red ✨🩷

The cabin grows quieter as the evening deepens.

The fire has burned down low again, glowing amber and gold beneath the crackling logs you nearly killed yourselves retrieving earlier. Richard’s stretched out on the blanket near the hearth, one arm bent behind his head, boots abandoned somewhere near the door. You’re curled against the bedframe with Persuasion in your lap, reading by firelight while snow gleams pale beyond the window. It should feel ridiculous. Reading Jane Austen aloud to Richard Hammond in a mountain cabin while stranded in Switzerland.

And yet somehow it doesn’t.

He listens more closely than you expected, too. Not pretending to listen while waiting to interrupt, actually listening. Occasionally asking questions. Occasionally making ridiculous commentary in dramatic voices until you threaten to hit him with the book. You turn another page.

Then pause.

“Oh,” you murmur. “This part’s lovely.”

He glances up lazily. “That’s dangerous. You said that before the emotional yearning chapter.”

You ignore him and keep reading aloud.

“All the privilege I claim for my own sex... is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.”

The words settle into the room softly. The fire cracks. Richard’s expression changes, not dramatically, just slightly. Something quieter. More thoughtful. You lower the book a little.

“What?” you ask.

He’s staring into the fire. “Do women really do that?”

“What?”

“Love longest.” He glances over at you. “Even when it’s hopeless.”

You shrug lightly. “Some do.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“It probably is.”

He studies you for a second. “Have you?”

You blink. “Have I what?”

“Loved someone like that.”

The question catches you off guard. Normally you’d deflect. Make a joke. Change the subject. But something about this cabin, about him tonight, quiet and open in the firelight, makes honesty feel strangely easy.

You look down at the page. “No,” you admit softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love.”

His brows lift slightly.

“Really?”

You nod once. “I’ve cared about people. Thought I loved them maybe. But…” You hesitate. “Not like that. Not in the devastating Austen sense.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

He tilts his head. “You strike me as someone who’d feel things very intensely.”

You snort softly. “That’s horrifying. Thanks.”

“I mean it as a compliment.”

You glance at him. He’s serious. That annoying warmth spreads in your chest again.

You clear your throat. “What about you?”

“Oh, definitely,” he says immediately.

You blink. “Definitely what?”

“Loved disastrously. Multiple times. I’m very talented at it.”

You laugh quietly. “You’re impossible to picture heartbroken.”

“That’s because I’m charming.” He grins faintly, then looks back toward the fire. “Doesn’t mean I’m immune.”

The room settles again.

Then he says, carefully, “Worst relationship?”

You groan immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh come on,” he says. “We’re snowbound. There are no consequences here.”

“There are always consequences.”

“That sounds ominous.”

You hesitate, then sigh.

“My last boyfriend,” you say slowly, “we dated for nine months.”

“Mmhm.”

“And I genuinely think the man was allergic to affection.”

Richard frowns. “What, emotionally?”

“No, physically.” You stare into the fire. “He wouldn’t touch me. Ever. Unless we were having sex.”

The joking expression slips off Richard’s face. You continue before you can stop yourself.

“No kissing unless he wanted something. No hand-holding. No cuddling. No random touching.” You shrug, trying to sound unaffected. “Sex was basically just… functional. Like he was ticking something off a list.”

Richard stares at you like you’ve confessed to a war crime.

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“Not even foreplay?”

You bark out a laugh. “God no.”

“That’s criminal.”

You glance over, surprised by the genuine outrage in his voice.

“I’m serious,” he says. “That’s not sex, that’s a hostage negotiation.”

You laugh despite yourself, but there’s something painfully earnest in his expression now.

“Did you tell him it bothered you?”

“Eventually.” You pick at the edge of the blanket. “He said I was ‘too emotional’ about intimacy.”

Richard looks genuinely offended on your behalf. “Right. I’d like to fight him in a Tesco car park.”

That makes you laugh harder.

“Unfortunately,” you say, “he’s not even the worst one.”

His eyes widen. “There’s worse?”

“Oh, much worse.” You shake your head. “There was another guy before him. Lived a few towns over. Funny, charming, attentive…”

Richard winces immediately. “That’s already suspicious.”

“We dated for almost a year before I found out he had a wife and two children.”

“Oh Jesus.”

“Yep.”

“How did you find out?”

“He texted me on Christmas Eve, told me everything, he said that his wife had gotten him a 70 inch tv as a gift and he realized that I wasn’t worth the risk of losing all that stuff. He didn’t consider for a second that had I known he was married I would have never spoken to him again anyway.”

Richard drops his head back dramatically. “Men are unbelievable.”

“You are men.”

“Fair point.” He rubs a hand over his face. “God, that’s awful.”

You shrug again, softer this time. “After a while you start wondering if maybe you’re just… bad at picking people.”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he says gently, “Or maybe people have been bad at deserving you.”

The words hit harder than they should. You look away quickly. The fire suddenly feels too warm.

After a moment, you ask quietly, “What about you?”

Richard huffs a laugh and stretches out further on the blanket. “Oh, I’ve got a spectacular track record.”

“I’m listening.”

“There was one woman who only dated me because she thought I could introduce her to film stars.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Oh, absolutely. Every date somehow became about who I knew.” He slips into a posh voice: “‘Do you think Tom Cruise would come to dinner?’”

You laugh.

“I should’ve realized sooner,” he admits. “But she was very fit and I’m occasionally an idiot.”

“Only occasionally?”

“On weekdays.”

You smile faintly. Then his expression changes again. Softer this time.

“And then there’s…” He trails off.

You glance over. “There’s what?”

He stares into the fire for a long moment before answering.

“There’s someone now.”

Your stomach tightens unexpectedly.

“Oh.”

“She’s brilliant,” he says quietly. “Completely terrifying, but brilliant.”

You try very hard to sound casual. “That sounds healthy.”

“She thinks I’m a jackass.”

“Well…” you say carefully, “that does narrow it down.”

He laughs softly.

“She’s smart, prepared for everything, calls me on my bullshit constantly.”

Something in your chest starts beating harder.

“She also,” he continues, “has this habit of pretending she doesn’t care about things when she actually cares very deeply.”

You stare at him. Oblivious, he keeps going.

“And she looks at people like she’s trying to figure them out before they can disappoint her.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“She sounds complicated,” you manage.

“She is.” He smiles faintly at the flames. “I think I probably love her.”

Your heart stumbles painfully.

“But,” he adds, almost lightly, “she seems to hate my guts.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Because obviously he can’t mean you. You clear your throat and force your eyes back to the book in your lap.

“Sounds like you’re doomed, then.”

Richard smiles a little sadly.

“Probably.”

The silence after that last sentence stretches long and slow. Not awkward.

Dangerous.

The fire settles into a low, steady crackle between you. You’re still holding Persuasion open in your lap, though neither of you has paid attention to it for several minutes now. Richard’s lying on his side on the blanket near the hearth, one arm tucked beneath his head, looking at you with an intensity that’s oddly disarming in the soft firelight. And your own stupid heart is twisting itself into knots.

Because somewhere out there, back in the real world where roads exist and people aren’t stranded in mountain cabins, there’s apparently a woman he admires deeply enough to call brilliant.

A woman he maybe loves. And for some irrational reason, the thought bothers you far more than it should. Which is ridiculous. You barely tolerate each other half the time.

You clear your throat and force yourself back into practicality. “Well, if you actually care about her, maybe stop trying to charm your way through everything.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That bad, am I?”

“Yes.”

He grins faintly. “Brutal.”

“I’m serious.” You shift against the bedframe. “You hide behind jokes constantly. It’s exhausting.”

“That’s because feelings are horrifying.”

“They’re also necessary.”

He watches you quietly.

You continue, warming to the subject despite yourself. “If you really like her, stop performing all the time. Just be honest.”

“Honest how?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Tell her things. Ask her things. Listen when she answers instead of waiting for your turn to say something clever.”

He winces theatrically. “You make me sound unbearable.”

“You are unbearable.”

“Fair.”

“But…” You hesitate. “You’re also obviously a good man.”

Something flickers across his face at that. You press on quickly before you can overthink it.

“You do thoughtful things naturally when you’re not trying so hard to be entertaining. Lean into that.”

“Thoughtful things,” he repeats slowly. “Such as?”

“You remember details,” you say. “Use them.”

He tilts his head. “Explain.”

“Well…” You tuck your legs beneath the blanket. “Most men default to flowers and chocolate.”

“Nothing wrong with flowers and chocolate.”

“No, there isn’t. But they’re lazy unless there’s thought behind them.”

His expression sharpens with interest now, completely focused on you.

“What counts as thought?”

You glance at the fire. “Like… buying someone their favourite flowers. Or noticing what kind of chocolate they actually like instead of grabbing a random box at a petrol station.”

“Right.”

“Or seeing a book somewhere and thinking of them.” Your fingers brush the cover of Persuasion. “That sort of thing.”

He’s looking at you very steadily now.

“And honestly?” you continue softly, “sometimes the biggest thing is just showing up.”

“Showing up.”

“Yes.” You laugh quietly, but there’s bitterness in it. “You’d be amazed how many people say they care and then disappear the second it requires effort.”

Something about the way you say it makes his expression soften.

“So,” he says carefully, “consistency.”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

You shrug one shoulder. “Helping plan things instead of winging everything at the last second.”

He looks personally attacked.

You point at him. “Don’t make that face.”

“I feel targeted.”

“You should.”

He laughs softly.

You continue, quieter now. “Casual affection matters too.”

His eyes flick up to yours. You suddenly become very aware of what you’re saying. But you keep going anyway.

“Not performative stuff. Just…” You gesture vaguely. “Touching someone when you walk past them. Holding their hand. Sitting close because you want to, not because you’re trying to get something out of it.”

Richard’s gone very still.

“And openly showing interest,” you add. “Not making someone feel like they’re asking for too much by wanting reassurance.”

The room feels smaller suddenly. Warmer.

He studies you for a long moment, then says softly, “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

You huff a laugh. “That’s what happens when your romantic history resembles a landfill fire.”

“No,” he says quietly. “I think it’s what happens when you know exactly how you deserve to be loved.”

Your breath catches slightly. You look away first.

The fire pops loudly between you.

Then, after a moment, you ask, “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“What matters to you?”

He leans back slightly, considering it.

“A woman who actually cares about the things I love,” he says after a moment.

You smile faintly. “Cars?”

“Not just cars.” He grins. “Though preferably cars, yes.”

“What else?”

“I like enthusiasm.” He gestures loosely. “When someone lights up talking about something. Doesn’t even matter what it is.”

You glance down at your book.

“I like affection,” he continues more quietly. “Real affection. Not just sex.”

Something in his tone makes your chest tighten.

“I like conversation.” He smiles slightly. “Which is unfortunate considering most of my conversations with certain people involve insults.”

You snort softly.

“But I like passion,” he says. “Loyalty. Someone who’ll actually tell me when I’m being an idiot instead of pretending I’m wonderful all the time.”

“That narrows the field.”

“Massively.”

You grin despite yourself.

He looks at you then, not joking now, not teasing. Just looking.

“And I like women who challenge me,” he says quietly. “Keeps life interesting.”

Your pulse stutters. For one dangerous second, the room feels suspended in amber firelight and silence. Then you break eye contact, suddenly unable to hold it.

“Well,” you murmur, trying for lightness and failing slightly, “hopefully your mystery woman appreciates all this emotional growth.”

Richard’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

“Oh,” he says softly. “I think she’s getting there.”

The fire crackles softly, shadows shifting across the cabin walls, and you become painfully aware of every inch between you and Richard Hammond. Which isn’t much anymore. You’re still clutching Persuasion in your lap, though your thumb hasn’t turned a page in ages. He’s watching you with that same intent, unreadable focus, and it’s making your pulse stumble all over itself. Because somewhere in the middle of this conversation, something inside you finally gave up pretending.

You have feelings for this man.

God help you. Not just attraction, though there’s plenty of that now, warm and heavy in your stomach whenever he looks at you too long. No, it’s worse than that.

You care. And the realization is terrifying. Because Richard Hammond feels like chaos. Charming, impulsive chaos wrapped in blue Henleys and smart remarks. The kind of man who laughs in the face of plans and wings half his life on instinct.And with your track record?

You need certainty. Consistency. Someone steady. Not someone who feels like standing too close to a lit match.

You clear your throat softly. “You know why you irritate me so much?”

His mouth curves slightly. “Oh, this should be good.”

“I’m serious.”

That wipes the grin from his face immediately.

You look down at the book in your lap. “You don’t seem to take anything seriously.”

He leans back slightly, listening.

“You joke constantly. You flirt with everyone. You throw yourself into things without thinking.” You exhale slowly. “And I think… after the relationships I’ve had, that most women have had, we can’t do uncertain.”

The confession sits naked between you.

“We don’t want half-hearted,” you admit quietly. “We don’t want someone who disappears the second things get difficult or complicated.”

Richard’s expression softens. You continue before you lose your nerve.

“We want someone who’s all in.”

The fire pops sharply. For once, he doesn’t immediately joke.

Instead he asks, very quietly, “What does that look like for you?”

You blink. “What?”

“Your ideal future.” His gaze stays fixed on you. “What do you actually want?”

You look down at your hands for a long moment. No one’s ever really asked you that before. Not properly, expecting an actual answer. And somehow, here in this tiny cabin in the Alps with snow piled against the windows and firelight painting gold across the floorboards, honesty feels easier than it should.

“A quiet love,” you say softly.

Richard doesn’t interrupt.

“Not boring,” you clarify quickly. “Just… safe. Sweet. Passionate.” Your mouth curves faintly. “Long-lasting.”

His eyes don’t leave your face.

“I want someone I can actually share things with,” you continue. “Dreams. Plans. Stupid thoughts at two in the morning. Someone who encourages the things I love instead of tolerating them.”

You glance toward the book in your lap.

“I want partnership,” you murmur. “Mutual support. Mutual excitement. Someone who wants to build a life with me, not just fit me around theirs.”

The room feels impossibly still.

“And physically?” he asks softly.

You laugh quietly, embarrassed. “Affection. A lot of it.”

His eyes darken slightly.

“I want a little house in the countryside,” you continue quickly, trying not to notice. “With a big garden. Somewhere quiet.”

“What kind of garden?”

You smile despite yourself. “Wildflowers. Herbs. Climbing roses.”

“Hm.”

“And somewhere to swim,” you add dreamily. “A pond or a lake nearby. A library absolutely overflowing with books.” Your smile widens now, more genuine. “And enough freedom to travel. I want to see everything.”

Richard’s watching you like you’re telling him something holy.

You laugh softly. “It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

“No,” he says immediately. “It sounds lovely.”

Your chest tightens.

“What about you?” you ask quietly.

He leans back on one hand, thoughtful.

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

His mouth twitches.

“I want most of the same things.”

You blink.

“I already have the countryside part,” he says lightly. “And technically the cottage sized house.”

“You live in a castle.”

“It’s a small castle.”

You snort.

“And I’ve already got the barn full of restoration projects.”

“How many cars are we talking?”

He pretends to think. “Enough that any sane woman would probably leave immediately.”

You laugh softly.

“But…” His expression grows quieter. “I want someone to share it with.”

Your smile fades slightly.

“I want conversation,” he says. “Affection. Loyalty. Passion.” His eyes flick toward you. “Someone who’s excited by life. Someone who challenges me instead of just laughing at the jokes.”

“You do like being challenged,” you murmur.

“Very much.”

The air between you feels thick now. Heavy.

“And I want someone who actually wants me there,” he admits softly. “Not just the entertaining version of me.”

Something in your chest twists painfully.

Before you can stop yourself, you say quietly, “That actually sounds quite lovely.”

You mean it as a joke. Mostly.

“Despite being you.”

But Richard suddenly goes very still. The teasing vanishes completely from his face. Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself to his feet and crosses the small distance between you. The mattress dips as he sits beside you on the bed. Your breath catches immediately.

“Do you really mean that?” he asks softly.

You swallow. “Mean what?”

“That it sounds lovely.”

His voice has changed. Gone low and earnest in a way you’ve almost never heard from him. You stare at him, suddenly unable to think clearly.

“Yes,” you admit quietly.

Richard studies your face for a long moment. Then he asks, just as softly:

“What are your favourite flowers?”

Your pulse skips.

“What?”

“Your favourite flowers.”

You blink at him stupidly. “Pink peonies.”

A tiny smile touches his mouth.

“And chocolate?”

Your throat feels dry suddenly.

“…White chocolate.”

The smile deepens slightly.

And then—

Oh.

Oh.

The realization hits all at once. The questions. The conversation. The way he’s been looking at you all evening. The woman who’s prepared for everything. Who challenges him. Who thinks he’s a jackass. Who pretends not to care when she cares deeply. Your heart lurches hard enough to hurt. Richard inches closer slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You can feel the heat coming off him now. See the gold firelight caught in his eyes.

“You really don’t know, do you?” he murmurs.

Your breath leaves you shakily.

“Richard…”

But you don’t finish the sentence. Because he’s looking at you like you’re something precious.And suddenly, terrifyingly….You think maybe he always has been.

The cabin feels impossibly small now. Too warm. Too quiet. Richard sits beside you on the narrow bed, close enough that your knees brush, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him through the thin layers between you. Firelight flickers across his face, softening the sharp edges of his expression into something achingly earnest.

And he’s still looking at you like that. Like you matter. Your pulse is so loud you’re half convinced he can hear it.

“Richard…” you whisper again, but this time it comes out unsteady.

His eyes flick briefly to your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

And very slowly, slow enough that you could stop him, pull away, laugh this off if you wanted, he lifts one hand to your face. His fingertips brush your cheek, warm, careful. You stop breathing.

“You can tell me no,” he says softly.

The gentleness of it nearly undoes you. Because this is not the Richard Hammond you thought you knew. Not the loud, cocky, endlessly teasing man who grins through disasters and turns everything into a joke. This version is quiet, patient, and, looking at you like he’s afraid of startling you. Your heart clenches painfully and when he leans in the rest of the way, you don’t stop him.

The first kiss is almost impossibly soft. Just the bare brush of his lips against yours, tentative, testing. You freeze in shock for half a heartbeat, your mind going completely blank. Then he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still slow. No pressure, no demand, just warm lips brushing yours with clear, unmistakable intent.

A shiver runs through you so hard you feel it in your fingertips, and before you can think yourself out of it, you sigh softly against his mouth and kiss him back. The sound he makes is tiny. Relieved. His thumb strokes lightly across your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss only slightly, following your lead completely. Giving you room to retreat even now. But you don’t want to retreat.

Because the second you kiss him back properly, something inside you settles. A warmth. A terrifying, wonderful sense of rightness.

His lips are softer than you imagined. Warm and careful and infinitely more restrained than the chemistry crackling between you should allow. He kisses like he’s listening, attentive to every tiny reaction, every breath you take.

You slide your fingers shakily into the front of his Henley. He exhales softly against your mouth. When he finally pulls back, it’s only enough to look at you, and the expression on his face nearly wrecks you. Wonder. Hope. Want. You stare back at him, breathing unevenly, your lips tingling. And beneath the dizzy warmth, fear crashes back in hard. Because this is Richard Hammond.

Funny. Charming. Reckless.

Everything you promised yourself you’d never fall for again. Your hesitation must show on your face, because his expression softens immediately.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You swallow hard.

“I know what you think of me.”

“That’s not….”

“It is.” His hand slips gently from your cheek into your hair. “You think I’m all performance. All jokes and chaos.”

You don’t deny it. He smiles faintly, sadly.

“The cameras get the loud version of me,” he says softly. “That’s part of the job. But that’s not all I am.”

Your eyes search his face.

“When I care about something, I’m serious about it.” His voice lowers. “I’m good with money. I’m loyal to a fault. I show up when it matters.”

The words hit straight to the center of you.

“And I know I can be immature sometimes,” he admits with a tiny huff of laughter. “But I’m not careless with people.”

Your chest aches. Especially because he sounds so sincere.

“Would you…” He hesitates then, and somehow that uncertainty affects you more than any confidence ever could. “Would you give me a chance?”

Your head and heart immediately go to war. Your head screams that this is dangerous. That men like him are exciting until they leave wreckage behind. That attraction is not stability, and chemistry is not safety. But your heart, your heart remembers the way he carried you to the fire when you were freezing.

The way he listened to you talk about books and dreams like they mattered. The outrage in his voice when he heard how badly you’d been treated. The way he’s looking at you now. Like he means every word. Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

“Oh, this is such a terrible idea,” you whisper.

Richard’s mouth twitches. “Probably.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

Then finally, quietly:

“Yes.”

The word barely leaves your mouth before he kisses you again.

This time deeper.

Not rushed, not frantic, but no longer tentative.

Wanted.

His hand slides into your hair properly now, cradling the back of your head as his mouth moves against yours with slow, devastating confidence. You melt into him almost immediately, every nerve ending waking up under the heat of his attention. He kisses like he’s savoring you. Like he’s been thinking about this for longer than he should have. Your fingers clutch tighter at his shirt as he tilts his head and gently catches your bottom lip between his teeth. The tiny sting makes you gasp softly. Richard groans under his breath at the sound. Then his tongue brushes slowly against yours, warm and teasing, before tracing lightly along the roof of your mouth in a way that sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Oh my god,” you breathe against his lips.

“Yeah,” he murmurs hoarsely, kissing you again immediately.

The world narrows to warmth and firelight and him. To the scrape of his stubble against your skin. To his hands, still careful, still grounding, one at your waist and the other tangled gently in your hair. He kisses you until your thoughts dissolve completely, until your lips feel swollen and sensitive and your entire body is trembling with want. When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. Richard rests his forehead against yours for one dizzy second before shifting suddenly, strong hands gripping your hips. You let out a startled sound as he pulls you fully onto his lap. The movement presses you flush against him. And the look in his eyes when you settle there….

Warm.

Hungry.

Absolutely wrecked for you.

“Christ,” he mutters softly, like he can’t quite believe this is real either.

Richard kisses you again like he’s been holding himself back for days.

Maybe he has.

The second his mouth finds yours, all the careful restraint from earlier begins to unravel into something deeper, hungrier, though no less reverent. His hands tighten instinctively at your waist as you settle fully against him on the narrow bed, your knees bracketing his hips on the blanket. And this close, there’s no ignoring it anymore. No pretending. You can feel exactly how much he wants you. The realization sends heat rushing through you so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Instinctively you rock against him, warm, languid desire pooling in the pit of your belly.

Your breath catches against his lips.

Richard groans softly at the sound and kisses you harder, still slow but full of aching intent, like he’s savoring every second of this because he genuinely wasn’t sure he’d ever get to have it. Your fingers slide into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp. He shivers.

Actually shivers.

“Jesus,” he whispers against your mouth, voice roughened almost beyond recognition.

The sound alone nearly undoes you. You kiss him back desperately now, all the pent-up tension between you finally breaking loose. Weeks, months, maybe, of irritation and chemistry and hidden glances suddenly make terrible, perfect sense. His hand slides up your back beneath your sweater. The instant his palm touches bare skin under your undershirt, you gasp sharply.

Richard pauses immediately.

Not stopping, just checking.

His forehead presses briefly against yours, his breathing uneven. “Okay?”

You nod quickly, already chasing his mouth again.

“Yes.”

That soft, wrecked expression flashes across his face again before he kisses you deeper, one large hand splayed against the small of your back beneath your clothes now, fingertips brushing your skin in slow, exploratory strokes that make your whole body shiver. But there’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Nothing rushed. Every movement feels deliberate. Meaningful. Like he understands exactly how much trust this requires from you. And somehow that matters almost more than the desire itself.

You shift against him unconsciously and his grip tightens at your waist as he exhales a shaky breath into your mouth.

“You feel incredible,” he murmurs huskily, his own hips jerking as he holds you against him.

Heat floods your face instantly.

He kisses along your jaw before you can respond, slower now, his lips brushing your skin with maddening softness.

“You smell so good,” he whispers against your throat. “Like lemons and lavender, I don’t know whether to drink you or eat you.”

Your eyes flutter closed. The scrape of his stubble against your neck sends sparks down your spine as he presses open-mouthed kisses beneath your ear, teasing gently with his teeth before soothing the spot with his tongue. A helpless little sound slips out of you. Richard makes a low noise in response that sounds almost pained.

“God, don’t do that,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Those sounds.” He kisses your throat again, lingering this time. “I’m barely holding on as it is.”

Your fingers drag lightly across his shoulders beneath the Henley, feeling warm muscle shift under your hands. He shivers again. The realization that you can affect him this way sends another pulse of heat through your body. Richard pulls back just enough to look at you. His cheeks are flushed now, hair thoroughly ruined beneath your hands, eyes dark and intensely focused on your face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly.

The sincerity of it catches you completely off guard. You open your mouth automatically to deflect the compliment, but he kisses you before you can.

“I mean it,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ve thought about this so many times it’s actually embarrassing.”

Your breath hitches.

“You have?”

He laughs softly under his breath, sounding almost overwhelmed. “Sweetheart, I have wanted you for ages.”

The endearment makes your stomach flip violently.

Richard brushes your hair back from your face with shaking fingers.

“And this,” He kisses you once, slow and deep. “being allowed to kiss you like this…” Another kiss, softer now. “Honestly feels like a privilege.”

Something in your chest melts completely. No one has ever touched you like this before, like your comfort matters, like your body is something to be cherished instead of taken for granted. His hands slide carefully higher beneath your sweater and undershirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist with almost reverent slowness. You shiver hard beneath his touch.

“Soft,” he whispers absently, like he’s talking to himself now. “Christ, your skin’s soft.”

Your forehead drops briefly against his shoulder as another wave of heat rushes through you. Richard’s arms tighten around you immediately, grounding instead of demanding.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs again into your hair. “And you have absolutely no idea what you do to me.”

You kiss him again before you can think too hard about that.

Long.

Deep.

His tongue brushes yours slowly as his hands move carefully along your sides beneath the layers of clothing, never pushing too far, always waiting for the smallest sign of hesitation. When you arch into his touch instead, he exhales sharply against your mouth. Then very slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, Richard hooks his fingers gently into the hem of your sweater.

His eyes search yours.

You nod once.

Carefully, reverently, he lifts the sweater up and over your head along with the thin undershirt beneath it, his fingertips grazing your skin as the fabric disappears. The cold air kisses your newly bare skin.

But the way Richard looks at you makes heat flood through you all over again. Richard stares at you for a moment like he’s forgotten how words work. The firelight dances across your skin, warm gold against lace and flushed cheeks, and his hands, still resting carefully at your waist, tighten ever so slightly. Then he lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

“That,” he says hoarsely, “is not what I expected under the terrifying scout uniform.”

Heat rushes to your face immediately. “Excuse you?”

His eyes flick downward again, openly admiring now. “Lace?”

You glance down self-consciously at the skimpy lace bra and then back at him. “A girl deserves to feel nice under her work clothes.”

Richard groans quietly like the answer itself affected him physically.

“That is an unbelievably dangerous thing to say to me right now.”

Despite yourself, you laugh breathlessly. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, fingers brushing lightly along the lace at the edges, “if I’d known this was under those jumpers all this time, I genuinely wouldn’t have been able to behave myself.”

The teasing tone softens the words, but the awe in his expression is completely sincere. Your stomach flips hard.

“You’re impossible,” you murmur.

“And you,” he says quietly, tracing one fingertip over the swell of your breast, coaxing the nipple to peak, “are absolutely unfair and fucking gorgeous.”

The touch sends a shiver through you.

Richard notices immediately. His gaze lifts to your face at once, watching every reaction with intense focus, like he’s fascinated by the way your breathing changes beneath his hands.

“You like that,” he says softly.

You huff a shaky laugh. “Don’t sound so smug about it.”

“Can’t help it.” His thumbs stroke gently over your breasts, cupping the weight of them in his palms as he teases the aching tips. “You’re very responsive.”

The warmth in his voice makes your whole body ache pleasantly. His hands move slowly, never hurried, never grasping, just exploring the curve of your waist, the softness of your skin, the shape of you beneath his palms like he’s trying to memorize it. And the entire time he watches your face. Not your body.

You.

Every hitch of breath. Every shiver. Every tiny sound. Like your reactions matter more to him than anything else. The realization alone nearly melts you. Richard leans down slowly, giving you time to stop him, instead your fingers slide into his hair again. His eyes close briefly at the touch, then his mouth brushes your shoulder.

Soft.

Warm.

You inhale sharply, shuddering. He kisses along your collarbone with slow, lingering affection, lips grazing your skin between murmured words that make your heart squeeze painfully.

“So beautiful,” he whispers.

Another kiss.

“So soft.”

His teeth graze lightly against the sensitive skin near your throat before he soothes the spot with another warm kiss. You shiver hard. Not entirely from desire this time.

Richard notices instantly.

His head lifts. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fi….”

“You’re shivering.”

Before you can protest, his arms tighten around you and suddenly you’re moving.A startled laugh escapes you as he stands, one arm securely around your back while the other slips beneath your thighs. Instinctively your legs wrap around his waist.

“Richard….”

“You’re freezing,” he says firmly, carrying you effortlessly across the cabin.

“But the bed….”

“Too cold.”

The fire crackles warmly beside the blankets spread across the floor. Richard kneels carefully, lowering you onto the thick pile of blankets and pillows near the hearth with surprising gentleness for someone who normally barrels through life like a caffeinated Labrador. You laugh softly as he follows you down immediately, one hand braced beside your head while the other smooths instinctively over your hip.

The firelight flickers over his face. Over the flushed skin of his throat where you’d tugged his Henley collar crooked. Over the expression in his eyes now, warm, dazed, wanting. Like he still can’t quite believe this is happening.

“You have any idea,” he murmurs softly as he settles beside you, fingertips brushing your cheek, “how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

Your heart thuds painfully.

“No,” you whisper honestly.

Richard smiles faintly.

“Probably for the best.” Then he leans down and kisses you again, slow and deep beside the fire while snow glows silently beyond the cabin windows.

The fire crackles softly beside you, warmth washing over your skin in waves while snow drifts silently beyond the windows. The entire world feels very far away now. There’s only him. Richard stretched beside you on the blankets, one hand cupping your face while the other rests carefully at your waist, fingers absently stroking your skin beneath the lace edge of your bra.

And the thing that undoes you most is that he’s holding back.

You can feel how much he wants you. The tension in his body every time you shift against him. The roughness in his breathing when you kiss him deeper. The way his hand flexes instinctively against your hip before gentling immediately again. But he never pushes. Never assumes. Every kiss feels like a question he’s willing to let you answer.

It’s that restraint, that care, that finally breaks through the last of your fear. Because for the first time in your life, you feel wanted without feeling pressured. Desired without being reduced to it.

Richard brushes his nose lightly against yours, breathing unevenly. “You’re freezing and I’m trying very hard to behave myself.”

You laugh softly, breathless. “You? Behave?”

“Heroically.” His thumb traces your cheekbone. “I’m attempting to be respectful.”

“You are respectful.”

His expression softens instantly at that. You run your fingers through his hair again, slower this time, watching the way his eyes close briefly beneath the touch. Then quietly, before you can lose your nerve, you whisper:

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Richard stills completely.

His eyes search yours carefully. “You sure?”

You nod once.

“Yes.”

The look that crosses his face is almost devastating want and tenderness tangled together so tightly you can’t separate them.

“Come here,” he murmurs softly.

He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper with intention rather than urgency. His hand slides along your side beneath the blanket while his mouth moves against yours with aching patience, like he’s trying to make absolutely certain you feel every ounce of how much he wants you.

And you do.

God, you do.

The kiss leaves you dizzy.

Your fingers tug lightly at the hem of his Henley, and he breaks away just long enough to pull it over his head, tossing it aside somewhere near the fire. You barely notice where it lands. Your attention is entirely consumed by him. Warm skin lit gold by firelight. Broad shoulders beneath your fingertips. The soft hitch in his breathing when you touch him openly for the first time.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, amused and rough-voiced all at once.

“You’re very distracting.”

His grin flashes briefly before melting into something softer as he kisses down your throat again. The contrast between his rough stubble and gentle mouth makes you shiver beneath him. Richard notices every reaction instantly. His hands move over you with incredible care, exploring slowly, reverently, pausing whenever your breathing catches. He kisses your shoulders, your collarbones, the sensitive skin just above the lace of your bra while murmuring things against your skin that make heat coil low in your stomach.

“So gorgeous,” he whispers.

Another kiss.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

His fingers trail lightly along your back, soothing and warm.

“So tense all the time,” he murmurs gently. “Let me take care of you a little.”

And somehow those words affect you almost more than the kissing does. Because no one ever has before. You feel treasured beneath his hands. Seen. Desired in a way that has nothing to do with obligation or performance. Every kiss lingers. Every touch asks permission. And slowly, steadily, your body stops bracing for disappointment. You melt instead.

Your hands roam more confidently over him now, nails grazing lightly across his shoulders and down his back, and the sounds he makes in response are enough to send another wave of warmth through you.

Richard lifts his head just enough to look at you again. Firelight dances in his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You realize then that you’re smiling. Actually smiling.

“Yeah,” you whisper, almost startled by it. “I really am.”

His expression changes at that, something deeply relieved flickering across his face before he kisses you again with slow, aching affection. The blankets tangle around your legs as you pull him closer, wanting more of his warmth, his touch, his mouth. And through it all, he never stops paying attention to you. To your reactions. To your comfort. To the tiny sounds you make when he kisses just beneath your ear or traces his fingers gently along your spine.

It’s overwhelming in the best possible way.

And somewhere in the haze of warmth and firelight and Richard murmuring soft praise against your skin, you finally understand why people write songs and novels and poetry about being loved properly.

Because this tenderness, this wanting, this feeling of being held carefully in someone else’s hands….

Feels a little like coming home.

Richard kisses you slowly, thoroughly, like he has all the time in the world. The fire pops softly beside you, throwing shifting yellow and orange across his bare shoulders as he braces himself carefully above you, one hand stroking lazily along your side beneath the blanket. You can feel the restraint in him still. The way he pauses every few seconds to look at your face. To make sure you’re comfortable. To check that you’re still with him. It makes your chest ache. Because no one has ever been this careful with you before.

His fingers slide to the clasp of your bra, hesitating for just a moment as his forehead rests lightly against yours.

“Okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, breath catching already.

“Yes.”

The bra slips away slowly, and the second you’re exposed to him, Richard goes very still. Not in disappointment. In awe.

His eyes drag slowly over you with such open admiration that heat floods your face instantly.

“You are…” He exhales softly, almost laughing at himself. “Christ.”

You instinctively move to cover yourself and he catches your wrist gently before you can.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

There’s no demand in it. Just sincerity.

“You’re beautiful.”

The words land somewhere painfully deep inside you because he sounds genuinely stunned by you.

His fingertips trace lightly along your skin like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch you at all. Warm palms cupping you carefully, reverently, his expression growing softer every time you react to him. Then he bends his head and kisses you again. Your shoulder. Your collarbone. The newly exposed skin of your breasts, his tongue lathing the hard little peak slowly.

The tenderness of it makes your throat tighten.

Your hands roam over him in return, exploring the solid warmth of his chest, the faint dusting of hair there, the muscles beneath softened slightly by age and comfort and real life. But when your palms drift lower, you feel him tense.nJust slightly.

You glance up.

Richard’s suddenly avoiding your eyes a little, mouth twitching with self-conscious humor.

“Bit disappointing after the heroic firelight angles, isn’t it?” he mutters.

Your heart squeezes painfully. Because somehow this man, this infuriatingly attractive man who has occupied entirely too many of your thoughts, is nervous with you. You slide your hands more firmly around his waist instead of away.

“Richard.”

He finally looks at you. And you tell him honestly:

“You’re gorgeous.”

His expression flickers with surprise.

“I mean it,” you whisper, fingertips stroking lightly across his stomach. “Exactly like this.”

He lets out a soft laugh of disbelief.

“You’re biased. You’ve got altitude sickness.”

You smile and tug him back down toward you. “I’ve wanted you even when you were annoying me half to death.”

That finally makes him grin properly.

“Only half?”

“On good days.”

He kisses you again immediately, smiling against your mouth, and the last traces of tension ease out of him beneath your hands. After that, everything slows. Not awkward. Not hesitant.

Intentional.

Clothes are removed piece by piece between lingering kisses and quiet laughter and soft reassurances whispered into warm skin. Every time you tense or try to hide yourself, Richard gently distracts you with another kiss, another touch, another unbearably sincere compliment murmured against your throat until eventually you stop trying to curl inward. Because he looks at you like you’re extraordinary.

And little by little, you start believing him.

He settles between your thighs, firelight flickering over the planes of his back and shoulders while his hands move over you with patient devotion. Nothing rushed. Nothing taken for granted. Every touch feels like a conversation. Every kiss is like a question he genuinely wants answered.

And when his mouth and hands explore you more intimately, the care he takes nearly overwhelms you. He touches you as though you are precious, his fingers dipping between your legs and stroking gently until you relax again. He hums in satisfaction when he encounters dampness, sliding a finger deep inside you with a growl when you whimper desperately. He pays attention to every reaction, every breath, every involuntary movement of your body, adjusting instinctively to what makes you gasp or tremble or clutch at him harder.

“There you go,” he murmurs softly when you shiver beneath him. “That’s it, sweetheart, that feels good, doesn’t it?”

The praise sends heat spiraling through you. You’ve never felt so seen during intimacy before. Never felt like someone was invested in your pleasure instead of merely waiting for their own. Richard seems almost fascinated by every response he draws from you, every breathless sound making him kiss you deeper, touch you more carefully. 

“I want to taste you, will you let me?” He murmurs between kisses, even as his finger strokes inside your body.

You nod, self consciousness warring with need as he pushes the blanket back as he licks a path down your body pausing to suck gently on your nipples until your back arches and you tighten around his finger. He slides down further, his tongue sliding over your belly before you feel his hair against your inner thighs. 

“Open for me, there’s a good girl.” he croons, nudging your legs apart and gazing intently where his finger disappears inside of you. 

He doesn’t waste any time, doesn’t give you a chance to demur, he simply applies himself to the task of pleasing you like he applies himself to driving. With enthusiasm and skill. He moans loudly against you as his tongue licks a slow stripe from his finger to the aching little bud at the apex of your body. You cry out, back arching, legs trembling as he flicks his tongue over you, pushing another finger inside you. Your fingers twist in the blankets as he rapidly works you into a frenzy of pleasure.

And when release finally crashes through you, it leaves you shaking hard enough that he immediately gathers you close, murmuring soft praise against your temple while you cling to him, stunned and breathless.

“There she is,” he whispers warmly. “God, you’re beautiful, that was beautiful.”

You barely have time to recover before he kisses you again, slow and affectionate now, grounding you gently as his hand strokes your back. Then he stills slightly above you. Your eyes meet. And suddenly the air changes again. Not less tender. Just deeper. More intimate somehow.

Richard brushes his knuckles lightly against your cheek. “Still okay?”

You nod immediately, reaching for him without hesitation this time.

“Yes. Please.”

Something vulnerable flickers across his face at the trust in your voice. It's a go ahead, a signal for him to take this all the way. He nods and huffs out a deep breath, kneeling up and gazing down at you spread out in front of him. You watch him, wide eyed and drowsy with desire as he takes himself in hand, positioning himself at the entrance to your body. When he joins himself to you, it’s slow and careful, his forehead pressed against yours while he gives you time to adjust to the stretch, his hands stroking soothingly along your sides.

You gasp softly at the sensation, fullness and warmth and closeness so intense it almost steals your breath. Its different with him, less of an invasion and more of a puzzle piece finally fitting and your body responds in kind, tightening around him, bathing him in liquid heat as he groans. His arms and shoulders shake with the effort of holding himself back until you’re used to the feel of him.

Richard kisses you immediately, grounding you through it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

The words unravel something inside you completely. And as the fire crackles beside you and snow glows pale outside the cabin windows, he makes love to you with the same care he’s shown you all night, slow, attentive, utterly consumed by your reactions. He’s unhurried as he buries himself in you over and over, each thrust eliciting a grunt of satisfaction from him and a little whimper of delight from you. 

The pleasure builds gradually, overwhelming not because of intensity alone but because of the tenderness threaded through every moment. His whispered praise. The way he watches your face. The way he keeps checking on you even when he’s breathless himself. He moves a hand between your bodies, gently brushing his thumb over your clit and leaving you gasping.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” He murmurs, kissing your throat as you writhe. “You take me so well, like you were made for us to do this together.”

He scrapes his thumbnail over you and your body tightens around him in pleasure. He moans loudly, thrusting faster, harder.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as movement and warmth and emotion blur together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

For the first time in your life, you finally understand why sex is so popular. It's not just the physical pleasure, but the intimacy. The feeling of being cherished completely while someone gives themselves to you in return.

Richard buries his face briefly against your neck near the end, breathing raggedly as he holds you close, his voice rough and wrecked when he whispers your name like it means something precious. His body tenses and you can feel the moment he starts to shiver.

“Do you think you can come for me again? I’d very much like to feel that….you tight around me like a vice. I know you want to, don’t you sweetheart…” He cajoles gently, his thumb between your legs rubbing furiously as your body starts to shake.

“Richard!” He swallows his name with his mouth, his tongue filling your mouth as you come, rippling around him as his body jerks and pulses with his own orgasm. He fills you completely, thrusting through every spasm, rolling his hips as though he can never get deep enough inside you. It's unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, so good that you're almost sobbing with pleasure.

And afterward he stays wrapped around you beside the fire, kissing your damp forehead gently while your heartbeat slowly settles against his chest. The fire burns low by the time the trembling finally fades from your limbs.

Outside, the mountain is silent beneath fresh snow, the world muted and distant. Inside the cabin everything feels warm, achingly warm, from the blankets tangled around you to the solid weight of Richard stretched beside you.

No.

Not beside you. Around you.

Because the second you both catch your breath, he gathers you up against him like he can’t bear even an inch of distance.

“There,” he murmurs softly as he wraps another blanket over your shoulders. “Better.”

You laugh weakly, face tucked against his chest. “You’re very bossy all of a sudden.”

“Mm. Occupational hazard.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “Also you’re distractingly naked and I’m trying to stop you freezing to death.”

“You’ve become weirdly competent.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”

You smile against his skin.

But the teasing only lasts a moment before he’s touching you again, gentle fingertips tracing idle paths over your back, your shoulder, your waist like he physically cannot stop reassuring himself that you’re really here.

Every few seconds he kisses you too. Your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your mouth. Small, absent gestures full of so much tenderness your chest aches with it.

“That,” he says eventually, voice rough with lingering awe, “was honestly one of the best experiences of my life.”

Heat creeps up your neck instantly. “Richard….”

“No, I’m serious.” He tips your chin up gently until you look at him. Firelight flickers gold across his flushed face and ruined hair. “You’re incredible.”

You duck your head automatically, embarrassed by the intensity of it, but he immediately kisses your forehead again.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly. “No hiding now.”

The warmth in his voice nearly melts you.

“You made me feel…” He exhales shakily, searching for the words. “God, I don’t even know. Happy. Wanted. Slightly delirious.”

You laugh quietly.

“And very eager to do that again,” he adds without hesitation.

That makes you laugh harder, the sound muffled against his chest.

“I mean it,” he says, grinning now. “Immediately, preferably.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You liked it.”

“I did not say that.”

“You absolutely did. Repeatedly.”

You swat his shoulder weakly and he laughs, catching your hand and kissing your knuckles. The gesture is so unexpectedly sweet that you go still. Richard notices instantly. His expression softens as his thumb strokes gently across your fingers.

“You okay?”

The concern in his voice gets you all over again. No one has ever checked on you this much. No one has ever seemed so genuinely invested in making sure you feel safe, cared for, wanted.

“Yeah,” you whisper honestly. “I’m more than okay.”

He smiles then, small and genuine and devastatingly warm.

“Good.”

Silence settles comfortably around you after that, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional soft brush of his lips against your skin. Your legs remain tangled together beneath the blankets, his hands roaming lazily over your back and hips with quiet affection. You’re drifting toward sleep when he speaks again, voice lower now.

“You know what I keep thinking about?”

“Hm?”

“Taking you home.”

You blink sleepily up at him.

“To the castle?” you tease softly.

He grins against your hair. “Small castle.”

“Of course. Very important distinction.”

“Extremely.”

His fingers comb slowly through your hair as his voice grows quieter, more thoughtful.

“I want to show you everything,” he murmurs. “The gardens. The bedroom. The stupid barn full of half-finished cars.”

You smile faintly.

“I want to make breakfast with you in the mornings.” Another kiss pressed softly to your temple. “Take you swimming in summer.” His hand slides warmly along your side beneath the blankets. “Steal you away to bed whenever possible.”

Your heart squeezes hard enough to hurt.

“Richard…”

“I want to spoil you a bit,” he admits softly, almost shy now. “Treat you like a princess.”

You laugh quietly. “That seems excessive.”

“Nope. I’ve decided.” He kisses your shoulder. “You deserve ridiculous amounts of affection and at least three libraries.”

You bury your face against his chest, smiling helplessly.

“And selfishly,” he continues, voice roughening slightly, “I can’t wait to show you off.”

You glance up. “Show me off?”

“Oh absolutely.” His eyes meet yours in the firelight, warm and earnest and completely serious. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

Your breath catches.

“And,” he adds more softly, brushing his nose gently against yours, “that I’m very much yours.”

The tenderness of it nearly undoes you completely.

“Body and soul, sweetheart,” he whispers.

Stranded in the Alps Second Person | Enemies to Lovers | You x Richard Hammond | Part One

You don’t know who suggested the bet, probably one of the cameramen, bored and itching for entertainment, but the second Richard Hammond said, “I know exactly where the hotel is,” you should’ve known you were doomed.

"Fine," the director had said, too quickly. "You go with him."

You'd laughed like he was joking. He wasn’t.

"You’ve got the eye, and if there’s anything useful up there for filming, you’ll spot it. Hammond drives, you navigate."

“And what if we don’t find the place?” you’d asked, eyeing the cluster of weather-worn satellite maps on the hood of a car.

“Then you can tell him he’s an idiot all the way back.”

You didn’t even win anything, technically. Just the hollow satisfaction of being right if he was wrong, which, historically, has been often. Now you're about forty minutes into an hour-long drive that already feels like the longest of your life, and you’ve discovered that Richard Hammond drives like he lives: overconfidently, a little too fast, and with the stereo far too loud.

“You don’t actually like this music,” you say over the thudding beat of something that sounds like the soundtrack to a robot having a stroke.

“I do,” he says, cheerfully, eyes on the winding road ahead. “It’s real driving music. It has pace. Energy.”

“It has neurons melting through my ears.”

“That’s just your taste dying a slow death. It’s okay, happens to a lot of scouty type people.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you just condescend to me and insult my career in one breath? I’m impressed. That’s almost efficient.”

He glances at you. Smirks. “I’m nothing if not efficient.”

“Debatable,” you mutter, yanking the aux cable out and instantly silencing the music. “Let me guess, you didn’t bring actual directions either.”

“I know the way.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been up here before. It’s fine.”

“It’s Switzerland, Hammond. There are a thousand identical switchback roads and every one of them leads to a postcard or a ski lodge or an icy death.”

“So dramatic,” he says, but his hands tighten slightly on the wheel. “We’re not lost.”

“Yet.”

You sink back in the passenger seat and unzip your pack. Emergency rations. Thermal gloves. Fold-out map. GPS beacon. A fully charged power bank. Spare batteries. Small first aid kit. Because you actually prepare for things.

“Snacks?” you offer sweetly, holding up a protein bar.

“Already had crisps,” he says, proudly holding up an empty bag of something that definitely didn’t have a nutritional panel.

You stare at him. “That’s not food, that’s seasoned regret.”

“Says the woman eating a brick made of seeds and judgement.”

“I’m beginning to understand why I’m the only one they trust with long-form copy,” you mutter.

He scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I can finish a sentence without my ego tripping over it.”

That earns you a sideways glance, one that lingers just a second too long. You don’t know what it is about him. It’s not that he’s mean. He isn’t. He’s quick and irritating, sure, and cocky in a way that makes you want to punch a wall, but he’s not cruel. He remembers people's names. He helps load gear when he thinks no one’s watching. He bought a grip new boots last month when his split open on location. He cares, in his own insufferable way. But whenever you’re in a room with him, or a car, or a tent, or a dusty back road, your skin just prickles. Like you’re a cat being stroked the wrong way. There’s a tension between you like two wires getting too close.

Maybe it’s because he never backs down from a fight. Maybe it’s because neither do you.

“Still think you know where we’re going?” you ask, after another stretch of silence, one that isn’t quite comfortable.

“Yes,” he replies. Then adds, “Mostly.”

You sigh. “Brilliant. You’re the human equivalent of a shrug.”

He opens his mouth, probably to say something smug, when….

tap.

A soft sound against the glass.

You glance up.

Another.

tap tap.

He notices it too, windshield wipers scraping once, unnecessarily.

You both look at each other at the exact same moment.

“Was that….?”

“Snow.”

Neither of you says anything for a beat. It hangs there between you, a shift in the air.

Outside, the sky’s begun to bruise a little darker. The clouds roll thicker, heavier, than they should.

Then another snowflake falls.

And another.

And another.

Richard eases his foot off the gas. The stereo stays off this time.

For once, neither of you has anything to say.

Snow thickens.

It starts as delicate flurries, soft, like ash drifting from a far-off fire. But in ten minutes, it’s a curtain. A full-on whiteout. The road beneath the Defender starts vanishing beneath a blanket of powder. You’re no longer rolling your eyes.

"Please tell me you brought chains," you say, trying to keep your voice flat as you peer out the windshield.

“Course I did,” Hammond mutters, flicking the headlights on full beam. “I’m reckless, not stupid.”

“That’s a debatable line, and you live right on it.”

“Remind me again why you’re here?”

“Because you swore you knew the way,” you snap, twisting in your seat to dig through your pack. “And because you didn’t want to let anyone else win a bet.”

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Probably because he can’t see more than ten feet ahead. You try your phone again. No signal. No surprise. You flip the GPS beacon on next, but the little indicator light stays red, can’t connect.

Your mouth tightens. “We need to radio the crew.”

“Already trying.” He picks up the shortwave set tucked between the seats, fiddles with the dial. “Come on, come on….”

There’s a burst of static, and then:

“....repeat, storm’s hit harder than expected. Anyone on the pass, turn back….if you can. Visibility’s gone to zero. Weather crew’s….” “....completely cocked it….” “....no ploughs until morning….”

The transmission dissolves into white noise.

You look at Richard. “That’s back the way we came.”

He nods slowly. “So forward it is.”

You both go quiet again.

Outside, the world becomes a blur of white and shadow. The storm gets aggressive. Snow slaps the windshield in horizontal waves, and the wind howls like something living. But he drives like he’s wired into the mountain itself—steady hands, sharp eyes, every subtle twitch of the steering wheel precise. You don’t tell him you’re impressed. You are, but you don’t say it.

Instead, you brace one hand against the door and ask, “Do you always just wing it like this?”

“Not always,” he replies, not looking over. “Only when someone’s watching.”

“Wow,” you say, voice dry. “Did you practice that line, or does it come naturally?”

He almost smiles. Almost. “Come on. A bit of danger makes the day more interesting.”

“I work in logistics and terrain safety. I like my days boring and predictable.”

“And yet here you are,” he murmurs. “In a Defender. With me. In a blizzard.”

You scowl out the window. “I have made several mistakes today.”

Forty Minutes Later

The storm doesn’t let up. If anything, it doubles down. The Defender crawls uphill, tyres crunching over unseen obstacles. You’ve stopped bothering to check your GPS every five minutes. It gave up half an hour ago. Neither of you has spoken for ten minutes. Not because you’ve run out of things to say, but because all of it would come out edged and useless. The tension has turned inward. Muted. Like even the arguing is muffled by snow.

Then….

“There.” You sit up straighter, pointing through the fogged glass. “Signpost….left side.”

He squints. “What does it say?”

“It’s in German. Or... Swiss German. Possibly a threat, possibly a hotel.”

“Great.” He turns down the narrow track without hesitation. “Let’s risk death and cultural confusion.”

The wheels crunch up a slope for what feels like ten years. The drive is uneven, climbing steep and winding between snow-choked trees. Finally, just as you’re about to suggest turning back….there it is.

A cabin.

Not a modern one, either….timber logs, shutters drawn, roof heavy with snow. Smoke long gone from the chimney. No lights. No obvious sign of life.

“Could be a ranger outpost,” you say, hopeful. “They sometimes leave them unlocked for emergencies.”

Richard parks. Kills the engine. “Or it’s where the Blair Witch spends her off-seasons.”

You both get out at the same time, boots crunching deep into the snow. The cold is immediate and bone-deep. You pull your coat tight as you trudge toward the cabin’s low front door. He reaches for the handle. It turns.

Unlocked.

Inside, it smells like old timber and forgotten winters. There’s a fireplace to the right, a rusted woodstove in the corner. A kettle. A stack of firewood, miraculously dry. A table. A few battered chairs. A single bed tucked into an alcove. You both take it in. Slowly. Silently.

And then, quietly: “There’s only one bed.”

You turn your head to look at him. “Well spotted, Sherlock.”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking very interested in the fireplace. “Right. Fire. I’ll... sort that.”

You drop your bag near the table and exhale, hard.

“This isn’t ideal,” you mutter.

“No,” he agrees. “But you’ve got your protein bricks. I’ve got crisps. We’ll survive.”

You glance at the door, then at the bed. “We are not sharing that.”

“I didn’t say we were.” He looks smug. “I’m quite small, actually. Very portable. I’ll just curl up in the glove box or something.”

You snort despite yourself.

He kneels by the fireplace, coaxing a flame to life, and for the first time since the snow started, there’s a strange sort of stillness. Not calm, exactly. But something like it.

You unzip your coat, stretch your stiff legs, and say, “Tomorrow, you owe me coffee. And a full explanation of how your navigational instincts betrayed us so thoroughly.”

He glances back over his shoulder, firelight catching the curve of his smirk. “Only if you admit I was right to pack the crisps.”

The fire crackles, casting amber light across the small wooden cabin. You’ve taken your coat off but kept your boots on, because it’s that kind of cold, the kind that settles in your bones, even with the heat licking at the walls. Richard’s crouched near the stove, fiddling with a stubborn latch on the flue like it personally insulted him. You’re pacing. You don’t mean to be, but your body won’t let the frustration go.

“I still can’t believe I agreed to this,” you mutter.

He doesn’t look up. “Agreed to what? A scenic drive with a world-class presenter and occasional national treasure?”

You spin to face him. “You said you knew the way.”

“And I did! Mostly! How was I supposed to know Switzerland would try to kill us with weather?”

“It’s the Alps, Richard. That’s what they do! You made a stupid bet and dragged me along for the fallout.”

He finally turns around, eyes narrowing. “No one dragged you. You volunteered to supervise. Like always. Miss Always Prepared.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He stands now, brushing his hands off. “It means you never trust anyone else to get it right. You’re always double-checking. Triple-checking. Watching everyone like we’re idiots.”

You laugh sharply. “Oh, I’m sorry, does it bother you that I like to be prepared? That I make sure people don’t go flying off icy roads or wandering into unstable terrain?”

“It bothers me that you treat the rest of us like we’re reckless children! Just because you’ve got a clipboard and a survival kit doesn’t make you infallible.”

“At least I don’t pretend to know things I don’t!”

“Really? Because you pretend you’re not smug every time you’re right. Like you don’t love it.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re impossible.”

Something sharp flashes in his eyes, and suddenly it feels like too much. Too sharp. Too close.

He gestures wildly toward the door. “Maybe the crew should’ve sent anyone else. Hell, send Jeremy, at least he’d have made it entertaining.”

You take a step forward. “And maybe I would’ve enjoyed being stranded with literally anyone else, someone who doesn’t crash every conversation like it’s a challenge on Top Gear.”

“God, you’re so…” he cuts himself off.

You’re toe-to-toe now, too hot under the collar for how cold the room still is.

“Go on,” you snap. “Say it.”

“Difficult!” he barks. “You are infuriatingly difficult!”

“Better than being a walking midlife crisis in a leather jacket!”

That hangs there.

A breath.

Two.

Too far.

He exhales slowly. You feel it like a shift in pressure.

“Right,” he says, voice quieter. “Fine. That’s... good. Let’s just….” He waves a vague hand, then turns away, dragging one of the chairs near the fire and slumping into it.

You retreat to the other side of the room, jaw clenched, heart pounding. For a long stretch of silence, the only sound is wind battering the windows and your breathing. You start opening cupboards just to do something with your hands.

“Great,” you mutter. “We’re snowed in. We hate each other. And we’re going to starve.”

“Speak for yourself,” Richard says. “I have an open packet of cheese and onion that’s still edible if you ignore the smell.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy rooting through a bottom shelf.

And then….miracle.

“I found tins,” you call out. “Stew. Two of them, as well as some tinned peaches and even beans.”

A pause.

“And...” You pull out a crumpled paper bag. “...Chocolate. Actual Swiss chocolate.”

You hear his chair creak as he stands. “All right, I’m listening.”

There’s cookware too, some cast iron pans, blackened with age, but serviceable. You put the stew on the stove without another word. He helps. Sort of. He finds a wooden spoon, pokes at the stew, makes a face.

“This looks like dog food.”

You look up from breaking the chocolate into squares. “You ate a petrol station sausage roll in Albania and said it had ‘complex flavour.’ Your standards are meaningless.”

He grins, finally. A real one. Not smug, not snide.

“Fair enough.”

It’s quiet again, but not heavy this time. More... tentative.

Eventually, he says, “I didn’t mean what I said. About you being impossible.”

You glance over. “I didn’t mean the leather jacket thing. Much.”

He laughs, and it’s low, surprised. You feel it somewhere annoyingly warm. The stew bubbles gently.

You pass him a plate. “It’s probably fine. As long as we don’t think about the expiration date.”

He sits beside you on the floor by the fire, legs stretched out. “You ever wonder how many bad tinned meals we’ve eaten on location?”

“Enough to qualify for hazard pay.”

You both eat in relative silence. Until….

“Okay,” he says, pointing at you with his spoon. “Serious question. Best comfort film. No wrong answers, but if you say something like Fight Club I will mock you.”

You don’t hesitate. “The Princess Bride.”

He freezes.

Drops his spoon.

“You’re joking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m dead serious.”

He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “You? Miss Tactical? You love The Princess Bride?”

“It’s perfect. Sword fights, true love, quotable dialogue. Why is that surprising?”

He throws a hand up. “I just assumed yours would be something grim and realist. Maybe with subtitles.”

“I contain multitudes,” you reply, deadpan. “Besides. ‘As you wish’? That’s cinema.”

“Okay, no, hang on,” he shifts to face you properly, eyes lighting up. “Tell me you know the fencing scene. Like know it.”

“Of course I do.”

You both say at the same time:

“‘I admit it, you are better than I am.’”

“‘Then why are you smiling?’”

You grin, mid-mouthful.

And he says it, almost to himself: “Bloody hell, you’re actually human.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. It’s hard not to.

“Don’t get used to it,” you murmur. “Storm’s not over yet.”

And neither of you says it, but it hangs in the warm air between you, just under the sound of the fire:

Something else isn’t over either. Something’s just beginning.

By the time the stew’s gone and the chocolate has been rationed into bite-sized diplomacy, the fire’s burned hot and steady, casting the cabin in flickering amber light. Outside, the wind howls like it’s looking for someone to blame. The radio on the table crackles now and then, taunting you with bursts of static and broken syllables but never anything useful.

You fiddle with the dial again anyway. “Still dead.”

Richard leans back on his elbows near the fire, legs stretched out. “Well. There goes my plan to phone in a rescue helicopter and be hoisted out like Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible.”

You glance over your shoulder. “You’d trip halfway into the harness.”

“Gracefully.”

“You’d knock yourself out on the skids.”

“And still look amazing doing it.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. You’re not supposed to enjoy this. And yet….

“You really think we’re stuck here all night?” you ask after a minute.

He nods, the joking slipping off like a coat. “It’s a full whiteout. If they can’t reach us, they’re not sending anyone until morning. And we’re already the only idiots high enough up the mountain to qualify as missing in action.”

You glance out the tiny window. Snow lashes at the glass. Thick. Relentless. A world erased.

A long breath leaves your lungs. “All right,” you say. “So we make camp.”

He pushes himself to his feet, joints cracking a bit as he stretches. “You take the bed,” he says, already moving toward the fire. “I’ll take the floor.”

You blink. “You don’t have to….”

“Didn’t say I have to. But you’re the one who’s always going on about survival, so I’m guessing you’ll sleep better if you’re not curled up in a ball of resentment.”

“Only slightly,” you mutter, trying not to smile again.

He strips off his coat, then the heavy wool sweater underneath, tossing both onto the nearby chair. Underneath, he’s wearing a long-sleeved blue Henley, soft and slightly rumpled from the layers. It clings in just the right places, broad shoulders, lean arms, torso tighter than you’d expect for someone who lives on crisps and adrenaline.

And his forearms. You’re not the type to get distracted by forearms. At least you weren’t. But they’re right there, tan and dusted with just the right amount of dark hair, sleeves pushed back to his elbows. Muscled, but not bulky. Like he could hold a steering wheel for twelve straight hours without flinching. You catch yourself staring and snap your head away like you’ve been caught committing a crime.

What the hell is that about?

He glances up from where he’s spreading a blanket by the hearth. “You okay?”

Your stomach jolts.

“Fine!” you squeak, way too quickly. “Totally fine. Yep. Just, tired. Long day. Storm. You know. The usual.”

You all but leap into the bed, dragging the heavy blanket over you like it’s a shield.

You’re definitely not thinking about the way the firelight flickers over his cheekbones, or how his hair’s gone a little wild in the heat, or how his jaw clenches just slightly when he moves, like he’s holding something back.

You’re not thinking about any of it.

Nope.

The bed’s cold, and the mattress is thin, and the pillow smells faintly like woodsmoke and old wool. You burrow down, trying to ignore the way your skin’s still buzzing like it’s caught in the aftershock of looking at him. From the floor, his voice floats up, casual but low.

“So. Favorite Top Gun moment.”

You blink at the ceiling. “You’re not sleeping?”

“Can’t. Too wired. Come on. You once said you loved it.”

You sigh, but it’s warm. “All right. The bar scene. ‘You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin.’ It’s pure chaos.”

“Wrong answer,” he says, smug.

“Oh really?”

He rolls to his side so he can look at you, propped on one elbow. “The dogfight at the end. Classic. ‘I’ll hit the brakes and he’ll fly right by.’ That's cinema.”

“Predictable,” you mutter. “You just like planes and bravado.”

“I like things that move. And blow up. And have big feelings under the surface.”

You glance at him. That last bit lingers in the air like unspoken meaning.

After a moment, you say softly, “Okay. What about Speed?”

He grins. “Don’t even start. It’s a masterpiece. Buses, bombs, Keanu looking confused, it’s everything.”

You can’t help it, you laugh. It bubbles out of you like a spark cracking off the firewood.

“You’re such a dork.”

“Says the woman hiding in a cocoon because she can’t look at me without blushing.”

Your heart stutters.

You look over sharply, but he’s already turned back toward the fire, grinning into the blanket like he didn’t just say that.

Your cheeks go hot. Again.

“I’m not blushing,” you mutter.

“Of course not,” he says lightly. “Must be the altitude.”

You roll over, facing the wall. “Shut up, Hammond.”

“Sweet dreams, Scout.”

And even though the wind still screams outside, and the blizzard rages on, and the room smells faintly of stew and damp wool and something you’re not willing to name, you find yourself smiling into your pillow.

Just a little. Just enough.

You didn’t sleep. Not even a little.

The bed was lumpy, the blanket was thin, and cold seeped into your spine like spite. You’d spent most of the night flipping from one side to the other, trying not to listen to the maddeningly steady sound of Hammond snoring, soft but consistent, like he was cuddled up with a chainsaw on low power. At some point you seriously considered pelting a protein bar at his head. Now, as dawn tries and fails to bleed through the frosted windows, you’re bundled in the blanket and peering out the cabin’s front door. It groans on its hinges as you crack it open.

White. White everywhere.

The Defender is buried in at least two feet of snow, only the curved outline of its roof betraying where it is.

You exhale a thin, unimpressed “Hah.”

Behind you, the man on the floor snuffles, shifts, and groans.

“Oh no,” you mutter, turning around just in time to see him stretch like a cat, languid, satisfied, annoyingly smug about it.

He blinks up at you, hair a tousled mess, voice still thick with sleep. “Morning already?”

You glare. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby on a cloud made of dreams.” He grins. “You?”

“Like a corpse in a walk-in freezer.”

He laughs, pushing himself upright. “Could’ve joined me on the floor. I had a blanket and a vintage copy of Speed playing in my dreams.”

“Shut up, Hammond.”

You stomp over to the shelf, grab a tin of fruit and two protein bars, and toss one at him with deadly precision.

“Breakfast,” you say.

He eyes the bar like it might be poisoned. “This again?”

“‘This,’” you say primly, “is why some people are prepared for the unexpected.”

He opens the fruit tin and makes a face. “We’re sharing this, right? Otherwise I’m going to look like someone who eats peaches in syrup straight from the can.”

“You are someone who eats petrol station sausage rolls. This is an upgrade.”

He smirks. “You know, I’m starting to think you secretly like me.”

You raise a brow. “You’d know if I liked you.”

He goes quiet for a beat, then pops a piece of peach into his mouth with an exaggerated wink. “Someday. You’ll see.”

Before you can answer, the radio crackles, startling both of you.

You dart over to it and fidget with the knob until the voice comes through clear:

“There you are. Finally. You two all right?”

You both lean in.

“This is Scout, we’re fine. Cabin’s solid. Still snowing.”

Richard adds, “Defender’s buried. Radio’s been dead ‘til now.”

The director sighs on the other end. “Yeah, well, you’re not going anywhere. Roads are blocked solid. Ploughs won’t get up that high ‘til at least tomorrow, maybe longer.”

You groan. “How much longer?”

“Storm’s not slowing down. Sit tight. Stay warm. Try not to murder each other.”

You click the radio off and slump into the chair.

Hammond stares at the fire. “Brilliant. More quality time.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled.”

“Oh, I’m ecstatic. Trapped in a cabin with a woman who thinks I’m a navigational menace and an emotional plague.”

You hold up your protein bar in a toast. “To mutual loathing.”

He taps his fruit tin to it. “Cheers.”

Later That Day The fire has burned low twice now, and you’ve both taken turns feeding it. But the main stack of firewood is almost gone.

“We’re going to need more,” you say, glancing out the side window.

He joins you. “Didn’t you say there was a stack outside?”

“There is. Behind the cabin. Covered in snow.”

You both stare at the wall like you can will the wood inside.

“Right,” he says finally, clapping his hands. “Let’s be heroes.”

You bundle up like Arctic explorers, scarves, gloves, boots, the works. The second you open the side door, snow comes at you like a slap.

“Oh brilliant,” Hammond grumbles. “It’s up to my bloody thighs.”

“Now imagine being five foot three.” you mutter, lifting your legs through the drifts.

“Wait, are you five three?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

He grins. “I always thought you walked like you were taller.”

You glare at him, teeth chattering. “Focus. Firewood. Now.”

You reach the pile around the side of the cabin, half-buried under a sloped wooden lean-to. It’s dry, thank god, but the wind keeps trying to throw you both backward.

“Okay,” you pant. “Grab what you can, I’ll hold the tarp.”

“On it.”

He yanks a few logs loose, loads them into a bucket, grabs another armful, then missteps. It’s not a dramatic fall. It’s more like a sudden thud as he disappears into the snow like a disgruntled gopher.

“Ow. Bloody hell.”

You burst out laughing. Loud and sudden. “Did you just fall straight down? Like a sinkhole?”

“Maybe. Shut up.”

You try to help but the snow shifts under you too, and with a spectacular flail, you go down….

Right on top of him.

There’s a whuff of air and then you’re both tangled in a heap, flat on your backs, helpless with laughter. His arm’s under your shoulders, your knee’s somewhere near his hip, and snow is in your socks, but for a moment you can’t stop laughing.

You gasp between breaths. “This is... this is the stupidest rescue mission I’ve ever done.”

“I’m blaming gravity,” he wheezes. “And hubris.”

Your faces are inches apart, breath steaming in the cold.

Then you realize exactly how close you are.

Your heart skips.

His grin falters, just a fraction, but his hand lingers at your waist for a beat too long before you both remember yourselves.

You scramble upright, brushing snow off your sleeves. “Right. Logs. Inside.”

He coughs. “Yes. Good. Excellent plan.”

You manage to get the load inside between fits of giggling, both of you soaked, exhausted, and windblown.

You collapse near the fire, side by side, steam rising off your clothes.

“That,” you say breathlessly, “was tragic.”

“Speak for yourself. I was magnificent.”

“You got taken down by snow.”

“Snow is treacherous.”

You laugh again, softer this time. And even when the room falls quiet, something else stays warm between you. It’s not just the fire. Not anymore.

The wind has settled into a constant, low howl around the cabin. Night has fallen, though it’s hard to tell with the thick storm still raging beyond the shuttered windows. The fire’s burning steady, casting a soft gold glow across the wooden walls. You’ve hung your wet things near the hearth to dry—boots steaming gently, your coat draped across the back of a chair. The air smells like smoke, snow melt, and the tin of beans simmering on the stove.

“Fine dining,” you say, passing him the dented pot and a bent spoon.

“Poshest place I’ve been all week,” he replies, raising an eyebrow as he digs in.

You both sit cross-legged on the floor, facing the fire, your backs to the one sagging bed like it’s not a topic of silent, ongoing negotiation. Hammond has added three small bags of crisps to the table like a dragon guarding its hoard.

“I call these the side dishes,” he says.

You glance at the labels. “Cheese and onion, prawn cocktail, and... what the hell is ‘steak and ale pie’ flavoured?”

He grins. “A crime against humanity, probably.”

You eat in silence for a few minutes, sharing the spoon, trading crisps like currency. It’s not good, but it’s hot, and you’re warm, and for once you’re not sniping. Not quite.

He licks bean sauce from his thumb and says, “Right. What would you actually eat, if you could have anything right now?”

You consider it. “A full roast. Crispy potatoes. Gravy. Buttered green beans. And a Yorkshire pudding the size of my head.”

“Strong start,” he nods. “Me? Spaghetti carbonara. The proper kind. Not the sad version with cream. Real pancetta. Black pepper. The good parmesan.”

You groan dramatically. “You monster. Now I want pasta.”

“We’re not done,” he says, eyes bright. “Dessert?”

You grin. “Sticky toffee pudding. With extra sauce.”

“Wrong,” he says. “The correct answer is: chocolate lava cake, served by a French supermodel who’s legally required to call me ‘Mon Hammond.’”

You snort into your spoon. “You are such a child.”

“Which brings us to tonight’s entertainment,” he says, rising to his feet with a flourish. “The one-man retelling of a classic literary work, as performed by Richard Hammond, cold, hungry, and possibly losing his grip on reality.”

You blink up at him. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he says, striking a pose. “I give you, Pride and Prejudice, as rewritten for modern petrolheads.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Please don’t.”

“Too late. It begins.”

He paces the room like it’s a stage. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a large estate must be in want of... a Lamborghini.”

You burst out laughing.

He points at you, deadly serious. “Mr. Darcy, you see, is not brooding, he’s just frustrated because Elizabeth Bennet keeps insulting his car collection. And frankly, her bonnet is dented.”

You’re wheezing.

“Lizzie, meanwhile, is not so much strong-willed as she is deeply irritated that no one appreciates her vintage Land Rover rebuild. She's emotionally closed off because her last boyfriend drove a Vauxhall Corsa.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh. “Stop!”

“I will not.”

He struts dramatically to the stove. “At the pivotal moment, Darcy confesses his undying love by saying, ‘You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love... your custom exhaust system.’”

You’re actually crying.

“And instead of letters, they exchange MOT reports. Her rejection is harsh but fair, he had aftermarket spoilers and poor tire alignment.”

You fall back onto the floor in a heap of laughter as he bows, one hand to his chest.

“Thank you,” he says grandly. “I’ll be here all night. Literally. Because we’re stuck.”

You manage to sit up, wiping your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He plops back down beside you, his grin softening just a little. “Takes one to laugh at one.”

There’s a silence, not awkward, just... full.

The kind that feels like it wants to go somewhere.

After a beat, he glances sideways at you. “Why do we rub each other the wrong way so much?”

You blink. “That’s a gear change.”

He shrugs. “Been wondering since yesterday. We work together. We’re both, mostly functional. But every time we’re in the same room, it’s like someone lit a fuse.”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. You just, irritate me.”

“How flattering.”

“I mean it. You’re smug. Cocky. You don’t think anything through.”

“And you’re tightly wound, bossy, and allergic to fun.”

“Exactly.”

“But you don’t hate me.”

You glance at him. “No.”

“Right,” he says. “So what if, just a theory, it’s because we secretly want to shag each other?”

The words hang in the air like a grenade. You freeze. His tone was casual. Half a joke. But something in you shifts like the floor’s dropped out from under it. Because oh god. That’s it. You do.

You absolutely, annoyingly, desperately do. And the realization hits too fast, too raw.

Your defense snaps up like a drawbridge. “You’re unbelievable.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You can’t take anything seriously, can you? Not even this. You think everything’s just a joke you can charm your way through.”

He stares at you. “Whoa. That’s not what I….”

“No, you wanted a laugh. You wanted to get a rise out of me and feel clever, and guess what? You did.”

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, standing up. “You can’t even have a conversation without armoring up like we’re going to war.”

“You’re such a childish jackass, Hammond.”

He’s flushed now, eyes hard. “And you’re so scared of being wrong you won’t even admit what’s right in front of you. You think I don’t notice the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching? You think I don’t feel it too?”

You open your mouth, and close it.

He steps closer, not threatening, just there. “When you grow up, and stop pretending this is about anything else, I'll be here. Happy to help you scratch that itch.”

The words are soft. Too soft. And somehow, that makes them hit harder.

You step back like you’ve been slapped. “Go fuck yourself.”

You turn, stomp to the bed, and yank the blanket over your head. The silence that follows is heavier than anything the blizzard outside could bring. But beneath it, your thoughts spin like wheels in snow, and you can’t stop hearing him say it.

When you grow up.

Scratch that itch.

And worse…. You can’t stop thinking about how right he is.

You lie on your side, staring at the uneven planks of the cabin wall, wrapped in a thin blanket that might as well be made of tissue paper. You haven’t said a word in hours. Not that he’s tried to. He’s been quiet too, just the occasional sound of him shifting by the fire, stoking it once or twice, probably too angry or too smug or too right to come near you again. And still, you can’t sleep. Partly because it’s freezing.

But mostly because your mind is a goddamn minefield.

You close your eyes. You try not to think about what he said. You fail. All you can see is his face, too close in the firelight, too smug when he said it, too calm, too certain. Like he already knew you wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it.

“I’ll be here. Happy to help you scratch that itch.”

Your stomach does this slow, awful flip and you roll onto your back, teeth clenched. It doesn’t help. Because now you’re thinking about what if. What if you did? What if you kissed him, dragged him down by the collar of that stupid Henley, got a hand in his hair just to shut him up for once? What if you pressed your thighs around him and let that maddening, smirking mouth do its worst?

Your breath hitches. No. No, absolutely not. You roll again, shoving your head under the pillow, trying to smother the thoughts as much as the cold. But you’re shivering now. Hard. Your teeth start chattering, silent at first, then more obvious. You bury deeper, still shaking. Goddamn altitude, thin blankets, and one idiot with smug eyes and excellent arms.

Then….

You hear it. A sigh. Followed by movement. Blanket shifting. Floorboards creaking.

“Don’t,” you mutter before you even see him.

But it's too late. He walks over in long strides and crouches at the side of the bed.

You twist, defensive. “I said don’t.”

He ignores you.

Without a word, he lifts the entire blanket, with you in it, and scoops you up like it’s nothing.

You yelp. “Put me down!”

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” he says, deadpan. “I’m not letting you freeze to death out of sheer stubbornness.”

“I hate you!”

“That’s fine,” he says, carrying you back toward the fire like you’re no heavier than a rucksack. “You can hate me from a safe body temperature.”

“You’re such an ass!”

“Yup.”

He reaches the fire and unceremoniously deposits you on the folded blanket you both used earlier, the one still warm from when he slept on it. Then, without asking, he drops beside you and throws the other blanket over both of you, pulling it snug around your shoulders.

You twist to glare at him.

“You can’t just drag me over here.”

“I didn’t drag,” he says, stretching out behind you. “I lifted. It was very dignified.”

You mutter every curse you know under your breath. He’s lying so close his chest brushes your back every time he breathes. You hold yourself rigid, arms crossed.

“I’m still angry,” you snap.

“Of course you are.”

“And you’re smug.”

“Always.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Nope.”

“This means nothing.”

“Sure.”

Silence falls. The heat starts to bleed back into your skin. Not from the fire, but from him. From the warmth of his chest at your spine. The steady, infuriating calm of him. The smell of woodsmoke and soap and that faint citrus he always seems to carry like a cologne he never admits to wearing. You hate how solid he feels behind you. You hate how right it feels not to be cold anymore. And you hate that your breathing is starting to match his. He doesn’t say another word,  just stays there, warm and steady and maddeningly quiet.

Your body betrays you first, shivers easing, tension draining from your jaw, from your shoulders, from your clenched fists. Then your mind follows. Not all the way. Just enough. You’re still angry. Still flustered. Still wildly, violently aware of him. But the heat settles in your bones, and your eyes slip closed.And just before sleep takes you, you feel it. A tiny, infuriatingly gentle press of his hand, resting lightly at your waist. Not a grab. Not a move.Just... there.

Like he’s grounding you.

You don’t react. But your last conscious thought before the dark takes you is:

God help me, I’m not going to survive this trip.

The radio crackles before you’re even fully awake. You blink, disoriented, the sound dragging you slowly out of the deepest, warmest sleep you’ve had in days. For a moment, you can’t move, can't figure out why you’re so warm. Then it hits you, warm breath against your neck, a heavy arm slung across your middle, a knee between yours.

Oh.

Oh no.

You tense. So does the arm. Behind you, Richard shifts with a quiet, almost strangled sound. He pulls his face back from where it had been, resting against your hair, apparently, and mutters into your shoulder, “…fuck.”

“Yeah,” you say hoarsely, not moving. “Pretty much.”

The radio crackles again, clearer this time:

“Scout? Hammond? Come in. You two still alive up there?”

You both scramble apart like teenagers caught in the act, limbs untangling in awkward, flailing silence. You sit up, yanking the blanket around your shoulders, and shoot him a look. He’s rubbing his eyes with one hand and holding the radio with the other.

“Still alive,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “More or less.”

“Good. Snowplough’s heading your way tomorrow. Should be there by midday. Storm’s moved on. Sun’s out. Sit tight and enjoy the view.”

He sets the radio down. Neither of you speaks for a minute. Outside, the world is blindingly white. The sun streams through the frost-glazed window, throwing dappled light across the floor, your tangled blankets, and the outline of two people who very clearly forgot how to stay on their own sides of things. You look at him. He looks at you.

“Morning,” he offers, dry as toast.

You sigh. “Morning.”

Breakfast is half a tin of peaches eaten straight from the can, no banter, no jabs. You sit on the floor facing the fire, knees almost touching, but not quite. The silence isn’t tense. It’s just… fragile.

You find your bag, pull out the bar of soap, and clear your throat. “I’m going to, um, wash a bit.”

He lifts his hands. “By all means. I’ll stare directly into the fire like a Victorian chaperone.”

You roll your eyes but say nothing, turning your back and kneeling beside the pot of melted snowwater still warming on the stove. The sponge bath is quick and practical, but the fire makes your skin prickle with self-consciousness. You’re hyper-aware of the shifting silence behind you, the way he isn’t looking, and also how much of you he could see if he did.

When you’re done and dressed in slightly less damp clothes, you murmur, “Okay. Your turn.”

He nods once, then grabs the soap and shrugs off his shirt without a word. You turn away quickly. Too quickly. Because even the glimpse of his bare back and shoulders, golden in the firelight, is enough to make your brain short-circuit like faulty wiring. You stare out the window as he washes, efficient, quiet, and blessedly not talking. You hear the water slosh, the occasional splash, the rustle of fabric. You keep your gaze locked on the snowdrifts outside, telling yourself you are not wondering what he looks like wet and shirtless.

Nope.

Not even a little.

You both settle again by the fire once he’s done, him freshly dressed, hair damp, and still shirtless because he’s letting it dry by the hearth. You sit in silence for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he speaks.

“You know,” he says, picking at the edge of his crisps packet, “I hate to admit this, but if it weren’t for your magic bag of tricks and twenty-seven emergency rations, we might’ve turned feral.”

You glance at him. “Feral?”

He nods. “Fully Lord of the Flies. I’d be trying to eat my own boot leather. You’d be sharpening a stick.”

You huff a small laugh. “I did consider smothering you with a pillow.”

“See? Savagery.”

You smile into the peach tin. “You’re welcome.”

He grins. “And I’ll say this, your protein bars taste like damp cardboard, but they did stop me from dying. So I suppose I’m grateful.”

You eye his crisps. “Your cheese and onion ones weren’t completely revolting.”

He presses a hand to his chest, dramatically. “You like my crisps.”

“I said not revolting. That’s not the same as like.”

“Oh, I’ll take it.” He leans back against the chair, eyes closed. “Progress.”

You nod, more to yourself than to him. Because something has shifted, the sharp edges have softened. The storm outside is over, but something else is just beginning to stir inside you. Warmth. A strange kind of peace. Or maybe just the quiet knowing that when you wake up tangled around someone and you don’t feel angry anymore, it means you’re in more trouble than you thought.

The second night settles over the cabin more gently than the first.

The storm has passed, leaving behind an eerie sort of silence outside—thick snow blanketing the mountain, moonlight turning everything silver-blue beyond the frosted windows. The wind still whispers through the trees, but softly now. Tired. Inside, the fire crackles steadily. And you and Richard… exist around each other.

Not arguing. Not exactly talking, either. Just there.

He spends most of the afternoon fiddling with the radio, poking uselessly at the Defender once he shovels enough snow to reach it, and pacing the cabin like a bored border collie. You try reading your book by the fire, knees tucked beneath a blanket, but the words keep sliding off the page. Not because the book’s bad.

Because every few minutes you become painfully aware of him. Of the sound of his boots on the wooden floorboards. The absent little hums he makes while thinking. The way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s frustrated. And, annoyingly, how good he looks doing absolutely nothing. You hate it. You don’t want this.

You don’t want to be attracted to Richard Hammond. You don’t want to think about kissing him, or what his hands would feel like if they stopped being accidentally warm and started being intentionally warm. You especially don’t want to remember waking up tangled together that morning. Unfortunately, your brain seems committed to treason. You turn a page in Persuasion for the third time without reading a word.

Across the room, Richard groans dramatically.

“Oh my god,” he mutters. “I’m going to start talking to the chairs.”

“Try not to lose the argument,” you reply absently.

He points at you. “See? This is why you’re my favourite hostage.”

You snort despite yourself. A few more minutes pass.

Then….

“What are you reading anyway?”

You glance up. “Persuasion.”

He stops pacing immediately. “Jane Austen?”

“Yes.”

He squints at the cover like it personally offended him. “Voluntarily?”

You lower the book slowly. “Careful.”

“I’m just saying,” he says, wandering closer, “I’ve never understood the obsession. Nothing explodes. Everyone just stares emotionally across drawing rooms for three hundred pages.”

“That’s because men don’t understand subtext.”

“Oh, here we go.”

You sit up straighter, pointing the book at him. “Jane Austen is about tension.”

“So are car crashes.”

“Not the same kind!”

He drops into the chair opposite you, grinning. “Explain it to me then. Why do women love Austen so much?”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Are you actually asking, or are you gearing up to mock me?”

“Bit of both.”

You sigh theatrically and tuck a leg beneath you. “Fine. Austen’s not really about romance.”

“It literally is.”

“No, it’s about people. About how they misunderstand each other. Pride and ego and timing and all the things people don’t say.”

He props his chin on his fist. “You say plenty.”

“I say what I mean.”

“That is categorically untrue.”

You ignore him. “And the romance matters because the men in those books actually listen. They pay attention. They learn the women as people.”

Richard blinks. “That’s your big fantasy? Being perceived?”

“Yes,” you say flatly. “Shocking, I know.”

He considers that for a moment.

Then: “Still sounds exhausting. Everyone yearning at each other while eating soup.”

You laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, “you continue explaining Austen to me instead of throwing the book at my head.”

“That option remains available.”

He points at the cover again. “So what happens in Persuasion?”

You eye him suspiciously. “You genuinely want to know?”

“I’m trapped in a cabin with no television. I’ll listen to literally anything.”

You hesitate, then start talking despite yourself.

“There’s this woman, Anne Elliot. Years earlier she falls in love with this naval officer, Wentworth, but her family convinces her not to marry him because he’s poor and not important enough.”

Richard makes a face. “Rude.”

“Years later he comes back successful and rich, but he’s still hurt that she rejected him.”

“Ah,” he says. “So now they’re both emotionally constipated.”

You point at him. “Exactly.”

“I do understand Austen.”

“They spend the entire book circling each other and pretending they don’t still love each other.”

He tilts his head slightly. “That sounds horrible.”

“It’s romantic.”

“It sounds like torture.”

You shrug. “That’s because men think romance is buying flowers and revving engines.”

“That is romance.”

“It absolutely is not.”

He grins lazily at you from across the fire. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”

“You think tension is more interesting than honesty.”

The words land harder than they should. You look down at the book.

“Maybe honesty’s overrated,” you mutter.

“Maybe,” he says softly. “Or maybe it’s just terrifying.”

The fire pops between you. Outside, snow slides softly from the roof, and for a long moment neither of you speaks. Then Richard suddenly leans forward, eyes bright with mischief again.

“Read me some.”

You blink. “What?”

“Go on. Out loud.”

“You were mocking it thirty seconds ago.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says solemnly. “Plus your reading voice is weirdly soothing.”

You stare at him. Then, despite every instinct telling you not to encourage him, you open the book, and as the fire burns low and the mountain settles around you, you begin to read while Richard Hammond listens with his chin propped on his hand, watching you more than the pages.

Your apartment was small. One bedroom. Tiny kitchen. Old building with uneven floors and terrible plumbing. But it was warm. Lived in. There were books stacked beside the couch and plants near the windows and soft yellow lamps instead of harsh overhead lights.

Juice stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room like he didn’t know where to put himself.

“You hungry?” you asked.

He shook his head automatically.

His stomach growled immediately after.

You stared.

He sighed. “Maybe a little.”

Twenty minutes later he was sitting at your kitchen counter eating grilled cheese and tomato soup with the kind of concentration that made it obvious he hadn’t eaten properly all day.

Maybe longer.

You leaned against the opposite counter watching him.

“You wanna tell me why you look like somebody dragged you behind a truck?”

He snorted quietly at that.

Then shrugged.

“Club stuff.”

You accepted the answer because you knew enough about SAMCRO to know pushing usually got you nowhere.

You had known Juice for almost two years.

He’d started coming into the auto parts store where you worked because the place carried some specialty imports he liked for his bike. At first he’d just been the hyper guy with too much energy and too many tattoos who flirted badly and bought energy drinks in bulk.

Then he kept coming back.

Eventually he stopped pretending he needed parts.

Eventually you started setting aside his favorite snacks before he came in.

Eventually he started fixing things around your apartment without being asked.

You never officially labeled the relationship.

Friends felt too simple for whatever this was.

But neither of you pushed harder.

Maybe because Juice always seemed halfway convinced good things would disappear if he touched them too much.

After he finished eating, you handed him a clean towel and pointed toward the bathroom.

“There’s antiseptic in the cabinet. Use it before your face falls off.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He smiled faintly when he said it.

It vanished the second he thought you weren’t looking.

The next morning you woke up to the sound of cabinets opening.

For one horrifying second you thought someone had broken in.

Then you smelled coffee.

You shuffled into the kitchen and found Juice standing barefoot at the counter wearing the same jeans from yesterday and an old hoodie you'd stolen from him years ago.

You stopped dead.

“That’s mine.”

He looked down at himself.

“I was cold.”

“You stole my hoodie.”

“You stole it first.”

You laughed despite yourself.

God, he looked better.

Still bruised. Still tired. But softer somehow. Less tightly wound.

He handed you coffee before you could ask.

Exactly how you liked it.

“You remembered.”

He shrugged like it was nothing.

But Juice remembered everything about people he cared about.

The problem was he never seemed to believe anybody would remember things about him.

You watched him carefully over the rim of your mug.

“You okay?”

His shoulders stiffened immediately.

“Yeah.”

Lie.

You let it go anyway.

He left around noon after promising he’d return your hoodie “eventually.”

You assumed that would be it.

One bad night.

One couch crash.

But then three days later he showed up again.

This time quieter.

No visible injuries.

Just shadows under his eyes.

“Can I stay over?”

“Yeah.”

And then again the next week.

Then twice in one week.

Then suddenly it became normal.

Juice would show up late.

You’d pretend not to notice how exhausted he looked.

You’d feed him.

Sometimes you’d watch dumb movies together until he fell asleep halfway through them, head tilted toward you on the couch.

Sometimes he’d sit on your tiny balcony smoking in silence while you sat beside him reading.

Sometimes he barely spoke at all.

But gradually you noticed something strange.

He slept here.

Actually slept.

At the clubhouse, even during the rare times you visited, Juice never stopped moving. Always buzzing. Always alert. Talking too fast. Smiling too quickly.

At your apartment he slept like someone drowning finally reaching air.

Deep.

Heavy.

Safe.

The realization lodged painfully under your ribs.

One rainy Thursday you came home from work and found him in your kitchen making pasta.

He looked up immediately.

“Hey.”

You blinked slowly.

“You have your own key now?”

“Uh.” He winced. “You said I could borrow it last week?”

“I did?”

“You were half asleep.”

That sounded horrifyingly possible.

You dropped your bag on the table and stared at him.

He was wearing sweatpants.

Your sweatpants.

“You’re stealing an alarming amount of my clothes.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You own clothes.”

“Not like these.”

You rolled your eyes, but warmth spread through your chest anyway.

The apartment smelled like garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread.

Domestic.

Dangerously domestic.

“You cooked?”

“Wanted to.”

He looked nervous saying it.

Like he expected you to tell him he’d crossed a line.

Something about that nearly broke your heart.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

A pause.

Then quieter:

“I wanted to do something nice.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“Okay,” you said softly. "Thank you."

He relaxed instantly.

You started noticing things after that.

Little things.

Juice replacing the flickering lightbulb in your bathroom without being asked.

Juice remembering when your work shifts changed.

Juice buying your favorite cereal because “you were almost out.”

Juice asleep on your couch with one hand curled loosely around the blanket you kept there for him.

Your blanket.

His side of the couch.

It happened so slowly you didn’t realize how attached you’d become until one night he didn’t show up.

You told yourself it was ridiculous.

He wasn’t your boyfriend.

Wasn’t your responsibility.

SAMCRO life was unpredictable.

Still, you checked your phone every fifteen minutes.

By midnight anxiety sat ugly in your stomach.

At one-thirty there was finally a knock at your door.

You yanked it open immediately.

Juice stood there soaked through from the rain.

And bleeding.

Your heart dropped.

“Oh my God.”

“It’s not bad.”

“That’s blood.”

“Mostly not mine.”

“JUICE.”

He flinched.

Not from your volume.

From the name.

Like he expected anger attached to it.

Your expression softened instantly.

“Come inside.”

He obeyed quietly.

Too quietly.

You sat him on the bathroom counter while you cleaned the cut above his eyebrow.

He hissed when antiseptic touched it.

“Sorry.”

“S’fine.”

“No it’s not.”

He went still.

You focused carefully on the bandage because suddenly looking him in the eye felt too intimate.

“You don’t have to act tough with me.”

A long silence.

Then:

“I don’t know how not to.”

That one sentence told you more about Juice Ortiz than anything else ever had.

You looked up finally.

His eyes looked exhausted.

Not physically.

Soul-deep exhausted.

Like he’d been carrying too much weight for too long.

Without thinking, you brushed your fingers lightly against his cheek beneath the bruise.

The reaction was immediate.

He froze.

Completely.

Not pulling away.

Not leaning closer.

Just… stunned.

Your breath caught.

Because nobody should react to gentle touch like that.

Nobody.

“Juice…”

His eyes shut briefly.

And for one horrible moment you thought he might cry.

But then he smiled instead.

Small. Crooked. False.

“You always patch people up this good?”

The subject change was obvious.

You let him have it.

For now.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

And somewhere during all of it, Juice stopped leaving.

Not officially.

There was no conversation.

No decision.

It just… happened.

A toothbrush appeared beside yours in the bathroom.

His hoodie got left draped over your chair permanently.

There were motorcycle parts on your kitchen table.

He started keeping beer in your fridge.

And every night, somehow, he ended up back on your couch.

Except eventually not even the couch.

That started after the nightmares.

You woke one night to a crash from the living room.

Your heart nearly stopped.

You ran out to find Juice crouched beside the couch breathing hard, eyes wild with panic.

The lamp had fallen over.

“Juice?”

He looked up sharply like he didn’t know where he was.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately.

His chest heaved.

“S-sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. Hey. Look at me.”

Slowly, he did.

“You’re safe.”

Something in his expression cracked.

Tiny.

Almost invisible.

But you saw it.

And suddenly he looked younger than you’d ever seen him.

Not childish.

Just worn down.

Like life had scraped him raw.

You sat carefully on the floor beside him.

“Bad dream?”

He laughed once without humor.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

A beat.

Then quieter:

“I just… didn’t wanna be there.”

There.

Not here.

Your chest hurt.

Without really thinking about it, you reached for him.

“You can stay with me tonight.”

His eyes flicked toward you.

“You sure?”

“Obviously.”

He hesitated before following you into your bedroom.

Like he thought he shouldn’t.

Like he was waiting for permission to exist in your space.

You climbed under the blankets and patted the empty side carefully.

Juice stared at it for a long moment.

Then lay down stiffly on top of the covers.

Fully clothed.

Like he planned to bolt at any second.

You turned toward him slightly.

“You know you can relax, right?”

“Relaxing’s not really my thing.”

“I noticed.”

A tiny smile tugged briefly at his mouth.

Then faded.

The silence stretched.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

Finally, barely audible:

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why are you nice to me?”

The question hit like a punch.

You frowned immediately.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A real one.”

He wasn’t joking.

He genuinely didn’t understand.

Your heart twisted painfully.

“Juice…”

“No, seriously.” His voice stayed quiet. Careful. “I don’t get it.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“You’re my friend.”

He looked away instantly.

Like that answer hurt.

“You know what I mean.”

And you did.

Oh, you did.

Why him specifically.

Why patience.

Why softness.

Why safety.

Because somewhere along the line Juice had learned affection was conditional.

Temporary.

Earned.

You swallowed hard.

“I’m nice to you because you deserve kindness.”

He actually flinched.

Then laughed softly like you’d said something ridiculous.

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” he whispered. “It really isn’t.”

The room went painfully still.

You looked at him for a long moment before reaching across the space between you and taking his hand.

His breathing stopped.

Literally stopped.

Like nobody had ever held his hand gently before.

“You don’t have to earn being cared about,” you said quietly.

Juice stared at your joined hands with an expression so heartbreakingly fragile it made tears sting your eyes.

He didn’t answer.

But after a long time, he finally relaxed enough to fall asleep beside you.

Still holding your hand.

After that night he started sleeping in your bed more often.

Never assuming.

Always hesitant.

“You sure?”

Every single time.

Every time like he thought eventually your answer would change.

But it never did.

And slowly, impossibly slowly, Juice began unfolding around you.

Not all at once.

Just little pieces.

He laughed easier in your apartment.

Started singing quietly while cooking.

Started touching you absentmindedly.

A hand at your waist while passing behind you in the kitchen.

Your knees pressed together on the couch.

His head resting briefly against your shoulder during movies.

Tiny things.

But each one felt enormous.

One Sunday morning you woke tangled together accidentally.

At some point during the night Juice had rolled closer in his sleep until his face was buried against your neck, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist.

You went perfectly still.

Not because you minded.

Because you’d never seen him this relaxed.

Ever.

Sunlight spilled gold across the bed.

His breathing was deep and even.

Peaceful.

You realized suddenly with painful clarity that Juice only ever looked truly safe when he was asleep beside you.

God.

You were in love with him.

The realization should’ve terrified you.

Instead it just felt inevitable.

Then Juice stirred.

His eyes blinked open slowly.

And the second he realized how close you were, panic flashed across his face.

“Sorry— shit, sorry—”

“Hey.” You caught his wrist gently before he could pull away completely. “It’s okay.”

His entire body stayed tense.

“You sure?”

“You don’t have to apologize for touching me.”

He looked at you like that sentence was incomprehensible.

Your chest ached.

“You really don’t know what to do with softness, huh?”

His expression turned strangely vulnerable.

“No,” he admitted quietly.

You brushed your thumb lightly over his wrist.

“That’s okay.”

He stared at you for a very long time after that.

Like he wanted to say something.

Like he almost did.

But then he looked away first.

The first time you realized he hadn’t gone home in weeks happened by accident.

You were folding laundry while Juice messed with something on his bike outside.

One of the clubhouse hoodies had gotten mixed into the pile.

You picked it up automatically.

Something felt strange.

The pockets were empty.

No wallet.

No keys.

No cigarettes.

Nothing.

You frowned slightly.

Then glanced toward the bathroom.

His toothbrush.

Your dresser drawer with his shirts in it.

The sneakers by your door.

The charger plugged in beside your bed.

Your stomach tightened slowly.

When Juice came back upstairs thirty minutes later, sweaty and grease-stained, you were sitting on the couch waiting.

He stopped immediately.

“What?”

“How long has it been?”

“What?”

“Since you slept at the clubhouse.”

His face went blank.

Too blank.

“Uh…”

“Juice.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“A while.”

“How long?”

A pause.

Then:

“Maybe a month.”

Your eyes widened.

“A month?”

He shrugged immediately like it was nothing.

But you could see the tension building in his shoulders now.

“You didn’t notice.”

The words came out joking.

But underneath was something raw.

Something afraid.

Like maybe he’d overstayed.

Like maybe you’d throw him out now that you realized.

Your chest hurt instantly.

“Juice…”

“It’s okay if it’s weird.”

“No, hey.” You moved closer immediately. “No. That’s not what this is.”

He looked at you carefully.

“You can tell me to leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

The words came out too fast.

Too honest.

Juice froze.

And suddenly the air between you changed.

Thickened.

You swallowed hard.

“You know you’re allowed to be here, right?”

He stared at you silently.

“You don’t need permission every five seconds.”

His laugh came out brittle.

“Yeah. I kinda do.”

Your heart cracked clean open.

You stepped closer slowly.

“Did something happen at the clubhouse?”

His jaw tightened.

Club business.

Pain flashed behind his eyes so fast most people would’ve missed it.

You didn’t.

“Juice.”

He looked exhausted suddenly.

“I just…” His voice faltered. “I needed somewhere quiet.”

Not the full truth.

But true enough.

And somehow worse.

Because it meant your apartment had become refuge.

You reached up before you could overthink it and touched his face gently.

His eyes shut instantly.

Like relief physically hurt him.

“You have one,” you whispered.

His breathing turned uneven.

“You keep saying things like that.”

“Because they’re true.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

His eyes opened slowly.

"Because if you say things like that,” he whispered, “I start wanting them.”

The confession hung between you.

Heavy.

Terrifying.

You could hear your heartbeat.

“What if I want them too?”

Juice looked wrecked.

Actually wrecked.

Like hope was the cruelest thing anyone had ever handed him.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“No.” He shook his head immediately. “No, you think you do now, but—”

“But what?”

“I’m not…” His voice cracked suddenly. “I’m not somebody people stay for.”

Silence.

Then very carefully, you asked:

“Who taught you that?”

He looked away immediately.

Answer enough.

You took his hand gently.

“I’m still here.”

His eyes burned red instantly.

He tried to laugh it off.

Failed miserably.

Then, to your complete shock, Juice whispered:

“Don’t.”

Your chest tightened.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t be this good to me.”

And there it was.

The truth.

He was terrified of needing you.

Because needing meant losing.

You stepped closer until barely inches separated you.

“Too late.”

He stared at you helplessly.

Then finally— finally— he broke.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just suddenly.

His face crumpled and he covered his eyes with one shaking hand like he was ashamed of it.

“Oh God,” he breathed raggedly. “Sorry.”

“No, no.” You grabbed him immediately. “Hey. Hey.”

The second your arms wrapped around him, Juice made the most heartbreaking sound you’d ever heard.

Not crying.

Not exactly.

More like someone collapsing after holding themselves upright too long.

He folded against you hard enough to nearly knock you backward.

You held him tighter automatically.

“It’s okay,” you whispered into his hair. “You’re okay.”

His hands clutched the back of your shirt desperately.

And you realized with sudden horror that nobody had probably held him through a breakdown before.

Nobody had let him fall apart safely.

So you stood there in your tiny apartment holding Juice Ortiz while he shook apart in your arms.

And when he finally whispered brokenly, “I’m trying so hard,” your own tears fell too.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

After that, things changed.

Not instantly.

Juice still startled sometimes when you touched him unexpectedly.

Still apologized too much.

Still acted surprised every time you kissed his forehead absentmindedly or handed him coffee or waited up for him.

But something softer started growing between you.

Trust.

Real trust.

One night you found him asleep on the couch with the TV still on.

You smiled softly and reached for the remote.

Juice stirred immediately, panic flashing across his face before he focused on you.

“Oh.”

“It’s just me.”

His shoulders dropped.

That alone nearly destroyed you.

It’s just me.

And somehow that meant safe now.

You brushed a hand over his forehead gently.

“You coming to bed?”

The question slipped out naturally.

Like it belonged there.

Juice stared at you for a second.

Then something unbearably tender crossed his face.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

He followed you into the bedroom.

And sometime during the night, half asleep, he wrapped himself around you like he finally believed you’d still be there in the morning.

The first time he said “I love you” happened accidentally.

Which honestly felt very Juice.

You were both cooking dinner.

Well.

You were cooking.

Juice was aggressively stealing ingredients and pretending he was helping.

“Stop eating the peppers.”

“I’m quality testing.”

“You’ve eaten six pieces.”

“And all six passed inspection.”

You snorted.

Then yelped when he stole another piece directly off the cutting board.

“Oh my God, you menace—”

He grinned.

Big. Bright. Beautiful.

The sight hit you square in the chest the way it always did now.

Because happy Juice still felt rare enough to treasure.

Without thinking, you smiled helplessly at him.

And Juice looked at you with so much unguarded affection it nearly stopped your heart.

“I love you,” he said automatically.

Silence.

Juice froze.

You froze.

His eyes widened in horror.

“Shit.”

Your pulse thundered.

Juice looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“I didn’t— fuck, I mean—”

“You love me?”

He looked terrified.

Actually terrified.

Like you were about to destroy him.

And suddenly you understood:

He thought he’d ruined everything.

You crossed the kitchen in two seconds flat.

“Juice.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”

You kissed him.

Hard.

Immediate.

All the fear drained out of him in one stunned breath.

Then he kissed you back.

And it felt like everything.

Weeks of yearning.

Months of restraint.

All the tenderness between you finally breaking open.

His hands cupped your face carefully like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed.

You kissed him until breathing became difficult.

When you finally pulled apart, Juice looked dazed.

“You kissed me.”

“You said you love me.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I love you too.”

He went completely still.

You watched the exact second those words landed.

Like he genuinely didn’t know what to do with them.

“You…” His voice broke. “You do?”

You could’ve cried right there.

“Of course I do.”

Juice stared at you with devastating vulnerability.

Then suddenly hid his face against your shoulder.

You laughed softly through your own tears and wrapped your arms around him immediately.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

The shaky breath he let out warmed your neck.

“Nobody’s ever…” He stopped.

You held him tighter.

“You don’t have to finish that sentence.”

But you understood anyway.

Nobody had ever loved him gently before.

Not like this.

Not safely.

You pressed a kiss into his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His arms tightened around you hard enough to ache.

“Promise?”

The word came out so quiet it almost killed you.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“I promise.”

This day wasn't out of the ordinary for you.

Jack had been called into the hospital, so you decided to run some errands instead. Just another walk through the city, another stretch of pavement leading you towards your favourite café. The street was bustling with lunchtime rush, people brushing past without even looking up, all of it so normal you stopped noticing anything outside your immediate line of sight.

You don’t see the window workers until it’s already too late.

There’s a shout, somewhere overhead, sharp, distant, dismissed instantly by your brain as background chaos.

Then something shifts overhead.

A shadow.

A sudden loss of control.

Like something heavy slipping when it shouldn’t.

You look up.

The bucket tips over the edge, half full, unbalanced, too far gone to recover.

You have no time to react.

It drops straight down.

The impact is immediate and brutal, striking the top of your head with enough force to erase thoughts.

Air leaves you all once.

Your body goes back with force, the concrete of the sidewalks rushing up before you can even register that you’re falling. 

You don’t feel the landing.

You’re already gone before your body makes contact.

The ambulance door swings open hard.

Two paramedics rush in with a stretcher.

“Female, roughly mid-thirties–struck by falling debris,” one of the paramedics calls.

Whitaker is already moving.

“Trauma Two is open,” someone shouts from the nurses’ station.

The stretcher rolls in fast.

“Unconscious on scene,” the paramedic continues. “Hasn’t come around yet. GSC eight.”

Monitors are attached within seconds.  An IV is started. Hands move quickly, practiced, efficient.

Whitaker is at the bedside now, eyes already scanning your injuries.

“Witness said that the window cleaner’s bucket fell from a height,” A paramedic informs. “She went down immediately.”

“ID?” Whitaker asks without looking up.

“None,” the paramedic says, already reaching into his pocket. “But we found this on her.”

He places a chain into Whitaker’s hand.

Dog tags.

Whitaker’s focus sharpens instantly.

That changes everything.

He takes them without hesitation, already thinking they’ve just been handed the easiest part of the case. A name means history, allergies, blood type, everything they need.

“Good,” he says under his breath, almost relieved. “We got lucky.”

He flips the broken tags over.

And stops.

Abbot. Jack.

O Negative.

Fuck.

For a second, the noise of the room is completely drowned out, as if it had been pulled underwater.

 He reads it again, more slowly this time, in case the name changes.

It doesn’t.

“...Jesus,” He mutters, barely audible.

A nurse glances over. “You know her?”

Whitaker doesn't answer right away. His grip tightens slightly on the chain, metal pressing into his palm like letting go of it would make this situation even worse.

Because this wasn’t luck.

This was a problem.

A large one.

But more importantly, a very specific one 

“Page, Dr. Robby,” he says, voice sharper now. “And Dr. Abbot. Now.”

The nurse moves immediately at the order.

Whitaker set the tags down carefully on the tray beside you, as if they were the most important thing in this room.

Robby arrives first.

He doesn't rush in. He lets his residents lead, but the moment he steps into Trauam Two, the atmosphere shifts anyway.

“What’ve we got?” he asks, pulling on a pair of gloves.

Whitaker doesn't answer right away. 

Not because he doesn't know what's going on, but because he can’t quite find the words that fit.

Instead, he shifts slightly so Robby can see you.

Not the monitors. Not the chart.

You.

​​Robby’s expression changes instantly. Subtle, but complete. The kind of shift that happens when a doctor stops seeing a case and starts seeing a person.

He steps closer without even thinking.

His hand finds your wrist automatically, checking your pulse. His other hand moves to your eyes, checking pupils, clinical instinct kicking in.

“Found down,” a nurse says quickly. “Struck by falling debris—window cleaner’s bucket. Unconscious on scene, brief loss of consciousness, GCS eight.”

Robby nods, but there’s a little delay in it, like the information is landing half a beat too slow.

His hand stays on your wrist a fraction longer than necessary.

“I paged Abbot.”

“How—” he starts, confused, the word barely out.

He doesn’t finish.

Because Whitaker lifts his hand, the broken chain rests between his fingers. 

Just enough for Robby to see it clearly.

Dog tags.

Everything in Robby’s expression shifts. Not shock. Recognition. Then something worse. Like the entire situation snaps into place all at once.

“...Oh no,” he says quietly.

His eyes flick back to you immediately.

Because this isn’t just some random patient.

This is Jack’s wife.

Robby straightened slightly, like his body was trying to catch up with what his brain already knew.

“No,” he says under his breath, already shaking his head once. “No-no, no…”

Whitaker starts to say something. “Robby—”

But Robby isn’t listening anymore.

His attention shifts toward the door like he can feel it before it happens.

“He’s coming,” Robby says, more to himself than anyone else.

A pause.

“Fuck.” Robby exhales through his nose, one hand dragging over his face as he looks back at you again.

You’re still unconscious. Still pale. Still completely unaware of who's about to walk in.

Whitaker tries again. “Robby—”

And that's when it finally clicks in his head.

“He can’t see her like this,” Robby says, firmer now, like he’s locking onto the only thing that matters.

Not like this.

And he’s already halfway to the door, trying to get there before Jack does.

Robby barely makes it halfway across the room before the door pushes open again.

Jack.

He’s already moving fast, eyes ready to assess the situation before anyone even speaks.

“What do we have?” he asks, breath just slightly off from the rush. “You paged me.”

Robby steps in front of him, blocking the doorway without hesitation.

“Hey”

Jack frowns, thrown off more by that than anything else. “What are you doing?”

“Jack-”

“Move,” Jack says, sharper now, trying to step around him to assist the patient.

Robby doesn’t. “You can’t go in there.”

That stops him.

“What?” Jack let out a short, disbelieving breath. “Robby, what are you talking about?”

Behind him, the room keeps moving. Voices, monitors, motion, but Jack can’t see any of it past the barrier in front of him.

“Just—wait,” Robby says, quieter now.

“No,” Jack shakes his head, already trying to step around him. “No, don’t page me and then tell me to wait. Move.”

Robby shifts just an inch, and for a split second, it is enough.

An angle opens up.

Just enough for Jack to see.

There are doctors and nurses,

The bed.

You.

Unconscious. 

Blood matted into your hair, dark against your skin. Clothes still damp, clinging in the wrong places. 

Everything in him stops.

The sound of the room drops out completely.

“…No,” he breathes.

Robby moves immediately to block his view again.

“Jack,” he says firmly. “You can’t—”

“That’s my wife,” Jack cuts in, voice breaking under it despite his effort to hold it together. “What happened?”

He tries to move forward again. His brain tries to process what he is seeing. His weight shifts subconsciously to his real leg to ground him. But it all hits at once, too fast, too much.

“…No,” he breathes, barely there.

“Jack,” he says, low and steady. “You can’t—”

Robby stops him, hands on his chest this time.

“You cannot go in there,” Robby says, stronger now. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know,” Robby answers. “But you will if you make a mistake.”

That lands.

Not because it calms Jack’s nerves, but because it forces clarity through the panic.

If he treats you like this… he could make it worse.

Jack’s breathing is uneven. His eyes keep trying to find you past Robby’s shoulder.

But he can’t.

“Let us do our job,” Robby says, quieter now. “We’ve got her.”

Jack doesn’t move.

Doesn’t agree but doesn't try to push past him again either.

A long, stretched-out second passes.

Then Jack steps back.

Just one step.

Like it costs him more than anything else today.

Robby watches him carefully, like he expects him to surge back towards him.

But Jack just… goes still.

The fight drains out of him all at once, as something snapped.

He turns away without another word.

The roof is silent when Robby and Whitaker find him.

Jack is at the edge, hands gripping the metal railing, shoulder tight. Not leaning over, just holding on. Like it’s the only thing keeping him in place.

The city stretches out in front og him.

He doesn’t turn.

They both know he heard them.

Robby glances once at Whitaker, then back to Jack.

“She’s stable,” he says.

No response.

Whitaker steps a little closer. “Vitals are holding. We’re sending her for CT—possible concussion, maybe a small bleed, but nothing immediately life-threatening.”

Still nothing.

Robby moves a little closer, not too fast.

“She’s going to be okay,”

That gets a reaction.

Barely.

Jack exhales slowly, the sound rough, like he’s been holding it in too long.

He doesn’t turn around.

“…Did she wake up?” he asks.

“No,” Whitaker answers. “Not yet.”

Jack nods once.

Silence returns, wind cutting across the roof.

Whitaker hesitates for a second, then—

“She had your tags on.”

That lands differently.

Something in Jack breaks, just a little.

A quiet, breathless laugh slips out of him, completely out of place against everything else.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough.

He shakes his head once, like he can’t believe it even now. “She hates rings.”

A tear slips down before he can stop it.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

He just stands there, staring out at the city, holding onto the railing like it’s the only solid thing left.

Back in your room, everything is calmer now.

Monitors still beep steadily, machines still running, but the urgency is gone, replaced with something calmer. Controlled

Jack hesitates in the doorway before stepping in.

He takes you in slowly this time, like he’s afraid moving too fast will break the moment.

A sudden movement pulls his focus.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m here.”

Your brows pull together slightly, a small reaction to the sounds of his voice.

Then your eyes flutter.

They open slowly.

Heavy.

Disoriented.

A small sound escapes you when the lights make contact with your eyes.

“Easy, babe,” he murmurs. “Don’t try to move too fast.”

You blink a few times, trying to focus.

Everything hurts. It’s too bright, too loud. Your head is throbbing.

“...Jack?” Your voice is rough, barely there.

“Yeah,” Jack says quietly, catching it. “Head’s gonna hurt. You took a bucket to the head.”

Your eyes finally land on him, and you just stare as if your brain is trying to catch up.

“I’m here,” he says again.

Relief flashes across your face. Small. Real. Your shoulder loosens, and seeing him suddenly makes everything feel less chaotic.

“You look mad,” you murmur weakly. That gets a faint breath out of him, almost a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I was.”

His hand finds yours carefully, grounding you.

“But you’re okay,” he adds. “That’s what matters.”

Your eyes drift shut for half a moment, exhaustion pulling at you.

“Mm,” you hum faintly. “Feels like I lost a battle.”

Jack huffs under his breath. “You did,” he says. “Badly.”

A faint smile tugs at your mouth, even through the ache.

“Rude,” you whisper.

Then your fingers shift against the sheet.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Yeah?”

Your eyes flick to his chest.

“…Not on me,” you murmur.

Jack looks down at you. “What?”

“The tags,” you say, voice still rough but more alert now. “They’re not on my neck,”

You expect them to be there; they have been for years.

Jack exhales through his nose,  almost amused.

He reaches into his pocket.

Carefully, he pulls out the chain.

His dog tags.

Worn. Familiar. Still his.

He places them gently into your hand.

“That’s how they identified you, Mrs. Abbot,” he says quietly.

That makes your expression shift, softening, something warm and tried underneath it.

Then your eyes drop the break.

The link halfway down snapped from the impact.

“Oh,” you murmur. “It’s broken,” 

 “Yeah,” he answers. “We’ll fix it.”

You study him for a second, still holding onto the chain lightly as if it grounds you.

“Thankfully,” you murmur, “the government likes labelling their property.”

That gets a quiet breath out of him.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod faintly.

“Very official,” you add. “Important documentation.”

Jack shakes his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“And what,” he says, voice lower now, teasing, “are you properly of?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“You.”

The teasing fades out of his expression for a second, something quieter replacing it.

“…Yeah?” he asks softly.

Your grip on the tags tightens just slightly.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Been that way for a while.”

He holds your hand a little tighter.

“Good,” he says quietly.

Then, softer:

“Keep it that way.”

Your eyes start to drift again, exhaustion pulling at you.

“Wasn’t planning on changing it,” you whisper.

Jack’s thumb moves once over your knuckles.

And this time, neither of you says anything else.

The flirting started the moment the two of you met. Then came the nicknames—the first was Sunshine, when you flipped off one of the boys. From that moment on, you were called Sunshine.

Other nicknames followed: Cowgirl, Little Firecracker, Sparky, Boss—all said with a smile on his face.

You also gave him countless nicknames: Cowboy, Roughneck, Big Guy, Stud, and Trouble.

You never did more than flirt and exchange longing looks; you two never acted on it. But that didn’t mean you didn’t want to. That man had you under a damn spell, whether it was just sitting next to him or even just breathing in the same room. You knew he had a past—fuck, who at Yellowstone Ranch didn’t?

But Walker always had a tendency to mouth off—the worst person he did it to was Rip. You tried countless times to tell him not to test the man’s patience, but he ignored you. He didn’t want to be part of the fights the others got involved in.

You didn’t mind the fights; you saw them as a way to pay off the debt you owed Rip and the Duttons. They had taken you in, no questions asked, when you showed up at the ranch with a busted lip, black eye, and blood-stained shirt.

If anything, you owed Rip everything. The man had seen how fragile you looked and recognized the telltale signs of a battered woman. At first, you didn’t realize the jobs he gave you were meant to make you physically stronger. You knew the man was silently watching over you like a protective older brother, which is why it was hard to see him butt heads with Walker.

When you got your brand, you wore it with pride; it was a symbol that showed the world you weren’t the fragile woman you had been when you first arrived. You had a reason to live, a family, and you would go to hell and back for any one of them.

Walker saw things differently, which is why he eventually left. That stung. You couldn’t understand how he could just up and leave without a second thought.

You heard he had been taken to the train station, and that night, you quietly cried in your bunk for the love that never was.

Sensing the change in you, Teeter and Colby invited you to get out of the bunkhouse with them. You enjoyed the fresh air; for once, you felt lighter. You even found yourself laughing at Teeter as she decided to skinny dip, politely declining when the woman winked at you, telling you it was your loss.

That was when the Morrows showed up, demanding that the three of you deliver a message to the Duttons. You tried to run when Colby told you to—but Clint Morrow caught you. His fists met your face, his boots met your ribs. You could feel the cracks. Your screams filled the air.

Clawing, hitting, trying to reach a rock or something—what use was it having Rip teach you how to fight back if you couldn’t actually do it?

Fingers curling around a rock, you swung it up with a fury that made you choke. You heard the crunch as it met his face—enough to stun him as you scuttled away, bruised and bloody. The adrenaline faded, and you collapsed with a whimper.

When you woke, you were back in the bunkhouse, in your bed. You questioned if you were dead—because Walker was sitting over you, holding your hand.

It felt real, but who were you to question how the afterlife worked?

“There’s my Little Firecracker…” His voice was so gentle in the haze. If he was the one you met in the afterlife, maybe it wasn’t so bad.

But his lips touching your hand made you realize you weren’t dead—neither was he. He had somehow survived the train station.

“You’re alive…” The words came out in a whisper as he gave you a teary laugh.

“I am, Sunshine.” You moved to sit up, spinning slightly, brushing off his worry.

But the realization that he had left came back, and like a tornado, so did your anger.

With a loud crack, you slapped him, making his eyes widen as the force turned his face.

His lips were on yours in a flash as he gently cradled your bruised face in his hands.

“I know I’m an idiot, Sunshine… and I swear to make it up to you.” Relief, anger, and something deeper swirled in your chest. For the first time in weeks, you could breathe again. He was here. Alive. And maybe—just maybe—you could let yourself hope again.

You stood in front of the mirror inside the bridal suite, staring at your reflection as if she were a stranger.

The woman looking back at you smiled when prompted.

She laughed when people expected it.

She accepted compliments graciously.

She looked exactly like a bride should.

But she didn't look happy.

Not really.

Not where it mattered.

Your maid of honor fussed with the veil one last time.

"You okay?"

You forced a smile.

"Of course."

A lie.

A practiced one.

The kind you'd been telling yourself for years.

The room buzzed around you.

Excitement.

Conversation.

Laughter.

The sounds seemed distant somehow.

Muted.

As though you were underwater.

Because despite everything—

despite the years that had passed—

despite the fact that you were standing minutes away from marrying a good man—

there was still only one face in your mind.

Blond hair.

Blue eyes.

A crooked smile.

The smell of leather and engine oil.

Jax Teller.

You closed your eyes.

Immediately regretted it.

Because memory hit like a punch.

You'd spent years trying to forget him.

Years.

You'd moved.

Changed jobs.

Started over.

Built an entirely different life.

You had done everything people were supposed to do when a relationship ended.

Everything except stop loving him.

That part never happened.

No matter how hard you tried.

No matter how much distance you put between yourself and Charming.

No matter how many times you told yourself it was over.

He remained.

Like a scar.

Like a ghost.

Like something stitched directly into your bones.

And God, you'd tried.

You'd tried dating other people.

You'd tried moving on.

You'd tried convincing yourself that what you and Jax had shared belonged in the past.

The problem was that nobody had ever loved you the way Jax had.

Nobody had ever looked at you like you were the answer to a question they'd spent their entire life asking.

Nobody had ever made you feel quite so alive.

Or quite so furious.

Or quite so terrified.

Or quite so loved.

Years earlier, you had walked away because loving Jax came with a cost.

Violence.

Danger.

Fear.

The constant possibility that one day you'd get a phone call telling you he wasn't coming home.

And eventually you'd reached your breaking point.

Not because you stopped loving him.

But because you loved him too much.

So you'd left.

And Jax—

for perhaps the first time in his life—

had let someone go.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he loved you too.

Enough not to stop you.

Enough to watch you walk away.

Enough to break his own heart.

You still remembered the look on his face.

You suspected you always would.

"Five minutes."

The wedding coordinator appeared in the doorway.

Everyone perked up.

Excitement surged through the room.

Your stomach dropped.

Five minutes.

Five minutes until forever.

Five minutes until you promised your life to a man who deserved your whole heart.

And would never receive it.

Because part of it still belonged to someone else.

The realization struck so hard you nearly lost your breath.

The room blurred.

Suddenly you couldn't hear anyone speaking.

Couldn't focus.

Couldn't think.

Only feel.

And what you felt was wrong.

This was wrong.

Every piece of it.

Wrong dress.

Wrong church.

Wrong future.

Wrong man.

You sat down abruptly.

Your maid of honor frowned.

"Hey."

You stared at the floor.

"What am I doing?"

Nobody answered.

Because nobody knew.

Not really.

Your fiancé was kind.

Steady.

Reliable.

Safe.

Everything Jax had never been.

He loved you.

You cared about him deeply.

But love?

The kind of love that consumed entire pieces of you?

The kind that made your heart race after years apart?

The kind that lingered in every quiet moment?

No.

Not that.

Never that.

Your maid of honor slowly sat beside you.

There was a long silence.

Then—

quietly—

she asked the question nobody else would.

"Are you still in love with him?"

The room disappeared.

Everything disappeared.

Because the answer arrived instantly.

Without hesitation.

Without confusion.

Without doubt.

"Yes."

The word cracked.

Your eyes filled immediately.

"Oh God."

Silence.

Then your maid of honor squeezed your hand.

"You should've told someone."

"I thought it'd go away."

"It didn't."

"No."

"Does he know?"

You laughed shakily.

A broken sound.

"No."

Because you hadn't spoken to Jax in nearly three years.

Not really.

A few brief conversations.

A couple accidental encounters.

Nothing substantial.

Nothing dangerous.

Nothing that would let either of you fall backward into old habits.

Into old feelings.

Into old love.

And yet.

Here you were.

A bride.

About to marry someone else.

Still hopelessly in love with him.

Outside, a motorcycle engine roared.

The sound froze every muscle in your body.

No.

No way.

Not here.

Not today.

Your heart immediately started pounding.

You knew that engine.

You knew it the way people knew their favorite song.

The way they knew their own heartbeat.

Years could pass.

You'd still know it.

The room went silent.

Someone moved toward the window.

Then froze.

"Oh my God."

Your stomach dropped.

Your maid of honor slowly stood.

"What?"

The bridesmaid looked back.

Eyes wide.

"He..."

She looked stunned.

"He what?"

"There's a biker outside."

Your pulse exploded.

No.

No.

No.

Your maid of honor walked to the window.

Peeked outside.

Then looked directly at you.

And suddenly she started laughing.

Disbelieving.

Completely shocked laughter.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

She pointed outside.

"You need to see this."

Your legs felt numb.

You stood anyway.

Walked toward the window.

Looked down.

And forgot how to breathe.

Jax.

It was Jax.

Standing beside his motorcycle.

Looking exactly like every memory you'd spent years trying to outrun.

Older.

A little rougher around the edges.

A few more lines around his eyes.

But still Jax.

Still devastating.

Still yours in every way that mattered.

His gaze lifted.

Found the window immediately.

Found you.

And just like that—

everything else disappeared.

The years.

The distance.

The heartbreak.

Gone.

Because he was looking at you exactly the same way he'd looked at you the day you'd left.

Like losing you had never stopped hurting.

Like finding you again felt impossible.

Like he loved you.

Still.

After all this time.

Still.

Your chest physically hurt.

The church door opened.

Jax started walking inside.

Chaos erupted almost immediately.

People protested.

Family members panicked.

The wedding coordinator looked seconds away from a nervous breakdown.

You barely heard any of it.

Because Jax walked through the church like a man with absolutely nothing left to lose.

And maybe he didn't.

He wore jeans.

Boots.

His kutte.

Nothing formal.

Nothing appropriate.

Nothing except complete certainty.

Every eye in the building followed him.

He never looked at anyone except you.

Not once.

The church fell silent.

Jax stopped at the end of the aisle.

And stared.

For a long moment neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

The entire world seemed to hold its breath.

Then—

very quietly—

Jax said your name.

Just your name.

Nothing else.

And somehow that hurt more than anything.

Because of the way he said it.

Like a prayer.

Like a wound.

Like coming home.

Your eyes filled instantly.

"Jax."

His jaw tightened.

The same way it always did when he was emotional and trying not to show it.

"You look beautiful."

You laughed through tears.

Because of course that was the first thing he'd say.

Of course.

Then his eyes dropped briefly.

To the dress.

The veil.

The wedding.

And for the first time you saw uncertainty.

Pain.

Fear.

Real fear.

The possibility that he might be too late.

That terrified him.

You could see it.

"I shouldn't be here," he admitted.

The church remained silent.

Nobody dared interrupt.

"I know that."

You couldn't speak.

Couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe.

Jax swallowed hard.

Then looked directly at you.

And everything inside you shattered.

Because his voice broke.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

"I tried."

The words echoed.

"I tried to stay away."

Tears slid down your cheeks.

"I know."

"I told myself you were happy."

Your heart twisted.

"I wanted you to be."

More tears.

More pain.

More love.

Always love.

"I figured if you were marrying him..." His voice cracked. "Then maybe he'd figured out how to make you happier than I ever could."

The church disappeared.

Nothing existed except him.

"I stayed away."

He laughed once.

Humorless.

Painful.

"I stayed away right up until yesterday."

Your pulse hammered.

"Then what happened?"

Jax looked at you.

And the honesty in his eyes nearly destroyed you.

"I heard your wedding was today."

Silence.

"And?"

He took a breath.

A shaky one.

The kind you'd never heard from him before.

Then:

"I couldn't do it."

The confession hung between you.

Raw.

Exposed.

Real.

"I couldn't let you marry somebody else without telling you."

You were crying openly now.

Jax didn't seem to care.

Neither did anyone else.

"I love you."

The words landed like thunder.

Gasps echoed somewhere behind him.

You didn't hear them.

Couldn't.

Because Jax kept talking.

"I still love you."

Your knees nearly gave out.

Years.

Three years.

And there it was.

Unchanged.

Untouched.

Still alive.

Still burning.

"I tried not to."

A small laugh escaped him.

Broken.

Hopeless.

"Christ, I tried."

Your entire body shook.

"Jax..."

"I know I shouldn't be here."

He took a step forward.

Then another.

"I know this is selfish."

Another step.

"I know this is unfair."

Closer.

"But if you walk down that aisle..."

His voice failed.

For a moment he couldn't continue.

Then he forced himself to.

"...I'll spend the rest of my life wondering if I should've fought harder for you."

Silence.

Complete silence.

Then Jax held out his hand.

The same hand you'd held a thousand times.

The same hand you'd dreamed about.

The same hand you'd never truly let go of.

His eyes never left yours.

"Come with me."

Your breath caught.

Everything stopped.

Every voice.

Every thought.

Every fear.

Come with me.

Not marry me.

Not choose me.

Come with me.

Simple.

Honest.

Terrifying.

And suddenly you knew.

You'd always known.

The answer had never changed.

Not once.

Not in three years.

Not in a hundred.

You loved him.

That was the truth.

Messy.

Complicated.

Impossible.

But true.

You loved him.

And he loved you.

Your fiancé stood.

The movement pulled your attention briefly.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And somehow he already knew.

Sadness filled his expression.

But not surprise.

Just understanding.

He gave a small nod.

As though he'd seen this coming before you had.

And that hurt.

Because he deserved better.

You walked toward him first.

Tears streaming down your face.

"I'm sorry."

He smiled sadly.

"I know."

More tears.

More guilt.

More heartbreak.

But beneath it all—

certainty.

For the first time all day.

Certainty.

Then you turned.

Toward Jax.

Toward the man who'd ruined you for everyone else.

Toward the love of your life.

Toward home.

And took his hand.

The second your fingers touched, Jax closed his eyes.

Just briefly.

Relief.

Disbelief.

Gratitude.

All visible.

Then he laughed.

A genuine laugh.

The kind you hadn't heard in years.

And suddenly you were laughing too.

Crying and laughing and completely falling apart.

"Hi," he said.

You stared at him.

"Hi."

He looked at the dress.

Then at you.

Then grinned.

"Stealin' a bride wasn't exactly my plan."

You laughed through tears.

"Sure it wasn't."

"Okay."

His grin widened.

"Maybe a little."

For the first time all day, your heart felt light.

Actually light.

And that told you everything.

Jax squeezed your hand.

"Ready?"

You looked around the church one final time.

At the wedding that almost happened.

At the life you almost chose.

Then back at him.

At your future.

At the man you'd never stopped loving.

And smiled.

"Yeah."

Together, you walked out.

Straight past the flowers.

Past the guests.

Past the expectations.

Past the life that was never really yours.

Outside, sunlight flooded the church steps.

Jax's motorcycle waited at the curb.

You stared.

Then started laughing.

"No."

"What?"

"I am not climbing onto a motorcycle in a wedding dress."

His grin turned wicked.

"You absolutely are."

"Jax."

"C'mon, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes.

Then climbed on anyway.

Because some things never changed.

Jax settled in front of you.

Your arms wrapped around his waist automatically.

Familiar.

Natural.

Right.

He covered your hands with his.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

The world seemed strangely quiet.

Then Jax turned his head slightly.

Just enough for you to hear him.

"I missed you."

Your throat tightened.

"I missed you too."

He nodded once.

As if that was all he needed.

Then started the engine.

The ride back to Charming was surreal.

Partly because you were still wearing a wedding dress.

Partly because you'd just walked out of your own wedding.

Mostly because every time the motorcycle stopped at a light, you found yourself staring at the back of Jax's head and thinking:

I actually did it.

You'd chosen him.

After years.

After heartbreak.

After convincing yourself it was impossible.

You'd chosen him.

And every time that realization hit, your grip around his waist tightened.

Jax noticed every single time.

You knew he did.

Because his hand would leave the handlebars for just a second to squeeze yours where they rested against his stomach.

A silent reassurance.

A silent I'm here.

Neither of you talked much.

There wasn't much to say.

Not yet.

The conversation waiting for you was too big.

Too emotional.

Too overwhelming.

So instead you simply held on while California rolled past around you and for the first time in years your chest didn't hurt when you thought about the future.

It was terrifying.

And wonderful.

And completely insane.

Which was probably why it fit Jax so perfectly.

The second the clubhouse came into view, you knew something was wrong.

Motorcycles.

Too many motorcycles.

The parking lot was packed.

People standing outside.

Club members.

Prospects.

Crowds.

Movement everywhere.

You frowned.

"What the hell?"

Jax groaned.

Actually groaned.

"Oh no."

"What?"

His head tipped back briefly.

"Word got out."

Your stomach dropped.

"Oh God."

"Yeah."

"Oh God."

"Yeah."

The motorcycle rolled into the lot.

Everything stopped.

Literally everything.

Conversations died.

People froze.

Heads turned.

Someone dropped a beer.

And suddenly dozens of eyes landed on you.

Specifically—

on the woman sitting behind Jax Teller.

Still wearing a wedding dress.

The silence lasted approximately two seconds.

Then absolute chaos erupted.

"NO FUCKING WAY!"

"You actually did it!"

"HOLY SHIT!"

"I TOLD YOU HE WOULD!"

"What happened to the groom?!"

Laughter exploded across the lot.

Someone nearly fell off a picnic table.

You buried your face in your hands immediately.

"Oh my God."

Jax was laughing so hard he could barely park.

"Sweetheart."

"I hate all of you."

"You don't even know what they're saying yet."

"I can hear them."

The bike finally stopped.

Before either of you could dismount, the clubhouse door burst open.

And out stormed half of SAMCRO.

Leading the charge was Tig.

Which immediately felt like a bad sign.

Tig stopped dead.

Looked at the wedding dress.

Looked at Jax.

Looked back at the wedding dress.

Then screamed:

"YOU STOLE THE FUCKING BRIDE!"

The entire lot erupted.

Jax laughed.

You laughed.

Everyone laughed.

Except Tig, who looked genuinely emotional about the situation.

"This is the most romantic thing that's ever happened here."

"It's definitely not," Chibs said.

"It absolutely is."

"It isn't."

"It is."

"You cried when Gemma got a new dog."

"THAT DOG HAD A HEART CONDITION."

The argument immediately spiraled.

You stood beside Jax completely stunned.

And then Chibs approached.

The older Scot looked between the two of you.

Then grinned.

A genuinely delighted grin.

"About bloody time."

Jax laughed.

You smiled.

Chibs pulled you into a hug before you could react.

The warmth of it nearly made you emotional.

Because despite everything—

the years away—

the heartbreak—

they'd never really stopped considering you family.

"Good to have ye back, lass."

Your eyes stung unexpectedly.

"Thanks."

A rough voice appeared behind you.

"Nice dress."

You turned.

Happy.

Of course it was Happy.

He looked exactly the same.

Terrifying.

Expressionless.

Holding a beer.

"Thanks."

Happy nodded.

Then pointed at Jax.

"Took him long enough."

You barked out a laugh.

Jax looked offended.

"Oh, screw you."

Happy drank his beer.

"Three years."

"Okay."

"Could've been faster."

"Happy."

"Just saying."

The next hour was insanity.

Questions.

Celebrations.

Laughter.

Drinks appearing from nowhere.

Stories being invented before you could correct them.

Apparently by the time you'd arrived:

someone had already claimed Jax punched the groom.

Someone else insisted there'd been a sword fight.

Tig was telling anyone who would listen that Jax had ridden directly into a church through stained-glass windows.

None of it was remotely true.

Nobody cared.

You ended up sitting on one of the worn couches inside the clubhouse while everyone continued losing their minds around you.

Your veil had long since disappeared.

Nobody knew where it went.

Juice had somehow acquired wedding cake despite there being no wedding cake present.

Chibs was taking bets on how long it would take before Gemma found out.

And through all of it—

Jax couldn't stop looking at you.

Every time you glanced up, his eyes were already there.

Following you.

Watching you.

Like he still couldn't believe you'd actually come with him.

Like he was worried you'd disappear if he looked away too long.

Eventually you caught him staring again.

A soft smile pulled at your mouth.

"What?"

His expression softened.

"Nothin'."

"Liar."

A slow grin appeared.

"You really came."

The simplicity of the statement hit harder than it should have.

Because beneath it was something vulnerable.

Something scared.

A fear he'd been carrying all day.

The possibility you'd say no.

The possibility he'd lose you again.

You reached for his hand.

Immediately.

Without thinking.

His fingers closed around yours.

"I came."

The tension left his shoulders instantly.

And suddenly he looked years younger.

Lighter.

Like a man who'd finally stopped carrying something heavy.

Hours later the clubhouse finally began settling down.

People drifted away.

Conversations quieted.

The chaos faded.

Until eventually only a handful of members remained.

And somehow you found yourself upstairs.

Standing inside Jax's room.

Alone together for the first time all day.

Silence settled between you.

Comfortable.

Warm.

Real.

The distant sounds of the clubhouse drifted through the floorboards.

You stared at yourself in the mirror.

The dress suddenly felt absurd.

A relic from another life.

Another future.

One that no longer existed.

Jax appeared behind you.

His reflection meeting yours.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then he reached up carefully.

Slowly.

Giving you every opportunity to stop him.

His fingers found the zipper at the back of the gown.

Your breath caught.

Not from nervousness.

From emotion.

Because this wasn't about seduction.

Wasn't about anything physical.

It felt symbolic somehow.

Like shedding the last piece of a life you'd almost chosen.

His voice was quiet.

"You okay?"

You met his eyes in the mirror.

And smiled.

A real smile.

One you hadn't worn all day.

"Yeah."

The zipper slid down.

The tension in your chest seemed to unravel with it.

Slowly.

Gently.

Patiently.

Jax helped you out of the dress.

No rush.

No pressure.

Just careful hands and soft eyes.

When the gown finally pooled around your feet, both of you looked down at it.

The white fabric spread across the floor.

Beautiful.

And no longer yours.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Then Jax disappeared toward a dresser.

He returned holding a black shirt.

One of his.

Soft from years of wear.

Smelling faintly of laundry detergent, leather, and him.

Your heart squeezed.

"Here."

You took it.

Something about that simple gesture nearly made you cry.

Because after the insanity of the day—

after the church—

after the motorcycle—

after running away—

this felt strangely intimate.

Not the dress coming off.

The shirt.

The fact that he wanted you comfortable.

Wanted you to feel at home.

Wanted you to have something that belonged to him.

You pulled it on.

The fabric swallowed you immediately.

Falling to mid-thigh.

The sleeves far too long.

You looked down at yourself.

Then up at him.

Jax froze.

Completely.

His expression becoming almost comically lovestruck.

You started laughing.

"What?"

His hand covered his mouth.

"Oh, that's dangerous."

"What is?"

"You wearing my clothes."

You rolled your eyes.

His grin widened.

"You look perfect."

The compliment was so sincere it made your chest ache.

You walked toward him.

Slowly.

Until there was no space left between you.

Then rested your forehead against his.

The room was quiet.

The world was quiet.

For the first time all day, everything felt still.

Jax's arms wrapped around you carefully.

Like he was holding something precious.

Something he'd gotten back after believing it was gone forever.

"I love you," he murmured.

The words were simple.

No grand speech.

No dramatic declaration.

Just truth.

Steady and certain.

You closed your eyes.

And smiled.

"I love you too."

His arms tightened instantly.

Your second mistake had been staying.

“C’mon,” Jax had said, waving a beer in your direction. “You bring homemade food, you’re obligated to hang around.”

“Pretty sure that’s not a law.”

“It is here.”

And unfortunately, everyone in SAMCRO had decided they liked you.

So suddenly you were trapped between loud bikers playing cards and arguing over bullshit while someone shoved a drink into your hand.

The clubhouse was packed wall-to-wall that night.

Every chair occupied.

Every couch crowded.

You stood awkwardly near the bar trying not to look uncomfortable about having nowhere to sit.

That was when Juice looked up from where he sat in one of the armchairs near the pool table.

“Hey,” he called over the noise. “You can sit here.”

You blinked. “Where?”

He patted his thigh casually.

Your face heated instantly.

The guys around him immediately started making sounds like a pack of hyenas.

“Oooooh.”

“Ortiz got game.”

“Little quick there, brother.”

Juice looked horrified almost immediately after saying it.

“No—I mean—shit, not like that,” he stammered. “I just meant there’s no chairs and—fuck, that sounded weird.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Because he looked genuinely panicked.

And because Juice Ortiz was kind.

Dangerous, sure. A biker. A criminal. A man with tattoos and scars and a gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

But kind.

You’d noticed that immediately.

“You sure?” you asked.

He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

The room waited.

You hesitated only a second before carefully lowering yourself onto his lap.

The second your weight settled against him, Juice stopped breathing.

You felt it instantly.

How rigid he went.

How his hands hovered awkwardly at his sides like he had no idea where to put them.

The guys burst into immediate laughter.

“Oh, he’s SWEATIN’.”

“Juice about to pass out.”

“Someone get this man a cigarette.”

“Shut up,” Juice muttered, ears bright red.

You tried not to laugh as you adjusted carefully, hyperaware of the warmth of him beneath you. He was solid. Warm. One arm of the chair wrapped around both of you, forcing you closer than expected.

“This okay?” you asked softly.

Juice looked at you like you’d asked whether he wanted oxygen.

“Yeah,” he croaked.

It should’ve ended there.

One awkward moment.

One crowded night.

Instead, somehow, it became a thing.

The next week, the clubhouse was crowded again.

You walked in carrying takeout containers and immediately saw there were no open seats.

Juice looked up from the couch.

You looked at him.

He looked at his lap.

Everyone around him started grinning.

“Oh no,” Tig said immediately. “Not again.”

You laughed.

Juice looked simultaneously hopeful and terrified.

So you walked over and sat on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The cheering was deafening.

Juice nearly choked on his beer.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered while everyone lost their minds around him.

But this time?

His arm settled around your waist automatically.

Like instinct.

Like it belonged there.

And honestly, that should’ve been your warning sign.

After that, it just… kept happening.

At first only when seats were full.

Then when there were technically seats available, but they were far away from Juice.

Then eventually because it felt strange not to.

Nobody ever acknowledged when the habit officially formed.

One day you just walked into the clubhouse, saw Juice sitting alone in a chair, and immediately crossed the room to climb into his lap without a word.

Like muscle memory.

Like home.

The silence that followed was catastrophic.

Every biker in the room stared.

Juice froze mid-sentence.

You blinked around at everyone. “What?”

Chibs grinned around a cigarette. “Nothin’. This is adorable.”

“It is NOT adorable,” Juice snapped instantly.

You tilted your head up at him. “You want me to move?”

His answer came so fast it almost overlapped your question.

“No.”

The room exploded.

“OH MY GOD.”

“He said it so fast!”

“Brother starving.”

Juice buried his face in his hands while you laughed hard enough your shoulders shook against his chest.

That became dangerous too.

Because Juice started associating your laughter with warmth.

With your body leaning into his.

With your head tucked beneath his chin while everyone around you blurred into background noise.

And God help him, he was already too far gone.

By month three, sitting in Juice’s lap had become completely normal to both of you.

Normal enough that you didn’t even think before doing it.

Normal enough that his hands automatically found your waist.

Normal enough that you leaned back against his chest during movie nights.

Normal enough that sometimes he’d absentmindedly rub circles into your hip while talking to the guys.

That one nearly killed him the first time he realized he was doing it.

You hadn’t seemed to mind though.

If anything, you’d leaned closer.

Which made everything so much worse.

Because Juice was hopelessly, painfully in love with you.

And you apparently had no idea.

“You gotta tell her eventually.”

Juice glanced up from cleaning a gun in the garage office.

Jax leaned against the doorway watching him with the exhausted expression of a man witnessing another man destroy himself slowly.

“Tell who what?”

Jax stared.

“Really?”

Juice went back to cleaning.

“There’s nothin’ to tell.”

Jax barked out a laugh. “Brother, she sits in your lap like she pays rent there.”

“That don’t mean anything.”

“She literally played with your hair for twenty minutes yesterday.”

Juice’s hands stopped moving.

Because yeah.

You had.

Absentmindedly.

While listening to Tig tell some insane story, your fingers had started brushing through the limited hair at the nape of Juice’s neck.

Juice had nearly fucking ascended.

“She’s affectionate with everybody,” he muttered weakly.

Jax looked unconvinced. “Not like that.”

Juice didn’t answer.

Because if he admitted the truth out loud, he might actually lose his mind.

The truth being:

Every time you sat on his lap, he had to actively remember how to function.

Every time you smiled at him, his stomach flipped.

Every time you curled against his chest during late nights at the clubhouse, he imagined what it would feel like if you were actually his.

And every single time another man flirted with you, something ugly and possessive twisted in his ribs.

He was in so deep it was embarrassing.

The worst part was how comfortable you were with him.

Trusting.

Careless in a way people only became when they felt safe.

You’d steal bites from his plate.

Wear his hoodies when you got cold.

Fall asleep against him during long nights at the clubhouse.

Once, during a movie marathon, you’d climbed into his lap half-awake and mumbled, “You’re comfy.”

Comfy.

Juice had stared at the ceiling for two straight hours afterward.

Because what the fuck was he supposed to do with that?

The breaking point came on a rainy Tuesday night.

Most of the guys were out handling club business, leaving the clubhouse quieter than usual.

You and Juice sat alone on the couch watching some terrible reality show while rain hammered against the windows.

As usual, you sat curled in his lap beneath a blanket.

At some point your fingers found his tattooed forearm, tracing patterns absentmindedly while you watched TV.

Juice wasn’t paying attention to the television at all.

He was paying attention to you.

To your legs draped over his.

To the scent of your shampoo.

To the warmth of your back against his chest.

To the fact that he was absolutely, catastrophically in love with you.

And then—

Without thinking—

You tilted your head back against his shoulder and kissed his jaw.

Soft.

Absentminded.

Affectionate.

Like it was natural.

Juice stopped breathing.

You froze too.

The room went dead silent except for the rain.

Slowly, you looked up at him.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Juice’s heart slammed violently against his ribs.

Because suddenly you looked panicked.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, starting to move. “I didn’t even think, I just—”

His arm tightened around your waist instinctively.

“Don’t move.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

Juice swallowed hard.

“You kissed me.”

Your face turned pink immediately. “I know.”

“Why?”

The question came out rougher than intended.

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then laughed nervously.

“Honestly?”

“Please.”

Your fingers tightened slightly against his arm.

“Because somewhere along the line,” you admitted softly, “this started feeling less like sitting in a friend’s lap and more like…” You trailed off.

Juice’s pulse thundered.

“More like what?”

Your eyes met his.

“Like being where I belong.”

Fuck.

Actually fuck.

Juice kissed you before he could think better of it.

One hand cupped your jaw while the other held your waist tight enough to keep you close but gentle enough not to scare you. His lips crashed against yours with months of restrained longing behind them.

You made the softest startled sound before immediately kissing him back.

And that—

That nearly destroyed him.

Because you kissed him like you’d wanted this too.

Like every lingering touch and every shared glance and every moment curled in his lap had been leading here.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.

You stared at each other for a second.

Then burst into laughter simultaneously.

“We are so stupid,” you said.

Juice grinned helplessly. “Yeah.”

“How long have you been in love with me?”

His eyes widened. “Whoa, that’s a crazy sentence.”

“Juice.”

He groaned dramatically, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. “Since, like… the third lap sit.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell off him.

“THE THIRD?”

“You played with my hair! That’s intimate!”

“It is not!”

“It IS for me!”

Still laughing, you kissed him again.

Softer this time.

Certain.

And when the clubhouse doors opened an hour later to reveal the rest of SAMCRO returning home, they found you exactly where everyone secretly knew you belonged:

Curled in Juice Ortiz’s lap.

Only now his mouth was swollen pink from kissing you.

Your fingers rested around his neck.

And the look on his face when he glanced at you—

Completely gone.

Tig took one look and groaned loudly.

“Oh, I am NEVER hearing the end of this.”

Happy smirked. “Called it months ago.”

Jax just shook his head. “Bout damn time.”

Juice flipped them off without even looking away from you.

You smiled against his mouth as he kissed you again.

Non other than Cole motherfuckin Hauser