brynn

The conversation about children stayed untouched. Not avoided, not denied — just… gently set aside, left somewhere between you, waiting. And while you tried to make peace with it — with your body, with what it meant — Steve stayed close and patient, without pushing or rushing you. 

It wasn’t always easy, though.

Because the thought never truly left you, feeling it in small, unexpected moments. A woman passing by with a hand resting on her stomach. A baby crying softly somewhere nearby. A stroller rolling past. Each one was like a quiet reminder of something you couldn’t quite look at directly. School wasn't any easier. You spent your days surrounded by children—laughing, arguing, running through hallway — and sometimes it hit you so suddenly you had to pause, just for a second, and take a breath before moving on.  But the worst moment was when someone you knew announced they were pregnant. Because before happiness could come, before excitement or congratulations, you felt a sharp drop in your stomach. A flash of jealousy so quick and ugly that it made you feel ashamed. For a split second, thoughts crossed your mind that you immediately wished you could take back. That they didn’t deserve it. That it should’ve been you instead. Then guilt followed just as quickly. You swallowed it all down, forcing a smile onto your lips. You congratulated them, asked questions you didn’t really want the answers to and nodded in all the right places as you listened to nursery plans, baby names and ultrasound stories.

And you got good at that.

But when you got home, where no one was watching, everything came out, quiet at first, then all at once. You cried in the shower where your tears mixed with the water, or laying on the bed with your face buried against the pillow. 

But never in front of Steve. He was still recovering from the accident and you didn’t want him to suffer even more and to make everything worse. 

Again. 

Sometimes, you caught him watching a father with his child after baseball practice or a family crossing the street together. His gaze lingered just a second too long, his expression almost nostalgic, making your chest tighten. Every time he noticed you looking at him, he smiled or squeezed your hand. Like he knew what you were thinking. Like he wanted to reassure you without saying it out loud. Sometimes it worked. Other times it didn’t, the thought still finding its way in. 

Maybe one day he’ll realize it wasn’t enough. 

That you weren’t. 

And he’ll want more.

He’ll leave.

It crept in at the worst times. At the end of the day, when everything was finally quiet and there was nothing left to distract you. During Steve’s baseball practices. At night, when sleep wouldn’t come. Even when you were in his arms. In those moments, you stayed still, your face tucked into his chest, breathing him in like that alone could keep everything else at bay. Until the thought began to haunt you, waking you up in the morning.

Every day, before you even opened your eyes, your arm would move across the bed, reaching for his side — checking. Making sure he was still there. That the space beside you wasn’t empty. Or too cold. That he hadn’t gotten up and left. Not just the room. Not just the house.

But you. 

Most mornings, your hand found him without effort. Sometimes he was still asleep, his breathing slow and even. Other times, he was already awake, looking at you with that soft, familiar smile that made something in your chest ease and forget all your worries. Some days, instead, you didn’t even have to reach for him. You woke up already tucked against him, his arm loosely wrapped around you, like even in his sleep he hadn’t let you drift too far.

Those mornings were easier.

But not all of them were.

Sometimes, when you brushed the sheets slowly, carefully, hoping to find him without having to look, there was nothing. His side of the bed was already cold. You gave it a second. Then another. Your fingers pressed a little more firmly into the mattress, like maybe you had just missed him. Like maybe he was still there and you just hadn’t reached far enough. 

But he wasn’t. You kept your eyes closed for a moment longer, your breath catching as you delayed the reality you already felt settling in. Then you slapped your eyes and saw the sheets already smoothed out, as if no one had slept there. 

That was when the panic set in.

You’d sit up too quickly, your breath already unsteady, your thoughts racing ahead of you. And then you’d get out of bed, almost without thinking, your feet carrying you straight to the closet. 

It had become a habit before you even realized it. You’d pull the doors open and scan the space, your eyes moving over his things — his jackets, his shirts — checking, counting as you made sure they were still there. That he hadn’t taken them. But sometimes even that wasn't enough to reassure you. You’d turn and head for the stairs, taking them too fast, your hand brushing the wall to steady yourself as you went down two steps at a time, your chest tight, your pulse loud in your ears. Until you found him sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread open in front of him, a mug of coffee growing cold beside his elbow. Other times, he was stretched out on the couch, half paying attention to whatever was playing on television. His eyes would lift automatically and that familiar smile would appear. Easy. Familiar. Reassuring. Like everything was fine. And you would smile back, pretend you had just come down for something else. 

You never told him anything but Steve noticed. Of course he did. He was good at noticing things about you. He just… didn’t say anything. 

Until one Sunday morning, when you were standing in front of the closet again, your fingers still wrapped around the edge of the door as you let out a slow, quiet breath. Your eyes slipped closed for a second, your shoulders dropping just slightly as the tension eased out of you.

“What are you doing?”

His voice was close enough to make you flinch. Your eyes flew open. You turned quickly, your heart jumping into your throat, and found him standing in the doorway, staring at you. He must have just come up the stairs. His expression wasn’t accusing or angry. Just… confused, careful. In his hands there was a tray with breakfast.

Shame rushed through you, sudden and sharp. For a second, neither of you moved. You swallowed, your hand still resting against the closet door as if you hadn’t quite decided whether to close it or not. 

“I—” you started, then stopped. Your voice caught, the excuse you were about to give dissolving before it could even take shape. You shook your head slightly, a breath leaving you that sounded thinner than you intended. “Nothing. I was just—”

Steve didn’t move. His eyes flicked past you, briefly, to the open closet. Then back to you.

“Checking if I’d left?”

The words cut in cleanly. Your breath caught. For a brief second, you thought — hoped — he might be joking. But there was nothing playful in his expression as his eyes held yours, steady, serious.

“Wha—what?” you stammered, even though the denial sounded weak the moment it left your lips.

Steve let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped forward carefully, crossing the room with slow, uneven steps before setting the tray down on your vanity fair in front of the bed. The porcelain clinked softly against the wood. The sound felt louder than it should have. Then he turned back to you. He hesitated for a fraction of a second — like he was deciding how far to push it.

“You really think I haven’t noticed?” he said, his tone flat, controlled in a way that made it sharper. “The way you reach for my side of the bed every morning before you even open your eyes. The way you practically run downstairs when I’m not there.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Or how relieved you look every time I walk back through the door after work?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your mind scrambled for something — anything — to say, but there was nothing you could say. Because he was right. And the truth — the real reason behind it — felt too ugly, too fragile to put into words.

“I—” you tried again, your voice faltering, but it died there, unfinished.

Steve didn’t wait this time. “You still think I’m going to leave,” he said.

It wasn’t a question but a statement. The certainty in his voice made your chest tighten.

You didn't answer him but your silence did it.

He turned away from you, nodding, in disbelief, his back facing you as his hands settled on his hips. For a moment, he just stood there, looking up toward the ceiling like he was trying to steady himself, like he was holding something in.

You dropped your gaze. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Quieter. But if anything, it felt tired.

“I’ve told you — more than once,” he said slowly, “that I’m staying. That I’m not going anywhere.” A small pause. “I’ve never given you a reason to think I would. Even when I could have. Even when I was at my worst.”

You instantly knew he was talking about Kirsten. About that night. When he could have left and gone to her house. When he could have chosen something simpler. But he still didn’t. 

“I didn't even think about it,” he added, almost under his breath.

You believed him. 

And that made things even worse. 

You swallowed hard.

“And still…” He stopped, exhaling through his nose before turning back to you. His eyes found yours again, something unsettled flickering behind them now. “Still it’s like you don’t believe me. Like you don’t trust me,” he went on, quieter now, but no less direct.

You flinched slightly at that, your fingers curling in on themselves.

“When…” He hesitated, just for a second, like he was debating whether to let it out or keep it in.

You could already feel that it was no good. That it would hurt you. 

“When you’re the one who left.”

The words hung between you. Heavy. Painful. 

Steve looked away for a moment, shaking his head faintly before letting out a breath that sounded more like frustration than anything else.

“I’m the one who should be checking that closet,” he said, his voice tightening despite himself. “Making sure your things are still there. Making sure you didn’t just—” He stopped, jaw clenching, the rest of the sentence catching somewhere in his throat. Then, more quietly, but still honestly. “I’m the one who should be wondering if you’re going to leave again. Not you.”

He was right. You knew that. But that didn't mean his words hurt any less. Your hands tightened together until your knuckles ached. You bit down on your lip, hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling.

His gaze dropped for a moment, then lifted back to you. “Do you really think I don’t have those thoughts too?” he went on, his voice less controlled, sharper now, stretched thin. “That I don’t wonder if I’m going to come home one day and you just… won’t be here anymore?”

The words hit you straight in the chest like a punch, knocking the air out of you. 

“Or walk in and find you halfway down the stairs with your bags again?” he added. “Just like that day.” 

You stayed silent. 

Steve took a few steps toward you, his shoulders tense. “I’m scared every damn day,” he said, louder now, the frustration breaking through. “All the time.”

Your chest tightened as the words sank in.

“Do you know what I think about when I kiss you goodbye in the morning?” he continued, his voice rough, unsteady in a way that made it worse. “When I leave for work?” A short, humorless breath escaped him. “That it might be the last time.”

Your eyes filled with tears, burning you. 

“The last time I get to hold you. The last time I get to kiss you.” He continued, swallowing hard. “And every single time, I just hope… it’s not.”

Silence followed, thick and suffocating.

He turned away again, dragging a hand over his face before lifting both arms briefly, resting them behind his head. He stayed like that for a second, staring ahead, jaw tight.

“But I still choose to trust you,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “I choose it. Every single day.” His arms dropped back to his sides as he turned to face you again. “I choose to believe that when I come home, you’ll still be here.”

You couldn’t breathe properly. Your throat was dry, sore. 

He looked at you like he wanted to say more — like the words were there, right on the edge — but then something in his expression shifted. He stopped himself. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, his jaw tightening.

The silence stretched.

You pressed your lips together, unable to speak. Because he was right. About all of it. 

Even after everything he had said, some stubborn part of your mind kept waiting for the moment he would finally decide he had had enough. Even when… when you had been the one to leave. The one who had packed a bag and walked out, breaking something between you that you were still trying to fix.

What was wrong with you?

The thought came sharp and merciless.Your throat tightened painfully. For a second, you almost felt angry at yourself, enough to want to shake yourself out of it.

Steve cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the silence. 

“I need you to trust me too,” he said, more quietly now. Exhausted.

“Steve, I do trust you, it’s not—” 

Your voice was so weak that you almost didn’t recognize it. 

“Well, it doesn’t feel like it,” he cut in, not raising his voice, but not letting you finish either. He hesitated, like he wanted to keep going — like there was more sitting behind those words — but then he exhaled slowly and shook his head.

“Forget it. I just… went out to get breakfast,” he added, his tone changing, flattening, like he was forcing the conversation somewhere safer. “I got you those pastries you like. Thought I’d bring you them in bed. I just wanted to… surprise you.” A small pause. “That’s all.”

Your eyes closed for a second, the guilt settling heavier in your chest. When you opened them again, your gaze dropped to the tray on the table. You looked at it better this time — the coffee, still steaming faintly, the pastries neatly arranged like he had taken care choosing them, orange juice, eggs and bacon. There were all the things you loved to eat. 

Steve followed your gaze. “You should drink the coffee before it gets cold,” he said. His tone cold, detached that it surprised you. 

He turned before you could say anything else, moving toward the door with quick steps, without looking back at you.

For a second, you didn’t understand what was happening. Your body froze, your mind lagging behind as the sound of his steps carried down the stairs.

Then it hit you.

He was leaving.

Your throat tightened as you forced yourself to move, your legs finally responding as you rushed out of the room and down the stairs after him, still in your nightgown, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through your chest.

“Steve!” You called his name with everything you had, your voice echoing through the house.

But he didn’t answer. He didn’t slow down either. He just kept going, one hand gripping the railing, as he moved fast, like he needed to get out before he changed his mind.

Panic surged through you.

“Steve, wait—!”

By the time you reached the bottom, he was already in front of the door.

“Wait — please, wait!” Your voice broke as you closed the last bit of distance and grabbed his arm, your fingers tightening around it, forcing him to stop. “Where — where are you going?”

He stilled under your touch, turning around to face you. His eyes were shining. “I need… some air,” he said, his voice low, steady in a way that felt final. “I’m going for a walk.”

You shook your head immediately, your grip tightening, your breath uneven. “No — please, stay. Let’s just — let’s talk, okay? Please.” Your voice trembled, the words stumbling over each other as the tears spilled freely now, warm against your skin. You didn’t even try to hide them.

Steve closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose like he was holding something in. “I already tried,” he said after a second, quieter now. “More than once. But you don't seem to hear me.”

You shook your head again, desperate. “I know. I know,  I’m sorry, I just—”

“I don’t know what else to say,” he cut in, not harsh, but firm. Tired. Exasperated. “I don’t know… what else to do to make you believe me.” His jaw tightened and for a moment he looked away. “I’m tired,” he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly at the edges. “And… angry.” He swallowed hard and you saw his throat move. “That’s why I’m leaving. I don’t want to say something I might regret later.”

Or do something he might regret, you thought. 

Your chest constricted painfully.

“Please, don’t go,” you whispered, shaking your head, your fingers curling tighter around his arm like you could keep him there if you just held on enough. “Please, don’t leave me.”

For a moment, his expression softened. He hated seeing you like that. 

“I’m coming back, okay?” he said, softer now, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. Like he needed to stop it before it spiraled. “I’m… I’m not leaving. I just —” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I just need a minute… to clear my head. Be alone for a bit.”

Your grip loosened, but only slightly.

“I’ll be back,” he repeated, more gently this time. “And we’ll… talk later. Promise.”

Talk about what? You wondered. 

Before you could say anything else, he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to your forehead. It lingered just long enough to hurt. Then he pulled away. Carefully, he slipped his arm from your grasp. The loss of contact felt immediate. Cold.

You stood there as he opened the door and stepped outside. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Silence flooded immediately the space he left behind. Loud. Unbearable. 

You didn’t move. You stayed there, right where he had left you, your hands hanging useless at your sides, your vision blurred with tears you didn’t even try to stop anymore. Your heart pounded unevenly as your gaze fixed on the closed door, like you expected it to open again any second. While upstairs, the coffee he had made for you was already growing cold.

His voice replayed in your mind, louder with every passing second.

I’ll be back. 

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your chest aching.

Would he?

-

You were lying on the couch in the living room, curled on your side, facing the TV, even though it was off.

You hadn’t moved from there since Steve left.

The clock was ticking but you didn’t know how much time had passed. Long enough for the sobs to stop and the tears on your cheeks to dry, leaving your skin tight, your body still, your mind heavy and hollow. Your breathing had evened out. The storm had burned itself out, leaving behind nothing but a quiet that felt too big for the room.

Silence settled around you. Heavy. Uncomfortable. 

Then, suddenly you heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. Your body reacted before your mind did. You pushed yourself up from the couch, your heart jumping as you turned toward the door just as it opened.

Steve stepped inside. His gaze lifted as he crossed the threshold, and it found yours immediately.

You stayed where you were. Even though every instinct in your body told you to run to him — to close the distance, to hold onto him, to make sure he was really there — you didn’t.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click and took a few steps forward. 

“You’re here,” he said, his gaze fixed on yours. 

You knew he didn’t mean just now. That you hadn’t left. That he hadn’t come back to an empty house.

You nodded, your throat tight. “And you are back.”

Something in his expression shifted — subtle, but there. He nodded once in return, like he was acknowledging something unspoken between you. 

He knew exactly what you meant too. 

He moved around the couch, with still his jacket on and sat down, leaving only a small space between you. For a moment, he just sat there. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dragging a hand over his face before pressing his palms briefly against his eyes, like he was trying to steady himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “About before. I shouldn’t have… reacted like that.”

You hesitated for a second before sitting down beside him, careful and let out a slow breath.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “You — you were right.”

Steve turned his head to look at you.

You swallowed, your hands tightening together in your lap before you forced yourself to keep going. “I am… I am still scared. That you might leave one day.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you didn’t look away. “And I know I shouldn’t be. That it doesn’t make sense. You’ve never given me a reason to doubt you. Not once.”

A small pause.

“I’m the one who did that,” you added, quieter now. “I’m the one who left. I’m the one who… broke your trust.”

The admission sat between you, raw and unguarded. It hurt you to remind what you had done. But you needed to. 

“And I’m sorry,” you said, your voice softer now. “For that. For everything.”

Steve didn’t interrupt and kept listening to you. 

“But it’s not true that I don’t trust you,” you went on, shaking your head slightly, like you needed him to understand that part most of all. “It’s… me.”

That was harder to say.

Your gaze dropped for a second before lifting again.

“I don’t trust myself,” you admitted, the words catching slightly on the way out. “Because I don’t feel like I’m enough. Like I’m… lacking something. Like I’m not…” You exhaled shakily. “Not what you deserve.”

Your fingers twisted together again before you stilled them, forcing yourself to continue.

“And I know—” you added quickly, almost defensively, “I know you don’t see it that way. I know that’s not how you think. But I do. And it’s not something I can just switch off, Steve. It doesn’t work like that.”

Your voice softened, losing some of its tension.

“I need time,” you said. “To come to terms with it. With the fact that… it’s not my fault.” You swallowed. “And that it doesn’t make me less. Or… harder to love. I just… need time,” you repeated more quietly.

Then, after a small pause, you reached out, slowly, carefully, and rested your hand on his knee. Steve's gaze immediately dropped to where your hand rested. His eyes lingered there for a second before lifting back to yours.

“But I’m not going anywhere,” you said, meeting his eyes. There was no hesitation now, only quiet certainty. “I’m here. And I’m staying.”

Your fingers pressed slightly against his knee, grounding yourself in the moment.

“I almost lost you,” you went on, your voice softening further. “Twice.” Your throat tightened. “And the second time… I almost didn’t get you back at all. I don’t want that again,” you whispered, your eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

You held his gaze as Steve reached for your hand where it rested on his knee, lacing his fingers through yours and giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I’m not going anywhere either, okay?” His gaze held yours, steady, intent. “I’ve seen what it’s like… living without you. And I didn’t like it. Not even a little.” A faint, humorless breath left him. “Worst week of my life, actually. And I’m not planning on going through that again.”

Your chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear.

“So yeah,” he went on, softer now, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles, “some mornings you might wake up and not find me in bed. Or downstairs. And some afternoons or nights, I might come home late.” A small pause. “But wherever I am, I’ll be thinking about you. And I’ll always come back.” His voice dipped slightly, more vulnerable now. “As long as you still want me to.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I will,” you said, your voice steady despite everything you were feeling. “And I’ll be here too. Waiting for you.” A small breath. “As long as you want me to be.”

Something softened in his expression. Then he smiled and lifted his free hand to your face, cupping your cheek gently before leaning in.

The kiss started soft. Careful. Like everything else between you had been these past weeks. 

But as the seconds passed, some of the distance you had both been carrying seemed to melt away. You shifted closer without even thinking about it, your body moving toward his like it had been waiting for this. Your hands came up to his face as you kissed him back, deeper this time, more certain. The hesitation that had lingered between you began to slip, piece by piece.

You moved onto his lap, straddling him, your lips never quite leaving his. His hands found your waist, holding you there, tightly, like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.

The kiss grew hungrier, faster. His hands moved along your sides, firm, warm, sliding up your back, pulling you closer. Yours slipped into his hair, fingers curling, holding on as if that alone could keep him there. You felt him exhale against your lips, his forehead brushing yours for the briefest second before his mouth found yours again, more urgent this time.

He trailed slowly down your jaw, your neck, until it reached your shoulder. The strap of your nightgown had already slipped down your arm, giving him space, and he took it without hesitation. His lips pressed warm against your skin, lingering, then moving again — slower this time. Each touch sent a quiet shiver through you, your breath catching as he traced a path along your collarbone. You tipped your head back instinctively, giving him more room, your hands settling on his shoulders to steady yourself. For a moment, you just felt the warmth of his mouth, the roughness of his hands against your skin. And the solid presence of him beneath you. 

He was already hard. 

Your hips shifted almost unconsciously against him, drawn closer, and the contact made his breath hitch for a brief second. His hands tightened at your waist in response, grounding, firm, like he needed to keep you right where you were.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, gripping lightly, guiding him back to your lips. There was nothing hesitant left in the way you kissed him now. It wasn’t careful anymore — it was need, release, everything spilling over at once after being held back for too long.

You pushed his jacket off his shoulders, the fabric sliding down his arms as your hands moved over him, impatient. He let out a quiet breath against your mouth, helping you shrug it off the rest of the way without breaking the kiss for long.

Your nightgown had ridden up completely, forgotten, as you shifted in his lap, the fabric bunched at your waist. But you barely noticed it, too focused on him — on the way his touch felt after everything. After weeks without intimacy — without sex. The last time had been during that famous weekend that was supposed to be the last. Fortunately, it hadn’t been in the end. How could you have thought you could live without him? Without his touch? Thinking back now, it seemed almost impossible.

His hands slid lower along your thigh, slipping beneath the fabric of your nightgown, hesitating only for a fraction of a second — as if giving you time to pull away, to stop him. 

You didn’t.

If anything, you leaned into him more, your hands tightening his face even more, your lips parting against his in a silent answer.

You weren’t pulling away anymore.

His hand started moving over you again, sliding under the hem, caressing the bare skin of your ass, gently, slowly, as if he wanted to savor the moment. Like he was relearning you — like he needed to feel every inch just to remind himself that you were real, that you hadn’t slipped away again. 

You pressed closer instinctively, grinding down on his bulge in search of something more, something deeper. It wasn’t enough — none of it felt like enough after everything you had been through. The distance, the fear, the almost losing him.

You needed to feel him. Really feel him.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding on just as tightly, like you were afraid that if you let go, he might disappear. 

“Steve… please,” you whispered against his lips as his hand moved closer to where you needed him most. But every time, when he was almost there, he pushed it away, teasing you.

He smirked, amused. “What’s it, babe?” He murmured, voice low. “Tell me what you need.”

You let out a soft, frustrated breath, your forehead resting briefly against his.

“Please,” you begged, desperate, unable to form a complete sentence.  

Steve’s grin widened even further. He hesitated a few seconds, his hand tightening on your thigh, the other one on your hip, holding you in place as he watched you for a moment longer than necessary. Then finally, he gave in. His hand began to slide down along your core, feeling the wet spot that had already formed on your panties. 

His touch was slow, deliberate, rubbing gentle circles over your clothed clit as heat pooled low in your belly. Your hands found his shoulders again, gripping for balance as you moved against him, hips rolling, chasing his touch. Steve increased the pressure and you moaned into his mouth as you kept grinding your soaked panties.  

The other strap of your nightgown slipped from your shoulder, revealing your breasts. Steve groaned. As he kept caressing your core, he ran his other hand up your stomach and squeezed your tits, gently first, then hard. You moaned again, letting your head fall back.  But it still wasn’t enough. You wanted more. 

“Steve… I need you… Please,” you begged him, almost crying. 

“Yeah, babe? Where do you need me? I’m right here.” 

His hand pressed down on you harder, while your fingers curled into his shirt even more, resting your forehead on his shoulder, panting. For a moment, you hesitated, swallowing slowly. 

“Inside me.” Your voice lower than a whisper.  “I need you inside me, Steve. Please.”

Steve stopped moving, taking his hands off of you. You whined at the loss of contact, missing him already. But before you could say anything, he pulled your nightgown over your head in a single motion and threw it somewhere behind you, leaving you half-naked. 

His gaze dropped straight to your bare breasts, his eyes widening, hungry. He swallowed hard. 

“God…” he breathed, almost to himself.

After few seconds, you found yourself lying on the couch, on your back with Steve on top of you. He hooked his fingers into your panties, tugging them quickly down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, eager to be free of them. 

Steve stood up, pushing his shirt up, revealing the trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. Then he took them off and his boxers in one smooth motion, letting them drop to the floor. His length slapped against him.

Both naked, he settled between your thighs, bringing you closer as you raised yourself on your elbows to see him better. His gaze traveled over your body spread open on the couch, lingering on your centre, shiny and swollen already. 

“Fucking beautiful,” he said, looking back at you, a little smile on his lips. “And it’s all mine.” 

Even though you were married and he had already seen you like that several times, you couldn't help but blush at his words.

He lay down on top of you and kissed you passionately, supporting himself on one arm, as he dragged his other hand through your slick folds, spreading yourself open. His fingers drew slow circles around your clit before dipping inside. Your body responded instantly, arching into him, hips rolling against his fingers. The wet sounds filled the room, mixed with your shaky breaths.

“You’re so wet, babe, and I barely did anything,” he murmured under his breath, holding his glistening fingers up to your lips. 

You took them into your mouth and sucked, tasting yourself on them as Steve never took his eyes off you. 

“So needy and desperate, aren’t you? And you really think you could live without me?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, a broken moan ripped from your throat as he rubbed his hand all over your entrance, spreading the wetness. Your hips moved towards him, looking for more. Then he grabbed himself and stroked it a few times, lubing himself up with your arousal. Your eyes fixed on him the entire time, biting your lip at the sight of his thick member. Even after so many years together you still hadn't gotten used to its size, capable of leaving you breathless and sore every time.

Steve moved closer to you, guiding his length through your folds, the tip nudging against your clit, teasing you. You threw your head back, a sigh escaped your lips. 

Without warning, he drove into you with one, quick thrust, seating himself fully inside you. You gasped at the intrusion, arching your back as he stretched you open with a deep groan. He started moving immediately, without giving you time to get used to it. You were so wet that he slid perfectly inside you all the way, meeting no resistance. The wet slaps of skin and your desperate moans filled the living room as he kept pounding into you at a brutal pace. Your hands ran down his hairy chest, his arms and then over his back, scratching him, digging your nails into him as he went deeper with each stroke. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to pull him in tighter to you. His hand reached your clit, rubbing it as he kept fucking you harder. He thrusted in and out, relentlessly, quickly. His eyes stayed locked downward, fascinated by the sight of himself sliding in and out of you, dragging a creamy ring back and forth along his length.

“How — How can you think I can leave? That I can do without all this? Without you?" he asked after a while, his lips pressed to your ear. 

There was no malice or bitterness in his voice, just honesty. You didn't respond, you couldn't. Partly out of shame, partly because Steve's movements prevented you from thinking or speaking clearly. Only half-formed words, moans escaped your mouth.

"Steve, I…"

"Yes, babe? Are you coming? I can feel you squeezing my cock. Come on, cum for me."

And you came, clenching around his cock and crying out his name. Steve followed you right away, coming inside you with a low, guttural groan as his release painted your walls. He gently collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. 

-

About ten minutes later, you were lying on the couch, wearing only his shirt, curled slightly on your side with your head resting on Steve’s chest. Your fingers were still loosely intertwined with his, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He lay beside you in nothing but his boxers, one arm draped around you, absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along your arm.

Everything felt… lighter now. Not just because of what had just happened between you, but because of everything that had come before it — your argument, the honesty, the way you had finally let yourselves say things out loud instead of carrying them alone.

It hadn’t fixed everything. You knew that. There were still cracks — fears that wouldn’t disappear overnight. Things you —especially you — would have to work through, slowly, patiently. But for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel impossible. It felt like something you could face together.

Steve shifted slightly beneath you, his fingers tightening around yours for a moment before he lifted your hand, turning it gently so your wedding band caught the light of the lamp.

“Give me your ring,” he said after a beat.

You barely noticed at first, still half lost in the quiet haze of the moment. Then you blinked, the words taking a second to fully register. You pushed yourself up slightly, one hand pressing against his chest as you looked down at him, your brows knitting together. “What?”

“Your ring,” he repeated, his voice calm but his gaze intense. “Give it to me, please.”

Confusion flickered across your face as you sat up properly, turning to face him.

“My ring? Why?” There was a trace of unease in your voice now, subtle but there. You instinctively curled your fingers slightly, as if protecting it without even realizing. You didn’t like taking it off. Not even when you had temporarily left Steve you had taken it off.

Steve pushed himself up into a seated position, resting against the couch armrest as he looked at you.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

You knew, instantly, that he wasn’t just talking about the ring. He was asking something bigger.

Did you trust me to stay?

Did you trust me not to leave?

Your throat tightened slightly, but you nodded without hesitation, swallowing. Your fingers hesitated for only a second more before you slipped the ring off and placed it in his hand.

It felt strange the moment it left your finger. Lighter. Wrong, almost.

Steve watched you for a second, then reached up and removed his own. For a brief moment, he held both rings in his palm, staring down at them — silent, thoughtful. 

You shifted closer, kneeling on the couch in front of him now, your eyes fixed on his face, trying to understand what was happening but without success. 

“What are you doing?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly and placed both rings on the couch between you. 

Side by side.

You followed the movement with your eyes, your confusion deepening, your brow furrowing as you looked back up at him.

“Give me your hand,” Steve said softly.

You looked up at him, your confusion still written all over your face.

“Steve… will you tell me what you’re doing? I don’t—”

“We’re renewing our vows.”

You blinked, your eyes widening as you stared at him, even more lost than before.

“What?”

“Didn’t we say this was a new beginning?” he went on, his voice steady, certain. “For you, for me… for us.”

You nodded slowly, still trying to catch up.

“Then we need new promises,” he said. “Ones that actually fit us. Our way.”

Before you could say anything else, he reached for your hands again, holding them gently but firmly between his.

“Trust me,” he added, quieter this time.

There it was again.

That question beneath the words.

You swallowed and nodded. “I do.”

Steve took a slow breath, his thumbs brushing lightly over your knuckles as he gathered his thoughts. For a second, he looked almost nervous — but he didn’t look away.

“Do you take me to be yours again,” he began, his voice low but clear, “knowing that we don’t have everything figured out… that things might change, that life might not go the way we planned…”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“To have and to hold anyway,” he continued, “to stay instead of running, to try,  even when it’s hard… to not walk away when things get complicated…”

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t blink.

“To love me for as long as we both want this… for as long as we keep choosing each other?”

Silence settled between you the moment he finished.

For a second, you couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. Then you nodded — once, twice, again — your grip tightening around his hands.

“I do,” you said, your voice trembling but certain. “I do.”

Tears blurred your vision as you held onto him. 

“Okay,” he murmured, a faint, relieved smile tugging at his lips. “Your turn.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, your heart still racing as you repeated his words — slowly at first, then with more certainty, your voice finding its strength as you went. When you finished, Steve didn’t hesitate.

“I do,” he said immediately, like it was the easiest thing he had ever done. There was no doubt or uncertainty in his voice. 

He reached for your ring, holding it carefully between his fingers before looking back up at you.

“Repeat after me,” he said softly.

You nodded.

“With this ring, I choose you.”

“With this ring, I choose you,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I promise to love you, to be honest with you and to let you in, always.”

You repeated each word, your gaze never leaving his.

“I promise I won’t shut you out when I’m scared… to trust you, to stay… and to build whatever life we can — together.”

Your throat tightened, but you kept going, holding onto every word like it mattered more than anything.

“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”

When you finished, his expression softened completely. Slowly—almost reverently— he slid the ring back onto your finger. The weight of it felt different now. Not heavier.

Stronger.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his ring, still resting between you on the couch. You picked it up carefully, turning it between your fingers before looking back at him.

“Your turn now,” you said softly, almost timidly. 

He nodded.

“With this ring, I choose you,” you began.

He repeated it without hesitation.

“I promise to love you, to trust you, and to stay when things get hard — not because I have to, but because I want to.”

His voice was firm, certain.

“I promise to stay even when it would be easier to walk away… and to build whatever life we can— together.”

Your chest tightened.

“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”

When he finished repeating, you took his hand and slid the ring back onto his finger, your touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Your fingers intertwined. When you looked up again, he was already staring at you. Smiling. There was something lighter in his expression now. Softer. Hopeful. You smiled back, your eyes still shining.

“And now what?” you asked quietly.

A small, familiar spark returned to his gaze.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice dipping just slightly as his hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing softly along your cheeks, “now I get to kiss my wife.”

A flash of playfulness softened his features — something boyish and bright, as if he’d been counting down the seconds to this very moment. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, fueled by a quiet, steady confidence. Like he wasn’t asking — just finally claiming what had always been his.

And then he kissed you.

The force of it, the sudden pull of his hands, sent you tipping backward onto the couch, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as he followed you down without breaking the kiss, his body settling over yours.

You barely had time to react before your hands found him again — his shoulders, his hair — pulling him closer as if there was still distance left to close.

At first, the kiss was slow, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of care that felt almost reverent, like he was memorizing you all over again. Then it deepened, growing stronger, more urgent, the quiet tenderness giving way to something warmer, fuller, alive with everything you had both held back for too long.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, his grip on you firm but steady, keeping you anchored beneath him as if letting go wasn’t even an option anymore.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

But a promise.

A new beginning.

The first step into something new.

Together.

-

A week later, you started therapy.

It wasn’t an instant fix. Nothing about it was. But slowly — almost without noticing at first —something began to shift.

The mornings were the first to change.

You still reached for him sometimes when you woke up, your hand instinctively searching for the warmth of his side of the bed. But you no longer did it with that same sharp edge of panic or fear. You didn’t brace yourself before opening your eyes. You didn’t lie there, afraid of what you might — or might not — find. 

And some mornings… you didn’t even have the chance to.

You woke up already wrapped in his arms, his body warm against yours, his hand resting at your waist like it had been there all night. Other times, you felt him pull you closer in his sleep, like even unconsciously he was making sure you were still there — still his, still within reach.

Those mornings were easier. Quieter. Because they didn’t leave space for doubt to creep in.

And when he wasn’t there, you didn’t rush. You didn’t run to the closet anymore to check if his clothes were still hanging where they belonged. You didn’t scan the house with your heart in your throat, waiting to confirm your worst fear. Instead, you breathed — once, twice. You reminded yourself — quietly, firmly — of everything he had told you. Of everything you had promised each other.

You chose to trust him.

And, slowly, you started trying to trust yourself too. To believe that you were enough. Not just because he said it, or because he loved you. But because you were.

-

Two months later, you came back from a weekend away with Robin and Nancy.

The moment you stepped into the house, you barely had time to set your bag down before Steve reached you, taking the suitcase from your hand and leaning in to kiss you softly.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“I was gone only for two days,” you replied, smiling anyway.

“I know,” he said. “Two very long days.”

And then you noticed the expression on his face. He looked suspiciously satisfied, like he was waiting for you to figure something out.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?” you asked, suspicious now. “What did you do?”

He feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest. “Wow. No trust at all?”

You gave him another look.

“Okay, maybe I did something,” he admitted, a grin slipping through.

“Please tell me you didn’t burn the kitchen down while I was gone.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Firstly, rude. And secondly, it’s a good thing. A surprise. Promise.”

Then he extended his hand toward you.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to see it.”

You hesitated for only a second before taking it, letting him guide you inside and up the stairs.

He left your suitcase by the bedroom door without a second thought and kept going.

And that was when you realized where you were going. 

Your steps slowed. Your grip on his hand tightened just slightly.

The further down the hallway you walked, the heavier your chest felt until you stopped, right in front of the door you almost never opened anymore.

Your throat went dry.

You hadn't stepped inside in months. Most days, you barely even looked at it when you passed. Sometimes you wished it wasn’t there at all. That the door could just… disappear.

“Steve… what are we doing?”

He turned back to you immediately, and whatever excitement had been on his face softened the second he saw yours. He stepped closer, taking both your hands this time, holding them gently but firmly. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Trust me. Okay?”

The words settled between you. Familiar now. Your eyes flickered to the door for a brief second, your chest tightening — then back to him. You swallowed hard and nodded.

“Okay.”

He smiled, just a little, then squeezed your hands.

“I need you to close your eyes,” he said. “And don’t open them. No matter what.”

A small flicker of hesitation crossed your face again. But this time, you didn’t let it take over.

“I’m trusting you,” you murmured. 

“I know,” he said softly before closing your eyes. 

You felt him let go of one of your hands, the other still firmly wrapped around his as he guided you forward. Then you heard the sound of the door opening. Your heartbeat picked up.

“Okay,” he said. “Come on. Just follow my voice.”

You did. Slowly. Carefully.

“Stop,” he said gently after a moment.

You stopped instantly, abruptly. 

“Okay… you can open them.”

You inhaled deeply and opened your eyes. 

At first, all you saw was him — standing in front of you, watching you carefully, almost nervously. Then your gaze shifted and everything else came into focus. You turned slowly, taking it in piece by piece.

Everything was different. But it wasn't what you had once imagined either.

The boxes were gone. The walls had been repainted in soft, warm colors that made the room feel brighter than you remembered. 

There was no crib by the window. No changing table. No carefully planned corners for a life that hadn’t come. Instead, there were large canvases leaned against the far wall, waiting to be used. Shelves lined with paints, brushes, pencils and jars of color.

Your breath caught. Your hand rose instinctively to your mouth as your eyes began to sting.

It wasn’t a reminder of what you had lost anymore. Of what you couldn’t have. Steve had transformed it into something full of possibilities that didn’t hurt to look at. That didn’t whisper what if every time you passed by.

Behind you, Steve shifted slightly. When you didn’t speak right away, uncertainty crept in.

He cleared his throat. “Maybe I should’ve talked to you first,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I just… I thought it was a shame to leave it like that and not using it. And you always said you wished you had a space to paint, so I thought—”

He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure.

“I mean, you don’t have to use it if you don’t want to,” he added, softer now. “We can —”

You turned to him before he could finish the sentence and closed the distance in two quick steps, kissing him. He froze for a second, clearly caught off guard — then melted into it, his hands coming up to steady you as he kissed you back. When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, your breath uneven.

“It’s perfect,” you whispered. “I love it. And I love you.”

Your arms slipped around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

He held you just as tightly.

And over the following weeks, that room became yours.

You spent hours in there — painting, sitting, letting your thoughts settle into something quieter. Sometimes, you didn’t even realize how long you’d been there until the light changed. Steve would linger in the doorway now and then, leaning against the frame, watching you with that same soft expression—like he was witnessing something slowly come back to life. 

Eventually, you even convinced him to sit for you. He complained about it at first. A lot. But he stayed. 

And little by little, that room changed. From something that once held only absence, pain, sadness… to something filled with color.

And hope. 

-

A few weeks later, Steve showed up with a camper that looked like it had lived several lives before you ever laid eyes on it. It was old, dented in places, the paint faded and uneven — but there was a spark in Steve’s eyes when he stood in front of it, one hand resting on the hood like he’d just found treasure.

“I know what you’re thinking but it has potential,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “It probably has tetanus.”

He grinned.

With Eddie’s help — and a lot more time, effort, and swearing than either of them would ever admit— they brought it back to life. By the time summer arrived and school let out, it was no longer falling apart.

With no schedules to follow and nowhere you had to be, you left. The road stretched out in front of you, endless and open. It felt… freeing. You drove for hours with the windows down, music playing too loud, your hands resting somewhere on each other — your arm, your thigh, wherever you could reach — just to feel each other.

You made your way through the Rockies first, the air thinner, cooler, the silence deeper than anything you were used to. You hiked trails that left your legs aching and your lungs burning, but every time you stopped, every time you looked around, it felt worth it. At night, you slept outside more often than not. Sometimes in the camper, sometimes in a tent, sometimes just wrapped in blankets under a sky so full of stars it didn’t feel real. There were moments when you lay side by side, not speaking, just looking up. And your thoughts didn’t spiral anymore. 

At the Grand Canyon, you stood at the edge in silence, your shoulder pressed against his. His hand found yours without looking, fingers threading through yours like it was second nature.

“Hard to believe something like this just… exists,” you murmured.

Steve glanced at you instead of the view. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

After that, you went to Yellowstone. Beautiful and unpredictable at the same time. One moment you were admiring the scenery, the next you were lost, soaked by unexpected rain, or arguing over a map you both insisted you knew how to read properly. 

And then there was California.

Everything seemed to slow down there. The air was warmer, the days felt longer. The ocean stretched out endlessly in front of you, the sound of it constant.

Steve decided he was going to learn how to surf. In reality, he spent most of his time falling off the board while you sat on the beach laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

You played volleyball on the beach with strangers, drank overly sweet cocktails decorated with ridiculous little umbrellas, and watched the sun melt into the ocean more evenings than you could count.

During the day, Steve refused to wear sunscreen, even though you had told him he’d regret it.

And he did.

“This is your fault,” he muttered later, lying on his stomach, his skin flushed red while you tried not to laugh as you applied aloe.

“My fault?” you echoed, incredulous.

“You should’ve insisted harder.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, your fingers gentler than your tone. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you love me.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to as you both knew the answer. 

Sometimes, you acted like kids — splashing each other in the water, chasing each other along the shore, collapsing into the sand, breathless and laughing.

Other times, things slowed down. Quieted.

You’d sit close together, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting against him, listening to the waves without feeling the need to fill the silence.

One night, long after the beach had emptied, you slipped into the ocean together, only in your underwear. 

The cold hit you instantly, sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. You gasped, instinctively reaching for him. His hands found you beneath the surface, firm on your hips, pulling you into him until there was no space left between your bodies. The water moved around you, waves brushing against your skin. You laughed quietly when one hit you harder than expected, your hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, pressing your chest against his, your breath mixing. 

You started kissing — your lips touching, hesitant for half a second — and then it deepened instantly.

Hungry.

Your fingers slid into his hair, grabbing, pulling him closer as his hold on you tightened, one hand pressing firmly at your lower back, anchoring you against him while the ocean swayed around you. There was no teasing or slow build. Just want. Desire. Raw and immediate. 

“I need you,” he muttered against your mouth.

“Then stop talking,” you shot back softly, breathless, your eyes fixed on his. “And show me how much you need me.”

That was all it took.

The kiss turned rougher, deeper. His hand shifted, gripping your hip harder, pulling a quiet sound from you that you couldn’t hold back. The ocean rocked around you, but neither of you paid attention anymore.

By the time you made it back to shore, you were both breathing harder than you should have been, your skin still wet, cooling in the night air. The moment your feet hit the sand, his mouth was on yours again, stronger this time, more urgent, more demanding. Your hands moved just as quickly, sliding over him, holding, pulling, needing to feel him. 

You stumbled back together, barely coordinated, until the sand gave way beneath you and you fell, a soft breath leaving your lips as your back hit the ground. Steve followed immediately, catching himself just enough to not hurt you. 

Sand clung to your skin, your legs wrapped around him without thinking, pressing into him like you couldn’t get close enough, like your body refused the idea of space between you. 

His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, your neck, slower now — but not softer. Each touch leaving something behind, something you could feel spreading under your skin. 

“You feel that?” he murmured against your skin, voice rough. 

“Yes—”

Your head tipped back, breath catching, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he held you tighter, like he wasn’t planning to let you slip away again.

“Don’t — don’t stop,” you breathed against his mouth.

A quiet exhale left him, almost like a laugh, but darker.

“Never,” he replied, almost immediately.

When you finally came together, it felt inevitable. Natural. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm before you even found it. Every movement met, answered, matched. Your breath broke into uneven patterns, your fingers tightening, needing something solid as the rest of the world blurred into nothing but the sound of the ocean and the feeling of him. His name left your lips without thought, barely more than a breath, your body reacting to every shift, every movement that pulled you further into him.

Afterward, you didn’t move. You stayed wrapped around each other, your skin still warm, your breathing slowly evening out as the night settled back around you. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer instinctively, like distance wasn’t something either of you could tolerate. Your fingers traced slow, absent lines over his chest, your cheek pressed there, listening to his heartbeat.

The waves kept coming and going, soft, constant. 

And for once, there was nothing chasing you.

No doubt.

No fear.

No voice in the back of your mind asking what if.

-

When you came back from your trip and the new school year began, things felt different between you and Steve. Not all at once. Not in a way that erased everything that had happened. But the tension, the constant weight of fear and doubt — it had softened.

You still talked about children sometimes. About the future. About what you both wanted. But the summer spent together had reminded you of something important: you were happy. With Steve. With the life you had built together, even if it was only the two of you for now. But it was enough for now. So you decided to wait and to give yourselves time.

No deadlines.

No pressure. 

No quiet panic about what should come next.

Just the two of you.

Or rather, the three of you.

Because shortly after you got a dog.

A golden retriever puppy, barely a few months old, all oversized paws and endless energy that you named King. 

King made his loyalties very clear from the start. He followed you everywhere like your shadow. If you moved, he moved. If you stopped, he sat at your feet. At night, it became a problem. Every time you and Steve went to bed, King would jump up before either of you could stop him and curl up right on Steve’s side.

“You’ve got competition,” you teased one night, already half under the covers as Steve stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the dog sprawled comfortably across his pillow.

Steve scoffed. “Yeah, I can see.”

King didn’t move. If anything, he stretched and it took a solid minute of negotiating — firm voice, light pushing, and eventually bribery — before Steve managed to reclaim his spot. Even then, King would lie at the foot of the bed, eyes on you. 

Steve pretended to be annoyed at him, almost jealous. Sometimes he even sounded like it. But you caught the way he looked at the dog when he thought you weren’t paying attention — soft, amused, completely gone. He loved him as much as you did. Every evening, he took him out for walks, no matter how tired he was. You’d watch from the window sometimes as they crossed the yard — Steve throwing the ball, King sprinting after it like his life depended on it, ears flying, tail wagging wildly.

-

Not long after classes started, a position opened in the art department. A few days later, the principal called you into his office and offered it to you. Your first instinct was to say no.

The thought of being so close to children every day made something in your chest tighten again. Old fears, quieter now, but not completely gone, stirred under the surface.

What if it would hurt?

What if it was too much?

What if you couldn’t handle it after all?

But then you thought about the studio that Steve had set up for you. About the way your hands had found their way back to color, to creation. About the way you had slowly, carefully started building something new out of what you thought you had lost.

So when the principal asked for your answer a few days later, you said yes.

Steve was… impossibly proud.

The surprise party he organized was chaotic, loud, full of people you loved — and entirely overwhelming in the best way.

Your first day in the classroom felt different than you expected.

Not heavy.

Not painful.

Just… new.

There were moments of uncertainty, of course. Small pauses where you caught yourself observing, adjusting, learning where to stand, how to speak.  At one point, while you were leaning over a desk helping a child mix colors, you felt something shift in the room — a subtle change in attention. You looked up. Steve was standing by the door. He hadn’t said anything. Just… watching. A small smile already on his face.

One of the kids noticed him first. Then another. And suddenly the entire class had turned, voices rising all at once.

“Who is that?” “Coach Harrington!” “Is that your husband?” “Are you gonna kiss him?”

Your face flushed instantly.

“Okay — alright — back to —” you tried, but it was too late.

“Ki-ss! Ki-ss! Ki-ss!”

You shot Steve a look — half warning, half embarrassed.

He only grinned and walked over, slow, deliberate, like he was enjoying this far too much. When he reached you, he leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your cheek.

The class erupted.

You covered your face for a second, laughing despite yourself.

“Sorry,” he murmured near your ear, low enough that only you could hear. “Couldn’t help it.” Then, after a beat, softer. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

Your cheeks warmed even more, and you nudged him lightly, trying to regain some composure.

By the time the day ended and the last child had left, the classroom fell quiet. You stood there for a moment, taking it in—the scattered drawings, the faint smell of paint, the soft echo of a day that hadn’t hurt the way you feared it would.

If anything, it had felt… right.

A light knock pulled you from your thoughts.

You followed the sound. 

Steve was leaning again against the doorframe, watching you with that same soft expression.

“So?” he asked.

You hesitated only a second.

“It was good,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow.

You smiled a little, shaking your head. “Okay… it was better than good.”

Something in his face eased. He stepped closer, his hand settling lightly at your waist.

“I knew it,” he said quietly.

You let out a small breath, glancing around the room one last time before looking back at him.

“I’m happy. Really happy,” you admitted.

It came out softer than you expected.

Steve’s thumb brushed gently against your side. “And I’m proud of you.”

You held his gaze for a second, then a small, knowing smile curved your lips. “Then maybe we should go home,” you said lightly, tilting your head just enough, “so you can show me how proud you are.”

Something shifted in his expression immediately — subtle, but unmistakable.

“Don’t say more,” he murmured, a hint of a grin breaking through.

“Come on,” you said, reaching for your bag.

He took it from you without a word, his other hand finding yours and you walked out together, turning off the lights behind you. 

-

One evening, you were already home, waiting for Steve to be back. Dinner was ready, the table perfectly set. The kitchen still carried the warmth of what you had just cooked, and King lingered nearby, pacing in small, hopeful circles, his eyes fixed on the counter in case something might fall.

You glanced at the clock one more time. 

Steve was late.

You furrowed your brow. Practice should have ended a while ago and he was rarely off schedule without a reason.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, trying not to let your thoughts drift too far ahead of you. But just as a flicker of concern began to settle in your chest, the sound of the front door opening cut through the silence.

Relief left your lips in a quiet breath before you could stop it. King reacted instantly, tail wagging as he rushed out of the kitchen, nails clicking against the floor as he ran to greet Steve.

“Hey, what happened? The kids wouldn’t let you go?” you called out, stepping out of the kitchen after the dog, still distracted as you wiped your hands.

“Hey,” Steve said.

Something in his tone — slight, uncertain — made you lift your gaze. At first, you didn’t notice anything different. Then your eyes caught it.

A small hand, barely visible, peeking out from behind his leg, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his pants.

You slowed mid-step. Your mouth parted slightly, the words you had been about to say fading before they could form. Your gaze stayed fixed there, on that small hand, and on the hint of a face just barely visible behind him as you tried to make sense of what you were seeing. But you couldn’t quite see who it was.

You looked back up at Steve. “Oh,” you said, managing a small smile despite the confusion already building, “I see we have a guest.”

Steve lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly, a nervous habit you knew too well. He smiled back—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was hesitation there. Almost… caution.

He glanced down behind him. Then, after a brief pause, he shifted slightly to the side.

And the child finally came into view.

You blinked. “Charlie?” you said, surprise softening your voice.

He stood half-hidden still, shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes flicked up briefly before dropping again like he wasn’t sure if he should be there at all.

You knew him. He was one of your students. And one of Steve’s athletes too. Quiet. Gentle. Polite. The kind of child who never demanded attention, who was always the last to leave, as if he had no hurry, or worse, nowhere to go.

“Good evening, Mrs. Harrington,” he said, his voice small, careful. His eyes lowered to his worn shoes, toes turned slightly inward. 

King, meanwhile, had already approached him, tail wagging enthusiastically as he sniffed at him. Charlie flinched slightly at first but didn’t pull away. He just stood there, still, letting the dog investigate him like he didn’t quite know how to act. 

You softened immediately at the sight.

“Hey,” you said gently, your voice shifting without you even thinking about it as you took a few little steps closer. “It’s okay, you don’t need to be afraid. He’s friendly. And… curious.”

Charlie gave a small nod, barely lifting his gaze.

You knew enough about his situation. In a town like Hawkins, people talked and everyone seemed to know everyone else's business. Over the years, you had heard various things about him. No father. A mother who was rarely home. And when she was, she often seemed lost in problems of her own and Charlie ended up spending many evenings alone.

Your attention flicked back to Steve again as he stepped closer to you. A thousand questions sat just behind your lips but you didn’t ask them. Not yet.

Steve cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he began, his voice low. “I should’ve called, but—”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering just long enough to brush his lips near your ear.

“His mom didn’t show up,” he murmured quietly so that only you could hear. “We couldn’t reach her. And I couldn’t leave him there.”

He pulled back, his hand finding yours, fingers wrapping around it as he searched your face. Your eyes flicked briefly to Charlie, then back to Steve. You nodded, a small smile forming as you squeezed his hand lightly, reassuring him that it was all okay. You stepped away from Steve and moved toward Charlie, lowering yourself to his height so you wouldn’t tower over him.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You actually got here at the perfect time.”

He shifted slightly, hands clasped behind his back, weight moving from one foot to the other.

“I hope you’re hungry because dinner’s ready,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “And I made way too much food. Honestly, it’s a problem at this point.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “Think you could help us with that?”

Charlie nodded after a moment, still not quite meeting your eyes. You nodded back, as if sealing an agreement.

“Perfect,” you said gently. Then, glancing over your shoulder at Steve, “why don’t we go wash our hands while Steve… gets everything ready?”

Your eyes lingered on him just a second longer, enough for him to understand that what you were really giving him was time. He gave a small nod in return before going back to look at Charlie. You reached out carefully, giving him the chance to step back if he wanted to but he didn’t. Your fingers closed gently around his hand—small, a little cold—and you guided him toward the bathroom. Behind you, you heard Steve move, the faint sound of the phone being picked up echoing through the quiet house. As you walked, you could feel the slight tension in Charlie’s grip, the way he stayed close but cautious, like he wasn’t used to this kind of care.

When you stepped back into the kitchen, your eyes found Steve’s immediately. He shook his head, just slightly. Something in your chest dropped, but you didn’t let it show. You forced a small, easy smile for Charlie. 

“Here we are,” you said lightly. “Go ahead, Charlie, sit here.”

You gestured to the chair between you and Steve. He moved toward it slowly, almost carefully, like he was afraid of getting something wrong. Steve took the seat across from you, while King had already settled at your side, tail brushing against your leg, eyes fixed on the table with quiet anticipation. He knew you well enough to expect something, even if he’d already eaten.

You looked at Charlie, searching for the right thing to say. Make yourself at home sat on the tip of your tongue — but it didn’t feel right. Not when you didn’t know what home meant for him.

“Take whatever you like, please” you said instead, softer.

He still didn’t move. His mouth was slightly open, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. You followed it.

Dinner wasn’t anything special — just spaghetti with meatballs, fresh salad and warm garlic bread. The portions were the same you cooked every night for you and Steve, the kind that usually left leftovers for the next day. It was normal for you.

But not for him.

His eyes moved slowly from one dish to the next, taking everything in. There was something in his expression — something caught between hesitation and wonder. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real or that it was actually meant for him.

Your chest tightened and a thought slipped in before you could stop it.

When was the last time he ate like this?

Not just ate — but sat down at a table, with other people and warm food in front of him that he didn’t have to earn, or rush, or hide. Maybe he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he was just waiting to understand what was allowed. Waiting for someone to tell him it was okay.

You swallowed hard but didn’t ask questions. Instead, you reached forward and began serving him yourself, adding a bit of everything onto his plate. More than you normally would. More than he probably expected.

“There you go,” you said gently once you were done. “There’s more if you want, okay?”

He nodded faintly, his hands still resting in his lap for a moment longer.

You and Steve served yourselves next, exchanging a brief look across the table before your attention returned to Charlie.

He hadn’t touched the food yet.

Only when you both took your first bites did he finally move. At first, it was tentative. Slow. Careful. He picked at the food like he was testing it, like he wasn’t entirely sure it was really his to eat. Like he expected someone to stop him. But after a few bites, hunger took over and his movements changed — faster now, less careful. He ate quickly, almost urgently, like his body couldn’t afford to wait. A bit of sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth.

You had stopped mid-motion without realizing it, your fork suspended halfway to your mouth as you watched him. Something shifted inside you. It wasn’t discomfort. Or pity. It was something else — warm, but heavier than you expected. Something that settled low in your chest and stayed there, tightening your throat just slightly. You didn’t have a name for it but it made it harder to look away.

You loved your students. All of them. But this felt different. Seeing Charlie like that, so small in that chair, so quiet and guarded one moment and then suddenly… unfiltered. Unaware. There was something vulnerable about it. But also something incredibly real. And it stirred something in you that you didn’t quite recognize. Something close to affection — but deeper, instinctive, almost unfamiliar in its intensity.

You smiled, softly. Charlie caught it out of the corner of his eye and he slowed down almost immediately. The shift was instant — shoulders tightening again, movements becoming smaller, more controlled, like he had just remembered himself or as if he thought he had done something wrong. Your smile faded just enough. You looked down quickly, pretending to focus on your own plate, giving him privacy again.

Dinner moved forward like that. Quiet, mostly. You and Steve tried to make conversation — small questions, light comments, easy conversation — but you didn’t push. When Charlie answered, it was brief. Polite. Careful.

So you let the silence settle instead. 

And strangely… it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It felt gentle.

Safe.

The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from anyone. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery, King’s tail occasionally brushing against the floor, and Charlie’s breathing slowly evening out as he ate.

And as you sat there, across from Steve, watching this small, fragile moment take shape at your table, you felt something shift inside you again.

Not sharp.

Not painful.

Just… something opening.

Something that felt, quietly, like the beginning of something you hadn’t planned — but somehow already cared about.

At some point, King started circling the table again, nails clicking softly against the floor as he moved from one chair to the next, hopeful and impatient in the way he always was. Then, without warning, he stopped beside Charlie and rested his chin on the boy’s leg. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Charlie froze instantly. His shoulders stiffened, his hand hovering mid-air, his whole body going still. 

“It’s okay,” Steve said gently, his tone easy, reassuring. “You don’t have to be scared. It just means that he likes you.”

He reached over, picking up a small piece of leftover meat from his plate and holding it out toward him.

“Here,” he added. “You can give him this if you want. He’ll be your best friend for life after that.”

Charlie hesitated. He looked at Steve first, uncertain — then at you. You gave him a small nod, soft, encouraging. He took the piece of meat slowly, carefully, like even that small gesture required permission. Then he lowered his hand toward King, a little unsure. 

King didn’t hesitate. He took it immediately, tail still wagging, clearly thrilled by the interaction and the food. Charlie watched him, something shifting in his expression. Then, almost cautiously, he lifted his other hand and rested it on the top of King’s head. He started petting him, slowly at first, light, almost testing. King leaned into it, happily, before licking his hand in response.

And just like that a small smile appeared on Charlie’s face. Barely there at first, like he didn’t quite know how to hold it. Then a quiet, surprised sound slipped out of him — something between a breath and a laugh.

You realized then that it was the first genuine smile you'd seen since Steve had brought him home. 

A real smile. 

The sight of it sent a rush of warmth through you so sudden it almost caught you off guard. You looked up, meeting Steve’s gaze across the table.

His expression had softened in exactly the same way.

Neither of you said anything. There was no need. Your smiles said more than a thousand words. 

-

Darkness had settled outside the windows. The last traces of daylight had disappeared long ago, replaced by the quiet hum of crickets and the occasional headlights passing on the distant road. The clock in the kitchen kept ticking steadily forward, each passing minute making the silence feel heavier.

Steve had tried calling again. And again. But it had become clear no one was coming.

Hopper had been informed, and after a brief conversation, the three of you had come to the same conclusion. It was late, Charlie was safe where he was, and dragging him somewhere unfamiliar in the middle of the night would only make an already difficult situation worse. Hopper promised he would start looking into things first thing in the morning. He'd check hospitals, talk to people, ask questions and figure out what had happened. But until then, the best place for Charlie was here. At your house. 

You and Steve got the guest room ready together, moving quickly, instinctively falling into rhythm without needing to say anything. Clean sheets, an extra blanket, a small glass of water placed on the nightstand. You found something for him to sleep in as well. One of the spare pajamas that had been left behind over the years after countless sleepovers. Dustin, Mike, Lucas and the others always seemed to forget something whenever they stayed over. The pajama shirt hung almost to Charlie's thighs and the sleeves fell past his wrists. It was obviously far too big for him, but it was clean, warm, and smelled faintly of laundry detergent.

When it was finally time to put him to bed, something shifted again — a different kind of uncertainty. You were suddenly aware of how unfamiliar this felt — not the presence of a child, not really. You and Steve were surrounded by them every day at school and you had even years of babysitting behind you.

But this was different.

This was your home.

And right now there was a child who was almost a stranger to you. Not one of your little friends, like Dustin, or a friend's kid you found yourself looking after for a night. Sure, he was your student, but you still knew little about him. He was a responsibility that didn’t have a clear boundary. You didn’t know what his routine looked like. Or if he had one at all. You didn’t know if someone usually tucked him in. If he was used to silence, or noise, or being left alone entirely. You didn't know what you could or couldn't do. 

He wasn’t your son, after all. 

And you weren’t his mother. 

The thought made you hesitate. But not for long. Because he needed you, whether you were his mother or not.

You stepped closer to him. He had already slipped under the covers, lying stiffly on his back, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself there either. You reached down and gently pulled the blanket up a little higher, tucking it around him. Your movements were careful, slow. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time. 

“I… uh,” you started, your voice quieter now. “Me and Steve — we’re just down the hall. First door on the left.” You offered a small smile. “If you need anything… anything at all, you can come get us. Or call.”

He just nodded.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, searching his expression, hoping he understood — not just the words, but what you meant.

That he wasn’t alone. 

“Goodnight, Charlie,” you said gently. “Sweet dreams.”

Still no answer.

You smiled anyway, then turned toward the door. You had just opened it, one foot already out in the hallway, when his voice stopped you.

“Goodnight… Mrs. Harrington.”

You turned back, your eyes met his again. For a second, something caught in your chest. You smiled again at him. Part of you wanted to tell him to use your name. To make it easier, less formal. But you didn’t. It was too soon. 

“Goodnight,” you simply said.

Then you stepped out and closed the door gently behind you, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you almost immediately. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping without you even realizing how tense they had been. It felt strange. Like you had just passed some kind of test you didn’t know you were taking.

-

By the time you reached your bedroom, the exhaustion of the evening had finally started catching up to you. You pushed the door open quietly.

Steve was standing beside the bed, halfway through changing out of his clothes. His shirt was already gone, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips while he tugged a clean T-shirt over his head. The moment he saw you, he stopped immediately.

“How is he?” he asked right away, concern already written all over his face. “Did he fall asleep?”

You shook your head as you closed the door softly behind you, your hand lingering on the handle for just a moment before you let it go.

“Not yet,” you said. “But he was fine... and I think he was tired too. After all, it was a busy evening... for all of us. I'm sure he'll fall asleep soon.”

Steve nodded slowly, eyes dropping for a second as he processed that, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. Then his gaze lifted back to yours.

“And you?” he asked more carefully this time, his voice low. 

There it was.

The real question.

Are you okay after all of this?

You leaned back lightly against the dresser, crossing your arms loosely over yourself as you thought about it.

“Honestly?” you said after a moment. “Better than I expected.”

“Are you sure?” He said, carefully. 

You let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, but didn’t quite make it. 

“I’m not gonna lie. It was… intense,” you admitted. “And a little overwhelming at first.” You paused for a moment before continuing. “When I saw him standing behind you, I think my brain completely stopped working for a second.”

That earned the faintest smile from Steve, though it disappeared quickly again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call first to warn you, but I didn’t really have the time or… a choice,” he said immediately.

You shook your head gently.

“Steve,” you said softly, “you weren’t going to leave him there all alone.”

His jaw tightened slightly at that.

You could still picture it clearly — Charlie patiently waiting at the baseball field long after everyone else had gone home, like he was already used to it. To being forgotten. The thought made something ache inside your chest all over again.

“You did the right thing. I would’ve done the same,” you told him.

“Yeah?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

“Of course.”

Steve looked at you for a long moment after that, something conflicted moving behind his eyes.

“When I showed up with him,” he admitted quietly, “I was scared you’d look at me and think I’d lost my mind.”

You frowned immediately. 

“Steve—”

“No, I —” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling softly. “I was really scared… I didn’t know if this would… bring everything back up again.” His voice lowered on the last part. 

Even now he hated talking about the pain you both had gone through. But you promised each other you'd be honest and tell each other everything, even when it wasn’t easy. You didn't want to repeat the same mistakes.

Your expression softened instantly. “You thought I was gonna fall apart again.”

He didn’t talk but his silence was answer enough. You pushed yourself away from the dresser and walked toward him slowly.

“I… I was scared, at first,” you admitted.

Steve’s face tightened slightly.

“But not because of Charlie,” you clarified quickly. “More because… I didn’t know how I was supposed to act. What he needed. Or what the right thing was.”

You stopped in front of him.

“But…” your voice softened, “I’m glad you brought him here.”

Steve’s eyes searched yours carefully, like he still wasn’t fully allowing himself to believe that.

“And he can stay as long as he needs to,” you said firmly. “Honestly, I’m more angry that nobody seems to even be looking for him.”

Something dark flickered briefly across Steve’s face at that.

“Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “Me too.”

Silence settled between you for a moment. Then Steve looked at you again, softer this time.

“You were really good tonight,” he said suddenly.

You blinked.

“With him,” he added. His mouth lifted faintly at one corner. “The second you realized what was happening, you just… took over.” He shook his head a little, almost like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “You made him feel safe in, like, five minutes.”

Warmth spread slowly through your chest.

“So did you,” you replied quietly.

Steve huffed softly. “I mostly panicked internally.”

You laughed under your breath. “No,” you said, stepping closer. “You brought him home. You made sure he wasn’t alone tonight.”

Your eyes softened as you looked at him. “You’re a really good man, Steve Harrington.”

His gaze dropped briefly, almost shy despite all these years.

“And… You’d be an amazing father,” you added, gentler now.

Steve smiled automatically at that—but it faltered almost immediately after. You noticed it instantly. Like the words had caught somewhere inside him. Your head tilted slightly, knowing exactly what had happened. 

“You can say it, you know,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted back to yours. For a second, he looked almost hesitant. Then finally, “You’d be an amazing mother too.”

A small smile pulled at your lips as you stepped even closer until your bodies nearly touched.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “I’ll try to be.”

Your hand slid gently against his chest.

“One day. When we’re ready.”

Steve’s expression softened completely.

Relief. Love. Hope.

All at once.

His hands found your waist slowly, carefully, like he still wanted to make sure this was real.

“That sounds nice,” he admitted quietly.

You smiled.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You looked at each other for another moment before Steve finally pulled you fully against him. You melted into his arms immediately, your cheek pressing against his chest as his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close. His hand slid slowly up and down your back while the other rested protectively at the base of your spine. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear.

After a moment, you tilted your head back just enough to look at him again. “I love you,” you whispered.

Steve smiled. “I love you too.”

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

-

The next morning, you woke before the sun had fully risen. You blinked slowly against the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in muted shades of blue. For a moment, you stayed still beneath the covers. The house sat wrapped in that quiet kind of silence that only existed in the earliest hours — before alarms, before life began moving again. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach. One arm had somehow ended up stretched across your waist sometime during the night, heavy and warm over the blanket, his face half-buried into the pillow. His hair stuck up messily in every direction, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the world.

You watched him for a few seconds, then your thoughts drifted to Charlie. You carefully slipped out from under Steve’s arm, moving slowly so you wouldn’t wake him. He stirred anyway, mumbling something incoherent under his breath before instinctively reaching toward the warm spot you had left. You smiled to yourself. Then quietly, you pulled something on and stepped into the hallway. Your feet slowed when you reached the guest room. Carefully, you opened the door just enough to peek inside. 

Charlie was still asleep, curled under the blankets, one arm tucked awkwardly beneath the pillow, hair messy from sleep. 

Relief moved through you instantly.

At some point during the night, he must have kicked the blankets halfway off himself and King had somehow managed to sneak in too, curled at the foot of the bed like some oversized guard dog, completely passed out.

You almost laughed.

Traitor.

You had checked on him more than once during the night. Each time half expecting him to be awake, scared, crying, confused. But every time, you had found him still sleeping.

Charlie’s face looked different asleep. Softer. Younger. Relaxed in a way you didn’t think you had ever seen him at school. He was just a little boy sleeping. Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly. You wondered when he had last slept somewhere without worrying. If he ever had.

You stepped inside just long enough to pull the blanket back over him. He shifted slightly but didn’t wake. King cracked one eye open, lifted his head lazily.

“You’re supposed to sleep in our room,” you whispered.

His tail thumped once against the mattress before he ignored you entirely. You shook your head, smiling faintly, and quietly slipped back out.

Downstairs, the house still smelled faintly of last night’s dinner. You started the coffee machine first. Then breakfast. You decided to make pancakes, hoping Charlie liked them. Without realizing it, you found yourself making more than usual. 

By the time you were whisking batter, you heard some familiar footsteps behind you and after a moment, strong arms wrapped around your waist, making you smile immediately.  

“Good morning to you too,” you said softly.

Steve leaned down, still half asleep, pressing his face against your shoulder, kissing it lazily. 

“It’s Saturday and it’s early,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Come back to bed.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Don’t tempt me, Steve.”

A soft hum vibrated against your skin.

“You know I can’t help myself,” he murmured near your ear. “Especially when I know I can convince you.”

His hands settled against your hips, warm and familiar.

“Steve…”

“Mhm?”

“I’d like to remind you we’re not alone in the house.”

He kissed your shoulder again. “I checked,” he murmured. “He’s still sleeping.”

The admission caught you off guard for a second. 

Of course he had checked too. 

The thought alone made your chest tighten in the softest way.

You tilted your head back for only a moment, giving him space without even meaning to as his lips brushed your skin again. Then you caught yourself. Turning in his arms, you rested your hands against his chest to stop him.

“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t wake up any second,” you said gently. “And I’d rather avoid traumatizing him any more than life already has.”

Steve let out a quiet sigh — not annoyed. Amused.

His forehead dropped lightly against yours.

“Ok, you’re right. I’ll behave,” he said. “For now,” he added before kissing you. Soft. Slow. 

When he pulled back, he exhaled quietly. 

“I’m gonna call Hopper,” he said after a moment. “See if there’s any news.”

The mood shifted a little, reality settling back in. 

You still nodded. Even though, deep down, you already feared the answer.

While Steve reached for the phone, you turned back toward the counter and started cooking. You needed something to do with your hands, something to stop your mind from spiraling.

You poured the first circle of batter into the pan, watching it spread slowly across the surface as the soft hiss filled the kitchen.

After a few seconds, Hopper answered. You could hear his voice through the receiver — agitated, fast — but none of the actual words reached you. You focused on the pancakes, the smell slowly filling the kitchen. 

A small stack of pancakes had already begun to form on the plate beside the stove by the time you glanced over again. Steve’s expression had slowly changed as he listened to Hopper. His eyes met yours, your stomach tightening. You could tell before he even hung up. 

“Still nothing?” you asked quietly, swallowing hard. 

Steve shook his head. “Hopper checked their caravan,” he said carefully. “Nobody was there. And no one has seen her apparently.”

He paused, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “He said… Charlie can keep staying here, for now. If… we want, of course.” You looked down at the batter absentmindedly as something twisted painfully in your chest. Not because you minded. God, you didn’t. But because no child should ever be left wondering why no one came. Then there was a part of you — the quiet, selfish one — that felt strangely relieved.

Your eyes slowly lifted to Steve’s.

“Yeah,” you agreed immediately. “Of course he can stay. As long as he needs it.”

“You sure?” he asked quietly. Steve watched you for a second, like maybe he was still afraid of your answer. Like some part of him worried this would be too much.

“Steve,” you said gently. “I told you. I’m okay, really. And he needs us now. That’s all that matters.”

Something softened in his face. “You’re kinda amazing, you know that?”

You rolled your eyes lightly. “You brought home a child, Harrington. You are.”

“Yeah, and you just took over, making it feel normal.”

“I just made him dinner.”

“You made him feel safe. Welcome.”

You looked at him, your mouth slightly open. But before you could answer, soft footsteps interrupted you.

You both turned.

Charlie stood awkwardly near the kitchen entrance, hair sticking up everywhere. King stood proudly beside him like he had personally escorted him downstairs. Charlie hesitated when he noticed you both looking.

“Morning,” Steve said immediately, casual — gentle enough not to scare him off. “Did you sleep well, buddy?”

Charlie shifted his weight slightly. Then, he nodded, quickly. 

“Good,” he said, softer than usual. “You hungry?”

Charlie looked up at you and after a moment, he nodded again. 

Your heart nearly cracked open. “Well,” you said, turning back toward the stove, “perfect timing. You pointed toward the bowl on the counter. “Pancakes. They’re almost ready.  And before Steve eats all of them, I suggest you sit down.”

Steve looked offended. “What? I didn’t…”

“You ate six last time.”

“Seven,” he corrected proudly. “It's not my fault if your pancakes are the best,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. 

And for the second time, you saw it. Small. Quick. Gone almost immediately. But there.

Another smile.

And somehow, standing there in your kitchen, with King circling his legs and Steve already pretending to argue over pancake rights, something shifted. You couldn’t explain it yet. Didn’t have words for it. But for the first time in a long while…

The house felt fuller.

Complete. 

-

Since school was closed for the weekend, you had the day off and could do whatever you wanted. So after breakfast, Steve disappeared for a moment before returning with two baseball gloves and a ball in hand. He leaned casually against the kitchen counter, looking at Charlie.

“So,” he said, shrugging lightly, like the idea had just come to him, “since you’re here…”

Charlie looked up from where he sat beside King.

“Thought maybe we could get a little practice in.” Steve tossed one ball lightly into the air before catching it again. “Consider it private coaching.” A small grin tugged at his mouth. “But don’t tell the others, alright? Can’t have the team thinking I play favorites.”

Charlie hesitated, shoulders tightening slightly.

“You really don’t have to if you don’t feel like it,” you added gently, not wanting him to feel pressured.

Steve nodded immediately. “No pressure,” he said easily. “We can just throw the ball around for a bit. King will probably join and ruin everything anyway.”

As if on cue, King lifted his head and after a second, Charlie nodded.

Steve pointed at him with mock seriousness.

“That’s my guy.”

-

Outside, you settled onto the porch with your sketchbook, intending to draw. At least, that had been the plan. Instead, your pencil barely touched the page as you found yourself watching Steve and Charlie.

Steve crouched down to Charlie’s height, explaining something while the boy listened carefully, shoulders tense. At first, he nodded and answered only when Steve asked him something directly. But little by little, the nervousness began to fade.

And soon, he was laughing quietly when Steve intentionally exaggerated a missed catch, dramatically falling backward into the grass.

“You did that on purpose,” Charlie said before quickly going quiet again, almost surprised by his own voice.

Steve placed a hand over his chest. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Another laugh escaped Charlie, his smile widened despite himself.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Charlie looked… lighter. Like for a few hours, he had forgotten to be scared. And watching him — safe, laughing, free in a way you suspected he rarely got to be — stirred something unfamiliar and quiet inside your chest. And frightening in how natural it felt. You didn’t quite know what to call it. Not yet. Affection, maybe. Or something dangerously close to love. And that scared you more than you wanted to admit. Because you knew what love could do and how quickly it could turn into grief. How suddenly happiness could become fear and loss. And letting yourself care this much felt dangerous.

But then Charlie laughed again — breathless this time, chasing after King while Steve pretended to complain dramatically about being ignored by his own player — and something inside you softened anyway.

So, just for now, you let yourself enjoy the moment. The sound of laughter drifting through the yard. The warmth of the sun on your skin. Steve’s voice somewhere in the background.

-

By evening, the kitchen smelled like flour, tomato sauce, and melted cheese.

You had decided on homemade pizza.

At first, Charlie hovered near the kitchen doorway again, uncertain, hands half-hidden inside the sleeves of Dustin’s oversized sweatshirt. King sat loyally beside him, tail sweeping lazily against the floor every few seconds like he had already decided Charlie belonged there.

“Come here,” you said gently, patting the stool beside you. “I need help decorating.”

Charlie hesitated, glancing briefly toward Steve like he needed confirmation he wouldn’t be in the way.

“You heard the boss,” Steve said, washing his hands at the sink. “No backing out now.”

Slowly, Charlie climbed onto the stool beside you. You handed him a small handful of shredded mozzarella while you spread tomato sauce over the dough.

“Okay,” you said softly. “You can put the cheese on.”

He watched your hands first, careful and observant, before pinching a small amount between his fingers and sprinkling it over the pizza with extreme concentration. At first he moved slowly, like he was afraid of doing something wrong. Then he paused. 

“Like this?” he asked quietly, his voice almost a whisper. 

You opened your mouth to answer, but Steve leaned over the counter first.

“That is way too much cheese,” he said with exaggerated seriousness.

Charlie froze immediately and you shot Steve a look.

“Ignore him,” you said, nudging Charlie lightly with your shoulder. “There’s no such thing as too much cheese.”

Steve looked personally offended.

“There absolutely is.”

“There isn’t.”

“There is. You just refuse to acknowledge basic pizza science.”

You rolled your eyes.

Beside you, Charlie let out the smallest laugh.

As the evening went on, Charlie relaxed little by little. He started helping more without asking. Passing ingredients. Carefully arranging pepperoni in uneven little circles. Sneaking extra cheese onto one side of the pizza when he thought Steve wasn’t looking.

King, meanwhile, had become completely and utterly attached to Charlie. The dog barely left his side. Every time Charlie moved, King followed. Every time Charlie sat down, King somehow ended up pressed against his leg like they had known each other forever. At one point, while you were reaching for plates, you noticed Charlie glance around carefully before lowering his hand beneath the counter. The second the piece of cheese slipped onto the floor, the dog appeared like magic and eat it. Charlie looked oddly proud of himself. Across the kitchen, Steve caught your eye just in time to see Charlie carefully slipping another tiny piece of pepperoni. Steve let out a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms.

“Great,” he said, crossing his arms. “Now he likes you more than me too.”

Charlie startled slightly, cheeks reddening.

“I— sorry,” he mumbled immediately, hand pulling back like he’d done something wrong.

Steve’s expression softened at once. “Kid, I’m kidding,” he said gently.

Charlie glanced up uncertainly. “He switched teams years ago,” Steve continued, nodding toward the dog. “The second she started sneaking him food under the table, I lost all authority in this house.”

“Excuse me?” you said, pretending to sound offended as you slid the pizza onto a cutting board. “You spoil him just as much.”

Charlie looked between the two of you quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, his hand dropped to scratch behind King’s ears. King immediately melted into the floor with complete devotion.

Charlie also started speaking more. Small things at first. How he liked baseball more than math. How he hated peas. How King reminded him of a dog he’d once wanted but never got. Nothing really big or life-changing but every sentence felt important to you. Like trust being handed over in pieces.

“You know,” Steve said eventually, leaning back in his chair after another bite of pizza, “I think this might actually be the best pizza we’ve ever made.”

You looked up from your plate and glanced first at Charlie, then at Steve. You smiled softly. He wasn’t talking about the food. 

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think so too.” Then, after a beat, your eyes dropped back to Charlie. “I had an amazing helper.”

Steve pointed to himself immediately.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding once like it was obvious.

You looked at him flatly. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

Steve placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Wow,” he said, feigning heartbreak. “That’s actually cruel.”

You laughed quietly when the doorbell suddenly rang. The noise cut through the room so suddenly that all three of you looked up.

“Were we expecting someone?” Steve asked.

You slowly shook your head but but deep down, somehow, you already knew. You couldn’t explain how or why. Instinct, maybe. The feeling settled heavily in your stomach before either of you even moved.

Steve stood first. And you followed almost immediately, wiping your hands absentmindedly on a kitchen towel while Charlie remained seated at the table, one hand resting unconsciously against King’s fur.

When Steve opened the door, Hopper stood there. And beside him, there was a woman. 

Her hair was messy, hastily tied back. There was fading makeup smudged beneath tired eyes and a bruise near her temple, yellowing at the edges. Her clothes smelled faintly of cigarettes and hospital disinfectant. She looked exhausted more than anything else. Worn down by life in a way that made it difficult to tell how old she actually was. 

You didn't need an introduction to know who she was. 

Charlie’s mother.

Your chest tightened instantly.

The woman swallowed hard, eyes flickering nervously past you into the house, searching. 

Hopper exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“She got into a car accident yesterday,” he explained quietly, glancing between you and Steve. “Minor injuries but she ended up at the county hospital unconscious most of the night. She didn’t have any documents with her, so they didn’t know who she was.”

“Charlie,” she breathed out.

You turned.

Charlie stood a few feet behind you but he didn’t move. Not immediately. Then, slowly, carefully, he stepped forward. The woman’s eyes were fixed entirely on him. She crouched immediately despite the obvious stiffness in her body, one hand bracing against her knee. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached up.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said quickly, voice cracking as she looked at him. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything.” 

Her eyes filled immediately.

And the worst part was that she sounded genuine. Not cruel. Just… incapable. Like someone who loved her child but kept failing him anyway. The guilt hit you before you could stop it. Because part of you had already judged her and decided what kind of mother she must be. Someone selfish. Someone reckless enough not to notice their child was gone. But now, standing there, seeing the bruising near her temple, the exhaustion written all over her face, she just looked overwhelmed. And broken. 

She looked up at you and Steve then, eyes red-rimmed. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For taking care of him.”

“You don’t have to thank us,” Steve said gently. “He’s okay.” 

“A little scared,” you admitted quietly. “But… he’s okay.”

The woman nodded like hearing that physically hurt.

Hopper stepped aside eventually, giving them space and quietly pulled Steve aside.

“I already talked to her,” he muttered low enough that Charlie couldn’t hear. “One more screw-up and I’m stepping in. I mean it. And I’ll be checking on her. Frequently.”

Steve simply nodded.

Eventually, Charlie disappeared upstairs to grab his things. When he came back down, King immediately stood, tail wagging, following him toward the door. Charlie wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, while he started licking his face without hesitation.

“You know,” you said softly, crouching beside him, “you can come visit him whenever you want.”

Charlie looked up. “For real?”

“For real,” Steve said. “Pretty sure you’re his favorite now.”

King barked once like he agreed. A tiny smile pulled at Charlie’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

You smiled despite the ache building in your throat. You reached up before thinking, smoothing his messy hair back for a second.

“You’re always welcome here, Charlie”, you said, the words slipping out naturally.

They were already halfway to Hopper's truck when Charlie suddenly turned around. You smile and lifted your hand immediately.

“Bye, Charlie. See you on Monday,” you said, your voice trembling. 

He hesitated for a second before raising his own hand in return. Small. Shy. Your arms crossed instinctively over yourself. King moved forward as if ready to follow him but Steve caught his collar gently. “Easy, buddy.”

The dog whined softly. 

After closing the door behind you, Steve’s hand found yours silently. Slowly. His fingers threaded through yours and squeezed. Tight. Like he was comforting you. Like maybe he was holding onto something too.

The house felt unbearably quiet.

That night, lying in bed, you broke. You cried silently at first. Trying not to. Trying to be reasonable. After all, you would still see him at school. And Steve would see him at baseball practice. Nothing had changed. And nothing would. Not really.

Except it had.

Because somehow, impossibly, one day had been enough to make the thought of not hearing his quiet voice in the kitchen hurt more than it should.

Behind you, Steve said nothing. He wrapped himself around you, one arm around your waist, the other pulling you closer until your back pressed firmly against his chest, holding you tightly and letting you cry. 

After a long while, something warm touched your shoulder. At first, you thought it was your own tears. But then Steve buried his face more firmly against the back of your neck.

And you realized.

He was crying too. Silently. Or at least, he was trying to. The fabric of your nightgown was damp against your shoulder. You turned slowly in his arms. His eyes were red.

“Oh, Steve…”

His laugh came out shaky. “I know,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s stupid.”

“No,” you said immediately. “It isn’t,” you said, cupping his face, your forehead resting against his. 

And somewhere in the quiet dark, holding each other like that, you both understood. 

Seeing Charlie again at school would never be the same.

-

The next morning, you woke up early as usual but stayed where you were, tucked beneath the blankets while the soft gray light of early morning stretched across the bedroom. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, facing your side of the bed, hair sticking up in every direction, lips slightly parted as the faintest snore escaped him every few breaths.

You smiled despite yourself. Years ago, you probably would have found it annoying. Now, somehow, it had become comforting. Familiar. You turned onto your side, resting your head more comfortably against the pillow as you watched him sleep.

The night before replayed quietly in your mind.

Charlie leaving.

The silence afterward.

And the ache.

You and Steve had barely spoken once the house had gone quiet again. There hadn't really been words for it. Only a strange sense of loss neither of you had expected. 

And it made no logical sense.

Because Charlie had only been with you for a day.

One day.

And yet it had been enough to love him as something more than just a student. His absence had settled over the house like something physical.

Eventually exhaustion had taken pity on both of you. But sleep hadn’t come easily. You had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking.

About Charlie.

About Steve.

About the future.

And somewhere between all those thoughts, something inside you had finally settled into place. Something that terrified and gave you hope at the same time. Because you had spent so long convinced that door had closed forever and that maybe some broken part of you would never recover enough to want it again.

But Charlie had changed something.

Beside you, Steve stirred. His nose scrunched slightly before he rolled onto his back, stretching with a groan and blinking against the morning light. Then he noticed you watching him, a sleepy smile pulled at his mouth immediately.

“Well,” he said, voice rough with sleep, “that’s either really romantic or really creepy.”

You laughed softly. “Good morning.”

“Morning, early bird.” He rubbed at his face before glancing toward the clock. “How long have you been awake?”

You hesitated. “A while.”

He studied you for a second and then something in his expression shifted, his smile fading just slightly. Like memory had finally caught up with him. He pushed himself up against the headboard, running a hand through his hair.

“How are you?” he asked carefully. “After… yesterday, I mean.”

You sighed and looked down at the blanket for a moment, considering the answer.

“Sad,” you admitted quietly. “I miss him.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “And… I’m worried.” You exhaled slowly. “I just really hope he’s okay, you know?”

Steve nodded immediately. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.” He looked down for a second. “I know we’ll see him tomorrow. At school. Practice and all that.” He hesitated. “But it doesn’t really feel —”

“The same,” you finished the sentence, your eyes meeting his. “Yeah, it doesn’t.”

For a few seconds neither of you said anything else. You looked at him and suddenly, the words you had been carrying all night felt too important to keep inside anymore.

“You know, yesterday…” you started quietly.

Steve immediately looked up.

You cleared your throat and continued. “Yesterday felt like —” You paused, choosing your words carefully.

His brow furrowed slightly. You looked down at your hands, swallowing. 

“It felt like we were a family.”

The words settled softly between you. Steve stayed quiet, letting you continue.

“And I liked it. A lot,” you admitted, a small smile touching your lips. “And it… it made me realize something.”

Steve sat up a little straighter now, more careful. “What… what do you mean?”

You hesitated for a second, your fingers twisting nervously in the blanket and then, you finally looked him in the eyes. “I think I’m ready.”

His forehead creased. “Ready for what?”

Your heartbeat quickened. But strangely, you weren’t scared anymore.

“To be a mom,” you said softly.

The room fell completely silent. Steve blinked once, then twice, like he genuinely hadn’t expected those words.

You looked down briefly before continuing. “For a long time, I thought that part of my life was over.” You swallowed. “But taking care of Charlie yesterday felt... so natural. And good.”

A faint smile touched your lips as you remembered the previous day. 

“I liked making him breakfast. Checking on him.” You let out a small breath. “Seeing him play baseball in the backyard with you.”

Your eyes found Steve's again.

“And… I want that.”

Steve still hadn’t spoken. You could practically see him trying to process your words. 

“I want a family,” you finally admitted. “With you.”

Steve swallowed hard. The shine in his eyes made your chest ache. Slowly, his hand reached across the blankets until his fingers found yours.

“You sure?” he asked gently. “Because we don’t have to rush anything. We can wait if—”

You nodded immediately, squeezing his hand. “I’ve never been more sure.”

You took a deep breath. 

“Maybe we can’t be what Charlie needs,” you said quietly. “But there are so many kids out there like him.” Your voice softened. “Kids who just… need someone. And we could be that for one of them. Give them a better life, you know.” 

Your fingers tightened around Steve’s. You hesitated for a moment, then finally said it.

“I’d… I’d like to adopt, Steve.”

For a second, he just stared at you, completely still. 

Your stomach twisted.

“Say something, please,” you whispered, suddenly nervous. “What… what do you think?”

He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a slow kiss against your knuckles.

“I think,” he said softly, voice rougher now, “every time I convince myself there’s no possible way I could love you more…” His thumb brushed gently over your hand. “You somehow give me another reason.”

Your eyes stung instantly, your breath caught. “Steve…”

“No, seriously.” He shook his head slightly. “You have no idea how much I love you right now.”

He leaned forward without hesitation, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.

“And you’re going to be an incredible mom,” he whispered against your hair.

A watery laugh escaped you. You lifted your head just enough to look at him, smiling. “And you’re going to be the best dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His forehead rested gently against yours as his hand came up to cup your cheek.

“Let's do it. Let’s adopt.” 

Tears threatened to spill. “Really?”

Steve let out a quiet laugh.

“Really.”

Steve kissed you, slowly, carefully. Like the moment deserved to be held onto for as long as possible.

-

Two years later

The afternoon sun spilled across the porch, warm against your bare legs as you sat in the wooden chair Steve had built for you the previous summer. A sketchbook rested on your lap, your pencil moving lazily across the page.

You weren't drawing anything in particular, just pieces of the moment unfolding in front of you.

The yard.

The dog. 

And the baseball game currently unfolding across the grass.

King barked excitedly as he tore after the ball that had no intention of being caught by a dog. He missed it entirely, skidded through the lawn, and immediately tried again as though nothing had never happened. A boy sprinted after it, nearly tripping over his own feet before recovering at the last second.

You smiled to yourself.

"That one didn't count!" he shouted.

"It absolutely did," Steve called back.

The boy groaned dramatically while Steve looked entirely too pleased with himself. You laughed softly and shook your head.

Some things never changed.

The competitive streak Steve brought to absolutely everything was apparently hereditary. Or contagious. You still hadn't decided which.

Steve tossed the ball into the air before catching it again.

"Ready?"

The boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“No. You’re cheating."

“I’m winning,” he said, throwing the ball anyway. 

The boy managed to hit it this time, the crack of the bat echoing across the yard. His face lit up immediately. 

It still amazed you sometimes.

The first time he had stepped into your house, every word had seemed dragged out of him. He had spoken cautiously, as though every sentence needed permission before leaving his mouth. Now he laughed loudly and argued confidently. 

Steve grinned. “There you go! Nice job, buddy."

The kid turned toward the porch. "Mum! Did you see that?”

Mum

The word still caught you off guard sometimes. Not because it felt wrong, it was quite the opposite actually. It felt so natural now that it was hard to remember a time when it hadn't.

Your eyes met his. 

Your son. 

“I did," you called back. “That was a good hit, well done!”

The boy looked pleased with himself.

Your chest warmed.

You never would have imagined this. 

You and steve hadn’t been parents yet.

And Charlie had still been someone else's child. 

But then everything had changed.

Charlie had lost his mother only a few months after you and Steve had finally decided to adopt. The grief that followed and the months afterward hadn't been easy. There had been lawyers, court hearings, social workers and many questions. But eventually, after months of waiting, the judge had signed the papers and Charlie had finally come home. This time not as a guest. 

But as your son. 

And now you were finally a family. Not the one you had imagined years ago but the one that had been waiting for you instead.

A sudden movement pulled you from your thoughts. Your hand settled automatically over the curve of your stomach as you looked down, a smile spreading across your face.  Even now, months after finding out, part of you still couldn't quite believe it. After everything that had happened, after making peace with the possibility that it might never happen, life had found a way to surprise you again. 

You felt another kick. This one stronger as if she was demanding attention.

You laughed under your breath. "Well, hello to you too."

A moment later you heard the familiar creak of the porch boards and Steve appeared beside your chair.

"You okay?"

You nodded and reached for his hand, placing it gently against the curve of your stomach. Right on cue, your daughter kicked again.

Steve’s face softened immediately. "There you are, princess,” he murmured, as though he were greeting someone already familiar. 

You watched him for a moment. The man who had once brought home a scared little boy because he couldn't bear the thought of leaving him alone. The man who had become a father long before either of you realized it.

Out in the yard, Charlie was already growing impatient.

“Dad!” 

The word made Steve glance up instantly. “Yeah?” 

“Are we playing again or are you tired already?”

Steve looked back at you, looking deeply offended. “Did you hear that? No respect around here."

You laughed. "Go save your reputation, coach."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading back toward the grass where Charlie was impatiently waiting for him, bat resting on one shoulder and King circling excitedly  around both of them. The afternoon sunlight wrapped around the three of them as they disappeared into another argument about baseball. You rested a hand over your stomach and watched.

Your husband.

Your son. 

The life and the family you were building together. 

Years ago, you had thought some dreams were gone forever. That you would never be a mother. Now, surrounded by the people you loved most, you realized that sometimes life gave you a different ending than the one you had initially imagined. 

And sometimes, somehow, it turned out even better.

THE END

The saloon filled and emptied in waves: laughter cresting, glasses clinking, someone slapping the bar like it had personally wronged them. Smoke hung low, sweet and stale, settling into the wood like it had nowhere better to be.

It had been a few nights since you last saw Billy. For a minute there you thought he might've ditched without some sappy goodbye. An Irish goodbye. But those thoughts vanished when you saw some of his gang around town earlier in the day, talking to locals.

Billy’s gang took up one of the long tables, boots hooked on chair rungs, hats tipped back. Too loud, too relaxed — the kind of men who made a place feel smaller just by sitting in it.

You overheard them as they spoke. Somethin' about leaving town for that unjust prisoner, and it going so damn well they just had to come back for the best drinks they'd had in a while, and then, they'd be back on the road. You tried to keep your head down, noticing a lack of Billy around. They seemed rowdier without him, you thought.

“Songbird,” Cole called as you passed, catching your wrist lightly before you could dodge him. Empty beer mugs crowded the table. “You singin’ tonight? We missed out last time.”

“Not tonight,” you said, easing your hand free without fuss. “Stick around till Saturday. Might get lucky then.” You tilted your head at the table. “You boys survivin’, or you need another round?”

That earned a cheer, chairs scraping as a few of them leaned back like the night had just improved.

“Santa Fe,” one of them said, grinning wide. “No wonder Billy talked it up. Didn’t mention he had a pretty ass waitin’ on him, though."

You bit the inside of your cheek and kept walking.

It was far from the worst thing you’d heard working the bar. Not even close. You let it slide off you the way you’d learned to — like dust shaken from your skirt.

Ida lingered longer than usual, perched at her usual spot, nursing the same whiskey for near an hour.

“You look distracted,” she said, squinting at you over the rim of her glass.

“I look busy,” you replied, wiping down the bar with more purpose than necessary.

“Hm. Busy usually smiles more.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Since when are you the authority on my face?”

“Since I’ve been sittin’ in front of it three nights a week for the past year,” she said cheerfully. “I know when you’re thinkin’ too loud.”

You slid past her to grab another bottle. “I ain’t thinkin’.”

“That’s worse,” Ida said. “Means somethin’s already decided.”

She tipped her glass toward you when you refilled it, a silent thanks, then leaned her elbows on the bar like she had all the time in the world.

“You hear about the Perkins boy?” she went on. “Ran off with a married woman from Las Vegas. Church ladies are beside themselves.”

“Shame,” you murmured. “I give it a week.”

“Oh, two at most. Men like that always come crawlin’ back once the money dries up.” She paused, eyes flicking over you again. “You plannin’ on crawlin’ anywhere?”

You stopped short, bottle hovering mid-pour. “What?”

Ida smiled, all sugar. “Been... I don't know, bit lighter since that bar fight on Saturday. You’ve got a look. Same one you had when you talked about leavin’ town last summer. Didn’t go anywhere then, though...”

You set the bottle down carefully. “People are allowed to look tired.”

“They are,” Ida agreed. “They don’t usually look like they’re waitin’.”

That landed closer than you liked. Before you could answer, a burst of laughter went up from one of the tables — Billy’s boys, loud and easy and already halfway gone. Ida glanced that way, curious but unbothered.

“New crowd,” she said. “Rough.”

“They pay,” you said. “They’re messy in the backroom though.”

“Money, mess and alcohol. What could go wrong?” She took another sip, then smiled at you again, softer this time. “Just don’t let ‘em wear you down, alright? And whatever... look you got going on-"

"-I ain't got a look-"

"-you got a look... point is, you’re allowed to want things, you know. Been workin' your ass off here. Indulge.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Since when did you get so wise?”

“I been wise,” Ida said. “Just don’t want people comin’ to me for advice all the time. I’d fix lives, you know. Can’t have that responsibility. Rather spend my time talkin' about others lives.”

She drained her glass, slid it toward you. “Put this on my tab. And don’t make that face — I know when you’re worryin’ yourself sick.”

You poured her one last finger. “You’re gonna drink it slow this time?”

She winked. “Always do.”

Ida stayed a while longer, talking about nothing — who’d moved, who’d married, who’d gotten themselves into trouble. You nodded and hummed in the right places, let the sound of her voice steady you.

Later, you stopped at another table. Gus was passed out in the corner, banjo propped beside him like it was keeping watch. You cleaned around him gently, tapped his shoulder.

He stirred, white hair wild, spectacles crooked. Mumbled something about his daughter and forgotten medicine.

“Time to go home, Gus,” you said softly.

He sank right back into sleep.

Another man tried to pick a fight over nothing — claimed someone had stolen his seat from last week. The piano player played straight through it, unbothered as a saint. A fellow sidled up after, hat in his hands, apologising again for the bar fight he’d started days earlier.

“Just wanted a song..." he said. “Didn’t mean to put a chair through the wall.”

“You’re lucky the wall’s sturdier than your head,” you told him — but you poured him a drink anyway.

By the time the crowd thinned, the air inside felt heavy — smoke, sweat, old wood soaked in years of noise.

You grabbed the bin and headed out back, the door swinging shut behind you with a tired creak.

And for the first time all night, it was quiet.

Outside, Santa Fe sat hushed in that strange in-between hour — not quite night, not yet morning. The sky was dimming, the first stars only just brave enough to show themselves. Somewhere beyond the adobe walls, a coyote yipped, sharp and lonely.

You dumped the trash, wrinkling your nose, and brushed your hands together. Just past the scrub grass, a stray dog lingered. Old thing. You’d taken to calling her Sally, though half the town had their own name for her.

Nobody owned her, nobody knew where she’d come from — she’d just been there as long as anyone could remember. Some kind of pointer mix, speckled like spilled ink, white frothing her jowls.

“C’mere, girl,” you murmured, crouching as you fished a scrap from the bin and held it out.

Sally approached with dignity, tail wagging once before she ate from your palm. You scratched behind her ear while she chewed, smiling despite yourself. When you set the rest down, she trotted off toward the darker edge of town, vanishing between buildings.

You sighed, straightened, and made sure the rubbish was settled proper.

Something shifted behind you.

You stiffened, heart skipping — then exhaled. Probably another stray. Or a coyote bold enough to nose around.

“Go on,” you muttered. “Ain’t nothin’ else worth havin’ back here.”

A hand slid around your waist.

You yelped — real this time — spinning fast enough you nearly collided with his chest.

Billy grinned down at you, all crooked smile and bad timing.

“Easy, princess,” he laughed softly, hands steadying you as your back met the wooden wall. “You’ll wake the whole street.”

“You—” You shoved his shoulder, sharp but not serious. “What are you doin’, sneakin’ up on a lady like that?”

“Missed you,” he said, like it explained everything.

It almost did.

“What if someone sees you?” you hissed, glancing toward the saloon door.

“They won’t,” he murmured, leaning just close enough that his voice brushed your ear. “Not if you’re quiet.”

You scoffed, breathier than intended. “Your gang’s inside. Been servin’ ’em all night.”

“They behave?”

“Drunk. Loud. Men.” You shrugged. “So—mostly no.”

“If they give you trouble—”

“What, you’ll scare ’em with that smile?” you cut in. “Terrify ’em somethin’ fierce?”

He huffed a laugh. “I’ll think of somethin’.”

“Always do,” you said dryly. "Your little prisoner outbreak go well?"

He looked at you confused, brows furrowed. "How'd you know 'bout that?"

"Drunk, loud, men," You repeated.

"Ah," He nods. "Yeah. Smoothly. Came back in the morn, was gonna visit you but got occupied."

He stepped back a fraction, like he was reminding himself where he was. Lantern light caught his face — dust-worn, sharper somehow, but still him.

“I had to ride out,” he said. “Neighbourin’ spread lost near a dozen head. Broke through a bad stretch of fence. Took all damn day to haze ’em back. Extra cash never hurts.”

Your brow lifted despite yourself. “Haze?”

“Yeah,” he said, sheepish. “Chasin’ ‘em all over hell’s half-acre.”

You clicked your tongue. “There’s a little silly.”

“Oh?” His mouth tilted. “Enlighten me.”

“You don’t chase cattle,” you said, easy as breathing. “You push ’em. Wide. Slow. Let ‘em think it’s their idea.”

He studied you, interest sharpening. “That so?”

“You get one rider wide to turn the leaders, another tailin’ to keep ‘em bunched. Use the wind. Quiet voices. No gunfire, unless you’re lookin’ to scatter ‘em clear to Mexico.”

He let out a low whistle. “Hell. Wish you’d been there.”

“You’d still be out there if I was,” you said. “I’d have you circlin’ instead of barrelin’ through like a bull in rut.”

He laughed outright at that, head tipping back.

“Christ,” he said. “You always talk like that?”

“Only when men pretend they know cattle,” you shot back. “Ranch, sweetheart, born and raised. That thing’ll be mine after Pa passes.”

He seemed a bit caught off guard by that, humming. “You’re goin’ back? Thought you liked Sante Fe. Travellin’.”

“I do, but that’s home,” You shrugged. “Not like I’d be cooped up there for the rest of my life. But I wanna settle down. Teach my kids how to round up cattle right.”

Billy smiled a bit at that. “You’ll be a good mother.”

You cleared your throat, hands settling at his collar, palms sliding a bit over the button up. “You wanna come in? Get you somethin’ to drink. No police here, they’re busy across town with somethin’ at the bank.”

“Maybe… when’d you get off?” He wondered, leaning in and pressing his lips to your neck.

You smiled and bit your lip. “‘Bout an hour. Come in, wait. We’ll go back to mine, I can show you some of the paintings I’ve been doin’ too.”

“Painting?” He murmured against you, lips moving to your jaw, beneath your ear.

“I know. Sante Fe has turned me all around, I suppose. Gus teaches me. He’s the man with the banjo inside. Dead asleep.”

“What if someone recognises me?” He said, referencing his wanted poster, pulling away from your neck. 

You recall Ida commenting now on his poster. You hum to yourself.

“Nobody’ll snitch. ‘Sides, it’s a terrible portrait. Barely looks like you.”

“I like it. Makes me look tough.”

“Exactly. Think you’re as tough as my hair tie.”

“I don’t remember you bein’ so mean,” He hummed.

You smiled at that and pulled him down by his collar, pressing your lips against his. This time sloppy, catching him off guard for a split second before his lips moved fast against yours, tongues slipping. 

“You put on even more rosemary before you got here, didn’t you?” You murmured as you pulled back, breath heavy as the smell got particularly strong.

He huffed a laugh at that. “By accident. Did such a bad job with the cattle I fell into a rosemary garden.”

You brought him inside with your fingers still loosely hooked in his, letting go just before the lamplight caught you both too clearly. Habit took over. You smoothed your skirt, lifted your chin, put the barkeep face back on like a well-worn hat.

Billy lingered a beat behind you, then drifted toward the bar instead of his gang.

Ida noticed immediately.

She always did.

Her eyes flicked up as you crossed behind the counter—quick, sharp, taking stock. Billy’s hat. His shoulders. The way you didn’t look at him but somehow moved like you knew exactly where he was. One corner of her mouth twitched.

She didn’t say a word about her recognition.

Which was worse.

You felt the weight of it anyway. Tomorrow morning would be hell.

Billy took a seat two stools down from her, resting an elbow on the bar like he belonged there. He nodded once, polite. Ida turned slowly, appraising him like a cut of meat she wasn’t sure she trusted.

“Evenin’,” she said pleasantly.

Billy smiled, small and careful. “Evenin’, ma’am.”

She hummed and let the sound linger. For a few moments, she said nothing at all, just watched him over the rim of her glass. Billy shifted once, then glanced past her shoulder—caught sight of you wiping down tables that were already clean. He looked away quickly, like he’d been caught touching something he shouldn’t.

“Passin’ through?” she asked at last.

Billy blinked, surprised she’d bothered. He shrugged, nodding. “Few days. Yeah.”

“You with that lot?” She tipped her chin toward his gang without turning around.

Billy let out a quiet scoff, half a laugh. “Suppose I am.”

Ida clicked her tongue. “Messy business, keepin’ company like that.” She studied him again, eyes narrowing just a touch. “How old are you?”

He hesitated, then answered straight. “Twenty-one, ma’am.”

She made a soft, disapproving sound. “That young.”

Her gaze slid past him, landing on you again as you pretended very hard not to listen. “You can’t be much older than my friend workin’ there.”

Billy glanced back at you once more, slower this time. “No,” he said quietly. “Guess not.”

Ida shook her head. “Babies. Both of you.” She took another sip of whiskey, unimpressed. “What’re you doin’ mixed up in all that, then?”

Billy didn’t answer right away. His fingers tapped once against the bar. When he finally spoke, his voice was easy—but there was something guarded underneath.

“Tryin’ to get somewhere else,” he said.

Ida snorted softly. “Ain’t we all.”

She leaned back in her chair, satisfied for now, and waved a hand. “I was a troubled kid. I get it. You’ll be okay, I reckon”

Billy smiled again, polite as ever. “That’s sweet of you, ma’am.”

“Oh my, stop callin’ me ma’am, I feel like my mother,” Ida groaned, sipping her drink. “I ain’t that old, and you’re too polite. It’s weird for me to be askin’ this from you. Fight back.”

“I ain’t a fighter.”

“I doubt that. With that crowd, and that gun, I bet you fight like hell.”

Billy didn’t anything to that.

From where you stood, cloth paused in your hand, you felt it—Ida clocking everything, filing it away for later. Yeah. Tomorrow morning was gonna be fun.

Billy waited the full hour.

He didn’t order a thing—not even water—claiming he didn’t want to give you “another chore.” He sat easy but watchful, eyes following you as you worked. 

When the crowd finally thinned, Ida gathered her shawl and, true to form, hauled Gus upright with a sigh and a muttered prayer, steering him home before he could protest. The pianist slipped out the side door without a word.

Billy’s gang took their time.

“C’mon,” you said, clapping your hands once. “Boss don’t like strays past one.”

“Leave us the key,” one of them grinned. “We’ll lock up. Promise.”

You gave him a flat look. “Unlucky for you, I’ve got two brain cells and they talk to each other. No. Five minutes.”

“That’s all we need!”

You rolled your eyes and turned back to stack glasses.

“Watch the tone, pretty thing,” another muttered as you passed. “Might be Billy’s girl tonight, don’t mean you get to walk all over us.”

His fingers closed around your wrist. Hard enough to make a point.

You scoffed and twisted free, but he caught you again, grip tighter this time. “You that devoted to him,” he whispered, breath hot with whiskey, “or he mind sharin’?”

His hand slid, clumsy and bold, toward the hem of your skirt.

You slapped his hand away—sharp, instinctive. Laughter broke out behind him, loud and stupid, the kind that made your skin crawl. Heat flooded your face—not fear so much as fury.

You stepped back, muttering a curse, and retreated toward the bar. Everything was clean, chairs up, lamps low—except for the table they still hadn’t cleared.

Billy was already on his feet. He’d seen all of it.

You crossed to him quickly, planting a hand flat against his chest, low and firm. “No,” you said under your breath. “I am not cleanin’ blood off the floor tonight. It’s done. Don’t make it worse.”

His jaw was tight, eyes flickering with responsibility. “He put his hands on you.”

“I know,” you said, steady. “And he’s just not worth it. I ain't that bothered.”

Billy dragged a hand down his face, breathing hard through his nose. “I’ll give him shit another night,” he muttered. “Ain’t one of mine. Some… stray Cole brought along. I swear it.”

“I believe it,” you said. “And I believe men like him don’t learn from fists anyway.”

That earned a quiet huff from him. “You always this calm?”

“Only when I’ve had practice. Been a woman recently?” you said dryly.

He glanced toward his gang, who’d gone a little quieter now, sensing the shift. Billy straightened, all softness gone.

“Out,” he said. Not loud. Didn’t need to be. “And apologise. She’s been workin’ hard for us.”

They grumbled, scraped chairs, one of them throwing you a look you ignored completely. You can’t quite believe the sight of these several grown men, older than you and Billy, muttering apologies and leaving at his very orders. It’s kinda satisfying.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Cole murmurs.

The one who laid hands on you says a less sincere one. 

Within moments, they were gone, boots fading down the street.

The door shut. The lock slid home.

Silence settled—thick, heavy, broken only by the low hum of the lamps.

Billy turned back to you. “You alright?”

You nodded, though your wrist still throbbed faintly. “Always am”

His eyes dropped to it anyway, thumb hovering like he wanted to touch but wasn’t sure he was allowed. “I don’t like leavin’ you workin’ here. It’s dangerous.”

You met his gaze. “I don’t like you thinkin’ you’re my keeper. You been back in my life barely a couple days, Billy, don’t think you can have any say in my income.”

A beat. Then his mouth twitched. “Fair.”

You exhaled, tension easing at last. “C’mon, cowboy."

You grabbed your shawl, blew out the lamps, and stepped into the warm dark beside him—Santa Fe quiet now, stars sharp overhead.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

2 a.m. in your rental room.

It was a nice room. Well, nice for what you paid—kitchen, bathroom, bedroom all within a ten-foot radius. It worked for you. You didn’t have many visitors, and that was exactly the way you liked it.

This felt the same as when Billy had seen your room back at the ranch—personal, familiar, lived-in. You couldn’t help your heart from leaping like it’d land right in your palms as it raced.

The first thing he noticed was the guitar by the window, resting on its stand next to the bed. He smiled faintly, just a shadow of a smile, as he stepped in. He let his eyes roam across the small space, taking in the scattered brushes, the half-finished sketches, the little touches that made it yours.

You moved straight for your desk, where a few small paintings waited, drying. Landscapes mostly, but some portraits tucked between—people you’d noticed, moments you’d caught.

Billy’s gaze caught something else, and you froze mid-step: a large cowboy hat, set on the side of your bedside table. He hummed softly, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. It was made out of a tough material, thick, stable.

He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. “Nice hat.”

You looked up, unsure of what ground this was. “Yeah.”

“Yours?” he asked, despite a knowing answer.

You shrugged, looking down at your hands, fidgeting before pulling them behind your back. “Noah’s.” You let out a quiet sigh, stepping closer to the desk to pull your attention back to the paintings. “He… uh, left it last time. I was supposed to give it back.”

“Co-worker, right? Not workin’ tonight?”

“No. He works days. We would crossover shifts sometimes. He takes my Saturday nights so I can sing. Long shifts. You know.”

“Good taste in hats,” Billy said, lowering the hat back down. “And women.”

“Smooth,” You smiled, bit awkward, glancing away from him to play it off.

“You ain’t that committed to him then?” He walked over to you.

You shrugged, leaned against your desk. 

“Uncommitted answer.” He remarked, standing in front of you.

“That should be enough for you.” You told, leaning to him and kissing him softly on the lips, letting him soak it in, his hands coming up to your arms, gently moving up and down, till you moved apart.

His eyes landed behind you, on your paintings and you stepped to the side, letting him look at them. Suddenly, as he surveys your works, you feel shy.

“Not much of a painter, really,” You said.

Billy didn’t answer. He just moved closer, examining them one by one. You watched his eyes—how they softened, how curiosity sparked and lingered.

“I think they’re gorgeous,” he said quietly. “Like seein’ the world through you.”

His eyes lifted to yours, then dipped to your mouth. You inhaled sharply, caught staring back. He shifted closer—close enough that the desk pressed lightly into your lower back, close enough that you could feel the heat of him without him touching you at all.

He reached past you for the painting nearest his hand, careful not to brush your hip—though his knuckles did anyway, just barely.

“This the banjo player?”

You followed his gaze to Gus’s portrait and smiled. “Yeah.”

The painting was all burnt sienna and rough strokes, unfinished but alive. Gus’s grin wide, eyes bright, like he’d already lived three lifetimes and was ready for another.

His attention drifted from one piece to the next. Ida appeared more than once—caught laughing, mid-sentence, hands lifted like she was about to scold someone. Your father, painted softer than the world ever was to him. 

Strangers too: a pastor with tired eyes, a churchgoer clasping her gloves too tight, the pianist slumped at the bar, the sheriff half-turned like he’d been called away.

Faces Billy recognised. Faces he never would. People you hadn’t known at all, really—only noticed. Only seen. 

“Wish I could see people the way you do,” Billy said.

You watched him instead of answering—watched the way his shoulders loosened when he said it, like it wasn’t just admiration, but want. Not for the paintings. For the seeing.

A few quiet seconds passed. The room hummed with it.

You reached out and tapped his chest, light, deliberate. A reminder.

His eyes dropped to your hand, then lifted—slow—to your face. Your mouth curved as you tilted your chin up, inviting without asking. He didn’t move right away. Let the moment stretch. Let you feel it.

Then you caught his collar and pulled him down.

The kiss landed soft and sure, mouths fitting together like they’d been waiting. Familiar, but deeper now. His breath hitched against your lips as his hands found your waist, firm and warm, sliding back like he’d never forgotten the shape of you. You tasted dust and rosemary and something unmistakably him—sweet and bitter all at once.

He kissed you like he was careful of breaking something. Like he already knew how easy it would be.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan low in his throat. His hands moved—down, confident—cupping you, grounding you, before slipping beneath your thighs. He lifted you easily, setting you back against the desk, just far enough that the paintings stayed untouched.

You broke the kiss only to breathe.

“Billy,” you murmured.

He rested his forehead against yours, breath uneven, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles like he was trying to memorise you all over again.

“You don’t have any idea how long I been… dreamin’ of you, angel,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. “Thought I’d never see you again.”

Something in your chest gave at that. You leaned in again—slower this time—and he met you halfway, the kiss deeper now, unhurried. Like neither of you was chasing the moment anymore. Like you were afraid of what might happen if you rushed it. It’s a miracle you caught one another again.

The desk creaked softly beneath you. The room felt smaller. Warmer. Full.

Your hands drifted over his torso, familiar and exploratory all at once, fingers slipping beneath his coat, finding the buttons of his shirt. You undid them one by one, deliberately, feeling the way his breath stuttered every time your knuckles brushed his skin. When your palms finally slid over his chest, warm and solid beneath your touch, his eyes fluttered shut.

“Here I am,” you said quietly, a smirk threading through the softness as you watched him come undone under nothing more than your hands.

His jaw tightened, like he was holding himself together by sheer will. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb pressing just under your ear, grounding and reverent all at once.

Moonlight filtered through the half-shuttered windows, casting cool blue shafts that danced with dust motes, but offered no relief from the oppressive warmth. Sweat gathered at the nape of your neck, trickling down your spine in lazy rivulets, soaking into the collar of your blouse. 

Billy's thumb continued its slow, deliberate path under your ear, a touch so feather-light it sent shivers racing across your heated flesh despite the swelter. You could feel the dampness building between your thighs, eager, curious, wanting.

He drew back just long enough to straighten, careful, deliberate. From his belt he slipped the gun free and set it gently on the table beside you, metal quiet against the wood. You looked at it despite yourself.

Same weight. Same dark steel. The one he’d taught you with.

Your fingers reached out before you could stop them.

“You remember?” he murmured.

“Mm,” you nodded. “I’m probably a better shot than you now.”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “Santa Fe turn you mean?”

“Only when it counts.”

You checked it automatically—habit and muscle memory from being on the road—cleared the chambers, movements calm and practiced. He kissed the side of your neck as you did, mouth warm and unhurried, and you leaned into him, arms slipping around his shoulders. The gun rested easy in your hand as you angled it away, sighting instinctively at the far wall, closing one eye as if only to prove to yourself that you still could.

When he lifted his mouth from your skin, you let the cool metal trail lightly down his shoulder, across his chest, more memory than threat.

“This alright?” you asked quietly.

He laughed under his breath, soft and low. “Darlin’, you could do just about anythin’ and I’d still trust you.” His gaze searched yours. “You alright?”

“Just fine.”

“Just fine,” he echoed, something careful in his tone now.

His hand tightened at your waist, fingers spreading over your hip, possessive without being rough. The heat of his palm bled through fabric and skin alike.

This kiss was slower, a languid exploration that built like the rising temperature outside. Tongues brushed tentatively at first, then with growing hunger, tasting the salt on each other's skin. A soft moan escaped you as his teeth grazed your lower lip, and he swallowed it, his body shifting closer until his hips nudged against yours. The solid ridge of his arousal pressed insistently through his trousers, a promise that made your pulse storm in your ears.

He eased the gun from your hand, his fingers closing over yours so your palms shared the grip for a moment before he drew it away. The metal brushed along your skirt as he lowered it, nudging the fabric higher without seeming to notice. You shifted instinctively, but his hands settled at your thighs, steadying you.

“Stay still,” he murmured, voice low, close enough to warm your mouth as his thumb grazed your lip.

You stilled at once, breath catching, and nodded.

He adjusted his grip on the gun, the cool barrel tracing a slow path up your inner thigh, sending shivers racing across your skin. The metal was unyielding, a stark contrast to the heat building between your legs as he nudged your skirts higher, exposing the lace edge of your panties.

His eyes locked on yours, dark and intent, the faint click of the safety echoing in the quiet room like a promise. "You trust me?" he asked, voice rough, the gun's tip pressing lightly against the damp fabric at your core.

You nodded, pulse hammering, as he dragged it upward, the pressure teasing your clit through the thin barrier. A gasp escaped you, thighs trembling under his steadying hands, wetness soaking it.

The desk beneath you was a sturdy oak thing, cluttered with sketchpads and charcoal stubs from your afternoon's work—portraits of the rugged Santa Fe landscape that now seemed trivial compared to the man before you. 

Its edge bit into your thighs as you leaned back further, but the discomfort only heightened the awareness of every point of contact: his knee between your legs, parting them slightly; the brush of his knuckles against your side as he adjusted his grip.

Your fingers, still buried in his hair, tugged gently, angling his head to deepen the kiss. He obliged with a low hum, his free hand trailing down your arm, pushing the sleeve of your blouse to bare your shoulder. The air kissed the newly exposed skin, cooler for a moment before the heat reclaimed it, but his mouth followed, lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

He moved his gun, setting it next to you on the next, hearing you sigh a little at its disappearance, your skirts falling back over your knees.

Emboldened, your hands resumed their journey down his chest, fingers working the buttons of his shirt with agonising slowness. Your nails scraped lightly over his sternum, tracing the faint scars from fights you couldn’t begin to imagine. You pushed the images of him in pain, hurt, aching, maybe alone, far and far away. He shivered under your touch, a ragged exhale escaping as you pushed off the shirt, palms gliding over the slick planes of his chest.

Your hands found his belt, fingers hooking lightly into the loops as you looked up at him. His lips were parted, breath shallow, and the way you drew him closer said enough — the space between you narrowing until your knees framed him where he stood.

“Still feel like I might be dreaming,” he rasped, the plea raw, vulnerable. “Need to feel you, angel. All of you. Please.” The desk creaked as he leaned in, his mouth finding yours again, but this time with an edge of desperation, like he was starving for the connection.

You complied, your fingers landing onto the buckle of his belt, fumbling with the metal in the humid air that made everything slick and uncooperative. “Always so polite,” The leather gave way, and you eased his trousers open, your hand slipping inside to wrap around his cock. He was already rigid, thick and pulsing in your grasp, the skin hot and velvety. A bead of moisture slicked the tip, and you smeared it down his length with a slow stroke, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his throat.

“God, your hand...” He trailed off, hips jerking forward into your fist as you pumped him languidly, building the rhythm to match the lazy heat of the night. 

Sweat dripped from his brow, landing on your wrist, mixing with the pre-cum as you twisted your grip just so, teasing the sensitive underside. His eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide, filled with a worshipful intensity that made your chest tighten. 

You lifted your hand for a moment, spitting into your palm before offering it to him; he mirrored you without a word. Then your hand closed around him again, slow and steady, and his forehead dropped into your shoulder, breath breaking into a groan as his fingers tightened in the fabric of your skirt.

Your mouth agape, breathing heavy as you watched your hand move along his length, stiff and wet, just for you. Then glancing to his white knuckle fists at your skirts.

“Wait, let me just-” He whined, clearing his throat as he straightened his back, getting away from your shoulder. 

“Am I doing something w-” You began, stopping your movement.

“God, no,” He chuckled. “No, sweetheart, never,” He insisted, shaking his head, shaky breath escaping. “Just… wanna feel you. Make you feel good, yeah? That alright?” He chuckled, kissing along your neck and then moving to his knees.

You nodded, gulping as you watched him look up at you from the floor of the desk.

“How many damn layers you got of this thing?” He murmured at the sight of the skirt layers.

You rolled your eyes a bit at that, hearing him break a smile at that as he pulled them off of you, leaving you in your chemise. His hands gripped you by the small of your back, hands tight, afraid you would vanish under his skin if he touched you with any less rigour, palming into the material, feeling your figure beneath him as he left a trail of kisses beneath your jaw, down your neck. 

The air hit your thighs, sticky and warm, but his fingers were hotter still as they traced the edge of your panties, dipping beneath the damp lace to find the heat between your legs. His mouth found its way back to yours, hungry, curious as ever.

You gasped into his mouth, the kiss breaking as his fingertips brushed your folds, parting them with exquisite care. You were drenched, arousal coating his digits as he circled your entrance, not entering yet, just teasing, building the ache until your hips canted forward, seeking more. “Billy... please,” you whimpered, the word laced with the relief of finding him again.

“Please what?” He murmured, pressing your wetness softly, light.

You murmured something, unintelligible, hip trying to move against his, to no avail, seeing as he watched your desperation with a small smile, somewhat amused, maybe even entertained. 

“Didn’t hear you, hon, can you… try that one more time for me? Please what?” He whispered, as if the room could break if he were any louder.

You inhaled sharply as he moved his thumb to find your clit, rubbing slowly. “Want you in me. Wanna feel you. I never stopped thinkin’ about you, your face, and your hands, and your… Please.” You find yourself saying, maybe somewhat nonsensically, pressing a second finger, stretching you slowly, curling to stroke that inner wall that made your vision blur. 

His thumb continued at your clit, moving in firm, unhurried circles that had you clenching around him, your hand faltering on his cock as pleasure coiled tight. “I can do that.” He responded, barely for you to hear.

The wet sounds of his fingers moving in you filled the room, obscene against the quiet creak of the desk and your shared, panting breaths.Sweat poured freely now, yours trickling between your breasts, his beading on his upper lip as he watched your face, memorising every flicker of ecstasy. 

He gently moved his fingers away and suddenly you watched as he moved to his knees, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk, moving your knees over his shoulders. You gasped a little at the sudden movement, hands landing over his dark and messy head of hair.

His breath ghosted over your cunt, making you twitch. You opened your mouth to protest, insisting he didn’t have to, before his tongue extended—a long, flat lick from entrance to clit that had you crying out. He savoured you like fine whiskey, lapping at your folds, sucking your clit with gentle pulls, then plunging his tongue inside to fuck you with it.

“Oh, God,” You moaned, hand tightening at the base of his hair, hearing him groan against you, vibrating against your core. “Mm, mhm… right there, right thee, oh, my- fucking God, Billy,” You couldn’t help the string of pants, moans and swears as Billy’s eyes tracked you from beneath, utterly entranced by your noises, your figure and features, as if it was the most magical thing he’d ever seen.

Your knees trembled as his tongue worked away, swirling around your clit before delving back inside to lap at your walls. Billy's hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he focused on you.

Your head fell back, hands tight against the back of his head, fingers around his curls, as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, ready to snap at any moment. Billy's lips wrapped around your clit and sucked hard, sending you hurtling over the precipice into blissful oblivion.

Your thighs clamped around his head as your orgasm crashed through you, back arching off the desk as you cried out his name like a prayer.

He didn't let up, continuing to lick and suck until you were spent and shaking, coming down from the high he'd brought you to.

He rose back to his feet panting as he kissed you, the taste of yourself shared between both of you. The desk's unforgiving surface dug too sharply into your back, the angle limiting the depth you craved.

You pulled your lips from him reluctantly, earning a frustrated growl, and cupped his face. “Bed,” you said, voice husky, eyes pleading. “Now.”

He nodded, obedient, pressing himself against you. In a surge of strength, he lifted you off the desk, your legs locking around his waist as he carried you across the room. The short distance felt eternal, each step jostling his cock against your core through the thin barrier of fabric, teasing, promising.

He lowered you onto the edge of the bed with the care of handling fine china, the mattress sagging under your weight, sheets already warm and tangled from the heat-soaked day. The room's adobe walls seemed to close in, trapping the rising humidity and the scent of your arousal. Billy stood for a moment, shrugging off his shirt fully, trousers following until he was bare before you—lean, scarred, glistening, tent visible in his boxers. 

You looked up at him from your seat on the edge of the bed, feeling over his chest. The many varieties of scars that had been added since you had last encountered them. The injuries that had totally healed over.

“The years have not been kind to you, have they, Billy?” You muttered, looking at this particularly rough looking scar around his forearm. A mix of a deep blade, maybe, and a gun.

Billy took your hands off of him, gently. “Don’t wanna talk about all that. It's not what’s happening right now,” He cupped your jaw, forcing your eyes away from the scar on his forearm.

You nodded, hesitant, heart racing. You moved to take off your chemise, till he interrupted the movement of your fingers.

“Let me,” he said softly, lifting it off of you with soft fingers, peeling it away until you were bare. He paused, gaze reverent, then leaned down to kiss you, as you moved backwards onto the bed, pulling him with you as he climbed over your body, hands resting next to your head as your hands moved to the nape of his neck.

He moved down to your breasts, lips travelling over your chest, closing over one nipple, sucking with a slow pull that arched your back. His tongue laved the peak, teeth grazing just enough to spark fire, while his hand kneaded the other, pinching lightly.

Moans spilled from you unbidden, hands fisting the sheets as he lavished attention, alternating sides, murmuring praises between licks. “So soft... so pretty.” The words fuelled the tension, your body thrumming, every nerve alight. Sweat gathered in the valley between your breasts, and he lapped it away, the intimacy of it nearly undoing you.

Finally, he trailed kisses lower, over your stomach, licking over your already sensitive cunt, hearing your gasp and shudder.

He hummed against you, the vibration pushing you, but he pulled back just as you teetered, lips shiny, eyes dark with need. Your hand found his cock again, stroking firmly as you kissed him, tasting your essence on his tongue—musky, intimate.

You pushed him onto his back, pillows muffling his groan as you slid down his body. Kisses peppered his chest, nipping at his ribs, licking the salty trail down his abdomen. When you reached his groin, you nuzzled the base of his shaft, inhaling his musky scent before taking him in hand. A slow pump, then your mouth enveloped the head, tongue swirling around the slit to lap up his pre-cum.

Billy's hands tangled in your hair, not guiding but holding, as you sucked him deeper, cheeks hollowing. You bobbed with deliberate slowness, hand twisting at the base, feeling him throb, his hips stuttering upward. “Oh- shit, fuckin’ hell” he panted, voice breaking with emotion. The tension ratcheted, his breaths ragged, body taut as a bowstring.

Releasing him with a wet pop, you crawled up, straddling his hips. His hands settled on your waist, eyes locked on yours as you positioned his cock at your entrance. Slowly, inch by torturous inch, you sank down, enveloping him in your tight heat. He filled you completely, stretching, completing, and you both stilled, savoring the join—the pulse of him inside you, the shared sweat, the beating hearts.

The stretch burned deliciously, your walls hugging his thickness, juices already slicking the way for your rising pace. You leaned forward, palms flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath your fingers as you lifted and dropped, taking him deeper with every bounce. He watched you through hooded eyes, a low groan escaping his lips as your breasts swayed with the rhythm. 

“Christ,” He murmured at the sight, thrusting up to meet you, his cock slamming into your core and sending sparks through your nerves. 

The bed creaked under the force, your thighs burning from the effort, but the pleasure overrode everything—wet sounds of your bodies colliding, skin glistening with sweat. You circled your hips, twisting to rub him against that sensitive spot inside, drawing out gasps from both of you as the tension coiled tighter. 

Building speed, you fucked him faster, your ass slapping against his thighs, pussy clenching around his shaft with each descent. His fingers dug into your flesh, pulling you down harder, the friction igniting fire in your veins. 

With a sudden surge of strength, he sat up, wrapping his arms around your waist and flipping you beneath him in one fluid motion. You landed on your stomach, breathless and surprised, as he positioned himself behind you, panting, whining against him. 

“Sweetheart, you are… somethin’ else,” He whispered, hands travelling over your backside, over your back to the nape of your neck.

He pulled your hips up, knees spreading wide on the mattress, and drove back into you from behind. His cock plunged deep, the new angle letting him hit even harder, pounding against your g-spot with relentless precision. 

You arched your back, pushing back to take him fully, moans muffled into the pillow as he gripped your waist, thrusting in long, powerful strokes. Not satisfied with the distance, he snaked one arm under your body, hand gripping your chest and breasts, bringing your back up to his chest, kneeling up with him, bodies warm and tight together.

His breath hot on your neck, he shifted into a spooning grind, cock buried to the hilt as he rolled his hips in slow, deep circles. This position trapped you against him, his free hand roaming to cup your breast, thumb flicking your nipple while he nipped at your shoulder. 

You moaned at the angle, reaching deeper into you, voice carrying, loud and with want. “Fuck, Billy, faster, please, please, god I’m…” You trailed off, blabbering.

He nodded and he picked up the pace again, fucking you with measured pumps that dragged along your walls, building the pressure unbearably. You reached back, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as your bodies moved in sync, mouth at your neck and shoulder, wet—his thrusts pushing you forward, then pulling you back onto him. 

Sweat-slicked skin slid together, the heat between you intensifying, your pussy fluttering around his invading length. He grounded against your ass, the base of his cock rubbing your entrance, prolonging each penetration with teasing withdrawals and forceful re-entries. 

He moved you gently back down, back to your stomach. The room echoed with your shared pants, the wet glide of him inside you, edging you both toward release but holding on, savouring the raw connection. 

Finally, as the coil snapped, he banded his arm tighter around you, lips crashing to your neck in a bruising kiss. “Can you come for me, princess?” he asked, almost politely, pinching your nipple and slamming home one last time. 

You moaned into the pillow, the edge so close. You didn’t answer, couldn’t. Your orgasm ripped through you, spasming wildly around his cock, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses that milked every drop as he followed, flooding you with cum.

Billy followed with a low, breathless sound, burying himself against you as the tension between you finally broke. You clung to each other, trembling, the aftershocks rolling through you both, heat slowly giving way to something quieter, steadier. He moved you to your back, gently pulling out as he softened inside of you. Kissing over your body, softly.

In the hush that followed, he held you close, murmuring soft, absent endearments into your skin—like if he kept speaking, you might not disappear again.

You stayed like that for hours.

Neither of you slept.

Just lay there—bare, tangled, your legs hooked together—talking about everything and nothing, as if time had loosened its grip for once.

“Your hands are softer than I remember,” he murmured eventually.

Your hand had found its way to his jaw, cradling his face. He leaned into it without thinking, eyes half-lidded, studying your palm like it held something fragile.

“Still calloused here,” he added, tracing your fingers. “...Not so rough anymore.”

You shrugged lightly. “Not muckin’ the shed every day’ll do that.”

“Still like mine, though.” He held his hand up beside yours, a small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth, the tips of your fingers fit like puzzle pieces, guitar string scarred. “Guitar’ll do that.”

You laughed under your breath.

It settled into something easy after that. A rhythm. The sun rising over your bodies now.

“Have you been to…” you started, glancing at him. This had become your game now—measuring the distance between your lives. “California?”

Billy nodded. “Big place. We were on the edge of it, I think. But it counts.” He paused, then added, “Saw a bear.”

“Really?”

“I think so,” he said, squinting slightly, like he could see it again. “Either that or a rock shaped real suspicious. Didn’t stick around long enough to be sure.”

You smiled, shaking your head.

The way he looked at you  wasn’t the same as before. Not like when you were all sunburnt skin and borrowed shirts, hair shoved under a hat, hands smelling of horses and antiseptic. Back when he was all sharp edges and restless energy, half-boy, half-something wilder.

This was different. Quieter. Heavier. You’re not the same, neither is he.

“And this Noah…” Billy said after a moment, voice careful, like he wasn’t sure he had the right, he looked at the hat that still sat on the corner of your bed post. “He anything special?”

You hesitated. Your fingers traced idle patterns over his chest, your cheek resting against him as you watched your own hand move.

“I don’t know,” you admitted softly. “He’s good to me. Wants to meet my Pa. He wants to… settle down. Start a family, or something.”

“‘Or something,’” Billy echoed, staring up at the ceiling. “Sounds real good.”

You didn’t answer.

The silence stretched, not quite comfortable anymore.

“What do you want?” he asked.

You stilled. The question sat wrong with you—like he should already know.

“I want you to stay,” you said finally, voice low. “Or… we go. Together. Somewhere far. California. See that bear you’re so unsure about.” A small smile flickered, then faded. “I can sing. You can play. We’ll make something out of it.”

He didn’t respond.

“We’ll go far,” you pressed, sitting up slightly now, looking down at him. “Mexico, Canada, I don’t know. Anywhere. Somewhere no one knows us.”

Billy went still beneath you.

You felt it immediately—the shift. The way his hand, which had been tracing absent lines along your back, stopped. The way his jaw tightened.

You exhaled, pulling away just slightly, the sheet gathering around you as you sat up.

“Darlin’… it’s not that simple,” he said.

“I know,” you cut in quickly. “I know it’s not. But can’t it be, just this once?” Your voice softened, but there was something desperate underneath it. “Your gang—they’ll be fine. And I know we’re not… consistent, or whatever you want to call it. I’ve seen you twice in my life and both times were a lot. But I know you, Billy. And you know me, right?”

“I can’t do that to you.”

You frowned. “Do what?”

“Take you away from everything,” he said. “Your town, your father… your life. You think he’d let me?”

“I’d write to him,” you insisted. “He’d understand.”

“He’d kill me,” Billy said flatly, though there was no real humour in it. “And even if he didn’t… those men out there—they’re counting on me. I can’t just disappear.”

“Then be selfish. Indulge,” you said, shifting closer again, straddling him just to feel him there, real and solid. Your hands found his face, and he leaned into them like it was instinct. “Just this once. For me.”

He searched your face for a long moment.

Something in him gave.

“...Alright,” he said quietly. “C’mere.” He hugged you tight, arms warm around your bare skin.

The sun sat warm over your shoulders, light spilling across both of you as your thoughts wandered somewhere ahead of the moment.

A future.

It came to you now so easily it almost felt cruel. A few years ago, you would’ve given anything for it—this stillness, this choice. Then you’d buried it. Tucked it away for the worst nights, when sleep wouldn’t come and your mind drifted to what if.

Now it was here.

And you didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Ida came by later that afternoon, same as always—barely knocking before letting herself in, bringing with her the town’s gossip like it was something worth trading in. Billy was gone, somethin' about having to figure out the route to San Antonio.

“You hear about Mrs. Alvarez?” she said, already halfway into a story before she’d even properly sat down.

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’ve been a little… preoccupied.”

Ida's eyes flicked to you, quick, knowing. “I’ll say.”

You nudged her with your elbow. “Just tell me.”

She did. Dramatically. She really should've been an entertainer of some sorts. Maybe in another lifetime she could just speak to a crowd about mindless things, with more gusto than anybody could, or should. She eventually prodded a little more about your night.

"That boy spend the night here?" She wondered, lookin' around your room, as if for signs of his presence.

You shrugged, unsure of how much to tell Ida.

"I promise I won't tell your daddy, he's got 'nough on his plate takin' care of a whole damn town," She sighed. "But you ain't gotta tell me anythin' you don't want to.. just... if he's the reason you've been a little lighter, than I'm happy to see you indulge."

You tried to push down the smile at your friend, but she picked it up immediately and swatted you.

"Stop looking at me like I'm solving world peace. Just sayin' you should be happy. It's what friends are for." She sighed.

By the end of it, you were both laughing, the kind that settles deep in your chest. It felt easy. Familiar. You'd grown to love your friendships here.

You walked with her after, slow and aimless, letting the town pass you by. People nodded as you went—faces you were starting to recognise.

One of Billy’s… men passed you on the street.

You weren’t sure what to call them. Friends didn’t quite fit. Neither did strangers.

He tipped his hat to you anyway.

“Ma’am.”

You blinked, a little surprised, then nodded back.

Ida raised a brow the second he passed. “You’ve been busy.”

“Oh, hush.”

But there was something strange about it—a somewhat soft acceptance. Like you’d already been folded into a world you didn’t fully belong to.

You ended up on the Church porch with Gus, Ida settling beside you as Gus plucked absent notes from his banjo. It was new—shiny in places, the wood still pale where hands hadn’t worn it down yet.

“Local made it,” Gus said proudly, noticing your glance. “Kid’s got a real knack.”

“Sounds good,” you said.

“Sounds better than good,” Ida added, leaning back against the post. “Don’t let him be modest.”

Gus grinned, playing a little louder just to prove her right.

A boy, no older than sixteen, wandered up not long after, clutching a rolled canvas under one arm. “Uh, sorry,” he said, glancing between you all. “You know where I can find Mr. Calloway? Someone said he might let me paint near his place.”

Gus pointed him down the road, giving directions with a lazy wave of his hand.

The boy nodded quickly, then paused, eyes catching on the banjo.

“Looks fresh,” he said. “Could paint something on it, if you wanted. Not for much. Just—practice.”

Gus looked at it, considering. “Maybe,” he said. “If you don’t ruin it.”

The boy smiled, a little nervous, a little hopeful. “I won’t.”

He hurried to settle his things, gently taking the banjo to paint something. You all spoke, watching until a few flowers appeared, unique to the region, bright and strong against the wood. You watched him go, something warm settling in your chest.

You didn’t have this back home. Not on the farm. Not even in the local town.

People didn’t just make things there, not like this. Here, it felt like something was always being built. Music, art, stories, lives that didn’t follow the same straight lines you’d grown up with. 

You could see it. A version of yourself staying. Bringing your father out. Selling the farm. Letting something new take root. Singing on that porch. Laughing with Isla. Learning to paint from boys who had nothing but time and hope. You'd told Billy earlier you envisioned a future with you settling back on the farm, but maybe this was it.

This could've been a future. A good one.

But it wasn’t the one you chose.

You left two mornings later.

Before the town woke.

You left Ida a note. Something honest, said something about you indulging, and choosing to try something more than yourself. Said you were going home. That you missed your father. That you’d write.

It wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Billy was waiting behind the church, exactly where he said he would be. A bag slung over his shoulder, horse already saddled.

The air was thin, cold enough to sting your lungs.

He looked at you like he always did in those moments—checking, quietly, that you were really there.

“You sure?” he asked.

You nodded.

He didn’t ask again.

By the time you caught up with the others near San Antonio, you’d already fallen into a rhythm.

You kept close to Billy, mostly to yourself around the rest. They didn’t mind. Or if they did, they didn’t say it. Your nights belonged to the two of you. Low voices, shared blankets, plans that stretched further than either of you could realistically hold.

California.

Maybe further.

“Washington,” you said once, half-teasing. “Then Canada.”

Billy huffed a quiet laugh. “We trying to outrun the whole country?”

“Maybe.”

He glanced at you. “Reckon it’d take more than that.”

A few nights into the journey, you sat by a small fire, the camp stretched loose around you—men talking low, one half-asleep against a saddle, another keeping watch without looking like he was.

You’d spent most of the evening working.

Rewrapping Billy’s leg where the now weeks old injury still hadn’t healed right. Cleaning out a stab wound on one of the others—badly done, festering at the edges. Another man had taken something to the eye days ago. You couldn’t do much for that, not out here, but you’d tried anyway.

It was the least you could do.

They fed you. Gave you space. Didn’t ask questions.

That was enough.

Later, when your hands had stopped smelling like blood and whiskey, you picked up your guitar.

Billy sat opposite you, gun in his lap, cleaning it with the kind of quiet focus that had long since become second nature.

“What’s that one?” he asked after a moment, glancing up. “That new?”

You shook your head, fingers still moving. “No. Somethin’ I heard at church once.”

“Don’t sound much like church,” he said.

You smirked. “Don’t act like you’ve been to many. Think they’d kick you right out.”

“Been to enough,” he replied easily. “They don’t usually let you bring a tune like that through the door.”

“Maybe they should.”

“Maybe.”

He went back to his gun, hands steady, practiced.

Then he paused.

“Play it again.”

You did. Slower this time.

Billy didn’t look at you while you played—just listened, head tilted slightly, like he was trying to catch something beneath the notes. He always did that. Said he could figure out a person by the way they played, even if he didn’t have the words for it.

San Antonio didn’t feel like the rest of the places you’d passed through.

It was bigger. Busier. And worse, ever so watchful.

You could feel it the moment you rode in. Too many eyes. Too many uniforms. Notices nailed up to posts and walls, edges curling in the heat. You recognised drawings of Billy across the notice boards, his bandanna covering half his face as he kept his head down.

You didn’t have to get close to know what was on them. Billy saw it too. The shift in him was subtle, but you knew him well enough now. He straightened slightly in the saddle. His gaze sharpened. That quiet ease he carried with you slipped just enough to reveal something harder underneath.

“Stay back today,” he told you under his breath as the group slowed. “With me.”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on wanderin’ off,” you muttered.

He almost smiled. The others split off in pairs, heading into town for supplies. It had been planned that way, less attention, less risk.

Billy didn’t go. Not yet.

“There’s a sheriff here,” one of the men had said earlier. “Supposed to be easy on fellas like us. Long as you don’t make trouble.”

Billy hadn’t liked that. You could tell. 

“Easy don’t mean blind,” he’d muttered back.

So you stayed on the outskirts instead. A worn-down stable lot just beyond the busiest stretch. Quiet enough to avoid notice, at least, that was the idea.

You sat on an overturned crate, guitar resting against your knee, watching the road.

Billy leaned nearby, hat tipped low, but you knew he wasn’t resting. He was counting, anything. Maybe to pass time, more likely out of fear and paranoia. People, exits, time.

“How long we waitin’?” you asked.

“Not long.”

A beat passed.

The street didn’t erupt all at once.

It became a lot tighter first. You heard voices raised—not shouting yet, but sharp. Boots shifting. The kind of movement that travels faster than sound, passing from one body to the next until everyone feels it before they understand it.

Billy felt it. You saw it in the way he stilled.

Then—

“Hey!”

A man’s voice, cutting clean across the street. Curious, as if he knew Billy.

Two deputies stood near the far end of the road, hands already hovering near their holsters. One of them was staring—really staring now—like he was matching a face to something he’d seen on paper.

A poster. A description. A name.

“Billy the Kid,” the man called, louder now.

Everything after that happened fast.

Too fast to think.

Billy moved before the second deputy even reached for his gun.

“Down,” he said, grabbing your arm and dragging you with him behind the trough just as the first shot cracked through the air.

It splintered wood above your head, showering you both in dust.

Horses screamed somewhere to your left.

More shots followed—closer now, echoing sharp between buildings.

“Shit—!” someone yelled. One of Billy’s men.

You risked a glance.

Cole had gone down hard near the corner, clutching his arm, blood already soaking through his sleeve. Another of the gang was firing back wildly, forcing the deputies into cover behind a wagon.

But it wasn’t just them anymore.

People were scattering—some ducking into buildings, others running outright. A shop door slammed. Glass shattered somewhere down the street.

And more men were appearing. Drawn by the noise. Drawn by him.

Billy leaned out just enough to fire—one clean shot, controlled, not wasted. It forced one of the deputies back, buying a second.

Just a second.

“Stay behind me.”

Another shot rang out—closer than the rest.

Too close.

A bullet tore through the edge of the trough, sending a sharp crack through the wood.

Billy swore under his breath.

“They’re flankin’,” he muttered.

Of course they were. He wasn’t just another outlaw. He was the one.

“Billy!” Cole shouted from the ground, voice strained. “Just go—!”

Billy hesitated.

Just for a second.

You saw it—the pull.

The choice.

Another shot snapped past, kicking dirt up at your feet, making you just about scream, quickly covering your mouth with your hand, staying close to Billy.

That made the decision for him.

“Stay close,” he said.

Then he moved, and you ran.

Not down the main street—that would’ve been suicide. Billy cut hard between buildings, dragging you into a narrow alley that smelled like rot and stale water.

Boots pounded behind you. Not far.

A shot rang out, the bullet whining past somewhere over your shoulder.

You ducked instinctively.

“Keep goin’!” Billy urged.

The alley opened out into a back lot—fences, loose horses, scattered crates. Billy didn’t slow, vaulting the fence and turning just long enough to catch you as you scrambled over after him.

“Up,” he said, already untying one of the horses.

You didn’t ask whose it was.

Didn’t care.

He swung up first, then reached down, hauling you up behind him in one practiced motion.

“Hold on.”

You barely had time to wrap your arms around him before he kicked the horse forward.

It bolted.

Behind you, voices shouted—angry, overlapping.

Another shot. Then another.

One hit close enough that you felt it—felt the air shift, the near-miss of it.

Billy pushed the horse harder. Out past the edge of town. Into open land.

He didn’t stop, you kept your head close to his back, eyes shut, hands tight around him, as if he’d vanish from you.

You didn’t slow until the sun had begun to dip.

Even then, it wasn’t really stopping, just… pausing. Catching breath.

Billy slid down first, steadying the horse as you followed. Your legs almost gave out when they hit the ground. Adrenaline fading, and reality setting in.

“Anyone follow?” you asked, breathless.

He shook his head, scanning the horizon anyway. “Not close.”

You nodded, though your hands were still shaking.

There was blood on his sleeve again. Not his.

“Sit,” you said automatically, already moving toward him.

“I’m fine.”

“Sit.”

He did.

Didn’t argue.

You checked him anyway—quick, efficient. No wounds. Just dust, sweat, the echo of something too close for comfort.

“They knew,” you said quietly.

Billy let out a breath, looking out over the empty stretch of land.

“Yeah.”

He sounded tired.

You sat beside him, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

“We’re not goin’ back for them, are we?”

A pause.

“No.”

The word sat heavy between you.

This was it, then.

After that, it was just the two of you.

No gang. No noise. No one watching.

Just the road.

The days settled into something softer than you expected.

You rode side by side, sometimes talking, sometimes not. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt earned.

At night, you made small fires when you could risk it. Ate what you had. Slept close—not out of fear, not really, but because it felt right.

One evening, stretched out under a sky too wide to belong to anyone, you found yourself talking just to fill the quiet.

“There was this one story,” you said, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “At church. About a man swallowed by a whale.”

Billy snorted beside you. “That’s not real.”

“I know,” you said. “That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point, then?”

You turned your head to look at him. “That he gets spit back out. Second chance and all that.”

Billy was quiet for a moment.

“Hm,” he said finally. “Reckon I’d take the whale.”

You laughed softly. “You would.”

“Less talkin’,” he added.

“That’s rich, comin’ from you.”

He grinned at that, faint but real.

Another night, he told you about his mother. Not in one long story—Billy didn’t work like that. Just pieces.

“She liked music,” he said, staring into the fire. “Didn’t matter if it was good. Just… liked it.”

“That’s where you get it,” you said.

“Maybe.”

“You ever think she’d like me?” you asked lightly.

He glanced at you. Not joking, this time. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t need to.

You learned the small things. The way he always checked the horizon before settling anywhere. The way he softened—barely noticeable—when you sang, even under your breath. The way his hand would find yours in the dark, like instinct.

And he learned you, too. That you talked more when you were tired. That you hummed when you thought no one was listening. That you still carried pieces of home with you—medicine, habits, stories—no matter how far you went.

“You miss it?” he asked once, watching you clean a small cut on your own hand.

“Home?” you said.

“Yeah.”

You thought about it. “…I miss parts of it,” you admitted. “But I don’t think I was meant to stay there.”

He nodded slightly, like that made sense to him.

“You?” you asked.

He gave a small shrug. “Never had much to miss.”

“That’s not true.”

He glanced at you.

You held his gaze. “People count,” you said.

Something shifted in his expression—quick, almost guarded. Then he softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess they do.”

By the time you reached the next town, you had fallen into something that felt dangerously close to peace. Not perfect. Not safe. But real. Like the life you’d imagined—the one you thought you’d missed—had found you anyway. Even if only for a little while.

It took days before you reached another town.

Small enough that it barely announced itself—just a bend in the road, a few low buildings gathered like they’d grown there by accident. A general store, a stable, a place to sleep if you didn’t ask too many questions and didn’t stay too long.

The kind of place people passed through.

Not the kind they remembered.

You kept your head down.

Billy kept his hat low.

You used different names when you had to. Paid in cash. Spoke little. The usual.

Didn’t matter much. There was still a poster tacked up beside the store door—edges curled, ink faded but not enough.

You didn’t need to get close to know it was him. You felt it in the way Billy didn’t even look at it as he veered off toward the back, taking the horses with him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll stay here,” he said quietly. “Less eyes.”

You nodded. Of course.

You stepped inside alone.

For a moment—just a moment—it almost felt like you’d slipped through the cracks.

The store was quiet. Dusty. Shelves half-stocked with the usual, flour, canned goods, lamp oil. The shopkeeper barely looked up when you entered. You took your time, gathering what you needed.

Normal things. Simple things. The kind that made it feel, briefly, like you weren’t running.

“Miss?”

You turned. The shopkeeper was holding something out to you.

A letter.

Folded. Worn soft at the edges, like it had passed through too many hands.

Your name sat across the front, not some fake one you’d given just an hour ago. Your name, from your home. Your father’s handwriting, messy as ever.

Your stomach dropped before you even took it.

“Been sittin’ here a while,” the man said. “Well—not here, exactly.” He scratched at his beard, thinking. “Came in with a rider outta Fort Worth, I think. Said it’d already been sent on from… somewhere up north.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the paper.

“North?”

He nodded. “Montana, maybe. Or Wyoming.” A shrug. “Hard to say. Folks don’t always write things proper.”

Your chest tightens at hearing this. Home.

“I didn’t—” You stopped yourself. “I didn’t leave an address.”

“Didn’t need one,” he said simply. “Says here ‘care of any post office along the Texas route.’” He tapped the front lightly. “Seen that before. Means whoever sent it figured you were headed this way.”

You frowned. “How would they know that?”

He gave you a look—mild, but knowing.

“Word travels,” he said. “Especially about men like the one you’re with.”

The words landed heavier than he probably meant them to.

“Rider said a girl matchin’ your description was seen headin’ south with a group outta Santa Fe. Couple towns passed that along. Someone must’ve put it together.” Another shrug. “Letter’s been chasin’ you longer than you’ve been runnin’, I’d guess.”

You looked down at the letter again. At the familiar hand.

“Came through two, maybe three offices before this one,” the shopkeeper added. “Post riders pass things along when they can. Ain’t perfect, but…” He gestured vaguely. “Sometimes it finds who it’s meant to.”

You nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

He tipped his head, already losing interest, turning back to his ledger.

You stepped outside with it still unopened. The sun felt harsher now. Brighter. Like it was exposing something you’d been trying not to see.

Billy was out back, exactly where you left him, one hand resting easy against the horse’s neck—but his eyes were already on you.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your throat felt tight, like the words had somewhere to go but refused to form.

So you just handed it to him.

Billy hesitated before taking it.

Not because he didn’t want to—because he already understood that whatever was inside it would change something.

He read the sender and address, brows furrowed.

“…How the hell did this find is?” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“I don’t know,” you said, too quickly. “I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I—” You exhaled sharply. “Maybe Ida. Or someone saw us leave. Or— I don’t know.”

Billy’s jaw tightened slightly as he read it again.

“They know you’re with me,” he said.

You started to pace. “What if it’s not from him? What if it’s… a couple of deputies trying to get me somewhere to bait you or somethin’?”

Billy stepped in front of you, hands settling firm on your shoulders. Just enough to stop you moving.

“Hey,” he said again, quieter this time.

You stilled. His grip softened, thumbs brushing slightly against your arms.

“It’ll be alright,” he said.

You almost laughed. Not because it was funny—but because it was the same tone he used when he knew it wouldn’t be.

You didn’t open it properly until later.

Out past the town, where the light had dimmed and the fire was the only thing holding back the dark.

The horses were tied close. Billy sat across from you, quieter than usual, watching without looking like he was.

Waiting.

You unfolded the letter slowly this time.

Took it in piece by piece.

Miss—

I write on behalf of your father. He has taken ill these past weeks. Fever that does not break, weakness that worsens by the day. He asked for you, though he is not always in a state to say so clearly.

Your chest tightened.

You kept reading.

He says to tell William he said hello.

That made you stop. Your eyes flicked up to Billy instinctively. He hadn’t moved—but something in his face had. Small. Gone almost as soon as you saw it.

You looked back down.

If you are able, you should return soon.

—Miss Hale

The fire cracked softly between you.

You read it again. Slower. Like it might change if you gave it enough time. It didn’t.

You sat with it longer than you meant to before handing it over.

Billy read it once.

That was enough.

“You need to go back,” he said.

“No.”

The word came too fast—too sharp to be anything but fear.

“Come back with me.”

Billy didn’t answer straight away.

He stared at the letter a moment longer, then folded it carefully along the same lines.

“If I go back there,” he said slowly, “it won’t just be your father. Law knows me there.”

You shook your head. “Then we don’t stay. We get him, we leave. You said it yourself, you’ve been everywhere. We go somewhere no one’s lookin’.”

“That’s not how it works,” Billy said, a little firmer now.

“It could be.”

“It won’t.”

You swallowed, frustration rising now. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Because it’s me.”

He gestured vaguely outward, to the dark, to everything beyond the firelight.

“Men are already lookin’ for me. You saw that back there. You bring me into a town where your father’s laid up—can’t move, can’t travel—we don’t just risk him, we guarantee he barely makes it a few days. ‘Sides, you know he wouldn't come willingly. You know him better than that.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I do. And you do too.”

A beat passed.

Then, softer—

“Life like this…” he shook his head slightly, searching for the words. “It ain’t kind to people who don’t choose it.”

Your voice dropped. “I chose it.”

Billy looked at you, really looked at you.

“I know,” he said quietly. A pause. “That’s why I won’t let you ruin it. I ain’t worth all of this.”

You looked down at the letter in your hands, the edges worn, the ink smudged from the miles it had travelled to find you.

Your father. Alone. Sick. Responsibility wasn’t something you could outrun. Not the way he could.

The fire crackled softly between you.

“I’ll come find you,” you said finally, voice quieter now. “California.”

Billy hesitated. You saw it. That moment where he wanted to say yes. Wanted to give you something solid. But he didn’t.

“I won’t be in California long,” he said instead.

“Then where?”

He exhaled through his nose, glancing out into the dark.

“New Mexico, maybe. Lay low.” A faint, almost humourless smile. “They wouldn’t expect me to go back so soon. That’d be stupid.”

You watched him carefully.

“Where to? Santa Fe?” you asked.

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“…Maybe. Maybe Fort Sumner.”

Not a promise. Not even close. But it was the closest thing he could give.

“You could meet me there,” He said. “If you come back through Santa Fe—it’s not far.”

Billy studied you for a long moment, maybe filled with something close to a hopeless kind of hope. The world worked against you both, and yet, there was that glimmer in Billy’s eyes. A kind of relentless hope you fell in love with. You nodded, just once.

“Yeah,” You said softly. “I could do that.”

You couldn’t make it back home by horse. Not in time. Even riding hard, pushing through towns without stopping, it would take months—months you didn’t have. Not with a fever that wouldn’t break.

So you found the nearest rail line instead.

A bigger town. Louder. Bigger population. The kind of place where no one looked too closely at anyone else, which, for once, worked in your favour.

Billy stayed close the whole time. Closer than usual.

Not touching—not always—but near enough that you felt him there, like something steady at your side.

He didn’t like this kind of place, where so many eyes could track him, and flick off, and then remember his face a few minutes later from that shitty drawing. 

He walked you to the train himself. Didn’t let anyone else come near. Didn’t let you drift too far, either.

The platform was crowded, people moving in loose, restless line, bags, voices, steam beginning to build as the train hissed softly behind you.

It felt wrong, somehow. Too normal. Like whatever you and Billy had was totally normal and regular. Just two people saying goodbye, with no other baggage.

For a second, neither of you said anything. Then his hands came up—gentle, careful—as he held your face between them.

His thumbs brushed just under your eyes, slow, like he was memorising something he already knew he’d lose.

“You’ll be alright?” he asked.

“Always am.”

He nodded, eyes searching yours like he was trying to convince himself.

“Yeah,” he said. “You are.”

The noise of the platform seemed to fade at the edges, like it was happening somewhere else. You wanted to say something.

Something that would make this stick. Something that would mean you weren’t just another place he passed through, another person folded into the long line of things he couldn’t keep.

But the words didn’t come. Not in any way that felt like enough.

So you stepped closer instead. Pressed your forehead to his. Closed your eyes.

“I really hope I see you again,” you murmured.

It wasn’t a demand. Wasn’t even a promise. Just… relentless hope.

Billy let out a quiet breath—something almost like a laugh, but not quite.

“Me too, sweetheart.”

His hands slipped from your face, lingering at your jaw for just a second longer than necessary.

“Go back to Santa Fe, if you can,” he said. “Sing, go to church, paint some more… see what that Noah boy is all about. Settle down.”

You huffed softly, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“...He’s older than you, you know, don't know if you should be callin' him boy.”

Billy chuckled, low and easy, shaking his head. “That so?”

“Mm. Mature. Sensible. Not wanted in pretty much every state.”

“Sounds dull,” he said.

You smiled despite yourself. “He is a little.”

Billy’s gaze softened at that—something warmer, quieter settling in. “Tell your Pa I said hi, that I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightened.

You nodded anyway.

You kissed him before you could think better of it. Just instinct pulling you forward, your hand gripping at his collar as your lips met his. Hard at first. Urgent. Then softer, like something in you realised this might be the last time. 

Billy stilled for half a second, like it caught him off guard. Then he was there, fully. His hands came up to your jaw, firm but gentle, holding you like something he didn’t trust himself not to lose. His thumb brushed your cheek as he kissed you back, slower now, deeper—not desperate, but intentional. Like he was trying to remember it. Memorise it. 

The shape of your mouth. The way you leaned into him. The quiet breath you let out when he softened. Everything neither of you could say. You stayed there a moment too long. Or maybe not long enough. 

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t clean, your foreheads brushing again, breath shared, neither of you quite ready to let the other go. His hand lingered at your face. Yours still curled in his shirt. Like if either of you moved too quickly, the whole thing might disappear.

"I really liked travellin' 'round with you. Even if we were running." You said.

He smiled at that, moving a tendril of your hair away from your face.

The conductor called out behind you, sharp and impatient.

You didn’t move. Neither did he. 

“Go on,” Billy said quietly.

You held his gaze for a moment longer. You let go of him and turned, climbed the steps before you could change your mind.

You found a seat by the window.

Hands still shaking, heart somewhere back on that platform. You didn’t look at him straight away. You couldn’t. Not yet.But when the train jolted, when the first slow pull forward began—you did.

Billy was still there.

Exactly where you left him. Hat low. Hands at his sides. Not moving. Just watching. Like if he stayed still enough, he could hold the moment in place a little longer.

Until the distance swallowed him.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Pa!” you called, the door swinging open harder than you meant it to.

The house smelled the same, faintly of herbs, spirits, something bitter steeping somewhere, but underneath it now was something else.

Sickness. Stale air. Too many days with the windows shut.

Miss Hale appeared almost immediately from the back room, sleeves rolled, hair loose and tired from being pulled back too many times. A local from town, someone you'd seen in come in for some bad coughs every winter your whole life.

“There you are—” she breathed, relief flooding her face before she even reached you. She wrapped you in a tight embrace, sudden and unguarded. “Thank God you’re back. He’s been askin’ for you—on and off—for weeks now.”

You hesitated only a second before returning it.

“Thank you,” you said, pulling back. “For stayin’ with him.”

She nodded, already stepping aside. “He’s awake. Not strong—but… he’ll know you.”

He looked smaller.

That was the first thing you noticed.

Your father—who had always felt solid, immovable—lay against the pillows, pale and drawn, his frame sharper than you remembered. His beard had grown in uneven, his hands thinner where they rested atop the blanket.

But his eyes were still his.

They flicked to the doorway the moment you stepped in.

“...Took your time,” he rasped.

You let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh, something tight in your chest loosening all at once.

“Nice to see you too, Pa.”

You crossed the room quickly, sitting at the edge of the bed, your hand already finding his wrist out of instinct.

Checking.

Counting.

He watched you do it, one brow lifting faintly.

“Still doin’ that, huh?”

“Someone has to,” you murmured. “You’ve clearly been neglectin’ yourself.”

“Had help,” he said, nodding vaguely toward the door. “Not as good as you.”

“Flattery won’t fix a fever.”

“Wasn’t tryin’ to.”

But his grip tightened slightly around your fingers. And he didn’t let go. It had been more than a year since you'd since him, he looked older. He claimed in his letters he was getting younger everyday, but maybe that was the first hint of fever.

The work came naturally.

Like you’d never left.

You cleaned what hadn’t been cleaned properly. Boiled instruments. Rewrapped dressings. Measured doses carefully—laudanum when the pain was too much, small amounts, never enough to dull him completely.

Miss Hale was helpful, just watching him whilst you slept, making sure nothing bad happened. Eventually she'd have to get back into town. You thanked her for the letter, for her help.

"He'd do it for us," Miss Hale insisted, referring to the towns people. "You'll keep us up to date, yes dear?"

You gave her a nod and a hug.

You went back to your farm work, like nothing had changed, catching up fixing gates, seeing your horses, upkeep that had been forgotten because of your father’s sickness and your absence.

You sat with him through the worst of the nights, when the fever spiked and his words stopped making sense.

And in the quieter moments, when he was more himself you talked.

“You’ve changed,” he said one afternoon, watching you grind herbs at the table.

“Have not.”

“You have,” he insisted. “Less clumsy.”

You snorted. “That’s just rude.”

“Also more sure of yourself,” he added, ignoring you. “That’s new.”

You glanced at him. “I had to be.”

He studied you a moment longer, something thoughtful settling in his expression.

“Santa Fe good?”

You hesitated.

Then—honest, but careful— “Great. Really great. Lot hotter than here, though..”

That got a small, approving hum out of him.

“Better than this place.”

“Don’t let the town hear you say that.”

“They already know,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly, returning to your work.

“I wrote to you about some of it,” you added after a moment. “But it’s… different sayin’ it out loud. People there—artists, musicians. Real community to it.”

He nodded slightly. “You mentioned that.”

“I sang,” you said, a little quieter. “More than I thought I would.”

He looked at you again, more openly this time.

“You sing now? With the guitar?”

“Always did,” you said. “Just… not out loud.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Just picturin’ it.”

“And?”

“Reckon it suits you.”

That softened something in you.

“I started painting, too,” you said, almost as an afterthought.

That got a proper reaction.

“Paintin’?”

“Don’t make it sound like a crime.”

He gave a faint, dry smile. “Depends how bad you are.”

You laughed under your breath. “Not terrible.”

“Good,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you embarrassin’ me.”

You shook your head, but you could see it—the quiet pride he wasn’t saying outright.

“And you kept at this,” he added, nodding toward the table. “Medicine.”

You stilled slightly.

“Yeah,” you said. “I… couldn’t really stop. People always need help."

“Didn’t think you would.”

There was something softer in that. Something like I knew you’d come back.

“I missed it,” you admitted. “Missed… this. Workin’ with you.”

He didn’t answer straight away. Just watched you. Then, quieter than before—

“Missed you too.”

One morning, once he was sitting up, voice steadier, eyes sharper, stronger than you’d seen him in weeks, it came up. You had hoped he’d avoid it—or maybe he’d been too sick to remember how you found out about his illness.

“So,” he said one evening, watching you pack away supplies after breakfast, “it true?”

You didn’t look up. “What?”

“You found him again.”

Your hands paused mid-motion. Word traveled fast in small towns, and your father’s memory had long claws.

You exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then—

“That boy’s been trouble.”

You stiffened at that. “Pa–”

“--How’d you find him?” He tapped the table, leaning forward slightly, gruff but curious.

“I was working, and he… came into town. Coincidence,” you said, voice quiet.

“You two together there?”

“…Sort of,” you admitted. “We tried to go to California. Things got messy. I got your letter. He insisted I come back. He told me to tell you he said hi, and that he... he's sorry.”

He studied you, brow furrowed, lips pressed thin. Then, after a long beat, asked awkwardly, “Is he… alive?”

You nodded, hesitantly. “Last time I saw him, few weeks back, yes.”

“He’s a good kid. Clever. He’ll do well for himself, I’m sure,” He tried, almost trying to reassure you, noticing how your shoulders became tense even talking about, despite how his name hadn’t even come up.

“He get you into his mess?" he asked.

“No,” you said firmly. “I chose it.”

Your father studied you for a long moment.

Then nodded, once.

“Figured you might.”

A beat.

“You love 'im?”

The question landed softer than you expected.

You didn’t answer straight away. Didn’t really know how to.

“…Yeah,” you said finally.

Your father leaned back slightly, considering that. Just sighed, low.

“That’s unfortunate.”

You huffed a small laugh despite yourself. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“What d’you want me to say?” he said. “He’s a wanted man. That don’t change just ‘cause he’s sweet on you.”

“I know.”

“And you still—”

“Yes.”

He stopped there.

Watched you a moment longer. “He treat you right out there? Give you... what you wanted?”

You nodded.

“Then that’s somethin’,” he said.

Not approval. But not disapproval, either. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

A month or two later, once your father had healed, just about ready to return to his work—his trainees having taken over much of the day-to-day in town—you had packed again, preparing for Santa Fe. 

That quiet hope of finding Billy again had long since dimmed, but a new kind of fire remained: the pull of a life you wanted to build for yourself, among a community of artists, musicians, and painters.

Your father didn’t fight you this time. He even helped you pack, his hands steady as he folded your things, muttering the occasional gruff comment that made you smile.

“You know, I could always visit next Spring, if you’ll have me,” he said, adjusting your coat in the trunk. “Been gettin’ a little tired of this ranch. Don’t think I’d move or anythin’—your mother would rise from the grave to slap me for that—but… could do with a holiday.”

You chuckled, giving him a tight hug from the side. He stiffened for just a moment, then loosened, allowing himself the small comfort.

You planned to leave at the end of summer, the cusp of fall.

One evening, just before your departure, you found your father on the porch, newspaper in hand, its edges curled from weeks of travel, delivered by one of the town boys.

He had already read it.

He didn’t speak, simply handed it over, eyes on your face.

You scanned the page and saw it immediately.

Billy. A short column, easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

WILLIAM H. BONNEY AKA Billy The Kid - Shot and killed at Fort Sumner; July, 1881. By Sheriff Pat Garrett.

You read it again. And again. The words remained the same. The ache, unchanging.

Outside, the sun dipped low, soft and golden, spilling across the quiet town as if pressing pause on everything.

Your father didn’t speak. He had seen enough men on your table to understand the difference between what someone was—and what the world had made of him.

“I’ll leave you be…” he said finally, a rough whisper.

You nodded, folding the paper carefully, smoothing it as if the act alone could grant some small comfort.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a road stretched south, bending and fading into the horizon. A promise that had never been meant to be kept. A life that existed only in fragments, stolen moments, laughter, music, and the constant undercurrent of instability.

Billy was gone. Gone the way he had always thought he would be. Shot, alone or nearly so, by men who never hesitated to finish what they started.

You stayed home for a while longer. You cried more than you expected. Long nights, short sleep, waking with eyes red and dry. The idea of leaving, of venturing back out into the world, felt heavier without the hope of ever seeing him again.

Eventually, you set out for Santa Fe.

The journey was hot, the end of summer bleeding into fall, the dust thick and relentless under the sun. But there, the city waited like it had always done—familiar streets, familiar faces, and Ida, who greeted you as though no time had passed at all.

Your spot at the bar was still yours, your own anchor. You sang, fingers strumming over the strings, voice carrying the weight of everything you had seen and lost. Your paintings waited for you, unfinished, but alive with colour and possibility.

Life went on. 

It went on without him. But even as you moved forward, even as the city carried you in its rhythms, the memory of Billy lingered, just a quiet, stubborn pulse in your chest.

A/N: freaks we're so back. freaks look, okay, i had so many ways i couldve ended this. i was gonna do them running off into the sunset, i was gonna go him leaving for san antonio, and she'd never go with him and they'd say goodbye, then she'd read the paper and yeah, you know, but also, have we considered.... i like writing a little bit sickness and a lovely sad little goodbye with baggage to it? OKAY to the 10 people who wanted this, i hope this is alright! sorry i had to split this, i wrote it as one, i dont know how i feel about them as individual parts, but im honestly just happy this is done! i can work on literally anything else! i hope this is okay, i know i have a load of problems with this but i figured i just wanted this done, it's never gonna be perfect. and i'm also done with this character, so i was never gonna be interested in doing a perfect job at this.

me being able to so free of this

The kind of heat that clings to your bones even after sundown, that turns dust into a second skin.

You’re sitting on the porch outside the Church, guitar in your lap, trying to coax the damn thing into tune. 

Across from you, Ida, your father’s old patient from Mesilla, fans herself with yesterday’s paper and talks the way old women do when they’ve got gossip and an audience.

“And I think Miss Mary Anne—she’s the tall one you saw by the milliner’s—well, she’s been seen keepin’ company with Sheriff Gordon, though he’s got a wife and a brand-new babe.” Ida leans closer, eyes wide like the news is worth more than gold. “Scandalous, ain’t it?”

You twist the tuning peg. The string snaps back, biting your finger. “Damn it—”

“Watch your mouth.” Ida smacks your knee like you’re still twelve. “Language like that’ll get you talked about same as Mary Anne.”

You just sigh, shake your hand out, and set the guitar aside. It’s been months since you came south, but the heat still feels personal—like the sun’s got a grudge.

Santa Fe isn’t like up North. 

There’s more trade here, more soldiers, more law than there used to be back home. You rent a small room down the road from Eustace’s Saloon, play your guitar most nights for a dollar and a drink, serve the drinks on occasion, patch up whoever gets shot or stabbed after the game goes bad using the knowledge your father left you.

You never thought you’d leave the little town you came from. The ranch, your father, your old friends — even Spots, that stubborn horse who’d only let you saddle him. There’d been so much to live for there. So much to lose.

Well. Till he came along, and left.

You still thought about him, sometimes. 

Hard not to.

Hard to forget the smell of sweat and gunpowder that clung to your sheets long after he’d gone, or the way the night always felt quieter after. 

He forgot a few shirts when he rode out. You kept them longer than you should’ve — hanging on the chair by the window, folded at the foot of the bed, anywhere but gone. 

Your father told you to wash them, or burn them. Said it wasn’t proper, keeping a man’s things like that. But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. They still smelled like him. Like smoke, and iron, and a life that might’ve been yours, if the world were kinder.

It took another year or so before you finally decided it was time to go.

You and your pa fought about it, same as you fought about most things after he left and the ranch was quiet again.

“You’re tryin’ to go after him,” your father said, voice tight but steady, pacing the kitchen floor like a caged animal. He always did that when he was angry, moved instead of yelled. “Ain’t foolin’ me none.”

“This isn’t about him,” you said, though it was half a lie. “Pa, I just—” You rubbed your eyes, searching for words that didn’t sound like running. “I need to be somewhere else. I can’t spend my whole life here, patchin’ fences and mendin’ wounds that won’t stay shut.”

He stopped pacing, just looked at you. The lamplight caught the grey in his beard, the tired lines around his eyes. “This ranch was your mother’s heart, girl. It’s your home.”

You swallowed hard. “It was hers. It’s yours. But it ain’t mine.”

His jaw worked, that muscle ticking the way it always did when he was fighting the urge to raise his voice. “You think the world out there’s kinder than this one? You think you’ll find peace in all that dust and danger?”

You met his stare, steady as you could manage. “I ain’t lookin’ for peace.”

For a moment, it seemed to be at a stalemate. He seemed to ease down, sighing as he moved to sit next to you on the couch.

“I want to hear music. All kinds of music. Meet all kinds of people. Play my own songs…” You heard his voice now, coming out in you. “I’m well old enough to take care of myself — you know I can take care of myself better than you can take care of your own wellbeing.”

That got the faintest smile out of him. The kind that softened all the years and worries in his face.

“I know you can,” he said quietly. “That’s what scares me.”

The man who’d patched up half the county, who’d sat up through every storm in case someone came knocking, who never once complained when life took more than it gave.

A good man. A good doctor. The best kind of father.

“I’ll write. I’ll visit. I don’t wanna up and leave without anythin’,” you promised.

He nodded once, eyes shining in the lamplight. “If you find him, you give him a talking to for  me, will you?”

You snickered a bit at that, hanging your head.

“You mind playin’ me a song then?” He wondered.

You hugged him tightly at that. It was a quiet evening. You played him a few of your own songs on the guitar, a song or two you learned playing at the local saloon in town for the past few months. 

You hugged him before you left. He smelled like tobacco and soap and the same clean linen you’d known all your life. “Just don’t forget where home is.”

You spent the next winter and spring travelling, staying here and there — a night in a boarding house, a week above a bakery, a few days riding with traders who didn’t ask many questions. 

Every town had its own rhythm, its own dust.

Each brought its own kind of loneliness.

It wasn’t like the ranch. Out there, you’d always known every sound — the creek at dawn, the horses at the fence, your father humming under his breath. 

On the road, it was never quiet in the same way. You slept light, hand near the small pistol he’d taught you to shoot with, because a woman alone drew all kinds of attention. Some men thought “traveling alone” meant “looking for company.” 

You learned quick to keep your chin high and your answers short.

You did what you had to — earned some money cleaning rooms, playing your guitar at supper halls, patching up a wound or two when someone recognised a doctor’s touch in your hands. People talked more when they thought you were kind, and less when they saw you could hold your own.

By the time you reached Santa Fe, you were tougher than you’d been when you left home. You’d learned to keep your stories close, your boots steady, and your knife sharper still.

Folks around Santa Fe, though — they’re just what you pictured. 

They’re just how he described them.

Artists on every corner, painters and poets and fiddlers who live off sunlight and stubbornness. You’ve learned a hundred new songs since coming here, a dozen new chords, even picked up the twelve-string and the banjo from a miner, Gus, who swore he used to play for Lincoln’s men. 

Folks here teach one another — that’s the way of it. A tune traded for a story, a meal traded for a song.

But you hadn’t written a new one of your own yet. You thought the inspiration would hit the second you arrived, that the land itself would sing to you.

Instead, the day you stepped off that wagon — boots dust-covered, hat pulled low, heart heavier than you’d expected — all you could do was stand there in the square and breathe.

The air smelled of sage and smoke and hot bread from a nearby stall. Spanish mixed with English in the streets; church bells rang out over adobe rooftops.

It was on your first day, too, that you saw him...

Well — his face, anyway.

A real nice drawing of it, too.

They got his nose just right. The eyes were a little off, though — too mean. His real eyes, you remembered, had a kind of warmth in them. Trouble, sure, but not cruelty. Maybe you were romanticising the past. Maybe you were just more romantic than you were before him.

You stood there longer than you should’ve, staring at the poster nailed to the post outside the sheriff’s office.

WANTED — WILLIAM BONNEY, alias “BILLY THE KID.”DEAD OR ALIVE.Reward: $500.

Five hundred dollars. You couldn’t help but let out a low whistle.

You’d always known he was his own kind of trouble - but seeing his name printed like that, in big block letters, made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.

“Ain’t he kinda cute?” a voice said beside you.

You smiled at that, glancing over to see her — Ida, a couple years older than you, same wide grin, same gaudy hat she’d worn all those years ago.

She recognised you first. “Well, I’ll be damned! Look at you — last time I saw you, you were just a slip of a girl! What’s it been, five, ten years?”

You nodded, and she kept on before you could answer. “Gosh, your poor father — he must miss you somethin’ awful. He doin’ alright? Oh, don’t tell me he’s passed on now, I still remember how kind he was when I broke my wrist that summer! Wrapped it up himself, wouldn’t take a cent from me, bless his heart—”

You couldn’t help but laugh. Ida hadn’t changed a bit. Always a big talker. 

And truth be told, it was nice — nice to see a familiar face in a town that didn’t yet know your name. She was one of your few friends that cared to keep you fed and support you with this big change.

You helped around town.

It was different, living your way in rental rooms instead of out on the ranch where you’d had all the space known to man. But those years helping your father had given you plenty of skill — setting shoulders, fixing wrists, even patching a bullet hole once. Came in handy more often than you’d like in a place like Santa Fe.

Santa Fe was a town for dreamers, sure — artists on every corner, guitars and paintbrushes, — but it was also a halfway house for outlaws. Gangs passed through like bad weather, leaving bullet holes, broken windows, and stories no one told straight. Shootouts, robberies, trouble of every shape and size — it all found its way here sooner or later.

You worked in the saloon that had the least amount of it.

It helped that it was the only one in town with a proper stage, some halfway decent whiskey, and a casino tucked into the back if you rubbed elbows with the right men. Your boss liked to say that music softened people. Kept their hands busy clapping instead of reaching for guns.

Most nights, he was right.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Saturday nights were your busiest.

The room was packed wall to wall, hot as hell, the air thick with sweat, liquor, and laughter that rolled low and loose. Glasses clinked. Boots stomped. Cards slapped against tabletops in uneven rhythm.

You were up on the little stage, singing with Gus — an old banjo player with fingers like twigs and a voice like gravel scraped raw, the miner who'd sworn he knew Lincoln. He’d start a song, steady and simple, and you’d carry it from there, lifting it up and out over the room.

The crowd loved you both for it.

You couldn’t help your grin as your voice curled through the saloon. Half the room sang along, a few people slurring their way through the chorus, others dancing wherever they could make space.

You didn’t quite know when you’d grown an entertainment bone, but months of singin’ for crowds who looked at you like you were the best part of their week had made you want to give them a good show.

You’d just finished a verse when the doors banged open.

Five, maybe six men came in together — cowboys by the look of them, but not local. Their clothes were worn hard, dust ground into every seam, boots scuffed thin. They moved like men who hadn’t slept enough and didn’t plan on staying long.

Nobody paid them much mind. The room was too liquored up, too focused on you as you danced along to Gus’s banjo, lifting your skirt just enough to keep your steps quick and playful.

They looked rough. Jittery. One of them had blood dried dark along his sleeve. They didn’t so much as glance your way as they pushed past the bar, muttering something low to the barkeep before slipping into the backroom — the one your boss usually kept locked.

It opened easy when one of them, blond and already angry, shoved his way through.

Casino night for the vagabonds, you guessed.

You took a sip of water, letting Gus carry the next tune while you leaned against the piano for a breath. The wood was warm beneath your palm, humming faintly with the sound of the room.

The cowboys hadn’t noticed you.

You glanced over, curiosity tugging at you despite yourself. The blond was being hauled back by one of his pals — dark-haired, hat pulled low, favouring his right leg with a limp he didn’t try to hide. They spoke in sharp, low bursts, faces close, shoulders tense.

When the blond finally looked your way, you turned back quick, your grin snapping into place as you reached for your guitar.

You waited a beat before looking again. The two of them had already disappeared into the backroom.

You cleared your throat and nodded at Gus as he finished the song — next tune — and he took the hint without missing a beat.

The crowd clapped along, loud and cheerful.

“Well, thank y’all so much for the love on that one,” you said, letting your voice carry. “We’ll be playin’ all night, so don’t be shy with those tips now, alright?”

You scooped up Gus’s old fisherman’s hat from the edge of the stage and gave it a shake. A few dollars and coins rattled inside.

Patrons pushed forward, laughing, tossing in a dollar or two as they squeezed closer to the stage.

You thanked them, then you and Gus slid into the next song.

You were halfway through your verse when someone hollered from the corner, “Play that love song again, sweetheart!”

You smiled politely and gave a nod, keeping the rhythm. He didn’t stop.

He staggered closer, drink sloshing over the rim of his glass. “C’mon now, darlin’,” he said, voice thick. “Sing somethin’ pretty.”

“Sir,” you said, light and even, “you’ll get your song when I’m good and ready.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

But he was far past hearing reason.

He planted both hands on the edge of the stage, leaning in close, breath sour with whiskey. “Don’t get smart with me, girl.”

“Alright, alright,” Gus growled beside you, banjo lowering. “Sit yourself down.”

The man laughed — deep, mean — and hauled himself up, boots scraping against the boards.

You stepped back, guitar clutched tight against your chest. Someone grabbed his arm, tried to pull him down.

That only made him swing.

The first punch landed hard.

Then another.

The whole room erupted.

A bar fight. How All-American.

A chair went flying across the floor. Glass shattered against the wall. The piano crashed off-key as someone stumbled into it. The smell of spilled liquor and gunpowder mixed fast.

You ducked behind a table just as two men rolled past, grappling. One of them slammed into the bar, knocking bottles off the shelf like dominos. 

“Hell!” Gus shouted, trying to protect his banjo.

You crawled toward the bar, dodging boots and fists, heart hammering.

Someone reached for you, that very same one nagging you for another song — you swung the neck of your guitar without thinking, cracking it over his shoulder, watching the guitar break apart. He went down with a grunt, knocked right out.

“Sorry!” you gasped, scrambling to your feet — only to find another man coming right for you, eyes wild, one of his pals, just as drunk and a hunger in his eyes that left you afraid as you tried looking around for another weapon as your guitar was pieces of wood now.

“Shit. Shit, shit, get away!” You yelled, hand going around for a beer bottle.

“Oh don’t be like that, songbird,” He said, knocking the bottle out of your hand harshly, catching you off guard as he loomed over. You played through a few different scenarios, grabbed another beer bottle, broke it and aimed it again, much more ready to attack.

And then—

He moved like a storm.

Quickly, before you even realised it, another body had flung himself right at your attacker, in the midst of the fighting, this is the only one you cared about as he threw a punch right at him to the ground before leaning over his body, continuing to punch him.

You flinched at the sight, backing away slowly, eyes flickering around between your defender and then the sound of other beer bottles being broken and used as weapons around the bar, still hesitantly pointing the broken beer bottle.

Your eyes landed right back to your defender as he stood back up slowly, your attacker well-unconscious and bleeding pretty damn badly. Your defender’s hands bruised and split.

You stood there frozen, something in you already knowing.

He let out a breath, chest heaving, adrenaline sharp in his veins. When he turned toward you, a familiar hat sat crooked on his head, his lip split and bleeding from someone’s earlier punch.

Those eyes.

The same warmth — sharp, bright, dangerous — and yet, when they found you, they softened immediately, confused, shocked, relief, maybe. The right corner of his mouth twitched, just a flicker of confusion and disbelief breaking through the fury, completely caught off guard.

“…Billy?” you breathed, so quiet you weren’t even sure you’d said it aloud.

He didn’t answer. Just stared — eyes full of something wild and unspoken, the kind of look that said everything words couldn’t. He blinked, brows scrunched together as his lips twitch at the sight of you, utterly speechless. He said your name, soft, confused, also a question.

Then: “Kid! We gotta go!”

The shout cut through the chaos.

You stammered something, stepping forward without thinking, clutching the splintered neck of your guitar like it could anchor you. You wanted to say something—anything—but Gus’ hands gripped your shoulders, pulling you back from the melee.

“C’mon, honey, you’re gonna get yourself killed!” he hissed, dragging you behind the counter.

You twisted in his grasp, looking back.

He was still there—Billy—watching you as his men shoved through the crowd toward the door, that blond shoving him through the door to leave. For half a second, he didn’t move.

Then the sound of hooves thundered from outside, the sheriff’s horses making their way down the road, and just like that—

He ran.

The doors burst open, and he vanished into the heat and dust of the night.

You stood trembling, breath caught in your throat, the room around you still ringing with chaos. Broken glass. A toppled chair. Your guitar, cracked in half, broken beer bottle in your palm.

Well, Goddamn. 

What are the chances?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You missed the North.

The summers were gruelling, but not like Santa Fe.

Up there, the heat was a slow burn — something you could breathe through, something that came with the scent of pine and the promise of rain by dusk.

Here, it was relentless. 

The kind that made you feel like you were baking from the inside out.

Maybe the Church was just the worst place to be during noon, the sun at its peak, the air still and tight.

It wasn’t much to look at — the place had only been built a few years back, according to Father Esteban — but the ceiling was already cracking, letting sunlight pour through in thin, golden beams that dust danced in. Even so, the congregation gathered every Sunday, fanning themselves with folded handbills, murmuring the hymns with cracked voices.

You sat in the front pew, eyes half on the pulpit, half on the way the light turned the wood gold. You and your father had never been particularly religious, but Ida insisted church was more of a community thing. 

And truthfully, she was right. There was gossip, laughter, and even a few good tunes — Gus on his banjo, that sweet girl Lottie on the fiddle. The music almost made the heat worth it.

When the final hymn trailed off and the benediction was spoken, your hands stopped fidgeting in your lap. You were an adult, sure, but in a building that was supposed to “house God,” you felt like a mere speck.

The congregation began to trickle out — slow, lazy, no one eager to face the afternoon sun. Ida, of course, lingered behind, her parasol tucked under her arm as she leaned across the pew.

“You doing alright there, hon?” She asked, voice sweet as molasses.

You smiled. “Good. Good, yeah, I’m uh… tired, ‘s all.”

“Heard last night got rowdy,” She chuckled. “Any sins you gotta atone for?” She nodded over to Father Esteban.

“Maybe a hit or two,” You sighed, mind trickling back watching Billy’s body overtake another man’s and rise with red hands. “I’m sure the lord can forgive a bar brawl.”

“We’ll see, sinner,” She joked, she looked around the church. “You comin’ along? Gotta go to the bank.”

“I’ll meet you there soon. Just like it here.” 

“Right… don’t let that little night of sin make you become a nun now, alright? I like havin’ a pal who’ll drink with me.”

“No promises.” You joke as she walks out.

As if on cue, Father Esteban approached — a gentle man, thin and sunburned, his cassock loose around the middle. “Miss,” he said with that faint accent, holding something behind his back. “How are you findin’ your time here?”

You straightened your back at the presence of the priest as he sat down besides you. “I’m likin’ it, Father. Nearest chapel back home was a whole day’s away from home, so, this is all still a bit fresh to me.”

“Ah, yes. Ida mentioned you’re from uh… Wyoming, is that right?”

“‘Round there, yeah,” You answered.

“Been there few times for a missionary. Bet you miss the breeze.”

“Oh, I do,” You chuckled. 

“My uh… good pal, Gus, he mentioned you play some guitar, is that right now?”

You nodded.

“That’s just wonderful. God given talent like that. See now, I heard a little incident happened and you lost that guitar. Well, our old guitarist, he went by Joseph, mighta met him, tall man - funny lookin’ beard, no?” You just shook your head, slightly confused. “Well, he was a bit of a troublemaker. Good man though, he left his guitar with us. Think you could use it. You could play a tune once or twice for us if you wanted too. Use it for whatever ya please.”

He brought out a guitar. Old, but cared for. The varnish worn in places, the strings newly replaced.

You blinked, surprised. “Oh — Father, I can’t accept—

 “You can,” he interrupted softly, pressing it into your hands. “Music brings people to the Word better than any sermon I’ve preached. You keep it, yes?”

You held it carefully, fingers brushing over the wood. “Thank you,” you said, and meant it.

He smiled and left you with a nod, following the last few parishioners out into the blinding light. 

And then, it was quiet.

You stayed there, letting the church cool in the settling dust, the sound of cicadas bleeding through the open windows. 

You rested the guitar on your knee and began to tune it, slow and patient, the way your father taught you. The strings hummed low and sweet beneath your fingers, the sound echoing faintly off the stone walls.

You plucked a few notes — hesitant, searching for the melody — when a voice came from behind you, something you had practised a long time ago.

“I remember this one.”

The sound stopped you cold.

Your fingers froze on the strings. Your heart kicked once, hard, like it had stumbled. You turned your head just slightly.

He was leaning against the back pew, hat in his hands, head bowed a little — like a man who didn’t belong in a place but had come anyway. Sunlight cut across the side of his face, catching the familiar angles: sharp jaw, easy mouth, eyes that could disarm a storm.

Billy.

He looked older. Leaner. A couple of new scars marked his forehead and cheekbone, pale against skin darkened by sun and dust. Time and heat had carved him differently, but his smile — that half-crooked, sheepish grin — hadn’t changed at all.

Under the light of the church, he looked closer to the boy you’d known than the outlaw whispered about in bars. You couldn’t quite find words for what that did to you.

Words felt strange here.

“You’re not dead,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your mouth as you kept tuning the guitar in your lap.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Apparently not.”

He took a few steps closer, boots soft against the wooden floor. He stopped a few paces behind your pew — close enough that you felt the air shift, far enough that neither of you had to decide what this was yet.

“Didn’t think you’d end up in a place like this,” he said, voice low. “You used to cuss when your daddy made you say grace.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Guess people change.”

“Guess they do,” he murmured.

You plucked another note, softer this time, letting it ring. You could feel his eyes on your hands. He always watched them — back when he taught you how to hold a gun, how to mend a fence without tearing yourself up. He watched now the same way: steady, intent, like he was relearning you.

You stood, glancing around the empty church. “What if they find you?”

He blinked, pulled from whatever memory he’d been living in. “I got a friend watchin’ out front. He’ll holler if anyone comes. Priest knows me. Wouldn’t snitch.” A pause. “You wouldn’t either, would you?”

You looked down, almost offended. “What kind of question is that?”

“Right. Sorry.” He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, exhaling. “I just— I didn’t think I’d see you again. Christ, you look—” He stopped himself, took another step, then checked it, swallowing hard.

You looked up, fingers tightening around the neck of the guitar, noticing the way his weight leaned subtly to one side.

“You’re more beautiful than I remember,” he finished quietly. “Your hair’s different.”

You touched the neat updo Ida had insisted on — a far cry from ranch dust and loose braids. “Thank you. You look good too. Real popular, from the drawings I’ve seen.”

He ducked his head, embarrassed but pleased. “Yeah. Guess they ain’t too bad.”

Then, softer: “How’s your pa? He didn’t…” He trailed off, not wanting to finish it.

“He’s well,” you said. “Wrote me just the other day. Busy as ever. New gangs movin’ through..”

A beat.

“Billy, I—”

“Listen, I—”

You both stopped, then laughed quietly at yourselves. He nodded for you to go first.

“I told my friend I’d meet her,” you said, setting the guitar into its case, snapping it shut. “She’s probably thinkin’ I took my vows.” A smile. “I work at the bar. If you come around… we could talk. Catch up.”

His throat bobbed. You recognised that look — the self-reproach, the calculation.

“Can’t,” he said. “Sheriff’s got one of my men locked up. Think I’m nearby. I’m layin’ low till it blows over.”

He stepped closer again, and this time you saw it clearly — the limp, the careful way he guarded one leg.

“What happened to your leg?” you asked.

“It’s nothin’.”

“Last time you said that to me, I had to set a shoulder into place.” You recalled. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The last time you’d seen him, he’d been clean, mounted, supplies packed and ready — like leaving was temporary.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” you said finally, nodding to the Church that surrounded you both. “If they’re lookin’ for you.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But you’re here.”

The words hit like a stone dropped straight through your chest. You’d spent so long grieving the memory of him that it took you by surprise — the anger waiting underneath.

“You’re still playin’,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Never stopped.”

“You’ve gotten better. Confident. You performin' now and—” He stopped himself, fist clenching. “You seein’ anyone?”

You shrugged.

He tilted his head, amused. “What’s that mean?”

“Are you?”

He considered it, then mirrored your shrug. “Mm.”

“There’s a man at my work,” you admitted. “We tried somethin’.”

“Is that so?” His fingers worried the brim of his hat. “He got a name?”

“Billy...”

He smiled faintly. “Familiar.”

You laughed under your breath. “His name’s Noah. You probably won’t know him, he ain’t worth five hundred.”

“Is that the new price now?” he whistled.

The humour faded. You adjusted the guitar case, clearing your throat.

“I gotta go,” you said. “Meetin’ her at the bank.”

He nodded, slipping his hat back on, clearly wanting to offer to walk you and knowing better.

You started down the aisle. As you passed him, his hand caught your wrist — gentle, hesitant.

“I’m camped east of town,” he said. “Near the river. No law comes that way.”

You slipped free, then surprised him by placing your palm against his chest. Solid. Warm. Too familiar.

Your fingers twitched as his eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“Nine o’clock,” you said. “I work in the mornin’.”

He nodded, dumbstruck. Your hand slid to the back of his neck — his hair longer now, curling at the ends — and you pressed a brief kiss to his cheek.

“Good to see you, Billy.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Real good, sweetheart.”

You moved past him, guitar in hand. At the door, you glanced back.

He hadn’t moved. Just watched you like he always had.

You smiled once, then stepped out as the church doors swung shut behind you.

The walk back into town felt longer than it should’ve.

You kept your head down, new guitar bumping against your shoulder with every step, the sun still high and cruel despite the hour. Every sound felt too loud — boots on dirt, a wagon creaking past, laughter spilling out of the cantina you worked in like nothing in the world had just shifted on its axis.

Billy Bonney. In a church. Alive. 

You were angry at him for that, you realised. For surviving. For showing up when you’d finally convinced yourself he was a story you told yourself at night, something already mourned. And yet at the same time, you felt full again. Excited. Curious. 

At the bank, Ida barely noticed your distraction. She talked about interest rates and gossip and the price of flour while you nodded in the right places, your mind stuck on the way Billy’s hand had felt around your wrist. Always so careful and gentle.

By the time you were back at the boarding house, the sun had started its slow descent. The heat softened, turning honey-thick instead of sharp. You washed up, changed — not too much thought put into it, except you absolutely lied to yourself about that. The white dress Isla had insisted on hung loose and light against your skin, clean but worn-in. Practical. Pretty enough.

When you stepped back outside, the town was easing into night. Lamps flickered on. Music drifted from open windows. Somewhere down the road, a man laughed too loud and got shoved for it.

You hesitated only once before turning east.

The land opened up the further you walked — fewer buildings, more scrub, the earth sloping gently until trees gathered low and dark near the creek. You followed the sounds before you saw them: voices, a crackling fire, the occasional burst of laughter too rough to belong to polite company.

The camp wasn’t hidden so much as it was ignored — tents tucked into the trees, horses tied off nearby, bedrolls scattered around a central fire. Men lounged like they owned the night, boots off, guns within reach but not in hand.

You felt eyes on you the second you stepped into the firelight.

Conversation faltered. Not stopped — just… slowed. You were aware of yourself in a way that made your spine straighten, your chin lift. You’d learned that much on the road.

You hesitated just at the edge of the firelight, suddenly very aware that you were the only unfamiliar face there — a woman alone, small bag of nicknacks, dress catching ash at the hem. A few heads turned. One man openly stared.

“Well I’ll be,” a voice drawled. “Didn’t know we were entertainin’ tonight. Ain’t you that songbird from the ‘ther night?”

You glanced toward him — tall, sunburnt, hat pushed back on his head, grin all teeth and curiosity. He looked you over like a puzzle he hadn’t decided how to solve yet.

“Not entertainin’ tonight,” you said calmly. “Lookin’ for someone’.”

That earned a laugh from somewhere behind him.

“Aren’t we all?” another man chimed in, tossing something into the fire. Sparks leapt.

Before either of them could say more, a familiar presence slid into place beside you — close enough that his arm brushed yours, grounding.

“She’s with me.”

Billy’s voice was quiet, but it cut clean through the noise.

The man who’d spoken first lifted his brows. “That so?”

Billy didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on you. “You alright?”

You nodded. “Just fine.”

The man chuckled. “Hell, Billy, since when do you go ‘round snatchin’ the pretty birds?”

Billy huffed at that.

The man stuck out a hand anyway. “Name’s Cole.”

You shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

Cole’s grip was firm but polite. He glanced between you and Billy, grin widening. “So, you two do know each other? Wouldn’t stop talkin’ bout you the other night, we thought he was just whipped for the singer.”

Billy shifted beside you. Just slightly. Weight off one leg.

You noticed. Again.

He caught you looking and immediately straightened, like he’d been burned. You give him a slight glare.

“I’m fine,” He insisted before you could even say anything, softly.

“I ain’t say nothin’...” You replied.

He chuckles loosely at that before talking back to Cole. “She saved my hide, few years back now. That's how we know each other.”

Somehow that’s too generous and also an entire underestimation of your time together.

“Took me in for a while, up North. She fixed me right up.” He explains. “Best nurse I ever had.”

You flush a bit at his praise. 

“That’s real nice. You know, not a lotta good souls like that ‘round these days,” Cole says, seemingly unaware of whatever tension you two have. “‘Specially not at this camp,” He lightly slaps Billy on the back, jokingly. 

Cole clapped Billy once on the shoulder and tipped his hat at you. “I’ll give you two a minute,” he said, already backing away. “Try not to whip him up into leavin’ us, yeah?”

Billy muttered something that might’ve been a curse. Cole laughed and disappeared back toward the fire.

You stood there a second longer than necessary, taking in the camp proper now — bedrolls half-kicked into the dirt, bottles sweating in the heat, a pair of women you recognised from town laughing too loud near the fire. Someone was poking at the flames with a stick, sending sparks up into the dark.

Not exactly church. Far from it, actually, as you noticed the guns and bags stuffed around with cash.

Your gaze drifted back to Billy.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” you said finally, voice easy, like you were talking about the weather. “Figured I’d read about you somewhere. Obituaries. Newspaper. Somethin’.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“For a while,” you went on, “I kind of thought I made it all up. Like maybe you were just… a fever dream or somethin’ I needed at the time.”

“A dream,” he repeated, amused.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You looked at him properly then. The firelight caught the edge of his face, all sharp lines and familiar angles. He still had that same look — like he never quite belonged to the ground under his feet.

“Couldn’t have dreamt you up if I tried,” he said. “Especially not after you set my shoulder into place. Think that could wake up a man out of Heaven.”

You smiled at that, small.

He shifted his weight, glanced back toward the fire, then to you again. “You look different.”

“So do you.”

He smirked. “Hope that ain’t an insult.”

“Depends,” you said. “You always walk like that, or is that new?”

He stiffened immediately. “Like what?”

You shrugged, innocent. “Like you’re pretendin’ one leg don’t exist.”

He scoffed. “Ain’t nothin’.”

“Mhm.”

A beat passed. Crickets filled it. The fire popped.

He cleared his throat. “You uh… you gonna head back north anytime soon? How’s your father?”

“He’s good, I’ll be up there in Winter, probably,” you said. “But otherwise I’m a freebird, I suppose.”

He nodded like that answer meant more than it should.

“Santa Fe suits you,” he said after a moment. “Knew it would.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The camp went on around you — laughter, movement, life — but it all felt a little distant.

Then Billy said, quieter, “I’m glad it wasn’t a dream.”

You met his eyes. “Me too, Billy.”

Another man — shorter, broad-shouldered, already halfway through a bottle — clapped Billy on the back. “Quit grillin’ her. Come on, miss, you drink?”

“Sometimes,” you answered, mood shifting.

“Good enough.”

Before you could protest, he gently steered you toward the fire, pressing a tin cup into your hand. Whiskey. Strong. 

You took a cautious sip, eyes flicking back to him. He caught the look and tipped his chin once, a quiet go on. You did, feeling the warmth bloom low in your chest.

The camp was small but lived-in. Bedrolls laid out in a loose half circle, saddles stacked near a mesquite, rifles leaned close at hand but not grabbed for. A coffee pot sat blackened over the fire, someone poking at the embers with a stick. A deck of cards passed between two men arguing good-naturedly over who’d cheated last hand.

Introductions came easy enough — first names only, some real, some not. You caught bits and pieces: a man from Arizona with a crooked nose who laughed loud and often, another quiet one sharpening a knife he barely seemed to need. 

No one leered. No one asked too much. They treated you like something Billy had brought back from town — respected because he respected you.

You settled onto a blanket near the fire, skirts tucked in close, boots warming. Someone passed you a strip of jerky. Another man nudged a tin plate toward you with beans still steaming.

“Careful,” he said, smirking. “They’ll sit heavy.”

“So will whiskey,” you shot back, earning a laugh.

The talk drifted — horses, bad roads, the sheriff in Santa Fe who couldn’t shoot straight, rumors of rail money moving south. You listened more than you spoke, chiming in just enough. When you laughed, a few heads turned. Not hungry. Curious.

The whiskey softened the edges. You leaned back on your hands, chin tipped up toward the stars, letting the firelight dance along your knees. Not performing — just comfortable in your own skin. 

Billy sat on a log near the fire, beer in hand, hat tipped low. The flames painted his face in gold and shadow, carving him into something sharper than you remembered. He looked up — and the noise around him faded into nothing.

His eyes dragged over you, slowly and with intent.

You felt a pit in your stomach grow, deep and dark, nostalgic and warm.

His pals were loud, too loud — telling stories that blurred into one another, dancing badly, shoving each other, laughing about blood and whiskey and women like those things were all the same currency. You barely heard them. Billy didn’t either.

Someone passed you a drink without asking. You took it, eyes never leaving Billy’s face.

He finally tipped his head, just a fraction. A silent question.

You alright? Why are you here?   Why am I here?

All of them at once.

After a moment, you stood.

You brushed the dust from your skirt, slow and deliberate, like you weren’t very aware of the way his eyes stayed on you — how his posture shifted, back straightening, attention snapping sharp. You didn’t look at him as you turned. Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

A few of the campers glanced up as you walked away. Someone let out a low whistle. Another laughed into their bottle. You didn’t stop, didn’t rush — just left the log behind, left the firelight and noise, heading out into the grasslands where the dark swallowed sound.

You counted under your breath.

Three.

The fire popped behind you.

Two.

Boots scraped against dirt. A chair shifted.

One—

Billy stood.

You heard it — the scuffle of him getting up too fast, the muttered curse, the way someone called after him.

“Hey, Kid—!”

“Shut up,” Billy snapped, sharp enough to cut through the laughter.

You smiled to yourself as you kept walking.

He caught up quickly — long strides, quiet despite the limp he was trying not to show. A shadow at your back. Close enough now that you could feel him, the heat of him bleeding into the cool night air.

Away from the fire, the night cooled fast. Crickets sang. The stars were bright in a way you’d almost forgotten — wide and endless, like the ranch used to feel. Like home.

You stopped without warning.

He nearly ran into you.

“Christ—” He caught himself, hands hovering uselessly at your waist before dropping again. “Where you headed now?”

“Somewhere for you to follow,” you said, not turning yet.

Silence stretched. Thick. Heavy.

When you finally faced him, he was smiling — that crooked, boyish thing that didn’t quite fit the man he’d grown into.

“You plannin’ to tell me where we’re goin’?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“So is limpin’ around like you ain’t hurt.”

That wiped the smile clean off his face.

He shifted his weight instinctively, jaw tightening. “Ain’t—”

“Don’t,” you cut in. “I know what a man looks like when he’s lyin’ about pain. I know what you look like when you’re lying about pain.”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You always were too observant.”

His gaze softened despite himself.

“Few days back,” he admitted. “Shootout near Las Vegas. Grazed me. Bullet caught meat, not bone. It’s fine.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that?”

“Didn’t wanna make you fuss. Got it under control”

You stepped closer, close enough now to smell him — smoke, sweat, leather. Familiar. Dangerous.

“You got shot,” you said flatly. “I can help, it’s that simple. Sit down.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Still bossy.”

“Still stupid,” you shot back.

That earned a real laugh — brief, warm — before it faded into something quieter. He looked at you then, really looked, eyes tracing the changes you couldn’t hide anymore.

“You ain’t the girl I left,” he said softly.

“No,” you agreed. “And you aren’t the boy who limped into my barn bleedin’ all over my hay.”

His throat bobbed.

“Funny thing,” he murmured. “I thought about that day more times than I can count.”

You turned, already lowering yourself onto a flat rock nearby, emptying your bag of useful nicknacks, filled with small medicinal items, figuring you’d have to fix him up at some point tonight.

“Sit.”

He hesitated.

You raised a brow. “Billy.”

He obeyed.

Déjà vu hit hard — the way he sat tense, jaw set, pretending he didn’t need help. The night wrapped around you both like it used to, quiet and watchful. 

You knelt, skirts brushing dirt, fingers already gentle and practiced as you lifted the edge of his trouser leg.

He sucked in a breath despite himself.

“Dammit, Billy,” you muttered, leaning closer. “Shoulda found me right after the bar or somethin’. This is bad.”

“Looks worse than it is,” he said quickly.

“Men always say that.”

You rolled the fabric higher, exposing the graze along his outer thigh — an angry, half-moon tear where the bullet had kissed flesh and torn past. Not deep, but deep enough to fester if ignored. Dried blood clung dark to his skin.

“How many days?” you asked.

“Three. Maybe four.”

You clicked your tongue. “Long enough for infection to start thinkin’ about settlin’ in.”

From your bag you pulled what you always carried — habits learned young and never shaken. A clean cloth, folded careful. A small tin of carbolic soap. A corked bottle of whiskey.

His eyes flicked to it. “You ain’t plannin’ on makin’ me drink all that, are you?”

“You flinch, you do,” you said. “Hold still.”

You poured a little water from your canteen onto the cloth, worked the soap into it with practiced thumbs. The sharp, medicinal scent cut through the night.

“This’ll sting,” you warned.

“I've been shot before.”

“And I’ve cleaned worse,” you shot back — then pressed the cloth to the wound.

He hissed, shoulders jerking.

“Billy.”

“I’m still,” he lied through clenched teeth.

You scrubbed carefully but firmly, working away the grime, the dried blood, the gunpowder residue. Clean wounds healed, dirty ones killed. You didn’t rush. Didn’t soften your hand just because he was watching you like that.

“Bullet passed clean?” you asked.

“Didn’t lodge,” he said. “Fella next to me wasn't so lucky.”

You nodded once, not pressing.

When the wound was clean and pink beneath the lamplight of the moon, you reached for the bottle, uncorked it with your teeth, and poured a thin stream over the graze.

He swore — loud, sharp, honest.

“Breathe,” you said calmly, like you always had. “In. Out.”

He did. Because he trusted you. Because somehow, after all this time, he still did.

You dabbed it dry, then opened the tin and spread a thin layer of salve — beeswax and lard, tinged with pine resin — enough to seal without smothering.

“You’ll need it bound,” you said. “Not tight. And you don’t run for a few days. You runnin’ from those cops last night didn’t help, that’s for sure.”

He snorted. “You tellin’ me how to live now?”

“Damn right.”

You tore a strip of clean linen and wrapped it snug around his leg, knotting it the same way you had years ago in the barn — practiced, precise. Your hands didn’t shake, even as something tight settled in your chest at the familiarity of it.

You sat back on the boulder beside him and finally let out a breath.

He reached down to tug at the wrap and you swatted his hand away without thinking.

“Don’t touch it,” you said. “I’ll rewrap it for you… hell, I don’t know, whenever.” You paused, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “What are you doing here, Billy?”

He glanced over. “What do you—”

“I mean Santa Fe,” you cut in, sharper than you meant. “Specifically Santa Fe. I thought you were headed west. California. Or Mexico. Somewhere that wasn’t—” You waved vaguely, the dark, the dust, the law. “—this.”

He leaned back on his hands, staring out at nothing. “Yeah. That was the idea.”

“The idea,” you echoed, dry.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Don’t feel shy now, princess. If you’ve got somethin’ to say, say it.”

You turned fully toward him, knees brushing his thigh. “It’s just…” You searched for the right words. “How long am I gonna get you this time?”

His jaw tightened.

“I waited,” you went on, softer now. “I waited a long time before I let myself believe you were gone for good. And when I realized I had to… be more for myself.”

He swallowed. “I didn’t have a choice—”

“I know,” you said quickly. “That’s the worst part.”

He looked at you, really looked, the firelight catching his eyes. “I’m sorry. Don’t know if I ever really… apologised for leaving.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” you shrugged. “I knew what you were for a while before I found that gun in your coat. Figured it was temporary, not like I expected anything. Although… it is awfully rude to fuck the farmer’s daughter and leave her like that.”

He flushed slightly, looking away, clearing his throat. “Oh, come on now, don’t talk about it like that.”

You chuckled at his reaction. “Sorry. How else would I talk about it? Lay with?”

He sighed and looked back at you, voice low. “Make love, maybe.”

“God, you’re more romantic than I remember,” you shook your head.

“That a problem?” he asked, a corner of his mouth lifting.

You shrugged. “Not sure yet. Probably.”

“I can work with probably,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. “Seriously, though. How long? What’s your plan here?”

Billy exhaled, letting his gaze drift toward the campfires in the distance. “We’re just in town for a few days. Further east, near the station, there’s a man we need to get out of prison. Didn’t do nothing wrong. Then it’s San Antonio for supplies.”

You shook your head. “San Antonio? That’s a long way to go for supplies.”

He shrugged. “Ain’t just supplies. The sheriff down there’s… flexible. It’s right next to Mexico, easy to trade there too. ‘Sides, Chisum’s got friends everywhere. We’re just trying to keep our heads down for once.”

You snorted softly. “That’ll be the day.”

“Hey,” he said mildly, a flicker of warning in his tone, “most of what folks say about us ain’t true.”

You tipped your head, studying him — the dust in his hair, the set of his mouth, the way he carried himself. Flashes of the newspaper and wanted images come up. Murder, robbery, racketeering. List goes on. “Some of it is.”

“Yeah. Some,” he agreed.

The fire popped. Somewhere farther off, a horse shifted. You became very aware of how close you were sitting — his knee nearly brushing yours, your skirt grazing his boot.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, quieter now. “Santa Fe’s crawling with law. After Lincoln County, after everything… it’s stupid.”

He glanced down at your hands, still near his leg. “Always did say I wasn’t the clever one.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s what you meant.”

You didn’t deny it. Instead, you checked the wrap again, fingers careful, familiar. He sucked in a breath — barely there, but enough to feel.

The space between you hummed. Two years collapsed into the moment — the barn at dawn, his shirt forgotten on the chair, the sound of horses, the call of men searching his name. 

“I’ll be gone in a few days,” he said. “After we get our man out. After that… I don’t know. Don’t think we’ll be up North for a while, not with how popular I am there.”

“A few days,” You repeated. 

He nodded at that.

“You never said if you were seein’ anyone by the way,” You suddenly recalled.

He furrowed his brows at the sudden question, eyes trailing over you. “I ain’t,” He said.  “Would you be jealous if I was?”

“I don’t know,” You admitted. “Wouldn’t have any right to be.”.

Beat.

He watched you a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable settling behind his eyes. Then he leaned back on his hands, casual as ever, like his heart wasn’t knocking around his ribs.

“Wouldn’t be jealous,” he said lightly. “But you’d think about it.”

You shook your head, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. The night hadn’t yet stolen the heat from the day, and the back of your neck prickled with sweat. The desert air clung sticky to your skin, and even lying on the grass, the warmth of the earth seemed to press up beneath you.

“You still play?” you asked, letting the question hang in the heavy, warm air.

“Here and there,” he said, voice low, carrying just enough weariness to make it honest. “Wherever I can find a guitar. Not as good as you, though, of course.”

“Flattery will get you far, William,” you teased, and he smiled at you—half crooked, half boyish—the same smile from years ago that made it impossible to be mad at him.

You both fell silent for a moment, watching the stars overhead, the Milky Way like spilled silver across the sky. The heat made your hair stick at the back of your neck, made your shirt cling, and you noticed the way his chest rose and fell against the warmth of the night. He kept glancing at your lips, like he wanted permission without asking.

He swallowed. You felt the movement more than saw it. “I want—” He stopped, huffed a breath, then tried again. “I really want to kiss you. Please.”

You smiled despite yourself, a quiet breath of a laugh slipping out. He caught it immediately, relief cracking through his expression.

“The please,” you murmured. “Always polite.”

Slowly—carefully—his hand drifted to your thigh, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your dress. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but the heat of him burned through the layers like they weren’t there at all. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean in, either.

You tipped your head, giving him just enough room to choose.

The first brush of his lips was gentle, testing, and the heat of the desert, the sweat on your skin, the closeness of him, made your chest tighten. 

He pulled back slightly, enough to see your face, and the firelight flickered in his eyes.

“What do you want?” He asked back to you, murmuring, half-teasing, half serious.

You look up at him through your lashes, only a few inches away, lips still warm from him. “I want you to stay,” You admitted. “And I really want to kiss you.”

You press your lips to his, slow, insistent and tasting as his hand moves up to the back of your neck, holding you. You pull away, only momentarily.

“Please,” you added, sarcastically.

He smiled a bit at that, hand tightening on your neck just slightly as he stared at your lips, unmoving, even at your plea, just watching.

The night pressed close around you, heavy and unmoving. Sweat gathered at the small of your back, your skin still warm from the day, from him. The stars felt almost cruel in their brightness, like they were watching something you weren’t ready to name.

He shifted beside you, close enough now that you could feel the heat of his leg, the steady rise and fall of his breath. His fingers lingered at your thigh, not moving, not retreating either—like he was waiting to see which of you would blink first.

You tilted your head slightly, dry, not quite looking him in the eye, admiring the shape of his lips. He looked like how you remembered him in this light. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it. Haven’t seen you in a while. Gotta remember you all over again.” A beat. Then, quieter, more to himself than to you, “Beautiful.”

You finally met his eyes. Whatever he was holding back sat right there, tight in his jaw, in the way he didn’t move even though he clearly wanted to. It made your chest ache more than if he’d kissed you straight away.

His thumb brushed your skin—barely anything, almost accidental—but it sent a shiver through you anyway. Then his hand slid up, settling at your waist, firmer now, claiming. The heat pooled low and slow, heavy as the night itself.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t careful for long.

It started soft, tentative, like he was reminding himself what you felt like. His mouth was warm, familiar, and the ache in your chest deepened as you kissed him back, unhurried, letting it sink in. For a breath or two, it felt like before. Like dusk at the hostel. Like a world without guns or law or leaving.

Then something in him gave.

The kiss deepened, roughened, his mouth pressing harder, more urgent, as if time had caught up with him all at once. You felt it in the way his hand tightened at your waist, in the way his breath hitched against your lips. You made a quiet sound you didn’t mean to, and he answered it immediately, kissing you like he’d been thinking about it for months.

His hat tipped back as you pushed it, your fingers tangling at his collar. His mouth slid from yours to the corner of it, your jaw, lingering there, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring it. Like he might keep going if you didn’t stop him.

You pulled him closer instead.

“Christ,” he muttered against your skin, low and wrecked.

You were right on the edge of losing yourself in it when—

“Well I’ll be damned,” someone called from the fire. “Look who finally caught up.”

Laughter erupted, sharp and unforgiving.

Billy pulled back with a groan, his forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like it physically pained him. “Fuckin’—”

You laughed, breathless, smoothing your skirt with unsteady hands, your face warm. “You gonna tell them to mind their business?”

He glanced toward the camp, then back at you, mouth still close enough to steal another kiss if he wanted. “They wouldn’t listen.”

Before either of you could recover, another voice cut through—harder this time.

“Billy. We got trouble.”

The shift in him was instant. The softness vanished, replaced by focus, by habit. “What kind?”

“Riders,” the man said. “East road. Could be law.”

Billy exhaled slowly, then looked back at you, apology plain in his eyes. “I gotta go.”

“I know.”

He squeezed your hand once—firm, grounding. “Don’t go far.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

He nodded and stepped away, already calling orders, the camp snapping into motion, limp not as bad as what it was before. Horses stirred. Metal clicked. The night pulled tight again.

You stood there, dress slightly sticking to you and crumbled from how hard he gripped the fabric and your skin beneath it, your lips tingling, pulse loud in your ears.

A few days, you thought. And already, it felt like nowhere near enough.

You waited.

Long enough for the fire to burn down to embers, for the noise to thin out until it was mostly women talking low and one man half-asleep on a log, tasked with watching things and doing a poor job of it. Long enough that the heat softened into something gentler, the night air finally cool against your skin.

At some point, exhaustion won.

You didn’t remember lying down, only that when you woke, the world felt wrong—too quiet, too light.

A whisper brushed your ear.

“Hey. Darlin’.”

A hand, warm and careful, cupped your cheek.

You startled awake, breath catching, eyes blinking against the pale wash of dawn. The sun was just starting to lift, bleeding gold into the sky. And there he was, crouched beside you, hat pushed back, expression soft in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time.

Billy.

“Sorry,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he needed to be sure you were real. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just—sorry I made you wait.”

You stared at him for a second too long, then let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “You did,” you said quietly. “I fell asleep.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “I see that.”

You sat up, brushing dust from your skirt, suddenly aware of how close he was. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Handled it.”

You nodded. You didn’t ask what it was. Some things didn’t need airing in the morning light. You tried not to stare at the flecks of red on his linen shirt, the smear along his neck that the rising sun caught just enough to make obvious—blood and dust, tangled together.

He caught your look anyway. Always did.

“It ain’t mine,” he murmured, quick, like he wanted it settled. You weren’t sure that helped. He seemed to realise that too and cleared his throat. “I’ll get you home. C’mon.”

He offered you a hand, casual as breathing.

He started to lift you up, and you shook your head immediately.

“Billy, I think I can ride a horse better than you and this whole damn camp,” you said dryly. “I can get on just fine by myself.”

His mouth twitched. He pursed his lips like he might argue, thought better of it, then nodded. “Fair.”

He mounted first, then you swung up behind him without trouble, skirts gathered, settling in close. You leaned into him almost without thinking—half-asleep still, aware of the solid warmth of his back, the easy steadiness of his breathing beneath yours.

He took his time. No rush at all. Let the horse walk slow, hooves soft against the dirt, the sky lightening with every step. Dawn came on gradual, pink and gold, the desert stretching awake around you.

You talked quietly. Nothing important. The heat. The dust. Who’d been seen in town lately. Small things. Familiar things. The kind that slid into place like they always had.

“You still sleep like a rabbit,” Billy murmured at one point. “Kickin’ and twitchin’.”

You swatted his back lightly, earning a low chuckle you felt more than heard.

“Watch it, Kid. You still rubbin’ yourself down with rosemary like it’s gonna fool anyone?”

“You said you liked it.”

“I said it beat horse sweat,” you corrected. “That ain’t the same thing.”

“I’ve been told I smell just fine,” he hummed, soft and smug. “Even by a few ladies.”

“They’re lyin’ to you.”

“And why would they do that?”

You shifted, settling your head against his shoulder, eyes tracing the line of his jaw in the growing light. He glanced back at you, smile already waiting. “’Cause you’re pretty.”

The flush came quick—right up his neck, ears turning red as he looked away, grin still stubbornly fixed. You laughed under your breath at that, easing back against him again.

The horse kept its slow, steady pace. The sky continued to lighten. And you kept talking—easy, unguarded—like nothing had ever broken between you at all.

When you reached your place, the sun was properly up now, light spilling over the horizon.

He helped you down, no protest this time from you, and lingered by the door.

“I can’t stay,” he said, regret threaded through the words. “Sheriff’s bound to be awake soon. And I gotta help the boys move some things before daylight makes it harder.”

You nodded, even though it tugged at something sore. “I know.”

There was a pause. One of those dangerous ones filled with questions and answers you didn’t want.

You touched his arm, just briefly. “When am I gonna see you again?”

He looked at you then, really looked, like he was committing you to memory all over. “Soon,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You smiled, soft and tired and real. “Billy, it’s okay if you can’t-”

“-I will,” he replied, a corner of his mouth lifting, “I mean it. Swear to you.”

For a second, it felt like you might invite him up,. Like he might say yes. Like the world might let you have that.

Instead, he tipped his hat, stepped back, and swung up onto his horse.

“Get some rest,” he said.

“You too. And seriously, no runnin’ on that ankle,” you answered.

“Yes, ma’am,” He tilted his hat, and you couldn’t help but slightly roll your eyes at the gentlemanly action as.

He watched you a moment longer than necessary, then turned and rode off, disappearing into the growing light.

You closed the door slowly, the warmth of dawn still on your skin, already missing him.

Soon, you told yourself. It would have to be enough.

read part 3/LOST here (made to be read as one with LOST)

A/N: yall! we are back! okay, look, just go straight. tothe next one okay they were made to be read as one but tumblr is sooo mean and wouldnt let me do it in all in one, deal with it. to the 10 people who wanted this, i hope this is alright! enjoy and get to FOUND!

Bear doesn’t say a single thing about Nikki as a person in his speech. He doesn’t say that he loves her kindness and how she cares for others, he doesn’t talk about how he loves her creativity or care-free spirit, he doesn’t talk about what he likes about her.

He talks about nice things she’s done for him. He talks about what she means to him. He talks about her being there for him, and how he likes how she’s treated him.

And while I won’t pretend that those things aren’t important, they are the only things Bear mentions in his big vulnerable romantic speech.

Bear’s “confession” tells us literally nothing about Nikki other than that she’s been nice to Bear in the past.

But in a subtle way, his “love confession” tells us a LOT about Bear and his actual feelings for Nikki.

He likes that she’s been nice to him. That’s it.

He likes that she’s been nice to him, and whether it was an unconscious process or not, Bear has responded to Nikki’s being nice to him by becoming obsessed and infatuated with her.

To the point that, once he’s (albeit initially unwittingly) in a position of power over her, he completely disregards her personhood and begins to feel entitled to her and her body.