Most of my works contain dark themes or triggering topics. Most of them also have happy endings or humor. Read all the warnings on each chapter. Do not repost or translate my works on any other site. đ All works are 18+Â
When Peter listens to a voicemail from you after a fight, the sounds are almost unintelligible and chill him to the bone.
ties that bind [oneshot] â¤ď¸â𩹠đ
âYou were helpless again. But you were also safe. Vulnerable and protected. Impenetrable and wide open.â Reader ponders the dichotomy of being set free and held captive by Peter's brand of saving. Roommates to lovers, non-graphic depictions of smut.
đŚ dark!peter play series - peter x f!reader cnc character study đđâď¸đś
MATURE THEMES/SENSITIVE TOPICS. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
part one: the devil you know | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5Â
Your intimate relationship with your boyfriend Peter and your own mental health begin to struggle, sending you into a toxic downward spiral.
part two: inner demons | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
Peter deals with the repercussions of discovering his dark side.
drabbles
"hungry" mob!peter picture blurb âď¸
đŚ "your secret is safe with me" - workplace rival!peter 1 | 2 đś đ
đŚ"picture perfect moment" - groom!Peter on your wedding day đŹ
"sweat" yoga instructor!peter picture blurb đś
OTHER:
[Agent Mobius x F!Reader]
shudder | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 [complete; villain! TVA Recruit Reader] âď¸âď¸â¤ď¸âđŠšđś
âThere was no question in anyoneâs mind that you were lethal. That was part of Mobiusâ plan." Enemies to Lovers. 5+1 format - a little bit of fluff, lots of pining, smut at the end.
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Please have a moment of silence for the people who were killed instead of freed when news of emancipation finally reached the furthest corners of the american south.
have another moment for the ledgers, catalogs, and records that were burned and the homes that were destroyed to hide the presence of very much alive and still enslaved people on dozens of plantations and homesteads across the south for decades after emancipation.
and have a third moment for those who were hunted and killed while fleeing the south to find safety across the border, overseas, in the north and to the west.
black people. light a candle, write a note to those who have passed telling them what you have achieved in spite of the racist and intolerant conditions of this world, feel the warmth of the flame under your hand, say a prayer of rememberance if you are religious, place the note under the candle, and then blow it out.
if you have children, sit them down and tell them anything you know about the life of oldest black person you've ever met. it doesn't have to be your own family. tell them what you know about what life was like for us in the days, years, decades after emancipation. if you don't know much, look it up and learn about it together.
This is Juneteenth.
white people CAN interact with this post. share it, spread it.
Warnings: Eventual Smut, Pining, Slow Burn, Stalking, Murder, Violence, Mentions of Drugs and Alcohol, Geographical Inaccuracies, Other Bad Stuff Probably
- Part 3 Here -
âââââââââââ
June:
âThanks for letting me and the dogs stay over, I know itâs silly.â 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.
âIt was my idea, you really donât have to thank me. Iâd feel better with you here too, or Iâll just be up worrying about you all night.â
You rubbed your eyes tiredly, nodding at him with your best smile, âI appreciate it, I donât think Iâll get any sleep at home otherwise.â
âCome on, Iâll get you set up upstairs.â Bob picked up your bag, which housed pyjamas, a change of clothes, a toothbrush and some makeup for work tomorrow, so you didnât 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, âBob, please, Iâm fine on the couch, I donât want the dogs in your nice hairless bed either. Just grab me a blanket and Iâll be out of your hair.â
Bob turned with a raised eyebrow, squeezing your hand lightly, âIf you think Iâm letting you sleep on the couch, you clearly donât know me very well.â
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.
âWow you make me look like a hoarder, Bob.â You joked, looking around the sparse bedroom.
Bob chuckled, stopping to stand just next to you, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
âYeah I moved in about a month before you did, most of my stuff is still boxed up in the spare bedroom. I havenât had much need to make it homey yet.â
You turned your head to look at him curiously, âYet?â You raised your eyebrow playfully.
Bobs cheeks burnt bright red as he tried to hold back a smile, âWell all I mean is, itâs just me here. And I havenât got a decorative bone in my body, soâŚâ
You grinned in amusement, you loved it when Bob got flustered around you. âI just so happen to love decorating, so⌠just say the word.â
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 werenât you wouldnât 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, âIâll⌠uh, leave you to get ready for bed. Can I get you a water or tea?â
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 youâd 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.
âCome in.â 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 didnât seem to care. âHey, just making sure you donât need anything before I head to sleep?â
âIâm fine, thank you Bob, really. You really donât need to go through all the trouble you have for me.â
Bob gave you a soft, sincere smile, his eyes displaying an emotion you couldnât quite name, âI would do a lot more for you than you realise, Y/N. Goodnight.â
You smiled back at him, your body forcing a deep breath at the sense of relief and safety you felt suddenly, âGoodnight Bob.â
âââââââââââââ
- 7 Months Earlier -
As the days passed, bound by itchy rope to yours and Jordanâs 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. Heâd texted your work, telling them youâd had a bereavement and needed some time off, to which theyâd offered there sincerest condolences and told you to take as long as you needed. Heâd 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.
âI killed her in a blind rage, I was drunk, I buried her myself, and burned the shovels. My fiancĂŠ had nothing to do with it.â You repeated monotonously for what felt like the thousandth time to Mitch on one of his daily visits.
âGood. A few more days, then weâll see where weâre at.â 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 didnât 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. âHow are you feeling?â He asked sheepishly.
You didnât answer, staring bitterly at the wall ahead of you.
âBabe, please talk to me. I know it was a mistake, I forgive you, itâs all going to be okay and we can move on from this.â 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.
âI need to go to the toilet.â You mumbled, tugging at the rope that was quickly making your skin raw just to scratch the incessant itch it gave you.
âYeah, okay.â Jordan nodded, untying you rope by rope.
You knew the drill by now. Donât struggle or youâll get knocked the fuck out again, let him take you by the arm, youâll pee, heâll stand with his back turned. Any commotion, trying to climb out the window or escape it anyway, and heâll 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.
Youâd 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.
âBefore 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?â 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.
âIâll be back in a little while.â He said as he stopped by the bedroom door. âI love you.â
You felt the nausea building, and you gulped it back. You forced a smile, âYou too.â
âââââââââââââ
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 couldnât stop thinking. Thinking about the past, thinking about your Watcher, thinking about Bob.
Bob, who was just downstairs, so close you could justâŚ
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 toeâd 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 couldnât 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. âBob.â You whispered softly.
His eyes fluttered open, and he was suddenly alert, propping himself up on his other arm. âHey, whatâs happening?â He reached for his glasses on the coffee table, but you stopped him.
âNo nothing, Iâm sorry to wake you, I justâŚâ you didnât really know why you were waking him, and you suddenly felt guilty. âSorry.â
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 Bobâs warmth immediately soothed you. You couldnât help the pull you felt around him, it was magnetic.
âYou wanna talk about it, or do you just need some company?â He asked gently, his voice raspy with sleep.
âJust company.â You admitted.
Bob smiled, nodding without another word.
You didnât 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 werenât 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.
âY/N?â Bob hummed, perhaps sensing the shift. âAre you okay?â
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. âTalk to me.â
But you couldnât. You couldnât 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 didnât 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. âIs this a bad idea?â
He shook his head vehemently, âIâve wanted you since the moment you moved here.â
You grinned, eyes still pressed closed as you stroked his cheek softly. âReally?â
Bob chuckled low, nodding again, âYeah, of course I have⌠Thatâs why Iâve been watching you.â
Your body ran ice cold, and your eyes shot open as you sat up slowly. âWhat did you say?â
But the face staring back up at you wasnât Bobâs at all. It was Danâs.
You woke with a start, nearly falling out of Bobâs bed. Your heart hammering in your chest.
It was still dark out, Bobâs 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 wasnât 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. âThirsty?â He asked, moving over to a cabinet and pulling a glass out.
âAh, the one place I didnât check.â You chided yourself awkwardly.
Bob grinned in amusement and walked over to give you the glass. âCouldnât sleep?â
You shook your head, filling the glass with water. âNightmare.â
Bob stood next to you with his back pressed against the counter, arms crossed, âWanna talk about it?â
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.
âOkay.â Bob nodded, giving you a soft, understanding smile. âWell 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 Iâm at work.â He ran a hand through his hair casually, but you could tell he was nervous suggesting this.
âOh, Bob, no you really donât have to. Iâve imposed enough, stealing your bed, waking you up at 4am-â you grimaced.
âItâs no imposition, Y/N, I like having you here.â
You smiled at him, mirroring his position with your back up against the counter. âI guess the world really does still make good people, huh?â You teased.
âSomething like that.â He grinned.
ââââââââââââ
- 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 heâd 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 wasnât 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 couldnât understand why, you clearly werenât naked, and they obviously didnât care about your privacy anyway. Jordan entered with a bowl of lukewarm baked beans.
âYou hungry?â 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 didnât 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 couldnât tell how nervous you were, heart thudding so hard you thought you might throw up a puddle of beans.
âYeah, make it quick though, dad needs to speak to me before he leaves.â
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 wouldnât 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 didnât 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 wouldnât 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.
âYou need anything else?â He asked, not making eye contact, his gaze just to the side.
âNo, thank you.â
Without another word, Jordan left the room.
Suddenly you were paralysed with fear. You waited, god knows how long, but you waited. Listening, hoping youâd hear Jordanâs bedroom door close, but that didnât 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.
Warnings: Eventual Smut, Pining, Slow Burn, Stalking, Murder, Violence, Mentions of Drugs and Alcohol, Geographical Inaccuracies, Other Bad Stuff Probably
- Part 2 Here -
âââââââââââ
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 youâd put on a movie that youâd take in turns to pick.
On Saturdays youâd do your own thing, and on Sundays youâd meet up to do something fun. Sometimes it was the cinema, sometimes the bowling alley, sometimes youâd 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 wasnât about to open up about. You wouldnât 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 didnât 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.
âCanât believe youâve never seen this movie.â You laughed, popping another chip into your mouth, and washing it down with a sip of beer.
You grimaced, Bobâs taste in beer wasnât great.
âScary movies have never appealed to me, I feel like Iâm gonna scream and embarrass myself in front of you.â 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, âYou couldnât if you tried, Floyd, no one is more embarrassing than I.â
He looked adorable tonight. Heâd 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 couldnât breathe.
You paused the movie and got up abruptly. âIâm gonna grab another beer, you want one?â 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.
âUhhh⌠yeah, please. Hey are you okay?â He asked, getting up and walking around the sofa to follow you. Until now, youâd always been as cool as a cucumber, in Bobâs own words.
âYeah Iâm fine.â You mumbled, pulling the fridge open.
You werenât 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 didnât 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.
âHey, Y/N-â his fingers found the back of your arm, touching you so softly you almost didnât feel it, âWhatâs going on?â
You pulled away with a deep breath and pressed your back up against the counter. âI justâŚIâŚâ
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.
âY/NâŚâ he said gently, moving closer but careful not to touch you. âDid I do something?â
You shook your head, but the tears were already spilling over and you just prayed Bob couldnât see them.
His hand lifted cautiously, but when you didnât flinch or pull away, he cupped your cheek and brushed away a tear with his thumb.
You couldnât help but lean into his touch, but you knew deep down that this was a bad idea. You werenât sure youâd ever be ready for something like this again.
âItâs not you Bob.â 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. âThen tell me whatâs wrong so I can make it better.â He said in a low voice you hadnât heard him make before.
You trembled slightly, and clutched Bobâs t-shirt to ground yourself. Your fingers brushed his bare torso and you felt him shiver.
âI⌠I canât.â 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. âYou can tell me anything, Y/N.â
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.
âI think I need to go to bed.â 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 hadnât hugged Bob before. Youâd always kept a comfortable distance, but this was⌠nice.
âCall me whenever, okay? I donât care what time of day or night it is, just call.â Bob mumbled into your hair.
You nodded, and Bob left, and you stood in your living room feeling awash with pain and regret.
ââââââââââââ
- 9 Months Earlier -
Your eyes were blurry as you opened them, blinking tiredly to try and clear them. You couldnât remember what day it was, and you didnât 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?
âSheâs awake.â Jordanâs voice floated in from your left, but it didnât 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. âJordan?â You squeaked.
âIâm here, Iâm here, shhh.â Jordanâs face came into view, as he crouched in front of you, his hands cupping yours. You tried to reach for him, but your hands wouldnât 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.
âWhatâs⌠whatâs happening?â You wept, your head only throbbing more and adding to the panic and confusion.
âListen to me, babe. This is for your own safety right now, okay?â He said slowly, like he was talking to a 2 year old.
âWhat do you⌠I donât understand.â
Mitch stepped into view, arms crossed and looking down at you disapprovingly. âYou did something very bad, Y/N.â
âI donât understand.â You repeated, dizzy, your heart ratcheting and threatening to burst through your chest.
Jordanâs friends peaked their head into the kitchen, and suddenly you started to remember snipets.
âWhereâs Lainey?â You asked, suddenly aware you werenât meant to be here.
âWe sent her home, told her youâd had too much to drink and you werenât feeling well.â 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.
âY/N, do you remember what happened last night?â
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.
âWell⌠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.â Mitch said matter of factly, âNo one could pull you off of her, it was like some⌠inhuman strength. Alcohol and anger are a potent combo.â
You werenât able to process what he was saying, and you shook your head, âSorry?â
âYou took the life of some poor girl, all over petty jealousy.â
You shook your head again, vehemently, which only worsened your pain, âNo, no I wouldnât. I would never, I-â
âDonât worry, Y/N. We took care of it, and we will keep your secret for you. Weâre family after all, thatâs what family do.â
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 werenât sure.
Your eyes jumped back up from Mitch to Jordan, whoâs eyes were downcast, guilty, to his friends who had their hands in their pockets and stared down at the kitchen tile.
âWhy am I tied up?â You asked in a state of shock.
âWe thought it best for now, until we know youâre not a danger to yourself or others anymore.â Mitch said, rising from his seat.
âPlease, let me out of this⌠thisâŚâ you begged, words failing you.
âJust a little while longer, until your head clears. Come on Jordan, we have work to do.â
And they all left you alone, stranded and tied up in your own kitchen to think about what you had done, and what you didnât remember, in the place you once felt safest but was now your prison.
âââââââââââââââ
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. Youâd 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 couldnât stop playing your past over and over in your head, and comparing everything to Bob.
Would he be your salvation, or your downfall? You werenât 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 âgood morningâ from time to time.
You were relieved he hadnât tried to make plans with you again, but you did feel guilty for the way youâd bristled when he was near, probably very openly too.
You walked into work that Thursday, Starbucks in hand, and traipsed straight over to Danâs desk.
You placed the coffee down, and Dan looked at it, and then you, confused and surprised.
âHey.â You said awkwardly. âI just wanted to apologise.â
Dan straightened in his seat and turned to face you fully, âWhat for?â
You cleared your throat, âYou were just trying to be friendly, and I think I was a bit rude. Itâs all been a bit overwhelming lately but I could have handled it better, so Iâm sorry. I didnât know what you drank but I hope a cappuccino is okay.â
Dan smiled up at you, a genuine smile instead of the overly practiced plastic one he usually donned. âYou have nothing to be sorry for, but I appreciate it.â
You smiled at him and nodded, âConsider it thanks for the ride all those weeks ago.â
He smiled and nodded back in thanks, and you headed back to your desk.
Dans eyes darkened the moment you turned, his smile falling, âDonât mention it.â
Your work day flew by, and although you felt less guilty having apologised, you still didnât 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 didnât move, they just stood there and stared for what felt like forever.
Your dogs didnât bark, whether they were just too tired, or maybe they didnât notice him so far away, but they just sat by your side, panting happily into the quickly darkening evening air.
âHello?â You called out, voice shaky.
The figure didnât 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.
âIâm calling the cops!â 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 didnât 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 couldnât 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 didnât 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 wouldnât 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 youâd 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 thereâŚ
And then a sharp knocking sounded downstairs, and you jumped out of your skin, letting out the strangled scream youâd 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.
âWoah woah! Whatâs going on? I was worried about you and then I heard you screaming, are you okay? Are you hurt?â He pulled you back gently and looked you over, making sure there were no obvious injuries, before he pulled you back and held you.
âSomeone⌠someoneâs in the house.â You wept, clutching onto Bob like if you let go, youâd 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.
âWhat? What do you mean?â
âIn the bathroom, heâs inside.â You sobbed against his chest.
âStay here.â Bob instructed, concern etched into his face as he steadied you on the front porch and walked inside carefully.
âBob, no!â You called out hoarsely, but heâd already disappeared inside the darkness of the house. You couldnât 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.
âAll clear sweetheart, thereâs nobody in there.â He said softly.
You met his eyes with surprise, âAre you sure?â The pet name hadnât gone unnoticed, but you were too shaken to properly revel in it.
Bob nodded, cupping your cheek in his large, warm hand. âPositive. Are you okay?â
He wasnât condescending, he was worried, and it only made you want to cry more.
âThere was a man at the dog park today, he was just⌠watching me. And Iâve had this overwhelming feeling that someone has been here, outside just staring in.â
Bob nodded, âWant to come and check the house again with me there?â
You took a deep breath in and steadied yourself, before taking Bob to the main bathroom.
âThis is where I thought I saw him.â
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.
âWas it this maybe?â
You groaned, covering your face with your hands in embarrassment. âOh my god, Iâm so sorry.â
Bob crossed over and pulled you into him, wrapping his strong arms around you.
âItâs okay.â He hushed you, stroking your hair. âItâs all going to be okay.â
âââââââââââââ
- Part 4 Coming Soon -
Authors note: Iâd LOVE to know who you guys are imagining as Danđ in my head he looks like Jacob Elordi, go figure!
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summary: the only thing worse than seeing your best friendâs brother again is being snowed in with himâ and your unresolved feelings.
or, you and bob floyd might not hate each other as much as you think
warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, ex-academic rivals, best friendâs brother trope, a touch of angst, smut, forced proximity, hurt/comfort & found family if you squint, winter wedding, oc of bobâs sister, bob is sassy, everyone knows theyâre in love but them, slight backstory on readerâs home life, mention of financial insecurity, alcohol, language, lots of soft romance & fluff, plot is basically just 30k words of foreplay
word count: 53k (iâm so sorry) â ao3, masterlist â playlist
authorâs note: i had a blast writing this for the lovely @lewmagoo holiday event & hope i did my prompt some justice ! i feel like thereâs a severe lack of etl for our favorite fly boyâand while some of it may be a little oocâi couldnât resist putting this spin on him. this is my first crack at smut, too, so iâm so sorry if it sucks lol. i know this is incredibly late, i unfortunately had a family emergency over the holidays, but i couldnât wait until next year to share this one. itâs technically still winterâ thatâs my excuse. anyway, it was good to have an indulgent little snowy wonderland to get lost in. i hope it can do that for you, too xx thank you for reading, ik itâs a big one !
Your heartbeat kicks as you wind up the hillâ An ornate, tall, ivory building slipping into view between strips of bare branches and amber-glowing antique street lamps.
Thereâd been a speech, a pep-talk, an inner monologue, all running wild through your head the closer you came to this moment.Â
And yet, somehow, nothing couldâve prepared you for the rush of adrenaline and symphony of deafening, conflicting reminders clashing behind your skull when it finally arrives.Â
The nerves sit like a lump in your throatâ An unshakable, persistent reminder this wasnât nothing like you tried to tell yourself it was.Â
No, of course this wasnât nothing. This was your best friendâs wedding, for Godâs sake.Â
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.Â
It wasnât the reason your pulse was concerningly erratic, your lip caught between your teeth, your stomach in knots so long it forgot any other form.Â
Not at all.Â
Truthfully, you couldnât 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 venueâ Already busting at the seams with warm joy and soft smiles like a heartbeat in the cold.Â
But if you were being honest, it didnât help that her past was tied to yours. It didnât help that celebrating joining her new life and memories with old was bound to dig up yours.Â
And it certainly didnât help that she was related to the very person you loathe.Â
Actually, loathe was putting it nicely. Youâd be more than happy to go the rest of your life never seeing Bob Floyd again.Â
Or at least you had yourself convinced of that. Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
Donât pay him any attention. This weekend isnât about him, itâs about Abby. Be the bigger person, just avoid him. Donât evenâ
Your body careening backward into the solid weight of another pauses your internal rambling.Â
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.Â
Youâre gearing up to apologize profuselyâlaugh at yourself in the arms of this steady stranger for being so caught up in your own shit that youâre not paying much attentionâwhen you turn in their grasp and are met with a familiar face.Â
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.Â
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.Â
His handsâhis presence, his heatâdonât 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.Â
Your plan wasnât off to a great start.Â
Your face shifts into something blatantly unamused and disinterested like second nature, defenses snapping back into place.Â
âStill clumsy,â he lilts, head cocked. âSome things never change, I guess.â
You step back, letting a breath of cold air slice between the heat of your bodies getting reacquainted against your will.Â
âYou ever watch where youâre going, Floyd?â
A deflection.Â
Youâre being defensiveâadmittedly wrongâand you know it, but itâs like itâs out of your control. Itâs muscle memory around him, a reflex too ingrained in you to shake.Â
His eyes flick between yours, smirk widening a fraction like it brought him joy to see you perturbed. You know it did.Â
âWow, did a cold front move through or is that just you?âÂ
You shoot him a look, turning with a huff to busy yourself with the bags left untouched in the trunk.Â
Listen to yourself, you think. Donât pay him any attention.Â
âIn my defense,â he adds, moving alongside you, trying to gauge your reaction. âYou were the one who backed into me.â
âWell, this is kinda heavy,â you mutter, strained voice evidence of your point as you tug your suitcase free and drop it between you with a hollow thud. âBesides,â you exhale sharply, eyeing him. âYou shouldnât be walking that close to an open trunk.âÂ
âYouâre not the only one carrying heavy things, you know,â he counters, stepping behind you and picking up a stack of cardboard boxes, all overflowing with different decorations and wedding trinkets.Â
You blink, quietly trying to shake the feeling he dropped everything just to keep you from falling.Â
Of course he would do something like that.
Youâd rather take the scrape on your knee or twist of an ankle.Â
He doesnât second guessâ Just shifts the stack of boxes to one hand, steady against his side, and pops the handle free on your suitcase with the other.Â
âI donât need you to do that,â you say, trying and failing to grab your bag back as you sling the other across your arm.Â
He sends you a smile over his shoulder, already dragging your bag along with him.Â
It was a look that bordered on warmth⌠Or maybe it was condescendingâ Prideful to a point like this proved you needed him. He thrived on that.
âAnd risk you taking out another guest? Not a chance.â Â
He slips through the main doors already whirling open, muscles flexing a little unfairlyâand annoyinglyâunder the thin stretch of his sleek, crisp white button down.
When did he get that kind of body?
âStop staring and hurry up before that chill of yours comes inside, too,â 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.Â
The heat of the lobby floods your bones in an instant.Â
Thereâs 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 treeâat least 16 feet or soâfills the space with the earthy smell of pine, dressed in delicate lights and glistening ornaments, centering a mirrored staircase daintily winding around it.Â
A spill of familiar laughter and humble conversation floats through every doorway, the muffled clinks and clatter of toasts and reacquaintance in the distance.Â
Youâre about to grab your stuff from Bob so you can check in, get away from him, and find the Floyd youâre actually here to see when a pair of tall men saunter upâ Champagne flutes full, clothes neatly pressed, neither of them subtle in the way they check you out.Â
You catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror just past themâ 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.Â
You looked good. At least one thing was still going your way.
âBaby on Board,â one of them calls, clapping a firm hand on Bobâs shoulder and taking the stack of boxes from his hands. âDidnât anyone ever tell you that sharing is caring when it comes to helping a lady?â
The stranger gives you a winning smile, all bright teeth and smug pride.Â
Heâs the same height as Bob, just broaderâ 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.Â
Bobâs jaw sets, expression blank and unamused at his friendsâ attempts to swoop in.Â
âThatâs Abbyâs,â he points out flatly.
The smug oneâs smile falters. âOh,â he mumbles, setting the stack down on a table behind him and effortlessly shaking off whatever fractured piece of bruised ego threatened to show.Â
âLt. Jake Seresin,â 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. âPleasure.âÂ
Before you could return the gesture, the guy next to him steps inâ Hand extended and paired with a similar smirk, standing straight like he has something to prove.Â
He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsomeâ Albeit a little shorter than the other two lieutenants. He smelled expensiveâlooked it tooâdressed in a sleek, black button down and leather jacket.Â
âDonât waste your time on a guy whose call sign is Bagman,â he dismisses lightly. âLt. Javy Machado.âÂ
âItâs Hangman,â Jake corrects, briefly rolling his eyes and tipping his flute to his lips, attention never leaving you.Â
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.Â
âAnd you think Iâm spending my weekend with either of you whyâŚ?â
Jake purses his lips, head tilted as his eyes darken a tad. âYou bite. I can work with that.âÂ
Bob bulldozes through their attemptsâ Body stiff, expression rigid, eyes heavy and impatient. You kinda forgot he was still here, all broody and bored.Â
âAre you two done embarrassing yourselves yet?â he snaps, shifting his weight, shooting the pilots a look.Â
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.Â
âNot our fault you missed the boat, Bobby.â
You raise your eyebrows, interest in drowning whatever little time you had to spare this weekend in either of them quickly dwindling. They really werenât good at this, but they certainly thought they were.Â
You couldnât tell if it was charming or overdone.Â
Bob runs his tongue over his teeth, eyes narrowed. âFunny. This is Abbyâs maid of honor,â he explains, introducing you and sharing your name.Â
Their expressions falterâteasing, flirty nature snapped on cueâso quickly it makes you shift your weight and swallow so uncomfortably you have to convince yourself they didnât hear it.Â
Javyâs eyes dart toward you, taking you in again like you somehow changed since the last time he looked. Jake chokesâliterally chokesâon a smug sip of champagne, now anything but assertive and poised.Â
Hell, you put together these were Bobâs friendsâRoosterâs friends, therefore, Abbyâs friendsâbut 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, youâd swear they were introduced to a murderer.Â
You figured they knew about youâknew Bob wasnât your biggest fan, of courseâbut you were suddenly insecure about the prospect of whatever it couldâve possibly been that Bob told them about you.Â
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.Â
They were both headstrongâin more ways than oneâbut they were still options. Attractive ones, at that.Â
Guess they were out of the question now.Â
You try your best to swallow down your anxiety threatening to come loose and unravel you and plaster on your best clueless expressionâ Lips parted softly, brows furrowed just so, hint of a smile so you werenât akin to the bitter monster he had apparently made you out to be.Â
âWhat⌠You guys know me?â
âOf course,â Javy pipes up, clearing his throat and glancing between you and Bob in a way that was anything but inconspicuous. âWeâve heard a lot about you.âÂ
Jake gives him a shove, subtle as a freight train.
You bite your nail innocently, hiding the nervous slant in your lips. âYou have?â
âRoosterâs girlâs best friend she claims was the sibling she never had?â Jake points out, teasing smile tugging at his lips as he glances at Bob who bristles. âYeahâ We know you.âÂ
Well, when he puts it like that, duhâ Of course they do. But you werenât stupid. You know that knee-jerk reaction was more than just finally meeting Abbyâs best friend.Â
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 Abbyâs decor at Hangman.Â
âGreat. Everyone knows each other,â he mumbles, miserably failing at hiding his expression worn thin. âGo make yourselves useful like you promised and give this to Abbs.âÂ
âI can just take it,â you pipe up. âI should probably help her finish setting up before anyone else gets here, anyways. Yâknow⌠maid of honor duties, or whatever.â
âAnd make you more of a liability than you already are? No way.â
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. âAre you ever gonna let that go? I barely even touched you.â
He studies you for a beat, all faux contemplation. âMmm⌠I donât think so. Itâs fun to watch you get all worked up.â
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.Â
âYour COâs coming, right? Maybe heâd like to know one of his lieutenants canât handle a little weight.â You lean closer, voice sharper, adding, âOr pressure.â
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 furtherâ Whatever further meant.Â
But he retreats, exhaling sharply and swiveling your suitcase back to you with a tilt of his chin.Â
âGet yourself checked in. Youâre missing the party.âÂ
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.Â
âYou were right,â you call after him over the rim of your flute with a smirk, watching him freeze on command at a sentence so seldom said.Â
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 canât help but be curious.
It didnât take much for you to have his full attention.Â
You smile effortlessly, shaking your head and grabbing your luggage as you echo,
âStill so bossyâ Some things never change.â
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.Â
The second description was more fitting.Â
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.Â
The atmosphere settled like reassuranceâ 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 candlelightâ Successfully delivered and set up by Coyote and Hangman, apparently.Â
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 presenceâ You included, especially once you finally caught sight of the one person you were actually here to see.Â
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 solidarityâ 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 smilesâ 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.
Youâre in her embrace instantly, held at armâs 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 motherâs clothes playing dress-up.
âI canât believe youâre finally here!â she gushes, smile never faltering and pulling you into a tight hug.Â
Over her shoulder you spot Bob, already watching you two like a magnetâ Expression unreadable. Not cold, not distant, just a quiet truth you didnât have the code to decipher.Â
Something you weren't meant to see. Something he didnât 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.
âOf course,â you assure, a little breathless. âItâs the week of your weddingâ Where else would I be?â
âNowhere, or Iâd disown you.â
You laugh, hands woven between hers and giving her a tight squeeze that says Duh.
This made it all worth itâ All the sideways glances and sharp smile lines and stiff posture.Â
This was your familyâ 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.Â
Even he couldnât change that.Â
âYou look stunning,â you gush, voice low and sweet, eyes playfully ogling the bride-to-be in the way she damn well deserves. âI literally couldnât picture anything more perfectâ You werenât kidding when you said this place was better than your dreams.âÂ
âIsnât it?â She sighs blissfully, grabbing some passed finger foods for you both as they drift by. âI knew youâd love it. And so do you! How do you always manage to look so good fresh off a plane?â
You shrug, smile growing, munching on your share of hors dâoeuvres. âTalent.â
âTruly. Youâre the only person I know who steps off a flight looking better than when you boarded. Itâs unfair.âÂ
You press your wrist to her forehead, pinching your lips in faux-contemplation.Â
âYou sure youâre not feverish? Already drunk onâŚâ You steal a glance at the custom signature drink menu making a premature debut past her shoulder. âBird Strikes? God, who thought of that?â
She swats your hand away. âDonât even get me started.â
âWhiskey, honey syrup, and a twist,â you read, shrugging. âAt least Bradley has taste.â
âYour momâs favorite.â She goes quiet, pulling you closeâ That familiar, grounding rub against your skin, something youâd know in any lifetime. âI wish she could be here.â
You study her: the quiet sentiment, the worry for you when itâs her time, and that lookâ The one that never lets you hang off the edge for too long.Â
âShe does too,â you say, voice softer. âI just know sheâd be obsessing over youâ And Roosterâs choice in cocktails.â
The fiancĂŠ in question slides up along Abby, arm wrapped firm around her waist, lingering squeeze above her hips that makes you smileâ Same gentle confidence and alluring presence.
The mustache too.
âPlace your bets now,â he boasts, tugging his wife-to-be closer into his side. âItâs gonna outsell the Abby Road easy.â
You giggle with him, exchanging a polite half-hug with his free arm as Abby rolls her eyes loosely.Â
âSays the guy who didnât even want to do signature drinks.â
You ignore her playful pouting, leaning forward and pretending to examine his mustache with vigor.Â
âDamn, I swear that thing gets bigger every time I see you. Itâs like you comb it with Miracle-Gro.â
Rooster grins proudly, chuckling under his breath.
âIâm surprised Iâve had the willpower to avoid telling him to shave it,â Abby adds.Â
âIâm notâ Youâve always had a thing for guys with mustaches.â Â
Roosterâs interest is piqued tenfold, brows lifting, smirking at his girl turning red on his arm. âHuh⌠Is that so?â
âNo. Absolutely not.â
âUm, yes absolutely so,â you counter, smile growing. âTim Rooney.âÂ
Her eyes widen, memories rushing back to her as she gapes. âOh my Godâ Mr. Rooney, sixth grade gym class! Fuck, youâre right.âÂ
âMhm,â you hum, stuffing the last bite of long-forgotten crostini in your mouth with an accomplished nod. âOf course I am.â
Rooster looks delighted, expression intrigued and flirting with mild satisfaction as he brushes over his mustache.Â
âDamn, honey, did anyone else ever stand a chance?â
âNo,â she teases, leaning closer, voice low and loving. âOnly youâ Even without the âstache.â
âEw,â you tease, mouth twisting as Abbyâs lips brush against his. âSave it for the wedding night, you two.â
âOh, pleaseâ Bold coming from the woman whoâs gonna bitch with Bob 24-7.â
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.Â
âHow is that even remotely the same thing, Abbs?â
âTrust meâ Itâs like their own weird version of foreplay.â
Rooster snorts. âFreaky.â
Your heart stutters, pulse racing. Itâs not trueânot even close, no matter how much Abby loved to teaseâso 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?Â
You bite your lip, trying to brush it offâ Failing. âIâll let that one slide because itâs your wedding.â
Abby smiles, brow lifted. âOr because itâs true.â
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.Â
âOh, do you hear that?â You hold your hand up to your ear, doing your best to sell your excuse. âI think I hear your mom⌠She wants to say hi.â
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 headâexpression still lovingâand calling after you,Â
âSheâll just tell you the same thing!â
The rest of the night was harder without Abby as a shield.Â
Itâs not that you didnât love the Floyd family and all their friendsâwell, your friends too⌠Small towns tend to run in all the same circlesâbut catching up with old ties never really seemed to be that easy in large doses.Â
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 youâ Which unfortunately, much like Abby, included knowing your tells.Â
Your body language was never well hidden, nor your faux joy or best attempts at pleasantries. That meant you couldnât really hide the fact that you werenât particularly enthralled to be in the same room as her son again.Â
Or same state, for that matter.Â
She gave you some hugs that felt like home and all the things you missed most, a handful of compliments about how far youâve comeâ How good you look and how proud she is of the life youâve created for yourself. How you smelled pretty and how she âused to have a dress that cute and tiny when she was young.â
Butâsame as alwaysâshe didnât miss the opportunity to (lovingly) point out that you should have someone with you or someone to spend the weekend with.Â
And that meant a couple teasing comments along the lines of âit would be nice to make you an official daughter,â or âyou know, Bobbyâs always adored you.â
You couldnât fault herâcouldnât really do anything other than offer a soft smile and flustered dismissalâbecause she chalked up your history to normal adolescent adrenaline edged with attraction and quiet competition you, of course, age out of.Â
She didnât know it ran deeper. She didnât need to.Â
So, you changed the subjectâ Talked about how nice the venue was and how lovely she looked. Asked how her book club was going andâafter you both had another glass of champagneâif she actually likes her future son-in-law.
She does.Â
You mingle your way through the rest of the family: distant relatives you met once or twice at a barbecue growing up, Mrs. Floydâs best friend who owns the pharmacy in town and gave you your first job, some other familiar faces from home.Â
You also got to meet two other members of Roosterâs squadron, Fanboy and Payback, all loudly polite and equally over-confident as the other two from the lobby. Â
It was all good and fun until you were referred to as âRobbyâs pretty high school sweetheartâ a few times by Abby and Bobâs extremely elderly great grandfather to the pilots.
You adored him, knew it didnât mean anything and was completely harmlessâhe was nearing 97 for Godâs sakeâbut 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 âoh really?â among other boyish laughs.Â
So, yeahâ You needed a break.Â
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.Â
A guy with a handlebar mustache greets you, all warm smiles and crinkly eyes.
âA glass of Chardonnay, Miss?â
You blink, take a look over your shoulder at Bobâs solid frame becoming a landing spot for one of his motherâs friends laughing like he was suddenly Montanaâs most charming bachelor, and sigh.Â
âWhiskey,â you mutter. âRocks, please.âÂ
âMake that two,â an unfamiliar voice adds.Â
It was a womanâ Lean, tan, ridiculously sleek, black hair and a friendly smile, elbow casually propped against the bar top.
âNice to finally put a face to the name,â she says, slipping into the open seat next to you. âIâm Natashaâ Or Phoenix.â
Realization washes over you, accepting your matching drinks from the bartender with a smile and sliding hers in her direction.Â
âOhhhâ The Natasha who Abby keeps threatening to replace me with if I donât come visit,â you tease. âGot it. Nice to meet you.â
She laughs softly. âIâm surprised you went with that description over âBobâs front-seaterâ but, yeahâ The one and only.â
You hum, swirling your drink around the large ice cube. âYou must have fun putting him in his place all day.âÂ
If you were being honest, you werenât entirely sure what you meant by thatâ If it was just a subtle dig at him because you canât help yourself, if it was inquiringâwondering if he was just as much of a pain in the ass as he was back thenâor if it was⌠sexual?Â
You shouldnât careâyou donât careâbut 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.Â
Her brows lift. âBob? No, he doesnât need any place-putting. If anything, heâs the only sane one around besides me.âÂ
âOf course, always so perfect.â You roll your eyes loosely like a reflex, succumbing to the gentle buzz in your bloodstream from a few casual drinks. âGod, he was born for the Navy.âÂ
She shakes her head, giving you a sideways glance. âBobâs not perfectâ Trust me.âÂ
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.
âSorry,â you sigh, staring at the thin line of amber at the bottom of your glass. âI probably sound like such an asshole right now.â
She nudges your shoulder with hers like youâve been friends for years, giving you a look that says stop it without saying it.Â
âDonât be. He can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.âÂ
âThat I believe,â you laugh, resting your chin on your hand and swiveling to face her. âItâs just⌠You didn't grow up with him. Old habits die hard, I guess.â
She studies you for a moment, expression open and patient. All calm and collectedâ A typical fighter pilot.Â
She was cool. Really cool. A bite of something unnamed swims in your stomach at the thought of itâ Of him.
âI wouldnât sweat it,â she says with a shrug. âHis 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 shouldnât get to you, thatâs for damn sure.âÂ
Your skin flushes at the compliment, shifting your cheek into your palm to hide the smile you canât seem to bite back.Â
âI think we need to reassess your definition of both those things.âÂ
She eyes youâ All genuine and knowing, like she had you completely figured out. Like sheâs known you forever.Â
âI know the stories. And Iâve seen some pictures,â she counters, leaning closer, voice all quiet teasing but still steady. âI donât lie.âÂ
Before you could respond, her gaze shifts past you, landing somewhere behind.Â
âBesides, heâs still a boy,â she offers, smirk tugging. âOf course you drove him crazy.âÂ
You turn to look where she is, finding the man in question with his eyes already locked on you across the room.Â
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.Â
And when you return the favor, his stare rips freeâ 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 didnât already catch him looking.Â
In some weird, twisted, petty way, your feelings bordered on something reminiscent of relief knowing you werenât alone in being hung up on adolescent drama tonight.Â
Things like this always seemed to stir up old memories, especially when it comes to you and Bob.Â
Something about him was impossible to flush out of your systemâ No matter how many years passed, no matter how much youâd grown. No matter how trivial or insignificant, it didnât matter. A pathetic sense of pride settles in your chest knowing it was the same for him.Â
You shake your head, turning back to Natasha who wore a proud smile and coy tilt of her head. Â
âSee,â she says, voice low. âI donât lie.â
You clear your throat, throwing back the rest of your drink and letting the hollow glass hit the bar top unceremoniously.Â
âHow do you know so much about me already?â
She blinks, expression saying isnât it obvious as she silently flags down the bartender for a second round.Â
âWell, for one, Iâm intuitiveâ So donât go feeling like youâre too special,â she teases. âAnd Iâve just⌠heard a lot about you.âÂ
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.Â
The only difference was her expression didnât flip to panic mode around you. It was intrigued, interestedâ Like you were someone worth getting to know.Â
Still, your nerves spark all the same.Â
âOh, boy,â you groan, throwing your head back with a lazy smile. âAll bad, Iâm sure.âÂ
Her eyes flick between yoursâ Just once, expression blank, cards close to her chest.Â
âNo⌠Why do you say that?â
You blink. âAre you serious?â
She shrugs, stuffing a five in the tip jar when the second round is delivered promptly. âAre you?â
You go quiet, silently weighing how to respond.Â
Phoenix seemed like the type of person who would always be straight up with you, but at the same time, you couldnât shake the feeling you were failing to read the subtext of whatever was lying beneath the heart of your conversation and lined her gaze.Â
But, yeahâ Bob hated you. Of course you were serious.Â
So you nod, not so much as an answer but rather a soft acknowledgement.
âYeah, I am.â
She studies you for a moment, smile slowly returningâ Effortless, like she wasnât suddenly speaking in riddles.Â
âGood. Me too.âÂ
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.Â
You help Abby and Rooster pack up some of the little decorations they set outâcollect bouquets, blow out flickering flames, clean up the little signs and pictures they had displayedâbefore youâre finally ushered up to your room to turn in for the night.Â
Despite putting up a fightâinsisting it was your job to make sure the bride was the one getting restâyou were truly no match for Abby Floyd once she made up her mind about something.Â
You never were.Â
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 werenât too mad about it.Â
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 youâd want to take home with you just from the soft scents of lavender and cedar alone.Â
Youâre 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 havenât seen light up your screen in years settles at the top of your text threads.Â
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.Â
You
Are you listening to me?
Some might call that creepy, Robert
Three dots dance across your screen instantly.Â
Bob Floyd
Kinda hard not to
Because youâre loud
You
I donât feel like getting breakage or folliculitis just because youâre 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?Â
You were kiddingâclearlyâbut youâd been waiting for an opportunity to tease him about it all night after Hangmanâs comment. Of course you didnât forgetâ And of course you werenât going to let it go.Â
Bob Floyd
Very funny
Thatâs not my call sign
You
Doubt it
What is it then?
The dots flicker againâthinkingâthen disappear.Â
You
By the time you finally type it out my hairâs gonna air dry and we wonât need to worry anymore
That does it. His reply lights up your phone almost immediately.
Bob Floyd
Itâs just Bob
And no, itâs no need to worry because youâre not gonna get folliculitis
Youâre so dramatic
You unplug the dryerânot because youâre giving into him, but because your hair is basically dryâand plop down onto your bed, lip caught between your teeth as your fingers go to work.
YouÂ
I donât believe you
And thatâs why you only got a 92 in sophomore year microbio, btw. Itâs 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 couldâve had a 95 like me if you spent more time studying and less time staring at the back of my headÂ
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.Â
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.Â
Bob Floyd
I was too busy checking for folliculitis ;)
You roll your eyesâloosely, lazilyâsmiling into your pillowcase. What a pain.
You
Good
Someoneâs 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?Â
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.Â
Damn it.Â
Maybe you should just block his number and pretend that never happened.
YouÂ
Iâm tired leave me alone
It sounded really funny in my head
Bob Floyd
Seems like Iâm not the only baby who needs sleep after all, huh?
YouÂ
Shut up
Letâs go back to talking about your call sign being Baby On Board
Bob Floyd
Youâre so annoying
YouÂ
And youâre a creepÂ
Bob FloydÂ
Iâd also remind you that youâre dramatic but then weâd be here all night Â
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.Â
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.
YouÂ
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?Â
You didnât mean it like that. Not at all. Maybe heâll ignore it⌠But that wouldnât be Bob, now would it?
The typing dots appear immediately.
They flicker, stall, but nothing comes through.Â
Fuck.Â
Your stomach drops.
ThenâÂ
Bob Floyd
Oo did you just call me baby?Â
You squinch your eyes shut and groan.Â
You could correct him. Shut him down like always. Or, you could double down, throw him for a loopâ Something youâre really good at doing.
Jesus Christâ Was Abby right? Was this foreplay?
No. You were tired. You werenât thinking straight. Your thoughts were starting to sound delirious.Â
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.Â
It buzzes quicklyâ Too quickly.Â
Bob Floyd
Maybe
It could be the lack of sleep, could be the familiarity or the environmentâthis weird, delicate, snow globe-like atmosphere you were suddenly trapped in despite your best efforts to put distance between you and himâbut 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 youâ The only wall that touched another room.Â
Slowly, you knock three times.
And you wait.
You wonder if heâs the one youâre bothering. Wonder if heâll 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.Â
It didnât 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.Â
A brush of knuckles that lingeredâ That recognized.Â
Does he still?Â
Two brisk knocks echo back against your headboard from the other side, just like always.Â
He does.Â
You slip back under the covers, smiling with something different nowâ Something unnamed where heâs concerned.Â
Before your eyes lull shut, you pick up your phone again, fingers hovering before you type,Â
YouÂ
Night creep
It buzzes against your pillow.
Bob Floyd
Goodnight, annoying neighbor Â
And for the first time in yearsâin lifetimesâyou fall asleep feeling something other than irritation simmering under your skin from Bob Floyd.
By the time morning comes, itâs not really morning anymore.Â
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 shouldâve been texting someone you canât stand, but yeahâ You slept in.
It was evident. Your body was heavy as you lazily pushed the door open to Abby and Roosterâs suite, immediately hit with a wall of pure wedding chaos and commotion.Â
Your eyes were glazed over, warm sweats still on, hairâ Definitely suffering from the lack of styling last night, though, your half-assed efforts to try to kill the bedhead helped a little.Â
You skip the pleasantries and flop face first onto the bed with a muffled groan.Â
Maybe Bob was right. He wasnât 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.Â
âWell good morning to you, too,â Abby teases, playful lilt in her voice, definitely grinning at your misfortunes.Â
You sigh into the comforter, face still buried. âHi.â
âLong night?â
You nod, reluctantly lifting to rest your chin on your hands and peer up at her.Â
âI had this really annoying neighbor. Wouldnât shut up the whole night. Liked to talk.â
You sneak a brief glance over at Bob sitting in a lounge chair in the corner. Thereâs 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 didnât have access to the room assignments in the hotel block because she just hums, all careless and obliviousâ Clearly not aware her older brother was the neighbor in question.Â
âSorry, babes,â she mumbles, fingers gently tracing wisps of hair from your eyes. âHopefully it doesnât happen again so you can get some sleep.â
Slowly, you lift yourself off the mattress and take in the scene unfolding around you.Â
Everyone was in full-blown work modeâ 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.Â
Youâd basically walked into a subpar assembly line.
Most of Roosterâs squadron was there, screwing around when Abby wasnât looking and playing with decorations instead of actually working, but it was still help to a degree.Â
Mrs. Floyd and some of Abbyâs extended family was there alongside you, Rooster, Abby, and Bob, who sat by himselfâ All quiet and responsible, per usual.
If he needed the sleep, it didnât show. He looked completely put togetherâtoo put togetherâall perfectly combed hair and wide-awake eyes as he diligently concentrated on his task.Â
You rub your hands over your face and sigh. âWhere do you want me?â
Before she could answer, Rooster tosses a stack of something at you, papers all fluttering and fanning out across the bed. âWanna fold? Thereâs, like, a million of these damn things.â
Abby shoots him a look for his comment, collecting the papers and placing them neatly.
âBobâs already working on those. Iâll find something else for you.â
âYou sure?â you ask, eyes flicking down to what seemed like a stack of at least 200 sheets. âI donât mind folding if thatâs what you need.â
She nods, passing the stack over to Bob who barely lifts his gaze to grab it. âI think he has a particular system going, anyways. Heâs flying through âem.â
âYeah,â Hangman adds from across the room with a grin. âBobbyâs real good with his fingers.â
Your eyes widen slightly, glancing over at Bob who stiffensâimperceptibly soâand keeps his head down.Â
But you donât 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.Â
âMeanwhile you canât even put batteries in the right way,â she mutters to Hangman, taking a glow stick, turning the batteries around, and closing the cover with a snap.Â
She shoves the glow stick back to the pouting pilot and returns to her area of the room with Abbyâs aunt.
âMaybe someone smart should go help the guys,â Abby suggests, brow raised in amusement.Â
âYou mean babysit,â Nat adds over a rumble of groans and protests.
You give Abby a tight smile, obliging. âOn it.â
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.Â
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.Â
Neither of you had said a word to each other since last nightânot in person, not over textâand if you were being honest, that felt⌠confusing.Â
Sure, itâs been years since youâve been around him like this, in this wayâ 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 otherâ Found this weird, familiar rhythm easily.Â
And yet, even still, it never sat right with you.Â
Maybe it didnât with him either.Â
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 heâs not the lanky, dorky, annoyingly-polite boy you grew up with.
The one who pushed buttons you didnât even know you had and then left you the last pink Starburst instead of taking it for himself.Â
The one who spent every waking hour he had to spare learning the ins and outs of every class, every chapter, every testânot because he wanted to excel, but because he wanted to be better than youâthen 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 hatedâ Who you teased and pushed and dug into until you started feeling something else. Something that apparently meant nothing.Â
That was what you had to remind yourself.Â
He wasnât that boyâmaybe never wasâand he certainly wasnât someone you could categorize your relationship with anymore.
Because even nowâeven after all those years of sparring back and forth, and the soft, confusing moments in betweenâyou still donât 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.
âAre you sure Iâm the one whoâs responsible for the maid of honor having a bad hair day?â
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. âMaybe I wouldâve had time to style it if I wasnât up all night arguing 10th grade science topics with a grown man.â
He shrugs, continuing to drag the corrector across the text. âAnd whose choice was that?â
You open your mouth to shoot back a responseâor insultâbut he beats you to it, adding,Â
âI always knew I was in for it those days.â
Your brows knit. âWhat do you mean?â
âYouâd come onto the bus in the morning the same way,â he starts, flicker of a softer smile forming. âHair all ruffled, eyes extra sleepy, more attitude than usual.â
You roll your eyes, trying to shake off the way your nerves gently rattled at the memory.Â
âI always knew it was because you were up late studying or something,â he continues, capping the Wite-Out and tossing it on the table between you with a thud. âAlways knew you were up working extra hard to kick my ass.â
You raise your eyebrows, setting some cut strips down for him to take. âNot everything is about you, you know.â
âAnd yet that hair is always evidence of me.â
You pause, watching him through narrowed eyes, lip caught between your teeth as you try to gauge where heâs going with this.
âThat too,â he adds, nudging your foot with his and tilting his chin up at you. âAlways chewinâ that damn lip when I make you think too hard.â
The rhythm of your heart does some quiet, perfidious, little thingâ 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 werenât entirely ready to face.
You exhale, lip slipping free from your teeth immediately. âHow do you always manage to assume so much responsibility yet none at all?â
He smiles, half-laughing under his breath as you both begin carefully applying the strips of sticker paper.Â
âSame way you always managed to be up so late studying and still got lower grades than me.â
âYouâre extra irritating today.â
âBelieve it or not, youâre not the only tired one,â he teases, fingers brushing yours as he reaches over to fix the strip you were about to place. âSome of us are just good at actually hiding it.â
You snatch the strip away and eye him, only making his expression sparkle with satisfaction.
âAre you, though? Because you seem extra fussy.â You press the strip down and toss the finished product onto the completed stack, piling high quickly. âSure you donât want me to get you a pacifier?âÂ
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.Â
âDependsâ Are you gonna call me baby again?â
âOnly if you keep acting like one.â
He purses his lips, pretending to consider it. âNoted. Whatever you say, Boss.âÂ
You freeze, expression twisting in confusion as you watch him grin like he has a secret you donât know.Â
âIâm sorry⌠Did Hell freeze over or did you really just call me boss?â
âItâs your new callsign,â he says offhandedly, organizing the stack and sitting back with an effortless look. âBad At Spellingâ You know, since apparently Aâs and Oâs are the same thing now.â
Greatâ Another stupid thing he wasnât going to let go of. Maybe you needed to stop texting when you were feeling bold and overtired.Â
Or, maybe you should just stop texting him. Â
As dumb as it wasâadmittedly embarrassing, tooâyou were failing to suppress a small smile at just how stupid and weirdly⌠endearing he made it soundâ Even when he was driving you absolutely crazy.
âBad at spelling sometimes,â you clarify.
âSure,â he hums. âSometimes.â
âI hate you.â
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, suddenly a lot closer than before. âQuickâ Spell hate. Hint: thereâs no O.â Â
You roll your eyes, throwing a ball of crumpled sticker backings at him as he chuckles, swatting them away.Â
âYeahâ Iâm definitely getting that pacifier to shut you up.â
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.Â
âAnd if that doesnât work, then what? You got other plans to keep me quiet?â
âIf you two are done eye-fucking, can you please go help Bradley bring the favors up from the car?â
Abby hovers above you: hands on her hips, eyebrows raised, eyes darting between you and her brother suspiciouslyâ But certainly not annoyed.Â
No, that was just for show.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âIf that was eye-fucking to you, Iâm incredibly worried about your sex life,â you mumble.Â
She looks at you flatly, then glances behind her at Bob, still red-hot in the corner.Â
âAt least Iâm having sex, unlike some people.â
Your pulse hammers in your ear, blood thick with heat and some sort of nervous, restless energy you canât seem to shake. The cold rush of winter air doesnât stop your face from flushing as you silently carry boxes up from the car, not daring to say a word.
You donât 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 worldâs tiniest twine bows for the favors with Phoenix. Your bones ached from the coldâ Bitter and persistent while your body stayed hunched over paper strips. Your vision was starting to blur the longer you stared at anything that wasnât a heavy pour of wine and a good book.Â
You were more than happy to helpâmore than happy to lend your hands until they bledâbut youâd be lying if you said it didnât feel good to finally take a break.
Mostly from Bob.
It didnât help that he lingeredâ Around every corner, involved, embedded in spaces youâd consider too close even if you were separated by walls. And it certainly didnât help that you couldnât read whatever was sitting between you after last night.
Itâs been like this for yearsâ 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.Â
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.Â
Like you hated each other so much that you didnât.
You couldnât stand it.
And as fun as it was to push his buttons, you needed a generous stretch of time without his presenceâ 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.Â
The lobby hums with quiet lifeâ New families checking in, warm laughter spilling from the bar, children snoring softly against their parentsâ shoulders after long drives. Couples whisper as they disappear into their rooms for the night.Â
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.Â
And, most importantly, noâ
âBob?âÂ
Your eyebrows shoot up, voice cracking over the gentle hush of the natatorium as you watch him finish a lapâ Slicing through the water so silently you wouldnât 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.Â
âJesus,â you mutter, shifting to clutch your towel tighter as you stare down at him. âYou really are everywhere, arenât you?â
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 shitâ When did he start looking like this?
âI could say the same for you,â he says, eyes skimming down your bare legs almost imperceptibly before snapping back into place like it didnât happen. âI think you might be stalking me.â
A weighted silence pulses through the air, both of you staring at the other like it would make you disappear.Â
Or make you say something that hasnât 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.
Itâs the kind of movementâkind of skin and bodyâthat suddenly has you entranced against your will.Â
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 doesnât stop dead in the water like he might suddenly want to watch you too.Â
Vulnerable, and not just because of the sleek trim of black bikini stretched sparingly across your skin.
You both try to move onâ 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.Â
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 werenât there when you were 17.Â
You swallow tightly, ripping your eyes away, trying to ignore the gentle puffs of air slipping through his lips and spray of waterâ Trying to settle into what you came here to do.Â
Relax. Youâre here to relax. Youâre here to let go of himâ Of this. To clear your head of God knows what, enjoy a glass of rosĂŠ, and read a goddamn book, for once.Â
Even if itâs just for an hour. For a minute. For two.
But itâs too loud: your head, your conflicting thoughts and simmering rage at his presenceâ His heat and his exhale, the way the water only seems to splash louder the longer you lie there pretending not to care.Â
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.Â
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.
âI can hear you complaining from here.â
You blink, slowly pulling the small partition of pages down and eyeing him over the top. âI havenât said a word. Youâre the one being loud over there.â
âYou didnât have to,â he says, voice echoing softly through the empty space as he treads water. âI can still tell. And if youâve found a quieter way to swimâ Please, be my guest.â
You shift, crossing your ankles and lifting your book again.Â
âIâm not complaining.â Thatâs a lie. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
He huffs a laugh, arms flexing as he swims himself to the edge, peering up at you over the concrete.
âI do. You get that crinkle in your forehead, you pick at your nails.â His mouth tilts playfully. âAnd Iâm pretty sure I could feel you glaring at me through those pages.â
You sigh, meeting his smirk across the space, all cocky and pleased like he actually knows youâ Like he remembers.Â
âItâs not my fault that pretty little smile of yours doesnât fix everything,â you snap.Â
He rests his chin on his forearm, wet hair clinging to his forehead, stained a deeper, darker brown. Familiarâ Too familiar.Â
âYou think Iâm pretty?â
âNot what I said.â
He shrugs easily, smile in question stretching. âSounded like it to me.â
You exhale sharply, letting your book fall closed against your thighs as you sit up straighter in the chair.Â
âWhat are we doing?â
He goes quiet, gears visibly spinning. âWell, Iâm doing this thing where I move my legs so I donât drown. Youâre⌠trying to sunbathe at an indoor pool in the middle of the night?â He pauses, eyes warm and derisive. âAbbs was rightâ We need to get you to North Island so you remember how real sun works.â
âBob,â you interrupt quietly, something heavier threading through your voice. âYou know what I mean.â
It wasnât accusatory, wasnât irritated, just empty. Sad. Distant.Â
You donât know why you broke out of the safety of your banterâ This thing you both cling to so you donât have to touch whatâs actually there. You donât even know why youâre here: sitting in front of him instead of soaking in the hot tub, ditching your plans like your body didnât consult your mind at all.
It didnât matter. You still orbited him, and him, you.
And suddenly, something else lingers in the silence connecting two lost, lonely souls who donât know how to exist around each other anymore. Who canât resist, and donât know why.Â
You hate him. He hates you. Wasnât that supposed to be easy?
He goes quiet, pushing wet hair from his eyes and lifting from the water with ease, sitting on the edgeâ Closer, but so much further away.
And it was suddenly like looking at you was the hardest thing in the world.Â
But when he finally doesâwhen he finally looks back again, finally stops avoiding whateverâs chewing him up insideâyou miss the vacancy of his eyes.Â
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 elseâs heat.Â
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 Bobâs little cousins, shoes slapping through lukewarm puddles, wrapped in their own world, unaware they were shattering yours.
Mickey cannonballsâtoo close to the edge, too close to Bobâand 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 kidsâfive and nineâgiddy 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 onceâcareful, perceptiveâbefore looking away.Â
Bob simply stares down at the water lapping around his ankles, wading aimlessly, hands flexing at his sides like heâs grounding himself back into his body.Â
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 wasâwhatever fragile, almost-bridged bandaid starting to stretch over this festering, aching fracture between you twoâwas gone.Â
The morning was quiet in every sense of the word.Â
Too quiet.Â
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.Â
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. Â
He left just as quickly, ducking his head and opting for the stairs instead.Â
You knew he was next to youâjust one thin, cold wall sitting between two warm bodiesâboth back in your rooms, getting ready for the day.Â
And you donât know what takes over youâthis strange, distant clawing at the pit of your stomach, urging you to face an unnamed thing clearly lostâbut you hover close to the wall before you leave.Â
You inhale deeply, pinching your eyes shut as you decide, and take the leap. Tense knuckles graze against the sheetrockâ A hesitant little noise cracking through the silence three times.Â
A minute passes.Â
Then two.Â
No knock is returned.Â
You exhale, trying to brush it off, trying to pretend it didnât bother you that it was starting to feel like you were in completely new territoryâ That he suddenly really didnât care at all, not even for the sake of annoying you.Â
Maybe you scared him off, slipping into honesty that felt too dangerous in the heat of a cold December night. Finally aloneâ Something you rarely were.Â
Maybe he didnât 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 returnâ Until now.Â
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.Â
Later in the day, you took a quick break to grab some coffees while you, Bradley, Nat, and Mrs. Floyd assembled the welcome bags.Â
The wedding was in two days so it was officially crunch time, but coffee breaks were still mandatory in your book.Â
Especially considering you didnât sleep much, yet again.Â
No matter how hard you tried, you couldnât 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 himâ When you wanted to name whatever this game of yours really was.Â
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.Â
So, coffee it was.Â
You ran into Hangman and Fanboy down at the hotel cafĂŠ. They had curbed their extremely obvious advances since initially meeting you, but apparently whatever it was Bob told them about you wasnât enough to keep them from trailing after you like lost puppies, insisting you needed help carrying the coffees back.Â
You didnât mind. It was nice to feel wanted. Not that Bob wanted you, not that you wanted himâdefinitely not thatâbut you still felt the loss of his presence anyway.Â
And it hit harder than you ever really thought it would, even after all this time.Â
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.Â
âOh my God,â Natasha mutters to Rooster as you walk back into the conference room. âIf you undo my bow one more time, Iâm gonna turn your neck into one.â
Hangman whistles low, clearly amused. âCongrats, Bradshawâ Youâve managed to make another woman besides your fiancĂŠ wanna kill you.â
âYou sure thatâs not your true calling?â Fanboy adds with a snort, sliding the cups in his hands to the pair at the end of the table.Â
Rooster shoots them both a look, muttering something under his breath, and very, very carefully sealing a welcome bag shutâ Avoiding Natâs perfectly crafted bow like his life depended on it.
Because it did.
âYâknow, maâam,â Hangman says, stretching into a chair next to Mrs. Floyd, hard at work. âThereâs still time for you to get a better son-in-law.âÂ
He points over his shoulder to a pouting Rooster, grinning. âThis oneâs not all that great.â
Mrs. Floyd just hums, carefully setting down a mini Snickers bar, and raises an eyebrow at an overly-confident Hangman.Â
âWhoâs the upgrade? You?â
He shrugs, thinking. âCould be.â
Her eyes flick over his presence quickly, making his winning smile falter and chair squeak as he shifts his weight.
âNo it couldnât.â
The room falls into soft snickers and laughter, enjoying the way Jakeâs bubble bursts immediately.
âOh my god,â Natasha mumbles in incredulous wonder. âI love her.â
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.Â
âOh my God,â she squeals, energy dialed to 100, earning everyoneâs attentionâ Except Bob, who silently steals a pack of smarties from his momâs stack of candy and stares at the floor, completely disinterested.Â
Rooster watches Abby, raised brow with a little smitten smile. âCare to explain?â
She flops into the other chair next to him, practically vibrating with excitement. âThe cake is finally done!â
He blinks, glancing at her as he continues to seal bags. âI thought it already was done.â
âThis is why youâre not in charge of wedding stuff,â she dismisses, rolling her eyes and stealing a sip of his drink. âItâs from that one baker I was on a waitlist for, but the order was finally processed.â
âThatâs great, honey,â he affirms, eyes widening in fear as he almost undoes a bow and earns a pointed look from Phoenix for not paying attention again.Â
Abby hums in agreement, slouching dramatically against the table, face smushed in her hand and sighing. âOnly thing is itâs up in Sierra City.â
âSierra City?â Phoenix echoes. âIsnât that, like, an hour from here?â
âYeah,â Abby mumbles, swirling the burning black coffee in Roosterâs cup. âAnd I canât go get it, I have a lot to do today.â
You donât bother letting anyone else offer before you pipe up, posture straightening immediately. âGive me your keys. Iâll go.â
âI canât ask you to do that,â Abby counters, giving you a soft frown.Â
âYou arenât. Iâm offeringâ I wanna do this for you.âÂ
In all honesty, you didâit was killing you that you werenât able to be as hands-on with wedding stuff as you wouldâve likedâbut it was also the perfect excuse to get a damn break.
It couldnât get any better: youâd get to explore California a bit moreâeven if you were just in the mountainsâAbby would get her dream cake, and you would escape the unease between you and Bob.
Youâd seen more of him in the last two days than you have in years and it was starting to wear on youâ 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.Â
You were in dire need of an out from the silenceâ From the way he sat rigidly in the furthest corner of the room from you, from the way he wouldnât even look at you, didnât bother opening his mouth to tease you over something dumb⌠Nothing.
This was a blessing in disguise.Â
âNonsense,â Mrs. Floyd adds lightly. âYou canât go out there by yourselfâ Bobby will go with you.â
Fuck. You spoke too soon.Â
Honestly, you shouldâve 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 suffocatingâespecially when you were youngerâbut now that you were older, you could appreciate the sentiment.Â
Except for right now.Â
Out of the corner of your eye, you could feel Bobâs attention shoot to youâ Suddenly very aware of the conversation unfolding around him, expression blank, but still alert.Â
âItâs okay,â you say, waving your hand. âReally. I can handle it.â
Abby gives you a look, one you hated. âI think Ma is right. Those roads are super narrow and, like, in the middle of nowhere. I canât send you out there by yourself.â
You look across the table at Natashaâeyes already on youâand 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 craftsâ Clearly signaling sheâs busy.Â
Goddamnit.Â
âFanboy can go with me,â 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. âRight, Mick?â
He opens his mouth to agree, but Mrs. Floyd beats him to it. âOh, honey, they donât even trust that boy to drive a plane, nonetheless a car.â
Nat snickers. âSheâs not wrong. Heâs a terrible driver.â
Fanboy shoots her a wounded look, crossing his arms and muttering, âDamn, thanks, Nat.â
âExactly,â Mrs. Floyd affirms sweetly, like she didnât just shatter a grown manâs confidence. âBobby will take you.â
âIs that really necessary?â Bob pipes up, the first words youâve heard him speak all dayâ Bitter and cold in a way youâre sure everyone could pick up on. âI think she can handle it on her own. Itâs just 89 North.â
His eyes snap to yours briefly, quicklyâcalculated in a way only you could feelâand retreat, watching his boot scrub into the hotel carpet like it needed special attention.Â
âRobert Floyd, who raised you?â his mother scolds. âBecause it certainly wasnât me if thatâs the kind of man you turned into.âÂ
His face flushes a little, crossing his arms while a quiet, playful chorus of noises pour out from his friends.Â
âItâs not, I just meantââ
âNo. I donât care what you meant.â She cuts him short with a pointed look over her reading glasses. âYouâll drive her and youâll do it safely, you hear me?â
He grows quiet, a little huff under his breath slipping through the thin stitch of his lips and shake of his head.Â
Of course heâd fold. He was still the perfectly respectful, chivalrous, obedient guy he loved to pretend to be.
âYeah, Ma, okay.â He looks at youâbarelyâand slips out of his seat, already heading for the door.Â
âGet your stuff. Weâll leave in 20.â
Bob was already waiting for you by the time you got downstairs to the turnaround in front of the hotelâ Body lazily leaned against his car, arms and ankles crossed, expression blank, his breath harsh in the cold, bleak air.Â
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.Â
âIâm sorryâ Are we going to Sierra City or Antarctica?âÂ
He catches his keys mid-swing in his palm and glances up at youâdressed in a regular long sleeve top, light jacket, and sneakersâthen down at himself.Â
âItâs freezing out,â he says flatly. âYouâre the stupid one for not dressing warmer.â
You laugh under your breath, warm air that slips from your lips curling in the bitter air.Â
âItâsâŚâ your voice trails, pulling out your phone. â31 degrees out, Floyd. Not ten.âÂ
His lips press flat and chapped. âDonât go asking for my jacket later when youâre inevitably cold.âÂ
Your eyebrows lift in mischief. âWow, California changed you.â
His eyes narrow, challenging, before he slips the passenger door open and clomps over to the driverâs side.Â
Of course he still got the door for you.Â
âHurry up and get in so we get there before itâs dark out.â
You roll your eyes and climb up into the truck, already starting to thaw as the engine grumbles in the empty Inn turnaround.Â
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.Â
Your muscles stiffen as his heat sits close to you. Itâs like you could feel him touching you through empty space, even a thin sliver of it.Â
âI really didnât need you to come with me, you know.â
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.Â
He huffs a laugh through his nose, brief and quiet. âWell your own best friend didnât seem to think so.â
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.Â
âWho was able to drive first despite being younger, again?â
âThat was ridiculous and you know it!â His voice raises, all flustered and defensive in a way that makes you grin. âWhat 14 year old expects there to be a question about a suspension system on their permit test?â
âPeople who studied,â you counter with a shrug.Â
He glares, eyes flicking between you and the road ahead of him. âRemind meâ What color pump is the gas?â
âOh my god, that was one time.âÂ
âStill happened. At least I never put diesel in my car,â he teases, lifting his fingers from the wheel in surrender.Â
âI realized before I started pumping,â you grit. âAnd thatâs because you had allll that extra time waiting around to get your license to figure it out.âÂ
âIâm a great driver,â he mutters under his breath, glaring down the road drenched in hazy greys and wisps of thick clouds.Â
âIs that why youâre a backseater for Nat?âÂ
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 didnât mean you forgot how talented he really was.
Even if it killed you to admit it.Â
âThe most offensive part of that sentence was you calling her Nat, actually.âÂ
He glances over at you, smallest smile evident on his lips before it fades away back with his attention on the road.Â
If you hurt him, he wasnât showing itâ And yet you still felt a lot more guilt than youâd like to admit.Â
You try to shrug it off, voice light as you ask,
âWhatâ Donât like to share?âÂ
His fingers drum along the steering wheel, tangling over each other, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.Â
âNot particularly.â
You glance out the window, cheek in palm, elbow bent against the armrest. Suddenly this car felt a little too small.Â
You donât care. Why do you care?Â
âSheâs great,â you offer quietly. âI wouldnât wanna share her either.âÂ
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. Â
The silence settles, but your mind doesnât. 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 itâs only seconds, silence your only company.Â
Then,Â
âThatâs not what Iâm worried about.â
Your pulse stutters, eyes fixed to the dashed yellow between two strips of asphalt slipping under the car.Â
âWhat?â
âPhoenix,â he clarifies. âItâs not her Iâm worried about sharing.âÂ
His voice comes out small, weighted words suddenly too present, too scared. But itâs honestâ A brief glimpse of sentiment you so rarely saw.Â
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 donât know what to say.
Fuck, what do you say? What does that even mean?Â
Itâs 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?Â
Words donât come. You just nod, slow and receptive, though it still feels like youâre detached from your bodyâ From your brain and processing system thatâs trying and failing to make sense of whatever intent lies behind his words.Â
âStop chewing,â he mumbles suddenly. âYouâre gonna make it bleed.â
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 didnât even bother looking at you when he said it. He said it so plainly, so offhand. So unspecialâ Like it was a normal comment cushioned in a regular conversation. Like it meant nothing. Like it wasnât making your head spin.Â
You stop biting. He stops talking.Â
Neither of you say much after that.Â
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.Â
Occasionally his eyes glance over to you. You noticeâof course you doâbut you donât bother looking back. Straight ahead felt safer for reasons you didnât really understand.Â
Slowly, you slip farther and farther away from everything. Your eyes glaze over. Your mind goes numb. Every turn starts to look the sameâ Though that wouldâve been the case regardless of your indifference. Itâs 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.Â
When you finally hit civilization again, you might as wellâve been transported to the Swiss Alps or Vail.Â
The town is small, virtually non-existent, even at the heart of everything. Itâs 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.Â
The bakery is on the corner, tucked down a little alley across a boutiqueâs side entrance. Both doors twinkle under string lights piercing through the stretch of grey clouds staining the sky.Â
It smelled of freshly baked pastries and warm sugar, small and quaint and comforting. Everything was pristineâ From each carefully laid sugar flower to the little Christmas town decorating the front window display. There wasnât a single thing out of place.Â
All the desserts looked magazine readyâ So perfect and intricate they didnât even seem real. Of course Abbyâs dream cake was from here. And you wouldâve driven several hoursâdays, evenâif it meant she was happy.Â
Even with her brother.Â
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.Â
In hindsight, it was a mistake to present yourself that way when asking for it because the shop worker couldnât seem to catch the hint that you werenât the Floyd in question after she saw Bobâs credit card with the same last name on it.Â
After a few trying days of being described by Abbyâs 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.Â
But there were worse outcomes, considering Bob took the opportunity to talk up how his beloved âwife-to-beâ just adored this place and you drove hours just to secure your dream cakeâ Among other ass-kissing sentiments that resulted in the owner sending you off with a free dessert.Â
It didnât help that Bob picked exactly what you wouldâve 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.Â
It didnât help that he still knew you. Not at all.Â
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.Â
âCould you at least close the door if youâre gonna stand around and gaze all day?â you grumble, wrapping your arms around yourself. âItâs like a wind tunnel up here.â
His frown deepens, attention still ahead of him, fingers drumming against the car.Â
âDo you think maybe we should just, like, take a pause and evaluate if we should be driving back right now?âÂ
You blink. âUh⌠No, not really. What is there to evaluate? Abbyâs wedding is in two days. Her cake is here with us, she isnât. Why would we wait around?â
You already knew the answer, ducking down to glance out the frosted windshield at the sky thatâs managed to somehow grow even dimmer since you went into the bakery ten minutes ago.Â
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 pointâ But the faster you got back, the better. It wasnât 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.
âNo shit,â he huffs, checking his watch. âItâs just⌠we have the time and that sky doesnât look very promising. Did Abbs ever mention anything about a storm?â
âNo, so Iâm sure itâs fine,â you dismiss, starting to undo the lining of your cupcake. If you waited any longer to eat it with that door open, itâd be frozen. âSheâs been tracking the Doppler like crazy.â
âYeah, butââÂ
âThis looks like the kind of place that always has a flurry. I think itâs fine to goâ Really.â
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.Â
âAlright. Fine. Whatever you say.â
You watch as the engine revs and he puts the address for the Inn back into his GPS.Â
It wasnât like Bob to give in so easily, at least when it came to something you were arguing about with him. Other people, maybe, but youâŚ? Definitely not.Â
You donât have the energy to question it, and he doesnât have the care to explain.
The drive is the same as beforeâ Quiet. Stiff around the edges. Something sharp forcing its way between you two. Only this time when you look at him, heâs the one who wonât look back.Â
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.Â
The cake sits tightly tucked against your chest, serving as the perfect arm rest for your book you hold up like a shield.Â
You let yourself get lost in it.Â
It was better than getting lost out here with him.Â
âIn one mile, turn left onto Main Street.â
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.Â
You donât bother looking up. Itâll adjust itself.Â
âIn 900 feet, turn left onto Main Street.âÂ
A few seconds pass.
âTurn left onto Main Street.â
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. âI think it might want you to turn left, Bobby.âÂ
âIf I turn left, weâll drive off the cliff into a frozen lake,â he snaps. âIf I can remember from earlier,â he adds under his breath. Â
Remember? Earlier? Canât he just see it now?
You glance over your book out at the windshield and your eyes immediately blow wide in shock.Â
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. Thereâs no contrast in your surroundings for miles, no sign of any visible depth perceptionâ Just bristlingly cold billows of wind-blown winter snow coming down hard, all without remorse.Â
Everything is washed in whiteâ 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.Â
The snow falls heavy and fast, the windshield wipers squeaking, desperately trying to rid the frozen glass from a blanket of white. You canât see the road in front of youâ Not the trees, not the curve of the cracked asphalt, not the lines on it.Â
Hell, you can barely even see the nose of the truck trying to cut through the frantic snowfall.Â
âOh my god,â you mumble in disbelief, mouth a little slack as you peer out.Â
Itâs 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. Â
âIf you wanna go left, go right ahead, but get out of the car before you do it because Iâd personally like to live to see my sister get married.â
âNo, itâs not that, itâsââ
âI know it keeps rerouting, but thatâs becauseââ
âBob!â you snap. âYou canât even see the road!â
He finally goes quiet. His expression is blank. His knuckles grip around the wheel. He looks over at you.Â
Once. Then twice.Â
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.Â
âI donât even know where the hood of the car is,â you continue, gesturing incredulously out in front of you as the tires struggle to crunch over the quick accumulation.
âYeah, and you wanted to go! So weâre going.âÂ
âOkay, butââÂ
âGod, can you ever make up your mind about anything?â he huffs, voice raising a tick. âYou either want something or you donât. You canât have it both ways.â
âWell, I didnât realize we were gonna be driving into a goddamn blizzard when I said go!â
He shrugs his shoulders, expression bristling. âDonât say I didnât warn you. Itâs fine, whatever. Weâll just take it slow.â
You exhale sharply with a roll of your eyes. This was really not the time for him to have a complexâ To play high and mighty just to prove a point. You already knew you were wrong. A reminder wasnât going to help anyone right now.Â
âThis is stupid, Bob. Just pull over.â
âWhere?â he says, exasperated. âLast time I checked weâre now in the middle of nowhere.â
âI donât knowâ Somewhere! We canât drive like this.âÂ
He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in aggravation under his glasses. âYouâre actually ridiculous. I canât with you.â
âIâm 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?âÂ
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.Â
âCall Abby.â He caves reluctantly. âKnowing her, she probably drove out here to look at the cakes in person.â
You shrink, lump of anger crawling to your throat as you pull out your phone and try her once.Â
It immediately goes to voicemail.Â
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.Â
Honestly, you couldnât be mad at anyone but yourself. Your own stupid self-pity and wallowing was exactly what got you here.Â
You knew betterâ Of course you knew better. You couldâve 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.Â
The cake wouldâve 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.Â
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.Â
The call finally connects, Abbyâs voice light and completely oblivious coming through on the other end.Â
âOh my God, please tell me Bob remembered his wallet.â
You smile, running your fingers over the sticker sealing the box that sits securely on your lap. âHe did, we got itâ Donât worry.â
âGood,â she sighs in relief. âThank God.â
âDid, uhâŚâ your voice trails, glancing at what used to be the edge of the road next to you, completely erased now. Itâs like another inch fell in the minute you tried to get the call to go through. âDid you know it was supposed to snow, by any chance?âÂ
The silence is thick on the other end. Bob glances your way, trying to read her answer off of your expression.Â
âNoâŚâ she answers eventually. âWhy? Is it snowing up there or something?â
âYou could say that.âÂ
âBob took the truck, right?â
You nod slowly even though she canât see you. âYeah⌠but itâs not much help, actually. Itâs coming down fast and weâre on a road that isnât really good for any kind of car right now.âÂ
âAre you serious?â she pouts, voice cracking in and out from the weak connection. âDrive carefully, okay! I need you guys here in one piece.âÂ
âTrying to,â 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.Â
âIf itâs that bad maybe you guys should rethink this.â
âYeahâŚâ You sigh, lips tightening around the words before they come. âDo 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?â
She hums on the other line. âLemme look.âÂ
âIâd tell you where we are but the GPS is going crazy. Service is kinda spotty up here.â
âNo worries, Iâll just check Bobbyâs Find My Friends.â
You snort. âYou have him on Find My Friends?â
âFor emergencies only, Abby!â Bob shouts over, flush creeping up his neck as she giggles in your ear.Â
You swat him away with a look. âRelax, thatâs adorable.âÂ
Bob pouts in his seat, going back to trying to steer through a storm that was only getting worse.Â
âOh!â Abbyâs voice perks up through the phone. âBradley said his uncle has a cabin not that far from you guys. Stop there until it blows over.â
Seriously?Â
A cabin, alone, in the snowy woods, lost in the middle of a flurry that flirted with the idea of being a blizzard.Â
With Bob.Â
You truly couldnât think of anything worse if you tried.Â
Maybe you should cut your losses and gamble with your life on this treacherous drive to avoid that.Â
Maybe this is what you get for choosing to travel in this just to avoid more time with him in the first place.Â
Shit.Â
âWhat did she say?â Bob asks, flicking the headlights in different ways like that might make some miracle of a difference.Â
You pause, grimacing, not wanting to speak it into existence even though you really had no other choice.Â
âRoosterâs uncle has a place we can crash, apparently.â
His hopeful body language deflates, the same realization you just went through washing over him as well.Â
Great.Â
âThe app is getting kinda glitchy nowâ It thinks you guys are in a river,â Abby interrupts, completely immune to the peril both of you were suddenly sorting through. âBut 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.â
She gives you a few more details about the houseâensures itâs not a problem and no one ever uses it, as told by the uncle himself who arrived for the wedding that morningâand sends you on your way.Â
You donât know how you find it, but you doâ Barely.
The piercing, reflective green of the street sign is intercepted by a raging swirl of flakes in the wind, but fortunately youâre able to find the turn and see just enough of the letters to know itâs indeed Willow Street.Â
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. Youâre in the dead of winter, in the middle of nowhereâ Only the woods, nature, and wildlife all taking shelter surrounding you for miles.Â
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.Â
The house is cuteâpicturesque, evenâtucked at the top of a tiered cobblestone staircase, lined with bushes and shrubs, all completely covered in fresh, lush snow.Â
It has a massive chimney, a wrap-around porch, a little balcony, and large, welcoming windows. Itâs all charming wood and soft stone, decorated with two small Christmas trees on the porchânow knocked over and half-buried in snowâand a couple dozen wreaths on windows and doors, weakly twinkling with a warm glow in the blustering storm.Â
If Abby didnât tell you no one ever came here, youâd 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.Â
Even in these circumstances, who the hell would want palm trees over this?Â
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 speakâa familiar stateâand just watch in silence as the truck quickly starts to become part of the surroundings buried in glistening white.Â
You smush your face into your hands, exhaustedly rubbing over your eyes as reality sets in.Â
How the fuck did you let yourself end up here?Â
All because you couldnât listen. All because you didnât think you were strong enough to tough it out for a few hours around someone youâve known your whole life.Â
Now look where it got you.Â
Bob clears his throat. âListen, I donât wanna be here either if it makes you feel any better, but we donât really have a choice.âÂ
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.Â
You pull your hands from your face, blinking out in front of you, still unable to look at him.Â
The last thing either of you needed was more animosity.Â
âNo. Thatâs notâitâs not that, itâsââ
âJust stay here,â he grumbles, abruptly pushing the door open and pulling his hat back on over his head. âIâll go check it out first.âÂ
You try to stop him, to explain that itâs not himâeven if a part of it damn well isâbut itâs the fact that you stupidly put yourself in this situation because you canât handle him anymore. Because you canât handle this.Â
And more than that, just as always, you canât handle being wrongâ Especially because of him.Â
How fucking pathetic were you?Â
He doesnât 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.Â
You watch as he examines the property: checks the name on the mailbox to make sure itâs the right house, peers through some of the windows, and retrieves the spare keyâ Left exactly where Abby said it would be.Â
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 fierceâ Biting and bone-chilling, whipping your hair without mercy, already staining your nose and lips a chapped pink.Â
âLet me come get you,â Bob shouts over from the porch, already making his way down the steps and trying to stomp some snow down. âYouâre gonna slip.â
âIâm fine,â you grit back, determined to continue despite your sneakers starting to easily slide around.Â
The snow seeps into your shoes as you trudge through, wind biting at your exposed ankles, unforgiving and bitter as the accumulation grows. It didnât matterâ The last thing you wanted was more help from him.Â
âThis kind of snow is slippery. Just wait for once in your life,â he grumbles back, his frame blurry in the storm and soft, pale twilight beginning to peek through the trees.Â
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.Â
âJust let me go, Bob. Iâm fine.â
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 outâ Reach out to hold you.Â
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?Â
The mood swings with him were exhausting and unpredictable. You couldnât keep upâ Couldnât predict which version of him youâd see next. The lines between what was an act and what wasnât felt like they were starting to blur beyond your liking.
But you know him too.Â
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 wasâ To get to take care of you just to prove a point.Â
Because you fucked up.Â
Badly.Â
âYouâre clearly not fine,â he counters, taking the cake from your hands and trying to hold his arm out for you to hold on to.
âNot now, Bob. Iâm serious.â
âWhat, not now?â
His question is calm, itâs curious. Itâs 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.Â
âThis! The last thing I want right now is for you to do this when I already know how fucking wrong I was. I really donât need the reminder, for once.âÂ
His face contorts in immediate confusion. âSeriously? Thatâs what youâre upset over right now?â
âYes!â You wiggle free of his grip and let your arms fall to your side with a snap. âOf course it isâ How could it not be? I already know I screwed up, Bob. I already know that you were right and youâre pissed with me for it, okay?âÂ
âIâm notââ He cuts himself off with a huff, squeezing his eyes shut and stomping after you heading for the door. âThatâs not why Iâm mad! Would you just slow down for a second?âÂ
âWhy would I?â you shout over the swirling wind, not bothering to turn around. âYou donât wanna be around me, I donât wanna be around you. This is less than ideal and weâre both annoyed, so letâs just get through this and get back for Abby.âÂ
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.Â
He follows eventually, but he doesnât say a word.Â
The silence follows you both inside. It envelopes. It sits. It watches and waits and tries to find a fracture.Â
It doesnât come.Â
You say the bare minimum, trying not to suffocate and drown in the unsettled energy expanding between you. Something was offâ More so than usual.Â
You canât place it, and it doesnât really want to be found.Â
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 wasnât used to being used.Â
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 itâs 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 donât know anything about Roosterâs elusive uncle, but man would it be nice to have a vacation home like thisâ Rarely used, but always welcoming. Always warm.Â
The evidence of the lack of warm bodies comes from the detailsâ 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.Â
That would have to do.Â
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 itâtried to tell him itâs too cold and harsh to go back outâbut he didnât listen.Â
You didnât put up much of a fight. Why would you? You were wrong about virtually everything else lately.Â
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.Â
He didnât 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 stormâ Heavy and dense with white until he completely vanished.Â
The pages fall shut against your fingers, still holding the spot like your mind would eventually turn back to it.Â
It doesnât.Â
You just stare blankly out at the snow, watching as the pale grey sky grows darker and dimmer as night slowly falls into place.Â
You couldnât help but wonder about himâ 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. Itâs all rattled.
You rest your head against the cool glass, frozen to the touch. You donât care, donât even notice your temple is numb until the front door swings open, snapping you back to reality.Â
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.Â
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.Â
Damp ends of brown hair curl at the nape of his neck where snow meets skin, cold and wet like the rest of him.Â
You donât realize youâre staring until he looks backâ Expression patient. Calm. Completely different than when you last saw him. Something you canât really read.Â
He doesnât look frustrated or angry or even indifferent. He just looks like⌠him.Â
Like a version you knew a lifetime ago.Â
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.Â
âYou look like one of those people in a magazine.â
You glance over at him, still watching you. The smallest smile unfolds at the corner of his lipsâ Something almost not even there. Something that tries and fails to meet his eyes.Â
You're tucked comfortably in your corner, blanket over your lap, winterâs 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.Â
Or maybe it wasnât so sudden.Â
Your brows crinkle, an unwanted heat flooding the apples of your cheeks. Hopefully he couldnât see in the low light.Â
âI feel like Iâm in a damn Hallmark movie.â You try to tease, but it falls a little flat, a little⌠vulnerable.                                                       Â
His lips slip into a subtle pout, sliding off his clunky boots and peeling his soaked gloves from stiff, cold hands.Â
âI like Hallmark movies.â
âOf course you do.â
Even though youâre trying to slip back into old habitsâto hold onto your safe, familiar rhythm like a lifelineâyou still canât seem to foster the same kind of bite behind your words.Â
Too hollow, and yet, not at all.Â
All of it falls softer, quieter. Hesitant, like something was fracturing without permission.Â
âWhatâs wrong with Hallmark Christmas movies?â He shifts his weight like itâs personal, fixing his glasses draped in melted snow.Â
You press your lips together with a shrug. âTheyâre unrealistic.âÂ
âAre you, like, allergic to joy of all sortsâŚ? Or just the holiday kind?âÂ
Your eyes narrow. âNo. Just the unrealistic kind.âÂ
âYeah,â he huffs incredulously, tossing his hands up to gesture at the wall of snow quickly building around the cabin and trapping you in. âSo unrealistic.â
âWell, thatâs why I said I feel like Iâm in one.â
He gathers the wood he dropped at the door and heads for the fireplace, empty and waiting just to your right.
âYouâd be one of those girls whoâs forced to go back to her hometown thatâs obsessed with Christmas but sheâs not into it,â he says, smiling softly to himself as he slides the glass doors open and starts assembling the wood in the cradle. âThen she ends up stuck there instead of working the whole holiday and eventually learns to love it again.â
You hum, brow lifted as you watch him work.Â
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 pinkâ A pink you havenât 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.Â
You donât even realize heâs still talking until you scold yourself out of your trance. Why the hell were you looking at him like that?Â
âWhich 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,â he continues, working diligently until the logs are layered just so, completely unaware of your sudden spiral.Â
You sit quietly, watching him from the side, trying to wrap your brain around why he was being so⌠different.Â
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.Â
âI donât know if that would be us.â
You say it.Â
It feels like you live outside your body saying something like thatâ The acknowledgement of an us. The semblance of reckoning with what used to be.Â
With what couldâve been.Â
âIt couldâve been.â
Apparently he feels the same.Â
Thatâs 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 onâ You were still tethered to each other no matter how hard you tried to cut the tangled rope.Â
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 everythingâthe distance, the closeness, the heat and the cold and the familiar, precariously cautious quietâmakes you want to unravel what youâve spent so long keeping tied down deep inside you.Â
It makes you question if you were wrong all those years agoâ Even though you damn well know you werenât. You know better.Â
You did then. You do now.Â
He wasnât this person. He wasnât someone who could love you in the ways you neededâ In the ways youâve 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 himâ Fully. Heâs fiddling with his hands, calloused and worn, red knuckles thawing from the cold.Â
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.Â
He would do that in the middle of the night when youâd get a glass of water from the kitchen and he was the only one still up.Â
He would do that when heâd see you from the porch when youâd come home for winter break or after he had to pull a drunk guy off of you at a party.Â
He did it before he touched your hair the other morning and when you both waited in a silent, snowfallen car this afternoon.Â
You hated that you knew all that, but even worse, you hated that you knew what it meant.Â
And you hated that something weighted usually followed.Â
âDo you still mean it?â
Something like that.Â
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.Â
Your breath catches, pulse a steady roar in your ears.Â
You know exactly what he meansâ Exactly the moment heâs referring to.Â
One you agreed to never talk about again.Â
How do you even answer that? How could you?Â
You sigh, facade fractured. âBobâŚâ
âSo you do,â he says quietly, like he believes every word of it and is scared to.Â
Then he stands, wading in front of you, hanging on your reaction, on your breathing, on what youâll do next.
Your mouth opens, then closes. Youâre at a loss around him for onceâ 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.Â
No matter how hard youâve tried not to, no matter how long youâve spent convincing yourself you donâtâyou shouldnâtâyou still fucking do.Â
It mightâve been your idea to leave it for deadâthat night, those words, everything you sharedâbut it still felt like maybe neither of you ever fully moved on.Â
And you certainly hadnât forgotten. Even if you wanted to. You never could.Â
Thereâs a pull, an urgeâ Let go. Give in. Fall. You want toâin this moment, in this light, in this heat and space that all suddenly felt too heavy and too closeâyou want to cave.Â
To bend with whatâs been pulling you down for so long.Â
Itâs destructive and reckless and will only leave you more hurt, but maybe this was something youâll never really heal from.Â
Maybe itâs something you were never meant to.Â
Maybe this was always supposed to cling to youâ This fractured, shattered part of yourself that was stitched together by him when he was the one who broke it.Â
Your lips part again. The words catch in the back of your throat, stick to what intentions you abandoned long ago.Â
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.Â
âOf course,â he mutters. âPredictable. I canât believe I thought maybe you would actually care.â
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.Â
The powerâs out. Perfect.Â
In the dark, his face shifts back to something you already know, yet something that feels so suddenly foreignâ So rigid and distant. A flicker of something other than hatred dying a pitiful, worthless death.Â
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 somethingâanythingâlike you should.Â
You canât reach for him, canât catch him, canât stop him or talk to him, just watch pathetically as he storms out the doorâno damp gloves or hat in handâmuttering not to follow him out.Â
Itâs not said in anger, not in hate. Just sad. Frail.
And for once, you donât argue.
continue reading here .á â 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 âchapterâ will pick up directly where this left off to make it easier to find. i hope you enjoyed so far, thanks for reading !
heat of the moment, pt 1 [tasm!peter x reader x groundhog day au]
A/N Here it is: the first part of my ONLY ASK prompt, that I've been working on for a thousand years, because it came from @spidervee and because she's written 500 spidey fics and just gives and gives
a/n And because I can't do anything normal, this inspired something bigger than a short blurb.
summary: you ever feel stuck in a moment that you can't get out of? angst; fluff; humor; final destination vibes; and yes this is in tribute to my favorite episode of television ever written - "mystery spot"
words: 3.3k
warnings: death. a lot of it. repeatedly.
Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.
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.
âIt was the HEAT of the MOMENT
Tellinâ me. what. my. HEART meant
The HEEEAT of the MOMENTâŚ
Showed in your EYEEEESâŚâ
You slapped a hand on your face and groggily dragged it down with a tired groan. Your eyes just barely began to adjust to the sunlight. In a zombie-like state, you turned to your side and glared at your boyfriendâs rather retro alarm clock radio, set to a local station that boasted the greatest hits of the 80s. âGreatestâ was certainly subjective.
Why couldnât the man just use his phone like every other human alive right now, that cocky, hipster son of a biâ
âMorninâ, Sunflower!â the devil in question rang out from your en suite bathroom. A moment later, Peter Parkerâs head poked around the corner. Despite being half dead, your heart fluttered at the sight of himâa glowing freckled face, his sparkling amber eyes, a beautifully mischievous smile, and a messy crown of brunette hair. To add to the stunning sight, you were pleased to find him shirtless and wearing a towel low around his waist, his hipbones peeking out and accenting his perfectly-sculpted V.
By contrast, you looked like ass.
But the way he looked at you, you were as captivating as the Milky Way.Â
âHowâd you sleep, bug?â he beamed, wiping any residual toothpaste away with a hand towel.
âGreat,â you sighed, exhaustion evident in your voice. You yawned, gazing up at the ceiling, your voice dripping with sarcasm. âI was having a wonderful dream. And then I was assaulted.â
âOh,â he replied, sauntering over to the bed. âLike in a sexy way? By me, I hope.â He teased as he leaned over you, wiggling his eyebrows salaciously, one hand on either side of your head
âNo,â you pouted, rolling your eyes, âby Asia.â
He tilted his head, considering. âThat got weird, fast.â He smirked as he eyed you suspiciously, âYou been readinâ fanfiction again?â
You barked with laughter. âI mean my ears, dumbass!â 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 didnât mind. âCould you please just use your phone alarm like everybody else?â you whiningly pleaded.
âBut bug, this is the perfect soundtrack for today!â Peter replied, pressing more kisses on the side of your neck beneath your ear and down to your shoulder. He smiled against your flesh. âItâs going to be a wonderful day.â You wriggled beneath him, his light stubble and soft lips tickling your sensitive skin. âPatrol kinda kicked my ass yesterday, so I was thinking about taking a day off. Spending it with my girl.â He pushed up and gazed down at you with eyes that could force you to agree to anything. âSo how âbout it, huh?â
âMmm, Iâd love to,â you hummed, rubbing your hands over the firm breadth of his chest and arms, admiring him the way one would admire a Michelangelo. âBut I canât,â you lamented.
âWhat?â he whimpered in protest. âNoo, câmon⌠We live together and I feel like I havenât seen you since last week.â His lips were back on you, leading you towards temptation.
âAnd whose fault is that, Spider-Man?â you teased. He sulked like a toddler. âI canât,â you frowned, exaggerating the disappointment in your voice in solidarity with his own. âTodayâs super important. If I donât finish drafting those plans by 4, Iâm screwed.â
âLook at it this way,â Peter replied, with a wolfish twinkle, âyou stay in bed with me, youâre still screwed either way.â He dipped down for a slower kiss, more lustful than before. âThis method is a lot more fun, I promise.â
You smiled against his lips, unable to contain the way your stomach fluttered. âYou are such a perv, Parker,â you chided him with a half-smirk on your face. âBut seriously, I canât.â His head rolled back with an anguished sigh as his defeat sunk in. âBut hey, walk me to work? Iâll skip the train today.â
He peered down at you with an unsatisfied pout. âOkay,â he muttered. He pushed himself up, still straddling you. âBut can we at least stop for coffee and a bagel on the way?â
âAbsolutely,â you agreed. âIâm starving.â
âWhat a surprise,â Peter answered, tilting his head. âSo am I.â He suddenly lifted the bedsheets up and disappeared beneath them.Â
âPeter!â you squirmed and giggled, scandalized, as you felt his fingertips scurry for the waist of your panties. âYouâre absolutely awfâahhhh!â
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.Â
âWho was that?â Peter asked, trying not to sound suspicious.
âJust an old boyfriend of mine:â you teased with a demure smile that gave you away, âI call âem âPotential Spam.ââ
âHmm, too clingy?âÂ
âYeah, but not in the way I prefer,â 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 didnât ever slow down, not even to sip coffee from the disposable cup warming your free fingers.Â
Peter looked over at you and the way your tiny legs carried you a nose ahead of his pace. âBug, whyâya walkinâ so fast?â he asked, sidestepping to let a woman with an overenthusiastic corgi on a leash rush past you.Â
You scoffed with an amused side-eye, âWell, if somebody hadnât made me late for workââ
âWhat?â he shrugged incredulously as he gazed off innocently, taking a sip from his cup. âAnd miss the most important meal of the day?â
You slapped him on the shoulder with a blushing gasp, âPeter!â He cracked a devious grin.Â
Your eyes scanned his face and the gait of his walk. Youâd always considered your boyfriend to be good-lookingâbeautiful, 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.
âWhatâs gotten into you today?â you eyed him curiously.
He glanced at you innocently, failing to hide a smile behind tight lips. âWhat?â 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 youâd be chasing him around like a young child free of the shackles and pomp of adulthood.
You couldnât help but return the smile. âIâm serious! You seem⌠lighter.â
Peter glanced around at the busy street around you, shrugging his shoulders as if it was obvious. âI meanâlook around,â he gestured with his coffee in hand. âThe sun is shining. Birds are chirping. Itâs not too cold, not too humid and gross. Itâs like, a perfect day.â
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.Â
âYep,â you agreed, with a not-so-subtle hint that you actually disagreed. âA splendor to behold, for sure.âÂ
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.
âShit!â you hissed under your breath, feeling the hot liquid drip down your skin.
âBabe! Are you okay?â Peter flinched, brows furrowed with concern. âYou didnât burn yourself, did you?â
âNo,â you groaned, biting back your irritation, âbut this shirt is ruined.â You searched around for something in your bag to wipe off the mess, finding nothing.
âI can run home and bring you some clothes,â Peter offered, a sour look on his face as if this was somehow his fault. âOr, you know. Swing.â
You huffed, curtly, âNah, donât waste your time.âÂ
âI feel bad,â he replied. âDidnât think youâd be wet again this soon.â You glared at him, unamused. âSorry,â he immediately added, holding his hands up to placate your annoyance. âLast one, sorry.â
âDonât worry about me,â you glowered sarcastically, landing eyes on a convenience store nearby. âIâm going in for napkins.â 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.Â
You felt Peterâs 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 Peterâs phone began to ring. He glanced down at the cracked screen and looked up at you apologetically. âUh, itâs May,â he explained, pointing a thumb outside the door. âI gotta take this.âÂ
âGo ahead,â you shrugged, already making your way towards the coffee bar. âMeet you outside.â 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.Â
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.
âDonât move,â 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.Â
âDonât try anything,â 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.Â
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.Â
âHey!â a male voice rang out. Both you and your captor flinched, the blade drawing a drop of blood from your neck.Â
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 girlâs hand, then glanced around frantically for his own, realizing that she had taken it while his back was turned.
âPut the knife down!â one of the two officers ordered. It was the younger of the two.Â
âJust take it easy, kid,â the more subdued voice coming from the older officer said.
The girl sniffed, and from her proximity you could feel her lip quivering. âNobody move!â 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.
âShhh, it... sâokay,â you stuttered, barely able to comprehend what was happening. âDo-donât... doââ
âShut up!â 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. âI-I swear to-to god, Iâll kill her!â Your breath caught in your throat, your fists clenching tightly. She was no longer the only one trembling.
âPl-please...â you whimpered.
âDrop the weapon!â 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.Â
You silently mouthed his name, a helpless apology. You didnât even know what you were apologizing for.
The unstable young woman must have sensed Peter as a threat. âTake another step and Iâll kill her!â she screeched, yanking your body closer to her chest.Â
âStopâ!â
A shot rang out. The box cutter fell from the girlâs limp fingertips. Her heat was behind you, then suddenly gone. Her entire beingâgone, 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 statuesâwax 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 Peterâs 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.Â
You donât know how long you were holding your breath, but the next inhale feels like a flaming sword through the heart. You stare at the redâan ocean of redâas it crests and floods the ground below. Youâre falling. Maybe through space, maybe through reality, dropping straight into hell. It must be perdition with all the pain youâre in.
And then you stop before you hit the ground. Your eyes open. Labored breaths. Peterâs 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 youâre 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. Youâre struggling to hear the sounds. You donât want the quiet. You donât want the darkness.
Peterâs 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. Youâre trying to scream that you want to go back to bed. Youâre 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. Heâs begging you not to go. Youâre begging him to take you home. Youâre not ready to go.Â
Itâs getting dark. The love of your life is begging you to stay. Youâre fighting to keep your eyes open. You want to remember every freckle on his face, even as theyâre drenched in tears. Darkness settles in anyway. Itâs hard to see how beautiful he is in the dark.Â
It was beautiful today. And now, darkness. This is how it ends, you think. But youâre wrong.Â
Itâs 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.
âIt was the HEAT of the MOMENT
Tellinâ me. what. my. HEART meant
The HEEEAT of the MOMENTâŚ
Showed in your EYEEEESâŚâ
You gasped suddenly, shooting straight up out of bed. Your eyes were wild, shooting around your clean, peaceful bedroom. You remembered where youâd been and realized you werenât where you wereâthe jarring discrepancy confusing and overwhelming you.Â
You were dead. You were bleeding out on the floor of a convenience store, breathing your last breath.Â
But now youâre 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 Peterâs face.
âMorninâ, Sunflower!â 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 itâsomehowâwas 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 youâre wrong. Itâs just the beginning.Â
Today is the first day of the end of your life.
Continue to Part 2
A/N *spooky bitch vibes* Did you enjoy this fic? If so, please support a sistah and reblog with a comment to tell me what you liked or hated. Thank you for supporting fandom writers by reblogging and commenting on our work! It truly is the best way to pay it forward...
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Bob Floyd x Reader
Word Count: 568
Warnings: Smut, but like he is doing things to her.
Note: My once in a blue moon post brought to you by my friend breifly referencing ' The First Time'.
âI traveled the world, but it got me nowhere.â Bob whispered in your ear. His arms were wrapped around you, your back pressed against his chest. âNothing could ever compare to you, baby. You brought color to my world. It gave me meaning.â
He turned your head, placing a soft kiss to your lips before pushing his tongue into your mouth. It started slow, like he was drawing the moment out. âYouâre an angel, my north star.â he murmured against your lips. His lips trailed down your jaw and neck, his hands pushing your shirt up as they started to explore your body.
You let out a soft whine followed by his name, a needy plea. You felt him smirk against your skin, a low rumble sending vibrations against your skin. âBobby.â you breathed again, squirming against him.
âYes, pretty girl? Use your words." He murmured against your neck, His hand cupped your breast, massaging it, fingers pinching at your nipple, earning another moan from you. âThat's right, let me hear you.â Your head fell against his shoulder as his hands kept up their movements.
âLets take these off you.â he whispered, moving his hands to push your pajama shorts and panties off before moving to pull your shirt off, leaving you bare in his lap. He pressed kisses down your neck, brushing your hair to the side before nipping your shoulder. âSo beautiful, so soft, so mine.â
He ran his hands over your body, down your sides with a feather light touch before his hands found your thigh, pulling them apart before dipping a hand between them, fingers sliding between your folds. âYouâre so wet baby, all for me.â he brought his fingers to your clit, pressing soft circles against the sensitive bud.
âFuck, Bobby.â you murmured âFeels so good.â
He moved his hand to your mouth. âOpen,â he murmured, pushing two fingers into your mouth. You obeyed his command, parting your lips. When he pulled them out of your mouth he brought them back between your legs, pressing them inside you. You let out a whine at the sting of the sudden stretch. He gave you a few seconds to adjust to him before he started to pump his fingers inside of you. He knew exactly how to make you feel good, it was second nature at this point.
His built up his pace, stopping for a few moments just to push off your release before starting again. He kept it up until you were fully squirming in his arms, a mix of moans, his name, and needy whines leaving you.
âBo-bobby.â you gasped, fingers digging into his bicep. âPlease, please baby, need to come.â
He moved a hand to your neck, applying light pressure as he curled his fingers inside you. It only took a few thrusts of his fingers before your vision started to blur and your release tore through you. He whispered soft praises in your ear as he helped you ride out your release. âThat's it baby, such a good girl for me.â When he finally pulled his fingers out he brought them up, pressing them in your mouth like before. âSuck.â he murmured, and you did. He watched you intently, heat in his eyes. When you pulled back there was a soft pop. In an instant his mouth was on yours again, moaning into the kiss. âYouâre a fucking drug, baby.â
Every time I see a picture of Miles Miller from Bad Times at the El Royale, it takes me a second to process that that is Lewis Pullman and NOT Tom Holland. Like I know it's Lewis but it gets me every time đ
Pretty sure filmmakers tried to get Tom Holland for the role, but scheduling. And like Thunderbolts, the role that was meant for a different actor went to Lewis. And he killed it.
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Pairing: dadâs best friend!Rhett Abbott x f!Reader
Synopsis: Four years away from your hometown and your childhood crush on your dadâs best friend comes rushing back all at once. A single touch at a summer BBQ quickly spirals into heat, hunger, and hands that finally stop holding back.
Smut Warnings: masturbation (male), dirty talk, fingering, semi-public sex, brief anal play, daddy kink, mild praise kink, just the tip turning into full blown penetrative sex, possessive sex, mild size kink, overstimulation, rough sex, messy sex, mild breeding kink, deep penetration, unprotected piv (oopsies!), creampie (double oopsies!), squirting, eating out cum.
Fic Warnings: age gap (reader is in early 20s, Rhett is mid-40s), forbidden sexual attraction (as the pairing says: Rhett is your dadâs best friend), possessive language.
Word Count: 6.5k
A/N: Iâll be honest with you all... 4.3k of this is pure porn. 1.5k is description galore, then the other 1.6k is a hot and steady lead up to said porn. I genuinely thought this would only be 3.5k, maybe 4k maximum, but we all know I just canât help myself lol ;)
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; itâs claimed its place, silver streaks cutting clean lines through the brunet, mirrored in the beard he keeps neatly trimmed.
His shoulders are broader nowânot 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 smilesâan easy, knowing smile, practised through his years. Thereâs something grounding about the way he stands: feet planted, spine relaxed, like heâs comfortable occupying space. His hands look different tooâbigger 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 isnât just his physicality, itâs also the confidence that hums just beneath the surface. He fills the room without trying to. He doesnât rush his wordsâhe listens. When he looks at you, itâs direct, unflinching, not hungry but curious, like heâs fully present in his own skin. Itâs impossible not to feel how powerfully that pull tugs at you now.
And then thereâs 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 differentlyâyour body no longer tentative, your presence no longer asking permission. Youâve 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.
Itâs not the polite glance adults give to kids theyâve known forever, but a pause; itâs just a second too long. His eyes linger, flick briefly away, then return as if heâs recalibrating, updating an old mental picture that no longer fits. Thereâs something unreadable in his expressionâsurprise, maybe, recognition layered with restraint. You catch him watching you when he thinks you wonât notice, his gaze thoughtful and assessing, but undeniably aware, as though heâs registering that youâre no longer a memory tied to this town, no longer someoneâs 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 heâs suddenly conscious of it. Older looks impossibly good on himâhas given him depth, gravity, heatâbut 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 youâve 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. Itâs the kind of heat that doesnât blaze so much as lingerâsoaks 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 thatâs 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 donât bother wiping it away; the heat makes everything feel a little softer, a little more permissive.
The garden is loud with late afternoon lifeâthe clatter of plates, your dad laughing too hard at something someoneâs 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 youâre suddenly very aware of.
You watch the way Rhett movesâthe 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 arenât looking.
Rhett is there before you realise heâs moved.
âFoodâs ready,â he says, close enough that his voice feels meant only for you, and then his hand finds your backânot 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 hasnât stopped even if it feels like it has. His hand doesnât 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, itâs 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 youâplates clinking, voices risingâbut right now, it feels like youâre the only people in the world, held in that narrow strip of shade heâs made just for you.
For a beat longer than it should last, neither of you moves.
Then something in him tightensâjaw, shoulders, resolveâand 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; itâs there in the careful distance he puts between you, in the control heâs forcing back into place.
Rhett drags a hand down his face, palm scraping over beard and mouth like heâs trying to wipe the moment away. He keeps looking at you while he does itâeyes dark, conflicted, held on yours as if turning away might be harder than staying. When he finally does break the stare, itâs 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. Theyâre 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 tookâheart hammering, sundress brushing your kneesâquiet as you pass through the back door and into the house, where the air feels tighter, charged, like it knows exactly what youâre doing.
The key hooks by the stairs are a collection of heavy, forgotten iron. You donât hesitate. Your fingers find the small brass key for the spare bathroom, the one that hasnât 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 heâs trying to keep the world from hearing. Itâs followed by a hiss, sharp and pained with pleasure. Then the sound of skin on skin, a rhythmic, wet, slick noiseâfaster 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 everythingâyour resolve, your curiosity, the reckless momentum thatâs carried you up hereâand 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.
Heâs 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. Heâs 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 doesnât move, doesnât breathe. He looks exactly like a man caught in headlights, every muscle locked, his face a mask of naked shock and something elseâshame, maybe, but beneath it, a flare of something hotter.
âJesus Christ,â he breathes, the words ragged. His hand doesnât move from himself. He just stares at your reflection, his chest rising and falling too fast.
You donât leave. You push the door shut behind you. The click of the latch is deafening in the small space.
âI heard ya,â 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; itâs laid bare, acknowledged.
âYou shouldnât be in here,â 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.
âYâsaid my name.â
He lets out a rough breath thatâs almost a laugh. âYeah.â He doesnât deny it. Doesnât look away.
The air in the room is thick, humid with his scentâsoap, clean sweat, and something muskier, sharper. Your own breathing feels shallow. You take a step forward. The tile is cool under your bare feet.
âWhy did yârun?â
âYâknow why.â His jaw works. His fist tightens, then relaxes, a slow pump that makes your stomach clench. âLook at ya. Look at⌠this.â He gestures weakly with his chin, at himself, at the space between you. âIâm twenty years older than ya, kid. I used to fix yâbike.â
âIâm not a kid on a bike anymore.â
âNo.â The word is heavy, final. His eyes drink you in again, and this time, they donât shy away from the low cut of your dress, the way the fabric drapes over your hips. âYâreally not.â
Another step. Youâre 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.
âWhat were ya thinking âbout?â You ask, watching the water spiral down the drain.
Heâs silent for so long you think he wonât answer. Then, his voice is low, stripped raw. âYâback. That dress. The way the sun caught on yâskin where my hand was. The sound yâmade when I touched ya. Like aâlike a gasp yâwere tryinâ to swallow.â His hand moves again, a long, slow pull from base to tip. âI was thinkinâ âbout how yâskin would feel under my mouth right there⌠how youâd taste. How youâd arch into it.â
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.
âAnd what else?â
His eyes blaze. âYâwant the whole fantasy?â
âYes.â
He leans closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. âI was thinking âbout turninâ you round right there in the garden. Pushinâ that pretty yellow dress up âround your waist, seeinâ if you were as bare and smooth as you looked. Holdinâ you still while I⌠while I just looked. While I touched. Until you were shakinâ.â
A shudder runs through you, undeniable. Your nipples tighten against the thin cotton of your dress. He sees it. His nostrils flare.
âYâkillinâ me,â he murmurs, more to himself than to you. He starts to move his hand again, a slow, torturous rhythm. âYâshould go back to the party.â
âI donât want to.â
âI know, kid.â He sounds resigned, agonised. âThatâs the problem.â
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.
âLet me,â you say, the words out before you can stop them.
His rhythm stutters. âLet you what?â
âHelp.â
He shakes his head, a sharp, pained movement. âNo. This isâthis is bad enough. You seeinâ this. Me beinâ⌠like this because of ya.â
âBecause of me,â you repeat, and itâs not a questionâitâs a claiming. You move then, closing the last of the distance. You donât 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. âThen let me be part of it.â
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.
âLook at me,â 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. Thereâs no more conflict there, just a desperate, burning want.
âYâsure?â 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 himâpart 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.
âOkay,â he breathes, and itâs the only permission you need.
He kisses you.
Itâs not gentle. Itâs 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 thatâs 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 itâthe reality of his size, his arousalâsends 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. âFuck,â he whispers, the word ragged. âIâve thought about that. So many times.â
âMe too,â 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 doesnât 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.
âPretty liâl thing,â 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.
âShh,â he soothes against your skin, but thereâs no real caution in it. Heâs 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. Youâre 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 youâthe 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.
âJesus,â he breathes again. He reaches out, his calloused fingers tracing the lace edge of your bra. He doesnât 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. âThese are a problem,â he says, his voice thick.
âThey are?â
âTheyâre in my way.â
He hooks his thumbs into the lace waistband. He doesnât 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 itâs 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. âLook at ya,â 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 heâs going to put his mouth on you. But he doesnât. 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. Itâs softer than you imagined.
âRhett,â you whisper.
He lifts his head. His eyes are glazed, his lips parted. âI want to taste ya,â he says, the words raw and honest. âI want to feel ya come on my tongue. But if I start, I ainât gonna stopâŚâ
The denial is a physical ache. You nod, understanding, even as your body screams in protest.
âThen touch me,â you plead. âPlease.â
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. Youâre 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.
âSweet,â he murmurs. âSo fuckinâ sweet fâme.â
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.
âSo pretty here,â he says, his voice rough with wonder. âAll pink and swollen fâme.â 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.
âEasy, girl,â he says, but thereâs 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 doesnât 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.
âYâso responsive,â he murmurs, watching your face. âEvery little touch⌠I can see it on ya.â
You canât 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.
âThatâs it,â he encourages, his voice a low rumble. âTake what yâneed from me.â
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 donât try to stifle.
âI can feel yâgetting tighter,â he says, his own breathing growing ragged. âAre yâclose? Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let me see yâcome.â
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. Heâs 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.
âOkay?â 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.
âChrist,â 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 overwhelmingâa 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.
âYeah,â he chokes out, the word strained. âThatâs it. Touch my cock, yâsweet liâl thing.â
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 himâthe 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 heâs 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 entranceânot 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 enoughâenough to make you cry out, a sound of shock and sheer, overwhelming sensation. Itâs a deep, filling pressure you didnât 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.
âJesus, kid,â he huffs out, the words shattered. âYâfeel⌠God, yâfeelâŚâ
He doesnât finish; he doesnât have to. You can see it on his faceâthe agonizing pleasure, the battle for control. Youâre 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 itâs 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.
âJustâjust there,â he pants, his forehead damp with sweat. âChrist, just like that.â
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 sexâyour 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.
âLook at me,â 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.
âThis is mine,â he growls, each word punctuated by a soft, slick push. âThis heat. This tight, sweet liâlâfuckâthis is all fâme. Isnât it?â
You canât speak. You can only nod, your vision blurring at the edges.
âSay it.â
âYours,â you gasp out, âall yours, Rhett.â
He lets out a quiet, disappointed noise, tutting at you. âThat ainât what yâcall me at night, ainât it?â A slightly deeper thrust has you arching your back so sharply that you hit the back of your head against the mirror. âWhen yâgot those fingers in this tight cunt, thinkinâ âbout me when yâcomeâwhat do yâcall me, sweet thing?â
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.
âDaddyââ Youâre 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. âAll yours, daddy. Itâs all yours. Ainât nobody else I want in me.â
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 donât recognise as your own voice. Your back is pressed against the mirror, your hands flat against the cool glass for purchase that isnât 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; itâs 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 himâthe 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.
âThatâs it,â he grunts, his voice strained, sweat now plastering his shirt to the broad expanse of his back. âTake it. Take all of it. Fâme.â
Youâre babbling, a stream of broken pleas and affirmations. âDaddy, yes⌠please, moreâŚâ 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 mindâthe 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 doesnât 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 gushânot much, just a hint of release that slicks his next thrustâmixing 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 donât 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 doesnât 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 heâs made of you.
You canât 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 youâre quivering again, until youâre slick only with his spit.
He pulls back, his chin glistening. His gaze meets yours, and a slow, utterly satisfied smile touches his lipsâa rare, unguarded expression that makes your heart clench.
âMine,â he says again, his voice a hoarse whisper, as if tasting the truth of it.
âYeah. All yours.â 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. Itâs short and sweet, somewhat shy where he wasnât not even a minute ago.
When he breaks the kiss, his expression is serious, conflicted again. âWe canât stay in here.â
You know heâs 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. Youâre both flushed, dishevelled, marked by what just happened. The woman staring back at you looks differentâsofter 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.
âWe go out separate,â he says, his voice back to its normal, low timbre, though itâs still rough around the edges. âYâgo first. Iâll clean up here, then Iâll come on down.â
You nod. It feels clandestine, dangerous. Exciting.
He steps close to you one last time, his hand on your arm. âThis ainât over,â he says, and itâs not a question. Itâs a promise.
You believe him. You turn, your hand on the doorknob, and look back. Heâs leaning against the sink again, but now he looks more in control, the storm inside him banked for now. His eyes meet yours.
âGo on,â he says, a faint, almost-smile touching his lips. ââFore I change my mind about lettinâ yâleave.â