☆𓏲Hase Lamb༅☆

Then, slowly, it receded.

One morning you woke up and the static was gone. The nausea had dulled to a faint ache. The headaches were just echoes. You lay there staring at the ceiling beams, waiting for the next assault, but it never came. You felt… clean. Hollowed out. A shell wearing your skin.

The cabin itself was miserable. Barely any signal - your phone stuttered and died half the time you tried to use it. The food was bland, repetitive, survival rations. The cold seeped through the walls no matter how much wood you fed the stove. But they kept their word. Every few weeks a package appeared on the porch, like it had dropped from the sky. Your old clothes. Snacks. A cheap laptop. A Ziploc bag stuffed with perfectly rolled joints, no note, but you knew who they were from. Ben.

He’d texted you relentlessly that first month, messages piling up like unanswered prayers. 

You never replied. Every word on the screen was a knife twisting. Every “hey” reminded you of Tim’s voice, low and rough against your ear. You couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear anything that pulled you back to him.

Tim. Tim. Tim.

You dreamed of him every night - good dreams where his hands were gentle, wet dreams where his mouth was on you, nightmares where his fingers tightened around your throat until the world grayed out and you woke gasping, drenched in sweat, aching between your legs and in your chest. You hated him. You missed him so much it felt like a physical wound. You regretted ever looking at him, ever letting him in.

The first month was the worst - endless crying, screaming into pillows, punching walls until your knuckles bled. Then, reluctantly, survival instinct kicked in. You couldn’t live like this forever. So two months in, you finally used the car.

Drove until the pines thinned and a tiny town appeared - three streets, one stoplight, a grocery store. You parked, walked inside on shaking legs, bought a pack of smokes with cash from the drawer. People moved around you, normal and oblivious, and the sight of them almost broke you. You bought bread, milk, a cheap bottle of wine. Drove back. Cried the whole way.

There were deer everywhere out here. You’d started noticing them more after the sickness lifted - graceful shapes slipping between trees at dusk. One evening a tiny fawn appeared near the cabin, spindly legs and wide eyes, so small it looked like it might blow away in the wind. It reminded you of yourself - lost, alone, trying not to die.

For a stupid second you thought about killing it. Skinning it. Eating it. Proving something to yourself about survival.

Instead you put out a shallow bowl of oats and apple slices on the porch.

The next morning the bowl was empty. You didn’t know if it had been the fawn or some raccoon or the wind, but you kept doing it. Every evening, a little offering. Oats, carrots, whatever scraps you could spare.

One twilight you saw it, standing at the edge of the clearing, ears flicking, nose twitching. It stepped forward, hesitant, then lowered its head and ate. You watched from the window, breath fogging the glass, heart aching in a way that wasn’t quite pain anymore. Just loneliness.

Just you, and the deer, and the slow turning of seasons in a cabin that was starting to feel less like a prison and more like a place you might survive.

You sat on the porch steps, wrapped in the oversized cardigan you’d found in one of the early drops, faded gray wool that still smelled faintly of laundry detergent. It was around four in the morning, the sky still ink-black except for a thin bruise of gray creeping along the eastern tree line. The air was sharp, cold enough to sting your lungs with every inhale.

You held a cigarette between your fingers, the cherry glowing soft orange each time you drew. You weren’t a smoker before Tim. Now the ritual felt like communion: the scratch of the lighter, the first bitter drag, the way the smoke curled into your throat and sat heavy on your tongue. It was one of the only things left that still carried his ghost. You bought the same brand he always smoked, Marlboro Reds, the red pack with the white chevron, because when the smoke filled your mouth you could almost pretend he was standing behind you, close enough to feel the heat off his jacket, close enough to smell him again.

Your free hand drifted up, fingertips brushing the pale circle scar on your collarbone. The burn mark he’d left there that night - cigarette pressed hard while he fucked you slow and possessive - had faded to a faint, shiny coin of skin. You touched it when the anxiety clawed too deep, when the silence of the cabin pressed in until you couldn’t breathe. A reminder. Proof he’d been real.

You exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift toward the bowl of oats and apple slices you’d set out on the porch rail the night before. Still full. The fawn hadn’t come yet tonight.

Then headlights cut through the dark.

You froze mid-drag.

That goddamn truck. It rolled to a stop in the dirt clearing, engine idling low and familiar, exhaust curling white in the cold. The same truck that had carried you here three months ago, the same one that had driven away while you screamed his name until your voice gave out.

Brian sat alone in the driver’s seat, silhouette unmistakable: broad shoulders, hair pushed back, face half-lit by the dashboard glow. He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the cabin like he was arguing with himself about whether to get out at all.

This was the first time you’d actually seen one of the drops happen. Until now the packages had simply appeared, quiet, ghostly, left on the porch while you slept or showered or stared at nothing.

Brian finally cut the engine. The silence rushed in louder than before. He stepped out, boots crunching gravel, opened the back hatch, and pulled out a plain cardboard box sealed with duct tape. He carried it one-handed, the other loose at his side, posture stiff like he was walking into enemy territory.

He climbed the steps without looking up at first. Set the box down a careful three feet from where you sat. Only then did he glance your way.

You refused to meet his eyes. Kept staring at the empty food bowl on the porch rail, cigarette burning down between your fingers. Ash trembled, ready to fall. You took another slow drag and let the smoke roll out through your nose like you hadn’t noticed him at all.

It was awkward. Brian stood there a long second. The night wind moved his jacket open, revealing the faint outline of the Glock tucked against his ribs. Finally he spoke, voice flat and toneless, stripped of any warmth or care. “Didn’t think you’d be up.”

He shifted his weight once. Glanced at the bowl, then back at you, taking in the way the cardigan hung looser now on your smaller frame, the hollows under your eyes, the emptiness that had settled behind them like frost on glass.

“Picked out some books,” he continued, nodding toward the box at his feet. “Ben sent the usual.”

You flicked the cigarette over the rail without looking where it landed. The ember sparked once against the dirt and died.

Then, in a voice so cold and distant it barely sounded like yours, you spoke. “You don’t need to keep bringing packages anymore. Or check in.” A beat. “I just want to be left alone.”

Brian didn’t answer right away. He stared at you, long enough that the silence turned thick, heavy with everything neither of you would ever say. You kept your gaze locked on the bowl, refusing to give him your eyes.

He exhaled once through his nose, short, almost resigned. “Always so fuckin’ stubborn, huh?”

You finally tilted your head just enough for your voice to carry without turning toward him. “Go to hell.” The words came out low and cold, stripped of heat or volume, spoken like you were stating a simple fact rather than throwing an insult.

Brian went still. You didn’t have to look to know his expression had changed slightly - his eyes narrowing just a fraction, jaw tightening the way it always did when he was deciding whether to argue or let something drop. For a moment he didn’t say anything at all. The night pressed in around the cabin, the forest whispering softly through the branches.

Then he muttered, voice quieter now, rough in a way that sounded almost tired. “Trust me.” A small pause followed, barely longer than a breath. “I’m already there.”

He turned without another word, boots crunching slow across the porch, down the steps, back to the truck. Door opened. Closed. Engine growled awake. Headlights snapped on - harsh white sweeping across the clearing, catching your face for half a second in unforgiving light - then the truck reversed, swung around, and disappeared down the dirt track. Taillights bled red into the dark.

You sat there until the sound was gone. Until the cold sank bone-deep. Until the scar on your collarbone ached like it remembered Tim’s touch.

Then you stood up. Kicked the box hard enough that it skidded across the porch boards with a dull scrape, contents rattling inside like loose bones. The cardboard caught on a warped plank, tipped, and settled crooked against the rail. You didn’t look back at it. Just went back inside, not bothering to lock the door. 

Tim. 

Tim woke to the familiar hammer in his skull - hungover again, the kind that made every heartbeat feel like a fist against bone. The room was dim, blinds half-cracked, late-afternoon light bleeding orange across the unmade bed. His phone alarm had been screaming for God knows how long. He slapped it silent without looking. Stared at the cracked screen instead. 6:17 p.m.

Another day swallowed whole. Drink until blackout. Pass out in yesterday’s clothes. Wake up when the sun was already dying. Repeat.

He lay there a second longer, chest tight, trying not to think about you. About the way your thighs had trembled around his hips on that infirmary cot. About the soft, broken sounds you made when he kissed your neck. About the way you’d clung to him like he was still worth holding onto - even after his fingers had started to squeeze.

No. He shoved the memory down hard, like forcing a lid on something feral.

The alcohol helped. It blurred the edges of that night - erased, for a few blessed hours, the exact pressure of his hand around your throat, the way your pulse had fluttered frantically under his palm while he was still buried inside you. Erased the colder image too: Brian’s Glock in his grip outside the cabin, finger hovering near the trigger, weighing whether one clean shot through the back of your head would’ve been kinder than leaving you to rot alone.

He groaned and rolled off the mattress. The room tilted once, then steadied. He reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. Took a long pull straight from the neck, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He got dressed in the same clothes from yesterday. Grabbed the mask from the dresser, the one that made him nobody, and pulled it over his head. Adjusted the straps until it sat snug. Picked up the axe leaning against the wall and slung it over his shoulder. Left the bedroom.

Ben was sprawled on the couch in the living room, controller in his lap. He looked up when Tim passed, eyes narrowing, mouth half-open like he wanted to say something. Didn’t. Just stared, full of judgment.

Tim ignored him. Kept walking.

Outside, the air hit cold and pine-sharp. Dusk had already settled heavy over the yard, trees black silhouettes against a bruised sky. Brian and Toby waited near the tree line, both already masked up, geared for whatever wetwork waited deeper in the woods.

Brian glanced at his watch, then at Tim. “You’re late. Again.”

Tim didn’t answer. Just fell into step behind them as they started into the trees. Toby glanced back once, eyes catching the porch light for a second, then muttered, “Y-you r-reek, man. Like a distillery f-fell on you.”

Tim’s grip tightened on the axe handle. For half a heartbeat he pictured swinging it - clean arc, satisfying crack against bone. Instead he let out a low grunt, shoulders rolling once like he was shaking off the urge. “Shut up, Toby.”

They walked deeper into the woods, pine needles crunching soft under boots, the last gray light bleeding out of the sky until everything was shadow and shape. Toby moved ahead with long strides, hoodie up, tics flickering every few steps like faulty wiring. Brian slowed deliberately, matching Tim’s heavier pace until they were side by side, Toby pulling farther into the dark ahead.

Brian’s voice came low, muffled slightly by the mask. “Dropped another package this morning.”

Tim kept his eyes on the path, axe handle resting easy against his shoulder.

Brian continued anyway, tone flat. “She was up. Sitting on the porch. Told me not to bring any more. Said she wants to be left alone.”

Tim’s grip tightened once on the axe, barely noticeable. He forced his voice even, casual, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere important. “Didn’t ask.”

Brian’s red-eyed mask turned just enough to catch the faint moonlight. The painted frown looked almost amused. “Yeah. Well. Thought you’d wanna know.”

Tim stayed silent for three more steps. The mask hid the way his jaw clenched, the way his throat worked once. Thank fuck for the blank white face staring back at Brian, no one could see the flicker behind his eyes.

“What’d she look like?” he asked finally. Almost careless.

Brian huffed, short and dry, not quite a laugh. “Like shit,” he said. “Thinner, I guess. Eyes like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Smoking your brand, though. Reds.”

Tim kept walking. The axe felt heavier suddenly. Then, quieter: “She’s gonna keep getting packages. Whether she likes it or not.”

Brian sighed, longer this time, the sound of someone who’d already had this argument in his head. “If she doesn’t want help, that’s on her, Tim.”

Tim cut him off, sharp and final. “I said she’s gonna keep getting them.”

Brian shut up. Another huff, annoyed. But he didn’t argue. Just lengthened his stride, pulling ahead until he walked level with Toby again.

Tim fell back a half-step. He stared at their backs while the woods closed in tighter around them. The axe stayed steady on his shoulder. But under the mask, his face twisted, just for a second, into something raw and unguarded. Then it smoothed over, and he kept walking. Like nothing had changed.

You.

Another three months dragged by - six whole months locked inside this fucking cabin, the walls closing tighter every day like they were trying to crush what little was left of you.

The packages kept coming relentlessly. Every few weeks a new cardboard box appeared on the porch - unmarked, unasked for, full of things you didn’t want: clothes, books, snacks, more of Ben’s perfectly rolled joints. You never touched them. Never even opened one. Just let them stack up, pile after pile, until the porch became a maze of cardboard you had to squeeze sideways through every time you stepped outside. A wall of refusal. A monument to everything you were trying to starve out of your life.

One gray morning you found the fawn.

It lay near the tree line, small body torn open, insides dragged out in wet, glistening ropes, eyes already clouded. Coyotes, probably. You stood over it for a long time, breath fogging in the cold, staring at the tiny ribcage split wide like a broken cage. Then you got the shovel from the shed, dug a shallow grave in the soft dirt behind the cabin. Buried it with shaking hands. Said nothing, no prayer, no words, just stood there until the earth was patted flat and the bowl of oats you’d left out every night felt suddenly obscene.

That was the day something snapped clean inside you.

You went into the tiny bathroom, stood in front of the cracked mirror, and cut your hair. Long, uneven snips with the kitchen scissors, chunks falling into the sink like dead leaves. When you were done it hung ragged around your jaw, messy, alive in a way the rest of you wasn’t. You showered until the water ran cold, dressed in the least-worn clothes from your own closet, and got in the car.

Drove to the tiny town.

The bar was the only one - a sagging building with a flickering neon sign that read “Rusty Nail” in half-dead letters. Inside it smelled like old beer, cigarette smoke that had soaked into the wood years ago, and despair. Empty except for the bartender - an older man, gray hair thinning, eyes tired and bored behind wire-frame glasses. He was wiping the same spot on the scarred bar top when you walked in.

You went straight to him. “You hiring?”

He laughed dryly, like you’d told a bad joke. Then he looked up, and the laugh died when he saw you weren’t smiling. “A girl like you?” he said, eyebrows lifting. “In a place like this?”

“I’m a bartender,” you said, voice flat. “A damn good one. I want the job.”

He studied you, taking in the choppy haircut, the determined look. Sighed. “Pay’s shit. Tips are worse. This town’s dying, young lady. You sure?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you said. “I just need something to do.”

He stared at you another long second. Then shrugged. “Alright. Come in tomorrow. Six to close. Don’t be late.”

You nodded once. Turned and walked out before he could change his mind. The door banged shut behind you.

For the first time in six months, the ache in your chest didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like breathing.

Ben.

Ben hadn’t heard from you in six months. Six fucking months.

At this point you felt like a half-remembered dream, fuzzy around the edges, colors bleeding out, but he still saw you clear as day when he closed his eyes. Your face when you laughed at one of his dumb jokes. The way your arms had wrapped around him that last time in his room, quick and real and warm in a house that never felt warm. The hug had lasted maybe five seconds, but it stuck with him like a brand.

He missed having a friend like you. It had been… refreshing. A reminder that not everything in this life had to be dread and fear and screaming. You’d made him remember what normal felt like, even if it was only for a little while.

He hoped you’d smoked the joints he’d sent. Hoped at least one of those Ziplocs had made it into your hands, that maybe one night you’d lit up on that porch and thought of him without hating the memory. He’d rolled them perfectly, the way he knew you liked.

But he’d overheard Brian and Toby in the kitchen two nights ago, low voices, cabinet doors clicking shut.

“She hasn’t touched a single package in months,” Brian had said, flat as ever. “Just lets them stack up.”

Toby’s stutter had cracked the quiet. “What if… w-what if she’s d-dead?”

“She’s not. We’re not that lucky.”

Ben had stood frozen in the hallway, chest tight like someone had wrapped a cord around his ribs and pulled.

You never replied to any of his messages. Not one. The texts had started desperate and then tapered into quieter, sadder ones. But no replies. It stung. Of course it fucking stung. But he didn’t blame you.

You’d wanted out. Away from Tim. Away from the house. Away from the blood and the static and the way everything here eventually turned rotten. If cutting him off was part of that escape, he got it. He hated it, but he got it. Still hurt like hell.

A small, petty part of him took vicious satisfaction in watching Tim fall apart.

Tim pretended he didn’t care - same old mask, same late-night missions, but Ben saw it. The way Tim drank himself stupid every night, bottles piling up faster than the packages on your porch. The way he’d stare at nothing for minutes at a time, mask off, eyes hollow. The way he’d snap at anyone who even breathed near him.

Someone who didn’t care didn’t drown themselves in whiskey until they couldn’t stand.

Ben leaned back in his gaming chair now, controller idle in his lap. The screen glowed bright, some mindless game paused mid-run, but he wasn’t playing.

He opened his phone. Scrolled to the last message he’d sent you, four months ago. He stared at it a long time. Then locked the screen. Set the phone face-down on the desk.

And went back to the game. Pretending it didn’t still ache. Pretending he didn’t still hope, somewhere stupid and stubborn, that one day you’d text back. Just one word. Anything.

You. 

Another two whole months slipped by like water through cracked fingers, slow at first, then faster, easier.

The Rusty Nail became your second skin. You worked five nights a week, sometimes six if the old bartender wanted a break. The crowd never grew much: a handful of loggers who tipped in quarters and grunted thanks, the occasional trucker passing through, the same three old men who played cribbage at the corner table and argued about hockey scores from 1997. But you made it matter. You learned their drinks by heart. You started a small chalkboard behind the bar with terrible puns about beer. You made a playlist that you put on every night.

People noticed. The loggers started smiling when they walked in. The old men tipped better. One night a woman in her forties told you the bar felt “alive again” and bought you a shot of Jameson. You poured it, clinked glasses, and felt something warm bloom behind your ribs that wasn’t whiskey.

You weren’t hiding anymore. The news cycle had chewed up the bar fire and spat it out months ago, it was a cold case with no leads, a small-town tragedy filed under “shit happens.” This place was hours from your old life, tucked so far into the pines that even Google Maps gave up halfway. No one here knew your face from a wanted poster. No one asked questions.

You let yourself breathe.

And after a while, you even started putting in effort into making the cabin feel more like a home. You bought string lights and draped them along the walls. A small woven rug for the living room. A cheap ceramic mug with a tiny painted deer on it. A kettle. Little things. Proof you still knew how to want.

But the nights… The nights were brutal.

Closing shift ended around midnight. You’d lock up, count the till, wipe down the bar one last time, then drive the dark road back to the cabin with the windows cracked so the cold kept you awake. Radio off. Just engine hum and your own breathing.

Inside the cabin, the string lights glowed soft and golden, but the silence pressed in like damp wool. You’d shower, hot water until it ran cold, pull on a big sweater, crawl under the quilt, and stare at the ceiling until your eyes burned. No static or headaches anymore. Just you. And the loneliness that sat on your chest like a second skeleton.

You’d told your family you were okay. One carefully worded text six months ago: “I’m safe. I need space. Don’t look for me. Don’t call the police. I love you.” Then you’d powered the phone off and buried it in a drawer under socks. They hadn’t tried to find you. Or if they had, they’d respected the boundary. Either way, the line stayed dead.

No friends left. The people from your old life had faded into ghosts the moment the bar burned. And here? You smiled at customers. You made small talk. But no one stayed after last call.

So you started rereading the thread with Ben. Every night. You’d unlock your phone, signal spotty but enough, and scroll back through months of messages. His stupid memes. His late-night rants. The way he’d spam heart emojis when you sent him a selfie. The way he’d typed “i miss u” once. You always smiled, small and aching, despite yourself. He’d been kind when kindness felt like a foreign language.

One night, three weeks ago, you’d almost typed back. Fingers hovering. Heart hammering. Then you’d deleted the draft and gone to bed with wet eyes.

Tonight was different. Closing shift had been quiet. Only two customers after midnight. You’d locked up, driven home under a sky thick with stars, parked, walked inside, kicked off your boots, and sat on the edge of the bed still wearing your bar apron.

Phone in hand. Thread open. You stared at his last message from six months ago: hope the joints helped. miss your dumb laugh. be safe.

Your thumbs trembled. Then, before you could overthink it, you typed.

sorry i ghosted you.

Sent. You dropped the phone like it burned. Stared at it on the quilt. Waited for the world to end. It took forty-seven seconds.

The screen lit up. Then lit up again. And again. And again. A flood.

IT Support:

holy shit oh my god oh my god r u ok?? like actualu ok?? just fuck im shaking rn im literally shaking r u hurt?? do u need anything?? just talk to me pls

You stared at the screen through blurry eyes. Your chest cracked open, painful, bright, and alive. Your thumbs hovered, then you typed one word.

hey :)

The typing bubble appeared instantly. He was already replying. And for the first time in eight months, the cabin didn’t feel quite so empty.

Ben. 

Ben was hyperventilating. Full-on, chest-heaving, vision-sparkling hyperventilation.

He’d bolted from the bed the second your message lit up his screen, knocked over an empty Monster can, sent it rolling under the desk, and slammed his bedroom door so hard the RGB strips flickered. Now he was pacing the narrow strip of carpet between bed and gaming rig, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, hair a static disaster from raking his hands through it repeatedly.

His phone was clutched in both hands like it might explode. He kept rereading your last text, the one that had come after his flood of panic:

hey :) i’m okay. really. got a job bartending at this little dive. it’s quiet but it’s… nice. i feel like i’m finally doing something again. just lonely sometimes. like really lonely. the cabin’s too quiet, especially at night.

He’d stared at those words until they blurred. Lonely. You were lonely. And you’d told him. Not anyone else. Him.

His thumbs were shaking so badly the first reply came out as gibberish: are u srsly ok?? like actuallu?? He deleted it. Tried again: holy shit i’m so glad ur alive i mean i knew but i didn’t KNOW yk?? Better. Still terrible. He deleted that too.

His heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again, the one that made his palms sweat and his thumbs feel too big for the screen. He’d typed and deleted so many versions already that he started to feel dizzy.

He took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly. Then he hit the call button before he could talk himself out of it.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. He almost hung up.

Then– “Hello?” Your voice. Soft. A little rough around the edges like you hadn’t used it much today. Beautiful in a way that punched the air straight out of his lungs.

Ben froze mid-pace, one foot still lifted like he’d been caught stepping on a landmine. “Hey,” he croaked. Then immediately winced. “Uh. Hi. It’s–Ben. Obviously. Shit, sorry, I just–”

A small, surprised laugh from your end. The sound was so familiar it hurt. “I know it’s you, dummy.”

He exhaled hard enough that it crackled through the speaker. “Right. Right. Sorry. I’m–uh–kinda freakin’ out right now.”

Another quiet laugh. Warmer this time. “Yeah. I can hear that.”

He started pacing again, faster. The RGB lights cycled purple-blue-purple like they were trying to keep up with his heartbeat. “So… you’re really okay?” he asked, voice cracking on the last word. “Like… actually?”

A pause. Not long. Just long enough for him to picture you sitting on that sagging couch in the cabin, knees drawn up.

“I’m… getting there,” you said finally. “It’s been a long eight months. But yeah. I think I’m okay.”

He stopped pacing. Dropped onto the edge of the bed so hard the springs groaned. “Jesus. Eight months. I thought–” He cut himself off. Swallowed. “I thought maybe you hated me or something. For not… I dunno. Doin’ more.”

“No,” you said quickly. “God, no. I just… needed to disappear for a while. From everything. Including texts. I’m sorry I ghosted you. That wasn’t fair.”

He laughed once, short and shaky. “Yeah, well. I’m not exactly known for my emotional stability either, so… we’re even.”

Silence stretched for a second. Comfortable, though. Not the kind that made you want to fill it with noise.

“So,” he said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably, “bartending again, huh? At a dive bar? That’s… badass.”

You huffed a small laugh. “It’s literally the most nothing place you can imagine. But… I like it. I like having something to do. Somewhere to go. People who don’t know my name or my history.”

He could hear the small smile in your voice. “That sounds… nice,” he said softly. “Normal.”

“Yeah. Normal’s weirdly addictive once you get a taste.”

He flopped backward onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling where one of his lights had started flickering like it was dying.

“What about you?” you asked. “How’s… everything?”

He groaned dramatically. “Same as always. I was promised ‘less work’ from Brian but obviously that never happened, he keeps riding my ass. Jack’s on a new cleaning kick–disinfects the entire infirmary every single week now. The whole house smells like bleach for days. Everyone’s pissed. Jeff says it’s ‘chemical warfare.’ I’m pretty sure he’s not wrong.”

You laughed. “God, I can picture it. The bleach smell must be brutal.”

“It’s apocalyptic. I’ve been sleeping with my hoodie over my face like a gas mask.”

Another laugh. Softer.

Neither of you said Tim’s name.

He thought about it multiple times. The question hovered right there on his tongue: Have you heard from him? Seen him? Does he know you’re okay? But every time he opened his mouth to ask, something stopped him. Maybe fear. Maybe the memory of how wrecked Tim had been after dropping you off. Maybe just not wanting to break whatever fragile thing was happening right now.

So he didn’t. Instead he asked, “You gonna keep texting me? Like… regularly?”

You were quiet for a second, long enough that his stomach dropped, then answered, soft but sure. “Yeah. I promise. I’m not… I’m not ghosting again. I missed you, Ben. More than I knew how to say.”

His eyes stung. He blinked hard, laughed once to cover it. “Cool. Cool cool cool. That’s–yeah. Good. Great. I missed you too. Like, embarrassingly bad.”

You both laughed, small, relieved.

Eventually the call had to end. You said you had a shift tomorrow. He said he had to pretend to sleep before Brian came looking for him.

“Okay,” you said. “Talk soon?”

“Soon,” he promised. “Like, tomorrow soon. Don’t make me wait months again or I’ll drive up there and camp on your porch.”

“Deal.”

The line went quiet. Then you whispered, almost too soft to hear: “Thanks for calling.”

He swallowed. “Thanks for picking up.”

Click.

Ben stared at the ceiling for a full ten seconds after the call ended. Then he exploded.

He threw the phone onto the bed, leapt up, did a ridiculous, flailing spin-jump that nearly knocked over his monitor, and let out the loudest, most undignified “FUCK YES” of his life, muffled immediately by shoving his face into a pillow so no one downstairs heard.

He flopped back onto the mattress, arms spread wide, grinning so hard his cheeks ached. “She’s okay,” he whispered to the ceiling. “She’s okay. And she called me. And she laughed. And she promised.”

He rolled onto his stomach, buried his face in the pillow again, and let out a muffled, giddy scream.

Then he grabbed his phone, opened your contact, and changed your name from the sad little “ghosted 🥲“ he’d set six months ago to: bartender queen aka best friend ❤️🍺

His chest felt too small to hold it all. He needed to tell someone or he was going to combust. He bolted out of his room without thinking, feet slapping the hallway floorboards, hoodie flapping open. Jeff’s door was cracked, light spilling out in a thin yellow stripe, and Ben just shoved it wide and stepped inside. The room smelled like sweat, cheap body spray, and wet dog.

Jeff was mid-pull-up on the makeshift bar he’d bolted into the ceiling beams months ago, shirtless, lean muscle flexing under scarred skin, sweat gleaming down his back and ribs. His black hair stuck to his forehead in wet spikes. He didn’t stop when Ben entered, just kept going, slow and controlled, breath steady through his nose.

Smile was sprawled across the foot of the unmade bed, thick fur rising and falling with deep, oblivious sleep. One paw twitched like he was chasing something in his dreams.

Ben eased the door shut behind him. The latch clicked softly. His voice came out small and rushed. “Dude. You know you’re not allowed to have animals in the house. Tim’s gonna freak if he finds out.”

Jeff released the bar with a soft grunt, dropped lightly to the floor, and turned. Sweat slid down the center of his chest. He wiped his face with the discarded shirt hanging off the bar, then tossed it aside. “Tim can suck my fuckin' dick,” he said, mildly amused.

Smile woke at the sound, head lifting, ears perking. The second he saw Ben his tail started thumping against the mattress like a bass drum. Before Ben could react the dog launched off the bed in one fluid bound, paws hitting the floor, and barreled straight for him.

Ben yelped, high and panicked, stumbling back until his shoulders hit the door. “Hey–Smile–hey, buddy–easy–”

Smile planted both front paws on Ben’s thighs, nose shoving into his stomach, tail whipping so hard it blurred. Ben froze, half-terrified, hands hovering uselessly like he didn’t know whether to pet or push. Through gritted teeth, barely above a whisper: “Get this fuckin’ dog off me, man.”

Jeff laughed and dropped onto the edge of the bed. “Smile. C’mere.”

The husky obeyed instantly, trotting back, tongue lolling, and sat between Jeff’s knees like a soldier at attention. Jeff buried scarred fingers in the thick ruff, scratching hard behind the ears until Smile’s eyes half-closed in bliss.

Ben exhaled shakily, still pressed against the door like he might bolt.

Jeff tilted his head, smirking. “You look like you just snorted a line. What’s up, dude?”

Ben clapped his hands together. “Guess who I just talked to!”

Jeff pretended to think about it for a second, then smirked. “Hm… you finally paid a fortune to talk to your favorite cam girl again?”

Ben groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “Nah. Shut up. It was–” He dropped his hands, eyes wide and bright. “It was her. Y/N. I just talked to her. On the phone. Like, actually talked.”

Jeff’s smirk froze for half a second. Then it stretched wider, slow and amused. “No shit.”

Ben started pacing again, three steps one way, three steps back, like he couldn’t contain the energy. “Yeah. She texted me back. Finally. After months of fucking radio silence. And then she answered when I called. Dude. She laughed. She laughed at my stupid jokes. She told me about the bar she’s working at, some dive in the middle of nowhere. Said it’s quiet but nice. Said she’s lonely sometimes. She promised to keep in touch. She said she missed me.”

Jeff leaned back on his hands, legs spread wide, Smile leaning heavy against his thigh. He scratched the dog’s neck absently while he listened, pale eyes glinting. “Damn,” he drawled. “Little bartender finally crawled out of her hole. You think she’s still as sexy?”

Ben shot him a look. “Don’t be a dick. She’s doing good, okay? She sounded… normal. Like she’s actually breathing again.”

Jeff chuckled, then flopped fully onto his back across the bed, arms flung out. Smile immediately climbed half on top of him, head resting on Jeff’s stomach like a living weighted blanket. Jeff kept petting, fingers dragging lazy through the thick fur.

He tilted his head toward Ben. “She say anything about gettin’ properly dicked down out there in the woods? Eight months is a long time to go without. Bet that pussy’s starving.”

Ben groaned louder this time, stepping forward to smack Jeff on the shoulder, hard enough to make the bed bounce. “Jesus, dude. Can you not?”

Jeff laughed again, rolling onto his side so Smile had to readjust with an annoyed huff. “What? I’m askin’ a legitimate question. Girl spends that much time in a cabin with nothing but canned soup and her right hand. You think she’s not climbin’ the walls?”

“I mean, I guess.” A pause. “Anyway… she didn’t mention Tim,” Ben said quietly. “Not once. Neither did I.”

Jeff’s smirk softened just a fraction. He stared at the ceiling for a second, fingers still moving through Smile’s fur. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Probably smart.”

Ben sank onto the foot of the bed, careful not to crush the dog’s tail, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. “I hope he never sees her again,” he said. “I hope he stays the fuck away. She’s finally… I dunno. Starting to sound like herself.”

Jeff hummed, thoughtful. Then the smirk crept back. “If Tim ever does roll up on her again, he’s not gonna be gentle about it. And she’s probably so dick-starved she’ll let him do whatever he wants anyway. Maybe we should make a road trip. Me, you, Smile. Help the poor girl out.”

Ben pinched his leg, fighting back a grin. "You’re such a sleazeball.”

Jeff cackled, rolling away and dragging Smile with him. The dog grumbled but didn’t move far.

They sat in comfortable quiet for a minute, Smile’s tail thumping lazily against the mattress, Jeff scratching behind his ears, Ben staring at his phone like it might light up again any second.

Eventually Jeff yawned, long, jaw-cracking. “Alright, loverboy. Go jerk off to the memory of her voice or whatever you do when you’re giddy. I need beauty sleep.”

Ben snorted. Stood up. “Yeah. Night, asshole.”

Jeff lifted two fingers in lazy salute without looking.

Ben slipped out, closed the door softly behind him.

Back in his room he locked it, flopped onto his bed face-first, and let out a long, muffled groan into the pillow. Then he rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and grinned so wide it hurt.

He replayed every word of the call in his head, your soft “hello,” the way you’d fondly called him “dummy,” the tiny laugh. He thought about your voice, rough around the edges but still so fucking you, and felt something warm and stupid bloom in his chest.

He didn’t fall asleep for a long time. Kept picking up his phone, rereading the texts, smiling like an idiot at the new contact name.

You.

For the first time in a long, long time…you felt lighter. Not healed, not whole. But lighter.

You had your friend back. Ben.

Texts started the very next day. Silly ones at first - memes, selfies of him making faces in his gaming chair, complaints about Brian’s latest rant. You answered. Every time. Just quick replies, stupid emojis, the occasional photo of your outfit or the chalkboard pun you’d written at the bar that night.

You never mentioned Tim. He never brought him up. It was an unspoken agreement.

Things at the Rusty Nail kept getting better. The old bartender started trusting you with more shifts. The loggers started calling you by name. One night the three cribbage guys left you a twenty-dollar tip and a scrawled note on a napkin: Keep the puns coming, kid. You taped it behind the bar like a medal.

You bought more string lights, warm white ones for the bedroom this time. You started leaving out birdseed on the porch. A family of chickadees started showing up every morning, tiny black-capped heads bobbing at the feeder you’d hung from the eaves.

Soon enough, a whole year had passed.

One morning, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days since Tim’s taillights disappeared down that dirt track, you woke up, stretched under the quilt, and realized something quiet and startling: You felt free.

You could breathe without the weight on your chest. You could laugh at Ben’s dumb texts without guilt. You could touch the scar on your collarbone without flinching. You could look out the window at the pines and not feel hunted. You weren’t running anymore. You were just… living. And for the first time in forever, that felt like enough.

Tim.

The mission had gone sideways from the jump.

What was supposed to be a clean in-and-out, a quiet house on the edge of nowhere, one target, no witnesses, had turned into a slaughterhouse. The guy hadn’t been alone. Hadn’t even been asleep. He’d come at Tim with a kitchen knife and a scream that woke the whole goddamn neighborhood. Tim had put three rounds through his chest before the first one even hit the floor, but the noise brought the wife running. Then the neighbor with a shotgun. It stopped being clean. It became survival. Blood on the walls, blood on the stairs, blood on the rifle barrel still warm against his shoulder.

Now the town was empty.

Midnight had come and gone; the streets were dead except for the occasional porch light flickering like it was on its last breath. Tim walked slowly, boots scuffing cracked sidewalk, the hunting rifle slung across his back like an old friend. The same rifle he’d bought brand-new at a pawn shop just to convince you he really was a hunter, told you it was for deer season, watched your eyes light up when he talked about tracking through the woods like some romantic bullshit. The same one he’d fucked you with - cold metal pressed inside you while you came shaking in his arms. The same one he’d used to crack Toby’s face open the night everything went to shit.

He didn’t use the axe as much anymore. The rifle felt better in his hands now. Personal.

He wiped the drying blood off his knuckles onto the thigh of his jeans, dark streaks already blending into the dark denim, and flicked the spent cigarette to the ground. The ember sparked once against the pavement and died.

He couldn't stop thinking about the cabin - your cabin. It was close. Too close. Fifteen, maybe twenty miles north through backroads he'd driven blind drunk more times than he cared to count. He could be there in half an hour if he found a car worth stealing. Could park at the tree line, kill the engine, sit in the dark and watch the porch light flicker through the pines.

He’d had the urge to do that for a whole year. Just to see you. Just to be near you again. But tonight the pull was vicious. Bone-deep. Like something under his ribs had teeth and they were sinking in deeper with every step.

He needed a drink.

Needed to drown the static in his head, the loop of your voice saying Tim–please–don't leave me while his taillights shrank in the rearview and you screamed his name until the woods ate the sound.

A bar sign glowed ahead: Rusty Nail. Flickering neon. One letter burned out so it read Rusty Na l. Looked like every other shithole he'd ever drowned in.

Good enough.

He pushed through the door. Bell above the frame jangled once. Inside: dim. Warm. Three stools at the bar, all empty. And behind the bar–

You.

What the actual fuck.

You stood there, wiping down the scarred wood with a rag that had seen better decades. Denim shorts. Oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. Hair shorter now, choppy, jagged around your jaw like you'd cut it yourself with kitchen scissors in a fit of something. The string lights you'd probably hung yourself cast soft gold across your profile when you turned at the sound of the bell.

Your eyes met his. The rag slipped from your fingers. Landed on the bar with a soft wet slap.

Tim didn't move. The rifle felt suddenly obscene slung across his back, like a confession he hadn't meant to bring inside. Blood still tacky on his hands. Smoke and gunpowder clinging to his jacket. Exhaustion carved so deep into his face he looked ten years older than the last time you'd seen him.

You stared. He stared back.

You.

You stared at him and felt your whole world crumbling.

The bell’s jangle still hung in the air like an aftershock. Tim stood framed in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the space, rifle slung low across his back like it belonged there, dark streaks smeared across the denim of his jeans. The same jacket. The same flannel underneath, unbuttoned at the throat, collar stained rusty-brown. The same goddamn hunting rifle.

Déjà vu hit you like a truck. The first time you’d ever met him it was exactly like this: near closing, him stumbling through the door bloody and quiet, asking for a drink in that low, smoke-rough voice. You’d poured him a beer. You’d let him fuck you right there.

And now he was here.

A million things crashed through you at once: scream, cry, laugh, lunge across the bar and claw his eyes out, grab the rifle and blow a hole through his chest so wide he’d never walk away again.

Instead you just stared. Tim stared back.

His face, still handsome in that brutal, tired way, was carved with lines that hadn’t been there a year ago. Shadows under his eyes so dark they looked bruised. Jaw unshaven. Lips chapped. Hair longer, messier, falling into his face like he’d stopped caring enough to push it back. The exhaustion rolling off him wasn’t just from whatever hell he’d crawled out of tonight.

You spoke first, colder than you expected. “Get out.”

Tim’s throat worked. He didn’t move. “I just want a drink,” he said, hoarse, almost polite. Like this was still the version of him who pretended to be normal.

You felt something snap behind your ribs. “Get out,” you said again, louder this time, voice cracking on the second word.

He lifted one blood-streaked hand slowly, palm out. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Get the fuck out!” The shout tore out of you before you could stop it. You slammed both palms on the bar so hard the bottles rattled. “What are you doing here? Why are you back? Huh? You think you can just walk in like nothing happened? Get. The fuck. Out.”

Tim flinched visibly. His hand dropped. His eyes, dark, hungry, always so fucking hungry, flickered with something raw: confusion, anger, panic, grief, all at once. He looked like a man watching his own execution and still not understanding why the bullet was coming.

“I swear,” he rasped. “I didn’t know. I was close. Needed a drink. That’s it.” He sounded like he was telling the truth. You hated that most of all.

You kept staring at each other across the bar top, across a year of silence, across every broken promise and every night you’d cried yourself hollow.

Then he said it. “You look… beautiful.”

The words punched the air out of your lungs. You blinked, caught completely off guard.

Beautiful. After everything. After the blood, the fire, the goodbye in the dirt, he looked at you like you were still the most precious thing.

You didn’t let it show. Didn’t let your lip tremble. Didn’t let your eyes burn. You just stared at him, and said, “Leave.”

He didn’t. He took one careful step forward. “Just one beer,” he said, pleading in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Then I’ll go. I swear.”

You wanted to say no. Wanted to scream until the windows shattered. Instead - against every screaming instinct in your body - you exhaled through your nose, turned, and pulled a bottle of Bud from the cooler. The glass was ice-cold against your palm. You cracked the cap with a bottle opener, set it on the bar between you with a clink, and stepped back. “Drink it and get out.”

Tim crossed the room slowly, boots heavy, rifle swaying slightly with each step, until he reached the bar. He stood there, staring at the bottle like it might bite. Then he pulled out a stool. The legs scraped loud against the floor. He sat.

You stayed behind the bar, arms crossed tight over your chest, nails digging into your biceps hard enough to leave marks.

He wrapped one hand around the bottle. Didn’t drink yet, just looked at it. Then looked at you.

You couldn’t help it. You took him in too. The lines around his eyes were deeper than they used to be. His mouth was tighter. His shoulders, broad, strong, always so fucking strong, slumped just enough to notice. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept right in a year.

He lifted the bottle finally. Took one long, slow pull. Swallowed. Set it back down. The clink was too loud in the silence. 

You locked eyes, and for one endless, agonizing second, it felt like nothing had changed. Like you were still that girl who’d laughed when he flirted. Like he was still the man who’d promised to keep you safe.

Then you remembered the way his hand had tightened around your throat. The way his eyes had gone distant. The way his taillights had disappeared. And the illusion shattered. You looked away first. Picked up the rag. Started wiping the bar again in slow, mechanical circles over wood that was already clean.

Tim watched you. He took another sip, and said, quiet, barely audible–

“I’m sorry.”

You didn’t dare look up, just kept wiping. Because if you stopped, if you looked at him, if you let yourself feel anything at all, you weren’t sure you’d survive it. So you wiped, and he drank. And the silence between you stretched, painful and endless, alive with everything neither of you could say.

But you couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of your eye as he drank.

He didn’t gulp it down like he used to, no long, desperate pulls that emptied the bottle in three swallows. He took slow sips instead, like he was trying to make the beer last, like he knew the second it was gone he’d have to leave. Every time he lifted the bottle, the faint metallic scent of whatever nightmare he’d walked out of tonight drifted across the bar toward you.

You hated that you noticed. Hated that you still knew exactly how many swallows it took him to finish one.

The bottle was almost empty now, condensation sliding down the glass in slow, lazy trails. You knew he wouldn’t ask for another.

So when the last swallow went down and he set the empty bottle on the wood with a soft clink, you reached into the cooler without a word. Pulled out another Bud, cracked the cap and set it in front of him.

His eyes flicked up, surprised, grateful, something softer and more dangerous flickering behind the exhaustion. He nodded once, small and careful, and wrapped his hand around the new bottle.

The silence stretched again.

He took a sip. Swallowed. Then, voice low, rough from smoke and whatever else he’d been swallowing lately, he asked, “What are you doin’ here?”

You considered ignoring him. Considered turning your back, walking into the back room, locking the door until he left. Instead you answered, like the words didn’t cost you anything. “Got bored in the cabin. Needed something to do.”

He nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense. Like he understood the slow rot of isolation better than anyone. “Fair,” he murmured. Another sip. “You like it here?”

You looked around the Rusty Nail, the chipped bar top, the flickering neon, the empty stools. Then back at him. “Yeah,” you said. Almost a whisper. “I do.”

He held your gaze for a long second. Then looked down at the bottle. Took another drink. The silence came back heavier.

He rolled the bottle between his palms, thoughtful, then carefully asked, like he was stepping onto thin ice,

“You fucked anyone since me?”

The question landed like a slap. You stared at him. Blinked once.

Of course he’d asked that. Of course.

Annoyance flared hot and fast behind your ribs, sharp enough to cut through the ache. “Are you serious?” you asked.

He shrugged - one shoulder lifting, casual, like he was asking about the weather. “Just a question.”

You felt your jaw tighten. “So what if I have?”

His mouth curved, just a little. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one. “Sounds like you haven’t,” he said softly.

Then, darker, almost tender in the most fucked-up way–

“If you have… he won’t be alive much longer.”

The words hung there. Heavy, and possessive, and terrifying, and beautiful.

You felt butterflies erupt in your stomach, traitorous and unwanted. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. Once. Twice. You hated it. Hated him. Hated yourself for still feeling anything at all when he said shit like that.

“You should leave now.”

He didn’t argue. Just lifted the bottle again and drank the rest in three slow pulls.

He set the empty down and reached into his jacket pocket - pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. Twenties, tens, a few ones. Dropped them on the bar without counting. “Keep the change.”

He stood, and looked at you. A long, slow, aching look - like he was trying to burn every inch of you into his memory before the door closed behind him. His eyes lingered on your face. Your hair. The scar peeking above your sweater collar. The way your hands shook just slightly where they gripped the edge of the bar.

Then he nodded once and turned.

You watched him walk out. The bell jangled and the door swung shut. Silence rushed back in.

You stood there, frozen, chest heaving. Once. Twice. Then the sob ripped out of you, quiet at first, choked, then louder. You pressed both hands to your mouth, trying to trap the sound, but it kept coming anyway. Tears burned hot down your cheeks. Your knees buckled.

You caught yourself on the bar, fingers curling tight around the edge, head dropping forward until your forehead rested against the cool wood.

You’d seen Tim again. After a whole year. After everything. And he still looked at you like you were his. Still spoke to you like you were his. Still threatened murder over you like you were his. And you still felt it - the pull, the ache, the stupid, traitorous butterflies that should have died months ago.

You stayed like that, shaking, crying quietly into your palms, until the tears slowed. Until your breathing evened out. Until the bar felt empty again. And you whispered to the empty bar, to the night, to the ghost of him still lingering in the air–

“Fuck you, Tim.”

But even as you said it, your voice cracked. Because part of you, the stupid, broken, still-in-love part, didn’t mean it. Not even a little.

You managed to pull yourself together eventually. The tears slowed to a trickle, then dried on your cheeks in salty tracks. You wiped your face roughly with your sweater until the fabric felt damp and gritty. Your hands still shook, small, fine tremors you couldn’t quite stop, but you forced them to move anyway. You picked up the two empty bottles. Rinsed them in the sink behind the bar. Dropped them into the recycling bin with a soft clink that sounded too loud in the empty room. Counted the drawer even though you already knew the night’s take by heart. Locked the register. Turned off the neon sign. Flipped the “Closed” placard in the window.

Every motion mechanical. You couldn’t let yourself fall apart again.

You pulled your phone from your apron pocket with numb fingers. The screen lit up, 1:47 a.m. You opened your messages. Ben’s thread was already open from earlier that day, some stupid gif he’d sent. Your thumb hovered over the call button for three long seconds.

Then you pressed it.

He answered after the second ring.

“Hey!” His voice came through bright, warm, already halfway into a ramble. “Dude, you will not believe what just happened in chat–some guy tried to speedrun Mario 64 with a dance pad and–”

“I just saw Tim.”

Ben went silent instantly. The background noise cut off like someone had yanked the cord.

Then the panic started. “What the fuck,” he breathed. “What do you mean? Like–like saw him saw him? Where? When? Did he–did he do anything?”

You leaned your forehead against the cool metal of the walk-in cooler door and closed your eyes. “I was closing up,” you said. Voice steady even though your pulse hammered in your throat. “He walked in all bloody. Asked for a drink. I told him to get out. He didn’t. I gave him two beers anyway. He drank. He left.”

A long beat of silence. Then Ben’s voice, smaller, careful. “Did he… say anything?”

You swallowed. “Said I looked beautiful.”

Another silence, this one heavier. “Jesus,” Ben whispered.

You pushed off the cooler door. Started pacing the narrow space behind the bar with slow, measured steps. “Ben,” you said. “Did you tell him I was working here?”

Instant denial - sharp, almost offended. “No. Fuck no. I’d never snitch. Not even to save my own ass.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I figured.”

Ben exhaled. “Tim had a mission near that town,” he said quietly. “Brian mentioned it last week. Some cleanup job a couple hours south. He probably just… stumbled in. Wrong place, wrong time. Bad fucking luck.”

You felt bile rise in the back of your throat. 

Was this fate?

The thought hit you pathetically. You almost laughed at yourself. Almost slapped yourself for even thinking it.

Instead you just kept pacing. “Nothing really happened,” you said. “He drank. He left. That’s it.”

Ben was quiet for a long moment. “How do you feel about seeing him again?”

You stopped walking. Stared at the bar top, still damp from where you’d wiped it earlier. You thought about lying. About brushing it off with something casual, something easy. But the truth clawed its way up anyway. “I don’t know,” you whispered.

A beat. “Nothing’s gonna happen. This was just a one-time thing.”

Ben didn’t push. Just let the silence sit there patiently. After a while he asked, barely above a breath. “Do you… want to get back together with him?”

The question landed like a punch to the solar plexus. You felt your throat close. Felt your eyes burn again. You sighed, long and ragged. “I gotta go, Ben,” you said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

You hung up before he could answer. Before he could hear the way your voice cracked on the last word.

You locked up and drove home in silence.

The cabin was dark when you pulled up. You sat in the car for a long minute, engine ticking as it cooled, staring at the porch light you’d left on.

Then you went inside. Kicked off your boots. Stripped out of your clothes right there in the living room and left them in a heap on the floor like shed skin. Walked straight into the bathroom. Turned the shower on as hot as it would go. Stepped under the spray. Let the water scald your shoulders, your back, your face.

You stood there until your skin turned pink, then red. Until the heat made your head swim. Then you shut the water off. Toweled dry. Pulled on the big cream sweater and a pair of soft sleep shorts. Crawled under the quilt. Curled onto your side. Stared at the wall, desperate for sleep.

But every time you closed your eyes you saw him - dark eyes, tired lines, blood on his gloves, that quiet, broken “I’m sorry” he’d left on the bar like loose change.

You tried counting backward from one hundred. Tried focusing on your breathing - slow in, slow out. Tried picturing the ocean, the bar, Ben’s stupid memes, anything safe. But nothing worked. 

Tim kept rising behind your eyes like smoke you couldn’t wave away. The way he’d stood in the doorway, broad, blood-streaked, rifle slung low like it was part of him. The way his gaze had dragged over you, possessive and starving, like no time had passed at all. Like you were still his.

Your thighs pressed together involuntarily. Heat bloomed low in your belly, a traitorous thing.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling beams. Tried to will it away. It only got worse.

You remembered the infirmary cot, his big hands pinning your wrists above your head, hips rolling deep and slow while he kissed the cigarette scar on your collarbone like it was holy. You remembered the way he’d growled “mine” against your throat while he fucked you raw and desperate. You remembered the stretch of him inside you, thick and unrelenting, the way he’d made you cum so hard you’d seen stars behind your eyelids.

Your hand drifted down before you could stop it. It slid under the waistband of your sleep shorts and found slick heat already waiting.

You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and let two fingers slip inside. A soft, broken sound escaped you.

You pictured him above you, sweat-slick chest pressed to yours, breath hot against your ear, that low, wrecked voice murmuring “that’s it, baby, take it all.”

You curled your fingers, crooked them the way he used to, pressed against the spot that made your hips jerk off the mattress.

Your other hand slid up under the sweater, cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaked hard and aching. You imagined his mouth there instead, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, sucking until you were whimpering his name.

“Tim–” The whisper slipped out, shameful. You didn’t care.

You pumped your fingers faster, wet, obscene sounds filling the quiet cabin. Your thumb found your clit and circled slow at first, then harder, matching the rhythm of your hips grinding against your own hand.

You pictured him flipping you onto your stomach, big palm between your shoulder blades, holding you down while he sank in from behind, deep and punishing. Pictured his other hand wrapping around your throat, just enough to feel your pulse flutter under his thumb while he fucked you senseless. Pictured him growling “cum for me, sweetheart–let me feel it” right before you shattered.

Your back arched. Breath hitched. Thighs trembled. The orgasm hit like a freight train, sudden and blinding.

You cried out his name again as your walls clenched around your fingers, slick gushing over your hand, soaking the sheets beneath you. Waves rolled through you, long, shuddering, almost painful in their intensity.

When it finally ebbed you collapsed back against the mattress, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp, legs shaking.

Tears pricked your eyes again - not from sadness this time. From release. From the cruel, beautiful truth that even after everything, your body still remembered him. Still wanted him. Still came hardest when you pictured his hands, his voice, his cock splitting you open.

You pulled your fingers free, slick and trembling, and wiped them on the sheet. Rolled onto your side. Curled into yourself. Exhaustion crashed over you like a tide, finally. Your eyes fluttered closed and for the first time in a year, sleep came fast and dreamless.

No nightmares, or static, or taillights disappearing into the dark. Just the quiet afterglow of your own body finally giving you what it had denied for so long.

Toby. 

Toby couldn’t sleep.

He never really could, not all the way. His brain was restless most nights: twitching, sparking, looping the same three thoughts until they wore grooves into his skull. Tonight was worse. The house felt too quiet, too empty. Brian was gone, some long-haul recon job up north. Tim was still out. Jeff was probably passed out somewhere. The rest of the place just… slept. Or pretended to.

Toby lay on his back for what felt like hours, staring at the water-stained ceiling, shoulder jerking every few minutes like someone kept yanking an invisible string. Neck cracking sideways. Fingers drumming restless patterns against the sheet. Eventually he gave up and rolled out of bed.

He shuffled downstairs. Kitchen light hurt his eyes when he flicked it on. He squinted, opened the cabinet, pulled out the half-empty box of off-brand cinnamon cereal. Poured a mountain of it into a chipped ceramic bowl. Added milk. Spoon clinked against the side as he carried it to the living room.

He dropped onto the sagging couch and clicked the TV on low. Some late-night cartoon flickered to life - bright colors, dumb sound effects, characters screaming at each other in exaggerated voices. He didn’t care what it was. Just needed noise. Something to drown out the static in his head.

He ate slowly. Slurped milk off the spoon. Chewed mechanically. Stared at the screen without really seeing it. A tic snapped his head sideways, hard enough the cereal almost spilled. He muttered a soft curse under his breath, readjusted the bowl, kept eating.

The front door opened. Toby leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked over the backrest.

It was Tim, who looked like death warmed over. Jacket hanging open, flannel underneath dark with sweat and something worse. Hunting rifle slung low across his back like it weighed a thousand pounds. Face pale under the porch light that spilled in behind him, eyes sunken, mouth a tight line.

He stepped inside. Shut the door with his boot. Tossed the rifle onto the floor near the coat rack, metal clattering against wood, loud in the quiet house. Then he crossed to the armchair and dropped into it like his strings had been cut.

A low, gravelly “Hey” rumbled out of him.

Toby swallowed the mouthful of cereal. Slurped milk off the spoon again. “Hey,” he rasped back. “Mission go o-okay?”

Tim leaned back. Reclined the chair until the footrest popped up. Boots thudded onto it. He rubbed a gloved hand over his face. “Went bad,” he muttered. “Handled it.”

Toby nodded once. Took another bite. Chewed. Stared at the cartoon dog chasing its own tail in frantic circles.

Tim watched him for a minute. Toby’s shoulder jerked again. Spoon clinked against the bowl. Hair a mess, sticking up in every direction. Eyes tired but alert, flicking over the screen like the dumb cartoon was the most fascinating thing he’d seen all week.

Tim’s throat worked once. He thought about not saying it. Thought about letting the silence sit. Then he said it anyway. “I saw Y/n.”

Toby froze mid-chew. He furrowed his brows in confusion, then slowly turned his head to look at Tim. Spoon hovered near his mouth, milk dripping back into the bowl. “Where?” he asked.

Tim exhaled through his nose. Stared at the ceiling. “Bar. Little shithole called the Rusty Nail. Walked in for a drink, didn’t know she was there.”

Toby set the bowl on the coffee table and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. “You t-talk to her?”

Tim’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

Another beat. Toby’s neck cracked sideways in a sharp tic. He rubbed at it absently.

“You know she’s workin’ there?” Tim asked.

Toby shook his head quickly. “No. Didn’t k-know.” He paused. “Brian hasn’t e-even checked on her in like… over a muh-month. Stopped l-leaving packages too. Said s-she just lets ’em rot on the porch. Figured she d-didn’t want a-anything from us anymore.”

Tim nodded once, like the information settled somewhere heavy inside him.

Toby watched him, eyes searching Tim’s face. The exhaustion there. The way his hands flexed and unflexed like he still felt the rifle’s weight. “So…” he said quietly. “How’d it go?”

Tim stared at the cartoon flickering across the screen. Then he exhaled like the air had been trapped in his lungs for days. “It went like you imagined it’d go,” he muttered. “She wanted me to leave. Told me to get the fuck out more than once.”

Toby nodded once. He leaned back into the couch cushions, shoulder jerking once, neck cracking sideways in a quick, involuntary tic.

He thought about you. How pretty you’d always been - even when you were shaking, even when you were covered in blood. How you’d hugged him on the porch like he mattered - like he was safe, like he was good.

He was happy you’d made it. Happy you were working again. Doing something. Standing behind a bar like you belonged there. He’d always known you would. Known you were stronger than the house, stronger than the sickness, stronger than whatever poison Tim carried under his skin.

He stared at the cartoon, bright colors flickering across his face, the characters yelling nonsense he wasn’t really hearing. Then he hummed and asked, “You p-p-planning on doing suh-something?”

Tim sighed. The recliner creaked as he shifted. “I left for a reason, Tobes.”

Toby didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to bridge the gap between what Tim had done and what he clearly still felt.

Tim kept going, voice low, almost confessional. “I would’ve killed her sooner or later. I just know it.”

Toby thought about it. Tim wasn’t bragging, wasn’t deflecting, wasn’t hiding behind the mask or the rifle or the anger. He was saying it plain - like a fact he’d finally accepted. Like a wound he’d finally stopped pretending wasn’t bleeding.

And that did something to Toby. In a way, Tim had a point. Toby had always known Tim was bad, at least bad for a girl. He’d been the one to warn you, after all. Back when you still looked at Tim like he hung the moon. Toby had seen the way Tim’s hands got too tight sometimes. Seen the way his eyes went distant.

But hearing him say it like this, raw and, stripped-down, no excuses, it was different.

Tim was taking accountability. For maybe the first time in his life. And more importantly - he was putting your life above his own selfish needs. Above his want. Above the hunger that lived under his skin.

That was… special.

You were special.

Toby thought about it, then carefully asked, “You don’t think g-guys like us can ever be in a h-healthy relationship?”

Tim went still. Thought about it for a long moment, eyes on the cartoon, but not seeing it. Then he huffed, a small, bitter sound. “Buddy… I don’t even know what a healthy relationship is.”

Toby chuckled softly.

Tim kept going, voice quieter now. “I was really happy with her. While it lasted. Happier than I’ve ever been. But with men like us…” He shook his head once. “It can never really work out. You know that, Tobes.”

Toby nodded. But then he shifted. Turned his head just enough to look at Tim, eyes searching. “I don’t really buh-believe t-that,” he said quietly.

Tim raised a brow, surprised, almost amused.

Toby kept going awkwardly, stumbling over the words a little. “I think… if you have y-your heart in the rrrr-right place… a-anything’s possible.”

He looked away again, back to the TV, shoulder jerking once. “I wasn’t s-sure you had your heart in the rrrr-right p-place. Not with her. Not a-at first. But…” He swallowed. “I’m starting to see t-that you do.”

A beat. Then, gentler–

“She’s not a-alive because you left her. She’s alive buh-because you really do care a-about her.”

Tim stared at him.

For a second Toby thought he’d crossed a line - said too much, pushed too far. Then Tim leaned forward, reached over the armrest, and ruffled Toby’s messy hair.

Toby smiled. Tim’s mouth curved too, just a little. “You’re getting all sappy on me, Toby.”

Toby groaned, a little embarrassed, and swatted Tim’s hand away half-heartedly. “I was j-just trying to be helpful, a-a-a-asshole.”

Tim laughed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You were.”

He leaned back again. Reclined the chair farther. Closed his eyes.

Toby picked up the bowl again. Took another slow bite.

The cartoon kept playing. And for once, for just a little while, the silence between them didn’t feel heavy.

Tim.

Days bled into each other after that night on the couch.

Tim didn’t talk about it again, not to Toby, not to anyone. He kept the conversation locked behind his teeth. But it stayed with him. Every quiet moment - driving backroads at 3 a.m., cleaning the rifle in the shed, lying awake staring at the cracked ceiling - the words Toby had said looped through his head like a bad song he couldn’t shake.

“She’s alive because you really do care about her.”

He hated how much those words hurt. Hated how much truth was in them.

He drank less that week, not because he wanted to, but because the whiskey didn’t drown the ache anymore. It just made the memories sharper. Your face in the bar that night. The way your hand had trembled when you set the second beer down. The way you’d looked at him like you were still waiting for the man he used to pretend to be.

He caught himself staring at the map on the kitchen wall more than once, tracing the route from the house to that nowhere town with his thumb, memorizing every turn even though he already knew it by heart.

He told himself he wouldn’t go. Told himself it was better this way. Told himself you were safer without him breathing the same air.

But the pull never stopped. It just got louder.

One Tuesday evening, nothing special about the day, nothing special about the sky, he grabbed the keys to the truck without thinking too hard. Told himself he was just going for a drive. Told himself he’d turn around before he got too far.

He didn’t turn around.

The drive took three hours and change. Long enough for the sun to sink, long enough for the pines to thicken, long enough for the static in his head to settle into something quieter, heavier. He smoked half a pack of Marlboro Reds on the way.

When he pulled into the gravel lot behind the Rusty Nail the neon sign was already flickering - Rusty Na l glowing sickly yellow against the black sky. Same busted letter. Same everything.

He killed the engine. Sat there for a full minute with his hands still on the wheel, heart thudding too hard. Then he got out.

Boots crunched gravel. Jacket zipped against the night chill. No rifle this time, he’d left it in the truck bed under a tarp. No gloves. Just him - clean jeans, hair pushed back, face unshaven but not bloody. He looked almost normal.

Almost.

He pushed through the door and the bell jangled once. Inside: warm dim light, low hum of conversation, jukebox playing something old and twangy in the corner. A handful of regulars at the bar - two loggers nursing beers, the old cribbage guy with his newspaper, a trucker scrolling his phone.

And behind the bar–

You.

You looked beautiful. You were wearing a pretty dress - dark green, soft cotton, the kind that skimmed your thighs and made your legs look longer. White apron tied around your waist, strings knotted in a neat bow at the small of your back. Hair still choppy, but softer tonight - tucked behind one ear, a few strands falling loose against your cheek. String lights glowed behind you, casting warm gold across your collarbone, catching the faint scar he’d left there like a signature.

You were laughing at something one of the loggers said, the sound hitting Tim like a fist to the sternum.

Then you looked up and saw him. Froze. The laugh died on your lips.

Your eyes widened just a fraction before you schooled your expression. Polite. Professional. The bartender smile you gave everyone. But he saw it anyway, the flicker of shock, the quick inhale, the way your fingers tightened around the rag you were holding.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He gave you the smallest nod and walked past the bar to the back corner table. The one half-hidden in shadow, far enough from the others. He sat, elbows on the table, and watched you.

You turned back to the tap. Poured a beer without looking at him again, head down, movements careful. The loggers kept talking. You nodded along. Smiled when you were supposed to. But every few seconds your eyes flicked to the corner table. To him. He didn’t look away.

You finished pouring. Set the glass on a tray with a coaster. Wiped your hands on your apron. Then, slowly, like you were walking into a storm, you carried it over. The floorboards creaked under your sneakers.

You stopped in front of his table. Set the beer down in front of him with a soft clink.

He looked up at you. “Thanks,” he said.

You tried for a polite smile. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re welcome.”

He watched you walk back to the bar, hips swaying slightly under the dress, apron strings swinging, hair catching the light every time you moved. He took a slow pull from the beer. Set it down. Leaned back in the chair. And kept watching.

You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Every pour. Every wipe of the bar. Every forced laugh at the loggers’ jokes. Every time you bent to grab a bottle from the cooler. Every time you tucked your hair behind your ear. You felt it like a physical touch.

You kept sneaking glances at him. Couldn’t help it.

One by one the regulars trickled out. The cribbage guy first - tipped his hat, left a folded twenty under his glass. The trucker next - muttered something about hitting the road, dropped a five. The loggers stayed longest - laughing, arguing, finally stumbling out around midnight with promises to “see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

You locked the front door behind them. Flipped the neon sign to OFF. Tim was the only customer left. Still sitting there.

You wiped your hands on your apron one last time, and walked over, stopping a few feet from his table. You crossed your arms and looked at him.

He looked back. The silence stretched, thick and electric, full of everything neither of you had said last time.

Finally you spoke. “You gonna drink that all night or are you actually gonna say something?”

Tim’s mouth curved, just the smallest hint of a smile. He lifted the bottle in a small toast. Then set it down. And said–

“I missed you.”

You didn’t know how to reply. So you just stared at him, arms still crossed tight over your chest like they could hold your heart in place. Your pulse was a war drum in your throat, loud enough you were sure he could hear it. He stared back, dark eyes steady, unguarded for once.

Finally you exhaled, too loud in the empty bar. “Why did you think coming back here was a good idea?”

He lifted one shoulder in that slow, careless shrug that used to drive you insane. “Dunno. You look beautiful in that dress.”

Heat flooded your cheeks before you could stop it. You bit the inside of your lip, trying to keep your face neutral, trying to keep the butterflies in your stomach from rioting.

You uncrossed your arms, forcing yourself to look serious instead of sheepish. “Tim, please,” you said quietly. “For once in your life, be serious.”

You hesitated, only a second, then dragged the other stool around and sat across from him. Close enough that your knees almost brushed his under the table. Close enough that you could smell the road and smoke still clinging to his jacket.

He held your gaze. The half-smile faded. “Alright. I can do that.”

You folded your hands on the table. Knuckles white. “I’m only saying this once,” you started, voice low but steady. “It’s not a good idea for you to come back here. Not tonight. Not ever. I finally got out. I finally stopped waking up every morning waiting for the static and the sickness. I built something here. And every time you walk through that door, you drag the dark back in with you.”

Tim didn’t flinch. His throat worked once, like he was swallowing something sharp.

You kept going, because if you stopped you might not start again. “I’m not saying I hate you. I’m not even saying I want you gone forever. I’m saying… I’m finally breathing again. And I don’t know if I can survive going under a second time.”

Silence stretched between you, long enough that you could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

Then Tim spoke. “The past year has been torture.” He didn’t look down. Didn’t hide behind the beer bottle or the shadows. Just held your gaze.

“I tried to drown it. Alcohol. Work. Missions. Didn’t matter. Every time I closed my eyes I saw you screaming my name while I drove away. Every time I woke up I reached for you and you weren’t there. I told myself I was doing the right thing–keeping you safe, keeping the rot away from you. But it wasn’t noble. It was just being a coward. Because the second I let myself feel how much I needed you, I knew I’d never be able to walk away again.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was forcing the next words out. “I finally realized how much you mean to me. You’re the only thing that ever felt real. And I spent a whole year trying to pretend I could live without that. I can’t.”

Your chest ached, sharp and sweet at once. You could feel the stupid, traitorous hope trying to claw its way back up your throat. You hated how much you wanted to believe him. Hated how much his voice still unraveled you.

You looked down at your hands. Watched your own fingers tremble just slightly. “I’m happy you’re saying this,” you whispered. “But I’m also terrified. Because I escaped the darkness once. I clawed my way out. And if I let you back in, even just a little, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do it again.”

Tim nodded once, resigned. His shoulders dropped like he’d already accepted the rejection before you finished speaking.

He started to pull his hand back.

You caught it.

Your fingers closed around his, quick, almost desperate. His hand was warm, callused, familiar in a way that made your throat close. You held on. Didn’t let go.

“But… I’ve missed you too,” you said, so soft it barely carried. “Every stupid day. I missed you so much it felt like missing a limb.”

Tim went very still. You lifted your eyes to his.

Slowly, carefully, he turned his hand in yours until your palms met. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist, light enough to raise goosebumps. Then he lifted your hand. Pressed his lips to your knuckles and kissed them, soft and lingering.

You hesitated, only a heartbeat. Then you lifted your free hand. Cupped the side of his face. Your thumb brushed the rough stubble along his jaw, traced the faint scar there. His eyes fluttered closed for a second at the touch.

You couldn’t resist it, you leaned in. He met you halfway.

The kiss was slow at first, tentative, almost careful. Lips brushing. Breathing each other in. Then it deepened. His mouth opened under yours, tasting like beer and smoke and something achingly familiar. Your fingers slid into his hair. His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw.

It felt like everything. Like the year of silence collapsing in on itself. Like all the nights you’d cried yourself hollow and all the mornings you’d forced yourself to keep going crashing into this single, trembling moment.

The kiss turned hungry fast. Teeth grazing. Tongues sliding. Small, desperate sounds neither of you could hold back.

You both stood at the same time - chairs scraping back, forgotten.

He backed you against the table without breaking the kiss. Your hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. His palms slid to your hips, bunching the soft green cotton of your dress, thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin just above your waistband.

You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you just enough to set you on the edge of the table. Your legs parted on instinct; he stepped between them, hips slotting against yours, the hard line of him pressing right where you ached.

His mouth left yours, trailing hot, open kisses down your throat, teeth grazing the faint scar on your collarbone.

You tipped your head back and whimpered his name. He groaned against your skin like the sound of it undid him.

Your fingers tugged at his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours. And the kiss picked up again, filthy and desperate, like neither of you could get close enough.

After a few moments, the kiss broke only for a second - long enough for Tim to pull back, forehead pressed to yours, breaths ragged and hot against your mouth. “Tell me you want this,” he rasped, eyes dark and desperate, searching your face. “Tell me right now or I’ll stop. I swear I will.”

You nodded so fast it made your head spin. “Yes,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair. “God, yes–Tim, please–”

That was all he needed.

A low, broken sound tore out of his throat and he shoved his jeans and boxers down in one rough yank, just far enough for his cock to spring free, thick, already rock-hard and flushed dark at the tip, veins standing out along the shaft. The sight of it hit you like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed the sheer size of him, the way it curved just slightly, the heavy weight of it in your hand. Your mouth watered instantly.

You dropped to your knees before he could stop you.

“Fuck–sweetheart–” Tim groaned, one hand flying to the edge of the table for balance.

You leaned in and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right to the head, tasting the salty bead of precum already leaking there. “I missed this,” you whispered against his skin, voice trembling with need. “Missed your dick so fucking much, Tim. Missed how thick it is… how it stretches me…”

You dragged your tongue up the underside in one long, wet stripe, then took the head into your mouth, sucking gently at first, hollowing your cheeks, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip while your hand wrapped around the base and stroked what you couldn’t fit.

“Shit–baby–” Tim’s hips jerked forward involuntarily. “You’re gonna kill me. That mouth–fuck, I missed that pretty mouth sucking me off.”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs shake. You pulled off just long enough to duck lower, pressing soft kisses to his balls, licking, sucking one into your mouth while your hand kept pumping his shaft in slow, tight strokes.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled, fingers threading into your hair. “Look at you… on your knees for me again.”

You switched to the other ball, humming happily, then licked a wet stripe all the way back up and took him deep again, deeper this time, until the head nudged the back of your throat. You gagged softly but didn’t stop, eyes watering as you bobbed, spit dripping down your chin, the filthy wet sounds echoing in the empty bar.

Tim’s breathing was ragged, chest heaving. “Enough–fuck, enough or I’m gonna cum down your throat and I want to be inside you when I do.”

He dragged you up with strong hands under your arms. The second you were on your feet he shoved your dress up around your waist, and yanked your panties down in one brutal tug. They fell at your feet and you kicked them away. His fingers slid between your legs immediately, two thick digits parting your soaked folds.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groaned, voice dark with satisfaction. “Soaking wet for me already. This pussy missed me, huh?”

You whimpered, hips pushing back into his hand. “Mhm, yes–Tim, please, I need you–”

He didn’t make you beg twice. In one smooth motion he lifted you, hands under your ass, biceps flexing, and you wrapped your legs tight around his waist like muscle memory. The head of his cock nudged your entrance, hot and blunt and perfect. He guided himself in with one hand, the other arm locked around your back, and then–

He sank you down. Inch by thick inch until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt, stretching you so wide it burned in the best way.

“Oh my God–” you gasped, head falling back, nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket.

Tim’s forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “Fuck… fuck, baby. So tight. So fucking tight after a whole year.”

He started moving, slow, deep thrusts at first, using his strength to lift and drop you onto his cock again and again. Every time he bottomed out you felt it in your stomach, the blunt head kissing your cervix, the thick base grinding against your clit. You held onto him for dear life as he fucked you harder, hips snapping up, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the bar.

“Missed you on my dick,” he growled against your neck. “Missed hearing those little sounds you make when I’m balls-deep. Missed filling you up–”

You moaned loud, shameless, legs locked tighter around him. “Harder–Tim, please–fuck me hard–”

He snarled and gave you exactly what you asked for - pounding up into you, relentless. Your dress was bunched uselessly at your waist, apron strings dangling. You were soaking his cock, slick dripping down his balls with every plunge.

After long, brutal minutes he slowed just enough to carry you the two steps to the table. He laid you back on the scarred wood, still buried inside you, and hooked your legs over his elbows, spreading you wide. “Look at me,” he ordered, voice rough.

You did. Eyes locked as he started fucking you again, deep, grinding strokes that dragged his cock against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. One hand slid between you, thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, filthy circles.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he panted, hips snapping harder. “Let it out.”

The orgasm crashed through you, white-hot and blinding. Your back arched off the table, walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves, slick gushing around his cock. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes from the intensity.

Tim fucked you through it, slow, deep, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive, then his rhythm stuttered.

“Fuck–baby–I’m gonna–gonna cum–” He slammed in one last time, hips flush to yours, and came with a broken groan. Thick, hot pulses flooded you, rope after rope, so much it overflowed immediately, dripping down your ass and onto the table. He stayed buried deep, grinding slow while he trembled above you.

For a long minute neither of you moved. Just heavy breathing, foreheads pressed together, his cock still twitching inside you.

Tim kissed you, soft this time, then whispered against your lips, voice hoarse and raw. “Never letting you go again. Never. You’re mine. This pussy, this heart–everything. I missed you too fucking much to survive it a second time.”

You just held onto him tighter, legs still wrapped around his waist, heart hammering against his chest.

After a long stretch of stillness, bodies still joined, breaths slowing together, his forehead resting heavy against yours, Tim eased out with careful gentleness. He helped you sit up on the edge of the table, dress still rucked around your hips, thighs slick and trembling. He tugged your panties back into place with almost gentle hands, then pulled you against his chest again, arms wrapping around you like he could shield you from whatever came next.

You rested your cheek over his heartbeat, listening to it steady itself, strong and real beneath the worn jacket. His fingers carded slowly through your hair, thumb tracing the shell of your ear in lazy, soothing circles.

For the first time in a year the ache in your chest didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like breathing, shallow still, careful, but possible. You closed your eyes and let yourself lean into him fully, let the warmth of his body and the quiet promise in his touch settle something deep inside you.

Maybe it wouldn’t last. Maybe the darkness would come creeping back. But right now, in this stolen pocket of time with his arms around you and the taste of him still on your lips, you felt something fragile and bright flicker awake again. Hope. And for tonight, that was enough.

You.

The days that followed were quiet. Almost too quiet.

You went back to the Rusty Nail day after day, poured beers, wiped down the bar, smiled at the same loggers and the same old cribbage players. You fed the chickadees on the porch each morning, hung a new bird feeder you’d picked up at the store, started reading a new book. Life moved forward in small, ordinary increments.

Eventually, you texted Ben and told him Tim had shown up at the bar. Told him what happened after closing.

Ben’s response came in a frantic rush of messages that you could practically hear him typing at lightning speed. He freaked out - exactly the way you’d expected. Panicked questions about whether Tim had hurt you, whether he’d threatened you, whether he’d forced anything, whether you were safe. You had to talk him down over a twenty-minute phone call, voice steady even though your own hands were shaking.

You told him it meant nothing. That it was probably just a one-time thing. A moment of weakness. A relapse.

Ben listened, quiet after the initial explosion, but you could hear the doubt in his silence. You could hear him wanting to believe you and not quite managing it. You both knew it was a lie, thin as paper, but neither of you called it out loud.

After that, you asked him, almost casually, to keep an eye on Tim back at the house. Just to let you know if anything seemed… off. Ben agreed without hesitation.

Over the next few days he sent occasional updates, small observations dropped into otherwise normal conversations.

Apparently, Tim was… different. Not drinking himself stupid every night anymore. Not slamming doors or snarling at everyone who breathed too loud. He was quieter. More present. Actually ate meals with the others again. Even helped Toby patch a hole in the roof one afternoon without being asked twice.

Ben said he even caught Tim smiling once, at nothing in particular. The sight of it had unnerved Ben in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

You listened to every word and felt something fragile start to bloom behind your ribs. Hope. Small and dangerous.

Then, one gray morning exactly a week after that night, you stepped outside to refill the bird feeder and froze. On the top porch step, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a simple length of twine, sat a bouquet of roses. Deep red. Velvet-soft petals still dewed from the early chill.

You stared at them for a long time, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Then you knelt slowly and lifted them with careful fingers. You pressed them to your face and inhaled. And something inside you cracked wide open. 

For the first time in longer than you could remember, you felt whole. Like the jagged pieces of yourself you’d spent a year trying to glue back together had finally clicked into place. Like the universe, that had once been so cruel and indifferent, had looked down at the wreckage of your heart and decided, against all odds, to give you a second chance.

With the love of your life. With the man who’d once broken you so completely you weren’t sure you’d ever breathe right again. With Tim.

You carried the roses inside. Found an old mason jar under the sink and filled it with water. Arranged the stems carefully, spreading them out so every bloom could be seen. Set the jar on the windowsill above the kitchen sink where the morning light would hit them. Then you stood there, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the petals catch the sun.

You felt hopeful. Truly, stupidly, terrifyingly hopeful. That maybe it could all work out. That maybe broken things could mend. That maybe love - real, ugly, brutal love - could still be worth fighting for.

Tim.

Tim felt lighter. Like a weight he’d carried so long he’d forgotten what it was like to stand straight had finally shifted, eased, started to lift off his shoulders inch by slow inch.

He had you back. You were his again.

Not in the brutal, possessive way he used to claim, like a thing he could break and remake in his image, but in something quieter, something fragile and terrifyingly real. He knew it wasn’t perfect. Knew the road ahead was long and jagged, full of nights where you might wake up screaming his name in fear instead of want, full of days where the silence between you would feel heavier than any fight. He knew trust didn’t regrow overnight, that scars didn’t fade just because someone said “I’m sorry” and meant it.

But it was a start. A real one. And for the first time in longer than he cared to count, Tim felt something dangerously close to hope.

He’d just come back from a mission. The kind of job that used to leave him hollowed out and reaching for the bottle before he even peeled off his gloves. Tonight he felt… steady. Almost calm.

He sat at the kitchen table alone, the house unusually quiet around him. Brian was out again. Toby had disappeared upstairs hours ago. Jeff and Ben were probably gaming in Ben’s room. 

Tim finished the last bite of whatever cold leftovers he’d thrown together - didn’t even taste it, just ate because his body needed fuel - and pushed the plate away. He leaned back in the chair, rubbed a hand over his jaw, felt the rasp of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave.

He thought about driving to you. Right now. Middle of the night, no warning, just showing up on your porch with his hands in his pockets and that small, crooked smile you used to like. He pictured the way your face would change when you opened the door - surprise, wariness, maybe the tiniest flicker of warmth before you could hide it.

The thought made his chest ache in a good way.

But first - shower. Fresh clothes. He smelled like blood and sweat, and he needed to wash it off before he came anywhere near you. He stood, stretched until his spine popped, and headed upstairs.

His bedroom door creaked when he pushed it open. The lamp on the nightstand was already on, the way he always left it. Brian must have been here earlier; there were new documents laid out neatly on the quilt on the bed. Manila folder, crisp edges, the Operator’s seal stamped in the corner like always. New missions. New targets.

Tim sighed through his nose and dropped onto the edge of the mattress. Grabbed the stack lazily, flipped it open, started skimming.

Photos clipped to the top pages: grainy surveillance shots, names typed in stark black font, short descriptions underneath. Routine stuff. A nosy journalist who’d gotten too close. An old acquaintance who’d started talking. A civilian who’d seen something they shouldn’t have.

He flipped through them mechanically, eyes scanning, brain already half-checked out, already thinking about the hot water waiting for him, about the drive to your cabin, about how your hair smelled after a shower.

Then he turned to the last page. And froze.

Your face stared up at him.

It was an old picture of you sitting on the porch steps of your old house, knees drawn up, smiling at something off-camera, sunlight catching in your hair.

Underneath it, in the same cold, formal typeface as the others:

Target: Y/n Threat Assessment: High. Subject has caused significant internal division among proxies. Emotional attachment has compromised operational security and judgment of assigned proxy (Masky). Continued association risks exposure of the Operator’s network. Subject represents a distraction and potential liability. Priority: Immediate neutralization required to restore stability. Assigned Proxy: Masky (Tim Wright)

Tim read it again. And again. The words didn’t change. Your name stayed the same. The description stayed the same - too clean, too clinical, like you were just another loose end to tie off. Assigned proxy: him.

His blood went cold, slow at first, then all at once, like ice water poured straight into his veins. His fingers tightened around the edges of the paper until it crinkled. The room tilted. The lamp’s warm glow suddenly looked wrong, sickly and mocking.

He stared at your picture. At the way you were smiling in it. At the way someone had taken that moment from him and turned it into evidence against you. Against both of you.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. He felt sick. Felt rage. Felt something colder and sharper underneath it all: fear.

Tim put the documents away. Carefully. Too carefully. Like if he moved too fast the pages might cut him. He slid the folder shut, edges aligning with a soft rasp, then placed it back on the quilt exactly where Brian had left it. As if nothing had changed. As if the last page didn’t exist.

But it did. Your name burned behind his eyes like a brand.

He knew. He knew if he refused, if he even hesitated, someone else would be assigned. Brian wouldn’t blink. Toby would stutter through the guilt but do it anyway. Jeff would probably laugh while he did it.

Loyalty to the Operator came first. Always had. Always would. They were tools. Extensions. Not people. And Tim had forgotten, for one stupid, beautiful night, that he was still one of them.

He’d thought a year was long enough. Thought distance, time, silence had dulled the Operator’s interest in you. Thought showing up on your porch with roses and a quiet “I’m not leaving again” was safe now.

But clearly–

Clearly–

Returning to you had been the biggest mistake of his life. The realization hit like a blade between the ribs.

He muttered one word, barely audible. “No.” Then he buried his face in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp hard enough to hurt. Breath coming in short, ragged bursts through the gaps between his fingers.

The static started then. Low at first, like distant radio hiss. Then louder. Closer. Crawling inside his skull, pressing against the backs of his eyes, filling every empty space until there was no room left for thought.

He dropped. Knees hit the floorboards, jarring, pain flashing up his legs but he barely felt it. “Please,” he rasped. Voice breaking. “Not her. Please.”

The voice answered inside his skull.

Loyalty. You are no longer a person. You are a servant. You have no choice.

The words were carved directly into the folds of his brain like a hot iron. The static swelled, deafening now, white noise so loud it drowned out his own heartbeat, his own breathing, his own sobbing.

He curled forward, forehead pressing to the cold wood, shoulders shaking. “Please,” he whispered again. “Not her.”

The voice didn’t answer this time. It had already won.

Tim stayed like that, knees on the floor, face in his hands, body trembling, until the static became everything. Until it swallowed the room. Until it swallowed him. His vision grayed at the edges. Then black.

He collapsed sideways, boneless, cheek pressed to the rough floorboards, arms still curled around his head like he could shield himself from what was coming. He passed out like that, curled on the ground, completely crushed under the impossible, unbearable weight of what he had to do.

You.

It was a beautiful day.

The kind of afternoon that felt like a stolen gift, sun high and warm, sky a perfect, cloudless blue, the pines around the cabin whispering softly in a light breeze that carried the clean scent of thawing earth and new needles. Your day off stretched out lazy and golden in front of you.

You’d woken up slow, no alarm, just sunlight spilling across the quilt. Made pancakes - thick, fluffy ones with real maple syrup you’d splurged on at the tiny grocery in town. Ate them standing at the counter, licking syrup off your thumb while you scrolled through funny videos on your phone. Laughed out loud at a dumb cat compilation until your cheeks hurt.

Then you curled up in bed with the book you’d been meaning to finish for days - something soft and hopeful, full of second chances - and lost yourself in it for hours. Texted Ben in between chapters. Light, easy messages at first, then something deeper.

You told him you’d been thinking about finally meeting up again. He’d replied almost instantly.

holy shit yes pls ive been dyin to see u ill ask jeff for a ride he owes me anyway we can hang out like old times after a whole fuckin year

It sounded fantastic. You grinned at your phone like an idiot, heart doing a little flip at the thought of Ben showing up on your porch with a bag of snacks and that same excited energy he’d always had. You missed him. Missed the normalcy he brought, the way he made everything feel less heavy.

You were so excited you almost didn’t hear the crunch of gravel outside.

Almost.

But the sound of an engine cut through the quiet.

You set the book down on the nightstand and walked to the window. You saw the truck.

Tim stepped out. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept at all last night. Dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped under the weight of his jacket, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times. But when he looked up and saw you in the window, something in his face softened. Just a little.

You smiled anyway. Couldn’t help it.

You opened the door before he reached the porch steps.

He climbed them slowly, boots heavy on the wood, and when he got close enough you stepped forward without thinking and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He froze for half a heartbeat - surprised, maybe - then his arms came around you. Tight.

You buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, breathed in smoke and pine and him. “Hey,” you whispered against his jacket.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Thank you for the roses.”

His mouth curved, small and tired.

You took his hand, threaded your fingers through his, and led him inside.

The cabin smelled like maple syrup and coffee and the faint lemon of the pitcher you’d made yesterday. You pointed to the kitchen windowsill where the roses sat in the mason jar, deep red petals catching the afternoon sun, looking almost too vivid against the simple wood.

“Look,” you said softly. “They’re still perfect.”

Tim stopped in the doorway, eyes on the flowers. “I’m glad you like them, baby.” His throat worked once. “Pretty like you.”

You smiled shyly and gestured to the kitchen table. “Sit. I’ll get you something.”

He obeyed and dropped into one of the mismatched chairs like his body was too heavy to argue. You went to the fridge, pulled out the glass pitcher of lemonade you’d squeezed fresh yesterday, poured him a tall glass. Added ice. Set it in front of him.

Then you sat next to him, right beside him, knee brushing his under the table. You looked at him, the exhaustion carved deep around his eyes, the faint tremor in the hand that lifted the glass, the way he held it without taking a sip.

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. “How are you?”

He stared into the lemonade for a long second, like the answer was floating somewhere in the ice. “Been better.” A beat. “But I’m here.”

You squeezed his arm gently. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You are.”

He finally took a slow sip of the lemonade, ice clinking softly against the glass. You watched the way his throat worked, the faint bob of his Adam’s apple, the way his shoulders eased just a fraction as the cold hit his tongue.

You tilted your head a little. “Like it?”

He lowered the glass, looked at you, and nodded once. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s good, sweetheart.”

You smiled, pleased, and let the quiet settle for a moment. The sun streamed through the window, catching the roses in the mason jar, turning the red petals almost translucent. You traced the rim of your own untouched glass with your fingertip, gathering your courage.

Then you decided to just say it. “I’ve… been texting with Ben a little,” you admitted. “He wants to come see me again. Finally hang out.”

You braced yourself. Waited for the flare of jealousy, the tight jaw, the low growl of possession that used to rise so easily in him whenever Ben’s name came up.

It didn’t come. Tim just looked at you and nodded again. “That sounds like a good idea,” he said simply. Then quieter: “I know he’s missed you.”

You blinked, surprised. The breath you’d been holding slipped out in a soft exhale. You hadn’t expected… acceptance. Not so easily. “Thank you,” you whispered.

He gave a faint nod, almost absent, then looked down at the lemonade again. His thumb traced slow circles over the condensation on the glass. His expression had shifted. Distant. Like something was pressing down on him from the inside.

“Hey,” you said softly. “What’s wrong? I can see you’re thinking about something.”

He cleared his throat. “Job’s… taking a toll,” he said. “Got assigned something difficult.”

You went still. He’d never talked about his work like this. Not openly. Not to you.

You knew what he did - what they all did. You’d tasted the edge of that darkness yourself - the static, the violence, the way it twisted people until they weren’t people anymore. But hearing him say it so openly was new.

You swallowed. “Do you… have no choice?” you asked. “No say in what you have to do?”

He shook his head once. “No.”

You waited.

He looked up at you then. “If I don’t do it,” he muttered, “someone else will.”

The words hung there.

Loyalty. You could hear it in his voice - the weight of that word for them. The way it wasn’t just duty. It was chains. It was identity. 

You nodded slowly. Hummed in understanding. Then you said the only thing you could think to say. “Well… whatever it is,” you murmured, “I’m sure you have enough strength to do it.”

You had no idea what the job was. No idea how dark, how brutal, how impossible. You just knew he looked like he was drowning. And you wanted to throw him a rope. Even if it was only words.

He stared at you for a long second, something raw flickering behind his eyes. Then he nodded, grateful.

Abruptly he changed the subject. “You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks. You smiled and reached out, fingers brushing his cheek, the rough stubble, the warm skin. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Then you slid your hand down, found his, laced your fingers through his. “I can make you feel better,” you said softly. “If you want.”

His eyes darkened, just a fraction. He nodded. You stood. Tugged gently. He followed.

You led him into the bedroom, the afternoon sun painting long golden bars across the quilt. The door clicked shut behind you and for a moment you both just stood there, inches apart, breathing the same air. Tim looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

You stepped closer. He met you halfway.

Your mouths found each other, slow, searching, almost careful at first. No desperation like in the bar. Just lips brushing, parting, tasting. His hands settled on your waist, big and warm, thumbs stroking slow arcs over the cotton of your shirt. Yours slid up his chest, under his shirt, finding skin, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palms.

The kiss deepened gradually. Tongues met tentative, then bolder. He tilted his head, changed the angle, sucked gently on your bottom lip until you sighed into his mouth. One of his hands drifted up your back, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

You tugged at the hem of his jacket. He broke the kiss long enough to shrug it off. Then the T-shirt underneath. You dragged it up slowly, savoring the reveal of scarred skin, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband, the way his stomach flexed when your knuckles grazed him. He stood still while you looked. Let you trace the old scars with your fingertips.

Then his hands found the bottom of your shirt. He lifted it inch by inch, slow enough that cool air kissed your skin before his mouth did. He kissed the newly bared skin as he went: the dip of your collarbone, the faint scar he’d left there, the soft swell of your breast. When the shirt cleared your head he tossed it aside and cupped your face again, kissing you deeper, hungrier, while his thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts. You arched into him, needy sound caught in your throat.

He guided you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You sank down, and he followed - kneeling between your legs, never breaking the kiss.

His hands roamed, palms sliding over your ribs, thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts, then finally cupping them fully. He groaned low against your mouth when he felt how hard your nipples already were. Rolled them gently between thumb and forefinger until you whimpered, hips lifting off the bed in a helpless little jerk.

You reached down and fumbled with his belt. He helped, then shoved jeans and boxers down just enough. His cock sprang free, heavy.

You wrapped your hand around him and gave him a few slow strokes, feeling him pulse against your palm. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck–baby–”

You smiled and reached down to hook your thumbs into the waistband of your soft shorts and panties at the same time. You lifted your hips just enough to drag both down together in one smooth motion, shimmying them past your thighs and kicking them off the edge of the bed so they landed somewhere on the floorboards in a crumpled heap.

His eyes never left you as he lowered himself carefully onto his back. The mattress dipped under his weight, the quilt bunching softly beneath him, and he settled against the pillows, palms open, waiting.

You climbed over him - straddling his hips, knees sinking into the quilt on either side. “I’ll make you feel so good, Tim.”

You leaned down to kiss him again, tongues sliding, breaths mingling. His hands returned to your tits, cupping, kneading, thumbs circling your nipples in lazy spirals that made your thighs tremble.

You rocked against him, sliding your slick folds along the underside of his cock, coating him, teasing the head against your clit until you both moaned into each other’s mouths.

When you couldn’t wait anymore, you lifted your hips and guided him to your entrance. Sank down slowly, inch by torturous inch.

His head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, low groan rumbling from his chest.

You felt every ridge, every vein, the thick stretch of him filling you until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt. For a long moment you both just breathed.

Then you started to move. Slow rolls of your hips at first, grinding more than riding, feeling him press against every sensitive spot inside you. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh, helping you find a rhythm.

You leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, riding him deeper, harder, but still unhurried.

His eyes opened, locked on yours. Full of something raw and aching. He reached up and cupped your face, fingers squeezing your cheeks together as you moaned helplessly. 

He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Now you were chest to chest, your arms around his neck, his around your back, moving together in slow, deep rocks.

“You look so pretty like this,” he muttered against your mouth. “All mine…”

He kissed you, messy and open-mouthed, while you ground down on him, clit rubbing against his pelvis with every roll. 

The angle shifted, him hitting deeper, harder. You gasped against his lips and he swallowed the sound.

Then - without warning - he flipped you.

One smooth motion and your back hit the mattress, legs still wrapped around his waist. He settled between your thighs in deep missionary, hips flush to yours.

He moved in long drags out, almost all the way, then deep, rolling thrusts back in that made your eyes roll back and your breath hitch. His forearms bracketed your head. Eyes never left yours. You stared back, wide-eyed and trembling, lost in the intensity of it.

He kissed you softly, then deeper, tongues sliding, breaths shared. “I love you, you hear me?”

You could only nod and moan in response, too lost to form any coherent response.

One hand slipped between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles in time with his thrusts.

The pleasure built - slow, relentless, almost painful in its intensity. Your orgasm crept up on you, quiet at first, then shattering.

You arched, back bowing off the bed, walls fluttering hard around him, slick gushing, soaking the sheets beneath you.

He groaned and kept moving through it, drawing it out until you were whimpering, oversensitive, shaking.

Then he kept going, more intense. Eyes locked. Kissing you between thrusts - soft, desperate, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into your mouth.

Tears started slipping from the corners of your eyes. You didn’t know why. They just came, hot, silent, running down your temples into your hair.

Tim noticed immediately. His rhythm faltered, just for a second.

He leaned down - kissed the tears away - soft presses of his lips to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corners of your eyes. “Why you cryin', baby? Hm?” he whispered against your skin. “It’s all gonna be okay, I promise.”

Another kiss, right over the wet track on your cheek. “I love you,” he breathed. “So fucking much.”

The words cracked something open inside you. The dread you’d been ignoring, the cold, nameless thing that had been sitting in your chest since he walked through the door, surged for a moment, sharp and terrifying. But you shoved it down. Hard.

Focused on him - on the way he was looking at you. On the way he felt inside you, thick, and hot, and perfect. On the way his thumb kept rubbing slow circles over your clit until the coil snapped again.

You came a second time, harder this time, tears still slipping free. Walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves.

He groaned, hips stuttering once, twice, then buried himself as deep as he could and followed. Hot pulses filled you, spilling out around where you were stretched tight around him.

He collapsed over you, careful not to crush you, forehead pressed to yours, breaths ragged, shared. You stayed like that, tangled and trembling, kissing slow and lazy. Until the aftershocks faded and your heartbeats slowed.

Eventually he eased out and rolled to the side, pulling you against his chest.

You watched as he reached for the nightstand and fished out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. He lit one - slow drag, cherry glowing bright in the dim room. Exhaled toward the ceiling, a long, gray plume curling lazy in the sunlight.

You curled tighter against him, head on his shoulder, leg draped over his thigh. His heartbeat was steady and strong under your head.

He took another drag. Offered you the cigarette. You shook your head with a small smile. He kissed the top of your head instead.

And for that quiet, sunlit moment, the dread stayed buried. The tears dried. And all you felt was him.

After a while, the quiet between you felt full rather than empty. You shifted against his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the warmth of his skin still pressed to yours. The sunlight had shifted across the quilt, turning the room softer, lazier.

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Hey,” you murmured. “Want to step outside for a bit? Enjoy the afternoon sun?”

Tim’s eyes, still heavy-lidded from everything, met yours. A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

You both moved slowly, almost reluctantly, like neither of you wanted to break the spell of lying tangled together. He sat up first, running a hand through his messy hair. You slid off the bed, legs still a little shaky, and reached for the clothes you’d discarded earlier. He watched you as you pulled on the soft T-shirt and the shorts.

He tugged his jeans back up, buttoned them, shrugged his jacket on but left it unzipped. You padded across the floorboards and he followed close behind, hand brushing the small of your back like he needed the contact.

Outside, the air was crisp but kind, sun warm on your skin, breeze carrying the clean scent of pine and thawing earth. The porch steps creaked under your weight as you both settled onto the top one, side by side, thighs touching.

The truck sat in the dirt yard, sun glinting off the matte red paint. Beyond it, the trees stood tall and still, needles catching gold light. Somewhere a chickadee chattered. Otherwise, perfect quiet.

You leaned your head on his shoulder. He exhaled long and slow, like something tight inside him had finally loosened. “Wish I could stay like this forever,” he said.

You hummed in agreement. “Me too.”

The words felt dangerous in their simplicity.

You sat like that for a long minute, sun on your face, his arm slowly sliding around your waist, thumb tracing idle circles over your hip through the fabric. Peaceful. Almost painfully peaceful.

Then - movement at the tree line.

A deer stepped out. Slender legs, soft brown coat, wide dark eyes fixed directly on you. It moved slowly, gracefully, hooves silent on the pine needles. It paused halfway across the clearing, ears flicking, nostrils flaring, but it didn’t bolt.

It just… stared. Wide-eyed and unblinking.

For a moment you wondered, half-serious, if it was trying to tell you something.

You smiled despite yourself. “It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

Tim followed your gaze.

The deer took another careful step forward, then another, until it stood about fifteen feet from the porch, close enough you could see the fine whiskers around its muzzle, the gentle rise and fall of its sides.

You tilted your head against Tim’s shoulder. “Deer always reminded me of you,” you said quietly. “You remember that stupid hunter excuse you told me the first time we met? At the old bar?”

He huffed a small, rough laugh, almost fond. “Yeah,” he murmured. “One hell of a lie.”

You chuckled softly. “I really thought you were a hunter.”

Another quiet huff from him. He looked at the deer again.

You watched his profile, the way the sunlight caught the faint scar on his jaw, the tired lines around his eyes, the way his mouth softened just looking at the animal.

You asked, half-teasing, half-curious, “Do you think I should try approaching it?”

Tim considered it for a second. Then nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “You do that, sweetheart. I’ll just go grab something from the truck real quick.”

“Okay.”

He squeezed your waist once then stood.

You watched him walk down the steps, boots crunching soft on the dirt, broad shoulders moving easy under the jacket.

You turned your attention to the deer. It hadn’t moved. Still staring - those huge, liquid eyes locked on you like it knew something you didn’t.

You rose slowly, careful not to startle it, feet silent on the porch boards. Took one step down. Then another.

The deer’s ears flicked forward.

You held out your hand - palm up, fingers loose - smiling softly. “Hey,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

Another step. The deer stayed eerily still.

You kept talking, gentle and soothing. “You’re so pretty,” you murmured. “Never seen one come this close before.”

Another step. Fifteen feet became twelve. Then ten. The deer’s nostrils flared, scenting you, but it didn’t run.

You stopped, about eight feet away now, hand still outstretched. Smiling.

Heart beating a little faster, not from fear. From wonder. From the strange, quiet magic of the moment.

The deer tilted its head, just slightly.

And then everything went black.

Tim.

He watched you walk down the porch steps, shorts riding up just a little with each careful movement, hand outstretched like you were offering peace to something that had never known it. The deer stood frozen in the clearing, wide eyes locked on you, ears forward, body statue-still. Sunlight caught the fine hairs along its flank, turned them gold. You were smiling, small, gentle, the same smile you’d given him that first night at the old bar when he’d fed you the hunter lie and you’d believed it because you wanted to.

He felt it then.  The moment the switch flipped.

He turned away from you mechanically and opened the passenger door of the truck. Reached under the seat. Fingers closed around the familiar weight of the hunting rifle. He pulled it free. Slung the strap over his shoulder.

He reached into the glove compartment for his mask. The moment he slipped it on, the world narrowed. Sounds muffled, colors bled. Static rose - low at first, then roaring, filling every empty space in his skull until there was no room left for Tim.

Only Masky.

And Masky had a job to finish.

He stepped around the side of the truck, silent, boots barely disturbing the pine needles.

You were maybe ten feet from the deer now. Hand still out. Voice soft, murmuring something gentle he couldn’t quite hear over the static.

The deer hadn’t moved. It stared at you like it knew, like it understood.

Masky lifted the rifle. Stock to shoulder. Cheek welded to the comb. Sight picture perfect. Your back was to him - shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly as you spoke to the animal.

One clean shot to the back of the head, just above the nape. No suffering. No warning.

The crack split the afternoon open, sharp and final, echoing off the pines.

Your body jerked once, forward, like someone had shoved you, then folded. Knees buckled. Arms dropped. You hit the ground face-down in the pine needles with a soft thud, limbs loose, hair fanning out around your head like spilled ink.

The deer exploded into motion, white tail flashing, hooves churning dirt, gone in three frantic bounds back into the trees.

Silence rushed back in, thicker now, heavier.

Masky lowered the rifle.

Stared as the small dark pool began to spread beneath your head, slow, black in the bright sunlight.

Then something cracked. Something inside of him.

He walked forward slowly, boots crunching, rifle hanging loose at his side. Reached you. Dropped to his knees beside your body.

The mask felt suffocating suddenly, plastic and porcelain pressing against his skin like a second skull. He tore it off and threw it. It skidded across the dirt, came to rest against a root.

Tim stared down at you. At the hole in the back of your head. At the way your hand was still half-outstretched, like you’d been reaching for something gentle right up until the end.

He made a sound, something between a sob and a scream. Then he collapsed forward. Forehead pressed to your back. Shoulders shaking.

Tears came fast, silent at first, then wrenching sobs that tore out of him like something physical. He wrapped his arms around you - around your waist, around your shoulders - crushing your limp body to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Over and over. Into your hair, iInto your skin, into the quiet that would never answer back.

The sun kept shining. The pines kept whispering. The chickadees kept chattering somewhere distant. And Tim cried, holding the only thing he’d ever truly loved while the blood soaked slowly into the pine needles beneath them both.

Everything was black. And it would stay that way.

Toby.

Toby hadn’t seen Tim in three days.

At first Toby told himself it was just a long job. Tim had disappeared for days once before, came back with a thousand-yard stare that lasted a week. Missions happened. That was life here.

But then Brian started acting… odd.

It started small. Brian pacing the kitchen at odd hours, cigarette after cigarette, muttering under his breath about “that selfish motherfucker” and “stole my goddamn truck.” Brian never raised his voice. The flat, clipped way he said things made them land harder. When Jeff cracked a lazy joke about Tim probably finally getting laid somewhere, Brian didn’t even look at him - just snarled “fuck off, you filthy motherfucker” so low and cold that Jeff actually shut his mouth for once and left the room.

Even Jack got it. Poor Jack, who was usually the one person Brian treated like he was still worth something. Jack had been walking past the couch carrying a tray of clean surgical tools when Brian, without looking up, shoved him hard enough in the shoulder that the tray rattled and a scalpel clattered to the floor. Jack just froze, stared at Brian for a long second with those hollow black sockets, then bent silently to pick it up and kept walking like nothing happened.

Ben was worse.

Ben was twitchy. Constantly checking his phone under the table, in the hallway, even when he was supposed to be running diagnostics on the security cams. He’d stare at the screen like it might bite him, thumb hovering, then lock it again and shove it in his pocket. Toby caught him doing it four times in one afternoon. When Toby finally asked “Y-you okay, man?” Ben just gave him a tight, fake smile and said “Yeah, just waiting on a text,” and changed the subject so fast Toby’s neck cracked sideways from the whiplash of it.

Toby tried asking Brian once. They were in the garage, Brian hunched over the empty spot where his truck should’ve been, arms crossed, staring at the oil stain on the concrete.

“Brian,” Toby started. “W-where’s Tim? He–he took your truck and… didn’t come back. Is–is the mission that long?”

Brian didn’t turn around. “Drop it.”

Toby blinked. “But… what–”

“I said drop it, Toby.” The tone was final.

Toby dropped it.

Three nights later, 3:07 a.m. on the cracked digital clock on his nightstand, Toby’s bedroom door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.

Brian stood in the frame, already dressed: jacket, boots, Glock tucked in his waistband. Face blank except for the muscle jumping in his jaw. “Get up,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

Toby sat up fast. “Wh-what? It’s–it’s three in the guh-goddamn morning–”

“I know what time it is. Get dressed. Now.”

Toby’s shoulder jerked. “G-go where? You–you didn’t even say–”

Brian cut him off sharply. “Toby. Move.”

Something in Brian’s voice made Toby’s stomach drop. He didn’t argue again.

He scrambled out of bed, yanked on yesterday’s sweatpants, the same hoodie he’d slept in, shoved his feet into unlaced boots. Grabbed the hatchets leaning against the wall out of pure habit. Brian was already turning down the hall.

They walked through the woods for almost forty minutes. Toby’s breath fogged in front of him. His tics were worse when he didn’t get any sleep; neck snapping sideways every few steps, shoulder hitching hard enough it made it wince.

Finally they hit the edge of the county - two lanes of cracked blacktop, no streetlights, just the occasional porch light glowing half a mile away like a dying star.

Brian crouched behind a rusted mailbox, eyes scanning the empty road. “We’re borrowing a car,” he said flatly.

Toby blinked. “B-borrowing.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Brian… wh-where are we going?”

Brian didn’t answer. Just kept watching the road.

Headlights appeared first - faint, then brighter. An old Ford pickup, primer gray, rattling like it had emphysema. Brian stood. Stepped into the middle of the lane. Arms out like he was flagging down a neighbor.

The truck slowed. Stopped. Window rolled down. Older guy - fifties maybe, flannel, baseball cap, cigarette dangling. “You okay, son?”

Brian smiled, southern manners on full display. “Yeah, sorry to bother you this late. Our truck broke down about a mile back. Mind if I use your phone to call a tow?”

The driver hesitated. Looked at Brian. Looked at Toby standing a few feet behind him, hood up, hatchet handles peeking out from under the hem. Brian’s smile didn’t waver.

The driver sighed. “Sure. Hang on.” He leaned over to grab his phone from the cup holder.

Brian moved, fast. One hand on the door handle, other yanking the guy halfway out the open window by his collar. The cigarette fell. The man yelped, more surprised than scared at first. Brian drove an elbow into the side of his head, clean, precise, not enough to kill but enough to drop him limp across the seat.

Toby simply watched the scene unfold.

Brian dragged the unconscious man the rest of the way out, dumped him in the ditch like a sack of feed. Didn’t even check if he was breathing. Just climbed in, slid behind the wheel, and looked at Toby. “Get in.”

Toby got in.

The cab smelled like shit. Brian adjusted the seat back - way too far forward for his legs - muttered “Goddamn it” under his breath, then cranked the engine. It coughed, sputtered, caught.

They pulled onto the road. Brian drove with both hands tight on the wheel, jaw locked. After five minutes of silence he spoke, voice toneless, the way he got when he was furious and trying not to show it.

“This piece of shit handles like a shopping cart with three wheels. And why the fuck is the radio stuck on some gospel station? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Smells like someone died in here.”

Toby stared straight ahead. “Y-you really miss your truck, huh.”

Brian huffed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really fuckin’ do.”

They drove for another hour. Two-lane blacktop turned to narrower county roads, then dirt. Pines got thicker. Moonlight barely reached the ground. The Ford’s shocks groaned every time they hit a pothole. Brian kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift like he needed something to hold onto.

Toby finally asked. “Is… is Tim okay?”

Brian’s knuckles whitened. He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, quieter than Toby had ever heard him speak: “I don’t know.”

Toby kept asking. The words spilled out in bursts between the Ford’s rattling engine noise and the crunch of gravel under tires. “Wh-where are we going, Brian? Brian–c-come on, just tell me. What’s–what’s happening? Is–is Tim hurt? Did–did something go w-wrong on the job? Buh-Brian–”

Brian’s grip on the wheel tightened until the cracked vinyl creaked. He stared straight ahead, jaw working like he was chewing on glass.

Toby’s shoulder jerked hard enough to knock his hatchet against the door panel. “Pl-please. You’re–you’re scaring me, man. Just–just s-say it.”

Another mile of dark road passed. Brian exhaled through his nose. “We’re goin’ to the cabin,” he said finally, like the words tasted bad coming out.

Toby’s stomach flipped so violently he tasted bile. “Why?” His voice cracked on the word. “Wh-what’s at the cabin?”

Brian didn’t answer right away. The dashboard lights painted his face in sickly green. He flexed his fingers on the wheel once, twice. “Tim got a mission.”

Toby waited. Waited for the rest. Waited for Brian to say it was some random target, some journalist, some loose end. Anything.

Brian’s voice stayed even. Too even. “Target was Y/n.”

The world tilted. Toby felt it physically, like someone had yanked the seat out from under him. His vision tunneled. The dashboard lights smeared into streaks. His neck snapped sideways so hard it made a sound. A tic ripped through his shoulder, then another, fast and violent.

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out at first. Then a small, strangled sound, like air leaking from a punctured tire. “Wha–why?”

Brian kept his eyes on the road. “Boss deemed it necessary. Said she was a distraction. Caused too much internal ruckus. Compromised judgment. Threat to operational security.” He recited it like he was reading from the same cold manila folder Tim must have seen. “Standard language. You know how it goes.”

Toby’s hands were shaking so badly he had to shove them between his knees to stop them. “No,” he whispered. “No–no no no–”

Brian glanced at him sideways, then back to the blacktop. “Tim went back to her,” he continued. “Swore up and down he wouldn’t. Said he was done. Said he left her for a reason. But the fucker couldn’t stay away. Kept showing up. Kept driving my goddamn truck up there like it was his second home. Boss saw it. Saw the weakness.” A short, bitter huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Distraction, liability, whatever you wanna call it. You know the drill.”

Toby felt sick. Not metaphorically. Actual, rolling nausea - hot and sour, climbing up his throat. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, hard, trying to keep it down. His whole body was shaking now - tics firing off in waves, neck cracking, shoulder hitching, fingers twitching.

He remembered. He remembered the living room. The cartoon flickering on the TV. The bowl of soggy cereal forgotten on the coffee table. Tim slouched in the recliner, boots up, looking more tired than Toby had ever seen him.

Toby had said it. “I think… if you have your heart in the right place… anything’s possible.”

He’d looked Tim in the eye and said, “I’m starting to see that you do.” He’d told Tim - Tim, who was half-destroyed already - that he had his heart in the right place. And Tim had ruffled his hair. And smiled.

Toby made a noise. “Shit–I–I told him,” he rasped. The words came out wet and thick. “I–I told him to–to go back. I said–I said he c-cared. I said she was a-a-a-alive because he cared. I–I fuckin’ encouraged him–”

Brian didn’t interrupt.

Toby’s vision blurred - not tears. He didn’t have tears anymore. They’d dried up years ago, somewhere between the first time he’d woken up screaming and the hundredth. But the guilt was worse than tears. It was a physical thing - hot lead pouring into his chest, burning through ribs, settling heavy in his gut. “Fuck–,” he whispered. “I–It’s muh-my fault. I–”

“Toby.” Brian’s voice cut through, quiet but firm. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”

Toby’s breath hitched.

“You didn’t write the order,” Brian continued, same flat tone. “You didn’t put the file on his bed. You didn’t make the call. You were tryin’ to be kind, that’s all. You were tryin’ to be kind to a man who’s been drowning for years.”

Toby shook his head. “I–I shouldn’t h-have–I shouldn’t have s-said anythin’–”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve k-known!” The shout tore out of him. His voice cracked on the last word and he doubled over, forehead pressing to his knees, hands fisting in his hair.

He wanted to disappear. Wanted to throw himself out the window right now, let the asphalt tear him apart, let it hurt his body enough to drown out the screaming in his head.

Brian didn’t speak again. He just drove. The Ford rattled on through the dark. Toby stayed curled forward, breathing shallow, fast, tics jerking through him like electric shocks. And for the first time in years, he wished he could still cry.

They finally rolled up to the cabin just as the sky started bleeding gray into pink, around 6:30 a.m., the kind of cold, thin dawn light that makes everything look washed-out and unreal. The Ford’s engine coughed once, twice, then died with a rattle that sounded almost relieved. Brian killed the headlights. Silence rushed in immediately.

Neither of them moved at first. Brian sat there, hands still on the wheel, staring through the windshield at his truck parked crooked in the dirt yard like it had been abandoned mid-thought. The matte red paint looked dull in the half-light, taillights dark, driver’s door slightly ajar like someone had left in a hurry.

Toby’s neck cracked sideways. He swallowed. “You t-think Tim’s still h-here?”

Brian didn’t answer. Just opened his door and stepped out.

Toby followed, breath fogging white in the cold. The air smelled like damp earth and iron. Brian walked straight to his truck. He reached out, fingertips gently brushing the fender. He ran his palm along the dented side panel, then down to the door handle. Murmured something under his breath Toby couldn’t catch. It sounded like “Hey, girl” or maybe just “fuck.” Hard to tell.

Toby hung back a step. His eyes drifted past Brian, past the truck, to the ground.

There. A dark, irregular patch soaked into the dirt, black-brown, edges already flaking dry. Pine needles stuck to it in clumps. Next to it, half-buried in the needles, lay Tim’s mask along with the hunting rifle. Barrel pointed away, stock resting against a root like it had been dropped and forgotten. That goddamn rifle.

Toby’s stomach lurched. He looked up, past the blood spot, past the rifle, to the porch.

There was a bowl by the porch, shallow ceramic, half-full of old oats gone gray. The bird feeder hung from the eave, seed long since picked clean by chickadees that wouldn’t come back. The stack of cardboard boxes loomed against the rail, some sagging from rain, some still sealed tight with duct tape. A monument to refusal.

Toby sighed. His shoulder hitched once. “I’ll–I’ll check the p-perimeter,” he rasped. “You go inside, c-check if he’s there.”

Brian nodded once without looking at him. He reluctantly dropped his hand from the truck and went up the porch steps. He stepped past the untouched boxes, and pushed the door open. It creaked once. Swallowed him.

Toby watched him disappear inside. Then he turned. Walked around the side of the cabin slowly, boots dragging. Past the shed. Past the woodpile. Around to the back.

The grave was small. Shallow rectangle of turned earth, still raw and dark. Two thin twigs lashed together with a strip of twine to make a rough cross, shoved into the dirt at the head. A bouquet of red roses lay on the ground in front of it, petals browning at the edges, stems limp, almost dead.

Toby stared. He felt nothing at first, just a distant buzzing in his skull.

Then the words came– “I warned you, d-didn’t I?”

A beat. His neck snapped sideways in a sharp tic. “Told y-you to run.”

Another beat. He exhaled once. Then he turned. Walked back around the cabin, past the bowl, up the steps, past the untouched boxes, past the bird feeder.

He pushed the door open. The hinges gave a single, tired creak. Inside, the cabin smelled like spilled whiskey. Morning light slanted through the windows in pale, dusty bars, catching on the string lights still draped along the beams - unplugged now, dead gold coils.

He didn’t know what he expected. Tim gone. Tim dead. Anything but this.

Tim was there. He sat on the sagging couch like he’d collapsed into it and never planned to move again. Empty bottles - cheap whiskey, vodka, a couple of beer cans - were scattered around his feet, some tipped over, some upright like soldiers who’d lost the war. His jacket was half-off one shoulder. His hair hung in greasy strings across his forehead. His hands were buried in his face, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched so far forward it looked like his spine might snap.

Brian stood off to the side near the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tight over his chest, face blank except for the faint tic at the corner of his eye. He didn’t look at Toby when he entered, just kept staring at Tim like he was trying to solve a math problem that had no solution.

Toby stopped three steps inside the door. His neck jerked sideways once, hard, then again. He forced himself to look around. The cabin was… nice. Really nice. You’d made it a home.

The woven rug under the coffee table was soft-looking. The kettle sat on the counter next to two mismatched mugs - one with a tiny painted deer on the side. A small stack of paperbacks leaned against the lamp on the side table. The string lights. The bird feeder visible through the window.

It should have felt cozy. Instead it felt cold. Like the warmth had been sucked out the second you stopped breathing.

Brian finally moved. He exhaled sharply through his nose and took two careful steps forward. Dropped to one knee in front of Tim like he was approaching something that might bite. He rested one hand lightly on Tim’s knee, testing.

Tim didn’t react at first. Then something cracked.

A sound tore out of him - low at first, almost a growl, then rising into something raw and shredded and inhuman. It wasn’t a sob. It wasn’t crying. It was the noise an animal makes when it’s been gut-shot and knows it’s dying but can’t stop breathing yet.

Toby’s eyes slammed shut. He couldn’t look. Couldn’t listen.

He tried to picture something else - anything else - the cartoon dog on TV chasing its tail, the smell of cereal, the way Smile’s tail thumped against Jeff’s mattress. Anything but that sound coming out of Tim.

Brian froze. The cold, stoic, monotone Brian - the man who could watch a throat get slit without blinking - looked completely lost.

He lifted his hand again, hesitated, then placed it on the back of Tim’s head. Gentle. Awkward. Like he’d never touched another person this way in his life. “Tim,” he muttered. “C’mon. Stop.”

Tim didn’t stop. The sound kept coming, broken and endless.

Brian’s jaw worked once. Twice. Then he moved carefully and shifted onto the couch beside Tim. Hesitated another long second, like he was waiting for permission he’d never get. Then he lifted his arm, slow and stiff, and draped it around Tim’s shoulders.

Tim broke completely. He folded sideways like string cut at the joints, face pressing into Brian’s chest, arms coming up to clutch at Brian’s jacket like it was the only thing keeping him from falling through the floor. A grown man. A killer. Dangerous, full of rage. Reduced to this: shoulders heaving, fists knotted in fabric, weeping so hard it sounded like he was choking on it.

Brian looked like he wanted to bolt. Like he wanted to draw the Glock and shoot all three of them just to make the noise stop.

Instead he stayed. Arm locked around Tim’s shoulders, awkward at first, then tighter. His free hand came up and rested on the back of Tim’s head, fingers threading through greasy hair. He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t try to shush him. 

Toby opened his eyes again, reluctant.

Brian was staring straight ahead - over Tim’s head, through the window, at nothing. His face was blank again. But his hand stayed on Tim’s hair.

The sobs eventually slowed, like Tim’s body simply ran out of air to push through the grief. His shoulders still shook in violent, irregular hitches, but the sound had dropped to something quieter, wetter, more exhausted.

He lifted his head just enough to speak. “Why her?” The words were so small they barely carried. Almost childlike in how helpless they sounded coming from someone who’d spent years breaking other people.

Brian went rigid. His arm stayed locked around Tim’s shoulders, but the hand on the back of Tim’s head froze mid-stroke. His eyes flicked once, quick and helpless, toward Toby standing frozen near the door. A silent, desperate look that said: Do something. Anything. Fix this.

Toby didn’t move.

Tim’s voice kept going, fractured, like he was trying to talk himself into believing any of it. “I didn’t–I didn’t have a choice. It was–it was the order. Clear as day. If I didn’t… someone else would’ve. Brian, you know how it works. You know. He ain’t askin' twice. I tried. I tried to stay away. I left her here for a reason. I left because I knew–I knew what I was. But then I went back. I couldn’t stop. I kept going back. And she–she was just… she was just there. And I–I couldn’t–” His voice broke again. Fresh tears tracked down his face, cutting clean paths through the grime and stubble.

Brian still hadn’t spoken. Tim lifted his head higher, eyes red-rimmed, pupils blown wide with something between terror and desperation. He locked onto Brian’s face. “You’d do the same thing. Right?”

The question hung there, naked.

Brian finally moved. He lifted both hands and cupped Tim’s face. Rough palms pressed firm against Tim’s cheeks, thumbs bracketing the jawline in that hard grip that said look at me without words. He tilted Tim’s head up until their eyes were forced to meet. “Yeah,” Brian said. “I’d do the same thing.”

Tim’s breath hitched sharply.

“Loyalty comes first,” Brian continued, mechanical, reciting doctrine like scripture. “Always has. We don’t get to pick who lives and who dies. We serve. That’s it. That’s all there is. She got too close. She made cracks. Cracks get filled. One way or another.”

The words were cold. Textbook. They were also the worst thing Brian could have said. Because they were true.

Tim’s face crumpled again, not into sobs this time, but into something quieter and worse. Acceptance. The slow, sick slide of a man realizing the cage bars were never going to bend.

Brian held his gaze a second longer, then let go. Dropped his hands and looked away, like touching Tim’s face had burned him.

Toby couldn’t breathe right. He’d been standing frozen in the same spot the whole time, three feet away, close enough to smell the whiskey and sweat and grief rolling off Tim, far enough that he could pretend he wasn’t part of it.

He wasn’t sure he could pretend anymore. His shoulder jerked once, violent tic, then settled. He took one step forward. Then another. He stopped directly behind the couch, looking down at the two of them: Brian rigid, eyes fixed on the far wall like he could stare through it and escape; Tim hunched forward again, elbows on knees, hands dangling limp between them like broken things.

Toby lifted one shaking hand. Laid it on Tim’s shoulder, light. Barely there. Tim flinched anyway.

Toby swallowed, throat clicking dry. “I’m s-sorry, Tim,” he whispered, voice rasped almost to nothing. “I–I’m so sorry.” Toby’s hand stayed there another heartbeat, then fell away. He turned and walked away. He couldn’t be near them right now. The words loyalty and serve and no choice kept echoing in his skull like a bad recording stuck on loop. He needed out. Needed air. Needed anything that wasn’t this room full of broken men pretending they still had hearts.

His boots moved before his brain caught up, soft thuds on the rug, then the creak of floorboards as he crossed into the short hallway. The first door he came to was open. Bedroom. He stepped inside without thinking, pulled the door mostly shut behind him. Just enough to pretend there was a barrier between him and the living room. The room smelled like you. The string lights along the beams were unplugged now, but even dead they looked soft, like they were still waiting to glow again.

Toby stood in the middle of the floor for a long second, arms hanging loose at his sides. His neck jerked once then settled. He didn’t know what he was doing here. Didn’t know why his feet had carried him to this room instead of outside, instead of the truck, instead of anywhere else.

He moved anyway. Walked slow circles around the small space like he was cataloguing it. Touched the edge of the unmade bed - quilt half-pulled back, pillow still dented from two heads instead of one. The sheets were tangled on your side, smooth on Tim’s. Like you’d curled tight against him and he’d lain there stiff. Toby’s fingers brushed the fabric.

He opened the top drawer of the dresser. Socks. A few pairs of underwear folded neat. A sports bra. A faded T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He closed it again, then opened the next one. Flannel shirts. Soft corduroy pants. A cream cable-knit sweater that looked big enough to swallow someone whole. He lifted the sleeve for a second, pressed it to his face, inhaled. His throat clicked dry.

He moved to the nightstand. Small wooden thing, chipped at one corner. A half-read paperback sat on it, spine cracked, pages dog-eared. He didn’t touch it. He opened the drawer instead. Inside: a few hair ties, a cheap lighter, a tube of tinted lip balm, and... a slim leather journal. Plain cover, just a thin strap wrapped around it once.

Toby’s hand shook when he picked it up. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But he flipped it open anyway.

The first pages were jagged. Ink smeared in places like you’d written through tears.

That night. The bar. I killed that man. I swung and I felt the crack and I kept swinging until there was nothing left to swing at. Then the fire. Watched the whole place burn from the parking lot. Thought maybe I’d burn with it. Didn’t. Still here. Still breathing. Still hating every second of it.

Pages turned. Random things after that.

A fawn in the clearing.

Thought about killing it. Skinning it. Eating it. Proving something to myself about survival. Instead I put out oats and apple slices on the porch rail. Stupid, maybe. But it came back and ate.

Beside the entry: a small pencil sketch. Spindly legs. Big eyes. Ears forward. Careful lines. Like you’d spent time getting the ears just right.

More pages.

The fawn is dead. Found it behind the cabin this morning. Ripped open. Coyotes, probably. Dug a shallow grave. Buried it.

Another sketch, this one rougher, angrier. Small body torn apart. Ribcage split wide like a broken cage. Pencil lines heavy where you’d pressed too hard.

Toby’s name appeared often. You’d thought about him a lot. Wondered how he was doing. If his tics were worse when he was stressed. If he ever thought about that hug on the porch.

Ben appeared even more. Long entries about late-night phone calls. His stupid jokes. The way his voice cracked when he said he missed you. How texting him felt like breathing again after months underwater.

Brian showed up too, described as cold but steady. “I’m happy he’s so close to Tim. Someone has to keep him in check.”

Jeff’s name appeared too. “I wonder if he’s always such an asshole. I hope he’s a good friend to my best friend. Ben deserves the world. PS… Smile is a funny name for a dog that looks like it wants to eat your face.”

And even Jack. “Best doctor I’ve ever had, even if he barely speaks. I keep thinking about how he licked the wound on my hand once in the woods, cleaned it like an animal would. It felt… strangely good.”

The sketch of Jack was beautiful, delicate lines capturing the hollow black sockets, the unnaturally long tongue curled carefully around an imagined wound. You’d shaded the shadows so tenderly.

And then, everywhere–Tim. Tim’s name on almost every page.

“I still dream about him. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. Sometimes both at once.”

“I touched the scar today. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Just feels like proof he was real.”

“I hate him. I miss him. I love him. I don’t know how to stop.”

And then–the last entry. Full of light.

“I feel hopeful today. Like maybe it can all work out. Like maybe love, real love, can survive anything. Even this dread that never quite leaves. Even the darkness that follows him. Even me. I don’t know why it’s still here, this cold feeling in my chest, but I’m trying to ignore it. Because he came back. Because he stayed. Because he said he loves me. And for the first time in a long time… I believe him.”

Toby’s vision blurred. He closed the journal. Held it against his chest for a long second, like it might still be warm from your hands. Then he slipped it into the inside pocket of his hoodie.

Maybe he’d give it to Tim someday. Maybe. Or maybe Toby would keep it forever, like a confession he didn’t know how to make.

He stood and walked out, past the living room without looking at the couch, and out the front door. He stepped out onto the porch and stood there for a long time. And waited for whatever came next. Because nothing else felt possible anymore.

Ben.

Ben knew something was wrong the moment your texts stopped.

The last message from you had been bright, almost giddy.

yay i’m so serious about hanging out soon :) tell jeff he owes you that ride. i miss you already. come over whenever you can pull it off. cabin’s ready for chaos!!

He’d grinned at his phone like an idiot, thumbs flying

bet jeffs gonna bitch the whole way but ill make him cant wait dude miss u too like a lot

Sent. Delivered. Read. And then… nothing.

At first he brushed it off. You were probably busy - working a double at the Rusty Nail, maybe dealing with some small-town bullshit, or just crashed out after a long shift. He sent a few more messages over the next couple days but the thread stayed silent.

Then he noticed Tim was gone too. Tim hadn’t been in the house for days. No late-night whiskey bottle clinking against the coffee table, no low growl of his voice down the hall at 3 a.m., no heavy boots stomping across the porch. Brian’s truck was missing from the yard too, and Brian himself was on edge in a way Ben had only seen a handful of times.

Brian paced. Smoked. Stared at nothing. Snapped at Jeff for breathing too loud. When Ben casually asked “Hey man, where’s Tim?” Brian just gave him a flat look and said, “Out,” like that was supposed to end the conversation.

During the third night Ben woke up to the sound of boots in the hallway, quick, purposeful, and then silence. He cracked his door and caught a glimpse of Brian and Toby leaving the house.

They were gone for another two days.

When they finally came back, Brian’s truck rolled into the yard at dawn, engine coughing like it had been driven hard and without mercy. Brian stepped out first: face blank, eyes shadowed, jacket zipped to the throat like armor. Toby followed, hood up, shoulders hunched. Neither of them spoke. Tim stepped out last. He looked like something had been carved out of him. Hair greasy, eyes sunken, skin the color of old paper. 

They stepped inside the house with heavy steps. Tim didn’t even look at Ben who was standing in the doorway to the living room. Just walked straight through the front door, boots leaving muddy prints on the floorboards, and disappeared upstairs. His bedroom door closed with a soft click. Locked.

Ben looked at Brian. Brian looked back, expression flat. Ben’s voice came out small. “Hey guys… what happened?” Brian exhaled through his nose. “She’s not in the cabin anymore.”

That was it. No elaboration. No details. Just those six words, delivered in the same monotone Brian used when reporting mission outcomes.

Ben stared. Waited. When Brian didn’t fill the silence, Ben’s voice came out thin. “Brian.” Brian simply ignored him and walked past him like he wasn’t even there. Past the living room and up the stairs.

Toby, still standing near the front door, didn’t move at first. He looked at Ben for half a second, then quickly switched his attention to the floor, like Ben’s eye contact had burned him. Then he walked away too. Followed Brian upstairs. Door clicked shut again.

Ben stood alone as the silence stretched. And stretched. And stretched. No one came back to explain. No one muttered excuses. No one said “it was orders” or “she knew too much” or even “I’m sorry.” Just… nothing.

Ben wasn’t stupid. He knew the second the silence stretched too long. His best friend was dead.

And there was nothing he could do. Nothing. No frantic drive upstate. No last-minute text begging you to run. No heroic crash through the cabin door. Just the quiet, ugly realization that the world had kept turning without him, and he’d been too late - again.

So he did what he always did when the world caved in.

He smoked a lot. Lit joint after joint until the room was thick with it, eyes red and stinging, lungs burning like he could smoke the ache right out of his chest.

He gamed. Endless runs - mindless co-op shooters, speedruns he didn’t care about winning, volume cranked until the headset hurt his ears and the gunfire drowned out the quiet noises leaking from Tim’s room down the hall.

He worked on the computer. Ran pointless diagnostics, tweaked security cams he no longer monitored, reformatted drives just to have something to click.

Hung out with Jeff, mostly in silence. Jeff didn’t ask questions or push. Sometimes they watched movies until the sun came up. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all.

And at night, when the house finally went quiet, when even Tim’s muffled sounds had stopped, Ben cried himself to sleep. Face buried in his pillow, shoulders shaking. Quiet, choking sobs no one could hear. Because the only taste of normalcy he’d felt in years was gone.

You’d promised to keep texting. You’d said the cabin was ready for chaos. And he’d failed you. Hadn’t driven up there fast enough. Hadn’t been a good enough friend.

So he cried until exhaustion took him. And in the morning he’d wake up, eyes swollen, throat raw, and do it all again. Smoke. Screens. Silence. And the hole where you used to be.

It never really dulled. But he kept going anyway. Because you would’ve wanted him to. And that was the only thing he had left to hold onto.

Epilogue

A Letter to My Pretty Girl

Hi sweetheart,

Sorry about the handwriting. I’m shit at this. Never written a letter in my life. Feels stupid putting it down on paper like I’m some idiot in a movie, but I don’t know what else to do with it all anymore. Can’t say it out loud. Can’t say it to the others. So here it is. For you.

It’s been six months. Doesn’t get easier. Not even a little. I wake up every morning and the first thing I do is reach for the side of the bed that’s still empty. Then I remember. Every single time. Missions are the same as they always were, go out, do the job, come back, wash the blood off. Nothing changes. Brian doesn’t talk about it. Toby looks at me like he’s scared I’ll put a gun in my mouth any day now. Ben… I don’t even see Ben anymore. He stays in his room. I get it. I’d stay away from me too.

I visit you a lot. More than I probably should. Drive up to the cabin when the house gets too loud or too quiet, doesn’t matter which. Park the truck where I used to and just sit for a while. Sometimes I bring flowers. Sometimes I don’t (sorry.) Mostly I just lie down on the ground next to the cross and close my eyes. The dirt’s cold, but it’s the only place I can still feel you. I sleep there sometimes. Feels right, somehow. Like I should be uncomfortable. Like I should feel it.

I’m never gonna love anyone again. I know that for sure now. There’s no room left. You’re everywhere. In the smoke when I light a cigarette. In the quiet of the cabin when the wind moves through the trees. In the way my chest still tightens every time I see a stupid fucking deer on the side of the road. I feel you in my hands when I’m holding the rifle. I feel you in my throat when I try to sleep. You’re just… there. All the time. And it hurts like hell, but I don’t want it to stop. If it stops, then you’re really gone.

I hope you’ve forgiven me. I know I don’t deserve it. None of it. It was all my fault. Every single part. I should’ve never walked into that bar the first time. Should’ve never sat down at the counter and let you pour me a drink. Should’ve never looked at you and decided you were mine. I was poison from the start. I knew it. I just didn’t care enough to stay away. I took you to that house. I let the evil in. I watched it crawl inside you and I still kept you there because I was selfish. Because I wanted to feel something good for once. And look what it got us.

But here’s the fucked up part… I’m still glad I met you. Even after everything. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. The only good thing. You made me laugh when I didn’t think I could anymore. You looked at me like I wasn’t just a monster. You were light, my pretty baby. Real light. The kind that doesn’t go out no matter how dark it gets. The light of my life. I was too blind and too stupid and too far gone to see it until it was too late. I invited the darkness in and it won. It always wins with me.

I’m still here, though. Still breathing. Still pulling the trigger when He tells me to. Still waking up and driving up to sit with you. I don’t know if that makes me strong or just too much of a coward to follow you. Probably the second one.

Deer season’s coming again. Leaves are starting to turn. Every time I smell that cold air I remember the lie I told you that first night, said I was just a hunter, tracking deer through the woods like some regular guy. I think about it a lot now. How I tracked you instead. How I waited until you were close enough, until you trusted me, until you reached out with your hand like you were offering something gentle. And then I pulled the trigger. One clean shot. Just like I was taught. I still hear it when the wind moves through the pines up there. I still see the way you dropped.

I hope wherever you are now, you’re running free. No more hunters. No more darkness. Just you and whatever comes after this. I’ll keep coming back. I’ll keep sleeping on the ground next to you. I’ll keep carrying you with me until the day He finally puts me down too.

I love you. Always did.

Then, slowly, it receded.

One morning you woke up and the static was gone. The nausea had dulled to a faint ache. The headaches were just echoes. You lay there staring at the ceiling beams, waiting for the next assault, but it never came. You felt… clean. Hollowed out. A shell wearing your skin.

The cabin itself was miserable. Barely any signal - your phone stuttered and died half the time you tried to use it. The food was bland, repetitive, survival rations. The cold seeped through the walls no matter how much wood you fed the stove. But they kept their word. Every few weeks a package appeared on the porch, like it had dropped from the sky. Your old clothes. Snacks. A cheap laptop. A Ziploc bag stuffed with perfectly rolled joints, no note, but you knew who they were from. Ben.

He’d texted you relentlessly that first month, messages piling up like unanswered prayers. 

You never replied. Every word on the screen was a knife twisting. Every “hey” reminded you of Tim’s voice, low and rough against your ear. You couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear anything that pulled you back to him.

Tim. Tim. Tim.

You dreamed of him every night - good dreams where his hands were gentle, wet dreams where his mouth was on you, nightmares where his fingers tightened around your throat until the world grayed out and you woke gasping, drenched in sweat, aching between your legs and in your chest. You hated him. You missed him so much it felt like a physical wound. You regretted ever looking at him, ever letting him in.

The first month was the worst - endless crying, screaming into pillows, punching walls until your knuckles bled. Then, reluctantly, survival instinct kicked in. You couldn’t live like this forever. So two months in, you finally used the car.

Drove until the pines thinned and a tiny town appeared - three streets, one stoplight, a grocery store. You parked, walked inside on shaking legs, bought a pack of smokes with cash from the drawer. People moved around you, normal and oblivious, and the sight of them almost broke you. You bought bread, milk, a cheap bottle of wine. Drove back. Cried the whole way.

There were deer everywhere out here. You’d started noticing them more after the sickness lifted - graceful shapes slipping between trees at dusk. One evening a tiny fawn appeared near the cabin, spindly legs and wide eyes, so small it looked like it might blow away in the wind. It reminded you of yourself - lost, alone, trying not to die.

For a stupid second you thought about killing it. Skinning it. Eating it. Proving something to yourself about survival.

Instead you put out a shallow bowl of oats and apple slices on the porch.

The next morning the bowl was empty. You didn’t know if it had been the fawn or some raccoon or the wind, but you kept doing it. Every evening, a little offering. Oats, carrots, whatever scraps you could spare.

One twilight you saw it, standing at the edge of the clearing, ears flicking, nose twitching. It stepped forward, hesitant, then lowered its head and ate. You watched from the window, breath fogging the glass, heart aching in a way that wasn’t quite pain anymore. Just loneliness.

Just you, and the deer, and the slow turning of seasons in a cabin that was starting to feel less like a prison and more like a place you might survive.

You sat on the porch steps, wrapped in the oversized cardigan you’d found in one of the early drops, faded gray wool that still smelled faintly of laundry detergent. It was around four in the morning, the sky still ink-black except for a thin bruise of gray creeping along the eastern tree line. The air was sharp, cold enough to sting your lungs with every inhale.

You held a cigarette between your fingers, the cherry glowing soft orange each time you drew. You weren’t a smoker before Tim. Now the ritual felt like communion: the scratch of the lighter, the first bitter drag, the way the smoke curled into your throat and sat heavy on your tongue. It was one of the only things left that still carried his ghost. You bought the same brand he always smoked, Marlboro Reds, the red pack with the white chevron, because when the smoke filled your mouth you could almost pretend he was standing behind you, close enough to feel the heat off his jacket, close enough to smell him again.

Your free hand drifted up, fingertips brushing the pale circle scar on your collarbone. The burn mark he’d left there that night - cigarette pressed hard while he fucked you slow and possessive - had faded to a faint, shiny coin of skin. You touched it when the anxiety clawed too deep, when the silence of the cabin pressed in until you couldn’t breathe. A reminder. Proof he’d been real.

You exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift toward the bowl of oats and apple slices you’d set out on the porch rail the night before. Still full. The fawn hadn’t come yet tonight.

Then headlights cut through the dark.

You froze mid-drag.

That goddamn truck. It rolled to a stop in the dirt clearing, engine idling low and familiar, exhaust curling white in the cold. The same truck that had carried you here three months ago, the same one that had driven away while you screamed his name until your voice gave out.

Brian sat alone in the driver’s seat, silhouette unmistakable: broad shoulders, hair pushed back, face half-lit by the dashboard glow. He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the cabin like he was arguing with himself about whether to get out at all.

This was the first time you’d actually seen one of the drops happen. Until now the packages had simply appeared, quiet, ghostly, left on the porch while you slept or showered or stared at nothing.

Brian finally cut the engine. The silence rushed in louder than before. He stepped out, boots crunching gravel, opened the back hatch, and pulled out a plain cardboard box sealed with duct tape. He carried it one-handed, the other loose at his side, posture stiff like he was walking into enemy territory.

He climbed the steps without looking up at first. Set the box down a careful three feet from where you sat. Only then did he glance your way.

You refused to meet his eyes. Kept staring at the empty food bowl on the porch rail, cigarette burning down between your fingers. Ash trembled, ready to fall. You took another slow drag and let the smoke roll out through your nose like you hadn’t noticed him at all.

It was awkward. Brian stood there a long second. The night wind moved his jacket open, revealing the faint outline of the Glock tucked against his ribs. Finally he spoke, voice flat and toneless, stripped of any warmth or care. “Didn’t think you’d be up.”

He shifted his weight once. Glanced at the bowl, then back at you, taking in the way the cardigan hung looser now on your smaller frame, the hollows under your eyes, the emptiness that had settled behind them like frost on glass.

“Picked out some books,” he continued, nodding toward the box at his feet. “Ben sent the usual.”

You flicked the cigarette over the rail without looking where it landed. The ember sparked once against the dirt and died.

Then, in a voice so cold and distant it barely sounded like yours, you spoke. “You don’t need to keep bringing packages anymore. Or check in.” A beat. “I just want to be left alone.”

Brian didn’t answer right away. He stared at you, long enough that the silence turned thick, heavy with everything neither of you would ever say. You kept your gaze locked on the bowl, refusing to give him your eyes.

He exhaled once through his nose, short, almost resigned. “Always so fuckin’ stubborn, huh?”

You finally tilted your head just enough for your voice to carry without turning toward him. “Go to hell.” The words came out low and cold, stripped of heat or volume, spoken like you were stating a simple fact rather than throwing an insult.

Brian went still. You didn’t have to look to know his expression had changed slightly - his eyes narrowing just a fraction, jaw tightening the way it always did when he was deciding whether to argue or let something drop. For a moment he didn’t say anything at all. The night pressed in around the cabin, the forest whispering softly through the branches.

Then he muttered, voice quieter now, rough in a way that sounded almost tired. “Trust me.” A small pause followed, barely longer than a breath. “I’m already there.”

He turned without another word, boots crunching slow across the porch, down the steps, back to the truck. Door opened. Closed. Engine growled awake. Headlights snapped on - harsh white sweeping across the clearing, catching your face for half a second in unforgiving light - then the truck reversed, swung around, and disappeared down the dirt track. Taillights bled red into the dark.

You sat there until the sound was gone. Until the cold sank bone-deep. Until the scar on your collarbone ached like it remembered Tim’s touch.

Then you stood up. Kicked the box hard enough that it skidded across the porch boards with a dull scrape, contents rattling inside like loose bones. The cardboard caught on a warped plank, tipped, and settled crooked against the rail. You didn’t look back at it. Just went back inside, not bothering to lock the door. 

Tim. 

Tim woke to the familiar hammer in his skull - hungover again, the kind that made every heartbeat feel like a fist against bone. The room was dim, blinds half-cracked, late-afternoon light bleeding orange across the unmade bed. His phone alarm had been screaming for God knows how long. He slapped it silent without looking. Stared at the cracked screen instead. 6:17 p.m.

Another day swallowed whole. Drink until blackout. Pass out in yesterday’s clothes. Wake up when the sun was already dying. Repeat.

He lay there a second longer, chest tight, trying not to think about you. About the way your thighs had trembled around his hips on that infirmary cot. About the soft, broken sounds you made when he kissed your neck. About the way you’d clung to him like he was still worth holding onto - even after his fingers had started to squeeze.

No. He shoved the memory down hard, like forcing a lid on something feral.

The alcohol helped. It blurred the edges of that night - erased, for a few blessed hours, the exact pressure of his hand around your throat, the way your pulse had fluttered frantically under his palm while he was still buried inside you. Erased the colder image too: Brian’s Glock in his grip outside the cabin, finger hovering near the trigger, weighing whether one clean shot through the back of your head would’ve been kinder than leaving you to rot alone.

He groaned and rolled off the mattress. The room tilted once, then steadied. He reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. Took a long pull straight from the neck, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He got dressed in the same clothes from yesterday. Grabbed the mask from the dresser, the one that made him nobody, and pulled it over his head. Adjusted the straps until it sat snug. Picked up the axe leaning against the wall and slung it over his shoulder. Left the bedroom.

Ben was sprawled on the couch in the living room, controller in his lap. He looked up when Tim passed, eyes narrowing, mouth half-open like he wanted to say something. Didn’t. Just stared, full of judgment.

Tim ignored him. Kept walking.

Outside, the air hit cold and pine-sharp. Dusk had already settled heavy over the yard, trees black silhouettes against a bruised sky. Brian and Toby waited near the tree line, both already masked up, geared for whatever wetwork waited deeper in the woods.

Brian glanced at his watch, then at Tim. “You’re late. Again.”

Tim didn’t answer. Just fell into step behind them as they started into the trees. Toby glanced back once, eyes catching the porch light for a second, then muttered, “Y-you r-reek, man. Like a distillery f-fell on you.”

Tim’s grip tightened on the axe handle. For half a heartbeat he pictured swinging it - clean arc, satisfying crack against bone. Instead he let out a low grunt, shoulders rolling once like he was shaking off the urge. “Shut up, Toby.”

They walked deeper into the woods, pine needles crunching soft under boots, the last gray light bleeding out of the sky until everything was shadow and shape. Toby moved ahead with long strides, hoodie up, tics flickering every few steps like faulty wiring. Brian slowed deliberately, matching Tim’s heavier pace until they were side by side, Toby pulling farther into the dark ahead.

Brian’s voice came low, muffled slightly by the mask. “Dropped another package this morning.”

Tim kept his eyes on the path, axe handle resting easy against his shoulder.

Brian continued anyway, tone flat. “She was up. Sitting on the porch. Told me not to bring any more. Said she wants to be left alone.”

Tim’s grip tightened once on the axe, barely noticeable. He forced his voice even, casual, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere important. “Didn’t ask.”

Brian’s red-eyed mask turned just enough to catch the faint moonlight. The painted frown looked almost amused. “Yeah. Well. Thought you’d wanna know.”

Tim stayed silent for three more steps. The mask hid the way his jaw clenched, the way his throat worked once. Thank fuck for the blank white face staring back at Brian, no one could see the flicker behind his eyes.

“What’d she look like?” he asked finally. Almost careless.

Brian huffed, short and dry, not quite a laugh. “Like shit,” he said. “Thinner, I guess. Eyes like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Smoking your brand, though. Reds.”

Tim kept walking. The axe felt heavier suddenly. Then, quieter: “She’s gonna keep getting packages. Whether she likes it or not.”

Brian sighed, longer this time, the sound of someone who’d already had this argument in his head. “If she doesn’t want help, that’s on her, Tim.”

Tim cut him off, sharp and final. “I said she’s gonna keep getting them.”

Brian shut up. Another huff, annoyed. But he didn’t argue. Just lengthened his stride, pulling ahead until he walked level with Toby again.

Tim fell back a half-step. He stared at their backs while the woods closed in tighter around them. The axe stayed steady on his shoulder. But under the mask, his face twisted, just for a second, into something raw and unguarded. Then it smoothed over, and he kept walking. Like nothing had changed.

You.

Another three months dragged by - six whole months locked inside this fucking cabin, the walls closing tighter every day like they were trying to crush what little was left of you.

The packages kept coming relentlessly. Every few weeks a new cardboard box appeared on the porch - unmarked, unasked for, full of things you didn’t want: clothes, books, snacks, more of Ben’s perfectly rolled joints. You never touched them. Never even opened one. Just let them stack up, pile after pile, until the porch became a maze of cardboard you had to squeeze sideways through every time you stepped outside. A wall of refusal. A monument to everything you were trying to starve out of your life.

One gray morning you found the fawn.

It lay near the tree line, small body torn open, insides dragged out in wet, glistening ropes, eyes already clouded. Coyotes, probably. You stood over it for a long time, breath fogging in the cold, staring at the tiny ribcage split wide like a broken cage. Then you got the shovel from the shed, dug a shallow grave in the soft dirt behind the cabin. Buried it with shaking hands. Said nothing, no prayer, no words, just stood there until the earth was patted flat and the bowl of oats you’d left out every night felt suddenly obscene.

That was the day something snapped clean inside you.

You went into the tiny bathroom, stood in front of the cracked mirror, and cut your hair. Long, uneven snips with the kitchen scissors, chunks falling into the sink like dead leaves. When you were done it hung ragged around your jaw, messy, alive in a way the rest of you wasn’t. You showered until the water ran cold, dressed in the least-worn clothes from your own closet, and got in the car.

Drove to the tiny town.

The bar was the only one - a sagging building with a flickering neon sign that read “Rusty Nail” in half-dead letters. Inside it smelled like old beer, cigarette smoke that had soaked into the wood years ago, and despair. Empty except for the bartender - an older man, gray hair thinning, eyes tired and bored behind wire-frame glasses. He was wiping the same spot on the scarred bar top when you walked in.

You went straight to him. “You hiring?”

He laughed dryly, like you’d told a bad joke. Then he looked up, and the laugh died when he saw you weren’t smiling. “A girl like you?” he said, eyebrows lifting. “In a place like this?”

“I’m a bartender,” you said, voice flat. “A damn good one. I want the job.”

He studied you, taking in the choppy haircut, the determined look. Sighed. “Pay’s shit. Tips are worse. This town’s dying, young lady. You sure?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you said. “I just need something to do.”

He stared at you another long second. Then shrugged. “Alright. Come in tomorrow. Six to close. Don’t be late.”

You nodded once. Turned and walked out before he could change his mind. The door banged shut behind you.

For the first time in six months, the ache in your chest didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like breathing.

Ben.

Ben hadn’t heard from you in six months. Six fucking months.

At this point you felt like a half-remembered dream, fuzzy around the edges, colors bleeding out, but he still saw you clear as day when he closed his eyes. Your face when you laughed at one of his dumb jokes. The way your arms had wrapped around him that last time in his room, quick and real and warm in a house that never felt warm. The hug had lasted maybe five seconds, but it stuck with him like a brand.

He missed having a friend like you. It had been… refreshing. A reminder that not everything in this life had to be dread and fear and screaming. You’d made him remember what normal felt like, even if it was only for a little while.

He hoped you’d smoked the joints he’d sent. Hoped at least one of those Ziplocs had made it into your hands, that maybe one night you’d lit up on that porch and thought of him without hating the memory. He’d rolled them perfectly, the way he knew you liked.

But he’d overheard Brian and Toby in the kitchen two nights ago, low voices, cabinet doors clicking shut.

“She hasn’t touched a single package in months,” Brian had said, flat as ever. “Just lets them stack up.”

Toby’s stutter had cracked the quiet. “What if… w-what if she’s d-dead?”

“She’s not. We’re not that lucky.”

Ben had stood frozen in the hallway, chest tight like someone had wrapped a cord around his ribs and pulled.

You never replied to any of his messages. Not one. The texts had started desperate and then tapered into quieter, sadder ones. But no replies. It stung. Of course it fucking stung. But he didn’t blame you.

You’d wanted out. Away from Tim. Away from the house. Away from the blood and the static and the way everything here eventually turned rotten. If cutting him off was part of that escape, he got it. He hated it, but he got it. Still hurt like hell.

A small, petty part of him took vicious satisfaction in watching Tim fall apart.

Tim pretended he didn’t care - same old mask, same late-night missions, but Ben saw it. The way Tim drank himself stupid every night, bottles piling up faster than the packages on your porch. The way he’d stare at nothing for minutes at a time, mask off, eyes hollow. The way he’d snap at anyone who even breathed near him.

Someone who didn’t care didn’t drown themselves in whiskey until they couldn’t stand.

Ben leaned back in his gaming chair now, controller idle in his lap. The screen glowed bright, some mindless game paused mid-run, but he wasn’t playing.

He opened his phone. Scrolled to the last message he’d sent you, four months ago. He stared at it a long time. Then locked the screen. Set the phone face-down on the desk.

And went back to the game. Pretending it didn’t still ache. Pretending he didn’t still hope, somewhere stupid and stubborn, that one day you’d text back. Just one word. Anything.

You. 

Another two whole months slipped by like water through cracked fingers, slow at first, then faster, easier.

The Rusty Nail became your second skin. You worked five nights a week, sometimes six if the old bartender wanted a break. The crowd never grew much: a handful of loggers who tipped in quarters and grunted thanks, the occasional trucker passing through, the same three old men who played cribbage at the corner table and argued about hockey scores from 1997. But you made it matter. You learned their drinks by heart. You started a small chalkboard behind the bar with terrible puns about beer. You made a playlist that you put on every night.

People noticed. The loggers started smiling when they walked in. The old men tipped better. One night a woman in her forties told you the bar felt “alive again” and bought you a shot of Jameson. You poured it, clinked glasses, and felt something warm bloom behind your ribs that wasn’t whiskey.

You weren’t hiding anymore. The news cycle had chewed up the bar fire and spat it out months ago, it was a cold case with no leads, a small-town tragedy filed under “shit happens.” This place was hours from your old life, tucked so far into the pines that even Google Maps gave up halfway. No one here knew your face from a wanted poster. No one asked questions.

You let yourself breathe.

And after a while, you even started putting in effort into making the cabin feel more like a home. You bought string lights and draped them along the walls. A small woven rug for the living room. A cheap ceramic mug with a tiny painted deer on it. A kettle. Little things. Proof you still knew how to want.

But the nights… The nights were brutal.

Closing shift ended around midnight. You’d lock up, count the till, wipe down the bar one last time, then drive the dark road back to the cabin with the windows cracked so the cold kept you awake. Radio off. Just engine hum and your own breathing.

Inside the cabin, the string lights glowed soft and golden, but the silence pressed in like damp wool. You’d shower, hot water until it ran cold, pull on a big sweater, crawl under the quilt, and stare at the ceiling until your eyes burned. No static or headaches anymore. Just you. And the loneliness that sat on your chest like a second skeleton.

You’d told your family you were okay. One carefully worded text six months ago: “I’m safe. I need space. Don’t look for me. Don’t call the police. I love you.” Then you’d powered the phone off and buried it in a drawer under socks. They hadn’t tried to find you. Or if they had, they’d respected the boundary. Either way, the line stayed dead.

No friends left. The people from your old life had faded into ghosts the moment the bar burned. And here? You smiled at customers. You made small talk. But no one stayed after last call.

So you started rereading the thread with Ben. Every night. You’d unlock your phone, signal spotty but enough, and scroll back through months of messages. His stupid memes. His late-night rants. The way he’d spam heart emojis when you sent him a selfie. The way he’d typed “i miss u” once. You always smiled, small and aching, despite yourself. He’d been kind when kindness felt like a foreign language.

One night, three weeks ago, you’d almost typed back. Fingers hovering. Heart hammering. Then you’d deleted the draft and gone to bed with wet eyes.

Tonight was different. Closing shift had been quiet. Only two customers after midnight. You’d locked up, driven home under a sky thick with stars, parked, walked inside, kicked off your boots, and sat on the edge of the bed still wearing your bar apron.

Phone in hand. Thread open. You stared at his last message from six months ago: hope the joints helped. miss your dumb laugh. be safe.

Your thumbs trembled. Then, before you could overthink it, you typed.

sorry i ghosted you.

Sent. You dropped the phone like it burned. Stared at it on the quilt. Waited for the world to end. It took forty-seven seconds.

The screen lit up. Then lit up again. And again. And again. A flood.

IT Support:

holy shit oh my god oh my god r u ok?? like actualu ok?? just fuck im shaking rn im literally shaking r u hurt?? do u need anything?? just talk to me pls

You stared at the screen through blurry eyes. Your chest cracked open, painful, bright, and alive. Your thumbs hovered, then you typed one word.

hey :)

The typing bubble appeared instantly. He was already replying. And for the first time in eight months, the cabin didn’t feel quite so empty.

Ben. 

Ben was hyperventilating. Full-on, chest-heaving, vision-sparkling hyperventilation.

He’d bolted from the bed the second your message lit up his screen, knocked over an empty Monster can, sent it rolling under the desk, and slammed his bedroom door so hard the RGB strips flickered. Now he was pacing the narrow strip of carpet between bed and gaming rig, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, hair a static disaster from raking his hands through it repeatedly.

His phone was clutched in both hands like it might explode. He kept rereading your last text, the one that had come after his flood of panic:

hey :) i’m okay. really. got a job bartending at this little dive. it’s quiet but it’s… nice. i feel like i’m finally doing something again. just lonely sometimes. like really lonely. the cabin’s too quiet, especially at night.

He’d stared at those words until they blurred. Lonely. You were lonely. And you’d told him. Not anyone else. Him.

His thumbs were shaking so badly the first reply came out as gibberish: are u srsly ok?? like actuallu?? He deleted it. Tried again: holy shit i’m so glad ur alive i mean i knew but i didn’t KNOW yk?? Better. Still terrible. He deleted that too.

His heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again, the one that made his palms sweat and his thumbs feel too big for the screen. He’d typed and deleted so many versions already that he started to feel dizzy.

He took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly. Then he hit the call button before he could talk himself out of it.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. He almost hung up.

Then– “Hello?” Your voice. Soft. A little rough around the edges like you hadn’t used it much today. Beautiful in a way that punched the air straight out of his lungs.

Ben froze mid-pace, one foot still lifted like he’d been caught stepping on a landmine. “Hey,” he croaked. Then immediately winced. “Uh. Hi. It’s–Ben. Obviously. Shit, sorry, I just–”

A small, surprised laugh from your end. The sound was so familiar it hurt. “I know it’s you, dummy.”

He exhaled hard enough that it crackled through the speaker. “Right. Right. Sorry. I’m–uh–kinda freakin’ out right now.”

Another quiet laugh. Warmer this time. “Yeah. I can hear that.”

He started pacing again, faster. The RGB lights cycled purple-blue-purple like they were trying to keep up with his heartbeat. “So… you’re really okay?” he asked, voice cracking on the last word. “Like… actually?”

A pause. Not long. Just long enough for him to picture you sitting on that sagging couch in the cabin, knees drawn up.

“I’m… getting there,” you said finally. “It’s been a long eight months. But yeah. I think I’m okay.”

He stopped pacing. Dropped onto the edge of the bed so hard the springs groaned. “Jesus. Eight months. I thought–” He cut himself off. Swallowed. “I thought maybe you hated me or something. For not… I dunno. Doin’ more.”

“No,” you said quickly. “God, no. I just… needed to disappear for a while. From everything. Including texts. I’m sorry I ghosted you. That wasn’t fair.”

He laughed once, short and shaky. “Yeah, well. I’m not exactly known for my emotional stability either, so… we’re even.”

Silence stretched for a second. Comfortable, though. Not the kind that made you want to fill it with noise.

“So,” he said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably, “bartending again, huh? At a dive bar? That’s… badass.”

You huffed a small laugh. “It’s literally the most nothing place you can imagine. But… I like it. I like having something to do. Somewhere to go. People who don’t know my name or my history.”

He could hear the small smile in your voice. “That sounds… nice,” he said softly. “Normal.”

“Yeah. Normal’s weirdly addictive once you get a taste.”

He flopped backward onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling where one of his lights had started flickering like it was dying.

“What about you?” you asked. “How’s… everything?”

He groaned dramatically. “Same as always. I was promised ‘less work’ from Brian but obviously that never happened, he keeps riding my ass. Jack’s on a new cleaning kick–disinfects the entire infirmary every single week now. The whole house smells like bleach for days. Everyone’s pissed. Jeff says it’s ‘chemical warfare.’ I’m pretty sure he’s not wrong.”

You laughed. “God, I can picture it. The bleach smell must be brutal.”

“It’s apocalyptic. I’ve been sleeping with my hoodie over my face like a gas mask.”

Another laugh. Softer.

Neither of you said Tim’s name.

He thought about it multiple times. The question hovered right there on his tongue: Have you heard from him? Seen him? Does he know you’re okay? But every time he opened his mouth to ask, something stopped him. Maybe fear. Maybe the memory of how wrecked Tim had been after dropping you off. Maybe just not wanting to break whatever fragile thing was happening right now.

So he didn’t. Instead he asked, “You gonna keep texting me? Like… regularly?”

You were quiet for a second, long enough that his stomach dropped, then answered, soft but sure. “Yeah. I promise. I’m not… I’m not ghosting again. I missed you, Ben. More than I knew how to say.”

His eyes stung. He blinked hard, laughed once to cover it. “Cool. Cool cool cool. That’s–yeah. Good. Great. I missed you too. Like, embarrassingly bad.”

You both laughed, small, relieved.

Eventually the call had to end. You said you had a shift tomorrow. He said he had to pretend to sleep before Brian came looking for him.

“Okay,” you said. “Talk soon?”

“Soon,” he promised. “Like, tomorrow soon. Don’t make me wait months again or I’ll drive up there and camp on your porch.”

“Deal.”

The line went quiet. Then you whispered, almost too soft to hear: “Thanks for calling.”

He swallowed. “Thanks for picking up.”

Click.

Ben stared at the ceiling for a full ten seconds after the call ended. Then he exploded.

He threw the phone onto the bed, leapt up, did a ridiculous, flailing spin-jump that nearly knocked over his monitor, and let out the loudest, most undignified “FUCK YES” of his life, muffled immediately by shoving his face into a pillow so no one downstairs heard.

He flopped back onto the mattress, arms spread wide, grinning so hard his cheeks ached. “She’s okay,” he whispered to the ceiling. “She’s okay. And she called me. And she laughed. And she promised.”

He rolled onto his stomach, buried his face in the pillow again, and let out a muffled, giddy scream.

Then he grabbed his phone, opened your contact, and changed your name from the sad little “ghosted 🥲“ he’d set six months ago to: bartender queen aka best friend ❤️🍺

His chest felt too small to hold it all. He needed to tell someone or he was going to combust. He bolted out of his room without thinking, feet slapping the hallway floorboards, hoodie flapping open. Jeff’s door was cracked, light spilling out in a thin yellow stripe, and Ben just shoved it wide and stepped inside. The room smelled like sweat, cheap body spray, and wet dog.

Jeff was mid-pull-up on the makeshift bar he’d bolted into the ceiling beams months ago, shirtless, lean muscle flexing under scarred skin, sweat gleaming down his back and ribs. His black hair stuck to his forehead in wet spikes. He didn’t stop when Ben entered, just kept going, slow and controlled, breath steady through his nose.

Smile was sprawled across the foot of the unmade bed, thick fur rising and falling with deep, oblivious sleep. One paw twitched like he was chasing something in his dreams.

Ben eased the door shut behind him. The latch clicked softly. His voice came out small and rushed. “Dude. You know you’re not allowed to have animals in the house. Tim’s gonna freak if he finds out.”

Jeff released the bar with a soft grunt, dropped lightly to the floor, and turned. Sweat slid down the center of his chest. He wiped his face with the discarded shirt hanging off the bar, then tossed it aside. “Tim can suck my fuckin' dick,” he said, mildly amused.

Smile woke at the sound, head lifting, ears perking. The second he saw Ben his tail started thumping against the mattress like a bass drum. Before Ben could react the dog launched off the bed in one fluid bound, paws hitting the floor, and barreled straight for him.

Ben yelped, high and panicked, stumbling back until his shoulders hit the door. “Hey–Smile–hey, buddy–easy–”

Smile planted both front paws on Ben’s thighs, nose shoving into his stomach, tail whipping so hard it blurred. Ben froze, half-terrified, hands hovering uselessly like he didn’t know whether to pet or push. Through gritted teeth, barely above a whisper: “Get this fuckin’ dog off me, man.”

Jeff laughed and dropped onto the edge of the bed. “Smile. C’mere.”

The husky obeyed instantly, trotting back, tongue lolling, and sat between Jeff’s knees like a soldier at attention. Jeff buried scarred fingers in the thick ruff, scratching hard behind the ears until Smile’s eyes half-closed in bliss.

Ben exhaled shakily, still pressed against the door like he might bolt.

Jeff tilted his head, smirking. “You look like you just snorted a line. What’s up, dude?”

Ben clapped his hands together. “Guess who I just talked to!”

Jeff pretended to think about it for a second, then smirked. “Hm… you finally paid a fortune to talk to your favorite cam girl again?”

Ben groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “Nah. Shut up. It was–” He dropped his hands, eyes wide and bright. “It was her. Y/N. I just talked to her. On the phone. Like, actually talked.”

Jeff’s smirk froze for half a second. Then it stretched wider, slow and amused. “No shit.”

Ben started pacing again, three steps one way, three steps back, like he couldn’t contain the energy. “Yeah. She texted me back. Finally. After months of fucking radio silence. And then she answered when I called. Dude. She laughed. She laughed at my stupid jokes. She told me about the bar she’s working at, some dive in the middle of nowhere. Said it’s quiet but nice. Said she’s lonely sometimes. She promised to keep in touch. She said she missed me.”

Jeff leaned back on his hands, legs spread wide, Smile leaning heavy against his thigh. He scratched the dog’s neck absently while he listened, pale eyes glinting. “Damn,” he drawled. “Little bartender finally crawled out of her hole. You think she’s still as sexy?”

Ben shot him a look. “Don’t be a dick. She’s doing good, okay? She sounded… normal. Like she’s actually breathing again.”

Jeff chuckled, then flopped fully onto his back across the bed, arms flung out. Smile immediately climbed half on top of him, head resting on Jeff’s stomach like a living weighted blanket. Jeff kept petting, fingers dragging lazy through the thick fur.

He tilted his head toward Ben. “She say anything about gettin’ properly dicked down out there in the woods? Eight months is a long time to go without. Bet that pussy’s starving.”

Ben groaned louder this time, stepping forward to smack Jeff on the shoulder, hard enough to make the bed bounce. “Jesus, dude. Can you not?”

Jeff laughed again, rolling onto his side so Smile had to readjust with an annoyed huff. “What? I’m askin’ a legitimate question. Girl spends that much time in a cabin with nothing but canned soup and her right hand. You think she’s not climbin’ the walls?”

“I mean, I guess.” A pause. “Anyway… she didn’t mention Tim,” Ben said quietly. “Not once. Neither did I.”

Jeff’s smirk softened just a fraction. He stared at the ceiling for a second, fingers still moving through Smile’s fur. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Probably smart.”

Ben sank onto the foot of the bed, careful not to crush the dog’s tail, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. “I hope he never sees her again,” he said. “I hope he stays the fuck away. She’s finally… I dunno. Starting to sound like herself.”

Jeff hummed, thoughtful. Then the smirk crept back. “If Tim ever does roll up on her again, he’s not gonna be gentle about it. And she’s probably so dick-starved she’ll let him do whatever he wants anyway. Maybe we should make a road trip. Me, you, Smile. Help the poor girl out.”

Ben pinched his leg, fighting back a grin. "You’re such a sleazeball.”

Jeff cackled, rolling away and dragging Smile with him. The dog grumbled but didn’t move far.

They sat in comfortable quiet for a minute, Smile’s tail thumping lazily against the mattress, Jeff scratching behind his ears, Ben staring at his phone like it might light up again any second.

Eventually Jeff yawned, long, jaw-cracking. “Alright, loverboy. Go jerk off to the memory of her voice or whatever you do when you’re giddy. I need beauty sleep.”

Ben snorted. Stood up. “Yeah. Night, asshole.”

Jeff lifted two fingers in lazy salute without looking.

Ben slipped out, closed the door softly behind him.

Back in his room he locked it, flopped onto his bed face-first, and let out a long, muffled groan into the pillow. Then he rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and grinned so wide it hurt.

He replayed every word of the call in his head, your soft “hello,” the way you’d fondly called him “dummy,” the tiny laugh. He thought about your voice, rough around the edges but still so fucking you, and felt something warm and stupid bloom in his chest.

He didn’t fall asleep for a long time. Kept picking up his phone, rereading the texts, smiling like an idiot at the new contact name.

You.

For the first time in a long, long time…you felt lighter. Not healed, not whole. But lighter.

You had your friend back. Ben.

Texts started the very next day. Silly ones at first - memes, selfies of him making faces in his gaming chair, complaints about Brian’s latest rant. You answered. Every time. Just quick replies, stupid emojis, the occasional photo of your outfit or the chalkboard pun you’d written at the bar that night.

You never mentioned Tim. He never brought him up. It was an unspoken agreement.

Things at the Rusty Nail kept getting better. The old bartender started trusting you with more shifts. The loggers started calling you by name. One night the three cribbage guys left you a twenty-dollar tip and a scrawled note on a napkin: Keep the puns coming, kid. You taped it behind the bar like a medal.

You bought more string lights, warm white ones for the bedroom this time. You started leaving out birdseed on the porch. A family of chickadees started showing up every morning, tiny black-capped heads bobbing at the feeder you’d hung from the eaves.

Soon enough, a whole year had passed.

One morning, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days since Tim’s taillights disappeared down that dirt track, you woke up, stretched under the quilt, and realized something quiet and startling: You felt free.

You could breathe without the weight on your chest. You could laugh at Ben’s dumb texts without guilt. You could touch the scar on your collarbone without flinching. You could look out the window at the pines and not feel hunted. You weren’t running anymore. You were just… living. And for the first time in forever, that felt like enough.

Tim.

The mission had gone sideways from the jump.

What was supposed to be a clean in-and-out, a quiet house on the edge of nowhere, one target, no witnesses, had turned into a slaughterhouse. The guy hadn’t been alone. Hadn’t even been asleep. He’d come at Tim with a kitchen knife and a scream that woke the whole goddamn neighborhood. Tim had put three rounds through his chest before the first one even hit the floor, but the noise brought the wife running. Then the neighbor with a shotgun. It stopped being clean. It became survival. Blood on the walls, blood on the stairs, blood on the rifle barrel still warm against his shoulder.

Now the town was empty.

Midnight had come and gone; the streets were dead except for the occasional porch light flickering like it was on its last breath. Tim walked slowly, boots scuffing cracked sidewalk, the hunting rifle slung across his back like an old friend. The same rifle he’d bought brand-new at a pawn shop just to convince you he really was a hunter, told you it was for deer season, watched your eyes light up when he talked about tracking through the woods like some romantic bullshit. The same one he’d fucked you with - cold metal pressed inside you while you came shaking in his arms. The same one he’d used to crack Toby’s face open the night everything went to shit.

He didn’t use the axe as much anymore. The rifle felt better in his hands now. Personal.

He wiped the drying blood off his knuckles onto the thigh of his jeans, dark streaks already blending into the dark denim, and flicked the spent cigarette to the ground. The ember sparked once against the pavement and died.

He couldn't stop thinking about the cabin - your cabin. It was close. Too close. Fifteen, maybe twenty miles north through backroads he'd driven blind drunk more times than he cared to count. He could be there in half an hour if he found a car worth stealing. Could park at the tree line, kill the engine, sit in the dark and watch the porch light flicker through the pines.

He’d had the urge to do that for a whole year. Just to see you. Just to be near you again. But tonight the pull was vicious. Bone-deep. Like something under his ribs had teeth and they were sinking in deeper with every step.

He needed a drink.

Needed to drown the static in his head, the loop of your voice saying Tim–please–don't leave me while his taillights shrank in the rearview and you screamed his name until the woods ate the sound.

A bar sign glowed ahead: Rusty Nail. Flickering neon. One letter burned out so it read Rusty Na l. Looked like every other shithole he'd ever drowned in.

Good enough.

He pushed through the door. Bell above the frame jangled once. Inside: dim. Warm. Three stools at the bar, all empty. And behind the bar–

You.

What the actual fuck.

You stood there, wiping down the scarred wood with a rag that had seen better decades. Denim shorts. Oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. Hair shorter now, choppy, jagged around your jaw like you'd cut it yourself with kitchen scissors in a fit of something. The string lights you'd probably hung yourself cast soft gold across your profile when you turned at the sound of the bell.

Your eyes met his. The rag slipped from your fingers. Landed on the bar with a soft wet slap.

Tim didn't move. The rifle felt suddenly obscene slung across his back, like a confession he hadn't meant to bring inside. Blood still tacky on his hands. Smoke and gunpowder clinging to his jacket. Exhaustion carved so deep into his face he looked ten years older than the last time you'd seen him.

You stared. He stared back.

You.

You stared at him and felt your whole world crumbling.

The bell’s jangle still hung in the air like an aftershock. Tim stood framed in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the space, rifle slung low across his back like it belonged there, dark streaks smeared across the denim of his jeans. The same jacket. The same flannel underneath, unbuttoned at the throat, collar stained rusty-brown. The same goddamn hunting rifle.

Déjà vu hit you like a truck. The first time you’d ever met him it was exactly like this: near closing, him stumbling through the door bloody and quiet, asking for a drink in that low, smoke-rough voice. You’d poured him a beer. You’d let him fuck you right there.

And now he was here.

A million things crashed through you at once: scream, cry, laugh, lunge across the bar and claw his eyes out, grab the rifle and blow a hole through his chest so wide he’d never walk away again.

Instead you just stared. Tim stared back.

His face, still handsome in that brutal, tired way, was carved with lines that hadn’t been there a year ago. Shadows under his eyes so dark they looked bruised. Jaw unshaven. Lips chapped. Hair longer, messier, falling into his face like he’d stopped caring enough to push it back. The exhaustion rolling off him wasn’t just from whatever hell he’d crawled out of tonight.

You spoke first, colder than you expected. “Get out.”

Tim’s throat worked. He didn’t move. “I just want a drink,” he said, hoarse, almost polite. Like this was still the version of him who pretended to be normal.

You felt something snap behind your ribs. “Get out,” you said again, louder this time, voice cracking on the second word.

He lifted one blood-streaked hand slowly, palm out. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Get the fuck out!” The shout tore out of you before you could stop it. You slammed both palms on the bar so hard the bottles rattled. “What are you doing here? Why are you back? Huh? You think you can just walk in like nothing happened? Get. The fuck. Out.”

Tim flinched visibly. His hand dropped. His eyes, dark, hungry, always so fucking hungry, flickered with something raw: confusion, anger, panic, grief, all at once. He looked like a man watching his own execution and still not understanding why the bullet was coming.

“I swear,” he rasped. “I didn’t know. I was close. Needed a drink. That’s it.” He sounded like he was telling the truth. You hated that most of all.

You kept staring at each other across the bar top, across a year of silence, across every broken promise and every night you’d cried yourself hollow.

Then he said it. “You look… beautiful.”

The words punched the air out of your lungs. You blinked, caught completely off guard.

Beautiful. After everything. After the blood, the fire, the goodbye in the dirt, he looked at you like you were still the most precious thing.

You didn’t let it show. Didn’t let your lip tremble. Didn’t let your eyes burn. You just stared at him, and said, “Leave.”

He didn’t. He took one careful step forward. “Just one beer,” he said, pleading in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Then I’ll go. I swear.”

You wanted to say no. Wanted to scream until the windows shattered. Instead - against every screaming instinct in your body - you exhaled through your nose, turned, and pulled a bottle of Bud from the cooler. The glass was ice-cold against your palm. You cracked the cap with a bottle opener, set it on the bar between you with a clink, and stepped back. “Drink it and get out.”

Tim crossed the room slowly, boots heavy, rifle swaying slightly with each step, until he reached the bar. He stood there, staring at the bottle like it might bite. Then he pulled out a stool. The legs scraped loud against the floor. He sat.

You stayed behind the bar, arms crossed tight over your chest, nails digging into your biceps hard enough to leave marks.

He wrapped one hand around the bottle. Didn’t drink yet, just looked at it. Then looked at you.

You couldn’t help it. You took him in too. The lines around his eyes were deeper than they used to be. His mouth was tighter. His shoulders, broad, strong, always so fucking strong, slumped just enough to notice. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept right in a year.

He lifted the bottle finally. Took one long, slow pull. Swallowed. Set it back down. The clink was too loud in the silence. 

You locked eyes, and for one endless, agonizing second, it felt like nothing had changed. Like you were still that girl who’d laughed when he flirted. Like he was still the man who’d promised to keep you safe.

Then you remembered the way his hand had tightened around your throat. The way his eyes had gone distant. The way his taillights had disappeared. And the illusion shattered. You looked away first. Picked up the rag. Started wiping the bar again in slow, mechanical circles over wood that was already clean.

Tim watched you. He took another sip, and said, quiet, barely audible–

“I’m sorry.”

You didn’t dare look up, just kept wiping. Because if you stopped, if you looked at him, if you let yourself feel anything at all, you weren’t sure you’d survive it. So you wiped, and he drank. And the silence between you stretched, painful and endless, alive with everything neither of you could say.

But you couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of your eye as he drank.

He didn’t gulp it down like he used to, no long, desperate pulls that emptied the bottle in three swallows. He took slow sips instead, like he was trying to make the beer last, like he knew the second it was gone he’d have to leave. Every time he lifted the bottle, the faint metallic scent of whatever nightmare he’d walked out of tonight drifted across the bar toward you.

You hated that you noticed. Hated that you still knew exactly how many swallows it took him to finish one.

The bottle was almost empty now, condensation sliding down the glass in slow, lazy trails. You knew he wouldn’t ask for another.

So when the last swallow went down and he set the empty bottle on the wood with a soft clink, you reached into the cooler without a word. Pulled out another Bud, cracked the cap and set it in front of him.

His eyes flicked up, surprised, grateful, something softer and more dangerous flickering behind the exhaustion. He nodded once, small and careful, and wrapped his hand around the new bottle.

The silence stretched again.

He took a sip. Swallowed. Then, voice low, rough from smoke and whatever else he’d been swallowing lately, he asked, “What are you doin’ here?”

You considered ignoring him. Considered turning your back, walking into the back room, locking the door until he left. Instead you answered, like the words didn’t cost you anything. “Got bored in the cabin. Needed something to do.”

He nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense. Like he understood the slow rot of isolation better than anyone. “Fair,” he murmured. Another sip. “You like it here?”

You looked around the Rusty Nail, the chipped bar top, the flickering neon, the empty stools. Then back at him. “Yeah,” you said. Almost a whisper. “I do.”

He held your gaze for a long second. Then looked down at the bottle. Took another drink. The silence came back heavier.

He rolled the bottle between his palms, thoughtful, then carefully asked, like he was stepping onto thin ice,

“You fucked anyone since me?”

The question landed like a slap. You stared at him. Blinked once.

Of course he’d asked that. Of course.

Annoyance flared hot and fast behind your ribs, sharp enough to cut through the ache. “Are you serious?” you asked.

He shrugged - one shoulder lifting, casual, like he was asking about the weather. “Just a question.”

You felt your jaw tighten. “So what if I have?”

His mouth curved, just a little. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one. “Sounds like you haven’t,” he said softly.

Then, darker, almost tender in the most fucked-up way–

“If you have… he won’t be alive much longer.”

The words hung there. Heavy, and possessive, and terrifying, and beautiful.

You felt butterflies erupt in your stomach, traitorous and unwanted. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. Once. Twice. You hated it. Hated him. Hated yourself for still feeling anything at all when he said shit like that.

“You should leave now.”

He didn’t argue. Just lifted the bottle again and drank the rest in three slow pulls.

He set the empty down and reached into his jacket pocket - pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. Twenties, tens, a few ones. Dropped them on the bar without counting. “Keep the change.”

He stood, and looked at you. A long, slow, aching look - like he was trying to burn every inch of you into his memory before the door closed behind him. His eyes lingered on your face. Your hair. The scar peeking above your sweater collar. The way your hands shook just slightly where they gripped the edge of the bar.

Then he nodded once and turned.

You watched him walk out. The bell jangled and the door swung shut. Silence rushed back in.

You stood there, frozen, chest heaving. Once. Twice. Then the sob ripped out of you, quiet at first, choked, then louder. You pressed both hands to your mouth, trying to trap the sound, but it kept coming anyway. Tears burned hot down your cheeks. Your knees buckled.

You caught yourself on the bar, fingers curling tight around the edge, head dropping forward until your forehead rested against the cool wood.

You’d seen Tim again. After a whole year. After everything. And he still looked at you like you were his. Still spoke to you like you were his. Still threatened murder over you like you were his. And you still felt it - the pull, the ache, the stupid, traitorous butterflies that should have died months ago.

You stayed like that, shaking, crying quietly into your palms, until the tears slowed. Until your breathing evened out. Until the bar felt empty again. And you whispered to the empty bar, to the night, to the ghost of him still lingering in the air–

“Fuck you, Tim.”

But even as you said it, your voice cracked. Because part of you, the stupid, broken, still-in-love part, didn’t mean it. Not even a little.

You managed to pull yourself together eventually. The tears slowed to a trickle, then dried on your cheeks in salty tracks. You wiped your face roughly with your sweater until the fabric felt damp and gritty. Your hands still shook, small, fine tremors you couldn’t quite stop, but you forced them to move anyway. You picked up the two empty bottles. Rinsed them in the sink behind the bar. Dropped them into the recycling bin with a soft clink that sounded too loud in the empty room. Counted the drawer even though you already knew the night’s take by heart. Locked the register. Turned off the neon sign. Flipped the “Closed” placard in the window.

Every motion mechanical. You couldn’t let yourself fall apart again.

You pulled your phone from your apron pocket with numb fingers. The screen lit up, 1:47 a.m. You opened your messages. Ben’s thread was already open from earlier that day, some stupid gif he’d sent. Your thumb hovered over the call button for three long seconds.

Then you pressed it.

He answered after the second ring.

“Hey!” His voice came through bright, warm, already halfway into a ramble. “Dude, you will not believe what just happened in chat–some guy tried to speedrun Mario 64 with a dance pad and–”

“I just saw Tim.”

Ben went silent instantly. The background noise cut off like someone had yanked the cord.

Then the panic started. “What the fuck,” he breathed. “What do you mean? Like–like saw him saw him? Where? When? Did he–did he do anything?”

You leaned your forehead against the cool metal of the walk-in cooler door and closed your eyes. “I was closing up,” you said. Voice steady even though your pulse hammered in your throat. “He walked in all bloody. Asked for a drink. I told him to get out. He didn’t. I gave him two beers anyway. He drank. He left.”

A long beat of silence. Then Ben’s voice, smaller, careful. “Did he… say anything?”

You swallowed. “Said I looked beautiful.”

Another silence, this one heavier. “Jesus,” Ben whispered.

You pushed off the cooler door. Started pacing the narrow space behind the bar with slow, measured steps. “Ben,” you said. “Did you tell him I was working here?”

Instant denial - sharp, almost offended. “No. Fuck no. I’d never snitch. Not even to save my own ass.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I figured.”

Ben exhaled. “Tim had a mission near that town,” he said quietly. “Brian mentioned it last week. Some cleanup job a couple hours south. He probably just… stumbled in. Wrong place, wrong time. Bad fucking luck.”

You felt bile rise in the back of your throat. 

Was this fate?

The thought hit you pathetically. You almost laughed at yourself. Almost slapped yourself for even thinking it.

Instead you just kept pacing. “Nothing really happened,” you said. “He drank. He left. That’s it.”

Ben was quiet for a long moment. “How do you feel about seeing him again?”

You stopped walking. Stared at the bar top, still damp from where you’d wiped it earlier. You thought about lying. About brushing it off with something casual, something easy. But the truth clawed its way up anyway. “I don’t know,” you whispered.

A beat. “Nothing’s gonna happen. This was just a one-time thing.”

Ben didn’t push. Just let the silence sit there patiently. After a while he asked, barely above a breath. “Do you… want to get back together with him?”

The question landed like a punch to the solar plexus. You felt your throat close. Felt your eyes burn again. You sighed, long and ragged. “I gotta go, Ben,” you said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

You hung up before he could answer. Before he could hear the way your voice cracked on the last word.

You locked up and drove home in silence.

The cabin was dark when you pulled up. You sat in the car for a long minute, engine ticking as it cooled, staring at the porch light you’d left on.

Then you went inside. Kicked off your boots. Stripped out of your clothes right there in the living room and left them in a heap on the floor like shed skin. Walked straight into the bathroom. Turned the shower on as hot as it would go. Stepped under the spray. Let the water scald your shoulders, your back, your face.

You stood there until your skin turned pink, then red. Until the heat made your head swim. Then you shut the water off. Toweled dry. Pulled on the big cream sweater and a pair of soft sleep shorts. Crawled under the quilt. Curled onto your side. Stared at the wall, desperate for sleep.

But every time you closed your eyes you saw him - dark eyes, tired lines, blood on his gloves, that quiet, broken “I’m sorry” he’d left on the bar like loose change.

You tried counting backward from one hundred. Tried focusing on your breathing - slow in, slow out. Tried picturing the ocean, the bar, Ben’s stupid memes, anything safe. But nothing worked. 

Tim kept rising behind your eyes like smoke you couldn’t wave away. The way he’d stood in the doorway, broad, blood-streaked, rifle slung low like it was part of him. The way his gaze had dragged over you, possessive and starving, like no time had passed at all. Like you were still his.

Your thighs pressed together involuntarily. Heat bloomed low in your belly, a traitorous thing.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling beams. Tried to will it away. It only got worse.

You remembered the infirmary cot, his big hands pinning your wrists above your head, hips rolling deep and slow while he kissed the cigarette scar on your collarbone like it was holy. You remembered the way he’d growled “mine” against your throat while he fucked you raw and desperate. You remembered the stretch of him inside you, thick and unrelenting, the way he’d made you cum so hard you’d seen stars behind your eyelids.

Your hand drifted down before you could stop it. It slid under the waistband of your sleep shorts and found slick heat already waiting.

You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and let two fingers slip inside. A soft, broken sound escaped you.

You pictured him above you, sweat-slick chest pressed to yours, breath hot against your ear, that low, wrecked voice murmuring “that’s it, baby, take it all.”

You curled your fingers, crooked them the way he used to, pressed against the spot that made your hips jerk off the mattress.

Your other hand slid up under the sweater, cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaked hard and aching. You imagined his mouth there instead, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, sucking until you were whimpering his name.

“Tim–” The whisper slipped out, shameful. You didn’t care.

You pumped your fingers faster, wet, obscene sounds filling the quiet cabin. Your thumb found your clit and circled slow at first, then harder, matching the rhythm of your hips grinding against your own hand.

You pictured him flipping you onto your stomach, big palm between your shoulder blades, holding you down while he sank in from behind, deep and punishing. Pictured his other hand wrapping around your throat, just enough to feel your pulse flutter under his thumb while he fucked you senseless. Pictured him growling “cum for me, sweetheart–let me feel it” right before you shattered.

Your back arched. Breath hitched. Thighs trembled. The orgasm hit like a freight train, sudden and blinding.

You cried out his name again as your walls clenched around your fingers, slick gushing over your hand, soaking the sheets beneath you. Waves rolled through you, long, shuddering, almost painful in their intensity.

When it finally ebbed you collapsed back against the mattress, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp, legs shaking.

Tears pricked your eyes again - not from sadness this time. From release. From the cruel, beautiful truth that even after everything, your body still remembered him. Still wanted him. Still came hardest when you pictured his hands, his voice, his cock splitting you open.

You pulled your fingers free, slick and trembling, and wiped them on the sheet. Rolled onto your side. Curled into yourself. Exhaustion crashed over you like a tide, finally. Your eyes fluttered closed and for the first time in a year, sleep came fast and dreamless.

No nightmares, or static, or taillights disappearing into the dark. Just the quiet afterglow of your own body finally giving you what it had denied for so long.

Toby. 

Toby couldn’t sleep.

He never really could, not all the way. His brain was restless most nights: twitching, sparking, looping the same three thoughts until they wore grooves into his skull. Tonight was worse. The house felt too quiet, too empty. Brian was gone, some long-haul recon job up north. Tim was still out. Jeff was probably passed out somewhere. The rest of the place just… slept. Or pretended to.

Toby lay on his back for what felt like hours, staring at the water-stained ceiling, shoulder jerking every few minutes like someone kept yanking an invisible string. Neck cracking sideways. Fingers drumming restless patterns against the sheet. Eventually he gave up and rolled out of bed.

He shuffled downstairs. Kitchen light hurt his eyes when he flicked it on. He squinted, opened the cabinet, pulled out the half-empty box of off-brand cinnamon cereal. Poured a mountain of it into a chipped ceramic bowl. Added milk. Spoon clinked against the side as he carried it to the living room.

He dropped onto the sagging couch and clicked the TV on low. Some late-night cartoon flickered to life - bright colors, dumb sound effects, characters screaming at each other in exaggerated voices. He didn’t care what it was. Just needed noise. Something to drown out the static in his head.

He ate slowly. Slurped milk off the spoon. Chewed mechanically. Stared at the screen without really seeing it. A tic snapped his head sideways, hard enough the cereal almost spilled. He muttered a soft curse under his breath, readjusted the bowl, kept eating.

The front door opened. Toby leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked over the backrest.

It was Tim, who looked like death warmed over. Jacket hanging open, flannel underneath dark with sweat and something worse. Hunting rifle slung low across his back like it weighed a thousand pounds. Face pale under the porch light that spilled in behind him, eyes sunken, mouth a tight line.

He stepped inside. Shut the door with his boot. Tossed the rifle onto the floor near the coat rack, metal clattering against wood, loud in the quiet house. Then he crossed to the armchair and dropped into it like his strings had been cut.

A low, gravelly “Hey” rumbled out of him.

Toby swallowed the mouthful of cereal. Slurped milk off the spoon again. “Hey,” he rasped back. “Mission go o-okay?”

Tim leaned back. Reclined the chair until the footrest popped up. Boots thudded onto it. He rubbed a gloved hand over his face. “Went bad,” he muttered. “Handled it.”

Toby nodded once. Took another bite. Chewed. Stared at the cartoon dog chasing its own tail in frantic circles.

Tim watched him for a minute. Toby’s shoulder jerked again. Spoon clinked against the bowl. Hair a mess, sticking up in every direction. Eyes tired but alert, flicking over the screen like the dumb cartoon was the most fascinating thing he’d seen all week.

Tim’s throat worked once. He thought about not saying it. Thought about letting the silence sit. Then he said it anyway. “I saw Y/n.”

Toby froze mid-chew. He furrowed his brows in confusion, then slowly turned his head to look at Tim. Spoon hovered near his mouth, milk dripping back into the bowl. “Where?” he asked.

Tim exhaled through his nose. Stared at the ceiling. “Bar. Little shithole called the Rusty Nail. Walked in for a drink, didn’t know she was there.”

Toby set the bowl on the coffee table and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. “You t-talk to her?”

Tim’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

Another beat. Toby’s neck cracked sideways in a sharp tic. He rubbed at it absently.

“You know she’s workin’ there?” Tim asked.

Toby shook his head quickly. “No. Didn’t k-know.” He paused. “Brian hasn’t e-even checked on her in like… over a muh-month. Stopped l-leaving packages too. Said s-she just lets ’em rot on the porch. Figured she d-didn’t want a-anything from us anymore.”

Tim nodded once, like the information settled somewhere heavy inside him.

Toby watched him, eyes searching Tim’s face. The exhaustion there. The way his hands flexed and unflexed like he still felt the rifle’s weight. “So…” he said quietly. “How’d it go?”

Tim stared at the cartoon flickering across the screen. Then he exhaled like the air had been trapped in his lungs for days. “It went like you imagined it’d go,” he muttered. “She wanted me to leave. Told me to get the fuck out more than once.”

Toby nodded once. He leaned back into the couch cushions, shoulder jerking once, neck cracking sideways in a quick, involuntary tic.

He thought about you. How pretty you’d always been - even when you were shaking, even when you were covered in blood. How you’d hugged him on the porch like he mattered - like he was safe, like he was good.

He was happy you’d made it. Happy you were working again. Doing something. Standing behind a bar like you belonged there. He’d always known you would. Known you were stronger than the house, stronger than the sickness, stronger than whatever poison Tim carried under his skin.

He stared at the cartoon, bright colors flickering across his face, the characters yelling nonsense he wasn’t really hearing. Then he hummed and asked, “You p-p-planning on doing suh-something?”

Tim sighed. The recliner creaked as he shifted. “I left for a reason, Tobes.”

Toby didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to bridge the gap between what Tim had done and what he clearly still felt.

Tim kept going, voice low, almost confessional. “I would’ve killed her sooner or later. I just know it.”

Toby thought about it. Tim wasn’t bragging, wasn’t deflecting, wasn’t hiding behind the mask or the rifle or the anger. He was saying it plain - like a fact he’d finally accepted. Like a wound he’d finally stopped pretending wasn’t bleeding.

And that did something to Toby. In a way, Tim had a point. Toby had always known Tim was bad, at least bad for a girl. He’d been the one to warn you, after all. Back when you still looked at Tim like he hung the moon. Toby had seen the way Tim’s hands got too tight sometimes. Seen the way his eyes went distant.

But hearing him say it like this, raw and, stripped-down, no excuses, it was different.

Tim was taking accountability. For maybe the first time in his life. And more importantly - he was putting your life above his own selfish needs. Above his want. Above the hunger that lived under his skin.

That was… special.

You were special.

Toby thought about it, then carefully asked, “You don’t think g-guys like us can ever be in a h-healthy relationship?”

Tim went still. Thought about it for a long moment, eyes on the cartoon, but not seeing it. Then he huffed, a small, bitter sound. “Buddy… I don’t even know what a healthy relationship is.”

Toby chuckled softly.

Tim kept going, voice quieter now. “I was really happy with her. While it lasted. Happier than I’ve ever been. But with men like us…” He shook his head once. “It can never really work out. You know that, Tobes.”

Toby nodded. But then he shifted. Turned his head just enough to look at Tim, eyes searching. “I don’t really buh-believe t-that,” he said quietly.

Tim raised a brow, surprised, almost amused.

Toby kept going awkwardly, stumbling over the words a little. “I think… if you have y-your heart in the rrrr-right place… a-anything’s possible.”

He looked away again, back to the TV, shoulder jerking once. “I wasn’t s-sure you had your heart in the rrrr-right p-place. Not with her. Not a-at first. But…” He swallowed. “I’m starting to see t-that you do.”

A beat. Then, gentler–

“She’s not a-alive because you left her. She’s alive buh-because you really do care a-about her.”

Tim stared at him.

For a second Toby thought he’d crossed a line - said too much, pushed too far. Then Tim leaned forward, reached over the armrest, and ruffled Toby’s messy hair.

Toby smiled. Tim’s mouth curved too, just a little. “You’re getting all sappy on me, Toby.”

Toby groaned, a little embarrassed, and swatted Tim’s hand away half-heartedly. “I was j-just trying to be helpful, a-a-a-asshole.”

Tim laughed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You were.”

He leaned back again. Reclined the chair farther. Closed his eyes.

Toby picked up the bowl again. Took another slow bite.

The cartoon kept playing. And for once, for just a little while, the silence between them didn’t feel heavy.

Tim.

Days bled into each other after that night on the couch.

Tim didn’t talk about it again, not to Toby, not to anyone. He kept the conversation locked behind his teeth. But it stayed with him. Every quiet moment - driving backroads at 3 a.m., cleaning the rifle in the shed, lying awake staring at the cracked ceiling - the words Toby had said looped through his head like a bad song he couldn’t shake.

“She’s alive because you really do care about her.”

He hated how much those words hurt. Hated how much truth was in them.

He drank less that week, not because he wanted to, but because the whiskey didn’t drown the ache anymore. It just made the memories sharper. Your face in the bar that night. The way your hand had trembled when you set the second beer down. The way you’d looked at him like you were still waiting for the man he used to pretend to be.

He caught himself staring at the map on the kitchen wall more than once, tracing the route from the house to that nowhere town with his thumb, memorizing every turn even though he already knew it by heart.

He told himself he wouldn’t go. Told himself it was better this way. Told himself you were safer without him breathing the same air.

But the pull never stopped. It just got louder.

One Tuesday evening, nothing special about the day, nothing special about the sky, he grabbed the keys to the truck without thinking too hard. Told himself he was just going for a drive. Told himself he’d turn around before he got too far.

He didn’t turn around.

The drive took three hours and change. Long enough for the sun to sink, long enough for the pines to thicken, long enough for the static in his head to settle into something quieter, heavier. He smoked half a pack of Marlboro Reds on the way.

When he pulled into the gravel lot behind the Rusty Nail the neon sign was already flickering - Rusty Na l glowing sickly yellow against the black sky. Same busted letter. Same everything.

He killed the engine. Sat there for a full minute with his hands still on the wheel, heart thudding too hard. Then he got out.

Boots crunched gravel. Jacket zipped against the night chill. No rifle this time, he’d left it in the truck bed under a tarp. No gloves. Just him - clean jeans, hair pushed back, face unshaven but not bloody. He looked almost normal.

Almost.

He pushed through the door and the bell jangled once. Inside: warm dim light, low hum of conversation, jukebox playing something old and twangy in the corner. A handful of regulars at the bar - two loggers nursing beers, the old cribbage guy with his newspaper, a trucker scrolling his phone.

And behind the bar–

You.

You looked beautiful. You were wearing a pretty dress - dark green, soft cotton, the kind that skimmed your thighs and made your legs look longer. White apron tied around your waist, strings knotted in a neat bow at the small of your back. Hair still choppy, but softer tonight - tucked behind one ear, a few strands falling loose against your cheek. String lights glowed behind you, casting warm gold across your collarbone, catching the faint scar he’d left there like a signature.

You were laughing at something one of the loggers said, the sound hitting Tim like a fist to the sternum.

Then you looked up and saw him. Froze. The laugh died on your lips.

Your eyes widened just a fraction before you schooled your expression. Polite. Professional. The bartender smile you gave everyone. But he saw it anyway, the flicker of shock, the quick inhale, the way your fingers tightened around the rag you were holding.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He gave you the smallest nod and walked past the bar to the back corner table. The one half-hidden in shadow, far enough from the others. He sat, elbows on the table, and watched you.

You turned back to the tap. Poured a beer without looking at him again, head down, movements careful. The loggers kept talking. You nodded along. Smiled when you were supposed to. But every few seconds your eyes flicked to the corner table. To him. He didn’t look away.

You finished pouring. Set the glass on a tray with a coaster. Wiped your hands on your apron. Then, slowly, like you were walking into a storm, you carried it over. The floorboards creaked under your sneakers.

You stopped in front of his table. Set the beer down in front of him with a soft clink.

He looked up at you. “Thanks,” he said.

You tried for a polite smile. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re welcome.”

He watched you walk back to the bar, hips swaying slightly under the dress, apron strings swinging, hair catching the light every time you moved. He took a slow pull from the beer. Set it down. Leaned back in the chair. And kept watching.

You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Every pour. Every wipe of the bar. Every forced laugh at the loggers’ jokes. Every time you bent to grab a bottle from the cooler. Every time you tucked your hair behind your ear. You felt it like a physical touch.

You kept sneaking glances at him. Couldn’t help it.

One by one the regulars trickled out. The cribbage guy first - tipped his hat, left a folded twenty under his glass. The trucker next - muttered something about hitting the road, dropped a five. The loggers stayed longest - laughing, arguing, finally stumbling out around midnight with promises to “see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

You locked the front door behind them. Flipped the neon sign to OFF. Tim was the only customer left. Still sitting there.

You wiped your hands on your apron one last time, and walked over, stopping a few feet from his table. You crossed your arms and looked at him.

He looked back. The silence stretched, thick and electric, full of everything neither of you had said last time.

Finally you spoke. “You gonna drink that all night or are you actually gonna say something?”

Tim’s mouth curved, just the smallest hint of a smile. He lifted the bottle in a small toast. Then set it down. And said–

“I missed you.”

You didn’t know how to reply. So you just stared at him, arms still crossed tight over your chest like they could hold your heart in place. Your pulse was a war drum in your throat, loud enough you were sure he could hear it. He stared back, dark eyes steady, unguarded for once.

Finally you exhaled, too loud in the empty bar. “Why did you think coming back here was a good idea?”

He lifted one shoulder in that slow, careless shrug that used to drive you insane. “Dunno. You look beautiful in that dress.”

Heat flooded your cheeks before you could stop it. You bit the inside of your lip, trying to keep your face neutral, trying to keep the butterflies in your stomach from rioting.

You uncrossed your arms, forcing yourself to look serious instead of sheepish. “Tim, please,” you said quietly. “For once in your life, be serious.”

You hesitated, only a second, then dragged the other stool around and sat across from him. Close enough that your knees almost brushed his under the table. Close enough that you could smell the road and smoke still clinging to his jacket.

He held your gaze. The half-smile faded. “Alright. I can do that.”

You folded your hands on the table. Knuckles white. “I’m only saying this once,” you started, voice low but steady. “It’s not a good idea for you to come back here. Not tonight. Not ever. I finally got out. I finally stopped waking up every morning waiting for the static and the sickness. I built something here. And every time you walk through that door, you drag the dark back in with you.”

Tim didn’t flinch. His throat worked once, like he was swallowing something sharp.

You kept going, because if you stopped you might not start again. “I’m not saying I hate you. I’m not even saying I want you gone forever. I’m saying… I’m finally breathing again. And I don’t know if I can survive going under a second time.”

Silence stretched between you, long enough that you could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

Then Tim spoke. “The past year has been torture.” He didn’t look down. Didn’t hide behind the beer bottle or the shadows. Just held your gaze.

“I tried to drown it. Alcohol. Work. Missions. Didn’t matter. Every time I closed my eyes I saw you screaming my name while I drove away. Every time I woke up I reached for you and you weren’t there. I told myself I was doing the right thing–keeping you safe, keeping the rot away from you. But it wasn’t noble. It was just being a coward. Because the second I let myself feel how much I needed you, I knew I’d never be able to walk away again.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was forcing the next words out. “I finally realized how much you mean to me. You’re the only thing that ever felt real. And I spent a whole year trying to pretend I could live without that. I can’t.”

Your chest ached, sharp and sweet at once. You could feel the stupid, traitorous hope trying to claw its way back up your throat. You hated how much you wanted to believe him. Hated how much his voice still unraveled you.

You looked down at your hands. Watched your own fingers tremble just slightly. “I’m happy you’re saying this,” you whispered. “But I’m also terrified. Because I escaped the darkness once. I clawed my way out. And if I let you back in, even just a little, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do it again.”

Tim nodded once, resigned. His shoulders dropped like he’d already accepted the rejection before you finished speaking.

He started to pull his hand back.

You caught it.

Your fingers closed around his, quick, almost desperate. His hand was warm, callused, familiar in a way that made your throat close. You held on. Didn’t let go.

“But… I’ve missed you too,” you said, so soft it barely carried. “Every stupid day. I missed you so much it felt like missing a limb.”

Tim went very still. You lifted your eyes to his.

Slowly, carefully, he turned his hand in yours until your palms met. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist, light enough to raise goosebumps. Then he lifted your hand. Pressed his lips to your knuckles and kissed them, soft and lingering.

You hesitated, only a heartbeat. Then you lifted your free hand. Cupped the side of his face. Your thumb brushed the rough stubble along his jaw, traced the faint scar there. His eyes fluttered closed for a second at the touch.

You couldn’t resist it, you leaned in. He met you halfway.

The kiss was slow at first, tentative, almost careful. Lips brushing. Breathing each other in. Then it deepened. His mouth opened under yours, tasting like beer and smoke and something achingly familiar. Your fingers slid into his hair. His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw.

It felt like everything. Like the year of silence collapsing in on itself. Like all the nights you’d cried yourself hollow and all the mornings you’d forced yourself to keep going crashing into this single, trembling moment.

The kiss turned hungry fast. Teeth grazing. Tongues sliding. Small, desperate sounds neither of you could hold back.

You both stood at the same time - chairs scraping back, forgotten.

He backed you against the table without breaking the kiss. Your hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. His palms slid to your hips, bunching the soft green cotton of your dress, thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin just above your waistband.

You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you just enough to set you on the edge of the table. Your legs parted on instinct; he stepped between them, hips slotting against yours, the hard line of him pressing right where you ached.

His mouth left yours, trailing hot, open kisses down your throat, teeth grazing the faint scar on your collarbone.

You tipped your head back and whimpered his name. He groaned against your skin like the sound of it undid him.

Your fingers tugged at his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours. And the kiss picked up again, filthy and desperate, like neither of you could get close enough.

After a few moments, the kiss broke only for a second - long enough for Tim to pull back, forehead pressed to yours, breaths ragged and hot against your mouth. “Tell me you want this,” he rasped, eyes dark and desperate, searching your face. “Tell me right now or I’ll stop. I swear I will.”

You nodded so fast it made your head spin. “Yes,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair. “God, yes–Tim, please–”

That was all he needed.

A low, broken sound tore out of his throat and he shoved his jeans and boxers down in one rough yank, just far enough for his cock to spring free, thick, already rock-hard and flushed dark at the tip, veins standing out along the shaft. The sight of it hit you like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed the sheer size of him, the way it curved just slightly, the heavy weight of it in your hand. Your mouth watered instantly.

You dropped to your knees before he could stop you.

“Fuck–sweetheart–” Tim groaned, one hand flying to the edge of the table for balance.

You leaned in and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right to the head, tasting the salty bead of precum already leaking there. “I missed this,” you whispered against his skin, voice trembling with need. “Missed your dick so fucking much, Tim. Missed how thick it is… how it stretches me…”

You dragged your tongue up the underside in one long, wet stripe, then took the head into your mouth, sucking gently at first, hollowing your cheeks, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip while your hand wrapped around the base and stroked what you couldn’t fit.

“Shit–baby–” Tim’s hips jerked forward involuntarily. “You’re gonna kill me. That mouth–fuck, I missed that pretty mouth sucking me off.”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs shake. You pulled off just long enough to duck lower, pressing soft kisses to his balls, licking, sucking one into your mouth while your hand kept pumping his shaft in slow, tight strokes.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled, fingers threading into your hair. “Look at you… on your knees for me again.”

You switched to the other ball, humming happily, then licked a wet stripe all the way back up and took him deep again, deeper this time, until the head nudged the back of your throat. You gagged softly but didn’t stop, eyes watering as you bobbed, spit dripping down your chin, the filthy wet sounds echoing in the empty bar.

Tim’s breathing was ragged, chest heaving. “Enough–fuck, enough or I’m gonna cum down your throat and I want to be inside you when I do.”

He dragged you up with strong hands under your arms. The second you were on your feet he shoved your dress up around your waist, and yanked your panties down in one brutal tug. They fell at your feet and you kicked them away. His fingers slid between your legs immediately, two thick digits parting your soaked folds.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groaned, voice dark with satisfaction. “Soaking wet for me already. This pussy missed me, huh?”

You whimpered, hips pushing back into his hand. “Mhm, yes–Tim, please, I need you–”

He didn’t make you beg twice. In one smooth motion he lifted you, hands under your ass, biceps flexing, and you wrapped your legs tight around his waist like muscle memory. The head of his cock nudged your entrance, hot and blunt and perfect. He guided himself in with one hand, the other arm locked around your back, and then–

He sank you down. Inch by thick inch until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt, stretching you so wide it burned in the best way.

“Oh my God–” you gasped, head falling back, nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket.

Tim’s forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “Fuck… fuck, baby. So tight. So fucking tight after a whole year.”

He started moving, slow, deep thrusts at first, using his strength to lift and drop you onto his cock again and again. Every time he bottomed out you felt it in your stomach, the blunt head kissing your cervix, the thick base grinding against your clit. You held onto him for dear life as he fucked you harder, hips snapping up, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the bar.

“Missed you on my dick,” he growled against your neck. “Missed hearing those little sounds you make when I’m balls-deep. Missed filling you up–”

You moaned loud, shameless, legs locked tighter around him. “Harder–Tim, please–fuck me hard–”

He snarled and gave you exactly what you asked for - pounding up into you, relentless. Your dress was bunched uselessly at your waist, apron strings dangling. You were soaking his cock, slick dripping down his balls with every plunge.

After long, brutal minutes he slowed just enough to carry you the two steps to the table. He laid you back on the scarred wood, still buried inside you, and hooked your legs over his elbows, spreading you wide. “Look at me,” he ordered, voice rough.

You did. Eyes locked as he started fucking you again, deep, grinding strokes that dragged his cock against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. One hand slid between you, thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, filthy circles.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he panted, hips snapping harder. “Let it out.”

The orgasm crashed through you, white-hot and blinding. Your back arched off the table, walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves, slick gushing around his cock. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes from the intensity.

Tim fucked you through it, slow, deep, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive, then his rhythm stuttered.

“Fuck–baby–I’m gonna–gonna cum–” He slammed in one last time, hips flush to yours, and came with a broken groan. Thick, hot pulses flooded you, rope after rope, so much it overflowed immediately, dripping down your ass and onto the table. He stayed buried deep, grinding slow while he trembled above you.

For a long minute neither of you moved. Just heavy breathing, foreheads pressed together, his cock still twitching inside you.

Tim kissed you, soft this time, then whispered against your lips, voice hoarse and raw. “Never letting you go again. Never. You’re mine. This pussy, this heart–everything. I missed you too fucking much to survive it a second time.”

You just held onto him tighter, legs still wrapped around his waist, heart hammering against his chest.

After a long stretch of stillness, bodies still joined, breaths slowing together, his forehead resting heavy against yours, Tim eased out with careful gentleness. He helped you sit up on the edge of the table, dress still rucked around your hips, thighs slick and trembling. He tugged your panties back into place with almost gentle hands, then pulled you against his chest again, arms wrapping around you like he could shield you from whatever came next.

You rested your cheek over his heartbeat, listening to it steady itself, strong and real beneath the worn jacket. His fingers carded slowly through your hair, thumb tracing the shell of your ear in lazy, soothing circles.

For the first time in a year the ache in your chest didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like breathing, shallow still, careful, but possible. You closed your eyes and let yourself lean into him fully, let the warmth of his body and the quiet promise in his touch settle something deep inside you.

Maybe it wouldn’t last. Maybe the darkness would come creeping back. But right now, in this stolen pocket of time with his arms around you and the taste of him still on your lips, you felt something fragile and bright flicker awake again. Hope. And for tonight, that was enough.

You.

The days that followed were quiet. Almost too quiet.

You went back to the Rusty Nail day after day, poured beers, wiped down the bar, smiled at the same loggers and the same old cribbage players. You fed the chickadees on the porch each morning, hung a new bird feeder you’d picked up at the store, started reading a new book. Life moved forward in small, ordinary increments.

Eventually, you texted Ben and told him Tim had shown up at the bar. Told him what happened after closing.

Ben’s response came in a frantic rush of messages that you could practically hear him typing at lightning speed. He freaked out - exactly the way you’d expected. Panicked questions about whether Tim had hurt you, whether he’d threatened you, whether he’d forced anything, whether you were safe. You had to talk him down over a twenty-minute phone call, voice steady even though your own hands were shaking.

You told him it meant nothing. That it was probably just a one-time thing. A moment of weakness. A relapse.

Ben listened, quiet after the initial explosion, but you could hear the doubt in his silence. You could hear him wanting to believe you and not quite managing it. You both knew it was a lie, thin as paper, but neither of you called it out loud.

After that, you asked him, almost casually, to keep an eye on Tim back at the house. Just to let you know if anything seemed… off. Ben agreed without hesitation.

Over the next few days he sent occasional updates, small observations dropped into otherwise normal conversations.

Apparently, Tim was… different. Not drinking himself stupid every night anymore. Not slamming doors or snarling at everyone who breathed too loud. He was quieter. More present. Actually ate meals with the others again. Even helped Toby patch a hole in the roof one afternoon without being asked twice.

Ben said he even caught Tim smiling once, at nothing in particular. The sight of it had unnerved Ben in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

You listened to every word and felt something fragile start to bloom behind your ribs. Hope. Small and dangerous.

Then, one gray morning exactly a week after that night, you stepped outside to refill the bird feeder and froze. On the top porch step, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a simple length of twine, sat a bouquet of roses. Deep red. Velvet-soft petals still dewed from the early chill.

You stared at them for a long time, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Then you knelt slowly and lifted them with careful fingers. You pressed them to your face and inhaled. And something inside you cracked wide open. 

For the first time in longer than you could remember, you felt whole. Like the jagged pieces of yourself you’d spent a year trying to glue back together had finally clicked into place. Like the universe, that had once been so cruel and indifferent, had looked down at the wreckage of your heart and decided, against all odds, to give you a second chance.

With the love of your life. With the man who’d once broken you so completely you weren’t sure you’d ever breathe right again. With Tim.

You carried the roses inside. Found an old mason jar under the sink and filled it with water. Arranged the stems carefully, spreading them out so every bloom could be seen. Set the jar on the windowsill above the kitchen sink where the morning light would hit them. Then you stood there, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the petals catch the sun.

You felt hopeful. Truly, stupidly, terrifyingly hopeful. That maybe it could all work out. That maybe broken things could mend. That maybe love - real, ugly, brutal love - could still be worth fighting for.

Tim.

Tim felt lighter. Like a weight he’d carried so long he’d forgotten what it was like to stand straight had finally shifted, eased, started to lift off his shoulders inch by slow inch.

He had you back. You were his again.

Not in the brutal, possessive way he used to claim, like a thing he could break and remake in his image, but in something quieter, something fragile and terrifyingly real. He knew it wasn’t perfect. Knew the road ahead was long and jagged, full of nights where you might wake up screaming his name in fear instead of want, full of days where the silence between you would feel heavier than any fight. He knew trust didn’t regrow overnight, that scars didn’t fade just because someone said “I’m sorry” and meant it.

But it was a start. A real one. And for the first time in longer than he cared to count, Tim felt something dangerously close to hope.

He’d just come back from a mission. The kind of job that used to leave him hollowed out and reaching for the bottle before he even peeled off his gloves. Tonight he felt… steady. Almost calm.

He sat at the kitchen table alone, the house unusually quiet around him. Brian was out again. Toby had disappeared upstairs hours ago. Jeff and Ben were probably gaming in Ben’s room. 

Tim finished the last bite of whatever cold leftovers he’d thrown together - didn’t even taste it, just ate because his body needed fuel - and pushed the plate away. He leaned back in the chair, rubbed a hand over his jaw, felt the rasp of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave.

He thought about driving to you. Right now. Middle of the night, no warning, just showing up on your porch with his hands in his pockets and that small, crooked smile you used to like. He pictured the way your face would change when you opened the door - surprise, wariness, maybe the tiniest flicker of warmth before you could hide it.

The thought made his chest ache in a good way.

But first - shower. Fresh clothes. He smelled like blood and sweat, and he needed to wash it off before he came anywhere near you. He stood, stretched until his spine popped, and headed upstairs.

His bedroom door creaked when he pushed it open. The lamp on the nightstand was already on, the way he always left it. Brian must have been here earlier; there were new documents laid out neatly on the quilt on the bed. Manila folder, crisp edges, the Operator’s seal stamped in the corner like always. New missions. New targets.

Tim sighed through his nose and dropped onto the edge of the mattress. Grabbed the stack lazily, flipped it open, started skimming.

Photos clipped to the top pages: grainy surveillance shots, names typed in stark black font, short descriptions underneath. Routine stuff. A nosy journalist who’d gotten too close. An old acquaintance who’d started talking. A civilian who’d seen something they shouldn’t have.

He flipped through them mechanically, eyes scanning, brain already half-checked out, already thinking about the hot water waiting for him, about the drive to your cabin, about how your hair smelled after a shower.

Then he turned to the last page. And froze.

Your face stared up at him.

It was an old picture of you sitting on the porch steps of your old house, knees drawn up, smiling at something off-camera, sunlight catching in your hair.

Underneath it, in the same cold, formal typeface as the others:

Target: Y/n Threat Assessment: High. Subject has caused significant internal division among proxies. Emotional attachment has compromised operational security and judgment of assigned proxy (Masky). Continued association risks exposure of the Operator’s network. Subject represents a distraction and potential liability. Priority: Immediate neutralization required to restore stability. Assigned Proxy: Masky (Tim Wright)

Tim read it again. And again. The words didn’t change. Your name stayed the same. The description stayed the same - too clean, too clinical, like you were just another loose end to tie off. Assigned proxy: him.

His blood went cold, slow at first, then all at once, like ice water poured straight into his veins. His fingers tightened around the edges of the paper until it crinkled. The room tilted. The lamp’s warm glow suddenly looked wrong, sickly and mocking.

He stared at your picture. At the way you were smiling in it. At the way someone had taken that moment from him and turned it into evidence against you. Against both of you.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. He felt sick. Felt rage. Felt something colder and sharper underneath it all: fear.

Tim put the documents away. Carefully. Too carefully. Like if he moved too fast the pages might cut him. He slid the folder shut, edges aligning with a soft rasp, then placed it back on the quilt exactly where Brian had left it. As if nothing had changed. As if the last page didn’t exist.

But it did. Your name burned behind his eyes like a brand.

He knew. He knew if he refused, if he even hesitated, someone else would be assigned. Brian wouldn’t blink. Toby would stutter through the guilt but do it anyway. Jeff would probably laugh while he did it.

Loyalty to the Operator came first. Always had. Always would. They were tools. Extensions. Not people. And Tim had forgotten, for one stupid, beautiful night, that he was still one of them.

He’d thought a year was long enough. Thought distance, time, silence had dulled the Operator’s interest in you. Thought showing up on your porch with roses and a quiet “I’m not leaving again” was safe now.

But clearly–

Clearly–

Returning to you had been the biggest mistake of his life. The realization hit like a blade between the ribs.

He muttered one word, barely audible. “No.” Then he buried his face in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp hard enough to hurt. Breath coming in short, ragged bursts through the gaps between his fingers.

The static started then. Low at first, like distant radio hiss. Then louder. Closer. Crawling inside his skull, pressing against the backs of his eyes, filling every empty space until there was no room left for thought.

He dropped. Knees hit the floorboards, jarring, pain flashing up his legs but he barely felt it. “Please,” he rasped. Voice breaking. “Not her. Please.”

The voice answered inside his skull.

Loyalty. You are no longer a person. You are a servant. You have no choice.

The words were carved directly into the folds of his brain like a hot iron. The static swelled, deafening now, white noise so loud it drowned out his own heartbeat, his own breathing, his own sobbing.

He curled forward, forehead pressing to the cold wood, shoulders shaking. “Please,” he whispered again. “Not her.”

The voice didn’t answer this time. It had already won.

Tim stayed like that, knees on the floor, face in his hands, body trembling, until the static became everything. Until it swallowed the room. Until it swallowed him. His vision grayed at the edges. Then black.

He collapsed sideways, boneless, cheek pressed to the rough floorboards, arms still curled around his head like he could shield himself from what was coming. He passed out like that, curled on the ground, completely crushed under the impossible, unbearable weight of what he had to do.

You.

It was a beautiful day.

The kind of afternoon that felt like a stolen gift, sun high and warm, sky a perfect, cloudless blue, the pines around the cabin whispering softly in a light breeze that carried the clean scent of thawing earth and new needles. Your day off stretched out lazy and golden in front of you.

You’d woken up slow, no alarm, just sunlight spilling across the quilt. Made pancakes - thick, fluffy ones with real maple syrup you’d splurged on at the tiny grocery in town. Ate them standing at the counter, licking syrup off your thumb while you scrolled through funny videos on your phone. Laughed out loud at a dumb cat compilation until your cheeks hurt.

Then you curled up in bed with the book you’d been meaning to finish for days - something soft and hopeful, full of second chances - and lost yourself in it for hours. Texted Ben in between chapters. Light, easy messages at first, then something deeper.

You told him you’d been thinking about finally meeting up again. He’d replied almost instantly.

holy shit yes pls ive been dyin to see u ill ask jeff for a ride he owes me anyway we can hang out like old times after a whole fuckin year

It sounded fantastic. You grinned at your phone like an idiot, heart doing a little flip at the thought of Ben showing up on your porch with a bag of snacks and that same excited energy he’d always had. You missed him. Missed the normalcy he brought, the way he made everything feel less heavy.

You were so excited you almost didn’t hear the crunch of gravel outside.

Almost.

But the sound of an engine cut through the quiet.

You set the book down on the nightstand and walked to the window. You saw the truck.

Tim stepped out. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept at all last night. Dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped under the weight of his jacket, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times. But when he looked up and saw you in the window, something in his face softened. Just a little.

You smiled anyway. Couldn’t help it.

You opened the door before he reached the porch steps.

He climbed them slowly, boots heavy on the wood, and when he got close enough you stepped forward without thinking and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He froze for half a heartbeat - surprised, maybe - then his arms came around you. Tight.

You buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, breathed in smoke and pine and him. “Hey,” you whispered against his jacket.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Thank you for the roses.”

His mouth curved, small and tired.

You took his hand, threaded your fingers through his, and led him inside.

The cabin smelled like maple syrup and coffee and the faint lemon of the pitcher you’d made yesterday. You pointed to the kitchen windowsill where the roses sat in the mason jar, deep red petals catching the afternoon sun, looking almost too vivid against the simple wood.

“Look,” you said softly. “They’re still perfect.”

Tim stopped in the doorway, eyes on the flowers. “I’m glad you like them, baby.” His throat worked once. “Pretty like you.”

You smiled shyly and gestured to the kitchen table. “Sit. I’ll get you something.”

He obeyed and dropped into one of the mismatched chairs like his body was too heavy to argue. You went to the fridge, pulled out the glass pitcher of lemonade you’d squeezed fresh yesterday, poured him a tall glass. Added ice. Set it in front of him.

Then you sat next to him, right beside him, knee brushing his under the table. You looked at him, the exhaustion carved deep around his eyes, the faint tremor in the hand that lifted the glass, the way he held it without taking a sip.

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. “How are you?”

He stared into the lemonade for a long second, like the answer was floating somewhere in the ice. “Been better.” A beat. “But I’m here.”

You squeezed his arm gently. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You are.”

He finally took a slow sip of the lemonade, ice clinking softly against the glass. You watched the way his throat worked, the faint bob of his Adam’s apple, the way his shoulders eased just a fraction as the cold hit his tongue.

You tilted your head a little. “Like it?”

He lowered the glass, looked at you, and nodded once. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s good, sweetheart.”

You smiled, pleased, and let the quiet settle for a moment. The sun streamed through the window, catching the roses in the mason jar, turning the red petals almost translucent. You traced the rim of your own untouched glass with your fingertip, gathering your courage.

Then you decided to just say it. “I’ve… been texting with Ben a little,” you admitted. “He wants to come see me again. Finally hang out.”

You braced yourself. Waited for the flare of jealousy, the tight jaw, the low growl of possession that used to rise so easily in him whenever Ben’s name came up.

It didn’t come. Tim just looked at you and nodded again. “That sounds like a good idea,” he said simply. Then quieter: “I know he’s missed you.”

You blinked, surprised. The breath you’d been holding slipped out in a soft exhale. You hadn’t expected… acceptance. Not so easily. “Thank you,” you whispered.

He gave a faint nod, almost absent, then looked down at the lemonade again. His thumb traced slow circles over the condensation on the glass. His expression had shifted. Distant. Like something was pressing down on him from the inside.

“Hey,” you said softly. “What’s wrong? I can see you’re thinking about something.”

He cleared his throat. “Job’s… taking a toll,” he said. “Got assigned something difficult.”

You went still. He’d never talked about his work like this. Not openly. Not to you.

You knew what he did - what they all did. You’d tasted the edge of that darkness yourself - the static, the violence, the way it twisted people until they weren’t people anymore. But hearing him say it so openly was new.

You swallowed. “Do you… have no choice?” you asked. “No say in what you have to do?”

He shook his head once. “No.”

You waited.

He looked up at you then. “If I don’t do it,” he muttered, “someone else will.”

The words hung there.

Loyalty. You could hear it in his voice - the weight of that word for them. The way it wasn’t just duty. It was chains. It was identity. 

You nodded slowly. Hummed in understanding. Then you said the only thing you could think to say. “Well… whatever it is,” you murmured, “I’m sure you have enough strength to do it.”

You had no idea what the job was. No idea how dark, how brutal, how impossible. You just knew he looked like he was drowning. And you wanted to throw him a rope. Even if it was only words.

He stared at you for a long second, something raw flickering behind his eyes. Then he nodded, grateful.

Abruptly he changed the subject. “You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks. You smiled and reached out, fingers brushing his cheek, the rough stubble, the warm skin. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Then you slid your hand down, found his, laced your fingers through his. “I can make you feel better,” you said softly. “If you want.”

His eyes darkened, just a fraction. He nodded. You stood. Tugged gently. He followed.

You led him into the bedroom, the afternoon sun painting long golden bars across the quilt. The door clicked shut behind you and for a moment you both just stood there, inches apart, breathing the same air. Tim looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

You stepped closer. He met you halfway.

Your mouths found each other, slow, searching, almost careful at first. No desperation like in the bar. Just lips brushing, parting, tasting. His hands settled on your waist, big and warm, thumbs stroking slow arcs over the cotton of your shirt. Yours slid up his chest, under his shirt, finding skin, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palms.

The kiss deepened gradually. Tongues met tentative, then bolder. He tilted his head, changed the angle, sucked gently on your bottom lip until you sighed into his mouth. One of his hands drifted up your back, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

You tugged at the hem of his jacket. He broke the kiss long enough to shrug it off. Then the T-shirt underneath. You dragged it up slowly, savoring the reveal of scarred skin, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband, the way his stomach flexed when your knuckles grazed him. He stood still while you looked. Let you trace the old scars with your fingertips.

Then his hands found the bottom of your shirt. He lifted it inch by inch, slow enough that cool air kissed your skin before his mouth did. He kissed the newly bared skin as he went: the dip of your collarbone, the faint scar he’d left there, the soft swell of your breast. When the shirt cleared your head he tossed it aside and cupped your face again, kissing you deeper, hungrier, while his thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts. You arched into him, needy sound caught in your throat.

He guided you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You sank down, and he followed - kneeling between your legs, never breaking the kiss.

His hands roamed, palms sliding over your ribs, thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts, then finally cupping them fully. He groaned low against your mouth when he felt how hard your nipples already were. Rolled them gently between thumb and forefinger until you whimpered, hips lifting off the bed in a helpless little jerk.

You reached down and fumbled with his belt. He helped, then shoved jeans and boxers down just enough. His cock sprang free, heavy.

You wrapped your hand around him and gave him a few slow strokes, feeling him pulse against your palm. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck–baby–”

You smiled and reached down to hook your thumbs into the waistband of your soft shorts and panties at the same time. You lifted your hips just enough to drag both down together in one smooth motion, shimmying them past your thighs and kicking them off the edge of the bed so they landed somewhere on the floorboards in a crumpled heap.

His eyes never left you as he lowered himself carefully onto his back. The mattress dipped under his weight, the quilt bunching softly beneath him, and he settled against the pillows, palms open, waiting.

You climbed over him - straddling his hips, knees sinking into the quilt on either side. “I’ll make you feel so good, Tim.”

You leaned down to kiss him again, tongues sliding, breaths mingling. His hands returned to your tits, cupping, kneading, thumbs circling your nipples in lazy spirals that made your thighs tremble.

You rocked against him, sliding your slick folds along the underside of his cock, coating him, teasing the head against your clit until you both moaned into each other’s mouths.

When you couldn’t wait anymore, you lifted your hips and guided him to your entrance. Sank down slowly, inch by torturous inch.

His head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, low groan rumbling from his chest.

You felt every ridge, every vein, the thick stretch of him filling you until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt. For a long moment you both just breathed.

Then you started to move. Slow rolls of your hips at first, grinding more than riding, feeling him press against every sensitive spot inside you. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh, helping you find a rhythm.

You leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, riding him deeper, harder, but still unhurried.

His eyes opened, locked on yours. Full of something raw and aching. He reached up and cupped your face, fingers squeezing your cheeks together as you moaned helplessly. 

He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Now you were chest to chest, your arms around his neck, his around your back, moving together in slow, deep rocks.

“You look so pretty like this,” he muttered against your mouth. “All mine…”

He kissed you, messy and open-mouthed, while you ground down on him, clit rubbing against his pelvis with every roll. 

The angle shifted, him hitting deeper, harder. You gasped against his lips and he swallowed the sound.

Then - without warning - he flipped you.

One smooth motion and your back hit the mattress, legs still wrapped around his waist. He settled between your thighs in deep missionary, hips flush to yours.

He moved in long drags out, almost all the way, then deep, rolling thrusts back in that made your eyes roll back and your breath hitch. His forearms bracketed your head. Eyes never left yours. You stared back, wide-eyed and trembling, lost in the intensity of it.

He kissed you softly, then deeper, tongues sliding, breaths shared. “I love you, you hear me?”

You could only nod and moan in response, too lost to form any coherent response.

One hand slipped between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles in time with his thrusts.

The pleasure built - slow, relentless, almost painful in its intensity. Your orgasm crept up on you, quiet at first, then shattering.

You arched, back bowing off the bed, walls fluttering hard around him, slick gushing, soaking the sheets beneath you.

He groaned and kept moving through it, drawing it out until you were whimpering, oversensitive, shaking.

Then he kept going, more intense. Eyes locked. Kissing you between thrusts - soft, desperate, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into your mouth.

Tears started slipping from the corners of your eyes. You didn’t know why. They just came, hot, silent, running down your temples into your hair.

Tim noticed immediately. His rhythm faltered, just for a second.

He leaned down - kissed the tears away - soft presses of his lips to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corners of your eyes. “Why you cryin', baby? Hm?” he whispered against your skin. “It’s all gonna be okay, I promise.”

Another kiss, right over the wet track on your cheek. “I love you,” he breathed. “So fucking much.”

The words cracked something open inside you. The dread you’d been ignoring, the cold, nameless thing that had been sitting in your chest since he walked through the door, surged for a moment, sharp and terrifying. But you shoved it down. Hard.

Focused on him - on the way he was looking at you. On the way he felt inside you, thick, and hot, and perfect. On the way his thumb kept rubbing slow circles over your clit until the coil snapped again.

You came a second time, harder this time, tears still slipping free. Walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves.

He groaned, hips stuttering once, twice, then buried himself as deep as he could and followed. Hot pulses filled you, spilling out around where you were stretched tight around him.

He collapsed over you, careful not to crush you, forehead pressed to yours, breaths ragged, shared. You stayed like that, tangled and trembling, kissing slow and lazy. Until the aftershocks faded and your heartbeats slowed.

Eventually he eased out and rolled to the side, pulling you against his chest.

You watched as he reached for the nightstand and fished out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. He lit one - slow drag, cherry glowing bright in the dim room. Exhaled toward the ceiling, a long, gray plume curling lazy in the sunlight.

You curled tighter against him, head on his shoulder, leg draped over his thigh. His heartbeat was steady and strong under your head.

He took another drag. Offered you the cigarette. You shook your head with a small smile. He kissed the top of your head instead.

And for that quiet, sunlit moment, the dread stayed buried. The tears dried. And all you felt was him.

After a while, the quiet between you felt full rather than empty. You shifted against his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the warmth of his skin still pressed to yours. The sunlight had shifted across the quilt, turning the room softer, lazier.

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Hey,” you murmured. “Want to step outside for a bit? Enjoy the afternoon sun?”

Tim’s eyes, still heavy-lidded from everything, met yours. A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

You both moved slowly, almost reluctantly, like neither of you wanted to break the spell of lying tangled together. He sat up first, running a hand through his messy hair. You slid off the bed, legs still a little shaky, and reached for the clothes you’d discarded earlier. He watched you as you pulled on the soft T-shirt and the shorts.

He tugged his jeans back up, buttoned them, shrugged his jacket on but left it unzipped. You padded across the floorboards and he followed close behind, hand brushing the small of your back like he needed the contact.

Outside, the air was crisp but kind, sun warm on your skin, breeze carrying the clean scent of pine and thawing earth. The porch steps creaked under your weight as you both settled onto the top one, side by side, thighs touching.

The truck sat in the dirt yard, sun glinting off the matte red paint. Beyond it, the trees stood tall and still, needles catching gold light. Somewhere a chickadee chattered. Otherwise, perfect quiet.

You leaned your head on his shoulder. He exhaled long and slow, like something tight inside him had finally loosened. “Wish I could stay like this forever,” he said.

You hummed in agreement. “Me too.”

The words felt dangerous in their simplicity.

You sat like that for a long minute, sun on your face, his arm slowly sliding around your waist, thumb tracing idle circles over your hip through the fabric. Peaceful. Almost painfully peaceful.

Then - movement at the tree line.

A deer stepped out. Slender legs, soft brown coat, wide dark eyes fixed directly on you. It moved slowly, gracefully, hooves silent on the pine needles. It paused halfway across the clearing, ears flicking, nostrils flaring, but it didn’t bolt.

It just… stared. Wide-eyed and unblinking.

For a moment you wondered, half-serious, if it was trying to tell you something.

You smiled despite yourself. “It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

Tim followed your gaze.

The deer took another careful step forward, then another, until it stood about fifteen feet from the porch, close enough you could see the fine whiskers around its muzzle, the gentle rise and fall of its sides.

You tilted your head against Tim’s shoulder. “Deer always reminded me of you,” you said quietly. “You remember that stupid hunter excuse you told me the first time we met? At the old bar?”

He huffed a small, rough laugh, almost fond. “Yeah,” he murmured. “One hell of a lie.”

You chuckled softly. “I really thought you were a hunter.”

Another quiet huff from him. He looked at the deer again.

You watched his profile, the way the sunlight caught the faint scar on his jaw, the tired lines around his eyes, the way his mouth softened just looking at the animal.

You asked, half-teasing, half-curious, “Do you think I should try approaching it?”

Tim considered it for a second. Then nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “You do that, sweetheart. I’ll just go grab something from the truck real quick.”

“Okay.”

He squeezed your waist once then stood.

You watched him walk down the steps, boots crunching soft on the dirt, broad shoulders moving easy under the jacket.

You turned your attention to the deer. It hadn’t moved. Still staring - those huge, liquid eyes locked on you like it knew something you didn’t.

You rose slowly, careful not to startle it, feet silent on the porch boards. Took one step down. Then another.

The deer’s ears flicked forward.

You held out your hand - palm up, fingers loose - smiling softly. “Hey,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

Another step. The deer stayed eerily still.

You kept talking, gentle and soothing. “You’re so pretty,” you murmured. “Never seen one come this close before.”

Another step. Fifteen feet became twelve. Then ten. The deer’s nostrils flared, scenting you, but it didn’t run.

You stopped, about eight feet away now, hand still outstretched. Smiling.

Heart beating a little faster, not from fear. From wonder. From the strange, quiet magic of the moment.

The deer tilted its head, just slightly.

And then everything went black.

Tim.

He watched you walk down the porch steps, shorts riding up just a little with each careful movement, hand outstretched like you were offering peace to something that had never known it. The deer stood frozen in the clearing, wide eyes locked on you, ears forward, body statue-still. Sunlight caught the fine hairs along its flank, turned them gold. You were smiling, small, gentle, the same smile you’d given him that first night at the old bar when he’d fed you the hunter lie and you’d believed it because you wanted to.

He felt it then.  The moment the switch flipped.

He turned away from you mechanically and opened the passenger door of the truck. Reached under the seat. Fingers closed around the familiar weight of the hunting rifle. He pulled it free. Slung the strap over his shoulder.

He reached into the glove compartment for his mask. The moment he slipped it on, the world narrowed. Sounds muffled, colors bled. Static rose - low at first, then roaring, filling every empty space in his skull until there was no room left for Tim.

Only Masky.

And Masky had a job to finish.

He stepped around the side of the truck, silent, boots barely disturbing the pine needles.

You were maybe ten feet from the deer now. Hand still out. Voice soft, murmuring something gentle he couldn’t quite hear over the static.

The deer hadn’t moved. It stared at you like it knew, like it understood.

Masky lifted the rifle. Stock to shoulder. Cheek welded to the comb. Sight picture perfect. Your back was to him - shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly as you spoke to the animal.

One clean shot to the back of the head, just above the nape. No suffering. No warning.

The crack split the afternoon open, sharp and final, echoing off the pines.

Your body jerked once, forward, like someone had shoved you, then folded. Knees buckled. Arms dropped. You hit the ground face-down in the pine needles with a soft thud, limbs loose, hair fanning out around your head like spilled ink.

The deer exploded into motion, white tail flashing, hooves churning dirt, gone in three frantic bounds back into the trees.

Silence rushed back in, thicker now, heavier.

Masky lowered the rifle.

Stared as the small dark pool began to spread beneath your head, slow, black in the bright sunlight.

Then something cracked. Something inside of him.

He walked forward slowly, boots crunching, rifle hanging loose at his side. Reached you. Dropped to his knees beside your body.

The mask felt suffocating suddenly, plastic and porcelain pressing against his skin like a second skull. He tore it off and threw it. It skidded across the dirt, came to rest against a root.

Tim stared down at you. At the hole in the back of your head. At the way your hand was still half-outstretched, like you’d been reaching for something gentle right up until the end.

He made a sound, something between a sob and a scream. Then he collapsed forward. Forehead pressed to your back. Shoulders shaking.

Tears came fast, silent at first, then wrenching sobs that tore out of him like something physical. He wrapped his arms around you - around your waist, around your shoulders - crushing your limp body to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Over and over. Into your hair, iInto your skin, into the quiet that would never answer back.

The sun kept shining. The pines kept whispering. The chickadees kept chattering somewhere distant. And Tim cried, holding the only thing he’d ever truly loved while the blood soaked slowly into the pine needles beneath them both.

Everything was black. And it would stay that way.

Toby.

Toby hadn’t seen Tim in three days.

At first Toby told himself it was just a long job. Tim had disappeared for days once before, came back with a thousand-yard stare that lasted a week. Missions happened. That was life here.

But then Brian started acting… odd.

It started small. Brian pacing the kitchen at odd hours, cigarette after cigarette, muttering under his breath about “that selfish motherfucker” and “stole my goddamn truck.” Brian never raised his voice. The flat, clipped way he said things made them land harder. When Jeff cracked a lazy joke about Tim probably finally getting laid somewhere, Brian didn’t even look at him - just snarled “fuck off, you filthy motherfucker” so low and cold that Jeff actually shut his mouth for once and left the room.

Even Jack got it. Poor Jack, who was usually the one person Brian treated like he was still worth something. Jack had been walking past the couch carrying a tray of clean surgical tools when Brian, without looking up, shoved him hard enough in the shoulder that the tray rattled and a scalpel clattered to the floor. Jack just froze, stared at Brian for a long second with those hollow black sockets, then bent silently to pick it up and kept walking like nothing happened.

Ben was worse.

Ben was twitchy. Constantly checking his phone under the table, in the hallway, even when he was supposed to be running diagnostics on the security cams. He’d stare at the screen like it might bite him, thumb hovering, then lock it again and shove it in his pocket. Toby caught him doing it four times in one afternoon. When Toby finally asked “Y-you okay, man?” Ben just gave him a tight, fake smile and said “Yeah, just waiting on a text,” and changed the subject so fast Toby’s neck cracked sideways from the whiplash of it.

Toby tried asking Brian once. They were in the garage, Brian hunched over the empty spot where his truck should’ve been, arms crossed, staring at the oil stain on the concrete.

“Brian,” Toby started. “W-where’s Tim? He–he took your truck and… didn’t come back. Is–is the mission that long?”

Brian didn’t turn around. “Drop it.”

Toby blinked. “But… what–”

“I said drop it, Toby.” The tone was final.

Toby dropped it.

Three nights later, 3:07 a.m. on the cracked digital clock on his nightstand, Toby’s bedroom door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.

Brian stood in the frame, already dressed: jacket, boots, Glock tucked in his waistband. Face blank except for the muscle jumping in his jaw. “Get up,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

Toby sat up fast. “Wh-what? It’s–it’s three in the guh-goddamn morning–”

“I know what time it is. Get dressed. Now.”

Toby’s shoulder jerked. “G-go where? You–you didn’t even say–”

Brian cut him off sharply. “Toby. Move.”

Something in Brian’s voice made Toby’s stomach drop. He didn’t argue again.

He scrambled out of bed, yanked on yesterday’s sweatpants, the same hoodie he’d slept in, shoved his feet into unlaced boots. Grabbed the hatchets leaning against the wall out of pure habit. Brian was already turning down the hall.

They walked through the woods for almost forty minutes. Toby’s breath fogged in front of him. His tics were worse when he didn’t get any sleep; neck snapping sideways every few steps, shoulder hitching hard enough it made it wince.

Finally they hit the edge of the county - two lanes of cracked blacktop, no streetlights, just the occasional porch light glowing half a mile away like a dying star.

Brian crouched behind a rusted mailbox, eyes scanning the empty road. “We’re borrowing a car,” he said flatly.

Toby blinked. “B-borrowing.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Brian… wh-where are we going?”

Brian didn’t answer. Just kept watching the road.

Headlights appeared first - faint, then brighter. An old Ford pickup, primer gray, rattling like it had emphysema. Brian stood. Stepped into the middle of the lane. Arms out like he was flagging down a neighbor.

The truck slowed. Stopped. Window rolled down. Older guy - fifties maybe, flannel, baseball cap, cigarette dangling. “You okay, son?”

Brian smiled, southern manners on full display. “Yeah, sorry to bother you this late. Our truck broke down about a mile back. Mind if I use your phone to call a tow?”

The driver hesitated. Looked at Brian. Looked at Toby standing a few feet behind him, hood up, hatchet handles peeking out from under the hem. Brian’s smile didn’t waver.

The driver sighed. “Sure. Hang on.” He leaned over to grab his phone from the cup holder.

Brian moved, fast. One hand on the door handle, other yanking the guy halfway out the open window by his collar. The cigarette fell. The man yelped, more surprised than scared at first. Brian drove an elbow into the side of his head, clean, precise, not enough to kill but enough to drop him limp across the seat.

Toby simply watched the scene unfold.

Brian dragged the unconscious man the rest of the way out, dumped him in the ditch like a sack of feed. Didn’t even check if he was breathing. Just climbed in, slid behind the wheel, and looked at Toby. “Get in.”

Toby got in.

The cab smelled like shit. Brian adjusted the seat back - way too far forward for his legs - muttered “Goddamn it” under his breath, then cranked the engine. It coughed, sputtered, caught.

They pulled onto the road. Brian drove with both hands tight on the wheel, jaw locked. After five minutes of silence he spoke, voice toneless, the way he got when he was furious and trying not to show it.

“This piece of shit handles like a shopping cart with three wheels. And why the fuck is the radio stuck on some gospel station? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Smells like someone died in here.”

Toby stared straight ahead. “Y-you really miss your truck, huh.”

Brian huffed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really fuckin’ do.”

They drove for another hour. Two-lane blacktop turned to narrower county roads, then dirt. Pines got thicker. Moonlight barely reached the ground. The Ford’s shocks groaned every time they hit a pothole. Brian kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift like he needed something to hold onto.

Toby finally asked. “Is… is Tim okay?”

Brian’s knuckles whitened. He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, quieter than Toby had ever heard him speak: “I don’t know.”

Toby kept asking. The words spilled out in bursts between the Ford’s rattling engine noise and the crunch of gravel under tires. “Wh-where are we going, Brian? Brian–c-come on, just tell me. What’s–what’s happening? Is–is Tim hurt? Did–did something go w-wrong on the job? Buh-Brian–”

Brian’s grip on the wheel tightened until the cracked vinyl creaked. He stared straight ahead, jaw working like he was chewing on glass.

Toby’s shoulder jerked hard enough to knock his hatchet against the door panel. “Pl-please. You’re–you’re scaring me, man. Just–just s-say it.”

Another mile of dark road passed. Brian exhaled through his nose. “We’re goin’ to the cabin,” he said finally, like the words tasted bad coming out.

Toby’s stomach flipped so violently he tasted bile. “Why?” His voice cracked on the word. “Wh-what’s at the cabin?”

Brian didn’t answer right away. The dashboard lights painted his face in sickly green. He flexed his fingers on the wheel once, twice. “Tim got a mission.”

Toby waited. Waited for the rest. Waited for Brian to say it was some random target, some journalist, some loose end. Anything.

Brian’s voice stayed even. Too even. “Target was Y/n.”

The world tilted. Toby felt it physically, like someone had yanked the seat out from under him. His vision tunneled. The dashboard lights smeared into streaks. His neck snapped sideways so hard it made a sound. A tic ripped through his shoulder, then another, fast and violent.

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out at first. Then a small, strangled sound, like air leaking from a punctured tire. “Wha–why?”

Brian kept his eyes on the road. “Boss deemed it necessary. Said she was a distraction. Caused too much internal ruckus. Compromised judgment. Threat to operational security.” He recited it like he was reading from the same cold manila folder Tim must have seen. “Standard language. You know how it goes.”

Toby’s hands were shaking so badly he had to shove them between his knees to stop them. “No,” he whispered. “No–no no no–”

Brian glanced at him sideways, then back to the blacktop. “Tim went back to her,” he continued. “Swore up and down he wouldn’t. Said he was done. Said he left her for a reason. But the fucker couldn’t stay away. Kept showing up. Kept driving my goddamn truck up there like it was his second home. Boss saw it. Saw the weakness.” A short, bitter huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Distraction, liability, whatever you wanna call it. You know the drill.”

Toby felt sick. Not metaphorically. Actual, rolling nausea - hot and sour, climbing up his throat. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, hard, trying to keep it down. His whole body was shaking now - tics firing off in waves, neck cracking, shoulder hitching, fingers twitching.

He remembered. He remembered the living room. The cartoon flickering on the TV. The bowl of soggy cereal forgotten on the coffee table. Tim slouched in the recliner, boots up, looking more tired than Toby had ever seen him.

Toby had said it. “I think… if you have your heart in the right place… anything’s possible.”

He’d looked Tim in the eye and said, “I’m starting to see that you do.” He’d told Tim - Tim, who was half-destroyed already - that he had his heart in the right place. And Tim had ruffled his hair. And smiled.

Toby made a noise. “Shit–I–I told him,” he rasped. The words came out wet and thick. “I–I told him to–to go back. I said–I said he c-cared. I said she was a-a-a-alive because he cared. I–I fuckin’ encouraged him–”

Brian didn’t interrupt.

Toby’s vision blurred - not tears. He didn’t have tears anymore. They’d dried up years ago, somewhere between the first time he’d woken up screaming and the hundredth. But the guilt was worse than tears. It was a physical thing - hot lead pouring into his chest, burning through ribs, settling heavy in his gut. “Fuck–,” he whispered. “I–It’s muh-my fault. I–”

“Toby.” Brian’s voice cut through, quiet but firm. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”

Toby’s breath hitched.

“You didn’t write the order,” Brian continued, same flat tone. “You didn’t put the file on his bed. You didn’t make the call. You were tryin’ to be kind, that’s all. You were tryin’ to be kind to a man who’s been drowning for years.”

Toby shook his head. “I–I shouldn’t h-have–I shouldn’t have s-said anythin’–”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve k-known!” The shout tore out of him. His voice cracked on the last word and he doubled over, forehead pressing to his knees, hands fisting in his hair.

He wanted to disappear. Wanted to throw himself out the window right now, let the asphalt tear him apart, let it hurt his body enough to drown out the screaming in his head.

Brian didn’t speak again. He just drove. The Ford rattled on through the dark. Toby stayed curled forward, breathing shallow, fast, tics jerking through him like electric shocks. And for the first time in years, he wished he could still cry.

They finally rolled up to the cabin just as the sky started bleeding gray into pink, around 6:30 a.m., the kind of cold, thin dawn light that makes everything look washed-out and unreal. The Ford’s engine coughed once, twice, then died with a rattle that sounded almost relieved. Brian killed the headlights. Silence rushed in immediately.

Neither of them moved at first. Brian sat there, hands still on the wheel, staring through the windshield at his truck parked crooked in the dirt yard like it had been abandoned mid-thought. The matte red paint looked dull in the half-light, taillights dark, driver’s door slightly ajar like someone had left in a hurry.

Toby’s neck cracked sideways. He swallowed. “You t-think Tim’s still h-here?”

Brian didn’t answer. Just opened his door and stepped out.

Toby followed, breath fogging white in the cold. The air smelled like damp earth and iron. Brian walked straight to his truck. He reached out, fingertips gently brushing the fender. He ran his palm along the dented side panel, then down to the door handle. Murmured something under his breath Toby couldn’t catch. It sounded like “Hey, girl” or maybe just “fuck.” Hard to tell.

Toby hung back a step. His eyes drifted past Brian, past the truck, to the ground.

There. A dark, irregular patch soaked into the dirt, black-brown, edges already flaking dry. Pine needles stuck to it in clumps. Next to it, half-buried in the needles, lay Tim’s mask along with the hunting rifle. Barrel pointed away, stock resting against a root like it had been dropped and forgotten. That goddamn rifle.

Toby’s stomach lurched. He looked up, past the blood spot, past the rifle, to the porch.

There was a bowl by the porch, shallow ceramic, half-full of old oats gone gray. The bird feeder hung from the eave, seed long since picked clean by chickadees that wouldn’t come back. The stack of cardboard boxes loomed against the rail, some sagging from rain, some still sealed tight with duct tape. A monument to refusal.

Toby sighed. His shoulder hitched once. “I’ll–I’ll check the p-perimeter,” he rasped. “You go inside, c-check if he’s there.”

Brian nodded once without looking at him. He reluctantly dropped his hand from the truck and went up the porch steps. He stepped past the untouched boxes, and pushed the door open. It creaked once. Swallowed him.

Toby watched him disappear inside. Then he turned. Walked around the side of the cabin slowly, boots dragging. Past the shed. Past the woodpile. Around to the back.

The grave was small. Shallow rectangle of turned earth, still raw and dark. Two thin twigs lashed together with a strip of twine to make a rough cross, shoved into the dirt at the head. A bouquet of red roses lay on the ground in front of it, petals browning at the edges, stems limp, almost dead.

Toby stared. He felt nothing at first, just a distant buzzing in his skull.

Then the words came– “I warned you, d-didn’t I?”

A beat. His neck snapped sideways in a sharp tic. “Told y-you to run.”

Another beat. He exhaled once. Then he turned. Walked back around the cabin, past the bowl, up the steps, past the untouched boxes, past the bird feeder.

He pushed the door open. The hinges gave a single, tired creak. Inside, the cabin smelled like spilled whiskey. Morning light slanted through the windows in pale, dusty bars, catching on the string lights still draped along the beams - unplugged now, dead gold coils.

He didn’t know what he expected. Tim gone. Tim dead. Anything but this.

Tim was there. He sat on the sagging couch like he’d collapsed into it and never planned to move again. Empty bottles - cheap whiskey, vodka, a couple of beer cans - were scattered around his feet, some tipped over, some upright like soldiers who’d lost the war. His jacket was half-off one shoulder. His hair hung in greasy strings across his forehead. His hands were buried in his face, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched so far forward it looked like his spine might snap.

Brian stood off to the side near the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tight over his chest, face blank except for the faint tic at the corner of his eye. He didn’t look at Toby when he entered, just kept staring at Tim like he was trying to solve a math problem that had no solution.

Toby stopped three steps inside the door. His neck jerked sideways once, hard, then again. He forced himself to look around. The cabin was… nice. Really nice. You’d made it a home.

The woven rug under the coffee table was soft-looking. The kettle sat on the counter next to two mismatched mugs - one with a tiny painted deer on the side. A small stack of paperbacks leaned against the lamp on the side table. The string lights. The bird feeder visible through the window.

It should have felt cozy. Instead it felt cold. Like the warmth had been sucked out the second you stopped breathing.

Brian finally moved. He exhaled sharply through his nose and took two careful steps forward. Dropped to one knee in front of Tim like he was approaching something that might bite. He rested one hand lightly on Tim’s knee, testing.

Tim didn’t react at first. Then something cracked.

A sound tore out of him - low at first, almost a growl, then rising into something raw and shredded and inhuman. It wasn’t a sob. It wasn’t crying. It was the noise an animal makes when it’s been gut-shot and knows it’s dying but can’t stop breathing yet.

Toby’s eyes slammed shut. He couldn’t look. Couldn’t listen.

He tried to picture something else - anything else - the cartoon dog on TV chasing its tail, the smell of cereal, the way Smile’s tail thumped against Jeff’s mattress. Anything but that sound coming out of Tim.

Brian froze. The cold, stoic, monotone Brian - the man who could watch a throat get slit without blinking - looked completely lost.

He lifted his hand again, hesitated, then placed it on the back of Tim’s head. Gentle. Awkward. Like he’d never touched another person this way in his life. “Tim,” he muttered. “C’mon. Stop.”

Tim didn’t stop. The sound kept coming, broken and endless.

Brian’s jaw worked once. Twice. Then he moved carefully and shifted onto the couch beside Tim. Hesitated another long second, like he was waiting for permission he’d never get. Then he lifted his arm, slow and stiff, and draped it around Tim’s shoulders.

Tim broke completely. He folded sideways like string cut at the joints, face pressing into Brian’s chest, arms coming up to clutch at Brian’s jacket like it was the only thing keeping him from falling through the floor. A grown man. A killer. Dangerous, full of rage. Reduced to this: shoulders heaving, fists knotted in fabric, weeping so hard it sounded like he was choking on it.

Brian looked like he wanted to bolt. Like he wanted to draw the Glock and shoot all three of them just to make the noise stop.

Instead he stayed. Arm locked around Tim’s shoulders, awkward at first, then tighter. His free hand came up and rested on the back of Tim’s head, fingers threading through greasy hair. He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t try to shush him. 

Toby opened his eyes again, reluctant.

Brian was staring straight ahead - over Tim’s head, through the window, at nothing. His face was blank again. But his hand stayed on Tim’s hair.

The sobs eventually slowed, like Tim’s body simply ran out of air to push through the grief. His shoulders still shook in violent, irregular hitches, but the sound had dropped to something quieter, wetter, more exhausted.

He lifted his head just enough to speak. “Why her?” The words were so small they barely carried. Almost childlike in how helpless they sounded coming from someone who’d spent years breaking other people.

Brian went rigid. His arm stayed locked around Tim’s shoulders, but the hand on the back of Tim’s head froze mid-stroke. His eyes flicked once, quick and helpless, toward Toby standing frozen near the door. A silent, desperate look that said: Do something. Anything. Fix this.

Toby didn’t move.

Tim’s voice kept going, fractured, like he was trying to talk himself into believing any of it. “I didn’t–I didn’t have a choice. It was–it was the order. Clear as day. If I didn’t… someone else would’ve. Brian, you know how it works. You know. He ain’t askin' twice. I tried. I tried to stay away. I left her here for a reason. I left because I knew–I knew what I was. But then I went back. I couldn’t stop. I kept going back. And she–she was just… she was just there. And I–I couldn’t–” His voice broke again. Fresh tears tracked down his face, cutting clean paths through the grime and stubble.

Brian still hadn’t spoken. Tim lifted his head higher, eyes red-rimmed, pupils blown wide with something between terror and desperation. He locked onto Brian’s face. “You’d do the same thing. Right?”

The question hung there, naked.

Brian finally moved. He lifted both hands and cupped Tim’s face. Rough palms pressed firm against Tim’s cheeks, thumbs bracketing the jawline in that hard grip that said look at me without words. He tilted Tim’s head up until their eyes were forced to meet. “Yeah,” Brian said. “I’d do the same thing.”

Tim’s breath hitched sharply.

“Loyalty comes first,” Brian continued, mechanical, reciting doctrine like scripture. “Always has. We don’t get to pick who lives and who dies. We serve. That’s it. That’s all there is. She got too close. She made cracks. Cracks get filled. One way or another.”

The words were cold. Textbook. They were also the worst thing Brian could have said. Because they were true.

Tim’s face crumpled again, not into sobs this time, but into something quieter and worse. Acceptance. The slow, sick slide of a man realizing the cage bars were never going to bend.

Brian held his gaze a second longer, then let go. Dropped his hands and looked away, like touching Tim’s face had burned him.

Toby couldn’t breathe right. He’d been standing frozen in the same spot the whole time, three feet away, close enough to smell the whiskey and sweat and grief rolling off Tim, far enough that he could pretend he wasn’t part of it.

He wasn’t sure he could pretend anymore. His shoulder jerked once, violent tic, then settled. He took one step forward. Then another. He stopped directly behind the couch, looking down at the two of them: Brian rigid, eyes fixed on the far wall like he could stare through it and escape; Tim hunched forward again, elbows on knees, hands dangling limp between them like broken things.

Toby lifted one shaking hand. Laid it on Tim’s shoulder, light. Barely there. Tim flinched anyway.

Toby swallowed, throat clicking dry. “I’m s-sorry, Tim,” he whispered, voice rasped almost to nothing. “I–I’m so sorry.” Toby’s hand stayed there another heartbeat, then fell away. He turned and walked away. He couldn’t be near them right now. The words loyalty and serve and no choice kept echoing in his skull like a bad recording stuck on loop. He needed out. Needed air. Needed anything that wasn’t this room full of broken men pretending they still had hearts.

His boots moved before his brain caught up, soft thuds on the rug, then the creak of floorboards as he crossed into the short hallway. The first door he came to was open. Bedroom. He stepped inside without thinking, pulled the door mostly shut behind him. Just enough to pretend there was a barrier between him and the living room. The room smelled like you. The string lights along the beams were unplugged now, but even dead they looked soft, like they were still waiting to glow again.

Toby stood in the middle of the floor for a long second, arms hanging loose at his sides. His neck jerked once then settled. He didn’t know what he was doing here. Didn’t know why his feet had carried him to this room instead of outside, instead of the truck, instead of anywhere else.

He moved anyway. Walked slow circles around the small space like he was cataloguing it. Touched the edge of the unmade bed - quilt half-pulled back, pillow still dented from two heads instead of one. The sheets were tangled on your side, smooth on Tim’s. Like you’d curled tight against him and he’d lain there stiff. Toby’s fingers brushed the fabric.

He opened the top drawer of the dresser. Socks. A few pairs of underwear folded neat. A sports bra. A faded T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He closed it again, then opened the next one. Flannel shirts. Soft corduroy pants. A cream cable-knit sweater that looked big enough to swallow someone whole. He lifted the sleeve for a second, pressed it to his face, inhaled. His throat clicked dry.

He moved to the nightstand. Small wooden thing, chipped at one corner. A half-read paperback sat on it, spine cracked, pages dog-eared. He didn’t touch it. He opened the drawer instead. Inside: a few hair ties, a cheap lighter, a tube of tinted lip balm, and... a slim leather journal. Plain cover, just a thin strap wrapped around it once.

Toby’s hand shook when he picked it up. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But he flipped it open anyway.

The first pages were jagged. Ink smeared in places like you’d written through tears.

That night. The bar. I killed that man. I swung and I felt the crack and I kept swinging until there was nothing left to swing at. Then the fire. Watched the whole place burn from the parking lot. Thought maybe I’d burn with it. Didn’t. Still here. Still breathing. Still hating every second of it.

Pages turned. Random things after that.

A fawn in the clearing.

Thought about killing it. Skinning it. Eating it. Proving something to myself about survival. Instead I put out oats and apple slices on the porch rail. Stupid, maybe. But it came back and ate.

Beside the entry: a small pencil sketch. Spindly legs. Big eyes. Ears forward. Careful lines. Like you’d spent time getting the ears just right.

More pages.

The fawn is dead. Found it behind the cabin this morning. Ripped open. Coyotes, probably. Dug a shallow grave. Buried it.

Another sketch, this one rougher, angrier. Small body torn apart. Ribcage split wide like a broken cage. Pencil lines heavy where you’d pressed too hard.

Toby’s name appeared often. You’d thought about him a lot. Wondered how he was doing. If his tics were worse when he was stressed. If he ever thought about that hug on the porch.

Ben appeared even more. Long entries about late-night phone calls. His stupid jokes. The way his voice cracked when he said he missed you. How texting him felt like breathing again after months underwater.

Brian showed up too, described as cold but steady. “I’m happy he’s so close to Tim. Someone has to keep him in check.”

Jeff’s name appeared too. “I wonder if he’s always such an asshole. I hope he’s a good friend to my best friend. Ben deserves the world. PS… Smile is a funny name for a dog that looks like it wants to eat your face.”

And even Jack. “Best doctor I’ve ever had, even if he barely speaks. I keep thinking about how he licked the wound on my hand once in the woods, cleaned it like an animal would. It felt… strangely good.”

The sketch of Jack was beautiful, delicate lines capturing the hollow black sockets, the unnaturally long tongue curled carefully around an imagined wound. You’d shaded the shadows so tenderly.

And then, everywhere–Tim. Tim’s name on almost every page.

“I still dream about him. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. Sometimes both at once.”

“I touched the scar today. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Just feels like proof he was real.”

“I hate him. I miss him. I love him. I don’t know how to stop.”

And then–the last entry. Full of light.

“I feel hopeful today. Like maybe it can all work out. Like maybe love, real love, can survive anything. Even this dread that never quite leaves. Even the darkness that follows him. Even me. I don’t know why it’s still here, this cold feeling in my chest, but I’m trying to ignore it. Because he came back. Because he stayed. Because he said he loves me. And for the first time in a long time… I believe him.”

Toby’s vision blurred. He closed the journal. Held it against his chest for a long second, like it might still be warm from your hands. Then he slipped it into the inside pocket of his hoodie.

Maybe he’d give it to Tim someday. Maybe. Or maybe Toby would keep it forever, like a confession he didn’t know how to make.

He stood and walked out, past the living room without looking at the couch, and out the front door. He stepped out onto the porch and stood there for a long time. And waited for whatever came next. Because nothing else felt possible anymore.

Ben.

Ben knew something was wrong the moment your texts stopped.

The last message from you had been bright, almost giddy.

yay i’m so serious about hanging out soon :) tell jeff he owes you that ride. i miss you already. come over whenever you can pull it off. cabin’s ready for chaos!!

He’d grinned at his phone like an idiot, thumbs flying

bet jeffs gonna bitch the whole way but ill make him cant wait dude miss u too like a lot

Sent. Delivered. Read. And then… nothing.

At first he brushed it off. You were probably busy - working a double at the Rusty Nail, maybe dealing with some small-town bullshit, or just crashed out after a long shift. He sent a few more messages over the next couple days but the thread stayed silent.

Then he noticed Tim was gone too. Tim hadn’t been in the house for days. No late-night whiskey bottle clinking against the coffee table, no low growl of his voice down the hall at 3 a.m., no heavy boots stomping across the porch. Brian’s truck was missing from the yard too, and Brian himself was on edge in a way Ben had only seen a handful of times.

Brian paced. Smoked. Stared at nothing. Snapped at Jeff for breathing too loud. When Ben casually asked “Hey man, where’s Tim?” Brian just gave him a flat look and said, “Out,” like that was supposed to end the conversation.

During the third night Ben woke up to the sound of boots in the hallway, quick, purposeful, and then silence. He cracked his door and caught a glimpse of Brian and Toby leaving the house.

They were gone for another two days.

When they finally came back, Brian’s truck rolled into the yard at dawn, engine coughing like it had been driven hard and without mercy. Brian stepped out first: face blank, eyes shadowed, jacket zipped to the throat like armor. Toby followed, hood up, shoulders hunched. Neither of them spoke. Tim stepped out last. He looked like something had been carved out of him. Hair greasy, eyes sunken, skin the color of old paper. 

They stepped inside the house with heavy steps. Tim didn’t even look at Ben who was standing in the doorway to the living room. Just walked straight through the front door, boots leaving muddy prints on the floorboards, and disappeared upstairs. His bedroom door closed with a soft click. Locked.

Ben looked at Brian. Brian looked back, expression flat. Ben’s voice came out small. “Hey guys… what happened?” Brian exhaled through his nose. “She’s not in the cabin anymore.”

That was it. No elaboration. No details. Just those six words, delivered in the same monotone Brian used when reporting mission outcomes.

Ben stared. Waited. When Brian didn’t fill the silence, Ben’s voice came out thin. “Brian.” Brian simply ignored him and walked past him like he wasn’t even there. Past the living room and up the stairs.

Toby, still standing near the front door, didn’t move at first. He looked at Ben for half a second, then quickly switched his attention to the floor, like Ben’s eye contact had burned him. Then he walked away too. Followed Brian upstairs. Door clicked shut again.

Ben stood alone as the silence stretched. And stretched. And stretched. No one came back to explain. No one muttered excuses. No one said “it was orders” or “she knew too much” or even “I’m sorry.” Just… nothing.

Ben wasn’t stupid. He knew the second the silence stretched too long. His best friend was dead.

And there was nothing he could do. Nothing. No frantic drive upstate. No last-minute text begging you to run. No heroic crash through the cabin door. Just the quiet, ugly realization that the world had kept turning without him, and he’d been too late - again.

So he did what he always did when the world caved in.

He smoked a lot. Lit joint after joint until the room was thick with it, eyes red and stinging, lungs burning like he could smoke the ache right out of his chest.

He gamed. Endless runs - mindless co-op shooters, speedruns he didn’t care about winning, volume cranked until the headset hurt his ears and the gunfire drowned out the quiet noises leaking from Tim’s room down the hall.

He worked on the computer. Ran pointless diagnostics, tweaked security cams he no longer monitored, reformatted drives just to have something to click.

Hung out with Jeff, mostly in silence. Jeff didn’t ask questions or push. Sometimes they watched movies until the sun came up. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all.

And at night, when the house finally went quiet, when even Tim’s muffled sounds had stopped, Ben cried himself to sleep. Face buried in his pillow, shoulders shaking. Quiet, choking sobs no one could hear. Because the only taste of normalcy he’d felt in years was gone.

You’d promised to keep texting. You’d said the cabin was ready for chaos. And he’d failed you. Hadn’t driven up there fast enough. Hadn’t been a good enough friend.

So he cried until exhaustion took him. And in the morning he’d wake up, eyes swollen, throat raw, and do it all again. Smoke. Screens. Silence. And the hole where you used to be.

It never really dulled. But he kept going anyway. Because you would’ve wanted him to. And that was the only thing he had left to hold onto.

Epilogue

A Letter to My Pretty Girl

Hi sweetheart,

Sorry about the handwriting. I’m shit at this. Never written a letter in my life. Feels stupid putting it down on paper like I’m some idiot in a movie, but I don’t know what else to do with it all anymore. Can’t say it out loud. Can’t say it to the others. So here it is. For you.

It’s been six months. Doesn’t get easier. Not even a little. I wake up every morning and the first thing I do is reach for the side of the bed that’s still empty. Then I remember. Every single time. Missions are the same as they always were, go out, do the job, come back, wash the blood off. Nothing changes. Brian doesn’t talk about it. Toby looks at me like he’s scared I’ll put a gun in my mouth any day now. Ben… I don’t even see Ben anymore. He stays in his room. I get it. I’d stay away from me too.

I visit you a lot. More than I probably should. Drive up to the cabin when the house gets too loud or too quiet, doesn’t matter which. Park the truck where I used to and just sit for a while. Sometimes I bring flowers. Sometimes I don’t (sorry.) Mostly I just lie down on the ground next to the cross and close my eyes. The dirt’s cold, but it’s the only place I can still feel you. I sleep there sometimes. Feels right, somehow. Like I should be uncomfortable. Like I should feel it.

I’m never gonna love anyone again. I know that for sure now. There’s no room left. You’re everywhere. In the smoke when I light a cigarette. In the quiet of the cabin when the wind moves through the trees. In the way my chest still tightens every time I see a stupid fucking deer on the side of the road. I feel you in my hands when I’m holding the rifle. I feel you in my throat when I try to sleep. You’re just… there. All the time. And it hurts like hell, but I don’t want it to stop. If it stops, then you’re really gone.

I hope you’ve forgiven me. I know I don’t deserve it. None of it. It was all my fault. Every single part. I should’ve never walked into that bar the first time. Should’ve never sat down at the counter and let you pour me a drink. Should’ve never looked at you and decided you were mine. I was poison from the start. I knew it. I just didn’t care enough to stay away. I took you to that house. I let the evil in. I watched it crawl inside you and I still kept you there because I was selfish. Because I wanted to feel something good for once. And look what it got us.

But here’s the fucked up part… I’m still glad I met you. Even after everything. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. The only good thing. You made me laugh when I didn’t think I could anymore. You looked at me like I wasn’t just a monster. You were light, my pretty baby. Real light. The kind that doesn’t go out no matter how dark it gets. The light of my life. I was too blind and too stupid and too far gone to see it until it was too late. I invited the darkness in and it won. It always wins with me.

I’m still here, though. Still breathing. Still pulling the trigger when He tells me to. Still waking up and driving up to sit with you. I don’t know if that makes me strong or just too much of a coward to follow you. Probably the second one.

Deer season’s coming again. Leaves are starting to turn. Every time I smell that cold air I remember the lie I told you that first night, said I was just a hunter, tracking deer through the woods like some regular guy. I think about it a lot now. How I tracked you instead. How I waited until you were close enough, until you trusted me, until you reached out with your hand like you were offering something gentle. And then I pulled the trigger. One clean shot. Just like I was taught. I still hear it when the wind moves through the pines up there. I still see the way you dropped.

I hope wherever you are now, you’re running free. No more hunters. No more darkness. Just you and whatever comes after this. I’ll keep coming back. I’ll keep sleeping on the ground next to you. I’ll keep carrying you with me until the day He finally puts me down too.

I love you. Always did.