₊˚౨chrisৎ˚₊

reflex was a funny thing, even funnier as an excuse of yanking the rising hem further down your thighs. for your own decency, he'd say if you asked. you didn't. but he wasn't your lover, he wasn't in the position for any eyefuls.

still, your thighs were soft.

his spine realigned with the curve of the polyester seat, hands only slightly fumbling to curl around the wheel.

“what am i going to do with you?”

your lips quivered, but they're shut tight. it wasn't yet your part in this song and dance.

a push of the gear, turns of the wheel, and the car too nice to be his slowly exited the club's fluorescently-lit parking lot, disappearing into the sea of sedans and their blinkers making their way out of downtown.

this predicament was conflicting, all because of his stupid heart. it's juvenile for the ‘pushing thirty’ eraserhead, whose life had been—for much worse than better—work, work, and more work. it's the way of grown adults, the way of pro-heroes, and the way of a lone man with his regretful qualifications. he wasn't organized enough to have a list, but he knew his priorities. and it shouldn't be going out of his way to drive his drunken, underdressed former.. something, when he was still on the clock.

your name lit up his screen mid-patrol after what had been months of nothing; no contact, not even a text or scribbles on folded paper slipped through windows. when it ended, it was a clean cut. his blade had been sharpened and thus, his words cutthroat.

“we should stop,” he stated one early night, perched on your balcony. “i'm not someone you should be involved with, let alone long-term. besides the obvious threat my work brings, i can't give you what you want or need. but you'll find someone else. i know you will.”

it took everything in him to not look back as he swung off into the night, leaping over rooftops. but somehow, his resolve held up. and for a while, so did yours. no contact, not even a tearful voicemail begging for an explanation or for his return—nothing. if he felt anything by then, he couldn't have known. work kept him underwater, and he didn't have the time to feel a single thing.

until tonight. until, for some reason, you were stupid enough to reach for booze and your name flashed across his phone with that stupid pop song you set as your personal ringtone ages ago, lulling him to answer. it's stupid; the instantaneous halt of his breaths, the rush of his heart rattling beneath his ribs, his thumbs twitching with hesitation and the worst feeling in the universe. longing. the kind that revived a soul in stasis, breathing it back to painful, lucid life.

bubblegum pop died in his grasp, and with the speed of a man chasing a high, his thumbs rushed to call back. just in case. you could be hurt, you could be afraid—it had to be the only reason you would stoop so low to have broken this resolve. the electric buzz under his skin wasn't because he longed to hear your voice again, no. no, he was just worried.

“baby?”

the night was too eager to take his breath away—or, with the autumn chill, his lungs just gave in to the cold and froze.

“aizawa,” you mumbled, and he's intoxicated. what a voice, singing his name—but he sobered up fast, alert with the realization that he never heard you slur like a drunk. “i miss you.”

your resolve had been doused in god knows how much alcohol, and it was only with plea after plea after sweetened plea, that you finally sent him your location; some club downtown where your ‘work bestie’ ditched you to get laid, so you said. he was lucky yamada's car was still in his possession—borrowed it for an errand and all—made it faster for him to get to you before someone could notice the lonely drunk girl drinking away her feelings and get some ideas. also, he would've been subjecting a poor taxi driver into this tension curdling the air within the vehicle that was a better sound system than it was an ideal ride. he would've felt at least a little bad.

‘cause right now, it's like they were sitting in half-done gelatin, sinking slowly.

his rough voice cut through the thick tension first. “you feeling nauseous?”

“no.” not yet.

dark eyes flitted from the road and to the goosebumps dotting your skin. in the club, your belongings were only a highly impractical tiny purse. the employee at the cloakroom said that the other woman—the ‘work bestie’—had retrieved the jacket you wore coming in. he didn't know what to do with that information other than clench his jaw. in the backseat, your ‘purse’ idly laid upon a few loose strands of his bindings, right beside the pile. “cold?”

bluing fingertips picked at your cheap, peel-off polish. “no.”

he adjusted the heating anyway. he didn't know what he expected; it's not like former somethings were inclined to communicate.

nevertheless, his left hand reached to open the mini-fridge in the center console, remembering the water bottles yamada usually stored there. he had one earlier, on his errands. deft fingers lifted the cold bottle by the neck, offering it in your direction without much of a glance.

“drink.”

the bottle left his grasp at some point, he was rather relieved to hear the gulps of you downing the damn thing.

it was now the part of the song where the dance began. calloused digits tapped impatiently to a rhythm that wasn't there as the tide of cars came to a stop, red bleeding in through the windshield. he glanced, your sniffles slowly died out—each seat was a room of its own, separated by the great wall of the center console. and yet, he was still peering through its window. looking at that tiny-ass dress you wore; lime green, clinging to your body like second skin and somehow holding up, what with those tinier straps. beneath it, a hot pink bra, the lace peeking out from the low cut. you were bright as always even with your messed-up makeup, shiny with body glitter and jewelry. and he's in all black, scruff unshaven and hair untidy. you were beautiful in traffic lights, in fluorescent green and in the moonlight.

it was then that he tore his gaze away. wasn't good for his already poor eyes to stare at the sun for too long, and you were always so blinding.

that was it, wasn't it? your radiance. made cowards like him shrivel up.

pale blue cotton hair wisped in his memory, and he swallowed his bile. post-chorus, he forcefully quelled the deja vu and ptsd warring in his mind. radiance and the ghosts it left, haunting his house for as long as he'd have it.

red turned to yellow and turned green, and the drive resumed.

“did you finally get a car?”

not only did it feel juvenile, but the way he perked up at the sound of your voice—small as it was—asking him a question made him feel even more foolish. he was too old to have the tender heart of a schoolboy. his gaze flickered once, twice. through the curls that curtained your smudged eyes, you were observing the interior, the dashboard.

“no,” he replied. “it's yamada's.”

“oh.” was it disappointment? did the imagination he had little of stretch your tone so far and wide? had it been so long that he forgot how judgement sounded in your melody? “that makes sense.”

“the sound system?”

“the fridge.”

both of you had been sitting in silence, of course you hadn’t noticed. “oh. right.”

“yeah.”

was it still a song or was it simply a verbal no-man's-land where words came to die?

in the corner of his eyes, he caught the way you shifted in the passenger seat, half-empty bottle clutched over your thighs, looking like you were holding your breath—or at least, something.

“i'm sorry i called.”

instead of only his pupils, his head turned just a little bit your way—only for a moment. he was still driving, after all.

“i don't.. i thought she got me a mocktail and i guess—”

his brows twitched together. “you didn’t know it was alcoholic?”

“‘course not,” your voice wobbled. “i told her that i didn't drink. i wanted juice.”

not that he ever really wondered, but you turned out to be a sad drunk. it would've been the slightest bit amusing if it weren't for the fact that your ‘work bestie’ gave you a drink without your consent.

fingers wound around the wheel, his knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip.

“i don't like your friend.”

the tears resumed, dripping more glitter. “she's not really my friend.”

“then don't go out with her again,” he almost growled. “or to clubs. they're not safe.”

“i wasn't with you though,” you murmured, slurred. “thought that was the obvious threat.”

you might as well have shot a bullet straight through his heart.

his jaw clenched, and if it was possible, his grip on the steering wheel grew even tighter.

“yeah, you're right.”

the gelatin firmed up just a little more, and oxygen was running thin.

maybe you weren't sobering up as much as he thought you were—actually, it was stupid that he considered the idea at all. you had never even downed a shot. but his curt, defeated words roused even more tears out of you and soon, your crying resumed, the song yanking hard at his heartstrings.

“you really hate me.”

it's reflexive, a knee-jerk blurt. “i don't hate you.”

“you hate me so much,” you sobbed into the back of your hand, head hung low in shame and melancholy. “you think i'm stupid.”

“i think i want your coworker fired, i don't think you're stupid.” his retort came firm, a warning for any argument that could arise henceforth. but no warning really worked on someone inebriated, and you were still a night away from pure sobriety.

“but you left me,” you cried, tears raining down your thighs. “out of fucking nowhere—you left me, you left me. when i thought i was doing okay—”

every word ran a spike through his heart, like the very organ was beaten down by a baseball bat with nails. bleeding out alone in a foul-smelling alleyway was better, losing a limb would be easier—and yet, he still had to drive home the very source of his well-deserved heartache.

sadness he had long suppressed posed a threat to his poor, dry eyes; prickling and stinging, prying out moisture like he was a wrung-out wet shirt. he let his lungs balloon and swallowed the big, painful lump in his throat—his best attempt at restraint. he worried your brain would assign this as his exasperation, his lack of love and like and favor. if he survived this, he reckoned he could survive anything.

“you did nothing wrong.” he had to tear those words out of his stupid throat, and yet he sounded just as flat all the same.

it did nothing but worsen your pain.

“so you just hated me.”

“no. no, sweetheart. i—” a freudian slip if there had ever been one.

it was the life in his just-reawakened soul, he surmised later on. that was the only explanation that made sense to him as to why he had the gall to try to cut through the great wall of the center console and reach for your hand, needing to intertwine your wet fingers with his rough, dry ones. maybe he was just human, still fighting to breathe past the hurt suffocating him from the inside out.

but he was probably just selfish.

he paused just before he would cross the line, fingertips twitching as they hovered, skin warming with the ghost of your tears in this thick air for one, two, three seconds. only to retract. to settle back and rest on the gearshift.

the thick, heavy air was all he could breathe. cracking a window felt pointless when your apartment was within sight, so he settled. pro-heroes could escape every pinch, so he could be level-headed while time ran out.

‘i love you’, he really wanted to say.

“i didn't hate you,” was what left his mouth. for better or worse, his resolve was returning, rebuilding itself sky-high like the cementoss' handiwork. “i just did what i had to do.”

your head finally lifted, and as he parked by the sidewalk—your apartment building just a stumble away—your gazes finally met. properly, at least.

and for the first and last time in a while that he'd see you again, there was nothing but heartbreak looking back at him.

their song swelled, a crescendo fast and something hard and painful and soul-crushing waiting to hit.

don't touch her, he reminded himself, fortifying his resolve by gripping tightly onto the steering wheel. don't reach for her, don't kiss her—

“i must've been so bad to you in a past life if it turned out this way.”

the resolve cracked and his face twisted in pain—the only glimpse of raw emotion he had truly expressed before you, he considered. his chest heaved, throat winding tight as it ached. his every nerve ending was on fire, his heart rattled so angrily that his ribs felt like they'd bruise come sunrise. if drunk words were sober thoughts, and if you truly believed in what you uttered, his poor soul wished he was under the influence right then and there with you. maybe it would've led to the ending where he was braver, where he was more of a man and less of a coward, trembling before your radiance. maybe it would've led to a kiss and an invite upstairs, to a ring on your finger and a shared apartment, to a brighter life even in his darkest nights.

but he was sober. and his resolve was the bane of his existence. it may had cracked, but it was yet to crumble. he rebuilded. he wouldn't kiss you, he had no plans of leaving the car even if you stumbled her your up to your place. it was for the best. the best heroes made sacrifices for the greater good. he was nowhere near the best, he wasn't as good a person as all might nor was he close as capable.

what he was, was enough for his work. not enough for you—never enough.

“i'm sure you had your reasons.” he crossed the great wall—however, only to unbuckle your seatbelt. “and i'm sure i deserved it.”

reaching for your impractical purse where it had lied by his bindings in the back seat, he held it up to you as he unlocked the car, settling back in his seat.

“i'll take care of your coworker,” he promised. more so warned you, really. he had every intention on digging up dirt on her the moment he was back—people like that were made of patterns, and patterns meant a trail. and when he eventually finds something, he already had a burner email to send it through. “don't go clubbing. if you really want to, do it with your actual friends. and watch your drinks, order them yourself or get someone you trust—”

“you're nagging,” you whined, wiping your own tears.

“—and don't call me again.”

you still hadn't taken the purse from his grasp. at this rate, he might even have to touch you. he shouldn't—he wouldn't remember how not to.

the way your face fell and twisted only worsened the agony in his soul.

“ever?”

“only for emergencies, okay?” he tried to keep his voice level, he really did. you'd be out of the door soon and once again, out of his life. “only if you really need me.”

take the purse and go, please.

another tear rolled down your cheek, but there's a light in your eyes. something firm, unwavering. a resolve. you're sobering up, loading your gun to retaliate. it's passing of the bridge, and the two of you were in the outro.

you snatched the purse out of his hand.

“i hope you sleep well.”

the very short outro.

door opened, you rushed out the car with as little stumble as possible for someone in hot pink heels and partially sober, slamming the door shut right behind you and cutting the song to an abrupt halt—hard enough for him to break out of the spell and wince. the regrets were quick to flood in and faster to suppress. he regretted not kissing you, he regretted nothing, he regretted not touching you, he regretted nothing, he wished he held your hand, regretted nothing, he wished he could leave this car. he couldn't. not for your sake.

he watched helplessly as you disappeared into the entrance, stomping-stumbling in and out of his field of vision. he wasn't ready to move, too stuck in his thoughts and regrets—your words echoing in his mind.

the windows were still fully shut as he drove off; some selfish, idiotic desire to keep the ghost of your presence—the warmth of you in the passenger seat, the indent of your joke of a purse where it slightly rested on his bindings, the bottle you took from the mini-fridge. eraserhead wasn't a pro-hero of superstition, but shota aizawa was a man of despair who threw out his one salvation; a fool repeating a song to relive the feeling of experiencing it the very first time.

“i hope you sleep well.” you both knew he never will.

you had cursed him for all eternity in your drunken stupor.

☾ — ik that i literally had a poll w like four other characters n concepts but my period came early n very painfully so this is what u guys r getting so whoopsies 🤭 thank u for all the love for the katsuki drabbles, i promise i'll write something serious 4 him eventually and that i will follow up on the poll results. if u enjoyed n would like to keep seeing me n my serious writing, once again pls reblog n leave comments to support n encourage me :] i love u thank u 4 reading my shit ♡♡

You let out a sigh. “Birds aren’t going to eat the seeds Joe.”

“Worms,” he corrected you, squinting his black eyes up at you.

“Well Joe, worms don’t eat seeds.” 

“How do we know that? We can’t stick our heads down there.” He said, tilting his head. A few of the other children had stopped working and were listening. Great. 

“Because we do Joe.” You said, turning back to the hole you were digging. By his little huff you could tell he wasn’t satisfied with your answer. But you had already explained why the sun set, why plants didn’t grow backwards, and you had been asked if you were pregnant, and then pointedly asked if you were married. You could not take it any more. At all. 

“You know Joe,” said Davy-Ray, an eight year old who had once convinced the children’s group you led that Heaven was in Canada. “A giant worm ate King Herod in the Bible,” he said amiably,“Ate him right up.” Even though your back was turned, you could picture Davy-Ray with his hands in his overalls pockets and his chubby chest puffed out. 

“Naw, you must be off your gourd,” Joe said. 

“Sure as the Mississippi runs,”Davy-Ray said. “Now he said he was king of the world, so God sent a giant worm to swallow him whole.” He paused for a second. “You reckon he’s gonna send one to eat Hitler?’ 

You closed your eyes. It was going to be a long morning. 

It was Three o’clock before it was time for you to head home.  Your head pounded and the July heat didn’t help. The sun beat down on you, causing sweat to run into your eyes. It had been a miserable summer, you thought irritably. 

The walk from the community center to your home was awful. Your blouse was soaking wet when you reached your doorstep. You opened the door and slid your shoes off. There was no point in calling out to your mother. She was visiting Mr. Itadori and helping with baby Yuji. 

On the entryway table lies a letter. Your mother must have run to the post office earlier. The sharp neat script catches your eye. Dread flips in your gut. You had heard that Violet Ivanovna’s sweetheart’s letters took months to arrive. Why was it your luck that Sukuna’s letters found you so often? You pick it up, the sweat of your palm stains it. 

  You walk up the stairs to your bedroom, a heavy cloud following you. Every time you see his handwriting, it’s like he’s standing there behind you, watching you. You practically can smell his after shave, the clean scent drowning in the heat of his body. The press and weight of his attention never truly leaves you. Even in sleep you feel him, sinking into you, his flesh melding with your own. His hands etching your form, then sinking in and changing what he could. 

You reach the top of the stairs and turn down the hall to your bedroom. You open the door and are halfway through it, when you hear a loud creak. You pause, inching back into your room, until only your head is in the doorway. You listen, but when you hear nothing else, you close the door. On your head. Pain shoots through you. You stumble backwards, your eyes and lips pinched. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Hot tears bubble out of your eyes. 

You curl up on your bed. You clutched your head. Already, you can feel a dull ache starting. Sukuna’s letter is still curled in your fingers. You sit up, ignoring the pain. You tear it open. 

Dear (A brownish stain - is that blood? Covered your name), 

I am starting to grow tired of your silence. Do you know how humiliating it is when all the other men get letters from their women, care packages even, but I never even get a dot of ink? They think I’m a god here, what kind of god has a woman who doesn’t show him an ounce of care? But it doesn’t say much about me. It says everything about you. Didn’t your ma raise you better than this? Isn’t that what dames learn about, taking care of their man. You obviously fail in this aspect. I love you despite this. After we are married, I expect you will shape up. 

I’ve thought about it. We’ll have two girls and one boy. I don’t want any more sons, I will explain this more at a later date. We’ll move towns, I don’t want to live too close to the Old Man and I don’t want Jin poking his nose in my business. I haven’t heard from him in a few months, but I know if I was within walking distance the ugly bastard would always be up in my business. I never liked that town anyway, everyone thinks they are owed access to your life.We’ll buy a house and I’ll go to university while working in Pop’s mechanic shop to support you and the baby. After I graduate with a degree in something that’ll make us a good bit, we’ll move on last time. How does the coast sound? I’ll get you house right on the water, and you’ll be able to smell the sea salt. 

But enough of this sappy shit. I’m getting sick of you acting like you don’t love me. You played hard to get right up until the end and then you practically tossed yourself into my arms. I keep getting letters that you’re letting that jody keep you warm, that you go out with him practically every night. I am going to kill him when I get home. You can tell him that. 

Yours, Major Sukuna Itadori 

P.S. I better get two pictures now. 

You shoot out of your bed like Poseidon rising out of the deep. The crumbled letter falls on your floor as you stomp to your desk. A dull throb in your head. You grab a sheet of paper and a pen.

Sukuna, 

  I will. never. be. yours. I hate you. I have always hated you. Since I was five and you pushed me the first time. I have hated you. You are a disgusting pig. I knew that when you shoved Will Jones’ head in a toilet, back in high school, and when you hazed Ron Dark when he tried to join the football team so hard he moved to live with his uncle to get away from you. You are a bully that expects the entire world to submit to you. You are utterly ridiculous if you think you are a god now. Ha. You are a demon. 

It is a shame that Jin is dead and you’re still alive. I prayed God would kill you, unfortunately, death mistook Jin for you and took the better twin. It should have been you. If fate was just, you would be lying dead in a trench with your head the trophy of the enemy. But you are still alive and just as wretched as the day you killed your mother being born. How does it feel to have taken two lives just to exist?

I refuse to be another casualty to keep you alive. Stop writing to me.

Never Yours, 

You hurriedly shoved the letter into an envelope. Damn it, it wasn’t enough to wait for tomorrow, you would walk over to the post office today. 

“Letter for Major,” Kashimo hands his superior officer the letter, his eyes gleaming. “Looks like it’s from the missus.” 

“Get out,” Sukuna grunts. His blood is pumping and if Kashimo doesn’t leave him alone in the next three seconds - he’ll wind up with a kick to his nether regions. Kashimo probably knows this, so he gives Sukuna another infuriating smirk and saunters out. 

He carefully opens the letter. His hands etching the paper like it is the form of his patron goddess. He frowns slightly when he doesn’t catch a whiff of her perfume. But then he figures that it probably wore off on the way across the ocean. When the first letter of her frantic script reaches his eyes he sits back. 

As much as he longs to tear through the letter, his nature won’t let him. He slowly reads each poisoned jab. Sukuna only stops when he reads about Jin’s death. 

Jin dead. Jin couldn’t be dead, he had always been the lucky of the two. It wasn’t possible, she had to be lying. It was just one other thing trying to hurt him. It was absurd really, Jin couldn’t be dead. 

She must have deluded herself. No, he knew it wasn’t right. He couldn’t focus on her for once. Jin dead. . . no it couldn’t be. But he remembers a night a few months ago. He had been asleep and had dreamed that he was riding the train to the city. He had seen Jin, he had passed through the train compartment until he reached Sukuna’s seat. He had glanced down at Sukuna and smiled. Not the forced one, but the one that he wore when they were eight running down the street laughing. Jin had made no move to touch Sukuna like he normally would. He merely said, “I get off here.” 

Sukuna had woken up with tears - no, he didn’t cry, Sukuna Itadori did not cry. But it had felt as though he had said goodbye to his brother. But when he wrote Pops, the old man simply told him Jin was on a ship and his wife was expecting. 

He kills a boy the next day. He hadn’t been a boy when Sukuna killed him, just another enemy attempting to jump into his foxhole. When he pushed the boy's body off his own, his eyes catch the boy's eyes, open and pleading. And he sees Jin. I just killed my brother, the thought hits him like a clap of thunder. I killed my brother. 

You look in the mirror and straighten your back. It lasts only a second before you are hunched over. You killed Jin Itadori. It’s your fault. You know it is. 

Eddie lets himself into your house, quickly popping into the living room to say hello to your mom and your dog. Your mom gives him a warm smile and a “hello” before nodding towards the hallway.

“She’s in her room,” she says, then sighs.”Has everything been alright with you two? She’s been…” Her voice trails off, searching for the words.

“I’ve been a little tied up at work recently, but yeah, we’re fine. I’ll go talk to her.”

Your mom nods and grabs the remote, insinuating that the conversation is over. Eddie walks down the hallway towards your room, knocking once. 

“Yeah?” your voice calls from beyond the door. He nods once and lets himself in.

“Hey, sweet…” his voice trails off, eyes scanning the scene.

Your curtains are still drawn despite it being nearly three in the afternoon. Clothes are scattered across the floor, half-folded laundry abandoned at the foot of your bed. An untouched mug of tea sits on your nightstand beside a stack of books and tangled headphones.

And you. Curled up beneath your blankets in one of his old Black Sabbath shirts, eyes dull with exhaustion. Eddie’s expression softens immediately.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time.

You offer him a weak smile. “Hi.”

He shuts the door behind him carefully, like too much noise might crack something fragile, then crosses the room and sits on the edge of your bed. 

“You sick?” he asks gently.

You shrug.

“Tired?”

Another shrug.

Eddie studies you for a long moment, brows pinching together slightly. “Baby,” he murmurs. “How long’ve you been in here?”

You stare at a loose thread on the comforter. “I dunno.”

“That bad, huh?”

The thing is, he doesn’t ask judgmentally. Doesn’t say it with that forced brightness people use when they don’t really get it. There’s no come on, cheer up in his voice. No, "it could be worse."

“I’m trying,” you whisper finally. “I just feel…stuck lately.”

Eddie nods immediately.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know that feeling.”

Your eyes flick up to his.

He leans back against the wall behind your bed, fiddling absentmindedly with one of your rings sitting on the nightstand. “Sometimes your brain just decides everything’s heavy for no reason.” A small huff of laughter leaves him. “Makes getting outta bed feel like fighting for your life.”

You blink at him a little. “You get like this, too?”

“Sweetheart.” He gives you a look. “I don’t write sad metal songs for fun.”

That gets the tiniest laugh out of you. Barely there, but enough that his face lights up like he just won the lottery. “There she is,” he says quietly.

Eddie nudges your knee beneath the blanket. “C’mon.”

“I don’t wanna do anything.”

“I know.” He stands, then points at you dramatically. “Which is exactly why we’re doing something.”

You groan immediately. “Eddie—”

“Nope. No arguing.” He walks toward your closet like he owns the place. “We’re getting you outta this crypt for at least a few hours.”

“I look terrible.”

“Incorrect. You always look pretty. Next excuse.”

“I seriously don’t have the energy.”

His movements slow a little at that one. 

“You don’t gotta be fun today,” he says. “Or smile the whole time. Or pretend you’re okay for me.” He glances back at you. “I just don’t want you trapped in your own head all day.”

You stare at him quietly while he pulls one of your sweaters off a hanger.

“And,” he adds, holding it up, “I was thinking bookstore.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Bookstore?”

“Mhm. You can judge all the covers dramatically, I can pretend I understand poetry, then maybe we get coffee after.”

“…You hate poetry.”

“I hate bad poetry. Huge difference.”

Another reluctant smile tugs at your mouth.

Eddie notices instantly, pointing at you again. “That’s two smiles. I’m killing it.”

“Oh, my god.”

“Get dressed before I physically carry you to the van.”

“You wouldn’t.”

His grin turns downright wicked. “Try me.”

About an hour later, you’re wandering slowly beside him through the small bookstore downtown, the bell above the door still jingling faintly behind you. The place smells like old paper and coffee beans. Warm lighting spills across crowded wooden shelves, soft music humming somewhere overhead.

Eddie stays close without hovering; that’s the thing about him. He somehow knows how to be there without suffocating you with concern.

He lets you drift through the aisles at your own pace, occasionally holding up books with horribly dramatic summaries just to hear your commentary.

“This one says, forbidden love.” He squints at the back cover. “That’s code for emotionally devastating and poorly communicated.”

You snort quietly.

“And this one,” he continues, grabbing another, “has a shirtless man fighting a dragon, which feels ambitious.”

“Eddie,” you laugh, embarrassed.

“There it is again!” he gasps loudly. “The laugh! She lives!”

A few people glance over. You shove his shoulder immediately while he cackles. And for the first time in what feels like weeks, the heaviness in your chest eases, just a little.

Eventually, Eddie finds you sitting cross-legged on the floor in the nonfiction section, absentmindedly flipping through a book without really reading it.

He lowers himself beside you with a soft grunt, handing you an iced coffee. “Peace offering.”

You murmur a quiet thank you before taking a sip.

Then Eddie says quietly, “You don’t have to explain it to me, y’know.”

You glance over. “Explain what?”

“The way you’re feeling.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the cup.

“I know sometimes there isn’t a reason.” His voice stays light, but honest. “Sometimes your brain’s just mean to you for a while.”

“I always feel guilty when I get like this,” you admit eventually. “Like everyone else is functioning normally and I’m just…” You swallow thickly. “Behind. Or like, broken…”

Eddie’s expression changes instantly.

“No,” he says firmly.

You blink at the sudden seriousness in his tone.

“You are not behind, or broken, or whatever that stupid internal voice is telling you.”

The words come fast now, certain and unwavering.

“You’re exhausted. And overwhelmed. And your brain chemistry’s being an asshole to you.” He nudges your shoulder gently with his. “But you are not broken.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

Eddie notices immediately, his voice softening again. “Hey,” he murmurs. “C’mere.”

You don’t even hesitate before leaning into him.

His arm wraps around your shoulders instantly, pulling you against his side while your face presses into the leather of his jacket. He smells like cigarettes, coffee, and the cologne he always steals from Wayne.

Safe.

“I know I can’t fix it,” he says quietly against the top of your head. “But I can sit in it with you.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as emotion climbs painfully into your throat.

Eddie just holds you tighter. No rushing, no trying to force positivity onto you, no acting uncomfortable with the ugly parts.

Just there; steady, warm, and real.

After a minute, he presses a kiss into your hair.

“Also,” he says lightly, “if anyone says anything bad about you, I will bite them.”

A watery laugh escapes you.

“There’s my girl.”

By the time you leave the bookstore, the sun’s started dipping lower in the sky, painting everything gold. Eddie insists on carrying your little paper bag despite the fact it contains exactly one paperback and a bookmark.

“You’re being dramatic,” you tell him as the two of you cross the street.

“I’m being a gentleman,” he corrects. “Huge difference.”

“You almost got arrested for stealing road signs once.”

“In my defense, they looked cool.”

You shake your head, smiling into your coffee cup. The park nearby is quiet this time of day. A few people walk dogs along the paths, kids chasing each other near the swings while leaves rustle softly overhead.

Eddie walks beside you slowly, one hand dangling at his side. At some point, your fingers accidentally brush his. He immediately hooks his pinky around yours.

It’s so stupidly gentle it nearly makes your chest ache, and you glance over at him.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You’re corny.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

You keep walking, your joined hands swinging slightly between you. Then Eddie abruptly stops beside a duck pond.

“Oh, my god.”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Baby.” He points dramatically. “Look at him.”

You follow his finger toward an aggressively round duck sitting near the water. “…It’s a duck.”

“That is the fattest duck I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You stare at him for a second before laughing under your breath.

“Be nice.”

“He’s got a fat little head like Gareth.”

The sound that leaves you this time is louder, realer. Eddie’s head whips toward you instantly, eyes lighting up.

“There it is,” he says softly, grinning.

“Oh my god, stop making a thing out of it.”

“I can’t help it.” He starts walking backward in front of you now, hands spread dramatically. “You have any idea how pretty you look when you laugh?”

“Eddie—”

“No, seriously. It’s like witnessing a historical event.”

You groan, embarrassed, but you’re still smiling.

A breeze pushes your hair across your face, and he reaches over automatically, tucking it behind your ear with an ease that makes your stomach flutter.

“You feeling any lighter?” he asks quietly after a moment.

You think about it honestly. The sadness is still there; you know it will be waiting when you get home. Depression doesn’t magically disappear because of bookstores, ducks, and coffee.

But right now? Right now, your chest doesn’t feel quite as crushingly tight.

“...A little,” you admit.

Eddie nods like that answer means everything to him.

“Good,” he says simply.

You keep wandering after that, aimless and slow. Eddie eventually starts trying to balance along the edge of the curb like a little kid, arms spread wide.

“Witness greatness,” he announces.

“You’re literally twenty years old.”

“And thriving.”

Two steps later, he slips slightly, windmilling hard enough that you burst into laughter again.

“Oh my god!”

“I meant to do that,” he says immediately, regaining his balance with what little dignity he has left.

“Sure you did.”

He points accusingly at you. “You’re laughing at me.”

“You made fun of a duck!”

“That duck knew what he did.”

“He did nothing besides have a ‘Gareth-shaped head’!”

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts this time, head tipping back slightly, and Eddie just… watches in pure delight. Your laughter slowly fades when you notice the look on his face.

“What?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head once, smiling to himself. “Nothin’.”

“Eddie.”

His expression softens. “I just missed that sound.”

The honesty in it makes your eyes sting a little again. You step closer without really thinking about it, reaching for his hand properly this time instead of just pinkies.

“Hey,” you murmur.

His fingers immediately lace with yours.

“Thank you.”

Eddie’s brows pinch slightly. “For what?”

“For not trying to fix me.” Your voice comes quieter now. “For just being here. Being your ridiculous, amazing self.”

Something warm and aching flashes across his face.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, squeezing your hand. “You never gotta thank me for loving you.”

And god, that almost does you in. He notices instantly, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around you before you can even try to hide it.

You bury your face into his jacket with a quiet laugh. “You’re gonna make me cry in public.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve caused a scene.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “C’mon. Let’s walk before I start getting emotional, too.”

dividers by @strangergraphics

i hope you all enjoyed:) sending love and light your way, always<3

taglist is open!

beauties:

It was normal. Easy.

Then somewhere between takeout containers and exhaustion and too many things left unsaid lately, it stopped being easy.

Steve couldn’t even fully remember how the fight started now. Something small. Something stupid. You accusing him of never talking about what he was feeling anymore. Steve snapping back that every conversation lately somehow turned into him doing something wrong.

Then it escalated.

Like it always did when both of you were too tired to communicate properly and too emotional to stop talking.

“You don’t even want to be here half the time,” you’d snapped at him.

Steve looked like you’d slapped him.

“That’s not fair.”

“Well, what am I supposed to think?” you shot back. “You barely look at me anymore.”

Steve ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“Bullshit.”

The second the word left your mouth, you regretted it.

Steve’s expression hardened instantly—not angry exactly, just hurt.

“Seriously?”

But by then both of you were angry enough to keep going anyway.

It ended with Steve grabbing his jacket and slamming your apartment door hard enough to shake the walls while you cried in your kitchen.

Which would’ve already been bad enough.

Except you woke up this morning feeling like actual death.

By noon, your fever had climbed high enough that your teeth hurt. Your throat burned so badly it felt shredded every time you swallowed, and your chest ached from coughing so hard you could barely breathe afterward.

You held out until almost two in the afternoon before finally calling Steve.

Steve showed up thirteen minutes later with medicine, electrolyte drinks, soup ingredients, cough drops, two thermometers because “the other one looked unreliable,” and the kind of worried expression he tried hard to hide whenever he was scared.

He’d barely spoken to you since arriving.

Not mean or cruel.

Just… distant.

Like he was forcing himself to stay calm.

And honestly? You deserved it.

Right now, Steve sat at the foot of your bed with one leg bouncing anxiously while Back to the Future played on your TV. Every few minutes he glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were still conscious.

You had spent most of the day curled beneath blankets while he took care of you in silence.

He made soup.

Made you take medicine.

Refilled your water constantly.

Pressed cold washcloths to your forehead.

Cleaned your kitchen while you slept.

He even argued with Robin over the phone because she wanted to come over and “diagnose you dramatically,” and Steve insisted you needed rest.

But he still hadn’t really looked at you.

Not fully.

Not the way he usually did.

And every second of that distance sat heavy in your chest.

You pushed yourself upright slowly, immediately dizzy enough that the room tilted sideways.

Steve muted the TV instantly.

“Whoa, hey.” He stood fast. “What do you need?”

His voice softened automatically around concern despite everything.

Guilt clawed at your stomach.

“Just going to the bathroom” you muttered back.

Steve frowned immediately. “You need help walking?”

The fact that he was still asking things like that after last night almost made you cry on the spot.

You shook your head weakly.

Big mistake.

Your vision swam. Steve noticed instantly, moving closer without touching you yet.

“Easy,” he said quietly.

“I’m okay.”

“You almost fell over.”

“I’m dramatic.”

“No. You’re delirious with that fever you got.”

A weak huff escaped you that turned into coughing almost immediately. Steve’s expression tightened hard at the sound.

Gosh. You hated this.

Hated feeling helpless.

Hated knowing you’d hurt him.

Hated that he was still here anyway.

You shuffled toward the bathroom slowly while Steve watched like he was debating following you in case you collapsed.

Once the door shut behind you, the thin thread holding you together finally snapped.

You sank to the floor beside the sink with trembling hands covering your face.

Everything hurt.

Your body.

Your chest.

Your head.

Your heart.

The apartment felt too quiet without Steve talking to you properly. Every careful movement from him all day somehow hurt worse than if he’d just yelled.

You’d spent the entire morning thinking he was going to leave. That eventually he’d decide last night was too much.

That he’d grab the few things he kept at your apartment—his extra clothes, the Polaroids tucked beside your mirror, the stupid toothbrush he insisted on matching to yours—and walk out.

The thought alone made you nauseous.

A sob tore painfully out of your throat.

Then another.

Your coughing immediately got worse after that, sharp enough to make tears stream harder down your face.

You pressed your forehead against your knees miserably.

You were so tired.

Three soft knocks interrupted your spiraling.

“Sweetheart?”

The nickname nearly broke you.

“Can I come in?”

You couldn’t answer properly through your throat, so you tapped weakly against the floor instead.

A second later, the door opened carefully.

Steve stepped inside quietly before shutting it behind him.

The second he saw you on the floor, his entire face changed.

All the distance from earlier cracked instantly.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Fresh tears burned your eyes immediately.

Steve crouched in front of you carefully, close enough to touch but still giving you room.

“What happened?”

You laughed once weakly through your crying.

“What do you mean what happened?”

Steve’s eyebrows pulled together.

“You were okay five minutes ago.”

“No I wasn’t.”

Your voice came out smaller than intended.

Steve went still.

You wiped at your face angrily. “I feel awful and you’re mad at me and I know I deserve it but I just—” Your throat closed painfully around another cough. “I can’t do this today.”

The second the words left your mouth, Steve’s expression fell completely.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

You looked away immediately, ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” you croaked. “About yesterday. I know I was being horrible and dramatic and—”

“Hey.” Steve’s voice turned firm instantly. “Look at me.”

You didn’t want to.

He waited anyway.

Eventually, you forced yourself to lift your head.

Steve looked devastated.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Devastated.

“You seriously thought I was punishing you?”

Your stomach twisted.

“I mean…” you whispered.

“Baby, no.”

The tenderness in his voice hurt worse somehow.

Steve exhaled hard through his nose before sitting fully on the floor in front of you.

“I was trying to give you space.”

“In my own apartment?”

A tiny smile tugged at his mouth despite himself. “You know what I mean.”

You stared down at your hands.

“I didn’t know if you still wanted me around.”

Steve looked genuinely alarmed.

“What?”

“You left.”

His face softened instantly.

“Oh.”

The memory of last night clearly hit him all over again.

Steve dragged a hand down his face tiredly before scooting closer.

“I left because I was angry, and i didn't want to say something that i'd regret..” he admitted quietly. “Not because I wanted to leave you.”

Your eyes burned again.

“I said awful things.”

“So did I.”

“You didn’t mean them.”

“Neither did you.”

That shattered the last of your composure entirely. Another sob escaping before you could stop it.

“C’mere,” Steve murmured immediately.

He reached for you gently this time, hands warm against your arms as he pulled you across the tiny bathroom space until you were practically folded into his chest.

You went willingly. Like your body had spent all day waiting for this exact moment.

Steve wrapped both arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head while you cried against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean any of it.”

“I know that too, baby. I know,” he whispered softly.

You clutched weakly at the back of his shirt.

Steve rested his cheek against your hair.

“I’m sorry too,” he murmured after a moment. “I shouldn’t have walked out like that.”

“You were mad.”

“Still.” His arms tightened slightly. “I hate leaving you upset.”

Your chest ached.

Gosh. You loved him so much. Even when things got messy. Even when neither of you handled things perfectly. Even now, feverish and exhausted and crying on the bathroom floor.

Steve pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”

You tried to answer.

Ended up coughing instead.

Steve sighed softly. “Okay, that’s enough talking for you.”

Despite everything, you smiled weakly.

“There it is,” he said immediately, relief flickering across his face. “Was wondering where that went.”

“Feel disgusting.”

“You look disgusting too.”

You stared at him in betrayal.

Steve grinned for the first time all day.

“Aw, there you are.”

You managed a watery laugh before another cough interrupted it.

“Okay,” Steve decided, pushing himself to his feet while still holding onto you carefully. “Bed. Now.”

“I can walk.”

“You almost passed out standing up twenty minutes ago.”

“Now you're being dramatic.”

“You almost walked into the wall.”

“…oh.”

“Yeah.”

He guided you slowly back toward the bedroom with one arm around your waist.

The apartment felt warmer now somehow. Like the tension finally dissolved.

Steve got you back under the blankets before disappearing briefly into the kitchen. You heard cabinets opening, water running, the microwave beeping.

When he returned, he carried fresh water, medicine, and one of your hoodies.

You blinked at it.

“Why do I need that?”

“Because you’re freezing and keep stealing my body heat.”

“You say that like you mind.”

Steve snorted quietly.

He helped you sit up long enough to take medicine, making sure you actually swallowed it before handing over the water bottle.

“Good?” he asked.

You nodded tiredly.

Steve adjusted the blankets around you again with ridiculous care before climbing into bed beside you.

The second he settled in, you moved toward him automatically.

Steve opened his arms immediately.

“Yeah,” he murmured softly as you curled into his chest. “There she is.”

You buried your face against his neck weakly.

He smelled like laundry detergent and the peppermint gum he always chewed when stressed.

One of his hands slid slowly through your hair while the other rubbed absent circles against your back.

“You scared me today,” he admitted quietly after a while.

You frowned sleepily against him. “Sorry.”

“You called and the first thing you said was ‘I think I’m dying’. I could practically hear your frown.”

“In my defense,” you mumbled, “I really did think I was in that moment.”

Steve pressed a kiss against your forehead after letting out a light laugh. “I almost ran a red light getting here.”

Guilt surfaced again immediately.

Steve must’ve felt you tense because he nudged your head gently.

“Hey,” he whispered. “None of that.”

“But—”

“No.” His hand moved to your cheek. “We had one bad night. That doesn’t erase everything else.”

Your throat tightened painfully for entirely different reasons this time.

Steve looked down at you carefully.

“I love you,” he said simply. “Even when we fight. Even when you’re stubborn. Even when you accuse me of emotionally cheating on you with Robin because I bought her mozzarella sticks.”

Your eyes widened weakly. “She was flirting with you.”

“She called me ugly twice during that conversation.”

“Ehh. She’s complicated. Playing hard to get.”

Steve laughed softly under his breath. The sound wrapped around you warm as a blanket. Your eyelids growing heavier by the second.

“Sleep,” Steve whispered, fingers tracing gently along your spine.

“You’ll stay?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Steve immediately pulled you closer.

“Try getting rid of me.”

Something in your chest finally loosened completely. You pressed one weak kiss against his collarbone. Steve’s hand stilled briefly in your hair. Then he tilted your chin up carefully and kissed you properly.

Slow.

Warm.

Apologetic in all the ways words sometimes couldn’t quite reach.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“Get some rest, sweetheart.”

For the first time since waking up sick, you actually thought maybe things would be okay again. And tucked safely against Steve’s heartbeat while he held you through the fever and exhaustion and leftover hurt, sleep finally came easily.

It had been there the day you got the job; fourteen years old and itching for something to keep you occupied outside of your house. Mrs. Rayskel had been a lot more involved in the operations of the store back when you had first started as its only other employee, but now she mostly leaves you alone. 

The middle sections are the ones most likely to entice a child, you think. Huge metal crates of stuffed animals, short, open cabinets of bracelet making kits and paint by number books. There’s a table right as you walk in that has hundreds of different types of pens in dividers on the outside, the entire area of the surface taken up in thick sheets of paper meant for testing pen types, but really just being a place for kids to draw. 

You’re assuming that’s what brought in the little girl sitting on the carpet now. It’s pouring with rain outside, early afternoon in the middle of the week, and you haven’t had anyone come in all day. You don’t mind the slow periods. You keep your work station clean and organised (one of the perks of being the only employee is you don’t have to worry about someone else fucking up your shit), you have your crochet projects to keep you company at the desk. Most of the time you put on a calming playlist of royalty-free music and mind your business until the early evening when you close. Mrs. Rayskel only works weekends now, so you’re in every other day from 8:30am to open until 3:30pm to close. You’ve got about two hours until you need to start your sweep (assuming anyone comes in at all), checking the pen caps have been put on, replacing sample paper, rotating stock for visibility, when you spot her. 

She’s quite small, can’t be older than seven, sitting on the plush rug by one of the windows. You hire a carpet cleaner every three months to treat the floors here, and you know it hasn’t been very long since the last time. Still, when you approach, you only bend down on your knees. “Hi.”

You hadn’t heard her come in, and you’re not even sure if you were in the store when she did. You could’ve been in the bathroom, or taking a few minutes out the back door, or completely zoned out at your desk. 

“Hi,” she says back, shy. She’s wearing a purple raincoat that seems to have done a very good job of protecting her from the downpour, her dark hair sitting loose around her shoulders. In her hand is a stuffed unicorn toy, and discarded in front of her is a pegasus. “Am I in trouble?”

You frown. “No, of course not. You’re not in trouble.” Where are her parents? You’re not sure if she’s old enough to be in school yet, but it’s close enough to midday that she should be there if she is. It’s not particularly cold outside but water is flowing down the gutters like rivulets, and you haven’t seen anyone walk by in almost an hour. “What’s your name?”

She shrinks in on herself slightly. “I’m not supposed to say.” Right, don’t talk to strangers and all that. That doesn’t help you. 

You nod slowly, careful not to come on too strong. She’s quiet, most unaccompanied kids you get in here are little hurricanes, impossible to miss. You’re not even sure how long she’s been here. Surely not longer than ten minutes. 

You tell her your own name as a gesture of goodwill, pointing to the name tag clipped to your sweater. “I work here,” you wave your hand awkwardly at the rest of the store. 

She likes knowing your name, you can tell. She says it softly, stuttering over one of the syllables, before eventually shuffling in her seat and speaking up again. “I’m Lena.”

Okay, you can work with that. Step one is establish trust, step two is locate her guardians. Step three might be call CPS if you can’t get those two done before you close but the likelihood of that happening is extremely low. You have kids wander in here by themselves all the time, just not usually quite so young. 

“Hi Lena,” you say gently. “Can I sit with you?”

She nods politely, still looking like you might scold her, and your heart aches for this girl. “I’m sorry for touching your toys,” she says as you cross your legs. 

You couldn’t care less. “That’s okay. Do you want to play?”

Lena perks up, still hesitant. “Can I?”

“Sure!” You try to give her your softest, kindest smile. “Do you want me to play with you?”

That’s what really gets her, like she hadn’t been expecting you to offer your time. “Can we play with the ponies?” When she smiles one of her bottom teeth is missing. You never want to let her go. 

“We can play whatever you’d like.”

Lena carefully gathers the unicorn and pegasus into her lap, examining them with great care. She hands you the pegasus. “This one is yours,” she says, smile threatening to take over her entire face. 

You accept it seriously. “What’s her name?”

Lena looks at you like you haven’t been paying attention properly. “She doesn’t have one. Her name got taken by the evil magic unicorn.” She holds up the unicorn for emphasis. “She has to get it back.”

You haven’t played pretend like a little girl since you were one, but it was pretty easy to get back into the swing with Lena. Never just a game, always a full world with rules that spring forth fully formed, buried beneath layers of stories of princesses and ghosts. You remember how it felt to hold all of that in your head all at once, never about good prevailing over evil and instead how it felt to be betrayed, or forgiven, or loved. 

You let her hold onto that for the next thirty-eight minutes until the bell above the door rings again. 

“Lena.” 

Lena smiles up at the man dripping onto the welcome mat just inside the door. “Hi, Daddy.”

Pretty much all bravado you’ve had about tearing Lena’s guardians a new one, simmering and stewing the longer this poor girl sat here with only a stranger for supervision, disappears immediately when you look up at Lena’s dad. He smiles politely at you in a way that scares you more than anything, barely glancing at his daughter. You’ve been yelled at by customers before, but based on the lump on this guy’s left hip you think this man might not be the yelling type.

“I thought I told you not to wander off,” he says, uneasy smile on his face. You think you might have read him wrong; not the type of man to yell in front of someone else. 

Your metaphorical grip on the little girl in front of you tightens in panic. You had thought this entire time that what you wanted was for Lena’s parents to come and collect her, and of course you don’t want for them to have abandoned her. But there seems to be no secret third option where they just misplaced her and they’re worried sick and they took their eyes off her for a second and when they looked back she was gone. “We need to get home.”

Lena looks up at him like for a second she doesn’t recognise him. 

This man is clearly her father, or at least another relative. They bear a striking resemblance, the features Lena is still growing into looking sinister and cruel on the older man. You wonder briefly if he’s always looked like that. If there had been a time when her father had been a kind and loving man. 

Right now at least she looks like she knows different than to argue with him. “Okay, daddy.”

She looks at you, the same smile on her face that he’d given you. It looks lovely and gentle coming from her. “Thank you for playing with me.”

You don’t want to let her go - least of all without offering some big act of kindness. You want her to remember you, if she ever needs something to hold onto.

“Do you want that one?” You gesture at the unicorn in her hand and hold out the pegasus. “You can have them both.” You’ll take it out of your paycheque. Hell, you’d give her the whole damn crate. She had been so excited to have someone to play with.

Lena’s dad is already halfway out the door as she stands up, brushing her knees off. “No, that’s okay.” She leaves the pony on the floor. “Thank you for playing with me.”

She’s gone before you can figure out what to say. 

You close up quietly, doing all your normal checks. You’re not quite sure what to do with yourself, mind stuck on the little girl with the purple coat. You don’t know what’s going on between her and her father. There’s a high likelihood that he’s just having a bad day, that he’s usually warm and affectionate and not someone his daughter has to be scared of. You don’t know this man, and you don’t know his daughter. 

But you recognise the look on her face when her father showed up. She’s so small, barely up to your hip. You can’t imagine being her parent and not being obsessed with her. She’s clever, and articulate, and the story she dreamed up with those two stuffed toys shows that. Her father had a gun on him on a Thursday afternoon, in the middle of Main Street. She’s so little, she can’t comprehend cruelty. 

She has to make up evil creatures to process things. 

You think about her for a few days after she leaves. You kept both the stuffed animals behind the counter; it felt wrong to put them back on display. Who knows, maybe you could have been reading way too far into it anyway. 

——

You never really learned how to shop. It wasn’t really a skill that you thought you’d have to learn, you supposed. Adults know how to do it, you’ll probably figure out how to eventually. At twenty-eight, you figure it’ll come to you any day now. 

The store is always too bright, even though you always come in the evenings. Harsh, fluorescent lighting makes you feel like you’re somewhere more important than in your body. You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for longer than you need to, one hand down by your side holding your basket against your calf, the other hovering over a box you’ve already picked up twice. 

$4.49

You turn it over, reading the nutritional label like you’re expecting anything called ‘Cinnamon Raspberry Crunch’ to be even a little healthy. Most of the other cereals, less sugar, sit right beside it, all about a dollar cheaper. 

You put the first box back. 

Your basket has exactly three things in it: bread, milk, and a packet of penne that goes on sale every two weeks. You don’t need anything else, you never really plan on getting much. But you’ve been thinking about this stupid cereal for days now, since you last came in and passed it on your way out. You could just buy it. You’re almost thirty. 

You can’t explain it, can’t verbalise, can’t even articulate for your own peace of mind the unease that comes from that box of cereal. Your chest constricts and you can’t form any rational argument other than the fact that thinking about buying it makes your head hurt. 

Your phone starts ringing. The timing is almost funny. 

You let it ring two full times, trying to control your breathing. You never understood how some people can just take a deep breath before doing something and feel braced for impact. It’s never really worked for you.

“Hi, dad.” Your voice wobbles. 

Your father doesn’t bother saying hello on the other side, instead waiting. You think it might have been the amount of time it took you to answer the phone, but you don’t bring it up because you hear how ridiculous it sounds even in your own head. “You took your time.”

You shift your weight, glancing the other direction down the aisle to make sure there’s no one else around. “I’m at the store.”

“At this hour?” You can practically hear him deciding what version of himself he wants to be today. “I suppose you are a busy girl.” You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing. 

He doesn’t need you to talk to keep the conversation going. “Making good choices?”

“Yes, dad.” You feel like a little girl. Your father never knew what much to do with a girl. He’d call you sport and drag you places like fishing. “I know.”

“You have a few bad habits,” he says, like he’s spoken to you face to face even once in the last five years. You don’t think he could pick you out of a lineup if the cops asked him to. “Never quite grown out of them,” he says gently. 

You stare at the shelf in front of you like it might save you from this conversation. “I know.”

There’s that silence again.

“You don’t have to stop,” he says, voice dripping. Disappointment slides into his tone like it knew it was expected. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I didn’t mean to snap.” It’s been a long day and you know you have a pile of laundry to fold when you get home. “I’m sorry.”

Your father exhales, long and slow. You have the entire time to ruminate while he’s making his mind up. There really is no rhyme or reason to him sometimes, it is left purely up to his whim. Sometimes a mood you think is a good one can sour in an instant. You’ve known him for how long and you just can’t get a read on him. 

“Anyway,” he breezes past it. “I called because I realised you never paid me back for your electric bill last month. Remember? I covered it because you were short.”

Your car had died and you’d blown most of your savings on getting it fixed, leaving you short on your electric bill for the month. Your father had been practically a last resort, first spending hours researching all possible public transit routes to see if there was any way you could make it work. You’d given him the money back immediately when you’d been paid. Asking your father for anything has always made you feel like you’re disappointing him and when it comes to your dad disappointment can look like a lot of things. 

One time when you were really little there had been a party at your house. You don’t remember what it was for — just that it had been really important because your dad said it was, and that meant everything had to be right. You remember more of the buildup than the party itself if you’re honest. The air was tight, so quiet that not even the house dared settle. Every day you would take the school bus home and every day you’d drag your feet longer and longer, anything to avoid getting home. 

Your father is a perfectionist, you tell people now. Highly strung. Particular. 

You remember being made to eat dinner on the porch that week, plastic plates balanced on your knees. You weren’t allowed at the table, your dad insistent you would make a mess. You didn’t think you were a messy child but your dad isn’t the kind of person you argue with. He hated cleaning up after you — that part, at least, had always been made clear. 

The night of the party, the house filled up in a way it never had. There had been too many people, all too loud, all of them laughing like your house wasn’t riddled with landmines intentionally set to detonate around your father. You stayed outside, sitting on the stoop, watching the older boys from the neighbourhood ride their bikes up and down the street under the orange glow of the streetlights. 

You could hear everything going on inside. Glasses clinking, voices rising, your father’s laugh louder than you had ever heard it before. Then a sharp sound, one that you knew could only come from the vase on the dining table being knocked over. 

You had known what that meant, even back then. Something small goes wrong and everything else follows. The night would fold in on itself, people would leave too quickly. 

You could hear someone inside begin apologising and all you could picture was your father standing there, shoulders tight the way they would always be right before he snapped. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, like it was nothing at all. 

You didn’t come inside until you were sure the last person had left; nobody came to make sure you were in bed. You have never been sure of where you stand with him.

So you’re careful when you speak up again. “I did pay you back.”

He hums. “I don’t think so.”

You’ve barely been able to afford gas this month because of the extra money being taken out of your account. Your job is consistent and pays you pretty well but you still work retail

“I did, I transferred it. I’ll check-”

He cuts you off with your name, sharp and steady. “Okay, calm down. You don’t have to get upset. If you say you did then I’m sure you did.” He clearly doesn’t believe you. You don’t mind him being wrong, but to assign you facets of yourself that don’t really exist is what spikes your heart rate. 

“Dad-”

He doesn’t let you cut him off. “No, I won’t keep you. If you can pay me back when you get paid, I’d appreciate it. Maybe this will take you to be a bit more responsible with your money, hey? Love you, kiddo.” He hangs up after you repeat the sentiment weakly, leaving you staring at the cereal, burning up under the fluorescent lights. 

——

You’ve become somewhat of a creature of habit as you enter your late twenties. You have your small, solitary hobbies — your crocheting, your crafts, your scrolling through social media and seeing which of your high school friends are getting engaged. Spring breaks into summer and you spend the next couple of weeks preparing for the summer rush. The rain settles, giving way to a dry heat that has you grateful your car’s air conditioning hasn’t gone yet. 

The store’s air conditioning is fairly reliable and since you’re the only one who works no one ever messes with your settings. The store is kind of a hangout spot for some younger kids who have clearly been set loose for the first time. They come in for the ever-rotating collection of board games, and you become somewhat of an unpaid babysitter.

You don’t mind, though. Most of them are polite and well-behaved, and you’ve always loved being around children. Most of the time they’re a lot nicer to be around than adults. There’s no small talk, no worrying about filling the silence, or being annoying. Most of the time, the type of kids who want to come into a quiet store and draw or play chutes and ladders for hours, they just like when adults pay attention to them. You hope you can make them feel important, even if it’s just for an afternoon. Education had been something you’d considered going into once you graduated high school but the workload and the student loans and the decisiveness of the whole thing had been too daunting and eventually you’d put it off for so long it didn’t seem worth pursuing anymore. 

You keep the two ponies under the counter, kept safe from stock rotations and curious children by your careful hands. You protect them from dust, keep them safe. It feels a bit silly to keep them there, keep them clean and ready. You can’t bear to separate them.

The summer rush comes and goes and with it comes the back to school rush. You end up paying your father back a second time, too busy with work to have the energy to deal with the stress of it. You don’t think he has your address, but you also didn’t think he had it the last time he’d shown up at your place. 

It’s perhaps the first day of the slow season, early in the afternoon, right after all the kids have gone back to school. You’ve done all the restocking, you’ve done all the normal cleaning, all the normal admin. You’ve even gone as far as to dust all the baseboards, you’re that desperate for something to do. Muscling through the boredom, you’ve finally settled in your comfy chair behind the desk, crochet project on your lap and calming music playing through the speaker connected to your phone. 

The bell twinkles as the door is shoved open and you don’t even really have the time to look up before your name is being called, bright and warm. She’s not wearing her purple raincoat but you would recognise Lena anywhere. She looks at you sheepishly, like she’s just considered the idea that you don’t remember her. 

You’re sure it must be something awry with you. So desperate for connection, to find the innate good, to understand everything in your life, you’ve always been incredibly quick to attach. Perhaps not attach exactly, you think, you’re probably less attached to Lena than perhaps the idea of her. You don’t have the best memory, it’s not photographic or eidetic or anything, but you remember faces and names. You remember people in your kindergarten class, and adults who showed you kindness, and customers you had completely mundane interactions with. You wonder often what it says about you the memories your brain has decided to latch onto, what has shaped you into who you are. Your preschool teacher scolding you for talking during nap time when you hadn’t been, being abandoned at the bus stop by a friend who promised she’d wait for your bus before beginning her walk home. One time, you had been maybe seventeen, down by the waterfront after a vicious fight with your father. You don’t recall what the fight was about, but you remember the little boy you had seen by the water’s edge. He had a bucket filled with seashells, and his grandmother was sitting on the sand helping him decorate a sandcastle with his findings. Eventually she’d stood up, dusting herself off, and told him they had to head home for dinner with his mama. The boy had cried something awful, tears and sobs, begging his grandma to just help him find one more shell. One more, just one more. Is it odd you can recall the moment with perfect clarity, feeling your own heart split in two just at the sound of his upset?

Lena has grown since you last saw her, and if she hadn’t referred to you by name you would’ve thought you’d projected her likeness onto a new girl. She beams at you with a missing tooth, skipping forward as if it’s been five minutes instead of five months. 

She’s flanked by a man who is new to you, not the same guy who had come to collect her last time she’d been in. He’s staring at you when you look away from her, holding the door open for her to come inside and making sure he catches it before it slams. Blue eyes stare straight into you deeper than you think you’ve ever really looked into yourself, and he doesn’t look away at being caught. 

He’s thick, broad in the shoulders and stocky in the chest. You squirm under his gaze, feeling suddenly like you’re doing something wrong by looking at him. Your chest stirs and you’re completely aware of every single one of your limbs. 

“Hi, Lena.” Her smile widens impossibly far for such a small face. Your heart does the same thing. “How are you?”

She seems more forthcoming this time, telling you all about how she’s just started second grade, the friends she’s been making, how hard the classes are. She talks with a level of familiarity about her life the way only a second grader could, like it would never even occur to her that you wouldn’t have anything to compare it to. You discard your crochet project, scooting your chair forward and leaning over on your elbows to make sure she knows you’re giving her all your attention. 

Well, almost all of your attention. The man she came with stands directly behind Lena, arms crossed as if he’d expect you to try and hurt her, and his eyes stay trained on you. You’re not sure if he’s just a starer — some men are; how creepy it is depends on how long it goes on before he tries to talk to you — or if he’s watching for something. 

You kick off where you’re leaning, wondering if he might stop if you move. “I have something for you,” you feel foolish already. Chances are she’s forgotten, or she doesn’t even like horses anymore, or she didn’t even at the time but they were her only option. “People bought all the other ones but I remember you liked these ones.” You look like a fool holding out the two stuffed animals in your hand, not even knowing if she wants them. Lena’s eyes light up at the sight of the ponies but she doesn’t move towards them. 

Instead, she looks up at her bodyguard. “Can I, Uncle Pope?”

Lena’s uncle Pope finally tears his eyes from you, looking down at her. His mouth pulls into a small smile, strained like he’s not used to doing it but fond like he can’t help it anyway. “Yeah,” his voice is crackly and quiet. “How much are they?” He looks back to you. 

You wonder if he thinks you’re going to quiz him on your eye colour or something. You shake your head, practically tripping over your own actions to get ahead of yourself and skip through the first part of interactions. “No, it’s fine. They’re for her.”

Lena gasps, collecting them both into her chest with an iron grip. She thanks you and doesn’t have to be reminded, eyes shining. You get the idea that Pope has heard about the two of them before. He watches her glee, affectionate an albeit untrained smile widening on his face. “Do you want your pen things?”

Her eyes widen to saucers. “I can still have them?” Pope nods and Lena practically shoots off towards the stationery section, leaving the two of you alone. He turns to orient his body towards her instinctively, but he’s standing so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. It sends a hot feeling from your chest to your stomach. 

His hair is thick and unruly, such a rich copper it almost looks brown in the warm lighting of the store. His curls look well loved but less well maintained and you find your mind stumbling forward again; what hair products does he use? Does he like it touched? Does he have anyone there to touch it? What would it feel like?

“She talks about you a lot,” Pope says, sounding like whatever the opposite of conversational is. He speaks like he regrets it retroactively, aching for solitude but subjecting himself to small talk with strangers. “Practically begged me to come here since she has a half day. I told her if she did all of her homework she could get some of those pens.” He mimes using a pen. “Y’know the ones, they smell like all the different stuff? Bananas and apples and crap?”

You nod. They’re just called scented markers, but you don’t feel the need to correct him. You picture him at a kitchen counter, trying to coax his niece into finishing a reading log with scented markers. You know Lena has a father, a man that she at least called ‘dad’ five months ago. What happened to him? Why isn’t he bringing her to get sniff pens? Is he still around, with his concealed carry and his seemingly cold indifference? That’s probably unfair, you don’t know this man, and Lena had clearly loved him. 

But she looks far happier today than she had the last time you saw her, you can’t lie to yourself about that. 

“She’s a good kid.” You have to assume. She’s lovely, incredibly easy to be kind to, but you don’t know her when it really comes down to it. “Seemed like she was having a hard time last time I saw her.” You shrug with an indifference that feels completely unnatural. “I wanted to do something nice for her.”

Pope looks over at her, taking the caps off the sample markers to smell them, then down at you. You feel real juvenile with your little crochet stars in your lap, you’re planning on making bunting out of them, sitting there in your work outfit. He’s clearly older than you by a significant amount, he’s probably got a respectable job, maybe a wife. You wonder what kind of family they are, both of them so different from Lena’s father. Perhaps you’re being unfair, maybe it wasn’t a gun, and maybe he’d just been having a bad day. You want to ask Pope about him, but you bite your tongue. 

“You didn’t have to,” he says gruffly, looking down. He doesn’t have a wedding ring on, and the fact that you have noticed makes your cheeks warm. “Lot to do for someone else’s kid.”

You feel a little bit scolded, shrinking into him. This man clearly cares a lot about his niece, perhaps more than her father, you want him to think you’re good for her. Want him to like you. 

You’re sure it has nothing to do with the fact that his biceps are too big for his shirt and when he’d been staring at you all the blood in your chest had stalled. 

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” you say cautiously. 

He blinks at you. The expressions that he’s shot your way have been nowhere near as emotive as the ones he’s given Lena which is to be expected on a certain level, but he’s really been giving you nothing.

He looks at you for so long you have to be the one to break eye contact. Lena bounces up to the counter, marker pigment around her nose with a pack of scented felt tip pens. “Oh, Lena,” you say, eyes darting back over to her uncle. He’s looking down his shoulder at her. “You’ve got pen on your face.”

“Sorry,” she frowns, scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. “’S’it gone?” She juts her head back to present to you. 

You bend down to rummage through your purse, fishing out a pack of face wipes from the bottom. “Here,” you pull one out of the package and present it to her. “Do you mind if I wipe it off?”

Lena shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. She’s got beautiful, dark hair, and she clearly didn’t get that from her dad. She doesn’t look much like Pope at all, and you don’t remember her father’s face with as much clarity as you’ll recall her uncle’s, but you don’t see much of a family resemblance between the two of them. He could be from her mother’s side but given that Lena is clearly mixed you’d made an educated guess that the two of them were brothers. 

“Thank you,” she enunciates, nodding slightly on each word. You wipe away the pigment gently, catching sight of the way Pope watches you out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if you’d been overstepping when you’d brought it up but you’re pretty sure it qualifies now. You finish up, curling the wipe in your hand and sitting back. Lena looks up at Pope with a toothy smile. “All better?”

He nods at her. “Be careful with them. We can’t go to grandma’s if you’ve got pen all over your face.” 

He doesn’t have that way about him that people who spend a lot of time around kids usually do. None of the fake niceties in the voice, there’s clear affection there and he’s good with her, but there’s a level of clumsiness there. The love had come naturally but the mannerisms are still forming themselves. Easy and wrought with the deception of labour in the same breath. 

He’s holding a twenty out to you and you realise with a start it's for the pens. “Right.” Your face gets hot and you stand up to escape the feeling. You take the twenty, your fingertips tingling where they’d connected with his. They’re rough, calloused, and they don’t shy away from yours. You reach for the key to unlock the cash drawer in the till to get him his change. 

“Keep the rest.”

He says it in a way that makes you not want to argue with him. You ignore that instinct. 

“They’re four dollars.”

He stares at you again. “You have a tip jar, don’t you?”

Technically, sure. There’s a jar there that’s labelled for tips, but people rarely leave cash in it. You know his name but you feel wrong saying it. Yours is displayed on the badge you have clipped to your top. You tell him anyway, changing the topic. 

Pope blinks, eyebrows furrowing. “Everyone calls me Pope.”

“Well, Pope,” you say as if you hadn’t collected that and tucked it away the second that Lena had referred to him. “That’s like a two hundred percent tip, so.” You turn the key and the drawer pops out. You tuck the twenty away and hand him back a ten. $5.15 with tax, $4.85 tip. "Happy?” You dump the coins in the jar. He frowns, which is more of a reaction than you’ve gotten the entire rest of the time, so you take that as a success. 

Lena tugs on his sleeve. “Are we going to Grandma Smurf’s now? She said I could go in the pool, s’long as I wear sunscreen.”

Pope’s frown deepens slightly but he manages to fix his face before he looks down at her. “We can go now. You sure?” Lena nods resolutely. 

You watch them go, Lena turning around to wave at you at the door. Pope looks right at you and raises an arm in goodbye. There’s a vein that runs down his arm and you have to duck behind the counter, mortified. When you make your ascent they’re gone but your face is still hot. 

You spend the rest of the night thinking about Lena’s uncle Pope. You wish you’d introduced yourself with your surname so he’d been inclined to do the same. He hadn’t given you any indication that he had liked you in any way, so you’re not sure exactly why he’s got you all hot and bothered. He’s at least a decade older than you, if not more, but you can’t argue and claim that’s not your type. 

He probably wouldn’t have captured your attention so severely if he hadn’t been so good with his niece. It had been something that you’d realised rather suddenly a few years ago; that you were no longer a girl but rather just a woman. You’d felt your whole adolescence that you were too young to be an adult. Mrs. Rayskel had hired you two days after you had turned fourteen, so when you woke up one day and realised that you were actually an appropriate age to be working, in your mid twenties. That you’re not a young adult, instead, an adult. An adult who thought she would’ve been in a relationship secure enough to at least be thinking about having children. Men your age don’t want to settle down, at least none of the ones you’ve ever met have. 

But an older man with a niece he clearly adores? You have to slap yourself in the middle of stirring your pasta to stop yourself from perving on this poor man. You wonder if he’d mind.

——

You spend maybe two weeks having your heart race every time the door to the shop opens, and are rewarded for your diligence when eventually Pope does return, this time without Lena in tow. 

You’re actually working this time, restocking the board games in the corner. You’re mostly hidden behind a shelf so you’re able to pretend you haven’t seen him and thus, act adequately nonchalant as he finds you. 

“Oh, hi.” You’re kneeling on the floor restocking the bottom shelf and despite the fact that your skirt ends at your calves you tug it down self-consciously. “Lena’s uncle, Pope, right?”

He nods slowly, so slow it’s like it’s something he needs to process. He looks marginally less happy this time and you know it’s probably because his niece isn’t with him but there’s a small spark in the back of your head that whispers his frown is directed at your outfit. You’re being ridiculous, he doesn’t give a shit what you’re wearing. He offers a hand and you don’t even think before taking it. His hand is so much bigger than yours, and the vein on his arm bulges as he helps you stand. “Everything okay?”

You dust yourself off, looking down at your ruffled socks against your boots. It’s still been fairly warm during the day but you have errands to run after sundown. You’ve come to the conclusion about Pope that he might just be a quiet man. It’s not any disdain for you or anything you’ve done, he’s just a pensive man. 

“What…” he clears his throat. Pope leans up to tug on a patch of his hair at the back, centring himself and speaking up again. “What do you do when you’re not at work?”

You perk up a little bit. There’s no way… he’s not asking you out, right? It’s probably that he wants to know which crafts you engage in, maybe he needs gift ideas for Lena. The answer is embarrassingly sparse, and you definitely paint yourself as a bit of a homebody. “Crochet, drawing, I watch documentaries sometimes…” you need to work on how you present yourself. If he wanted to go out with you before he probably won’t after this. “Then errands mostly.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend? Kids?” He asks bluntly. 

“Uh… no. Why?”

He has the good sense to look sheepish at his abruptness. “Lena’s my brother’s daughter.” You can hear every breath he takes, heavy and with a heaving chest. That answers that question then. “I don’t know how to take care of her, thought this shit was meant to be easier. Thought all the hard parts about parenting were diapers and tantrums and she’s got neither of them. All I had to do was make sure she ate and did her homework and said please and thank you.” He lets out a hot rush of air. “’S not like that at all.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling. 

You have no idea what he wants you to say. Did he come to vent — for parenting advice? Did he assume you must have kids based on how you acted with her? 

“All that shit was fine when she had her mom and dad but now,” he looks down at you, and for the first time since you first met him there’s a different emotion behind his eyes. You don’t have very much to go off, can’t even name his baseline, but from the fluttering eyelashes and the furrowed brows this looks very much like a man out of his depth finally confiding a fear. “Now I have to look after her. Have to, get to.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how he did it. But I have to work, and she needs someone to watch her after school, and the sign out there says you guys shut before four in the afternoon.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, more surprised than anything. “You want me to… babysit her?”

Pope seems to realise that this is an odd request. Perhaps not the most appropriate, either. He clears his throat and pulls again at the curls on the nape of his neck. “You can tell me to get lost.”

“No, just…” you feel like if you don’t shut your mouth he might realise how strange this is. Most people would like to vet a babysitter, I’m a random adult you’ve met once, how do I know you’re not insane and won’t just dump her here and run away? “You want me?”

Pope gestures to you, your pretty skirt, your general disposition. “She likes you.” He shrugs stiffly like the action is something unfamiliar to him. 

“When would you need me?” As much as you like Lena and as much as the thought of having him in a position where you’d need to see him every day makes your heart palpitate against your ribcage, this is your job. You can’t quit it for this, definitely not before you’re sure it’ll shake out. “Like after school? I’m usually here until four-ish.”

“She finishes school at three forty-five, it’s only three blocks. You have a car?” You nod. “Good, a license?” You nod again. “If you need to stay here to finish up she can take the school-bus here, stops down the street.” He points out the window, you’re too preoccupied looking at the way his shirt strains at the arm to see the bus stop. “If you can, you pick her up from school, bring her back here or to your house or the park or my apartment or wherever. Keep her entertained, make sure she does her homework and eats her veggies. Sometimes I’d need to work late, so she’d need to spend the night with you and you’d have to take her to school. You can do it at my place or if you want to keep her at your apartment that’s fine. School starts at nine but she can go in at eight if you need to be here. Plus weekends. Not every day, and not always that late. I just…” he looks almost embarrassed to need the help. “I can pay you.”

You’d hope so, for all that. 

“Lena mentioned her grandma?” You ask gently. “Do you think Lena could stay with her some days?”

He looks at you as if he’s surprised you would bring her up. “No, I don’t want her around my mom.” He sniffs, looking away from you. “If you don’t want to just say it. Don’t have to make shit up to help me. I could give you fifty bucks an hour — what do you make here?” It’s not fifty bucks an hour, you can say that right now. “Double on weekends and for nights. Plus money for anything she needs, gas money for you to pick her up, money for dinner and whatever.” He’s almost breathless. “I can pay you.”

What the hell does this man do?

“Pope. It’s a lot to ask,” you say. “I can definitely take her on the weekends, and probably a couple of days after school. I don’t know about nights, but depending on where you live I could maybe swing by in the morning and help her get ready for school, drop her on my way?” 

Pope looks back at you, some semblance of a smile twitching the corner of his lip upwards. It’s the kind of smile that makes it impossible for you to not smile as well, which is surprising considering it still doesn’t make him look particularly happy. For a guy this steely, you suppose any amount of joy on his face makes you smile. 

“Why don’t I give you my phone number, and we can talk about this while I’m not at work?” What Pope and Lena probably need is a nanny, or at least someone who can full time devote themselves to Lena. You have a job that, while it awards you a lot of freedom, is something  you couldn’t live without. And while you adore Lena, and you’re sure that’ll only grow with time, you need the money desperately. 

Pope reaches for you and after drawing a complete blank, you realise he wants your phone. “Oh, sorry. I left it on the desk.” Your father has been calling you, upset that you’d fallen asleep last night and forgotten to reply to his message. You know what it’ll be, either asking you for something or scolding you. You haven’t the energy to entertain him at the moment. The two of you swap information and when he hands you your phone back he lingers. 

“Do you like this job?” He asks quietly, cocking his head and studying your face. You nod, lost for words with him so close. One step further in and you’d practically be chest to chest. “When you were a kid you wanted to be a… craft girl?”

You can’t hide your snicker, ducking your head, and he frowns like you’d yelled at him. 

“No,” you admit. “This isn’t what I wanted to do when I was little. I wanted to be a teacher.” You’ve never really told another person that, never had another person to tell. By the time you graduated high school you were lucky if your father noticed you hadn’t been home in days, and when you finally moved out at twenty he’d looked at you like he’d forgotten you even lived there. Now he calls you every week, which is nice of him, but you wished in the decade it’s been since you last saw his face you’d developed a thicker skin. Or at least the ability to not cry whenever he hurts your feelings. 

Pope’s eyes light up. “See, you’re perfect.” He tilts his chin down to mirror yours like the two of you are sharing a secret. “This is basically like being a teacher.”

You laugh again and this time he doesn’t seem so offended. “Goodbye, Pope.”

This time when he leaves he doesn’t turn to wave at you, but it gives you ample time to watch him cross the street to his car. There’s a man there who snickers and punches Pope’s chest when he gets in, but Pope doesn’t even bat an eye, pulling the car out and meeting your gaze right as he reaches the edge of the window. 

You look down at your phone. “Pope Cody…” you muse, looking at his contact information. You’re surprised he offered his surname at all, the longer you speak to him the less he seems the type. You smile down at it and startle, caught, at the sound of the bell. Your phone slips from your grasp and you bring up your other hand to catch it before it hits the floor. The app closes in the fuss, and with it goes his unsaved contact information. “Shit.” You hiss, looking up at the customer, a mom and two little boys who thankfully don’t look like they heard your expletive and put your phone down on the counter. You can only hope that he texts you first, you suppose you’ll find out if he expects you to make the first move. 

——

It’s late when your phone rings. So late, you know it’s not Pope. So late you’re going to regret this in the morning when you have to get up and clean your apartment in the morning. You’re not not going to sleep, you’re just not trying very hard. You’re sprawled out on your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, trying to fight off a headache. 

It’s your father, he’s the only man with the audacity enough to call you at midnight on a Friday night. You’ll call him back in the morning, he has no way of knowing you’re awake to ignore him. You’re so exhausted, your sheets are so warm and smooth, you’ve been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a while now. The vibrating doesn’t even catch up to you until it’s almost finished ringing. 

Your phone screen goes black again, plunging the room into the sub-darkness that only comes from the whole city being asleep. Then, it lights up again with a text. 

Huffing, your face pressed against your pillow, you slap the mattress on your side until you finally wrap your hands around the device. 

You have 1 New Voicemail. 

Your father has never left you a voicemail. Spam callers might, but usually they’re unintelligible. Your phone will have taken a transcript as best it can, and you squint at the brightness. It streaks right past your retinas and into the core of your brain, making your headache worse. 

Uh hey it’s pope Cody—

You scramble up until you’re on your knees, heart rate spiking. You can’t be laying down, not with your ears ringing the way they are. Based on the paragraph it’s not a super short message, and you bite your lip with delight when you see it’s almost a full minute. 

There’s a feeling in your chest you can’t get rid of, can’t deep-breath or count-to-ten away. Itching for movement, you feel your hand start wandering up of its own accord from where it’s resting on your thigh upwards, slipping under the hem of the big t-shirt you’d been intending on sleeping in and finding your nipple. You toy with it almost distractedly, stuck in limbo of being desperate to rake your eyes over his words and wanting to hear him. 

God, how tragic are you? Your nipples are both hard already and perhaps it’s just from the breeze drifting through the open window but you also feel a throb of neediness light up your core. You roll onto your back, clenching your thighs together. This is a line you shouldn’t cross. Sure, it’s late, you’re horny, whatever. But this guy is about to be your boss, you should be able to listen to a voicemail without needing to touch yourself. 

He’s such a serious man, you can’t imagine what he’d say if he saw the state of you, shirt lifted just below your breasts, soaking a damp patch into the front of your panties. The only way you’re going to be able to get through the message is going to be to get yourself off first like a teenage boy trying not to get a boner on a first date. 

Pope’s also painfully awkward and it really does it for you. From the way he moves, to the faces he makes, to the way he talks. Fuck, the way he talks. You let your phone rest on your chest and your other hand finds its way down underneath your panties. 

You haven’t been fucked in a while but you’re way more turned on than you have any right to be. You don’t bother teasing yourself, pressing the flat of two fingers against your clit. Your hips buck at the feeling, clearly more untouched than you thought. 

Your fingers aren’t as thick as his, and you can’t help the perversions that cross your mind at the thought of Pope. How would he touch you? Would it be clumsy? He’s pretty assertive, perhaps that would overtake the awkwardness. You let a whine escape your bitten lips into the darkness of your bedroom as you rub your clit. 

Fuck this, you reach for the phone blindly, half blinded with the vision of his hand shoving yours out the way. You fumble for the button, but after a little while his voice rings out in your bedroom. 

“Uh,” he coughs. “Hey, it’s Pope Cody.” Two of your fingers slide inside, your other hand coming to replace the fingers at your clit. The position is awkward but you can’t focus on anything but the sound of his voice, already humiliatingly close. His voice is low and the phone quality crackles but it mimics the grooves of his voice well enough you don’t even care. “Look, I know it’s late but do you think you can call me in the morning? I don’t know how this thing usually works, the whole babysitter thing.” His fingers would probably get deeper than yours, but you curve them slightly until they hit your sweet spot. 

Frustrated with the limitations the fabric is giving, you pull both your hands out and shove your underwear down your legs, letting it slip off your foot and onto the floor of your bedroom. “And you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Fuck,” you hiss, drawing your fingers from your hole and fucking them back into yourself slowly. He seems like the type of man who would take his time, or maybe that’s just you projecting for slowing down so you don’t cum before he’s even done talking. 

“And I’m sorry about ambushing you at work, it felt like the best place to come talk to you. I won’t come by again, if you don’t want. But I want to see you.”

You’re only halfway through it and you can already feel an orgasm forming. It’s downright sinful the things you want him to do to you. 

“I need to talk to you, I mean. About Lena. And about… yeah. I know this is probably stupid as shit but I’m way in over my head here so… Whatever it is you want to do, I’ll do it. You want more money?”

You bring the hand rubbing your clit up to your mouth to sink your teeth into the back, instead grinding on the palm of the hand you’re using to finger yourself. The walls in your apartment are thick enough you don’t have to worry about making a small amount of noise, but you don’t need Erin and Carlos from next door to hear you whining. “Anything you want. Anything.” You can practically feel him breathing into your ear. Anything you want. 

He says your name, low and deep and you tip into your orgasm, back arching against your sheets and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. They’re clenched shut, white filling your vision, and his face lives on your eyelids. Those big, sad eyes. Thick fingers and thicker arms. 

He’s gruff, and unsmiling and awkward and stiff, but Pope doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to get hung up on rules. He’s older than you, and he’s about to be your boss, and you realise with a thrill that you don’t think that would stop him if he wanted you. 

“Or if you don’t want or, or you can’t or whatever. Then if you know anyone, or like, a way I can find a babysitter? I don’t fuckin’ know… Thanks for the help. I’m around, if you want to call me when you’re not asleep. Okay.” He ends the message without a goodbye. 

Your eyes are practically glued shut, walls fluttering around your fingers as your breathing slowly returns to normal. How the fuck are you meant to work this job? You can’t even listen to the man talk for a full minute without soaking through your underwear. 

You don’t remember falling asleep, you wake up with a rumpled shirt and a new pair of panties you must’ve slipped on in a daze. It’s a Saturday, so you don’t have to get up if you don’t really want to. You have chores to do and sleep to catch up on, you can hear the faint sound of rain picking up outside. Perfect circumstances for a day at home, resetting and fixing yourself up on one of your two days off. 

Instead, you roll over and immediately reach for your phone. 

Hey, sorry! I fell asleep and didn’t get your call. I’m free today, I’d love to see you. You chicken out and tack onto the end and Lena! I can come over to your place or we can meet somewhere else?

You barely have time to close your eyes again before your phone is vibrating in your hand, once, then twice. The first message is an address. The second: give me an hour. 

Jason Grace had always been the type to overthink everything, from sword fights to the way he tied his sneakers. It wasn't that he lacked confidence— hell, he'd faced down monsters without flinching— but when it came to you, things got oh! so messy in his head.

You'd been together for months now, a whirlwind of kisses and late-night talks, but sex? That was still new territory. Jason was a virgin before you; his life was packed with quests and duties to explore much else.

And you? You were the one who'd gently pulled him into it, showing him the ropes— or rather, the sheets— on those rare nights when the world let him take a breathe.

It started simple.

The first time, in the dim glow of his cabin, you'd straddled him, guiding his hands to your hips as you sank down onto his cock. Jason's eyes had widened, his breath hitching at the feeling of your pretty cunt clenching.

He was thick— impressively so, the kind of girth that stretched you in ways that made your toes curl— but he didn't know what to do with it !

He laid there, mostly passive, letting you set the pace while he gripped the bedframe like it was his lifeline. You rode him slow, feeling him throb inside you, but it was all instinct for him, no rhythm and definitely no drive.

You'd come, sure, grinding against him until the pressure built and shattered, but Jason? He finished pathetically quick, spilling outside with a groan that sounded half-apologetic. Afterward, he'd hold you close, whispering how amazing you felt, but you could see the frustration in his eyes. He wanted to be better for you.

That became the pattern.

Jason underneath, you on top, controlling the ride. He'd thrust up sometimes, tentative, his hands roaming your breasts or ass, but it was always you leading.

You didn't mind— his eagerness was endearing, and that thick dick of his filled you up just right. He even thrusted up into you with all the enthusiasm of a guy desperate to please from time to time, but it was pretty much always the same: quick, predictable, leaving you satisfied but not exactly screaming. You'd come, no doubt, but he knew it wasn't fireworks for you.

Little did you know, Jason was already plotting his redemption arc !

Starting with asking Leo for a laptop without dying of embarrassment in the attempt... Anyways! Once he got it, he immediately started investigating.

It was as innocent as it could be.

One night, after you'd left his cabin with a kiss, Jason couldn't shake the frustration gnawing at him. He was built like a god— tall, broad-shouldered, with that chiseled jaw and a body honed from years of discipline in the roman legion— but in bed, he felt like a rookie fumbling the ball.

So, alone in the dim glow of his new laptop, he dove in. Porn first, the kind with titles promising "mind-blowing technique" and close-up shots of couples who looked like they were inventing new laws of physics. Then articles, forums, even a dog-eared book on anatomy he'd swiped from a roadside library box because he knew that pornography was not a reliable source for pleasing a woman..

He watched how guys used their mouths, their hands, the way they'd build tension instead of rushing to the end. Jason took notes while his cock hardened because he imagined practicing on you. He wanted to erase that look of polite pleasure from your face and replace it with something raw, something that made you cry of pleasure.

Now, here you were again, grinning as you tugged at the hem of your shirt.

"Missed you," you say, your voice so soft. How could Jason deny you anything?

Jason swallowed. "Mh, yeah? We saw eachother at breakfast."

He adjusted his glasses, but you were already closing the distance, your hand brushing his arm.

"But I can miss my boyfriend," your hands slided under his shirt to feel the hard planes of his abs.

And like that the clothes disappeared after some kisses.

You pushed him down gently, like always, straddling his hips. Jason's cock was already hard, thick and straining against your thigh, a detail he'd always been shy about, never knowing how to wield it beyond the basics.

You guided him inside you, sinking down slowly, and he groaned, hands gripping your waist. It was familiar: you riding him, setting the pace, your pussy clenching around his length as you ground against him. He thrusted up awkwardly at first, overthinking the angle, but the heat built anyway, your moans filling the room.

"Ah.." you breathed, rolling your hips, chasing that edge he could never quite push you over.

Yet tonight, something shifted. As you leaned forward, breasts brushing his chest, Jason's hands tightened—not in surrender, but in resolve.

He'd watched those videos, read the guides: how to make it about her pleasure first! His mind usually raced with the pressure to perform, but this time, it fueled him.

With a sudden surge, he flipped you both, his weight pinning you to the mattress. You gasped, surprised, your legs parting instinctively as he settled between them.

"Jason? What—"

He didn't answer right away, his face flushed, those blue eyes dark with determination. Instead, he kissed down your neck, nipping at your collarbone, then lower, tracing the curve of your breast with his tongue.

You arched, expecting him to slide back inside, but he kept going, lips trailing over your stomach, hands spreading your thighs wide.

His breath ghosted over your pussy, already slick from riding him, and your breath hitched. He'd never done this—never even hinted at it. Oral? That was unknown territory for him, something he'd jerked off to in secret, imagining your taste but too embarrassed to ask.

"Jason, you don't have to—" But his mouth was there before you could finish, tongue flicking tentatively against your clit.

It was clumsy at first, a hesitant lap, but then he remembered the videos: circles, pressure, the flat of the tongue. He pressed in, licking a broad stripe up your folds, tasting you fully for the first time. You moaned, loud and unrestrained, your fingers threading into his blond hair.

Because, holy shit, he had never done this before. Not once in all your relationship had he gone down on you; it was always hands or his cock, quick and to the point. But now? He was doing it, actually eating you out, his inexperience showing in the way he paused to adjust, but God, it felt good.

He grew bolder, sucking your clit between his lips, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. One hand braced on your thigh, the other slid up, two fingers teasing your entrance before pushing inside and curl them, seeking that spot he'd read about, the one that made women squirm.

You bucked against his face, the dual sensation— his tongue swirling, fingers pumping— sending sparks up your spine.

"Fuck, Jason," you talked between moans, your voice breaking. "Where did you learn this?"

It was messy— his chin glistened with your arousal, his breaths coming in hot puffs against your inner thigh and his cheeks red.

"I- I read about it. Online. In those... you know." He looked up at you, vulnerable but earnest, fingers still buried deep, stroking slowly. "Am I doing it right? Does it feel good?"

You could barely form words, pleasure coiling tight in your core. Instead of answering, you grabbed the back of his head, guiding him back down firmly.

"Keep going. Don't stop." Your voice was a command wrapped in a plea, and he obeyed, diving in with renewed focus.

His tongue worked faster now, alternating flicks and sucks, while his fingers thrusted deeper, hitting that ridge inside you with each curl. The pressure was building, relentless, with your hips grinding against his mouth as he devoured you.

You'd always taken the lead before, riding him to your satisfaction, but this— him taking care of you, learning on the fly— was intoxicating. His thick fingers stretched you sososoo damn right, slick with your arousal, and when he added a third, scissoring gently, you cried out, the fullness pushing you closer.

It built so fast, that orgasm, hotter and more intense than anything Jason had given you before. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets, and you shattered, whimpering his name as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

Your pussy clenched around his fingers, pulsing, and he didn't let up, licking you through it until you were shaking, oversensitive and boneless.

When he finally lifted his head, lips swollen and shiny, he looked triumphant. "Was that okay?"

You pulled him up, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips.

"More than okay. That was fucking incredible."

Your hand wrapped around his cock, still rock-hard and throbbing, the thick length pulsing in your grip. Precum beaded at the tip, and you stroked slowly, intending to reward him— climb on top again and let him feel you milk him dry. But Jason shook his head, a small smile breaking through his flush.

"Not this time." He caught your wrist, gently but firm, and pushed you back down, his body covering yours once more.

You laughed, breathless, as he positioned himself. "Bossy now?"

He didn't respond with words, just nudged the flushed, angry tip of his cock against your entrance, still sensitive from your climax.

He'd never known how to use his size before— thrusting too shallow or erratic, leaving you wanting. But right now, guided by all that secret studying, he pushed in slow and deep, inch by thick inch, filling you completely.

You moaned, legs wrapping around his waist, the stretch delicious after his fingers.

He started moving, hips rolling with purpose, not the hesitant pumps from your other encounters. Each thrust kissed your cervix with that swollen tip, a deep, insistent pressure.

"God, you're so tight," he muttered, voice rough, with his forehead pressed to yours. He adjusted his angle, pulling back almost out before slamming in, the head of his dick dragging right over your g-spot.

You gasped, nails digging into his back, the spot-on hit sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He'd read about it, watched the diagrams— how to angle for the maximum pleasure— and fuck, it worked. Every stroke targeted it, building that pressure again, faster than before.

Jason's rhythm steadied, his weight pinning you a bit as his hands braced on either side of your head. Sweat slicked his skin, his glasses fogging slightly as he fucked into you, harder now, the bed creaking under the force.

Your pussy gripped him like a vice, wet and hot, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck. "Feels so good— you feel so good."

He was still overthinking a little—you could see it in the way his brows furrowed—but it only made him more attentive, hips snapping with precision, chasing your reactions.

When you clenched around him, he hit that spot again, relentless, the thick base of his cock grinding against your clit with each hilt-deep thrust. You were lost in it, your body arching to meet him, the coil tightening impossibly fast.

"Jason— right there, don't stop."

He didn't, couldn't, pounding into you with a focus that bordered on fierce, his cock stretching and filling every inch. The room filled with the slap of skin and your shared breaths ragged.

He reached down, thumb finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles like he'd practiced in his mind from those videos. It was too much—the deep kisses to your cervix, the G-spot hammering, the added friction—and you shattered, your orgasm crashing in waves, pussy spasming around his thick length.

He followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, tip pressed flush against your depths as he came. Hot spurts filled you, a creamy rush that leaked out around him.

That was also new; the coming inside thing, but you were so fucke out and happy you didn't even care.

Jason collapsed half on you, both of you slick and spent, his cock twitching inside as the aftershocks rippled through.

For a moment, you just lay there, catching your breath, his head on your chest. Then he lifted up, pushing his glasses back into place with a sheepish grin.

"I... I wanted to get it right this time."

"You did more than right. That was heaven." You traced a finger along his jaw, smiling.

No more frustration or overthinking shadows. Jason Grace, the guy who'd never touched a girl before you, had leveled up. And damn if it didn't make you crave the next sex session already.

But as you drifted, sated and warm, Jason murmured against your skin, "Think I need more practice?"

You smirked, nipping his ear. "Only if you're volunteering." He laughed, the sound light, and for the first time, he didn't doubt the answer.

♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭