Out of My Head

The restaurant is quiet enough that you hear the chair scrape against the hardwood before you ever see him. Your date is laughing. He’s halfway through telling you about some hiking trail he wants to take you to next weekend when the color drains from his face.

“Sir…?”

You don’t have to turn around. Every instinct in your body already knows.

Andy.

He stands beside the table in an immaculate charcoal suit, one gloved hand tucked into his pocket, the other lazily adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. To everyone else, he looks like another wealthy businessman.

To you, he’s death wearing a tailored smile.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Your stomach knots.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“No?” His eyes drift to the man sitting across from you. “Seems I arrived right on time.”

Your date clears his throat. “Listen, man, I don’t know who…”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.”

The words aren’t loud. They’re worse because they aren’t. You stand so fast your chair topples over.

“Andy.”

His gaze finally returns to yours, softening in a way that would almost look affectionate to anyone watching.

“There she is.”

“You need to leave.”

“I asked you to come home.”

“I told you I was done.”

His jaw flexes.

“You don’t get to be done.”

Your date rises beside you, trying to position himself between you.

“I think she made herself pretty clear.”

Andy studies him for a long moment. Almost curiously. Then he sighs.

“So…” His head tilts. “This is what you call moving on from me.”

The words are almost amused.

“You don’t understand,” you whisper.

Your date squares his shoulders.

“No. You don’t understand. She doesn’t want—”

The sound that follows is deafening.

A single crack.

The room erupts into screams. Your date crumples before the sentence is ever finished. Time stops.You stare.

No. No no no…

Blood creeps across the polished floor as Andy calmly lowers the suppressed pistol, his expression unreadable. He steps over the body as though it were an inconvenience. When he reaches you, your knees nearly give out.

“You…” Your voice breaks. “You killed him.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

His gloved fingers brush a tear from your cheek with unbearable tenderness.

“Because he touched what belongs to me.”

You slap him. Hard. The dining room falls silent except for distant crying. Andy barely reacts. Instead, he smiles.

“There you are.”

His hand closes gently—but unyieldingly—around your wrist.

“I’ve missed that fire.”

You try to pull away.

He doesn’t even strain to hold you.

“You don’t get to do this!” you scream. “I hate you!”

For the first time all night, Andy looks wounded. But only for a second. Then the coldness returns.

“No.”

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“You hate what I do.”

He steps closer until your forehead nearly brushes his chest.

“But if you truly hated me…”

His fingers tighten just enough to remind you escape isn’t an option.

“…you never would’ve looked over your shoulder every time the restaurant door opened.” His lips ghost your ear.

“You were hoping it would be me.”

Before you can deny it, he’s already leading you toward the waiting black sedan outside. Not because you’ve surrendered.

You’re on the fold out bed that converts to a table in daylight. Your brother sleeps on the couch and your dad gets the only private room in the cluttered trailer. You sit up groggily as the hammering knock comes again; at the top right of the door.

“Police, open up. Now!” A voice barks.

Your feet tangle in the blanket as you scramble to obey. You nearly tip over the edge as you leave the ratty comforter hanging down to the floor. You garble dumbly as you try to straighten up yourself and your vision.

You look around. The couch is empty and your dad’s bedroom door is shut.

“Dad? Ricky?” You call out. Your voice is crisp not only from sleep but disuse. You can’t remember the last time you spoke so loudly. “Hey!”

No answer.

You stagger into the door and lean on it as you slide back the latch. It quakes as once more a fist batters at it. “PD. Open up now. Show your hands.”

You twist the latch and the door pushes open from the other side. You stumble as a light shines in your face. “Hands up. Show your hands. Palm out.”

You shakily do as you’re told. You don’t know what’s going on. The police come around but your dad or brother deals with them. You usually just hide. That’s all you ever do.

“Against the wall.” An officer grabs you and spins you into the closest wall. You whimper as he pins you there with his knee against the back of your legs and his elbow in your back.

Other shadows march in, aiming lights and barrels all around. The strip the foldout bed and flip it up roughly. You quiver as you try to see over your shoulder.

“Head forward.” The officer commands. “I’m searching the suspect in custody.”

You whine. Suspect?

The man gruffly grabs at your, hooking his arm around to claw at your shirt, down your chest across the back of your shoulders, down your sides. He kicks your feet apart as he searches for pockets and anything hidden in your stained jogging pants. Just three days of your sweat.

“She’s not one of them,” Another officer says. “Take it easy.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s fucking one or related,” another responds. “She’ll be questioned but no need for all tht.”

You shy away at the former suggestion. You would never. As pathetic as you are, still living with your family, you’re not that. No, no man ever wanted that from you.

“Grinton,” a taller officer approaches, “join in. I’ll take the witness.”

“Fine.”

“You find anything good, you’re welcome,” the second officer says. “I’ll write the commendation myself.”

“Pfft, whatever,” the man pushes off you and you whimper again. “Fucking desk jockeys.”

The first officer stomps away as the other lingers. “Hey, miss, let’s step outside, okay?”

He gestures you to the door aas the police continue to ransack the trailer. You descend the three steps to the ground in your bare feet. The officer follows you out.

“Come on, we’ll go by my vehicle.” He nudges you gently.

You nod and follow his thick finger to a big grey truck. He walks you over and directs you to stand by the side of the hood. He holsters his gun and goes to the back passenger door. He opens it to grab something then returns to you.

“Water,” he offers the bottle. You take it and murmur, “thank you.”

“No problem. Not a very peaceful awakening, huh?” He asks.

You shake your head as you try to uncap the water. Your mouth is gritty and dry. You can’t get a grip as you tremble. Your eyes drift over to the officers streaming in and out of the trailer.

“I’m Detective Marshall. I’m leading this investigation. You’re not under arrest right now but I am going to question you.” He pauses and watches you struggle with the bottle. He opens his hand. “Here.”

You hand it over. He cracks the seal easily and hands it back with the cap loosened. You take it off and drink slowly.

“I’m going to tell you your rights. Make sure you listen, miss.”

You nod and put the cap back on, hands unsteadily twisting it.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions.” He stops and watches you. You nod again.  “You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time.

“Knowing your rights, are you willing to answer my questions?”

You rock slightly then stop yourself. You don’t understand. Sure, your dad and Ricky get into some shady stuff; pot, drinking, and their scummy friends, but they never hurt no one.

“Uh, yes. I understand. Um, but I don’t know anything.” You utter.

He leans in, a curl falling forward. He’s tall and wide. He wears a black shirt under a black jacket, a holster across his shoulders and on his belt. His badge hangs around his neck. His blue eyes shine in the moonlight.

“Miss, you’re going to have to speak up. There’s a lot going on right now.” He girds.

“Ahm, sorry,” you clear your throat. “Um, um,” you squeeze the bottle and the lid pops off, water splashing out.

“Alright, miss, let’s get you sitting down.” He offers.

He motions you along the truck and opens the back passenger door. You see the case of bottles on the floor. He points you to the seat. You climb up awkwardly and sit sideways to face him, his hand on your elbow as he helps you.

“I… I understand. I can answer… try to.” You say louder but not more confident.

“Alright,” he says. “Everything is being recorded for your safety and mine,” he taps his chest and you notice the box attached to his gun harness. 

“Ok…” you sip again. His eyes follow the movement.

“What’s your name?” He asks. You answer barely, choking on the syllables. “How do you know Carlo….” he says your last name.

You blink. “He’s…” your lip trembles. “My dad…. Is he okay?”

He hums. “And Ricky….”

You bite your lip. You frown. “My brother,” you eke out.

“You reside here with them?”

“Yes, sir.” You gulp. “I… I clean up and I cook when I can. I just… I stay inside. I don’t… are they hurt?”

“We’ll get to that. Now, miss, I need you to focus on my questions. Can you do that?” He adds on your name, like he knows you.

“Yes, I’m trying. I’m sorry. I’m scared.”

“You don’t have to be scared, alright?” He assures. “When’s the last time you saw your dad or your brother?”

You shudder and sway. “This morning. Or… yes… I made coffee and Ricky didn’t like it. And dad, he… he was in a real bad mood. He didn’t even want his.” You bring a hand up to shakily rub your cheek. “Are they in trouble?”

“Miss, you answer my questions, okay?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” you cower at the stone in his voice. “I didn’t mean to. I promise.”

He stares at you, his brow twitching. He takes a deep breath. Your eyes twinge with the heat of tears ready to spill over.

“No need for sorry. I’m not mad. These questions are for your safety. No one’s trying to hurt you or get you in trouble.”

You nod and gulp. “I just… I just… dad said not to talk to the police.”

“I’m sure he did,” he scoffs. “Alright. I think that’s enough for now. We’ll get you to the precinct and wrap this up there.”

“Oh? Am I… being arrested?” Your voice cracks.

“Detained. For further questioning.” He explains evenly. “I’m just gonna keep you out here in my truck, okay? You want the heat on? Some music?”

“I… I am a little cold,” you chatter and hug yourself. “Thank you, sir. Uh, Detective.”

🚨

You’re put in a room alone. It’s cold. You’re sat at a table. No shoes, no coat, still in your jogging pants and your dad’s old hole-pocked Budweiser shirt. You shiver and rub your arms.

The door opens and jars you. You hunch as you try to warm yourself. You don’t have a bra on. You hid your nipples behind your crossed arms.

Detective Marshall greets you by name. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He comes in. “No one offered you a blanket?”

You glance over at him and shake your head.

“Christ.” He growls. He’s just a grizzly in the light. Thick hair, thick beard, thick shoulders. He doesn’t have his holsters or his guns now. That’s a little reassuring. “Alright, I’ll go get that. You want coffee or something?”

“No thank you. I don’t like coffee?”

“More water? Tea?” He suggests.

“Sir, I… I’m fine. Just cold. Thank you.”

“Alright. I’ll be back.”

He’s quick. As promised, he returns with a blanket. He drape it over your shoulders and you pull it snug around you. He sits across from you as he puts down a notebook and pen, alongside his phone.

“Alright. So, I think we shouldn’t have much more to go over tonight. You’ve been super helpful already. Really just looking to understand what your brother and dad have been up to the last few days.” He begins.

“Right, um, I don’t know much. I stay… home.” You slant your lips.

“You work?” He prompts. You shake your head and look down.

“But you said you do stuff at home. Sounds like you do put in work.”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s chore. No one else’ll do em.” You shrug.

“I’m not gonna sit here and beat around the bush with you, sweetie. Be very honest with me, do you know of any illegal activity your dad and brother might be involved with?” He asks.

You stare at the table. You push your thumbs together under the blanket. You don’t want to get them in trouble.

“I know you’re a good girl, huh?” He leans in, gripping the pen in his hand. His large hand with thick fingers, coarse hair on his knuckles. “You don’t want them to get hurt. I’m not looking to do that. We need to find them to help them.” He sniffs. “So you be honest because if you’re not, that’s an obstruction charge.”

“What? No, I…”

“Can’t be so quiet, sweetie.” He chides.

You sit up and look at him. Your cheeks pinch as you fight back tears.

“I know they smoke… uh pot. But I don’t know anything else.” You confess. “I hate the smell and… They tell me go out back when they got friends over.”

He scribbles on the paper.

“You know any of these friends names?” He asks.

You purse your lips and nod. You just want to go home. So you’ll answer his questions. Pot isn’t so bad. Certainly it could be worse.

🚨

“I think that’s about it.” Detective Marshall states. “We’ll just have you sign your statement and you’re free to go.” He closes the notebook. “It’ll take a couple to get it printed out but you can go wait in the hall.”

You nod and stand up. You look down and let the blanket fall off your shoulders. You fold it up and offer it to him. He stares at you, eyes scaling up and down.

“No shoes?” He drawls.

“No uh… no.”

“Hm, I can get you some sandals before you go. Jail issue but they’ll do you.” He says. “Keep the blanket. It’s frigid out.”

You dip your chin again. He leads you out and puts you in one of the chairs along the wall. You cling to the blanket and wait. You listen to the chatter of the officers, the printer skimming, and the snorts and coughs of other people waiting for questioning.

Marshall comes back and gives you a pair of socks and rubber grey sandals. “Sorry we don’t go anything else. They’re probably a bit big on ya.”

“That’s okay.” You stare at your knees.

“Alright, come up to the counter to sign your statement when you’re ready.” He leaves them in your lap.

You put on the socks and sandles, then flop up to the counter. You sign the printed statement as Marshall looms on the other side.

“You need a ride somewhere? It’s late.”

“Um… home?” You say. “If it’s not too much, I… I don’t got no money.”

“Home? You can’t go home. It’s an active crime scene.” He says.

Your eyes go wide. “What? I don’t got no where else.” You pout.

“No mom? Family?”

You shake your head.

“Friends?”

You bat your lashes as panic and fear floods your chest.

“Alright, alright, we can help you out. How about I call the shelter, see if they got any beds? If not, we’ll figure something out for the night, alright?”

“I… I… I’m sorry,” you rock as you squeeze the folded blanket. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

“Just go sit down and I’ll get it sorted for you,” he assures.

“Okay.” You sniffle and turn to shuffle back to the hard plastic chair.

“Walter, you’re such a sweet old teddy bear,” one of the officer says to him, getting only a growl in return.

🚨

“No beds,” Marshall stands in front of you as you get up. “But I got a place you can stay the night.”

“Oh, uh… I’m…”

“Sorry? Come on. You’re not the one who made this mess.” He tuts. “Here.” He offers you his jacket, the big black heavy one. “You’re tired. So am I.”

“I… thank you.” You hang your head.

He puts the jacket over your shoulders. He nudges you and ushers you along the fluorescent tinted hallways. A few times he has to scan his badge to get you through.

You come out into the cold night, your breath pluming frostily from your lips. He takes you to the same gray truck. Your sandal slips on the step as you try to get in and he catches you. He gets you in the seat and buckles you in. You press yourself away from him as you watch.

He chuckles. “Sorry, habit. I’m used to buckling people in.”

He backs up and shuts the door. You lay the blanket on your lap, your hands lost in the lengths of his sleeves. He gets in the driver’s side and turns the engine.

“You can close your eyes. It’s not far.”

You don’t. You watch the cones of the street lights and the black street. He makes a few turns and pulls into a town house. You peer around curiously.

“You’ll have to be quiet. Faye’ll be sleeping.” He says.

You look at him.

“My daughter. It’s ok. You’ll crash in my bed and I’ll take the couch so she’s not surprised.”

You nod. “Thank you, Detective. It’s… too nice.”

“Walter. This isn’t an interrogation,” he reaches to squeeze your shoulder. Before he pulls away, he pets your cheek softly. “Come on. Let’s get you in bed.”

He gets out and comes around to open your door. He brings you up the walkway and guides you inside. He uses his flashlight to take you through the dark into a bedroom at the end of the downstairs hallway.

He offers you some clean clothes; his. Made for a man bigger than most. He leaves them for you and suggest the shower in the bathroom attached to the room. You thank him and he leaves.

Alone, you don’t know what to you. You’re embarrassed. You’re lost. What do you do now? What’s going on with Ricky and your dad?

You change into his clothes and slip into bed. Despite your displacement, you drift off easily. You dream of the precinct and the cold walls and metal table.

You wake to humming sound. You can smell pine. A soapy scent. Your lashes flutter as you lift your head. The bathroom door is slightly open.

The thrumming stop as metal cranks. You listen to the soft noises that come after. The door opens with a puff of steam.

Detective Marshall, no, Walter, steps out. He has only a towel around his waist, the curls on his head shiny with dampness, and the hair on his body too. It’s thick and dark and goes from chest to stomach…

“Oh, sorry, did I wake you? I was trying not to.” He grips the towel tighter. It’s too small for him. “I’ll just grab some clothes and scram. I gotta get Faye to school.”

“I’m sorry. I can go.” You sit up. “What time is it?”

He shakes his head. “Early. Stay. We need to talk when I get back.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

You lay back down and roll so your back is too him. You feel like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t and when you close your eyes, you see his body. Yikes.

🚨

When you hear Walter go, you get up. You change back into your own clothes and bring his out with you. The place is empty. It’s nice. A lot nicer than the trailer.

You sit by the front door, on the bench with the cubbies for shoes under it. You hear his truck and his footsteps before he enters. He grunts in surprise as he sees you. His hands are full; a tray of paper cups and a paper bag balanced in one.

“You’re awake.” He says. “I brought breakfast.”

“Oh, you don’t gotta… that’s… a lot.”

“Just BLTs. Little place the detectives love.” He says casually. “Come on, can’t let you go on an empty stomach.”

“I… thank you.”

You wring your hands. You don’t have a plan. You don’t have anywhere to go. So you won’t insist too much.

“I can take that stuff.” You offer.

“Sure, just through there to the right. We’ll eat at the table.” He hands over the food and drinks.

He comes in shortly after, sans his puffer coat and boots. He sits beside you. That’s close.

“Um, Mr… sir. Walter.” You say. “When can I go home?”

He puts a cup in front of you. “Hot chocolate.” He sifts in the paper bag. “You like cheese on your BLT? I got cheddar.”

“Walter?” You urge.

He sighs. “Not anytime soon. I’m sorry. But, I’ve been thinking it over. We can make room here.”

“You said something about a shelter–”

“You ever been to one?” He asks.

You shake your head.

“Even if you get a bed, you won’t get any sleep. Trust me. It’s not safe. Especially for someone like you.”

He unwraps the bagel sandwich and puts it in front of you.

“But…” you begin but have no true argument.

“Look. I know you're not involved in whatever your family got themselves into. Shit happens. Wrong place, wrong time. I talk to all sorts and I know when someone's lying.” He taps his finger on the wrapper. “I know you're not.” He slowly drags his hand away. “And I know you should eat.”

“I… thank you.” You sit back and look at the sandwich. It looks and smells so good.

“I saw the food in that place. Lack of.” He mutters. “You won't go hungry here.”

You say nothing. Ashamed.

“But one thing in return.” He glanced over and you shyly return his gaze. “Don't tell Faye how we know each other. Just tell her… you're an old friend.”

🚨

Faye is nice. Fifteen years old. Sarcastic to her father. Curious with you.

She asks who you are. You recite the lie but tell her your real name. She asks why you're friends with someone as crusty as her dad. You shrug. She laughs. He doesn't react.

She tells you about her friends and all the drama at her school. It's a good distraction. When you were her age, you did your best to stay out of that stuff. When it came your way, you were always the butt of the joke.

It’s a week and you’re still not sure. About where you’ll go next. About yourself. You still feel like an intruder in Walter’s life.

You make up for it by cleaning and cooking. You never asked and he never did either. You just started doing it to feel less lost.

Faye helps you that night with a simple dish. Pasta and chicken. The ingredients here are much nicer than at home. Is it still your home?

“So, I guess, I’m confused because I really like this person and they seem to like me too,” Faye says as she stirs the sauce. “I don’t know. What if I’m misreading?”

You give a gentle smile as you check the noodles. “Um, sorry, Faye, I… I wouldn’t be the best for… to know…” She leans in a little. You raise your voice. It’s a bad habit. Mumbling. “Um, I never really, you now, had a boyfriend or whatever…”

“No? Well, she wouldn’t be a boyfriend.” Faye says. You look at her, surprised. She hesitates. “Sorry, I said too much–”

“No, no. That’s great!” You assure her. “Is she pretty?”

“The prettiest,” she says. “And so bubbly but what if I’m too much of a bitch? What if I’m too sarcastic.”

“You never know unless you try, right?”

She quiet for a moment, tapping the wooden spoon to get the excess sauce off before putting it down. “But you never did. You said so.”

You shrug and look away. “Guess I never really had the… opportunity.”

“I’m… I didn’t mean, I–” she stammers.

“It’s okay. Really. It’s a choice.” You lie. Is it a choice when no one ever wanted you?

Another lull rises. The water spits as it boils around the noodles. You turn it down.

“Ladies,” Walter startles you. “Smells good in here.”

“Dad.” Faye spins. “You’re early.”

“I am?” He checks his watch. “I guess.”

“Hi,” you say quietly as you grab a strainer.

“Faye, why don’t you go chill. I’ll help finish up.” He insists.

“Sure. I gotta text Hera.” She slits out. You wonder if that’s the girl she told you about.

“Here,” Walter approaches and takes the strainer. “I’ll hold, you pour.”

He goes to the sink. You grab the pot of noodles and carefully approach. You pour out the steaming water to drain the pasta. You press against Walter as you do.

He dumps the dry noodles back into the pot and you put it back on the unlit burner. You stir the sauce as he sidles up next to you.

“Almost done. Think I can handle it.” You say.

He leans in. Oh, you’re mumbling again.

“No, it’s okay. You and Faye, seems like you’re getting along.”

You nod.

“That’s good. You know, her mom left when she was real young so…”

“I’m sorry for her.” You say.

“I think I do a good job. Or try to.” He says as he turns to watch you. You focus on the sauce, wondering if you should add more seasoning.

“So um, I overheard a little. Just you know, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh?” You blanch.

“I’m happy she could tell you that. I guess I’m too much of an asshole for her to trust me like that.” He snorts.

“No, you’re not. You’re a good dad. A good guy.”

“I… can be,” he says. “But uh… were you just saying all that to make her feel better or…”

“What… do you mean?”

“You never… had a boyfriend?”

You sweat and not because of the stove. You shake your head.

“Never?” He asks again.

You put your face down and shake your head more vehemently.

“How’s that? As pretty as you are.”

“Walter,” you babble and put the spoon down. You turn away from him. “It’s not… you don’t have to…”

You try to walk away and he catches your arm. He pulls you back to face him. You hit his chest and look up at him. You squeak.

He stares down at you, hands firm around your arms. His breath plumes from his nose. He leans down.

“Let me kiss you. Just once.” He says quietly. “Then you can say you have.”

You gape at him. You don’t know what to do? If you say no, it would be so awkward, but what about if you say yes? What does it mean? Just once?

“Please,” his voice quivers. “Let me kiss you, sweetie.”

You squirm and swallow. “I don’t… I don’t know how.”

“Let me show you,” he leans down until you feel the graze of his lips. “It’s just a kiss.”

Just a kiss. That’s it. Don’t think too much.

“Okay…” you whisper.

He presses his lips to yours. You squeak. His tongue flicks across your lips and you twitch. He pokes and you let him in. You stand there dumbly as he smothers you, his hands squeezing tighter and tighter.

He pulls away at last. You’re both breathless. You put your head down and wipe his saliva away with the back of your hand. He rubs up and down your arms.

“Was it good?” He asks.

“Walter…” you croak and look up. You chew the hem of your sleeve, trying to hide behind it. “When can I go home?”

His eyes flash and his jaw tenses. His nostrils flare just a little.

“We haven’t found your family yet so… not today.” He drops his hands. He turns and grabs the wooden spoon to stir the sauce himself. “You don’t like it here?”

You frown. “No, I didn’t say but… I don’t belong.”

His cheek dimples. “Who said that?”

“No one, I just…” You trail off.

“If you asked, I’d tell you you do.” He says quietly. He turns off the burn and adds the sauce to the noodles. “You know where you don’t belong. In that dirty old trailer with criminals.” He snarls as he mixes the pasta. “I think I’ve taken damn good care of you.” He drops the spoon against the side of the pot and faces you. “Wouldn’t you say so?”

You look down.

“No, look at me. Tell me.” He commands.

You lift your head and peer up at him. “Yes, I… I like it here. You’ve been so nice and… I’m sorry.”

Just when you thought you were close to done, you have to do it all over because of that one damn cell. It’s simple. Just don’t mess with the format and put in what you have to. Nothing more.

You hunch over and push your glasses up your nose as they slip. You bite your lip in frustration as you check the track changes notes. Where exactly did this all go wrong?

“Hey, doll, ready to go?” The voice plunges into the silence like a rock tossed into water. You up and blink away the gridlines burned into your vision.

“Steve, I… I thought you were still out of town.” You say.

“Disappointed?” He challenges as he puts his hand on the edge of your desk and leans on one heel.

“No, no, I… it’s… a pleasant surprise.” You make yourself smile. “I…” you hesitate and look down at the coffee stain on your blouse and your wrinkled sleeves rolled to your elbow. “I’m sorry, but I’m just tying up a few loose ends. It’s going to take a while.”

“I can wait.” He assures.

“You don’t have to.”

“Maybe I want to.” He winks and his blue eyes sparkle. You sigh, almost dreamily.

“I’ll be quick.” You promise.

“Trust me, I won’t.” He growls back.

You stifle a giggle. “I’m at work.”

He looks around. “No one else is.”

“Right. Overtime.” You shrug.

“Don’t let me get in the way,” he stands straight and shows his palms. “I’ll find a way to keep busy.”

He bends to kiss your cheek then walks away. You look back to your monitor and deflate. This could be done by now if anyone here knew what they were doing.

You lean your chin in your hand, fingers stretched to rub your temple. As you go through and correct the coding, you grind your teeth. You huff and sigh to yourself and mumble. Now, why isn’t that cell behaving?”

The tick of the clock on the wall fills your head. The static of the office bristles in your ears as you click and type. You sniff as you sense the air shift. Sometimes if you stay late enough, the air system shuts off.

You cross and uncross your legs as you try to find a comfortable spot on the thin chair cushion. You yelp at a sudden warm on your knee. Then the other. You can’t pull away from the desk as hands grip you.

“Steve?” You squeal.

He hushes you and slides his hands up your thighs, right under your skirt.

“How did you get under there–”

He shushes you again and bites the meat of your thigh. You hiss and grab onto the armrests. He pulls you to the edge of the seat as he pushes your skirt higher.

“Steve!” You cry again.

Your small hands wiping away the juice that drips from the corner of your mouth. One finger dips into the crème before it disappears between your lips. The rich flavor and velvety-smooth texture inspire you to dip a piece of strawberry into the pillowy topping, utter joy sparkling in your eyes as the golden hour emphasizes your gossamer wings and the hint of shimmer just beneath your skin. 

It’s only when Dennis is lost in watching you that he accidentally alerts you to his presence. The quick exhale of air through his nose breaks through the silent evening, your pointed ears twitching at the sound. 

Your eyes snap to the tall human standing behind half-open sliding glass doors. Dishwater-blond hair and biceps that threaten to stretch a pink polo shirt to its limits make it difficult to look away or even breathe, especially as his gemstone-blue eyes twinkle in the evening sun. 

This bashful, bespectacled man must be the one who left this wonderful feast for you. A slow smile spreads across your lips as you imagine how easy it would be to lure him into the garden. It’ll be even easier for him to give you his name. 

And once you have his name, you hold his world in your hands.

After all, humans have a strange habit of introducing themselves to whoever they meet—be they human, animal, or mischievous fae. 

☀️🍓✨🧚🏼☀️🍓✨🧚🏼☀️🍓✨🧚🏼

A/N: Holy crap. This is the first thing I’ve written and posted since 2024. It's been a minute! But Dennis is just too irresistible! 🤭