–

The next few months of missing Ryland have been slow, yet so fast. Time proves itself to you the way it did when he left, painful and with no explanation. You remember checking the clock when you left on Thursday–it was 9am. Now it’s Sunday, 6pm. 

But sometimes, it almost feels like February 13th, and in those days, there is a slither of hope that he’d come running home to you.

It never happens.

It’s quiet in your apartment, save for the sound of the rain that seemed a little louder in the living room, and the distant radio you’d left on in hopes it would fill in the gaps of silence. You think quiet is something you should be familiar with, but you can’t seem to escape the strangeness of how certain sounds can be so deeply missed–footsteps padding to pick you up, the scratch of a pen, the rustling of papers, the clicking of a laptop, and the mumbling under his breath. 

The only other sound accompanying the rain now is your stifled sobbing, trying not to be loud, trying not to be deafening–as if volume has something to do with taking away the pain. 

You crave to be released from the world that was once Ryland’s too. Now he’s fallen out of it, and you’re stuck mourning someone you’re not sure is dead or alive, or is coming back to you. You’re stuck pleading the dimming sun for answers, for reasons why. You futilely ask if somewhere, in a place between Earth and wherever he was headed, he feels the same weight of a heart coming down with pain, your pain.

You don’t think you can take the quiet anymore. His silence is deafening. The apartment used to be brilliant, used to contain his constellations of ideas. Now, it was a grave of buried hopes and buried conversations that you will never have with him.

To satiate the silence, you call the only number you know. The only other person who bears the same weight of unanswered questions when Ryland left, the same pain. His twin brother.

And maybe Colt shouldn’t have been surprised. This isn’t something he isn’t used to–your number, calling at odd hours of the day. And like routine, he drops anything he’s doing so he can accompany you. That’s the least he can do for his brother.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

There’s something very sad and lonely in the air when Colt enters what was once your shared apartment with Ryland. You’d given him your spare keys when news broke of Ryland in space, and his twin brother has been trying his best to take care of you, to pick up the pieces that Ryland had left without warning.

“(Name)?” 

Colt hears you before he sees you, quiet sniffling leading him to the living room. 

You’re anchored on the seat by the window, staring dimly at the harsh patter of the rain with your back hunched over. Your leg is folded, chin on your knee, and you don’t notice how drenched the poor man is beside you, braving through the rain because of one call from you. 

He notices the traces of tears on your cheeks, like you’d been crying for hours. He ponders over leaving you alone—maybe he could sit quietly on the couch, waiting until you addressed him, or maybe he should talk to you. 

The pour of the rain is punctuated by the sound of the radio, and a familiar tune plays on the radio. 

An idea pops in his head. 

Colt walks over to where you’re seated, standing there, staring at your hands. There is a hesitation in his breath, in the way he moves to outstretch his hand towards you. 

You move to look at him, and the sight of him shocks you every single time.

He looks exactly like Ryland, the same expressive brows, the same blonde hair falling untidily across his forehead. Even his eyes. His eyes that are currently fixed on your face and on your hands are the same color–blue and brilliant.

There’s a stirring in your chest that parallels heartache. 

Colt still has his hand outstretched, and you’re not sure what he wants to do. Your eyes are still red and swollen from crying, and you’re sure your nose is in a similar state.

You look at him with a questioning look, but he just gestures at his hand. You comply with your own, and almost instantly, he closes his fingers around yours. 

The shape is familiar, the same broad palms, the same nails. But his hands are rough and scarred where Ryland's would've been a little smoother. Calloused from years of stunt work and hard landings. There are tiny scars scattered across his knuckles. Evidence of a life entirely his own.

You try hard not to think about it, flattening the thought before it can grow teeth.

Before you can ask what he's doing, he's pulling you toward him. Not close enough to be alarming. There’s still a good gap between you both, just enough for you to feel the most human you’ve felt in a while.

You don't realize you're moving until you are.

Colt sways the pair of you gently to the music, just a little off-beat. His movements are uncoordinated, and he’s swinging your intertwined hands back and forth. You’re not sure he’s done this before, and in this light, he looks nothing like Ryland. Just Colt, a stranger turned friend trying to make you smile. 

“You’re bad at this.” You whisper.

“I know.” 

Before you can stop him, he’s spinning you beneath his arm. The suddenness allows a startled laugh to escape from your mouth, and the sound surprises the both of you. It only encourages him. 

He has spent months trying to drag sunlight back into a room and has finally managed a single ray. A silver lining.

You and Colt dance in the living room, cheeks nipped crimson by the sandpaper winds of the rain and the cold summer, and your feet stumble against his, and he nearly trips over his own feet, and you've danced through almost the entirety of the space of your apartment, and you’re not quite sure he should be leading, but he doesn’t seem to be backing down.

Because that’s just who Colt is. He has always thrown himself into extreme situations, thrown himself into danger, into sadness, and he commits to it completely. He is someone who is not afraid of anything, the same person who keeps you grounded with his cheap clothes and messy hair, and a deep caring you never asked for but need.

Colt takes another step toward you before spinning away again, under your arms, you under his, and his timing is so fucking awful, and at one point he almost crashes into your dining table, but he never once lets go of your hands. 

You didn’t know until now how much you needed a moment like this. The both of you. A moment that felt sweet, that finally allowed a few minutes of rest. A comfort that momentarily interrupts the sadness that is bound to seep its way in again in a few hours. 

For a second, grief loosens its grip.

You’re swaying now, left and right and left and right and your fingers are still tangled together, and the song is dying down, but neither of you make an effort to speak. You simply look at each other, letting the memories of the past few months pass. There is a ghost of a smile brushing on both of your lips.

There is something strangely intimate about this moment, about being seen when you are grieving. You’d never told him, but you’d seen him too, crying when he thought no one was looking. You’d heard him mumble a prayer, a plea to bring his brother back home. Similarly, Colt’s seen it all–the continuous calling, the sleepless nights, the way your eyes always seem to wander, always searching the sky. 

He knows enough to memorize the shape of your sadness, knows enough to know where it lives. And he’s trying so desperately to keep the both of you afloat.

“I’m sorry for calling you,” you say suddenly. “You really don’t have to come all the time whenever I do.”

Colt’s features immediately soften at your sudden confession.

“I just…” You swallow. Your throat feels dry. It feels hard to speak. “I don’t know. It’s a little easier with you here.”

His heart drops to his stomach. “I’ll always come.” Colt says, and it sounds dangerously sincere. And he’s looking at you a certain way. Like he wants you to really listen to what he’s about to say. “I’d do anything if you asked.” 

You hate that he’s being so kind, and you hate the way your heart flutters at his words. You don’t want to think about what that means, what he means. 

The distance between the both of you suddenly feels important. Necessary. A safety buffer from a line neither of you are supposed to cross. 

You shift your weight from side to side, shuffling your feet, and you feel his hands squeeze yours. You almost wish he could be a little closer, but you know if he were, you’d feel suffocated with the pressure of guilt, or from something else entirely. You’re not so sure anymore.

And just as easy as this moment had come to you, pain rushes in again, relentless in its pursuit.

Ryland and Colt are not the same people. 

Colt was not the boy you had lost to the stars.

You know this. You have always known this. Yet some selfish, grieving part of you keeps searching, trying to find traces of the man you lost, trying to gather pieces of him in the person who looks exactly like him, but just isn’t him.

You selfishly imagined him in every moment with his brother, imagined dancing with him, imagined looking into his eyes instead. And you’re unknowingly breaking Colt as you search to remember Ryland. 

You had broken into his walls, shattered them down, tried to steal Ryland’s likeness, and Colt let it all happen. He stands there, answering every phone call, staying awake with you through nights when sleep feels impossible, and he watches you search his face for someone else. 

And he sees the devastation in your eyes, when you realize that he didn’t have Ryland’s habits, his light, his entire being. You loved a man among the stars, not the one grounded on Earth. And yet he still tries to make you smile, and every time you do, he’s unsure if it’s genuine or because you’d imagined giving it to someone else–and it fucking hurts. 

It hurts because somewhere along the way, he stopped seeing you as his brother’s girlfriend, stopped seeing you as an obligation. And he feels guilty because he knows it’s wrong, but he can’t stop himself from wanting. There is nothing moral about falling in love with the woman his brother left behind, but he can’t seem to stop himself. 

And he tries so hard to convince himself he’s only seeking you because you are the closest thing he has left of his twin. You are the last thing his brother loved. Colt tells himself that often–a repeated prayer, a continuous and painful reminder that you are not his. It’s just grief reaching for grief. Loss recognizing loss.

Nothing more. 

Nothing more.

Nothing more.

And yet, he will still pick up your calls in a heartbeat, and do anything you asked him to. And he will keep letting you because he loves his brother, and he misses him too, and you remind him of a time when he was still a twin.

Outside, a deep black blankets the sky. The stars start to scatter themselves across the sky, and Colt sees the familiar distant look in your eyes, the wandering gaze to the skies, searching for the man that neither of you can reach.

"morning, baby," you call, placing your bag by the doorway to pick it up on your way out, "i made you some turmeric tea," you pour the now boiling water in the kettle to the thermos containing said tea concoction, "i promise it tastes nowhere near as bad as you think it does! in fact it's really good for digestion, which you really need to supplement considering how inconsistently you eat. i'll have you know, i got colt's number and i will snitch on you if you keep skipping meals — and no, popping a handful of almonds in your mouth does not count as one."

a beat of silence passes, and you worry he might've fallen asleep on his cup of coffee. approaching him from behind, gently cupping his chin in your palm, you lift his face up so you can press a soft kiss on his cheek.

.... funny. did he forget to shave? his beard scratches your lips moreso than usual.

pulling back to ask, rather, tease him about it, you're met with the wide eyes of... not your boyfriend.

"oh my god!!" both your hands fly to your face to cover your mouth, the fact that you let go of your thermos not even registering, "colt?! i'm so sorry—!!"

colt's hand juts out the moment you let go of the thermos, effortlessly grabbing it and putting it on the table without even breaking eye contact, a stupefied, silly grin on his face.

"all good," he wheezes, though it does nothing for the mortification swallowing you whole.

"i didn't realise you spent the night—" you spit the words out at light speed. you weren't even expecting him to be around, thinking he's left the night before.

colt nods with understanding, supplying; "you did go to sleep before we did..." though you don't even register the words, wildly gesturing around, and not even prostrating yourself feels good enough for an apology.

"the cardigan, i though you were ryland—!!"

"all good, sweetheart," colt repeats, waves you off with a smile and a thumbs up, "i thought ry was behind you or something, didn't realise you were talkin' to me." then, shrugging, "then again, you thought you were talking to ry, and my back was turned while wearing his goofy fox cardigan, so." he pats your shoulder reassuringly, "not exactly how i envision starting my morning, but no harm done."

"still—"

"you're gonna be lateee," he drawls, chuckling at the situation still, "go. i'll make sure he gets the tea and drinks it." he places your thermos back in your hands, shooing you to the door. "call me any time he gives you trouble, especially regarding taking care of himself. he's been like that since his academia days, as if pushing the human limits of sleep deprivation and lack of proper nutrition itself was an academic accomplishment. i can hold him down while you feed him something proper."

"thanks," your murmur, hurriedly wearing your shoes, scrambling to get your bag, "thank you. sorry again—"

"stop acting like you stabbed me half to death! t'was nothing, now shoo!"

patting down your pockets for your keys, you nod, giving him an awkward wave before setting off.

"..... hey, stuntman. why the fudge are you shooing my girlfriend out of our apartment?" ryland is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, squinting at his twin, and not just from having been woken up from his peaceful sleep.

"gracie, ry, my bestest little bro! ok, so, funny thing—"

.✦ ݁˖ ryland grace

waking up to an empty bed is nothing new when colt is in shooting season.

unfortunately, you senses aren't so keen as to tell apart the half-awake midnight kisses coming from a half-awake burst of affection from the good morning or have a good day kisses he places on your skin when he has to leave before your alarm is not even close to going off.

slamming your hand against his pillow, you're kind of mad his face is not here in the first place. fisting the memory foam like a stress ball, you pull it towards yourself, if only to get a whiff of his shampoo before it fades completely.

you should get up. rolling around in bed feels less meaningful when your limbs aren't tangled with his.

getting yourself a good, warm beverage should help lift your mood a little. you can even stare wistfully out of the window like a victorian woman waiting for her husband to return from the war while you take tiny sips.

one step into the kitchen, one step out. you lean back on your heels, stretching your head to get a better look at the figure standing in the middle of the room.

so you managed to catch colt before he left, after all! what's next, the tooth fairy being real? your somber mood instantly vanishes.

he's wearing one of his beaten, stretched out shirts, the colour dull from having been thrown in the wash haphazardly many times, regardless of whether it was a load of colours or not.

there's the silhouette of the massage device he uses for physical therapy under the shirt, moving the fabric ever so slightly while vibrating. the sight itself is nothing special, colt uses it all the time, but the way he takes care of himself even when you're not looking makes you happy in a way that you don't have to worry as much.

it's not like you can help it, though. he does look a bit smaller compared to what you're used to. is it for the new role? what kind of a character was ryder playing again? you can't really imagine that manchild put in any kind of effort to shape his body according to a role, since he's used to everything being catered to him instead.

colt takes the remote and stops the massager just as you draw near, hand reaching behind to remove it, though you're faster; and it's resting on the coffee table within seconds, finally allowing you to wrap your hands around his torso, burying your face in his neck—

with a startled squawk, he flinches violently in your arms.

for a second, your heart lurches to your throat, thinking you've hurt him somehow.

"did i hurt you, honey?" grip loosening, you try to mask the devastated look before you lean forward, "are you okay?"

.... a pair of wire rim glasses sit crooked under his jaw.

"holy shit—!!" the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, "ohmigosh, ryland!! i'm so sorry—"

said twin raises a hand to pacify you like you're some kind of pterodactyl as he doubles over with muted coughs, likely choking on his spit from the sudden inhale, and it works, funnily enough.

"'sskay," he chokes, and you can do nothing but purse your lips as you pat his back from a safe distance away, heat creeping up your face from embarrassment. "...gimme'inute—"

".... uh, does he need cpr or something?"

colt stands on the doorway, sweatpants loosely hanging on his waist, a damp compression shirt sticking to his skin.

... oh. he was probably doing his morning workout.

it's also funny how his first reaction seeing his brother choking is stand where he is and point at him. makes you wonder if this kind of thing happened a lot in their childhood for him to be so unbothered.

"nnough—" ryland protests, swatting at colt's direction sharply, face as red as yours probably from the lack of air, shaking with laughter.

"wanna fill me in on what's going on?" colt turns his attention to you, thoroughly entertained even without the context.

closing your eyes in surrender, you open your mouth to explain, though ryland beats you to it.

"i'm the favourite twin in all universes," he smirks, having pulled himself together enough to stand upright.

colt plays along, clutching his pearls, though ryland doesn't let you suffer long.

"i was trying your massager for my back, the one you said would help with the tension," he takes off his glasses which were barely hanging onto his face by a thread, and places them on top of his head instead. anywhere but his eyes, apparently. "she thought i was you and greeted me as such, that's all."

"that's such an amateur mistake, baby," colt coos, eyes crinkling with mirth, "were you so sleep deprived that you gave my brother good morning privileges before me?"

"i just hugged him!!" you whine, crossing your arms, "i was even worried your back was acting up, or you lost weight because of ryder or something—"

colt is quick to take on the opportunity and point an accusatory finger at his brother, "hah, scrawny!"

"You couldn't be any more welcoming this early in the morning, could you?" Colt scoffs, rolling his eyes before slumping back into the chair. She comes to a pause next to him and ruffles his bedhead. "No way. Not when I have to be up at the same time as you."

She turns to the vanity in front of them and starts pulling out the basics. Colt can see the foundation and setting powder. Her little, little sponges that are green and blue. The purple silicone one always makes him nervous. She has yet to use that one on him.

"I believe it's just Standard #4 today, right?" she asks, "Just like yesterday?" He stifles another yawn and nods. "Yeah. It's a reshoot for yesterday because they didn't like how the shot turned out. Whatever. Hopefully I don't have to sit in this chair for hours today."

She glances over at the stuntman and raises an eyebrow. "It's hard work making you look pretty, you know." Colt can't stop the chuckle that escapes his lips and he tilts his head, "Awe, you think I'm pretty?" She claps a hand over the back of his skull without looking and he snickers.

"I think you're a little shit who needs to find a girlfriend to keep him company," she says as she pulls out a hairdryer and styling products. She leaves those off to the side. Her words slap Colt awake and he pouts a little as a pit forms in his stomach.

There's nothing smart to say in response to that. She was right.

The makeup artist gets to work on him. She slips a fluffy blue headband on Colt's head to hold the hair out of his eyes. He actually kind of likes it... it's soft and fuzzy. Comforting. It's quiet for a while as she goes through her basic makeup routine on him. It's an early call time and neither of them usually talks until they get through their first drinks of the morning.

Colt typically goes for a strong coffee, she always drinks hot chocolate.

After about 15 minutes, Colt finally gets the courage to speak up. "Do you really think I'm ready for one?" She pauses from where she's cracking open an eyeshadow palette and glances over at him, confusion on her face. "What do you mean?" she asks with the tilt of her head.

He swallows and looks down at his coffee, swirling the hot java around for a moment. "Do you really think I'm ready for a girlfriend?" Colt asks quietly. He hates how his voice has that little trill in it on that last word.

Girlfriend.

A look of recognition floats across the blonde's face and she gives him a sad smile. "I do, Colt," she replies, looking back at her palette before dipping a brush into a skin toned color. "I think you've been ready. But instead of doing something about it, you sit in my chair and poke fun at me."

That makes Colt smile a little. She's once again right. He does like to tease her. She just makes it too easy.

"Evelyn, you just make it so simple for me," Colt banters back. "You get all riled up over the little things. It's fun!" Evelyn gives him a look with a raised brow and she replies, "And I think you have extra energy you need to spend on getting a girlfriend. Or hell, go get laid for a night. It would be good for you."

That makes Colt's face warm. It's been... a while. And it must be pretty evident.

Evelyn takes a deep breath and then sighs, lowering her brush. "Colt, I only mean to say that I think you've moved on," she says gently. "It's been a few years since Jody. You're allowed to meet new people." She tries to give him a smile and nudges one of his shoulders. "I've got a friend who you might like, you know."

Colt gives her a look.

She gives him a look back.

"Really?" He huffs. "A friend? We're really going to do this at..." He glances at the clock on the vanity, "4:23 in the morning?"

Evelyn shrugs one shoulder and gets back to work on Colt's makeup for today's shoot. "It's either now when I have you trapped in my chair or in front of every other coworker you know," she hums out with a smile. "I figured you'd prefer this conversation in good company."

The stuntman can't help but jam his hand out to her waist and tickle at her side with a grumble. She squeaks and drops her brush, giggling and huffing out, "Colt! I could have messed up, you jerkwad!"

A smirk spreads on Colt's mouth and he replies, "But you didn't. And you won't. Because I'd rather talk about your love interests, huh? Come on, what ever happened with that one guy you were talking to? What was his name? Courts? Courtney? Courtaland? Courtataland? Come on, tell me!"

Evelyn straightens up from grabbing her brush, grows sheepish, and sets it off to the side. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't even look at Colt.

"Awe come on, Eves," he prompts, poking at her with his boot. "Come on, you know you can tell me. You were so excited for that date with him! He was taking out out axe throwing, right? You love shit like that." She just shakes her head side to side adamantly and furiously opens and closes a few more palettes to distract herself.

"I think I'm in over my head," she admits after a flustered moment of silence and gives Colt a tight-lipped smile after. That says everything. She's overthinking.

"Evelyn," the stuntman says softer now. He can feel his whole body sink into the makeup chair while his heart squeezes in his chest. "I bet you're overanalyzing everything. You do that, you know. You overthink even when things are going just fine. From what you told me before, he seems pretty laid back and patient. And knowing you, you probably whooped his ass at something he's good at."

Not even that seems to get her to smile.

Her mouth pulls to the side in thought and her blue eyes grow a little cloudy. "Yeah, maybe," she whispers. He doesn't poke after that. She's obviously trying to think about it all and he doesn't want to meddle too much. Instead, Colt sits quietly in her chair and mulls over her offer.

I've got a friend you might like.

-

Colt swipes his thumb across the screen of his phone with an aggravated sigh. Nope. Nope. Definitely not. What am I even looking at? Is she eating sushi? Oh gosh, I can't. Nope.

His phone is promptly chucked to the side of the bed with the dating app still open as he rolls onto his back. A heavy sigh falls from his lips and he rubs at his face. It's only 3 o'clock in the afternoon but he was up early today. Might as well get some sleep while he can, right?

Wrong.

It's been a few days since that conversation with Evelyn where she trapped him in her chair. As much as the stuntman doesn't want to, he can't stop thinking about who this person might be that he could get along with.

It's dumb, really. He knows shouldn't be chasing after girls right now. He needs to stay focused on his career, especially after the shit show that was breaking up with Tom as his stunt double. He's opted to work for himself after that. Single movie contracts, not for specific actors. He needs to keep focusing on that.

Do you really like working free lance, though? The answer comes quickly. No. I don't. But it's either this or working for someone like Tom again. And I can't do that.

Colt tugs the covers up over his lap and up to his chin with a great big sigh. He shuts his eyes and tries to get some rest... that consists of him tossing and turning and unable to get comfortable despite being so tired.

He opens his eyes and stares at the roof of his trailer with a frustrated groan after a half hour of fruitless sleep.

Fuck.

He slowly turns his head to the side to look at his discarded phone.

No, Colt.

He turns back to the ceiling. His eyes trace over the fan above him as he considers his options.

It's not worth it. You don't need distractions.

He glances back at his phone and lets his gaze linger on it.

But a name wouldn't hurt, right?

He grunts with annoyance and looks back at the ceiling.

Don't fucking do it. You'll get your heart broken again. Remember how bad that was?

He can't help but look back at the phone.

But maybe this one is the one.

His heart can't deny that thought.

Colt grabs the phone.

-

The oxygen leaves the stuntman's lungs as he falls hard onto his back. There's an explosion of gray chunks above him, but all he can do is lay there as they whiz through the air and land near his head. His chest burns and he's a little dizzy.

"And cut! That's a pause for now, folks. Nice job, Colt, we got it! Go get fixed up by hair and makeup so we can shoot the hand to hand fight next."

Colt lifts a hand into the air, shaping it into a thumbs up. The director disappears after a moment but he lies there on the padded mat for a moment while catching his breath. He can hear the shuffling of the rest of the crew but pays them no attention for a moment while sucking in a big gulp of air.

The stunt coordinator comes over to him and offers his hand. "That was sick, man," he tells Colt with a growing smile. "Only you can fall out of buildings like you've been doing it your whole life. It's pretty wicked, dude."

Colt groans and reaches forward to take his hand. The pain is starting to subside a little now. "I have been doing it my whole life." Dan just brushes a fake piece of rubble off Colt's jacket and pulls the stuntman to his feet saying, "Well, you make it look easy!"

Colt can't help but roll his eyes playfully at that. Thanks, Dan. He sees the look and gives the stuntman a double take. "Woah, woah, woah, woah. Hold on, hold on," he says as he grabs Colt's shoulders, squaring up to face him with a quizzical look. "No questioning why I didn't berate you with a movie quote?"

A quick glance at the ground as Colt shakes out his stinging arms is Dan's response. Dan's eyes grow wide and he takes a deep breath. "Oh no. Ohhhh, no no no, buddy, nuh uh. We're in the middle of shooting a movie. You can't be doing this. Not again."

Colt rubs at his face and then shrugs with a disgruntled look, "Do what?" Dan wiggles a finger around in his face with an unimpressed look. "You're doing the thing." Colt swats at his hand as the clean up crew moves in where they're standing to get the mat and set cleared up. "What thing?" He scowls back.

Dan drags Colt off to the side as a pout pulls on the stuntman's face. What is he getting at? He drags him around a couple of crew members to whom Colt offers soft apologies until he brings the two of them to a halt just outside one of the director's tents.

Dan gives him an even more unimpressed look before he crosses his arms over his chest. "You're doing the thing where you try to distract yourself with work because something is bothering you."

Oh.

Colt blinks.

Well, shit.

The stuntman rests his hands on his hips and looks down for a moment. His tongue juts into his cheek. It's quiet between the two of them for a moment because Dan figured him out faster than Colt thought he would.

"I am not."

"Yes, yes you are."

"Am not."

"Colt, yes, you are!"

"Am not!"

"Colt!"

Colt takes a deep breath and looks anywhere but at Dan as he shuffles on his feet uncomfortably. He can feel Dan's eyes piercing into him. It's like he's trying to look into his soul or something. It's unnerving. A pit is broiling in the stuntman's stomach and it makes him want to vomit.

"I'm not," he says softly after a minute, turning his eyes to the ground.

Dan takes a breath of his own before sighing it out. "Colt, I know you. Something is bothering you. Admitting it to yourself is the best way to get back to normal, man. What is it?"

Dan caught him there. He does know Colt. And Colt knows him.

Colt knows he's right.

It's his turn to sigh now. The stuntman throws a hand up and motions to the makeup trailers. "I need to go get fixed up for the next scene." Dan shakes his head and huffs, "You've got a few hours until they get things ready and you know it. Spit it out."

Colt clenches his jaw and looks away from Dan. Again, he's right.

It's quiet for another few seconds. The only sounds that can be heard are the calls of the clean up crew to one another and the sound of a side-by-side getting loaded up with junk.

"Evelyn told me there's a friend of hers she thinks I would like," he eventually grumbles out. He kicks a piece of debris away with his foot and sighs heavily in defeat. "I... don't know what to do."

Dan's face softens a little before it grows knowing. "This is the first one, right?" he asks. "Since...?"

"Yeah," Colt murmurs back, glancing up at Dan finally. "I... haven't actually, you know. Tried. Just blown off some steam here and there." Dan nods in understanding. "Yeah, I get it, Colt. I do. But you can't let stuff like this rule you."

He reaches forward and grabs one of Colt's shoulders. "Think about it this way," he says, "You might always be Noah and be waiting for the girl you loved for years. Or, you can be like Lon and go out and get the girl."

Colt frowns and grumbles, "Easy. The Notebook, 2004. But Noah does get the girl. And Lon is the one who ends up alone."

Dan's face drops and his eyes snap shut before he pinches the bridge of his nose. "What I'm trying to say - is you don't know how it's going to end up if you don't try. She might not be the one and you can move on with your life and get back to work."

He grabs Colt's second shoulder now. "Or," he says quietly, "She could be the one you've been waiting for since Jody. You don't know unless you try, Colt. And frankly, Evelyn has pretty good taste in friends. She's a good judge of character."

Colt nods a few times, reluctantly, but he does it. He doesn't have anything to say to that, but something Dan said intrigues him a little. It makes his head tilt while he steps away, beginning to lead the way to the makeup trailer. "On that note, did she say anything about that Courtney guy to you?"

-

It's late. When Colt finally left set and got headed back towards his trailer, he thinks his phone read 11:49? It's almost midnight. He's exhausted. It was a long day of shooting some pretty intense falls and his muscles are sore. A long, hot shower is just what he needs before he gets some hard-earned rest.

The stuntman clambers up the stairs to his trailer just as he hears the sound of his name being yelled from a distance. His shoulders droop and his head lulls forward. Really? Someone needs me now? Still, he turns over his shoulder to see who's asking for him.

It's hard to see this late in the evening - there's only one lamp post on this side of the lot and the sky is overcast and cloudy. But then he sees the long double braids and the reflection of glasses. It both makes him groan and smile.

"Colt! Wait!" Evelyn calls, jogging towards him now. The stuntman turns on his heel and slowly parades down the few steps of his trailer before flopping his ass onto the bottom step. Colt raises his brow at her curiously but makes room for her to join him.

She's panting, obviously a little winded, but he gives her the benefit of the doubt and lets her catch her breath. He watches the way she drinks in air with big gasps, the way her pink lips tug into a smile, and the softness in her eyes as she turns to face him.

Don't get him wrong, Evelyn is cute. She always has been. But... has just always been someone he could lean on when he needed a friend. He can't count the number of times she's ranted to him about the guys she talked to, was nervous to go on dates with, and the way it all blew up in her face. Colt wants nothing but the best for her in the way an older brother challenges his baby sister's first boyfriend.

"Colt," she eventually pants out before settling down next to him on the bottom step. Colt smirks and answers dryly, "That's my name. Don't wear it out." Evelyn immediately scowls and swats at him. He chuckles in response and then shrugs. "What's up? It's really late for you to be up, isn't it? Is everything alright?"

She nods her head once and sucks in a deep breath before she twists and pulls her phone out from her back pocket. "Yeah," she sighs, "Yeah, everything's alright. I just wanted to check on you." She taps and scrolls a few times until she finds what she's looking for.

She turns her phone to face the stuntman and points at the messages at the bottom of her screen.

Coldungus: What's her name?

Eves: If I tell you, you'll do an internet deep dive on her in your free time.

Evelyn taps at the message with her pointer finger and raises a brow curiously. "What's the deal with not responding to me, huh?" she asks gently. "You know I'm right, Colt. And it's not fair to her if you go in with preconceived notions."

Colt frowns at that. "Who the hell even told you I agreed to "go into this"?" He scoffs, his voice growing a little sharp. "All I wanted to know was her name."

Evelyn's face softens and she lowers her phone, glancing down at her lap for a moment of thought. Her gaze finds Colt's and she tries again, "Colt, all I'm suggesting you don't try to learn everything about her from an internet search-" "Stop!" he shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. "Just stop!"

Colt sucks in a tired, annoyed breath and rushes out, "Can you fucking leave my personal life alone?! Why do you have to go shoving your nose into my life, huh? Is yours really that boring?!"

Evelyn flinches next to him and her eyes grow wide with pure hurt. In the darkness of the night, her big blue eyes glitter with the sudden onset of tears.

He can't bring himself to look at her as his jaw clenches.

The air between them grows thick. Neither of them move for a second, and then she does. She pushes off the bottom step of his trailer and shoves her phone into her pocket with a loud, unmistakable sniffle. A tear rolls down her cheek and splashes onto the ground.

Evelyn just nods without looking at Colt and whispers out hoarsely, "Okay."

Without saying another word, she turns on her heel and begins back in the direction she appeared from. Her movements are stiff and jolty, and it only takes Colt half a second to realize her upper body is shaking. Holding back her sobs.

The muscles in his jaw flex as he watches her disappear into the dark of the night. He doesn't move. Steam is practically shooting out of his ears.

What is with these people and trying to get me to date again?! It's so fucking annoying. They just need to let me live my goddamn life and they need to live theirs.

He buries his face into his hands and rubs at his eyes. His head is thumping harder now than it was before. The stuntman sits on the step for a few minutes in the silence of the night. A few bugs chirp and sing, but that's about it. It's quiet.

Just when he's about to move to stand up and turn in for the evening, Colt's phone buzzes. Reluctantly he looks at it. It could be a text for call times tomorrow.

What he sees flash across his screen makes guilt form in his stomach and his heart sinks.

Eves: Y/n L/n.

-

It's been a few days since Colt blew up at Evelyn. He'd gone to bed that night fuming. It wasn't her fault. It really wasn't. She was trying to help and he took his frustrations out on her.

Thankfully no one has needed him for a day or two on set. Just some boring dialogue with the main actors, so he's had the last few days off to recover both physically and mentally. That latter one he's still working on.

Colt feels guilty. He does. Really guilty.

He knows Evelyn was trying to help. He really does. He just... doesn't know what to do about this whole situation. Him? Dating? He's barely given it a thought since Jody. He knows he needs to apologize to Evelyn at the very least.

But the name she sent him...

Colt hasn't done anything other than stare at it.

Y/n L/n.

Something tells him that if he looks the name up, Evelyn will have won either way. She wins because if Colt looks the name up, he does exactly what she expects him to and he's no better off. If he doesn't, he has to go to her to find out more information about her friend and she wins. It's a lose-lose situation for the stuntman.

To this girl's credit, though, Colt thinks it's a cute name. He doesn't recognize it, but he hopes she's just a normal person. She deserves to find a normal guy, whoever she is.

Hope? Colt asks himself. Why hope? Are you really going to go do this?

He doesn't answer himself, but deep down he knows what he's about to do.

He needs to apologize for being an asshole, and just because he wasn't needed on set today didn't mean Evelyn wasn't. As much as he would rather find her after work, there's no way to tell how fast she'd duck out of her trailer after being given the all clear to leave.

After a few minutes of trying to hype himself up as he walks down the row of trailers, Colt make it to hers. The makeup trailer. He lingers outside of it for a few minutes while trying to regain the courage to knock on the door. Come on, Colt. You can do this. Evelyn is your friend, you just fucked up. Don't be a jackass and you'll be okay. You hope.

He steels himself with a deep breath. It's time. He maneuvers up the stairs carefully and rests his hand on the latch to the door. The stuntman gently pushes the door open and slowly peeks inside. He can hear voices further inside - two that he recognizes and one that he doesn't.

There's a split second where Colt considers just backing up and leaving, but he stops. That's what a jackass would do. Whoever is in here, he can handle it. He's a big boy.

Colt pushes the door the whole way open and steps up and into the trailer.

Turns out, he cannot handle it.

His eyes immediately land on you - you who is sitting on the small couch directly in front of the door with a drink held in your hand. You've got the most stunning hair he's ever seen. He doesn't even know how to describe the beauty he's seeing in front of him.

Then it's like he's frozen in place.

The sharpest and sweetest (colored) eyes find his blue ones. He feels his chest suddenly grow tight. When did he stop breathing? He blinks once but those gorgeous eyes are still on him when he finds your figure again.

It's in that moment Colt doesn't realize he's let go of the door, and it swings back towards him. The hefty trailer door cracks the stuntman square in the chest from where he stands halfway in the entrance.

"Oof!" He grunts as whatever remaining air was in his lungs leaves. His hands jump up to fumble with the trailer door to push it open again. It's not nearly as smooth or graceful as the first time, and he can feel heat burning at his neck and the tips of his ears.

Those eyes are still on him.

Fuck.

Then, Colt hears those two familiar voices come to a pause and the owners of them turn to face him. "Colt?" He hears Evelyn's voice prompt first. It's quiet and confused... a little hurt, still. Just enough to remind him why he's there in the first place.

"Colt?" He hears the second familiar voice echo. The stuntman twists his head to the right to look deeper in the trailer, and there he spots the female lead for the movie sitting in Evelyn's chair. Ace Nehari. She's best friends with Evelyn. You'd think they're sisters with how similar they look and behave even though they aren't related.

Shit.

By the tone of Ace's voice, Colt can tell she knows about what happened the other day between him and the makeup artist. He glances between the two blondes and takes a deep breath. For some reason, his eyes drift back over to the woman he doesn't know.

And he sees your eyes go from interested to guarded.

Oh, fuck.

Colt's stomach sinks through his ass. Evelyn has told this divine woman how he fucked up too. He just knows it.

The said makeup artist steps around the chair where Ace is sitting - presumably getting ready for her next scene - and walks up to the stuntman with unsure steps. Colt steps forward far enough that the door to the trailer can swing shut behind him. It's quiet for a few moments as Evelyn comes to a pause in front of him. He can see the hurt and confusion on her face, but it quickly morphs into a different emotion that causes his stomach to flip.

"Why are you here, Colt?" she asks, her voice low. "You aren't on the schedule for makeup or hair today." He swallows and nods nervously before offering just as softly, "I came to apologize, Eves. I... I shouldn't have blown up like that on you the other day. I was tired and grouchy, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

Evelyn's eyes dance with piping hot anger that resembles blue flames. She frowns up at Colt with everything she's got. She's only 5'2", though, so she's got to crane her neck to give him her full wrath. She lifts her right hand, and in one, quick movement, firmly slaps Colt across the left cheek. His head whips to the side as a moderate amount of pain floods his face.

Yeah, he deserved that.

Somehow, Colt can recognize the fact she held back as he blinks through the initial onset of pain. "You were an asshole," she grumbles, jabbing a finger into his chest as his jaw clenches and unclenches a few times to work through the pain. A second later, Evelyn wraps her arms around him in a big bear hug.

He grunts a little in confusion, but timidly and slowly wraps his arms around her back. He's a little unsure of what to do now, but just gently holds her as she squeezes his waist.

I don't know if this counts as an acceptance of my apology or if she's going to draw back and kick me in the nuts. I'm kind of leaning towards the second option right now.

Evelyn and Colt hug for another few moments, but he lets her set the pace. She can draw back whenever she's good and ready. While he waits for her to hug it out, his eyes can't help but dart over to Ace who's watching with a narrowed, calculated gaze. Colt drops his instinctively and then lets them trail over to the unnamed woman with the pretty eyes.

Your gaze has softened considerably. Something in their depths tells the stuntman he should apologize again and explain more of why he was a jerk.

So he does.

"Eves," Colt says quietly, rubbing a hand up and down her back, "I really am sorry. You were trying to help, and I got scared of what you were offering and lashed out. That wasn't okay. I'm sorry for the way I treated you."

She draws back a little and gives him a bit of a watery smile. There are tears in her eyes, but this time, there's not hurt in those blues of hers. "I forgive you, you dipshit," Evelyn huffs, releasing one hand to try to brush away some tears. "Don't ever fucking do that to me again."

"Heard," Colt says with a definitive nod and the hint of a smile. "I promise I will never do that to you ever again. If I do, you have full permission to gut me as you see fit." This at least gets a chuckle from her, and a bigger smile.

He takes a stab in the dark.

"And," he drawls out slowly, "if it makes you feel any better, I, uh... I didn't look up that name you sent me. You know, Y/n L/n? I... I didn't do anything other than look at the message you sent." At the end of his words, he watches with confusion as Evelyn's face drops and twists and goes through a whole range of emotions he doesn't really know how to process.

Initially Colt thought she would be pleased, but now she looks confused and also a little... panicked?

"Or, uhm," he says dumbly, "Or... that was wrong?"

Evelyn immediately shakes her head and releases her grip on him, taking a step back. She lifts both hands to wipe at her face and cover her mouth in a little bit of mortified surprise before she tucks her long blonde locks out of her eyes and blinks up at the stuntman with slightly awed eyes.

"Well, it's just, uhm..." "I'm Y/n L/n."

The voice comes from Colt's left, from the couch... where that gorgeous woman was sitting. His stomach sinks.

Welp, Colt thinks angrily, You've already fucked up any chance you might have had. She just watched Eves slap you and you apologize for being an ass. Not a great first impression, Colt.

Evelyn backs up and quickly returns to Ace, quietly telling the lead star that she's done and could leave. Colt just blankly stares at the gorgeous - Y/n, he tells himself - and regrets every decision he's made for the last 3 days.

The stuntman's mouth has gone dry and there's a tickle in his throat. The air of the makeup trailer grows thick because he has no fucking clue what to say to that.

Evelyn breaks the silence as she mumbles, "When I went to see you the other night, I was coming to tell you she was going to be joining the crew for a few weeks. And that if you wanted to meet her, you would..." Her voice trails off and she glances over at you who continues, "You would be working with me."

"Working with you?" Colt asks, slowly lifting a hand to rub at his beard. He's still confused. You sits up with a small smirk and shrug a shoulder before sipping at your drink. "I'm the visiting stunt coordinator. Dan didn't tell you?"

Colt's jaw clenches for just a moment. Dan. You've got to be kidding me, man. He quickly release the tension in his jaw and takes a deep breath before cocking his head slightly. "Consider me completely surprised," he eventually says, dropping his hand back to his side to let it swing.

"I'd say it's nice to meet you, but uh," Colt motions around, "I've already sort of fucked up this whole first impressions thing." You just gives him a smile, and it captures Colt's attention so wholly he barely notices Ace slip behind him and out of the trailer with nothing more than a pat on his shoulder.

Good luck, pal. That's easy enough to figure out.

Colt glances over at Evelyn, and her face is a mix of apology and Well, you did this to yourself. And she's right. Colt did do this to himself. If he thought apologizing to her and the slap were enough, now he's completely butchered any shot with her stunning friend.

Who is also his new boss?

His head drops to his chest and he releases a defeated sigh. "I'll, just, uhm," Colt hikes a thumb over his shoulder and motions to door of the makeup trailer. You and Evelyn just watch him with curious gazes but don't say anything as he takes a step back and then turns and leaves the trailer.

What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

-

"You've got to be kidding me," Colt grumbles as his hand works over the coffee machine. He can smell the delicious brew but the lever won't work and I can't figure out how to get it to release. At the same time, he's tired and not completely awake and preferentially would like to keep boiling hot coffee from flying every where. Especially on him.

His elbow bumps his empty little styrofoam cup over and it goes rolling as he fusses over the faulty machine. "Oh, come on," Colt groans out, releasing his grip on the machine. He rubs at his beard with one hand and turns to follow the run away cup.

Before he can reach down and grab it, another set of hands plucks the cup up. His eyes trail from a pair of custom sneakers - are they Disney themed? That's awesome! - up a pair of medium wash jeans that are perfectly fitted, quickly over a promo shirt for the movie set they're on, to a baseball cap of the same name.

It takes the stuntman just a second to recognize the beautiful (colored) haired peeking out from under the cap, but then his stomach rolls. It's you. Your eyes find his and Colt swallows thickly. He needs that coffee more than ever - his throat is drying up.

"Good morning," you says with a small smirk, "or is it?" Colt clears his throat and shakes his head slightly. "Y-eah, good morning. I just, uh," he motions over his shoulder to the coffee pot. "Was grabbing a drink."

Your gaze follows Colt's movement towards the coffee pot and then down looks to the cup in your hand. "I see that is going pretty well."

Colt can't stop the chuckle at your dry humor and nods with a slightly defeated but knowing smile. "Yeah," he sighs out, shuffling on his feet nervously. "Either the coffee machine is broken or I'm not awake enough for this."

You offers him a kind smile and step forward. "Here, let me take a look." Colt goes to brush you off, but you've already slipped past him and are fiddling with the machine by the time he can form an intelligent thought. As you pass, Colt catches the scent of butterscotch and his chest squeezes a little. Oh, man.

Reluctantly, Colt stands slightly off to the side as he watches you work. You flip the lever back the whole way and spin a dial on the side. What kind of coffee pot is this thing? But then a moment later, you lower the lever and place the little styrofoam cup in its place.

Coffee pours out of the machine with ease, filling the air with its rich aroma.

All Colt can really do is blink at you for a moment in dumbfounded awe, fighting off the sleep still blanketed over his brain. "Thanks," he chuckles as you hand the now full cup of java to him. "I don't think I would have gotten that myself." You grab a cup for yourself and begin to grab supplies for hot chocolate, giggling, "It was no worry. We had one of these on the last set I worked on. They're finicky."

Colt watches you closely as he grabs a lid for his drink and leaves his coffee as is. Black is his go to. "Well, I appreciate it," the stuntman says with a slow nod. He's just about to take his leave so he doesn't make a fool out of himself before he hears your voice pipe up. "Hey, Colt?"

He pauses and looks over at you. It's the first time he's heard you actually say his name. It sounds nice.

You hold your drink in your left hand and offer him your right. Colt glances down at it curiously before gently accepting it. Holy shit your hand is so soft!

"Let's try this again," you insists, "I'm Y/n L/n. You can call me Y/n or Stunts. I'll be working with Dan to help keep these stunts as safe as possible for the rest of the shoot. I'm excited to work with you, I've seen the kind of stunts you've done. It's really impressive."

Well... shit!

Colt knows there's got to be some surprise on his face, at least in his eyes. He's surprised. A stunt coordinator? And a gorgeous one at that?

At the same time, you just made a huge move that he's smart enough to pick up on. You're pushing aside your first impression of him in Evelyn's trailer. That's big. Sure, it might be for work purposes, but it's still a nice thing that you didn't have to do.

Colt cracks a smile and shakes your hand firmly. "Colt Seavers. And it's nice to meet you, too." He releases your hand and shrugs his shoulders before replying lightheartedly, "I haven't heard or seen your name before, but I'm sure if you can keep up with Dan you'll be just fine around here."

You smile back at me and returns your hand to your drink. "I'm sure you'll be the ones trying to keep up with me," you promise before gently laughing. Colt joins in your giggles with some chuckles of his own before nodding and cocking his head, "Somehow, I feel like you're probably right."

The air between you grows quiet for a moment and you offer each other warm smiles.

"Well, I need to go get dressed for the first shot of the day," Colt eventually sighs, glancing over at the clock on the wall. Oops, he's already 10 minutes late. You follow where he's looking and nod. "You're right, we start shooting here in less than an hour."

You turn back to Colt and point at him with a finger wrapped around your cup. "Make sure you put the Nomex suit on," you call as he starts backing up. He gives you a curious head tilt and charming smirk, "Why's that?"

You returns Colt's grin and reply, "You're going to be rolling a car this morning, Colt Seavers, and I plan to have you do it right on the first take."

Colt raises his brows a little at this and his smile widens. "Oh yeah?" He tease back, "First take? Those are some pretty high expectations, Stunts." Stunts. Yeah, he kind of likes that, too.

The beautiful stunt coordinator just laughs and waves a finger in the air. "Better get to it, Colt."

"Aye, aye, captain!"

-

This wrap party is like nothing Colt has ever experienced. There's a flatbed trailer, a bonfire, and people everywhere. Everyone from the movie is hanging out, drinking beer, and singing drunk karaoke. That's not quite his scene for the evening.

Colt is sitting on the back of the trailer nursing a beer. It's quiet here, away from the bonfire and the DJ. He's played a few card games and lost spin the bottle a few times, but he's having a good time.

What makes it even better?

The girl that's sitting on the crate next to him. You look really good in his jacket, and you're determined to wear your own cap. That's alright, though. You look cute in it.

"What are you thinkin' about?" your soft voice breaks Colt out of his thoughts and he takes a sip from his beer, smiling around the mouth of the bottle. "Just thinkin' about how I'm the luckiest man in the world," he sighs out, setting the now empty bottle next to him.

You flush and roll your eyes. It's cute when you do that, too.

"You're such a sap," you muse with a wide smile, completely deflecting the compliment. Not unusual for you. You're getting better at it, though. He'll keep on you until you finally give in. That smile of yours seems to sparkle in the light of the sunset. Or maybe he's getting lost in those stunning eyes. It's hard to say. Either way, Colt is a happy man.

The stuntman shrugs his shoulders and replies smoothly, "I'm just tellin' you the truth, darlin'. You're pretty damn amazing, if I do say so myself. Pretty. Funny." His mouth curls into a smirk. "Smokin' hot."

"Colt," you warn with a playful whine. You're blushing, he can see it now. He keeps up the heat. "You're gorgeous, talented, and alllllllll mine."

You pick up one of the bottles you've been playing with - a stunt glass bottle - and smirk before crashing it over his head. He see it coming plain as day, and he plays right into your hand as the glass shatters and sprays everywhere. He folds in half at the waist, playfully groaning like it hurts. It stings a little but not anything bad. He's got a thick skull.

His arms reach out while he's still bent over and you're giggling at my response, and he quickly snakes them around your waist. Colt yanks you to his chest in one fluid movement and you squeak out one of the cutest noises he's ever heard. Your hands settle on his chest to balance yourself while his come to a rest on your hips.

"That wasn't very nice," the stuntman tells you with a straight face. "Someone could have seriously gotten hurt." You raise an eyebrow at him and hum, "Is that so? You mean someone like you?"

"Uh huh," he replies, pulling you closer to him yet. "Seriously hurt."

You hum again, this time a smile curling on your lips. "Well it's a good thing you didn't," you say after biting your lip for a moment. Your hands slip up around his neck and he takes the chance to slide his hands down into the ass pockets of your jeans.

"Let me just make sure you're doing alright, though," you giggle, moving one hand to his hair and threading your fingers through it. You knows he loves this. His eyes flutter closed for a second until your hand pauses and you sigh defeatedly, "Nope, no injuries to be reported."

In an instant Colt's eyes are open and he's pouting at you. But that quickly changes when he sees that smirk slide back onto your mouth.

"Oh, come here," he chuckles and tilts his head, leaning into you like it's second nature. You meets him half way with pleased giggles of your own. Colt catches your mouth in a soft, sweet kiss, and just like that, the party is fading and it's just the two of you.

All he can say is thank goodness he doesn't answer Evelyn's texts.

You don’t even know where Colt is right now. Probably taking a nap in his trailer, or grabbing a bite to eat off-set. You can’t think about that now, because you need to focus on talking over Ryder. “That’s insane,” you counter. “It’s too expensive to reshoot the stunt, and it’s already perfect as-is. It doesn’t take a whole lot of work to recreate the scene you just did.” It’s really not. All he has to do is wave his stupid prop-gun around and run his mouth.

“Pain in the fuckin’ ass,” Ryder mutters indiscreetly. You can only scribble away on your script, unamused. The makeup artist that comes to touch up the highlighter on his cheeks looks half-scared to death. You can tell that she’s in a quick rush to dab the brush at his face and scurry away as fast as possible.

“Tom, bear with us for a minute. We’ve got this scene left, and then it’s press time. You love the press,” the director exclaims, all too sporadically. “We’ll redo the scene really quick, bud. Just go with the flow.”

—

You’ve been keeping your eye on Colt for the last week and a half of production. It’s not that you can control it. Whenever he’s substituting in for Ryder for the fight scenes or the pyro or the vehicular stunts, he’s always front and center. You’ve got to keep your eye on the script and Colt simultaneously; it’s your job—tracking the consistency. In any case, you’d have to do just the same for Ryder. Except, when Colt’s not needed for the shot, you, on occasion, still keep your eye on him.

So, you might have an inkling of a crush on the senior stunt double on your set. The reason, you’ve tried to deduce, is that he’s relatively much nicer than Ryder, which means you’re so much more likely to like him. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to him, with his blonde highlights and all the movie quotes he spews out between takes.

Usually, you’ll find him at the catering table, on his third cup of your shared fourteen-hour day. It’s under these usual circumstances that he comes to thank you. You feel a tap on your shoulder—and Colt’s there, right beside you, mug in hand. You give him a nod and a smile, trying not to come off too jumpy. He still has his costume on, grayish blue suit and a slightly darker tie to match—topped with a brimmed cowboy hat. It’s the same as Ryder’s. You drop your thermos down on the folding table, trying to figure out what pastry might tie you over for the rest of the day.

“So, I heard you did me a big favor,” Colt murmurs. Word travels fast on-set, clearly. He takes the white little espresso mug up to his lips, taking a sip of the hot brew as he leans back against the catering table. He lowers it just a little to say, “You should’ve just let him make us reshoot.”

You shake your head, picking a scone off one of the trays and placing it onto your flimsy styrofoam tray. “It’s good to get him worked up early during production, so he might ease off the bitching later. It’s like an advanced payment.”

Colt snorts. “Nice,” he says, “I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get Gail to get you fired. Obviously, you didn’t hear it from me.” It barely fazes you. Ryder’s always dying to get somebody fired, and it alternates based on his particular moods. His targeting you is no different than usual.

“She can’t fire me,” you chuckle. After four blockbuster films of you on script with the bigwigs, you’re convinced that you’re invincible. It’s naive, maybe, but you’re good at what you do. You’re credible. And, on this particular contemporary Western at least—with crunch time now, in the middle of spring—you’re safe. You digress, “I know the film inside out, and it’d be a killer to replace me at this point in production.” 

“Right,” Colt nods. He doesn’t seem to believe you too much, but it is what it is. He seems to lower his voice as crew, largely lighting and sound in all-black, whizz past you to set up for the next scene. Intently, he tells you, “I wouldn’t mind reshooting if it means Ryder won’t give you as hard of a time.”

Your eyebrows crease. It’s not that you don’t appreciate his efforts to make your life easier. It’s just so simple the way Colt thinks he can be tossed around; you wish he’d be more careful with himself. “Kind offer. Thanks.” You’re brushing him off; he can tell.

“Even if you won’t take me up on it,” Colt tilts his head, “I’m around whenever you need me. What is this, our third film together?” He’s flashing you a grin, back to the table. He must think he’s real cool; you hate that it’s working on you.

“Fourth,” you correct. You’re not sure if it comes out short or timid; regrettably, it feels more like the latter. Colt lowers his mug down onto the table, faltering just slightly.

Briskly, he repeats, “Fourth.” Colt makes an extended effort to turn around and pick your thermos up off the table. You have to suppress a yelped “hey.” Despite your protests, thermos his hand, Colt practically bodyguards the whole setup—the Keurig and the metal basket of espresso pods adjacent to it. Your hip bumps against his as he puts his forearm to fend you off. You’d try to grab for it if you weren’t at work, PAs and DPs flitting around you both. “You don’t have to—”

And, like a flash, Colt tosses your thermos onto the bottom plate, whips the pod into the canister, punches the lid down, and clicks double-shot. “My first installment for you screwing over Ryder on my behalf.” While you’re both waiting for the machine to pour down coffee, he’s humming something like ABBA. “How pissed was he to reshoot?”

“Practically frothing at the mouth,” you tell him, “I’m surprised they didn’t prep a bib.” Colt’s perfectly satisfied with this answer, nodding curtly. Respect. Not many people are capable of talking down on Ryder so openly.

The thermos gets filled halfway, and Colt offers it back up to you, “Here.” You take the thermos back, in steady avoidance of his callused fingertips. He admits, “I don’t know how you like your coffee yet.” Yet? You narrow your eyes. You’re not sure that Colt has ever been so attentive talking to you, and you’re trying not to feel the way your breath hitches in your chest in response.

If there’s anything you’re able to bond about with Colt, it’s the damn on-set coffee. He’s practically running on the stuff, probably ten times worse than you are. His little mug finds its way back into his hands again. Colt fails to speak for a moment, too occupied by… something on your face. You’re trying not to crumple beneath his observation, but Colt’s smiling and he’s searching over your features for something.

Finally, after a few seconds, he lets up. “I’ll get your order down sometime this week. I’m, uh, quick to learn,” he tells you. Then, he raises up his little cup toward you. “Cheers. To you disturbing the peace.” You raise your thermos, and Colt’s ceramic clinks against your metal. A little victory.

—

You could care less about Ryder’s peace, really; but, you’re partially grateful in the fact that it’s allowed you to catch Colt’s attention. Colt sticks to his word about the coffee, because he seems to keep his attention fixed whenever you’re at that catering table with him. And when you’re not at the catering table, he’s still somehow around, holding open doors for you and keeping spare pencils tucked on his person for you to use to mark scripts. You don’t want to mistake it for anything that it’s not, but it feels almost vaguely like Colt Seavers is trying to court you.

All the fuss that he’s been making to please you culminates into a really unnecessary scene on-set. You’re right off camera, next to the director, camera op, Gail, and… Colt. It’s one of those classic getaway car scenes, set in a downtown street; they’ve got Ryder in the motions of hopping into a great Oldsmobile Toronado, while two security guards are trying to hop and skip after him in the facade of a nameless bank. All the action—Ryder yelling “Really, it ain’t personal,” in a vaguely East Coast accent—culminates into him jumping down a set of stairs and whipping the door open. He clambers in, slams the door shut, and throws a big duffel into the backseat. The open zipper of the bag makes for a great effect of bills being scattered all in the closed containment of the car.

The director yells cut and the crew runs round to reset. Ryder runs his nails into his scalp, pushing back his curls; it all comes very easily to him, these things. As terrible as he is a person, he still can’t help but be great at his craft. It’s insufferable. One of the PAs guides him out of the car and off-camera to a tall chair with a glass of water and a tray of fruit. He pops a green grape into his mouth, before staring off in your direction, bored. “Can somebody tell Colt to stop eye-fucking the scripty?”

The notes that you’re taking down in red ink have to wait. You slap your script down onto your lap. “He’s not,” you spit out, gawking most of all at the choice of words. In front of the entire set—oh, you want to kill Ryder; there’s nothing in the world you’d want more.

“I’m not—” Colt scoffs. “I’m trying to gauge if the camera needs to get pulled back. It’s gonna be a killer if I crack the lens.” You look over your shoulder to check Colt’s conviction. There’s zero of it. He’s looking down at you and back at Ryder, hands propped on his hips. You can see his chest rise and fall. Colt wants to look tough, and his composure is doing absolutely to help you.

Ryder laughs, really guffaws. He makes sure to crunch down another green grape, before he shoos the whole arrangement away with a “Thanks, honey.” The PA by Ryder’s side makes sure to make themselves sparse, taking away the fruit and leaving him with the water. Ryder keeps his eye locked on Colt, already quite entertained. “You’re a shitty liar, dude.”

“There’s a reason why one’s the lead and the other’s the double,” Gail says heartily, smacking her gum with a shrug. When she finds that you haven’t agreed with her, or at least laughed alongside the two of them, she gives you an eyeroll under her wide glasses. It’s all wide and clear: Gail thinks you’re no fun. She should really adjust her priorities.

The director groans, “Jesus, Colt, just go get in the car.” The talk is getting you all further behind schedule. Colt’s meant to crash into a storefront window. Amidst the arguing, everything’s all in place—an Oldsmobile replica driven up in place of the real deal, door open for Colt to jump in. You can feel him hand tap the back of your chair as he straightens out his costume and grabs for his crash helmet. A wordless sorry. You try not to jump at the feeling of Colt’s suit brushing against your shoulder as he passes by you.

“You got it, boss,” Colt calls out, exclamation muffled. He throws out a big thumbs up as he makes it over to the car. You have a feeling that Colt is going to grovel later about Ryder making a scene of the two of you, but really, it isn’t the worst thing in the world—at least, until Colt slams the car door shut and Ryder decides to speak up again.

Leaned over in his tall chair, he asks slovenly, “Seriously, are you sleeping with Seavers? If it’s because he’s my stuntman and it’s a power thing—” 

“No! No, I’m not sleeping with Colt and even if I was, you would have absolutely nothing to do with you,” you hiss. The ego on Ryder makes your head thrum. You try to keep to your script—taking up the clipboard in your lap to write notes down on your log on the last couple of shots.

“It would make sense ‘cause he looks like me, you hate my guts. It’s like that psychosexual shit that Freud talks about… uh…” Ryder taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair, then clicks his fingers: “Displacement.” Smartass. He probably only knows the term having prepped it for an interview on one of his psychological thrillers. Ryder is about to continue harping on about how flattered he is, but the 1st AD calls quiet on set; he shuts it.

—

You’re stationed at your new spot on the opposite side of the backlot, five feet behind the secondary camera setup—where Colt is meant to swing the car through a large glass window. Luckily, Ryder and Gail have decided amongst themselves to depart elsewhere to talk about the next big film. This way, you’ll be able to worry about this stunt in peace.

At action, the Oldsmobile revs. Colt is making sure to kick up some smoke. You can tell now that this is going to be a good take—just from the way he’s handling the car. If you’re not mistaken, you think that he might even be driving with a bit of extra force. The car starts barreling down the set raucously. You’re trying not to grip your script too hard at the sight of him speeding down the road. As Colt’s car approaches, you’re unable to see his expression past the tinted helmet. The flash that you do catch is of his gloved hands gripping the wheel—and the most that you can do is cross your fingers.

The collision is hard. You can’t help but flinch at the sight of him tearing the car through the pane. It shatters loudly, and you can see the motion of the Oldsmobile hitting the crash pad. The director makes sure to hold, so SFX can machine-pump a bit of fog out of the fictitious storefront and make the scene look a little prettier. Then, they call “Cut.” There’s a whole lot of movement towards the car—first, with brooms to sweep away the stray glass, and second, to check on Colt.

The door of the Oldsmobile whips open, and Colt shoots out a thumbs up. You sigh. He’s fine. As soon as he gets out of the car, though, you can’t help but notice that he’s gripping his shoulder and trying to stretch it back. He takes a moment to tug off his helmet and mess with his hair just a bit. The nearest on-set medic tries to approach him with a “If it hurts, I can take a look at it,” but you hear him deny it with an insistent “All good. Don’t worry about it.” The director runs up to give Colt praises—“The shot was perfect, man. Good job.”—calls a thirty-minute break to the crew, and then rushes away.

By the time Colt gets over to you, you’re still locked into your seat trying to look busy. Your fingers are clasping around your script and logs, trying to straighten out the stack as you tap it atop your knee a few times. He comes up and leans one hand on your armrest. As casual as he tries to make it look, Colt’s trying to keep himself steady. You suck in a breath and look straight up at him. “You screwed your shoulder up, didn’t you?”

His brows furrow. “No. I stepped on the gas harder than I should’ve so it’s just a residual, you know, body reaction,” Colt says, coming off your armrest. For once, Ryder’s right: Colt is a shitty liar. “I would know if I screwed my shoulder up,” he says dismissively.

“You,” you say, index fingers pointed up and towards Colt’s chest, “are going to let me take a look at it, and if it’s bad, I’m going to tell them to send you home early.”

He scoffs. “I still have two more stunts tonight.” But somehow, he’s still bending to your whim—because as soon as you hop off your chair and begin to walk off in the opposite direction, Colt’s right on your tail. “It’s my job to get dinged up,” he says, eyes still tracking your expression. He’s trying to tell whether or not you’re mad at him. You aren’t mad, per say—but you’re not very pleased, either.

His trailer is in sight pretty quickly, tucked away in a corner of the exterior set. It’s really just a giant metal box, identical to the rest. “Okay, yes, you’re supposed to get dinged up, but not recklessly,” you tell him, approaching the front door of the trailer. “Or more than you have to. Quality over quantity, Colt.” When you look over, Colt is trying not to wince. You can’t help but frown at him.

“I’m used to it,” he tells you, shaking his head, “I have Extra Strength Advil in there. It’ll work like a miracle—just watch.”

—

You already know that Colt screwed up his shoulder, because he can’t even take the suit jacket off himself. You have to come up behind him and help him shrug it off, trying to pay no mind to the shaky breaths and heavy groans that come with the movement. The pale blue dress shirt he has on is tight around the arms; it’s not your first time seeing how much muscle Colt has on him, but it’s still just as jarring. So, you’ve got to ignore that, too. The tie is easy for Colt to pull off and toss away. Though, he’s having trouble with the buttons on the shirt—too much pull on his shoulder. You swat his hand aside and begin the motions of unbuttoning it for him.

“Okay. I shouldn’t have driven as fast as I did,” Colt admits to you, “It’s on me, obviously—but it’s also on Ryder.” You get to the bottom button slowly but surely, trying to pay close attention to his words. This feels… close. Considering you’d offered the check-up purely out of worry, this is all more intimate than you’d expected.

You tilt your head. “Because he was saying all that stuff about the…”

“Eyefucking, yeah. And I’m sure it was uncomfortable for both of us to get a load of that in front of all of our coworkers. I didn’t wanna make it a thing, so I just… I was driving angry, which is never a good thing,” Colt says, “He has no class.”

“It’s Ryder, you know? It’s not like his words really ever carry any weight,” you say. Your priority still is to make sure Colt’s shoulder isn’t too screwed up, but it also doesn’t hurt to test the waters. You pop the last button off and try to help him shrug off his dress shirt. It’s difficult not to feel a little shifty in your abdomen when your fingertips slide down against Colt’s bicep; you make sure to fold up the shirt semi-nicely before tossing it down with the tie.

When you turn, Colt in his undershirt and the dress pants looks almost boyishly guilty. You narrow your eyes, “Okay, turn around. Lemme see it.” And Colt does as you say, spinning around to show you his back. His shoulder is splotched purple and green, pigmented all across his shoulder blade. “Fuck, Colt.”

“It always looks worse than it actually is. Stunts 101.” He’s trying to make you laugh, but you’re much too focused on the bruising. He steps away as soon as you ghost your fingers over his skin. Colt’s grabbing an ice pack from his mini fridge and bringing it over his shoulder. “And I should probably use right now as an opportunity to reassure you that I wasn’t trying to eye-fuck you,” Colt says. It’s a contradiction: you can see his eyes flashing down and back up.  “Unless, obviously, you wanted me to. Then, it’d be a whole different story. But—”

You kiss Colt, crashing your lips against his, and he practically hurls the ice pack away to hug his arms around your waist. Given the chance, he would’ve gone through a whole spiel of telling you that he respects maintaining a professional relationship. But, now, you’re really laying it all out on the table. Your hands are coming up greedily to cup his face, and he’s sliding his hands up and down your lower back. He tastes like spearmint gum, and his face is burning up the longer you’re close to him.

Colt pulls back only for a moment to look at you; his pupils are dilated beyond repair. “Okay,” he murmurs, “Ryder caught me staring. Good on him for calling me on it.”

“I figured. You’re so easy to read,” you laugh, unable to stifle your amusement. Colt’s not offended at all—only leaning in closer to you. Everything about him seems a little bit lighter after you’ve kissed; he’s standing up straighter, and his hands are coming up to your head. Colt has his nimble, calloused fingers brushing through your hair. It’s a soothing, gentle motion—possibly a distraction—but it’s also romantic enough to placate you. You have to shuffle away a little bit, still locked into Colt’s grasp. “So, can I put in a word with somebody to see if you can get tonight off?”

He drops his hands back down to your waist—the workaholic he is. “If it pleases you, yes. And if it works out, I’ll nap here while you close out, ice my shoulder, and then I can take you out to dinner very, very far away from set. You choose, I pay,” Colt decides, “And we can make out a bit more after dessert. Does that sound good?” He really doesn’t waste any time.

You hum in agreement, hand flattening against Colt’s abs, just under the white wifebeater he’s got on. You can feel his stomach tighten just slightly. Sensitive. “You have me for ten more minutes, and then I’ve gotta go find an AD.”

And cockily, Colt replies, “I’m pretty sure you and I can get a lot done in ten. Don’t you?”

Marc had control of the body again. He saw how Steven had kissed you. It drove him wild knowing that you reciprocated it and that you weren't the first to pull away first. You had even prolonged the kiss making it too long for Marc's jealous taste. Not to mention that you kept staring at Steven with those moonstruck doe eyes. It all made his temper worsen; Marc was extremely jealous. Marc had yelled at Steven about the kiss and had even punched him. It should have been clear to Steven that you were off-limits. Yet it seemed like Steven hadn't cared. Instead, the two of you kept making mooneyes while Layla did all the work of figuring out the tomb. 

But now Marc had control. 

 It meant Steven couldn't kiss you, and you wouldn't be making googly-eyes at Steven. Marc knew that you were still mad at him for leaving, but something told him you'd forget this anger. All you needed was a reminder of who you truly loved. All you needed was one kiss from your husband. One kiss from him. And these forming feelings toward Steven will disappear. 

"Steven gave you control?" You asked abruptly, leaving Marc nearly stunned. You hadn't known about Marc's D.I.D until recently, yet you could tell the two of them apart in such a short time. He wanted to ask how you could tell, but logic told him that, of course, you could figure it out. You were married for nearly a decade until he ran off. The two of you shared almost all your secrets with one another except for the ones Marc couldn't bare for you to hear. Such as how he was there during Layla's father's death. Or how many people Marc had actually killed. He had told you the number wasn't high before Khonshu had control over him, but the truth was that it was just as high and that he enjoyed the bloodshed he caused at times. But Marc wouldn't think of any of that now. Instead, he reached toward you and kissed you. Marc needed his revenge. Steven needed to pay for what he had done, and you needed a reminder of who you truly belonged to. 

Marc had shoved his rough lips against you leaving you to gasp aloud. Your eyes were wide open, just staring at him as if he was a stranger. However, to Marc, your lips felt like everything he had been was missing. They reminded him of what he had to do and that by running away from you, he was really protecting you. He was uncertain that if he continued the kiss, you'd kick him in the shin, but to his surprise, you had tangled your soft fingers into his hair. You began to kiss him just as hard as before with Steven. As you kissed, you moved closer toward him, which caused Marc to grin. He was about to shove his tongue into your mouth, but you pulled away, panting breathlessly. 

“Marc… We’re kinda busy here.” You whispered gently, making it clear to Marc that you felt awkward about making out with him for the moment. But he couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t feel bad about it. You would have slapped him if you didn’t want this, right? Grinning, Marc replied. 

“It’s not a romantic place huh?” You shyly nodded at this and opened your mouth, but Layla cut in before you could respond. 

“Yeah we are in an ancient tomb, idiot.” Layla remarked though she hadn’t even looked up from her research. Making it clear that she could care less about this whole situation. 

“Marc… I still care about you… I thought I wouldn’t because I was mad at you for leaving but Steven told me that you were just trying to protect Layla and me from Khonshu. Is it true that he wants to make one of us his avatar?” 

Marc nodded his head sheepishly, but you smiled at that. He only hoped it was a good smile. It was hard to read your face in this dark tomb. 

“Marc… I care about you. But I also care about Steven.” 

Those words made his world crumble. He couldn’t listen to another word you said because all he could picture was you and Steven together. Marc couldn’t believe this, and he refused to even look at you, making it clear that Steven would take control of the body. Leaving Layla, you, and Steven to figure out this mess on your own.

><><><><

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“Okay,” Holland says, walking from his connected bathroom into his bedroom. His hair is mussed, sticking up in different directions. His fingers fiddle with the buttons of his button-up. “You’ve gotta go to Jenny’s—”

“Jessica’s.” Holly interrupts, looking over at him from her spot on his bed. She’s sitting criss-crossed with her hands clasped in her lap. 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes, not even trying to remember the girls’ actual name. “You’re going there tonight.”

A frown captures her expression. “Why? It’s just—”

“Because I said so.” He grins, looking up at her. “Being a dad means I make the rules.” Holland pays no mind to the sour expression creeping onto his daughter's face. “And... I rule you go to Jessica’s.”

His brows raise, feeling completely triumphant in himself. 

You’re coming over tonight. It had been a week since you’d been in LA, off on a family trip and way too far from Holland for his liking. His happy medium had been thrown off. Between getting his house shot up, a court date finally settled on, and not being able to see you in the mornings, he felt like he’d been dropped in the Twilight Zone. He’s a creature of habit. Who could blame him?

The distance had cemented something, though. Being away from you for so long brought the same aching hole to his abdomen as when his house burned down. Each morning when he rolled into the office, when he left to speak with new clients, and when he came back to the empty office, he found himself missing you. The way you brewed coffee and made the whole office smell like a coffee shop, your laugh drifting around the room when you were on the phone. He missed everything about you. 

So, he invited you over tonight. He was gonna tell you how much he missed you. How he’d fallen head over heels in love with you. 

It seemed simple enough. 

But kids never make things simple. 

“I wanna see her too.” Holly protests, jumping down from her spot on his bed. 

Holland brings his wrist close to his face, using his free hand to tap at his watch. The hands displayed a scene he didn’t like one bit. You were supposed to be at the door in half an hour. 

“Holly.” He deadpans, taking a breath. “I’m telling her something—and that something is super important—tonight. No kids allowed.”

She huffs, stomping across the carpeted floor to the door. She dodges his dresser with her arms crossed over her chest. “Whatever.”

Holland normally would let her fester in whatever pre-teen angst she was in. But, something about tonight pulls at his heartstrings. A sigh leaves his lips and it deflates his shoulders. “Alright, kid. Wait a sec.”

Holly turns to find him with his hands on his hips, deflated, and looking like a tsunami of thoughts were crashing around in his mind. She stands firm. In her mind, she’d never allow herself to break first. 

“Look.” He quiets, trying to find the jumbled words in his mind. Maybe he can string them into something that makes sense. “I-I’m… ugh. You know when boys—no, that’s not..”

“Dad.” She finally says, relenting her stony glare. Her arms fall to her sides like she’s laying down her weapons. “You love her.”

Those words make the room quiet. It drowns the hum between Holland’s ears. Holly knew. Of course she knew. She’s one of the smartest people he knows—and he can never hide something from her. No matter how hard he tries. 

He feels a little guilty for admitting it out loud to her. He’d told her that no one could replace her mother. And that was true—she was one of a kind. But so are you. His conscience and heart had been at war with each other for almost a year now. Debating on admitting to his little girl he’d found someone else, which feels like a slap in the face, and following through with all the times he’s almost spat the confession out to you. 

But seeing her now, the way her mouth curls into a slight smile, it makes his chest warm. It’s not her throwing things at him or spitting out choice words. It’s an approval. Which is all he really wants from her.

“Yeah. I do.”

Holly sighs. “You’re really gonna tell her?”

Holland nods, sniffling slightly. “Yeah..”

“Alright.” She nods, glancing down at the floor for a moment. She looks back up at him. “I’ll call Jessica.”

When Holly leaves, Holland is hunched over his stove. There’s a pot of pasta cooking on the far right burner, steam wafting upwards. On the front left burner, he’s working on dumping ingredients into a pot for a homemade sauce. Well, kinda home made. The empty jar of Prego sits next to the sink. 

There’s an array of spices with the tops open scattered around his counter. Some of them he just assumed would work in the sauce. His mother used to smell the spices and decide if the scent alone would work if she dumped it in—but he didn’t have that skill set to use. So he relied on hope. And a bunch of italian seasoning. 

He sets the wooden spoon onto the counter, letting the red concoction simmer. With an absent mind, he checks his watch. Huh. You’re supposed to be here in a few minutes. His hands fall to his hips as he peers down at the sauce. 

It takes a second for his brain to lag. Somewhere along worrying about the taste of the sauce and the realization of the gravity of the words that were going to spill from his throat tonight, it all got jumbled in his neurons. But it clicks. Eventually. Which makes him cuss and scramble around the house. 

He finds nothing to pick up last minute, which eases his mind slightly. So he lights himself a cigarette, fingers shaking gently as he brings it to his lips. He takes a long drag. Just letting the smoke infiltrate down his throat and into his lungs. The smoke comes out in a plume, a sigh soon following the cloud. 

The front door opens. 

You’re here. 

“March! Where are you?” Your voice drifts through the house, a smile evident in your tone.

You were always such a positive person. Even when things went to shit, you were always there saying, ‘we’ll figure it out’. He’d reckon you were the next closest thing to the sun. With all that sweetness bursting from your seams, he felt himself justified in his thoughts. 

He almost dropped his cigarette. His heart drops down through the floor, pulse stuttering in his veins. His throat works around a swallow before clearing his throat. “I–” He clears his throat once more. Just to chase away the cracked edges of his tone. “In the kitchen!”

“Okay!” You call back, heels clicking softly against the wooden floors. When you cross the threshold out of the living room, the smell of food piques your interest. “Something smells good.”

Holland forgets how to breathe when you walk into the kitchen. Your hair is thrown into a poofy style that falls perfectly around your face. His gaze slips down your face, eyes tracing every dip and curve to burn them into memory. 

The breath in his lungs seems to freeze up. Bright eyes with a gentle smile. The way you’re looking at him is almost enough to bring him to his knees. 

He’s been quiet for a while. 

And staring at you. 

“..Hey.”

You sling your bag from your shoulder, setting it onto the edge of the table. “Hey.”

Holland grins, taking a step towards you. There’s just something about you that makes him forget about the anxiety that’s chewing on him whole. “Uh, do you want a drink? Wine or something?”

You give him a sideways glance, grin curving the side of your mouth upwards. “Wine and dinner? My, my, March. Are you trying to seduce me?” There’s a humorous undertone in your voice, the grin cracking into a smile cementing it.

Holland stumbles over himself. “What? I wouldn’t—not that you’re—Jesus.” He lets his cigarette dangle out the side of his mouth. The way his eyes widen and throat gets tight makes him scramble for words. “I’m not, yeah, not seducing…” His voice quiets. “You.”

A breathy laugh bubbles in your throat. “Jeez, March. I’m joking. Don’t pass out.”

Holland’s knees lock up. His throat works around a swallow. The sound of his voice is low, gravelly, and smoother than he thinks. “Right… sorry.”

You’re not one to let him settle in awkward tension. You can see the way his eyes are darting around the room. Poor guy looked like he was about to faint. You’d have to figure out the ‘why’ at a different time. 

“I’m good, actually.” You offer a comforting smile. “How’s the office been?”

At your soft spoken question, Holland seems to visibly relax. The tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders seemed to fizzle out. They hunched for the first time that night. His breathing returned to something resembling normality. “The office?”

He takes the cigarette from his mouth, letting it live between his fingers. He walks over to where you are. He’d left the ashtray over there. His fingers fiddle with the cigarette, tapping it until the ashes fall. 

“It’s alright.” He shrugs. “Uh… not the same without you.” 

Holland has never been very good at playing something down. 

You nod at him. Your gaze stays on him, picking up the way his brows furrowed as he answered. 

“How was your trip?” He asks, looking down at you. The words tumble out a little faster than he’d wanted them to. 

You take a second to let his question sink in through your skin. Holland wasn’t normally so interested in your affairs—granted, you’d never been gone so long. Nor has he been left by himself for that long since you’ve started working together. 

“It was nice to see them. But..” You sigh, tucking some hair behind your ear. “I missed you guys. I missed working.”

Holland practically melts. You’d missed them. And him by proxy. 

He tries his best not to giggle like a little girl. But he wanted to. Instead, he turns and tries to busy himself with stirring the pot of sauce. “Uh—well—I can say for sure..” He trails off, picking up his spoon and stirring the simmering sauce. “We missed you too.”

He glances over his shoulder, trying to offer an almost flirty smile. But once his eyes were taken off the saucepan, his hand became a little heavier than he wanted it. A yelp leaves his throat as he realizes the pan is falling. Red sauce was going to go all over the floor. Oh, God.

The sound of his scream catches you off guard. Your head whips in his direction—just in time to catch the cinematic way he scrambles like a cat to unsuccessfully save the pasta sauce. Holland jumps out of the way as the pan clatters to the floor. 

His hands fall to his sides. The one time he tries to make dinner—this happens. He almost wants to laugh. Perhaps this was a foreshadowing event to show how the rest of the night would go. Confessing to you? Surely, it would go as well as the sauce. 

Your breath catches in your throat. Your hands come up to cup around your mouth in surprise. Holland still has his back to you. Just looking at the splattered sauce all over the floor. 

“Oh, shit, March.” You murmur, taking a few steps closer to him. 

Your hand pauses as your arm outstretches to touch his back. Your throat works around a swallow. The palm of your hand makes careful contact with his back as you step next to him. 

He stiffens. “My sauce.”

“I-I’m sure it’s fine..” The words falling from your lips are wrapped in apprehension, posing them as more of a question. 

“It’s—it’s floor sauce!” He stares at it in almost defeat. “Maybe if I—no. That’s not salvageable.”

“It looked like it was gonna be really good.” You offer, voice low.

His hands fall to his hips, a huff leaving his mouth. “I.. I tried. I’m sorry. I tried making this dinner—and now this—Jesus, I feel stupid.”

“Hey now.” You hum, patting his back. “It’s fine, March.”

His head turns to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes, big and sad, seem to ask you to rethink your answer. He doesn’t even need to say anything. Your lips press into a line.

“Pizza?” You ask after a moment, voice lilting to find a more positive tone.

March lets out a chuckle. “Pizza?”

“The spot downtown delivers.” You shrug, arm falling back to your side. “I’ll clean this up if you call.”

Holland instantly misses your touch. There’s an absence of warmth from where your hand was, and suddenly he feels cold. He’s not surprised that you’ve jumped into a way of fixing things. That was just.. Who you are. An ever-lovely jewel that just shines in even the darkest times. 

A laugh falls from his lips. The absurdity of it all brought the rising humor to his chest. He made dinner to confess his love to you—and it’s now on the floor. And you’re offering to clean it up and eat take out pizza. 

“We can get pizza, sweetheart.” He blurts through his laugh. The laugh halts immediately when he realizes the pet name had fallen into the space between you. 

You don’t miss a beat.

“Pizza sounds good.” 

The sauce gets cleaned up, and soon the pizza will be arriving. All that chaos was quelled with your quick thinking. Like always. You’d both made it into the living room to sit on the couch. Holland had declared he needed a drink, which turned into him getting a whiskey and a glass of wine for you. Laughter drifted between the two of you easily.

When the doorbell goes off, Holland debates telling whoever it is to go away. The interruption was at a terrible time—as most are. But your eyes had lit up at the promising sound of food. So, he’d stood up and fished around in his pockets for his wallet. 

He wouldn’t admit to it, but when he opened the door, he shoved the bills at the kid and snatched the pizza from him. Holland had been so caught up in it that he didn’t heed the warning of the box being hot. A breath gets sucked through his nose to keep the cuss at bay. The bottom of the box was like touching fire. Heat seeped into his palms and surely made them an angry shade of red. 

A forced grin captured his expression as he set it onto the coffee table. He waited for your eyes to avert away from him to flap his hands around. The pain, slowly, subsided. All that was left was the dull ache in the absence of pain.

That meant there was only one thing to do tonight—the hardest part.

The hardest thing he’s had to do in the past year of his life. Sit you down and… tell you that he loves you. He feels like he’s gonna puke.

“Hey, I–I’m gonna run to the bathroom.” He stutters over his words, his heartbeat starting to hammer in his chest. “Just, just gotta wash my hands—be right back!”

Holland almost trips over his own feet as he rushes out of the living room. His eyes don’t even register the passing furniture or other doors in his place. He’s got tunnel vision. Set on making it into the bathroom before he takes a nose dive into the floor. 

Thankfully, he does. His back thuds against the door, breathing faster than it should be. He needed to calm down. This was nothing. This was just telling his partner that he’s fallen madly in love with her and living a single day without her was torture—

A flick of his wrist turns on the faucet. He splashes water into his face. Droplets drip down his forehead. Holland grasps onto the sides of the sink, knuckles turning white from sheer force. 

“Alright, March.” He huffs, shaking his head like he’d be able to shake himself from the throws of anxiety. He looks up and peers into the mirror mounted on the wall. The face staring back at him looks too similar to that of one of a kid about to have his first kiss. “Pull yourself together.”

Jesus Christ.

He drums his fingers against the sink and takes a deep breath. Psyching yourself up is freakin’ hard, man. 

“March, March, he’s our man.” He mumbles under his breath, turning to pat his face dry with a towel. “If he can’t do it, no one can.”

His throat works around a swallow. He leaves the fluffyness of the towel behind to grasp onto the door knob. With one last hurrah, he mumbles under his breath, “Maaaarch!”

Then, he opens the bathroom door. Makes a point to walk a little slower back to the living room. Trying to appear like he wasn’t just psyching himself up. 

“I grabbed us plates.” Your voice is the first thing he registers when he enters the living room. It’s soft and sweet, like a gentle breeze. 

“Oh.” He hums, taking a seat on the couch. “Great.” 

There’s a visible gap between your bodies. He’s on an entirely different end of the sofa, instead of his usual place next to you. Your eyes squint as you take notice.

Holland plays with the fabric of his slacks, picking at it and keeping his head down. He only looks up when you extend him a plate with slices on it. 

“You alright?” Your words are wrapped in tender confusion, genuine as they fall from your lips like honeysuckle. 

He wishes he could just spit it out. 

No matter the consequences. 

Instead, he opts for shaking his head. Too quickly. Like a teenager trying to deflect something from a parent. “M’fine.”

You take a pause. The gaze you’re leveling him with turns analytical. Eyes tracing down his face, watching for the twitches of his micro-expressions. Damn you. And your detective brain that’s far too attractive to be normal. 

“Is it the sauce?” You question, voice softening. 

He wishes it was just the sauce. 

“Uh–no, I mean that was terrible but—no, it’s not the sauce.” He settles for a simple answer, avoiding the spiral of words that tried to spill from his mouth. A sigh rattles his chest. 

You place your half-eaten slice of pizza on your plate, turning your attention to him. “Seriously, March. You alright?”

He’s gonna puke. 

Yep. That’s what’s gonna happen.

His stomach churns. It twists itself into a knot so tight it physically pains him. His tongue has turned to stone, heavy in his mouth. 

Holland opens his mouth, but the words fail. For someone who never shuts up this was terrible. His throat works around a swallow. “No—okay? I’m not.”

His face contorts into something akin to anguish. His brows furrow, eyes wide and filled with urgency. Your chest pangs.

“Talk to me.” It’s not a command— more of a gentle plea. 

“I–I made dinner.” He huffs out, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “I sent Holly to Jenny’s. You know?” 

You grow quiet. Holland was someone who needed to spew out words before the meat of his point shines through. So you give it to him. 

But he’s terrible at silence.

“There…There was a reason.” His hand runs through his dark blonde hair, mussing it up. “I don’t—I don’t do this.” His hands clasp in his lap. 

He dips his head downwards, not looking at you. He fiddles with his fingers for a second. 

“Holland—”

“I did this for you!” He finally spits out, the words falling in droves. 

That shocks you. Enough to stun you into silence, unsure of what he’d meant by it. Was he upset that the good thing he tried to do was ruined? It wasn’t easy to read him when he won’t look at you. 

His leg starts bouncing. In the same way that someone with anxiety would do it, bouncing on the ball of his foot. Even without seeing his eyes, you knew they were darting around. It was the kind of anxiety that had made a home in his mind all night, and it was finally coming to the surface. 

“Holland.” Your voice is quiet. Grounding. “What do you mean?”

Holland splutters. “I m—I mean… God.” He causes quiet, finally looking over at you. His eyes are glassy. 

Barely a second passes.

“I love you!”

The silence is heavy. It’s the same silence after a nuclear bomb goes off. The moments before everyone scrambles to check the radio for survivors. And casualties.

Your jaw has dropped. The shock your body had just gone through—hearing those words, seeing him so nervous, and his eyes shimmering—made it feel like it didn’t happen. You have to take a second. Maybe pinch yourself. Make sure it was all real. 

Holland inhales a sharp breath. 

Your silence felt like a knife to the side. 

This was the rejection he was waiting for. The silence as he poured out his entire heart on the floor. And it got splattered worse than his stupid sauce ever could have been. He should have seen it coming—you were always too good for him.

He felt like an idiot. 

“Holland.” Your voice is paper-thin, frayed around the edges. Horse like you hadn’t used it in a while. 

He blinks. 

“Are you serious?” 

He didn’t expect that. Maybe this was when you started standing up and laughing at him. That’s how it worked in those movies Holly watches on the TV. “Yeah..?”

Your knees turn toward him, giving him your full face. The ghost of a smile is curving the sides of your mouth. It’s a stupid, childish grin that’s barely being kept off your face. You’re sure your eyes had started sparkling. 

A warmth unfurls through your chest.

“I love you, too.”

Holland falls silent. Everything he’d thought was happening had just been turned on its head. He felt like the floor had been ripped out from beneath his feet. 

“You… love me, too?”

You grin. “That’s what I said.”

The words sink into Holland. You weren’t rejecting him. In fact, you were on the exact same page as him. You loved him too. And he was over here stressing like a dope for no reason. He has to laugh at his own absurdity. 

Jesus. You loved him. 

And you’re sitting across from him with the biggest smile he’s ever seen. It makes you look younger. Brighter. Like any woe life had tossed onto your shoulders and slipped off. Like you’d just taken in a breath of fresh air. Holland feels himself fall in love with you all over again. 

It’s his turn to smile back.

There’s almost a minute of silence. Just the two of you smiling, relishing in the revelation. There wasn’t a need to rush anything. The hard part was over—but now as he’s sitting on the couch, looking into the eyes he saw before he drifted off to sleep, it didn’t actually feel hard. It was one of the easiest things he’s ever done, actually. 

“I was so scared to do that.” He breathes, palm flattening against the sofa.

Your palms rests against the plush cushions, slowly migrating towards his. “I’m glad you did it.”

He nods. “Me too.”

His eyes drop his gaze towards your lips. He stiffens, unsure of what to do. If he could do anything. His eyes flicker back up to yours. There’s a heaviness weighing in them now. 

You do the same. But you let your gaze linger on his lips. It’s easy to fantasize about them—how they’d feel against yours. How he’d taste. 

“Can I–?”

He’s leaning closer to you, internally cursing himself for sitting so far away. He wanted to be closer. A thrumming need courses through his veins, and the only cure was to be close to you. Be as close as possible. 

You’re already crawling across the couch, giggling quietly, nodding fervently.

Your fingers are cool against his skin. Your thumb brushes against his cheekbone as you cup his cheek. Holland melts into the touch like it was his first time. The normal breathing flowing through his lungs hitches, caught up by his spiking pulse. 

His eyes are wide and bright. Like oceans beckoning you to drown in.

There’s a moment when you just breathe each other in. Letting your breath mingle, mere inches apart. It isn’t until you brush your lips against his does he make a move. 

Your lips fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Connecting in a way they always should have been connected. His hand sprawls over your hip, grasping onto you like you’d float away. 

He’s kissing you so softly it’s torture. It’s reverent. His touch isn’t scalding—it’s more gentle than anything. Like he’s trying to savor the moment he’s in. And he is.

A soft sound bubbles up in your throat, muffled by his mouth. 

Holland’s grasp on your hip tightens just a fraction. His kisses have more pressure now. His tongue gently runs along the seam of your lips. Asking for permission. You open up for him like a flower. 

He groans into your mouth. There’s something thready about the sound. It’s almost painful. Like he was holding something back—himself. 

“Shit, hold on.” He murmurs, pulling back from you. He doesn't move far. Can’t.

His gaze drops down to your kiss bitten lips. A breath gets sucked in between his teeth. He can’t even begin to believe the vision before him. You’re just perfect. 

“Something wrong?” You ask, breath coming out in short pants.

“No.” Holland says quickly, head shaking so fast you’re sure he’d get whiplash. “God, no. Just.. wanna look at ‘ya.”

A familiar warmth slides itself down your abdomen. His thumb is caressing your hip, warming the skin beneath your bellbottoms. It feels like your skin is on fire. 

“So pretty.” He whispers the words more to himself, eyes wide in awe. 

“Holland!” You grin, heart fluttering. 

His other hand comes to your hip, slowly drifting down to under your thigh. He gives you a questioning tilt of his head. Waiting for permission to bring you closer. A nod is all he needs. 

Holland is surprisingly strong. Just at a glance, you wouldn’t think so. But he’s able to bracket your knees around his hips easily. He chuckles lightly when a surprised squeak slips from your lips. 

“Sorry.. Sorry, just.. Need you closer.”

You settle against him, couch cushions dipping beneath your combined weight. He wasn’t lying. You can feel something pressing against your thigh. It takes a second for you to realize what it was—and it definitely was not a banna in his pocket. 

His hand travels up your side, touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. He brushes your hair from your face. Tucks it behind your ear with a soft smile.

“Holland.” His name falls from your lips in a way it never has before. Soft and breathy.

Holland thinks he’s gonna pass out. But he doesn’t. 

“I love you.” He says again, quiet. Reverent. 

He leans up, making you slump against him slightly, to press a kiss against your shoulder. It’s feather light. Just enough pressure to make you feel like you’re spiraling. 

A cuss slips from your lips. Your body moves on instinct—pressing your hips closer to his. The stiffy in his pants had hardened fully, and the pressure of him makes you gasp. A moment like this has never played through your mind. There wasn’t even a fantasy that could have prepared you for this. 

“I love you, Holland.” The words fall in a lighter tone than you would have hoped, floating off your lips like fairy dust. 

His hand on your hip tightens. There’s an audible noise coming from him; the sound of his breath stuttering in his chest. It’s like he still hadn’t fully digested the words yet. Each time he heard it was a shock to his system. 

“I want you.” You breathe out, your own palms resting on his chest. “I need you.”

He’s the happiest man in the world. 

“O-okay..” He mutters, gaze flickering over your face. There’s a second where he looks to make sure this wasn’t a dream. That you’re serious. And you are. “Okay.”

The next few seconds happen in a blur. All you remember is straddling Holland’s lap, then suddenly his palms are holding under your thighs, and he’s lifting you up and laughing at your surprise. 

“My room?”

“Absolutely.”

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He scoffed as he led you over to an empty table in the corner of the room. “I’m not a slob!”

“March, the first time I met you, you were stumbling around a crime scene half drunk.” 

“Well, you were breaking into that crime scene. I don’t see how that’s much better.”

“I was not!”

You were in Los Angeles for a writing conference. Staying at a way less nice hotel than the Biltmore. Your childhood friend, Daina, practically lived at the historic hotel. She invited you to visit only the day before. You didn’t know it would be the last time you talked to her. That you would go inside her hotel room and it would be a crime scene rather than a good catch-up with a friend. That you would see her dead body on the couch — murdered for the jewelry she possessed.

Or a man snooping around in her mini bar.

“Can I help you?”

He shot up like a spooked mirrakat when you spoke, turning to you with a hand to his chest. You quickly noted the gun at his hip, the styled hair, the mustache, the fitted blue suit. Attractive. But possibly the thief come back to see the job through.

“Jesus Christ! Don’t do that!” 

“This is a closed crime scene,” you stated, arms crossed.

“You don’t look like a cop,” he said, giving you a once over.

“I’m not. I’m…” You glanced over at the body on the couch. “I’m a friend. The detective working the case let me in.”

“Why?” he asked.

You bristled. “I’ve solved a few cases here and there, but that’s not important. Why are you here?”

The mustasheod man stared at you for a moment, jaw ticked to one side and blue eyes narrowed. Under his gaze, you stood your ground. Chin held high, bag clutched tight in your fist, ready to call out to the officer at the door that the thief was back after robbing and killing your friend. What an idiot for coming back to the scene of the crime.

“You’re that author,” he finally stated, taking a few slow steps forward. “Murder mysteries. A Faded Rose Beside Her.”

“Didn’t take you for a reader.”

“Didn’t take you for a detective either.”

“We all have our idiosyncrasies,” you replied, accepting that this man wasn’t a threat, and beginning to note the broken coffee table and vase. Your friend put up a fight.

“Yours just so happens to be murder?” 

“You know, you still haven’t told me who you are.”

“I’m a private investigator — Holland March,” he admitted, shoving his hands in his pockets as he mozied around the room. “This place has some bad ju-ju or something. Two weeks ago I got a call to help investigate the murder of one Jillian Sinclair. A wealthy older woman who was murdered in her hotel room — all her jewels stolen. Just like your friend here.”

He pointed at the body on the couch and you couldn’t bear to look. You never had a problem looking at death and gore before. Graphic crime scene photos for research on a new book. Other real life bodies from cases you had helped solve. But this was the first time that a case was truly personal to you. You followed a few steps behind as he sauntered over to the broken balcony door.

“Detective Shaw told me about that. You think they’re connected?”

“I think the same guy murdered both women and took their jewelry for the money.”

“Let me help you solve the case, Mr. March,” you said earnestly, “She was my friend. I want to bring this man to justice.”

“Fine. Just don’t slow me down.”

The rest of the week was the exact opposite. March bumbled around the hotel, fumbled interviews you managed to get with the staff, and made the two of you follow a lead for an entire day that turned out to be the most boring goose chase of your life. You were thankful when March’s partner, Jackson Healy, finally showed up to help with the case after being who knew where. He was clearly the straight man of the pair, and finally agreed with you that your suspect had to be within only a narrow field of people in order for them to have committed both crimes.

The hotel’s security manager, Frank. Another long-term hotel guest, Oliver. Or the window cleaner, Vince.

And every single one of them was going to be at that gala hosted in the Biltmore’s ballroom tonight. You needed to draw the culprit out, so a plan was hatched and it seemed easy enough. You and March would pose as a couple at the gala with you wearing a large (and fake) piece of jewelry. Towards the end of the night, you would get into an argument with March publicly demanding that he sleep somewhere else. When the gala was over you would be in your hotel room alone, and hopefully, the culprit would attempt to steal the necklace and you would catch him red-handed. 

Easy stuff. Only you had never posed as a fake anything before. You had never been bait for a killer before. You felt so confident when you put on your dress earlier. Beautiful butter yellow chiffon with draping sleeves and not too low neckline. But now your hands were shaking. You tried to temper down your nerves, but it was increasingly difficult as the ballroom filled and the inevitable grew closer and closer. Your heart pounded in your chest and your hands shook as you set down your clutch. Maybe you should have just gone back to Maine.

“Champagnge?” You both turned to see Jackson standing there in a waiter’s uniform, holding up a tray full of flutes, then he whispered harshly: “You’re supposed to save the argument for later.”

March snatched a glass from the tray with a tight smile. “Just practicing.”

“Yes, wouldn’t want to seem inauthentic,” you grumbled, gently taking your own glass.

“Just keep it together for a few hours. Act in love. Dance,” Jackson huffed before he walked off to make another round of the room.

With a sigh, you took a sip of your champagne and tried to relax. You could handle this. You went to events like this all the time by yourself. Now you just had a man with you. A man who drove you absolutely insane for so many reasons. He drank too much. You constantly had to make up for his mistakes. He thought he was invincible for some reason. And he was easy on the eyes as much as you hated to admit it. With that sunkissed hair and mustache, the ring on his pinky finger, that tattoo on his hand that you still couldn’t read the entirety of. 

God, his hands. He made that champagne flute look tiny in comparison. You shook your head and took another sip of your drink. You were glad this case was potentially over tonight. Then you wouldn’t have to be around Holland March anymore. His screw ups or his pretty face.

“I really did read that book of yours,” March said into the lip of his glass.

You quirked a brow. “Oh, really?”

“It was alright.” He said it like he actually loved it, and you took some pride in that “My daughter has, like, all of your books. She recommended it to me.”

“You have a daughter?” you asked, smile dropping as something heavy grew in your heart.

“Yep. She thinks I’m the worst,” he sighed lightheartedly.

“I mean, you are the worst. But I’m sure she loves you.”

“Hurtful.”

“That your daughter loves you?”

“No, the other thing. You think I’m the worst.”

“I’ve…Worked with better detectives, March. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Like who?”

“Fletcher. Hazlitt. McGraw.”

“Those are just names you made up. You’re a writer, you can do that.”

“They’re real people! Do you want me to call them for you?”

“Yes! I want you to call them and they can tell me how much better they are than me!”

Despite the heat in your face and the perfect comeback already on the tip of your tongue, with one glance around the room you could see that people were staring. Waiting. Watching. So you did the first thing that came to mind in order to get the attention off of you: you stepped right into March’s personal space, set down your glass, and smoothed a hand over the lapel of his jacket. The fire seemed to die in his eyes as he watched you, brows furrowed as you fixed his tie that didn’t need it.

“Touch back,” you whispered, “People are watching.”

Like some rusted tin thing, March’s hands began to move until they landed on your waist. His grip was firmer than you thought it would be, thumbs slightly digging into your ribs. His touch was as warm as you thought it would be, as all consuming, as you laid both palms flat against his chest.

You looked up into his face and saw something you couldn’t read. 

“I’m sorry I called you the worst. The real worst was Deputy Porter. He spilled an entire pot of coffee on me and accused me of murder, so…He takes the cake.”

“Shit, I bet you were a sight after he made that accusation,” March chuckled.

It tickled the back of your mind that neither of you had pulled away despite onlookers losing interest. But you didn’t dare bring it up. It felt nice to be held.

“I…Certainly wasn’t my happiest.” You grinned.

“I’ve seen you not happy. I bet you were pissed.”

“That’s probably a more accurate description.”

The pair of you laughed and March squeezed your waist while he did. It made your mouth part on your next intake of breath. Made your fingers dig into the lapels of his jacket only slightly. But he seemed to notice. His smile dropped but didn’t leave his face entirely as he searched your expression for something you didn’t know if you wanted him to find.

After a moment, he muttered quietly, “You wanna dance?”

“As part of our cover?” you questioned softly.

“Of course.” He adjusted the lay of the fake necklace with a gentle hand.

Your Song by Elton John began to play as March led you out onto the dance floor crowded with couples. It was awkward at first, figuring out where it felt comfortable to place hands and having to guide him on the beat to follow at first. But after a few stepped on toes, laughs, and one frustrated groan, you got the hang of it. Hands clasped together, one hand on his shoulder, one on your waist. Chest to chest. You looked like a couple.

And you couldn’t help the tears that stung the backs of your eyes.

“My husband loved this song,” you said before you could stop yourself, regret instantly washing over your face as you pinched your eyes shut.

Once you peeled your eyes open to look up awkwardly at March, he replied, “Loved?”

“He passed away five years ago,” you clarified, already in too deep. “He would always sing that first line, it’s a little bit funny, in the most ridiculous way.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in reply, clearly uncomfortable.

But the pieces clicked together. No ring. A child at home. You couldn’t stop yourself this time. “Your daughter’s mom…?”

“She’s gone.” Holland coughed, refusing to meet your eye. “House fire two years ago.”

You couldn’t stop, even if you tried, the way your fingers moved up his neck to thread your fingers into the hairs at the back of his head. A comfort. A plea. March’s head dropped at the contact, a quiet groan echoing in his throat. He tugged you in by the waist all the closer.

“I’m not gonna say I’m sorry because I know that does jack shit to help.” He at least chuckled at your rare use of profanity. “It hurts. There isn’t a way around that.”

“It does.” His blue eyes finally caught on yours and you finally noticed the sorrow in them. “How’d uh…How’d your husband die?”

“Car wreck. He was going to get ice cream…For me.” You swallowed down your tears as the next song began to play, another slow one. Good. “It’s really easy to blame yourself. I did…For a long time.”

A pause, then Holland whispered. “How do you stop?”

“You let go.”

The two of you danced in silence for the remainder of the song. But there was a closeness that wasn’t there before. You really leaned into one another. Cheek to cheek. His hand held more loosely in your own. Your fingers still tangled in his hair. 

The remainder of the gala went by in a blur. Finding your table again. An entire dinner with dessert. Another dance that Holland insisted on. And finally, your argument. Loud and slightly deranged and almost complete nonsense. But it did the job. Nearly the entire room went silent while you screamed at each other. Then you stomped off to your room to await a murderer.

It was a warm night in April, so you flung open the balcony door and sat down to pretend to read a book before bed. A way to cool off your flushed skin, burning from nerves. You didn’t even bother changing out of your dress, it would be even more awful if the culprit caught you off guard in the nude or in a dressing gown. You don’t think Holland or Jackson would let you live it down.

But you did take off the fake necklace and leave it in an open case for the murderer to see. 

So you sat and you waited, heart pounding, as you stared holes into the page of your book. Not wanting to seem like you were waiting for someone to show up. You knew Holland and Jackson were posted outside your door by now, waiting for you to call out and they would bust in, guns drawn. That, at least, gave you some comfort. But not a lot. The culprit was going to be armed, if the previous crime scenes told you anything. With a knife. You didn’t have anything to protect yourself with besides the room decor. And that didn’t save your friend.

After about an hour of waiting, you heard a sound from the balcony. The beat of your heart thundered in your ears as you listened closely to the quiet footsteps on the tile. Your hands trembled as you slowly closed your book and set it aside, not wanting to tip him off that you knew he was there. 

The rest was too quick for you to comprehend all of it. You would have to remember that next time you were writing a scene like this. 

You were yanked to your feet with a knife pressed to your throat, a strong arm clamped around your waist, holding your back to his front. You yelped as the point of the blade broke flesh, warm blood trickling down into your collar.

“Where’s the jewels?” he asked gruffly, not caring to disguise his voice.

But you recognized that lilt. It was Oliver. The out of work actor trying to make a comeback in Hollywood. He made perfect sense. He was running out of money after staying at the Biltmore for so long. He needed cash. And the easiest way for him to get it was to rob and murder unsuspecting women in the hotel. 

In the moment, you couldn’t remember the codeword the three of you had come up with. Instead, in your panic, you screamed, “Holland!” 

Oliver just chuckled. “I don’t think your husband’s gonna hear you, sweetheart.”

The door was kicked in not a second later, Holland and Jackson running in with guns raised. It didn’t deter Oliver, though. The knife pressed even harder into your neck, he menuvered the two of your closer to the balcony door.

“Drop the weapon,” Jackson ordered as the partners approached slowly. 

“You drop it!” Oliver barked. “Or the whore gets it.”

“Hey, don’t talk about her like that!” Holland said.

“Yeah, she’s a world renowned author, you know?” Jackson added.

Oliver pulled you to the side slightly in order to get a better look at your face. “Really?”

Jackson took the opportunity, with part of his body exposed, to shoot Oliver in the shoulder. He dropped the weapon instantly, falling flat on his back as you stumbled forward. Holland caught you before you could completely fall, hands on your elbows, gun ditched somewhere on the floor. You looked up into his face, tyring to catch your breath, and you were taken aback by how panicked he looked. 

He pushed the hair out of your face and asked, “Are you okay?”

“I-I’m okay,” you replied shakily, touching the spot on your neck that had been punctured and pulling away with bloody fingertips. “Just a scratch.”

“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out like you didn’t already know, staring at the cut like it was going to kill you.

“Holland.” You put a hand on his cheek and he finally looked you in the eye. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

He pulled you into his chest as if you would float away otherwise. Frantic and probably too hard but you didn’t care. The plan worked. You were alive. He was alive. You suddenly were glad you didn’t go back home.

“If you two could stop fawning over each other and call the cops —” Jackson interrupted from his place with a boot digging into Oliver’s injured shoulder. “That would be great.”

The next morning, you came down into the Biltmore’s lobby with your suitcase at your side. It was a beautiful, rainy, April day in Los Angeles. But you were ready for the rain and fog and choppy shores of Maine this time of year. No traffic. No actors. Where the most violent thing was when the diner ran out of apple pie.

You were, against all odds, going to miss the man that was waiting for you by the front door. Leaned back against the wall, a cigarette between his lips, ankles crossed and somehow looking so suave and clumsy at the same time.

“Mr. March,” you called out once you were checked out and ready to go. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

Holland picked himself up from the wall and approached you with his hands shoved in his pockets. “I uh…I wanted to give you a little something to remember me by.”

Out of the inside pocket of his jacket he pulled his business card. You chuckled as you took it from him, fingers brushing. It really encapsulated the man. A little drawing of him on one side. Detective was spelled wrong. You loved it.

“Do you take cases all the way in Maine?” you questioned as you stowed the card away in your own coat.

“If the client is agreeable,” he mused with a smirk.

“Agreeable. I’ll have to see if I can find someone like that in need of your services.” You grinned, then took a book from your bag. “I have something for you, too. Really, it’s for Holly.”

He took it from you tentatively, turning it over to glance at the back. “A book?”

“My newest book. The Corpse Danced at Midnight. It hasn’t even hit stores yet.” You flipped it open to the first page while it was still in his hands. “And it’s signed.”

“Jesus, she’s gonna love this.” He smiled as he took a long look at the cover before tucking it against his side. “Do you…um — do you need a ride to the airport?”

You leaned around him to look out the glass door and sighed. “My taxi is already here.”

“Of course. Yeah.”

“It was really nice working with you, Holland.”

He looked up at you and smiled. “You, too. Even though you were a pain in my ass.”

“I beg to differ on that.”

“Differ? You were a thorn in my side.”

“Don’t even get me started on that, March. You really know how to —” You stopped yourself with a grin, seeing that he was already smiling ear to ear, knowing he had gotten under your skin. “Hopefully we’ll meet again someday. Maybe even without a murder involved.”

“Maybe,” he sighed.

But you could hear the hope in it. 

“Goodbye, Holland.” 

Before you could overthink it, you shot up onto your tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek. Then you were out the door, in the rain, back to your normal life.

Holland March is by no means a daydream. Despite catching a dangerous, spiralling crush on him ever since you moved into the apartment complex adjacent to him a year ago, you've never dared to allow your mind to wander the possibilities of breaking the boundaries of friendship and camaraderie. This decision is staked in a quite simple pragmatic: you don't do crushes.

Sure, you find Holland attractive. Of course, you find him hot. He's musky like any man who chainsmokes as if he could afford all the tobacco in the world, and his stupid moustache frames his stupid face in a stupidly endearing way. Adds to the whole single father look, you guess. But all these observations roundabout back to the simple pragmatic that you do not do crushes. 

Unfortunately, it's safe to say that Holland makes this pragmatic tricky for you to keep afloat.

“Smokin’s bad for you, baby,” he says, cigarette between his lips, because he is an asshole.

You light your cigarette, fingers shielding the flame from the wind. Once the end catches fire, you tuck the lighter back in your jacket pocket and mumble past the smoke, “Man, shut the fuck up.”

“Ouch,” Holland feigns hurt. “Just some medical advice. Don't want your pretty voice to be ruined.”

“I've been smoking since I was 16,” you snap because it's true. You sink deeper in your shitty pull-out camping chair. 

You shrug and take another huff, then another, desperate to chase that nicotine high. “Just had a rough day, you know. These L.A. journalists are so hungry for gossip and it’s taking everything in me to produce words and words and words, and I just can’t.”

“Then don’t,” Holland says like it’s so simple. 

“Of course you’d say that,” you snarl. “You’re shit at your job most times.” 

“And the other times?” Holland asks, unphased by your criticism. He’s heard worse from Holly. 

You shoot him a point-blank expression. “Abysmal.”

Holland merely shrugs, shoulders raised to ears and continues to smoke. As minutes crawl forward towards midnight, Holland doesn’t say anything about your particularly deeper drags, though you know that he knows, and he knows that you know that he knows. At stalemate, you quickly finish that cigarette and onto the next.

“I know you’ve had a rough day, but you'll get dizzy if you smoke that quick, sweetheart. That's not how you enjoy cigs,” Holland finally speaks. 

Perhaps it's the lilt of his tongue that shapes that nickname into a sound that softens you more than it should. Or maybe it's just a bad day, where you think again of how many other women Holland has shamelessly flirted with because that is just Holland: charismatic, funny and an ass. “Stop calling me that,” you bleat weakly.

“What's the problem with calling you sweetheart?” he asks, raising a brow. If he can sense your internal pandemonium, he makes no expression that suggests it. “Call you it all the time.”

You consider yourself a good liar, because you can clothe an act like second skin when you exhale another smoke. “Just don't. Don't like it.” (Technically, true.)

Holland is on another cigarette already too. He leans over to pick up a bottle of beer you purchased earlier for the occasion, and maybe you're seeing things, but a pout downturns his lips. “But I like it.”

And there it is.

That dangerous, beckoning line that you swear is charged with some semblance of truth. Holland may be a bad person, but he wears at least half of his heart on his sleeve. But how much is this theoretical truth purely Holland's personality as a charismatic man, or genuine interest in you? It's these precise theoreticals that make you turn the other way and act oblivious and unwanting.

You take this moment to evade the potential path this conversation could go with no reply. Because maybe both of you are tipsy and smoked through a pack of cigarettes respectively, Holland does not urge you to. So—so. Silence blankets the both of you, and despite all odds, it's warm. Everything is always warm with Holland. 

You’ve finished your cigarette already, and you’re already reaching for another one like a practiced dance. Holland swipes his lighter before you can procure your own, to which you slant him a curious expression. The unlit cigarette lackadaisically hangs from your lips, and you inch closer to him as he's already attending to lightning your cigarette. And god—he is so attentive, so close. Hand cupping around your cig to catch the fire, his face so near yours. You couldn't do anything but stare at the flame, as was he in complete concentration. If you look at him, you are certain one look will expose a year's worth of your idiotic, withheld yearning. 

After a deep inhale and exhale, you nod. “Thanks.” 

Holland leans back with a thud, his chest deflating with a prolonged sigh. He tempers a thought or two or twenty in the fog of his head, before he rolls his lips with fervent chagrin. “Can't just do that to me,” Holland whines, voice small. 

You slowly blink, bewildered by his angle of approach. You're way too drunk for this. He’s way too drunk for this.  “Do what, Hol’?”

“Just say that I can't call you sweetheart.”

“And baby,” you add.

“And baby!” Holland exasperatedly says, throwing his arms up and here is when you can tell he's really drunk. “That's impossible.”

“Uhm, no, it isn't.” Holland is theatrical when he wants to be. “You surely can call at least one woman in your life by their name or nothing at all,” you ramble, the alcohol surging your words like spitfire because intoxication seems to set things straight in your head. Surely you could be imagining all this.

Holland spears you with an almost affronted expression, it startles you. “But you're the only woman in my life.”

A laugh bursts out of your chest unwillingly. Alcohol tends to do that; loosen all the limbs that otherwise keeps you all together, contained and measured. Sure, you can form coherent-ish thoughts, but you cannot contain laughter . “That's a complete lie!” you giggle because it is. And even if it isn't a lie, it's still hilarious. “You're so dramatic.”

“I'm not lying!” Holland protests a bit too sharply.

You frown. “Oh, come on, dude.”

“It's true,” Holland says so seriously, you can hear a full stop at the end of his words. He levels you with a look that looks eerily sober for a second. “Hey, you're so pretty tonight. When did you get so pretty?”

“When you got drunk,” you assert, voice warbling—god-willing. “Holland, you've had too much to drink. Now go to bed.”

Holland huffs, stubbing out his cigarette in the mountains of char and bullied cigarette butts in the ashtray. “You can't just tell me what to do.”

“Yes, I can, because this is my apartment. Holly is all alone and you need to go back.”

“Actually, she's sleeping over at Jenny's—’

“Jessica’s.”

“—So I don't need to go back,” Holland says with finality. 

“Then go to sleep,” you say slowly. “You know where my bedroom is.”

But you're still smoking, still situated comfortably in your shitty, half-broken camping chair and opening up your nearly empty cigarette pack for another smoke. Which Holland interprets that you're not going to sleep anytime soon.

“Why not come to bed with me?” he asks. 

You stare at him, owlish. “I'm taking the couch.”

“You’re doing that thing again—that thing,” Holland blurts. 

“What thing?”  

“That thing—! You always back out when I, when I suggest something remotely, I dunno, when I'm trying to flirt with you! But it's like talking to a brick wall!”

Your jaw slackens and you lower your freshly lit cigarette, which says something, because you always at least take two deep drags when freshly lit to keep the flame. A beat dampens the atmosphere, and to his expectant expression you say with fashionable responsibility, “Hol’, you're drunk.” 

“Oh my god, what's stopping you?” Holland explodes. He begins listing items off with his fingers, words slurring but strafe with conviction it makes your head dizzy. “We're the same-ish age, five years ain't no big difference. We're neighbours. You're hot, and don't think I haven't noticed you staring at me when you think I'm not looking. You're smart, cute, and you take care of Holly well and you care—you care so much. I don't get it, why do you act like you don't see me?”

You stutter. I do see you is your first instinct to reply. Of course, you see him. Many sentences start and stop at the tide of your tongue, but they certainly stumble out unfinished. Finally, after the sloshing of sound blearing in your ears, when you recalibrate in sustained silence, you admit: “I didn't know this was happening. I thought you were just being friendly. It's safe to not assume.”

Holland balks. “Well, that's stupid.”

“Hey, it's not stupid,” you reprimand, irritated. You proceed to ramble, because after all, you are still tipsy and you can't believe this isn't a dream, that Holland is telling you you're stupid for mistaking his flirting as friendliness, because truly, where does that line end and begin? You’ve witnessed Holland make crude comments with many women before. It had been safer for you to assume this is simply Holland being Holland. “Momma told me to not read into anything unless it's explicitly stated. I've had many guys who have carried my jacket for me, I thought they liked me, but turns out they were halfway in going out with some other girl and they were genuinely just being friendly.”

“Yeah, yeah, you're uptight, I get it. But I'm a simple man, baby,” Holland murmurs, eyes flickering to your lips, then back to your eyes. He shifts, a hair too close for your comfort. “And if I kiss you right now, would you still think this is me being friendly?” 

You purse your mouth, stomach flipping upside down and lodging your lungs in your throat. “Hol’, you're being mean,” you say, and in retrospect already, it's childish, but is true. He's being a mean flirt when he knows you're already disarmed, when you're not ready to be soft. 

But then again, when will you ever be ready?

An imperceptible smile smudges Holland's face. “Can you read me?”

Your eyes flicker to his lips, bitten behind his teeth and back to his eyes. It’s Sunday evening and Monday morning you may regret this plunge. But it is Sunday evening, not Monday morning, and right now, you want many things like kissing Holland’s face silly, running your hands through his mussed hair tousled from the day’s whirlwinds. Brave and braver, you nod. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Can read you.”

You don't know who leans in first, but it's a slow, savouring kiss. The first thing you feel is the prickles of his stache, then the smell of his musk that has always made you feel woozy and love-addled whenever you’re too close to him. You don’t know when Holland’s hands had grabbed your waist, or when your palm was placed on the side of his face but eventually, it all culminates to the overwhelming realisation that shit, you’re kissing Holland March. 

You don't say anything. You pull back, flushed and nerves leaping, as your first reaction is to reach for the final cigarette in your now emptied pack. When you look out to the towering, urban expanse that offends the tranquility of the even larger than large night sky, you lit your cigarette with practiced ease. 

“Sorry,” you murmur around the cigarette with shame, because who the fuck smokes a cigarette after kissing their crush who apparently reciprocates your emotions? “Just haven't kissed anyone in a while.”

“That's okay,” Holland replies, seemingly unafraid of your shaken reaction. Perhaps a bit confused, you can’t discredit the slight uncertainty in his face, but you weren’t running out of your apartment in fear, so that must account for something. 

Heart and heavy, you admit another truth: “I'm scared.”

“Why are you scared?” Sometimes, Holland can be soft and genuine. 

A shrug. “Dunno. Just—you really like me?”

“You want me to make it more obvious?”

This earns him a snort, to which you finally look at him—really look at him with steady eyes. “No, it's not you. I just can't wrap my head around the idea that someone may like me.”

“Well,” Holland smiles, doppily and drowsy, “gotta get used to it, pretty.”

You smile in return. You don't scold him for the petname this time. 

/

You didn’t know who he was or what he studied, nor did you care to find out.

In general, you were pleasant with everyone you crossed paths with and your first time meeting Ryland Grace wouldn’t have been any different from seeing any other random grad student if he hadn’t immediately pissed you off. To his credit, he didn’t even know he had done something to irk you and it hadn’t been his intention to be a thorn in your side- not at the beginning at least.

If you hadn’t already been having the worst day of your life (woke up late, missed bus and denied scholarship application, to name a few of the events that morning), maybe the two of you could’ve hit it off and been fast friends. He was probably nice enough and besides occasionally being a smartass, he had a good head on his shoulders. Smart, confident and easy on the eyes- all things that pointed to a person you could get along with.

So how had he immediately put himself on your shit list?

Well, he was sitting in your spot.

No, the little nook in the University’s library did not have your name on it, nor did it actually belong to you.

But you’d been sitting there, in the same sunny little spot of the library that you’d come to call the closest thing to heaven you’d experienced during your doctorate studies, every day since you began your research. After extensive lab work, you’d disappear into the almost always empty corner of the library to type up your findings for hours at a time. 

No one had ever been in your nook before. Until Ryland Grace decided he wanted to sit there too.

You’d already had a day from hell so stumbling up to your spot midafternoon only to find that someone else had already claimed it with all of his stuff immediately infuriated you.

He seemed to be around your age, most likely working on his masters or PhD like you were. A spread of papers, books and packets were strewn over the desk surface, no apparent rhyme or reason to their organization. The guy was tapping away at a laptop where a huge spreadsheet of data was displayed, completely ignorant of your presence until you cleared your throat.

Any other day, you would’ve grumbled about it but found a different area to plant yourself for the night. But not that day. You were too irritated and too tired to let this dirtbag take away the last scrap of peace you would get until the sun set.

The blonde haired intruder jumped at your pointed grumble, pulling a pair of wired earbuds out of his ears and looking you up and down from his seat. You most definitely looked like a hundred miles of bad road but you couldn’t have cared less.

“You’re in my spot.”

The quirked brow he gave you had you seeing red.

“Pardon?”

“You’re in. My spot.”

He seemed at a loss for words, pointedly looking past you where you knew a slew of other perfectly empty desks sat. “Uh… can’t you go sit somewhere else?”

You ground your teeth together. “No.”

Gesturing to all of his stuff on the table, he shrugged in a half-assed apology. “Sorry, I’m pretty comfortable here and I’m kinda busy, so…”

The stare off the two of you had for several seconds was charged with tension. He wouldn’t back down and you didn’t want to either, but he had the advantage. He had already claimed your nook and if you went and complained to one of the library staff several floors down, they would look at you like you were crazy. Every spot in the library was first come first serve, you had no special claim to this specific spot.

So you moved. To a table very close to the one he occupied. And spent the better part of your evening glaring daggers at him. 

He’d look up occasionally, meet your gaze and go back to his studies, like he wasn’t bothered at all. It sure bothered you that he was so nonchalant about everything. You could only watch with a sneer as the sun slowly set, bathing your perfect little nook in warm, golden sunlight and in turn making the messy jerk look ethereal while you were stuck in the library’s shadowy interior.

You’d been the one to leave first. It was late, you were exhausted and you had a 10 minute walk home in the dark. The stranger didn’t seem to be ready to leave at all, dutifully typing on his laptop and occasionally shuffling through the mess on the table for a notebook or sheet of paper marred with scribbles.

He’d looked up when you stood, giving you a smug grin that nearly had you flying into the booth to wring his neck. Unfortunately, there were laws against that so you just settled for a middle finger and left.

You thought that would be the end of it.

A one off encounter that you’d fume about for weeks and a man who you’d never see again. The university was big and hopefully you’d made your point that the spot was yours so he’d find somewhere new to study.

When you walked up to your spot the following day in much higher spirits, your good day shattered when you saw the familiar fluffy haired head over the back of the booth. He’d come again. And deliberately sat in your spot.

You decided right then and there that Ryland Grace was the bane of your existence.

For two weeks the man hogged your little piece of heaven. Try as you might to come earlier and claim it yourself before he could, he was always there. Did he ever do anything besides study? Did he eat? Did he sleep? Surely he didn’t spend the night at the library, but you wouldn’t put it past him to hide when the library staff shut the place down and stay until morning. The jerk would probably do that to be petty.

You could’ve found another spot. Surely there was another booth a floor up that was the exact same layout and would get just as much sun. But you refused out of principle. You wouldn’t let this asshole get his way. He wanted to sit in your spot? Fine. If your glares weren’t enough to deter him, you’d turn to another method to smoke him out.

The shocked face the man gave you when you slid into the booth opposite of him one day was worth every drop of fury you’d endured for those couple of weeks. His look of distress when you shoved all of his things to his half of the desk, leaving your half clean, was priceless.

“Hey! Why??”

“You want to sit in my spot? Fine. We’ll share.”

You began unpacking your things while the blonde tried to straighten out his. “You messed up my system!”

Neatly setting your own books on the desk and opening your laptop, you laughed incredulously. “That was your system?”

His scowl was searing. “Yes. I don’t expect you, of all people, to understand my method of madness.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You’d parted ways very angry that day. 

The next day, you did the same thing: sat opposite of him and pushed his things to his side. And the next. And the next. And the next. He slowly started to learn to keep his things on his half of the desk to save himself the trouble of ‘reorganizing’. 

One time, you were surprised to find you’d beat Ryland to your nook and nearly jumped for joy. Finally! Your persistence must’ve paid off and he’d found somewhere else to plant himself. You were all smiles- up until a thick book was dropped onto the table, scaring you half to death, and that stupid messy mop of hair plopped into the booth with a smug grin. Said mop of hair then proceeded to give as good as he got; shoving your things from his side of the table back to your side.

Thus began your slightly hostile relationship with the man you eventually learned was molecular biology doctorate student, Ryland Grace (you read his name on one of the papers that snuck across the invisible line on the table).

For the most part, neither of you acknowledged each other during your joint study sessions- any conversation was clipped and tense. You didn’t try to learn anything about him and he made no effort to learn anything about you. In fact, you weren’t sure he even knew your name which was fine by you.

While you rarely conversed, there were small things you began learning about Ryland just by observation alone. 

Number one, while he was studying molecular biology, he seemed to have a specific interest in the stars; life in regards to space and the possibility of life outside of our planet. You knew as much because he had this annoying habit of grumbling while he worked- speaking out loud and working through his thoughts verbally.

He also had a smorgasbord of space and science related stickers on the back of his laptop you occasionally stared at when you were trying to think. NASA, planets, beakers, science puns and the occasional fox sticker stared at you every day. You weren’t sure why the foxes were thrown into the mix but you weren’t about to ask. 

Ryland couldn’t ever seem to sit still. He was always bouncing a leg or tapping a pen. The one time you got after him for it, he only did it more so you never brought it up again.

You also noticed something that Ryland didn’t seem to even know about himself. It took a couple of days to work up the willpower to actually ask about it.

“Do you have contacts?”

It was rare that you spoke to him, so Ryland looked up from the notebook he was writing in with a blink of surprise. “Huh?”

“Contacts. Y’know, the things in your eyes that help you see? Or glasses?”

“No?” He seemed truly flabbergasted.

You hummed and sat back in your seat. “Looks like you need them.”

“Wh-”

“You’re always squinting at your laptop so I was wondering if you have some but are so stubborn that you refuse to wear them. If you don’t, it might be worth getting your vision checked. I can’t imagine your eyes and brain appreciate the strain you put on them every day.”

Ryland didn’t speak to you the rest of the evening, which wasn’t too odd, but then didn’t show up in the library for a week. You wanted to say you loved the extra space, but you begrudgingly realized the table felt too big with him gone. You didn’t want to say you missed him, per se, but maybe somewhere adjacent.

When you saw Ryland after a week of absence- outside of the library for the first time- you had to do a double take. 

It was early in the morning- so early you could barely stand on your own two feet, which was why you were standing in the ever growing line at one of the cafes on campus for a cup of brain fuel.

You weren’t paying attention to who you stood behind in line, absentmindedly blinking at the slew of texts you received from a friend about a huge frat party happening that weekend that you weren’t planning on attending. A familiar notification sound jolted you out of your tired stupor.

Ryland had a unique chime that played any time he got a notification. It was the satellite phone jingle from the 3rd Jurassic Park movie. You suspected Ryland was a huge nerd about science fiction media but he’d probably rather die than admit that to you. In and of itself, the sound wasn’t that annoying but you’d heard it so often that it had seared itself into your brain and ‘Pavlov’s dogged’ you into feeling annoyed when you heard it.

Sure enough, a familiar set of shoulders stood in front of you, all covered by a cream sweater.

“Ryland?”

The science student turned on his heel. He seemed just as surprised to see you as you were him. It felt like seeing a wild animal, seeing Ryland outside of the library. You were surprised in turn, to find a new addition to the man’s outfit. Gold rimmed glasses sat on his nose. 

Ryland’s ears quickly became tipped in red.

“Oh. Hey.”

He seemed embarrassed, like he’d been caught red-handed. 

“Nice glasses.”

“Thanks…”

Your interactions were always awkward but this felt different. “Farsighted?”

“Yep.”

“Knew it. They fit you though, if that’s any consolation.”

“Thank you.”

Coffee suddenly didn’t sound appealing any more- not if you had to endure one more second of this horribly uncomfortable encounter. Your regular chats together weren’t always pleasant but they weren’t this odd. What changed? Was he angry that you’d been right and pointed out something he himself hadn’t noticed? Was he embarrassed that you’d proved him wrong? Was he that egotistical?

You stomped off without another word.

-

There was a hot, steaming cup of coffee with your name on it sitting in front of Ryland the next Monday. 

You hadn’t expected to see him at all in the library anymore, not after your last altercation, so you didn’t get a chance to turn and flee before he spotted you standing a couple of paces away, giving you a crooked smile.

You were too proud to run away now. You feared you’d look weak if you did. And Ryland Grace was the last person you wanted to look weak in front of.

So you pressed on, pointedly not looking at the scientist and pretending he didn’t exist. Ryland watched you the whole time, You could feel his stare and you wanted to slap yourself silly when you felt your cheeks heat up.

When you made no move to talk to him after you settled, Ryland nudged the coffee closer to you with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. 

You pursed your lips and kept your eyes on your notes.

“I feel like we started off on the wrong foot.” His voice was cautious, like he was talking to a cornered animal. “I’m sorry for being an ass when we first met. I’d had a rough day and I know that’s no excuse but it’s the truth. I was feeling stubborn.”

This was the most he’d ever said to you in one go. You peeked a glance.

God did those glasses suit him. They made him look softer, somehow. Maybe they made his eyes bigger? Yeah that was probably it. Big eyes, like an alien. 

“Can we start over?”

He stuck a hand over his laptop and held it out to you. A handshake. His fingers were trembling. Did you make him nervous? Your confidence took a nice little boost from the thought alone.

You didn’t hate Ryland. Not really. As much as it pained you to admit, you enjoyed his company and had missed it while he was hiding from you. He just annoyed you sometimes with his snarky comments. But even those weren’t that bad. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give him a chance?

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you carefully clasped a hand in his and gave him one firm shake. 

His ears bloomed red again and he held onto your hand a little longer than you thought he would.

“Yeah, ok cool! Didn’t think you… would actually accept my offer so this is awesome. Your coffee order, I think I got it right? I’ve been peaking at your coffee cups for a little while to read the labels. Is that creepy? I didn’t mean it in a creepy way, I just wanted to make sure I knew what you liked if I ever got you anything.”

This was a new side of Ryland- unsure, stammering and sweet? Maybe he’d always been this way and you just hadn’t seen it.

You didn’t know how to feel about it.

-

Being ‘friends’ with Ryland lasted about a week.

All too quickly did you regularly find yourself hidden in a far corner of the library between the endless shelves of academic literature, kissing each other senseless. Or making out in a quiet study room. Or whispering weak protests against his shoulder when he laid you back in your shared nook to suck a mark on your neck.

Turns out, Ryland didn’t hate you. Never did. Except maybe for a second the first time you got after him for sitting in your spot but other than that, he was just smitten (and terrified) of you which was why he kept coming back. He was still arrogant and a smart ass, usually when you asked him a question related to his field- like you were supposed to know what the boiling point of liquid helium was- but you found yourself enjoying his quips.

It was just another Wednesday when your relationship shifted.

You had Ryland pressed up against a line of shelves, cradling his head in your palms and soaking up the feeling of his glasses brushing over your cheeks while your lips slowly worked against his. 

The library was silent at this time of day, especially being in such a far off corner of it, so the only sounds you could hear were the creak of the shelves when Ryland pressed too far back into them, your mouths, and your breath. It was your favorite pastime when you were tired of writing essays.

When Ryland pressed his thumbs into your hip bones, you pulled away an inch to give him space. His glasses were smudged from your skin and barely hanging onto his nose. His stupid t-shirt (a navy blue top with a ringed planet graphic and the words “Jupiter? I hardly know her.” stamped below it) was rumpled and riding up on his navel, allowing you a glimpse of his happy trail.

“I start a new job on Monday.” He breathed, eyes jumping between yours.

You pulled back even more in surprise. Ryland kept his hands on your waist so you didn’t go too far.

“Really?”

“Mhm. It’s a part-time lab technician job. The pay isn’t great but it’ll help boost my resume once I get my doctorate and I need the extra income anyway.”

You beamed. “That’s great! Are you going to be able to juggle school and work, though? Will it be too much?”

Ryland’s eyes fluttered when you ran a thumb over his cheek. “I should be ok. But…” He hesitated. “I won’t have time to come here anymore.”

Oh.

Neither of you put a label on… whatever it was the two of you had together, so you never had a reason to meet up outside of your unspoken joint study hours. Ryland stopping his visits here meant you wouldn’t get to see him.

Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders as you tried to put on a nonchalant face. This was just a hookup- a little fling that probably never would’ve worked anyway. Ryland would continue his life and you would continue yours. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did to find out you would rarely, if ever, see the prospective scientist after Friday.

“I’ll miss my desk partner,” you smiled, hoping it wasn’t obvious how sad his words made you.

One side of Ryland’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Yeah, me too.” He seemed awfully nonchalant about the whole thing. You kicked yourself for being so blinded by the handsome ass that weaseled his way into your life. Ryland fiddled with the hem of your shirt and straightened it out a bit, tilting his head to gesture down the aisle.

“So… should we go back to our spot and hash out our schedules, then?”

Now you are confused. “Our schedules?”

“Yes? To find times that work for both of us to meet up? Like… between labs and such. Or in the late evenings. Or weekends. Or you could stay the night at my place- uh, unless I read this thing wrong?” He let go of you to gesture between your bodies, beginning to fidget on his feet. “Did I read this wrong? If I did, forget everything I said because it was all just a funny joke-”

You flew onto your tiptoes and flung your arms around his neck, only slightly shoving him into the shelves behind him to claim his mouth. Ryland made a noise of approval and wound his arms around your torso to lift you into him. 

Schedule swapping would have to wait a little longer and you offhandedly hoped that there were no security cameras this deep between the stacks of books because if someone was watching them, they wouldn’t enjoy what they were about to see.

Sitting on your bed and leaning against the headboard, the book in your lap had been mostly untouched all night, words barely legible in the dim light the lamp on your nightstand provided anyway.

There was some shuffling in the living room, a click of the lock on the front door, a set of keys dropping on the kitchen table, then slow steps to your bedroom that paused just outside the threshold.

You knew he could see the dim light through the crack in the door and you knew his heart was dropping into his ass because you were awake. Good.

For a second, you wondered if he would even come in at all, or if he’d decided to cut his losses and spend the night on the couch on his own accord, but he did eventually push the door open. His entry into the room was at a snail’s pace- so slow and so hesitant.

You didn’t deign to look at him, pretending to read while he stepped into the room so cautiously you’d think a lion was hidden in the closet. 

When you said nothing but also didn’t start tearing into him, Holland carefully shut the door behind him and moved to the dresser. You studied him through your peripheral vision.

Just as you expected, he’d been drinking. His suit was rumpled, hair mussed and cheeks rosy, fingers fumbling to undo the buttons on his shirt. He wasn’t completely plastered, so at least there was that. If he was blackout drunk, he wouldn’t have thought about being careful and quiet when he got home- he probably would’ve flung himself onto the bed and promptly passed out. 

Holland purposely kept his back to you as he undressed, to protect himself from meeting your steely gaze that he could probably feel between his shoulder blades. From the way he shifted his weight back and forth on his feet, you could tell your silence was killing him but he didn’t want to be the first to talk, unsure of what to say.

You didn’t mind being the icebreaker.

“You’re late-“

“I’m so sorry, baby!” He blurted, verbal dam breaking entirely once you’d made the first crack. His apologies exploded from him as he dropped his shirt to the floor and stumbled around the bed to your side. “The investigation ran way later than I thought it would and by the time we were done, I already would’ve been an hour late and then Healy said he needed a drink because he’d had a stressful week with it being the anniversary of his wife cheating on him with his dad and then dealing with this sleazy broad he met at a strip club that won’t leave him alone after he helped her deal with this other guy that wouldn’t leave her alone so I told him I’d go with him because I think he needed the company and then next thing I know it’s 1:00 am.”

While his hands waved in the air, you quietly took in his story and folded your arms over your chest. The leftover cigarette smoke, cologne and sweet tang of alcohol drifting off of him permeated the room, calming your racing heart. 

Yes, you were upset Holland hadn’t made it home to join you and Holly at the movies, which was intended to be a family outing and something you had planned a week in advance. You’d given him strict instruction to be home by 8pm. When he hadn’t come home and you hadn’t received a phone call like he always promised he’d do if he was running late, you started to worry. Holland’s job wasn’t the safest at times, so when he wasn’t home when he said he would be, you couldn’t help the terrified feeling in your gut.

After you’d walked into their lives, Holland didn’t stay out drinking as much as he usually did. He was more punctual, responsible and generally only had one drink in his system at times instead of ten. On occasion, he would stay out to drink with Healy but he usually let you know in advance, calling the landline from a payphone with a gentle ask of permission if you’d be ok with it. You always were. But tonight, when the phone hadn’t made a peep, you assumed the worst.

So, in an attempt not to panic too early just in case he had simply forgotten to call, you and Holly went to the movie anyway, had a great time together and eventually split ways into your bedrooms for the night. But you couldn’t sleep. There were no messages on the machine and no missed calls. You tried to distract yourself with reading but all you could think of as you stared at the pages were a slew of worst case scenarios- such as Holland bleeding out in an alleyway after an altercation with a client or someone a client paid him to find. Your mind was a whirlwind.

Only when the crunch of gravel and the quiet familiar purr of an engine in the driveway drifted through the windows, did you finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Now you were just agitated.

“I promise I’ll make it up to Holly tomorrow. I’ll take the whole day off and take her to that bookstore she likes- I’ll buy her any book she wants and take her out to eat. Then you and me, baby? Date night. Sunday. Anything you want. Maybe Holly can go to a friend’s for the night? I’ll make you a nice candlelight dinner. And then? I’ll rock your fuckin’ world, sweetheart. Anywhere in the house, any position, any time honey. I’ll-“

“Go shower, Holland. It’s late and you’re not getting under these sheets smelling like cheap booze.”

Holland deflated. You never called him Holland. Always Holls or a pet name. But never Holland. He didn’t argue with you, only giving you one last longing glance before dragging himself to the bathroom. He’d given you the same look when you’d told him he couldn’t put a pinball machine in the living room. One of pure, genuine sadness.

You weren’t mad at him. Not really. You were relieved he was safe and knew his job didn’t always have a predictable schedule that would meld around your plans. He didn’t have control over that. Now, going out to drink afterwards was another thing but if Holland truly believed Healy needed the company tonight, you trusted him. While you tried to include Healy in as much ‘family time’ as possible, you knew he was still lonely and knew Holland also tried to help fill that emptiness when he could, usually by going out for drinks after a long job.

Holland’s shower was long enough that you abandoned your book (you’d barely read a page all night), turned off your light and tucked yourself in. You kept your back to Holland’s side of the bed. While you weren’t angry at him, he didn’t deserve a warm welcome either.

His walk to the bed after he emerged from the bathroom, steam billowing into the room after him, was hesitant and illuminated only by the streetlights outside.

Since he’d insisted on a California king bed when you’d moved into your newly constructed home, claiming he wanted to shower you in the best of the best, you barely felt the dip of the mattress when he sunk into it and the thin sheet covering you moved only a centimeter when he crawled under them.

And, as he did most nights, Holland was crowding your side of the mattress in no time. This time with a purpose.

One arm tucked under your pillow and the other wound carefully around your midriff to tug you into him, Holland spooned you for all he was worth.

“‘m really sorry about tonight,” he whispered, mustache tickling your neck where he mumbled against your skin. His thumb was delicate over your exposed navel.

The PI wasn’t wearing a shirt, chest still humid from the blistering shower, and judging by the familiar fabric brushing the backs of your thighs, he only donned a pair of boxers.

“Let me make it up to you. Please? I’ll do anything.”

“I’d like to go to sleep,” you mumble.

“No. They say not to go to sleep angry.”

“Who’s they? And I’m not angry.”

A shuffle against your shoulders. Shrug.

“Just people- I dunno, it doesn’t matter. And you are angry! You won’t even look at me!”

He squeezed you tighter and you tried to hide your giggle- his mustache tickled. Holland clocked it of course and he smiled too.

“C’monnnn, beautiful! What can I do, huh? Want me to do something stupid? Embarrass myself? That's easy. Or I can sing you a little song~” he cooed in a pitchy voice right into your ear, having you flinching away with a real laugh this time. His hand ghosted over your hip.

“I can spend all night worshipping you, if you’d like. With my hands or my mouth or my dick? Or all three, I’m not picky.”

“Holls, we can’t. Holly is asleep in the other room, it’s too risky. You know how she is, she’s probably still awake reading-“

“Then you better be quiet, lovely.”

The long, perfect fingers holding your hip rubbed along the seam of your panties, slowly trailing to your front to tease the elastic, snapping it lightly against your skin.

“Holland!” You chided. You tried to put some fire behind your reprimand but it was hard when the small snap of your panties delivered a dull throb to your core.

“Just one, baby. Let me make you cum once- on my fingers. You don’t have to move at all, just lay like you are and I’ll do all the work. Please? Pretty please?” He whined. The gentle purr of his voice shot shivers down your spine.

You didn’t fight when he carefully began inching his hand into your panties, nor did you fight the breathy sigh that escaped when they found your sex. He kept his touch light, brushing over your clit with a couple of swipes before sliding into your folds which were, to your embarrassment, already soaked just from his husky, alcohol laced voice alone. His strokes were calculated, precise and tailored to what he knew you enjoyed after years of experience. 

Holland hummed against the nape of your neck, nose buried in your hair where his breath warmed. He didn’t comment on your wetness, only appreciated with his fingers. 

While he explored every familiar stretch of skin, blindly searching for your entrance, one of his knees nudged low between your thighs and he mumbled, “Throw your leg over mine, will you beautiful? It’s hard for me to make you feel good when you're squeezing my hand like this. Not that I mind when you squeeze me like this, it’s nice but I can’t move as much-“

You did as he asked, hooking a leg back over his. This gave him much more free range with his hand and exposed you to the cool air of the room through the thin, damp, minuscule fabric that covered you. Holland mumbled a thanks and his middle and ring fingers found no resistance as they found what they’d been searching for and slid into your heat. 

Holland chased the tiny moan you let out, slowly pumping his fingers at a languid pace to start building up the coil in your gut and preening when your hips shifted back into him. His boxers were already tented, the poor flowered pattern stretching to accommodate him. 

Thumb applying soothing pressure to your clit, circling the bud gently with the pad and coaxing more noise from you, you quickly started to forgive the detective for everything. With skills like his, it was hard not to. 

“Jesus, you’re so tight. Squeezin’ me,” he kissed your shoulder, wet hair brushing your cheek.

When the fingers working your pussy curled forward and found that spongy spot in your walls that had you seeing stars, your hand whipped back from where they’d been fisting the sheets to tangle in his hair. Holland groaned at the zing of pain from your tugging, hips thrusting forward into your ass.

“Careful. Keep that up and I’ll cum in my pants.” He mouthed at your neck.

“That wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you gasped, curling forward when your abdomen tightened from Holland’s relentless pressing against your clit. He curled with you, chest molded to your back and enveloping you as much as he could.

His fingers didn’t stop. The delicious drag of the digits against your insides and the rhythmic tender circling of his thumb had you struggling to remember to keep quiet. God if Holly heard you, you’d never hear the end of it. She’d berate you for giving into her dad’s apology so quickly. But how could you not?

Your orgasm was fast approaching, and you knew he could feel it because his speed increased, coaxing the climax from your gut and letting it shudder through you. It felt like the man curled around you was the only thing keeping you grounded amidst your tired, lust muddled mind.

Holland’s arm tightened around your waist when your walls clenched desperately around his fingers, begging for more. “I-I’m-“

“I know, baby, I can tell. I’ve got you.” And he did. When you came, it was intense. So much so, dots danced in your vision but Holland worked you through it without pause. Soft lips and praise against your cheek, a hand that kept pumping until your insides stopped spasming around it.

By the time your high ebbed, you were trying to catch your breath and Holland’s hand was drenched from your juices. 

Breaths synced, Holland let out a sigh that pressed against your spine. He kept his hand against you, cupping your sex for a prolonged amount of time before finally pulling out of your panties and replacing the now empty space between your legs with his thigh.

The sounds the PI made when he sucked the juices off his fingers were obscene. Holland always made sure to clean up his mess after having his fun, claiming that you were even more addicting than his undeniable obsession for whisky. 

While he was occupied with cleaning his fingers, you gently massaged his scalp where you’d squeezed the roots and smirked at the still prominent boner you could feel on your tailbone. 

“I hope you know I’m not helping you with that tonight. It’s your punishment.”

“I know,” he mumbled around his fingers. “‘s fine. It’ll go away.”

You doubted that very much. He was so hard, you swore you could feel the hot pulse of blood down his shaft where it lay against you.

Holland’s hand found its way to your front again, this time gliding under your top to cradle your ribs, thumb smoothing under your breast. You groaned in fake disgust at the saliva he smeared there.

“D’you forgive me, baby? Am I forgiven?”

You hummed in consideration and shrieked a laugh when Holland blew a raspberry into your neck.

“I’m not sure, Holls. I think I’ll have to sleep on it and let you know in the morning.”

He made a sound that mirrored the whine a dog might make as it begs for table scraps. “I gotta wait until morning?”

You hummed in affirmation and snuggled back into him, pulling your hand from his hair to tuck it under your pillow and twine with his that still rested there. His fingers wrapped tightly around yours and he sighed into your hair. “Fine:”

He was already forgiven and had been since he’d explained how his night had played out. But you didn’t have an issue letting him stew in mild worry for the rest of the night.

“I’ll let you know my decision in the morning, but in the meantime, just remember to call next time you’re going to be late, will you?”

A lengthy pause. “I did call?”

“No, Holland, you didn’t.”

“Yes I did!” He propped himself up on an elbow to look down at you, still damp hair hanging over his forehead. “Around 9, I called and no one answered so I left a message.”

“I checked for messages when we got home from the movie, Holls! There weren’t any messages or missed calls. You probably dreamed that-“

“I wasn’t drunk yet, there’s no way it was a dream!”

The two of you sat in silence for a moment before your eyes rolled back into your skull, not from pleasure this time.

“Holland March… did you call the wrong number? Did you call the old rental that we used to live in? The rental that we haven’t lived in for two years?”

His face was tell enough. The detective slowly lowered himself out of your view, back onto the bed without a word and only an embarrassed cleared throat.

You sighed a sigh that rivaled any sigh you’d ever sighed.

“You’re lucky I love you so much or I’d have Healy here within the hour to nail your balls to the wall.”

His shudder shook your back. “Please don’t joke around about that kinda thing, honey. I like my balls where they are.”

When you woke up the next morning, not to the sun or the sound of Holly finding breakfast in the kitchen, but to your thighs spread and the gentle suckle of a mouth on your clit, you forgot what Holland had done to make you mad in the first place.

You’ve been dying for your neighbor to work up the courage to ask you out. You thought your feelings were pretty clear (you wouldn’t sleep on your couch with just anyone) but apparently not clear enough to him. 

You worried for a little while that he was hesitant to pursue you because he held some sort of guilt for wanting to date another person outside of his late wife- which you fully respected. 

It was actually Holly that gave you the final shove you needed. She told you one Thursday that she was going out of town with a friend’s family for the weekend meaning her dad had nothing to do and the house would be empty.

“He’s been trying to figure out, statistically, what the perfect date is. He even had me to go the library to find books about it. You should just ask him out and save him the trouble because I think it’s driving him crazy.”

So you did. But in a way that wouldn’t label your outing as a date.

You had a sneaking suspicion that if Holland knew it was a date, he’d panic and act weird or try overly hard to seduce you. You didn’t need that, you just needed him as he was.

So Friday morning when you went out to get your mail and Holland just so happened to also be getting his mail at the same time, you asked him if he would take you into town later that evening for groceries.

“My car won’t start and I’m almost out of milk.”

“Oh! Yeah! Sure. Absolutely. Definitely. I’m not busy later so I can take you.” Queue a casual shrug. “Anyway, what’s wrong with your car?”

“Not sure.”

“I can take a look-“

“That’s ok! I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

Holland follows behind you in the supermarket with the cart, leaning his forearms on the handle and donning a cheesy smile. You’re both laughing and having a great time while you gather ingredients for dinner. Holland doesn’t think twice about what you’re putting in the cart, just ogling at you when your back is turned.

When you ask him for help cooking dinner, he says he’s the worst person to ask but you wave him off and usher him inside. The two of you have a blast and a half, flitting around the kitchen together (the asparagus only gets slightly charred when Holland neglects his only job duty in favor of watching your shirt ride up when you reach for something) and you spend the next several hours talking.

A couple of glasses of wine are consumed and the two of you sit way closer than ‘friends’ should on the couch, but nothing happens beyond that. You walk him to his door with a laugh once your night winds down.

“Thanks for the date, Holland! I look forward to the next one.”

Holland looks like he’s trying to solve the world's hardest math problem, his wine muddled brain not helping him in the slightest. “Date?”

You kiss his cheek and hurry home before your stomach explodes with butterflies.

Holland makes a point to never let you see him as shabby looking as he did the day you first met. If he’s not in a suit for work, he’s at least wearing nicer pants and a loose button up. He was gonna make sure that if you do ever see him in his boxers again, it’s because you’re in his bedroom (or he’s in yours) and he’s pulling you under the covers.

He tries to play it cool for the first couple of weeks after you move in, wanting to make sure you’ve settled and making sure he doesn't come on too strong. After bringing you flowers that first day (your first bouquet of many), poor Holly becomes the March household’s head baker. Holland can’t bake worth shit, but Holly can. So he’s full of bribes and promises of books and things in return for a dozen cookies or a plate of brownies to bring to his new neighbor. Holly does it, only because watching her dad fumble the beauty next door makes her laugh (and because he genuinely seems interested in someone for the first time since her mom died).

You’re all smiles when he shows up with baked goods, inviting him in with a wave. Holland wants to fall to his knees.

The first time he had come over with cookies, Holland soaked in every bit of information he could about you from what he could see in your house.

He learned small things, like your hobbies and what he could guess was your favorite color. But the main thing he noticed was the lack of things that pointed to you having a partner. There weren’t enough belongings for two people, unless you’re with someone who’s an extreme minimalist.

Holland couldn’t have been happier. 

You were so nice. So warm and welcoming. Holland was immediately enamored. 

He would go over every day if he could, but he held himself back. He allowed himself one visit a week, sometimes two (or three). Any time you came to his house didn’t count towards the total. 

He offers to mow your lawn (he rarely ever mows his own), he’ll bring your newspaper to your doorstep if he sees it in your driveway, he’ll offer you rides into town when because he just so happens to be heading into town at the same time as you.

He’s so proud of himself, believing with his entire being that he’s oozing with charm.

Holly disagrees. 

She says no man who spends that much time staring out of the kitchen window just on the off chance he’ll be able to catch a glimpse of his neighbor has any game. He had about as much charm as a lovesick puppy in her eyes.

As much as you love Holly, you would have to disagree with her opinion.

Holland’s attempts to woo you, as obvious and silly as they may be, were working.

From the very first time you saw him- in his bright yellow boxers and extreme bedhead, watering flowerbeds that honestly looked like they had more weeds than flowers- you liked him. He was a little goofy and acted much more confident than you believed he really was, but you liked it. 

You looked forward to his visits and found excuses to visit him just as often as he found excuses to visit you. 

Once, Holland comes to your house absolutely plastered. He’d meant to go to his own home after a night of drinking but he’d been over so often lately, his drunken mind must’ve been on autopilot. It’s 3 am and you answer the door with a steak knife before you realize who it is. 

Drunk Holland is so happy to see you ("Heyyy! What are you doin’ in my house? Finally moving in?")

You let him in, half dragging him to your couch as he uses you as a crutch. Holland babbles to you for an hour, apparently forgetting who he’s talking to for the majority of it and telling you all about his cute neighbor who he’s falling in love with.

You listen quietly, smiling so much your mouth hurts until Holland passes out with his head tucked in your lap.

When he wakes up the next morning, Holland is convinced he finally got alcohol poisoning, kicked the bucket and by the grace of God, somehow ended up in heaven. Sprawled on the couch together, his body prone between your legs and head resting on your chest and breathing together, he had to pinch himself and pinch you to make sure he wasn't dreaming.