“Will you stay still?” You huff, annoyance fraying the edges of your words. 

Holland, who’s still drunk as all hell, looks up at you with a dopey smile. He’s perched on the lid of the toilet like a bird would on its favorite telephone wire. Cozy but unaware of dangers. Like being electrocuted. Or in Holland’s case, leaning too far to the left and cracking his head open on the tub. 

The two of you had been in here for the last ten minutes. Most of that time consisted of you trying to get him to sit up straight, hands moving every which way to make sure he didn’t fall over, and constantly checking over your shoulder while you fished the first aid kit out from under the sink. It made you feel like you were back to your babysitting job. The only difference now was instead of a toddler, you had an even worse grown man. 

“M’trying.” He slurs his words, barely sounding like actual English. 

“Try harder.” You deadpan back.

A quiet giggle comes from him. Of course he’d find it funny—the frustration unfurling through your veins. The guy was gone. He probably didn’t even have any recollection of how he got into the bathroom. 

How did he get in the bathroom?

Well, that was a long story. The short story being this: March ran after a ‘suspect’ while drunk and ended up rolling down a hill. Flailing limbs and all. Healy had helped you get him back up the hill, into the backseat of the car, and carried in here. All that for the ‘suspect’ to have been a mannequin. 

Typical. 

“Look up at me.” There’s a vacant kind of tone to your voice, like you’d said these exact words a hundred times over. And you had. Holland was an injury magnet. 

Holland tries his best, chin jutting up to look at you. His big glassy eyes train themselves on your gaze. If you weren’t so preoccupied with tending to his wounds, you would have made a mental note of how pretty he looked. 

A trickle of dried blood drips down his cheek. He’d gotten a small gash near his temple. When you’d found him at the bottom of the hill, your assessment proved he hadn’t needed stitches. Miraculously. The guy had fallen and tumbled like a roley poley. 

“Hey.” He grins a lopsided smile as you get close to his face, bringing a wash cloth to the blood. 

He wiggles his eyebrows at you. 

Jesus Christ. 

You dab at the frayed skin around his wound, touch featherlight. Just to collect the coagulated blood. He inhales sharply, eyes pinching shut. Holland’s hands messily jut out, grasping onto your waist. 

“Shit, sorry.” You murmur, removing the wash cloth from his skin like you’d been burned. A frown captures your glossed lips. Hurting him was not the intention. “I know, sorry.”

You gently blow at the cut, hoping to provide some sort of relief. The washcloth had been dabbed in a water and peroxide mixture. It was the best way to clean out a wound—usually it hurt the most, too. But there were no bubbles. It wasn’t infected nor filled with any bacteria. 

“Mhm.” Holland slowly softens his expression.

His hands are warm against your waist. Big and strong despite his altered state. The heat of his hands radiates through your skin, warming you from the inside out. His grasp doesn’t falter. It makes your heart beat faster—for reasons you still refused to confront. 

“Alright.” You pull back, dropping the washcloth on the side of the sink. 

Most of the blood had been cleared off, anyway. All that was left was to bandage him and check if he had a concussion. It was unlikely, but you’d be damned if you ended up having to drag his drunk ass to the free emergency room across the city. 

“Y’know..” he slurs, head tilting slightly as he watches you. There’s a moment where he just watches you take out a band aid from Holly’s package. He was too drunk to comment on the fact it was Hello Kitty. “You’re pretty. Ver—so—pretty.” 

He hiccups halfway through his rambling. 

That wasn’t entirely too off par for your relationship. Holland would get drunk and loosen his lips around you, slipping off comments about how kind or pretty you looked. It was something you’d grown accustomed to rolling your eyes at him about. 

“Okay, casanova.” You don’t pay much mind to his words, walking back to press the band aid against his skin. 

Leaning down, your tongue wets your bottom lip. For some reason it helps you concentrate. Or, that’s what you like to think. Your fingers work it onto his swaying head. 

He still wasn’t staying still.

“Holland, please.” You implore, sighing. “Stay still. It’ll be crooked if you don’t.”

“Not moving.” He protests, body gently swaying like he’s on a boat. He looks up at you, blue irises sparkling under the bathroom light above. 

There was no helping him. 

“Okay.” 

Battles were meant to be picked. 

It takes another few minutes before you start working him up. There were a few things you remember from your first aid class. Really, just the essentials—concussion testing and drowning things. Thank god you still did. They proved to be very useful around holland.

He didn’t appear to have any sensitivity to light. And he wasn’t more confused than he normally was—and you were using the drunk variable indefinitely. He seemed perfectly fine.

“You’re all good.” You grin, mouth twisting upward into something comforting. “Nothing to worry about.” 

You’re still standing between his outstretched legs, closer than you normally would be. Especially since his wounds had been tended to and you ruled out any possible issues. Though, your mind couldn’t quite get your legs to move away from him.

Even if he smelled like stale beer and whiskey. 

Holland does something then; something you’d never expect. His arms wrap around your waist. Your muscles lock frozen as he clings onto you like a child would. The side of his face smushes into your chest as he hums. 

“Thanks.” He whispers, voice wavering like he was about to cry.

Your arms slowly rest on his shoulders, palms flattening on his back. Confusion overtakes you. Then, there’s a warm fluttering feeling starting in your chest. It makes your pulse skip and breath stutter. 

“Uh, anytime.” Perplexity lilts your tone, words coming out slow.

“M’love you.” He mumbles, arms tightening around you.

Warmth creeps up your neck.

“Time for you to go to bed.” The words tumble out quickly, flustered and barely leaving any space for breath. 

“No.” He protests, squeezing you against him. “Stay here.”

He’s worse than a child.

And too close. And too warm. And your partner. 

It’s getting harder to breathe. His arms are starting to feel more like vines rather than structures holding you up. The territory was all wrong. Somewhere you’d never been with Holland—even if he was only saying the things he was because he’s drunk as a skunk. It was overwhelming. 

Words crawl up your throat but die on your tongue. There were so many things passing through your mind it blended into a hum, silencing the world around you. It felt like your brain was short circuiting. 

Holland—he’s Holland. The guy who trips over his own feet. Who makes his daughter drive for him after getting his arm broken. Screeches like a banshee when there’s a bug in his room. And… who holds onto you like you’re his saving grace. 

A lump forms in your throat. 

“You don’t mean that...” Your voice sounds foreign in your own throat, words paper-thin.

He nods against you. “S’do. My girl. Best girl.”

You’re not breathing anymore.

“Holland.”

“Have I told you that?” He slurs, moving his head to look up at you. His chin rests in the valley above your chest, glassy eyes twinkling. “S’good to me. And Holly—Healy too. Dealin’ with.. My drunk ass. Never got around ta’ tellin’ ya..”

"You're drunk." You whisper.

Holland blinks. "Kiss me."

The ground beneath your feet opens and swallows you whole. Those are the words you'd never have thought to hear from him. A lot of things about tonight were things you wouldn't expect.

Was it a full moon?

"C'mon." He whines, looking up at you with those big eyes. "Jus' one. Go to bed after... promise."

Were you really gonna do this? You couldn't, right? He was drunk. Impaired. Surely, that meant he couldn't be making decisions for himself. If you asked he probably wouldn't be able to tell you what day it is. You'd be taking advantage of him if you kissed him.

You shouldn't do it. Couldn't do it.

"Okay." You breathe.

Damn it! Bad girl! This was not what you talked with yourself about!

Holland's face brightens as a five-watt smile captures his expressions. His eyes crinkle and sparkle. They look like twinkling stars in the night sky. Endlessly beautiful.

You find yourself bending down, head tilting as you press your lips against his. His mustache tickles your skin. The kiss lasts for maybe a second—maybe less. But it feels like an eternity. Fireworks pop behind your eyes and it steals away whatever breath you had left.

Holland's hands tangle in your hair, holding you close to him as he milks the kiss. Even in his inebriated state he still kissed you gently.

You pull away first, one hand coming up to catch his wrist. His skin feels warmer than it had a few minutes ago.

Heat travels through your veins. The familiar ache settles somewhere deep in your abdomen. But you force yourself to shake it off. Kissing him was way out of line—the thoughts creeping into your mind were borderline blasphemous.

"Now it's time for bed."

Holland rolls his eyes like a sassy toddler.

"Not good enough for you?" He mumbles, sarcasm lilting his slurred words.

Your mouth opens to spit out a quip. But nothing comes out. Your tongue turns to stone in your throat, the words in your mind dissipate, and suddenly your neck feels warm. He just said that. There was hesitancy in his words. They came from his mouth like an early spring breeze.

Somehow, they felt like a challenge.

Any of your inhibition flew out the window.

Self-preservation? Who's she?

Your movements are charged with electricity, shock waves licking up your spine. Your hand grabs at his collar in jest. Fingertips dip into the soft cotton, using it as leverage. Holland lets out a surprised gasp as you yank him towards you.

This time, there's nothing gentle about the kiss.

It's messy. Clashing tongue and teeth, lips bruising as they move against each other. He tastes like Jack and coke. The flavor tingles on your tongue, dripping down your throat like honey. He smiles against you, all cocky and all too happy.

He wanted that.

And you gave it to him.

You break apart from him, panting. A string of saliva connects the two of you. Sarcasm and mockery glues itself to your tone. "Good enough for you?"

Holland looks up at you with glasses over eyes, stupid grin blanketing his starry expression. "Yes—Absolutely."

It annoys you how a smile threatens to curve your mouth.

"Now it's time for you to go to bed."

"Happily. You comin' with?" He wiggles his eyebrows once more, this time with more sync. The alcohol was slowly depleting in his system.

"Don't press your luck." You murmur.

Getting him to bed consisted of hauling his arm over your shoulder and dragging him down the hall. Every few steps he whined about not being tired. The complaints were mainly centered around you not coming to bed with him. You had to cover his mouth a few times when his comments became vulgar, which only made him talk louder and laugh like a hyena.

You silently thank the gods his daughter wasn't around to hear his mouth.

And that Healy had left.

Which did mean it was only the two of you.

Holland's hand rests on your waist, fingertips trailing beneath your shirt. Every graze of his skin against yours leaves fire in its wake. You were seriously beginning to have more pros than cons about sleeping with him.

When he drops onto his bed, his fingers haphazardly dip into the loops of your jeans. He yanks you down in the same way you grabbed at him a few minutes earlier.

A gasp leaves your throat, hands going out to catch you. One palm flattens against the bed beside his head. The other plants firmly on his chest—the rest of you falling on top of him. Your thigh slots between his legs while the other straddles his thigh.

He lets out a soft grunt. His head thumps against the mattress, a chortle leaving his throat. That wasn't the plan but he's more than happy with the outcome.

You try to scramble away from him, but you feel a hard pressure against your thigh. And it's not something in his pocket. Every muscle in your body freezes. Shock settles in your system, squirming between your ribs and making a home there. He's bigger than you'd ever let yourself think about.

You're too flustered to let out any sound.

Holland's hands find your hips, touch feather light. He squeezes at the covered flesh. The contact makes your pulse skip a beat. A trickle of desire drips from your abdomen to your thighs, radiating between them.

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

"Stay?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"Holland—you're not sober."

He huffs, shaking his head. "I am." His tone makes it sound more like a plea than a reassurance. "I want this—you. Shit, baby, can you feel me? Need you so bad."

Your head feels like it's swimming. There was a line you refused to cross with anyone, and Holland was straddling it. But he was coherent enough to string his words together. They weren't being slurred anymore. His eyes weren't drooping to make him look sleepy.

"You sure?" Your words are wrapped with barely contained need.

"Fuck." He grumbles, eyes closing for a moment. "Straining against my pants here. Yes, m'sure."

That wasn't a lie.

You could feel him twitching against your thigh, even beneath his clothing.

"Alright." Your words are far away sounding, like you were lost in a daze. "Okay we can—I'll—fuck, just take your pants off."

He chuckles, watching with a goofy grin as you flop onto the bed beside him. There's no hesitance in the way his hands fly to his pants. His thumbs hook into his waistband, using all his strength to rip the article off. A huff leaves his throat when he kicks off the bunched fabric and lets it fall into a ball on the floor.

The boxers he's wearing do nothing to hide the rock hard bulge. There's a dark spot bleeding through the fabric, pressing against the line of his tip. You can see the thick length of him now.

Holland rolls over on his tummy, large hands grabbing at you. He's quick to guide himself between your legs. Shaking fingers pull down the zipper of your bell bottoms. It's like he can't get them off fast enough—like they've personally offended him and he's holding back his frustrations.

They get tossed across the room by him, mumbling something that sounds like 'finally.' An audible whine rips from his throat when he's faced with your satin panties. It's the final layer between him and the rawest part of you—a part he intended on worshiping for as long as he could.

"Oh God." His voice is soft, almost like he's surprised he's nestled between your legs.

His thumb runs up your clothed slit, pressure just enough to buck your hips into his hand. Just a simple touch sent electric currents licking up your spine. You felt like a live wire, just teetering on the edge of becoming explosive.

Your fingers grip at his sheets, awaiting his next delicious assault on your cunt. The bedsheets smell like him. Whiskey, cigarettes, and soap. They blend together to create something that makes you lightheaded; dizzy in the best way.

There's a part of you that wanted him to just get on with it. The need racing through your veins made you as sensitive as a bomb. Though, the other part of you wanted to see his chin glistening with your juices and the way he looked up at you from between your thighs.

Holland's tongue flattens against your covered cunt, licking a stripe up your panties. The arousal that had soaked through the fabric lands on his tongue. He groans low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut. His nose bumps against your clit as he licks at you.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, head angled down to watch him. His arms have snaked around your thighs, hands holding you open for him. Every few moments you notice him rutting into the mattress. The sight alone is better than a sunrise—it makes a moan bubble up in your throat.

Holland opens his eyes, huge pupils dwarfing his blue eyes. There's barely even a ring of blue around them. All that's left is desire and lust. He tugs your panties to the side, forcing them from his way.

When his eyes drop down, he fucking whines. Like just seeing how wet you were for him was better than being touched. Or it had the same affect. There's not even a second for you to breathe—he dives right in like a starved man.

His lips immediately attach around your clit, sucking it into his mouth. His tongue rolls over the sensitive nub until you cry out. A content hum makes his lips vibrate around you. The assault on your body doesn't end there. He pulls off your clit with a 'pop', flattening his tongue to drag through your folds.

He eats you like you're the juiciest fruit freshly picked from a tree. Slurping, sucking, and licking at you. His facial hair gets wet within a minute. Probably less. The entire bottom half of his face is glistening, dripping with your essence.

Every drag of his tongue feels like heaven brought to you. His hands hold down your bucking hips, humming every time you moan out his name. It's so messy and dirty but that just turns you on even more. He alternates between sucking your clit and licking into you, collecting the sweetness dribbling out of you.

It's easy to see that he does this for his own pleasure as much as yours. There's a certain hunger in his eyes you've never seen from any man. It's in the way he pays special attention to what makes you whiter against his mouth.

When your hands thread through the soft locks on his head, his eyes fly open. The stare he gives you makes or heart drop. Each little tug on his hair makes him suction against you harder. The coil in your tummy is tightening every second, gaining momentum to spring back.

You can't push him away when it becomes too much. He doesn't look it, but Holland is strong. His arm settles over your hips, using his free hand to hold you open for him. There's not even an ounce of recollection when you push him away. He just ignores it.

Fingertips dance at your entrance, easing in nice and slow. The stretch around them feels overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, feeling like a punch to the chest. Your thighs try to close around his head but he doesn't allow them to.

The stimulation from his fingers and mouth creates a crescendo, pushing you off the edge. White explodes across your vision. The coil in your tummy snaps, walls spasming around his digits. Holland moans into you, noise muffled by your cunt.

He's rutting into the mattress, moaning as he licks up whatever juices he can. His fingers pull out and slick drips down his wrist. He laps at your entrance, grinning as you shudder. His hand gently whacks at yours when you try to push him off.

"Holland!" Your voice is frayed, orgasm still making you light headed.

"Taste s'good." He's getting onto his knees in an instant. "Can't wait to feel—oh, shit—let me feel it, baby. Feel you wrapping 'round my dick."

His words make you whimper, head nodding fast enough to give you whiplash.

Holland's palms wrap around your thighs, yanking you closer to him."This pussy's fuckin' heaven. She ready f'me?"

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“Baby, baby, baby—” Holland hangs his head as you grind it against the ashtray on the kitchen counter. He eases up his grip on you as you go to throw the cigarette butt straight into the trash bin. You win. Holland throws his head back with a sigh; you’ve been doing this more, lately, trying to get him off smoking. He lets you, aiming to please. The only caveat, really, is when you use it against him as punishment for when you’re mad.

And now, you’re mad. “You’re pissing me off, March.” You’re not trying to be too loud about it, not wanting to rouse too great of a suspicion from Holly or Healy. But Holland can see the way that you’re glaring at him. It isn’t an over-exaggeration.

“Honey, I’m just trying to give you options.” Holland frowns, “Maybe, you don’t want to go and you’re just too polite to say so. I don’t know many hot, twenty-somethings who’re opting to spend their Friday night attending middle-school productions of The Sound of Music.”

“I’m trying to be supportive!” You hiss, “Now, stop being a wuss and let me attend Holly’s show.” You can see the hair hanging over Holland’s forehead swaying as he looks you up and down. He’s getting distracted. Clearly, he’s enjoying the sight of you pissy a little bit too much. So not the time. You’re inclined to snap your fingers at him; the sound jolts his attention back up to your face.

“Okay. Fine,” Holland yields. He’s trying to run through the night in his head. The two of you in the car, enjoying each other’s company up until the top-of-show, where you’re watching those stupid, little middle-schoolers perform and suddenly find yourself wanting to break up with him. Holland, the perpetual single father. He grits his teeth, “If you want to go, then we can go. I’ll pick you up after I drop her off, and we’ll watch it front-row.” 

“Good.” You stand up straighter, expression much brighter than before. Even if he’s so terrified by the thought of you coming to Holly’s play, Holland can only really aim to please you. If this is what he has to do, then so be it.

“Happy?” Holland asks cautiously, glancing over your features with a tilt of his head. You’re much more touchy now, a good sign, hands coming up to fix his collar.

“You’re in the safe-zone for now,” you tell Holland. Without further delay, he’s bending down to give you a sloppy kiss—pointer-fingers pulling you by the belt loops. You’re grinning wide as he moves upwards, laying a kiss on your nose, and then your forehead. All is right in the world.

Healy’s muttering carries over into the kitchen. “Jesus. It’s like they can’t go a minute without touchin’ each other.” His acute observation causes Holly to begin twisting her head with naive curiosity—but he stops her with a tap to the shoulder and a shake of his head. “Don’t look, kid. S’gross.”

—

On Friday night, Holland’s five minutes early—double-parked on the street of your apartment with the convertible roof down. The two of you are already well-agreed on the attire for tonight. Not too casual, not too formal, just charming enough to impress. As soon as you’re outside and locking the door behind you, Holland is beaming. “Hon, you look perfect.” But, as soon as you turn around, he’s dead quiet. Holland’s very caught off-guard, you think, by the large bunch of carnations cradled in your arms, all wrapped up in cellophane and ribbon. Holland gawks as you approach the car, open the side-door, and plop yourself onto the seat behind him. “Is that a bouquet?”

You shut the door and adjust the carnations carefully above your lap. It’s difficult to navigate where to put them exactly; the petals are rising out of the plastic film in generous bunches of off-white and fuschia. The bouquet’s big; you don’t know where to put it. “It’s for Holly. Opening night’s always a big deal, and I’m sure that all the parents are gonna have these kinds of things, too.”

Holland’s looking down at your lap like you’re carrying some kind of contraband. “Did you buy it? When?” He’s acting absolutely clueless, as if he’s never even seen a flower before in his life.

“There’s a florist a few blocks down,” you explain to Holland, half-distracted. “Would you hold it for me?”

He ushers the bouquet towards him with his hands. “Of course, baby. Give it here.” As soon as Holland takes the bouquet off your hands, he’s glancing down at your hands. You’re pulling a 35mm Canon from your side, pulling the thin leather strap over your head and placing it gently for a moment on the dash. “And you brought a camera. Of course.” Once the camera’s secure enough, you’re taking the bouquet out of Holland’s hands and putting it gently in the backseat. You can feel Holland watching you—particularly, the backside of you—as you make an exerted effort to secure them with a seatbelt. His entertainment is cut short as you sit back down in the shotgun with him. He’s restless, hand coming down to adjust his pant leg.

“You really need to keep up, March. Momentous occasion calls for momentous effort. Once I get them developed, they can go up on your fridge or something.”

Holland revs his car up a little bit, before rolling the car slowly down the block. “You’re running laps around me. I’m being… bested,” he says, palm hitting the steering wheel softly. As stumped as he sounds, you can see right through the facade.

You lean over for a quick second to kiss Holland soft on the cheek. “That’s how you like me, right?” And, unfazed, you slide back to plug your seatbelt in. Though Holland’s making a grand show of checking both sides of the street before he turns, you can see the way his lips twitch up into a smile.

—

This middle-school performance of The Sound of Music, though prepubescent in nature, has its charm. During the intermission, you spend a resolute amount of time conversing with Holland about Holly’s lighting prowess. He can only listen and nod, seeing as he doesn’t understand anything about the technical. But he is happy to be there—has a little bit of a frame of reference with the Christmas show—and just knows that his daughter’s somewhere in this auditorium, behind the handlebars of a giant spotlight, buzzing with excitement.

After the bows, it’s very easy to find Holly. She’s all the way up in the lighting booth, first. Then, skipping down the stairs, she’s running her way down to the two of you. Dressed in all show-blacks, Holly’s light blonde hair pops. She sticks out like a sore thumb amidst all the other families, bouncing around, hand shot straight in the air to flag you. She’s practically hopping up and down at the sight of you and her dad, shoulder-to-shoulder. “You came!” Holly exclaims, hand reaching to squeeze yours.

“Of course I came. I said I would come, didn’t I?” you tell her. Then, you’re tugging soft on Holland’s sleeve. “Flowers, baby.” Holland pulls the bouquet out from behind his back with a soft “ta-da,” holding them right in front of Holly’s face. She takes them heartily, looking straight down into the carnelians with a giddy look on her face.

“That’s for being the best kid offstage tonight.” Holly won’t stop saying ‘thank you’ over and over, and so, you’ve got to wave your hand and nudge her towards Holland. “Go stand next to your dad with those. I wanna shoot a picture of the both of you.”

The sight before you in the viewfinder is lovely. Holland is standing just behind Holly with both his hands on his shoulders; she’s holding the bouquet up for you to get a clearer shot. There’s the same wide grin shared between the two of them, and you can feel your heart just swelling at the sight. As soon as the camera clicks, Holly’s peeling off of Holland in an instant. “I’m supposed to go help put the spotlights back in the storage, and I’ve got to say bye to Jess. Can I meet you outside?” she asks you, bright-blue eyes blinking rapidly.

Holland decides, maybe too eagerly, to respond on behalf of both of you. “We’ll go warm up the car. You take your time.” You cast him a sidelong glance—the tone alone telling you that he’s too excited to rush out of the auditorium.

Upon further inspection, Holland is jumpy. He’s checking for his keys in his trouser pockets, fixing his already-straight tie. It’s like watching an old German Shepherd wag its tail. His daughter can only narrow her eyes with a scrunch of her nose. “Gross,” Holly says. “Meet me in twenty minutes near the flagpole.” Holly’s always getting dropped off there in the mornings; it’s a solid landmark. The two of you watch as she skitters away from the both of you to go close up for the night. Holland is turning to face you, hand finding the small of your back with a feathery, brush of your spine. It’s going to be a very short walk to the car.

—

Holland insists on bringing the roof up on his convertible for the sake of privacy, though his windows are fish-bowled and you’re sure that anyone within a couple of yards can see you both. Still, he seems very urgent about ushering you into the shotgun and the both of you sitting there for a moment before swinging the car around to grab Holly. Once he’s able to toss the bouquet in the back, he’s taking your hand up; his mustache brushes against your knuckles as he kisses them. “You’re getting sappy on me.”

“I’m not used to bringing anyone to these things,” Holland tells you, “Besides Healy, maybe.” Not the time. He shakes his head and tries again, placing your hand back down onto your lap. “It’s pretty nice having you come and support Holly. You, uh… make great backup.”

You’re turning to face him. In the dimly-lit lot of the middle school, you can only barely see the antsy look on his face. Softly, you chuckle, “It isn’t a case, Holland.” He nods. You’re right, as per usual.

“Right.” He finally cracks. “I’m not used to this. And I love it, baby, I do. It’s more than I could possibly ask for.” Holland had only been burning through the occasional one-night stand before he met you. And before that, there’d only been his wife. You’re steady, and it’s not what he’s used to. It’s really all as new to you as it is to him. That last thing you want is to impose on the March’s home life—but the closer you get to Holland… It's starting to resemble a family.

“I just want to make sure that you know that you’re not running it alone. It takes a village, or whatever.” Warily, you confess to him, “And I wanna be good for you and Holly.”

“Oh, honey.” He’s giving that same old look that he always does, pupils blown, lips parted. He just can’t help it. “You’re perfect,” Holland assures you earnestly. There’s an irresistible urge for you to plant a tender kiss on his jaw. As soon as you do, he doesn’t let you get much further away from him. Holland tilts your chin up with his thumb, leaving a gentle peck on your lips. He’s always impatient when it comes to you, never able to keep it short and sweet. Quickly, Holland is bringing his hand up to your neck, calloused fingers pushing against your pulse point. He’s following the trace of his fingers with hard kisses, then capturing your lips again with a fluttery groan.

“Holland,” you whisper. You have to pull back from him, though you’d really kill to carry on. He’s muttering “already?” under his breath and you have to insist with a squeeze of his knee. “She’s going to be out any minute now.” Holland drops his head onto your shoulder, taking in a deep breath. Then, he grabs for your seatbelt, clicks it into the lock, and gives you one last smooch on the cheek.

“Okay. I’m gonna treat the kid and you out to a nice dinner tonight. Ice cream after. She can’t go without ,” Holland nods. He sits up straight, raising his arm over the back of your seat to pull out of his parking space. “And next weekend, we’re gonna go take a drive, you and me—find a hotel room and make good use of that film camera of yours.”

With a swift swat to the arm, you mutter, “You’re such a perv. Go pull up to the flagpole.”

He's dressed sharp - definitely more put together than any one man in the church. The three-piece navy suit he's got on is fancy enough that he could be a member of the wedding party.

The suit jacket, waistcoat, and trousers are a deep, navy blue to contrast with your dress. He dons a crisp white button-up with a light blue tie hanging around his neck. The shade matches perfectly with your dress and makes the bright blue of his eyes pop.

Jacob - your date - is also scouring the incoming guests as he unbuttons his suit jacket, a thoughtful look pulling on the corners of his mouth. He leans over to you, still glancing around as he murmurs, "It's better to be overdressed than underdressed in situations like this."

He subtly motions to a couple across the church, and utters, "Look at that older couple. They know proper etiquette for wedding attire." The couple a few rows down from you are wearing standard semi-formal clothing, and it makes a sigh fall from your nose in defeat.

You shuffle slightly as you move your purse to your left, a wide gap in the seating keeping you from being close to the aisle. Jacob sits on your right, and no one sits on the other side of him.

The two of you sit alone in a pew on the groom's side - a mere 15 minutes before the wedding is supposed to begin. The bride's side of the church is packed, with friends and family bumping each other's shoulders to all fit.

You glance back at Jacob, uncertainty still pulling your brows taut. The blonde gives you a charming smile, then leans closer yet and murmurs, "You look great, by the way."

There's a soft glint in his eye as he briefly lets his gaze flit over your frame, taking note of the way your body is tight and on edge. You can feel an intense wave of heat rush over you - the compliment floats easily from his mouth and ruffles the last of your nerves.

You part your mouth to brush him off, but you catch sight of a woman holding a camera over Jacob's shoulder. You make eye contact with her and give her a soft smile of recognition.

"Hi! Would you two mind moving closer to the aisle? This side looks a little too empty in the pictures," she explains as she motions to the empty spots next to the aisle. Jacob quickly turns to glance over his shoulder at the sound of her voice, and once she finishes speaking, looks at you expectantly.

A quick wave of panic floods over you at the thought of being trapped between the decorations blocking the end of the pew by the aisle and Jacob. You brush off the thought, instead giving her a tight-lipped smile and a dip of your head, replying, "Yeah, absolutely-!" -fucking not, you finish internally.

She moves just a split second later, thanking you, and you grab onto your purse, sliding to your left. There, you are subsequently trapped. There is a drapery of white roses hanging from the ends of the pews, lining the edges of the seating area from the front of the church the entire way to the back.

Jacob moves in time with you, smoothly sliding across the slick finish on the wooden seat. The close proximity of the blonde makes your heart race, and your mind goes blank. He seems calm as a cucumber next to you, lazily watching people shuffle in last minute with minor interest.

His calm, confident demeanor reminds you of the night you met him.

- - -

The bar was almost empty tonight. People lingered at lush seating areas away from the main serving area, secluded in their own little worlds.

You were no different - dolled up just to sit alone and nurse a watered-down soda while contemplating the recent events fate seemed to throw your way.

You listened to the music sinking through the air, catching the lilts and lifts of horns and the distinct ping of a steel guitar. The sound of the music was both soothing and heartbreak-inducing. It reminded you of the reason you were seeking solace away from the comforts of your home.

A soft cough draws your attention away from the swirling ice in your drink, and you glance to the side to see a sharply dressed blonde man wearing a suit standing nearby.

"You took my breath away with just one look," his smooth voice hums out over the dull noise of the bar. You shoot him an unimpressed look and raise one eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

"Hi," he offers a wide, charming grin, and then offers you his hand, "Jacob Palmer." You watch him silently for a moment, and then you lean forward and offer him your own hand.

With a silent swagger, the blonde, Jacob, moves closer and gently clasps your hand in his much larger one. He then releases it a moment later, and motioning to the seat next to you, inquires, "Mind if I sit?"

You shrug nonchalantly and take a sip of your soda, then sigh out, "Be my guest." Jacob's smile widens again at hearing the sound of your voice. It's a sweet sound - a voice that he can tell needs company.

"What's a beautiful girl like you doing in a bar all alone on a Tuesday night?" Jacob asks as he settles onto the couch cushion across from you, unbuttoning the front of his suit jacket. He's natural about it - his whole demeanor has an air of confidence.

You chuckle dryly as you glance from Jacob to your drink, swirling it in your hand. "Same as everyone else," you eventually reply, your voice soft and distant.

Jacob's confident expression melds into something more understanding, and then he states, "I could change that for you." Your eyebrow raises in question again, a light expression dusting your features as a twinkle starts to return to your gaze.

Jacob notices it almost immediately, and you can almost see the way his chest puffs out in pride as he responds, "We could get out of here, get some dinner. Maybe head back to my place."

An ungraceful snort slips out before you can stop it, and you blink at him in disbelief before huffing, "Really? That's the best you've got?" This doesn't offend the blonde, though. Instead, you see him lean toward you and murmur, "This is only the beginning."

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, but then Jacob breaks it, "Oh, come on. You aren't going to regret going out with the hot guy from the bar one time. If you hate tonight, you'd never have to see me again."

You giggle at his gentle persistence - the playfulness to his voice and the curl to his lip have made a part of your brain curious. You take a breath and then shake your head side to side with a tight-lipped grin, "Sorry, Jacob, I don't think I'm the girl for that."

The blonde watches you for a moment, his face dropping to contemplate his options, but then his smile is back. He leans back against the couch cushion, his arm coming to a rest on the pillow next to him.

"Tell me about him," Jacob stalls, his voice to the point but also full of open curiosity. Your eyes widen and your drink comes to a rest on your lap as you stutter, "W-what? How, how did you-" "I can see it in your eyes," he butts in.

He motions to you gently and then pushes, "Tell me about the guy that's dulled a doll like you." You blink at him, both in shock and slight embarrassment. He read you like an open book.

Your mouth gapes open and closed a few times, but then you're gushing out, "There's this wedding." Your subconscious is appalled that you are being this willing to be honest with a stranger, but there's something about him that makes you want to talk.

Jacob's eyebrows shoot up with interest as he repeats, "A wedding? Don't tell me you're the bride. Although you would make a beautiful one." The compliment is earnest, his blue gaze flitting over you appreciatively, but also with respect.

It makes your cheeks heat up again, and you try to ignore it by shaking your head as you explain, "No, not the bride this time." You glance back down at your drink and sigh, "Maybe in another life."

The man across from you is quiet, carefully watching you as his brows draw together. You swallow thickly and offer, "It's an old friend. I've known him since we were kids. Always thought he was cute."

You shuffle uncomfortably as memories dance in your eyes, and you continue, "Then, last summer, he started talking to me. Saying all the right things, offering to take me out, saying we needed to catch up."

Jacob nods along quietly as the words seem to fall out of your mouth, one after the next, the weight slowly lifting from your shoulders. You clear your throat as a lump begins to form, and you manage to murmur, "Then he did."

A sad smile curls on your mouth as you glance at Jacob, your (colored) gaze misty as you dryly chuckle again. You take a deep breath to help center yourself before you state, "He took me out to this cute little restaurant in his hometown."

Jacob quips light-heartedly, "Sounds nice enough." You flash your gaze at him as you give him a watery smile, "Yeah, it was. He did all the right things. Held the door, helped me sit. We made great conversation, he paid, walked me to my car."

You blow a heavy breath out of your mouth as tears threaten to slide down your cheeks, and sniffling, you rasp out, "I was ready for him to lay one on me right then and there. Instead, he gave me a big, sweet hug. No big deal. He texted to make sure I got home."

You cough once to clear your throat again, and with your voice thick and full of emotion, whimper out, "And then he ghosted me. Got engaged to this girl a few weeks later after disappearing. Now he's getting married."

A thick silence washes over the two of you, Jacob stunned. He watches you with shock and anger lacing his features. No man should ever treat a woman like that.

"You were the other woman and had no idea," he replies faintly, his voice full of understanding. You nod in response, wiping at your cheeks as you take a shaky breath.

"And now I'm going to his wedding. Because even after all that, he still sent an invite," you mumble. You can see a look on Jacob's face, but before he can say anything, you cut in, "Yes, I know. But we were friends for years before this. I have to go, but I don't think I can do it alone."

The blonde nods along silently, and the pensive look on his face slowly starts to spread into a smile. You furrow your brows at him and ask, "What's that look for? A girl's pain is funny to you?"

Jacob shakes his head as a chuckle falls from his mouth, and then he replies, "No, of course not." He finds your gaze evenly and then states with conviction, "Let me be your plus one."

You go to scoff, but Jacob's quicker, "No, hear me out. I want to take you out on a real date, let that be known. But, I can understand if you are weary given the situation."

He sits forward again, that charming smirk on his lips as he urges, "Let me be your plus one. You don't have to show up to the wedding alone and you can show that jackass what he's missing. Plus, you'll get to know me a little better, and if you hate me by the end of the night, we never have to see each other again."

His blue eyes dance over you before he finishes, "Or, if there's a slim chance you actually enjoy yourself, I get to take you out on a real date afterwards."

Your eyes narrow as you mull over his words. It wasn't a horrible proposition. He was... attractive. Charming, to say the least.

"It would only be believable if you acted like a boyfriend, though," you mention, butterflies starting to flutter deep in your stomach. The blonde's smirk glints in the dim lighting of the bar, and he replies, "Easy. Do we have a deal, Miss...?"

"Y/n," you reply quickly, a smile of your own tugging on your lips. "And yes, Mr. Palmer. We do."

- - -

The deal seems a little silly now that he's here, sitting next to you in the bright light of the church. You can see his angled features even more clearly - the slope of his nose, the curve of his smile.

It makes your heart race.

Before you can say anything else, your attention is drawn to the pianist at the front of the church. The gentle tune that had been playing for the last few minutes switches to a song that radiates what can only be described as love.

It immediately makes your stomach turn as heavy as lead, and you hear the church grow quiet a moment later. Instinctively, you look up the aisle, and there, you can see the groomsmen walking in.

One by one, the men filter down the aisle, and at the last one, you feel your body run rigid. There, you see him. His suit is a pleasant cornflower blue with a white shirt and a light blue tie hung around his neck.

Your heart seems to flutter in your chest. It was the first time you had seen him since he ghosted you. You catch the corner of his gaze, and you swear you stop breathing. Then, before you know it, he's looking straight ahead and making his way to the front of the church.

A warm hand settling just above your knee distracts you, and you glance to your right to see Jacob carefully watching you. There's an understanding look in his eye - he can see the heartbreak dancing in your (colored) gaze.

He gently squeezes his digits over the material of your dress and offers you an encouraging smile and nod. Then, he's glancing away as everyone around you begins to stand.

His hand slips off your thigh, and the loss of its warmth makes you almost lurch. Your hands tremble at your sides as you glance up the aisle to set your gaze on the bride.

When your eyes do land on her, you have one immediate thought: she couldn't be any more different than you. Her dress is long and simple, her arm wrapped around her father's as she slowly picks her way down the aisle.

Your fingers twitch again as you glance over her bouquet, taking note of the white roses amongst the baby's breath and pleasant greenery. Emotion runs thick in your throat as you watch her pass, and just when you think your throat is going to give in, you feel something press against your hand.

It takes a second to realize what it is, but you instantly know Jacob has threaded his fingers through your own. You lean into his side unknowingly, clasping your fingers tightly around his as you tear your gaze away from the bride.

They settle on him, waiting at the altar. You carefully note the way he's watching his bride walk down the aisle. You let your gaze flit over the way she's looking at him.

And suddenly, a wave of what can only be described as relief washes over you. I'm glad that's not me, the thought hits you like a freight train. It releases a weight from your shoulders you didn't know you were carrying, and suddenly it feels like you can take a full breath.

There's a gentle swipe of Jacob's thumb over your hand, and then he's gently drawing you back down to the pew as everyone sits.

Truly, the ceremony goes by in a blur. There are a few things your mind bounces between - that you're glad it's not your wedding, you aren't sure if the bride and groom even like each other, and that in another life, maybe you could have been her.

Nothing was wrong with the ceremony. Everything went exactly how they probably planned it. That is, until the bride and groom reappeared after their exit to release each pew, their way of individually thanking the guests for coming.

One by one, they unclasp the string of roses decorating the exits of the pews closest to the aisle, and it makes your heart race with anticipation. You are sitting next to the aisle.

You and Jacob are still the only ones in your row, so you sit anxiously as you watch them release a row of guests from the bride's side. They are hugged and congratulated by family members, but unknowingly, the bride's veil is stepped on.

You and Jacob quickly glance at each other as you watch it get tugged out of her hair and land on the ground. Well, shit. You glance back at the bride and groom, who are undoing the roses on your pew.

Delicately, you release Jacob's hand and stand up, the blonde following your lead a half second later. You catch sight of the groom opening his mouth to say something, but you anxiously bring one hand up to your face and point with the other to a place behind the bride.

"Your veil is falling," you rush out, your voice full of remorse and urgency as you motion to the veil on the ground. You try to make the statement as genuine as possible, and the bride just laughs and rolls her eyes, saying, "Oh my gosh, thank you!"

You clasp your hands tight to your chest as she grabs at the lace, and you turn toward him as he laughs out, "Thanks, Y/n/n!" He opens his arms for a wide hug, which you step forward and accept.

The interaction is brief, but it's enough to drive the spear through your heart even deeper. It was the way he so casually used your nickname. It was the way he gave you a hug despite ghosting you and shredding your heart to pieces months ago.

It makes you want to cry, vomit, and knee him in the balls all at the same time, but you refrain. Instead, you draw away and step over the gathering roses on the ground, leaving room for Jacob behind you.

The blonde offers him a firm handshake and a respectful nod to the bride, and then he's on you. Jacob's hands find their way to your waist, cupping you gently and pulling you up the aisle and away from the newlyweds.

Your heart all but shatters as you walk up the aisle, leaving both your dreams and childhood love behind. Despite the pain and anguish coursing through your veins, in that fleeting moment, Jacob's touch grounds you and provides you just enough strength to make it out of the church.

A large hand waits for you as your car door swings open, the warmth of the afternoon flooding into the air-conditioned vehicle. It takes some mental willpower, but you reach forward to carefully take Jacob's hand, pulling yourself out of the car with a sigh.

You can see the white reception tent just up ahead - it is massive. Jacob steers you out of the doorway of the car and shuts it a moment later. He had been fairly quiet on the short ride from the church to the reception, and so had you.

The events and exhausting feelings of the day were making your head spin, and you were trying your best to keep up a happy facade. Jacob knew that much, and he didn't want to say something that might set you off.

Now, he watches as you smooth out the skirt of your dress, (colored) eyes longingly flitting over the white tent across the field. His voice is soothing and quiet as he asks, "Are you doing okay? You were pretty quiet in the car."

Your head swivels to look at him, and you know you've been caught at the pointed look in his eye. You take a deep breath and let it out through your nose, shrugging, "I think I'm good."

Your fingers dance up to your hair to brush a (colored) lock out of your eyes, your gaze flitting over Jacob. A slightly unimpressed look settles on Jacob's features, and he takes a step closer to you.

He glances around quickly to make sure no one is listening in, and then murmurs lowly, "Y/n, I may not know you that well, but I'm not blind. Are you sure you are feeling up for the reception? We can always leave, no questions asked."

Despite the brutal honesty of his words, you know he means them in the nicest way. There's no judgment in his blue eyes, just an open understanding. No questions asked.

This time, a sigh of defeat slides from your nose as your hand moves from your hair to straighten out his tie. The movement is simple, but you can feel how solid and built he is under your touch.

Your heart flutters for a moment before you squash the feeling, and you look up to meet his gaze with a sad smile. "It was just hitting me that that could have been me. But it wasn't," you opt to say, your voice staying quiet.

Jacob nods again, a smile of his own starting to curl on his lips. A moment passes, and then he quips coyly, "Yeah, and now you've got me sticking around."

A scoff pulls from your mouth, and you're smiling up at him, rolling your eyes. You point at him and, wiggling your finger, whisper, "Remember, this is all a ruse!"

Jacob easily brushes your comment off with a huff and shuffles on his feet as he locks the car. His reaction makes you giggle, and then he's smiling at you, chuckling, "I'm pretty sure we'll be going out after this wedding is over."

You just roll your eyes at him again, your chest feeling a little lighter as you watch the blonde's gaze flit over yours. He regains eye contact with you and then murmurs, his voice soft, "You're good, though?"

You step forward and grab his suit-covered arm, murmuring, "I'm good. Now, lead the way, boyfriend." And Jacob does just that.

You and Jacob must have been pretty quick getting out of the church - there aren't that many people at the tent despite the large setup. You had seen the newlyweds sneaking off to get photos after the ceremony, and you figured all of the guests would slowly trickle over to the reception.

There's a drink vendor set up outside the tent, and both you and Jacob grab your complimentary drinks before finding your table near the edge of the tent. Your seat, in particular, was directly in line with the wedding party's lengthy tables, positioned so that you are right next to the cake.

You try to ignore it the best you can, focusing on Jacob sitting next to you, sipping at his fizzy drink. He leans over to you after setting his drink down, and with a puzzled look, murmurs, "What kind of people have a wedding this big with no booze?"

You have to stifle a laugh at the blonde, and you shrug, taking a sip of your own drink. You clear your throat, a smile curling on your lips as you reply, "These ones."

The sound of people laughing and carrying on from across the tent grabs your attention for a moment, and you can see couples carrying gifts and cards to a small table on the side of the tent. Quickly, you motion to Jacob, urging, "Oh shoot! We forgot to put the card up there!"

Jacob nods and takes another quick sip from his drink, and then offers, "Want me to walk up with you?" You can't help the smile that spreads across your lips, nor can you fight the butterflies that bloom deep in your stomach at his sweet response.

Shyly, you give him a nod as you reach for the card in your purse. Jacob stands up a moment later, shucking off his suit jacket to drape it over the back of his chair. Then, when you straighten up, he carefully pulls out your chair and offers you a hand.

Yes, he's opened doors and held his hand out for you to take, but it still makes your heart skip a little, and Jacob notices the slightly dazed look in your eye. He can't fight the swell of pride he feels seeing you look at him like that.

You manage to gently clasp his hand in yours, and he guides you around the bunch of tables to where other guests were dropping their stuff off. You make quick work of sliding the card in with the others, and a gentle squeeze on your hand has you blinking up at Jacob.

He motions to an adjacent table, murmuring, "Looks like they have a photo booth set up." You glance over to the table, and curiosity gets the better of you. A few shuffling steps bring you to meet a book beginning to fill with small Polaroids. You glance at the blonde and shrug, "Want to get one?"

The blonde just gives you a smile and replies, "Only if you want to." You return his smile and hastily grab a camera, moving to get in line behind another couple getting their picture taken.

You tap a lone woman on the shoulder and ask timidly, "Hi! Would you be able to take a photo for us?" The woman spins around, sipping a soda of her own. When she sees the camera in your hands, she rushes to set her drink down, gushing, "Oh my goodness, yes! Of course!"

With a bashful smile, you pull Jacob in front of the small display, but then quickly release his hand. You rest your left hand on his chest as your right arm wraps around his waist. Jacob, with impeccable timing, wraps his left arm around your waist and tugs you close to his side.

The woman gives the two of you a smile and then lifts the camera to her face, giggling, "Alright! Big smiles! 1, 2, 3!" The flash goes off a second later, and you start to pull away from Jacob.

He has a firm grip on you, though, and doesn't release his hold on your waist. Instead, his gaze is focused on the woman with the camera, and he questions, "Would you mind taking one more for us?"

The lady shakes her head as she grabs the first photo, and then replies, "No, not at all!" She quickly sets the developing photo onto the nearby photo table and then resumes her place in front of the display.

You shoot a confused look at Jacob, who doesn't quite meet your eye. Brushing it off, you look back at the woman with the camera, resuming your previous pose.

"Alright, again, big smiles, and 1, 2-", and before she can say the third number, Jacob pulls you flush against him, and wrapping both arms around you, whips you into a dip. You can't help the surprised giggle that escapes your mouth, and just as the flash goes off, you can feel Jacob's lips land firmly on your cheek.

A wave of butterflies crashes over you at the feeling, but just as quickly as he dipped you, Jacob is pulling you up gently. You know a dazed smile covers your face, but you can't seem to bring yourself to care as the woman walks over to you and hands you the camera and newly developing photo, gushing, "You two are just the cutest!"

You know heat is flooding your cheekbones, nose, and throat - it's coursing through your body and making your nerve endings sing. You can't even bring yourself to thank the woman, but Jacob has that covered as he chuckles out a thank you and plucks the photo from your hand.

A smug, satisfied grin coats Jacob's face as he looks down at you, and you can only stare up at him in an embarrassed, shy awe. He shoots you a sharp wink before glancing at the developing image, and before you can say anything, tucks it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

Smoothly, Jacob spins you around to face the photo table, easily clearing the way for more couples to take photos. The wink, the feeling of Jacob's hands on your waist, and the memory of his mouth landing on your cheek have your brain short-circuiting.

You know your mind is running a million miles a second, so it takes all of your focus to set the camera down as gracefully as you can. Then, you are reaching for the first photo the woman took, Jacob's hands continuing to dance along your waist. Just as you get a good look at the image, he murmurs into your ear lowly, "You should sign it, 'From the Future Palmer's'."

The low timbre of his voice has chills shooting up and down your spine and goosebumps rising on your arms. When the meaning of his words set in, you can't help but huff out a laugh and lean into him, giggling, "Yeah, yeah, I should."

And you do. You sign the picture as neatly and quickly as you can, carefully shoving it into the book while other couples mingle around you, waiting for their turn.

Before you know it, Jacob is whisking you away from the gift and photo area, across the dance floor, and back to your table next to the cake. Suddenly, the day doesn't seem to be as focused on the bride and groom. Not with the way Jacob is treating you.

If you thought he was being over the top at the photo booth, once he helps you settle into your seat, he's offering, "Do you want me to get some food from the hors d'oeuvres table?"

You almost melt in your seat at his proposition, but you just offer him a nod and another bashful smile, mumbling sweetly, "Thank you, Jake." The nickname rolls off your tongue before you can stop it, and you see Jacob's eyes twinkle mischievously.

Then, he's slowly leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, whispering pointedly, "Anytime, angel." This time, you can't help but swoon, ducking your head in embarrassment, and Jacob chuckles lightly in your ear before pulling away.

Then, he's walking away from the table, just as charming and confident as ever. You glance away from him to meekly look at the other people sitting at your table. Mutual friends of yours and the groom's.

One girl's jaw is slack as she watches Jacob saunter away, and then she's leaning forward, gushing, "Girl, where on earth did you find a man like that?!" You just giggle shyly as you tuck a strand of hair out of your face.

You delve into the fake story you and Jacob had handcrafted on your drive to the wedding - how you met, what your first date was, how he asked you out. All of it - fake.

The ladies sitting at your table eat up every second of it, oohing and awwing at every scrap of faux sweetness. They all beg you to keep him; he is hot, first of all. Sweet and caring next. And he wants to do anything he can to make you happy.

Thankfully, the heat is quickly pulled away from you as they start bickering to their husbands about how they wish their men would act like Jacob. The whole interaction makes you laugh - if only they knew.

But then there's movement beside you, and from the corner of your gaze, you catch sight of Jacob's navy blue suit pants. You turn to face him with a sweet smile, noting the two small plates of appetizers.

"Here you go," he mumbles quietly, setting one of the plates in front of you before sitting down and messing with his own. You lean over to him, nerves twinging in your stomach, and murmur, "Thank you."

Jacob's gaze flits over to meet yours, and there's a twinkle in his eye as he nods in response. He doesn't get the chance to say anything, as one of the ladies from your table states loudly, "Look! The wedding party is here!"

You instinctively turn to face where the lady is pointing, and your gaze lands on the bridesmaids and groomsmen forming a line to enter the reception tent. Just behind them, the bride and groom.

It's an instinctual thing, the way your heart sinks and your good mood seems to shrivel up. You can see the bright smile on the bride's face, the seeming look of content on his.

You don't notice Jacob's hand finding its way to the back of your chair, but you do notice when he gently cups your shoulder with his fingers, rubbing soothing circles over your exposed skin.

There's something about his touch that lets the sigh fall from your nose and a part of the tension in your body fade. But there's a remaining ache that pulls at your heart as you watch the newlyweds swing onto the dance floor for their first dance.

The DJ says a few words, none of great recognition or importance, and then the music is floating through the speakers, soft and slow. The song isn't one you can place a name to, the chords and lyrics are nothing you can recognize.

For that, you are happy.

But as you watch the groom twirl his new bride around the dance floor, laying gentle kisses on her mouth and staring into her eyes, you can feel your heart splintering. You don't mean to, but you can't help but retreat further and further into your shell.

Watching them makes everything more real.

You know heartbreak dances in your eyes, there's no way it couldn't be. You know there's a look of longing and pain pulling on your brows and tugging sadness onto your smile. You know that.

Jacob knows it, too; his blue gaze is set on you. He knows there's not much he can do to ease your pain or distract you from the happy couple. But he does know he needs to change things around and get the sparkle back in your eyes.

The first dance ends after what seems like a year of time passes by - the couple immediately fluttering off to cut the cake next to your table, the wedding party giving their speeches, and a quick blessing before dinner.

The meal was fine. The food was mediocre at best, and the desserts worse yet. Jacob didn't say anything about it, but you could see the way his jaw clenched with every bite he took. That alone lifted your spirits a little bit, knowing that his taste in food was a little more lavish.

The reception starts to pick up a bit as the sun sinks further into the afternoon sky, with music that's more lively humming through the air, inviting people to start dancing. The whole time, you and Jacob opt to sit at the table and make conversation, answering questions about your fake relationship and listening to long-winded rants from the other couples.

That is, until one of your favorite songs starts streaming through the air, slow and sweet as those dancing begin to unwind and grow tender. You can see couples piling in from both sides of the reception tent to flock to the dance floor, a longing in your gaze as you watch them.

Then, there's that familiar, large hand in front of you. Waiting. On the other end of the hand, Jacob is standing patiently, a soft, charming smile on his lips. Quick realization settles over you, and your eyes widen in surprise before filling with horror.

No, no, please! They seem to scream as they flit between Jacob's bright blue ones. In response, his smile only widens. You can feel the entirety of your table watching in anticipation, but then Jacob is the one to break the silence.

"May I have this dance?" The words are easy and light, with no real pressure behind them. He's flashing a million-dollar smile at you, and you can hear the sound of the ladies cooing in admiration around you. Then, before you can stop yourself, you're resting your palm in his, and he's whisking you off to the dance floor.

Thankfully, Jacob has some mercy on you and tries to find the least crowded spot on the floor. Directly in front of the wedding party's table. Your heart lurches at the thought, but you try to will it away as Jacob tugs your arms to hang around his neck.

He's taller than you, which gives you something to focus on. Your hands have to reach ever so slightly in interlock around his neck, the distance between your bodies rapidly closing. Butterflies bloom low in your stomach as his hands respectfully rest on your hips, large and warm on your waist.

It takes willpower to hold his gaze, your cheeks burning with a heat you haven't felt in a long time. Jacob, on the other hand, easily smiles down at you, leading the way as he gently spins you in circles, holding you close.

"Why are you doing this for me?" you eventually mumble as your gaze flits away from his to stare at the tie hanging around his neck. The question is almost lost in the sound of the music, but Jacob doesn't miss it.

"To show him what he's missing," is his only response. Before you can ask him what he means, he spins you around a little quicker, and just as the two of you face the bride and groom, Jacob leans into you.

One of his hands slides from your waist down the silky fabric of your dress to cup your ass, tugging you flush against his chest. Then, his hand on your hip is sliding up to grab the back of your neck, tangling in your (colored) locks to tilt your face up to meet his.

You swear your heart is going to burst as butterflies shoot through you at the smoothness of his actions and the domineering warmth his hands bring. Then, his lips are landing on yours, dizzyingly slow.

Initially, it startles you. But then, you feel the softness of his mouth on yours, and you can't help the way your eyes flutter shut, and you instinctively kiss him back.

Slowly, one of your hands releases from around his neck to cup his jaw, slightly tilting your head to deepen the kiss. Jacob somehow pulls you closer to him, and the outside world seems to fade away as his mouth slots over yours.

Or maybe... It's the sound of the song ending. Either way - it doesn't matter, because God, this man knows how to kiss.

Jacob is the one to pull away, but he doesn't go far. He tenderly pulls you back up, his hands resuming their place on your waist. His forehead leans against yours, his nose bumping against your own.

Your mouth is parted, and your brain is foggy as you blink up at him, dazed. His blue eyes are half-lidded as he looks down at you, flitting across your blissed-out features.

"He's missing out on one hell of a girl," he whispers earnestly against your lips. An embarrassed smile tugs on your mouth, and you're ducking your head away from his to tuck it into his chest.

A sweet chuckle falls from Jacob's lips as he runs his hands up and down your back, his head unknowingly turning to face the wedding party's table. There, he catches sight of the groom watching the two of you.

His smile twists from pleasant to smug, and then he's turning back to face you. Jacob is gentle as he murmurs, "Ready to go sit down?" You can hear a slightly teasing tone to his voice, and you just groan playfully into the navy blue material of his waistcoat.

The blonde snickers lightly at you, but starts to tug you to the edge of the dancefloor as the music picks back up to something more upbeat. Just as you arrive back at the table, you can see several of the ladies from your table getting ready to leave.

"Aw, are you guys leaving already?" you ask as you glance over the few people standing. One lady gives you a nod and replies, "Yeah, it's a long drive home, and we've got to let the dogs out."

You nod in understanding and turn toward Jacob to gauge his reaction. The blonde just glances down at you and then shrugs, "Are you ready to go?" A quick look around the rest of the reception is what finalizes your answer.

"Yeah, I am," you reply with a slightly clipped smile. With a quick grab of Jacob's jacket, the two of you follow the other people from your table to say goodbye to the bride and groom, hanging back to give them their space.

Then, you're up. The bride is distracted by the table behind her, so you are left to face him alone. He gives you a tight-lipped smile and opens his arms for another hug, saying lightheartedly, "Thanks for coming, Y/n/n!"

The sound of your nickname falling from his lips makes you want to cry, vomit, and knee him in the balls all over again, but again, you refrain. Instead, you pat him on the back and state firmly, "Yeah, of course!"

You pull back from the brief interaction, tucking yourself close to Jacob's left side. The blonde offers the groom his hand, and the groom takes it with another tight-lipped smile. You can see the veins bulging on Jacob's hand, and you can't help but internally snort at the firm grip.

Jacob shakes his hand and with a smile, claims, "We had such a lovely time, isn't that right, baby?" You just look up at him and give him a silent nod, resting your hand on his chest before turning to face the groom.

At your touch over his waistcoat, Jacob's pecs tighten before relaxing. You must have caught him off guard. But then he's releasing the groom's hand and guiding you away from the reception tent.

It's quiet in his car. You've only been on the road for a few minutes, nothing in comparison to the hour-long drive that awaits. You hadn't said much since leaving the party.

You couldn't say much.

Your mind was spinning at the heartbreak of the whole situation - seeing the bride and groom for the first time, watching them dance, and kiss. The groom calling you by your nickname? Jacob spinning you around, kissing you like that?

You couldn't keep up. So you stayed quiet.

Jacob didn't want to push; he knew it was a lot for you to handle. He did, however, want to make sure that you were alright.

So as twilight settles over the hills and fields Jacob drives through, he clears his throat and prompts, "Y/n?" You snap out of your daze, turning to face him with interest in your eyes.

"Yeah?" you breathe as your eyes flit over his concentrated features. You can see him glance over at you before focusing on the road again, but then he asks, "Are you alright?"

The question isn't meant to probe or be annoying - there's genuine concern lacing his voice as he eases the car down the road. A heavy pause floods the air as you glance away from him, your eyes catching on the black and white figures of dairy cows out the window.

"Yeah," you mumble indistinctly, "I am." Your eyes sink to half-lidded, lost in thought for a moment before you explain, "Everything I saw today made me realize that I'm happy it wasn't me getting married to him."

You can hear Jacob take a deep breath next to you, and cocking his head to the side, he sighs, "Yeah, well, that's good." Silence fills the car again, but this time, it's not as tense.

Your gaze is drawn to Jacob, and that's where you see a smirk growing on his mouth. It makes an unsure smile start to spread on your own, and then his voice sounds out, "So when do I get to take you out on a real date?"

A huff pulls from your mouth, and then you're chuckling, "Well, Jakey, I don't think you're off-duty for the evening yet. You're my boyfriend for the day, right? You still have to walk me to my door and say goodnight."

The nickname floats from your lips teasingly, and you can't help the giggle that follows your words. Jacob's smile grows, but he scoffs playfully, "Oh, that's easy work."

Suddenly, the thought of the wedding seems to disappear to the back of your mind. Because then, Jacob is silently offering you his right hand, and you're delicately sliding your fingers through his own.

And with the weight of his hand in yours, you can't help but think that maybe Jacob's hand fit yours better than his ever could.

What you’ve got with him is neither here nor there. It’s perfectly middle-ground, and really, you're satisfied with it. Grace is a decent roommate; he’s observant—knows what ticks you off, what pleases you, avoids the former and tries for the latter. You can already tell that he’s a little bit sweet on you, just by the way that he looks at you with soft blue eyes—corners of his eyes crinkling as he busies his hands with whatever prop he decides to pick up. Glass beakers, microscopes, xenonite models, you name it. It’s always the same.

And you’re always staring at him with your chin propped up on your palm, at once amused and enamored. You’d known you would feel a certain way about Grace ever since you’d both woken up on the Hail Mary. You’re attracted to him, of course, but there’s also something else. Even without a whole memory, your mind lingers on him longer than need be. It’s something like love, if not exactly that. “Well, we haven’t talked about it, but we’re as good as mates,” you decide to tell Rocky.

“Is unclear,” he mumbles. Aloud, it does sound like very strange terms to be referring to the current circumstances. A very human arrangement, you think. Rocky concurs with a stamp of his arm down on the plated floor.

“We live together, we eat together. I can tell I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me,” you list off, counting on one hand. “We cohabitate in the same space like two mates would, but we haven’t had the opportunity to… have it out. It’s mission-first thinking.”

Rocky begins to roll towards a batch of glass propped up on the wall, a wordless sign for you to pick it up for him. Break’s over. Begrudgingly, you follow along, lifting the trapezoidal glass pane up with both arms. As you swing it into a more secure grip, he seems to speak more softly. “More Eridian than human.”

“Who? Me?” you say half-heartedly, still very focused toward your grip on the xenonite glass. It’s more difficult for you than it is for Rocky to carry the whole thing through the hatch door of the Hail Mary. Still, it sounds like a high compliment.

“Yes. Is Eridian thinking to view Grace in definite terms. Grace as mate, inevitable. Is beautiful!” Rocky raises a claw up, wiggling his little rugged fingers in a gentle sweep across the empty space in front of him. It’s reassuring, certainly, that Rocky views you in high regard. Even though you’re breaking a sweat trying to carry this weighted pane for your new shipmate, you still make a concerted effort to give him a wide grin.

“Thanks, Rocky.”

—

There’s a good mood going between you and Rocky after all the talking. Grace picks up on it quickly after his long nap, when he sees the both of you huddled in the lab working on one of the larger dry-erase boards. There’s a bunch of calculations scrawled neatly in black across the whole white surface, alongside a larger diagram of the ship’s engines. While he’s been sleeping, it’s clear the two of you have been wading through the more complex engineering issues. Hearing Grace’s footsteps approach, you turn to face him over your shoulder with a grin, “Morning.”

Grace looks straight out of bed, with his punny tee and his sweatpants—blonde hair sticking up in random directions. He seems to be stretching his back out as you greet him, eyelids heavy. “It seems like someone ignored the memo to pack light,” Grace grumbles, nudging his mug towards the corridor behind him. The stack of xenonite crates and glass you two amassed is generous, to say the least.

“Hey, I’m just the mover,” you hum, “You’re gonna have to take it up with the big guy.” You jut your index finger out towards Rocky, who’s tapping one side claw against the glass.

He merely buzzes, “Rocky need equipment to save Earth Erid stars. Don’t mind.” He rolls closer to the center of the room to get a better scan of the corridor, before returning to your side at the white board. “Same volume of mess as before Rocky arrival.” Rude. When you look back over at Grace, he doesn’t seem to have any major objections. It is true; the two of you were maybe a little bit slobbish before Rocky came along.

The three of you seem to fall back into routine easily. Grace is still trying to wake himself up with generous gulps of black coffee. You and Rocky continue on with your calculations and diagram. You’re trying your best to stay focused on the work—but the two of you have been working on these problems for the past hour and now, Grace is in front of you with his entirely sleep-ridden appearance. He just looks… perfect. And, out of the blue, Rocky shoots out an abrupt: “Why choose Grace for mate, question?” There’s a clatter to your left. Grace’s grip loosens on the handle of his mug, a sizable drop of coffee splashing onto the steel counter beside you both. He decides, at once, to place the mug down and away from himself, before wiping the mess up with the sleeve of his navy-blue hoodie.

Grace sputters, “What? Mate—we're not—that would require at least kind of—" He’s speaking so intermittently that he can barely get a full sentence out. You raise a brow just watching Grace mesh his hands together, fingers interlocking and coming apart. He’s not making it any better for himself.

The wide-eyed look that you give Rocky isn’t nearly as mortified as Grace’s. While it’s accompanied by shock, you’re very intrigued by the nature of Rocky’s question. You have no idea what he’s shooting for, but it’s clearly working. Grace is talking to himself, dazed as he fixates on soaking the coffee up with his sleeve. Rocky stays silent in his xenonite casing. He’s anticipating an answer out of you, and so you’re going to have to give it to him. With a rather astute tone, analytical in nature, you offer up, “Well, he’s passionate. That’s a plus.”

Grace’s brows furrow together. “Sorry?” He’s floored. You can’t possibly be talking about him, but Rocky’s asking and you’re answering. It’s really not adding up. Grace is looking at you over the frame of his glasses, eyes squinted in perplexity.

“The molecular biology, the teaching,” you note, “Gold stars all around.”

“Dedication valuable for Earth mate selection,” Rocky nods along. It isn’t anything he doesn’t already know. While Grace has been asleep and the two of you have gotten to talking, Rocky knows practically all the minute details of why you’ve “chosen” Grace. The point of hashing it out in front of him now is unclear—aside from the potential entertainment value. That makes sense.

“Okay. He learned humor while I was napping. I’m not offended at all.” Though he tries to laugh it off, Grace doesn’t sound at all sure of himself. He’s very close to pacing back and forth, not sure whether he should try to change out of his now coffee-soaked hoodie or question the two of you further. When you and Rocky turn straight back to work unaffected, you at the front of the board and him tracing his claw across the glass with a sort of contemplative silence, Grace is shell-shocked. He’s muttering under his breath, “I don’t think I get the joke.” Both of your backs are turned to Grace; he can’t see the growing smirk that’s cropping up on your face.

It’s a quick pivot back to work. “I have a feeling that we should make a few minor adjustments to the rear fuselage. There’s going to be a lot of strain on engines when we get to Tau Ceti-E.” You click your tongue, circling the lower right quadrant of the diagram in a red dry-erase ink. Once your little annotation is completed, you tuck the marker in your back pocket.

“Agree, agree, agree,” Rocky tips his body towards the white board. His texture monitor is showing a complex, grayscale copy of the board to a T. It’s as if neither of you have tried to tease Grace to death just seconds prior. He’s glued to the ground with a weary kind of expression on his face. Grace is frowning, truly and deeply, with his palm squeezing the back of his neck. You could almost feel bad if you weren’t so pleased to see Grace like this; rarely is he speechless.

A few minutes pass. Then, Rocky approaches the same question from a different vantage point. “Grace attractive by human standard, question?”

“Well, he's handsome by my standard, and I’m pretty sure a lot of humans would agree,” you admit. “He is a bit dorky, but I like ‘em that way. That’s preference, though. Not all humans are into dorky.”

Rocky returns your statement with a rushed out, “Yes, yes, yes—preference. Understand.”

“Okay. Hello?” Grace speaks outward towards the lab. His voice carries throughout the hull of the ship, and the two of you are still non-reactive. “We’re doing it again. I am in the room.” His old teacher’s voice is coming out again—one hand shot up in the air, trying to flag your attention.

You look at him over your shoulder with a soft “What was that, Ry?” You’re very pleased to see that his cheeks are glowing red underneath the white-gold frames of his glasses. You drag your gaze up and down his raised arm, with a particularly sharp grin hanging off your face. So toned. “Didn’t hear you,” you tilt your head. Grace lowers his arm slowly, turning back around to pick up his mug.

“Ha-ha,” Grace punches out. He’s trying to seem unbothered by this whole situation, but it really is bothering him. No matter how hard he’s trying to maintain his composure, Grace is flushed. You can practically see the steam rising off the top of his head. It’s an illogical conversation playing out in front of him and the effort’s no use. You and Rocky are absolutely impossible. “I’m going to go for a metaphorical breath of fresh air. I will… see you both shortly.” Grace is too nervous to push it any further, and it seems like he’s leaving you both to do a cool-off lap around the ship.

You can hear him talking to himself as he leaves the lab, as if possessed by his own confusion. “Handsome…? Is it April Fool’s? Mary, can you pull up a UTC calendar for me, please? What month is it back home?” Louder, the ship’s computer rings out a staticky, “The month is: June.” Grace’s muffled groan rings out towards the two of you..

You turn towards Rocky with a slow shake of your head. “You’re really mean. Did you know that?” you ask Rocky. He pushes closer to you. Like you’re any better.

“Grace not know you are mates when obvious. Grace fault,” Rocky says, with both claws pointed in the air. You think it’s supposed to be a sort of shrug.

—

After Grace’s little cooldown period, he’s back on his feet and wanting to teach you how to sample astrophage. Even though you’ll both be out there at the same time, spacewalking side by side, he wants you to be prepared. It’s best that you both know how to handle the equipment. You’re not completely convinced that he’s over your little bit with Rocky earlier, but he seems altogether unoffended enough to talk to you. While you and Grace are running through the sampler together, Rocky’s not far away. He sits in the corridor, sifting through his things—no doubt listening to the two of you working together.

Grace's fingers trace over the orange lining of the box before he slides it towards you. “You’re going to have this whole sampler rig attached to your suit. It’s supposed to be portable, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle for us to bring it out and set it up on the topside of the deck,” he explains. You’re nodding along; something tells you that you’ve heard this entire lecture before—that Grace is using the words that he might’ve before your launch—but it’s altogether pointless to point it out now.

You’re watching as his hands surround either side of the sampler; he pulls out, simultaneously, two metal grated plates. “Okay. These plates are supposed to intake the astrophage going towards Tau Ceti-E.” Grace closes the one set and opens another. “And these are supposed to grab the astrophage that’s leaving. We’ll grab input first. Then, output.”

Mindlessly, Grace grabs the off-white masking tape off the counter beside you, nearly brushing your waist; he tries to ignore the minimal contact, pressing the bar of tape onto the first set of plates. Then, the second. Grace discards the roll on the counter, before picking the dry-erase marker out of your pocket and presses it into the palm of your dominant hand. Grace flinches as his fingertips graze the surface of your palm. He’s still trying to keep a fair distance after your little debacle with Rocky earlier, but he just can’t help it.

“You want me to label it?” you laugh.

“It’s lab standard,” he insists. “If we mix them up, we’ll have to sample all over again—and that would mean we’d have to clean the plates. And if we do that poorly…” Grace makes a big show of making a miniature explosion with his hands. It’s difficult not to scoff at him. You know it’s lab standard, but he could easily label them himself. The apprehension worn on your face makes Grace sigh. You’re able to read him too easily, and he surrenders over, “And I like your handwriting more than I like mine.”

There—the root of the issue. You shake your head, “You’re a teacher, Grace. Legibility is, like, a job requirement.”

“If that were true, the staff at Grover Cleveland Middle would’ve been chopped in half,” he chuckles. As far as you’ve seen, his handwriting isn’t bad at all. To each their own, you suppose. You lean down to write on the open panels of the sampler, Grace watching carefully over your shoulder.

“See? This is part of the mating ritual, too, Rock.” It barely comes out as a whisper as you’re writing down “a1. input” and “a2. output” neatly across the tape for either panel. It’s sarcasm really, but you realize much too late that Rocky might not interpret it as such. Grace, somehow, is much more occupied at watching over your labeling technique; he murmurs back a distracted “Hm?” before furrowing his brows. He stands straight up, eyebrows furrowed. It might have taken a second to register, but Grace is fully aware of what you’ve said—

And suddenly, Rocky is practically shouting down the corridor with a hurried, “wait, wait wait!” You can hear the successive rapid thunks of him sliding into his xenonite ball, sealing it, and rolling back towards the both of you. The Eridian practically comes barreling in through the doorway, running into the white metal shelves of the Hail Mary with a childlike ardor. “Is initiating kiss, question?”

“Again?” Grace groans, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. When he lowers his hand, you can see the blush spreading across his face, from the tips of his ears to his cheeks. “Okay. That’s it,” Grace huffs. “This has to end now. No more bits.”

“Graaace. Do not be mad,” Rocky whines in a low tone, “Is only kiss. Partial threshold for human relations.” Grace is tugging his hoodie off in a desperate attempt to keep a regular temperature. There’s a shelf hook close enough for him to toss up the garment haphazardly. Once it’s out of the way, he turns toward Rocky.

“You didn’t even know that word an hour ago.” Grace’s voice raises in tone and volume all at once, crackling with embarrassment. It’s unintentionally accusatory. Grace certainly didn’t code in <kiss>, and it’s not like Rocky can type into his own vocabulary bank. And Grace can’t seem to figure out why you’d code it aside from entertainment value.

“Kiss not bad word, Grace. Is normal,” Rocky explains calmly. “Now, do kiss. Please.” The begging tone that Rocky dishes out to Grace only makes him more and more impatient. Meanwhile, you’re simply watching the two of them bicker with one another—not interested in the slightest to stop the argument. Shamefully, you do want Grace to be pushed to his limit. And this happens much quicker than you would anticipate. Right about now, Grace has his hands locked together and resting just over his head. His face is still flushed, and he’s got his glasses hanging off his face.

Grace is trying to stay as calm as he can and failing. Every time the word is used, he’s getting deeply distracted by the thought of your lips on his. He can’t help the way his mind drifts to that very, very vivid fantasy of your hands balancing flat on his chest. Finally, he breathes out a heavy and burdened sigh: “No more kiss talk. We aren’t together, end of story.”

“I mean, we kind of are,” you say to Grace, who turns sharply mid-speaking to tilt his head at you.

“What?” he stammers softly. You’re not helping his case, especially with that tone.

Hands held behind your back, you repeat for Grace, “We are.” It's a matter of fact. Any semblance of sternness Grace was attempting prior crumbles at the drop of a dime. He’s pointing at you with his index finger, then at himself, then you again. “No, we’re not.”

You grab for Grace’s wrist, just over the red-band of his wristwatch. “Okay. Come on, we’re going up to screens.” Grace, still stunned, lets you drag him out of the lab and towards the corridor. As you look over your shoulder, you can see that Rocky is shooting you a strong thumbs-down.

—

The empty, numbered panels of the projection deck flicker to life into the backdrop of the river Seine. You’ve asked Mary to put on music—really, anything would do—and she decides to ring out some folk-rock song that you’ve never heard before. Something older, not too much ruckus when played loud. It’s a decent way to guarantee yourself a bit of privacy with your new, sound-attuned roommate. You’ll be lucky if Rocky can’t hear the two of you finally having this talk. Over the sound of the soft strumming guitars, you stretch your shoulders back. “I might have had a bit too fun teasing you. Sorry.”

“Well, I thought you were just… doing a bit. Like, ha-ha, ‘Ryland Grace dies alone in space,’” Grace mumbles. “Is it still a bit? You’re sending a whole lot of signals, and I don’t think I’m receiving—” Grace seems to quiet down as soon as you plant your hand down on his chest. He’s tracing his eyes from your hand, down your arm, and straight up to your face with his lips parted. “Or, I am receiving. A little bit.”

“Okay,” you decide, “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? I have. We’ve been living together for the equivalent of… what, a few months now? I’m comfortable with you, and you’re comfortable with me. It’s been like that ever since we got sent up. Maybe even before. I don’t remember. But we like each other.” Your fingers are dancing soft on his chest, and his breath is hitching.

“We?” Grace echoes. “I was under the impression that you were, you know, kind of uninterested in me. Besides, you know, as a co-habitant. Mission-wise, it’s crucial for us to get along.” He’s clueless, clearly, because it hasn’t been like that at all—for you, at least.

You’re trying to stir up another line of reasoning for him. You have to meet Grace at his level.  “There’s the, uh, Einstein quote. I know you know it, just… let me think.” You massage your temples with your fingers, trying to wrack your brain for it. It’s perfect. What is it, again?

It’s easy for Grace—the middle-school science teacher that he is—to pick up what you’re putting down. "When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, you think it's only a minute. But when you sit on a hot stove for a minute, you think it's two hours. That's relativity,” Grace nods, “But that’s a very crude explanation of the concept, and I don’t really—”

You shush him with a shake of your head. “Right. Eridians don’t have a conception of relativity. It isn’t necessary for them, because things are just… what they are. They’re literal and exact, and there isn’t any dancing around the facts.” you explain to Grace hurriedly. “So… you’re my boyfriend. You’ve been my boyfriend.”

It takes a moment for him to process your argument. It’s very… forward. He seems to look past you towards one of the panel-screens. The projected river is still glittering behind you, and you’re not going anywhere. Mary even put in the effort of mixing this ambient watery sound—boats and people, back on Earth whenever ago—with the music track. Somehow, your traveling abode in space has made the absolute perfect atmosphere for this. You and Grace.

“Well, that’s just…” Grace nods slowly, “peachy.” He drops his head down in absolute disappointment of his own incapability to speak. What is he saying?

“Peachy?” you repeat quietly. You’re astounded that that’s the choice of word he’s selected for this entire ordeal. It’s so like him. You can feel yourself shuddering out a breath. Your cheeks are already sore enough as is—and you don’t think you can take another hard laugh.

“Don’t,” Grace says, “I have had a long and emotionally tumultuous couple of hours.”

“Are you mad about the teasing?” you ask, stepping closer to Grace. He’s barely paying attention, eyes glazed-over in a dazed fashion. He’s having trouble focusing on your words. Too occupied with you.

“No. Never,” he murmurs, eyebrows knitted together. You’re reaching for Grace next, hands swinging around his neck in an effort to pull him in. He’s fumbling with his hands, unsure exactly where to place them. They’re steady only when they find grounding on your midsection. You give him one peck on the lips. Then, another. He leans into the contact, the rims of your glasses brushing against the surface of your cheeks. It’s casual, comfortable—as if it’s not the first time. You’re his, and he’s yours. It’s effortless. Grace seems to finally ease up.

There’s a few loud thuds down the hall—presumably, your Eridian counterpart. The folk-rock is no use. Rocky has obviously been listening through the entirety of your back-and-forth. “Finally, Grace act like real mate. Congratulate, congratulate, congratulate.” His voice rings out loudly towards the projection deck. Grace is muttering under his breath again, something about those boundaries. At least now, you’re both on the same page.

You’ve let Holland in more than anticipated, and he’s pleased with it. You can tell that much from the way Holland’s eyebrows jerk up and his mouth tugs into a grin. He doesn’t seem to question it at all, even if he clearly wants to know more. Instead, he settles for, “Maybe, I could slip you a twenty for your troubles.”

“That’s too much, and I’m not babysitting.” The trope is practically writing itself, you think. “It’s a neighborly favor,” you tell Holland, “And, if you want to know so badly, I would’ve just watched Wheel of Fortune over a TV dinner. Not so clubby on the weekends.” What are you, eighty?

But, Holland insists, “I’ll slip you fifteen and you can use it to buy takeout for the both of you. Would’ve spent the same amount if I wasn’t working tonight.” God, it’s terribly perfect the way he scrambles to find his wallet on his person. He pats his hands from the  front of his trousers to the back, before finally retrieving the folded brown-leather out of its usual spot in the inner-pocket of his suit. You watch as his fingers delve in to count his own cash.

“You don’t spend fifteen dollars on takeout. That’s absurd.” He takes out twenty—two ten-dollar bills—taking your hand up from your side, pressing the crisp bills into your palm, and closing your fingers over them.

“Would’ve been six bucks on the takeout, plus another two—I tip well. And the rest would get squandered on booze and cigarettes,” he reasons. The sheer size of his callused hand makes your own feel small in comparison, and the math, you’re sure, is still not adding up. So, you try to fork the bills back over to him by force, shoving both of your hands closer to his chest.

The insistence gets you nowhere except slightly closer to him. “It’s too much,” you tell Holland, “I can’t take it.”

He pressed your hand back. “Once the money comes out of the wallet, it can’t go back in. Personal rule,” he shakes his head. “You’re doing me a big favor with Holly, and I know you’ll spend it better than I will.” It comes out more earnest than even Holland himself could’ve expected, but he seems to mean it. Meek smile and a shrug. Oh, you despise him.

—

So, your evening has a bit of an unexpected detour, seeing as you’re in the March house doing the same thing that you would’ve at your own place. Chinese takeout and Wheel of Fortune, plus Holly. You’re shocked that she hasn’t asked you to change channels yet. You’re watching some snotty, East Coast elementary school teacher spin the Wheel with ardor, collared blouse high and tight on her neck. It lands on $200, she guesses “S” successfully, and then “B” unsuccessfully. You think, Bad luck and also wonder why Holly’s so damn quiet. It takes you a moment to brave it out and look over at her.

Holly’s large blue eyes distort with a clouded kind of look that you haven’t quite seen before—something between contemplation and amusement. Terrifying. You try to look back at the cable TV, maybe focus on the fried rice that you’ve got in the takeout box in your hand. But, Holly’s already noticed and ready to strike. “My dad has a crush on you, you know.”

Your chopsticks halt in the box. “No, he doesn’t,” you blurt. “Eat your lo mein.” Wheel of Fortune keeps playing on, with the tick-tack spin of the wheel, the letters, Susan Stafford turning the letters. Holly shuts up, taking her fork up to shovel a fried shrimp and a generous scoop of noodles into her mouth. Then, after scarfing that all down, she asks you, “Do you want to know how I know?”

“No.” Of course, that’s not true. You totally do want to know what Holland thinks of you, if he thinks of you, and if it’s with just as much perversion with which you think of him. You shouldn’t call it that. Perversion. But it’s true that you think of Holland too much and in too many ways.

Holly places her takeout box onto the coffee table with a soft thud. You have a feeling that she wants to teach you to death, and only somewhat regretfully, you decide to endure it. Holly squeaks out, uncrossing and recrossing her legs on the couch, “He stares too much. Totally checks you out when he thinks you’re not looking. It’s kind of gross. Like, he wants to X-ray your clothes.” Like Superman, you think sardonically. Skepticism aside, the thought of Holland being unable to keep his eyes off you has you thrilled. “He also has your number up on our fridge under his ad clipping, which he says is for emergencies for me, but I don’t really buy it.” 

“Compelling points, Holly.” Dismissively, you begin to close up the empty takeout boxes and throw them straight back into the crinkly plastic bag that they came out of.

She’s relentless. “Also, he’s always asking me about what you like. Flowers and colors and if you have a boyfriend. I told him you don’t have one and then he got all preach-y.”

You take the filled plastic bag and Holly’s empty coke bottle over to the trash. “What does that even mean? Preach-y,” you echo.

“He got on his knees and started putting his hands in the air. Like this.” Holly raises her hands up in the air and clasps them together they lift over her head. As she looks up—presumably, to God—she seems to configure her expression into a caricature of desperation. The thought of Holland in this exact positioning on the ground of this house makes you cackle insubordinately. Holly laughs, too. “I’m telling the truth, you know. I even heard Mr. Healy and Dad talking about you just last week.”

Up until this point, you had been taking her claims without an ounce of seriousness. “And what did Mr. Healy say?” Your chuckling reduces down to a sweaty smile, eyes narrowed as you await her response. Holly, the tormentor that she is, cups her palms on her knees, shrugs, and rolls her eyes. She knows she’s got you hooked.

“Mr. Healy said Dad needs to quit trying to date up and stay in his own league. ‘Cause every time Mr. Healy watches Dad talk to you, it’s like watching Sisyphus eat shit.” Well, it sure sounds like Healy. Holly beams, “Dad wouldn’t listen to him, though—said he just couldn’t help it.”

—

You’re sleeping on your side on the March’s couch, arms crossed and tight to your chest. By now, Holly’s tucked in bed behind her little curtained alcove, and you’re fulfilling your promise to keep her company well into the night. The couch isn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world; it’s just the March’s lack of central heating in this otherwise perfect rental that has you folding into your own body.

It’s a decent enough rest until about two in the morning. You wake up to the sound of keys jingling just outside the front door, the crack of the door open and close, and a stumbling upon the runner. A heavy body thuds onto the ground.  The streetlight pooling in through window slats gives you enough visibility to see him in there, keeled over right by the opposite end of the couch. You hiss, “Holland? Holland.” He rushes like a snail to his feet, shirt buttoned low, white undershirt exposed, yellow tie hanging undone over his chest. You can see his ring dancing on its silver chain helplessly as he gets back on his feet.

“Don’t look. M’stuck.” And it seems that Holland’s suit jacket is caught halfway off, locking his arms in a tight tangle behind his back. In your just-now-conscious state, it’s really very pleasing to see him straining to get out. You cup your hand over your mouth in a choked laugh. Holland murmurs to himself, still trying to thrash the suit jacket off himself. Finally, after a fair amount of struggle, he gets the sleeves tugged off his arms—you’re sure you’ve heard some kind of rip from the inner-fabric—and he throws it on the side chair across from you. “You’re still here. Thought you’d go home,” he rasps.

By now, you’ve sat up on the couch and let your socked feet touch the ground. You blink slowly at Holland, trying to rouse yourself awake. “Did you drink a whole bar? Jesus.”

“I didn’t drink a whole bar. I drank three-quarters of a bar. Healy had the rest.” Holland stumbles into the hall. Holly’s certainly still fast-asleep in her room, you remember, and you have to get up from your resting place on the couch to try and quiet him down. There’s a thud. Holland stumbles back, colliding with your front. Drudgingly, he turns to face you with his hands cupped over his face. Guilty.

“What are you doing?” you whisper pointedly at him. He doesn’t know how to be any less quiet right now. 

“I was trying to find you a blanket or something warm. There’s a spare comforter in the hallway closet, but closet’s missing. Just my luck.” You peer over his shoulder in the barely lit hall. The closet is another six feet down from the flat wall that Holland tried to “open.”

You shake your head. “Just come back to the living room. And be quieter, please. Holly’s still asleep and I wanna keep it that way.” Holland stumbles along as you drag him by the sleeve back towards the living room. His fingers seem to wander on their own accord, brushing at your wrist with an unsteady touch.

“Are you cold? You seem cold,” he notes, “Maybe I could warm you up. Don’t need a comforter for that.” Holland’s drunk, you remind yourself. He’s not thinking straight, and you’re too flustered to think up something witty to say back. So, you merely sit him on the couch with a mild bit of force. He seems to slump over in defeat as you drop him down, whining as you draw away from him, “Where are you going?”

You pad into the kitchen, grabbing a tall glass from the high cupboard—right past the rather strong brigade of tequila glasses. Then, straight to the faucet: you crank the cold water on and fill it halfway. It shouldn’t take you nearly as long as it does to grab the water for Holland, but you really need a second to think. What are you doing, taking care of him? Just this afternoon, you signed up to watch his kid, and you’re now babysitting the man himself. Then again, Holland is a handsome mess—and sweet on you, too. You shut the faucet off with your head hung.

When you return to him with the glass, he’s quick to take it out of your hands and chug it down with a grumbled “thank you.” You have to look away from the water that drips onto his stubble down his neck. It makes uneven splotches on his shirt. Once he lowers the glass down onto the coffee table with an unstable hand, he edges his body towards you. Determinedly, Holland says, words slurring into one another, “It’s not safe for you to walk back this late. You might as well stay here.”

You want to scold him, but you can only impart a firm and patient, “I was already staying here, March. You woke me up.”

But, Holland’s stuck on it now. The mere thought of you walking home, a measly block and a half away, tortures him.  “I don’t want you to walk home,” he insists in his plastered state, “You’re too pretty to walk home. You could get nabbed or something.”

“Too pretty?” you laugh, “Where’s this coming from?” Oh, it feels almost cruel to ask this to Holland when he’s so far gone—but selfishly, you’d like to see how he’ll respond, especially without the usual, lightly veiled filter.

“Oh, you already know I say it all the time behind your back. Everybody’s tired of it,” Holland admits, “Healy wants to sock me every time I talk about you. He’s almost done it once or twice.” You blink in rapid succession. So, Holly had been telling the truth all along.

Holland leans straight into the back cushion of the couch, exasperated, and his head thuds loudly against the back frame. Holland barely leaves enough room for you on the couch, his arms and legs sloppily spread out. Taking up the most surface area possible seems the most comfortable for his inebriated self; he’s practically melting into the seat. Meanwhile, you’re only minimally avoiding the fall of his hand close to your thigh. He’s not even looking at you now, just throwing his hand over his eyes. Holland mumbles, “Just sleep here in my room and, uh, don’t look under my bed. Playboys…” And, he’s out like a light. Holland’s chest rises and falls with the pattern of his snores. You let yourself watch over him for another moment, before lifting off the couch and walking tentatively towards his room.

—

The next time you see Holland, he’s shockingly upright—in the kitchen, changed into a similar dress-shirt to yesterday and slacks to go with them. It’s a little impossible how quickly he’s recovered from his state the night before. The whole house is concentrated with the scent of something sweet, and by the looks of it, he’s slinging something on the stove. Once you’re in his sight line, Holland’s eyes drift down, then up, then down again. He’s practically drooling at the sight of you with your sleep-mussed hair and your tight pajamas—bare legs and all, he doesn’t know what to do. He practically burns his hand accidentally touching the panhandle too close to the burner. “Shit—morning.”

“Good morning to you, too,” you say, neck cocking out to see what he has cooking up.

Holland is quick to serve a plate and urge it towards you—a short stack of pancakes. “March special. Sorry-Thank-You Breakfast.” You take it from him with an air of hesitance. You’ve heard about this kind of breakfast by word of mouth before, from Holly, of course. The recognition must read on your face and the way you turn your head over your shoulder to search for the blonde little girl; Holland is quick to tell you, “She’s down the street at the old place, reading that book you lent her.” He looks down to serve his own plate, shuts off the stove with a click.

You’re quick to turn your back to him, placing your serving on the dark-wood surface of the dining table. He’s still carrying on behind you; you can hear the spatula grating against the pan, then the glass plate, the click-off of the stove… Holland notes, only half-serious, “Seems like she likes you more than she does me, lately. Not a good sign—means I should maybe sit you down sometime and fish for a couple of tips.”

You can’t avoid the subject—as much as he clearely wants to. With a spin around, you rub your palms together. “About last night—”

“What I said—”

You interject, “You have a problem and a half, Holland,” and he seems to stop in his tracks. He’s seemingly shocked that your primary concern is him. But, you’re clearly more riled up than you’d expected yourself to be. “You can’t just stumble in at two in the morning drunk off your ass. You’re lucky you even get home. And God knows what happens when I’m not here.”

Holland places his plate down on the stove, diagonal to the pan. Then, he juts his palm across the scruff on his neck. “I don’t think I wanna say.” You can picture it clearly enough—him, ending up in all sorts of odd resting places, on the living room floor, in the tub, maybe even the bushes outside. All options are rather morose, and they worry you beyond your minid.

“You have to get your shit fixed,” you lecture.

Holland approaches you now, with earnestness. “I can do that.” It’s loaded. I can do that for you. His eyes beg for forgiveness, and his hands are almost close to coming up to your hips. It’s a surprise that he manages to lower them down to his sides as soon as they threaten to come up. Holland’s sorry, he wants to atone, he clearly wants your forgiveness. You wonder how quickly he scrambled this morning to get everything in the kitchen ready for you, and with how much intention he’d gotten dressed. Now that he’s this close to you, you can certainly tell that he shaved up, combed his hair rather meticulously. His clothed knees practically bump against your bare ones.

“I won’t let you date me if it’s an empty promise,” you murmur. It’s there in the open, now—the gap that Holland had been waiting for you to bridge. He remembered what he said last night, you remember what he said last night, and the two of you have merely been waiting for the inevitable to hit.

Now that he knows you’re on the same page, Holland seems to be renewed with a new kind of vigor. “…You’ll let me date you?” It’s almost taunting. He’s clearly feeling more self-assured, smirk and all, and you want to wipe it clean off.

With a shrug, you say, “I’m considering it.”

It’s as unconvincing as it can be, and Holland seems to huff out a soft sigh. He has you—and still, he plays along. “Oh, consider it. Seriously consider it.” He seems to lower his gaze down to your lips, slowly but surely urging you back against the wooden table. You can feel the edge of it hit the back of your thighs.

You tilt your head, a fit of heat filtering through your body. He’s terrible—too good at getting you like this. He reaches one arm up behind you to push your plate aside. It skids on the table slow. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you, and you have to push out a soft, “What’re you doing, March?”

“Trying to kiss you,” he mutters. “That okay?” As soon as you get the slightest movement of a nod, Holland acts. His hands come up to your hips with a strong squeeze, and he’s quick to smash his lips into yours. It’s almost risque, the way he kisses you with so much force. You can hear him grumbling, pleased to be feeling you all over with his large hands. It takes another minute of this before Holland scoops you up off the ground and onto the table—stronger than you’d expected. He drags his lips downward; you can feel his mustache drag roughly down your neck with each hard kiss.

Then, as soon as he reaches the neckline of your shirt—his shirt—he makes sure to pull back. Again, the scent of pine lingers on your senses. You hadn’t noticed, in the rush, how easily Holland had settled in between your legs. He’s too happy about this development, clearly, because he has a stupid grin on his face. You scoff, and it only grows wider. “First date. No drinks,” you decide, “And you’ve got to dial it back on the cologne. Like, half of whatever you’ve been putting on.”

Holland nods, sure to help you quick off the dining table—lest Holly comes back and flees at the sight of both of you. With a tug of your hips closer to him, he hums, “Whatever you want from me, baby.”

–

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.”

flower divider by @hatoslay !

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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.