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dex knelt on the bed, wrists bound behind his back, the black silk blindfold already damp against his lashes. his eyes leaked steadily, soaking the fabric until it clung to his face and turned translucent in spots. every shallow breath made his chest hitch.

you straddled his hips and dragged your slick pussy along the length of his cock without taking him inside. the head nudged your entrance, then slid away again, leaving him throbbing and leaking against your folds. dex whimpered, hips jerking up in search of more, but you pinned him with your weight and kept the slow, teasing grind going.

"please," he whispered, voice cracking. fresh tears welled and spilled, darkening the blindfold further. "i need—fuck, i need to be inside you."

you answered by sinking down just enough for the crown of his cock to part your lips, then lifting off again before he could thrust. his whole body shuddered. another tear slipped free and soaked into the silk. you repeated the motion, barely an inch, then nothing, until his cock was shiny with your wetness and his thighs trembled from the effort of staying still.

"look at you," you murmured, rolling your hips so your clit rubbed over the head on every pass. "crying already and i haven't even let you fuck me yet."

dex's mouth fell open on a broken moan. his blindfold was soaked through now, rivulets running down his cheeks. every time you denied him full entry he sobbed softly, the sound wet and desperate. you kept the rhythm merciless—shallow dips, long drags, never enough—until his cock twitched violently against your pussy and he begged in a hoarse, tear-choked voice for permission to come.

you denied him again, grinding down hard enough to feel every desperate pulse, then lifted away completely, leaving him empty and dripping while fresh tears soaked the blindfold once more.

dex's voice cracked completely as the words tumbled out in a broken rush. "baby, please—please, i've been so good, haven't i? i've been your good boy, i've stayed still, i've taken everything you gave me. i need to cum so fucking bad, it hurts, please let me cum inside you. baby, baby, please—"

his chest heaved with every sob, shoulders shaking under the strain of his bound wrists. tears poured freely now, slipping from beneath the soaked blindfold and streaking down his flushed cheeks in hot, wet trails. his cock jerked helplessly against your folds, leaking steadily, the head flushed dark and swollen from the endless teasing.

you leaned down without a word, your tongue dragging slowly up one tear-streaked cheek. the salt hit your taste buds as you licked the wetness clean, then moved to the other side, lapping at the fresh tears that kept falling. dex choked on a gasp, his whole body going rigid beneath you. the sound that tore from his throat was raw and broken, half-sob, half-moan.

his cock pulsed violently against your slick pussy. he came without warning, thick ropes of cum spurting across your folds and lower belly in heavy, desperate spurts. his hips bucked uncontrollably, wrists straining against the silk ties as he sobbed through the release, tears still streaming down his face while you licked them away. every pulse of his orgasm left him shaking harder, his voice reduced to ragged whimpers of your name mixed with broken thank-yous.

you stayed straddling his hips as the last tremors rolled through him, your slick folds still pressed against his softening cock. dex's chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, his body slack beneath you, wrists limp in their silk bindings. fresh tears continued to slip from under the damp blindfold, tracing new paths down his flushed face.

"such a good boy," you murmured, voice low and warm. your fingers brushed damp strands of hair from his forehead. "you've been so good for me, dex. my perfect, obedient boy."

a broken sound escaped his throat, half-whimper, half-sob. you leaned in closer, your breath ghosting over his ear.

"and such a pretty boy," you continued, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "those sad, wet cat eyes of yours... even blindfolded i can see how they look right now, all glassy and overflowing."

dex's lower lip trembled. more tears welled and spilled, soaking into the already drenched silk. his cock gave a weak twitch against you, sensitive and spent, as another shaky breath left him. you wiped a fresh tear from his cheek with your thumb, then brought it to your lips, tasting the salt.

The thing is, what he says rarely matches what he means. He's so used to proving his place in your life by being useful that being cared for is still a foreign concept to him.

He won't pull back when you rub the vapour balm on his back, or dab the cool cloth against his heated skin, or gently massage his pounding head.

What he will do is try to do push-ups to prove that he's "not sick," which never ends well. More often than not, you'll have to help him back to bed or maybe just to the couch because he's too heavy when he goes limp from exhaustion.

"I'm not a baby. I don't need you to feed me." He'll turn his head away like a pouting puppy as you bring the spoonful of hot soup to his mouth.

When you ignore the attitude and keep the spoon steady, he'll reluctantly take a bite, though not before sniffing and judging the color of the broth as if his nose isn't completely blocked and his eyes aren't glassy with fever.

He'll grumble through the first few bites. But once the soup starts working its magic, the complaints usually stop, and he'll just open his mouth for the next bite without being asked.

So much for not being a baby.

After he's finished, he'll stubbornly tug you down under the sheets with him. He'll lock his arms and legs around you like an octopus and bury his face deep into your chest.

"Thank you." He'll exhale slowly as you scratch his scalp, his breath hot against your skin. It's a quiet tell of the lingering fever, but he already feels so much better now that you're here.

Straightening up, you push off from the wood to block his view. The familiar scent of soap and rain clinging to his suit envelops you. “You’re home early. How’s-”

“Baby. Who was that?” Dex cuts you off mid-sentence, his voice low, bordering on threatening instead of affectionate. His gaze stays fixed on the creaking doors, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Did you invite someone over?”

“No,” you snort, though it sounds like you’re bluffing. “Don’t be silly, sweetie. C’mere. Let me help you get out of these.”

Your hands extend to his gear straps, but stop short when he pulls back, his head cocking to the side, eyes piercing into yours. “Don’t change the subject.”

He’s done with asking questions. And like a judge reading out the verdict, his voice drops to just above a whisper. “Tell me, who are you hiding?”

The rustling sound doesn’t stop, which only complicates the situation. You silently curse at yourself and the one on the other side of the doors. Before another excuse leaves your lips, Dex sidesteps around you and strides briskly towards the closet. His fingers brush the knife secured to the harness across his chest as his eyes sweep the room for anything else he could use to eliminate the threat. But let’s be honest, anything could be a weapon between those calloused fingers.

“Ooof!”

Time seems to freeze after he yanks the door open, realization slowly dawning over him.

The puppy swings his tail from left to right, tongue hanging out, floppy ears jiggling with the movements. He looks up at Dex with wide, bright eyes, like the man hung the moon.

You huff a small, awkward laugh. “Surprise!” The fluff ball chimes in with another joyful bark.

“This is who- what you’re hiding? Jesus- I thought-”

“Sorry, baby. I didn’t know how to tell you,” you explain, kneeling on the floor when the fluffy little thing waddles towards you, mud dragging along his path. “I found him on the street. It was raining hard, and there was no one around. He looked so sad, Dex. I couldn’t leave him there.”

As you scratch underneath his floppy ear, your voice shoots up three octaves. Baby talk activated. “Yeah, you like that, don’t cha? You like that, huh? Who’s my good boy? Yeah, you are. You’re my good boy.”

The sight of you beaming and the little dirt ball nuzzling into your hand drains all the fight out of Dex. He stares at the messy trail like a stubborn stain that refuses to fade after the third wash on his favorite shirt, the corner of his mouth twitches.

Then the whelp yaps again, pulling Dex back into reality. “No.”

“What do you mean no?” You scoop the cotton ball into your arms, muddy paws and all.

“It can’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“It was living on the street. You don’t know where it’s been.”

“Okay. Not anymore.” The little guy licks your cheek, agreeing with you. “Aww. Look at him, Dex.”

“I am looking at it.”

“And?”

“It appears to be a dog.” You blink at him. “And?”

“Dogs are loud, sweetheart. They shed. They smell weird.”

You gasp softly, offended on the pup’s behalf, then tilt your head to whisper in his ear. “He didn’t mean it like that, cutie pie. Don’t listen to him. Dex’s just being silly. He’s so silly, don’t he?”

Oblivious to the insults, the fuzzy ball gives another yip and licks your cheek again.

Dex can only sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose, contemplating how this ten-pound bundle of wet fur and oversized paws is somehow gonna fit into his your squeaky-clean apartment without him going insane.

And that’s how you end up in the bathroom at 11 pm, scrubbing brown smudges out of the sheets because someone let a stray baby roll around on the bed before Dex got home. According to your man, “that's your accomplice.”

shane 'i'm too old for you' maguire who doesn't actually care about the age gap.

when a pretty little thing like you approaches him at the bar, batting your eyelashes, laughing a little too hard at his shitty jokes, and your skirt so short he can almost make out the little white panties you're wearing, how could he bring himself to care about right and wrong?

it's the thrill he cares about. he likes turning down your obvious flirting and then hearing you whining about how you don't care, or that your not even that young, tugging at the sleeve on his bicep and pouting. he'd like to see those lips wrapped around his cock.

"m'old enough to be your daddy', sweetheart" he drawls, taking a long sip from his budweiser. that only spurs you on, and he knows it.

but he is a man after all, can't hold back for long when you're all over him, small hands wrapped around his arm and nails digging into his skin, taking sips of his beer, clearly not caring about the near two decade age difference and the judgmental stares of people around the two of you. he just can't help himself.

he decides the only right thing to do is to coax you into his old pickup truck. though, he doesn't have to say much in order to convince you to leave with him. eager little thing, he calls you.

you're chatting his ear off nearly the whole ride. like a little fly buzzing around him, and he can't get enough of it. "y'always talk this much?" he rasps, one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting heavy on your bare thigh, his thumb rubbing little circles.

you giggle at that, "no," you take his hand in yours, playing with his big fingers. "you're just special" you grin up at him, and he shakes his head, huffing a small laugh.

"yeah? m'special?" he snakes his hand up to cup your chin with his big, warm hand, taking his eyes away from the road for a second to glance at you. his thumb rests against the plush of your bottom lip. you nod slightly, your smile faltering a bit as you feel his thumb slipping into your mouth, the salty pad of his finger resting against your tongue. you welcome it eagerly, hollowing your cheeks and sucking on his digit.

"fuck, sweet girl..." he groans lowly, glancing between you and the dark road, not sure where to place his attention.

after sucking enough to leave the both of you needy, you abandon his fingers entirely and lean down to kiss his bulge, his cock straining painfully against his jeans. "shit, baby this ain't right..." he mutters, fully knowing he has no intentions of stopping you.

"you're too young, y'know that? but you don't mind, do ya?" he feels you shake your head, resting your cheek against his clothed dick and looking up at him with heart eyes. "yeah, knew it from the second you walked up t'me" he shakes his head, chuckling lowly and running his fingers through your hair, palm resting on the side of your head like you're something precious, something innocent he can corrupt.

"you gotta thing for old men, hm?" you smile at that, the look on your face being an answer enough. you move to unbuckle his jeans, fumbling with the cold metal of his belt.

the second you get his flushed, leaking cock free, you're quick to give his pretty pink tip a few kitten licks, looking up at him to gauge his reaction, thirsting for his sweet talking.

"fuuuck," his grip on the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles go white. his jaw nearly goes slack as you sick his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue. "there ya' go, such a good girl" he praises, making your cunt clench around nothing. you squeeze your thighs together, whimpering around his cock.

you slowly work him into your mouth, but shane's an impatient man. tears brim your eyes when he bucks into your mouth suddenly, burying himself to the hilt. you slap his thigh when he forces himself down your throat, his hand gripping your hair. he chuckles at your weak protests. he knows you don't really want him to let up, he knows you must like being used like this with the way you're squirming on the leather of the bench seat.

he feels his balls tighten up with each bob of your head, the tears falling down your cheeks and glistening in the moonlight don't help him hold back either. he's trying his best to focus on the road, but that all goes to shit the second you fondle his sack, his iron grip in your hair pulling your head back as he cums.

he lets a loud groan slip from his lips as he shoots hot, white, sticky release in globs all over your face, swerving the truck just enough to make you squeal. "shit- sorry sweet girl" he pants, looking down to see his cum on your face. yeah, he seems real sorry. his dick springs right back up at that sight, and he moves to pull over the car. who knew a pretty little bird like you would be so easy to get into his hands?

"this ain't right..." he tells himself agaim as he puts the truck in park and climbs over you. of course, he could never let a sweet thing like you go to waste.

© mayhemi | all rights reserved.

"You never—" he gasps, voice cracking, "—never made those sounds with me” The words spill out between ragged breaths, raw with something that isn’t quite anger but aches just as deep, “Not once. Not like you did with him “ he spat.

His words were swept away, lost somewhere between the ringing in your ears and the white-hot haze still clouding your head. You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted, trying to catch up to whatever he just said.

“Huh?"

Dex's face is wrecked above you — flushed, lashes wet, that same broken sob still caught in his throat.

"Your window," he pants, tongue dragging wet over your pulse point before his teeth sink in again, sucking another bruise into your skin, “ South side. The blinds were— fuck— always crooked “ His hips jerk forward again, slower now but no less insistent, grinding into you with a groan as he feels how tight you still are around him, “ Every Tuesday. Thursday nights too”

The realization creeps over you slow, sick, like cold water seeping into your bones. You go rigid beneath him, fingers twisting tighter in his sweat-damp hair, “ Dex—"

He whines, high and desperate, rutting against you like an animal, his cock twitching inside you, still sensitive, "Saw everything," he confesses, breath hot against your jaw, “ Every time— Every fucking time” His voice cracks open on the last word, ragged, raw, “ The way you— the noises—" He shudders, eyes squeezing shut, and you feel the fresh spill of tears against your cheek, “ Never with me. Never once”

You're pulling at his hair now, nails scraping his scalp, and he just moans, loud and broken, hips stuttering against yours. His lips are slick and messy against your skin, spit-wet kisses that trail down your throat, his teeth catching on your collarbone, “ Stop— Dex—" you gasp, but your voice comes out weak, trembling, because your body's still clenching around him, still squeezing him tight, betraying you.

"You squirted for him," he mumbles into your shoulder, delirious, hips jerking shallowly, “ Twice. I saw—" His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider, and you sob, oversensitive, shaking as another wave crashes over you, “ Wanted to— fuck— wanted to make you—" He breaks off with a groan, burying his face in your neck, shuddering as he spills inside you again, hips twitching weakly.

The squelching 'pop' of him pulling out echoes obscenely in the quiet room, followed immediately by the warm spill of his cum trickling between your thighs. Dex doesn't give you a second to breathe—his hands are already dragging your hips up, his mouth latching onto you with a desperate, messy hunger.

His tongue swipes broad and flat through the mess he left behind, tasting himself mixed with your slick, and the broken sound he makes vibrates against your oversensitive cunt, “ m'gonna— fuck— m'gonna make you," he slurs between wet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, his grip bruising-tight as he spreads you wider.

"Nonono— Dex, stop—" Your legs jerk uselessly against his shoulders, heels skidding against sweat-slick skin, but he pins you down with the full weight of his body, tongue working relentless circles where you're oversensitive and trembling.

The vibrations of his groan against your clit send another jolt of pleasure-pain up your spine, your thighs clamping around his head instinctively even as you try to squirm away.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbles into you, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass dragging you closer. "Gonna make you— fuck— gonna make you cum right—" His words dissolve into a wet, obscene noise as his tongue dips inside you, fluttering shallow and fast, and your back arches off the bed with a punched-out whimper.

You claw at the sheets, toes curling, breath coming in ragged gasps—but Dex just growls against you, the sound dark and possessive, and doubles down. His lips seal around your clit, sucking hard enough to make you yelp, and suddenly his fingers are there too, pressing in deep, curling just righttt— "Dex, please—" you sob, but it's too late, your body betraying you again as heat coils tight in your belly, your hips jerking against his mouth uncontrollably.

The orgasm hits you like a delayed aftershock—sharp and sudden, tearing through you with enough force to leave your vision momentarily white. Your thighs clamp around Dex's head instinctively, heels digging into the small of his back as you arch off the bed with a choked cry, but it's not the same.

Not the gush of wetness he'd confessed to watching through your crooked blinds, not the mess he'd fantasized about for weeks. Just a shuddering, ordinary climax that leaves you twitching beneath him, breathless and spent.

Dex pulls back immediately, lips swollen and wet, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His eyes dart between your face and the space between your legs like he's waiting for something—some proof, some sign—but when nothing comes, his expression cracks, “ Why?" he rasps, voice raw, hands tightening on your thighs hard enough to leave marks. His cock twitches weakly against his thigh, still painfully soft, the flush on his skin deepening with frustration, “ Why not with me?"

The question hangs between you, jagged-edged and desperate. You reach for him, fingers brushing his sweat-damped cheek, but he jerks back like you've burned him. "Dex, it's—"

"Don't “His laugh is brittle, fingers dragging through his own hair as he sits back on his heels, his cock bobbing against his stomach, red and leaking, “ Don't fucking say it's fine. It's not “ His throat bobs as he swallows hard, eyes darting away from yours, “ I saw you. I know what I saw. So why—"

His voice cracks, fingers digging into his own scalp now like he's trying to physically pull the thoughts out, “ Is it me? Am I not— fuck— not good enough? Not rough enough? What is it? “

You push yourself up on shaky elbows, still catching your breath, “ Dex— baby please”

" Do you still love him?," he interrupts, voice breaking, and suddenly you understand the wet shine in his eyes isn't just sweat, “ You let him. You— fuck” His hand fists around his own cock now, stroking roughly, his hips jerking into the tight circle of his fingers, “ But not me. Never me “His breath hitches, his strokes turning punishing, “ What's wrong with me?"

Your stomach twists, “ Nothing's wrong with you “You reach for him again, but he flinches away, his jaw clenching, “ Dex—"

"Then what?" His grip on himself tightens, precum smearing over his knuckles. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to— fuck—" He cuts off with a groan, his free hand dragging down his face, smearing tears and spit, “ I watched you. Every time. The way he touched you, the way you—" His breath stutters. "I did exactly what he did. Exactly! “ he cried out

"So why—" His voice drops to a whisper, raw and shattered, “Why aren't you giving me what I want?" he whines

Dex doesn't let you mutter another word out. His hands clamp around your wrists, pinning them to the mattress with a force that makes your breath catch. His weight presses you deeper into the sheets, the heat of his body scorching where it touches yours. You can feel the tremor in his grip—the sheer restrain he was holding from lashing out at you.

"You don't get to lie," he grits out, voice ragged. His thumbs dig into the delicate bones of your wrists, not quite painful but close enough, “Not when I saw it. Not when I fucking counted” His breath hitches, wet against your cheek, “Twice, you did it twice— for him!” he cried out.

His hips jerk against yours, his cock dragging through the mess between your thighs with a filthy, wet sound.

You lift your hands gently to frame his face, thumbs brushing away the wet trails on his cheeks as you press soft, feather-light kisses to his trembling lips, “Shhh, baby," you murmur, the words warm against his skin, your voice honey-sweet, "It's okay, I'm right here. I love you so much, Dex—look at me, sweetheart” His breath hitched when your fingers slide into his hair, scratching soothingly at his scalp the way he likes, and you lean in to nuzzle his nose with yours, grinning when his lashes flutter.

Your thumbs trace slow circles along his damp cheekbones, to the scars on his skin, pressing delicate kisses to each eyelid, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his quivering mouth.

"Love you," you whisper against his skin, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your fingers card through his tangled hair, "Love you so much it hurts, Dex. My sweet boy” His breath shudders when you nip playfully at his jaw, grinning against the stubble as he instinctively tilts his head to give you better access, “ That's it, baby. Just breathe with me, yeah?"

His fingers twitched as they slide towards your palms intertwining your fingers together. You squeeze gently, bringing his knuckles to your lip, kissing each one while his chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, “Think we've had enough for today, hm?" you murmur, stretching up to peck the furrow between his brows, smiling when it smooths under your mouth, "Got all tomorrow to—"

"No. No, no, no—" the words tumble rapidly out of his mouth, desperation cracking through every syllable.

His hands tremble where they're clutched around yours, gripping tighter instead of letting go, like he needs the anchor of your fingers laced through his to keep himself from spiraling.

"You don't—you don't get it," he chokes out, shaking his head violently, strands of sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. His pupils are blown wide, dark with something frantic and wounded, “I can—fuck, I can do better. Just—just let me—" His hips jerk forward involuntarily, still achingly soft despite his wants, body too spent to follow where his desperation wants to take it.

His words dissolve into a wet, desperate whine as he presses his forehead against yours, trembling fingers scrabbling at your hips like he’s trying to carve himself into your skin. "Let me—" His voice cracks, raw and broken, "Let me be enough, just this once—"

You barely have time to inhale before he’s pushing into you again, his cock still half-hard and oversensitive, the swollen head dragging against your walls with a shuddering gasp.

His whole body shakes with the effort, muscles twitching under sweat-slick skin as he forces himself deeper, teeth gritted against the overwhelming sensation. His fingers dig into the bruises already purpling your hips, blunt nails leaving crescent moons in their wake.

"Dex—no” you start, but he cuts you off with a ragged groan, his hips jerking forward in shallow, uneven thrusts. His breath hitches wetly against your neck, his lips brushing your pulse point in something that might’ve been a kiss if it weren’t for the way his teeth catch on your skin moments later.

"Please," he whimpers, the word muffled against your collarbone, his voice so small it barely reached your ears. His cock twitched inside you, still soft enough that every movement draws a broken noise from his throat, his body trembling with the strain of chasing a pleasure that’s just out of reach. "Please, please, pleaseee—"

His plea dissolves into a wet gasp as his hips stutter forward, the swollen head of his cock dragging against your oversensitive walls.

The sound is obscene—wet, squelching—as his cock drags in and out of you, still half-hard but relentless in its pursuit. Each thrust is uneven, desperate, his hips jerking forward with a broken rhythm that makes his breath hitch.

His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you closer, as if he could fuse himself to you if he just pressed hard enough. "Fuck, fuck—" he whines, voice cracking, forehead pressed to your collarbone as his cock twitches inside you, still oversensitive but refusing to stop. His hands scramble upward, palms rough as they grope your tits, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.

"Feel—feel so good," he slurs against your skin, tongue laving over the sweat-slick curve of your breast before his teeth sink in, sucking a bruise into the soft flesh. His cock pulses inside you, still struggling to stay fully hard, but he pushes deeper anyway, hips stuttering as he grinds against you with a choked sob. "Wanna—wanna make you—"

His words dissolve into a wet moan as his fingers pinch your nipples sharply, twisting just enough to make you arch beneath him, your cunt clenching around him reflexively. He groans, loud and wrecked, his hips snapping forward like he's chasing the sensation, even as his body trembles with exhaustion.

Dex's body gives out all at once—his arms buckle, his knees slip, and he collapses onto you with a ragged groan, his sweat-slick chest pressing flush against yours. His breath comes in harsh, uneven gasps, his muscles trembling with exhaustion as he nuzzles weakly into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your pulse point in a silent plea.

“m’sorry, m'sorry," he slurs, voice thick with tears, his hips twitching weakly against yours even now, as if his body refuses to accept defeat, “ I'll—I'll be better, swear it, just—just lemme—" His words dissolve into a broken whimper, feeling your pussy clamp around his spent cock, jizz oozing out of your dripping hole.

You pant beneath him, your own limbs heavy, skin tingling from oversensitivity, every inch of you aching in the best and worst ways.

Your thighs quiver where they bracket his hips, your cunt still fluttering around him in aftershocks, and you wince at the sensation—too much, too soon, but Dex doesn't pull away. Instead, he presses closer, his fingers tangling in the sheets beside your head as he shudders, his entire body wracked with exhaustion.

“Gonna—gonna be good," he mumbles, lips dragging wetly along your collarbone, his voice wrecked. "Gonna—fuck—gonna make you—" His hips jerk again, but it's weak, pathetic, his body betraying him as a fresh wave of tremors wracks his frame.

Dex's voice scrapes out dry and cracked, throat raw from overuse— every whine and broken syllable he's spent the last hour pulling out of himself leaving him parched, "We're gonna go again”

His hips shift weakly against yours, a half-hearted grind that barely stirs him inside you, “ I’m gonna get it right this time”

The ceiling stares back at you, blank and indifferent, while something heavy settles low in your ribs, cold and creeping.

the two of you met rather… unconventionally. that is to say, the first time you saw him was when he was on a mission for the CIA—you'd been cornered by a bunch of thugs, and although you'd fought hard enough, there's only so much a civilian could do against armed robbers. his earpiece urged him to focus on his own tasks—and for some reason, he focused on you.

it'd be a lie if you said you weren't immediately attracted to your masked saviour at least a little as he took care of your attackers faster than you could've ever imagined. even more so when threw you an approving glance because you'd managed to hold your own, though it hadn't really been that long. his voice, when he told you to leave, was rough and beautiful and jagged 'round the edges, and so very much your type. but you were stranded in the middle of nowhere with no service and a broken-down car. and instead of shrugging and carrying on, he told you to wait.

wait, while he took care of his target, which he did even faster than usual, though he was so, so distracted. distracted by your voice, your face, the curve of your lips, the way you looked at him—like he didn't scare you, like it was natural for him to be killing, covered in blood. of course, to him, it was, but that didn't mean the general public quite agreed. why were you different?

if anything, the existence of you made him uncomfortable. for someone who'd spent so long detached from these emotions, convinced they weren't for him, it was simply unnerving, for lack of a better word, to be having such thoughts of you. he pushed them down, telling himself that he wouldn't ever see you again. wasting brain space on a one-time encounter—if it could even be called that—was just pointless.

but one thing led to another, and after he got you home, you lingered at the door. it was the dead of night, with no one else around, so he didn't have an issue standing out there in the open. he watched you enter, waited for it to close—for his own peace of mind, he told himself. like that'd ever mattered to him before. and then you turned around, impulse and adrenaline and flushed cheeks, and thanked him again—but this time, at the end, you asked him to come in. have a hot meal, as thanks for saving your life and getting you home.

"i really shouldn't," he said, taking a step back. he'd almost stuttered, and it was actually unsettling how he could feel the bullseye personality cracking open to reveal what was underneath.

but you insisted. and dex, though every fibre of his being screamed at him not to—dex was only human, after all.

you heated up yesterday's stir-fry on the stove while he sat at your kitchen table, so normal, so domestic. like you had vigilantes over for 2am dinners every other day. but it felt nice, having something homemade for once thag he hasn't made himself. you didn't see his face, of course, he'd just pulled up his mask enough to eat.

but when you asked him if he liked it and he said yes and smiled, you noticed the hazel of his eyes, the fine lines at its corners, the light-coloured brows above them. you couldn't help but absorb every little thing about him—the way he held himself, the movements of his shoulders, little inflections in his voice when he spoke.

and when he finished, you did the stupidest thing you'd done that night—worse than choosing to drive your shitbox of a car through the worst, most secluded parts of town, or attempting to fight five armed men instead of just giving them your belongings, or even inviting the guy you'd just watched ruthlessly kill those men into your home. you two stood so close, just in front of your door. he should've left. but your hand was hovering over his chest, barely grazing the fabric, and his heart hammered against his ribs, like it wanted to claw its way out of him, to fall into your palm. he lifted his hand, too, unthinking, fingers wrapping around your wrist easily. he felt it too, then, the rhythm of your heart, erratic, excited.

and you looked up at him through your lashes, and though you didn't say anything, he knew. and even worse, he wanted it too.

deep down, you didn't know what the hell you were doing, really. you'd never been good at any of this, at flirting or dropping hints or taking them, ever. you had no idea what'd gotten into you tonight to make you act like this. why was he so different?

dex very rarely let himself want anything more than what he'd decided he deserved. but right then, it hurt, all that want. sharp and unbridled, a craving he didn't know how to control. any and all experience he'd had before had been an attempt at fitting in, being ordinary, human. he'd never once seen any of jt as anything other than a duty or a box to check off. he'd never once looked at anyone the way he looked at you.

but he was from a completely different life than you. he killed people, worked for people who had even less morals than he did. and you were… you. normal person with a normal life and a normal job. if he indulged himself, even just for tonight, he'd see it as tainting you with the mess that his life was. holding you with the blood on his hands would leave you stained, too. (he didn't know, back then, that you never really minded the red.)

he moved your hand down like he was in a trance, then let his own drop to his side. one hand on the doorknob, he said, "stay safe."

quiet. anticlimatic. the tension in the room seemed to exhale, and he refused to look you in the eye. you knew, then, that he felt it too.

but he really, really didn't mean to see you again.

you met dex for the first time a few weeks later. there was no stalking, no elaborate pre-planned setup. no practiced lines waiting to be used. you bumped into his shoulder outside a grocery store, spilled your lukewarm coffee all over that grey sweater he'd worn, the one that looked brand new. yelping, you looked up at him to apologise, and your eyes met. and you knew. and he knew you did, too.

the breath you sucked in sliced right through the air between you like a knife; he said nothing. even without hearing his voice, you were so sure. nights and nights of seeing his shadow in your dreams, the broadness of his shoulders, the taut fabric across his chest had you convinced. you couldn't see him and not recognise him.

"i'm sorry," you blurted out at last, and he smiled and shook his head, and looked the exact same—just with a few more features that the mask. you were kind of mad, really, that he looked so good. a little older than you'd expected, but still better than you'd imagined on some of the more boring nights you spent alo e. he looked down to inspect the sweater he'd pulled off before the liquid soaked through; you took a moment to soak in the dirty blonde hair, the light stubble on his jaw, the scar that dragged across his cheek, the—

"it's okay," he said, low, a little nervous. his voice didn't have the edge it did as bullseye, but to you, it was clear as day. and you saw an opportunity, and you took it.

"it's not," you insisted. "why don't you give me your sweater, and i'll wash it and return it to you?"

he was going to say no, you could tell. but you weren't going to let this slip out of your hands a second time. your life was boring, and you were lonely—but no one caught your attention, either. not until him, anyway. and you knew it was dangerous, you really knew. but you just could not care enough.

"you should come with me," you added, hoping you didn't sound as desperate as you felt, and he faltered. you watched his internal battle, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, not feeling an inkling of remorse. then he shrugged.

"sure, why not?"

amazing. he didn't know he'd just signed his own death sentence. metaphorically, of course.

you introduced yourself; so did he. for a moment, he wondered if he should use his real name or not. but you already knew who he was, at his core. there wasn't much to hide, when he shook your hand and told you to call him dex. and it fit him remarkably well.

"i know you're bullseye," you'd told him as you shut the door behind you. he'd turned around, sweater slung over one arm and your grocery bags in the other—he'd insisted. you had expected him to react negatively, maybe like a cornered wild animal, maybe he'd try to laugh it off—

what you didn't expect, however, was to be pushed up against that same door, bags abandoned on the floor, with him kissing you like his life depended on it. you didn't mind, of course, returning the favour with the same enthusiasm, if not more.

"you don't know what you're getting into," he'd panted into your mouth between kisses that got increasingly messier, but it only spurred you on.

"i do," you shot back, fingers of one hand curling tighter into his hair. he seemed to like that, groaning appreciatively. but when your other hand tugged at the hem of his black compression shirt, it was as if he'd been hit with a sudden burst of clarity. he took an awkward half-step back, eyes widening as he slipped his hand into yours.

"baby," he whispered, and your heart skipped a beat. you could tell he wanted to do more, the same as you, but for whatever reason had decided to control himself. you squeezed his hand, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck; your other hand scratched the shorter hairs at the back of his head and he all but purred into your skin.

"dex," you murmured. "i really want to get to know you better."

you felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. "yeah?"

it's been a little over eight months since then, and you still haven't been able to get that damn shirt off him—or any other one, for that matter. after that first day, as you got to know him, it was like he was terrified of scaring you off. he treated you gently, like you might break, and was adamant on taking things slow.

and as it happens, his definition of slow is, well, slow as hell. that's not to say you don't do couple-y things—of course you do, whether it's cuddling, or going out on dates, or giving him a key to your place, or making out. although he has refused to move past that last one. you think he's maybe a little too into you to be normal about having you in bed with him like that, or even, like, partially clothed. (it's true.)

he's also very honest with you about his job; he never says too much, never tells you anything that'll put you in danger—or in more danger than you already are—but you're aware of what he does, who he does it for. and he likes how you don't really seem to care, because you like him so. the one thing he never mentions, though, is getting injured. you're the first person he's been close to in so, so long, so he can't imagine the thought of you leaving, especially because of something as stupid as you being stressed over him getting hurt. it does happen, of course, and you know that, but you're not aware of the severity most of the time—but he knows he won't be dying anytime soon. not when he has you to come home to.

this, however, also has a side effect he hadn't thought about—explaining all the scars littered across his body, old and new. and you haven't quite gotten around to sleeping over yet. so, all things considered, no one's shirts end up places they shouldn't be. aka not on the people wearing them.

it's cruel, though, how many sneak peeks you've gotten by accident—when his sweats are too low on his hips and his shirt rides up a little, you get to see the defined grooves of his v-line before it disappears beneath the clothing, or when he comes over to yours straight after working out, sweat making his tee stick to his abs. oh, how you'd pay to see those. but somehow after everything you've done, every line you've crossed, this is where you get a little shy.

and then you find out that dex doesn't know just how attractive he is—or that he is, at all. because one evening, when you come home and he's already there, you greet him as usual—only this time, there's a pet name at the end that you've tacked on without thinking.

"hey," you grin as his strong arms wrap around you. "missed you, pretty boy."

he flushes, freezes. "what?"

you're confused at first. "what what?"

he gestures vaguely, oddly embarrassed. "whatever you called me."

"pretty boy?" you ask, and he blushes harder, if that's even possible. your stoic dex, the masked vigilante, bullseye, almost never acts like this. and okay, maybe you shouldn't be calling him a pretty boy when he's, like, forty, but who cares? once you're past 25, time kind of becomes a social construct anyway.

"you think i'm," he clears his throat, "pretty?"

you blink. "yes?"

"oh," he says. you think nothing of it, running your hand across his belly and feeling his breathing constrict with glee that you don't really try to hide, before he forces himself to inhale, exhale, inhale in a steadier rhythm. he says he's not fond of people complimenting him, but you think he likes it, as long as it's from you.

and now, two-thirds of a year into this thing, you're finally at the next milestone—he's staying over at yours. you don't know how he sleeps, but you sure do hope it's without a shirt on. and god help you, your prayers are answered.

dex doesn't think much of it, tugging his t-shirt off in a single, fluid movement. the light's dim enough that you don't see the full extent of his scarring just yet, but what you can see is his sculpted physique, an artist's strokes cut into the finest marble. you swallow, afraid that you'll genuinely start salivating over his torso.

he doesn't notice at first, staring out the window thoughtfully with his shirt still in his hands. but after maybe a full five minutes of silence, he fully turns towards you, only to realise your eyes are glued to his body. you're still, like you've forgotten how to move—which is kind of accurate, actually, considering he's absolutely blown your breath away. you've always known that he's built, obviously, but holy shit.

"something wrong?" he asks; you shake your head, eyes still not moving up to his as you beckon him over, calling him baby in the most awed, breathless voice. he nears your bed; you don't move the covers away, but pat the space on top of them.

"lie down," you whisper, physically restraining yourself from jumping him. he obeys quietly; it leaves you feeling a little lightheaded. then:

"can i touch you?" you ask, soft, quiet. but your hand's already halfway there when he nods.

he's not sure just what he'd expected, but it's not for you to start tracing the contours of his muscles, painstakingly slow, delicate but meticulous, missing absolutely nothing. when your hand grazes a bullet wound scar on his lower abdomen, you pause for a second before moving on. you don't ask questions. your hand moves up, past those washboard abs, skimming over his ribs, over his firm chest. you reach his neck, and he's barely breathing, pupils blown, almost swallowing the colour of his irises.

"shit," he lets out without meaning to, a half-groan half-whine. you bend down towards his lips, then, one hand still around his neck and he lifts his head, eager to meet you halfway. but to his disappointment, you don't kiss him just yet—

"we're going to sleep now, okay?"

he nods, a little too fast, a little too desperate, and his body quite literally relaxes when he finds your lips on his and pulls you on top of him.

"babe, you're so fucking hot," you grumble as he pulls away to breathe, licking his lips clean of your spit.

he blinks, startled. "this again?"

"no, seriously." your breathing's calming down a little, but all you want to do is kiss him again. he opens his mouth to disagree; you reach between you to run your nails up his abdomen, and he chokes before he can get a word out. "you're so… built, and all these scars, god. y'know what i wanna do right now?"

"what?" he breathes, barely trusting himself to speak.

you smile, flopping down on his chest with an oomph. it's so comfortable here.

"i just want to eat you right up." you stick your tongue out, and he jolts when he feels it on his skin. he's so receptive to everything you do, has been from the start, when just kissing you against your front door had left him wrecked. "but we're going to sleep now."

"fuck you," he huffs, even as his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, the other one rubbing circles lazily into the exposed skin that your shirt no longer covers. he lifts his head up a little, presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"love you too," you respond happily.

but you're already plotting. thinking about the long scar that snakes down the length of his spine, the one he's mentioned a few times, that you've snuck glances of when he's bent down or stretching with his back to you. you've decided it's next.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Seeing your face again could have sent Finnick into another frenzy, he'd been scared he'd forget it even though he thought about it every second of every day. But he couldn't do that, he needed to listen, hear your voice again. You had that smile plastered on your face that everyone could easily believe in, and had for years, except him. There was a mournful, numb look that would settle in the back of your eyes whenever you put on a performance, one that usually leads to dissociation. On top of that, you looked tired, the way you looked when after you'd won your Games and hadn't been able to escape the nightmares. 

Your voice was like music in his ears when you greeted Ceasar back, a tune that could soothe his soul if he wasn't so worried about you. It pained him to notice that in the midst of everything, of holding you captive, of the rebellion, they'd still managed to play dress up with you. Goosebumps covering your skin, the outfit barely covered any of you, you'd always run cold, and the Capitol seemed to know this. “So you're saying you knew nothing about the rebel plan?"

You shook your head emphatically, “No, I told you all how sure I was that I was never coming out of that arena. It was just as much of a shock to me." His clever, clever girl, trying so hard to play it safe.

“At the end you were screaming about forgetting something, what was that?" Caesar asked.

The tracker. The stupid tracker. "Finnick…" You trailed off, looking into the camera for a second like you were trying to reach out to him, “We had a special way of communicating with each other that comes with being together that long, I needed to find him, I still don't remember why.”

"So did he know about the rebel plan?”

Your foot was tapping slightly and Finnick prayed, for your sake, that no one else knew how anxious that indicated you were. “If he did, he didn't tell me." You looked at the camera again, addressing the citizens of the Capitol, "And I want everyone to know that if he did know anything, he would only do it if he thought it meant we could be together. He would never want this, the rebellion, the terror, both of us love all of you and Panem so much. His intentions would've been of love, not harm.” 

Finnick was so proud that your years of charisma for the Capitol was pulling through now. He felt like he was going to cry, the way you were defending him in the off chance that everything went wayward and he also ended up in Capitol clutches somehow. Maybe, if Snow really thought you knew nothing, he'd consider you more than just bait, maybe there'd be quite a few of these interviews left to boost morale for Capitol citizens. To see one of their favorite victors spewing out propaganda, it would also keep you alive longer, so out of all things that's what Finnick would place his hopes on. 

“Peeta called for a ceasefire, would you agree with this, that things should just be called off?” You glanced off camera, anxiously scratching at your arms.

"Yes, a ceasefire needs to be called.” Your smile reeked of discomfort and fear, and he was even more grateful that it was something only he knew how to sense from you. “The destruction being caused, the death, will get so much worse if this continues. No one wants that, this can all be sorted out. President Snow is merciful, but only if a ceasefire is called for.” It was sickening, the lies you were being forced to tout. Snow was anything but merciful, he'd probably throw the victors into the arena again, or just line them all up to be shot, or make death causing ‘accidents’ occur as soon as possible. Then you were crying and Finnick longed to hold you, to tell you it would be okay, to give any words of comfort he could. "I'm sorry, so much has happened recently.”

"Well us in the Capitol are glad to still have you with us." Finnick hated that they had you, that Caesar could still force you to perform for all of Panem and act like you're fine.

"I'm glad to be here with all of you too!” You mutter through tears and your signature, fake smile.

"Before we go, is there anything you want to say if the rebels are watching out there, if Finnick, your husband is watching out there?”

“He's not a rebel." You say quickly, with as much urgency as you can. Your eyes shut for a second and you're muttering to yourself, “He's my husband, he's not a rebel, not a rebel."

"Right, he's not a rebel.” Caesar says with what's supposed to be a comforting smile.

Your eyes open and you nod, wiping away stray tears, “And I'm just reminding everyone how badly we need a ceasefire, to stop all of this. To stop the suffering and all that could come.” Your smiling again, so forced it looks like it hurts and you're rubbing your necks until it's red, "Ceasefire, ceasefire, ceasefire is important.” It's like you're chasing a thought you're being forced to remember.

“Yes, a ceasefire is important." Caesar nods, "Well a big thank you to the Capitol Princess for her message here today.” Your smile drops as you nod at the camera before it cuts and Finnick has been once again abandoned with his thoughts. 

What are they doing to you to convince you to say things you would never believe? How sweet you are for insisting upon his innocence anyway you can, he misses you more than home, the ocean, the feeling of fresh air in his lungs, the sun shining down on his face, he would happily live without it all if you could just be here, with him. You'd looked so exhausted and he misses being able to hold you, keep you warm so you could rest and feel safe when you did. He longs to see your genuine smile, the way your eyes would soften and the way your nose crinkled when you laughed.

A fantasy he can drive himself into before the anger can fall back into place, how he needs to hijack something so he can rescue you. He'd rage to President Coin herself if he could force her to do it, but they barely even let him out of the hospital wing. He's sobbing again, calloused hands trying to clear his face of the tears. Maybe they think he hasn't seen it, so they aren't worried about his reaction, they probably assume he's sleeping or focused on tying his knots, but it's just the eye of the hurricane. He can only stain the plain, scratchy sheets with his tears for so long before the hysteria will return. But for now he can mourn. He can hate himself, wish the rope was long enough to let him leave, and wish you could've both just chosen to be together in death. It would've been better then torture he's going through now. How there's not a second he can't focus on you, what he misses, what he dreads could be happening to you, the dreams of your future.

Dreams where you could be at home, surrounded by friends and family having the traditional District 4 wedding, sea shanty's and all. Where there was no fear that Snow would manipulate the games to force your children to be spectacles so you'd had children, as many as you wanted. Who you'd take to the beach, teach them about the animals, teach them to swim, and be the family he knows deep down you'd both have wished for. There'd been a glimpse where that was possible and then there'd been the impending doom that it wasn't. That instead it would be the wish he had when they told him you were dead.

Death. You. The idea that death could creep up with its slender hands and drag you away into the cavernous pit, that would leave him forever alone. He'd gratefully dig the claws of death into himself to bring you back or lay with you in the lowest parts of the cliffs forever. Death. You. Him. Freedom. Chains broken, no more threats, no more needs, just the end with you. 

Instead he needed to face the brazen winds to return you to his arms. You'd looked so cold and he missed being able to warm you, for you to cool him down. He had to get you back and the frenzy was back. Finnick was back on his feet, tearing himself from the bed, not giving a care to the things around him, if they fell to the floor it was something else out of his way. This commotion did alert the medics close by and Finnick was instantly trying to run by them.

“We have to save her, I need to save her!” He urged, but they were used to his antics. They'd long ago retrieved the manpower required to overpower him when he got like this. That didn't mean he still wouldn't fight, he still had the strength it took to shove most of them off, react violently when they got their hands on him, and struggle when eventually a larger group had their arms on him, ready to sedate once again. Maybe that was a good thing though, it allowed him to fully focus all of his thoughts on you and everything you two had. 

             𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

He was early, but he didn't care, well he kind of did when he paced by the cobblestones not far from your house wondering when he should knock. Wicker picnic basket being moved between each of his hands, careful not to hit the bouquet of flowers he was holding, as he anxiously counted down. Finnick knew he said noon, but did that mean five minutes before would be the right time to show up? 10 minutes? Exactly at noon? He wasn't used to feeling this anxious, he'd adopted a suave personality for Panem to gobble up that had become nearly effortless, but now he wanted desperately for you to ignore that and just be perfect.

The gift he had for you weighed heavy in the pocket of his shorts. He wanted to give it to you, he hoped you'd like it because he really wanted to see that smile that he'd daydreamed about again. He checked his watch, 13 minutes, and the worry was still there. Would you be scared off if you looked outside to see him waiting so early or would you find it sweet? What if you were inside anxiously waiting for him because you doubted it was real, because you wanted it to be genuine, and he reasoned from what he did know it was probably the correct assumption. You were too full of self-doubt, of an unspoken want to be seen, to be realized, and he wanted nothing more than to really comprehend each intricate detail that made you, you. 

‘Fuck it,’ He told himself when he made his way up the cracked cement, the grass and weeds peeking through. All the way up the two steps on your crickety porch, light blue paint peeling away to reveal the rotting chunks of wood. Slowly he tapped his knuckles on the wooden door, hoping the knocks didn't seem aggressive, but were enough to gain attention. Since when had he worried about the way his knocks were perceived? Only to gain a chance to perceive you.

The door creaked open and there you were, glowing in another beautiful sundress. “Hi!” Your smile was enough to wash away most of his anxieties even if your own voice seemed riddled with them, he despised the fact you felt anything less than sure of yourself, then sure of his interest in you. 

“Good morning, angel." Morning? Afternoon? Did he care which one was more accurate, did you? Finnick pulled on his dazzling smile, feeling like he was swept up by you.

He pulled the bouquet up, "Um, I got these for you.” You stared at them for what felt like an eternity and made him blush, scared he'd misread something,"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I just-”

"They’re for me?” Features so soft it made his heart want to melt already, even the smile was so sweet and fond.

“Yeah, they're for you. These ones just reminded me of you." He wasn't about to say he'd spent hours at Mags this morning trying to pick the perfect flowers from her garden that he thought you would not only adore, but that gave off your very essence.

“They're perfect." You said in a soft amazement,"Really perfect.” Your fingers brush through them before you're ever so gently taking them from him,"Thank you.” 

Flowers were definitely a win, something that could rely on for you to adore. “Of course, sweet girl." You smiled as you smelled the flowers and he concluded that you didn't get many gifts, even one's as easy as that. He'd plant garden after garden to keep you smiling like that. You shut the door and it clicked behind you as you stepped towards him, porch creaking.

“Really, thank you, Finnick." To his surprise you hugged him and how cold you were was almost as shocking, you had such a warm, inviting aura that it was hard to imagine the icincess of your skin. Yet he melted into it, he'd always been so warm that it was nice to have something to contradict that, like when he went for his early morning swim. You smelled the peaches and the ocean, it was delightful and an aroma he'd always want to remember. He longed for your touch to return the moment you pulled away and suddenly he was just hot again. He must have stood there staring and longing for a while because your melodic voice stopped this, “So, are we planning on standing here all day?”

“No, no sorry!" He shook his head, breaking into a nervous chuckle as he tilted his head to the side. You laughed as you began walking down the rickety steps and he followed. “How was dinner?" Maybe he was jealous, he shouldn't be, there was really no good reason to be, but he was.

You looked at Finnick for a moment, confused, like it hadn't quite processed in your brain. “Oh, yes! It went well!"

“What'd his sisters have for you?" The fond look you gave him for remembering a small moment in a conversation made his heart swell and he swore he'd remember everything about you. 

“We like to try and find the prettiest things in the sand, seashells, sea glass, things like that and we all have little collections from each other. They're sweet."

“You're sweet."

“How would you know that, you don't know me." You said, fingers playing the flowers and trying to keep watch on the ground. The cobblestone was uneven, broken, crumbling apart and very just a tripping hazard.

“As you keep reminding me, it doesn't change the fact that you're sweet. ” He shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. His free hand slides into his pocket, “Saw something else that reminded me of you." He pulls out a necklace, something a vendor had made of shining seashell fragments and the occasional pearl, but something about it just seemed so much like you.

“Finnick." Your steps halted and he did the same,"I don't need you to buy me things.” 

"I know, I want to buy you things.” The necklace dangled from his fingers, glistening in the rays of sun.

"But I don't have anything for you, so it's not-”

"You don't have to get me anything, I'm just spending time with you and I want to do it. Not because I feel obligated too, but because I like you.” Finnick reassured, this didn't have to be transactional, he just wanted to show you he paid attention, he cared. 

You closed your eyes and sighed before nodding, “Okay."

“Unless you don't like it, in which case you should tell me now for future reference.” 

“No, no, that's not what I mean, I mean I do, I just-"

“Need to get better at accepting gifts?" He finished, raising an eyebrow.

You scoffed, “I'm good at accepting gifts!" There was a beat of silence where the two of you both stared at each other, him with his brow still arched quizzically, before the two of you burst into laughter. “Sorry, that's not true."

“I can tell!" When the laughter had somewhat subsided, he took another step towards you, lifting the necklace slightly, “Here, let me help you." He was thankful for another chance to let his fingers ‘accidentally’ brush against the skin of your neck and be cooled by it.

His nimble fingers secured the clasp, "This seems to keep happening to us.” You said, trying not to bristle when his warm hands did in fact make slight contact with yours.

"Maybe I'm just a mastermind.” His voice was so close to your ear as he gave himself an extra second of touch before forcing himself to step back.

"Or maybe you're full of yourself." You turned back around to face him before the two of you continued on the walk.

Finnick shrugged, “Two things can be true."

“Maybe not those two." He felt like a lost puppy dog who'd trail behind you, at your beck and call, every single time you spoke. It was terrifying, bone chilling, to think he'd become infatuated from afar and now it was like he'd been bewitched. As if your aura had its own siren song attached to allure his own in and he'd gladly crash his ship on the rocky shores for you. Yet the fear was combated with the fact that you, the core of you, was closer to the shine of the lighthouse, guiding him to safety. A thin line between destruction and refuge.

Banter has easily continued until he'd finally led you to the beach locked behind the gates of Victors Village, its view was truly breathtaking. He laid out the blanket on the warm sand, picnic basket on top, and you'd already been rid of your sandals. You stood, arms out as the breeze blew through your arms, inhaling the salty air and Finnick would've sworn you were some type of ethereal blessing gifted to the Earth from the ocean itself. Slowly he lifted the lid on the wicker basket, “Here." He said, holding up a peach.

You opened your eyes to look over and he could see the instant surprise on them as you sat down, “Finnick!" You didn't take it from him, just put your hands around it to draw it closer as you smelled it like you weren't sure it was real. “Oh my god!" You exclaimed when you caught a glimpse of the bag of peaches within the basket. 

“Thought it might convince you to not barter the necklace." He chuckled as if he hadn't been certain he'd buy the whole array of peaches to see you smile and hear your laugh, to see the spark in your eyes. 

You paused to touch the necklace, suddenly serious, “I wouldn't do that." Your eyes were so gorgeous, so addictive, so kind. The type of eyes he wanted to gaze into until everything else had faded away. Every piece of art, every sunset, every sunrise, every star’s beauty lessened in comparison. “Finnick Odair, you can't be real." That shining smile had returned and he couldn't help but follow in your footsteps to give one back. “Seriously, you have to tell me what's wrong with you before I become too attached."

Finally you took the peach from his hand to bite into it, “Afraid I can't tell you yet, angel, scared you'd run away on me.” His tone was light enough to be a joke, but deep down he knew he'd never be able to tell you about the things that he felt the most self-loathing for, how self-destructive he could be would be something he'd try to keep you away from.

"Well you've already got me; hook, line, and sinker.” When you smiled and spoke, your nose would scrunch up in what he imagined was the most adorable thing possible. You stopped taking bites and quietly sat on the bed, observing him.

"No need to stare, I'm staying right here.” 

"Oh my god, I could kiss you.” He wasn't even sure if you'd processed the words as you stared at him longer before your brain finally seemed to register what you'd said. The look of shock had barely begun to pass your face when he decided he'd just kiss you instead. Perhaps it was all too fast, a day for him to be tasting the peach on your lips, for his fingers to be on your cold face besides the slight warmth on your cheeks. Whirlwind romances were either tragedy's or a fairytale, so time would have to tell, but maybe it should've been a sign. The ending could be uncertain as it liked, but he was sure your souls were yoked in the first ocean tides to bless the world.

His nostrils filled with the scent of peaches and the salt air you had meshed with how you tasted like the peaches, once again, and vanilla. So calming, like he was being softly rocked in the waters, nothing less than perfect. When he finally pulled away from you all he wanted to do was be enveloped by the taste once again. You looked so flustered and taken aback, it was so precious to him. “I beat you to it, this time." Cocky smirk even if he was slightly breathless.

You nodded at him slowly with your eyes wide, like all thoughts had been taken from your head. Finnick would've said something else if it weren't for the refreshing chill of your hands grabbing his face to pull him in for another kiss. He'd never get sick of peaches when they reminded him so much of you, if he was ever to be away he'd spend his time learning endlessly about them just to feel near. Although it couldn't compare with the way your lips molded to his so easily. Then there were your hands in his hair, something he usually couldn't stand, but when it was your gentle hands he couldn't find it anything but endearing. Eventually you'd pulled away as well, chest heaving, yet it was like you couldn't say a thing. Faces and bodies mere inches from each other as you stared at each other, listening to each other breathe.

Suddenly you were quickly removing yourself from him, running forward in the sand. “Where are you going?" Finnick called after you, somewhat terrified he'd scared you off. But you turned back to him smiling like you hadn't a care in the world.

“Swimming!" You shed yourself of the sundress to be just left in the swimsuit you wore underneath, “Are you coming?" Now it was Finnick's to scramble up, chasing you towards the water.

You must have spent hours swimming, like there was no other world except the now. He'd swim under the water, scaring you when he'd pull at your ankle and you'd fight back by trying to dunk him under the moment he bobbed to the top. This was usually unsuccessful as he'd simply drag you down with him, except when he wanted you to feel like you had succeeded. He'd randomly lift you from the waters and you'd screech for him to put you down and once or twice he'd used it as an excuse to kiss you again. After hours of similar actions the sound of the waves hitting the shore was the only thing that could be heard as you both waded to stay afloat. 

Finnick stared out at the horizon, “I want to take you sailing when I get back."

“When you get back from what?" You asked, looking at him. Suddenly he was flooded with guilt, here he was dragging you along when he couldn't even be fully yours or honest about it. But he wanted to be with you so bad and for now that was all he had to cling onto.

It didn't mean he could look at you when he tried to explain it, so he looked down into the waters, “I'm supposed to leave for the Capitol tomorrow, just Victor related things.” He mumbled, shrugging off the mention.

"Oh, okay.” You didn't sound actually upset, "When will you be back?”

"A week at the most.” He peeked up at you through his eyelashes surprised to see you didn't look upset either, at most a little dejected that you wouldn't see him for so long.

"Well, we better have a killer party then to end all of this off, make sure you don't forget me.” You teased, raising your eyebrows.

"I could never forget about you… but you're not upset?"

You shot him a quizzical look, “Why would I be upset, we all have responsibilities, even if they come with different territory.” You shrugged and nearly fell backwards when he pressed his lips to yours again, steadying your back when you began to fall backwards. You had to be an angel who'd been sent to keep him sane and grace him, but a darker side of him urged him to realize he didn't deserve someone as understanding as you.

“You're so perfect." His arms held you and he looked at you with nothing less than amazement.

“I'm definitely not."

‘You’re perfect for me, we're perfect together,’ Finnick thought as he looked at you, water droplets running down your skin, breathing hard from all the excursions, eyes sparked with their usual twinkle and so many hidden thoughts he wanted to dive into. He accepted the conclusion that the only reason he would be feeling all this so fast would be because you were destined to be, all the stars had aligned for this moment, and the oceans had moved mountains to ensure this lifetime was no different. If you were Eurydice he had been your Orpheus, the Dante to your Beatrice, you would have been the Penelope to his Odysseus, regardless of any fate he knew there was never a life where you'd not been irrevocably bound together. 

             𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You were going to be rescued, saved from the Capitol's grasps, and what had brought elation at first was quickly ruined when he learned that he couldn't help rescue you. He wasn't quite yet considered mentally stable enough for it, even if slowly he'd been able to mask it all better. Instead he had to stay in District 13 and do nothing but beg the universe to return you to him. Hadn't there been enough tragedy in your short lives? Hadn't there been enough tragedy in every other ending, in every other life? They should've let him brave death to bring you back, it would've settled him more then the torture of not knowing. Especially since he'd caught every airing you'd had from the Capitol which made him grateful that Katniss had wagered for your immunity. Snow had you begging for ceasefire, showing off outfits to parade, as if there wasn't a textile shortage, and it broke him when you seemed to be getting less sure of questions regarding him, regarding you. Then had been when Peeta announced the planned attack on District 13 and seeing you scream when he was violently attacked for the warning. A scream that would have forced Finnick to be sedated if it weren't for the more impending doom of the bombs. 

Katniss was filming a distraction propo about Peeta, how he'd saved her, loved her from the beginning. It was intimate, but apparently not enough for Plutarch who was calling Finnick over. Or maybe he's thought of something when Katniss mentions Snow's own admission of the Capitol's fragility.

“The Capitol is fragile, Snow is fragile, if we can manage to make a major blow to that, it could take their focus off of the prisoners. Force them to focus on damage control instead." Plutarch explains.

“And you want me to say something that could do that?” Finnick looks down at his rope, you'd never been able to master the butterfly knot, and he can imagine himself going over it again to try and teach you.

“If you have anything worth sharing." Of course everyone knows he does, among the elite, the powerful, the other victors it's just an open secret. “It could help us save her."

"But you don't have to open that up, there's no guarantee it'll do anything.” Haymitch argues, he's been forced into sobriety and has maintained his aggression. 

“I have something, more than one." Finnick finally says once he's completed his knot and Plutarch can't hide how pleased he is with this outcome. Finnick swears he can hear the blood draining from his face and the nausea rising in his stomach as each second passes, but he persists to stand in front of the cameras.

"You don't have to do this.” Haymitch reiterates.

"Yes I do, if it'll help her.” There's no other option, if the only thing that stopped you from being safely brought to District 13 was the lack of a good distraction, he'd find a way to get a longer rope. He undid the knot before balling it tightly in his hand, “I'm ready." Finnick says to the camera crew and he thinks of you. He turns off any physical sign of emotions he may have because he knows if he doesn't it would lead to another damaging spiral.

The cameras click on and he's given the all clear to begin, “President Snow used to… sell me… my body, that is. I wasn't the only one.” Far from it, and Finnick wanted revenge for all of them, for him, for you, for Cashmere, for everyone Snow had forced into his scheme. "If a Victor is considered desirable, the President gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love.” What had happened to Johanna, what he'd been terrified would happen to you when you'd first been together. “I wasn't the only one." He repeats and this time it really is for you, for how much he had to watch it break you. The nightmares, how long it took for you to accept any form of physical contact, how even years after it still affected your own intimacy with each other. They stole it all, your girlhood, most of your spark, whatever they could they ravaged from you like vultures on a corpse. Wasn't the prize of winning supposed to be life? “But I was the most popular. And perhaps the most defenseless because the people I loved were so defenseless." Finnick would never have mentioned this to you, but he'd begged Snow to give him more rather than give you any. The President had said you were too popular for none, but had given you less than what you could've had in exchange for even more of Finnick's time, his so-called uses. “To make themselves feel better my patrons would make presents of money or jewelry, but I found a much more valuable form of payment. Secrets.”

That's why he was such a threat to Snow, he knew too much, he needed to be silenced, but he hadn't and now he could tell all of Panem each one. “And this is where you're going to want to stay tuned, President Snow because so very many of them were about you. But let's begin with some of the others.” And prominent name after name spewed off of his tongue. It felt like he was dropping chains off of his body to reveal them to the nation. Each one more heinous than the next, “And now, on to our good President Coriolanus Snow. Such a young man when he rose to power. Such a clever one to keep it. How, you must ask yourself, did he do it? One word. That's all you really need to know. Poison." More names, victims of Snow's climb to power, the elite he trampled so he could trample the weak. Suddenly he's on fire, Finnick can't stop thinking about all the pain it caused you, about how it ruined his own childhood and life, how Johanna lost everyone she loved, how Cashmere worked so hard to protect her brother only for them both to be dead and he's so very detailed. Ensuring that it can't be swept under the rug and it's so harrowing that no one cuts the camera even when he's stopped speaking. There's too much shock, too much intensity, "Cut.” Finnick eventually intervenes.

Finally the stupor is over and people rush to air the footage, Plutarch is making endless comments that Finnick can't comprehend when he's so lost in his own head. Auto-pilot took control for most of the day, he tied knots until his fingers bled. You would've scolded him and bandaged them up, insisting it's why you didn't care for them even if you loved pouting for him to help you just so he could be so close by. Then he's got his arms wrapped around his knees, the day has been too slow, what if you were dead and he'd have no idea until they arrived and he would be at peak hope.

“Did you love her right away, Finnick?" Katniss' voice finally pulls him away from the endless myriad of thoughts.

“Not for the years when I knew of her and then I don't know what changed. She was just so herself in every way and I knew I wanted to just speak with her at least, but once I had a taste of it, yes. Like I'd been knocked over by a wave with it. For a while she didn't understand, but I didn't either, I just knew that there was no else for me." He feels like he's tearing up again when Haymitch rushes into the room.

“They're back. We’re wanted in the hospital. That's all I know." But Finnick feels like he can't move, he realizes he's scared of what you'll be like now. The Capitol had taken the you with her free-spirit and love of being in the moment and made her hate that she was able to breathe oxygen, which he'd so diligently worked to prove you were worthy of. Now they'd had you again, a version that was already hurt, untrusting, and self-destructive, and he couldn't imagine what they could have done to you now. Katniss is softly grabbing his hand to guide him upwards and he feels robotic. She guides him through the winding, gray hallways to the hospital wing. It's not until he can hear your screams that his brain clicks back into action. He has a responsibility to you, one of care, of love, of support in your weakest moments.

He's screaming your name as he runs from Katniss, searching for you desperately. Then he spots you on a hospital bed, pushing off the doctors trying to take care of you. Finnick needs to just be there with his soft words, let you know they're trying to help, so you'll stop. But that's not what happens when you hear his voice or see him. “Angel!" Your panicked screams become more shrill when you see him and in his confusion he steps closer, “It's just me." His voice is more broken then he wanted it to sound, more dejected.

“Get him away from me!" You're frenzied, scrambling to get out of the hospital bed or as far away in it as you can. The doctors are trying to reassure you as you scratch, and kick, and hit, and scream, begging for them to keep you safe from him. He feels the doctors trying to lead him away, hears Johanna laughing harshly in the background noise, but he's frozen. Your head is banging on the metal back of the bed which rattles. “Please, please.” You're sobbing and they're staying to sedate you, "He wants me dead, you don't get it, he's gonna kill me.” 

And Finnick is once again determined to get hands on a much longer rope. 

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

thank you so, so much for reading I am so sorry this took me so long! I hope you enjoyed it and as always feedback, comments, likes, reblogs are all much appreciated. my ask box is always open and currently so are requests which I'm working through! love you all and thank you again 💋

“Flight to Alabama, boarding in ten minutes!”

Baby nearly checked her book bags and suitcases for the millionth time, wondering if she had forgotten anything. She knew she didn’t, some part of her felt so nervous to finally be back to her small town in Alabama. Bluebell hasn’t seen her face in nearly six years, it hadn’t even felt that long. 

Part of it brought incredible memories. Painting her fingernails with muddened dirt, along with her graphic tees. Playing sports, loving nature, nearly befriending a gator. Would always play pranks, only to those who’d tease her about her tiny glasses. Worse she’d done was plant earth worms in one of her classmates sandwiches, she’d screamed all the way to the principals office. 

She’d never been caught, since she’d always have an alibi. 

Wade Kinsella, her childhood best friend. Ride or die, so they called it. 

They’d call them a dynamic duo, always running into trouble. They were usually the ones causing the trouble, but that never gets brought up as much due to their assumed mastery of never getting caught. 

While they took turns, trying to get back at the prestigious football quarterback, Jimmy Praboo.

Usually, it turned out to not work in their favor. Since it would only made Jimmy’s advances that much harsher, mostly to Wade Kinsella and George Tucker. Baby would have her own struggles, which was enough for her to back off with her initial childlike behaviors.

Part of the reason as to why she’d put off going to Alabama for all these years. Going to college late, starting a life in a big city. She never would’ve imagined her life to turn out the way it did, which is why she’d been so hung up with the fact that she’ll see the version of herself she’d held embarrassment towards.

Bringing up old feelings, the ones that brought the initial push to move across the country.

“Last call for Bluebell, Alabama! Last call, boarding will close within five minutes!”

Her daydream nearly distracted her from the flight, noticing that she’d been the only one in the passenger waiting area. Grabbing all her luggage, walking over to scan her boarding ticket.

Hand wrapped around her suitcase handle, head held high. Wearing similar small glasses, paired with a hoodie from a well known fashioned brand. Jeans that are big enough to drag under her sneakers. Bluebell had its ways of bringing out a side of her that she’d love to hide in, distracting herself from the aching heart ache of her six years of pursuing a career.

–

Walking into the bus station, familiarity in the scents in the air, she’d leaned against the window near the seat. An old woman sat beside her, looking over at her with a curious stare. 

Feeling the weight of someone staring, Baby decided to look behind her. Flashing a knowing smile, dimples prominent. 

The woman’s face lit up, gasping for air, “Oh my goodness. I knew I recognized ya’. Baby, it’s so nice to see your face.”

Giggling, she’d tucked a strand behind her ear, turning bashful, “Wow, can’t believe someone recognized me so soon.”

The older woman let out a puff of air, “Of course I’d recognized ya’ sweetheart. You're hard not to spot, with your boy clothes. You sold it with your dimples. Remember, your mama had the same smile. How is she anyway?”

Baby swallowed her spit, smile falling a bit, “Oh, she’s alright. I’m planning to visit her while I’m in town. Hoping the summer heat doesn’t melt me first.”

She had regretted wearing her sweater, noting the heat’s intensity in the air conditioned bus alone. Sweat glistening her forehead, face flushed. 

The older woman, curls sticking to her forehead, letting out a nose of acknowledgement, “It will bring out the worst in everyone, that’s for sure.”

Baby knew what heat waves brought out in people in Bluebell, but since she’d been used to the desert heat of California, she didn’t worry too much. The only thing she hadn’t prepared for was the bugs, nearly hotglued to her hands and face with her sweat. 

Definitely not the homecoming she’d been dreaming for, that’s for sure.

The bus came to a stop, turning to the older woman to wish her goodbyes. Sitting up in her seat, where she’d grabbed all of her luggage to make her way to hitch a ride with a truck driver. To no one’s surprise, the truck driver recognized her immediately as well. In a small town, it was easy to recognize faces. Even the ones that had been gone for six years. 

Coming to a stop in the center quad of town, the truck driver halted to a stop. 

“It’s nice to see you, Baby. Hope to see you around.”

Flashing a knowing smile, she’d thanked him. 

Grabbing her luggage, she’d made her way to the Whippoorwill Blossom Bed and Breakfast. The only known place to stay for lodging in the town, which wasn’t exactly ideal. Considering once she made her way to the front desk, the whole town had already spread the word of her arrival. Once she made it to the receptionist desk, the lady’s face lit up like the old woman’s at the bus stop. 

Baby definitely felt like a celebrity in that town, knowing that everyone missed her dearly. No one felt that much animosity towards her for leaving, almost entirely forgotten about it. Well, not her mother.

Collapsing on her hotel bed, finally letting out a sigh of relief. Turning to the window, watching couples walking with their dogs and kids children on their bicycles. Bluebell finally brought some comfort, after experiencing the hectic life of a busy city.

–

Changing into a loose band t-shirt, one she’d gotten at a concert at So-fi, she’d been dying to get a sweet tea from The Butter Stick. The heat wasn’t giving her much grace, considering the air conditioning was busted in the hotel room. 

Afterwards, she’d been thinking of stopping by the Town Square to catch up with old faces, hopefully nothing too personal.

Until, she’d heard her phone ring. 

Grabbing her phone from her pocket, reading the name on the tiny screen. A shiver went down her spine, clicking the answer button on the keypad.

“Hey mom.” She’d let out a shaky greeting. 

Her mother, enraged on the other end, spoke with a mocking tone, “‘Hey, mom?’ That’s all I’m gonna’ get from my daughter that I haven’t spoken to for nearly seven years?”

Biting the side of her cheek, Baby let out a shaky breath, “I wanted to come visit. Maybe we can talk, I’d love to visit your new place.”

A pause hung on the other end. One that absolutely shattered Baby’s heart.

“No, I don’t think so, Baby. I think it’s best if you leave to Los Angeles as soon as you can. Once you're done pretending to be my daughter.” Venom etched in her words. 

The phone line ended. 

A broken sob shook the room. Granting Baby to hunch over, leaning against the ottoman on the end of the bed. Hand around her mouth, to silence her heart break.

Maybe, she’d hold off on her day trip for a sweet tea. Right now she’d been in desperate need for a drink, especially after a phone call like that. Wiping her tears, she’d grabbed her wallet, checking her appearance in the mirror.

Letting out a sigh of confidence, before making her way to the Rammer Jammer.

–

The place definitely hasn’t changed since the last time she’d visited. Since her twenty-first, she’d remembered getting nearly black out drunk on one of the bar stools. Made a fool out of herself, but had friends that covered her recklessness.

Wade sat by her bedside as she’d been puking in a bucket for the remainder of the morning after. Staying beside her throughout the best, worst night of her life. 

Now, on her way to the bar, she’d called for the bartender’s attention.

Clearing her throat in dramatic fashion, placing her elbow on the counter while thumping her fingers on the bar. 

“Oh, bartender? Hurry up, will you? Or do I have to wait another six years.”

Wade’s head perked up at the sound of her voice, scanning over face like it had been recorded in history. Eyes widened after a long pause of wondering ‘who the hell was talking to him that way’. It was then her face changed from boredom to a humorous grin, which he’d recognized the dimplage anywhere. 

He let out a shudder, shocked half to death, “Well, look at that. Baby, is that you?”

She’d let out a giggle, teeth on full display. 

Wade made his way around the bar, setting his towel on his shoulder. Almost running towards her, his arms opened for a warm embrace. Getting out of the bar stool, she’d hugged him back. The hug was warm, more than usual. Maybe from the heat wave, she thought.

Leaning back, creating social distance, Baby still held her smile. 

She flicked his forehead, causing him to let out a small pained noise.

“I can’t believe you didn’t acknowledge my presence once I’d landed my private jet. Can’t believe you lied about your telekinesis all those years ago, Wade. I’m heart-broken.”

Immediately picking up on the inside joke, he’d played along, “Well it ain’t a lie, since I can sense the presence of a groupie from miles away.” He’d stared down to her shirt, recognizing the band on its graphic. 

Her mouth opened in shock, “I’ll have you know, my taste in music had evolved. It just so happened to be during my time in the L.A.. Not the fact that the lead singer is a dreamboat or anything.” Hints of sarcasm laced her tone.

Wade, smiling, pinched her cheek, stating, “Okay, Dirty Diana, it’s good to have you back. I was wondering when the famous reporter would come back to showcase her mansions in the town square.”

Humor slowly dying, remembering the phone call with her mother, she’d ushered towards the bar. 

“Not yet, I can only afford a small condo at the moment. Getting somewhere, though.”

Sitting back in the bar stool, Wade made his way behind the bar to stand in front of her. Grabbing a glass from under him, placing it down on the counter. Reaching for a whiskey bottle, once that brought a smile to Baby’s face.

Wade poured the contents into the glass, ushering it over to her.

Sadness gleamed in his eyes, lowering them a bit, “As much as it’s a blessin’ to see your face again. I’m still a bit mad at ya’ for leavin’ all those years ago.”

The lack of a farewell in the town of Bluebell wasn’t exactly what Baby had in mind during her journey to California, but she thought it would be best. Bluebell was comforting, knowing her, she’d probably never leave considering it had been the only home she’d known her entire life.

So that meant she left her best friend, never even left a note. She’d written one for him, but never had the chance to actually give it to him. Well, a better interpretation would be that she was too scared to give it to him.

Taking a swig of the glass, she answered hesitantly, “Look, Wade, I’m so sorry about not sayin’ goodbye all those years ago. I just thought it would put more burden on Bluebell if I did. It was selfish, but I knew everyone here would convince me to stay. I would've never been happy if I didn't take that step.” 

Wade swallowed his own spit, nodding, “Yeah, I hear ya’. I don’t blame you. I just missed my best pal’. Hurt to see you go without a goodbye.”

Tapping his hand with comfort, smiling at him, she’d tried to lighten the mood.

“Well, I’m here now! Since it’s been so long, I’d love to stop by your house to catch up. How’s the old pops’ doing?”

Wade sent a knowing smile, backing up to focus on other drinks, “You know, Crazy Earl. Always givin’ me a scare whenever the tides calm. Surprised it hasn’t happened yet considering the heat wave.”

Baby knocked on the bar wood, hoping to break his word so it wouldn’t come back to haunt him.

“Don’t jinx it now. I’d love to see em’ if you're comfortable.”

Kinsella held a hesitant glance, looking over at the opposite end of the bar. Looking over to see his glance, she’d met with the eyes of another woman. Brunette, petite, and absolutely stunning. Her under eyeliner complimenting her eyes, along with her unique fashion sense. The woman stood out like a sore thumb in a town like Bluebell, something Baby knew all too well. 

Baby turned back to Kinsella, then back to the woman. They shared a known stare, like they’d exchanged a conversation with their eyes. One that indicated they've known each other for some time, which knotted her stomach. 

Deciding it was best to push it down, like she’d always done. Cutting the tension and deciding to be casual about the obvious hesitancy in his answer.

Smiling, masking her secret jealousy, she’d teased Kinsella, “It’s okay if you don’t feel comfortable, Wade. At least introduce me to your new girlfriend.”

This caused his head to jump up, absolutely horrified with her bold statement.

“She is- Dr. Hart is not my girlfriend.”

So she was the new doctor, she thought. 

Getting up from her bar stool, mocking his statement.

“Well, since I haven’t been here in some time, I’ll introduce myself anyway. Besides, she’s the only face I haven’t recognized for the six hours of being back here. I’ll just ask her myself.”

Reaching out on the other end, he’d tried to stop her, “Baby, no-”

Already at the opposite end of the bar, she’d called the attention of Dr. Hart sitting with her wine glass in front of her. She’d looked up with settled annoyance, wondering who was standing beside her.

Sending her a welcoming smile, she’d introduced herself, “You’re probably wondering who Kinsella called ‘Baby’ just now. Happens’ more than ya’ think. My name is Baby, it’s nice to meet you.”

The woman raised her brow, unamused, "Your name is Baby?”

Not exactly showing surprise, hating the name as much as she did. She decided to make a joke out of it to cut the obvious tension arising.

“B-A-B-Y. That’s my name. My parents didn’t care too much about picking one, so they decided to state the first thing they saw when my mama pushed me out and just stuck with it.”

A slight pause settled, then sudden laughter. The doctor had laughed at her joke while reaching out her hand, introducing herself as well.

“Dr. Zoe Hart, I’m new here. Sorry for earlier. Just thought I would have to deal with another one of Wade’s crazy ex-girlfriends. Glad to see I was wrong…I hope.”

A bit of insecurity reached her stomach, knowing it would've never been like her to be associated with Wade as more than a best friend. She boiled it down, giving Dr. Hart a smile of reassurance.

Waving her hands in front of her, dismissing the label, “No no, Wade and I are nothing like that. We grew up together, we’d been friends for some time. I haven’t been back to Bluebell in about six years, so I thought of visiting. Got homesick.”

Motioning her to sit, Dr. Hart gave her a knowing smile, “Wanna talk about it?”

Baby gave her a warm smile in response, sitting comfortably in the bar stool next to her.

–

Walking home from the Rammer Jammer to the lodging was a struggle, hoping she didn’t twist her ankle with the amount of times she’d taken a shot that afternoon. Still a light weight at heart, which was ironic considering she’d been on par with the doctor.

Dr. Zoe Hart was an incredible woman to say the least. Wanting to be a cardio-thoracic surgeon, moving to Bluebell to take after her previously unknown father’s legacy. Dr. Ethan Hart was the doctor who helped deliver Baby, which definitely made her feel sentimental to know he’d had a daughter of his own. 

Zoe grew up in New York City, which had been why she’d felt so out of place in the town. Everyone seemingly stuck to the same agendas, which was a culture shock to see Dr. Hart’s impression on the town’s new found openness to change.

Envious, Baby decided to keep the feeling so low it wouldn’t show once on her face. It was hard for her to acknowledge the fact that it was no one else’s fault but her own that she didn’t have the courage to break the norm. So she ran, like she always did.

Stumbling to find her footing, hoping she didn’t faceplant in the middle of town square. She hardly noticed the car that pulled beside her, recognizing its red exterior. 

“Baby, get in the car. I’ll take you to your room.” Wade rolled the window on the passenger side door.

Eyes barely open, she’d looked to her side, giving her friend a toothy grin, “Hey, Wade. Thought you’d be home by now.”

Wade, having no humor in his tone, gets out of the car to make his way towards Baby.

“Youre still used to city life to understand that it’s dangerous this late. A gator could've eaten ya’ for all we know.” He’d made his way to her side, holding his hand on her lower back to usher her inside of his car.

She blew a raspberry, shuffling a bit, “A gator? Nah, hopefully a bear.”

Body flushed against Wade, hearing the sound of his breathing. Snapping out of her drunken daze, now well aware of her surroundings. 

Suddenly flustered, she shooed his hand away, “I know how to walk, Kinsella. I’ve been able to do it for twenty-seven years.”

He laughed at her, ushering her into the car anyway, “Well by the looks of it you might need to take lessons from your mama again. You're stumbling like a newborn fawn.” 

Rolling her eyes while sitting in the car, she’d snipped back, “Fuck you, Wade.”

He giggles, closing the door while saying, “That’s my girl.”

–

On the drive to the lodging, it had been a relatively silent car ride. Whether it had been the exhaustion of the jet lag, or her inability to spark a conversation with the one man that made her weak in the knees. 

Wade Kinsella, a man who’d never known about his best friend’s unrequited fantasy.

She’d been pining for him for nearly thirteen years of her life, but never succeeded. Always met with the comfortability of the friend-zone, which she’d been fine with in order to still talk to her best friend. Seeing him go through girlfriends obviously made her hold back from confessing her love to the man, knowing it wouldn’t have been received the way she wanted.

By the looks of it, it seemed like he hadn’t changed a bit. 

The letter from the night she’d left Bluebell, still crumpled from age, had been sitting in her suitcase for some time. It confessed everything she couldn’t say with words, hoping it covered all of it with every pen stroke.

Her vulnerabilities, something that she had the hardest time expressing. 

Especially when she’d feared the perception of the town, judging her little girl fantasy with the town’s womanizer. It had been some time since the day she moved from Bluebell, but she hasn’t forgotten her love for the man sitting beside her.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to break out of her crush. Dating in Los Angeles had its perks, gaining experience while also getting over someone that she hadn’t even kissed. It might’ve been seen as pathetic, but she never shamed herself for it.

Well, until Roberts came along. 

“I told Tucker to back off the woman. Always leading her on, but he’d been planning to marry Lemon by the end of the year.” Wade had been going on a tangent about current events during the whole drive. Which internally she’d been grateful for, but she’d been focused on other things in the moment.

“Mhmm, sounds like a nasty situation indeed.” She’d been facing the window, still calming down from the dizziness of her head.

Wade noticed her sudden lack of amusement, smiling to himself, “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I boring you? Has the city life reduced your attention span to mush already?”

Gasping, turning to him with an appalled expression, she responded, “Excuse me? Don’t blame my dull city life with your boring stories of a couple from high school, Wade.” 

His eyes still on the road, he reached over to shove his finger to the side of her forehead. Causing her to let out a frustrated noise, which made him laugh.

“It’s not about old high school drama, Ms. B. It’s about my life, which you’d clearly have shown mighty investment in. Thought it would be appropriate to keep you well informed of what’s happening in it, that's all.”

Noticing the passive undertones of his comment, jabbing back, “Well, I’m sure the investment is mutual since you haven’t once asked about me during this whole car ride.”

He’d nearly stopped the car, but he let out a scoff to suffice.

“Excuse me, woman? I don’t know if your brain is all scrambled, due to the fact that you're a raging light weight, but you paraded your whole life in front of Dr. Hart back there. Enough for the whole bar to hear you. So, I don’t exactly have to ask.”

She’d held a confused look, embarrassed suddenly, “Everything? I said everything?”

He blew a raspberry, shaking his head, “Your relationship with your mama, your aspirations as a reporter, getting laid off about a week ago, and how you want to make things right with Bluebell before you’d take off again.”

Ignoring his previous statement, her anxiety bubbling in her chest, she’d questioned, “What about Roberts? Did I mention him?”

Shock in his face, he turned to her side, “I’m sorry, who?”

A ring from her pocket caused her to jump in her seat, quickly pulling it out of her jeans. Speaking of the devil, she thought to herself. Answering the phone with an annoyed sigh, greeting the man on the other end with an unamused welcome. 

“What the hell do you want?”

The greeting caused Kinsella to hold a grimace, not wanting to get involved. He couldn’t help but overhear the conversation, since she’d been having it in his car. He’d only assumed the person on the other end was her mother, knowing they ended on bad terms.

Baby, how’s it going? The other end asked her.

“How’s it going? That’s all you got for me, Roberts?”

Wade looked towards his side, suddenly curious of the mysterious man that she’d referred to as ‘Roberts’ while holding this murderous look on her face. He’d only seen her like this occasionally, usually when she’d been teased in primary school.

It was different this time. Baby looked heart broken, lower lip quivering a bit when she spoke. 

I know you're upset, Baby. Please, can we talk in person? The other man comforted.

Letting out a sigh, Baby thought about it for a moment. Realizing that she’d spent this whole time running from her issues, even if one of the biggest ones was sitting right next to her. She wasn’t going to succumb to poor coping mechanisms, not anymore. 

“Fine, meet me here. At Bluebell.” Eyes rolling in annoyance. 

I’ll be there in a day. Take care, Baby. The line ended at that moment.

Wade held a consoling look on his face, truly unsure whether or not he should get involved with his friend’s secret affairs. He’d never seen her so emotionally invested. Not in anyone, which irked him. He was convinced she’d truly cared for this person, which made an unknown feeling settle in his stomach.

“Is- uh- Is everything alright, Baby?”

Wiping a tear that threatened to escape, ridding the evidence, she answered, “I’m fine, Wade. Just the heat gettin’ to me, that's all. You were tellin’ me about Lemon and George, they gettin’ engaged?”

Her swift change in subject unsettled something in Wade’s mind. Not wanting to cross the boundaries she’d clearly set, he’d thought to just keep driving. Talking about the engagement, while his fist balled on the steering wheel a bit too tight. 

–

Waking up after a night full of the unknown, well temporary unknown, Baby woke up with a slight headache. Heat caking her sweat, making it stick to her hair to her forehead, wishing for some relief when she’d made her way to the bathroom. She’d gulped down some water from the faucet.

Pouring some of it in her hands, wiping her face with the cold liquid. Sighing in relief, hoping the pounding of her head would ease. She’d jumped from her spot in front of the sink, hearing the ringtone of her cellphone increase the pains of her hangover.

Walking to the nightstand, while grabbing the phone, her eyes widened with shock.

Her ex-boyfriend was calling her. On her damn cellphone?

Panicked, she answered it. Concerned she might've done something she’d regretted the night prior when she’d gotten too carried away. 

Hey Baby, I wanted to let you know that I’ll be in Bluebell in the evening. Finding a flight was quite difficult. You already know what the schedule is, but anything for you darling. See you soon. 

“But-” The line ended without a word escaping her lips. 

Shaking her arms, stomping like a child, she’d let out an aggravated groan. She didn’t want to see her shitty ex-boyfriend. It was the whole reason she wanted to have this getaway, to forget her responsibilities back at home.  

It was too late to cancel, since he’d already been on the way here. It was almost noon, she’d already slept in way too late. She had no idea what to do, since her mind hadn’t settled from the last time she’d seen the man.

“God dammit!” She rushed to get ready. Putting on sweats with a loose white t-shirt, stumbling to put on her sneakers.

Leaving her lodging in a flash, rushing over to the Rammer Jammer. 

–

Wade had been cleaning the bar countertop, swooning over the brunette that sat on the opposite end of the tables. Wine glass in hand, talking with Levon Hayes, the town mayor who she'd been friends with.

As he’d scanned to see who’d arrived at the door, he’d held a staple smirk in her direction.

“You feelin’ alright, Baby? Need me to help ya’ to your seat?”

Baby ignored the man talking, rushing to Dr. Hart with assumed confidence in her step. It was truly unmistakable fear, her face painted with immense dread. Baby made her way to where Levon and her sat, immediately out of breath.

“Dr. Hart, I need your help with something.”

Levon turned around, a smile spreading across his face, “Oh, hey Baby! I heard you were back in town. It’s nice to see you.”

His clear lack of reading the room made it a bit awkward.

Baby gave him a smile, trying to settle her panic, “Hey, Levon, how's it going?”

Just as he’d opened his mouth to answer, it was cut short. Noticing the woman in front of him looked as though she’d run a mile to get there. 

Dr. Hart sprung out of her seat, ushering over to her new patient, “What’s wrong, Baby? Are you alright?”

Eyebrows contorting into the middle of her forehead, she’d let out a whine when saying, “It’s so much worse than you think, doc.”

Zoe, like it had been an unspoken rule, she’d immediately understood Baby’s panic. It had been about a boy, one she didn’t want to be caught alive with.

“Oh, boy.” Zoe ushered her to an open table. Sitting beside her as they motioned to sit.

Leaning forward, not wanting to speak above a whisper, she’d asked, “So, is this about a man?”

Baby nodded, gulping on nothing. Pushing her glasses up, sweat accumulating on her forehead from the heat.

“My ex-boyfriend, he’s on his way here. To Bluebell.”

Dr. Hart, shocked to hear the news, wanted to clarify, “Is he flying from L.A. to fix a mistake he’d made? How romantic. Why is this a bad thing?”

Hesitating, looking over at the two men looking over from the bar. Like they’d tried to attain the skill of mouth-reading at that moment. 

“What do you think those ladies are talkin’ about?” Wade asked the man in front of him.

Levon cleared his throat, looking back at the bar away from the girls, “If I had to guess, Baby is havin’ some trouble with a guy.”

Wade, eyes popping out of his skull, denied the statement, “Baby? Havin’ boy trouble? Like she’d ever.”

Whether it was an insult or a word of sentiment, they both shot their heads back at the ladies’ table once Zoe stood up in her seat in dramatic fashion.

“He what!?” She’d shouted so loud for the whole bar to hear.

Their gazes shifted to the woman now holding her head down on the table, embarrassed. Zoe, enraged from the statement her new friend uttered in her ear moments prior.

Levon smiled, turning his way back to the bar while clarifying his previous assumption, “Yup, she’s having boy trouble.”

Baby’s head perked up from where she’d just had her head down, tears brimming her eyes. Zoe, embarrassed of her outburst, placed her hand on Baby’s. Determination written on her face, assurance with her tone.

“He will regret ever letting go of such a wonderful woman once he sees you tonight.”

Baby’s shock was apparent, it was like she’d heard a different dialect come out of Zoe’s mouth. 

“What are you talkin’ about?” Turning her head to the side.

Zoe grabbed Baby’s arm, ushering her to get up. Telling her to wait by the entrance as she rushed to make a call, one calling her office to let them know she’d be showing up a bit late after her lunch. Chugging down her wine, immediately regretting it with a hackle.

Wade, giggling at the act, teased her, “Woah, what’s the rush, doc? Is Baby havin’ a heart failure she has to seek immediate medical attention for?”

Zoe, determined in her glare, indicated no sense of humor when saying, “You could say that.”

They rushed out of the Rammer Jammer, hoping to make it to the nearest shopping square with immediate attention. 

Levon watched as they left, elongating his verbiage once he said, “Boyyyy troubleeee.”

Wade smacked Levon’s arm with humorous annoyance, causing the man to let out a slight chuckle at his correct assumption. While Wade turned to the bar, he couldn’t erase the picture of Baby’s face in his mind. Seeing her so heart broken, always at the cusp of crying. He’d felt a twinge in his heart, not wanting to know the answer to the bodily reaction.

–

“Dr. Hart, I don’t think this is the look I’m goin’ for.”

Tits out on display, nearly an entire open back. It was like she’d been a different woman, granted her modesty had been a very well known attribute of hers. There had been times during her journey as a reporter where she had to step out of her comfort zone, like it had been a uniform for work.

It was never out of her own comfort, which had been an entirely new playing field for her.

“Come on, Baby. You look amazing! How else is anyone going to see that gorgeous back tattoo if you don’t flaunt it?”

Baby did have a back tattoo. Not exactly seeing a reason for getting it; she thought it would be a good way to express her own independence at the moment. Roberts definitely liked looking at it, which made her stomach tie up in knots.

“It’s not doing too much? What if it’s too slutty?” Noticing the curvature of her waist, extenuating her hips beautifully. 

Laughing, Zoe assured, “Oh trust me. City guys dive deep into slutty. He’d be an idiot to call you anything but a catch tonight.”

Smiling, feeling a sudden burst of confidence, she turned to the fitting room to change back into her regular clothes. Walking out with the dress in her hands, grabbing the pair of shoes to go with it, she’d paused at the lingerie section.

Heat rising in her flesh, she’d scanned over the variety of different laced panties. Not wanting to get too carried away, noting that this whole dinner was to get back at her ex-boyfriend for his shitty actions. Make him regret it all, while ultimately leaving him in the dark.

“I would go with those. Maybe you’d bring home another guy on the way to your room? Make sure to rub it in his face.” Zoe grabbed a white bralette to pair with the laced undies that complimented the dress she’d worn. Definitely something Baby wasn’t usually caught wearing, other than the comfort of her own home.

Well, Roberts had seen way more than a pair of lingerie, which still rose a familiar heat in her face. Not wanting to remember the effect he had on her within all their intimate moments.

 While they ushered to pay, the woman behind the counter looked at Dr. Hart.

“All these for the night out, Dr Hart? Make sure you're not making a mistake you're gonna regret when this heat wave breaks.” 

Zoe ushered her hands out, denying the implications, “No these aren’t for me. It’s Baby’s special night tonight.”

The cashier’s eyes popped out of her skull, looking over at the woman beside her. With her tiny glasses, tomboy-ish clothes, and worn out sneakers. The cashier wanted to see if there'd been another woman behind her, but to no avail it was true. It was all, Baby. 

With her mouth hung open, she placed the clothing in a bag. Giving it to Baby, not saying a word as they both ushered out of the store.

As they made their way to the entrance, Zoe made a comment, “It looks like she’s not the only one to be stoked for the new look.”

They both giggled, making their way back towards the mayor's plantation, where Dr. Hart’s carriage house resided.

– 

Looking in the mirror, she couldn't believe who she'd even seen on the other end. Doing her make-up, Zoe had assisted with the basics. Granted, all the skill came from Baby herself, which ultimately surprised her. She’d acquired monthly contacts, which she’d only used on rare occasions. She’d been grateful to pack them, since the tiny glasses weren’t the exact chic look she’d been trying to achieve.

“Holy moly. Girl you look so good, I’d even kiss you. Is that weird?” 

Laughing, she’d turned to face Zoe, giving her a kiss on the cheek, “Yes, but I’m weirder.” 

They both laughed, settling once they heard the front door open.

Kinsella, motioning over to the main room where they both stood. Looking over at Zoe first, hoping she’d solve the current bleed on his stomach that oozed into his shirt. 

“Yo, doc. I nicked myself trying to fix my car, hoping for your magic touch.” He’d smiled flirtatiously at her. 

Noticing she hadn’t been alone, he gazed over to a seemingly unknown person beside her.

“Oh, my bad. Didn’t know you had company. I’ll meet you back at the office.”

His flirtatious gleam stopped a moment, noticing a familiarity in the woman beside Dr. Hart. Nearly broke his jaw with the immediate identification he’d noticed once those familiar dimples were apparent. 

“Well I should get goin’ anyway. He should be here within the next half hour. Feel better, Wade.” 

Heels clinking every time she stepped, moving her way past the man with astute confidence. Hips swaying like an enchantress, like she’d been made to be a trap for any man or woman that looked her way. She’d outdone herself and she knew that. It only provided that much more confidence in her stride.

She’d touched his shoulder, granting him a comforting smile. It set off something so deep within him that immediately wanted to pull away from the woman in front of him.

She didn’t notice him tense, since she’d turned behind her to give Dr. Hart a wave, “Thanks for this, Dr. Hart. Bluebell would be lost without cha’.” 

Zoe giggled, watching her friend walk out of the carriage house. Looking over at visually stunned Wade, noticing the cut across his stomach. He’d still hadn’t said anything, not even when Zoe ushered him outside of the carriage house. 

– 

“What do you mean the reservation is canceled?!” Baby yelled at her telephone in frustration. 

The reservations for Francies’, a well known place for dates in the city. It had been the only place in Bluebell that had catering, which she’d known that her bougie ex-boyfriend would've had a preference for. Mobile haven been a couple hours away, she knew Francie’s was the only place to have the conversation.

The only other place was the Rammer Jammer, which definitely wasn’t accustomed to the attire she wore. 

Hanging up the phone, leaving the hostess on the other end from speaking their formalities, she’d wanted to rush to her room to change. She knew this idea was a poor judgement on her part, wanting to seek comfort with what she’d known best. 

That was until a fancied vehicle pulled up, parking nearby. A gentleman got out of the car, one that screamed entitled. He had a slick back, loose hairs complimenting his chiseled jawline. He’d been tall, posture straight. Everything on him was clean, from his nice dress shirt, tanned slacks to his shiny loafers. Roberts was a well known reporter in Los Angeles, one prestigious in class and title. 

He’d not only been her ex-boyfriend, but he was also her old boss. He’d been the same man to lay her off a week prior.

Even with that being said, that’s not even the worst part about the man.

Him holding a panty dropping smile, he’d made his way to her direction, “Baby, it’s so nice to see you.”

Trying not to throw up in her mouth, she’d sighed, “Hi, Roberts.”

Holding her chin up, causing her to swat it away, he’d smiled at her defiance, “Don’t be like that, honey. I know you're still mad at me, but you don't want to go into dramatics.”

Almost gritting her teeth, she’d replied with frustration, “Mad doesn’t even scratch the surface, honey.” Venom etched into the last word as she spoke.

Laughing at her ferocity, he’d let out a click of his tongue, “Still as spicy as ever. Perfect foreplay.”

Letting out a breath of obvious disgust, she replied, "You're disgusting.”

Looking at his watch, he’d ignored her comment, asking, “So where are we taking this sexual tension for tonight? A restaurant, or are we skipping straight to the bedroom? Hopefully not one with a gator.”

Letting out a frustrated sigh, knowing the man had only one intention of making it up to the woman in front of him. Fucking the resentment out of her was something that her ex-boyfriend did quite frequently, which never truly gotten rid of it. No matter how many times he’d push to outdo her expectations, nothing ever stuck.

“Reseverations cancelled when you got here. So, we will have to make due with the only place that serves enough booze to refrain me from ripping your throat out with my teeth.” She hadn’t been joking.

Smiling at her statement,taking what she said as flirting, he’d given her a once over, “Well, lets get going. I don’t know how much longer I can go on without wanting to rip something of my own with my teeth.”

Anger bubbling in her skull, she’d walked ahead of Roberts. Motioning him to follow. 

She only had one place she’d known would crush his ego, which was the only place that she’d known to keep her mind off his clear flirtatious advances. One that she’d known was her childhood crush as the bartender.

–

Walking into the Rammer Jammer, it was nothing short of a surprise for the whole crowd that sat within to witness. Baby, the presumed tom-boy, had looked like she’d been pulled out of a fashioned magazine. While a fancied, handsome young man stood beside her, giving the establishment a disgusted once over.

“Are we staying here? If I’d known I would’ve brought a roll of wipes. Maybe even bleach. Nope, bleach isn’t strong enough.”

Pulling his arm, pushing him forward, she’d let out an annoyed grumble. 

“Youre trying to make it up to me, remember? Sit your ass down.” She let out an annoyed grumble of curses to herself.

Sitting down, it felt as though the whole establishment had their eyes on her. Which suddenly made her feel insecure, arms crossing over her chest to hide within herself. She hurried herself into the chair, looking at the man’s disgust at the cutlery and tabletops.

He’d reached to get his phone out of his pocket, looking over at Baby, “This is ridiculous. I’ll just see if a place in Mobile has an open table for us. We can’t stay here-”

“Welcome, folks. I’m Wade, I’ll be here if you have any questions.”

Looking up at him, she’d seen his eyes shooting lasers at the man in front of her. Jaw clenched, veins popping out of his forehead. He hadn’t once looked over at the woman sitting so close to where he stood, he could practically feel the heat off of her. 

Roberts, stopping his actions, looked up at Wade like he’d been a familiar face. Looking over at Baby with an expression that only was presumed ill-intent.

He’d reached his hand out, “So, you're the Wade that my Baby keeps talking about.”

She wanted to crawl into her own body and escape. Not wanting to be a part of whatever crazy conversation this was about to start. 

Wade shook his hand, giving it a firm squeeze, maybe a bit too firm.

“Yeah, guess that would be me.” Wade still bore eyes with the man.

Roberts let out a taunting laugh, retreating his hand to rest it on the table in front of him, “Why so uptight, man? Is it the heat?”

Wade sends a laughter, lacking humor, in return. Stating, “You know those Alabama heat waves, man. Bring out the worst in folks’ around here.”

“Ah, I see. Won’t take it personally then. Since you clearly want my head gone with the way you're starin’ at me.” Roberts' jaw clenched with the last word he spoke.

Trying to ease the tension, she’d tried to gently divert the conversation, “How’s the cut, Wade? Did Dr. Hart patch you up already?”

Looking over at her for the first time since Zoe’s carriage house, he had anger glossed over his eyes. Trying to mask it with a flirtatious smile, shining his whites at Baby.

“Nothing you gotta worry about, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? She internally repeated to herself.

It caused Baby to internally jump in her seat, hearing him call her a name so endearing. It made her whole face flush, goosies travel up her skin.

Roberts’ blew a raspberry, expressing clear boredom, “Alright, are you guys secretly fuckin’ now or what? Did you move on that quick, Baby?”

The statement that was heard caused Baby to snap out of the trance she’d caught up in. Making the bile traveling up her throat so putrid.

“Thanks for your hospitality, Wade. I got it covered from here.” She managed to utter out.

Wade had looked over at her face, trying to contain the rage within him. It hadn’t been helpful since the man on the other end wouldn’t stop talking. 

Roberts, egging Wade on, kept going with his taunts, “That’s right. Be a good boy and go catch some fish for us to eat. This menu itself is a health code violation."

Wade dropped his towel that rested on his shoulder, walking over to his side of the table, “Keep talkin’, Romeo.”

Roberts’ smirked, getting up in his seat now, “Romeo, huh? Only wish you’d been something of the sort yourself. Since I’d have your precious Juliet bent over for me and not you.”

“Keep runnin’ your mouth, asshole.” Wade grabbed the collar of Roberts’ dress shirt, clearly wanting to use his other hand to punch the lights out of him. A fight, Baby knew, Roberts’ would lose.

One thing about her ex-boyfriend was that he was all talk. Wade knew how to fight, he’d leave him in a state that even Dr. Hart wouldn’t be able to resuscitate him. 

Standing up in her chair, tired of the conflict, shouting, “Children!”

Both of them stopped, looking over at her direction.

Holding clear exhaustion in her tone, motioning them both to stop with her hands, “Wade, get your hands off of him. Roberts’, within’ the kindness of my soul, shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

The boys let go, motioning themselves to provide distance. Wade gave him a death stare, moving to the end of the table where Baby stood. 

Husky voice whispering in her ear, “I’ll have your whiskey in a moment, baby.”

Wade gave her a look, indicating he’d implied the name with a different meaning. She’d tried to ignore the heat that traveled up her neck, giving him an awkward lined smile. Nodding her head, as he’d motioned to the bar.

Roberts’, sighing in relief, fixed his collar, “Really, Baby? Him? I’d presumed maybe he’d be a lot less dirty lookin’, but he looks like he showers in grease.”

Looking at him now, biting the urge to scream, she spat out, “You have a lot of nerve.”

“Don’t tell me you're offended now. Look at this place, Baby. I understand why you wanted to leave so badly. You would've never made it far here.” Opening his arms to grant attention to the space around them.

Tears brimming her eyes, biting back at his insult to her home, “You have no right to be judging where the hell I’d started my life, comparing it to your privileges.”

“Like it matters anyway. You just want to go back to Los Angeles. I can see it in your face.”

She’d started shouting, not because she didn’t care, but she was tired of the world demeaning her life like it had been theirs to judge. Letting out a pained noise, tears now escaping as she spoke.

“How could you even say that? Knowing what the hell you’ve done to me? To us?”

The whole establishment turned to face them. Baby didn’t care, she kept going.

“How could I want to go to a place like that, knowing any semblance of anything reminds me of you? We built a home, but that wasn’t even enough for you.”

Roberts’ chuckled, not taking her words seriously, “Like it had been entirely my fault, Baby. You were gone. Like you’d disappeared no matter how many times I’d tried to bring you back. Your mind was somewhere else, or on someone else.”

Baby bit the side of her cheek, trying to bite back sobs, “You don’t get to do that.”

Roberts’, tilting his head to taunt her, “Oh, so I assume you haven’t told him yet.”

Slamming her fist on the table, causing everyone in the vicinity to jump. 

“Did we forget why you even are here, Roberts’? Need I remind you, our relationship was gone as soon as you brought another woman into our bed. Our bed. That was before you laid me off of a job because I stopped having sex with you.”

Roberts’ charisma died, settling with a masked embarrassment. Swaying side to side, while side-eyeing the man behind the bar. Wade had held a shocked expression, one that expressed as much heartbreak as Baby had been pouring out. Same with everyone else in that room.

“Baby, I-”

She’d walked over to the bar, grabbing the drink that had been placed on the counter. Not even making eye contact with Kinsella. Now standing in front of Roberts’, pouring the contents of the glass on top of him. He didn’t even motion for her to stop, he’d just occasionally mess with his eyes due to the sting of the alcohol.

Placing the glass on the table, holding a tight expression of distaste, the last tear escaped her eye that ruined her pretty makeup.

“I know why you're here, Roberts’. You got a call earlier that a job opening from our competitors hired me to take their open position, so you wanted me back.”

Leaning towards him, now taunting him, “Now, I may not be all tits like that skank was, but I’m a goddamn good reporter. You know as well as anyone, so you flew all the way here to try to cover your careless mistake.” 

Roberts’ looked around, noticing everyone's eyes on him. Knowing she’d been bashing on his reputation to a bunch of residents in Bluebell, Alabama. 

“Baby, I’m sorry. I know I messed up. Please, let me make it up to you.” He grazed her cheek to try to wipe the tears staining them.

She flinched, moving away from his touch like it burned her.

“You can’t fuck your way out of this one, Roberts. Good talk.” Baby grabbed her belongings out of her chair, walking over to the entrance with intent. Not once looking back to see the reaction of the establishment to the now lone businessman that stood with whiskey staining his designer shirt. 

–

Sobbing into her lap, leaning against the ottoman of her lodging, she’d desperately tried to stop the heartache corrupting her. She wished to have chugged the whiskey instead of pouring it on him, not wanting to waste the only thing that would help ease the pain. Haven threw her heels by the bed, already taking out her contacts to put on her tiny glasses. Wiping off her makeup - feeling every vulnerability.

She heard a knock on her hotel door. Causing her to jump, shooting her head up.

Annoyed, assuming it had been Roberts’ again, stated, “Go away, Roberts’. Haven’t you humiliated yourself enough?”

A voice on the other end replied, “I don’t think he has. Maybe we could put worms in his designer shoes?”

The voice familiar, caused her to spring up from where she sat and opened the door. The blonde hair, chestnut hazel blue eyes, chiseled jawline with the white beater with a chain; a persona only befitting Wade Kinsella.

“Oh god, Wade. Sorry you had to see that.”

He gave a comforting smile, holding a bottle in his hands, “Not here to make you feel bad about it. Can I come in?”

Smiling, she ushered him inside. Closing the door behind her. 

“And as much as I’d love to see his reaction, it would only feel right to only do that to Lemon.” She giggled.

Wade smiled, placing the bottle on the hotel side table, “She hasn’t forgotten about that by the way. No matter how many times I tried tellin’ er it wasn’t you. Ever since you'd shown up, she can’t stop talkin’ about it.” Lemon was the woman that kept teasing Baby in primary school. She’d been the victim to the worm-sandwich, which immediately stopped her rullish teasing then on. 

Grabbing the styrofoam cups by the hotel coffee machine, giving it to Wade to pour the contents into the cup. Thanking him once he’d filled her glass, sitting at the end of the ottoman where she’d found comfort.

Wade went to the opposite side of the room, sitting on the floor across from her, leaning against the wall. Sipping his glass, holding a hesitant look on his face.

Smiling at him, reading his intent like it'd been the back of her hand, “What is it, Kinsella? I know you want to tell me somethin’.”

Taking another swig of his cup, he cleared his throat, “Everything okay with you?”

Giving him a lined smile, indicating his question was obviously answered from the night she’d just showcased, he apologized. 

Not wanting to come off as harsh, she reassured, “I appreciate your concern, Wade. I’m doin’ alright. I wasn’t the one who embarrassed themself tonight.”

Wade laughed, taking another swig, poking fun, “Yeah, it was obviously the guy that had a last name as their first name. What a dreamboat.”

The joke made Baby spit out the drink she just tried sipping, noting that Kinsella’s statement had totally been true. Making them both bust out with gentle laughter, belly fluttering with olden joy of the past. They’d shared moments of the past in the moment while sharing the bottle, memories when they were both younger. 

As they drank more, the more the room spun. Causing Baby to lay down on the hotel floor, eyes staring at the ceiling as the world swirled in her vision. Wade was no better, laying beside her as they both stared at the ceiling.

A chuckle caught her attention, making her look over at his face.

“Was’ so funny, Kinsella?” Slight slurs of her verbiage apparent.

He giggled, looking at the ceiling, “Last time I’d seen you this drunk, it was your twenty-first. All stumbly and mumbly. It was cute.”

Maybe it was the alcohol making him a lot more forward with his feelings, but it made a heat creep up in her lower belly. Causing her to look at the ceiling again, hiding her sudden flush of emotion.

Wade, not noticing, went on, “It was also the day after, when you left.”

The statement brought her mood down immediately, causing a wave of guilt and sadness to course through her. She thought to listen, not hearing Wade open up about his feelings often unless it was about his family. 

He turned to face her, eyes full of vulnerability, “Why’d you have to go, Baby?”

She turned to face him this time, feeling the weight of his stare on her cheek. Stumbling to find an answer, she thought of the first thing that came to her head.

“It was my mother.” stating with hesitancy, which had been a half-truth. 

Not fully believing it, he turned to the ceiling, “I’ve known you for a good fifteen-years of my life back then. You didn’t care what people thought of you, let alone your mother. Now you're telling me it was because of her you never said goodbye to anyone?”

Sighing, feeling the conversation turning into conflict, “Wade, you're drunk. Maybe we should have this conversation tomorrow.”

Chuckling to himself, he shook his head, “How do I know if I got enough time to do so, Baby? What would stop you from leavin’ tomorrow mornin’ with that hope in my head?”

Emotion bubbling in her throat, already exhausted from the day’s endeavors, “Wade, I’m sorry for leavin’. I told you already. If I never left that night I would've never left at all. You know my aspirations were always a reach in this town, so I thought you’d understand.”

Nodding his head, now getting up from where he laid, turning to her gaze, “I woulda’ supported you. You just made it seem like it never mattered. Our friendship, or this town never mattered to you.”

The statement left her shocked, watching Wade get up to his feet to grab the empty bottle from the table. Baby sat up from where she laid, still feeling slightly dizzy. 

Stumbling her words, trying to find logic from the drunken emotion, “You do matter to me, Wade. You have always been so important to me. Along with the people here. How could you say that to me?” 

Tears brimming her eyes, sudden bile reaching her throat. Wade made his way to the front door, looking at her get up from where she sat with a slight wobble of her legs. 

“This whole time, I’d thought maybe it had been a selfish decision. You’d want a better life outside the city that raised you, like everyone else did. Forgettin’ what was built here; connections. Now, you come home. Everyone realized tonight that you’d just pushed them away for your own benefit. To push them away from letting them see how miserable you are.”

Eyes, raw from crying, only pained when they started once more.

Baby, desperately trying to build those walls again, snapped back, “Like you have any right to tell me that, Kinsella.”

He made his way to her, pushing past his placement near the front door, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Continuing, she pushed towards him, “Wade Kinsella, the town's womanizer. Who hasn’t slept with this guy? Hope he settles down soon, before it’s too late. Sound familiar?”

Chuckling, he let out a breath, “I’d least expected that coming out of your mouth, Baby. Real classy.”

Motioning forward, nearly within six feet from him, she continued, “We are grown, Kinsella. Maybe some of that should be a wake up call! Have you told Dr. Hart about your feelings for her yet?”

He stepped forward a bit, “Wouldn’t you like to know, reporter? Would you like that on the record?" 

Huffing, she turned around with annoyance, “Unbelievable.”

“What’s unbelievable is your sudden taste for the privilege. Did it feel nice while it lasted?”

Mouth agape, she stepped in front of Wade to be close to his face, “Watch it, Kinsella.”

He leaned in close, to where their noses touched, “You threatening me with a worm-sandwich? Not like you have enough whiskey to pour on my head, Baby.” 

Breath coming out in long drags, feeling the anger pool in her face, “You want to know why I left, Kinsella? Huh?”

His face, anguished, asked, “Why is that?”

She leaned in close, enough to be within inches of his lips, “It was because of you.”

He’d been stunned, stepping back within a moment. Processing her words, eyebrows contorting in confusion. 

“I don’t understand.” He’d tilted his head.

Baby, holding a tight grimace, motioned forward, “You are truly oblivious, Wade.”

He’d paused for a moment, before it hit him. No, before it absolutely destroyed him. The one person he’d thought of to be his only support system, had left because of him. She loved him so much, it pained to see him walk all over it without a care. Like it was with Roberts’ that night, wanting more but receiving false promises.

That night, during her twenty-first, she’d been alone that morning. Comforted by her best friend, hearing his blabbering aspirations in life. Wanting more than to just leave town, join the army like his brother did. Not wanting to carry the responsibilities of taking care of his pops’, holding the burden of starting his life later. Hoping she’d hear this with drunken ears, not knowing it would change her perspective forever. 

Her childhood, she’d spent yearning for the man in front of her. Wanting nothing more than to provide the comfort he’d needed, someone who’d understood his situation. Not realizing, she’d just turned out to be the same as him.

Longing for a future, wanting to make something of herself. Baby made a decision that day, wanting to leave Bluebell for the sake of her future. Her mother wanted something more for her. To be the perfect daughter, taking care of her needs like she’d been tasked with a job. Baby never wanted a life of longing anymore, she’d wanted to be someone. 

Yet, she’d landed with the short end of it. Moving to Los Angeles, meeting a guy at the company she’d applied to. Ended up finding out he’d been an executive, decided to date the man anyway. Always longed for his attention, always met short. She’d pushed through, ended up scoring a spot with another agency. 

Yet, she’d never felt so lonely.

Standing in front of Wade, she’d only been reminded of her naive hopes. Wanting to make something of herself, but he's honestly right. She was miserable, maybe that’s why it had pushed her to come back to rekindle what had been broken.

Baby, walking over to her suitcase, grabbed a small letter that was crumpled with age. Handing it to Wade, hoping he’d take it.

“What is this?” Hesitant with taking the letter, still holding it within his hand.

She sighed, answering, “A letter I was supposed to give to you when I’d left Bluebell after my twenty-first.”

His breath shook, looking down at the letter in his hand. 

Baby stepped back, motioning him to the door, “Read it, yourself. Outside this door. Depending on what you decide, I’ll be here. I’ll be fine with whatever decision you make, Wade.”

He let out a breath, slightly nervous, “What is that supposed to mean, Baby?”

She smiled, reassuring him, “You’ll see.”

As he made his way out the door, it shut within a moment. His eyes scanned hers, until the very last moment the door intercepted their eye contact.

–

Dear Wade,

I’d hope this is received well. Knowing the panic happening about now. I can imagine the fright my sudden absence is bringing to Bluebell. I know this was a sudden change, not expecting it myself. 

I at least wanted to be honest with you, Wade. Not sure where to start with it, since I hadn’t really been this honest with anyone. It helps writing this drunk, which you’d clearly made sure to take care of the mess the night prior. 

I guess I could start with that. You’re a good friend, Wade. Always sticking with those you care about, defending people of this community like it’s family. Going out of your way to make people feel heard - appreciated like it’s home. That’s why it was so easy to talk to you, knowing someone with just as much chaos as I would understand where it came from.

Being there when my parents fought, letting me stay in your dad’s house. Always ushering me to ignore the messes, even if it made me feel safe knowing I’d have a home to run to. When I'd get teased, you’d help get the spray cans and the smelly socks to get them back. Like I’d done to help you and George Tucker get back at Jimmy Praboo, even if it bit you in the ass afterwards.

You’d shown me courage. Especially the courage to get me out of this town. I know, probably not what you want to hear right now. Just listen and don’t rip the paper yet.

I know you’d probably not been aware, but I’d heard everything you’d said to me this morning. I know, I know. You're definitely fighting the urge to throw this paper out. It brought a new perspective within myself, to want to move past these responsibilities. Yeah, it may be a naive way of living, but you inspired me to be unapologetic about my dreams. My drive to be a better person, to be there for myself. You’d always done that, Wade. Always so damn good at it too. God has favorites. 

I don’t want to leave this town, knowing the man that showed me what love felt like would still be here. It brings me comfort knowing the man will always be unapologetically himself, helping those without a worry of his own. 

I just hope you celebrate this with people who love you, Wade. With those who care just as much as you do for others. Please take care of yourself. Who else is supposed to be my biggest fan when I fly my private jets? Also, say bye to everyone for me, I’d only had time to write you one, haha. 

See you in L.A. in my mansion, 

Ms. B

P.S. Actually, don’t call me, I’m a busy lady. 

– 

Waiting on the other side of the ominous looking door, she’d felt like the world was on her shoulders at that moment. Pacing back and forth, looking at the clock every now and then. Seeing that thirty-minutes had passed, it was about the time she'd felt was enough to stop avoiding the obvious rejection.

He hadn’t knocked once, which she’d only assumed he’d left. 

Baby remembered the letter being quite cheesy, not really knowing how to express her feelings without sounding like a little girl at heart. 

Walking over to the front door, waiting to see an empty hallway on the other side. What she didn't expect was Wade hovering his fist over the door, standing in the motion. Raising her eyebrows in surprise, she didn't know if this had been a hallucination that protected herself from the obvious rejection.

“Wade?” She questioned. Wanting to make sure his presence was tangible. 

He’d moved inside the room, causing her to back up with every step he took. Trying to read his face, not sure what clouded his mind. He’d looked conflicted, unsure what to do with himself. It was unlike Kinsella to do, since he’d exuded confidence with every action he took. Unapologetically himself.

Not now. Not with her. 

She’d started to get nervous, stumbling with words, “Are you alright?”

Still nothing out of the man in front of her. The baby walked behind her, grabbing her phone from her night side table. 

“Look, I can call Dr. Hart if this is stress induced. Even if it’s late, maybe she’d answer-”

Once she looked up, Wade was standing in front of her. He’d grabbed her phone from her hands, throwing it on the hotel side table with a thud. Assuming his reaction was out of frustration, Baby immediately apologized.

“I’m sorry for what I said about Dr. Hart. It was out of place. Let’s just talk about this, Wade.”

A hand cupped her cheek, causing a shudder to escape her mouth. The hand moved upward, its warmth trailing to take the glasses off of her face. Blurred vision, occupied every slow motion Wade made with his hand.

The intensity of his stare was enough to send a shiver down her spine. Unsure what it meant.

“Wade..”

He placed her glasses where her phone was, still looking at her face with conflicting emotions behind them. Hand grazing back to her cheek, trailing down to her chin, tilting her head up. 

“No need for a doctor, Baby. I know exactly what I need.”

Heart thumping out of her chest, practically ramming into her skull. Still in denial of the present, she’d do anything to escape the moment.

“You don’t…You don’t know what you're saying, Wade.” He made a flirtatious smile, enough to make Baby’s knees weak. Always had and always will. 

Swiping his thumb on her bottom lip, saying, “Weren’t you the one sayin’ we are grown?”

He’d inched closer, making it nearly impossible for the woman in front of him to breathe. All she could do is nod her head, dazed from the touch the man had been giving her. 

“So since I’m grown. I can make my own decisions, right?” His other hand snaked to her waist, pulling it forward to bring her lips closer to his.

“Is this a decision that you're making with the right head, Kinsella?” She managed to tease. 

He let out a shuddered breath at the comment, moving them over to the side table where the bottle rattled with the sudden movement. Still hovering lips, just enough to feel their breath against them.

“Oh, Baby…you have no idea.” His left hand trailed to the back of her neck, lips barely touching, but enough to feel the heat on them. 

Breathing short, still finding it hard to move, she clenched her hands against the edge of the table. Not motioning to touch him back, not wanting to commit until she’d been sure.

“Feelin’ a little historic, Wade? You gettin’ all worked up once I've shown the ankle now, huh?”

He’d grabbed her chin, gently moving it to gain access to her neck. Bending down, breathing in her scent. The act made her shiver, as he traveled up her nape to her ear. Breath heavy, like he’d been trying to restrain himself from absolutely losing it.

Whispering sweetness in her ear, right hand holding her jaw in place, “I’ve always known you’d been beautiful, Baby. I don’t know why it took you so long to realize that.” The statement absolutely shattered her, reducing herself to mush. Trying to save her dignity, she tried her last and final attempt to restrain herself. 

“The heat, this will pass. Right?” 

Growing slightly frustrated, he’d finally taken action. His tongue swipes a spot underneath her ear lobe, granting a shallow breath to escape her. Wet heat soddening her laced panties, which she’d pathetically tried chasing a release. Noticing her restlessness in the sudden jut of her hips, he moved his right hand from her jaw to her waist. 

Mouth swiping over neck, sucking gently, even leaving small bites in his wake. Kissing the bruising, motioning back to her earlobe, whispering in her ear.

“Your Romeo said he tried his hardest to get you outta’ that old noggin of yours? Right?” He used his left hand, wrapping it to the back of hers. She’d confusingly nodded, wondering why he’d mentioned Roberts’ at an intimate moment like this. 

“Maybe he didn’t try hard enough.” He leaned forward, laying Baby down fully on the table. 

“Wade-” She’d panicked in the moment.

“Trust me, Baby. I’m not going anywhere. Not like I’d ever want to.” He caressed her right thigh with his right hand, riding it up her leg. 

He’d lowered himself to his knees, table tall enough to meet him where his head met her heated cunt. Reaching his right hand to push her waist forward in order to meet his head at the edge of the table. 

He spoke as he got rid of her dress, exposing her laced panties, “You wondered where my head's at, sweetheart?”

Baby’s vocabulary reduced to ‘yes’s and shuddered breaths, since her soddened pussy had spoken for herself. Wade’s pupils blew out wide, shaking a breath of desperation with every word he spoke.

“Let me show you, baby.” The last word was let out in a desperate breath. Altering the meaning of the name to a more intimate pet name, which made her internally squeal. 

Breaking her defiance, giving into her overwhelming pleasure, she nodded her head. 

“Words for me, baby. I know that mouth works.”  

His fingers swiped a line down her slit, causing a whine to escape her mouth as she answered, “Yes, Wade.”

He smirked, feeling the effect he’d had on her with just a few words. Swiping his finger once over, causing her to shudder her breath in the moment. Propping herself on her elbows, watching his hand work on her laced panties with light teases. 

A light tease grazed over her sensitive clit with a swipe, causing her to jut her hips out of desperation. He’d lightly laughed, noticing her sudden clinginess to his touches.

“Quit laughin’, Kinsella. Actually do something about it.”

Smiling, he leaned forward, enough for her to feel his breath on her panties, “Yes, ma'am." 

Taking a lick for experimentation, it immediately clouded his better judgment. He’d fully started making out with her laced cunt, lapping up the wetness that pooled out with intensity. The shudders of breaths caught in her throat, trying her best to conceal her noises to not appear needy.

Noticing, he’d moved her panties to the side, her pussy on full display. Looking up at her expression, not once breaking eye contact as he began licking her labia. Causing her to hiss, not breaking the sexual staring contest he’d set. 

His tongue moved forward from the labia, reaching her clitorous. Causing her to bite the inside of her cheek, bracing for impact. Like it's been a challenge, he’s started making out with her clit, switching from flicking with his tongue to lapping the labia. Moving up again to give her clit love again, swirling his tongue like an olympian at eating pussy.

Whines break from her throat, causing her to jut her hips with every swirl of his tongue. Instinctively reaching to his hair, fingers running through his blonde mane. Tugging him closer, applying more pressure to his descent on her clit. It caused him to groan, moving his hands to the sides of her waist to apply impossibly more pressure. 

Moaning, she’d broken the staring contest by laying her head back on the table. Back arching, Wade’s descent only increased its ferocity. One of his hands, moving from her waist, met his mouth to spread open her folds.

“Wade- mffphh- fuck.” 

He’d pushed two of his thick fingers in her pussy, ushering them in out with the rhythm of his tongue on her clit. Motioning his fingers in an arched movement, causing more obscenities to escape her mouth. Feeling the bundling of intense hot pleasure rest in her lower belly, causing tears to brim her eyes.

“Sh- shit. Wade, I’m comin’ soo- fuck.” 

Groaning into her pussy, his fingers retreated back to holding her waist. Feeling the absence for only a split moment, until he’d been fully tongue fucking her, nose nudging her clit with every movement. 

The bottle on the table rutted with every motion of his head. The feeling makes Baby grab the edge of the table with one of her hands, using the other to squeeze his hair. Legs nearly suffocating the man, only egging him further. White, hot pleasure gathered behind her eyes, causing her to only say the man’s name before coming all over his mouth. 

Lapping every drop gathering on his mouth, wetness from the endeavor painting his chin. He’d helped her ride her orgasm, until the moment she’d dig her heel in his back. Ushering to stop his descent on her clit, making her nearly scream. 

“Wade!” She had to nearly kick him off of her. 

Leaning back, eyes completely dazed, he assured, “Sorry, got a bit carried away. Maybe it's the heat.” He teased with a shit eating grin.

Chin still glistening with her wetness, moving over to meet her now annoyed glare. She’d leaned forward, meeting his face halfway.

Grinning back at him, shaking her head, “You’re unbelievable.”

He bragged, jokingly, “So I’ve been told.” 

Feeling the confidence bloom in her belly, she’d finally been the one to break the initial hesitancy of kissing. Grabbing his chin, she placed her hand on his cheek. Placing a finger on his lower lip, motioning him to open his mouth slightly. He’d done it with a quiet breath, feeling her tongue pool into his mouth. Experienced, intentional. Sensual with the amount of passion behind it. He’d initially expected a couple of small ones as a warm up. She’d lapped his tongue with hers, moaning once she’d tasted herself. 

Her arms grabbed around his neck, deepening the kiss. Nearly swooned in the moment, his knees shook a bit from the intensity. Breaking the kiss suddenly, he’d let out a shallow breath. Both of them are short of oxygen, looking at each other.

“You were sayin?” She gave him a shit eating grin in return. 

He couldn’t believe this was the same woman who looked like a typical a-typical tomboy, inexperienced with dating. She’d nearly had him weak in the knees from just a kiss, which rarely occurred with many women in his experience. 

“You’re drivin’ me crazy, woman.” He reached to get her off the table. Reaching behind her to zip down her dress, pushing it down to reveal her matching laced set from her adventures that afternoon.

Grabbing her chin now, deepening a kiss as he lifted her from where she stood. Wrapping her legs around his waist as they made their way to the bed. Dropping her in dramatic fashion, he’d motioned to take off her panties. Once he had ridden them, throwing them to an unknown place in the room. 

She’d leaned forward, motioning him to take off his shirt. He’d happily obliged with a huge grin, helping her to stretch the fabric over his abs and pectorals. It was a drooling sight, for sure. Blonde chest hairs decorated his pecs, her hands trailing down his abdomen. 

Pulling him by the waist band, she looked at him with every movement of loosening his belt. Watching his eyes blow out with an intensity he’d never experienced, watching no hesitancy with every movement of her hands.

“Is this the same Baby that tackled boys in rugby? What happened to you? Whatcha’ do to her?”

Palming the obvious bulge in his boxers, he hissed, biting back a groan.

She moved her hand, squeezing slightly, “All grown up, remember?”

He laughed, grabbing her torso to move upward from the bed to the pillows. He’d stayed knelt backwards, standing at the edge of the bed. Stepping out of his jeans, leaving the obvious bulge in his boxers apparent. Pre-cum staining a tiny pool in them.

Moving his hands to the waistband of his boxers, he finally pulled them down. Eyes glued on his length, noticing the immediate intimidation she’d felt in the moment. Roberts was average, usually got the job done when needed. Wade was beyond that, with size and girth. No wonder women were all over him, the sight alone is enough to get the job done.

“You wanna’ picture, Baby?” She shot up to his gaze, realizing she’d been staring for an embarrassingly long time.

She teased back at him, “Only if it’s not all for show.”

Motioning up slowly to meet her face, she’d spread her legs to have him rest between them. Lining his cock to her entrance, teasing the tip within her folds to gather its wetness. 

He’d whispered in her ear, before slowly pushing inside of her, “I don’t know. You tell me, sweetheart.” The stretch made her eyebrows contort, mouth hang loose as he began pushing further until he’d just nearly kissed her cervix. 

A shudder of breath exchanged them both. Trying to adjust to this profound pleasure they’d never experienced before. It’s like their first times all over again, shattering their skin and bones with immense intensity.

“Fuck-” Wade readjusted his position. Noticing the sudden squeeze of her cunt was suddening jolts of pleasure down his spine. 

“Maybe it was all for show, Kinsella.” Baby teased, whispering in his ear with a steamed breath.

That did it. It was enough to break any semblance of self-restraint that he’d had. Not knowing where this profound eagerness came from, it promoted the sudden jut of his hips. Causing the woman to gasp, feeling the tip kiss a spot deep within her that made her see stars. Not saying anything back, Kinsella kept rocking his hips with the brutal pace he’d set. 

Lapping his tongue against the nape of her neck. Hands traveling down to her waist, holding them there as he’d rocked the bedframe with brutal thuds. Moans escaped her mouth every time he’d touch the spongy spot inside of her with his cock. 

“Wade- s’ too much.” 

Relentless, he’d never quit his brutal pace. Snaking one of his hands, grabbing her jaw for her to open. Placing his thumb there, watching her take it in her mouth. Swirling the tip of his appendage, looking at him with every movement.

“Never thought to be hearing your sweet voice, Baby. Truly is a blessin’.’” He jut his hips forward, causing her to let out a whine. Not being able to moan, from his thumb padding the center of her tongue.

“Been pining for me all those years. All you coulda just said is you needed some lovin’, I’m sorry for making this pussy wait for so long.” He used his wet thumb to move past her abdomen, all the way down to her bundle of nerves.

A strangled moan escaped her lips, loud enough for any person next door to make fair judgement of what's happening in that room. Well, the loud banging of the bedframe should've been clear enough. 

Finding the urge to bite back on his flirtatious taunts, she’d spoken in broken moans, “Mphh- you're full of it. Fuc- Woulda’ left me alone- mphfff. You know it.”

He chuckled, circling her clit to have her near spasming, “You're still thinking that you don’t drive me crazy girl? Woulda fucked ya’ like I am now in that band t-shirt. Make you sound like the damn opera.”

“Youre a– mphh- damn liar, Kinsella.” Holding a shit eating grin, dimples engraved in her cheeks, making the fire within him deepen. 

He leaned back on his hind legs, shifting his position to drive into her impossibly deeper. Lifting her waist like it was feather light, driving into her with the arch of her back. The new position made her shout with intensity, no man ever granting her the same level of satisfaction Wade had been rutting into her.

“M’ close.” Another intense orgasm building in her lower belly, Kinsella still showing no mercy on her bundle of nerves. Rutting into the same spongy spot that had her seeing white flashes, making her eyes roll back in her skull.

“Let loose, baby. I got cha’.” 

His praise drove her impossibly near the edge, afraid to let go out of fear. Desperately clinging onto anything, she’d needed his body on him. To hold her as she rode this intense orgasm building, tears brimming her eyes. Grabbing one of his hands on her clit, motioning him to fall forward. Shifting his position to lean down to face level, still holding his charisma. Even if sweat accumulated on his forehead, damn near out of breath.

“So needy-” 

Shutting him up, she’d pulled his head down with her arms into a deepened kiss. Tongue dominating him, causing his head to spin. Nerves shooting all the way down to his own building climax. Moaning in her mouth, he grabbed one of her legs, lifting it to drive into her cunt deeper. 

In the moment, they’d stayed in the motion. Until Baby’s legs shook, finally letting loose for the second orgasm she’d received that night. Causing her to desperately hold onto his shoulders, scratching them. She’d leaned down, leaving marks across his neck with desperation.

The sensitivity caused Wade to grab the base of her neck, driving into her sensitive cunt until he’s reached his climax. Moaning her name in her ear - milking himself dry. 

Wade collapsed to her side, both out of breath from the whole ordeal. Trying to process how the hell they went from him walking in with a bottle of whiskey to them tearing each other apart. Baby, hair sticking to her forehead, trying to catch her breath. 

Wade smiled to himself, laughing weakly.

“Was’ so funny, Wade?” She turned to face him.

He looked over at her, smiling like a dork, “You got a back tattoo without me? Knowing it’s been something we’d do together? I’m heartbroken, Baby.”

She sat up, unclasping her laced bralette, “Well,”

Her perky nipples on display, his eyes never breaking from them. 

“I have a few ways to make it up to you.” She’d motioned to get on top of him. 

“Oh, do tell..” He held the grin as he placed his hands on her hips.

The whole night carried on with intertwined pleasure, echoing voices, loud bangs, and maybe a few noise complaints. Knowing the town of Bluebell, the word would've gotten out by the time they’d sat foot into the Town Square. 

Not having a care in the world, it only fed into their pleasure more. Knowing they’d been unapologetically obsessed with each other, forever seeking each other's soft touches. 

–

The explosion hit.

A blast of force sent you both you and Peeta flying, slamming you against a tree, knocking the wind from your lungs. The last thing you saw before everything went black was the blinding white light of destruction—debris raining down as the arena shattered.

Pain drags you back to consciousness.

It’s different now—sharp, aching, thrumming through every nerve in your body. Your head is heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and when you try to move, your limbs feel foreign, unresponsive.

The first thing you register is the cold. Not just from the sterile air, but from the hard surface beneath you, unforgiving and clinical. The second is the color. White. Blindingly white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even the flimsy gown draped over your battered body. It’s like you’ve been erased, stripped down to nothing.

A cell.

You try to sit up, but the movement sends a sharp spike of pain through your ribs. Bruised—maybe cracked. Your wrists are raw, red marks circling them, though you don’t remember why. You don’t remember much at all beyond the explosion. Beyond the moment the arena fell apart.

The soft hiss of a door opening snaps you to attention.

Boots echo against the floor, slow and deliberate. You force yourself to look up, and ice coils in your veins.

President Snow stands before you.

He’s composed as ever, dressed in crisp white, his cold blue eyes studying you like you’re an insect pinned beneath glass. A faint, almost amused smile tugs at his lips. In his hands, he cradles a pristine white rose.

You steel yourself, masking the fear clawing at your throat. You don’t speak first. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Snow takes a slow breath, inhaling the scent of the rose before his gaze locks onto you. “You’re quite the survivor, aren’t you?”

You say nothing.

“I must admit, I was quite disappointed to see you among those extracted from the arena. A shame, really. I had hoped for better from a Victor of District Four.” He tilts his head. “Finnick Odair’s love.”

Your stomach twists at Finnick’s name, but you keep your face blank. You don’t know where he is. If he made it out. If he’s even alive.

Snow takes a step closer, watching you carefully. “You see, we know there was a plan. We know the Quarter Quell was never meant to go as intended. The rebels orchestrated this, didn’t they?” He crouches slightly, lowering himself to your level. “Why don’t you save us all some time and tell me what you know?”

You blink at him, forcing your expression into something blank, confused. “Plan?” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snow sighs, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Lying is beneath you.” He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest hint of blood beneath the overwhelming scent of roses. “Very well. We have ways of making you talk,”

And you know he’s right.

And the pain he afflicts never left. It simply changed—sometimes sharp and searing, sometimes a dull ache that settled in your bones—but it was always there.

Time blurred in the Capitol. You didn’t know how long it had been since they ripped you from the arena, since the explosion stole you away from Finnick. Days, weeks… it could have been months. You weren’t sure anymore. You weren’t sure of anything anymore.

They never let you rest. The sterile white walls, the blinding overhead lights, the sound of footsteps approaching and retreating—it all became part of your existence. And then there were Peeta and Johanna.

You caught glimpses of them when they dragged you through the halls, when you passed rooms where screams bled through the walls.

Peeta was barely recognizable anymore. The hijacking, the tracker jackers, had shattered him, stolen the light that used to live in his eyes. He couldn’t focus for long, his mind darting from one fleeting thought to the next. His words were broken, a disjointed mess of confusion and hurt. His body trembled constantly, his hands shaking as if they couldn’t hold onto the fragments of his sanity. He would mumble to himself, apologize for things he didn’t understand, and then, in a fit of panic, beg you to stay, to tell him he wasn’t lost. And you would do your best to assure him, sooth him from across the room.

It was unbearable.

Johanna was different. She was quieter, but there was something hollow in her. Her body shook violently from withdrawal, her lips cracked from dehydration. The Capitol had drowned her over and over again, only to pull her back just before she crossed the line between life and death. When she looked at you, there was no spark of rebellion, no fire. Just exhaustion and pure resentment that kept her going.

And then there was you.

They had their own way of breaking you.

At first, they kept it simple—pain, starvation, isolation. Keeping you across the room from your friends. Close enough to talk. Close enough to hear their screaming. But not close enough to comfort.

But then they brought you to that room. The one with the speakers hidden in the walls, where the shadows were deeper, where the air felt heavier. And they made you listen.

Jabberjays.

You had heard them in the arena before, their eerie mimicry of loved ones’ voices meant to torment you. You had seen Finnick fall to them, and Katniss. And it had broken your heart seeing how they were reacting.

But that had been nothing compared to this.

The pain had been your constant companion, gnawing at you, twisting every second into an eternity.

They didn’t just sing—they screeched. The birds were torture incarnate, their calls designed to break the mind, to twist the memories into something ugly. They brought you to the room, the sterile walls designed to keep you isolated, to amplify the terror in your heart. They had programmed the birds to sound like those you loved—those you had failed.

At first, it was a whisper. A voice you thought you recognized, but it was distorted, cracked, like the sound was being pulled through a filter of madness. It came slowly, building, growing louder.

It was impossible. You had never heard that tone from him before. Finnick never spoke like that. But there it was, his voice accusing you, twisting the memory of his care, of his laughter, into something venomous. The birds sang it over and over, forcing you to hear the words that ripped at your very soul.

And then the voice changed again.

The words cut through you like a knife, too sharp, too raw. His voice, so young and full of trust, was unmistakable. But it was a voice that had long since faded from your memory. The bird had twisted it, made it sound like something darker, like something hateful. Your little brother who you did everything to keep safe.

It wasn’t the voice of a child who loved you. It was the voice of a child who felt abandoned, who had been left alone. The bird screamed again, louder this time, its voice shrill and echoing, sending waves of nausea through you.

The birds’ voices layered one on top of the other, drowning out your thoughts, breaking the barrier between reality and the spiraling nightmare that consumed you. It was as though every painful memory, every regret, every mistake you had ever made, was being replayed and twisted into something ugly. Something unforgivable.

The walls seemed to close in as you sank deeper, the birds’ calls surrounding you, clawing at your mind, twisting your thoughts. It was endless. The repetition, the overwhelming weight of their words, started to chip away at you. You could feel your sanity slipping, each scream from the birds tearing a hole inside your chest.

The pain, the guilt, the spiraling madness was too much. You had no defense left. The voices echoed, screamed, whispered, and everything you had held onto was cracking, shattering like glass. Your hands trembled, your heart raced, and you were drowning in the sound of their accusations.

The sound of Finnick’s broken voice, Annie’s hollow sadness, and the desperation in your brother’s cries—each one felt like a new blade slicing into you. Each call, each accusation, only deepened the spiral you were trapped in. Your chest ached with the weight of their pain, your soul shattered from the guilt of it all. The torment was endless, suffocating.

In the haze of madness, time felt like an abstract concept—blurred, stretched beyond recognition. The room seemed to shift around you, but the stillness of it pressed in like a vice. It was as though you were stuck in this moment forever, caught between memories and nightmares. You couldn’t tell when you were moved from one place to another.

Even then as you laid on the cold, white floor of your cell, the sterile walls closing in around you. The trembling never stopped. It was like a constant hum in your body, a fear that never quite left. Your back was pressed against the smooth, unforgiving surface of the wall, your eyes staring blankly at nothing in particular.

Your mind felt detached from reality, a fog clouding every thought. The voices of the Jabberjays still echoed in your head, their cruel distortions of Finnick’s, Annie’s, and your brother’s voices a constant reminder of the horrors they had subjected you to. You couldn’t escape it. You couldn’t escape them.

You barely noticed the sounds at first—footsteps, muffled voices, the faint shuffle of boots on the hard floors. Then the door to your cell opened with a sharp hiss, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you looked up. Someone was standing there, silhouetted in the dim light, their features too blurred to make out. You didn’t know if it was real, if you were dreaming again, or if it was just another cruel trick of the Capitol.

A hand reached out, tentative, like they were unsure of how to approach you. “You’re alright,” a voice said softly, but with a firmness that cracked through the haze in your mind. “We’re here to get you out.”

But the words felt distant, disconnected, as though they were coming from underwater. You couldn’t trust anything. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear bubbling up from deep within. This could be another trap. Another lie. You weren’t sure who this person was, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

Before you could even form a coherent thought, a sharp scent flooded the room, heavy and sickly sweet. The next thing you knew, the room swirled around you—shapes and sounds warping—and the last thing you heard was the voice again, more urgent this time: “It’s okay. We’re getting you out.”

And then, as the smoke thickened and your vision blurred, everything went black.

The first thing you felt when you woke up was confusion. It was disorienting—your senses a blur, your mind fragmented. You were in a room, but it wasn’t your cell, wasn’t the sterile white of the Capitol. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, and the soft hum of machines around you was both strange and oddly comforting.

But that didn’t mean you were safe. Not yet. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the chaos. Doctors in white coats were moving quickly, their voices a frantic buzz. Someone was touching your arm, their hands too firm, too urgent.

You flinched away, panic surging through your veins as memories of the Jabberjays twisted into your mind. The screams of Finnick, Annie, and your brother—distorted and cruel—ripped through your thoughts again. Was this just another trick? Were they going to use the birds again? Were you being captured all over again?

“Please, just… just stop,” you gasped, your voice raw, barely audible. You scrambled, trying to pull yourself away from their grasp, but your limbs were weak.

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” one of the doctors whispered, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t. Safe didn’t exist anymore.

They tried to hold you down, to reassure you, but the more they touched you, the more your skin crawled. Your breath was coming in ragged gasps as the room closed in, and the walls felt like they were suffocating you. Everything felt too bright, too loud. You wanted to escape, to run, to hide from the chaos.

Then you heard it—his voice.

“Where is she? Where is she?”

Your heart skipped a beat, a raw, desperate sound. Finnick’s voice. But it couldn’t be him. You tensed, a jolt of panic shooting through you. No, no, no—this isn’t real. It’s not real.

The words that came next weren’t comforting—they were the birds, mimicking him, twisting his voice. It was too much. Your pulse raced, your body trembling violently as you backed away from the doctors, too afraid to look.

“Where is she?” Finnick’s voice called again, closer this time. “Please, please, I need to find her.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The memories collided in your mind, his voice and the twisted birds, and you weren’t sure where one began and the other ended.

Then, out of the chaos, a familiar face emerged. Finnick. His face was drawn, haunted, but his eyes—his eyes—they were the same. He was real. The fog in your mind started to clear, the panic slowly ebbing away as you locked onto him. The sight of him, standing there, filled you with a raw, aching relief. But the confusion still clung to you, the terror that this was a trick.

He stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “It’s me, sweetheart” he said softly, his voice full of something gentle, something full of warmth you thought you’d lost forever. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s over.”

Your body froze, heart hammering in your chest, but then something inside you broke. You couldn’t hold onto the fear anymore, couldn’t push him away. You collapsed into him, falling into his arms, the weight of the months of torture pressing down on you, flooding you with every raw emotion you’d been holding in.

The warmth of Finnick’s embrace is overwhelming, like a beacon in the dark. For a moment, it feels surreal, like you’re still trapped in the nightmare, that you’ll wake up any second and be back in that place, alone and broken. But when his arms tighten around you, when he whispers against your hair, you realize that this—this is real.

Finnick was home. His scent, his touch, the way his body feels against yours—it’s everything you’ve been missing, everything you’ve been longing for. For so long, you thought you would never feel this again. You thought you were going to die there, in that cold, endless nightmare.

“I thought I was going to die there,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, a broken sob escaping as you clutch him tighter. The words spill out before you can stop them, the weight of them sinking deep into your chest. “I thought… I thought I’d never make it out. That I’d never see you again.”

Finnick pulls back just enough to look at you, his face full of sorrow, guilt swirling in his eyes. “You’re here now,” he says, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek, wiping away the tears. “You’re safe. You’re with me now, and I’m never leaving you again. I swear it.”

The sound of his voice, steady and unwavering, cracks something deep inside of you. It’s like the world around you shifts—like you’re not alone anymore. Like you’re finally home.

He takes a slow, deep breath and leans his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face with gentle care. “I know… I know it’s been hell,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m never leaving you again, sweetheart,”

You nod against him, your breath shaky, but his presence is like an anchor, grounding you, pulling you back from the abyss. Your body trembles, not from the cold or the fear, but from the raw relief that courses through you.

Your shrieks haunted the halls of the District 13 hospital. Guttural, vile in nature. Finnick found himself rushing to the source of the sounds. while terrified, he pushed forward, disregarding the voices that shouted at him to stop, pushing past the security team that tried to stop his efforts. Finnick was strong, making it through the barricade of people without any serious casualties.

He emerged into the room where you had just woken up from sedation, and his heart ached immensely. The sight of you there, thrashing against your restraints. You looked drained of color, nutrients, and life. Emaciated and with a raspy, hoarse voice, you still shouted, convinced you were going to be tortured again. convinced that the doctors were going to hurt you, that the excruciating pain might never go away.

Finnick stopped himself; security had grabbed his arm and gently urged him to leave the room. The doctors were saying you would need time, which was something Finnick felt he did not have a lot left to spare. He choked, standing there watching you struggle. You hadn't even noticed him, until you did. Your eyes locked onto his.

For a moment you saw something comforting, something real in Finnick's eyes, but the capitol's torture methods took over you, the distorted images of him hurting you came back and your body recoiled. You shrieked louder, thrashing in your restraints, distressed. Finnick felt a piece of him breaking.

"Please, Sir," a strong voice urged.

"She needs space,"

He finally complied with Security's plead to get him to leave, not wanting to cause you any further harm. As they escorted him out of the hall, he choked out sobs, and the hot tears ran down his cheeks.

. . . .

Finnick found himself back by your room, unable to sleep. He had fallen asleep for a short time with his back leaning against the wall by the door, woken suddenly when a doctor had opened it and stepped out into the hall. Finnick quickly swept up onto his feet.

"How is she?" he asked, wanting to barge in there, to see you, hold you, and tell you it was okay. but he didn't want to cause you any distress. He was terrified for your recovery and worried everyday for you after seeing what they'd done to Peeta.

"She is stable." the doctor said, taking a short breathe. "We need you to be patient." he continued. "Recovery will have its ups and downs, and we will do everything we can..."

Finnick's heart raced. The doctor made it seem like you would never come back. "When can I see her?- Can I please just sit with her?" he asked. The doctor gave a sympathetic look.

"In a few hours, when she wakes again, we can allow you visitation."

Finnick nodded, he knew he had to wait, but he still longed for you.

"It's best if both of you are well rested when you visit, " the doctor said, offering a comforting hand to Finnick's shoulder and giving him a squeeze. "I'm staying here." Finnick insisted. The doctor gave a soft sigh. "Very well." he said, nodding at him.

Finnick sat with his back to the same wall by your door all night, softly dozing to sleep for a several hours when exhaustion overtook him.

In the morning, the hustle of the nurses and doctors woke him, and his eyes fluttered open softly. He rose back up to his feet quickly when he heard the faintest calling of his name.

"Finnick," you sounded rough, you had lost your voice almost entirely.

The door slid open, and he stood in the doorway. You came too, fully, your brain feeling unclear. you stared, now conscious looking at the figure. He was unarmed. That's the first thing you noticed. You looked at him in confusion as he cautiously and gently approached you.

He sat by your bedside and looked at you; his sea colored eyes were glazed over, filled with worry and fear. A strange feeling came over you. Finnick said your name so tenderly, so gently, barely above a whisper. Do I know him? did he hurt me? Is this real? you thought. He reached his hand out to set it on your own, but you pulled away and flinched as if he was going to strike you. Finnick pulled away quickly, the movement startling you more.

They had done unthinkable things to you, and it hurt him to know that they had distorted your image of him, that they had taken the sweetest, kindest person you loved and twisted them into some kind of monster. Your memory of Finnick was vague, plagued by images of violence that felt blurry. Deep down he knew that there had to be the same girl he fell in love with somewhere in there.

He took a step back, noticing your distress. "It's okay, you're safe." He said softly. "Who are you!" you spat, anxiety rising in your chest.

"I want to go home!" you shouted.

This alerted the attention of one of the nurses, who came over and administered some kind of medicine. The liquid quickly entered your system, and you dozed back off to being half awake, mumbling and uttering unintelligible words while the nurse checked your vitals.

The nurse turned to Finnick, apologizing.

. . . .

You can hear them coming. Mutts. They stamp onto the arena's grounds furiously, and you are out running them, just barely until they catch up with you are the group. First, they tear apart Peeta, Katniss' shrill cries haunt you, then they devour her, and you turn to see the rest of your friends being attacked by the mutated beasts.

You run, your feet carrying you far enough that you are in a small wooden shack, something that's safer than being out in the open. The beasts rack the walls, beating against the now locked door, as you notice Finnick emerge from the shadows. His eyes are different. he looks cold, sober, and menacing. He lets out a growl and lunges towards you, tackling you to the ground.

His hands hold you down, finding their way to your neck as they begin restricting your airway. His expression is void of emotions. His hands feel cool, and his calloused fingers force bruises on your skin. You struggle against him, begging for your life . . .

After one week of recovery, the nightmares begin to plague you. That was the first of many to come. You woke up with a gasp, desperately trashing and trying to save yourself, Once you realize where you are, you try to rationalize with yourself. You gasp, unable to catch your breath, feeling you neck as if you are hurt, and upon examining yourself, there are no bruises. It had to have been a dream.

Finnick appeared at your bedside, scared to touch you and agitate you more, "Hey, hey," he cooed, his voice was soothing. you felt conflicted, the man in your dreams had eyes devoid of color, and Finnick's were the color of the sea, remaining calm, concerned.

"It was just a dream, you're safe." He said softly.

"You," you managed to rasp out between hyperventilation.

"You tried to hurt me," you said, tears now spilling from your eyes.

"No, love, It was a bad dream. I would never lay a hand on you." he said gently, he was being patient. It was clear to you now that he did not intend to hurt you, because if we was going to he would have tried before the nurses came rushing in to check on your heart monitor that was making a raging beeping noise.

Finnick stood by your side, looking at you with worry.

"You're okay, just try to get some more rest." the nurse said. You nodded, exhaustion once again taking you as you rested your head back against the pillow. Whatever sedatives they had you taking were working well, lulling back into a slumber, hopefully this time without nightmares.

. . . .

After another week you hadn't been sleeping well now relying on the sedatives too heavily, with fear the images from the nightmares would take you out of reality again, each one more painful than the last.

Your eyes fluttered open, nothing too bad this time. The room was dimly lit, it had to be at least midnight. The halls were quiet, your restraints were still there, for your own good, the doctors had said the previous day. You attention was drawn to the gentle snoring of the man sitting in the chair in the corner of the room.

You looked at him and a sickly familiar feeling came across your chest. There was something about watching his chest gently rising and falling in his uncomfortable-looking sleeping position that seemed unthreatening.

You gazed at him, a glimpse of a memory surfacing, you could remember him, you couldn't quite place where you were, but you were standing in water and the sensation of the cool lapping waves against your body somehow felt like home. It calmed you. He was there, you recognized him, a vague figure standing with you in the water. No strangulation, no weapons, just standing in the water in his arms. You couldn't tell if that was real or not, but it seemed happy, calming, the first decent memory you had in a long time.

After a while, you warmed up to his presence, watching him sleeping, you were far too weak to do much else. you still hadn't determined if the memory was real or not.

His eyes fluttered open, and he noticed you were awake.

"Hi sweetheart," he said sheepishly with a yawn.

"Did you get some sleep?" he asked you. you reluctantly shook your head. "I can't sleep," you said, your voice was low, still scratchy but a vast improvement from before.

"Do you want me to stay up with you?" he asked. you waited, hesitating for a long time, before nodding honestly. It was nice to have another person near you, even if you weren't entirely sure who they were, you were beginning to see him as a non threat. baby steps.

After another bout of silence, your voice carried across the quiet room. "I can't tell what's real anymore," you confessed. Finnick frowned. "You don't have to right now," he said. "All you should know right now is that you're safe, and I'm here." he said. you felt comforted.

The two of you stayed up for a while, and he stayed up to watch over you as you stared at the ceiling for a while, contemplating everything, before finally feeling relaxed enough to rest again.

. . . .

After that night, you felt more comfortable, and would sometimes laugh at a small joke Finnick would make. You had even warmed up enough to allow him to sit closer to you, and after several weeks, you allowed him to hold your hand. His felt soft and warm, nothing like the memory of his hands you weren't sure you could trust.

One month of treatment and therapy and conditioning. you were starting to feel somewhat like your old self. Somewhat normal, despite your questioning of your own memory. The doctors had helped you work out ways of differentiating your memories from what was real. It was tough. It felt like a daily battle. But at least now you had someone to tell you what was real, and what was not.

Your eyes fluttered open that morning to see Finnick in the chair in by your bed, flipping through the pages of some novel he had found, pretending to read the page, skimming the words but not really reading them. He noticed your gaze and smiled softly.

"Good morning, love." he said in a quiet voice.

"Hi." you said.

Finnick just stared, admiring your beauty, yearning to have you back. He was beyond thankful you were alive and here with him, so now he focusses all his energy on your recovery.

You were lost in your thoughts for a long while. The memory of the two of you in the water kept resurfacing. Bits and pieces came back to you as time passed, now you were able to form a somewhat coherent image.

you were in his arms, on the beach, back home, in District 4. He held you while humming a gentle song in your ear, the waves pushing and pulling against your bodies, gently complementing Finnick's melody. The safe feeling warmed your whole body, and you felt a love surround you. The gentle sea breeze combing through your hair, the smell of the sea flooding your senses...

"Can I ask you a question?" you spoke suddenly. Finnick leaned forward in his chair. "Of course," he said honestly.

"I think," you said, still unsure of the memories.

"I think you loved me."

the words hung in the air softly and fell upon Finnick like a melody.

"That's not quite right," he said. you gazed at him in confusion. "I Love you. still, always," he said. "No matter what happens." he smiled at you, wanting to cry.

"I love you," Finnick said softly, brushing a piece of hair from your face. "That is real." he said. you nodded, this time initiating contact and placing your hand over his. There was a mutual understanding that day.

"Everything is so fuzzy," you begin.

"But I remember being in the sea with you, back home, I think."

Finnick nodded. "Is that real?" you asked him, gazing into his eyes, the same ones from the memory that brought you comfort now, even if you couldn't remember much else or any other context. It came back in fragmented parts. "Yes," Finnick said without hesitation. "I remember it too."

"That was the first time I realized I was in love with you." he said. you took his word for it, why would he lie? "We had just met up when I had come home from the games; we were so young." He continued on, as you listened to his story, eager like a child to hear more.

"You told me you were scared that you'd never see me again, and you were happy I was home." You smiled softly, tears filling your eyes, flooding with a warming, loving feeling. "And I said to you," he stopped himself, smiling softly, tears gently falling from his cheeks. he hesitated, but your memory became a brighter beacon now, and you finished his sentence for him.

"I'll always come home to you."

The words caused Finnick to sob. he nodded, taking your hand and gently caressing your bony hands with his fingers.

"I'm so sorry they took you." he said with a bit of guilt.

"It's not your fault," you whispered gently.

"I thought the Capitol had taken you from me. I almost lost hope." He confessed. you stayed quiet for a moment.

"Finn?" you uttered softly; his heart fluttered when you said his nickname. "Yes, love," he exhaled, wiping his tears away.

"Will you hold me?"

There’d been a hunch in place of hard evidence that the lot of you were being tortured in the Capitol, though to what extent no one knew. And absolutely no one was prepared for what awaited them by the time the three of you were safe in District Thirteen.

Peeta had promptly tried to off Katniss which was very off brand of him; Johanna’s head had been shaved, she was emaciated, and had a plethora of evidence of gruesome physical torture, and you…

You weren’t filled with the same loathing, hatred, and disgust that Peeta seemed to carry for Katniss. No, you were completely and utterly terrified. 

Medics had to sedate you when Finnick rushed into the room upon hearing of your arrival because you’d thrown yourself against the wall so violently you’d split your head open, then nearly ripped your nails clean off your fingers in your desperation to open a locked door in an attempt to escape from him. And if that hadn’t been devastating enough, the sounds of your guttural screams and desperate cries caused by him still haunted many of Finnick’s nightmares.

Finnick had been hesitant to return to you after that; he didn’t want to ever cause you that much distress again. 

Haymitch tried to reason with him; Finnick wasn’t the one causing you this much distress, it was the Capitol. The medics tried to reason with him; it was to be considered exposure therapy, they hoped that - over time - as you regained some familiarity and comfort with him and worked through your memories and trauma with the doctors that you’d start to remember.

He reluctantly agreed. So, he was horrified when, the first day he returned, you’d been strapped down to your bed in preparation for his meeting. 

“This is sick!” He’d shouted at the medics as he gestured at your current state. “This isn’t exposure therapy, this is torture!”

“Mr. Odair, the hope is that once she begins to realize there’s no need to fight or run, we’ll be able to take the restraints off.” One of them explained in a bored manner. 

“Fuck whatever you’re hoping for! You’re torturing her; she’s not going to feel any safer here than she did in the Capitol!” 

They’d tried calling after him, but he simply looked over at you and offered a pathetic “I’m sorry, honey” that you probably hadn’t heard over your own desperate wails before he fled.

The next day he returned, you hadn’t been strapped down, but you had been heavily medicated with some kind of sedative before his arrival. He swallowed around the bile in his throat as he took a seat in one of the chairs, pretended to read his book and tried his hardest to ignore the extremely wary and haunted gaze that stayed glued to his side for the entirety of his visit. 

The third visit went much the same, except about halfway through his scheduled ‘visit’, he noticed that your eyes seemed to fall extremely heavy. 

“Are you tired, sweetheart?” He murmured quietly, though you would have thought he’d screamed at you with the way you bodily flinched and your eyes snapped open. 

He just continued watching you as you fought to convince your heart to return to its normal tempo, slowly, cautiously nodding your head yes to his question when you seemed to realize he was earnest in his question. 

“Would you like me to leave so you can get some rest?” 

Your brows furrowed ever so subtly, eyes darting across his face as you searched for any hidden meaning or potential threat. 

You must not have found one. 

“Please.” You whispered, and - though it was still but a whisper -  it was the first time he had heard your voice since the Quarter Quell that wasn’t shrieking and sobbing in fear, causing a lump to form in his throat.

“Okay, honey, I’ll go.” He whispered back, smiling at you through tears as he stood and swiftly left the room, hardly closing the door fully behind him before he let out a sob. 

Over the weeks, you began finding your own routine and schedule outside of the time you spent working with doctors and medics. You were hardly ever seen without your journal on your person, and one of your doctors explained to Finnick that you were beginning to compile notes to differentiate between things you knew, things that you didn’t know, and what was real or not real. Many times, Finnick could find you working in your journal when he arrived, and though you still managed to keep a concerned eye on him at any given point and your body never fully relaxed while he was there, he was grateful you were becoming more or less accustomed to his company. 

And then one day he showed up to your room to find one wall completely transformed into a giant drawing board. The board was divided into two equal sides; one side was labelled REAL and one side was labelled NOT REAL. The only thing that had been written down so far was on the NOT REAL side, which read “Finnick did not set you up and leave you there to die.”

“She’s been struggling to sleep without the aid of sedatives; she wakes up quite violently from nightmares, struggling to differentiate between what is real and what is not, even when we’re standing right there in front of her.” One of the medics told him. “We tried once to have her look through her journal, but she threw it across the room and told us to get away from her. We thought maybe having a very large visualization in front of her in her own writing would be helpful to tether her to reality upon waking.” 

And that seemed all well in good, but Finnick found himself sick over some of the things the Capitol had convinced you he was guilty of more than once. 

But, if this is what you needed, if this was helping you, Finnick would stomach it, no questions asked. 

So, Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book that he brought with him to your hospital room every day which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop. 

He knocked twice gently on your door before stepping inside, watching as you stepped quickly away from the board and hid the marker and eraser behind your back as if you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, watching Finnick as though you were waiting for him to attack. 

“Hi, honey.” He greeted quietly, nodding politely at you before he pulled out his chair and took his place, flipping his book open to an arbitrary page as he pretended to read. 

You didn’t move; your feet seemed to be glued to the spot as you watched Finnick pretend to not be watching you. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had missed your gaze, quite selfishly, and found that while the atmosphere wasn’t exactly relaxed, he was happy enough just to have your eyes on him again. 

Finnick wasn’t sure how much time had passed before you ended up breaking the silence.

“F…Finnick?” You asked, barely above a whisper; question so quiet that Finnick was sure if he hadn’t only been pretending to read, he would have missed it entirely.

You sounded as though you were trying his name out for size, just to see how it felt on your tongue. Finnick missed the days when you used to squeal his name in laughter, or groan his name in frustration, or call his name in excitement. But even though it came out cautious and stilted, he didn’t think he’d ever heard as pretty a sound as the sound of his name falling from your lips. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” He asked eagerly, fighting to keep his tone, face, and body language calm as he saved his ‘place’ with a finger and leaned forward in his chair, resting his knees on his elbows. 

You swallowed thickly and fiddled with the marker in your hands as you stole yourself to speak. “Can I ask you something?” 

He wanted to be an ass; he wanted to say ‘you just asked me two things’, he wanted to whoop and holler at finally having an actual conversation with you after weeks of finally having you back, yet not really having you back at all. 

Instead, all he said was “of course.”

You cleared your throat before gaining the courage to ask what he heard as “you love me; real, or not real?” 

Finnick wasn’t sure an answer had ever come to him so fast. “Real.”

You seemed somewhat surprised by his answer even though it was clearly the answer you’d been expecting. After a few moments, you simply nodded at him before turning back to your drawing board’s REAL side. 

Finnick loved me you wrote, adding bullet points underneath it...

He told me so

He acts like it

Gut feeling

...is what you cited as proof to this revelation. Finnick wanted to weep. A gut feeling; you were still in there, somewhere. There was still a version of you that knew deep down that Finnick loved you.

“It’s not quite right, honey.” He offered softly, fighting the urge to smile when you turned at his interruption, yet didn’t flinch at the sound of his voice as you often did. You simply looked at him in confusion. 

“Do you mind if I make a minor adjustment?” He asked as he carefully placed his book on your empty bed and slowly stood, holding his hands out in ask. 

You looked between him and the marker and eraser in your hands before holding them out for him; an invitation. 

Finnick smiled at you as he slowly walked towards you, hyper focused on remaining as unthreatening as possible as he gently took the items from you, careful not to touch you unnecessarily. 

He moved to the REAL side of the board, using the edge of the eraser to remove the d from the end of loved and replacing it with an s. The sentence now - properly - read Finnick loves me. 

“There, now it’s perfect.” He offered you with another smile as he held the items back out to you, gently placing them in your hands when you held them open for him before he turned back towards his chair, retrieved his book, and sat back down. 

Your eyes stayed glued on the correction he made to your board as the marker and eraser hovered uselessly midair; moments dragging on before your arms finally lowered to your sides. 

Finnick didn’t bother pretending to read, so when you turned to look at him - face full of confusion, curiosity, concern, and what looked to be devastation - you found him already looking at you. 

“Still?” You asked, voice cracking painfully as a heavy tear fell down your face. 

And if Finnick thought that no answer had ever come faster to him before, he was sorely mistaken. 

“Always.” He promised.

You know him, that much is evident in your unconscious reactions. The way your chest tightens and squeezes when he walks into a room, how your breath catches and you hunger after his touch despite not knowing exactly why. But you know that he’s familiar and that - at one point or another - you loved him.

He visits routinely like clockwork, every day at around the same time. And each time you don’t push him away, don’t flinch at his touch like you do the others, his confidence grows.

Your doctor has been practicing memory games with you, which parts do your life are real and which are fabricated. You repeat them in your head over and over and sometimes they slip out when you’re talking, too. You’ve been incorporating opinions on top of the basic facts you know, and you’ve been including what you know about him.

You rock on the bed with your knees to your chest, feet tucked underneath you as you recite everything you can remember about him. You mutter it under your breath, tongue clicking as you whisper.

The door creaks and you stop dead mid-sentence. Finnick slips in without a word, pulling a chair up to sit by you. He doesn’t miss the way you eye him warily, watching every movement, every tick of his jaw and twitch of his muscles. You’ve always been perceptive- it’s one of his earliest memories of you. How you watch people.

He sits and watches you in return; you trace every inch of his body with your eyes, the bruises on his arms, the points of his shoulders, the slope of his nose and chin, the curve of his jaw.

“Finnick,” you say. He smiles; his fingers rest on the edge of the bed.

“That’s right.”

You reach out to touch him; he stays dead still as instructed by your doctors, but lets you lift his hand to place it in your own much smaller one. You turn so you’re sitting cross legged facing him, holding his hand in your lap. His heart could burst with the way you’re looking at him, a cocktail of fear and longing in your eyes. Something else lies deeper than that, like you’re being pulled through the rubble of your own mind and to the surface. Something a lot like love.

“Can I ask you something?” Your voice is small, more timid than he’s ever heard from you.

“Anything.”

“You love me. Real or not real?”

“Real,” he murmurs.

“I think I love you, too. I know I did before. I just don’t know which parts of my brain are real.” You fiddle with his fingers, the pad of your thumb rubbing over his knuckles methodically. If this is the only way you’ll ever touch him again, he’ll take it. He’ll take every scrap, every morsel of affection he can eke out of you. Whatever you’re comfortable with.

“We can figure that out together.” He’s soft as he speaks to you and it’s a voice that you remember. A very distinct one in your memory.

“Finnick,” you say again. He nods and shifts closer.

“Sometimes you call me Finn,” he starts, pressing lips to your knuckles. “Or honey. Or idiot if you’re mad at me.”

You smile and he catches a glimpse of you in there, engulfed by everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve been told. But he knows he can pull you out.

“I don’t think I’d ever be mad at you,” you mumble. He purses his lips thoughtfully.

“Well, sometimes I am an idiot. And I know you tell me that because you want to keep me safe.”

You’re in agreement there, not knowing everything but knowing undeniably that you would do anything to protect Finnick.

You shuffle over in the bed and tug at his arm. He tilts his head curiously, knowing what you’re asking but not wanting to be presumptuous.

“You want me to come sit up there with you, sweetheart?”

“Yes please.”

“Okay.” He settles himself next to you, legs outstretched where yours are tucked up tightly to your body. “If it gets too much, you tell me and I’ll go, okay?”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Then I won’t.”

You shuffle round and swing your legs over his own so you’re almost completely in his lap; his arm comes up and over your shoulders automatically, like muscle memory. This is how you are in your clearest memories- together, a tightly knit partnership. He’s holding his breath, waiting for you to realise what you’re doing and lose composure, but that moment doesn’t come. You just sit and close your eyes, ear to his chest, listening to his heart beat.

“I’m tired,” you croak.

“You want me to leave you to sleep?”

“No.” Your voice is thick and uneven where you’re full of all these new emotions that you can’t quite place. “Will you stay?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He pulls the thin blanket over your body and smiles as you needle in close to him, face in the juncture of his neck. Hiding with him instead of from him.

“C’mere, sweetheart.” You relax at the pet name, your body going lax against his own as you start to fall asleep.

You can’t be asleep for more than 30 minutes before you start to stir. You’re muttering in your sleep as you start to twitch and reach out for something.

Your brow knits and it forms a crease in the middle of your forehead as you start to cry.

“Honey, c’mon,” Finnick murmurs, his hand pressed to your neck in an effort to rouse you. “It’s just a dream.”

His chest aches; he can’t bear seeing you in this state, knowing there’s not much he can do to make it better. Thinking it’s his fault for not getting to you in time.

You scream and wake with a start, wide-eyed and frantic. Your eyes flit around the clinical looking room as you try to gauge your surroundings and reorient yourself.

“Honey, it’s okay. It was just a dream, you’re safe.”

You scramble back and push him away, curling yourself up into a ball at the foot of the bed. Tears paint your cheeks and they shine in the harsh white lights, hiccuping sobs. He crouches a metre or so away, palms up, arms outstretched in hopes you’ll make contact again.

“Breathe, just breathe,” he says. “You’re okay. I’m here, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

You’re like a wild animal the way you look at him- panic-stricken and agitated, frenetic in the way you move.

“Honey, it’s me. It’s Finn.”

You swallow thickly and nod, your body slowly starting to unfurl.

“Finn,” you sniffle, holding out your arms. “Finnick.”

He creeps closer still and you practically throw yourself into his arms, face against the hollow of his throat, arms locked around his middle like a vice.

“I have you. I’m right here,” he says, over and over like a mantra. A promise.

“I don’t wanna live like this anymore.”

“You’re not going to,” he whispers. “I’ll be here until you feel well enough and then we can start planning our life. Together.”

“Okay.”

Your fingers card through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, wet eyes meeting his.

“I love you. I know it now, I can remember that.”

“I love you too,” he says, craning his neck to meet your eyes. “You’re my girl.”

You’re hesitant as you tilt your head up to press a kiss to his lips but he welcomes it, his thumb and forefinger holding your chin in place as he pecks you a few more times.

“We’re gonna have a life of our own, I promise.”