busy lizzy

June:

“Thanks for letting me and the dogs stay over, I know it’s silly.” You sighed exhaustedly as you placed your overnight bag on Bobs sofa.

His place was immaculate, and housed none of the organised clutter that yours did. It was almost a mirror image of your own home, but where your bookshelf was, he had a desk and several computer monitors, which you could only imagine was for some unmentioned computer game hobby or for work, his own books stacked neatly against a nearby wall.

“It was my idea, you really don’t have to thank me. I’d feel better with you here too, or I’ll just be up worrying about you all night.”

You rubbed your eyes tiredly, nodding at him with your best smile, “I appreciate it, I don’t think I’ll get any sleep at home otherwise.”

“Come on, I’ll get you set up upstairs.” Bob picked up your bag, which housed pyjamas, a change of clothes, a toothbrush and some makeup for work tomorrow, so you didn’t have to go back to your house first thing. It also had a bag of dog food and their bowls inside, some toys, small blankets, etc.

You stood to follow him in protest, reaching out to grab his hand, “Bob, please, I’m fine on the couch, I don’t want the dogs in your nice hairless bed either. Just grab me a blanket and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Bob turned with a raised eyebrow, squeezing your hand lightly, “If you think I’m letting you sleep on the couch, you clearly don’t know me very well.”

You huffed a laugh out of your nose and followed him upstairs. The upstairs hallway was identical to yours. A bathroom directly ahead of the stairs, and then a bedroom to the left and to the right.

The door to the bedroom on the right was closed, and Bob lead you to the main bedroom facing the front of the house.

His bedroom was tidy and simple. A double bed made immaculately, not a crease or wrinkle in his duvet. He had a wardrobe and chest of drawers, and a model airplane stood proudly above it. There were a couple of lamps on his bedside tables accompanied by an alarm clock and some books, but other than that the room seemed empty, neat.

“Wow you make me look like a hoarder, Bob.” You joked, looking around the sparse bedroom.

Bob chuckled, stopping to stand just next to you, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Yeah I moved in about a month before you did, most of my stuff is still boxed up in the spare bedroom. I haven’t had much need to make it homey yet.”

You turned your head to look at him curiously, “Yet?” You raised your eyebrow playfully.

Bobs cheeks burnt bright red as he tried to hold back a smile, “Well all I mean is, it’s just me here. And I haven’t got a decorative bone in my body, so…”

You grinned in amusement, you loved it when Bob got flustered around you. “I just so happen to love decorating, so… just say the word.”

You were barely a foot apart now, just staring at one another, cheeks flushed and soft smiles. Hearts hammering to replace the earlier fright and anxiety. Your hands were twisted behind your back because you were sure if they weren’t you wouldn’t be able to fight the urge to touch his arm, or brush that curl of hair away from his eyes.

Bob took a step back and cleared his throat, “I’ll… uh, leave you to get ready for bed. Can I get you a water or tea?”

You shook your head in thanks with a soft smile, and Bob nodded, showing himself out.

You heard him go downstairs, you heard kibble filling your dogs bowls, you heard the hallway cupboard open and close. By the time you’d brushed your teeth in the en-suit, washed your face and hopped into bed in the cozy lamplight, you heard the bathroom tap running down the hall, and footsteps making their way back.

A soft tap on the door echoed through the nearly empty room.

“Come in.” You said softly.

Bob cracked the door open, contacts now removed and those adorable dorky glasses back where they belonged, he opened it wider to let Tank and Cody in. You cringed as they jumped up on his immaculate bed, but he didn’t seem to care. “Hey, just making sure you don’t need anything before I head to sleep?”

“I’m fine, thank you Bob, really. You really don’t need to go through all the trouble you have for me.”

Bob gave you a soft, sincere smile, his eyes displaying an emotion you couldn’t quite name, “I would do a lot more for you than you realise, Y/N. Goodnight.”

You smiled back at him, your body forcing a deep breath at the sense of relief and safety you felt suddenly, “Goodnight Bob.”

—————————————

- 7 Months Earlier -

As the days passed, bound by itchy rope to yours and Jordan’s bed, your head began to clear, little by little, snippets of that night coming back to you as your bruises began to fade.

Your hands and feet were tied to the bedposts, and Mitch had ahold of your phone. He’d texted your work, telling them you’d had a bereavement and needed some time off, to which they’d offered there sincerest condolences and told you to take as long as you needed. He’d also texted your family to tell them you were fine but that you and Jordan had some things to figure out and you needed time.

Jordan and his friends took turns checking in on you every few hours, bringing you food and water, and Jordan would escort you to the bathroom when you had to go, or needed to shower.

At least they allowed you that luxury, and promised to let you go once you were no longer a danger to others, once you had your story straight in case the cops came knocking.

“I killed her in a blind rage, I was drunk, I buried her myself, and burned the shovels. My fiancé had nothing to do with it.” You repeated monotonously for what felt like the thousandth time to Mitch on one of his daily visits.

“Good. A few more days, then we’ll see where we’re at.” Mitch nodded, and left the room.

You knew though, you knew the truth now. You remembered seeing them in the woods, burying her. You remembered coming home to fetch your pills, and catching them in the middle of discarding their dirty deed. But you still didn’t know why, or how, or who did it. You had to know.

Jordan entered with a glass of water and placed it on the bedside table. “How are you feeling?” He asked sheepishly.

You didn’t answer, staring bitterly at the wall ahead of you.

“Babe, please talk to me. I know it was a mistake, I forgive you, it’s all going to be okay and we can move on from this.” He plead.

You wondered if the part about him cheating was true, and if maybe he did something to the poor girl, and they just wanted to pin it on someone else.

“I need to go to the toilet.” You mumbled, tugging at the rope that was quickly making your skin raw just to scratch the incessant itch it gave you.

“Yeah, okay.” Jordan nodded, untying you rope by rope.

You knew the drill by now. Don’t struggle or you’ll get knocked the fuck out again, let him take you by the arm, you’ll pee, he’ll stand with his back turned. Any commotion, trying to climb out the window or escape it anyway, and he’ll turn around.

Anything heavy had been removed and the lid on the back of the toilet had been taped down. There was no way out, even if you thought you stood a chance.

You let him lead you into the bathroom, he turned his back (even after all these years, he still hated the idea of watching you pee) and you sat down.

You’d been holding it all night, so you took a while, and your eyes scanned every inch of the bathroom for anything new you could use.

Then you spotted it. The nail clippers sat on the sink edge, within reaching distance. Jordan must have forgotten it out when cutting his nails, but the problem was, you had nowhere to hide them, he would notice you clutching something when he tied you back up, and the waistband of your pyjama bottoms were far too loose to hold an object that small.

You finished up, flushed, and Jordan lead you back to bed.

“Before you tie me back up… my arms have been really cold suspended up in the air like that. Could I wear a long sleeve top?” You put on your most innocent voice.

Jordan paused for a moment, and then nodded. He lead you by the arm over to your wardrobe, and pulled out a sage green long sleeve pyjama shirt. He helped you change into it, then tied you back up.

“I’ll be back in a little while.” He said as he stopped by the bedroom door. “I love you.”

You felt the nausea building, and you gulped it back. You forced a smile, “You too.”

—————————————

June:

Laying in Bobs bed, you tossed and turned, the hours ticking by and sleep refused to find you.

The dogs kicked and yelped in their sleep, chasing tennis balls and counting sheep, but the same kindness was not on your side.

You just couldn’t stop thinking. Thinking about the past, thinking about your Watcher, thinking about Bob.

Bob, who was just downstairs, so close you could just…

You peeled the duvet off of yourself and climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Tank and Cody, and padded over to the bedroom door.

You carefully opened it and tip toe’d down the hallway, down the stairs, and you paused as the lounge came into view.

Bob lay facing away from you, one arm up over his head, the other hand gently resting across his torso, with one leg bent and resting against the back of the couch. You couldn’t tell if he was sleep, but you crept down the rest of the stairs and over to him anyway.

When you rounded the couch, you could see he was sleeping peacefully, long eyelashes almost touching his cheeks, lips ever so slightly parted as puffs of air made their way rhythmically into the night.

You leaned over and placed a hand gently on his hand that lay on his torso, curling your fingers around his. “Bob.” You whispered softly.

His eyes fluttered open, and he was suddenly alert, propping himself up on his other arm. “Hey, what’s happening?” He reached for his glasses on the coffee table, but you stopped him.

“No nothing, I’m sorry to wake you, I just…” you didn’t really know why you were waking him, and you suddenly felt guilty. “Sorry.”

Bobs face softened, and he lay back down, looking up at you, he moved over slightly and patted the gap for you to sit down.

You did, and Bob’s warmth immediately soothed you. You couldn’t help the pull you felt around him, it was magnetic.

“You wanna talk about it, or do you just need some company?” He asked gently, his voice raspy with sleep.

“Just company.” You admitted.

Bob smiled, nodding without another word.

You didn’t know why you did it, but you got up and repositioned yourself so that you lay against him, leg slotted between his and your head comfortably on his chest. His heart beat was fast but steady, and the rhythm felt like a nice distraction from the racing thoughts in your head.

Bob was holding in a breath, like this unexpected contact was about to end in you jumping back in disgust, but he finally let it out in a long sigh when he realised you weren’t going anywhere, and his hands circled your back, chin resting against your head.

He drew patterns into your back for a while, silence comfortable, but something you both wanted to say was building at the back of your throat.

You wanted to tell him everything. To you, Bob felt more like home than Jordan ever did. But you were scared that telling him would complicate things. Scare him away.

“Y/N?” Bob hummed, perhaps sensing the shift. “Are you okay?”

You propped yourself up to look at him, lost for words you just stared into those cobalt eyes in the semi darkness.

Bob brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Talk to me.”

But you couldn’t. You couldn’t bring yourself to say the things you so desperately needed to let out. So you leaned in instead, pressing your lips against his in a fiery, hungry kiss.

Bob inhaled sharply through his nose in surprise, but after a moment he recovered, seeming to come back down to earth. A grunt left his lips as he kissed you back feverishly, his fingers tangling in your hair, the kiss deepening and making you feel things you didn’t think possible.

You wanted to whimper, you wanted to cry, you wanted to smile, you were overwhelmed by all of these emotions, and then suddenly… fear.

You pulled away after a moment, breathless and flushed, pressing your forehead to his, you closed your eyes and relished in the ghost of the feeling of his lips against yours. “Is this a bad idea?”

He shook his head vehemently, “I’ve wanted you since the moment you moved here.”

You grinned, eyes still pressed closed as you stroked his cheek softly. “Really?”

Bob chuckled low, nodding again, “Yeah, of course I have… That’s why I’ve been watching you.”

Your body ran ice cold, and your eyes shot open as you sat up slowly. “What did you say?”

But the face staring back up at you wasn’t Bob’s at all. It was Dan’s.

You woke with a start, nearly falling out of Bob’s bed. Your heart hammering in your chest.

It was still dark out, Bob’s alarm clock reading 04:23 in bright red letters, your dogs still fast asleep at your feet.

You got up and sat at the edge of the bed, trying to shake the dream from your head, telling yourself over and over that you were being paranoid, and although Dan was a little eager, he wasn’t a stalker, surely.

You were wide awake at this point, and you suddenly regretted not taking Bob up on his offer of a glass of water. You tiptoed downstairs, careful not to wake Bob as he snored lightly on the couch. Part of you shivered at the Deja Vu, but it was just a dream and it was Bob on the couch, not Dan. Not Dan.

You made your way into the kitchen and rifled through cupboards to try and find a glass, quickly giving up and bending over the sink to drink straight out of the faucet.

Suddenly the kitchen light flipped on and you spun around in surprise.

Bob shielded his eyes against the brightness, and chuckled at you. “Thirsty?” He asked, moving over to a cabinet and pulling a glass out.

“Ah, the one place I didn’t check.” You chided yourself awkwardly.

Bob grinned in amusement and walked over to give you the glass. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shook your head, filling the glass with water. “Nightmare.”

Bob stood next to you with his back pressed against the counter, arms crossed, “Wanna talk about it?”

You blushed hard at the memory of his lips on yours, even if it was just a dream, and one that ended badly. You shook your head.

“Okay.” Bob nodded, giving you a soft, understanding smile. “Well I was thinking maybe you should stay a couple more nights, just until you feel a bit better. I can give you my spare key to let yourself in while I’m at work.” He ran a hand through his hair casually, but you could tell he was nervous suggesting this.

“Oh, Bob, no you really don’t have to. I’ve imposed enough, stealing your bed, waking you up at 4am-“ you grimaced.

“It’s no imposition, Y/N, I like having you here.”

You smiled at him, mirroring his position with your back up against the counter. “I guess the world really does still make good people, huh?” You teased.

“Something like that.” He grinned.

————————————

- 7 Months Earlier -

You bided your time, waiting until Jordan brought your dinner in. You knew that would be his last visit for the day and he’d spend the night in the guest bedroom again, as he had been now for the last few days.

Your memory had fully returned after hours and days of doing nothing but thinking and thinking hard. You knew what you had to do.

It wasn’t a matter of loyalty at this point, and not just because the one person you trusted with your life was trying to pin the murder on you, but because you had to do right by whoever was buried in the woods behind your property.

A soft knock came as it did multiple times a day, although you couldn’t understand why, you clearly weren’t naked, and they obviously didn’t care about your privacy anyway. Jordan entered with a bowl of lukewarm baked beans.

“You hungry?” He asked sheepishly.

You nodded, and he sat down next to you, slowly feeding you spoonfuls of quickly cooling tomatoey mush. You used to like them, but now you didn’t think you could ever stomach the sight of them again, if you ever actually made it out alive.

Once the bowl was finished, you asked to use the toilet. You prayed he couldn’t tell how nervous you were, heart thudding so hard you thought you might throw up a puddle of beans.

“Yeah, make it quick though, dad needs to speak to me before he leaves.”

You nodded and Jordan untied you, escorting you closer and closer to what you could only hope was freedom.

In the bathroom, you spied the nail clippers still perched precariously on the porcelain basin and thanked your lucky stars.

You tried to act as natural as possible, pretending not to have noticed it, and you sat down to pee. Jordan turned his back and you waited a second, to make sure he wouldn’t turn back around.

Slowly, you stretched out your arm, reaching for salvation. You had to be careful, because if it slipped into the sink, it would obviously make a noise, and it was perched so precariously you felt like even one wrong tremble of your fingers would send it tumbling.

You took a deep breath through your nose and steadied your hand, before pinching the cool metal between your fingers.

You held your breath as the metal emitted a faint screech against the porcelain, but Jordan didn’t seem to hear it over the steady stream of you relieving yourself.

You quickly shoved the nail clippers into the sleeve of your pyjama top, holding it closed with your fingers flat against your palm.

You finished up, and let the clippers slide towards your elbow as you washed your hands, keeping your arm bent slightly so the clippers would stay in place, and you just hoped Jordan wouldn’t notice the wonky outline through your sleeve.

He took you back over to the bed and as you climbed back into bed, you swung your arm down and the clippers slid back into your hand. You curled your fist around the small metal object, and all you could do now was pray.

Jordan tied your first arm up, and your heart began to thud. He tied your legs next, then moved over to your other arm. As he lifted it, he paused, staring at your closed fist. Time seemed to stretch on forever and you felt nauseas, as he just stared.

You quickly closed your other fist, unsure what that would do to help, but Jordan seemed to accept it as something that made you comfortable, help you get through, so he tied your final hand and stood back.

“You need anything else?” He asked, not making eye contact, his gaze just to the side.

“No, thank you.”

Without another word, Jordan left the room.

Suddenly you were paralysed with fear. You waited, god knows how long, but you waited. Listening, hoping you’d hear Jordan’s bedroom door close, but that didn’t come, and you heard faint voices instead downstairs. He must still be speaking with Mitch.

Oh god, what if they were deciding whether to kill you tonight too?

Panic overwhelmed you and you quickly fumbled with the nail clippers, repositioning them in your fingers.

And you began to cut.

——————————————

- Part 5 Coming Soon -

Taglist:

June:

The months were passing quickly, and you had an easy routine with Bob now. On Friday nights he would come over with drinks and snacks and you’d put on a movie that you’d take in turns to pick.

On Saturdays you’d do your own thing, and on Sundays you’d meet up to do something fun. Sometimes it was the cinema, sometimes the bowling alley, sometimes you’d just drive around listening to music and talk about life and work and everything in between.

Bob still only got the surface level stuff, the easy to talk about side of your life. Your family, your dogs, your likes and dislikes, but you felt like he was giving you much of the same, that he had something buried deep down he wasn’t about to open up about. You wouldn’t pry, you knew how it felt to hold a dark secret that you wanted nothing more than to keep locked away.

On this particular Friday evening, Bob had brought beers and Takis, something you had lost your mind over the first time he made you try one. They became your favourite and you didn’t even care that they made your tongue blue.

You were sprawled out on the sofa next to Bob, a good foot between you and a dog either side as you watched the Conjuring for the thousandth time in your life.

“Can’t believe you’ve never seen this movie.” You laughed, popping another chip into your mouth, and washing it down with a sip of beer.

You grimaced, Bob’s taste in beer wasn’t great.

“Scary movies have never appealed to me, I feel like I’m gonna scream and embarrass myself in front of you.” He admitted, grinning sheepishly as he turned his head to look at you.

You blew out a soft laugh through your nose and shook your head, “You couldn’t if you tried, Floyd, no one is more embarrassing than I.”

He looked adorable tonight. He’d left his glasses at home, opting for contacts tonight as he said they felt more comfortable on his eyes when watching movies. His hair had grown slightly longer and brushed the bottom of his neck, curling softly up towards his flushed cheeks.

You felt heat creep up your neck, something that was starting to happen more and more frequently around him. You turned back to watch the movie, but you felt his eyes linger on you for a few long moments, and suddenly the sofa felt too small, the room too hot. You couldn’t breathe.

You paused the movie and got up abruptly. “I’m gonna grab another beer, you want one?” You tried to keep your voice even, but your heart was thudding against your chest.

Bob watched over the top of the sofa as you disappeared into the dark kitchen, not even bothering to flip the light on.

“Uhhh… yeah, please. Hey are you okay?” He asked, getting up and walking around the sofa to follow you. Until now, you’d always been as cool as a cucumber, in Bob’s own words.

“Yeah I’m fine.” You mumbled, pulling the fridge open.

You weren’t though. These moments were becoming more and more frequent over the last few months. You get closer to Bob, but then panic takes over and you push him away.

Was it him you didn’t trust or was it you?

Bob walked up to the fridge slowly, holding it open while you just stared into the sterile white light absentmindedly.

“Hey, Y/N-“ his fingers found the back of your arm, touching you so softly you almost didn’t feel it, “What’s going on?”

You pulled away with a deep breath and pressed your back up against the counter. “I just…I…”

Bob watched you take deep breaths in the dark, concern etched across the face you were very quickly growing attached to, and he slowly closed the fridge, the only light now that of the tv through the sliding doors.

“Y/N…” he said gently, moving closer but careful not to touch you. “Did I do something?”

You shook your head, but the tears were already spilling over and you just prayed Bob couldn’t see them.

His hand lifted cautiously, but when you didn’t flinch or pull away, he cupped your cheek and brushed away a tear with his thumb.

You couldn’t help but lean into his touch, but you knew deep down that this was a bad idea. You weren’t sure you’d ever be ready for something like this again.

“It’s not you Bob.” You whispered shakily.

Bob shifted closer so he was standing in front of you, caging you against the cool countertop. You looked up at him in the dark and swore you could still see his blue eyes sparkle. “Then tell me what’s wrong so I can make it better.” He said in a low voice you hadn’t heard him make before.

You trembled slightly, and clutched Bob’s t-shirt to ground yourself. Your fingers brushed his bare torso and you felt him shiver.

“I… I can’t.” You whispered, shaking your head, but you kept a hold of him for support, your fingers twisting in the soft cotton fabric.

Bob took a deep breath, and suddenly his fingers were carding through your hair, holding your head steady so you were looking up at him. “You can tell me anything, Y/N.”

This proximity was intoxicating, you almost wanted to just give in. To let him in, to have even just one night where you forgot your pain and felt good. But you knew doing that could ruin your friendship, and it was a friendship you so desperately wanted to keep a hold of.

You let go of his shirt and pressed your hand against his chest, Bobs heard thudded heavily against it, and you pushed him back softly.

“I think I need to go to bed.” You said, sniffling, as you brushed past him.

Bobs arm shot out, his hand circling around your wrist, and he pulled you into him.

Your body stiffened, just for a second, until you realised that all he was doing was hugging you.

You relaxed into him, you hadn’t hugged Bob before. You’d always kept a comfortable distance, but this was… nice.

“Call me whenever, okay? I don’t care what time of day or night it is, just call.” Bob mumbled into your hair.

You nodded, and Bob left, and you stood in your living room feeling awash with pain and regret.

————————————

- 9 Months Earlier -

Your eyes were blurry as you opened them, blinking tiredly to try and clear them. You couldn’t remember what day it was, and you didn’t remember going to bed the night before.

Your head was pounding, maybe you went out drinking? You tried hard to remember as you blinked away the blur, your eyes sticky with dried tears, your skin felt tight and itchy.

The kitchen wall slowly came into view as your vision cleared, and confusion began to set in alongside the queasiness that came with the throbbing pain in your head. You needed painkillers and water, stat.

Then the questions started. Why were you in the kitchen? Did you fall asleep cooking? How drunk did you get?

“She’s awake.” Jordan’s voice floated in from your left, but it didn’t quite sound right, distant, almost dreamlike. You tried to turn to look at him, but your neck was in incredible pain.

You let out a little yelp as the pain shot down your neck and spine. “Jordan?” You squeaked.

“I’m here, I’m here, shhh.” Jordan’s face came into view, as he crouched in front of you, his hands cupping yours. You tried to reach for him, but your hands wouldn’t move out from under his.

You forced your head down, confusion now turning to panic as you realised your hands were bound, and you were sitting in a dining chair.

“What’s… what’s happening?” You wept, your head only throbbing more and adding to the panic and confusion.

“Listen to me, babe. This is for your own safety right now, okay?” He said slowly, like he was talking to a 2 year old.

“What do you… I don’t understand.”

Mitch stepped into view, arms crossed and looking down at you disapprovingly. “You did something very bad, Y/N.”

“I don’t understand.” You repeated, dizzy, your heart ratcheting and threatening to burst through your chest.

Jordan’s friends peaked their head into the kitchen, and suddenly you started to remember snipets.

“Where’s Lainey?” You asked, suddenly aware you weren’t meant to be here.

“We sent her home, told her you’d had too much to drink and you weren’t feeling well.” Mitch said matter of factly, then he pulled a dining chair from the table and sat it in front of you, and you suddenly felt like a naughty school girl.

“Y/N, do you remember what happened last night?”

You shook your head. It was a blur, you remembered coming home to pick up something, you remembered going into the garden and seeing them in the woods, but then nothing.

“Well… you came home rather unexpectedly last night. You caught Jordan with another woman, and you lost it. You were overcome with rage, and you strangled her to death, Y/N.” Mitch said matter of factly, “No one could pull you off of her, it was like some… inhuman strength. Alcohol and anger are a potent combo.”

You weren’t able to process what he was saying, and you shook your head, “Sorry?”

“You took the life of some poor girl, all over petty jealousy.”

You shook your head again, vehemently, which only worsened your pain, “No, no I wouldn’t. I would never, I-“

“Don’t worry, Y/N. We took care of it, and we will keep your secret for you. We’re family after all, that’s what family do.”

Tears began to fall freely, leaving tracks down your bloody face. You looked down at the red stained tears as they fell into your lap, spreading like watercolour paint over your blue jeans.

Whose blood it was, you weren’t sure.

Your eyes jumped back up from Mitch to Jordan, who’s eyes were downcast, guilty, to his friends who had their hands in their pockets and stared down at the kitchen tile.

“Why am I tied up?” You asked in a state of shock.

“We thought it best for now, until we know you’re not a danger to yourself or others anymore.” Mitch said, rising from his seat.

“Please, let me out of this… this…” you begged, words failing you.

“Just a little while longer, until your head clears. Come on Jordan, we have work to do.”

And they all left you alone, stranded and tied up in your own kitchen to think about what you had done, and what you didn’t remember, in the place you once felt safest but was now your prison.

———————————————

June:

A few days passed, and you refrained from calling Bob. You felt embarrassed, but you also felt like you were slipping closer and closer to doing something you might regret.

Your nights were plagued by insomnia, and the eerie feeling you were being watched. You’d resorted to keeping your curtains drawn all the time, every bush or tree making you jump, thinking you were seeing something staring in. You also couldn’t stop playing your past over and over in your head, and comparing everything to Bob.

Would he be your salvation, or your downfall? You weren’t sure you could handle the answer. This was exactly why you moved halfway across the world.

So you avoided the one person that you actually wanted by your side, you went to work and came home, and that was your day on repeat for a couple of weeks.

Dan had taken the hint so it seems, and he left you mostly alone at work, apart from the occasional glance over at your desk and the friendly ‘good morning’ from time to time.

You were relieved he hadn’t tried to make plans with you again, but you did feel guilty for the way you’d bristled when he was near, probably very openly too.

You walked into work that Thursday, Starbucks in hand, and traipsed straight over to Dan’s desk.

You placed the coffee down, and Dan looked at it, and then you, confused and surprised.

“Hey.” You said awkwardly. “I just wanted to apologise.”

Dan straightened in his seat and turned to face you fully, “What for?”

You cleared your throat, “You were just trying to be friendly, and I think I was a bit rude. It’s all been a bit overwhelming lately but I could have handled it better, so I’m sorry. I didn’t know what you drank but I hope a cappuccino is okay.”

Dan smiled up at you, a genuine smile instead of the overly practiced plastic one he usually donned. “You have nothing to be sorry for, but I appreciate it.”

You smiled at him and nodded, “Consider it thanks for the ride all those weeks ago.”

He smiled and nodded back in thanks, and you headed back to your desk.

Dans eyes darkened the moment you turned, his smile falling, “Don’t mention it.”

Your work day flew by, and although you felt less guilty having apologised, you still didn’t have it in you to open up to Bob, so you decided to take Tank and Cody down to the local dog park to blow off some steam.

You found it empty when you arrived, owing to the slightly later hour, and the sun was already dipping over the horizon, so you promised to make it a quick one and then head home for dinner and an early night.

You threw the tennis ball for them, and they chased and chased until they were tired and panting on the grass.

You put their leads back on and turned back towards the direction of your house, but you startled so hard that your blood froze, and your feet felt glued to the floor.

A figure stood in the distance between some trees, dressed in a black hoodie, black jeans and their face covered by something like a balaclava or scarf, just watching you.

You waited for them to move, to do something, they were blocking your way out. They didn’t move, they just stood there and stared for what felt like forever.

Your dogs didn’t bark, whether they were just too tired, or maybe they didn’t notice him so far away, but they just sat by your side, panting happily into the quickly darkening evening air.

“Hello?” You called out, voice shaky.

The figure didn’t respond, and you quickly looked around the park to see if there was anyone else around, or any other exit. The park was fenced in for the safety of the dogs, streets and houses lined the park, and there was only one gate to get out. The gate where your masked watcher stood dangerously nearby.

“I’m calling the cops!” You shouted, pulling out your phone. The figure lingered for a few more seconds, and then slowly slinked off into the thick brush to the right of the gate.

It was a risky move, but if you were gonna get out, now was the time.

You began walking, speed walking, just hoping the man in the trees didn’t realise your dogs were actually friendly goofballs that would welcome an intruder rather than chase them off. They were all bark and no bite, but you prayed they looked scarier than they were right now.

Your heart ricocheted around your chest like a pinball, and your brain screamed at you to run the closer to the gate you got, but your legs refused to listen, stiffened and heavy with fear.

You couldn’t see the man, but the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, telling you he was still there.

You made it to the gate and hi-tailed it to the left, away from the brush where he was last seen and towards a cluster of small houses. You were going in the opposite direction of home, but you needed to be near other people, and you didn’t mind taking the long route home if it meant relative safety.

You looked over your shoulder constantly as you made your way down the street and through a path that lead past the houses and through a small stretch of woodland. You almost ran through the trees, going as fast as your legs would take you until you reached another street, and circled back towards your neighbourhood.

By the time you reached home, you were shaking and distraught, and you locked your door once you and the dogs were safely inside. You went around the house with a lump in your throat checking all of the windows and doors to make sure no one could get in.

Suddenly an awful feeling washed over you, that someone was already inside the house.

What if the man who had been watching you at the park was the same presence you felt from time to time, watching, waiting. What if he knew where you lived, and made it back here before you did. Broke in and was now hiding, waiting to jump out from some dark corner.

The tears fell freely now, as you cautiously edged towards your bedroom wardrobe. With a shaky hand, you reached out and touched the door handle, before yanking it open and jumping back, praying the boogeyman wouldn’t jump back out at you.

You stood in stunned breathlessness as nothing but your own clothes stared back at you, swinging ominously back and forth on their hangers.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake it off. You were just being paranoid. Maybe a bath would help calm you down, then you’d curl up in bed with your dogs, and everything would be fine.

You walked into the main bathroom and flicked on the light switch.

And your blood stilled in your veins.

Behind the shower curtain, a dark piece of fabric peaked out, ever so slightly.

You blinked away tears of terror, your entire body vibrating with fear and adrenaline. You wanted to run, but you also needed to be sure.

You reached a shaky hand out towards the shower curtain. Slowly, slowly, dreading what you might find there…

And then a sharp knocking sounded downstairs, and you jumped out of your skin, letting out the strangled scream you’d been desperately trying to choke down. You turned on your heel and ran blindly down the stairs, tears clouding your vision.

The banging on the door increased, yet you ran straight for it, thinking it your only way out of whatever was in the house with you.

You threw the door open and ran straight into Bobs chest. He wrapped his arms around you as you sobbed.

“Woah woah! What’s going on? I was worried about you and then I heard you screaming, are you okay? Are you hurt?” He pulled you back gently and looked you over, making sure there were no obvious injuries, before he pulled you back and held you.

“Someone… someone’s in the house.” You wept, clutching onto Bob like if you let go, you’d sink into nothingness.

Your dogs were visibly spooked now too, and they jumped up at you to make sure you were okay, their heckles on end.

“What? What do you mean?”

“In the bathroom, he’s inside.” You sobbed against his chest.

“Stay here.” Bob instructed, concern etched into his face as he steadied you on the front porch and walked inside carefully.

“Bob, no!” You called out hoarsely, but he’d already disappeared inside the darkness of the house. You couldn’t move, rooted to the spot in fear.

A few moments felt like hours as Bob searched the house, room by room.

You clung to the doorframe, your legs weak with worry, willing him to come back, and come back alive.

Your prayers were shortly answered and Bob came back out, still tense with worry, but now more for you than for any home invaders.

“All clear sweetheart, there’s nobody in there.” He said softly.

You met his eyes with surprise, “Are you sure?” The pet name hadn’t gone unnoticed, but you were too shaken to properly revel in it.

Bob nodded, cupping your cheek in his large, warm hand. “Positive. Are you okay?”

He wasn’t condescending, he was worried, and it only made you want to cry more.

“There was a man at the dog park today, he was just… watching me. And I’ve had this overwhelming feeling that someone has been here, outside just staring in.”

Bob nodded, “Want to come and check the house again with me there?”

You took a deep breath in and steadied yourself, before taking Bob to the main bathroom.

“This is where I thought I saw him.”

Bob passed where you stood glued to the doorframe, and he pulled back the shower curtain.

He stood staring in for a moment, and then pulled out a dark grey washcloth.

“Was it this maybe?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands in embarrassment. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Bob crossed over and pulled you into him, wrapping his strong arms around you.

“It’s okay.” He hushed you, stroking your hair. “It’s all going to be okay.”

—————————————

- Part 4 Coming Soon -

Authors note: I’d LOVE to know who you guys are imagining as Dan😂 in my head he looks like Jacob Elordi, go figure!

Taglist:

Your heartbeat kicks as you wind up the hill— An ornate, tall, ivory building slipping into view between strips of bare branches and amber-glowing antique street lamps.

There’d been a speech, a pep-talk, an inner monologue, all running wild through your head the closer you came to this moment. 

And yet, somehow, nothing could’ve prepared you for the rush of adrenaline and symphony of deafening, conflicting reminders clashing behind your skull when it finally arrives. 

The nerves sit like a lump in your throat— An unshakable, persistent reminder this wasn’t nothing like you tried to tell yourself it was. 

No, of course this wasn’t nothing. This was your best friend’s wedding, for God’s sake. 

But that wasn't the reason your hands were sweaty and restless, twisting around the little trinkets on your keyring incessantly, glittering under the glow of an occasional passing streetlight. 

It wasn’t the reason your pulse was concerningly erratic, your lip caught between your teeth, your stomach in knots so long it forgot any other form. 

Not at all. 

Truthfully, you couldn’t be happier about this: an extended weekend of nothing but ebullience and bliss for the most deserving person you know. A perfect night, perfect weather, perfect venue— Already busting at the seams with warm joy and soft smiles like a heartbeat in the cold. 

But if you were being honest, it didn’t help that her past was tied to yours. It didn’t help that celebrating joining her new life and memories with old was bound to dig up yours. 

And it certainly didn’t help that she was related to the very person you loathe. 

Actually, loathe was putting it nicely. You’d be more than happy to go the rest of your life never seeing Bob Floyd again. 

Or at least you had yourself convinced of that.  

Your Uber pulls to a jerky stop along the covered turnaround at the main doors of the Inn, tires scraping ceremoniously against the cool cobblestone. 

The sleek black of the car is bathed in faint, warm, twinkling lights strung tastefully around every pillar, every perfectly-preened bush, and every window wreath. They mimic the stars glistening above a canvas of pitch black night, moon a subtle sliver slipping through the forest in the distance.

A mantra races through your mind as you force your albeit shaky legs to unfold and slide along the leather, pointed heels coming in handy to push the last notch of the door open. 

It echoes, screams over every other thought as you exhale sharply in the freezing December air, smoothing over your cocktail dress and untucking your hair to shield your ears from the bitter bite. 

Don’t pay him any attention. This weekend isn’t about him, it’s about Abby. Be the bigger person, just avoid him. Don’t even—

Your body careening backward into the solid weight of another pauses your internal rambling. 

Unwavering, warm hands gently find purchase along your elbows to steady you as you stumble, dropping one of your bags from the trunk upon impact. 

You’re gearing up to apologize profusely—laugh at yourself in the arms of this steady stranger for being so caught up in your own shit that you’re not paying much attention—when you turn in their grasp and are met with a familiar face. 

The very person you wanted to avoid was the first you see, standing broader and taller over you compared to the last time you saw him. 

His familiar sandy-brown hair is perfectly combed and gelled into place, glasses gleaming under the moon glow, thin lips stitched into a knowing smile bordering on a smirk as he peers down at you. 

His hands—his presence, his heat—don’t move. He stays, anchoring you until you break free, smoothing down your hair and breaking eye contact to hide the way you were flushed from your misfortune. 

Your plan wasn’t off to a great start. 

Your face shifts into something blatantly unamused and disinterested like second nature, defenses snapping back into place. 

“Still clumsy,” he lilts, head cocked. “Some things never change, I guess.”

You step back, letting a breath of cold air slice between the heat of your bodies getting reacquainted against your will. 

“You ever watch where you’re going, Floyd?”

A deflection. 

You’re being defensive—admittedly wrong—and you know it, but it’s like it’s out of your control. It’s muscle memory around him, a reflex too ingrained in you to shake. 

His eyes flick between yours, smirk widening a fraction like it brought him joy to see you perturbed. You know it did. 

“Wow, did a cold front move through or is that just you?” 

You shoot him a look, turning with a huff to busy yourself with the bags left untouched in the trunk. 

Listen to yourself, you think. Don’t pay him any attention. 

“In my defense,” he adds, moving alongside you, trying to gauge your reaction. “You were the one who backed into me.”

“Well, this is kinda heavy,” you mutter, strained voice evidence of your point as you tug your suitcase free and drop it between you with a hollow thud. “Besides,” you exhale sharply, eyeing him. “You shouldn’t be walking that close to an open trunk.” 

“You’re not the only one carrying heavy things, you know,” he counters, stepping behind you and picking up a stack of cardboard boxes, all overflowing with different decorations and wedding trinkets. 

You blink, quietly trying to shake the feeling he dropped everything just to keep you from falling. 

Of course he would do something like that.

You’d rather take the scrape on your knee or twist of an ankle. 

He doesn’t second guess— Just shifts the stack of boxes to one hand, steady against his side, and pops the handle free on your suitcase with the other. 

“I don’t need you to do that,” you say, trying and failing to grab your bag back as you sling the other across your arm. 

He sends you a smile over his shoulder, already dragging your bag along with him. 

It was a look that bordered on warmth… Or maybe it was condescending— Prideful to a point like this proved you needed him. He thrived on that.

“And risk you taking out another guest? Not a chance.”  

He slips through the main doors already whirling open, muscles flexing a little unfairly—and annoyingly—under the thin stretch of his sleek, crisp white button down.

When did he get that kind of body?

“Stop staring and hurry up before that chill of yours comes inside, too,” he calls back, chuckling under his breath as you thank the driver one last time, slam the trunk shut, and follow him into the warmth. 

The heat of the lobby floods your bones in an instant. 

There’s a faint flicker of a wood-burning fireplace in the corner, casting heat over the lobby adorned with intricate, classically-antique furniture. A fresh-cut tree—at least 16 feet or so—fills the space with the earthy smell of pine, dressed in delicate lights and glistening ornaments, centering a mirrored staircase daintily winding around it. 

A spill of familiar laughter and humble conversation floats through every doorway, the muffled clinks and clatter of toasts and reacquaintance in the distance. 

You’re about to grab your stuff from Bob so you can check in, get away from him, and find the Floyd you’re actually here to see when a pair of tall men saunter up— Champagne flutes full, clothes neatly pressed, neither of them subtle in the way they check you out. 

You catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror just past them— Cheeks and nose pink, lips full, makeup still in place, curves of your smooth skin cut from soft shadows, and hair somehow decent, despite the wind whipping just behind you. 

You looked good. At least one thing was still going your way.

“Baby on Board,” one of them calls, clapping a firm hand on Bob’s shoulder and taking the stack of boxes from his hands. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that sharing is caring when it comes to helping a lady?”

The stranger gives you a winning smile, all bright teeth and smug pride. 

He’s the same height as Bob, just broader— Charming to the point of a fault, hair perfectly blonde and coiffed, eyes the kind of green that looked blue the longer you got lost in them. 

Bob’s jaw sets, expression blank and unamused at his friends’ attempts to swoop in. 

“That’s Abby’s,” he points out flatly.

The smug one’s smile falters. “Oh,” he mumbles, setting the stack down on a table behind him and effortlessly shaking off whatever fractured piece of bruised ego threatened to show. 

“Lt. Jake Seresin,” he introduces, voice smooth, shoulders squared, cool and confident as his eyes slowly slip down your body. He shakes your hand firmly, grip impressive and intentional. “Pleasure.” 

Before you could return the gesture, the guy next to him steps in— Hand extended and paired with a similar smirk, standing straight like he has something to prove. 

He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome— Albeit a little shorter than the other two lieutenants. He smelled expensive—looked it too—dressed in a sleek, black button down and leather jacket. 

“Don’t waste your time on a guy whose call sign is Bagman,” he dismisses lightly. “Lt. Javy Machado.” 

“It’s Hangman,” Jake corrects, briefly rolling his eyes and tipping his flute to his lips, attention never leaving you. 

Your eyes flick between the two of them battling it out for your attention like children. A faint smile creeps up, your lips twisted into something that lived between unimpressed and… amused, voice light and coy. 

“And you think I’m spending my weekend with either of you why…?”

Jake purses his lips, head tilted as his eyes darken a tad. “You bite. I can work with that.” 

Bob bulldozes through their attempts— Body stiff, expression rigid, eyes heavy and impatient. You kinda forgot he was still here, all broody and bored. 

“Are you two done embarrassing yourselves yet?” he snaps, shifting his weight, shooting the pilots a look. 

Javy steals a flute off a fresh tray being brought into the dining room behind him where the festivities were unfolding and hands it to you with a grin. 

“Not our fault you missed the boat, Bobby.”

You raise your eyebrows, interest in drowning whatever little time you had to spare this weekend in either of them quickly dwindling. They really weren’t good at this, but they certainly thought they were. 

You couldn’t tell if it was charming or overdone. 

Bob runs his tongue over his teeth, eyes narrowed. “Funny. This is Abby’s maid of honor,” he explains, introducing you and sharing your name. 

Their expressions falter—teasing, flirty nature snapped on cue—so quickly it makes you shift your weight and swallow so uncomfortably you have to convince yourself they didn’t hear it. 

Javy’s eyes dart toward you, taking you in again like you somehow changed since the last time he looked. Jake chokes—literally chokes—on a smug sip of champagne, now anything but assertive and poised. 

Hell, you put together these were Bob’s friends—Rooster’s friends, therefore, Abby’s friends—but based on the way their expressions went cold and the flirty competition was sucked from the room like it never existed in the first place, you’d swear they were introduced to a murderer. 

You figured they knew about you—knew Bob wasn’t your biggest fan, of course—but you were suddenly insecure about the prospect of whatever it could’ve possibly been that Bob told them about you. 

Of course he had somehow already ruined your one opportunity to achieve the much-needed, mindless task of keeping the other side of your bed warm this weekend. 

They were both headstrong—in more ways than one—but they were still options. Attractive ones, at that. 

Guess they were out of the question now. 

You try your best to swallow down your anxiety threatening to come loose and unravel you and plaster on your best clueless expression— Lips parted softly, brows furrowed just so, hint of a smile so you weren’t akin to the bitter monster he had apparently made you out to be. 

“What… You guys know me?”

“Of course,” Javy pipes up, clearing his throat and glancing between you and Bob in a way that was anything but inconspicuous. “We’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Jake gives him a shove, subtle as a freight train.

You bite your nail innocently, hiding the nervous slant in your lips. “You have?”

“Rooster’s girl’s best friend she claims was the sibling she never had?” Jake points out, teasing smile tugging at his lips as he glances at Bob who bristles. “Yeah— We know you.” 

Well, when he puts it like that, duh— Of course they do. But you weren’t stupid. You know that knee-jerk reaction was more than just finally meeting Abby’s best friend. 

You hum sweetly in acknowledgement, mind abruptly cut off from trying to scrape together a way to salvage this encounter by Bob shoving the stack of Abby’s decor at Hangman. 

“Great. Everyone knows each other,” he mumbles, miserably failing at hiding his expression worn thin. “Go make yourselves useful like you promised and give this to Abbs.” 

“I can just take it,” you pipe up. “I should probably help her finish setting up before anyone else gets here, anyways. Y’know… maid of honor duties, or whatever.”

“And make you more of a liability than you already are? No way.”

Bob steers the two pilots toward the room they came from before they could get a word in edgewise, sparing no time for an explanation on what it was they seemingly know about you.

Your lips press together, arms crossed. “Are you ever gonna let that go? I barely even touched you.”

He studies you for a beat, all faux contemplation. “Mmm… I don’t think so. It’s fun to watch you get all worked up.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to ignore the way he managed to make the tension between you pull tighter, managed to spark a live wire with patronizing, prideful glances and smug smiles he tried to pass off as sweet. 

“Your CO’s coming, right? Maybe he’d like to know one of his lieutenants can’t handle a little weight.” You lean closer, voice sharper, adding, “Or pressure.”

His eyes flick between yours. Once, then twice, corner of his mouth upturned and twitching. His shallow blue eyes darken behind the glint of his wire frames, daring, like he was going to push it further— Whatever further meant. 

But he retreats, exhaling sharply and swiveling your suitcase back to you with a tilt of his chin. 

“Get yourself checked in. You’re missing the party.” 

Something unnamed flickers in his expression, eyes trained on you even as he adjusts his sleeve cuff and starts for the room he just sent his squad mates. 

“You were right,” you call after him over the rim of your flute with a smirk, watching him freeze on command at a sentence so seldom said. 

He turns on his heels slowly, confusion a veil over his face: brows lifted gently, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly cocked like he can’t help but be curious.

It didn’t take much for you to have his full attention. 

You smile effortlessly, shaking your head and grabbing your luggage as you echo,

“Still so bossy— Some things never change.”

A lot of the guests had already arrived by the time you dropped your things off in your room, freshened up, and made your way downstairs again.

It was quaint, quiet, but buzzing and warm in all the perfectly familiar ways that made it feel like you uprooted a slice of home under Montana skies and planted it in the secluded mountains of upstate California.

The party was small, living in between a welcome party and just a makeshift gathering of everyone who just so happened to fly in early and be in the same place at the same time. 

The second description was more fitting. 

A tiny dining room on the north end of the Inn served as home base for old acquaintances reintroduced and the tangled threads of delicate, new beginnings. 

The atmosphere settled like reassurance— Intimate, like old and new memories bent to become one. The gentle lull of easy conversation and laughter swelled like a symphony pouring from the French doors propped open. Beyond it was an array of intricate finger foods, small tablescapes, and mingling bodies all bathed in delicate candlelight— Successfully delivered and set up by Coyote and Hangman, apparently. 

The Floyds were like gravity, quietly possessing this special knack for bringing comfort wherever they were. A loose handful of close friends and relatives existed comfortably in their presence— You included, especially once you finally caught sight of the one person you were actually here to see. 

Abby was always your center, your safe space to land, that one steadfast pillar of support, never wavering. Always there for you, always grounding. Always on your side, your one piece of solidarity— Even now that she came attached to the arm of a new addition.

She spots you immediately, turning when you step into the room like a sixth sense, something only the two of you could feel. And the fracture in your world remembers there's grace in healing when she smiles— Beaming and bright and beholden. Already the perfect bride.

Or, more importantly, your best friend.

A flood of elated sounds close to squeals of glee fall from her lips, immediately slicing through the dots of guests to greet you.

You’re in her embrace instantly, held at arm’s length just enough so she could take you in. She makes you do a stupid little spin in a chorus of giggles like you were 15 again, standing on the edge of her bed in your first homecoming dress or her mother’s clothes playing dress-up.

“I can’t believe you’re finally here!” she gushes, smile never faltering and pulling you into a tight hug. 

Over her shoulder you spot Bob, already watching you two like a magnet— Expression unreadable. Not cold, not distant, just a quiet truth you didn’t have the code to decipher. 

Something you weren't meant to see. Something he didn’t mean to show.

You shake it off, busying your attention back on your friend once you pull out of her knuckle-white grip you missed dearly.

“Of course,” you assure, a little breathless. “It’s the week of your wedding— Where else would I be?”

“Nowhere, or I’d disown you.”

You laugh, hands woven between hers and giving her a tight squeeze that says Duh.

This made it all worth it— All the sideways glances and sharp smile lines and stiff posture. 

This was your family— She was your family.

And nothing would ever change that, not even her brother. She might be his blood, but she was a piece of your soul. 

Even he couldn’t change that. 

“You look stunning,” you gush, voice low and sweet, eyes playfully ogling the bride-to-be in the way she damn well deserves. “I literally couldn’t picture anything more perfect— You weren’t kidding when you said this place was better than your dreams.” 

“Isn’t it?” She sighs blissfully, grabbing some passed finger foods for you both as they drift by. “I knew you’d love it. And so do you! How do you always manage to look so good fresh off a plane?”

You shrug, smile growing, munching on your share of hors d’oeuvres. “Talent.”

“Truly. You’re the only person I know who steps off a flight looking better than when you boarded. It’s unfair.” 

You press your wrist to her forehead, pinching your lips in faux-contemplation. 

“You sure you’re not feverish? Already drunk on…” You steal a glance at the custom signature drink menu making a premature debut past her shoulder. “Bird Strikes? God, who thought of that?”

She swats your hand away. “Don’t even get me started.”

“Whiskey, honey syrup, and a twist,” you read, shrugging. “At least Bradley has taste.”

“Your mom’s favorite.” She goes quiet, pulling you close— That familiar, grounding rub against your skin, something you’d know in any lifetime. “I wish she could be here.”

You study her: the quiet sentiment, the worry for you when it’s her time, and that look— The one that never lets you hang off the edge for too long. 

“She does too,” you say, voice softer. “I just know she’d be obsessing over you— And Rooster’s choice in cocktails.”

The fiancé in question slides up along Abby, arm wrapped firm around her waist, lingering squeeze above her hips that makes you smile— Same gentle confidence and alluring presence.

The mustache too.

“Place your bets now,” he boasts, tugging his wife-to-be closer into his side. “It’s gonna outsell the Abby Road easy.”

You giggle with him, exchanging a polite half-hug with his free arm as Abby rolls her eyes loosely. 

“Says the guy who didn’t even want to do signature drinks.”

You ignore her playful pouting, leaning forward and pretending to examine his mustache with vigor. 

“Damn, I swear that thing gets bigger every time I see you. It’s like you comb it with Miracle-Gro.”

Rooster grins proudly, chuckling under his breath.

“I’m surprised I’ve had the willpower to avoid telling him to shave it,” Abby adds. 

“I’m not— You’ve always had a thing for guys with mustaches.”  

Rooster’s interest is piqued tenfold, brows lifting, smirking at his girl turning red on his arm. “Huh… Is that so?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Um, yes absolutely so,” you counter, smile growing. “Tim Rooney.” 

Her eyes widen, memories rushing back to her as she gapes. “Oh my God— Mr. Rooney, sixth grade gym class! Fuck, you’re right.” 

“Mhm,” you hum, stuffing the last bite of long-forgotten crostini in your mouth with an accomplished nod. “Of course I am.”

Rooster looks delighted, expression intrigued and flirting with mild satisfaction as he brushes over his mustache. 

“Damn, honey, did anyone else ever stand a chance?”

“No,” she teases, leaning closer, voice low and loving. “Only you— Even without the ‘stache.”

“Ew,” you tease, mouth twisting as Abby’s lips brush against his. “Save it for the wedding night, you two.”

“Oh, please— Bold coming from the woman who’s gonna bitch with Bob 24-7.”

Before you could protest, cheeks heating at her subtle dig, Rooster beats you to the punch, thumb brushing over her shoulder with an amused smile. 

“How is that even remotely the same thing, Abbs?”

“Trust me— It’s like their own weird version of foreplay.”

Rooster snorts. “Freaky.”

Your heart stutters, pulse racing. It’s not true—not even close, no matter how much Abby loved to tease—so why did it make your palms sweat, make your body feel tense and heavy, suck the air from the room when you catch a glimpse of him again? 

You bite your lip, trying to brush it off— Failing. “I’ll let that one slide because it’s your wedding.”

Abby smiles, brow lifted. “Or because it’s true.”

The pair stares expectantly, making the room narrow. You suddenly felt really aware of your surroundings, of your body, of what the lines in your forehead and the heat in your cheeks gave away without your permission. 

“Oh, do you hear that?” You hold your hand up to your ear, doing your best to sell your excuse. “I think I hear your mom… She wants to say hi.”

And you beeline to where you spotted Mrs. Floyd before Abby could grab you back, trying to drown out the way Rooster laughed and you could feel her knowing eyes sear into the back of your head—expression still loving—and calling after you, 

“She’ll just tell you the same thing!”

The rest of the night was harder without Abby as a shield. 

It’s not that you didn’t love the Floyd family and all their friends—well, your friends too… Small towns tend to run in all the same circles—but catching up with old ties never really seemed to be that easy in large doses. 

Talking with Mrs. Floyd was, however, always the opposite. She was the epitome of comfort, always somewhere safe to land, just like her daughter. You knew her basically your whole life, and she knew you— Which unfortunately, much like Abby, included knowing your tells. 

Your body language was never well hidden, nor your faux joy or best attempts at pleasantries. That meant you couldn’t really hide the fact that you weren’t particularly enthralled to be in the same room as her son again. 

Or same state, for that matter. 

She gave you some hugs that felt like home and all the things you missed most, a handful of compliments about how far you’ve come— How good you look and how proud she is of the life you’ve created for yourself. How you smelled pretty and how she ‘used to have a dress that cute and tiny when she was young.’

But—same as always—she didn’t miss the opportunity to (lovingly) point out that you should have someone with you or someone to spend the weekend with. 

And that meant a couple teasing comments along the lines of ‘it would be nice to make you an official daughter,’ or ‘you know, Bobby’s always adored you.’

You couldn’t fault her—couldn’t really do anything other than offer a soft smile and flustered dismissal—because she chalked up your history to normal adolescent adrenaline edged with attraction and quiet competition you, of course, age out of. 

She didn’t know it ran deeper. She didn’t need to. 

So, you changed the subject— Talked about how nice the venue was and how lovely she looked. Asked how her book club was going and—after you both had another glass of champagne—if she actually likes her future son-in-law.

She does. 

You mingle your way through the rest of the family: distant relatives you met once or twice at a barbecue growing up, Mrs. Floyd’s best friend who owns the pharmacy in town and gave you your first job, some other familiar faces from home. 

You also got to meet two other members of Rooster’s squadron, Fanboy and Payback, all loudly polite and equally over-confident as the other two from the lobby.  

It was all good and fun until you were referred to as ‘Robby’s pretty high school sweetheart’ a few times by Abby and Bob’s extremely elderly great grandfather to the pilots.

You adored him, knew it didn’t mean anything and was completely harmless—he was nearing 97 for God’s sake—but your brain was starting to melt at constantly hearing yourself referred to in some type of affectionate context in relation to Bob.

Especially when the guys' expressions went wide with amusement, accompanied by raised brows and smooth, teasing echoes of ‘oh really?’ among other boyish laughs. 

So, yeah— You needed a break. 

You find your window shortly after clarifying just how very untrue that was to the guys and make a break for it to the little antique bar in the corner. 

A guy with a handlebar mustache greets you, all warm smiles and crinkly eyes.

“A glass of Chardonnay, Miss?”

You blink, take a look over your shoulder at Bob’s solid frame becoming a landing spot for one of his mother’s friends laughing like he was suddenly Montana’s most charming bachelor, and sigh. 

“Whiskey,” you mutter. “Rocks, please.” 

“Make that two,” an unfamiliar voice adds. 

It was a woman— Lean, tan, ridiculously sleek, black hair and a friendly smile, elbow casually propped against the bar top.

“Nice to finally put a face to the name,” she says, slipping into the open seat next to you. “I’m Natasha— Or Phoenix.”

Realization washes over you, accepting your matching drinks from the bartender with a smile and sliding hers in her direction. 

“Ohhh— The Natasha who Abby keeps threatening to replace me with if I don’t come visit,” you tease. “Got it. Nice to meet you.”

She laughs softly. “I’m surprised you went with that description over ‘Bob’s front-seater’ but, yeah— The one and only.”

You hum, swirling your drink around the large ice cube. “You must have fun putting him in his place all day.” 

If you were being honest, you weren’t entirely sure what you meant by that— If it was just a subtle dig at him because you can’t help yourself, if it was inquiring—wondering if he was just as much of a pain in the ass as he was back then—or if it was… sexual? 

You shouldn’t care—you don’t care—but of course you were curious. Natasha was gorgeous, strong-willed, ridiculously accomplished, and confident… He would be kinda stupid not to try to make a move. 

Her brows lift. “Bob? No, he doesn’t need any place-putting. If anything, he’s the only sane one around besides me.” 

“Of course, always so perfect.” You roll your eyes loosely like a reflex, succumbing to the gentle buzz in your bloodstream from a few casual drinks. “God, he was born for the Navy.” 

She shakes her head, giving you a sideways glance. “Bob’s not perfect— Trust me.” 

Your cheeks flush at how ridiculous you sound. Back in his presence for all of two hours and he already had you acting like a child again. You needed to get a grip.

“Sorry,” you sigh, staring at the thin line of amber at the bottom of your glass. “I probably sound like such an asshole right now.”

She nudges your shoulder with hers like you’ve been friends for years, giving you a look that says stop it without saying it. 

“Don’t be. He can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.” 

“That I believe,” you laugh, resting your chin on your hand and swiveling to face her. “It’s just… You didn't grow up with him. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

She studies you for a moment, expression open and patient. All calm and collected— A typical fighter pilot. 

She was cool. Really cool. A bite of something unnamed swims in your stomach at the thought of it— Of him.

“I wouldn’t sweat it,” she says with a shrug. “His biggest competition as a kid was an academic genius a grade below him who also happened to look like a prom queen? The chip on his shoulder shouldn’t get to you, that’s for damn sure.” 

Your skin flushes at the compliment, shifting your cheek into your palm to hide the smile you can’t seem to bite back. 

“I think we need to reassess your definition of both those things.” 

She eyes you— All genuine and knowing, like she had you completely figured out. Like she’s known you forever. 

“I know the stories. And I’ve seen some pictures,” she counters, leaning closer, voice all quiet teasing but still steady. “I don’t lie.” 

Before you could respond, her gaze shifts past you, landing somewhere behind. 

“Besides, he’s still a boy,” she offers, smirk tugging. “Of course you drove him crazy.” 

You turn to look where she is, finding the man in question with his eyes already locked on you across the room. 

His posture was tense, shoulders squared and jaw set, eyes cutting through the dots of people, clearly not paying a shred of attention to whoever was talking to him. 

And when you return the favor, his stare rips free— Busied down at his fingers twisting around his glass, at the spot on the old wood floors the toe of his dress shoes scrubbed at, scratching the back of his neck all innocent and oblivious like you didn’t already catch him looking. 

In some weird, twisted, petty way, your feelings bordered on something reminiscent of relief knowing you weren’t alone in being hung up on adolescent drama tonight. 

Things like this always seemed to stir up old memories, especially when it comes to you and Bob. 

Something about him was impossible to flush out of your system— No matter how many years passed, no matter how much you’d grown. No matter how trivial or insignificant, it didn’t matter. A pathetic sense of pride settles in your chest knowing it was the same for him. 

You shake your head, turning back to Natasha who wore a proud smile and coy tilt of her head.  

“See,” she says, voice low. “I don’t lie.”

You clear your throat, throwing back the rest of your drink and letting the hollow glass hit the bar top unceremoniously. 

“How do you know so much about me already?”

She blinks, expression saying isn’t it obvious as she silently flags down the bartender for a second round. 

“Well, for one, I’m intuitive— So don’t go feeling like you’re too special,” she teases. “And I’ve just… heard a lot about you.” 

Your heart rate rattles a bit in your chest, anxiety flooding your veins at the thought trying to claw free. A repeat of what his other friends heard about you, surely. 

The only difference was her expression didn’t flip to panic mode around you. It was intrigued, interested— Like you were someone worth getting to know. 

Still, your nerves spark all the same. 

“Oh, boy,” you groan, throwing your head back with a lazy smile. “All bad, I’m sure.” 

Her eyes flick between yours— Just once, expression blank, cards close to her chest. 

“No… Why do you say that?”

You blink. “Are you serious?”

She shrugs, stuffing a five in the tip jar when the second round is delivered promptly. “Are you?”

You go quiet, silently weighing how to respond. 

Phoenix seemed like the type of person who would always be straight up with you, but at the same time, you couldn’t shake the feeling you were failing to read the subtext of whatever was lying beneath the heart of your conversation and lined her gaze. 

But, yeah— Bob hated you. Of course you were serious. 

So you nod, not so much as an answer but rather a soft acknowledgement.

“Yeah, I am.”

She studies you for a moment, smile slowly returning— Effortless, like she wasn’t suddenly speaking in riddles. 

“Good. Me too.” 

Eventually, the night draws to a close. The candles burn low, the laughter falls softer. Small groups of guests trickle out, slowly heading back up to their rooms until morning. 

You help Abby and Rooster pack up some of the little decorations they set out—collect bouquets, blow out flickering flames, clean up the little signs and pictures they had displayed—before you’re finally ushered up to your room to turn in for the night. 

Despite putting up a fight—insisting it was your job to make sure the bride was the one getting rest—you were truly no match for Abby Floyd once she made up her mind about something. 

You never were. 

So, begrudgingly, you grab a water bottle from the bar and say your goodbyes to the handful of people still left behind. You needed a shower and some good sleep after your flight, so you weren’t too mad about it. 

Your room was quaint and charming, yet spacious for an old, vintage Inn. It was decorated with elaborate pictures and hushed wallpapers, freshly carpeted and topped off with a set of old mahogany armchairs adjacent to a lavish, king-sized bed.

The bathroom was stocked to the nines with artisan bath salts and imported body washes. They were the kind you’d want to take home with you just from the soft scents of lavender and cedar alone. 

You’re halfway through drying your hair, eyes heavy with the whisper of sleep starting to flood your bones, when your phone buzzes on the vanity and a name you haven’t seen light up your screen in years settles at the top of your text threads. 

You pause, flicking the switch on the hair dryer off and rolling your eyes as you click the thread open.

Bob Floyd

Do you really have to be so loud at quarter to midnight?

You bite your lip, trying to piece together how he even knows that was you. 

You

Are you listening to me?

Some might call that creepy, Robert

Three dots dance across your screen instantly. 

Bob Floyd

Kinda hard not to

Because you’re loud

You

I don’t feel like getting breakage or folliculitis just because you’re a baby about your sleep

The cool granite touches your back as you turn and lean against the counter, smiling as you add,

You

Omg is that why your call sign is Baby on Board? 

You were kidding—clearly—but you’d been waiting for an opportunity to tease him about it all night after Hangman’s comment. Of course you didn’t forget— And of course you weren’t going to let it go. 

Bob Floyd

Very funny

That’s not my call sign

You

Doubt it

What is it then?

The dots flicker again—thinking—then disappear. 

You

By the time you finally type it out my hair’s gonna air dry and we won’t need to worry anymore

That does it. His reply lights up your phone almost immediately.

Bob Floyd

It’s just Bob

And no, it’s no need to worry because you’re not gonna get folliculitis

You’re so dramatic

You unplug the dryer—not because you’re giving into him, but because your hair is basically dry—and plop down onto your bed, lip caught between your teeth as your fingers go to work.

You 

I don’t believe you

And that’s why you only got a 92 in sophomore year microbio, btw. It’s a common infection

Do you really want to be responsible for the maid of honor having horrible hair for the wedding?

Bob Floyd

I got a 93, actually

You

And you could’ve had a 95 like me if you spent more time studying and less time staring at the back of my head 

You click off the screen and sink into the cool, compressed weight of fresh hotel linens, snuggling into your pillow as warm lamp light spills across your tired features. 

A veil of hazy steam from the bathroom floats through the air, mingling with the soothing scents of bath salts and lotion.

It buzzes again moments later. 

Bob Floyd

I was too busy checking for folliculitis ;)

You roll your eyes—loosely, lazily—smiling into your pillowcase. What a pain.

You

Good

Someone’s got to

You reach over and click off the lamp, shifting onto your back as you add,

You

Wait is that what your call sign stands for then? Bad At Bio? 

You could practically feel him roll his eyes through the drywall. It only makes your smile widen.

Bob Floyd

That spells Bab not Bob, you idiot

Heat rushes to your cheeks instantly as your tired eyes blink at the screen. 

Damn it. 

Maybe you should just block his number and pretend that never happened.

You 

I’m tired leave me alone

It sounded really funny in my head

Bob Floyd

Seems like I’m not the only baby who needs sleep after all, huh?

You 

Shut up

Let’s go back to talking about your call sign being Baby On Board

Bob Floyd

You’re so annoying

You 

And you’re a creep 

Bob Floyd 

I’d also remind you that you’re dramatic but then we’d be here all night  

And Baby needs his full 10 hours

A muffled snort escapes before you could stop it. You cover your mouth loosely even though you were completely alone. 

As much as you hated to admit it, sometimes Bob was funny. He always knew how to make you laugh. That was something that would never change.

You 

How could I forget

Sleep well, Baby

You freeze, blinking back at the message.

Shit, you really need to stop and think before you send things because what? 

You didn’t mean it like that. Not at all. Maybe he’ll ignore it… But that wouldn’t be Bob, now would it?

The typing dots appear immediately.

They flicker, stall, but nothing comes through. 

Fuck. 

Your stomach drops.

Then— 

Bob Floyd

Oo did you just call me baby? 

You squinch your eyes shut and groan. 

You could correct him. Shut him down like always. Or, you could double down, throw him for a loop— Something you’re really good at doing.

Jesus Christ— Was Abby right? Was this foreplay?

No. You were tired. You weren’t thinking straight. Your thoughts were starting to sound delirious. 

You

In your dreams, Floyd

A sharp exhale leaves your lungs when you hit send, expression twisting as you toss your phone on the other side of the bed and stare up at the ceiling. 

It buzzes quickly— Too quickly. 

Bob Floyd

Maybe

It could be the lack of sleep, could be the familiarity or the environment—this weird, delicate, snow globe-like atmosphere you were suddenly trapped in despite your best efforts to put distance between you and him—but something in you softens.

The tension in your forehead, the adrenaline running out. The rhythm of your heart as you sit up suddenly, pausing when your knuckles hover over the wall behind you— The only wall that touched another room. 

Slowly, you knock three times.

And you wait.

You wonder if he’s the one you’re bothering. Wonder if he’ll even remember that little secret language you came up with that summer you spent at the lake house together and shared a wall, just like now.

All these years later. 

It didn’t mean much, not then, not now. It was just a quiet acknowledgement you shared when both of you were still awake in the middle of the night.

A simple thing. 

A brush of knuckles that lingered— That recognized. 

Does he still? 

Two brisk knocks echo back against your headboard from the other side, just like always. 

He does. 

You slip back under the covers, smiling with something different now— Something unnamed where he’s concerned. 

Before your eyes lull shut, you pick up your phone again, fingers hovering before you type, 

You 

Night creep

It buzzes against your pillow.

Bob Floyd

Goodnight, annoying neighbor  

And for the first time in years—in lifetimes—you fall asleep feeling something other than irritation simmering under your skin from Bob Floyd.

By the time morning comes, it’s not really morning anymore. 

Maybe it was the bleak, blistering chill of the outside world washed in wistful whites and gentle greys. Maybe it was the plush cocoon of covers wrapped around you, or the fact that you were up later than you damn well should’ve been texting someone you can’t stand, but yeah— You slept in.

It was evident. Your body was heavy as you lazily pushed the door open to Abby and Rooster’s suite, immediately hit with a wall of pure wedding chaos and commotion. 

Your eyes were glazed over, warm sweats still on, hair— Definitely suffering from the lack of styling last night, though, your half-assed efforts to try to kill the bedhead helped a little. 

You skip the pleasantries and flop face first onto the bed with a muffled groan. 

Maybe Bob was right. He wasn’t the only one who got moody without sufficient sleep, apparently

You sense a presence intercepting the window, fighting to fill the room with pale winter light, a small shadow eclipsing you. 

“Well good morning to you, too,” Abby teases, playful lilt in her voice, definitely grinning at your misfortunes. 

You sigh into the comforter, face still buried. “Hi.”

“Long night?”

You nod, reluctantly lifting to rest your chin on your hands and peer up at her. 

“I had this really annoying neighbor. Wouldn’t shut up the whole night. Liked to talk.”

You sneak a brief glance over at Bob sitting in a lounge chair in the corner. There’s the tiniest flicker of an impish smile at the corner of his mouth as he listens, eyes still trained on whatever it was he was folding.

It was a good thing Abby didn’t have access to the room assignments in the hotel block because she just hums, all careless and oblivious— Clearly not aware her older brother was the neighbor in question. 

“Sorry, babes,” she mumbles, fingers gently tracing wisps of hair from your eyes. “Hopefully it doesn’t happen again so you can get some sleep.”

Slowly, you lift yourself off the mattress and take in the scene unfolding around you. 

Everyone was in full-blown work mode— Concentrated on random tasks like their lives depended on it, arguing if the welcome sign was straight or not, inspecting a seemingly-broken box of giant glow sticks for the reception… Everything and anything you can imagine. 

You’d basically walked into a subpar assembly line.

Most of Rooster’s squadron was there, screwing around when Abby wasn’t looking and playing with decorations instead of actually working, but it was still help to a degree. 

Mrs. Floyd and some of Abby’s extended family was there alongside you, Rooster, Abby, and Bob, who sat by himself— All quiet and responsible, per usual.

If he needed the sleep, it didn’t show. He looked completely put together—too put together—all perfectly combed hair and wide-awake eyes as he diligently concentrated on his task. 

You rub your hands over your face and sigh. “Where do you want me?”

Before she could answer, Rooster tosses a stack of something at you, papers all fluttering and fanning out across the bed. “Wanna fold? There’s, like, a million of these damn things.”

Abby shoots him a look for his comment, collecting the papers and placing them neatly.

“Bob’s already working on those. I’ll find something else for you.”

“You sure?” you ask, eyes flicking down to what seemed like a stack of at least 200 sheets. “I don’t mind folding if that’s what you need.”

She nods, passing the stack over to Bob who barely lifts his gaze to grab it. “I think he has a particular system going, anyways. He’s flying through ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Hangman adds from across the room with a grin. “Bobby’s real good with his fingers.”

Your eyes widen slightly, glancing over at Bob who stiffens—imperceptibly so—and keeps his head down. 

But you don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn red under the curve of his glasses and his jaw works.

Fanboy snorts, earning a shove and pointed look from Phoenix. 

“Meanwhile you can’t even put batteries in the right way,” she mutters to Hangman, taking a glow stick, turning the batteries around, and closing the cover with a snap. 

She shoves the glow stick back to the pouting pilot and returns to her area of the room with Abby’s aunt.

“Maybe someone smart should go help the guys,” Abby suggests, brow raised in amusement. 

“You mean babysit,” Nat adds over a rumble of groans and protests.

You give Abby a tight smile, obliging. “On it.”

The afternoon was spent doing whatever was needed: fluffing flower arrangements, helping Abby and Mrs. Floyd finalize their jewelry options, double-checking seating charts or name spellings. 

After helping the guys make sure the glow sticks and bubble wands were all ready to go, you spend your time typing out the thin strips of sticker paper to put over the little welcome pamphlets Abby made and forgot to edit a section of.

Luckily, the wedding was no longer on a Friday in June in Tulsa.

When you were done, you brought them over to their final station, quietly slumping into the chair across from Bob as he finished meticulously laying thin spreads of Wite-Out across the incorrect text on the papers, now all neatly folded. 

Neither of you had said a word to each other since last night—not in person, not over text—and if you were being honest, that felt… confusing. 

Sure, it’s been years since you’ve been around him like this, in this way— For a weekend and change rather than a brief encounter at home for the holidays or something. No matter where it was, you always found each other— Found this weird, familiar rhythm easily. 

And yet, even still, it never sat right with you. 

Maybe it didn’t with him either. 

But the longer you were around him, the harder it was for you to remember exactly why you hated him so much. You had to remind yourself he’s not the lanky, dorky, annoyingly-polite boy you grew up with.

The one who pushed buttons you didn’t even know you had and then left you the last pink Starburst instead of taking it for himself. 

The one who spent every waking hour he had to spare learning the ins and outs of every class, every chapter, every test—not because he wanted to excel, but because he wanted to be better than you—then would slip over his cue card when you blanked during a debate or pushed his homework to the edge of his desk when you forgot to do it, all without even looking.

The one you hated— Who you teased and pushed and dug into until you started feeling something else. Something that apparently meant nothing. 

That was what you had to remind yourself. 

He wasn’t that boy—maybe never was—and he certainly wasn’t someone you could categorize your relationship with anymore.

Because even now—even after all those years of sparring back and forth, and the soft, confusing moments in between—you still don’t know how to be around him. How to pivot, adjust, every time you both threw caution to the wind and let something other than disdain settle between you.

And yet, it always found its way back to what it was.

“Are you sure I’m the one who’s responsible for the maid of honor having a bad hair day?”

He breaks the silence enveloping you two, running a cautious thread of fingers through a strand of your hair that was slightly out of place.

You stop your scissors along a strip of text and glance up at him, already looking at you with that smooth, satisfied smile.

You study him, eyes flicking between his once, then go back to work. “Maybe I would’ve had time to style it if I wasn’t up all night arguing 10th grade science topics with a grown man.”

He shrugs, continuing to drag the corrector across the text. “And whose choice was that?”

You open your mouth to shoot back a response—or insult—but he beats you to it, adding, 

“I always knew I was in for it those days.”

Your brows knit. “What do you mean?”

“You’d come onto the bus in the morning the same way,” he starts, flicker of a softer smile forming. “Hair all ruffled, eyes extra sleepy, more attitude than usual.”

You roll your eyes, trying to shake off the way your nerves gently rattled at the memory. 

“I always knew it was because you were up late studying or something,” he continues, capping the Wite-Out and tossing it on the table between you with a thud. “Always knew you were up working extra hard to kick my ass.”

You raise your eyebrows, setting some cut strips down for him to take. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

“And yet that hair is always evidence of me.”

You pause, watching him through narrowed eyes, lip caught between your teeth as you try to gauge where he’s going with this.

“That too,” he adds, nudging your foot with his and tilting his chin up at you. “Always chewin’ that damn lip when I make you think too hard.”

The rhythm of your heart does some quiet, perfidious, little thing— Fluttering under the iron armour of your ribs, a steady thread loosening, peeling a vulnerable part of you open against your will. Exposing something tender you weren’t entirely ready to face.

You exhale, lip slipping free from your teeth immediately. “How do you always manage to assume so much responsibility yet none at all?”

He smiles, half-laughing under his breath as you both begin carefully applying the strips of sticker paper. 

“Same way you always managed to be up so late studying and still got lower grades than me.”

“You’re extra irritating today.”

“Believe it or not, you’re not the only tired one,” he teases, fingers brushing yours as he reaches over to fix the strip you were about to place. “Some of us are just good at actually hiding it.”

You snatch the strip away and eye him, only making his expression sparkle with satisfaction.

“Are you, though? Because you seem extra fussy.” You press the strip down and toss the finished product onto the completed stack, piling high quickly. “Sure you don’t want me to get you a pacifier?” 

That was, admittedly, extra snarky, but it slips out regardless. Was he right? Were you moody?

He raises an eyebrow, glancing up at you from under his glasses, eyes darkening just slightly. 

“Depends— Are you gonna call me baby again?”

“Only if you keep acting like one.”

He purses his lips, pretending to consider it. “Noted. Whatever you say, Boss.” 

You freeze, expression twisting in confusion as you watch him grin like he has a secret you don’t know. 

“I’m sorry… Did Hell freeze over or did you really just call me boss?”

“It’s your new callsign,” he says offhandedly, organizing the stack and sitting back with an effortless look. “Bad At Spelling— You know, since apparently A’s and O’s are the same thing now.”

Great— Another stupid thing he wasn’t going to let go of. Maybe you needed to stop texting when you were feeling bold and overtired. 

Or, maybe you should just stop texting him.  

As dumb as it was—admittedly embarrassing, too—you were failing to suppress a small smile at just how stupid and weirdly… endearing he made it sound— Even when he was driving you absolutely crazy.

“Bad at spelling sometimes,” you clarify.

“Sure,” he hums. “Sometimes.”

“I hate you.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, suddenly a lot closer than before. “Quick— Spell hate. Hint: there’s no O.”  

You roll your eyes, throwing a ball of crumpled sticker backings at him as he chuckles, swatting them away. 

“Yeah— I’m definitely getting that pacifier to shut you up.”

His stare holds yours, gaze suddenly heavy and persistent, somehow stealing your breath. His heat whispers along your skin as he lowers his voice, smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“And if that doesn’t work, then what? You got other plans to keep me quiet?”

“If you two are done eye-fucking, can you please go help Bradley bring the favors up from the car?”

Abby hovers above you: hands on her hips, eyebrows raised, eyes darting between you and her brother suspiciously— But certainly not annoyed. 

No, that was just for show. 

A flustered heat crawls up your neck. Bob clears his throat, quickly leaning back and weakly brushing the spare strips off his clothes, avoiding eye contact completely. 

You move first, quickly getting up and scurrying after her, trying to dismiss what she walked in on.

Or, rather, what she thought she walked in on. 

“If that was eye-fucking to you, I’m incredibly worried about your sex life,” you mumble. 

She looks at you flatly, then glances behind her at Bob, still red-hot in the corner. 

“At least I’m having sex, unlike some people.”

Your pulse hammers in your ear, blood thick with heat and some sort of nervous, restless energy you can’t seem to shake. The cold rush of winter air doesn’t stop your face from flushing as you silently carry boxes up from the car, not daring to say a word.

You don’t challenge her after that.

After a long day of draining, meticulous last-minute tasks, the self-indulgent solitary confinement of chlorine and bubble jets was just what you needed to detox.

Your fingers were sore from tying the world’s tiniest twine bows for the favors with Phoenix. Your bones ached from the cold— Bitter and persistent while your body stayed hunched over paper strips. Your vision was starting to blur the longer you stared at anything that wasn’t a heavy pour of wine and a good book. 

You were more than happy to help—more than happy to lend your hands until they bled—but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel good to finally take a break.

Mostly from Bob.

It didn’t help that he lingered— Around every corner, involved, embedded in spaces you’d consider too close even if you were separated by walls. And it certainly didn’t help that you couldn’t read whatever was sitting between you after last night.

It’s been like this for years— This subtle, infuriating ache to dig into each other, every exchange edged with something sharper than irritation. Something that felt too much like want if you let yourself linger on it. 

Something that stirred your heartstrings until they squeezed the inside of your chest and made you dizzy.

It was starting to wear on you, chipping away at your sanity with every glance and word spoken. It was like his voice was trapped between your ears, like his heartbeat was woven with yours without permission. 

Like you hated each other so much that you didn’t.

You couldn’t stand it.

And as fun as it was to push his buttons, you needed a generous stretch of time without his presence— Without his guileful, abrasive attitude he dressed up as courteous, charming chivalry.

So you stepped into the elevator around half-past nine, a plush bath towel wrapped around your body, shivering from the chill that managed to creep into the Inn. 

The lobby hums with quiet life— New families checking in, warm laughter spilling from the bar, children snoring softly against their parents’ shoulders after long drives. Couples whisper as they disappear into their rooms for the night. 

You patter down the hall unnoticed, quickly swiping your key card and slipping into the rec room.

The doors swing shut behind you with a hollow thud, trapping you inside the humid, heavy bloom of steam and chemicals. Chlorine and heat wrap around your lungs as you breathe deep, the weight of the day finally starting to loosen its grip.

It was just you, the roar of hot tub jets, music pouring from your headphones, a glass of wine, and a book begging to have its spine cracked. 

And, most importantly, no—

“Bob?” 

Your eyebrows shoot up, voice cracking over the gentle hush of the natatorium as you watch him finish a lap— Slicing through the water so silently you wouldn’t think a soul had stepped foot in there in years.

Clearly, you were wrong.

He spurts water from his mouth, running his hands down his face and bracing his elbows against the scratchy cement to catch his breath. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, shifting to clutch your towel tighter as you stare down at him. “You really are everywhere, aren’t you?”

He blinks through steady beads of pool water tracing the slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the muscle in his arms and his chest and holy shit— When did he start looking like this?

“I could say the same for you,” he says, eyes skimming down your bare legs almost imperceptibly before snapping back into place like it didn’t happen. “I think you might be stalking me.”

A weighted silence pulses through the air, both of you staring at the other like it would make you disappear. 

Or make you say something that hasn’t revealed itself yet.

Night glow spills through the glass ceiling, stars fighting to pierce their way through careless strokes of fog and clouds. A delicate whisper of pool lights flicker, shapes of pale blue and cool teal dancing across the tile. They wash over the stretch of toned, tanned muscle as he pushes off again, resuming mechanical laps.

It’s the kind of movement—kind of skin and body—that suddenly has you entranced against your will. 

You sigh, letting yourself collapse onto the edge of a sticky plastic lounger. The towel slips from your body, pooling uselessly at your feet. And you watch, half-heartedly making sure he doesn’t stop dead in the water like he might suddenly want to watch you too. 

Vulnerable, and not just because of the sleek trim of black bikini stretched sparingly across your skin.

You both try to move on— Ignore the other, fall out of orbit and back into your own center of gravity before you get pulled under again. A losing battle neither of you seems to be able to ignore. 

His arms work steadily, slicing through the soft lull of undisturbed water, chest rising and falling as he glides onto his back with ease. Shadows catch dips and curves that certainly weren’t there when you were 17. 

You swallow tightly, ripping your eyes away, trying to ignore the gentle puffs of air slipping through his lips and spray of water— Trying to settle into what you came here to do. 

Relax. You’re here to relax. You’re here to let go of him— Of this. To clear your head of God knows what, enjoy a glass of rosé, and read a goddamn book, for once. 

Even if it’s just for an hour. For a minute. For two.

But it’s too loud: your head, your conflicting thoughts and simmering rage at his presence— His heat and his exhale, the way the water only seems to splash louder the longer you lie there pretending not to care. 

You click the volume up on your headphones. You pick a louder song. You down half your glass and hope the burn in your throat might scorch the incessant, ambiguous novelty of his presence from your system. 

Then he stops, limbs gingerly wading in the deep end closest to you as he keeps himself afloat. You can feel him watching you through your book, your eyes blankly fixed on the same paragraph for the last five minutes, hoping the words might finally learn to read themselves to you instead.

“I can hear you complaining from here.”

You blink, slowly pulling the small partition of pages down and eyeing him over the top. “I haven’t said a word. You’re the one being loud over there.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says, voice echoing softly through the empty space as he treads water. “I can still tell. And if you’ve found a quieter way to swim— Please, be my guest.”

You shift, crossing your ankles and lifting your book again. 

“I’m not complaining.” That’s a lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He huffs a laugh, arms flexing as he swims himself to the edge, peering up at you over the concrete.

“I do. You get that crinkle in your forehead, you pick at your nails.” His mouth tilts playfully. “And I’m pretty sure I could feel you glaring at me through those pages.”

You sigh, meeting his smirk across the space, all cocky and pleased like he actually knows you— Like he remembers. 

“It’s not my fault that pretty little smile of yours doesn’t fix everything,” you snap. 

He rests his chin on his forearm, wet hair clinging to his forehead, stained a deeper, darker brown. Familiar— Too familiar. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Not what I said.”

He shrugs easily, smile in question stretching. “Sounded like it to me.”

You exhale sharply, letting your book fall closed against your thighs as you sit up straighter in the chair. 

“What are we doing?”

He goes quiet, gears visibly spinning. “Well, I’m doing this thing where I move my legs so I don’t drown. You’re… trying to sunbathe at an indoor pool in the middle of the night?” He pauses, eyes warm and derisive. “Abbs was right— We need to get you to North Island so you remember how real sun works.”

“Bob,” you interrupt quietly, something heavier threading through your voice. “You know what I mean.”

It wasn’t accusatory, wasn’t irritated, just empty. Sad. Distant. 

You don’t know why you broke out of the safety of your banter— This thing you both cling to so you don’t have to touch what’s actually there. You don’t even know why you’re here: sitting in front of him instead of soaking in the hot tub, ditching your plans like your body didn’t consult your mind at all.

It didn’t matter. You still orbited him, and him, you.

And suddenly, something else lingers in the silence connecting two lost, lonely souls who don’t know how to exist around each other anymore. Who can’t resist, and don’t know why. 

You hate him. He hates you. Wasn’t that supposed to be easy?

He goes quiet, pushing wet hair from his eyes and lifting from the water with ease, sitting on the edge— Closer, but so much further away.

And it was suddenly like looking at you was the hardest thing in the world. 

But when he finally does—when he finally looks back again, finally stops avoiding whatever’s chewing him up inside—you miss the vacancy of his eyes. 

You miss the distance, miss the numb buzz of ignorance. Miss the chill of him, and the moment before you finally realize his coldness might always be warmer than anyone else’s heat. 

His lips part, brows knitting softly, beads of water tracing the slope of his mouth, the shape of words, empty and foreboding.

And then the doors slam open.

Laughter crashes through the natatorium, sharp and careless as a handful of rowdy aviators slip in alongside a few of Abby and Bob’s little cousins, shoes slapping through lukewarm puddles, wrapped in their own world, unaware they were shattering yours.

Mickey cannonballs—too close to the edge, too close to Bob—and paints the room in sprays of water, filling the empty echoes that learned how to scream before they settled.

Bradley follows, tossing in two of the kids—five and nine—giddy and unrestrained, diving haphazardly just to splash them more. Their shrieks ricochet, wild and delighted.

Ruben, Javy, and Jake trail in behind, talking over each other, tossing their stuff aside, all easy smiles and loud greetings once they notice you before stripping down and barreling in themselves.

Natasha quietly steps into the shallow end, eyes flicking between you and Bob once—careful, perceptive—before looking away. 

Bob simply stares down at the water lapping around his ankles, wading aimlessly, hands flexing at his sides like he’s grounding himself back into his body. 

You sit rigidly, a little shocked at your rush of courage to try to name this doomed, hopeless thing you dance around. The book stays closed in your lap, wine long forgotten, heartbeat still stuttering with something that never got the chance to finish speaking.

And just like that, whatever this was—whatever fragile, almost-bridged bandaid starting to stretch over this festering, aching fracture between you two—was gone. 

The morning was quiet in every sense of the word. 

Too quiet. 

You saw him at the breakfast buffet in the lobby. His fingers brushed yours when you reached for the same scone. He took it, put it on your plate, and walked back to his table without saying a word. 

You saw him while waiting for the elevator back to your room. He paused in the entryway, eyes meeting yours tentatively. His lips twitched into a fleeting, distant smile, but it never reached his eyes. Not even a bit.  

He left just as quickly, ducking his head and opting for the stairs instead. 

You knew he was next to you—just one thin, cold wall sitting between two warm bodies—both back in your rooms, getting ready for the day. 

And you don’t know what takes over you—this strange, distant clawing at the pit of your stomach, urging you to face an unnamed thing clearly lost—but you hover close to the wall before you leave. 

You inhale deeply, pinching your eyes shut as you decide, and take the leap. Tense knuckles graze against the sheetrock— A hesitant little noise cracking through the silence three times. 

A minute passes. 

Then two. 

No knock is returned. 

You exhale, trying to brush it off, trying to pretend it didn’t bother you that it was starting to feel like you were in completely new territory— That he suddenly really didn’t care at all, not even for the sake of annoying you. 

Maybe you scared him off, slipping into honesty that felt too dangerous in the heat of a cold December night. Finally alone— Something you rarely were. 

Maybe he didn’t want to push you back when you finally acknowledged it and questioned why you were still teasing each other like kids. When you asked yourselves what that even means anymore.

Something past a point of no return— Until now. 

And suddenly, if even possible, this weekend just got a hell of a lot harder when you closed your door behind you, glancing at the light still on under his, and slipped down the hallway in silence, carrying a hollow echo in each empty step. 

Later in the day, you took a quick break to grab some coffees while you, Bradley, Nat, and Mrs. Floyd assembled the welcome bags. 

The wedding was in two days so it was officially crunch time, but coffee breaks were still mandatory in your book. 

Especially considering you didn’t sleep much, yet again. 

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop replaying everything over in your head. The heat of that room, the new kind of tension that lined the shallow blue of his eyes when he looked up at you, the way his expression broke open when you confronted him— When you wanted to name whatever this game of yours really was. 

All of it lived behind your eyes, trapped between the whirl of your mind and buzz of the heat pulsing through your barren, bleak room in the middle of the night. 

So, coffee it was. 

You ran into Hangman and Fanboy down at the hotel café. They had curbed their extremely obvious advances since initially meeting you, but apparently whatever it was Bob told them about you wasn’t enough to keep them from trailing after you like lost puppies, insisting you needed help carrying the coffees back. 

You didn’t mind. It was nice to feel wanted. Not that Bob wanted you, not that you wanted him—definitely not that—but you still felt the loss of his presence anyway. 

And it hit harder than you ever really thought it would, even after all this time. 

Regardless, it was extra hands to help out with the remaining wedding chores as it got dangerously close to the big day, so you let them tag along. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha mutters to Rooster as you walk back into the conference room. “If you undo my bow one more time, I’m gonna turn your neck into one.”

Hangman whistles low, clearly amused. “Congrats, Bradshaw— You’ve managed to make another woman besides your fiancé wanna kill you.”

“You sure that’s not your true calling?” Fanboy adds with a snort, sliding the cups in his hands to the pair at the end of the table. 

Rooster shoots them both a look, muttering something under his breath, and very, very carefully sealing a welcome bag shut— Avoiding Nat’s perfectly crafted bow like his life depended on it.

Because it did.

“Y’know, ma’am,” Hangman says, stretching into a chair next to Mrs. Floyd, hard at work. “There’s still time for you to get a better son-in-law.” 

He points over his shoulder to a pouting Rooster, grinning. “This one’s not all that great.”

Mrs. Floyd just hums, carefully setting down a mini Snickers bar, and raises an eyebrow at an overly-confident Hangman. 

“Who’s the upgrade? You?”

He shrugs, thinking. “Could be.”

Her eyes flick over his presence quickly, making his winning smile falter and chair squeak as he shifts his weight.

“No it couldn’t.”

The room falls into soft snickers and laughter, enjoying the way Jake’s bubble bursts immediately.

“Oh my god,” Natasha mumbles in incredulous wonder. “I love her.”

The older woman smiles gently, giving a supportive pat to a deflated Hangman sulking next to her, and gets back to work like nothing.

That is until Abby bursts through the doors, Bob silently following and dropping into a chair on the opposite side of the room that suddenly felt too small now that he was in it. 

“Oh my God,” she squeals, energy dialed to 100, earning everyone’s attention— Except Bob, who silently steals a pack of smarties from his mom’s stack of candy and stares at the floor, completely disinterested. 

Rooster watches Abby, raised brow with a little smitten smile. “Care to explain?”

She flops into the other chair next to him, practically vibrating with excitement. “The cake is finally done!”

He blinks, glancing at her as he continues to seal bags. “I thought it already was done.”

“This is why you’re not in charge of wedding stuff,” she dismisses, rolling her eyes and stealing a sip of his drink. “It’s from that one baker I was on a waitlist for, but the order was finally processed.”

“That’s great, honey,” he affirms, eyes widening in fear as he almost undoes a bow and earns a pointed look from Phoenix for not paying attention again. 

Abby hums in agreement, slouching dramatically against the table, face smushed in her hand and sighing. “Only thing is it’s up in Sierra City.”

“Sierra City?” Phoenix echoes. “Isn’t that, like, an hour from here?”

“Yeah,” Abby mumbles, swirling the burning black coffee in Rooster’s cup. “And I can’t go get it, I have a lot to do today.”

You don’t bother letting anyone else offer before you pipe up, posture straightening immediately. “Give me your keys. I’ll go.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Abby counters, giving you a soft frown. 

“You aren’t. I’m offering— I wanna do this for you.” 

In all honesty, you did—it was killing you that you weren’t able to be as hands-on with wedding stuff as you would’ve liked—but it was also the perfect excuse to get a damn break.

It couldn’t get any better: you’d get to explore California a bit more—even if you were just in the mountains—Abby would get her dream cake, and you would escape the unease between you and Bob.

You’d seen more of him in the last two days than you have in years and it was starting to wear on you— The bickering, the teasing, the weird, unshakable feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach when you both inadvertently danced around something more serious, more weighted. 

You were in dire need of an out from the silence— From the way he sat rigidly in the furthest corner of the room from you, from the way he wouldn’t even look at you, didn’t bother opening his mouth to tease you over something dumb… Nothing.

This was a blessing in disguise. 

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Floyd adds lightly. “You can’t go out there by yourself— Bobby will go with you.”

Fuck. You spoke too soon. 

Honestly, you should’ve seen this one coming. Mrs. Floyd always made sure you never did things alone, would always make Bob go with you and Abby if she felt you needed it. It was a little suffocating—especially when you were younger—but now that you were older, you could appreciate the sentiment. 

Except for right now. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you could feel Bob’s attention shoot to you— Suddenly very aware of the conversation unfolding around him, expression blank, but still alert. 

“It’s okay,” you say, waving your hand. “Really. I can handle it.”

Abby gives you a look, one you hated. “I think Ma is right. Those roads are super narrow and, like, in the middle of nowhere. I can’t send you out there by yourself.”

You look across the table at Natasha—eyes already on you—and you widen yours slightly, trying to silently communicate something that begged Please offer to go with me instead.

She gives you a sympathetic frown and glances at her hands busy in a pile of different wedding crafts— Clearly signaling she’s busy. 

Goddamnit. 

“Fanboy can go with me,” you quickly say, volunteering Mickey who mindlessly poked at a pack of cookies on the table, perking up immediately with an almost too-enthusiastic grin. “Right, Mick?”

He opens his mouth to agree, but Mrs. Floyd beats him to it. “Oh, honey, they don’t even trust that boy to drive a plane, nonetheless a car.”

Nat snickers. “She’s not wrong. He’s a terrible driver.”

Fanboy shoots her a wounded look, crossing his arms and muttering, “Damn, thanks, Nat.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Floyd affirms sweetly, like she didn’t just shatter a grown man’s confidence. “Bobby will take you.”

“Is that really necessary?” Bob pipes up, the first words you’ve heard him speak all day— Bitter and cold in a way you’re sure everyone could pick up on. “I think she can handle it on her own. It’s just 89 North.”

His eyes snap to yours briefly, quickly—calculated in a way only you could feel—and retreat, watching his boot scrub into the hotel carpet like it needed special attention. 

“Robert Floyd, who raised you?” his mother scolds. “Because it certainly wasn’t me if that’s the kind of man you turned into.” 

His face flushes a little, crossing his arms while a quiet, playful chorus of noises pour out from his friends. 

“It’s not, I just meant—”

“No. I don’t care what you meant.” She cuts him short with a pointed look over her reading glasses. “You’ll drive her and you’ll do it safely, you hear me?”

He grows quiet, a little huff under his breath slipping through the thin stitch of his lips and shake of his head. 

Of course he’d fold. He was still the perfectly respectful, chivalrous, obedient guy he loved to pretend to be.

“Yeah, Ma, okay.” He looks at you—barely—and slips out of his seat, already heading for the door. 

“Get your stuff. We’ll leave in 20.”

Bob was already waiting for you by the time you got downstairs to the turnaround in front of the hotel— Body lazily leaned against his car, arms and ankles crossed, expression blank, his breath harsh in the cold, bleak air. 

He looked ridiculous, all bundled up in layers: an undershirt peeking through a thick, moss green henley topped with a warm coat. His boots are on, hat pulled down over his ears, gloved fingers twirling his keys, completely oblivious to your amused presence. 

“I’m sorry— Are we going to Sierra City or Antarctica?” 

He catches his keys mid-swing in his palm and glances up at you—dressed in a regular long sleeve top, light jacket, and sneakers—then down at himself. 

“It’s freezing out,” he says flatly. “You’re the stupid one for not dressing warmer.”

You laugh under your breath, warm air that slips from your lips curling in the bitter air. 

“It’s…” your voice trails, pulling out your phone. “31 degrees out, Floyd. Not ten.” 

His lips press flat and chapped. “Don’t go asking for my jacket later when you’re inevitably cold.” 

Your eyebrows lift in mischief. “Wow, California changed you.”

His eyes narrow, challenging, before he slips the passenger door open and clomps over to the driver’s side. 

Of course he still got the door for you. 

“Hurry up and get in so we get there before it’s dark out.”

You roll your eyes and climb up into the truck, already starting to thaw as the engine grumbles in the empty Inn turnaround. 

Bob shifts the truck into reverse, his arm stretching across the back of your seat as he cranes his neck to check behind him. His fingers free of their gloves now stuffed into the spare cup holder linger near your shoulders. 

Your muscles stiffen as his heat sits close to you. It’s like you could feel him touching you through empty space, even a thin sliver of it. 

“I really didn’t need you to come with me, you know.”

The rigid cadence of your voice cuts through the soft blow of heat pouring from the dashboard vents, the only disruption as you both settle into the truck dragging its tires across the cobblestone and out of the lot. 

He huffs a laugh through his nose, brief and quiet. “Well your own best friend didn’t seem to think so.”

You glance over at him, watching the way the straight stitch of his mouth curves up in the corner, all proud and smug. It makes you sit up straighter in your seat, voice light with faux ponderance. 

“Who was able to drive first despite being younger, again?”

“That was ridiculous and you know it!” His voice raises, all flustered and defensive in a way that makes you grin. “What 14 year old expects there to be a question about a suspension system on their permit test?”

“People who studied,” you counter with a shrug. 

He glares, eyes flicking between you and the road ahead of him. “Remind me— What color pump is the gas?”

“Oh my god, that was one time.” 

“Still happened. At least I never put diesel in my car,” he teases, lifting his fingers from the wheel in surrender. 

“I realized before I started pumping,” you grit. “And that’s because you had allll that extra time waiting around to get your license to figure it out.” 

“I’m a great driver,” he mutters under his breath, glaring down the road drenched in hazy greys and wisps of thick clouds. 

“Is that why you’re a backseater for Nat?” 

He goes quiet and for a split second, you feel your heart twist. Maybe that was too far. You and Bob might like to push each other, but that didn’t mean you forgot how talented he really was.

Even if it killed you to admit it. 

“The most offensive part of that sentence was you calling her Nat, actually.” 

He glances over at you, smallest smile evident on his lips before it fades away back with his attention on the road. 

If you hurt him, he wasn’t showing it— And yet you still felt a lot more guilt than you’d like to admit. 

You try to shrug it off, voice light as you ask,

“What— Don’t like to share?” 

His fingers drum along the steering wheel, tangling over each other, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. 

“Not particularly.”

You glance out the window, cheek in palm, elbow bent against the armrest. Suddenly this car felt a little too small. 

You don’t care. Why do you care? 

“She’s great,” you offer quietly. “I wouldn’t wanna share her either.” 

Slowly, the few small buildings around the Inn disappear and more bare trees take their place, shifting by in blurs. A thin vignette of fog clings around the corners of the windows, just a frail shield from the frost.  

The silence settles, but your mind doesn’t. What the hell were you even saying? You were the one pushing Bob right now, so why was it starting to feel like you were the one getting hurt? It feels like hours pass even though it’s only seconds, silence your only company. 

Then, 

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Your pulse stutters, eyes fixed to the dashed yellow between two strips of asphalt slipping under the car. 

“What?”

“Phoenix,” he clarifies. “It’s not her I’m worried about sharing.” 

His voice comes out small, weighted words suddenly too present, too scared. But it’s honest— A brief glimpse of sentiment you so rarely saw. 

All of it makes your head spin from more than just the winding uphill roads and bleak weather. All of it makes you freeze from more than just the cold. You don’t know what to say.

Fuck, what do you say? What does that even mean? 

It’s best not to read into it. You learned the hard way that nothing ever meant anything when it came to him, so why should you? 

Words don’t come. You just nod, slow and receptive, though it still feels like you’re detached from your body— From your brain and processing system that’s trying and failing to make sense of whatever intent lies behind his words. 

“Stop chewing,” he mumbles suddenly. “You’re gonna make it bleed.”

You glance at him, completely caught off-guard, not realizing you were even doing it. Your bottom lip slips out from between your pinched teeth unceremoniously.

He didn’t even bother looking at you when he said it. He said it so plainly, so offhand. So unspecial— Like it was a normal comment cushioned in a regular conversation. Like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t making your head spin. 

You stop biting. He stops talking. 

Neither of you say much after that. 

Eventually, you turn the heat down after it starts to feel like you could melt without the sun. He turns the radio up and slumps against the window, one hand lazily resting along the top of the wheel. 

Occasionally his eyes glance over to you. You notice—of course you do—but you don’t bother looking back. Straight ahead felt safer for reasons you didn’t really understand. 

Slowly, you slip farther and farther away from everything. Your eyes glaze over. Your mind goes numb. Every turn starts to look the same— Though that would’ve been the case regardless of your indifference. It’s like you're the only car on the road for miles, climbing deep into the mountains of Sierra City draped in a thick winter sky. 

When you finally hit civilization again, you might as well’ve been transported to the Swiss Alps or Vail. 

The town is small, virtually non-existent, even at the heart of everything. It’s all old, antique wood buildings and weathered streetlamps draped in dainty winter garland. Every window display is dressed to the nines and the cobblestone streets are home to a thin dusting of fresh snow. 

The bakery is on the corner, tucked down a little alley across a boutique’s side entrance. Both doors twinkle under string lights piercing through the stretch of grey clouds staining the sky. 

It smelled of freshly baked pastries and warm sugar, small and quaint and comforting. Everything was pristine— From each carefully laid sugar flower to the little Christmas town decorating the front window display. There wasn’t a single thing out of place. 

All the desserts looked magazine ready— So perfect and intricate they didn’t even seem real. Of course Abby’s dream cake was from here. And you would’ve driven several hours—days, even—if it meant she was happy. 

Even with her brother. 

The cake was sitting ready to go and boxed up on the back counter when you arrived. A small notecard labeled Floyd was perched on top in handwriting so ornate it looked printed. 

In hindsight, it was a mistake to present yourself that way when asking for it because the shop worker couldn’t seem to catch the hint that you weren’t the Floyd in question after she saw Bob’s credit card with the same last name on it. 

After a few trying days of being described by Abby’s elderly relatives as someone romantically involved with her brother, the last thing you were in the mood for was more soft smiles and half-laughs of just going along with it. 

But there were worse outcomes, considering Bob took the opportunity to talk up how his beloved “wife-to-be” just adored this place and you drove hours just to secure your dream cake— Among other ass-kissing sentiments that resulted in the owner sending you off with a free dessert. 

It didn’t help that Bob picked exactly what you would’ve for yourself and silently handed it off to you, hand warm and steady around the dip of your waist as he guided you out to the car and waved all friendly and polite over his shoulder. 

It didn’t help that he still knew you. Not at all. 

You move out of his grip first, making quick work to get to the passenger side and slip in. Bob slows once he gets to the door, leaving it open as he stares out into the distance. 

“Could you at least close the door if you’re gonna stand around and gaze all day?” you grumble, wrapping your arms around yourself. “It’s like a wind tunnel up here.”

His frown deepens, attention still ahead of him, fingers drumming against the car. 

“Do you think maybe we should just, like, take a pause and evaluate if we should be driving back right now?” 

You blink. “Uh… No, not really. What is there to evaluate? Abby’s wedding is in two days. Her cake is here with us, she isn’t. Why would we wait around?”

You already knew the answer, ducking down to glance out the frosted windshield at the sky that’s managed to somehow grow even dimmer since you went into the bakery ten minutes ago. 

A few stray flakes of snow float down, clinging to the car before melting away, not sticking long enough for the windshield wipers to be needed. It was hardly anything.

Bob had a point— But the faster you got back, the better. It wasn’t going to solve anything pondering the weather, especially not when your sanity was quickly dwindling.

Not to mention you were in the mountains during the middle of winter. Of course it looked dismal.

“No shit,” he huffs, checking his watch. “It’s just… we have the time and that sky doesn’t look very promising. Did Abbs ever mention anything about a storm?”

“No, so I’m sure it’s fine,” you dismiss, starting to undo the lining of your cupcake. If you waited any longer to eat it with that door open, it’d be frozen. “She’s been tracking the Doppler like crazy.”

“Yeah, but—” 

“This looks like the kind of place that always has a flurry. I think it’s fine to go— Really.”

He pauses, considering. He glances at you and back again, squinting up at the overcast sky. Then he caves, sliding into the driver's seat and turning the key with an exaggerated sigh. 

“Alright. Fine. Whatever you say.”

You watch as the engine revs and he puts the address for the Inn back into his GPS. 

It wasn’t like Bob to give in so easily, at least when it came to something you were arguing about with him. Other people, maybe, but you…? Definitely not. 

You don’t have the energy to question it, and he doesn’t have the care to explain.

The drive is the same as before— Quiet. Stiff around the edges. Something sharp forcing its way between you two. Only this time when you look at him, he’s the one who won’t look back. 

You busy yourself on your phone and that stupid book you got all of ten pages into the night before. It was only an hour drive, give or take, but the more reasons you had to avoid talking to him, the better. 

The cake sits tightly tucked against your chest, serving as the perfect arm rest for your book you hold up like a shield. 

You let yourself get lost in it. 

It was better than getting lost out here with him. 

“In one mile, turn left onto Main Street.”

The GPS cracks the silence with new instructions, despite you being on a straight road for 20 miles or so.

It already said that as the first instruction a few miles back… There must be poor service. 

You don’t bother looking up. It’ll adjust itself. 

“In 900 feet, turn left onto Main Street.” 

A few seconds pass.

“Turn left onto Main Street.”

Out of the corner of your eye Bob fiddles with his phone on the vent grate, grumbling inaudibles under his breath.

You raise a brow, not bothering to look while you pinch a page between your fingers. “I think it might want you to turn left, Bobby.” 

“If I turn left, we’ll drive off the cliff into a frozen lake,” he snaps. “If I can remember from earlier,” he adds under his breath.  

Remember? Earlier? Can’t he just see it now?

You glance over your book out at the windshield and your eyes immediately blow wide in shock. 

The tall pines that dotted the edge of a once clear, thin forest road hang heavy with branches already covered in a solid inch of fresh snow. There’s no contrast in your surroundings for miles, no sign of any visible depth perception— Just bristlingly cold billows of wind-blown winter snow coming down hard, all without remorse. 

Everything is washed in white— The sky, the foliage, the depths and caverns below the sharp twists and turns of the barren woodland road now completely indistinguishable and swallowed into affinity. 

The snow falls heavy and fast, the windshield wipers squeaking, desperately trying to rid the frozen glass from a blanket of white. You can’t see the road in front of you— Not the trees, not the curve of the cracked asphalt, not the lines on it. 

Hell, you can barely even see the nose of the truck trying to cut through the frantic snowfall. 

“Oh my god,” you mumble in disbelief, mouth a little slack as you peer out. 

It’s been all of 15 minutes since you pulled left out of the actual Main Street in Sierra City, but your location was quickly indistinguishable. This was not good.  

“If you wanna go left, go right ahead, but get out of the car before you do it because I’d personally like to live to see my sister get married.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s—”

“I know it keeps rerouting, but that’s because—”

“Bob!” you snap. “You can’t even see the road!”

He finally goes quiet. His expression is blank. His knuckles grip around the wheel. He looks over at you. 

Once. Then twice. 

The car swerves slightly, just enough to shake your attention free and back on the less than ideal conditions starting to trap you out in the cold. 

“I don’t even know where the hood of the car is,” you continue, gesturing incredulously out in front of you as the tires struggle to crunch over the quick accumulation.

“Yeah, and you wanted to go! So we’re going.” 

“Okay, but—” 

“God, can you ever make up your mind about anything?” he huffs, voice raising a tick. “You either want something or you don’t. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Well, I didn’t realize we were gonna be driving into a goddamn blizzard when I said go!”

He shrugs his shoulders, expression bristling. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s fine, whatever. We’ll just take it slow.”

You exhale sharply with a roll of your eyes. This was really not the time for him to have a complex— To play high and mighty just to prove a point. You already knew you were wrong. A reminder wasn’t going to help anyone right now. 

“This is stupid, Bob. Just pull over.”

“Where?” he says, exasperated. “Last time I checked we’re now in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t know— Somewhere! We can’t drive like this.” 

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in aggravation under his glasses. “You’re actually ridiculous. I can’t with you.”

“I’m sorry! When I suggested we go, I thought there might be a small flurry or something, not all this! How was I supposed to know?” 

He shakes his head in silence, lips pressed thin, eyes heavy. His jaw works, tongue running over his teeth tight with tension under his skin. 

“Call Abby.” He caves reluctantly. “Knowing her, she probably drove out here to look at the cakes in person.”

You shrink, lump of anger crawling to your throat as you pull out your phone and try her once. 

It immediately goes to voicemail. 

When you pull it away from your ear, you only have one bar. Fantastic. You try again and it rings, hollow and long through your skull. 

Honestly, you couldn’t be mad at anyone but yourself. Your own stupid self-pity and wallowing was exactly what got you here. 

You knew better— Of course you knew better. You could’ve given it an hour, stopped in a bar considering the service was spotty up north and checked the local radar for a passing storm before getting on the road. 

The cake would’ve survived a small detour. You, however, were a different story.

But, no. God forbid you put your own shit aside for a minute and thought logically around Bob Floyd, for once. 

Why were you so fucking stupid around him? So irrational and impulsive? It was insane how he had this effect on you, even years later. 

The call finally connects, Abby’s voice light and completely oblivious coming through on the other end. 

“Oh my God, please tell me Bob remembered his wallet.”

You smile, running your fingers over the sticker sealing the box that sits securely on your lap. “He did, we got it— Don’t worry.”

“Good,” she sighs in relief. “Thank God.”

“Did, uh…” your voice trails, glancing at what used to be the edge of the road next to you, completely erased now. It’s like another inch fell in the minute you tried to get the call to go through. “Did you know it was supposed to snow, by any chance?” 

The silence is thick on the other end. Bob glances your way, trying to read her answer off of your expression. 

“No…” she answers eventually. “Why? Is it snowing up there or something?”

“You could say that.” 

“Bob took the truck, right?”

You nod slowly even though she can’t see you. “Yeah… but it’s not much help, actually. It’s coming down fast and we’re on a road that isn’t really good for any kind of car right now.” 

“Are you serious?” she pouts, voice cracking in and out from the weak connection. “Drive carefully, okay! I need you guys here in one piece.” 

“Trying to,” you affirm, glancing at the speedometer. It felt like you were gonna slide off the edge or drive headfirst into a tree at any given moment despite only going 15. 

“If it’s that bad maybe you guys should rethink this.”

“Yeah…” You sigh, lips tightening around the words before they come. “Do you know of anywhere around here we might be able to stop until it slows up a bit? Like a gas station or restaurant or something?”

She hums on the other line. “Lemme look.” 

“I’d tell you where we are but the GPS is going crazy. Service is kinda spotty up here.”

“No worries, I’ll just check Bobby’s Find My Friends.”

You snort. “You have him on Find My Friends?”

“For emergencies only, Abby!” Bob shouts over, flush creeping up his neck as she giggles in your ear. 

You swat him away with a look. “Relax, that’s adorable.” 

Bob pouts in his seat, going back to trying to steer through a storm that was only getting worse. 

“Oh!” Abby’s voice perks up through the phone. “Bradley said his uncle has a cabin not that far from you guys. Stop there until it blows over.”

Seriously? 

A cabin, alone, in the snowy woods, lost in the middle of a flurry that flirted with the idea of being a blizzard. 

With Bob. 

You truly couldn’t think of anything worse if you tried. 

Maybe you should cut your losses and gamble with your life on this treacherous drive to avoid that. 

Maybe this is what you get for choosing to travel in this just to avoid more time with him in the first place. 

Shit. 

“What did she say?” Bob asks, flicking the headlights in different ways like that might make some miracle of a difference. 

You pause, grimacing, not wanting to speak it into existence even though you really had no other choice. 

“Rooster’s uncle has a place we can crash, apparently.”

His hopeful body language deflates, the same realization you just went through washing over him as well. 

Great. 

“The app is getting kinda glitchy now— It thinks you guys are in a river,” Abby interrupts, completely immune to the peril both of you were suddenly sorting through. “But when I first looked you were, like, a half mile away from it. Just look for a Willow Street and follow that to the end.”

She gives you a few more details about the house—ensures it’s not a problem and no one ever uses it, as told by the uncle himself who arrived for the wedding that morning—and sends you on your way. 

You don’t know how you find it, but you do— Barely.

The piercing, reflective green of the street sign is intercepted by a raging swirl of flakes in the wind, but fortunately you’re able to find the turn and see just enough of the letters to know it’s indeed Willow Street. 

It feels like you drive over a mile down that frozen road until you slowly crawl to the end, finally finding a decent-sized cabin on top of a slight incline. You’re in the dead of winter, in the middle of nowhere— Only the woods, nature, and wildlife all taking shelter surrounding you for miles. 

When the storm settles between gusts of wind, you can almost make sense of a tiny pond in the distance surrounded by big, spindly branches of bare trees and the hearty green of tall pines surrounding the property. 

The house is cute—picturesque, even—tucked at the top of a tiered cobblestone staircase, lined with bushes and shrubs, all completely covered in fresh, lush snow. 

It has a massive chimney, a wrap-around porch, a little balcony, and large, welcoming windows. It’s all charming wood and soft stone, decorated with two small Christmas trees on the porch—now knocked over and half-buried in snow—and a couple dozen wreaths on windows and doors, weakly twinkling with a warm glow in the blustering storm. 

If Abby didn’t tell you no one ever came here, you’d never believe it. She mentioned they hire a housekeeper to keep it tidy, do a bit of decorating, and get it vacation-ready for each holiday season, but they never actually make it here and ship out to Florida instead. 

Even in these circumstances, who the hell would want palm trees over this? 

Bob pulls the truck into the driveway and kills the engine with an echoing roar, suddenly loud with the weight you both sat in. Neither of you speak—a familiar state—and just watch in silence as the truck quickly starts to become part of the surroundings buried in glistening white. 

You smush your face into your hands, exhaustedly rubbing over your eyes as reality sets in. 

How the fuck did you let yourself end up here? 

All because you couldn’t listen. All because you didn’t think you were strong enough to tough it out for a few hours around someone you’ve known your whole life. 

Now look where it got you. 

Bob clears his throat. “Listen, I don’t wanna be here either if it makes you feel any better, but we don’t really have a choice.” 

His voice is strained, tone desaturated. You could hear the irritation he so desperately tried to hide simmering under his skin. A facade that was definitely wearing thin. 

You pull your hands from your face, blinking out in front of you, still unable to look at him. 

The last thing either of you needed was more animosity. 

“No. That’s not—it’s not that, it’s—”

“Just stay here,” he grumbles, abruptly pushing the door open and pulling his hat back on over his head. “I’ll go check it out first.” 

You try to stop him, to explain that it’s not him—even if a part of it damn well is—but it’s the fact that you stupidly put yourself in this situation because you can’t handle him anymore. Because you can’t handle this. 

And more than that, just as always, you can’t handle being wrong— Especially because of him. 

How fucking pathetic were you? 

He doesn’t give you the chance to explain, just slips into the cold and leaves you in the hollow silence of the car already beginning to freeze. 

You watch as he examines the property: checks the name on the mailbox to make sure it’s the right house, peers through some of the windows, and retrieves the spare key— Left exactly where Abby said it would be. 

When the door swings open, you gather the stack of things in your arms and bolt, unable to sit still any longer.

You close the door behind you, hugging your arms to your chest to try and keep warm in the blistering cold. The wind was fierce— Biting and bone-chilling, whipping your hair without mercy, already staining your nose and lips a chapped pink. 

“Let me come get you,” Bob shouts over from the porch, already making his way down the steps and trying to stomp some snow down. “You’re gonna slip.”

“I’m fine,” you grit back, determined to continue despite your sneakers starting to easily slide around. 

The snow seeps into your shoes as you trudge through, wind biting at your exposed ankles, unforgiving and bitter as the accumulation grows. It didn’t matter— The last thing you wanted was more help from him. 

“This kind of snow is slippery. Just wait for once in your life,” he grumbles back, his frame blurry in the storm and soft, pale twilight beginning to peek through the trees. 

You push through, trying to slip past him when he reaches you. He catches your free wrist with frozen fingers, but you twist away in hot fury. 

“Just let me go, Bob. I’m fine.”

He steps back an inch, scanning over you and your sudden ire. Snow clings to his lashes under his glasses, to his shoulders, to his fingers that reach out— Reach out to hold you. 

He was being weird this morning, weird in the car, but now he was going to act like he cared about you and your wellbeing? After he made it quite clear he wanted nothing to do with you either? 

The mood swings with him were exhausting and unpredictable. You couldn’t keep up— Couldn’t predict which version of him you’d see next. The lines between what was an act and what wasn’t felt like they were starting to blur beyond your liking.

But you know him too. 

You know he takes pride in being needed, in being a hero. You also know he was probably just itching to take the opportunity to throw this back in your face and gloat about just how right he was— To get to take care of you just to prove a point. 

Because you fucked up. 

Badly. 

“You’re clearly not fine,” he counters, taking the cake from your hands and trying to hold his arm out for you to hold on to.

“Not now, Bob. I’m serious.”

“What, not now?”

His question is calm, it’s curious. It’s not demanding or smug like you thought it would be. It only confuses you more.

He reaches out for you again and catches your elbow, steadying you as you clomp your way toward the stairs. 

“This! The last thing I want right now is for you to do this when I already know how fucking wrong I was. I really don’t need the reminder, for once.” 

His face contorts in immediate confusion. “Seriously? That’s what you’re upset over right now?”

“Yes!” You wiggle free of his grip and let your arms fall to your side with a snap. “Of course it is— How could it not be? I already know I screwed up, Bob. I already know that you were right and you’re pissed with me for it, okay?” 

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off with a huff, squeezing his eyes shut and stomping after you heading for the door. “That’s not why I’m mad! Would you just slow down for a second?” 

“Why would I?” you shout over the swirling wind, not bothering to turn around. “You don’t wanna be around me, I don’t wanna be around you. This is less than ideal and we’re both annoyed, so let’s just get through this and get back for Abby.” 

His mouth opens, then closes as he stands in the cold and watches you slip farther and farther beyond a curtain of snow and into the door. 

He follows eventually, but he doesn’t say a word. 

The silence follows you both inside. It envelopes. It sits. It watches and waits and tries to find a fracture. 

It doesn’t come. 

You say the bare minimum, trying not to suffocate and drown in the unsettled energy expanding between you. Something was off— More so than usual. 

You can’t place it, and it doesn’t really want to be found. 

By some miracle, the power was still on, granting you both at least one piece of good news in a bleak situation. The heat was cranked to full blast, quickly trying to thaw out a house that clearly wasn’t used to being used. 

To the naked eye, it looked homey and lived in. The main fireplace was decorated with twinkling garland and empty stockings. In the corner was a large, elaborate Christmas tree, standing at least 12 feet tall and brushing against the ceiling. It was the kind you had to go up to and twist the needles between your fingers to realize it’s fake.

The room was showered in windows and warm couches with soft, plush blankets, all freshly washed and folded neatly, waiting to be used. It was truly the perfect setting for a quiet winter night.

You don’t know anything about Rooster’s elusive uncle, but man would it be nice to have a vacation home like this— Rarely used, but always welcoming. Always warm. 

The evidence of the lack of warm bodies comes from the details— Empty drawers, cleared-out cabinets, and a vacant fridge. There were a handful of canned goods, a few snack foods unopened and good into the new year. You glance in the cupboards for any drinks or something more substantial, but all that greeted you was a decently-stocked liquor cabinet and some tap water. 

That would have to do. 

You settled in while Bob slipped outside to track down some firewood in case you lost power before it got dark. You tried to argue against it—tried to tell him it’s too cold and harsh to go back out—but he didn’t listen. 

You didn’t put up much of a fight. Why would you? You were wrong about virtually everything else lately. 

While he got lost at the edge of the woods somewhere, you curled up between the bay windows in the living room, surrounded by the fine glitter of snow and whisper of wind, book in a feeble hand… again. 

He didn’t even have to be in the same room as you anymore to take your attention with him. You still found yourself looking for him through the blistering storm— Heavy and dense with white until he completely vanished. 

The pages fall shut against your fingers, still holding the spot like your mind would eventually turn back to it. 

It doesn’t. 

You just stare blankly out at the snow, watching as the pale grey sky grows darker and dimmer as night slowly falls into place. 

You couldn’t help but wonder about him— Think about him, about everything. Something about this place stirs a quiet, delicate feeling you abandoned deep within you. The time, the space. The distance and the animosity that all flirted with some aching, dire need to shift your center of gravity around each other. It’s all rattled.

You rest your head against the cool glass, frozen to the touch. You don’t care, don’t even notice your temple is numb until the front door swings open, snapping you back to reality. 

There, Bob stood, completely covered in snow, all bundled up and holding a hearty stack of wood against his chest. He kicks the door closed behind him with an unceremonious thud and carefully drops the wood on a welcome mat next to his feet, already dripping small puddles in the doorway. 

His nose peeks out from under his coat zipped up high, features all red and borderline frostbitten. Snowflakes melt across his cheeks, across his eyelashes, across the top of his hat, quickly removed and tossed onto a coat rack. 

Damp ends of brown hair curl at the nape of his neck where snow meets skin, cold and wet like the rest of him. 

You don’t realize you’re staring until he looks back— Expression patient. Calm. Completely different than when you last saw him. Something you can’t really read. 

He doesn’t look frustrated or angry or even indifferent. He just looks like… him. 

Like a version you knew a lifetime ago. 

Younger. Softer. Giving in to something tired.

You hug your knees curled to your chest a little tighter, pretending to be busy looking back out the window, book still lazily in hand. 

“You look like one of those people in a magazine.”

You glance over at him, still watching you. The smallest smile unfolds at the corner of his lips— Something almost not even there. Something that tries and fails to meet his eyes. 

You're tucked comfortably in your corner, blanket over your lap, winter’s exhale unfolding around you, eyes catching the faint glow of Christmas lights on the window wreaths and the tree. Your mouth slips open, a little at a loss at the sudden softness and the recognition of it. 

Or maybe it wasn’t so sudden. 

Your brows crinkle, an unwanted heat flooding the apples of your cheeks. Hopefully he couldn’t see in the low light. 

“I feel like I’m in a damn Hallmark movie.” You try to tease, but it falls a little flat, a little… vulnerable.                                                        

His lips slip into a subtle pout, sliding off his clunky boots and peeling his soaked gloves from stiff, cold hands. 

“I like Hallmark movies.”

“Of course you do.”

Even though you’re trying to slip back into old habits—to hold onto your safe, familiar rhythm like a lifeline—you still can’t seem to foster the same kind of bite behind your words. 

Too hollow, and yet, not at all. 

All of it falls softer, quieter. Hesitant, like something was fracturing without permission. 

“What’s wrong with Hallmark Christmas movies?” He shifts his weight like it’s personal, fixing his glasses draped in melted snow. 

You press your lips together with a shrug. “They’re unrealistic.” 

“Are you, like, allergic to joy of all sorts…? Or just the holiday kind?” 

Your eyes narrow. “No. Just the unrealistic kind.” 

“Yeah,” he huffs incredulously, tossing his hands up to gesture at the wall of snow quickly building around the cabin and trapping you in. “So unrealistic.”

“Well, that’s why I said I feel like I’m in one.”

He gathers the wood he dropped at the door and heads for the fireplace, empty and waiting just to your right.

“You’d be one of those girls who’s forced to go back to her hometown that’s obsessed with Christmas but she’s not into it,” he says, smiling softly to himself as he slides the glass doors open and starts assembling the wood in the cradle. “Then she ends up stuck there instead of working the whole holiday and eventually learns to love it again.”

You hum, brow lifted as you watch him work. 

The thick planes of his back muscles work under his layers, catching the flicker of daylight still fighting to burn and drape the room in soft shadows. His fingers are delicate around the sharp, jagged chunks of firewood he places with care. The harsh red of winter across his skin softens to a gentle pink— A pink you haven’t seen in years.

Something about this place was dangerous. It was like a vortex pulling you back into cold, dead, old habits you thought you buried a long time ago. 

You don’t even realize he’s still talking until you scold yourself out of your trance. Why the hell were you looking at him like that? 

“Which I guess would make me the ruggedly-charming guy who works at the family tree farm or something and shows her the true meaning of Christmas,” he continues, working diligently until the logs are layered just so, completely unaware of your sudden spiral. 

You sit quietly, watching him from the side, trying to wrap your brain around why he was being so… different. 

And why you were falling for it.

You shift, facing him a bit more. You inhale, trying to talk yourself out of what you say before you say it. 

“I don’t know if that would be us.”

You say it. 

It feels like you live outside your body saying something like that— The acknowledgement of an us. The semblance of reckoning with what used to be. 

With what could’ve been. 

“It could’ve been.”

Apparently he feels the same. 

That’s what makes it hurt worse, makes your heart twist and your mind reel. How the fuck could he say something like that to you after everything? How were you ever really supposed to let this go if he kept you on the hook? Kept pretending like he cared?

Maybe everything was a game to him when it comes to you. Even years later, even as adults. Even grown up and moved on— You were still tethered to each other no matter how hard you tried to cut the tangled rope. 

You hated how difficult it was to pretend, to act like you buried what craved to fester when you were alone with him. You hated how everything—the distance, the closeness, the heat and the cold and the familiar, precariously cautious quiet—makes you want to unravel what you’ve spent so long keeping tied down deep inside you. 

It makes you question if you were wrong all those years ago— Even though you damn well know you weren’t. You know better. 

You did then. You do now. 

He wasn’t this person. He wasn’t someone who could love you in the ways you needed— In the ways you’ve tried to forget that you could love him. In the ways that you can.

And in some sick, twisted way… the way you still do.

Slowly, you look at him— Fully. He’s fiddling with his hands, calloused and worn, red knuckles thawing from the cold. 

He used to do that when he was nervous. He would do that when he waited at the bus stop for you in the rain just to walk you home. 

He would do that in the middle of the night when you’d get a glass of water from the kitchen and he was the only one still up. 

He would do that when he’d see you from the porch when you’d come home for winter break or after he had to pull a drunk guy off of you at a party. 

He did it before he touched your hair the other morning and when you both waited in a silent, snowfallen car this afternoon. 

You hated that you knew all that, but even worse, you hated that you knew what it meant. 

And you hated that something weighted usually followed. 

“Do you still mean it?”

Something like that. 

His head hangs down, matted hair slowly beginning to dry, bathed in shadows and silence. He looks younger in the dim, dawning of winter twilight, in this honest and raw echo of reckoning, or a feeble attempt at it. He looks softer, all vulnerable and defenseless. 

Your breath catches, pulse a steady roar in your ears. 

You know exactly what he means— Exactly the moment he’s referring to. 

One you agreed to never talk about again. 

How do you even answer that? How could you? 

You sigh, facade fractured. “Bob…”

“So you do,” he says quietly, like he believes every word of it and is scared to. 

Then he stands, wading in front of you, hanging on your reaction, on your breathing, on what you’ll do next.

Your mouth opens, then closes. You’re at a loss around him for once— Truly and utterly at a complete loss. Half-formed words wither and die in your throat, suddenly dry and tight.

You know the answer: you did. You do. 

No matter how hard you’ve tried not to, no matter how long you’ve spent convincing yourself you don’t—you shouldn’t—you still fucking do. 

It might’ve been your idea to leave it for dead—that night, those words, everything you shared—but it still felt like maybe neither of you ever fully moved on. 

And you certainly hadn’t forgotten. Even if you wanted to. You never could. 

There’s a pull, an urge— Let go. Give in. Fall. You want to—in this moment, in this light, in this heat and space that all suddenly felt too heavy and too close—you want to cave. 

To bend with what’s been pulling you down for so long. 

It’s destructive and reckless and will only leave you more hurt, but maybe this was something you’ll never really heal from. 

Maybe it’s something you were never meant to. 

Maybe this was always supposed to cling to you— This fractured, shattered part of yourself that was stitched together by him when he was the one who broke it. 

Your lips part again. The words catch in the back of your throat, stick to what intentions you abandoned long ago. 

They try. They fail.

He shakes his head, a short laugh laced with hurt cutting through the window of honesty he opened for you quickly closing. 

“Of course,” he mutters. “Predictable. I can’t believe I thought maybe you would actually care.”

The room goes darker, the lights flicker off, and the heat dies with a whisper. You both glance around in suffocating silence as realization washes over you. 

The power’s out. Perfect. 

In the dark, his face shifts back to something you already know, yet something that feels so suddenly foreign— So rigid and distant. A flicker of something other than hatred dying a pitiful, worthless death. 

The cut of his jaw and sharpness in his eyes darken under the faint blur of grey glow outside as daylight struggles to live through the death of day and the heavy blanket of storm clouds. The only sound is the wind, whistling and whirling behind the thin wall of glass and wood keeping you sheltered.

He stalks toward the door before you can do something—anything—like you should. 

You can’t reach for him, can’t catch him, can’t stop him or talk to him, just watch pathetically as he storms out the door—no damp gloves or hat in hand—muttering not to follow him out. 

It’s not said in anger, not in hate. Just sad. Frail.

And for once, you don’t argue.

continue reading here .ᐟ — block limit is evil & made me cut this right when things heat up. though this work was not intended to be broken up, the second “chapter” will pick up directly where this left off to make it easier to find. i hope you enjoyed so far, thanks for reading !

“Great,” you sighed, exhaustion evident in your voice. You yawned, gazing up at the ceiling, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “I was having a wonderful dream. And then I was assaulted.”

“Oh,” he replied, sauntering over to the bed. “Like in a sexy way? By me, I hope.” He teased as he leaned over you, wiggling his eyebrows salaciously, one hand on either side of your head

“No,” you pouted, rolling your eyes, “by Asia.”

He tilted his head, considering. “That got weird, fast.” He smirked as he eyed you suspiciously, “You been readin’ fanfiction again?”

You barked with laughter. “I mean my ears, dumbass!” Grinning like a fool, he kissed you and you nuzzled his cheek. You felt the dampness of the towel sink into you through the bedsheets. You didn’t mind. “Could you please just use your phone alarm like everybody else?” you whiningly pleaded.

“But bug, this is the perfect soundtrack for today!” Peter replied, pressing more kisses on the side of your neck beneath your ear and down to your shoulder. He smiled against your flesh. “It’s going to be a wonderful day.” You wriggled beneath him, his light stubble and soft lips tickling your sensitive skin. “Patrol kinda kicked my ass yesterday, so I was thinking about taking a day off. Spending it with my girl.” He pushed up and gazed down at you with eyes that could force you to agree to anything. “So how ‘bout it, huh?”

“Mmm, I’d love to,” you hummed, rubbing your hands over the firm breadth of his chest and arms, admiring him the way one would admire a Michelangelo. “But I can’t,” you lamented.

“What?” he whimpered in protest. “Noo, c’mon… We live together and I feel like I haven’t seen you since last week.” His lips were back on you, leading you towards temptation.

“And whose fault is that, Spider-Man?” you teased. He sulked like a toddler. “I can’t,” you frowned, exaggerating the disappointment in your voice in solidarity with his own. “Today’s super important. If I don’t finish drafting those plans by 4, I’m screwed.”

“Look at it this way,” Peter replied, with a wolfish twinkle, “you stay in bed with me, you’re still screwed either way.” He dipped down for a slower kiss, more lustful than before. “This method is a lot more fun, I promise.”

You smiled against his lips, unable to contain the way your stomach fluttered. “You are such a perv, Parker,” you chided him with a half-smirk on your face. “But seriously, I can’t.” His head rolled back with an anguished sigh as his defeat sunk in. “But hey, walk me to work? I’ll skip the train today.”

He peered down at you with an unsatisfied pout. “Okay,” he muttered. He pushed himself up, still straddling you. “But can we at least stop for coffee and a bagel on the way?”

“Absolutely,” you agreed. “I’m starving.”

“What a surprise,” Peter answered, tilting his head. “So am I.” He suddenly lifted the bedsheets up and disappeared beneath them. 

“Peter!” you squirmed and giggled, scandalized, as you felt his fingertips scurry for the waist of your panties. “You’re absolutely awf—ahhhh!”

You felt a buzz in your pocket and retrieved your phone to glance at the caller ID: Mom.

You flicked your eyes upward in a reflexive eye roll, then declined the call and pocketed the device. 

“Who was that?” Peter asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

“Just an old boyfriend of mine:” you teased with a demure smile that gave you away, “I call ‘em ‘Potential Spam.’”

“Hmm, too clingy?” 

“Yeah, but not in the way I prefer,” you flirted as you reached again for his palm. He smirked and planted a kiss on your knuckles.

Hand-in-hand, you stepped down the broken concrete of the sidewalk, deftly avoiding oncoming pedestrians. The heels of your boots scuffed the ground at a hurried pace. You didn’t ever slow down, not even to sip coffee from the disposable cup warming your free fingers. 

Peter looked over at you and the way your tiny legs carried you a nose ahead of his pace. “Bug, why’ya walkin’ so fast?” he asked, sidestepping to let a woman with an overenthusiastic corgi on a leash rush past you. 

You scoffed with an amused side-eye, “Well, if somebody hadn’t made me late for work—”

“What?” he shrugged incredulously as he gazed off innocently, taking a sip from his cup. “And miss the most important meal of the day?”

You slapped him on the shoulder with a blushing gasp, “Peter!” He cracked a devious grin. 

Your eyes scanned his face and the gait of his walk. You’d always considered your boyfriend to be good-looking—beautiful, even, but there was something particularly dashing about him this morning. Perhaps it was how the golden rays of sunlight illuminated his face added a glow to his whiskey irises, or how the crisp air tinted his fair cheeks. The sight of him reeled you in like a gravitational pull.

“What’s gotten into you today?” you eyed him curiously.

He glanced at you innocently, failing to hide a smile behind tight lips. “What?” he said with a light laugh. His mood was infectious, and the longer you stared into his warm eyes, the more you felt like you were going back in time. Years were falling away from you, and soon you’d be chasing him around like a young child free of the shackles and pomp of adulthood.

You couldn’t help but return the smile. “I’m serious! You seem… lighter.”

Peter glanced around at the busy street around you, shrugging his shoulders as if it was obvious. “I mean—look around,” he gestured with his coffee in hand. “The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. It’s not too cold, not too humid and gross. It’s like, a perfect day.”

You followed his gaze and scanned the area. A thick haze of smog invaded the air. Horns blared over the roar of the engines of traffic speeding past. Mechanical whirs and rattles of new construction echoed off the buildings around you. The faint smell of sewage and roasting hot dogs filled your nostrils as you walked by a food vendor cart. 

“Yep,” you agreed, with a not-so-subtle hint that you actually disagreed. “A splendor to behold, for sure.” 

With your next step, a nearby pigeon took flight right in front of you. Startled, you stumbled for a moment on an uneven slab of sidewalk. Peter gripped your arm to steady you, but your other arm sloshed your cup of coffee. You felt the hot, sticky substance coat your chest, soaking your blouse.

“Shit!” you hissed under your breath, feeling the hot liquid drip down your skin.

“Babe! Are you okay?” Peter flinched, brows furrowed with concern. “You didn’t burn yourself, did you?”

“No,” you groaned, biting back your irritation, “but this shirt is ruined.” You searched around for something in your bag to wipe off the mess, finding nothing.

“I can run home and bring you some clothes,” Peter offered, a sour look on his face as if this was somehow his fault. “Or, you know. Swing.”

You huffed, curtly, “Nah, don’t waste your time.” 

“I feel bad,” he replied. “Didn’t think you’d be wet again this soon.” You glared at him, unamused. “Sorry,” he immediately added, holding his hands up to placate your annoyance. “Last one, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about me,” you glowered sarcastically, landing eyes on a convenience store nearby. “I’m going in for napkins.” You looked both ways before crossing the street, tossing your nearly empty cup in the garbage. Peter followed closely behind you into the shop.

The environment inside the store was much more subdued. You stopped in the doorway to survey the inside: A bored, pepper-haired, pitted-faced man with bushy brows slumped over the cash register, not bothering to end his side of the conversation on a Bluetooth ear piece. A thin, chalky young woman with flaxen stringy hair and clothes that hung off her bones stood listlessly, gazing at a display of cleaning supplies. A birdlike, blemished teenage boy with a broad forehead and copper curls lugged a cardboard box of snacks towards a shelf for restocking. 

You felt Peter’s warmth at your back as he entered the store, the bell above the door chiming as it swung open. He gently placed a hand on your forearm, letting his eyes rove around the aisles, tuning his senses to anything amiss. Even out of the costume, he was never not Spider-Man. He was never fully at rest, and never not diligent about the safety of a situation, especially if you were involved. While it may have annoyed you early-on in the relationship, especially before you knew about his alter ego and his history, his instinctually guarded nature was predictable now.

Your eyes found the coffee bar right as Peter’s phone began to ring. He glanced down at the cracked screen and looked up at you apologetically. “Uh, it’s May,” he explained, pointing a thumb outside the door. “I gotta take this.” 

“Go ahead,” you shrugged, already making your way towards the coffee bar. “Meet you outside.” He turned and put the phone to his ear as he left. As the door swung back, two chatty uniformed police officers sauntered in with reusable coffee tumblers in hand. 

You scanned over the bar until you found a container of napkins, grabbing a handful and dabbing at your chest. Standing on your toes, you looked around for a restroom, hoping to get a better handle on the mess with some tap water. As you considered having Peter go back for a new shirt after all, a hand grasped your shoulder.

Your body went rigid as you were pulled backward and up against a warm body. You felt a sharp point at your neck.

“Don’t move,” a soft, timid voice ordered. You could barely hear the feminine voice over the pounding of your heart. Your eyes went wide as you spotted your reflection in the glass door of a refrigerator case. The lanky young woman who looked barely strong enough to withstand the wind had her thin arms wrapped around your shoulders and a box cutter pressing against your throat. Suddenly, you counted every breath as a laborious, death-defying stunt, especially with the blade held so tightly. 

“Don’t try anything,” she threatened. There was a darkness that weighed down her vocal cords, pulling them a little too taut. You held eye contact with her, opening your palms gently, holding them away from your body. Even through the glass, the girl looked tired. Her eyes were bloodshot, with deep bags underneath. There was a tremor in her hands, one that shook all the way down her spine. 

You were having trouble forming words. Your eyes darted quickly in front of you, but there was nothing within your reach, except for crumpled up balls of paper towels. Your eyes began to sting with building tears; your body was flooded with adrenaline and a wave of emotions: confusion, anger, terror. 

“Hey!” a male voice rang out. Both you and your captor flinched, the blade drawing a drop of blood from your neck. 

Your eyes glanced to the side, careful not to move your neck too much, to spot the two police officers squaring off. You could tell one of the two men was older, while the other was younger, but all of their features were a blur. Everything else froze. The cashier stopped talking. The stocking boy came to an abrupt stand, dropping his armful of bagged peanuts on the ground. He spotted the box cutter in the girl’s hand, then glanced around frantically for his own, realizing that she had taken it while his back was turned.

“Put the knife down!” one of the two officers ordered. It was the younger of the two. 

“Just take it easy, kid,” the more subdued voice coming from the older officer said.

The girl sniffed, and from her proximity you could feel her lip quivering. “Nobody move!” she shrieked. It was a feral, heart-wrenching cry from deep in her chest. You felt the heat of the blade and of your own blood trickle down your neck. You squeezed your eyes closed and attempted to steady your breathing, if only to lessen the chance of being injured further.

“Shhh, it... s’okay,” you stuttered, barely able to comprehend what was happening. “Do-don’t... do—”

“Shut up!” she screamed, her voice shattering like glass. You could feel the convulsions move through her body, the heat of her lungs wafting across your cheek. “I-I swear to-to god, I’ll kill her!” Your breath caught in your throat, your fists clenching tightly. She was no longer the only one trembling.

“Pl-please...” you whimpered.

“Drop the weapon!” the young officer shouted.

The bell of the shop door rang again. Your eyes landed on Peter as he stared, wide-eyed and jaw agape, at the awful scene. The color drained from his face. His expression destroyed you. Hot tears began to stream down your cheeks as you watched him balk at the horror of all of his nightmares becoming a reality. He was stunned, ghost-like and motionless. 

You silently mouthed his name, a helpless apology. You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for.

The unstable young woman must have sensed Peter as a threat. “Take another step and I’ll kill her!” she screeched, yanking your body closer to her chest. 

“Stop—!”

A shot rang out. The box cutter fell from the girl’s limp fingertips. Her heat was behind you, then suddenly gone. Her entire being—gone, crumpling to the ground. You felt a hot sticky substance spray across your face. You gasped at the feeling of her blood dripping from your chin.

In front of you, the younger officer stood with his weapon drawn, the gun still billowing smoke. His partner was frozen beside him, arm raised out towards you. They looked like statues—wax figures, or the mummified remains encased in ash beneath Pompeii. Expressions of terror forever cemented on their faces.

By far, the most nightmarish of visions was the dread you saw in Peter’s eyes. You watched as the light of them was swallowed up by fear and drowned in anguish, like black holes ripping galaxies apart. The cold darkness left behind would be void of life for all eternity.

You were getting warmer. And colder. You followed his line of sight down and gaped at a whirlpool of crimson torn through your chest. You watched your life force drain out of you, spilling onto your feet and across the floor. 

You don’t know how long you were holding your breath, but the next inhale feels like a flaming sword through the heart. You stare at the red—an ocean of red—as it crests and floods the ground below. You’re falling. Maybe through space, maybe through reality, dropping straight into hell. It must be perdition with all the pain you’re in.

And then you stop before you hit the ground. Your eyes open. Labored breaths. Peter’s face above you, fat tears spill from his eyes. Beautiful doe eyes. Tragic, betrayed. He looked like a little boy to you. You wonder what his boy will look like.

The fear grips your heart as you realize you’re not going to find out.

The sounds are rushing to your ears, and reverberating off of the cavern of your body left behind by a fleeting soul. You’re struggling to hear the sounds. You don’t want the quiet. You don’t want the darkness.

Peter’s screaming, you think. He clutches you tightly. He feels so warm and you feel so cold. You remember how he held you. Tightly wrapped in the stark white safety of your bright room and silk bed sheets. You want to go back to bed.

Your eyes are wide and terrified as you fight the darkness. Your lips are moving, but no sounds will come out. You’re trying to scream that you want to go back to bed. You’re begging Peter with all of your heart.

Please take me home. I want to go home.

Peter's lips are moving and you think you can hear his voice from the bottom of the well. He’s begging you not to go. You’re begging him to take you home. You’re not ready to go. 

It’s getting dark. The love of your life is begging you to stay. You’re fighting to keep your eyes open. You want to remember every freckle on his face, even as they’re drenched in tears. Darkness settles in anyway. It’s hard to see how beautiful he is in the dark. 

It was beautiful today. And now, darkness. This is how it ends, you think. But you’re wrong. 

It’s just the beginning. You hear Peter call out your name.

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes popped open as you were viciously ripped away from the darkness. Music invaded your ears, your senses assaulted by a toe-tapping tune.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT

Tellin’ me.  what.  my. HEART meant

The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

You gasped suddenly, shooting straight up out of bed. Your eyes were wild, shooting around your clean, peaceful bedroom. You remembered where you’d been and realized you weren’t where you were—the jarring discrepancy confusing and overwhelming you. 

You were dead. You were bleeding out on the floor of a convenience store, breathing your last breath. 

But now you’re alive, so blessedly alive that you could feel every goosebump on your skin.

Sitting up in your bed, brought your hand to your chest where the entrance wound of the fatal gunshot had been. Nothing. No pain. No blood. No death.

But you were dead… it was so real. The sticky warmth of your blood was real. The smell of gunpowder and singed flesh. The terrified look on the faces around you. You shuddered at the thought. That cruel, horrible, gut-wrenching look of anguish on Peter’s face.

“Mornin’, Sunflower!” the devil in question rang out from your en suite bathroom. A moment later, his head poked around the corner. His expression serenely naive of the gory last moments spent with you in his arms.

His smile was beautiful. Today had been beautiful… and it—somehow—was once again? So… it was a nightmare, then. A surreal, too-real nightmare. And this is how it ends, with you waking up safely in bed.

Or so you think. But you’re wrong. It’s just the beginning. 

Today is the first day of the end of your life.

Continue to Part 2

Rhett has grown into himself in a way that feels almost unfair, like time decided to be generous with him, slow and deliberate, polishing rather than eroding. It pressed in gently rather than dragging its nails.

The grey that once felt incidental and scattered now feels deliberate and lived in, threaded through his hair at the temples and carried into his beard like a punctuation mark; it’s claimed its place, silver streaks cutting clean lines through the brunet, mirrored in the beard he keeps neatly trimmed.

His shoulders are broader now—not showy about it, just solid, like a man who has learned how to carry weight without complaint. His face tells stories without ever asking to be read; fine lines crease at the corners of his eyes when he smiles—an easy, knowing smile, practised through his years. There’s something grounding about the way he stands: feet planted, spine relaxed, like he’s comfortable occupying space. His hands look different too—bigger than you remember, calloused in a way that speaks of real work, real repetition; hands that have fixed things, steadied things, held onto moments and let others go.

What makes him devastating isn’t just his physicality, it’s also the confidence that hums just beneath the surface. He fills the room without trying to. He doesn’t rush his words—he listens. When he looks at you, it’s direct, unflinching, not hungry but curious, like he’s fully present in his own skin. It’s impossible not to feel how powerfully that pull tugs at you now.

And then there’s you.

You left this place at seventeen with your mom, half-formed and restless, all sharp edges and longing. You come back at twenty-two carrying yourself differently—your body no longer tentative, your presence no longer asking permission. You’ve grown into your own gravity. You notice it in the way people do a double take, in how the town feels smaller around you, but you really notice it when Rhett looks at you.

It’s not the polite glance adults give to kids they’ve known forever, but a pause; it’s just a second too long. His eyes linger, flick briefly away, then return as if he’s recalibrating, updating an old mental picture that no longer fits. There’s something unreadable in his expression—surprise, maybe, recognition layered with restraint. You catch him watching you when he thinks you won’t notice, his gaze thoughtful and assessing, but undeniably aware, as though he’s registering that you’re no longer a memory tied to this town, no longer someone’s kid who left with her mom.

The air shifts in those moments. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but real. You stand taller without meaning to. He straightens too, rolls his shoulders back, runs a hand through that salt-and-pepper hair like he’s suddenly conscious of it. Older looks impossibly good on him—has given him depth, gravity, heat—but what sends a quiet thrill through you is realising that he sees you differently now, too. Not as the girl you were when you left, but as the woman you’ve become.

And here you are: thrown in the mix of a late summer BBQ, the sun sitting lower but no less insistent, heavy and gold as it presses itself into everything it touches. It’s the kind of heat that doesn’t blaze so much as linger—soaks into skin, into fabric, into the slow rhythm of the afternoon. The light feels thicker now, syrupy, clinging to shoulders and collarbones, catching on glass bottles and the edge of the garden fence. The air hums with it. Warm grass underfoot, and the hiss, pop and crackle of charcoal still alive on the grill, flames licking up around food that’s halfway ready, smoke curling into the sky. Cicadas buzz somewhere unseen, their sound stretching time until each second feels unhurried, indulgent. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck, slides lazily down your spine, and you don’t bother wiping it away; the heat makes everything feel a little softer, a little more permissive.

The garden is loud with late afternoon life—the clatter of plates, your dad laughing too hard at something someone’s said. You drift through it all in your yellow floral sundress, the fabric light and familiar against your thighs, the lace at the hem catching when the breeze moves through. The back dips low, daringly so, the sun warm against bare skin you’re suddenly very aware of.

You watch the way Rhett moves—the easy roll of his shoulders, the sure grip of his hand around a beer bottle, the way his thumb rubs absently at the condensation. You see him watching you, too; quick glances that linger just past polite, a tightening of his mouth when you laugh, and slow, deliberate sweeps of his eyes when he thinks you aren’t looking.

Rhett is there before you realise he’s moved.

“Food’s ready,” he says, close enough that his voice feels meant only for you, and then his hand finds your back—not possessive, not rushed. Just a skim, a guiding pressure along the line of exposed skin, fingers warm where they settle, where they stay. The contact is casual in intent, devastating in effect. Your breath catches anyway, sharp and traitorous, as though your body has recognised him before your mind has caught up.

You walk because he guides you to, because the world hasn’t stopped even if it feels like it has. His hand doesn’t move away. If anything, it lingers, the heel of his palm resting just above your waist, thumb brushing ever so slightly as you step forward. You feel seen in a way that has nothing to do with the crowd and everything to do with him.

You turn your head. Catch his eyes.

The sunlight hits just right, glinting off the silver threaded through his hair, warming the brown of his gaze. Your lashes flutter, instinctive, and something shifts. He steps forward then, subtle and sure, placing himself between you and the glare of the afternoon. The noise dulls. The space tightens. His hand is still there, grounding, deliberate.

For a suspended moment, it’s only the two of you.

You stare at him; he stares back. No rush, no words. Just the shared understanding of standing too close, of time folding in on itself. The BBQ goes on behind you—plates clinking, voices rising—but right now, it feels like you’re the only people in the world, held in that narrow strip of shade he’s made just for you.

For a beat longer than it should last, neither of you moves.

Then something in him tightens—jaw, shoulders, resolve—and he finally pulls his hand away, the sudden absence almost louder than the noise of the garden. You notice the way he shifts his weight, the way his jeans sit differently now, strained in a way that makes heat rush low in your belly before you can stop it. His reaction is unmistakable even without being named; it’s there in the careful distance he puts between you, in the control he’s forcing back into place.

Rhett drags a hand down his face, palm scraping over beard and mouth like he’s trying to wipe the moment away. He keeps looking at you while he does it—eyes dark, conflicted, held on yours as if turning away might be harder than staying. When he finally does break the stare, it’s abrupt and deliberate.

He turns and walks off without a word.

You watch him cross the garden, shoulders set, disappearing through the back door like he needs walls around him, like he needs to be anywhere you are not. A second later you see him at the foot of the stairs through the open doorway, taking them two at a time toward the bathroom at the top.

No one else notices. They’re too busy crowding the table now, laughing, reaching for plates, relief blooming that the food is finally ready. The moment swallows the distraction whole. You slip away just as easily, unnoticed, following the same path he took—heart hammering, sundress brushing your knees—quiet as you pass through the back door and into the house, where the air feels tighter, charged, like it knows exactly what you’re doing.

The key hooks by the stairs are a collection of heavy, forgotten iron. You don’t hesitate. Your fingers find the small brass key for the spare bathroom, the one that hasn’t turned in years. The metal is cool, a shock against your fevered palm.

The stairs are a gauntlet. Each step groans under your weight, a betrayal of your stealth. At the top, the narrow hallway feels narrower. The afternoon light from the window at the far end barely reaches here, leaving the air dim and close. The door to the main bathroom is shut.

You press your back against the wall beside it. Silence at first, then not.

A low, stifled sound. A choked off groan, the kind a man makes when he’s trying to keep the world from hearing. It’s followed by a hiss, sharp and pained with pleasure. Then the sound of skin on skin, a rhythmic, wet, slick noise—faster now, urgent. A sound you know, a sound that pulls an answering heat low and liquid inside you.

And then your name. Not spoken, not called, called, but a snarl, torn from the throat, raw and frustrated and full of a want so potent it vibrates through the wood of the door.

It solidifies everything—your resolve, your curiosity, the reckless momentum that’s carried you up here—and the key slides into the lock with a quiet and quiet noise. You turn it, push the door open, and slip inside in one fluid motion.

The bathroom is small, all white tile and chrome. The window is cracked, letting in a thin ribbon of golden air and the distant hum of the party. Rhett is braced against the sink, one broad hand flat on the porcelain, the other wrapped around himself.

He’s big. Thick. The shaft is a flushed, ruddy curve in his fist, the head a swollen, darker crest, glistening. Veins stand in stark relief under the skin. His knuckles are white where he grips himself. He’s fully dressed, jeans and belt open, pushed down just enough.

He freezes.

His eyes, wide and shocked, lock onto yours in the mirror. For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. He looks exactly like a man caught in headlights, every muscle locked, his face a mask of naked shock and something else—shame, maybe, but beneath it, a flare of something hotter.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, the words ragged. His hand doesn’t move from himself. He just stares at your reflection, his chest rising and falling too fast.

You don’t leave. You push the door shut behind you. The click of the latch is deafening in the small space.

“I heard ya,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

He closes his eyes, a long, slow blink, as if trying to reset the scene. When they open again, the shock is receding, burned away by a darker, more controlled heat. His gaze drops from your face in the mirror, travels down the reflection of your body in the yellow sundress, then back up. The hunger in his look is no longer hidden; it’s laid bare, acknowledged.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he says, but his voice is gravel, lacking any real force. His thumb moves, an involuntary stroke over the slick head of his cock. A drop of fluid pearls, clings, then falls. You watch its path.

“Y’said my name.”

He lets out a rough breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah.” He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t look away.

The air in the room is thick, humid with his scent—soap, clean sweat, and something muskier, sharper. Your own breathing feels shallow. You take a step forward. The tile is cool under your bare feet.

“Why did y’run?”

“Y’know why.” His jaw works. His fist tightens, then relaxes, a slow pump that makes your stomach clench. “Look at ya. Look at… this.” He gestures weakly with his chin, at himself, at the space between you. “I’m twenty years older than ya, kid. I used to fix y’bike.”

“I’m not a kid on a bike anymore.”

“No.” The word is heavy, final. His eyes drink you in again, and this time, they don’t shy away from the low cut of your dress, the way the fabric drapes over your hips. “Y’really not.”

Another step. You’re close enough now to feel the heat radiating from him, to see the fine tremor in the arm braced against the sink. You reach out, not for him, but for the faucet. You turn it on, let cool water run over your fingers. The mundane sound is absurd, electric.

“What were ya thinking ‘bout?” You ask, watching the water spiral down the drain.

He’s silent for so long you think he won’t answer. Then, his voice is low, stripped raw. “Y’back. That dress. The way the sun caught on y’skin where my hand was. The sound y’made when I touched ya. Like a—like a gasp y’were tryin’ to swallow.” His hand moves again, a long, slow pull from base to tip. “I was thinkin’ ‘bout how y’skin would feel under my mouth right there… how you’d taste. How you’d arch into it.”

Every word is a physical touch. Your knees feel weak. You turn off the water and face him, leaning your hip against the sink counter, mirroring his stance. The space between you is maybe two feet. It feels like nothing. It feels like a canyon.

“And what else?”

His eyes blaze. “Y’want the whole fantasy?”

“Yes.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I was thinking ‘bout turnin’ you round right there in the garden. Pushin’ that pretty yellow dress up ‘round your waist, seein’ if you were as bare and smooth as you looked. Holdin’ you still while I… while I just looked. While I touched. Until you were shakin’.”

A shudder runs through you, undeniable. Your nipples tighten against the thin cotton of your dress. He sees it. His nostrils flare.

“Y’killin’ me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. He starts to move his hand again, a slow, torturous rhythm. “Y’should go back to the party.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know, kid.” He sounds resigned, agonised. “That’s the problem.”

You watch the motion of his hand, the way his foreskin slides, the wet gleam of his arousal. Your own body is responding, a throbbing ache building between your legs, a slick heat you can feel gathering. You want to touch him. You want him to touch you.

“Let me,” you say, the words out before you can stop them.

His rhythm stutters. “Let you what?”

“Help.”

He shakes his head, a sharp, pained movement. “No. This is—this is bad enough. You seein’ this. Me bein’… like this because of ya.”

“Because of me,” you repeat, and it’s not a question—it’s a claiming. You move then, closing the last of the distance. You don’t reach for his cock. Instead, you place your hand over his on the sink. His skin is hot, the bones of his knuckles prominent under your palm. You lean in, your lips beside his ear. “Then let me be part of it.”

You feel the full body tremor that goes through him. A low groan rumbles in his chest. His free hand comes up, cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. Not pushing you away. Holding you there.

“Look at me,” he rasps.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. The blue is almost black, his pupils blown wide. The silver in his beard glints in the low light. There’s no more conflict there, just a desperate, burning want.

“Y’sure?” The question is gritted out, each word strained.

In answer, you guide his hand from the sink, bringing it between you. You press his palm flat against your lower belly, over the soft yellow cotton. His hand is huge, warm, heavy. You hold it there, letting him feel the heat of you, the quick rise and fall of your breath.

A sound escapes him—part surrender, part triumph. His other hand, the one still wrapped around himself, goes still. He releases himself, and his now-free hand comes up to frame your face. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, a touch so tender it makes your throat tighten.

“Okay,” he breathes, and it’s the only permission you need.

He kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s a collision. His mouth is hot and demanding, his beard a rough, delicious friction against your skin. He tastes of beer and summer and a darker, more essential flavour that is just him. You open for him immediately, a moan trapped in your throat as his tongue slides against yours. The kiss is deep, consuming, a claiming that’s been pent up for years. One of his hands stays tangled in your hair, angling your head to take more of him, while the other slides from your belly to your lower back, pulling you flush against him.

You feel the hard, hot length of him press against your stomach, separated only by thin layers of fabric. The shock of it—the reality of his size, his arousal—sends a fresh wave of liquid heat pooling low in your belly. You whimper into his mouth, your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. The cotton of his shirt is soft under your fingers, but the muscle beneath is iron-hard.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours. “Fuck,” he whispers, the word ragged. “I’ve thought about that. So many times.”

“Me too,” you gasp.

His hands move to the thin straps of your sundress. He hooks a finger under one, then the other, and slides them down your arms. The top of the dress loosens, the bodice gaping. He doesn’t pull it down, not yet. He just looks, his gaze dropping to the swells of your breasts above the line of your dress, to the hint of lace from your bra.

“Pretty li’l thing,” he murmurs. He leans down, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat. He kisses the spot, then licks a slow, hot path up the column of your neck. Your head falls back, giving him better access. His teeth graze your pulse point, and you cry out, a short, sharp sound.

“Shh,” he soothes against your skin, but there’s no real caution in it. He’s unravelling you, and he knows it.

His hands find the zipper at the side of your dress. He pulls it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric loosens. He pushes it down over your shoulders, letting it pool at your waist, held up by your hips. You’re standing in your bra and panties now, the afternoon light from the high window painting your skin in gold.

He just looks. His gaze is a physical weight, travelling over every inch of you—the curve of your breasts in the lace cup, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips. His expression is one of pure, reverent hunger.

“Jesus,” he breathes again. He reaches out, his calloused fingers tracing the lace edge of your bra. He doesn’t unhook it. He just strokes the satin trim, his touch feather light, making your skin prickle with goosebumps.

Then his hands settle on your hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the line of your panties. “These are a problem,” he says, his voice thick.

“They are?”

“They’re in my way.”

He hooks his thumbs into the lace waistband. He doesn’t pull them down. He just holds them, his gaze locked on yours, asking a silent question. You nod, a quick, desperate movement.

Slowly, so slowly, he slides the lace down your hips, over your thighs, letting them fall to the floor around your ankles. The cool air of the bathroom kisses your exposed skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his look.

He steps back, just half a step, his eyes drinking in the sight of you completely bare from the waist down. His breath leaves him in a rush. “Look at ya,” he says, almost to himself.

You feel exposed, vulnerable, and utterly aroused. A flush spreads across your chest, climbs your neck. You want to cover yourself, but you also want him to look forever.

He drops to his knees.

The sight is almost too much. Rhett, this solid, steady man, on his knees on the white bathroom tile in front of you. He places his hands on your bare hips, his touch firm, anchoring. He leans forward, and for one heart-stopping moment, you think he’s going to put his mouth on you. But he doesn’t. He presses his forehead against your lower belly, right above the neat thatch of hair. He just stays there, breathing you in, his warm breath fanning over your most sensitive skin.

A helpless sound escapes you. Your hands come down to his head, your fingers sinking into the thick, silver-streaked hair. It’s softer than you imagined.

“Rhett,” you whisper.

He lifts his head. His eyes are glazed, his lips parted. “I want to taste ya,” he says, the words raw and honest. “I want to feel ya come on my tongue. But if I start, I ain’t gonna stop…”

The denial is a physical ache. You nod, understanding, even as your body screams in protest.

“Then touch me,” you plead. “Please.”

A groan rips from him. He nods, once. He leans in again, but this time, he turns his head, nuzzling the inside of your thigh. His beard is a rough, incredible scratch against the tender skin. He places an open-mouthed kiss high on your inner thigh, his lips hot. Then another, closer. His breath is so close to where you need him.

One of his hands leaves your hip. You feel his fingers brush through your curls, a gentle, exploring touch. Then a single, broad fingertip strokes down your centre, through your slick folds.

You jolt, a gasp tearing from your throat. You’re soaked, drenched for him, and the proof is on his finger. He brings it to his lips, his eyes holding yours, and sucks it clean. His eyes flutter closed for a second, a look of pure pleasure crossing his face.

“Sweet,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ sweet f’me.”

He returns his hand to you, this time with purpose. He parts you with two fingers, exposing the swollen, needy flesh beneath. You can feel the cool air on your most intimate parts, a shocking contrast to the heat building inside. He just looks, his gaze intense, studying you.

“So pretty here,” he says, his voice rough with wonder. “All pink and swollen f’me.” His thumb finds your clit, circling the hard, sensitive nub once, lightly. A bolt of pure pleasure shoots through you, making your legs buckle. His hands on your hips steady you.

“Easy, girl,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice now, a dark, possessive pleasure.

He begins to touch you in earnest then, his touch both expert and reverent. His thumb rubs slow, firm circles over your clit, while two fingers of his other hand slide through your slickness, gathering your arousal, spreading it, teasing your entrance. He doesn’t push inside. He just plays, exploring the shape of you, the give of your outer lips, the flutter of your inner ones, the hard pearl of your clit under his thumb.

“Y’so responsive,” he murmurs, watching your face. “Every little touch… I can see it on ya.”

You can’t speak. Your world has narrowed to the points of contact: his hands on you, the tile cold under your feet, the ragged sound of both your breathing. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, rocking into his touch, seeking more pressure, more friction.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice a low rumble. “Take what y’need from me.”

His fingers slide lower, through your slick heat, and press against your perineum, the sensitive patch of skin between your entrance and your back hole. The pressure there, combined with the relentless circles on your clit, sends sparks shooting up your spine. Your moans are coming freely now, little broken sounds you don’t try to stifle.

“I can feel y’getting tighter,” he says, his own breathing growing ragged. “Are y’close? Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let me see y’come.”

The endearment, the rough command in his voice, is what pushes you over. The coil in your belly snaps. Pleasure erupts, not in a wave but in a sharp, stunning burst, radiating out from your core, turning your limbs to liquid fire. You cry out, your hands clenching in his hair, your back arching as the sensations rip through you.

He keeps his thumb moving, gentling the pressure as you pulse around nothing, your inner muscles clenching and releasing in empty, aching waves. He guides you through it, his touch unwavering, until the last shudder passes and you sag, boneless, against the sink counter.

He stands up slowly, his knees cracking. He’s still painfully hard, his cock hanging out in the sweat-slick air, ruddy and leaking at the tip. He pulls you against him, your bare skin meeting the rough denim of his jeans. He holds you as you tremble, his face buried in your hair.

“Okay?” He asks, his voice muffled.

You can only nod against his chest.

He holds you for a long moment, both of you breathing heavily in the quiet bathroom. The sounds of the BBQ are still a distant murmur. Finally, he pulls back, his hands cupping your face. He kisses you again, softer this time, a slow, dragging kiss that tastes of you and him and shared secrets.

Your hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, slides down his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach covered by his thin white t-shirt. You don't look away from his eyes as your fingers trail lower through the coarse hair until you find the thick, hot length of him. You wrap your hand around his cock, your fingers not quite meeting around his girth, and he stands perfectly still, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth. His eyes lock on yours, dark and blazing. The skin is like hot velvet over steel, the prominent vein along the underside pulsing against your palm. You give him an experimental pump, your hand sliding easily through the slickness already gathered there.

“Christ,” he groans, his head dropping forward to rest against yours.

You tilt your hips forward, letting the swollen, slick head of his cock slide against your sensitive, swollen clit. The contact is immediate and overwhelming—a jolt of sensation that is almost too much after the intensity of your release. You let out a quick, choked moan at the slight overstimulation.

Rhett grits his teeth and hisses low between them, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, the word strained. “That’s it. Touch my cock, y’sweet li’l thing.”

You pump him, your fist moving in a slow, tight rhythm. His pre-cum is already a steady stream, coating your hand, making your movements slick and loud. It drips from your knuckles onto the white tile floor, some trickling onto the laced hem of your skirt. You watch his face as you work him—the clench of his jaw, the flutter of his eyelids, the way his mouth falls open on ragged breaths.

His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slip under your thighs. In one smooth, effortless motion, he hikes you up onto the edge of the sink counter. The porcelain is cold against your bare skin. He fits himself between your spread thighs, his body crowding you back against the mirror.

Now he’s pressed up against you, his cock sliding easily through your drenched folds, the broad, smooth head catching and dragging over you with every slight shift of his hips. The tip of him bumps against your entrance—not pushing, just teasing; a maddening, perfect pressure.

You buck your hips forward, seeking more, and he slips in.

Just the tip. Just that first, thick, stretching inch. But it was enough—enough to make you cry out, a sound of shock and sheer, overwhelming sensation. It’s a deep, filling pressure you didn’t even known you needed. You flutter wildly around the head of his cock, trying to sick him in. Rhett freezes, and a low, guttural sound tears from his chest. His hands tighten on your thighs, his fingers biting into your flesh. His eyes are squeezed shut, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding still.

“Jesus, kid,” he huffs out, the words shattered. “Y’feel… God, y’feel…”

He doesn’t finish; he doesn’t have to. You can see it on his face—the agonizing pleasure, the battle for control. You’re stretched around him, so full already from the tip; you can feel the throb of his heartbeat in the part of him buried inside you.

Slowly, so slowly it’s torture, he pulls back, the slick length of him dragging against your inner walls. The head of his cock pops free, and you both gasp at the loss. He presses forward again, just that same inch, seating himself once more inside of you.

“Just—just there,” he pants, his forehead damp with sweat. “Christ, just like that.”

He begins a shallow, rocking motion, sliding that first thick inch in and out of you. Each tiny retreat is a sweet loss; each return is a shock of filling pressure. Your hands scrabble at his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt. Your hips rise to meet each minuscule thrust, your body begging for more even as your mind swims with how delirious Rhett is making you.

The air in the small room is thick with the scent of sex—your arousal, his musk, the clean, sharp smell of his sweat. The only sounds are the wet, slick slide of his cock against your folds, the ragged symphony of your breathing, and the soft, helpless sounds you can barely hold back.

“Look at me,” he demands, his voice rough.

You force your eyes open, meeting his burning gaze, feral and possessive. He holds it as he rocks into you, that shallow, maddening rhythm never speeding up, never deepening.

“This is mine,” he growls, each word punctuated by a soft, slick push. “This heat. This tight, sweet li’l—fuck—this is all f’me. Isn’t it?”

You can’t speak. You can only nod, your vision blurring at the edges.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp out, “all yours, Rhett.”

He lets out a quiet, disappointed noise, tutting at you. “That ain’t what y’call me at night, ain’t it?” A slightly deeper thrust has you arching your back so sharply that you hit the back of your head against the mirror. “When y’got those fingers in this tight cunt, thinkin’ ‘bout me when y’come—what do y’call me, sweet thing?”

Your eyes roll back, jaw dropping open, a shudder running through your body. You clench tight around his cock, your slick dripping onto the counter below, the sounds obscene as Rhett starts pushing deeper and deeper inside you.

“Daddy—” You’re cut off as Rhett bottoms out, pressed in to the hilt inside of you, his balls slick against your ass and his thick, coarse hair catching on your clit. “All yours, daddy. It’s all yours. Ain’t nobody else I want in me.”

A ragged groan is his only answer. The shallow, teasing rocks are gone. Now, he pulls back, almost all the way out, until just the flared head remains, stretching your entrance. Then he pushes back in, a slow, relentless piston.

Each thrust is a deliberate, measured conquest. He sinks into you with a force that punches the air from your lungs, replacing it with a whip sharp whine you don’t recognise as your own voice. Your back is pressed against the mirror, your hands flat against the cool glass for purchase that isn’t there. Your breasts, still confined in your summer dress, bounce with the heavy, rhythmic impact of his body against yours.

There is no gentleness in this; it’s a claiming. Each drive of his hips grinds the hard plane of his pelvis against your clit, sending shock waves of blunt, building pleasure radiating outwards. You can feel every inch of him—the slight upward curve of his shaft rubbing a blissful, internal path, the swollen crown nudging a deep, sweet spot that makes you see stars. Your inner walls cling to him, gripping and releasing with each retreat, as if trying to keep him buried inside you forever.

“That’s it,” he grunts, his voice strained, sweat now plastering his shirt to the broad expanse of his back. “Take it. Take all of it. F’me.”

You’re babbling, a stream of broken pleas and affirmations. “Daddy, yes… please, more…” The words mean nothing and everything. Your legs, hooked around his hips, your heels digging into the muscle of his thighs, begin to shake. A coil of unbearable tension winds tighter and tighter in your core, a spring compressed to its breaking point. The visual of it is seared into your mind—the way his powerful hips work, the flex of his ass under denim, the glimpse of your joined bodies, slick and moving as one.

The orgasm doesn’t crest; it detonates.

It starts as a deep, internal clench, a ripple that becomes a quake. Your vision bleaches out, pure white static. A choked scream is locked in your throat as your body bows, taut like a bowline, held only by his iron grip on you. You feel a warm, sudden gush—not much, just a hint of release that slicks his next thrust—mixing with the wetness already there.

Your legs are trembling violently, your entire body twitching with the aftershocks. You go limp, your forehead dropping to his sweat damp shoulder, your breaths coming in ragged, wet sobs against his neck. You are boneless, spent, floating in a haze of shattered sensation.

Rhett pumps into you two, three more times, his rhythm faltering, his control utterly gone. On the fourth, he pushes in until the tip of him is pressed so deep inside you that you lose the boundary between your bodies; you don’t know where you end and he begins. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, a raw, animal sound tearing from him, teeth at the hinge of your jaw.

You feel it, the hot, sudden pulse deep inside, a thick spurt of heat that makes you gasp against his skin. His cock jerks and twitches within you, each violent throb accompanied by another scalding rush. It goes on and on, until you feel impossibly full, until the combined juices of your orgasm and his own begin to seep around his thick cock still buried within you, a warm trickle down your sensitive flesh onto the counter beneath you.

For a long moment he stays there, lodged inside you, his weight heavy and comforting, his breaths hot and ragged against your throat. The only sound is the drip of the faucet and the slowing hammer of his heart against your chest.

Then, with infinite care, he pulls out.

The sensation is a slow and slick, an empty drag that leaves you feeling hollowed out and profoundly used. You whimper at the loss, at the cool air hitting your overheated, soaked skin.

Rhett doesn’t pull away. Instead, he sinks back down, his knees hitting the tile floor with a soft thud. His hands, still rough but impossibly gentle now, spread your thighs wider where they dangle off the counter. His eyes, dark and sated but still blazing with a possessive fire, lock onto the mess he’s made of you.

You can’t look away. You watch, mesmerised, as he lowers his head.

His tongue, broad and hot, swipes through the mingled fluids leaking from you. A low, appreciative hum vibrates against you. He licks with a focused, thorough intensity, cleaning the streaks from your inner thighs, lapping up the combined taste of you and him from your swollen, puffy lips. Each pass of his tongue is both soothing and shockingly erotic, a tender reverence that contrasts violently with the pounding possession of moments before. He nudges his tongue against your still throbbing entrance, drinking deeply, until you’re quivering again, until you’re slick only with his spit.

He pulls back, his chin glistening. His gaze meets yours, and a slow, utterly satisfied smile touches his lips—a rare, unguarded expression that makes your heart clench.

“Mine,” he says again, his voice a hoarse whisper, as if tasting the truth of it.

“Yeah. All yours.” You breathe out, skin flushed with heat and sweat. Slowly, the noise and bustle of the BBQ outside trickles back in, and Rhett stands once more. He leans in to kiss you. It’s short and sweet, somewhat shy where he wasn’t not even a minute ago.

When he breaks the kiss, his expression is serious, conflicted again. “We can’t stay in here.”

You know he’s right. The world is right outside the door. You nod, stepping back shakily. You bend to retrieve your panties, your movements clumsy. He watches you dress, his eyes dark, his own need a palpable presence in the small room.

You straighten your dress, your fingers fumbling with the zipper. He reaches out and does it for you, his hands steady and sure, his knuckles brushing your spine. The touch sends a fresh shiver through you.

He tucks himself back into his jeans, doing up the fly with a wince. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to restore some order.

You look at each other in the mirror. You’re both flushed, dishevelled, marked by what just happened. The woman staring back at you looks different—softer around the edges, her eyes brighter, her lips swollen.

Rhett reaches past you, turns on the cold water, and splashes his face. He grabs a hand towel, dries off, then offers it to you. You press the cool cloth to your own heated skin.

“We go out separate,” he says, his voice back to its normal, low timbre, though it’s still rough around the edges. “Y’go first. I’ll clean up here, then I’ll come on down.”

You nod. It feels clandestine, dangerous. Exciting.

He steps close to you one last time, his hand on your arm. “This ain’t over,” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s a promise.

You believe him. You turn, your hand on the doorknob, and look back. He’s leaning against the sink again, but now he looks more in control, the storm inside him banked for now. His eyes meet yours.