Green Witch From The Woods

It’s easy to spot the beaker, sitting unassumingly on the kitchen counter along with other things Ryland had brought home. It’s one of the things he always tasks you to do, so you’ve started to memorize what each item was called.

You still remember how proud Ryland had looked the first time he’d asked you to get something, and you didn’t have to ask him for his help.

(He’d rewarded you rather enthusiastically later that night.)

So, spotting the beaker was no problem to you at all. In fact, you’d felt proud as you’d recognized it immediately among the other glassware.

You hear it before you’re able to process what has happened. The sound of glass shattering, and you stare with wide eyes at your now empty hands, and the shards of glass by your feet.

The tears start almost immediately. “Oh. Oh no, no no no.”

It has Ryland’s attention in seconds too, because he’s immediately beside you, assessing the situation.

He’s so occupied in making sure it hasn't snagged at the skin of your legs that he doesn’t notice right away that you’re crying until he spots in his periphery the way you bring both sleeves of your sweater to your eyes and the quiet sniffles.

“Hey, hey, are you crying?”

“Oh, Ryland. I’m so sorry.”

“No, honey, it’s okay.” He’s gently pulling your hands away from your face, rolling up your sleeves to carefully inspect your bare hands. “Did you get hurt? Are you alright? Did any of it get to you? Hands? Legs?”

You can hardly see from the blur of the tears, but you’re quick to shake your head at the question. “‘M okay. But, but your beaker.”

You’re sputtering over your words, guilt itching at the back of your throat because you know his things can be expensive.

You know how much he takes care of them, how much these things matter to him.

“Hey, it’s okay. There are many more beakers out there. Come on, I’ll clean it up. Just have to come with me so you don’t accidentally hurt yourself.”

He’s so gentle with you, so delicate as he leads you backwards and away from the mess you’d made. “Only one of you, you know?”

“I’ll pay for it. I’ll… I’ll buy a new one.”

“Absolutely not. You don’t have to.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head at your persistence as he keeps a hand on the small of your back and another on yours to carefully steer you backwards one slow step at a time, until you finally reach the couch.

“All safe now, hm?” Ryland asks, and you’re still so embarrassed. “I promise it’s okay. I don’t want you to think about it anymore.”

“But…”

“Please?”

You nod meekly, staring down at your hands while Ryland moves to clean the pieces of glass on your floor, taking extra care to sweep and vacuum until he’s sure you wouldn’t hurt yourself if you stepped over.

And then, he’s immediately glued back to you, crouching just in front of you to do one last round of checking. “Humor me one moment?”

“Hm?”

“Feet, please.” Before you can understand the connotation of a single-worded ‘feet’, he’s already taking it gently in his hands and twisting it around to ensure you didn’t hurt yourself.

His experiment is forgotten.

He’s ignored it in favor of sitting next to you and pulling you in his arms, hands stroking over your back and trying his best to soothe the guilt out of you. He knows you’ve always been extra sensitive about breaking things. The scolding you’d received as a child in consequence.

“Feeling better, honey?”

“Mhm… probably shouldn’t help you anymore though.”

“Hey, no. I love when you help me out.” He pulls back slowly, so as to not startle you. And when he does, his palms find home on your cheeks so he can look at you. And so you can look at him, too.

At his sincerity.

“Even if I’m no good at it?”

“You kidding? You’re my favorite lab assistant.” He leans down to press a short kiss on your lips. “You’re so good at it. No one’s more qualified.”

“I’m your only lab assistant.” You sniffle.

“Can’t hear you.”

Another kiss is planted on your lips, then your cheeks and your wet eyes and your chin until you start to smile at him, and you can see how it relieves Ryland physically to see you smiling again.

He watches you for another few seconds, watches the smile stay on your face as he keeps kissing you, and how the storm slowly starts to pass.

“Okay. I have a new experiment.”

You blink up at him. “New experiment already?”

“Mhm, but I need you to hear my hypothesis out and see if you agree, okay?”

You nod slowly.

“Okay, hypothesis. Girlfriend who is carried to bed and receives a multitude of kisses will stop blaming herself for dropping a very replaceable beaker.”

A small and unexpected laugh escapes you, and despite yourself, you shove Ryland playfully by his shoulder. “That’s not a real experiment.”

Ryland grins at the results, leaning in again after you’d managed to push him away for a split second. “But it is. And I’m ready to begin the first trial.”

Before you can say anything else, your boyfriend is already picking you up on the couch to lead you to your bedroom. And he’s planting kisses on you again, landing on your cheeks, and the corner of your mouth, and…

“Ryland…”

“One moment. He’s in the middle of a very important experiment.”

You laugh again, succumbing to his attention, and his attention to detail, kissing every part of you he can, every single inch he can reach.

“Is it working?” He whispers against your ear after placing a kiss behind it, trailing a few more down your neck.

“Mhm, working very well.” You giggle, and you can feel his smile grow against the skin of your neck at your response.

And you can’t see it, but you know it’s fond.

“Good.” He presses a final kiss beneath your jaw before he’s looking at you again. “Might have to repeat the experiment again tomorrow, though. Just to ensure my preliminary findings are correct.”

“For accuracy?”

“Exactly. So, so smart, baby.” He’s praising you, he loves praising you. And then, his eyes are suddenly on you with eyes glowing in something a little more suggestive.

“Might have to update my hypothesis, also. The clothing variable is interfering a bit with the data. I’d have a much better experimental condition without it.”

“Ryland!”

He takes such care of you for the rest of the night that you forget about the beaker in the first place.

Now you find yourself being filled with your best friend's cock while watching a movie that was over 2 hours long for 100 dollars. You were mentally kicking yourself for letting Colt choose the movie because now you weren't even an hour in and you were already aching for Colt to move.

He had warmed you up during the opening credits and the first 30 minutes with a heavy and distracting make-out session and then split you open with his fingers, making you have your first orgasm of the night. You couldn't even shift your hips with how Colt's strong arms were wrapped around your hips to keep your back glued to his chest.

But you knew Colt was just as affected as you were. You could feel his chest rise and fall on your back as he took sharp breaths, and you could feel him twitch occasionally when you attempted but failed to shift your hips. The two of you were partially clothed; Colt's sweatpants weren't even off of his legs, just tugged down to his thighs, while he had a white tank top on, and you had stripped yourself of your bottoms completely and just had one of Colt's old shirts on.

You clenched around Colt unintentionally, and he let out a low grunt. "Shit, you can't do that. That's not fair." Colt's voice was strained as he hissed in your ear.

"I didn't mean to." You said as you did it again, this time on purpose. He groaned again. Colt's forehead fell on your shoulder as the grip on your hips tightened.

"Stop it." Colt said through gritted teeth. You were really testing him. All he wanted to do was move and ram his hips against yours since he had sheathed himself in your tight warmth. But it was against his nature to want to lose a bet, especially to you.

"You know if you want to get this over with, you can just move." You moved your hand to the back of his head and started to scratch at his scalp. You could feel how wet you were, even with Colt being inside of you, and all you wanted Colt to do was move and finally reach the relief that the two of you wanted.

Colt leaned back into your hands, but then stopped. He grabbed your arm and ripped it away from his head. "You're playing dirty. That's not allowed."

"You never said we couldn't." You couldn't help but taunt Colt. You shouldn't goad him, but if it was the only way to distract you from how his cock was carving out a space in your cunt and making itself a home in you.

Colt shut his eyes before taking a deep and composed breath. "Watch the damn movie."

"What's the magic word?" You teased.

"You're so—" He cut himself off with a low moan. You had intentionally squeezed around him again. "I hate you."

You chuckled lowly. "I can feel how much you don't."

"Please, watch the movie." Colt's tone was low and filled with warning.

You didn't say anything but lean back further into Colt. The small movement made his thick cock shift slightly inside of you and was now pressing against your g-spot and you let out a breathy 'fuck' right into his ear.

You saw a muscle in his jaw twitch, which made you smirk, but he kept his eyes on the screen in front of the two of you. Your eyes had focused on the screen for a couple of minutes before you let your fingertips dance along his forearms, which were lying on your stomach and hips.

Colt ignored your touch despite the goosebumps that rose on his arms. You traced shapes into his skin before your hands moved away from Colt, making him let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. One of your hands landed on your thighs before the other wandered towards your heated core.

You let out a low moan of relief as you started to rub at your clit, finally seeking respite, and the flame in your lower belly grew steadily. God, you already felt like you were close to cumming with how Colt filled you to the brim.

Colt couldn't take it anymore and let out a groan at the feeling of you clenching around him.

"God, you're such a brat," Colt growled out as he ripped your hand off of your cunt, and you felt him wrap his arms firmly around your waist.

He stood up from the couch, slipping out of you, and you found yourself bracing yourself against the arm of the couch with your hands, and your knees sank into the cushions. You felt Colt's hands land on your hips, and he quickly slid back into you without any resistance, making the two of you moan loudly at the feeling of him filling you once more.

Colt didn't spare you any mercy as he began to roughly thrust in and out of you, both of your moans filling the apartment, mixing with the slapping of skin against each other, the two of you uncaring about the movie that was still playing in the background.

Yeah, it didn't matter who moved first; neither of you cared about the money anymore.

The shower in Luke’s trailer is very small and neither of you like to waste time in there, so it’s a toss-up of whether you’ll shower together or not every time (usually you do, both of you love being close to the other anyway and are rarely far apart). You both wash quickly and in motions reminiscent of vertical Twister when you do, and his hands only start to wander when you’re both clean — the proximity causes more things than just the water vapours to be steamy, and you’ve been pressing soft kisses to each other’s skin at every opportunity. He’s wrapping you up in a towel when you get out (whether you showered together or not) and you’re drying his hair with a hand towel until the bleach-blond tresses fall handsomely over his forehead as he leans down to kiss you. Do you even get dressed after the shower? Probably not, because Luke loves skin-to-skin contact and prefers to cuddle to sleep without boundaries. 

If Colt comes home injured, you’re both getting in the shower pretty much immediately. He got any scratches or cuts patched up and medically cleared on set but you both know that your hands are a kind of magic that can’t be found in a medical trailer. You’re helping him strip off before shedding your own clothes, and then washing away the dirt and grime that still coats his skin with a soft washcloth under the stream of water as hot as the two of you can stand to try and loosen up his tight muscles. Your hands knead into his back with practiced ease (avoiding the visible bruises and abrasions and the still-tender area around his spinal injury) until he sighs heavily and melts into your touch, forehead pressed against the tiles as he tells you about what he was working on that day and you press kisses into his warm flesh. 

When Colt isn’t injured, you’re washing each other while you quiz each other on movie quotes. He can’t reach most of his back so you have to wash it anyway (literally too jacked to reach between his own shoulder blades and it makes you giggle every time he tries). He is super supportive of your ‘everything showers’ and begs to be included, touching you softly as if he’s going to hurt you if he scrubs you with the loofah too hard. He takes all of your directions about what products to use and in what order, and he even wants to do skincare with you after! Matching face masks, moisturising, fluffy robes — you even bought him one of those novelty headbands to keep his hair out of his face. And you best bet that Colt's taking a silly selfie with you and then sending it to the stunt team group chat for whatever movie he’s working on with a corny message that makes you roll your eyes, something like ‘resting and rejuvenating 🙏’.

Holland is only allowed to shower with you sometimes. 

When Holland does shower with you, he can’t keep his hands to himself. He loves to touch you, any way that you let him, and that usually means that the shower ends up being longer than an hour because you basically have to take a second shower in the same shower because of it. He’s praising you the whole time as he gropes at your chest and practically humps your thigh or against your ass because he thinks you’re just too divine to keep his hands (or his dick) away. Will ask you to wash his hair and then drop to his knees with that smirk you can’t help but blush at and then you’re up against the tiles while he uses his mouth on you. 

When you don’t let Holland shower with you, he’s absolutely sitting on the lid of the toilet in his underwear, still intermittently praising you and telling you how good you look through the shower screen while he rambles to you about whatever case he’s working on. He’ll wrap you up in a towel when you’re done and you’ll probably stay in the bathroom while it’s his turn too so you can hear the rest of the story about the case because the second the two of you get into bed, it’ll go one of two ways — Holland will start groping you and you won’t stop him (you might even actively encourage it with the wandering of your own hands), or his head is hitting that pillow and he’s snoring within seconds. 

When you shower with Ryland in the morning, you’re talking about what you each have going on for the day — what experiments is he running with his classes? What are they learning about? Who is he expecting to act up? Who has he been keeping an eye on because they always seem just a little bit too tired in class? He’s drawing stick figures and love hearts in the shower steam on the glass and saying “that’s us, we’re in love!” or some other adorably dorky thing that makes you smile wide and kiss him. 

When you shower with Ryland at night, you’re debriefing — who did he snap and give detention to? Who had a really good question that reminded him of something he studied once? What gossip did he overhear in the teacher’s lounge? What published research paper did he read at lunch and why was the researcher right/wrong? You love it when he rambles, and it’s incredibly soothing when he talks to you in that soft voice he seems to only use with you (even when he’s calling some other scientist an idiot in creative ways for ten solid minutes) while you take turns washing each other. He’s putting his glasses on the second his face is dry so that he can look at you, even though they steam up pretty much immediately and his hair drips onto the lenses so he has to wipe them on his towel anyway, which gives you the opportunity to dry his hair until it’s only damp before he puts the glasses back on, pulls you close, and kisses you deeply with mutterings of how you always take care of him, how much he loves you, and how considerate you are. He pulls one of his clean t-shirts gently over your head for you to sleep in and holds your underwear out for you to step into before pulling on his own pajama pants (no shirt, because Ryland knows how much you love his chest and arms). 

꩜ Ryland claims to not actually like summer that much, he misses his jeans and thick sweaters and especially he misses his fox cardigan, the heat gives him a headache and suncream makes him want to die. But that was all before he met you, now summer is coloured with silver or gold jewellery, flowery swimsuits and poolside cocktails.

꩜ He didn’t learn to swim as a kid so when you told him you were thinking of booking the two of you your first beach holiday together to Greece he had to find a way to tell you that he couldn’t actually swim.

꩜ After finding out (and trying your best not to laugh) you booked a session at your local swimming pool and took him so you could teach him to swim

꩜ He’s not a huge fan of flying he gets nervous of being in a tin in the sky (he hates rollercoasters and lifts so why would he enjoy a plane) so he sits beside you telling you all of the facts he researched about aeroplane engineering mostly so he can reassure himself that it’s not going to crash and so he can distract himself when the plane inevitably takes off.

꩜ He grabs your hand when the plane takes off and doesn’t let go until almost an hour into the flight

꩜ Ryland is scared of lot of things, the ocean included. He adores the beach and would happily just sit on the sand but it’s clear you want to swim with him so it takes you giving him a little pout, batting your eyelashes at him and grabbing his hand to practically drag him towards the sea.

꩜ It takes him a solid fifteen minutes to actually get in the water, the first five he spends just standing on the sand watching the waves get closer to his feet, then the next five standing up to his knees in the water adjusting to the cold water and another five to mentally prepare himself for actually submerging himself.

꩜ He also pretends to not want to get in so he has longer to stand and admire his beautiful girlfriend who’s swimming around him and beckoning him in with a loving smile and the occasional giggle at his little yelps when a wave reaches too high up his body

꩜ One morning he dropped his glasses in the pool at the hotel and while he could swim well now, diving in to get them was not on his holiday bucket list so instead you went in to get them for him

꩜ Evening beach walks were your favourite part of the holiday, you’d go every evening after dinner to watch the sunset, walking along hand in hand while the setting sun turned his hair golden.

꩜ He loves swimming now, once he’s got used to it he just loves floating around with you, he won’t admit it but he loves it when you wrap you arms and legs around him so you don’t have to tread water and he just lets you cling to him, treading water faster than he’s ever done just so that you can stay close to him.

꩜ When I tell you that man is ripped, I mean he’ll take his shirt off by the pool and you’ll practically have to lay on him to deter the multiple pairs of eyes on him and his toned, tanned body.

꩜ He will never, and I mean never let you forget to put sunscreen on, if you go longer than forty minutes without reapplying he’ll remind you and if you fall asleep by the pool he’ll sit and put it on for you.

꩜ He bought matching shell bracelets for you both in a gift shop and by the end of the holiday you had bracelet tan lines because you and him refused to take them off.

꩜ Neither of you were morning people so you often missed the hotel breakfast and instead stayed in bed and ate the fruit that you’d bought the day before.

꩜ One night when it was too hot to sleep, he looked over at you laying peacefully next to him and he thought about it, about coming back to a place like this someday with you and a diamond ring in a little velvet box, about finding the perfect beach to someday take you on another evening walk and ask you if he could love you for the rest of his life.

you laugh under your breath and lift your chin. “you’re not strong enough.”

it's a terrible lie, really. one of the worst you have ever told. sebastian has been able to pick you up like you weigh nothing since you were kids, and he knows it, and you know he knows it, which is exactly why you say it.

his face brightens immediately. “you want to see?”

you make a break for the stairs immediately, even with your heels. the movement is awkward, the dress catching at your legs. unfortunately, sebastian is faster.

you are halfway to the door when his hands catch your hips, steady and familiar, and you let out a tiny yelp before it turns into laughter. your whole body goes stupid for half a second, because apparently being lifted by sebastian is enough to remind your nerves that they are, in fact, alive.

“excuse me,” he says, sarcastic.

you glance back at him, still laughing. “god, i forgot i was talking to sebastian wilder. my knight in shining armor.”

“careful,” he mutters, but he sounds amused now.

he helps you into the taxi with irritating competence, one hand guiding you in, the other smoothing the dress so it doesn't bunch awkwardly around your legs. he does it without thinking.

the touch is brief, but your skin notices anyway. you try very hard to act normal about it.

sebastian slides in after you, all long limbs and easy confidence, like he has not just sent your heart into a full sprint with one hand at your waist.

you look at him.

he looks back, entirely too pleased with himself.

“what’s the name of the bride again?” you ask, because you are committed to have the last word for as long as possible.

sebastian looks at you, then drops his gaze with a smile.

“you want to bet how long you can talk to people before they notice you do not know the bride’s name?”

you tip your head, considering it for a moment, knowing you are absolutely going to win.

“if i get them to think i am her sister,” you say, leaning in close enough to whisper it to him, “we make it double.”

——

the wedding is lovely in the way summer things usually are. the kind of wedding that makes sense in june. all open sky and white chairs and flowers, little kids running around giggling.

you cry a little when they say the vows, you clap when they kiss, because that is what you're supposed to do, and because there is something hard not to believe in when two people look at each other like that.

you glance at sebastian after. he is looking at the couple the same way people look at things they have forgotten how to want. not with sadness, but more like a scene of a movie that shows you what could've been.

“that’s a nice dress,” you mutter when the food starts arriving, because now seems like a decent time to bring it up. the waitress sets a fancy plate down in front of you, then another in front of sebastian. his looks better immediately.

he leans in slightly when you speak, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “mm?”

“if i marry someone one day,” you say, “i would want a dress like that.”

sebastian turns his head just enough that you can hear him without the whole table hearing him too. his hands move quickly, swapping the plates before you can even pretend to object.

“you want to marry?”

the question surprises you more than it should.

you look at him, frowning a little. “i suppose i do. you don’t?”

you know him enough to know he does.

mia flickers through your mind for a second. you don't remember much of her face. you remember her hands more than anything else. her hands on sebastian’s arm. her hand on his shoulder. the perfect way her hands looked holding into his. you suppose you grieved her too, in the strange way people grieve someone they only knew as a person in the life of somebody they loved first.

but after all of that, after everything that had made him quieter in certain places, you had thought—

what had you thought?

that maybe, after all these years, he would have looked at you and understood something obvious?

you tighten your fingers around your fork. you are not foolish enough for that. you are smarter than that, even if your heart is being irritating about it.

sebastian hasn't answered you yet.

the table noise goes on around you, silverware against plates and someone laughing too loudly a few seats away. you lift one shoulder in what you hope looks casual.

“just asking,” you say.

the music suddenly starts. you supposed you must have been too deep in your own head to notice when they announced the couples’ dance.

the bride appears again, her dress changed now, shorter than before. she beams at the crowd, all white teeth and happiness. you get up immediately, trying to get a better view of a dance the couple probably didn't practice enough.

the crowd closes in and the back of your dress catches on someone’s hand, you know it's sebastian behind you before you even turn. you don't feel strong enough to look at him after your conversation.

a girl laughs nearby, it sounds too much like mia. you wonder if sebastian heard it too. you wonder if he is thinking the same thing.

someone steps on your dress, and a kid shoves you without meaning to, he doesn't apologize either. you watch him disappear into the crowd. you've only walked a few yards, but it feels much farther. the couple is still dancing somewhere ahead and your chest feels oddly tight.

then someone touches your arm.

you look up to find an older woman studying your face with polite suspicion.

“are you a friend of the couple?” she asks.

the answer comes out before you can stop it. “i’m the bride’s sister.”

you say it loudly enough that sebastian, wherever he is, will hear. there is a known snort somewhere two feet to your left.

your shoulders loosen by a fraction.

the old woman’s expression does not change much, but at least it softens around the edges. “really? emily never mentioned having another sister.”

“oh, you know,” you say, already committing to the bit. “travelling around the world. we are not that close.”

she nods, though her expression still looks a little sour.

“where have you been to?” she asks.

“oh. argentina, brazil…” you start, because apparently lying with confidence makes the lie sound more expensive.

“no europe?”

you shrug. “nah, bores me.”

it's a ridiculous answer, especially since you have never left the country your feet are currently planted in, but it seems to satisfy her well enough. apparently europe has enough critics already.

the singer suddenly leans into the microphone to announce that the dance floor is open for everyone. people clap right away. you join them too, because not clapping would be weirder and you are trying to keep a respectable distance from weird tonight.

the music shifts, brighter and groovy.

mothers go to dance with their children. husbands take their wives by the hand. it is all very sweet in a way that feels almost aggressive, like the room is insisting on happiness. you wonder if sebastian feels that too.

he at least has an excuse. he has had love once. real love, or whatever the version of it was that left marks. your own sorrows are more embarrassing because no one else can see them, and that does not make them less annoying to carry.

you start looking for him without meaning to, your head turning left and right until you spot him near the rose garden.

your feet move before you can rethink it.

“you owe me money,” you say when you reach him, putting on your best al pacino impression.

sebastian’s mouth twitches. “the wedding is not over yet.”

“they’re married,” you say. “they said the vows. people are dancing. it's over.”

you extend your hand.

“she believed me. give me the money.”

“you are always so stubborn.”

you give him a look that says ‘the pot should really not be calling the kettle black’, and he answers with the sort of expression that says ‘fair enough’.

he reaches for his wallet. “why do you want to leave?”

“i don't want to leave,” you say immediately, which is how he knows you are lying.

“you do,” he says. “you have that expression in your eyes. like a deer caught in the headlights.”

you wrinkle your nose. “i don't like weddings.”

“how do you plan on getting married if you don't like weddings?”

you stare at him.

“is it any of your business?”

“might be if i am your future best man.”

that makes you recoil on instinct. “why do you think you will be my best man?”

he glances at you like this is the easiest answer in the world. “i don't think you have other friends.”

you huff and fold your arms. “i don't like big weddings, that's what i meant. i’m going to have a small wedding. no best man.”

even to your own ears, you sound a little petulant. which is unfair. sebastian has an irritating ability to make you sound like a child just by existing near you.

“and who are you planning to marry in this perfect wedding?” he asks.

the question snaps something in you.

“okay,” you say, too quickly. “that is enough. that is— that is not funny anymore, okay?”

your hands curl into fists. you hate when you do that. it always makes you feel twelve years old again.

“i’m sorry i talked about getting married knowing about mia,” you say.

sebastian blinks. “i— i never talked about mia.”

you ignore him.

“i’m sorry. that was mean of me, okay? but that is not an excuse to make fun of my—”

“i never mentioned mia once,” he says again, baffled now.

“you were making fun of my dreams.”

“i never said anything.”

“that was the problem,” you huff. “you always have an opinion, seb. suddenly when i talk about it, you don't? i have known you since we were kids. do not act like i don't see through you.”

he looks at you with something almost like disbelief.

“oh, you do?” he says.

“yes, i fucking do, sebastian,” you shoot back.

his eyebrows lift at that, offended. “oh, do not call me sebastian like you are all high and mighty.”

you let out a sound that is somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“we are not having this conversation right now, okay?” you say. “i have been enduring your personality since we were kids.”

you shut your eyes for a second, as if that might hold the anger in place. your voice comes out sharp next.

“i am at a wedding, so i am going to behave like an adult,” you start, “but i want you to remember who was the one who pulled you out of your ass when you were too depressed to do anything.”

you jab a finger into his chest, hard enough to get your point across.

“remember it,” you say, “and act at your own accord.”

then you leave him standing there with whatever he was about to say still caught at his mouth.

the bar is easy to reach for obvious reasons. the bartender asks what you want, and you answer immediately, because if you have to think about it for one second you might start thinking about sebastian instead.

“whisky, on the rocks,” you say.

——

you hate whisky. it is, objectively, the worst thing anyone has ever decided to put in a glass. you cannot even be dramatic about it properly, because by now it tastes less like alcohol and more like diluted melted ice.

around you, people are still dancing. the kind of dancing that looks charming, it would make a beautiful photo if you caught it at the right angle, but your phone is still in sebastian's back pocket. the sun has almost fully gone down, and the sky has darkened into that late-night blue where the stars start appearing one by one.

you still have no idea where sebastian has gone.

you are not even sure whether you are supposed to care anymore.

there is a growing feeling in your chest, that maybe every moment from his breakup with mia until now has been you filling a spot that was never really yours to begin with.

someone sits beside you. a man. good-looking, but not like sebastian.

“did you get dumped at a wedding?” he asks.

what kind of asshole opens a conversation like that?

you huff a little laugh despite yourself. “uh— worse, i think? i was a bad friend to my best friend.”

your words are slightly slurred at the edges, which is annoying because you don't think you are drunk. just tired, very very tired.

“that’s bad,” he says. “but not that bad. where do you know the bride from?”

“she’s my sister,” you say automatically.

the man turns his head, giving you a long, flat look.

“that’s crazy,” he says. “because i’m her brother, and i don't remember having you as my sister.”

you make a sound of pure horror and immediately cover your face with both hands.

“i’m so sorry— i… i made this dumb bet with my best friend about getting people to believe i’m the bride’s sister. i don’t even remember her name,” you say, and the last few words come out in a rush of mortification.

“how much?”

“like— two hundred?” you say. then, because that sounds worse out loud, you add quickly, “it was not that much. and he didn't even pay me, we started arguing before he could.”

“that is not a great business plan.”

“i know,” you mutter. your voice sounds small and whiny in a way you do not appreciate at all. “but he just gets on my nerves so bad.”

“like siblings?”

“i guess,” you say, though it is not really the same thing and you do not want to think about why.

“ah,” he says after a moment. “i get it now.”

you squint at him. he looks far too satisfied with himself.

“maybe you should stop lying to him,” he says then, much more casually than the words deserve. “you look like you enjoy doing that too much, even when no one is paying you any money.”

“i do not—” you start, but the sentence dies immediately because he is annoying and, unfortunately, correct.

you do lie to sebastian.

you lie about your feelings, about how much you notice, about why you are always there when he turns around. you lie about why you stand so close to him. you lie about why you never liked his girlfriends.

everything feels wrong suddenly. not just awkward. wrong.

what if this has been unfair? what if sebastian only wants a friend, and you have been borrowing that friendship like it is something more?

and if that is true, doesn't he deserve better than that? even if saying the truth breaks your heart? even if leaving him does?

the exhaustion drops out of your body suddenly. your eyes start to sting. you need to find sebastian.

you mutter a slurred thank you to the man, who looks at you like you may have taken something far stronger than whisky, and push yourself to your feet. your legs ache and the grass is annoying. the heels make everything worse.

so you kick them off.

you can feel the cool ground under your feet, and you pray to every deity you can think of, hoping that nobody has dropped a glass.

you find him near the dance floor. the music has shifted into something slower now, one of those old frank sinatra songs that you know he likes. couples are starting to sway to the rhythm. you hate slow dancing, too many rules and too much eye contact.

sebastian looks like he has been standing still for too long. his shoulders hang with the kind of tiredness that is not really physical. more like the aftermath of a thought he has not managed to put down yet.

you startle him when you touch his shoulder.

“fuck,” he says immediately. “give a guy a warning.”

you laugh, soft and a little breathless. “sorry. you looked like you needed to stop thinking about it.”

his eyes flick to you. “about what?”

you do not say her name, there is no need. he is testing you, and you know it.

“i'm sorry,” you say instead. “i was such a fucking asshole.”

sebastian makes a face that says ‘yeah, kind of,’ but he doesn't look angry. his shoulders drop a little, like he has been holding something. he jerks his chin towards the floor.

“wanna dance?” he asks. “you know this one. and you owe me one.”

“i have to tell you something first—”

you don't even get to finish before his hands are on your hips, steering you towards the dance floor.

“you can say it late— where are your heels?” he asks, and despite everything, there is a laugh trying to get out of him.

you blink at him. “at the bar. i— i kind of went running to find you. it was sort of a revelation moment.”

sebastian hums, the sound low in his throat, like he is deciding what to make of you all over again. he moves you closer to him.

“you deserve better than me,” you say. the words sound false in your mouth, like a script.

sebastian’s eyebrow lifts at once. “we have been friends since we were kids. having an argument is not going to change that.”

“it’s not about the argument,” you say quickly. “god knows it’s not our first.”

he looks at you like he is waiting for the part you are actually trying not to say.

“i have not been entirely sincere with you.”

“you really cannot wait?” he asks.

you shake your head. sebastian sighs, and his hand shifts a little higher on your waist, like he is trying very hard not to pull you closer than this.

“for nobody else gave me a thrill. with all your faults, i love you still…” sinatra croons, and the line lands strangely between you.

the next sentence dies at your tongue. maybe he's right. maybe you should have done this later.

sebastian says your name. you nod once, but your eyes are already shiny with tears.

“it can wait,” you say. you lick your lips, nervous habit. “it can wait.”

he knows you too well for this. knows the face you make when you are trying not to say something that is eating you. knows what it looks like when you go quiet and bright-eyed. he has seen it before.

not with him, never with him.

the realization lands hard, because he has seen you do that with other people. idiots. ex-boyfriends. men who never deserved the attention you gave them and he hated them on sight. he always had reasons to step in without thinking, cutting conversations short with a look, a hand, a careless remark that sent them off somewhere else. nobody was good enough for you.

he always told himself it was because he was protective. it was also because he was a fucking hypocrite.

when his own heart had been broken, you had been the one to put it back together. he had always let you fix him, maybe that was the problem.

because if your heart was breaking now, if you were standing here with that same shining, careful expression, then it meant it had to be for someone else.

he knows he should be happy for you. but the idea of you loving someone enough to leave him makes him angry. possessive, in the stupid, ugly way he hates admitting even to himself.

“it had to be you,” sinatra goes on, and it's starting feels less like a lyric and more like an accusation.

sebastian watches your face, and when he speaks, his voice comes out quieter than before.

“is this about love?”

your whole expression changes. you hesitate. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

sebastian nods, slow and careful, like he understands.

“i’m sorry,” you say at last, voice smaller now. “i did not want to say anything. but— i just didn't want to ruin this.”

“i get it,” he says. “no worries.”

your brow lifts before you can stop it. he gets it? that was not what you were expecting from him after confessing your love, or whatever this was supposed to be.

“you… you get it?” you ask, because you are not actually sure he heard you correctly.

sebastian nods again.

“if he makes you happy, i understand.”

“he—? who?” your words come out blank, confused enough to sound almost stupid.

sebastian blinks.

“i feel a little heartbroken you did not tell me you were dating someone sooner,” he says.

you stare at him.

“that is because i am not,” you say slowly. “i’m literally single.”

sebastian looks confused, and slightly relieved.

“i don't understand,” he starts.

you let out a breath that shakes on the way out.

“i’m in love with you, seb,” you say. “like, since we were teens.”

sebastian’s eyes widen. his mouth falls open a little, the expression so stunned that it almost looks uncharacteristic on him.

you give him a miserable little smile that fails before it even forms.

“i know,” you say quietly. “i never said anything because i thought maybe one day you would… see me?” you shake your head before he can answer. embarrassment burns through your face. “god, that sounds ridiculous.”

you look away for half a second, then back at him again.

“but i think you deserve better,” you say. “you deserve a friend without second intentions, and i don't know if that can be me.”

“oh, pretty…” he says, and his voice sounds soft around the edges in a way you were not expecting. “i’m so sorry for not noticing before.”

before you can stop yourself, your face crumples. one of his hands comes up and presses your head gently against his chest, like he already knows you will not argue with it.

you’re grateful for that. for the fact that his shirt is hiding your face from everyone else’s eyes. you don't even realize you’ve started crying until the first tear slips free and the rest follow.

you let out a tiny hiccup and press your face closer.

“it’s no—” you start, and another hiccup ruins the sentence. “it’s nothing.”

“it is something, isn’t it?” he says.

his voice is so soft that you nod against his shirt before you even think about it.

some small, traitorous part of your brain wonders whether he has ever spoken to another woman like this. you like to think you're special. you know you are, in your own way. you just do not know whether that extends into the part where someone might love you back.

sebastian cups your face with both hands, thumb brushing lightly over your wet cheek. his forehead rests against yours for a second, and you have the strange, dizzy thought that maybe this is his polite way of letting you down gently.

then his eyes drop to your mouth.

your fingers find his hair, threading in carefully, pulling him closer before you can lose your mind. he hesitates only for a second. his lips meet yours, and the kiss is soft at first, almost uncertain, like neither of you quite trusts how real this is.

his hands drift lower from your face, settling at your neck with a pressure that feels more grounding than anything else.

you part only when the air in your lungs finally gives out.

the two of you separate on the same shaky breath, both of you looking a little stunned. your chest rises too fast. your heart is thudding against your ears. sebastian's lips are a little redder than before, thing that makes you a little bit proud.

“that was— that was really good.” you glance up at him. “we’re good, right?”

sebastian’s mouth twitches and he nods once.

You laughed. And just like that, the conversation started. Again. Like it always seemed to between the two of you. Twenty minutes later, you were still wandering through the aisles. By now, you'd completely forgotten what you'd originally come to the store for, something you would definitely regret later.

Driver hadn't bought a single thing. He was just following along. Listening and watching. Enjoying himself far more than he probably should have. As if your company was all he needed.

You dropped a package of pasta into your basket. "I always do this."

"What?"

"Cook too much food. Like I'm trying to feed a family of six."

Driver glanced at the overflowing basket. "I can see that."

"I'm serious." You sighed dramatically. "No matter how hard I try, I always make way too much." Then you looked at him as though considering something. "Maybe you should come help me eat it."

Driver stopped walking and you immediately regretted how that sounded the moment you saw the look on his face. Surprise flickered across his features.

"Oh my God." You pointed at him. "Not like…"

"I know."

"No, because that sounded…"

"I know."

"Good." You looked away for a second before your eyes met his again. "So? What do you think?"

Driver studied you, and for a moment you thought he might actually say no. Instead, he tilted his head slightly. "What if you're a serial killer?"

He sounded completely serious. As if he were genuinely concerned for his own safety. You stared at him before bursting into laughter.

"That's your concern?"

"You got into my car."

"After weeks of seeing you around," you said with a chuckle.

"You've known me for weeks," Driver pointed out.

You aimed a finger at him. "You bought me flowers."

"That's exactly what a serial killer would say."

Now you were laughing so hard people had started staring. And for the first time, Driver didn't care. It felt nice. Being with you was simply comfortable, like some invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

An hour later, he was standing in your kitchen. Which somehow felt much more significant. More than getting coffee. More than driving you home. Because this was your space. Your world and you had invited him into it. A place where he was a guest, but a welcome one. 

Driver noticed everything. The books stacked on the counters. The half-finished mug of tea sitting beside the sink. The soft music drifting in from another room. The fact that your apartment looked lived in, comfortable and warm. This was your world. This was you. And it was nothing like most of the places he'd ever called home.

You cooked while Driver helped when instructed. Which mostly meant handing you things. Occasionally being scolded for standing in the wrong place. A small smile lingered constantly at the corners of his mouth. Which only made you smile too. 

Dinner turned out surprisingly well. The conversation flowed easily. Stories. Jokes. Random observations. Neither of you was trying particularly hard. Neither of you was performing. You were simply existing together, and somehow that felt better than either of you had expected. Better than it had ever felt with anyone else before.

Eventually, the plates were empty. The dishes were done. The apartment grew quiet. Night settled outside the windows. Neither of you seemed interested in ending the evening. So you sat together on the couch, close enough to be aware of each other. The lamp beside you cast a warm glow across the room. For a while, neither of you spoke, and it felt good. Different, but good. The silence felt familiar now. Comfortable. The kind of silence that only exists when two people just enjoy being together.

Driver leaned back slightly. Listening to the distant sounds of the city outside. And realizing he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this calm.

You glanced over at him. "What are you thinking about?"

He looked at you and smiled. A small one. The kind that only appeared around you. "You ask a lot of questions."

"You avoid a lot of answers."

"Maybe." He shrugged.

You smiled. Maybe - the word had become one of his favorites lately. Mostly because he seemed to use it whenever you were around. Driver looked toward the window. The city lights glowed in the distance. Then he turned back to you.

"Want to go for a drive?"

You smiled immediately. As if there had only ever been one possible answer. "Yeah."

Something warm settled in Driver's chest. The same feeling he'd been carrying ever since that rainy evening at the bus stop. The same feeling that kept bringing him back to you. And as the two of you stood to leave, grabbing your jacket and keys, he found himself smiling again. A dangerous habit. But one he was becoming increasingly unwilling to break. Something that seemed to happen only around you. Though you weren't even aware of it.

The drive had no destination. That seemed to be Driver's favorite kind. And by now, you had simply accepted it. The city stretched around you in a blur of neon signs and streetlights while soft music played quietly through the speakers. You talked, then fell silent, then talked again. Neither of you seemed bothered by the pauses anymore.

At some point, Driver pulled into an overlook above the city. The engine fell silent. Los Angeles spread beneath you like a sea of gold. For a while, neither of you said anything. You sat sideways in your seat, admiring the view. Driver was watching you. Slowly, both of you were starting to get used to that.

"You do that a lot." His voice broke the silence.

You glanced over. "Do what?"

"Look at things like they're important." His eyes drifted toward the city lights. "Like you're trying to remember them forever."

You laughed softly. "Maybe they are. I think you do that sometimes too."

His gaze remained fixed on yours. The air inside the car suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. You became aware of every inch between you. Heat slowly crept into your cheeks. Entirely because of the way he was looking at you.

"What?" you asked quietly.

Driver shook his head. "Nothing."

"Liar."

That earned the faintest smile. You'd gotten good at spotting them. The tiny expressions everyone else missed. The ones that seemed reserved only for you.

"You're staring again."

"You always notice." There wasn't even a trace of embarrassment in his voice.

"You're not subtle."

That actually made him laugh. A quiet one, but real. When the laughter faded, neither of you looked away. The silence returned. Different this time. Filled with everything neither of you had said yet. Driver wasn't usually uncertain. But sitting beside you felt strangely dangerous. Because you mattered. Far more than he wanted to admit. And because, for the first time in a long time, he cared about getting something wrong.

His gaze dropped briefly to your lips. Then returned to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. To move away or to change the subject. Instead, you stayed exactly where you were. Looking back at him and waiting. Playing the same game he was.

"Can I try something?" he asked quietly.

The question surprised you. Mostly because Driver seemed like the type of person who usually just... did things. He wasn't the type to ask. Yet now he was waiting for permission. Your heart skipped.

"Maybe."

His smile appeared again. A little shy. Which somehow affected you more than confidence ever could. Slowly. Carefully. He leaned closer. Giving you plenty of time and space. His eyes never left yours. Not until the last second when yours drifted closed.

The kiss was gentle. Tentative. Nothing rushed about it. Just the feeling of finally crossing a distance that had been shrinking for weeks. When he pulled back, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads nearly touched. Breathing the same air. Driver looked at you as though he were trying to memorize the moment. Like he couldn't quite believe it had actually happened.

"Well?" you asked softly.

His hand tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "What?"

"You finally stopped staring." A teasing smile tugged at your lips. "Progress."

A laugh escaped him. You felt it before you heard it. And suddenly his forehead dropped lightly against yours. A rare crack in his composure.

"You're impossible."

"That's not what most people say."

That made him groan. Actually groan. And for some reason that only made you laugh harder.

The kiss had changed something between you. Or maybe it hadn't. Maybe it had simply given a name to something that had been there all along. 

By then, seeing each other had become part of your routine. Not officially. Neither of you had ever sat down and defined what this was. But somehow Driver always knew when you'd be free, and you always knew when he was working late. The lines between your lives had started to blur. Naturally.

One evening, Driver was buried in work at the garage. An engine sat open in front of him. His hands were covered in grease. Several hours of work still remained. So when he looked up and saw you walking through the garage door carrying a book and a paper bag, something immediately softened in his expression. You liked that look. The one he always greeted you with. As if you were the person he'd been hoping to see all day.

"Hey."

"Hey." You held up the bag. "I brought dinner."

Driver glanced at the clock. He hadn't even realized he'd skipped lunch. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet." You set the bag on a nearby table. "It came from the cheapest place I could find."

A faint smile appeared. "That makes it even better."

You smiled. "Mind if I keep you company?"

His answer came immediately. "Always."

Something warm fluttered in your chest. You pretended not to notice. While Driver worked, you settled onto a stool nearby and pulled a book from your bag, intending to finish the chapter you'd been reading. A few minutes later, Driver glanced over.

"What are you reading?"

You looked up. "You want the short version or the long version?"

"The short version."

You thought for a moment. "A man makes terrible decisions and everyone suffers because of it."

Driver nodded. "Sounds realistic."

You laughed. Then, because he'd asked, you read a paragraph aloud. Then another. And another. Eventually, you were reading entire chapters while he worked.

"That character is an idiot," Driver announced near the end of one chapter.

You lowered the book. "You haven't been listening."

"I have." He tightened a bolt. "He ignored every warning."

"That's the plot." You laughed. "It's a bestseller, you know."

"People are wrong."

"You've never voluntarily read a novel in your life."

Driver shrugged as though that detail were completely irrelevant. You crumpled up a napkin and tossed it at him. Without looking, he caught it. Which somehow annoyed you even more. Hours passed and the garage grew quieter. The conversation drifted from books to movies to random childhood stories. The kind of conversation that only happened when two people were completely comfortable with each other. You had reached the point where silence wasn't awkward anymore.

Eventually Driver stepped back from the car. Finally finished. He wiped his hands on a rag. "I'm gonna clean up."

"Take your time."

"You sure?"

You lifted your book. "I've got three hundred pages left."

Driver shook his head, then disappeared into the back room. The garage fell quiet. You barely noticed at first. Until someone sat down across from you. You looked up.

Shannon.

His expression immediately changed when he realized who you were. Recognition. Then something else. Something that made your stomach tighten.

"So."

Slowly, you closed your book. "So?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Didn't know you and Driver were a thing."

You didn't like his tone. "We spend time together. That's not exactly a crime."

Shannon laughed. A short, humorless sound. "Yeah. I can see that."

Something about the way he was looking at you made you uncomfortable. Like he was evaluating something. Judging it. You weren't on neutral ground here. Not like the busy sidewalks or coffee shops where you'd occasionally crossed paths before. This was his workplace. His territory. And suddenly you felt it.

"I asked you out first." 

The words caught you completely off guard. You blinked. "What?"

"You remember." He leaned forward slightly. "I didn't realize he was interested too."

The conversation immediately felt wrong. Deeply wrong. As if you were an object being argued over. Something someone thought they had a claim to. The feeling was humiliating.

You slipped your bookmark into place and closed the novel. "I think this conversation is heading in a bad direction." You slid off the stool and tucked the book into your bag. "And besides, neither of us owes anyone an explanation."

Shannon's smile didn't reach his eyes. "No kidding."

Before he could say anything else, footsteps sounded from the back room. Driver appeared a moment later. Freshly washed. Jacket back on. The moment he saw Shannon sitting there, something shifted in his expression. Only slightly. But enough.

"Everything okay?"

His eyes went directly to you. Not Shannon.

You nodded. "Yeah."

Driver didn't look convinced. He noticed the way your fingers were gripping the strap of your bag. The tension in your shoulders. The uncertainty in your expression. But for the moment, he let it go. For now.

The next morning, Shannon cornered him outside the garage. Driver was unlocking the door when Shannon spoke.

"Didn't know you stole my girl."

Driver froze. Then slowly turned around. The look in his eyes immediately made Shannon regret his choice of words. "She isn't yours."

"Relax." Shannon raised his hands. "You know what I mean."

"I'm serious." Driver's voice remained calm. Which somehow made it worse. "Don't talk about her like that."

Shannon held up both hands. "Okay."

But the damage had already been done. Because Driver couldn't stop thinking about how uncomfortable you'd looked the night before. He hadn't liked it. And he had no intention of letting it happen again.

A few days later, you were heading back to your apartment building with a couple of grocery bags in your arms. It was a hot afternoon. All you wanted was a shower and a glass of iced tea. But just before reaching the entrance, you spotted a familiar figure standing near the sidewalk.

Shannon.

Waiting. You already knew who he was waiting for. Your stomach dropped.

"Hey."

Immediately, your eyes searched the street. Instinctively looking for a familiar car. But Driver was at work. He wasn't supposed to come by until later that evening. The two of you had plans. Which meant you were alone and Shannon seemed to realize that immediately. He smiled. You didn't.

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugged casually. "Just thought I'd say hi."

Your grip tightened around the grocery bags. Something about the situation felt wrong. Very wrong. The kind of wrong that made every instinct in your body start screaming.

Meanwhile, across town, Driver was working beneath the hood of a car when a strange feeling settled in his chest. The same instinct that had kept him alive more than once. The feeling that something wasn't right. He ignored it for exactly thirty seconds. Then he closed the hood. Grabbed his keys. And left. Because for the first time in years, there was someone in the city whose safety mattered more to him than finishing the job.

Every red light felt like a personal insult. Every speed limit irritated him. He didn't know why he felt this way. Not exactly. But his mind was already connecting pieces. The fact that Shannon had left early that day. The fact that he'd been acting strangely. The fact that you'd been unusually quiet. And that was what bothered him most.

You should've texted him by now. Even if you'd stopped at the store. Even if you were running late. You always checked in. Always.

His heart nearly stopped when he pulled up outside your building. He saw you. And then he saw Shannon. The car rolled to a stop beside the curb. The driver's door opened.

"Hey." Shannon smiled as though greeting an old friend. "We were just talking about you. What are you, Batman?"

Driver ignored him. His eyes immediately found yours. You looked frightened. Not obviously. Not enough for most people to notice, but Driver noticed. And beneath the fear he caught something else. Relief. The moment you'd seen him.

"Everything okay?" His voice was calm.

You nodded. "Yeah."

"See?" Shannon spread his hands. "We just ran into each other. Crazy coincidence."

Driver said nothing.

"I didn't even know she lived here."

Still nothing.

"Small world."

Driver didn't believe in coincidences. Not this kind. Not when they left you looking the way you did. Not when every instinct he had was screaming that something wasn't right. He stepped toward Shannon. The change in Shannon's expression was immediate. Subtle, but immediate.

"Leave." Driver's voice was quiet. "Don't come near her again."

"We were talking." Shannon's smile became strained. "That's all." Then he glanced at you. "What? He doesn't let you talk to other people? That's kind of a red flag, sweetheart."

"I won't repeat myself." Driver's voice never rose. Which somehow made it more threatening. More final.

Shannon seemed to realize that. His smile faltered. For the first time, he looked uncertain. A moment later he nodded. "Fine." He looked at you one last time. "We'll keep in touch, right?"

You didn't answer. And after a second, Shannon turned and walked away. As though the entire encounter had been innocent. As though Driver had simply overreacted. As though none of this had been deliberate.

Driver watched him go. Then turned back to you. Immediately. His attention returning to where it belonged. "Are you okay?"

You nodded again. "I was coming home from the store." Your voice sounded shaky. "He was already here." Driver's jaw tightened. "He surprised me."

"Did he touch you?"

You shook your head. "No. I just got scared." Your eyes dropped. "I'm sorry."

Driver's expression softened instantly. "You don't have anything to apologize for."

The words came without hesitation. Without judgment. As though the idea itself was ridiculous. He took the grocery bags from your hands.

"Come on." Then gently guided you toward the entrance. "You should go inside."

Once he was certain you were safe… Once he was certain Shannon hadn't crossed any line beyond frightening you… Driver knew exactly what he needed to do. He should have done it a long time ago. The first time Shannon made you uncomfortable. The first time he noticed the way the man looked at you. But until now, Shannon had seemed like exactly what he appeared to be. A loudmouth. A guy who talked more than he acted. Now things were different. A line had been crossed. Your sense of safety had been violated, and Driver wasn't willing to ignore that.

"Lock the door."

You blinked. "Where are you going?"

"I need to take care of something." His expression softened for a moment. "I'll be back."

Then he leaned down and kissed your forehead. And before you could ask another question, he was gone.

You did exactly what he told you to do. You locked the door. You didn't call after him. Didn't ask questions. But even inside your own apartment… You didn't feel safe anymore. Not the way you had before. You tried distracting yourself. Tried unpacking groceries, cleaning, making dinner. Nothing worked. Your thoughts wouldn't stop racing, your hands wouldn't stop shaking. Eventually you gave up and sat down on the couch. Waiting for him. 

It was already dark when you finally heard a knock at the door. You were on your feet immediately, crossing the apartment in a few quick steps. Quietly, you looked through the peephole. A breath of relief escaped you.

Driver.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open. There he stood. Wearing that familiar jacket. A faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then your eyes dropped to the bouquet in his hand, then back to him. A smile finally appeared on your face for the first time in hours.

"You know, at this point people are going to think you're trying to romance me."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Maybe."

You blinked. "Wow."

"Yeah." He shrugged as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"You admitted it." You tilted your head, impressed.

"I did."

You stared at him dramatically. "Who are you and what have you done with Driver?"

A quiet laugh escaped him. The sound made your smile widen immediately. Then you noticed something, the tension that had been lingering around his eyes for days was gone. Completely gone. Your smile faded slightly.

"What happened?"

Driver glanced down at the flowers, then back at you. "I talked to Shannon. He won't bother you again." 

You nodded. And that was enough. You didn't ask for details. Didn't demand explanations. Didn't push. That was one of the things he appreciated most about you. You never asked questions when you sensed he couldn't answer them. Or worse… When answering would require him to lie.

You stepped aside inviting him in. "Come on."

Driver entered the apartment. The moment the door closed behind him, something inside you finally relaxed. The knot in your chest loosened, the fear you'd been carrying all afternoon started to fade, but because he was here. And somehow that made everything easier.

You took the flowers from him carefully. "They're beautiful."

A small smile appeared. "I know."

You laughed. "Was that confidence?"

"Maybe."

That earned another quiet laugh. The one that belonged only to you. You carried the bouquet into the kitchen and searched for a vase. Driver watched you move around the apartment, how normalcy slowly return. The sight soothed something in him.  

When you returned, he was sitting on the couch. You settled beside him. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel his presence. For a while neither of you spoke. The apartment was quiet and peaceful. Eventually, you glanced at him.

"What?" Driver looked back and you smiled softly.. "You keep checking if I'm okay." 

"Maybe." His expression immediately betrayed him.

You rolled your eyes. "You're terrible at being subtle."

"I wasn't trying to be subtle."

That caught you off guard. Driver rarely said things so directly. Usually, he hid behind half-smiles, unfinished sentences, and carefully chosen silences. But tonight something felt different.

You studied him for a moment. "That's almost alarming."

"I get that a lot."

"No, you don't."

A faint smile appeared.

"No," you repeated, leaning back against the couch. "People are usually terrified of you. There's a difference."

That earned a quiet laugh. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The city hummed softly beyond the windows. Somewhere in another apartment a television played too loudly. Normal sounds that reminded you the world was still moving outside these walls.

Driver glanced toward the vase of flowers on the counter. "You feel better?"

You followed his gaze and nodded. "Yeah."

His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. You noticed.

"Thank you."

His eyes found yours immediately. "For what?"

"For showing up."

The answer came so quickly that it almost sounded foolish. But it was the truth. Driver looked away for a second. As though he didn't quite know what to do with that. 

Then he shrugged lightly. "Always."

The single word settled warmly in your chest. Always. Not maybe.

Without thinking, you shifted a little closer and rested your head on his shoulder. Driver's fingers found yours a moment later. Your hands fit together as though they already knew how. For a while, you simply sat there, fingers intertwined, listening to the distant sounds of the city. Then, after a hesitation that made your heart ache a little, Driver leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your hair.

You smiled. And somehow, that felt even more intimate than the kiss in his car.

You clasped your hands tightly in your lap and gave a faint nod. "As always... right?"

Something in your voice finally made him turn around. His eyes found you. Yours never left your hands, your fingers curled together so tightly your knuckles had turned white.

"You know..." You spoke just as quietly as before. "If I did something wrong... you can tell me."

"You didn't." His voice remained calm and steady.

You nodded again. "Maybe I said something."

"No."

A slow breath. "Maybe I reacted the wrong way, or..."

"No."

"So what the hell is happening?" Your voice cracked. You were seconds away from crying. K knew it. Your throat tightened painfully as you struggled to breathe. "Something's been wrong for weeks, and I have no idea what it is. You avoid me. You don't even look at me anymore. When I touch you…” Your voice trembled. "Your whole body tenses." A shaky laugh escaped you. "Damn it... I don't even know what I'm supposed to do anymore."

K shifted where he stood. There was worry in his eyes. Sadness and pain. You looked so fragile. So defenseless in front of him. And every second he remained silent only deepened the despair consuming you. Because of him.

The rain filled the silence between you for what felt like forever. Then your voice broke through it once more. Small and exhausted. Almost defeated.

"Is it because of what I am?"

The question had lived inside your head for weeks. He was a replicant. You were human. To you, it had never mattered. Apparently...you were the only one. 

K frowned and took a cautious step toward you. "What do you mean?"

You brushed a strand of hair away from your face before standing abruptly, pacing across the room as though movement alone could untangle the thoughts trapped inside your head.

"I keep replaying every conversation we've had." You laughed bitterly. "I'm searching for the moment I ruined everything. The mistake I made." You stopped walking. "I keep thinking it's because of who I am. If I were like you..."

"No…" He tried to interrupt, but you didn't let him.

The words had been trapped inside you for too long. Now they poured out all at once.

"Maybe I'm too emotional."

"I love that about you."

"Maybe I smother you without realizing it."

"You don't."

"Maybe..." Your voice almost disappeared. "Maybe you're disgusted by what I am."

Not who, but what. Your eyes finally met his. They were glassy with tears. Your lips trembled. You looked like you were barely holding yourself together. K wanted to cross the room, to hold you, but he was terrified that if he came too close you would fall apart in his hands.

"I see it, K." Your voice was barely audible. "I see the way you look at me. I feel it when you touch me. When you kiss me. When we make love. You do it because you think you have to, not because you want to." A tear slipped down your cheek. "I disgust you." You laughed softly through tears. "And I hate myself for it."

The words settled heavily between you. K looked as though someone had placed a bomb in the middle of his apartment. A countdown only he could hear. You, meanwhile didn't care anymore.

"Maybe..." You swallowed hard. "...if I were someone worth choosing..."

"I choose you." K's voice was quiet.

You looked up at him. "Do you? Because it feels like every day you choose to leave me instead."

His eyes fell to the floor. For the first time Officer K looked less like the man you'd always known and more like someone completely broken. You would've given anything for him to tell you what was really happening inside his head. But he remained impossible to read. You spoke the same language. Yet somehow you couldn't understand each other.

"I think..." His low voice filled the silence. “if I were enough you'd have a better life."

Your head jerked up. "W-What?"

"If I were human. If I could give you the future you deserve. If I could give you a family. You'd be better off with someone else."

The air left your lungs. It felt as if someone had punched you straight through the chest. After everything you'd been through together… After every promise… After loving him with everything you had… Those were still the words that came out of his mouth.

When you spoke again, your voice shook with anger. "How dare you decide that for me?"

K looked up.

"How dare you throw me out of your life behind my back and hide behind this ridiculous excuse that it's somehow for my own good. That you know what's best for me."

"You say that now."

"I've always said that." You rubbed your temples, staring at him in disbelief. "I knew who you were from the very beginning. I told you, over and over, that it didn't matter. And now you're using that against me?" A hollow laugh escaped you. "I can't believe this. I can't fucking believe this."

You stood there with your hands on your hips, blinking furiously to keep more tears from falling. This was worse than you'd imagined. You felt sick. Like you wanted to scream until there was nothing left inside you.

"You know what's funny?" A faint, broken smile crossed your lips. "I always thought you weren't afraid of anything, K. Nothing. But you're terrified of me."

He didn't move.

"You're terrified of living."

His expression faltered.

"You're terrified of wanting something. Or someone."

His eyes stayed fixed on you. Dim. Defeated. Yes, he was afraid. Every single day. Not for himself, for you.

"You don't get to decide what kind of life is worth living for me." Your voice was calm now, almost frighteningly so. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do to make you believe in me...in us. But I don't have the strength to keep fighting anymore." A shaky breath. "I'm so tired, K."

He flinched. He'd imagined this moment. He'd feared it, but now that it stood in front of him… He'd never felt more terrified. He took a step toward you.

"You have to understand…"

"No." The look you gave him stopped the words in his throat. "You have to understand. I can't keep you trapped. You don't want me."

"That's not true."

"No?" A sad smile tugged at your lips. "Because every single day says otherwise. Stop hiding behind concern for me to justify your own fears. You keep pouring your doubts into me… And like a fool, I keep trying to prove to you...to myself...that my love is enough for both of us." You drew in a deep breath. "If you really loved me..."

His jaw clenched. He did. God, he did. He had never been more certain of anything. But the fear, the certainty that one day you'd finally realize he would never be enough, paralyzed him. The more he loved you, the more terrified he became. He wanted to tell you. He wanted you to understand that it had never been about you. Not once. The fault had always been his. Always.

"I need time." Your voice cut through the silence like a gunshot. "I need space."

K froze.

"I can't do this anymore. It's destroying me."

His brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"

You looked at him, at the man you loved. The man you trusted. The man you would've given everything for. And at the same time, the man who had hurt you so deeply that you were finally searching for a way to survive without him.

"It means..." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I need to learn how to breathe again. How to be enough for myself. I don't want to keep fighting a battle I was doomed to lose from the very beginning." A tear rolled down your cheek. "I'm sorry."

He watched you pick up your jacket and walk toward the door. And then… He listened as it quietly closed behind you. That night, you walked away carrying such a large piece of him that K wasn't sure there was enough left to keep going. He had spent weeks believing this was what he wanted. That pushing you away would protect you. That losing you by choice would hurt less than losing you by fate.

But as the silence settled over the apartment, as your footsteps disappeared into the rain… He realized, far too late, that this had never been the future he'd wanted. His fear had won. And in the end it had taken the only person he'd ever loved with it.

He really didn’t believe you. But he allows you the illusion as he excuses himself back inside his own home when you’ve managed to back away enough to make it to yours as well.

Your “under control”, currently, looks like sitting on your couch with a plastic of used tissues on the side. There’s a documentary playing quietly on the television, something about an old historical mystery you probably would’ve found interesting if your head didn’t feel like it was full of cotton. And you’re wrapped in your most comforting blanket.

The house is quiet. It really is. For a moment, at least.

And then, a knock.

But when you open the door, Lars is, once again, standing there but with a paper bag in his hands this time.

“Hi.” He says.

“Hi, Lars.”

He doesn’t say anything after. Simply looks at you. And in retaliation, you look back, trying your very best to look like someone who currently wasn’t losing a battle with fever.

“What are you…” A cough escapes that you try to swallow down instantly. “… doing here, Lars?”

“I brought soup.”

He lifts the paper bag slightly, without much effort, and you blink at him.

“Oh Lars, you really didn’t have to.”

“I know.” He shifts his weight awkwardly, looking down at the bag instead of you. “I was already making some.”

It is obviously a lie. You both know it.

Remnants of guilt flashes you as you remember how you’d dismissed him earlier when he’d knocked to ask if you were okay. So, this time, you let him in. You can’t refuse his kindness anymore. Not when he’a looking at you like this, with a small smile playing on his lips, and his eyes staring into yours like he was trying really hard to read you.

“Thank you. Uh, come in if you’d like.”

He nods, slowly and tentatively walking inside as you sit back down on the couch. Though, instead of sitting next to you, he chooses to stand in your kitchen, looking around like he’s trying to figure out what needs to be done.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

Lars turns to look at you, blinking in surprise at having been read. He tries not to show. “I’m not.”

“I’ll clean when I’m feeling better. Don’t go rearranging my whole house.”

Again, he says, “I’m not. I’m just… looking.”

He moves away from the kitchen, choosing now to bring the soup he’d brought and set it down in front of you, on the table in front of your couch. A plastic spoon and some tissue is arranged neatly beside it.

“You should eat.”

You frown, shaking your head as you look at the food. You don’t want to look ungrateful, but you’ve tried eating enough to know how hard it was to actually swallow anything. Albeit, you’ve only really attempted to eat solid food. “I’m not really hungry right now.”

“But you should.”

The tone of his voice surprises you, eyes widening a little at how uncharacteristically insistent he is at the moment.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen this side of Lars before. Or well, up until he backtracks. He must’ve heard what he sounded like with his own ears.

“Sorry.” He says quietly. “I just… you haven’t eaten yet and…”

His sentence trails on without continuation. And he looks like he’s trying to figure out what to say, and it looks like it’s hurting him, so you do the only thing you know would calm him down.

You pick up the spoon. “Okay, I’ll eat.”

Lars visibly relaxes at this, relieved at not having to finish his sentence, relieved that you’re finally eating something. “Okay.”

When you’ve finished eating, Lars is still sitting on the couch beside you. There is a huge gap between the two of you, and the documentary that had been playing had finished long before you’d been done with your food. Some old rerun of a cartoon is playing now.

And you don’t notice you’ve fallen asleep. And Lars doesn’t either. Not at first.

But he hears quiet snoring, and he can’t help but stare at you as you’re bundled up on your couch with your finished container of soup in front of you.

Lars doesn’t leave, but he does think about it. Several times.

Because what if something happens to you while you were asleep and unassuming?

He tells himself he should, though. You’re asleep now. Your house is right next door to his if anything happens. He should go back to his own place and let you rest.

That would be the normal thing to do. But then he looks at you curled up on the couch, surrounded by tissues and blankets, and he remembers what it feels like to be sick and alone. What it feels like not wanting to reach out and bother anyone.

So he stays.

Lars continues to sit quietly beside you, leaving the same careful space between you as before.

The television keeps playing. He isn’t really watching it. He just stares ahead, occasionally looking over at you to make sure you’re still breathing comfortably, still asleep, still okay.

Eventually, he checks the clock.

His eyes move to the table. The medicine is still there, unopened. Save for one missing dose.

And Lars frowns. Because he knows exactly what that means.

“(Name). Wake up.”

It’s quiet in your house, save for Lars’ soft voice pulling you from your trance of sleep.

There’s a trace of hesitation in his voice, like he wasn’t entirely sure if he should wake you at all. It’s a little difficult to focus on anything when every surface of your skin feels like it’s burning, but you recognize his voice immediately.

“(Name).” He tries again.

His hand gently taps against your arm before quickly pulling away.

When you still don’t shift, he starts to tug at your blanket to hopefully wake you up.

“Lars? You’re still here?” You croak, voice congested as a result of your fever.

When you open your eyes, Lars immediately moves back slightly, like he hadn’t been leaning over you for the past few minutes trying to decide if waking you was the right thing to do. Like he hadn’ felt guilty shaking you away from rest.

He stands there instead, holding a glass of water and your medicine in his hands. And there’s a tiredness behind his eyes that tells you he probably hasn’t gone to sleep yet.

“You need to take this.” He says quietly.

You blink at him, trying to process his words. Trying to process that he’s still in your house.

“The medicine.”

A realization dawns on you. Right. You forgot. To be fair, you didn’t even know you’d fallen asleep either.

You move to sit up properly, the sound of your rustling blanket lingering in the silence.

A glance at the clock tells you it’s late. Way too late for Lars to still be here. He should be in the comfort of his home, asleep. He had work tomorrow, you know this. And it makes a guilt sit bitterly on your heart.

“Lars…”

He looks like he already knows what you’re going to say. And before you can apologize, before you can tell him he should have gone home hours ago, he holds out the medicine and water.

“Here.”

You take it from him, a frown still on your mouth as you place the pill on your tongue before drinking the water. And he watches carefully, not in a way that’s weird. He looks like he’s genuinely making sure you’ve taken it.

Then, very carefully, he takes the glass back and places it on the table.

“How do you feel?” He asks quietly, because a few seconds ago, you’d been asleep.

He doesn’t want to startle you out of the grogginess you were probably feeling at the moment.

“I don’t really know.”

You hate admitting it. Because all you really want to do is reassure him that you’re okay, lie to him that you can handle yourself like you had earlier. Tell him he should go home because he shouldn’t be here this late.

“That’s okay.” Lars says, tone still soft. Still careful.

“I’ll ask again tomorrow.”

He reaches over and pulls your blanket back up.

The action is awkward.

“...And you should probably transfer to your bed.”

You watch him pick up the empty glass, watch him take out the discarded tissues, watch him throw away the empty container that had contained soup just a few hours ago.

And the guilt resurfaces.

“Lars?”

He turns around immediately, looking at you and waiting for you to say something.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows pull together in confusion. “For what?”

“For bothering you.”

The words come out quieter than you expected. You’re still half-asleep, but the guilt is there. It’s been there. You just hate the thought that he’s tired now and that he’d be tired tomorrow because of you.

Lars just stares at you. He’s confused, and he genuinely doesn’t understand how you could possibly think that.

“You’re not bothering me.” He says it immediately, and that catches him off-guard. “You’re sick….”

A heartbeat passes. And then two more.

“And you’re alone.”

His fingers tighten slightly around the empty glass. “You don’t have to be alone.”

He surprises himself. And, deeming the moment too vulnerable, he immediately tries to move past it.

“Anyway. You should sleep.” Lars clears his throat. “I… don’t have anything tomorrow morning. I’ll be here.”

You know he’s lying, and you want to argue with him. But your eyes are getting a little heavier once more, and it takes you a while to notice that he’s guiding you to your bed until you’re safely and comfortably tucked inside.