Good.”

You look away, suddenly aware of the time, of the silence of the big house up the hill, of how your mama and daddy are sleeping through something that’s gone and rearranged their daughter from the inside out.

“I need to go,” you say, voice small but steadying. “Before my father wakes up for water, or Mama starts callin’ and finds my bed empty.”

His hands fall from your waist, though not without one last, slow sweep along the curve of you, like he’s committing it to memory. 

“Go on,” he says. “Before I talk you into layin’ down on that bed in there and not leavin’ till the rooster screams.”

Your body responds to the image with an exhausted throb, a clench around nothing. 

You push off the table and take a careful step. Your thighs rub, slick, the damp cotton of your drawers pulling against you; you feel a fresh little leak of him inside you, a warm ooze that soaks into the fabric and clings. It makes you stutter a little, the soreness set deep in your core.

Remmick watches the way you move, jaw flexing, something like pride and hunger both tightening his face. 

He reaches for his trousers, tucking himself away, but he doesn’t bother with a shirt yet, doesn’t bother pretending he’s anything but what he is: the man who just fucked you on his kitchen table and filled you til you’re walking crooked.

You make it to the door on legs that still shake. Your fingers land on the frame as you pull it open, the cool breath of the night spilling in. 

Before you step out, you glance back. His eyes are on you, unreadable now, dark and steady in the lamplight.

“You come down here again,” he says, voice quiet, sure, “don’t pretend you’re just here for salve or scoldin’. You knock on my door after dark, I know what you’re askin’ for.”

You hold his gaze, the soreness between your thighs, the fullness inside you, the ache in your muscles all speaking louder than any denial you could muster. 

His eyes follow you out into the dark, low and pleased, and as you cross the yard barefoot, nightgown brushing your knees, his cum warm and sticky between your legs, you know he’s standing there in that doorway shirtless, watching you go with no shame at all, already planning just how he’ll take you the next time you come scratching at his door.

“What's so funny?” 

“Nothing.” He joins you, wraps his arms around your waist and tucks his head against your neck. When he speaks, his voice hums through your body. “I’m just looking at you and thinking...What if we don't go out tonight?” 

You scoff. “You're funny.”

“I know, I know but–” He interrupts himself to trail gentle kisses across your shoulder, suckling at the base of your neck, nestling his face into the heady sweetness of your perfume. “I don't think I can stand anyone else seeing you right now.”

“What happened to ‘we don't get out enough’?”

Dennis hums and wraps his arms tighter. 

You pout at your reflection, running your hands over his, dragging the tip of your nail lightly over his forearm so that he inhales sharply. “In fact, you don't get out at all.”

“That's not true.” Dennis’ voice is muffled against your skin. “I’m always out.”

“At the ER? Now I know you're being funny.” You turn your head and Dennis looks up, your noses brushing as you fix him with a stern look. “How long do we have?”

He kisses you, then lifts his wrist to check an imaginary watch. “‘Bout an hour. Don't worry, hint taken.” 

He pecks your cheek, takes the towel from around his neck and ruffles his hair with it. When he steps away, he must be headed back to the bathroom. You don't let him get that far. 

“Woah there,” he chuckles as you push him back towards the bed, his hands held up in surrender. When the back of his knees hit the bed, he stumbles into sitting and looks up at you, smile incredulous. “You don’t want me to get ready?”

“Oh, you will.” You sink to your knees, toying with him over his towel. “I’m just gonna give you a little…incentive, first.”

Dennis leans back on his hands and looks down at you through heavy-lidded eyes. His breathing stutters as your hands creep under the towel but the smile tugging at his lips never falters. “You know I would go anywhere with you, right?” 

“Anywhere except a fancy restaurant for date night?” 

“Anywhere.” He leans forward to grab your wrists through the towel, smile replaced by ardent earnesty. “You don’t have to–” 

Your hands wrap around him and he cuts himself off with a quiet gasp, his own hands tightening around your wrists. His body is still wet from the shower and the fresh layer of fragrant body oil on you makes your fingers glide along him easily. It only takes a few long, slow strokes for him to get hard, bucking into your hands at a languid pace. A deep, satisfied moan falls past his lips and he throws his head back. 

“Baby,” he whispers. 

“Feels that good, huh?” 

“Mhm,” he whines, one hand still gripping your wrist so he can fuck your hands mindlessly. His towel falls away, plush cotton unwinding from his hips and slipping to the ground in a heap. The sight makes you giggle, his desperation so sudden and so easily won. 

“You really wanna get off like this?” 

“God, baby.” He moans again. “It’s just–It’s you. However you want me, I just–Fuck–I just need you.” 

You let him get a little more worked up, then squeeze your grip to get his attention. He lets out a strangled groan, but he does manage eye contact. “What do you think of my lipstick?” 

Deep, dark berry. Opaque, almost matte but still silky on your lips. Miles away, Dennis shakes his head at the question. “It’s gorgeous. Why?” 

“You want some?” 

He lets out a broken, keening moan and nods.

“Then sit still.” 

God love him, he tries. But even when he manages to let go of your wrist and lean back on his hands, his hips keep rolling forwards. 

“Dennis,” you taunt. Running a finger up and down his shaft, you lean forward. As close as you can get without your lips touching him, you say his name again.

“I’m sorry.” Dennis inhales deeply, voice shaky. “Please, honey.” 

Fingers still teasing, you press a single, chaste kiss to the base of his dick. “Please what?” 

“God.” He huffs out a breathless, desperate laugh and thrusts against the empty air. “You’re mean.” 

“And you–” Another kiss. “Are bad at following instructions.” 

“Please. I’ll be good.” He stills. “See? Come on baby, please.” 

Just to test him, he gets another few strokes. His chest heaves with the effort of staying still but when he succeeds, he gets another trail of kisses, all the way to his tip. It draws another whining moan from him.

“Thank you,” he pants. “More? Please.” 

You look up at him as your lips wrap around the tip, tongue lapping at him with slow, firm pressure. He has a white-knuckle grip on the sheets and he throws his head back again, swearing softly under his breath. As your head bobs up and down, the sounds he makes have you squeezing your thighs together. 

“Goddamn baby,” you say, pulling away while he looks down at you, distraught. “You’re acting like I’ve never done this before.” 

“Sorry.” He flushes. “It’s just been a while, right? And you look–Oh, wow, that feels good–You look so nice.” 

“Don’t apologise. It’s hot.” 

“Yeah?” 

“How’s this for an answer?” You swirl your tongue around the tip and then take him as deep as you can, feeling him twitch and pulse inside your mouth with a renewed urgency. He goes back to muttering compliments under his breath like prayers. You’re ‘beautiful’, it ‘feels so good’, ‘no one feels like you’, he ‘can’t get enough’. On his third synonym for perfect, he begs you to keep going as if he’s begging for his life. You take him out of your mouth and go back to kissing him, making a concerted effort to keep them chaste enough that intact kiss marks pepper his crotch. He wails your name and bucks his hips.

“Oh? I thought I told you to stay still.” 

“You did, you did. I’m sorry. I’m still, see? I’m sorry, baby, please keep going.” 

“No, that's okay.” You pat his thigh and look up at him, giggling. “God…Look at you.” 

Dennis’ ears, face and chest are flushed. His grip on the sheets is loosening, but his breath is still short and gasping. When he calms himself down, his eyes flutter shut. “I’ll stay still. Come on, just a little more.” 

“I’m sorry baby, I can’t.” His brow furrows and you pat his thigh. “Incentive.” 

“Oh come on.”

“We’re definitely going out now, huh?” 

He watches you walk back to the mirror with puppy-dog eyes and his mouth ajar. As you reapply layers of sultry berry to your lips, he snatches his towel from the ground. In your periphery, he moves to clean off the lipstick stains and you hold up a hand.

“Ah ah ah. You’re keeping those.” 

“But–” 

“And hurry up getting dressed, we only have what, half an hour now?” 

Dennis sulks back to the bathroom to do his hair, comes back to pull boxers over his aching boner and your dark kiss marks. “This was a terrible idea,” he mutters under his breath.

On your way out of the bedroom, you chuckle and pat his chest. “It was your idea.” 

Rifling through your clutch to do a ‘phone, wallet, keys check’, you miss Dennis’ sly smile as he slips on his shoes and rolls up his shirt sleeves. When you’re satisfied you aren't about to lock yourself out or be forced to dine ‘n’ dash, you look up to find him already staring. 

“Hey, hot stuff,” you say. He just keeps staring, with a bewildered smile and his eyes narrowed like you’re an especially sexy puzzle. You wrap your arms around him and speak low into his ear. “What’s my smokin’ hot hubby thinking about?”

The palm resting against the small of your back flinches and he groans. “Don’t call me that right now.”

He kisses along your jaw, hands caressing every inch of bare skin he can get ahold of. “I’m such a mess right now,” he mutters against your lips. 

“Good.” You pull back. “It’ll keep you well behaved.”

“It’s not just me though, right?” Hands resting on your hips, he pulls even further back, surveying you. “I mean, I know how much you like going down on me. I can’t be the only one ruining my underwear.” 

“Sure you can.” You shrug, unwinding your arms from him and heading for the door. As you do, you call over your shoulder. “You’re the only one wearing any.” 

Dennis’ face goes slack and you almost leave him standing in the hall. When he can move again, he does it muttering under his breath that surely it doesn’t make sense to give him a heart attack yet, when he hasn't made enough to have a sizable will and swearing up and down that, the second you get home, he’s never letting you leave the bedroom again.

Dennis Whitaker had only been at PTMC for a few hours before he saw you. In the staff lounge, you stood by the counter, brow furrowed, fingers tugging at a stubborn little packet of protein powder.

Dennis couldn’t explain it, not really. There was just something about you that made his chest tighten. He had seen plenty of people in his life, but none had made him feel like this—like he actually wanted to introduce himself, right now, without hesitation.

“Need a hand?” he blurted out before he could stop himself, stepping a little closer than necessary. His heart was pounding, and suddenly the packet in your hands seemed more like a reason to stay by your side than a snack.

You glanced up at him, startled, and for a second, Dennis thought he might have misjudged the situation—but then he saw the faintest flicker of a smile tug at your lips.

“Oh—uh, maybe,” you said, stepping back just slightly. “It’s being… stubborn.”

Dennis’ smile widened, more out of nervous excitement than skill. “I’ve got this. First day, but I’ve learned a thing or two about… opening things.” He leaned in, trying to look confident, like he wasn’t about to make an utter fool of himself. “Here, let me—”

The packet exploded in his hands. A cloud of white powder shot into the air, coating your hands, his scrubs, and half the counter. Dennis froze mid-apology, eyes wide, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Oh—oh no! I—I didn’t—sorry!” he stammered.

You blinked through the haze, a mix of shock and amusement on your face. “It’s… fine,” you managed, trying not to laugh. “First day, huh?”

Dennis swallowed hard, brushing powder off his hair and scrubs. “Yeah… first day. And apparently, I’m making a memorable first impression,” he said, sheepishly, though a grin was tugging at his lips. “I’m.. uh.. Dennis Whitaker…”

You shook your head, laughing despite the mess. “Well… you’re definitely memorable. Messy, but memorable.”

Dennis’ eyes lit up, and he straightened. “I can make it up to you. I—uh, I’ll get a towel, or—maybe help clean up?” He gestured vaguely at the powder-covered counter, a little too quickly, and in the process knocked over a cup of pens, sending them clattering across the floor.

You winced and bent down to pick them up. “Whitaker, it’s okay. Really.”

“No, no! I can fix this, I promise!” He scrambled to grab a paper towel, only to knock the packet of protein powder itself over, sending another small cloud puffing into the air. His face fell as he froze, completely mortified.

You sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Whitaker… stop. I really do need to get back to my patients.” You gave him a small, forgiving smile before slipping out of the lounge, leaving him standing there, a little hunched, dusted in white powder, and utterly dejected.

A couple of hours later, you were sitting at one of the computers, reviewing patient charts beside Dana. You were focused, tapping through files, when a shadow fell over the keyboard.

“Hey… um, excuse me,” came a hesitant voice. 

You looked up to see Dennis standing there, holding up a finger that was smeared with blood. His expression was a mix of sheepishness and worry, and he kept glancing at you like he wasn’t sure he had permission to stay.

“Oh!” Dana gave a small laugh. “Looks like someone got into trouble.”

Dennis flushed and stepped closer. “I—uh, yeah. I just… a gurney got dropped on my finger. It’s not bad, but… Doctor Robby told me to come see you?” His words tumbled out fast, too many at once, like he was worried he’d overstay his welcome.

You blinked at him for a moment, then nodded, reaching for a bandage from the small first aid kit nearby. “Sure. Let me see.”

Dennis held out his hand like it was fragile glass. You carefully cleaned the cut and wrapped it, trying to suppress a smile at the way he was watching every movement with wide, anxious eyes.

“Sorry…” he started again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know I’m probably wasting your time, and I—uh, I really didn’t mean to bother you after the whole… powder incident…” His voice trailed off, but his fidgeting hands and nervous glance at Dana made it clear he was genuinely uncomfortable.

You shook your head gently. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind helping.”

He exhaled, a little relief softening his tense shoulders, but he couldn’t help letting another nervous string of words tumble out. “I just… I don’t want to be that guy who keeps making a mess or… or bothering people. I—uh, I really appreciate you helping me.”

As your hands worked, his gaze wandered—first to the careful way you handled the dressing, then up to your face. He found himself utterly captivated by the curve of your smile, the focus in your eyes, the way your hair caught the light. His heart was hammering, and all of a sudden, the world shrank to just you.

“Okay… all done,” you said, snapping him back from his trance.

Dennis blinked, realising he had no idea what you’d just said. “Uh… yeah. Right. Done. Perfect… thanks…” His voice came out rushed, awkward, entirely betraying how utterly entranced he still was.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile. Dennis cleared his throat, still holding his bandaged finger, but now his eyes wouldn’t leave your face. 

He tried to sound casual, but it came out a little too breathless. “You know… you have, uh… really steady hands. Very… professional. Makes it kind of… impressive.”

You glanced at him briefly, smirking just a little. “Thanks. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Dennis leaned in slightly, a little too eagerly. “Not just practice… it’s kind of… mesmerising. How you, uh… focus like that.” He ran a nervous hand through his hair, clearly aware he was rambling, but unable to stop. “I mean, wow… you’re, uh—really something.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Whitaker, it’s just a finger.”

His smile faltered just a touch, the flush creeping higher up his neck. “Oh… right. Of course. Yeah… totally.” He tried to push a casual grin, but it came out more like a pout. “Well… I just thought maybe… uh, never mind.”

You gave him a polite, kind smile, returning your attention to the computer screen. “Don’t worry about it. Just… focus on not cutting yourself again.”

Dennis huffed softly, a little put out but trying to hide it. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly disappointed that his flustered, awkward charm hadn’t really landed. “Yeah… okay. Got it,” he muttered, looking down at his bandaged finger, then sneaking a quick glance at you before stepping back.

—

It has been a couple of weeks since you first met Dennis and it was pretty safe to say that, since then, he has made it his mission to be around you as much as he can. Your locker groaned open the way it always did—a long, metallic complaint that echoed faintly off the tiled walls. The hinge caught halfway before giving in with a reluctant clunk, like it needed convincing every single shift.

Inside was the usual controlled mess. A half-crushed granola bar wedged in the corner, a pen you could’ve sworn vanished three weeks ago, and your emergency chocolate stash. Your shoes carried you on autopilot toward the heart of the department—the nurses’ station, command central, the brain of the chaos. You could already see the giant patient board glowing from halfway down the hall, rows of names shifting in real time like a living thing.

You adjusted your stethoscope as you approached, your pace slowing to a stop at the desk. Dana stood planted at her usual post behind the desk, tablet balanced in one hand, reading glasses perched low on her nose. A paper cup of coffee sat dangerously close to the edge of the counter, one accidental elbow away from disaster.

You stepped beside her, resting a hand lightly on the desk as you tipped your chin up toward the board. Your eyes tracked automatically—room numbers, sats, colour-coded priority flags.

“Morning,” Dana said without looking up.

“Morning,” you murmured, already scanning.

“Mr Tom Allen in room five has been waiting for a check up,” Dana said, tapping her screen. “He’s all yours.”

“Perfect, thank you,” you nodded, pushing yourself off the desk.

You turned, and walked straight into someone solid. 

“Oh—apologies,” you said quickly, steadying yourself as your hand landed gently on Dennis Whitaker’s arm.

“It’s okay,” he said with a sheepish smile that didn’t quite know where to land. 

Up close, he stood a little too straight. A little too close. Shoulders locked like he was bracing for impact that had already happened. He cleared his throat awkwardly and gestured downwards with a jerky nod of his head. You followed the motion and glanced down at what he was holding. 

A muffin. Carefully wrapped in a napkin. Chocolate chip, if the faint sweet smell was anything to go by.

“Oh! Thank you, Whitaker,” you smiled, gently taking the muffin from him.

“Dennis,” he mumbled, gaze dropping instantly to the floor.

Across the nurses’ station, Santos didn’t even pretend not to watch.

“Hey, where’s my muffin, Huckleberry?” she called out.

Dennis straightened. “In the staff lounge,” he said quickly, shooting her a stern look that carried absolutely no threat.

Her grin widened and she pushed off the desk with a quiet laugh, walking past him and shaking her head. Just before turning the corner, she mouthed dramatically: pathetic.

You broke the muffin in half, a few crumbs dusting your fingers as you popped a piece into your mouth, humming under your breath at the sweetness.

“Okay, wow,” you said around the bite. “That’s really good.”

You swallowed, offering the other half to Dennis. He blinked, looking at the muffin, then at you, and back to the muffin. He accepted it carefully, both hands for a second before remembering that was weird and quickly switching to one.

Smiling, you brushed your hands together, a few crumbs sprinkling onto the floor before you grabbed one of the tablets and turned on your heel, heading down the corridor toward room five. 

Dennis watched you go with a small, helpless sigh. His shoulders slumped and his gaze drifted down to the muffin in his hand. Dana didn’t even try to hide her smirk as she leaned her elbow on the desk. 

“You gonna frame it or eat it?” she asked, one brow arching.

He opened his mouth to protest when from the hallway, you called, “Whitaker? You coming?”

Panic surged through his body. He shoved the muffin into his mouth in one deeply unwise decision. He was filled with immediate regret as he tried to chew. His eyes went wide, cheeks puffed as he attempted to swallow. 

Dennis thumped his fist lightly against his chest, attempting dignity while very clearly losing a battle against baked goods. He gave you a frantic thumbs-up that absolutely did not reassure anyone.

“Yeah!” he tried to say but it came out as, “Mmff—yeah!”

He stumbled into motion, nearly tripping over his own feet before catching himself on the edge of the desk. As carefully as he could, Dennis hurried down the corridor after you, still chewing the muffin.

You glanced back at the sound of hurried footsteps. “You good?” 

Dennis nodded vigorously, still working through the mouthful, one hand raised in a strained all good gesture. A heroic swallow. A tiny cough. A recovering breath.

“All good,” he croaked, falling into step beside you like nothing had happened.

He tried, and failed, to look casual. His hands shoved into his pockets. Then out again. Then one back in. He adjusted his badge. Smoothed his hair. Checked his reflection mid-walk.

You slowed as you reached room five and Dennis came to an abrupt halt beside you—nearly colliding with your shoulder. He straightened instantly, clasping his hands behind his back like he was reporting for inspection. 

“You’ve got crumbs,” you said casually, trying to bite back a smile.

“I do?” he asked, his voice already betraying him. 

You stepped closer without thinking twice about it, lifting your hand toward his chest. “Yeah—right there.”

Time slowed to a medically concerning degree. Your fingers brushed lightly over the front of his scrubs, sweeping away a scatter of crumbs clinging to the fabric. The contact was brief and innocent. 

But to Dennis, he stopped breathing. His brain short-circuited so violently it was almost audible. Your hand moved again, softer this time, brushing near his collar where one last stubborn crumb had lodged itself.

“There,” you said, satisfied. “All good.”

Dennis’s face had turned a shade of red that did not occur naturally in hospital settings. From his ears down to the collar of his scrubs—bright crimson. 

“You—uh—thank you,” he managed, voice half an octave higher than usual.

You gestured politely toward the door. “You can go in first.”

He stepped forward confidently and walked directly into the closed door. Thump. He froze with his forehead against the glass for half a second, soul briefly departing his body.

“Careful of the door,” you said gently. 

“Yep,” he replied, already recovering. “Saw that.”

He reached for the handle this time, opened it like a normal human being, and walked inside with forced composure that fooled absolutely no one. You followed a step behind, lips pressed together to hide a smile.

The end-of-shift chatter buzzed softly through the corridor as you and Dr McKay collected your things from your lockers. You were laughing about a minor mix-up with a patient’s chart, the two of you leaning casually against the cool metal doors.

Dennis came skidding around the corner a little too fast, eyes wide, and nearly ran straight into the lockers beside you. He grabbed the edge of the nearest door, doubling over and trying to catch his breath.

He straightened, brushing an invisible layer of dust off his scrubs, clearly flustered. “Oh—hey,” he said, still panting slightly. He glanced between you and McKay, looking a little uncertain. “So… uh… what were you two talking about?”

You exchanged a sly look with Cassie, who raised an eyebrow and grinned knowingly. “Oh, nothing much,” McKay said casually. “Just… plans for the weekend. You know how it is.”

Dennis tilted his head, suspicious. “Plans? The two of you? Uh… together?” His tone was incredulous, and his cheeks were beginning to tint pink.

You suppressed a giggle, leaning just a little closer to him. “Well… since we both have the weekend off, we were… talking about getting laid,” you said, letting the words linger in the air.

McKay snorted softly, playing along, nudging you with an exaggerated wink. “Yeah, it’s, uh… very top secret. Classified weekend operations.”

Dennis froze mid-step, eyes darting between the two of you. “Wait… wait, are you… a couple?” His voice wavered, equal parts scandalised and mortified.

You shrugged innocently, letting Cassie add a dramatic nod. “Could be,” McKay said, smirking. “Who’s asking?”

Dennis’ jaw dropped, and he instinctively straightened, trying to hide how flustered he was, but failing miserably. “Uh… I… no… I mean… what? I—uh… I just wondered…” He stumbled over his words, cheeks now a deep, unmistakable crimson.

You leaned against the locker again, grinning. “Relax, Whitaker. We’re just teasing you.

Dennis let out a defeated huff, running a hand through his hair and trying to regain some semblance of composure. He rocked back on his heels, clearly debating whether to retreat or attempt a recovery. Unfortunately for him, determination won.

“So,” he said, pointing awkwardly between the two of you, “these… classified operations—do they require, like, backup? Support staff? I’m very team-oriented.”

Cassie let out a short laugh. “Oh, he’s trying to enlist.”

You crossed your arms, pretending to assess him. “Hmm. Qualifications?”

Dennis straightened instantly. “Right. Yes. Qualifications. I’m… punctual. Mostly. I bring snacks. Morale’s important.” He gave a hopeful nod, then added, “I also make a mean bowl of pasta.”

“Tempting,” you said, tapping your chin thoughtfully.

“What… uh… what are you really doing this weekend?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, probably nothing,” you shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

Dennis hesitated, gathering every ounce of courage he had. “Would you like to come around mine?” he asked, hope written all over his face. “As a friend thing?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Do I have to do anything?”

“Nope,” Dennis said quickly, shaking his head a little too fast. “Just… enjoy it, I guess?”

“You guess?” you teased, smiling at the way he immediately tripped over his confidence. “You know what—okay. I’ll come.”

Dennis blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Yeah.” You held out your hand expectantly. “Phone.”

He stared at your palm for half a second before scrambling to fish his phone out of his pocket, nearly dropping it before catching it against his chest. “Right—yes—phone. Here.”

You took it gently from his hands, thumbs moving quickly across the screen. Dennis watched like the moment was happening in slow motion—the soft furrow of your brow as you concentrated, the faint glow of the screen lighting your face, the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“There,” you said, handing the phone back. “Now you’ve got my number.”

Dennis looked down at the screen like it was the most important thing he’d ever held. He had your number. He smiled to himself, soft and a little dazed, clutching his phone like it was something precious.

You laughed softly and started down the corridor with Cassie, calling back over your shoulder, “Text me, Whitaker.”

The day finally caught up with you sometime after ten. You stood in your bathroom, toothbrush in hand, staring vaguely at your reflection as mint foam gathered at the corner of your mouth. The quiet hum of the extractor fan filled the room—steady, peaceful, the first real silence you’d had all day.

Your phone buzzed on the counter and you glanced down. A small, automatic smile tugged at your lips as you nudged the screen awake with your knuckle. The message was sent by an unknown number but you knew who it was straight away.

[ Unknown Number ]

Hi. Hello… Sorry… I hope this isn’t too late. 

Another buzz.

[ Unknown Number ]

This is Dennis by the way… I was just wondering what time works best for you tomorrow? Morning? Afternoon? Evening? I’m flexible.

You snorted softly, toothbrush still in your mouth.

[ Unknown Number ]

Also… food. Important question. What food do you like? Any allergies? Favorite snacks? Sweet? Savory? Both?

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

[ Unknown Number ]

And movies! Do you like comedies? Action? Rom-coms? Documentaries? Is there a movie you’ve seen a million times and still love? Or one you refuse to watch ever again?

You quickly spat into the sink, laughing under your breath as another message appeared.

[ Unknown Number ]

Sorry that was a lot of questions. I just want it to be… nice.

You wiped your mouth and picked up the phone, quickly adding his number into your contacts.

[ You ]

You’re very enthusiastic for “just a friend thing,” Whitaker.

The typing bubble appeared instantly. Disappeared. Reappeared.

[ Whitaker ]

Professional enthusiasm. Clinically appropriate levels of planning.

You leaned back against the counter, smiling.

[ You ]

Afternoon works. No allergies. I’ll eat most things. Snacks = yes. Movies = surprise me.

[ Whitaker ]

Surprise you in a good way or a “we never speak again” way?

[ You ]

Dealer’s choice. I’m brave.

The typing bubble lingered longer this time.

[ Whitaker ]

Okay. Good. Great. Excellent. This is excellent.

You could practically hear his nervous energy through the screen.

[ Whitaker ]

I’ll text you the time tomorrow morning. And I’ll handle food. And movies. And snacks. And… logistics.

You shook your head fondly.

[ You ]

Relax. It’s just hanging out.

[ Whitaker ]

Right. Just hanging out.

A beat.

[ Whitaker ]

Looking forward to it though.

Your smile softened.

[ You ]

Me too. Night, Whitaker.

This time, the reply took a moment.

[ Whitaker ]

Good night :)

Dennis had been ready for twenty minutes. Not almost ready. Not finishing touches ready. Ready-ready. The apartment looked like a furniture showroom that had been warned about a surprise inspection. The cushions on the couch were plumped into perfect symmetry, their corners sharp and deliberate. 

The coffee table sat centered with mathematical precision over the rug’s pattern. A bowl of snacks rested in the middle like a museum exhibit—chips sorted by size, candy lined up in colour order, not a crumb in sight. 

It was suspicious. Unnaturally so. The kind of tidy that screamed someone is trying very hard. Dennis, meanwhile, was pacing a narrow track into the hardwood floor.

“Okay,” he muttered, dragging both hands down his face. “Normal greeting. Casual. Friendly. Like a person. Just… be a person.” He stopped and turned toward the TV screen, using his reflection like a rehearsal partner. A small wave. A tentative smile. “Hey. Hi. Come in.”

He grimaced instantly. “Too stiff. That sounded like I’m hosting a corporate meeting.” He shook out his arms like he could fling the awkwardness off his fingers. “Hey! You made it.” Finger guns. Dennis froze mid-pose, stared at himself, and slowly lowered his hands.

“Nope. Absolutely not.”

He exhaled hard through his nose and resumed pacing, heart already beating like he’d run a mile without moving an inch. A knock sounded at the door and Dennis froze. His heart launched into a full sprint as he rushed to open it. His sock slipped slightly on the floor and he windmilled an arm to recover, dignity barely intact. 

He yanked the door open and there you were. For a moment, he just stared. Brain completely blank. Every practiced line vanished.

“Hi,” you said, smiling softly.

Dennis opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again. “Hey—hello—hi. You’re—here. Which—good. That’s good.”

Brilliant. Incredible. A linguistic masterpiece. Dennis thought, mentally slapping his own forehead.

You laughed gently. “I’d hope so.”

The sound should’ve reassured him. Instead, it twisted into panic. Were you laughing politely? Was he already being a lot? He stepped aside too quickly, nearly bumping the doorframe.

“Yes. Come in. Please. Enter.” Dennis smiled, Enter? Who says enter?

You walked past him, amused, taking in the suspiciously tidy space. “Wow. You cleaned.”

“I always clean,” he said automatically. A beat. “I panic-cleaned.”

He shut the door and exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead against it for half a second and trying to reset his face into something that didn’t scream social catastrophe. You turned with a grin when a shrill beep cut through the silence.

Dennis’ eyes widened in horror. “The oven!” 

Of course. Of course he forgot. The one thing he’d timed perfectly. The one thing he’d practiced like choreography. Temperature, minutes, plating—planned down to the second. Yet, the moment you arrived, his brain had unplugged itself. He spun on his heel and bolted toward the kitchen. There was the clatter of a pan, a muffled yelp, and the frantic shuffle of oven mitts.

“I meant to not forget—this was planned—I swear!” he called out, voice tight with panic.

You followed at an unhurried pace, leaning against the kitchen doorway, one shoulder resting on the frame. You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. Dennis wrestled with oven mitts like they were sentient. Finally victorious, he opened the oven and carefully pulled out the tray with exaggerated caution, like he was defusing something explosive.

He stared at it for half a second, watching as a thin ribbon of smoke curled upward. That is not what food should look like.He straightened slowly, shoulders sinking as reality settled in. Turning toward you, face flushed pink, he held the tray out stiffly like evidence in a courtroom.

“Recovered,” he announced with a wince. “Mostly.” 

You leaned forward and glanced down at the tray. The contents were charcoal-black. Beyond saving. Possibly fossilised.

“Looks delicious,” you hummed, teasing warmth in your voice.

Dennis let out a small, defeated breath. “I’m sorry.”

And he didn’t just mean dinner. He meant the awkward greeting. The verbal nonsense. The spiraling panic. The way every moment he wanted to get right kept slipping sideways like a scene from a blooper reel. He’d wanted to seem put-together. Effortless. Someone easy to be around. Someone worth choosing to spend an evening with.

You stepped closer, your voice gentler now. “Perhaps we should order take-out?”

Dennis looked up, hopeful but sheepish. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, that… that sounds safer.”

He carefully set the ruined tray down with exaggerated care, the metal clinking softly against the counter. Dennis reached for the dish towel beside the sink. He wiped his hands once. Then again. Then folded the towel in half with precise edges and wiped them a third time, buying himself a few steadying seconds.

“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the living room like a host trying very hard to recover his dignity.

You followed him down the short hallway. The kitchen light faded behind you, replaced by a warmer glow. The lamps in the living room cast soft amber pools across the walls, turning the carefully controlled neatness into something gentler, almost cozy.

The couch sat centered like a stage set. A knitted blanket was folded over one arm with suspicious precision, its edges aligned so neatly it looked professionally styled. Decorative pillows rested in symmetrical formation, their seams facing inward like they’d been coached.

The coffee table was a study in preparation. Coasters spaced with geometric accuracy. Napkins stacked into a perfect square. Bowls of snacks arranged in tidy rows—salty, sweet, savory—like categories in a very anxious buffet. Dennis hovered near the arm of the couch, suddenly unsure where to put his hands.

“I didn’t, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Overdo it, did I?”

“It’s cute,” you said lightly, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug.

He blinked, caught off guard. “Cute?”

“Thoughtful,” you corrected with a small smile.

The word landed gently, and something in his expression loosened. Dennis pulled out his phone like he’d just remembered an important mission. “I’ll order. My treat.” He nodded once, decisive. “What are we thinking? Pizza? Thai? Something healthy so we can pretend we tried to be responsible adults?”

You laughed softly, the sound warm and easy. “Whatever you’d like.”

He nodded like you’d entrusted him with a state secret and sat down on the very edge of the couch cushion. Back straight. Knees together. Phone held with intense focus. You sat beside him, close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm. Dennis immediately went statue-still.

You tilted your head, amused. “Whitaker.”

“Mm?” His voice came out tighter than intended.

“You can relax,” you teased.

“I am relaxed,” he insisted, shoulders hovering somewhere near his ears.

You nudged his arm lightly. “I don’t bite.”

He paused, eyes wide, “I—right—no—I didn’t think you did—I mean not that it would be bad if you—I just—”

You laughed, and leaned back into the couch. “You’re safe. Promise.”

Dennis released a slow breath through his nose, like he’d been holding it since the front door opened. His shoulders lowered by a fraction. Small, but noticeable. Dennis cleared his throat softly and looked back down at his phone, grateful for something to focus on.

“Okay… food,” he murmured, scrolling with intense concentration. “Safe options. Crowd-pleasers. No culinary incidents.”

You watched the small crease form between his brows—the face he made when he was trying very hard to get something right.

“Ooh—this place is good,” he said, a little more confidently. “They do great noodles. And dumplings. And—oh—these crispy things I can’t pronounce but fully support.” He risked a quick glance at you. “Sound okay?”

“Perfect,” you nodded.

He tapped decisively, relief flickering across his face like he’d just passed an exam. “Done. It says… about twenty minutes.” He gave a small, satisfied nod. “See? Competent. Efficient. Minimal disaster.”

You laughed quietly. “Gold star.”

He set his phone down on the coffee table and rubbed his palms on his knees, nerves slowly bleeding off now that the big decisions were handled. 

“So,” he said, a little softer, “movie?”

Before hesitation could catch up, he reached for the remote and turned toward the TV. The screen flickered to life, washing the room in cool shifting light. The soft murmur of a streaming menu filled the space. Dennis leaned back—just slightly at first—testing it, then he sank a little deeper into the cushion. He scrolled through titles, posture loosening with each click. 

“Terrible action movie?” he offered. He tilted the remote toward you like a presenter revealing a prize. “Comfort rewatch? Something neither of us has seen so we can judge it together?”

You leaned closer to see the screen better, your shoulder brushing his. “Whatever floats your boat, Whitaker.”

“Oooh—” Dennis brightened. “Classic comfort.” 

On screen WALL·E popped up and he hit play before the universe could interfere. The opening scenes rolled, gentle and quiet, filling the apartment with soft mechanical whirs and sweeping music. 

Somewhere along the way, without either of you really noticing when it happened, the space between you quietly disappeared. Dennis only became aware of it when he felt the faintest shift of warmth at his side—light, steady, and unexpectedly comforting. Your thigh rested against his. Just there, close enough to be unmistakable, but gentle enough that it felt almost natural.

For a second, Dennis went perfectly still. His mind, of course, did not stay still with him. Was it accidental? Had you leaned over without thinking? Were you comfortable? Should he move away a little? Stay exactly where he was? Say something? Pretend not to notice? Disappear through the floorboards out of pure social panic?

He didn’t move at first, worried any reaction might make it awkward. His mind raced through possibilities. Was it accidental? Were you comfortable? Should he shift? Stay still? Evaporate?

He glanced sideways with painstaking care, trying to do it subtly enough that it wouldn’t look like he was checking. You seemed completely at ease. Your attention stayed on the screen, your posture loose and unguarded, one hand resting lazily near your lap. No sign that the contact meant anything except what it was.

The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees, and after a moment he allowed himself to settle back into the couch again. He stopped hovering at the edge of himself and let his leg rest naturally where it was. The contact stopped feeling like a question. 

Dennis finally stopped analysing every tiny movement long enough to just be there with you.

Then he swallowed, a thought forming slowly enough that it almost felt brave. He turned his head just a little, about to say something—anything—that might keep this calm, comfortable closeness going.

“Hey, I was just wondering—”

The door bell rang and the both of you jumped. Dennis blinked at the door like it had personally betrayed him. “Oh—food!”

He scrambled upright a little too fast, remote slipping from his hand onto the cushion. “I’ve got it!” he added quickly, already moving.

His sock caught the edge of the rug—the rug he had meticulously straightened earlier—and his foot snagged just enough to ruin his momentum. There was a graceless half-stumble, half-hop as his arms windmilled for balance.

“—whoa—!” He threw out a hand and caught himself against the wall just before he could fully crash into it, the impact making a dull thud against the plaster.

“I meant to do that,” he called back, voice tight with embarrassment as he pushed himself upright and tried to salvage what remained of his dignity. 

He ran a hand through his hair as he hurried the rest of the way to the door, this time moving with much more caution, as though the floor might try to betray him again. He took one deep breath before opening it, then pulled the door wide with what he hoped looked like calm, competent adulthood. The delivery driver stood there with the order in hand.

“Hi—yes—thank you,” he said, accepting the warm paper bags like they were precious cargo. The rich smell of take-out instantly filled the hallway.

He nodded at the delivery driver with an earnest little smile, reached for his wallet, and tipped him a little too generously in the process, as though that might somehow make up for everything else he had already fumbled tonight.

“Have a good night,” he called, shutting the door gently with his foot.

He lingered for half a second in the quiet hallway, the soft click of the door settling into silence behind him. Warm paper bags hung from his fingers, their folded tops rustling faintly as steam slipped out in gentle breaths. The heat seeped into his palms, grounding him, as he turned back toward the living room.

When he returned to the living room, you looked up as he approached. He crossed to the coffee table and knelt slightly to set everything down, moving with careful precision. Containers were placed one by one, aligned without him even realising he was doing it. Plastic lids popped softly as he opened them, releasing fresh waves of warmth and savory fragrance into the air.

“Here,” he said quietly, sliding one container toward you and offering a pair of chopsticks. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest second during the handoff—quick, accidental, but enough to make him acutely aware of everything again.

He took his own container and settled back beside you. This time, he didn’t perch on the edge like a guest afraid to wrinkle the furniture. He still carried a hint of nervous energy—a slight tightness in his movements, a carefulness in how he held himself—but the rigid formality from earlier had softened. He even managed a small, genuine smile as you both started eating, the movie playing quietly in the background while the room filled with the warm smell of food.

It felt natural. Comfortable. Dennis found himself relaxing again, shoulders loose, posture easy as he leaned back into the couch. Mid-bite, you said something he didn’t quite catch, and he glanced over, then paused. There, faint but unmistakable, was a small streak of sauce near the side of your mouth. 

“Uh—hey,” he said gently, tapping his own cheek in demonstration. “You’ve got a little…”

You paused, touching the side of your face. “Here?”

“No, a little—” He leaned in slightly, then stopped himself, suddenly aware of how close he was. “Sorry. I can—uh—”

His words tripped over themselves. Dennis hesitated only a moment longer before lifting his hand carefully. His thumb brushed gently against your cheek, the pad of it wiping away the sauce in one slow, careful motion. It was so light it barely felt like anything at all.

“There,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Then he pulled his hand back like he’d just realised what he’d done, blinking once and going just a little pink.

“All good,” he added quickly, voice softer now.

You looked at him, a small smile resting easily on your face. “Thanks.”

The movie’s quiet soundtrack filled the small silence that followed. And Dennis suddenly found it very hard to focus on anything except the warm, fluttery feeling in his chest. He tried to focus on his food again. 

He tried to act normal but only three seconds had passed before he cleared his throat and blurted, “Sorry.”

You glanced over. “For what?”

“That. The—face thing,” Dennis gestured vaguely toward his own cheek, then yours. “I should’ve asked first. I mean, I kind of did? But not officially. Not clearly. And I don’t want you to think I just—assumed—or invaded your space or—”

“That. The—face thing. I should’ve asked first. I mean, I kind of did, but not officially, and I don’t want you to think I just—assumed—or invaded your space or—” He stopped eating entirely now, words picking up speed. “I just don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. Or anyone. Especially you. And sometimes I misread situations and then I try to fix it and make it worse and—”

He stopped eating entirely. Chopsticks hovered midair before lowering slowly back into the container. His words, meanwhile, did the opposite — picking up speed, tripping over each other in their rush to get out.

“I just don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. Or anyone. Especially you. And sometimes I misread situations and then I try to fix it and somehow that makes it worse and then I overcorrect and that’s worse too and—”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, like he’d run out of runway. The container made a soft thk as he set it down on the coffee table with exaggerated care, aligning it with the edge like neatness could compensate for nerves.

“I overstepped, didn’t I?” He mumbled and before you could answer, he was already on his feet. “I overstepped.”

Dennis began pacing in front of the television, the movie’s soft glow washing over him in shifting light. His hand dragged back through his hair, leaving it slightly mussed.

“I knew it,” he muttered. “First the greeting, then the cooking, then the rug, and now this. There’s like a—” he gestured in a loose circular motion “—a pattern. A sequence of avoidable disasters.”

“I’m really sorry. I just—sometimes I try to be helpful or normal and it comes out…” He made a vague, helpless motion with both hands. “Too much. Too fast. Too… me.” His shoulders slumped slightly. “And you’re being so nice about everything, and I don’t want to make the night weird.” He gestured between you, like the space itself needed careful handling. “Or make you feel weird. Or pressured.”

He resumed pacing, but the distance shortened — smaller steps, tighter turns, restless energy with nowhere to go. His socks whispered softly against the floor with each pass.

“I can absolutely sit back down and create, like… a respectful buffer zone,” He nodded once, convincing himself.

He stopped mid-ramble, blinking like he’d just caught himself on a security camera of his own thoughts. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. 

“I just don’t want you to regret coming.” The words landed softly. He didn’t dress them up. Didn’t rush them. They just sat there, honest and unguarded.

Dennis stood there in the middle of the room, anxious and sincere and more open than he probably meant to be. Then he started pacing again.

“And it’s just—” He exhaled sharply, the breath shaky on the way out. “I really like you. Like… really like you.” His voice softened, vulnerability threading through it. “Which probably makes this worse, because now every tiny thing feels huge and I don’t know what the right move is supposed to be. There’s a script somewhere, I’m sure, and I did not get a copy.”

A soft, self-conscious laugh slipped out. “I don’t even know if I’ll ever have a real chance with you. I mean—look at me tonight.” He gestured helplessly at himself. “I’m basically a compilation reel of awkward decisions.”

“But I wanted this to be good. For you.” His eyes flicked up, steady despite the nerves. “Because you deserve good.”

Through all of it, you just watched him—quiet, warm, an unmistakable smile slowly growing as his nervous honesty spilled out in tangled threads. Dennis kept pacing for another moment, words still half-caught on the edge of another apology, another explanation, another attempt to make sense of everything he was feeling.

You stood, taking two calm steps forward. You reached for his wrist, and the restless motion of him came to a stop all at once. Dennis looked down at your hand, then slowly back up at you, as if the whole room had gone beautifully, impossibly quiet.

Your fingers stayed warm around his wrist, steady and grounding. Your thumb rested lightly over the quick beat of his pulse, fluttering beneath his skin with all the leftover nerves he hadn’t quite managed to hide. You took another step closer until there was almost no space left between you.

Up close, Dennis looked wonderfully undone—cheeks faintly pink, hair falling a little messily over his forehead from all the anxious hands that had run through it, eyes wide and bright with worry and hope. He seemed to forget, for a second, what he’d been about to say.

“Dennis,” you said softly, your voice low and gentle. You lifted your free hand and rested it lightly against his forearm. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut cleanly through the noise in his head. “Breathe.”

“You called me Dennis,” he said faintly, as if that alone had short-circuited his brain all over again.

A tiny, fond smile touched your mouth. “Breathe.”

He drew in a careful breath. It trembled at first, then steadied. The tight line of his shoulders began to ease, tension loosening thread by thread. The restless energy that had been humming through him softened into something quieter, more manageable. His gaze steadied, focusing on you instead of everything that could go wrong.

Dennis swallowed, his voice smaller now, worn thin by honesty. “I… I do really like you.” His fingers twitched slightly at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he’d earned that yet. “And I know tonight’s been kind of a mess. I know I’ve been…” He gave a tiny, helpless shrug. “A lot. But… I really want a chance.”

You lifted your hand slowly from his arm to his forehead, brushing that loose strand of hair back into place. Your fingers moved carefully through the soft fringe, smoothing it away from his eyes.

He went very still at the touch, like even breathing might interrupt it. His mouth parted slightly, like he’d forgotten what he was about to say. Before his thoughts could catch up—before another apology or nervous spiral could form—you leaned in. You gave him time to pull away if he wanted but he didn’t and your lips met his in a soft, quiet kiss.

For a second, he didn’t move at all. Then all at once, his shoulders loosened completely, and the tension he’d been carrying seemed to dissolve under the quiet warmth of it. His hands found their way to your waist, clumsy but determined.

Then you pulled back just enough to look at him. Dennis blinked, a little dazed, but trying to act casual. He pushed his chest out, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin like a man who’d totally handled this. “Yeah. That. Fine. No big deal,” he said, feigning confidence, his voice just a little too sharp, a little too deliberate.

You gave him the tiniest smile and before he could fully convince himself he was composed, you pecked his lips again. And again. And again. Dennis went rigid for half a heartbeat. Then he melted. Completely. 

He cleared his throat, voice quieter now, a sheepish little quaver escaping. “Was… was that—uh—to shut me up? Or… because you, you like me?”

He bit his lip nervously, glancing at you like the answer might somehow change if he looked long enough. You shrugged, casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Both,” you said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Dennis’ jaw slackened slightly. He blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His entire body seemed to be trying to decide whether to collapse into the couch, leap up in relief, or melt entirely—and, truthfully, he probably wanted to do all three.

Finally, he gave a tiny, helpless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh. Both. Okay. That’s… good. Really good.” he swallowed, voice low and hesitant, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt almost unconsciously.

“Um… do… do you think we could… maybe… do that again?” he asked, sheepish and awkward and completely endearing all at once. His eyes flicked up at you, wide and hopeful, like he’d just confessed a terrible secret.

You rolled your eyes, a teasing curve of your mouth, pretending to consider it like he’d just asked a very difficult question. “Hmm… let me think about it,” you said, dragging out the words in mock deliberation, tilting your head just enough to make him squirm under your gaze.

Dennis’ shoulders twitched. His hands fiddled nervously at his sides. “I… I think it would be… nice. Maybe. If you want to,” he added quickly, trying to cover the way his whole body was practically vibrating with anticipation.

You smiled, that faint, knowing smirk that made him go weak in the knees, and leaned in without another word. Dennis’ world narrowed to you again, and the second your lips met his, he melted completely.

Hiccup had really tried for it to be Astrid. One would think it would’ve been easy. Astrid was gorgeous, kind, non-rebellious and respectful to her elders. She was well spoken, worked hard, and was approved of by Stoick. But, of course, just because everything in Hiccup’s life had to be difficult and unexpected, it was you. It was you that made Hiccup’s heart jump, it was you he couldn’t ignore, it was you that even Toothless preferred.

You, with your sharp tongue and sharper instincts. You, who questioned everything and didn’t flinch when he got loud. You, who somehow matched his chaos and made it feel like clarity. You, who challenged him and lit a fire in his chest he couldn’t smother, no matter how hard he tried.

You were reckless and brilliant. Stoick didn’t approve. That should’ve been enough to stop him. It wasn’t.

So you and Hiccup became a secret sort of thing. Something undefined. Something that shouldn’t exist, but kept existing anyway.

Late-night visits to your hut under the guise of dragon reports. Long walks that turned into longer arguments that turned into quiet, breathless moments where neither of you said what you really wanted. His hand brushing yours. His lips brushing your neck.

Never in public. Never discussed. Never claimed.

It wasn't that Hiccup wanted to keep it a secret. In fact, he didn't want it to happen in the first place. He wanted to be able to say with full conviction that what he was doing was the right thing, the right path. But he was doomed to do the most complicated and wrong thing, all the time, every day of his life. It had started with Toothless, then with you.

It was never supposed to happen like this.

That’s what Hiccup told himself every time.

Yet here he was again, pressed against you in the dim glow of the forge, your breath hot against his neck, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

(Maybe you would. Maybe that was the point.)

The argument had started hours ago, something stupid, something about dragon training techniques, something neither of you actually cared about. But it had escalated, as it always did, voices sharpening, bodies leaning in too close, tension coiling tighter and tighter until--

Snap.

His mouth crashed against yours.

No hesitation. No tenderness. Just heat, frustration, need.

You bit his lip. He groaned.

This was wrong.

Your back hit the workbench, tools clattering to the floor. His hands were under your tunic before he could think better of it, fingers tracing the scars he knew by heart -- the one from the Monstrous Nightmare burn, the thin line from a poorly executed axe throw.

"Gods," you hissed between kisses, "I can't stand you, Haddock."

His grip tightened, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you closer.

"Liar," he growled against your mouth, voice rough with something between anger and want.

You laughed -- sharp, breathless -- and tangled your hands in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him curse.

"Prove it," you challenged.

And he did.

His teeth grazed your throat, his hands mapping every inch of you like he was memorizing it, like he needed to. The forge was too hot, the air too thick, but neither of you cared. Not when his name was spilling from your lips like a prayer, not when your nails raked down his back, leaving marks he’d have to hide later.

It was reckless. It was messy.

When you were done, you quickly loosed your hair, rebraiding it so it looked just as it had when you came in. You ruffled your tunic, readjusting it, and you watched Hiccup do the same.

Wiping your eye makeup, you glanced at him again.

"We can't keep doing this."

Hiccup didn't answer, opting to pretend he didn't hear it. He always did this. He didn't want to acknowledge that it was an issue unless it was on his terms.

"It's a secret because you want it to be. But someone's gonna find us out sooner than later, Hiccup."

Your words hung in the air, sharp as the blade he'd been sharpening before this, before you, had derailed him completely.

Hiccup kept his back turned, fingers tightening around the edge of the workbench. The wood creaked under his grip.

"No one's going to find out," he said, too calm, too controlled.

You scoffed. "You don't know that."

"I do," he snapped, finally whirling to face you. His eyes burned, not with anger, not with frustration, but with something far more dangerous. "Because I make sure of it."

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

You crossed your arms. "That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" His voice dropped, rough and raw. "What do you want me to say?"

I want you to choose me.

I want you to stop pretending this doesn't matter.

I want you to be as brave with me as you are with everything else.

But you didn't say any of that.

Instead, you straightened your shoulders and met his gaze, unwavering. "I want you to stop acting like this is nothing."

Hiccup flinched.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

The forge door rattled.

You both stiffened.

"Hiccup?" Astrid's voice, sharp and impatient. "You in there? Your dad's looking for you."

Hiccup didn't take his eyes off you.

"Yeah," he called back, voice carefully even. "Be right there."

A pause. Then footsteps retreating.

You exhaled, slow and deliberate.

"We're not done," you muttered, brushing past him.

Hiccup caught your wrist.

For a second, just a second, his thumb traced the inside of your pulse point, soft, almost apologetic.

Then he let go.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "We never are."

And just like that, you were gone.

Leaving him standing there, alone, with the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.

Oddly, after that, the two of you went days without another incident. You did your job, tending to dragons and making plans. And he did his. You barely spared each other a glance, just like normal, in fear that the others would connect the dots. You spoke when you had to, when your jobs overlapped and you had to work together.

Hiccup missed you, but he was content.

Until fucking Erik.

The moment that grinning, broad-shouldered outsider had stepped off his ship and looked at you, really looked at you, with that open, unashamed admiration, Hiccup had felt something ugly twist in his gut.

And then it got worse.

Because Erik didn’t hide it. Didn’t play games. Didn’t pretend.

He just… wanted you.

And you--

You let him.

Hiccup watched, jaw clenched, as Erik leaned in too close when he spoke to you, as he laughed at your jokes like they were the funniest thing he’d ever heard, as he touched you -- casual, easy, like it was allowed.

It was. That was the worst part.

Hiccup had never given you that. Had never claimed you, not even in the dark when it was just the two of them. He’d kissed you like a thief, like he was stealing something he had no right to.

And now Erik was here, giving you everything Hiccup had been too afraid to offer.

It burned.

Even Toothless hated it. He watched as you got to know Erik's dragon, running a hand down his pretty scales and scratching behind his ear.

Erik's dragon, Terror, was a Monstrous Nightmare, like the one you'd been attacked by so many years ago. But Erik didn't allow you to be afraid. He held the back of your hand as he helped you conquer your fear, allowing you to pet the monster in front of you, the dragon giving a puff of approving smoke.

Toothless's eyes flicked up to Hiccup's, a show of irritation. He grumbled in annoyance.

"I know, bud. Me too." Hiccup said, rolling his eyes.

The final straw came during the evening feast.

Erik had brought you a gift: a delicate silver pendant shaped like a dragon’s wing. "Saw it at the trader’s post," he said, grinning as he fastened it around your neck. "Reminded me of you."

You touched it, smiling in a way that made Hiccup’s chest ache. "It’s beautiful. Thank you."

Across the fire, Hiccup’s grip on his tankard turned white-knuckled. Toothless, curled beside him, let out a low, warning growl.

Astrid elbowed him. "You’re glaring."

"I’m not glaring," Hiccup muttered.

"You are," she said flatly. "And if you don’t stop, someone’s going to notice."

Hiccup didn’t care.

Because Erik was still touching you, his fingers lingering at the nape of your neck, his thumb brushing your collarbone. Casual. Easy. Allowed.

And then--

Then you leaned into it.

Something inside Hiccup snapped.

He stood abruptly, knocking over his drink.

Silence fell.

Every eye in the hall turned toward him.

You looked up, startled.

Hiccup didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at you, his breath coming too fast, his pulse roaring in his ears.

For one endless second, your gazes locked, and he saw the flicker of something in your eyes. Challenge? Defiance?

Guilt?

Then Erik shifted, his arm sliding possessively around your shoulders.

Hiccup turned on his heel and walked out.

Toothless found him later, perched on the cliffs, staring at the sea.

The Night Fury nudged his shoulder with a whine.

"I know," Hiccup said hoarsely. "I know."

Toothless huffed, unimpressed.

Below them, they heard it. Your infectious giggle, a wild laugh and a splash. Hiccup's eyes dropped down, only to see you and Erik playing in the water by the dock.

Your braid was a mess, hair plastered to your forehead. He could see your beautiful e/c eyes from up there, the sun making them even brighter. Your under-clothes revealed your tanned skin.

Hiccup's breath caught in his throat.

You were glowing.

Erik said something, Hiccup couldn’t hear what, and you laughed again, head thrown back, the sound ringing across the water like music. Then Erik scooped you up, spinning you before tossing you back into the waves with a splash. You surfaced, gasping and grinning, shoving him back with a playful shriek.

It was easy.

It was right.

And it destroyed him.

Toothless let out a low, mournful croon, sensing the shift in Hiccup’s posture, the way his shoulders slumped, the way his grip on the cliff’s edge tightened until his knuckles turned white.

"She looks happy," Hiccup murmured, voice rough.

Toothless flicked his ear, unimpressed.

Hiccup swallowed hard. "Yeah, bud. I know I’m an idiot."

The Night Fury snorted, as if to say, Then do something about it.

But Hiccup just sat there, watching as Erik reached for you again, as you let him pull you close, as your fingers lingered on his arm --

Stop.

The word burned through him, sharp and sudden.

Stop pretending.

Stop running.

Stop letting her go.

Before he could second-guess himself, Hiccup pushed to his feet.

Toothless perked up immediately, tail lashing in anticipation.

"Yeah, yeah," Hiccup muttered, swinging onto the saddle. "Let’s go."

The Night Fury didn’t hesitate.

They dove.

Wind roared in Hiccup’s ears as Toothless streaked toward the docks, wings tucked tight, the sea blurring beneath them. You looked up just as they pulled out of the dive, skimming the water’s surface, close enough to send a wave crashing over Erik.

The man stumbled back, coughing.

You, however, stood perfectly still, staring at Hiccup with wide eyes, seawater dripping from your clothes.

Hiccup dismounted before Toothless had fully landed, boots hitting the dock with a thud.

Erik wiped his face, scowling. "What the hell, Haddock?"

Hiccup ignored him.

His gaze was locked on you.

"You ready to stop ignoring me?" He asked hoarsely, green eyes staring at you. You felt the heat from them warming your cool, dripping skin.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms.

"Ignoring you?" You said snidely, glaring at him. "Spending time with someone I matter to is ignoring you?"

Hiccup flinched like you'd struck him. The words cut deeper than any blade, and for a moment, he just stood there, jaw clenched, breath ragged, water from his dive still dripping from his hair.

Then he stepped closer. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his stormy green eyes, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him despite your soaked clothes.

"You do matter to me," he said, voice rough. "You know that."

You scoffed, but your traitorous heartbeat stuttered. "Could've fooled me."

Before Hiccup could respond, Erik's hand met his shoulder, shoving him away from you. He didn't move far, but it was enough to redirect his attention to the man that had captured yours. Toothless growled, claws digging into the dirt, but Hiccup gave him a calming glance.

Erik's grip tightened on Hiccup's shoulder, his voice low and dangerous. "Leave her alone, Haddock. She doesn't want--"

Hiccup's eyes flashed, something wild and untamed sparking in their depths. For a split second, you saw the dragon rider in him, the warrior who had faced down legends and won.

Then his fist connected with Erik's jaw.

The crack echoed across the docks.

Erik crumbled to the ground, pain spreading along his face, blood dripping from his lip. Hiccup did nothing but look down on him, face disinterested as if he was a discarded piece of trash.

Erik held his bleeding face, looking up at Hiccup in surprise.

"You son of a--"

Hiccup cut him off.

"Get out of here. You had your time with her, it's my turn."

"Haddock, I swear--"

"Go. Now."

Erik, rather than taking his chances on someone he'd completely underestimated, climbed up from the dirt while eyeing your horrified expression. With one last glare, he turned to walk away.

Then he stopped and turned back.

"What would your father think about the new chief, Hiccup?"

Hiccup's entire body went rigid. A shadow passed over his face, darker than any storm cloud. The air around him seemed to crackle with barely restrained fury.

You saw the exact moment Erik realized he'd crossed a line he couldn't come back from.

Toothless let out a warning growl, his spines rising along his back.

Hiccup took one step forward -- slow, deliberate. Then another.

Erik stumbled back.

"My father," Hiccup said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "would have thrown you off this dock and let the Scauldrons have you by now."

Erik paled.

Hiccup didn't touch him. Didn't need to. His gaze alone was enough to make Erik swallow hard.

"But I'm not my father," Hiccup continued, tilting his head slightly. "So I'll give you one last chance. Walk away. And if I ever see you near her again--" He paused, letting the threat hang in the air.

Erik didn't wait for the rest. He turned and fled, his boots pounding against the wooden planks.

Silence settled over the docks.

Hiccup exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping slightly. Then he turned to you, his expression shifting from cold fury to something softer -- something uncertain.

You stared at him, heart pounding.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Ran a hand through his hair.

"I, uh... probably shouldn't have done that," he muttered.

You nodded, looking out over the horizon.

"Probably not. Stoick doesn't even like me, and you're tarnishing your chiefly reputation by fighting my.. Whatever he was." You hummed.

Hiccup stepped closer, his boots scuffing against the worn dock planks. "My dad didn't like me much either at first," he said quietly. "Took him a while to see what was right in front of him."

You turned to face him, the sea breeze tugging at your damp clothes. "And what's that?"

"That sometimes the things that test us the most are the only things that make sense."

You softened for a moment. Then you turned away again.

"Erik will probably never speak to me again. Or even look at me," You snorted. "You've made sure of that."

Hiccup's jaw tightened, but his voice was surprisingly gentle when he spoke.

"Good."

You whipped your head around to glare at him, but the intensity in his gaze stopped you cold. The setting sun painted his profile in gold, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

"You think I care about Erik?" Hiccup continued, eyes locked onto you. "You think I care about anyone else’s opinion when it comes to you?"

The wind carried the salt spray between you, the dock creaking beneath your feet.

"You did. You hid me, Hiccup."

Hiccup squeezed his eyes shut like he was in physical pain. For a long long moment, he just stood there.

Then he closed the distance between you in two quick strides. His hands came up to cradle your face, calloused thumbs brushing your cheeks.

"I was scared," he admitted, voice raw. "And stupid. So, so stupid."

You nodded, a watery smile on your face. The honesty and transparency for the first time in months made tears well up in your eyes.

"Yeah. You are pretty stupid."

Hiccup let out a choked laugh, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Astrid did warn me I was being an idiot."

His thumbs brushed away the tears trailing down your cheeks, his touch unbearably gentle.

"But I'm done hiding," he whispered. "Done pretending. If the whole village has to watch me lose my mind over you, then so be it."

You sniffled, looking up at him through wet eyelashes.

"Really?"

"Really." He nodded passionately, stroking your cheek again.

Leaning in, he pressed a long kiss to your forehead, savoring the feeling of your skin on his. Then, he wiped the tears from under your eyes gently.

"I love you." He admitted, eyes shining with the final freedom of being able to admit it.

You beamed.

You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. "Better late than never, Haddock."

He laced his fingers into yours, tugging you a little bit.

You stumbled, following him.

"Where are we going?"

He smiled in amusement.

"To see my dad. No more hiding, right?"

Hiccup's hand was warm and sure in yours as he led you through the village, his stride purposeful. The evening torches flickered to life around you, casting dancing shadows across his determined expression.

You squeezed his fingers. "You're serious about this? Right now?"

He didn't slow down. "Should've done it years ago," he said, throwing you a lopsided grin over his shoulder that made your heart stutter.

As you neared the Great Hall, your steps faltered. "Hiccup, wait--what if he--"

Hiccup turned abruptly, cradling your face in his hands. "Then we'll face it together," he said firmly. His thumbs traced your cheekbones. "I'm proud that it's you. We have nothing to be ashamed of."

You took a deep breath, nodding against his palms.

The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall loomed before you. Hiccup gave your hand one last reassuring squeeze before pushing them open with his free hand.

The warmth and noise of the evening feast spilled out - the clatter of tankards, boisterous laughter, the scent of roasted meat and ale. But as you stepped inside behind Hiccup, the lively atmosphere seemed to freeze in place.

Every head turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the serving wenches paused with their trays.

At the high table, Stoick set down his tankard with a heavy thud. The firelight reflected in his piercing gaze as it traveled from your joined hands up to Hiccup's determined face.

"Well," Stoick's voice boomed through the silent hall, "it's about damn time."

Hiccup's shoulders relaxed slightly. "So... you're not angry?"

Stoick snorted, stroking his beard. "Angry? Boy, I've been waiting months for you to stop moping." He raised his tankard in your direction. "I wasn't sure about the lass at first, but.. She's good at keeping you alive, whether she's trouble or not." He teased.

A ripple of laughter spread through the hall. You felt Hiccup's fingers tighten around yours as he shot back, "She's more than capable - she's been putting up with me this long, hasn't she?"

Astrid's voice rang out from the warriors' table, "And doing a better job of it than the rest of us!"

As the hall erupted in good-natured cheers and toasts, Stoick gestured you forward. "Come then, don't just stand there. Let's have a proper look at the woman who finally tamed my stubborn son."

Hiccup leaned close as you walked, his breath warm against your ear. "Told you it would be fine."

You elbowed him gently. "You were the one hiding me."

"My fault," he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your temple that drew another round of cheers from the assembled Vikings.

Victoria’s killing a bit of time in the main foyer before her shift starts one day when the two of you arrive. 

Dennis pulls the door open for you, as usual, holding it while you walk inside. He does the same with the inner door, despite having to speedwalk in order to get there before you. She notices that he’s carrying your backpack, the strap slung over the opposite shoulder from his own. He reaches out as you walk towards the elevators, fingers pinching the side of your shirt, gently pulling you closer to him. It’s subtle, and Victoria’s certain she’s the only one who notices that your hands now brush against eachother’s as you move. 

“You coming up?” You ask, reaching forwards, hitting the button. 

He checks his watch, then nods. “Still got time.”

You bite back a smile as you step into the elevator, doors closing behind you, blocking you from Victoria’s probing eyes. The ICU floor is much quieter than the ED, especially since it’s still early, most of the patients still sleeping as the hospital starts to wake up. You swipe your badge against the sensor, and then step through the double door together, like you always do. 

Dana’s standing at the central desk when you come in, talking to the charge nurse there, trying to get some boarders moved before dayshift officially takes over. She clocks both of you immediately, her sentence coming to a stop when she hears your soft laughter. She turns around, watching as you approach, smiling at her. 

“Dana,” You greet. “Are you finally leaving the ER to join us up here?”

“You wish,” She says, looking past your shoulder, where Dennis is waiting a half-step behind you. “Whitaker, fancy seeing you here.”

The ICU charge scoffs, laughing a bit. “What do you mean? He’s up here every morning.”

Dana raises an eyebrow, a tiny smirk on her face. “That so?”

He shrugs, cheeks flushing a light shade of pink, both bags on his back lifting with the motion. “Pretty much, yeah.”

You, wanting to save him from any further embarrassment, turn around and give him an opening. “I can take my bag, you can head downstairs.”

He frowns, shaking his head. “I got it, I’ll be right back.”

He walks over to the locker room, his figure disappearing through the door. One of the nightshift RT’s comes out of a room, and Dana doesn’t miss the way his eyes light up at the sight of you. He ignores everyone else at the desk as he approaches, saying your last name with way too much enthusiasm for six-thirty in the morning. 

“You should’ve seen this patient last night,” He starts, diving into the story as soon as your eyes are on him, a small smile on your face as you genuinely listen. 

Dennis comes back out of the locker room just as he takes your wrist in his hand, turning your arm so your palm faces the ceiling, gesturing to your forearm as he explains the IV situation the patient had. He mimes the action of fluids spewing, retelling the moment it came loose as he was in the middle of intubating. 

Your face scrunches, but you’re still smiling, and he’s pretty sure you say ‘oh, gross!” before slowly pulling your arm away, tucking both hands into your pockets. He comes up behind you, setting your stethoscope and water bottle on the desk. The other RT loses all steam at the sight of him, and he immediately takes a step back, stuttering over his words for a second. You feel a single finger twist into your waistband, making you look over your shoulder, seeing Dennis and your belongings. 

“Thank you,” You say, fully spinning around. He drops his hand back to his side, nodding. 

“Yeah, uh, no problem,” He says. “I’ll see you later?”

“Hopefully,” You say. “Good luck down there.”

“You too,” He says, then he heads back through the doors and down the hallway. You loop your stethoscope over your shoulders and put your water bottle by your workstation before returning to the nightshifter, a tablet in hand now. 

“Catch me up,” You say, the rest of his story long forgotten. 

Dana follows Dennis out, still smirking, putting both hands on his shoulders as she comes up beside him. 

“You’re a sweet kid, you know that?"

Around eleven that morning, the higher-ups send donuts down to the ED as a ‘thank you’ for all their hardwork. Robby’s in the breakroom when Dennis walks in, admiring the spread, trying to decide if he actually wants one or not. 

“Anything good, boss?” He asks, stepping closer to the tables, looking for something specific. 

Robby shrugs. “Would be nicer if they could just pay my staff what they deserve.”

“Oh, definitely,” Dennis says, spotting what he’s looking for, grabbing one of the napkins nearby. “Gotta’ take advantage though, right?”

He picks up a donut, setting it neatly on top of the napkin and putting it down on the table. He opens the fridge, pulling out his lunch and unzipping the bag. Robby watches as he places it on top of whatever’s in there, then puts it back in the fridge, brushing his hands off and closing the door. 

“Worthy of saving for later?” Robby asks, slightly teasing. Dennis lets out a small laugh, already halfway out the door. 

“Yeah, uhm, trying to be optimistic about getting a break today,” He jokes, stumbling over the words. He’s still getting used to joking around with his boss.

Robby shakes his head, following him back outside. “Oh, you know better than that by now, Whitaker.”

They step out just as the ambulance bay doors open, revealing two paramedics wheeling a gurney in. They both rush over as Dana directs them to an open trauma room, examining the patient while one of the paramedics gives handover. 

“Twenty-three year old male, motorcycle versus guardrail,” She says. “Helmet off at the scene, significant facial trauma, breathing on his own for now, but it’s not pretty.”

They swing the door to the trauma room open. Nurses flood in behind them, taking their usual spots around the room, clicking monitors on and hooking them up to the patient. 

“Hey, can you open your eyes for me?” Dennis asks, shining his penlight into them when he gets no response. “Pupils equal and reactive, GCS six.”

“Sats eighty-seven and falling,” Mateo says. 

“Bag him,” Dennis instructs, setting his stethoscope against his chest, moving it around. “Decreased breath sounds bilaterally.”

“This is gonna’ be a complex airway,” Frank says, having come in a moment after them. “Let’s get respiratory down here.”

You’re adjusting some vent settings for one of your patients when your pager goes off, making you pluck it off your scrub pocket, glancing down at the tiny screen. 

EMERG. DEPT. TRAUMA #3 - STAT PAGE

You shove the pager back into place, already running out of the room, calling for the other RT on shift to finish with your patient as you fly by. You take the stairs down to the ED, shoving the door open at the bottom, gripping your stethoscope in your hand so it doesn’t fall. You grab a pair of gloves before opening the trauma room door, trying to assess the situation as best you can in a few seconds. You can’t even see the patient from how many people are in there, crowding around the bed. 

“Sats down to seventy-nine,” Perlah says. Garcia already has sterile gloves on, holding her hands up and shaking her head as she looks over Dennis’ shoulder. He’s holding the laryngoscope, watching the monitor, trying to get a good view of the anatomy. 

“We need to crike,” She says. 

“Woah, hey, I’m here, what’s going on?” You say, grabbing a gown, shifting towards the head of the bed. You look towards the patient’s face, or what’s fucking left of it, exhaling sharply. “Jesus.”

“Motorcycle versus guardrail,” Frank says. “His jaw’s completely unstable, we couldn’t get a seal with the mask, he’s bleeding like crazy.”

“Move, please,” You say, kind but firm, needing to get a closer look. Dennis pulls the tool out, stepping back, his hands up so they don’t get caught on any of the IV lines. Mateo holds the suction as you do your exam, running through options in your head. He’s already using the biggest suction that he can, and the patient's sats are still falling. 

The room seems frozen around you as you think, everyone waiting on your next move. You nod to yourself when you decide on the best course of action, a small way to hype yourself up. 

“I’m going in through the nasal passage,” You say.

“Blind?” Frank asks. “That’s-”

“No, not blind,” You correct. “I need a lubricated three-point-five.”

The tube is placed into your hand five seconds later. “I’m gonna’ try and advance just past the tongue, see if I can use it as a guide.”

You glance up, making eye contact with Frank, then Robby, waiting to see if either will object to your plan. Robby gives you an affirmative nod. 

“Do it.”

You look to Dennis, who’s already watching you. “Could you listen for breath sounds please, Dr. Whitaker?”

“Oh, Dr. Whitaker,” Garcia repeats. “Is that what you call him in the bedroom?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You shoot back, smirking. 

“Behave,” Robby says, but you don’t need to look at him to know that he’s fighting a smile. Dennis gets into place as you use your free hand to put your own stethoscope in, settling the diaphragm against the patient’s neck, moving it around until you hear what you’re looking for. Then, you slowly advance the tube through the nostril, eyes flicking towards the chest every few seconds to check for rise. 

You start to get some resistance at fourteen centimetres, and the chest twitches. You hear a small amount of air pass.

“Minimal movement,” Dennis says, focusing on what he’s hearing. 

“Bag it,” You instruct, and Jesse does, squeezing. The patient’s chest rises again, and Dennis looks back at you, nodding, confirming that he can hear at least some remnants of breath sounds. 

“Sats up to eighty-five,” Perlah announces. 

You shine your penlight into his mouth, studying the passage that the nasal tube is barely revealing, committing the location of his tracheal opening to memory each time the suction clears enough blood for you to see it. 

“I can intubate now,” You say.

“Are you sure?” Frank asks, taking a look himself, seeing nothing but blood and a small clearing where the tube sits. “You still can’t visualize most of the landmarks.”

“I don’t need all the landmarks,” You counter. “Do you want a real airway or not, Dr. Langdon?”

Dennis’ breath catches in his throat, eyes wide. You’re looking at Frank expectantly, waiting for a decision. He steps back, nodding. Garcia smirks, speaking before he can. 

“Blade to hot shot, please.” You take the tool in your hand, turning on the light and sliding it into place. You don’t bother looking towards the monitor, knowing that you won’t be able to see where you’re going. 

“Seven tube,” You say, reaching for it once it’s passed over, positioning it where the nasal tube already sits. You wait for the suction to expose the clearing again, not hesitating when it does, sliding the tube into the airway. You’re almost certain that it’s in the right place based on how it feels as it clears the epiglottis. “I’m in.”

The cuff is inflated, and Jesse moves the bag from the nasal tube onto the new one, nodding. “Yellow on end-tidal.”

“Good breath sounds bilaterally,” Dennis adds. 

“Sats up to ninety-four,” Perlah says. The tension in the room fades as you look at Dennis, failing to contain a grin when you make eye-contact. He gives you a tiny, proud smile and a subtle nod, silently saying ‘nice work.’

You don’t realize that everyone else catches it, too. 

“I’ll get him up to CT,” Garcia announces. “Glad you were here, hot shot.”

“Excellent work,” Robby says, followed by your last name. The patient is wheeled out of the room, and you’re all left behind, pulling off gowns and gloves. 

“Thanks,” You say. “It’s what I’m good for.”

Dennis holds the door for you as you leave, exhaling once you’re out. Frank holds his fist up. 

“Sorry for doubting you,” He says. You smile, tapping your knuckles against his. 

“No harm, no foul,” You insist, waving him off. The adrenaline of the trauma starts to wear off as you move towards one of the computers, wanting to get the charting out of the way before you go back to the ICU—as long as none of your patients crash. Goosebumps splinter over your arms, despite the long-sleeve you’re wearing under your scrub top, making you shiver. 

Dennis is shrugging his fleece off before you even sit down, handing it to you, already focused on the board to figure out where he should head first. He’s about to walk away when he remembers, spinning back around and leaning towards you over the desk. 

“Oh, hey, there’s something for you in my lunch,” He says, voice quiet, but everyone in the vicinity hears him. They started watching the second he passed you his jacket without a single word. “You can grab it before you head back up, if you want.”

You close your hand around his fleece, trying to get your brain to function again. All work is abandoned by the people around when, for the first time possibly ever, you’re speechless. Not because this is unusual behaviour, just because he’s never done it so…publicly before. 

“Okay,” You finally say, the single word breathy and faint. “Thank you.”

Everyone is staring at the two of you like it’s their favourite TV show. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” He says.

He walks off, you take a seat, pulling the fleece over your head and sticking your badge to the front pocket before logging on to the computer. Your heart is racing, but you do your best to hide it from your colleagues.

“You ever wonder how they ended up together?” Frank asks, watching the interaction from afar, the question aimed at Mel, who has no idea what he’s referring to.

“Who?” She asks, barely looking up from her tablet. 

“Whitaker and Hot Shot,” He clarifies. Mel looks up now, still confused. 

She says your real name like it’s a question. Frank nods. 

“Yeah, Hot Shot,” He emphasizes. 

Mel shrugs. “I didn’t know everyone called her that, I thought it was just Garcia.”

“Doesn’t matter,” He says, moving on. “Labs back for twelve yet?”

Trinity comes back into the department twenty minutes later, having gone outside for a breather, stopping just behind your chair as she walks by. She squints, realizing that you’re definitely wearing Whitaker’s quarter-zip, the one he wears pretty much every single day once it starts getting colder. She goes straight to Victoria, who’s talking to Cassie while they wait for one of their patients to get back from CT. 

“He gave her his fucking fleece,” She says, eyes drifting towards you. Victoria and Cassie look over. 

“Oh my god, that’s so cute,” Victoria says, pouting slightly. “He’s so sweet to her.”

“Have you seen her?” Trinity asks, rhetorical. “He’s got to be in order to keep her around.”

Cassie raises an eyebrow. “I think it’s probably just because he loves her.”

“Or he knows he’s punching above his weight,” Trinity counters. “I love the kid, but she’s practically a supermodel.”

“Well, maybe that’s what drew her to him,” Victoria suggests. “You know, she’s so used to people tripping over themselves to impress her, maybe she liked the fact that he doesn’t make a fool out of himself to get her attention.”

Trinity thinks about that for a second, cocking her head slightly as she looks at you. “Huh. Never thought about it like that.”

“Has no one considered the idea that she just thought he was attractive?” Cassie asks. “He’s a good looking guy!”

Victoria shrugs. “Doesn’t matter either way, they clearly love eachother.”

You barely even realize that your head’s starting to hurt before a pill cup and your favourite donut are placed on your desk. You tug your eyes away from the screen, almost done with your charting, blinking a few times to clear your fuzzy vision. There’s two ibuprofen tablets in the cup, and you see Dennis standing beside you, holding his water bottle out. Robby watches from his workstation a few feet away, smiling, remembering how he watched Dennis set that donut aside a couple hours ago. It wasn’t for him, it was for you. 

"Headache?" He asks.

“How…?” You ask, taking the bottle from him and opening the lid. 

“You’re blinking more than usual,” He says, as though anyone would’ve picked up on it.

“Oh,” You say. “Yeah, it's not too bad, though. Thank you.”

You take the pills and a few extra sips of water before passing it back to him. He sets it on the counter, folding his arms over his chest as he leans back. 

“You should eat something,” He suggests. 

You nod. “I’ll eat this in one second, thank you so much, Denny.”

Robby looks towards Dana, mouthing ‘Denny?’ to her, and she mouths ‘I know!’ back. 

Dennis nods, taking a seat at one of the computers across the hub. You finish your own charting a few minutes later, standing up and walking over to one of the nearby sinks, washing your hands thoroughly. You pick up the donut when you get back to the desk, tearing it in half, holding one side out towards him. 

He’s so wrapped up in his work that he barely glances up when he takes it, then he does a double take, brows furrowing before he looks at you. He’s about to protest when you give him a look, one that let’s him know that you’re well aware he hasn’t eaten since his shift started. He keeps his half raised up, tilting it towards you, and you tap your own portion against his. You both take a bite at the same time, and Princess raises an eyebrow. 

“Did they just…cheers with a donut?” She asks. 

“You haven’t seen ‘em do that before?” Dana asks. “They do it with everything—granola bars, apple slices, sandwiches. It’s sweet.”

“I saw them do it with goldfish once,” Mateo says, spinning around in his chair to face them. “Pretty sure they made them kiss.”

You stretch your arms above your head a few minutes later, leaning against the back of your chair. A few people glance over, hoping to get a glimpse of something, but Dennis’ fleece keeps everything covered. You gather a portion of your hair in your hands, reaching towards your wrist for a hair tie. 

It snaps when you go to loop it around, making you frown.

“Ow,” You murmur, dropping your hair. Victoria goes to offer you a new one, but she’s cut off by Dennis pulling one off his own arm, slingshotting it across the hub, a solid twenty feet or so. You catch it in your palm like it’s second nature, sticking it between your teeth, smoothing your hair back again. 

She malfunctions for a second, trying to see if anyone else witnessed that. Most people have gone back to work, eyes focused on screens or notepads, including Dennis. 

“I…how did you do that?” She asks. 

Dennis doesn’t even look over. “Do what?”

“The—the hair tie thing,” She stutters. He shrugs. 

“She’s always losing them,” He says, as if that remotely answers her question. She’s close enough to see his screen, catching a new secure chat rise to the top of the list that he’s working through answering. It’s your first and last name followed by ‘RRT,’ the profile photo you in scrubs, standing against a white wall.  

heading back up

She glances over at you, still sitting across the hub. You’re looking at your computer, scanning some new orders for your ICU patients, face neutral as you mess with your necklace. She looks back at Dennis’ screen. 

He signs the note he's working on before opening the conversation. 

Come here a second

You log off of the computer, pick up your stethoscope and walk over to him. It’s casual—comfortable. His hand lifts from the keyboard once you’re close enough, reaching over and flipping the collar of his fleece out from where it’s folded in on itself. You raise an eyebrow as he pats it twice, the simple touch of his palm to your collarbone intoxicating. 

“How long has that been bothering you?” You ask, teasing and quiet. The volume has picked back up in the department, so Victoria shuffles a bit closer to try and hear the conversation. 

He pretends to think, glancing at his watch. “How long ago did you put it on?”

You laugh under your breath. “I didn’t realize I was causing you such distress.”

“Yeah, you should probably be more careful,” He says, the corner of his mouth twitching up, but his eyes are wide with concern. “Are you warm enough? I think I have a long sleeve in my bag if you want it.”

You do want it, but not because you’re still cold. 

“No, I’m okay, thank you,” You say, trying to get your feet to move, but his presence is sucking you in. You’re tempted to wedge yourself into his side, knowing that he’d probably respond automatically, arms wrapping around you and his lips brushing your temple like they would at home. 

“Okay, just come grab it if you change your mind,” He says. Your pager beeps from your pocket, and you grimace, face scrunching up in disappointment. 

“I will,” You say, checking it quickly before putting it back. You’re still hesitating, not taking a step away from him. He smiles. 

“Go,” He insists, softly. “They need you.”

You look at him for another second, pursing your lips. “Yeah, alright, going now, Dr. Whitaker.”

Victoria’s eyes widen as she rereads the same line on her tablet for the millionth time. A blush blooms on Dennis’ neck, and he brings a hand up to try and cover it immediately, his blue eyes following you as you get closer to the doors, filled with adoration. 

He gets another secure chat five minutes later. Victoria squints to see what it says. 

made it :) don’t work too hard while im gone

He types back right away. 

Yes ma’am

Victoria gasps. Dennis glances back at her. 

She brings her elbow up to her face, pretending to cough a few times, clearing her throat once she’s done with the performance. 

“Sorry, dry in here today,” She says, trying to give him a reassuring smile. He nods once, unconvinced, but he doesn’t press her on it. 

Her own secure chat lights up. 

TRINITY SANTOS, MD smooth, crash

Seven finally rolls around, signalling the end of your shift. You go back downstairs, waiting outside the ER, like usual, backpack on and changed out of your scrubs. Dennis comes out ten minutes later with Trinity and Victoria trailing behind, his eyes softening when he sees you. 

“Hey, ready to go?” He asks, making you look up from your phone. You nod, greeting his friends before falling in step beside him, bumping your shoulder against his. 

“Oh, gross,” Trinity says, frowning at the heavy rain that’s pouring outside. “You want a ride, Crash?”

“Yes, please,” Victoria says, already bracing herself as Trinity opens the door, turning back to you and Dennis for a second. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” You both say, giving her a tiny wave as they step out into the rain, running to Trinity’s car. 

Dennis pulls his keys out of his backpack, squeezing your wrist quickly. “Stay here.”

You smile. “I know.”

He goes outside, rounding the corner and speedwalking away from the doors. You stay inside, waiting, until you feel someone stop beside you. 

“Waiting for Whitaker?” Robby asks. “I swore he left a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, yeah, he did,” You confirm. “He went to grab the car.”

Robby hums, chuckling. “Of course he did.”

You laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets. “He just really loves you, is all.”

Your chest and neck start to heat up, making you look towards the ground, scuffing your shoes against the floor. “Yeah, he does.”

“Well, have a good night,” He says. 

You smile. “Goodnight, Robby.”

He walks off just as Dennis pulls the car in front of the doors, shifting it into park as he leans over, gripping the inside handle of the passenger side door. You tense up the moment you’re outside, rain pelting against you, thankful that you still have his fleece on as you run to the car. He opens the door right before you make it so you can just jump inside, slamming it shut behind you, wiping some water off your face. 

You’re both soaked, him more than you, obviously—but he doesn’t care. He leans over the centre console, hand looping around the back of your neck and pulling you close, kissing you. You kiss him back, smiling into it, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. He kisses your forehead after, then pecks your lips again for good measure. 

“Love you,” He says. 

“I love you,” You echo, still smiling. 

A/N - i love that u guys love dennis and hot shot bc i think about them constantly

tags:

The sun had no right to be shining.

Valarr Targaryen knew this with every fiber of his being, the certainty of it settled deep in his bones as he lay sprawled across the vast, empty expanse of his marriage bed. Outside the windows of Maegor's Holdfast, the morning light spilled across Blackwater Bay in a display of golden indifference, painting the room in cheerful hues that made him want to scream.

It had been four days.

Four days since his wife—his sun, his moon, his very reason for drawing breath—had climbed into a wheelhouse and rolled away from him, bound for whatever minor keep happened to be housing her brother and his excessively fertile wife. A daughter. They had produced a daughter, and apparently this was cause for such celebration that Y/N simply had to attend.

He understood this, theoretically. In the same way one understood that the sun would eventually set or that winter would someday come. He understood that sisters loved brothers and that new nieces were supposedly wonderful creatures worth traveling for. He understood all of this with his mind, which was a traitorous organ that had clearly never been in love.

His heart, however—his poor, neglected, Y/N-less heart—understood nothing except that she was gone.

Valarr rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into her pillow.

It still smelled like her.

He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. They had looked at him strangely, which was absurd. Who wouldn't want to preserve the last traces of their wife's scent? The faint floral notes of whatever oil she used in her hair, the warm sweetness that was simply her, the way the fabric seemed to hold the memory of her cheek against it—

A knock at the door.

"Go away," he said into the pillow.

"Your Grace, the King requests your presence at the small council meeting." It was his squire, a boy of twelve who sounded far too cheerful for someone whose master was clearly in mourning.

"I'm ill."

"You said that yesterday, Your Grace. And the day before."

"And I remain ill. It's a persistent illness. Very serious. Possibly fatal."

A pause. "Should I fetch a maester, Your Grace?"

Valarr considered this. A maester would poke at him and ask questions and inevitably conclude that he was suffering from nothing more than a severe case of missing his wife. Which was true, but also humiliating to have spoken aloud by a man in grey robes.

"No. Tell my grandfather I am... indisposed. With grief."

"Grief, Your Grace?"

"My wife is gone." He said this with such profound tragedy that the boy actually went silent for a moment.

"Ah. Yes. For... four days now, isn't it, Your Grace?"

"Four days, seventeen hours, and—" He squinted at the window, trying to gauge the sun's position. "Approximately six and a half hours. Not that I'm counting."

"Of course not, Your Grace."

"The counting would imply that I have nothing better to do than track her absence, which I don't—because she took my purpose in life with her when she left."

Another pause. Valarr imagined the boy standing in the corridor, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if the prince had finally lost his mind. He probably had. It didn't matter.

"Shall I bring you breakfast, Your Grace?"

"No."

"Lunch?"

"I said no."

"Dinner? Perhaps some wine? Bread? A boar? Anything at all?"

Valarr lifted his head just enough to glare at the door. "Do I sound hungry to you? Does a man whose heart has been ripped from his chest and carried away to some distant keep where he cannot reach it sound like he wants bread?"

The boy wisely retreated.

Alone again, Valarr flopped back onto the pillow and resumed his vigil of misery.

---

An hour later—or perhaps three; time had lost all meaning—he found himself in his chambers, seated at the desk where he had once, in a former life, attended to correspondence and other tedious duties. Now it served a far more important purpose.

He opened the locket.

It was a beautiful thing, commissioned three days ago from a goldsmith who had clearly thought him mad but was wise enough not to say so. The outside was simple enough, a smooth disc of gold that fit perfectly in his palm. But inside, nestled against the fine enamel work that had cost him a small fortune and the goldsmith's entire week, was her face.

Her face.

The painter had captured her perfectly—the curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, the way one eyebrow always lifted slightly when she was about to tease him. Valarr had described every detail with the precision of a maester cataloging a rare specimen, and the man had somehow managed to translate those fevered descriptions into art.

He kissed it.

Then he kissed it again.

Then he held it against his chest and stared at the wall, imagining that she was here, that she was laughing at him for being so dramatic, that she would wrap her arms around his neck and press her forehead to his and tell him that four days apart was nothing, that he was being ridiculous, that she loved him anyway.

He would take that. He would take her calling him ridiculous a thousand times over if it meant having her here.

The door opened.

"I told you I don't want—"

"Brother." It was Matarys, his younger brother, standing in the doorway with an expression of unholy amusement. "Still alive, I see. The servants were placing bets."

"Get out."

"I've come to save you from yourself." Matarys strode in as if he owned the place, flinging himself onto a chair with the careless grace of someone who had never known true suffering. "Four days, Valarr. Four. She'll be back in another fortnight, at most."

"A fortnight?" Valarr sat up so fast the locket swung wildly on its chain. "You said a sennight yesterday."

"I was being optimistic. Babies are unpredictable. Births take time. Celebrations take longer. You're looking at ten more days, minimum."

Ten more days.

Ten more days without her laugh, without her hand in his, without the way she hummed while she brushed her hair at night, without—

"I'm going to die," he said flatly. "I'm going to expire from lack of her, and they'll find my body here, clutching this locket, and the maesters will write treatises about it. 'The First Recorded Case of Death by Wife-Absence.' They'll name it after me. Valarr's Malady."

Matarys snorted. "You're pathetic."

"I'm devoted. There's a difference."

"There really isn't." His brother leaned forward, expression shifting to something almost like concern. "Valarr, listen to me. You need to do something. Anything. You haven't left these chambers in days—"

"I left yesterday."

"To stand on the battlements and stare at the road south for three hours. That doesn't count."

"It counted to me."

Matarys pinched the bridge of his nose. "Father is worried. Grandfather is worried. Even Aerion looked mildly concerned, and he's usually too busy practicing his cruel smile to care about anyone's wellbeing. You're making a spectacle of yourself."

"Let them watch." Valarr touched the locket again, tracing the outline of her painted smile. "She is my wife. I love her. I am not ashamed to miss her."

"No one expects you not to miss her. We expect you to miss her like a normal person. Go to council meetings. Eat food. Bathe, for the love of all the gods, you're starting to smell like a stabled horse."

Valarr sniffed his own armpit. It was... not pleasant. But that was beside the point.

"The small council can function without me. Food is unnecessary without her to share it. And bathing—" He paused, considering. "Would it be strange if I used her soaps?"

"Yes."

"They smell like her."

"I know. That's why it would be strange."

Valarr disagreed fundamentally with this assessment, but he was too tired to argue. He slumped back against the pillows, pulling the locket out to gaze at it once more. Her eyes. Her smile. The little mole near her left eyebrow that he kissed every morning without fail.

"She's so beautiful," he murmured.

"We know. You tell us constantly."

"Do you think she's thinking of me? Right now, at this moment? Do you think she misses me too?"

Matarys stood abruptly. "I'm leaving. I came to help, but I find I have no stomach for watching my brother dissolve into a puddle of sentiment. If you need me, don't find me."

The door closed behind him.

Valarr hardly noticed. He was too busy imagining her in some distant keep, holding her new niece, perhaps glancing toward the window and thinking of him. Perhaps touching her chest where a matching locket—because of course he'd had two made, one for each of them, so she could look at his face too—rested against her heart.

He hoped she was looking at it.

He hoped she missed him even half as much as he missed her.

Another knock.

"What?"

A servant entered, this one older and wiser to his moods. She carried a tray with bread and cheese and a cup of wine, which she set on the table without comment.

"Your Grace," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "The Princess Y/N's wheelhouse was spotted on the Rosby road an hour ago. Moving south. Away from the city."

Valarr's heart plummeted through the floor.

"Away?" He sat up, clutching the locket like a talisman. "Why would she be moving away? She's supposed to be moving toward me. The world is meant to bring her closer, not farther. That's the natural order of things."

"The messenger said the princess decided to accompany her brother's family part of the way to their next destination. She'll be delayed by another few days."

Another few days.

He was going to perish. Truly and completely. They would find him dead of yearning, his cold fingers still wrapped around her painted smile, and on his lips would be her name, and the singers would compose ballads about his devotion, and—

The servant was still there, watching him with an expression that might have been pity.

"Leave the bread," he said weakly.

She left.

Valarr stared at the tray. The bread looked dry. The cheese looked plain. The wine looked like the kind that would make him maudlin rather than numb, and he was already so deep in maudlin that any further descent would require ropes and a guide.

He reached for the locket again.

Four more days. Possibly five. Possibly a whole sennight of additional Y/N-less existence stretching before him like an endless grey sea.

He could do this.

He could survive.

He had her locket. He had her pillow. He had the memory of her voice, which he replayed in his mind constantly, and the way she laughed, which he conjured up whenever the silence grew too loud.

He would be fine.

He would be fine.

---

He was not fine.

Three hours later, he had migrated to her solar, where he sat surrounded by her things—her books, her embroidery, her little pots of color for painting, her shawl still draped over the back of her chair. He held the shawl in his lap, stroking the soft wool, breathing in the fading scent of her.

"Y/N," he whispered to the empty room. "Y/N, Y/N, Y/N."

It helped, somehow. Saying her name. Keeping her present through sheer force of vocalization.

"You have to come back soon," he continued, addressing the shawl. "I'm running out of things to do. I've stared at the locket so much I might have worn a hole through the enamel. I've read every letter you ever wrote me—twice. I've counted the floorboards in our bedchamber. There are forty-seven. Did you know that? I didn't know that. I know it now."

The shawl offered no response.

"I talked to your pillow this morning. Told it about my day. Which was nothing, because you weren't here, but I described the nothing in detail. The pillow was a good listener. Better than Matarys, certainly."

He sighed, slumping lower in the chair.

"Do you remember our wedding? Of course you do. But do you remember how I couldn't stop staring at you? How they had to nudge me to say my vows because I was too busy looking at your face? The septon thought I was nervous. I wasn't nervous. I was just—you were so beautiful. You're always so beautiful. I'm not sure you understand how beautiful you are. I should tell you more often. I'll tell you every day when you come back. Every single day. Multiple times a day. You'll get tired of hearing it."

He paused, considering.

"No, you won't. You love me. You think I'm wonderful. You tell me that all the time, and I never get tired of it, so why would you get tired of—"

A knock. He was going to have words with whoever kept interrupting his mourning.

"Your Grace?" A different servant, this one young and nervous. "There's a raven. From the princess."

Valarr was on his feet before the sentence finished, crossing the room in three strides and snatching the tiny scroll from the servant's hand. He unrolled it with shaking fingers, devouring the words:

My love,

My good sister is recovered and the babe is healthy and beautiful. They have named her Valerya, after you. (I may have suggested it.) We will be delayed another few days as we travel with them to—

He stopped reading.

They had named the baby after him.

A tiny girl, carrying a piece of his name. Because his wife had suggested it. Because his wife thought of him even while holding a newborn, even while surrounded by her own kin, even while separated by miles and miles of road.

He read the sentence again.

They have named her Valerya, after you.

"Your Grace?" The servant was still there, hovering uncertainly. "Is all well?"

Valarr looked up, and for the first time in four days, he smiled.

"All is well," he said. "All is very well. Tell the kitchens to prepare a feast. Tell my brother I'll be at council tomorrow. Tell my grandfather I've recovered from my illness."

The servant blinked. "You have, Your Grace?"

"I have." He pressed the letter to his chest, right over his heart, where the locket rested against his skin. "My wife has sent word. I am cured."

---

That night, he wrote her a letter.

It was very long. It contained approximately seventeen declarations of love, twelve descriptions of how much he missed her, three jokes that she probably wouldn't find funny but he hoped she would anyway, and a detailed account of his conversation with her pillow.

He did not mention the forty-seven floorboards. That seemed excessive even for him.

At the end, just before sealing it with wax, he added a postscript:

I have commissioned a third locket. This one will have two paintings—one of you, one of me—side by side. So that when I look at you, I can also imagine you looking at me, and we can be looking at each other even when we're apart. I know it's not the same as having you here. But it's something.

Come home soon.

Your devoted husband,

Valarr

P.S. If you see this baby Valerya, tell her her uncle loves her already. Not as much as I love you. Nothing could be that much. But a respectable amount for a niece.

He sent it with the fastest raven in the rookery, then climbed into bed—her side, always her side now—and fell asleep with the locket pressed to his lips and her name on his tongue.

Five more days.

He could survive five more days.

Probably.

---

Author's Note:

Normalize men being this pathetic about their wives. The dragons may be gone, but dramatic devotion should not be.

He thought you didn’t know.

But you saw him.

You always saw him.

The first time, it was only a shadow: a towering figure half-hidden behind the black skeleton of a pine tree, watching you as you hung freshly washed sheets beneath a washed-out winter sky. Another time, you caught the briefest flash of his eyes, pale and aching with something that wasn’t quite hunger and wasn’t quite hatred, as he melted back into the dark.

The creature.

Adam Frankenstein.

The villagers whispered about a monster in the woods, a patchwork horror that should have never drawn breath, but you knew better. Monsters didn’t leave bread on your windowsill on nights you forgot to eat. Monsters didn’t stack kindling by your step after snowstorms, or set down a freshly killed hare just close enough that your old dog could sniff it out in the morning. Monsters didn’t linger at the edge of your light like a shield, taking every blow the world had meant for you.

So you started leaving things for him, too.

A still-warm loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and left on a flat stone near the forest’s edge. A thick, clumsily sewn shirt you’d stitched by candlelight, big enough to fit the breadth of his shoulders as best you could guess. A pair of gloves with uneven fingers. Each offering would be gone by morning, and in their place there’d be… nothing. No note. No mark. Just a silence that somehow felt shy.

Spring came slowly, softening the snow into streams and coaxing green from the hard earth. One bright morning, you took your dog and followed the familiar path beneath the budding branches, letting the cool air kiss your cheeks. You could feel him behind you—no longer a rumour, but a steady presence in the spaces between birdsong and the crunch of twigs underfoot.

He was careful with his distance.

Careful with you.

You felt him before you saw him.

The air behind you changed—thicker somehow, as if the very forest were holding its breath.

Your dog’s ears flicked, tail giving the smallest wag, but he did not bark. He sat at your heel, as though he, too, had long grown used to the giant shadow that haunted the trees.

You stood in the clearing, sunlight painting your skirts in pale gold, fingers resting lightly upon your dog’s head.

“I know you are there,” you said, voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “You have been there for a very long time, have you not?”

Silence.

The birds went quiet. A breeze stirred the budding branches overhead, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else—old smoke, metal, and the faintest trace of soap, as though someone had tried, clumsily, to scrub himself clean.

You swallowed your nervousness and smiled, though he could not see it. Not yet.

“Tell me, Adam,” you continued, your tone turning wry, “how much longer until you understand that I have always known about you… and that you do not frighten me in the least?”

Something shifted among the trees to your left. A heavy footstep, then another, crunching over last year’s leaves. Your dog gave a low, pleased whine.

Slowly, as though dragged forward by some unseen chain, he stepped out from the shadows.

He was larger than you had imagined, even after months of stolen glances. Broad shoulders strained the seams of the very shirt you had sewn by candlelight. The fabric sat oddly upon him, as if he were still unsure he had the right to wear something made with care.

His face—oh, his face.

You had prepared yourself for horror.

Instead, you found sadness.

Features too sharply cut, as though chiseled in haste and anger. Eyes a pale, unnatural blue, ringed by the kind of weariness usually reserved for much older men. There were scars, yes, and those patchwork seams that betrayed the unnatural hand that had pieced him together, but beneath them all… he was simply a man who did not know how to occupy his own skin.

He stopped several paces away, hands held slightly out from his sides, as though to show he carried no weapon.

“You… you ought to run,” he said at last, his voice rough and low, the words strangely precise yet hesitant, like a man learning to speak again after a long illness. “The villagers would tell you to flee.”

“The villagers,” you replied, “have never once stacked firewood by my door after a storm.”

His jaw tightened. He glanced away, as though ashamed.

“That was nothing,” he muttered. “A mere… task. I happened to be near.”

“And the hare left upon my step in January? Was that another mere task?”

He shifted his weight, great hands curling into fists. “You were thin,” he said grudgingly. “There were no tracks near your home. I deduced you did not hunt.”

“And the wolves?” you pressed gently. “The ones that never cross the boundary of my field, though their howls wake me in the night?”

His throat worked. For a moment, the creature looked almost… irritated. “They are foolish animals,” he said. “They do not understand when they trespass upon what is mine to guard.”

Your heart stuttered at that word.

“Yours to guard,” you echoed softly.

At last his gaze met yours. There was a terrible vulnerability in it, like a child braced for mockery.

“You ought not look at me so,” he said, voice rougher now. “You ought to scream. Or at the very least, avert your eyes.”

“I shall do neither,” you answered. “You have been my unseen champion all winter, sir. I should think it discourteous to shriek at you now.”

He frowned, as though the very notion of courtesy applied to him was offensive.

“I am no ‘sir’,” he said. “The man who stitched me together did not deem me fit for such a title.”

“Then what shall I call you?” you asked, ignoring the chill that raced down your spine at his choice of words. “The villagers speak of a monster. A demon. A fiend. I do not care for any of those.”

A shadow of something like humour passed over his face. “He called me Adam,” he said quietly. “As though I were the first of my kind.”

You nodded once. “Very well, Adam.”

Your dog, emboldened by your calm, trotted forward and sniffed at his boots. Adam stared down at him as though the small creature were some strange, new invention.

“He does not fear me,” Adam murmured, almost to himself.

“Animals are often better judges of character than men,” you replied. “He knows you have watched over us.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “I watched to ensure no harm came to you,” he corrected. “Whether you knew of it or not is of little consequence.”

“On the contrary.” You took a small step closer. His eyes widened, as though you had moved a mile instead of a foot. “It is of great consequence. You believed yourself unseen, did you not?”

He hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant nod.

“Then you must also have believed that the bread, and the shirt, and the gloves appeared by some miracle of the woods.” You tilted your head. “Or did you imagine the forest itself had begun to sew?”

Colour—faint but unmistakable—rose along the visible seam of his throat. He looked past you, toward the stone where you always left your gifts.

“I thought…” He paused, visibly searching for words. “I wondered if perhaps you had set them out for the poor. For some wandering soul more deserving than I.”

Your chest ached. “And yet you took them.”

“Yes.” His gaze dropped to his hands, as though the gloves were still upon them. “I told myself I had stolen them. That you would never know. That is the sort of thing a monster does, is it not? Take what is not his?”

“If I leave something upon the edge of the wood with no name attached,” you said gently, “is it truly theft for the one I hoped would claim it… to do so?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, startled. “You… hoped…?”

“For whom else do you suppose I stitched sleeves of that length?” you asked, lips quirking. “There is no man in the village with shoulders so broad as yours, Adam.”

He stared at you as though you had struck him. Not in pain—more in stunned disbelief.

“You… knew,” he breathed. “You knew I was there. All this time.”

“Yes.”

“And you were not afraid.”

You considered this. “I was wary,” you said honestly. “At first. One does not wake to strange footprints and dead wolves without a certain degree of alarm. But then I saw you. Hiding like a boy behind those poor trees, trying very hard not to be seen. And I thought—”

You broke off, biting your lip.

He took a half-step forward despite himself. “You thought what?”

“I thought,” you said slowly, “that no true monster skulks in the shadows to keep a woman’s cottage safe through a winter as harsh as this last one. No true monster leaves food instead of taking it. No true monster looks at another living soul the way you looked at my dog last month—do not pretend you were not there, I saw you through the curtain—like you were afraid to even breathe in his direction for fear you might somehow break him.”

He said nothing. His breath misted faintly in the cool spring air, harsh and uneven.

“You should not look so kindly upon me,” he managed at last. “It is… improper.”

“Improper,” you repeated, amusement bubbling up despite the solemnity of his tone. “We are alone in the forest, Adam. There is no vicar here to scold us.”

“It is not the vicar I fear,” he muttered. “It is myself.”

Your smile faded.

“Why?” you asked.

He looked down at his hands again, turning them palm up as though they were strange objects he’d found rather than parts of his own body.

“These hands have done terrible things,” he said quietly. “I have torn wolves apart, as you have seen. I have broken men who sought to harm me. I have throttled hatred at its source and found only more hatred beneath it. I was created in violence and I fear I shall end in it as well.” His eyes lifted to yours, desperate. “I cannot trust myself near that which is gentle.”

Your throat tightened. “You have been near me all winter.”

“At a distance,” he insisted. “A barrier of trees. Of shadow. Of night. It is different now.”

“Is it?” You closed the gap between you by another small step. He sucked in a breath, shoulders going rigid. You could feel the heat radiating from him now, unnatural in its intensity, like standing too close to a forge. “I feel no danger from you, Adam.”

“You should.”

“But I do not.” You lifted your hand, giving him every opportunity to retreat. “May I?”

He stared at your outstretched fingers as though they were some holy relic. “I… do not know.”

“We shall discover it together,” you said softly.

After a moment that stretched thin as spun sugar, he extended his own hand, large and scarred and trembling just enough for you to see. You laid your palm against his.

Warm. Solid. Very real.

He flinched, not from pain, but from the shock of contact.

“See?” you murmured. “You have not broken me.”

“Not yet,” he said hoarsely.

You squeezed his fingers. “Nor shall you, if I have any say in the matter.”

For a heartbeat, the forest was nothing but the two of you and the soft panting of your dog at your side. A bird dared a tentative trill somewhere above, as though deciding the danger had passed.

“You treat me as though I were… a man,” Adam said quietly, almost accusingly.

“You are,” you replied simply.

His brows drew together. “I am a collection of parts stolen from graves. I am a blasphemy against God and nature both.”

“You are standing in the sunlight speaking to me with more courtesy than half the men in town,” you countered. “If that is blasphemy, then perhaps we have misjudged Heaven.”

A startled, rough sound escaped him—half laugh, half exhale. As though he had forgotten how ordinary mirth should feel in his chest.

“You should not say such things,” he chided, but there was no true censure in it. “You are too bold.”

“You have been listening to me mutter to myself all winter,” you reminded him. “You ought to know by now that my tongue is not easily tamed.”

“I know many things about you,” he admitted, voice going soft. “I know you speak kindly to your dog even when he chews your shoes. I know you hum that same song each morning when you light the stove. I know you eat too little when you are anxious. I know you cry when you believe no one can hear.”

Your breath caught. “You ought not watch a lady in such moments,” you said, flustered.

“I know,” he said, guilt flickering through his gaze. “And yet I could not look away. Your sorrow… it frightened me more than wolves ever could. I wished to tear apart whatever had caused it, but there was nothing there. Only you, and your hands shaking, and your tears falling into the dough you were kneading.”

You blinked rapidly, your throat thick. “You saw that.”

“Yes.”

“And you still think yourself a monster,” you whispered.

He hesitated. “Do you not?”

You stepped closer until there was barely a breath between you, your hand still cradled in his. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes fully.

“If I say no,” you asked, “will you believe me?”

“I… do not know.” His voice cracked on the words.

“Then I shall tell you as many times as necessary until you do.” Your lips curved into a small, earnest smile. “You are not a monster to me, Adam. You are the reason I have slept safely these many months. You are the reason my dog still runs through these woods without fear. You are the reason I am standing here today, whole and unharmed.”

He swallowed hard. “Any man might have done as much.”

“But no man did.” You lifted your free hand to his chest, pressing your palm lightly over where his heart would be—if it beat. “You did.”

His breath hitched. For a moment, he seemed to forget how limbs functioned, standing utterly still as though one wrong move might shatter the moment into fragments.

“You should not touch me so,” he said weakly.

“And yet,” you murmured, “you do not step away.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched. “Because I am selfish. Because I have spent a season watching you from afar and I am not yet strong enough to deny myself this one brief… kindness.”

“Adam,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

He obeyed. Slowly, hesitantly, but he obeyed.

“There is nothing ‘brief’ about what I intend,” you told him. “You have guarded my cottage as though it were a kingdom. Will you not allow me, at the very least, to guard your heart in return?”

His lips parted, but no sound came. You could see the war waging behind his eyes—fear and longing and disbelief all tangled together.

“You… would keep company with me?” he managed at last. “Knowing what I am?”

“Knowing who you are,” you corrected. “A man named Adam who walks the tree line at night so that I may sleep. A man who refuses to let wolves cross my field. A man who looks at my foolish old dog as though he were some creature made of glass.” Your fingers curled briefly against his chest. “If that is monstrosity, I shall gladly consort with monsters.”

Another laugh—clearer this time—escaped him. It transformed his face, smoothing some of the harsh lines, revealing the man beneath the scars.

“You are very stubborn,” he said.

“So I have been told.”

“And you would not… flee, if I came nearer? If I…” He faltered, gaze flickering to your joined hands. “If I visited your cottage when the sun has set?”

“I should be most put out if you did not,” you said lightly. “I have an extra chair by the hearth and no one to fill it. My dog prefers company. As, I suspect, do I.”

He stared at you as though trying to determine whether this were some cruel trick of the mind. At last, cautiously, he lifted his other hand to hover near your cheek, stopping inches away.

“May I?” he asked, echoing your earlier words.

You leaned into the space between, closing the distance yourself. His fingers brushed your skin—calloused, uncertain, trembling. He cupped your cheek as though cradling something far more fragile than you felt.

“You are warm,” he whispered, wonder in his tone.

“And you are real,” you replied.

His thumb swept once, reverently, along your cheekbone. “If I frighten you,” he said softly, “you must tell me at once. I will go, and I shall not trouble you again, though it break what passes for my heart.”

“I do not believe you capable of breaking my heart,” you said. “Guarding it, perhaps. As you have guarded everything else.”

His eyes shone, sudden moisture gathering there. He blinked it away quickly, as though ashamed.

“I do not understand why you would offer such mercy to me,” he murmured.

“Perhaps,” you said gently, “it is not mercy. Perhaps it is simply… affection.”

The word seemed to strike him with more force than any blow.

“Affection,” he repeated, voice barely audible. “For me.”

“For you,” you affirmed. “For Adam, who walks the forest so that I might live another day to bake too much bread and scold my dog and sew shirts far too large.” Your smile softened. “Stay with me, and I shall show you there is more for you than shadows and solitude.”

He drew in a long, shaky breath. When he exhaled, something in his posture eased—the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. As though a burden he had carried alone for far too long had shifted, just slightly, into your waiting hands.

“Very well,” he said at last, voice low but resolute. “I shall try.”

Your heart lifted, light as the first spring breeze.

“Good,” you replied. “Then you shall walk me home, Adam. And after that, if you wish, you may sit by my fire and tell me all the things you have seen from the edge of the wood.”

He glanced once toward the deeper forest, then back to you—the woman who had left bread and stitched shirts and dared to speak kindly to the creature everyone else feared.

“As you wish,” he said quietly.