Different Is Beautiful

I walk briskly into an emergency room where an older man scolds me. “Can’t a man get some sleep?”

I mumble an apology and step back out, feeling his eyes burn a hole through me. Goodness, I hope he can’t read minds—because if he could… yeah, I’d be in serious trouble for having fantasies and feelings about Jack Abbott.

I sigh as I disappear around the corner, closing my eyes for a second. I’ve always been horrible at this—romantic feelings, all of it. And the worst part? I sabotage myself. Always falling for the emotionally unavailable, stoic, brooding types—the ones still hung up on an ex, carrying baggage bigger than an airport line, or with an age gap wide enough to make people assume I’ve got daddy issues… or that grey is my favourite colour. And don’t even get me started on the fact that age lines (aka wrinkles)? Yeah… kind of a turn-on.

I rub my temples, which does nothing to fix the frayed, messy strands of my hair.

Mumbling under my breath, I mutter, “Falling for him… that’s the easy part.”

I straighten up.

This is gonna be a long shift.

I’ve been running—from the feelings, from myself, from him… from something, nothing, everything. Hell if I know.

The only time I’m okay is when I’m focused on a patient. And we’ve had some crazy calls tonight—drunk college students who thought they were Superman, Spider-Man… heck, whatever superhero is cool. Is “cool” even still a cool word? Hell if I know. Shows you how life passes you by—one second you’re young, the next you’re in your thirties getting excited about an early night in, binge-watching a series with a tub of ice cream.

A sudden shiver runs down my spine as his breath brushes over my ear.

“Doctor… are you just gonna stand there, or finish your chart?”

I glance down. “Jack—I mean, Dr. Abbott.”

A knowing smirk crosses his face. “Yeah, last time I checked, that’s my name.”

My cheeks flare pink. “S-sorry… I’m just a little tired.”

He studies my face. “Yeah? I can tell.”

He lifts his hand toward my arm—not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin all the way up to my shoulder.

I— Is he going to—

My heartbeat spikes—honestly, probably illegal at this point.

His hand moves past me. He grabs a pen.

“Damn pens nowadays,” he mutters, already scribbling on the chart.

And just like that… gone.

Everything after that is a blur. I think I said something like, “Yeah… darn pens,” before walking away—

Okay, fine.

Nearly running.

From him.

A patient comes in—late teens. Drug overdose.

Damn it.

He starts coding, and I’m on him instantly, chest compressions, counting under my breath like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered. I keep going. Longer than I should. Longer than anyone should.

This one hits harder than most—maybe it’s his age, maybe it’s the parents watching, maybe it’s the way his mom keeps whispering his name like he can still hear her.

I keep going.

Trying.

Begging.

His voice cuts through everything. “Doctor, stop compressions. It’s been too long.”

The mother screams, collapsing to the floor.

I try to stop. I do.

But I can’t.

It’s like my arms don’t belong to me anymore.

His hands—rough, steady—close over mine. Grounding me. Forcing me to stop.

Silence crashes in.

I stare at the clock on the wall. “T-time of death… 02:46.”

The parents are crying. Broken.

I strip off my gloves, toss them in the bin, and walk out before the tears spilling over can catch up with me.

I think I’m moving fast—faster than anyone could follow.

But he still catches up.

His voice is low. Controlled. “What was that?”

I turn, looking up at him. “Sorry, Dr. Abbott. Not all of us can be so… so…” I swallow hard. “Hardass about death like you are.”

He squints, those light eyes sharp. “Clearly you’re emotional, because that’s no way to speak to your attending.”

I let out a humourless laugh. “Excuse me? Emotional—what, because I’m a woman? Or because I actually dare to feel something?”

His throat bobs. “Doctor, you’re out of line. Take a break and come back when you’re a little more stable.”

My chest heaves. “Y-you—”

The wetness on my cheeks stops me cold.

Great.

Crying. In front of him.

I turn on my heel and storm off toward the roof—the one place where I can actually breathe. I try to control my breathing as I stare out over the city lights. After a second, I give up and sit down, knees pulled to my chest, chin resting there. Tears soak into my scrubs while the cool breeze does nothing but make everything worse.

I barely hear the rooftop door open— but I feel him.

I always do.

His voice is low. Softer than I’ve ever heard it. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just know how to control it. You do this job long enough… you learn. Because if you don’t, it’ll break your heart until there’s nothing left.”

I glance up at him, standing over me. “I really don’t need a lecture… or a pity talk… or whatever. I need to be alone.”

He nods once. “Fine. We don’t have to talk.”

I squint as he lowers himself down beside me, groaning slightly, rubbing his knee—his prosthetic—like it’s acting up again.

I turn my face away. Not looking at him. Not giving him that.

But of course, he doesn’t let it go.

“You know… you did everything you could. Fentanyl’s no joke. The chances of survival are almost none.”

I let out a shaky breath, tears slipping free again. “Just stop, Jack. I really don’t need this right now.”

His hand comes up, fingers brushing under my chin, turning my face toward him before I can stop him.

“Then what do you need, huh?”

I search his eyes, my voice barely there. “I need every patient to be okay… for children to go home to their parents… for parents to live as long as their children…”

My voice falters.

“…for everything to be okay.”

He smiles—sad, quiet. “You chose the wrong job then, sweetheart.”

I sniff, letting out a weak, humourless huff. “Wow. Gee. Thanks. You’re great at this.”

That actually earns a small laugh from him. “I work night shift for a reason. The fewer conversations I have with people, the better.”

I shake my head, turning my face away from him. “Whatever.”

He sighs, rubbing his forehead.

For a moment, neither of us says anything.

Then his arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug.

I gasp, startled. “W-what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His voice, when it comes, is softer than before. “I can’t make things okay for you… but I can be there for you.”

A fresh wave of tears hits, and his arm tightens slightly, pulling me closer. My head drops to his shoulder, tears soaking into his scrubs now.

We don’t speak.

Not at first.

Somewhere between the distant city noise and the steady rhythm of our breathing, my tears slow. My heart doesn’t race as hard.

I find something I didn’t expect—comfort.

In his arms.

In this moment.

In him.

He glances down at me. “There we go… see? All better now.”

I nod slowly, looking up at him through damp lashes. “Thank you… I needed that.”

A small smile tugs at his lips. “Could’ve sworn I’m a doctor.”

I let out a soft giggle, lightly slapping his arm. “Ugh, you’re so full of yourself.”

He smiles—really smiles this time—and holds my gaze.

His hand lifts, brushing gently against my cheek, his thumb wiping away the last traces of tears.

My eyes drop to his lips.

Dangerous mistake.

His voice is barely a whisper. “Beautiful.”

He leans in.

I gasp softly as his lips meet mine.

The kiss is slow at first—careful, testing—like he’s giving me time to pull away.

I don’t.

Instead, I melt into him.

And then it shifts.

Deeper. Warmer.

His hands come up, holding my face, pulling me closer as the kiss turns more intense, more certain. My hands press against his chest, grounding myself as everything else starts to blur.

For a second—just one—I let myself get lost in it.

In him.

Then reality crashes back in.

What the hell am I doing?

I pull back suddenly, breath unsteady, lips tingling. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t.”

His expression shifts—surprise, something darker flickering behind those light eyes.

I don’t wait.

I get up and run—straight for the door.

I don’t look back.

I don’t want to see his face.

And I know…

He won’t be right behind me. Not immediately.

In mere seconds, another emergency comes in. And another. And another.

Before I know it, morning creeps in and day shift starts filtering through the doors.

Not once do I look at Jack.

As a matter of fact… I avoid him. Completely.

I head into the locker room, exhaustion finally catching up with me. I just want to go home—no, need my bed.

I close my locker and turn around—

—and there he is.

Leaning against the lockers, irritation written all over his face… along with something else I can’t quite name.

His voice is low. “You’re just gonna leave after what happened?”

I look anywhere but at him. “It was a mistake. A—”

“A mistake?” he cuts in. “Really? Is that how it felt?”

I glance up at him. “I… uhm—”

He steps closer. “You’re gonna lie to my face? Really?”

I shake my head. “J-Jack… you’re my attending.”

He nods once. “Yeah. So?”

I blink, confused. “So? It’s wrong. You’re my boss… you’re older—”

He huffs. “Oh, so it’s my age now?” He steps even closer. “Because I guarantee you—I can make you feel things no guy your age ever could.”

I suck in a breath. “N-no… don’t…”

His hand plants against the locker behind me, trapping me in. “Don’t what?”

I force myself to hold my ground. “Don’t act like you like me.”

He goes still. Then his eyes narrow slightly.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t like you.”

My stomach drops. “W-what?”

He leans in, his breath brushing my ear.

“I’ve fallen for you… since your first week.”

My breath catches. “I… I’ve been here for two years…”

“You think I don’t know that?” he murmurs. “It’s been torture. Not knowing if you felt the same. Wondering every damn day.”

I shake my head, heart pounding. “W-we can’t do this.”

His hand comes up, thumb brushing my lower lip, tilting my head back so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Tell me right now you don’t feel anything for me,” he says, voice low, rough in a way I’ve never heard before, “and I’ll walk away. I’ll stop.”

My breath stutters.

“Y-you know I do…”

That’s all it takes.

His lips crash against mine—desperate, consuming, like he’s been holding back for far too long. My fingers tangle in his hair as I kiss him back just as fiercely, everything else fading away for a second.

His voice brushes against my lips, breathless. “I could get used to this…”

His mouth trails along my jaw, down my neck, and my head falls back before I can stop it—

Footsteps. Voices.

Reality.

“Stop—” I whisper.

He pulls back instantly, searching my face.

“I… I can’t.”

And this time, I don’t hesitate.

I walk out—fast, before I can change my mind.

Before I can fall any harder.

Tears blur my vision as I push through the doors.

Because falling for him?

That’s the easy part.

Knowing he feels the same…

That’s the part that ruins you.

I can’t let this happen. Real love doesn’t happen to someone like me.

No.

As I step out into the early morning light, the sun just beginning to rise, I make a decision.

Last night… was my last night shift.

Because I can’t keep working with a man I love.

My stomach twists. The memories claw at the edges of my mind. My hands start to tremble. The room fades, his voice turning to static as the flashbacks hit—fast and merciless.

Nathan’s voice reaches through the haze, softer now, steadier. “Hey… breathe for me, okay?”

His voice sounds distant, muffled—like I’m underwater again.

Nathan studied her. She looked so damn fragile, like one wrong breath could shatter her. Against his better judgment—against every rule he lived by—he reached for her.

Her body trembled as he pulled her in. The movement was instinct, not logic. He shouldn’t have done it. He knew that. But the feel of her shaking against him gnawed at something deep inside.

He’d read the report. The one that wrecked her whole life.

A sadistic killer.

A chase gone wrong.

An eleven-year-old boy.

And a choice no one should ever have to make.

She’d tried to save the kid—Damn, she had. But the bastard cornered them both, his gun pressed to the boy’s head. Then he handed her the weapon, laughing, whispering that one of them had to die.

And when she refused?

He wrapped his hand over hers, finger over finger, and pulled the trigger for her.

Her body fired the shot.

His mind committed the murder.

The rescue team had burst in seconds later, too late to stop any of it.

After that… she didn’t speak again.

Her fingers clenched in his shirt now, knuckles white, silent tears soaking into the fabric. He should’ve pulled away—kept his distance. But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He didn’t care about the wet stain spreading across his chest. Didn’t care about protocol, boundaries, or the voice in his head warning him this was a bad idea.

He just wanted her to be okay.

He needed her to be okay.

I looked up through wet lashes. It was the first time since that day that I’d actually broken down. His blue eyes caught mine—striking, intense, but soft in a way that stole the breath right out of me. The air between us felt heavier somehow, like the room itself was holding its breath.

This is wrong, I told myself. He’s my boss. The team leader.

And I’m not over Mark.

He’s different—steady, older, grounded—but I can’t. I shouldn’t.

My mind’s a bloody tumble of thoughts when he finally leans closer. I inhale sharply, heart climbing into my throat—then he steps back, clearing his throat like he hadn’t just tilted the whole axis of my world.

“Uh—yeah,” he mutters, tugging at his tie, the motion all nerves and authority at once. “Just wanted to make sure your head’s in the right place.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle—twenty-two years in the Bureau etched into his face. He’s got a few years on me. A good couple. Enough to make this whole thing even more impossible.

I wipe my tears fast. “Thanks. I’m good.”

He nods once, stepping behind his desk again. “Good. You’re dismissed.”

Walking out of that glass office, I can feel the stares, even if everyone pretends they weren’t just watching me fall apart.

The bathroom mirror doesn’t lie. The woman staring back at me isn’t me—not really. She looks tired. Hurt. Hollowed out.

Those events—that day—I never spoke about them. Never could.

It’s my fault that little boy will never graduate, never get married, never be a dad.

I splash cold water on my face, like that’ll erase the memories. But I should know better. Some ghosts don’t wash off.

Mark’s emerald eyes darken, almost storm-colored now. What the hell just happened in there? Blythe—of all people—holding her.

She’s his.

No. Was.

He lost that right the day he broke her heart and walked away.

His fists clench anyway, a muscle in his jaw ticking hard. The guilt burns, the kind that crawls under your skin and won’t stop. Especially after what he did weeks ago—kissing her like it meant something, like he still had a claim. Then walking out. Again.

And now Oliveras.

He’d fallen into her bed because it was easy. Because she knew about his condition and didn’t look at him like he was dying. There was no emotional baggage, no history. Just noise and distraction. But she wasn’t her.

She never would be.

All day, he’s in a foul mood. The headaches pound, the tumor behind his eye reminding him he’s on borrowed time. But worse than the pain is the thought of someone else touching his woman.

By the time night drags itself over the city, he’s back in Oliveras’s bed, tangled sheets and skin that should’ve meant escape—but didn’t. The image of her in Blythe’s arms won’t stop replaying. Over and over.

What the hell is wrong with him?

He glances over his shoulder. Amber’s asleep, her breathing steady, peaceful. It makes him feel even worse.

Mark swings his legs out of bed, grabs his shirt off the floor, and steps outside. The night air hits cold and sharp. He takes a breath, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.

I couldn’t sleep. Hell no.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Tom — that sadistic bastard — and the way he made me pull the trigger. So I walked, no plan, just the night stretching out in front of me. Ended up at that little diner on the corner, the one that always smells like burnt coffee and loneliness. Slid into a torn leather booth, ordered a cup and a slice of chocolate cake. Asked for a pen, started sketching on a napkin — the old man in the corner, sitting there like he’s waiting on someone who’ll never come.

I watched cars drift up and down the street, trying to fill my mind with anything but the heartache, the PTSD, the everything that feels so raw… so broken. I popped in my earbuds, listening to the police scanner — it calms me, somehow. The chaos steadies me. Then his voice cuts through the static — Nathan Blythe.

“10-13. Officer down.”

My heart just… stops.

What happened to Nathan Blythe?

Before I even know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet, sprinting. Sirens screaming somewhere up ahead. The scene’s chaos — red lights, shouting, blood. They’re loading him into the ambulance.

“Nathan!”

I don’t even think. I climb in. The medic doesn’t argue, just nods. Nathan’s pale, clammy, groaning. I grab his hand — cold, shaking — and whisper, “Please… please, you’ve got to hold on.”

The words barely leave my mouth before the monitor starts to scream.

Then — silence.

The line goes flat.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Months later, I’m still wearing the damn ring. A promise ring—like we were kids. Except now it hangs from my necklace, dangling against my chest like a constant reminder of what could’ve been.

I shake my head as I walk into the office. Whispers echo down the hall. “I heard she’s a teacher.” “Yeah, what’s a woman like that doing on a taskforce like this?”

I keep walking. Straight into Nathan Blythe’s office. “Mr. Blythe.” He stands, offering his hand. His smile is professional, almost polite, but those weathered blue eyes? They’ve seen some shit. The wrinkles on his forehead only seal the story. His voice—smooth, charming even—fills the room. “Glad you could make it.”

I sit, arms crossed. “Why did you call me?” He smirks. “I think we both know.” I shake my head. “No. Just… no.” His smile falters. “Listen. You’re the best profiler there is.” I shift in my chair. “I quit the FBI for a reason.” His tone hardens. “I know. I know what happened to you.”

I flinch. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not recall that time.” Standing now, I smooth my hands over my jeans. “Sorry, but I’m a teacher. I don’t do that anymore.”

He rises with me. “You love your students, don’t you?” I nod once. His words cut sharp. “Without your help, there won’t be a future for them. I need your skills. They need you.”

My jaw tightens. “For goodness’ sake, don’t guilt-trip me.”

But hours later, I found myself standing in a room full of misfits—reckless agents, officers, DEA wild cards. Broken pieces shoved into one messy puzzle. And somehow, I was one of them again.

I tucked myself into a corner at the back—old habit, old comfort. Corners let me watch, study, analyze. Some things about me never change.

So far, I’ve met Luke Finau—practically a gentle giant. Smart, solid, graceful. A family man through and through. Agent Bell, the career type, sharp-edged but reliable. Then Evan Shepherd—long brown hair, computer tech, with just enough field training to hold her own. She’s kind, steady. And the DEA agent, Amber Oliveras. She radiates don’t mess with me energy. Taller, older, with the kind of beauty that could’ve carried her onto magazine covers if she wanted. Some women really get all the luck, huh?

Still, they all seemed decent in their own ways. But apparently, there was another wildcard coming.

My pen slipped from my fingers and hit the floor. “Dammit,” I muttered, ducking under the table to grab it.

That’s when I heard it. The laugh. That familiar laugh. The one I used to live for, the one that rolled through my kitchen when I danced barefoot on the tile just to make him smile.

My chest tightened. The voice followed—low, magnetic, achingly familiar. Just a few syllables and I was trembling.

He was joking about being late when I peeked out from under the table. And there he was.

Mark Meachum.

Older, maybe, but still devastatingly handsome. That navy t-shirt. The brown leather jacket—the one I gave him for his birthday. His hair longer now, his beard neat, sharp.

And then his eyes met mine.

Air. Gone. My lungs forgot how to work.

Those emerald orbs that used to shift hazel under the sun—no trace of them. These eyes were ghostly, haunted, almost dead.

I froze. My body refused to move.

And he walked right past me. Not a glance, not a flicker. Straight to his desk. Like three years of us had never happened.

My hands trembled. Profiler or not, I was still just a woman with a shattered heart. Months later, and it hadn’t healed—it had only scarred.

I couldn’t stop watching Mark with Oliveras. There was something there. Tension. Maybe romantic, maybe not—but definitely deeper than casual. The way they spoke, the subtle shifts between them… it was the same way I used to watch psychopaths plan their next move. Calculated. Intimate. Dangerous.

I barely noticed Blythe introducing me to the team. Shepherd’s elbow snapped me back, forcing a stiff nod of hello before I retreated again into silence.

Blythe explained the threat. A bomb. An unknown man targeting the city. He wanted every angle covered, every skill on the table—which apparently meant me. And without knowing a damn thing about my history with Mark, Blythe paired me with him. And Oliveras.

Yippee-ki-yay.

In the car, Oliveras claimed the passenger seat, leaving me in the back. “The new guy,” I thought bitterly. The ride stretched long and heavy, silence pressing down like a weight.

Then Oliveras broke it. “Why so quiet today, Meachum?”

His response was low, dismissive. “Not now, Oliveras.”

Her attention flicked back to me. “What’s your story?”

I forced a polite smile. My nails dug crescents into my palms because the truth? I kind of wanted to slap her—but she hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just… there. Too close to him.

“Not much of a talker,” I said smoothly.

She nodded, but before the silence reclaimed us, Mark let out a scoff. Low. Sharp. It cut like glass.

“Hell, woman. I know you. All you ever do is talk.”

My throat closed. I turned to the window, eyes burning, swallowing back the tears clawing their way up. He didn’t even look at me. Like I was nothing

We reached the factory. They looked the part—agents in uniform stride, guns ready. And me? Jeans, boots, and a faded rock ’n roll shirt. The odd one out.

Their weapons were drawn instantly, bodies moving in sync. I wanted to puke at how perfect they looked together. My gun stayed in its holster. I walked in slow, like there wasn’t danger breathing down our necks.

The darkness swallowed me as my eyes adjusted. Shapes. Vehicles. Shadows. Then— A body.

My legs moved before my brain caught up. A boy. Teenager. Wrong place, wrong time.

I dropped to my knees, fingers at his neck. No pulse. Warm blood still sticky under my hands. Minutes too late.

I stood, heart hammering—and that’s when I saw him. A man, tall, maybe six feet, dark eyes sunk deep into a handsome, merciless face. A gun aimed straight at me.

My hands shook. I tried to draw. I couldn’t. My body refused. I hadn’t pulled a trigger since… since…

The shot cracked the air. My knees buckled.

But it wasn’t the bullet. It was him.

Mark slammed me to the ground, his weight crushing, his familiar woody cologne choking my senses. His eyes, furious, pinned me in place. “What the hell? He could’ve shot you, dammit!”

My lips trembled. “I… uh… thanks.”

He rolled off, yanking me to my feet like I weighed nothing. “Thanks? He got away. We’re here to catch—”

“I know that!” My voice cracked, anger spilling. I looked up at him, searching. “Who are you even? Because this—this isn’t the man who made me chicken soup when I was sick. Or the man who sat through those cheesy romcoms he swore he hated, just to hold me.”

His glare sliced through me. His words cut deeper than any blade. “I’m still me. Just not the kind who wastes time on an emotional, clingy woman like you.”

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the office.

It was perfect. Too perfect.

Then everything shifted.

The fever started slow. Just a little heat in her cheeks, a little whine of discomfort. They thought it was the flu. A bug. Something harmless.

But it wasn’t.

Within hours, Lainey’s condition spiraled. She grew lethargic. Pale. Struggling to keep her eyes open. Crowley didn’t hesitate—he had her airlifted to the nearest hospital before Bridget could even think straight.

And then came the tests. The quiet looks. The clipped tones from doctors who’d seen this too many times.

Kidney failure.

Immediate transplant.

Time is running out.

Bridget clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, fury and helplessness clawing inside her. She couldn’t donate. She freaking couldn’t.

Her organs had been compromised—harvested and butchered that night someone left her for dead. The night she met Crowley.

She looked up at him, voice cracking under the weight of panic.

“We need to do something. I-I can’t lose my daughter…”

Crowley didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, staring at the little girl connected to tubes, machines hissing and beeping like a countdown. He looked at Bridget—the fierce, fiery woman who’d walked into his life like a storm—and now looked like she was barely standing.

He swallowed the knot in his throat.

“I’ll get tested,” his voice low, rough. “I’ll get every bloody one of my men tested. We'll find a match. We'll save her.”

But fate didn’t give a damn about kings or killers.

A few hours later, the results came in. Crowley was a match—but he couldn’t donate. His kidneys were shot. Years of booze, brawls, bullets. He’d survived everything the world threw at him, but now? Now his body failed him when it mattered most.

He slammed his fist into the wall, letting out a guttural sound of frustration.

And then—he heard her.

Bridget. Quiet. Crying. Mumbling to herself.

“I have to call her… I have to call my sister… and her boyfriend. From back then.”

He turned to her slowly, a frown forming.

“What? Why?”

Her eyes—those eyes that always saw through him—were wide, terrified.

“L-Lainey… she’s not my daughter.”

He stared at her. She kept going, voice trembling.

“I mean… not biologically. She’s my sister’s. My sister was sixteen and… I promised her I’d take care of her…”

Crowley stood too fast. His chair clattered behind him.

“You lied?” His voice cracked with rage. “Bloody hell, Bridget!”

She flinched, already crying.

“I didn’t think it mattered—”

“Didn’t matter?” His voice rose, venom in every syllable. “I love that little girl like my own flesh and blood! And you don’t think I deserve to know?”

“I just didn’t think you needed—” she started, reaching for him.

He backed away, face twisted in disbelief.

“You didn’t think? You used me.”

Her mouth fell open. “No! I didn’t—”

Tears streamed down her face, but he didn’t soften. Not yet.

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t come at me with your bloody excuses.”

He turned, storming off down the hallway, leaving her frozen in place, her cries echoing behind him.

He didn’t know the full story.

He didn’t care.

Not right now.

She sat next to Lainey, her eyes rimmed red, bloodshot, burning from the tears that refused to stop. Her gaze clung to the little girl lying there, tubes running into her fragile arms.

Her daughter.

She didn’t give a damn what the world said. She raised her. She fed her, clothed her, protected her, loved her. Ruby didn’t do any of that. Ruby—her little sister—just carried her for nine months while she was high out of her mind.

Ruby was only sixteen when she got knocked up by some guy at a college party. She looked older than she was—fake ID, heavy makeup, that reckless fire in her eyes. Bridget would never forget his name.

Sam Winchester.

That bastard. They met at some house party, one of those blurry, beer-stained nights where nothing good ever happened.

Bridget clenched her jaw.

She had been just fourteen when their parents died in that car crash. Fourteen—and left to raise her four-year-old sister alone. She did whatever it took to survive. Things she’d never say out loud. Things she still hated herself for. But it kept Ruby alive.

And then Ruby turned up pregnant.

Bridget tried. Damn, she tried to support her. To be there. But the day Ruby gave birth, she just... handed the baby to Bridget, looked her dead in the eye and said, “I don’t want her.”

How the hell do you just give your child away?

But Bridget didn’t hesitate. She took Lainey in her arms and never let her go. Not once. Because Lainey was hers. Not by blood. But by everything else that matters.

Now, she was losing her.

Bridget blinked back more tears as she scrolled through Google on her phone. Her thumb hovered over the name that popped up on screen. Sam Winchester—now some hotshot lawyer, suit-and-tie, squeaky clean.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she hit dial.

Ring.

Voicemail.

Figures.

Her voice shook as she left the message.

“Hi… this is Bridget York. Please call me back. It’s urgent.”

She hung up, her hand trembling. All she could do now was wait. And pray. And hold onto Lainey’s hand like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

She must’ve dozed off, slumped in that cold, unforgiving hospital chair, her hand still wrapped tightly around Lainey’s. She never let go. Not once.

The pale morning sunlight barely broke through the window blinds when she felt it—a presence looming. Heavy. Staring.

She blinked, waking fast, her body stiff, her soul even more so.

A man stood over her, tall, broad, intense. Something about him was familiar… but she couldn’t place it. Not until his emerald eyes locked onto hers.

“What’s your problem, lady?” he growled, voice rough and edged in steel.

She blinked, confused. “E-excuse me?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play dumb. What do you want—money? Fame? Why the hell did you call Sammy?”

The name made her stomach drop.

Then it hit her.

Her breath caught. “You’re Sam Winchester’s brother…”

He didn’t answer.

“Please,” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “Please, you have to help me.”

He held up a hand, cutting her off. “Don’t. He doesn’t owe you a damn cent.”

She shook her head frantically. “No—it’s not about money! I need him tested. His daughter—Lainey—she needs a transplant. She’s dying.”

Dean froze.

His stance shifted. Just slightly. But enough.

“…What?” he asked, voice hollow now.

So she told him everything. From the beginning. The party. Her sister. Sam. The baby. The promise. The fear.

And he just… stood there. Silent. Listening.

When she was done, he didn’t argue. Didn’t ask questions. He just nodded, face unreadable. And walked away with one quiet promise:

“I’ll handle it.”

Only after he was gone did it hit her—Dean Winchester. She’d seen him before. In a newspaper. A feature she’d proofread years ago at the paper she worked for. He wasn’t just anyone.

He was a billionaire.

She exhaled slowly, chest aching, but for the first time in days, she felt a flicker of something real.

Hope.

The rest of the day, she stayed by Lainey’s side, brushing fingers over her soft hair, whispering comforts. Trying to explain, in the gentlest way possible, why her little body felt so weak.

It nearly shattered her when Lainey opened her eyes and asked in a small, strained voice,

“M-Mommy? Where’s Cowley?”

Bridget bit her lip hard, fighting the tears.

“He… he went to get help, baby. So we can make you feel better.”

Lainey smiled faintly.

“I love Cowley. Is he my daddy now, Mommy?”

Bridget couldn’t stop the tears this time.

“Honey… I… I don’t know.”

Lainey blinked slowly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I never had a daddy.”

She didn’t know how to answer Lainey’s question. Her chest ached, her voice frozen in her throat. But before she could even think, the door swung open—and in walked Dean Winchester.

Her eyes locked on him, desperate.

“D… Did he agree?”

Dean met her gaze, unreadable.

“He’s a match,” he said flatly. “They’re prepping her for surgery now.”

Relief hit her like a wave. She ran to him without thinking, throwing her arms around him.

“Thank you—thank you, thank you…”

But he shoved her off.

“Get off me.”

Then he turned to the two uniformed officers behind him.

“Take her.”

Her smile faded. “What? No—what’s going on?”

The officers stepped forward, grabbing her arms. Cold metal cuffs clicked over her wrists.

“No! Wait— stop!” she gasped, jerking against their hold. “What is this?!”

Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“You think you can just steal a child?”

Her knees nearly buckled.

“What?! No! She gave her to me. She never wanted her. I’ve been her mother since the day she was born.”

He stared her down.

“I looked into it. There’s no legal guardianship. No custody. No adoption records. You kidnapped that girl as far as the law’s concerned.”

She shook her head, tears already flooding her face.

“No—but I raised her! I fed her, loved her— I’m blood, please—”

But it wasn’t enough.

Lainey’s screams split the air.

“MOMMYYYYY!!!”

Bridget lost it.

“It’s okay, baby! It’s gonna be okay! I love you!”

The officers started dragging her down the hall as she kicked and fought like a wild thing, screaming, sobbing, pleading.

“Please—just let me say goodbye—please—”

They didn’t stop.

Nurses and doctors rushed toward Lainey’s room as Bridget was hauled away like a criminal. Her baby’s cries echoed behind her, every sob a dagger.

The elevator doors slammed shut. One of the officers read her rights.

Her legs gave out. She crumpled to the floor, hands cuffed, heart shattered.

Her whole world—gone.

He stared down at his phone, thumb hovering, twitching—like so many damn times before. Just one call. One more chance to say what he never could.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding with regret. He could still see her—the way she looked today, standing there like a memory he didn’t deserve. Hair dancing in the breeze, that familiar smile teasing her lips like the past hadn’t burned everything down.

But her eyes… Hell, those eyes. They gave her away. They always did. Beneath the soft glow, they held the weight of a wrecked marriage her first, his second, shattered by his hands. His silence. His pride.

It felt like it all shattered just yesterday—the yelling, the tears, the final blow. But it’d been six months. Six freaking months, and still, the memory burned bright, fresh as blood on snow.

He could still see her face—twisted in pain, lips trembling as she begged him to fight for them, to choose them. Her voice, cracked and desperate, haunted him worse than any ghost. He remembered every damn tear, every choked word.

And worst of all? He remembered how he didn’t say a single thing.

He’d always been a proud man—too proud, if you asked her. But now? Sitting in the dark, in the house they once called home, there was nothing left of that pride. Just misery. Just a broken man with shaking hands, twisting the golden band on his finger like it could somehow rewind time.

“Do I have to take it off again?” he muttered, same as he had six months ago when she walked out the door. Still couldn’t do it. Not then. Not now.

His emerald eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and in the silence, his father’s voice cut through like a blade. “Man up, boy.”

He clicked his tongue, scoffing. “Yeah? Who says men don’t cry?” he whispered to the empty room. “They do… when they lose the only good thing they ever had.”

A dry, bitter chuckle scraped from his throat as he stared down at the bottle in his hand. Cryin’ into his beer again. Or was it the pillow on her side of the bed last night? Shit. Didn’t matter.

Either way, he was drowning. And damn if he didn’t feel pathetic.

He still couldn’t look at taillights the same. Not since she drove away, tears cutting down her soft porcelain cheeks, headlights fading into heartbreak.

There was no denying it—he was a man undone. A man hurting.

Before he knew it, his thumb hovered over her name. Then, dialed. Just like that. And when she answered, it felt like the world stopped.

“Sweetheart?” Her voice—soft, brittle, angelic.

“You don’t get to call me that no more, Beau.”

“Well, shit,” he murmured, “at least I know I’m functioning then.”

He sighed, already wounded.

“S… Sorry. I know. How’re you doing?”

She cleared her throat, but he heard the tears anyway.

“Good, I guess. If you count out the heartbreak, the lonely nights, and the empty mornings.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“Oh? That’s what good is nowadays?”

She giggled, a sound that twisted the knife in his chest.

“For the last six months, it has been.”

Her sarcasm was raw, sharp-edged.

A pause.

Silence.

Then her voice cracked.

“Why can’t you just say what you really feel? Dammit, Beau—I wish you would.”

Then he breathed out the truth like a confession:

“You wanna know how I feel? Fine.”

The only response was the quiet sound of sniffles.

“I miss you. I love you. And I hate myself.”

“I hate my pride. I hate that I let you go. I hate waking up in that cold-ass bed without you beside me.”

“I miss your sleepy smile, your dancing in the kitchen with my damn t-shirt barely covering your thighs—Dammit, I miss everything about you.”

His voice broke.

“I love you… but mostly, I’m sorry.”

Then—the line went dead.

He stared at his phone like it had betrayed him. She hung up. After all that. After finally bleeding the truth, she ended the call.

“Damn,” he whispered.

He left the half-drunk beer sweating on the table, dragged himself toward the bedroom like a man twice his age. Crawled into bed, sinking into another sleepless night—

Ding-dong.

“What the hell,” he muttered, pulling himself up, bare-chested, worn grey joggers hanging low on his hips. No shirt. No energy to fake it.

He yanked the door open—then froze.

There she stood.

Beautiful. Real. There.

He barked out a surprised laugh. And without a word, he swept her into his arms, spun her around, and kissed her like a dying man clinging to oxygen.

She smiled, eyes shining.

“Hello there, Sheriff.”

He knew they had shit to work through. Wounds that hadn’t healed. Words that still needed saying. But one thing was certain—

Because he was.

And she was.

That wedding band?

It stays.

He’s never taking it off.

Her eyes drifted out the window, landing on the herb garden. The scent of rosemary, the dirt under her fingernails—it always grounded her.

Then it hit.

“That’s it,” she gasped, nearly knocking over her mug.

Grabbing a notepad, she scribbled fast:

Candles

Tea

What else?

Maybe she could sell her herbal goods at the weekend markets. Maybe make something of this mess.

She sighed, chewing the end of her pencil.

“Darrn-it,  this is probably the dumbest idea ever…”

But maybe—just maybe—it was worth a shot.

She ran outside barefoot, twirling through the sunlight, laughing breathlessly as the wind caught her hair. That was just Kacie—wild, impulsive, jumping from one idea to the next like a skipping stone on water.

It wasn’t a choice. It was just... who she was.

She collapsed to her knees in the herb garden, dirt clinging to her skin, rosemary brushing against her palms. The sun warmed her face, but her chest ached—tight, like it always did when the grief crept in.

Her eyes shut. Tears spilled.

She cried for Memaw.

She cried for the ranch, for the mess it had become.

She cried because something about the herbs, the sunlight, the moment, made her feel again—and that scared the hell out of her.

That familiar darkness whispered at the edges. Depression never really left. It just curled up quiet sometimes, waiting for her to slow down.

She used to call her friends when it got bad.

But they were gone now.

She used to paint. But the muse had packed her bags months ago.

So she just sat there.

Soft sobs.

The scent of lavender and sage.

Birds singing like the world wasn’t falling apart.

And somehow... that was enough.

For now.

Just to be.

The rugged man stepped out of the barn, cowboy hat drawn low, a bundle of hay in his hands. He didn’t mind helping Kacie—he’d made a promise to her grandmother, Aunt Cathy, and Franklin Clay didn’t break promises.

But damn, she wasn’t what he was used to. Not around here. Not in his life.

As he stacked hay in the back of his old pickup, something caught his eye.

Kacie.

On her knees in the herb garden, head tilted toward the sky like she was praying—or something..

He froze.

Shit.

She was beautiful. Not the kind of beauty you find in magazines—something wild, aching, real. It knocked the breath right outta his chest.

Get a grip, Clay.

He scowled, dragging a hand down his face.

“She’s thirty-something,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re pushing fifty. Shit, pull yourself together.”

Irritated, he stormed back into the barn. Caught a glimpse of himself in a rusted hubcap hanging on the wall. Crow’s feet around his eyes. Gray threading through dark hair. The years hadn’t been kind.

Once, he’d been a man who had his pick—of women, danger, whatever he damn well pleased.

That life? Gone.

Clay had worked black ops for the CIA for over two decades. No strings, no home, no one to miss. There’d been a woman once—one who almost cracked through the armor. But she played him. Set him and his team up.

Men died because of her.

His jaw clenched. Fists curled tight.

He’d buried that version of himself. Along with every body and every secret from that life.

That’s why he bought this land. A quiet patch of dirt and sky. Some livestock. A barn that smelled like his childhood. And Cooper—his dog, his shadow, the only living soul he trusted.

This life was supposed to be simple.

He scoffed at himself, irritated, barely noticing he was denting the tin canister in his grip—knuckles white, jaw locked—

Until her voice broke through.

“Morning. How’s Mr. Grumpy doing?”

He spun toward her.

“Dammit, woman,” he growled, eyes flashing. “Stop sneaking up on people.”

Her face—so open, so damn soft—fell.

And he hated himself for it.

She looked away, voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to tell you about my—”

A sigh. A shift.

“Never mind.”

She turned to go.

And he stood there, heart thudding, fists clenched, watching the one good thing left in his life walk away because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.

She kept walking.

Then she stopped.

Spun around, eyes blazing.

“You know what, Clay? You’re an ass. And I don’t mean the donkey kind.”

She didn’t wait for a reaction. Didn’t need one.

She walked out—head high, heart cracked, disappointment written in the slouch of her shoulders.

Always the fixer. Even for people like him. People who didn’t want saving.

But damn it, she tried.

The wind caught her hair as she disappeared into the open sky.

Clay stood there, fists clenched, the silence roaring in his ears.

He kicked the nearest thing—an old toolbox—sent it skidding across the barn floor.

“Damn it!” he bellowed, throat raw.

Rage clawed its way up his spine.

Then it hit him.

The date.

Of course.

Today.

The anniversary.

The teammates he lost.

The blood. The betrayal.

The guilt.

Always the guilt.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he was in his truck.

Tires screamed against dirt.

Dust rose behind him.

Hay bales flew off the back.

And Clay?

Clay drove like he could outrun ghosts.

She stared at the dust trail he left behind, already regretting what she’d said.

So, she did the only thing that ever made her feel close to okay—

She baked.

Pecan pie, just like her memaw used to make.

As a little girl, she’d sit on the counter, big green eyes watching that wrinkled woman stir magic into sugar and butter. She’d steal more pecans than she prepped, and her memaw never minded.

That memory made her smile. Even now. Even with a heart sore as hell.

The pie came out golden, bubbling sweet. She packed it carefully into a basket, tossed on her jacket, and started the walk across the field between their homes.

Humming some old country song she couldn’t remember the words to, she let the wildflowers brush her legs, let the butterflies flutter past, let the world remind her that life still sings.

As she neared the porch, Cooper trotted up, tail wagging slow and low.

“Hey there, handsome,” she murmured, scratching behind his ear.

The door was open. That wasn’t like Clay.

“Clay?” she called softly. “Hello?”

Then she saw him.

Slouched in a chair. Bottle in hand. Glassy-eyed.

“What do you want?” he slurred. “Come to tell me I’m an ass again?”

Her throat tightened.

“A...are you okay?”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Peachy. Now leave.”

She set the basket on the table without a word.

“Nope,” she said. “I’m staying.”

She took a step toward him.

His eyes flashed.

“Touch this,” he growled, raising the bottle, “and I’ll snap you in two.”

She froze.

Then smiled.

“No, you won’t. ‘Cause Clay’s a good man.”

He laughed again—meaner this time.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me. So don’t feed me that shit.”

“Then show me,” she said gently. “Show me who you are.”

“Leave.”

She didn’t.

She walked to the kettle like she owned the place, flicked it on.

“You need black coffee... and a good long look in the mirror. But let’s start with the coffee.”

Her voice was soft, steady.

And somehow, it was more pleasant  than  the silence.

She handed him the coffee, voice low but firm.

“Drink this.”

She reached for the bottle.

He snatched it back, towering over her in a flash.

“Leave my damn stuff, you little brat!”

Her breath hitched. Fear flickered in her eyes.

And he saw it.

He saw it.

Instead of backing down, he spat out—

“Oh yeah, I’m such a good guy, huh?”

His voice was dripping with venomous sarcasm.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t run.

She walked over to the couch and sat.

Tucked her knees close. Curled in like a whisper.

“I’m not leaving,” she said softly.

Then, looking up at him, green eyes full of something that scared the hell out of him—

“Wanna talk about it?”

He stared.

She leaned in.

“Let me help you through the blue.”

He froze.

No one had ever said that before. Not like that.

Not let me in.

Not help you through the blue.

His knees gave out beneath the weight of her kindness.

He collapsed into the armchair, elbows on his thighs, hands in his hair.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just reached out, that tiny hand of hers resting soft on his shoulder.

“Let me in,” she whispered.

His voice broke.

“I don’t know how.”

She smiled—gentle, patient, like the sun waiting behind rainclouds.

“Start small. One word at a time.”

He looked at her like she was something holy and terrifying.

Then he whispered,

“Why? Why do you care?”

He was cracking. Crumbling. And still trying to fight it.

“I don’t deserve it.”

And her answer—damn, her answer—came without hesitation.

She reached for his hand, her voice like a promise,

“Everyone deserves kindness”

That shook him.

He scoffed, shaking his head like he was brushing off a compliment made of broken glass.

“Kindness? Hell no. Not someone like me.”

But she just smiled, that same soft, stubborn smile she always wore when she was standing her ground.

“Well,” she said, voice teasing but full of truth, “I believe you are kind. Even if you can be a real meanie sometimes.”

He blinked. Then snorted.

“A meanie? Girl, what are you, two?”

She burst out laughing, and for the first time in what felt like a hundred years—

He laughed too.

Just like that, the tension cracked and melted into pie and chuckles and banter that rolled on deep into the early hours.

Until Clay finally passed out—half-eaten slice of pecan pie still sitting on the armrest.

Kacie gently pulled off his boots, laid a blanket over him, then curled up on the couch with Cooper at her feet.

She watched him quietly.

This older man with storm-colored eyes and a past that scared the hell out of her.

But still—

Somehow—

He pulled her in.

She didn’t try to understand it.

Didn’t need to.

Because something inside her already knew:

The ambulance sirens claw at his ears— hell, they always have. Too damn  loud. He’s been sensitive to sound since he was a kid, since before anyone gave a shit 

He grits his teeth, watching them lift him into the back.

If Meredith only knew the truth about her brother, she’d understand why he made her pull that trigger. She’d thank him.

Her mother—what a damn hypocrite. Pretending to care about Meredith, all while shielding that bastard son.

No one cares for Meredith like he does.

His jaw clenches. Fist tight. Pupils blown. Rage simmering like acid in his veins.

They’re all worse than him.

At least Meredith knows he’s a monster.

The rest of them? They’re saints in masks.

He looks at her.

He’s always seen her—really seen her—for the woman she is.

She’s trembling, sobbing.

Hell, those tear-streaked cheeks… always made her porcelain skin glow.

But those eyes—those green damn eyes—

They pierced straight through him.

If he had a soul, she’d be the only one to touch it.

He slides into the cab, trailing the ambulance like a shadow.

She’s gonna need someone—and it sure as hell won’t be Spencer bloody Reid.

Every time he sees that scrawny, overgrown schoolboy, he wants to snap him like a twig.

What the hell does she even see in him?

Meredith hasn’t really responded to those pathetic puppy eyes, not yet…

But he’s seen it—the way she looks at Spencer.

She used to look at him like that.

Just once.

One quiet moment—back when he wasn’t so hardened, so ruined.

She looked up at him like he could save her.

And he did.

Just… not in a hero kind of way.

Following from a distance—he always had a way of blending in.

Even with his deep disdain for people, they never seemed to notice.

They found him polite. Handsome, in that rugged, dangerous sort of way—those dark eyes, the jagged jawline, the beard thick and coarse, hiding more than just his chin.

But the scars? Those were souvenirs from the house he’d once called home.

That woman—meant to be his mother—nothing more than a drunk.

And his father? Ha.

A lunatic. Deranged in a way that made even demons uneasy.

His childhood wasn’t like these soft brats whining online about their feelings.

There was no gentle discipline. No timeouts.

Just screaming.

Shouting.

Fists flying.

Doors slamming.

And closets.

Damn, the closet.

They locked him in there like trash.

At first, it was terrifying—what four-year-old wouldn’t cry, claw at the walls, beg to be let out?

But the older he got, the quieter he became.

Until one day… he stopped being afraid.

The darkness stopped feeling like punishment.

It felt like home.

And the isolation?

It was peace.

He watched her.

Meredith.

Standing there, shaking—bloodstained hands trembling like fragile leaves in the wind.

Trying to explain. Trying to apologize to her mother through broken sobs.

He clenched his fists, jaw tight enough to crack.

She shouldn't be apologizing. Her mother should.

If only Meredith knew the truth.

That the woman crying crocodile tears had known.

She knew it was her precious son who sold Meredith and Hope like cattle.

What no one expected?

He’d be the one to buy them.

Fate's sick joke, maybe.

He hadn’t known then—just how special Meredith would be.

Not at first.

But later… oh, he tried to tell her.

Back when she was still with him, chained in the dark, too drugged to see the light.

He tried.

Tried to explain it all—how it wasn’t his fault. How he saved her from something worse.

But she didn’t believe him.

She looked at him like he was filth. A monster. A liar.

But he’d never lie to Meredith.

Never.

Not her.

He watched as her mother screamed at her.

“Just get out of my way! I can’t even look at you! How could you shoot your brother? My son!”

His blood boiled.

He could shatter every single bone in that woman’s body for yelling at Meredith like that. His Meredith.

She didn’t fight back.

Didn’t scream. Didn’t cry.

She just stood there.

Then turned.

Dragging her feet, each step like it weighed a hundred pounds. Like she was made of ash.

He followed.

Onto the balcony—

Where the cold met her like an old friend.

She clutched the railing with white-knuckled hands, knuckles stiff, fingers trembling.

“Meredith?”

His voice was gravel—rough, low, like heavy smoke curling in the dark.

She froze.

Turned.

Those green eyes. Wide. Red-rimmed. Wet.

Damn, her eyes…

Her voice was a whisper, raw and breathless.

“Y-you’re… you’re here?”

He smiled—

Not the sweet kind.

The dangerous kind.

A smirk sharp enough to cut.

A warning.

“I’m always here,” he said.

“In the distance.”

She shook her head, backing away an inch.

“Leave.”

But he didn’t. He never did.

Her voice cracked—worn and scared and already broken.

“I… I’ll call the cops. Someone. They’ll lock you up.”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

“I’m serious,” she said, her voice higher now, trembling.

“You made me shoot my brother, dammit—I hate you.”

He stepped closer, just one step.

Voice low, steady.

“I know.”

She looked up at him, her whole body shaking.

Tears like glass on her lashes.

“W-why won’t you leave me alone?”

His eyes locked with hers—deep, dark, relentless.

“You know why.”

She shook her head, hard.

“No!”

Her eyes snapped up to him.

He towered over her—six foot four and made of shadows and nightmares.

The size difference was suffocating. But she didn’t step back.

Her voice was brittle, breaking.

“You’re not real…”

His gaze didn’t waver—dark and merciless, burning a hole straight through her.

“I’m the most real thing in your life, Meredith.”

He stepped in closer, voice low, cold fire.

“Not your parents.

Not your job.

Sure as hell not Spencer Reid.

Me.”

Shaking her head, “Stop it, Silas. Just stop it.”

The tears were streaming down now, unchecked. He looked at her—voice low, eyes wide.

“You remembered.”

She flinched. The memories hit her all at once. He saw it flicker across her face like lightning.

“Meredith…” he murmured, almost pleading. “Why do you act like I don’t exist? I fed you. Cared for you. Gave you a place to stay—”

“A cage ain’t a home,” she snapped, cutting him off. “And you only fed me when I obeyed.”

He scoffed, darkly amused. “You barely did that.”

Then, softer. Regretful, almost.

“I ain’t perfect, Meredith. But at least I don’t pretend. Not like them.”

Her voice rose, cracked with fury. “Leave my family out of this.”

He stepped forward, growling under his breath.

“Fine. Believe whatever the hell you want. But remember—I never lied to you. Never will.”

She pounded her fists into his chest—small, shaking, but relentless.

“I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you.”

Over and over.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Then—just like before—he wrapped her in his arms.

And this time? She didn’t fight it.

She broke.

Crying, trembling, collapsing into him like a child. Like that night.

She whispered, fragile and desperate. “Tell me it’s not true…”

His voice was low. Steady. Cruel in its calm.

“What? That you’re finding comfort in my arms—or that your brother sold you, and your parents knew and did nothing?”

She didn’t answer.

Not at first.

Then, through broken sobs:

“Everything. Just… everything.”

Before he could answer, footsteps echoed down the hall.

A voice—Aaron Hotchner—calling her name.

He knew that name. Knew him.

He remembered watching—helpless, furious—as Aaron and Gideon picked her up that day. The day he was going to take her back. Save her. His Meredith.

In some sick, twisted way… he figured Aaron saved her first.

She froze in his arms. Completely still. Like she was made of glass.

She didn’t want Aaron to see.

He felt it in her body—tight, trembling.

So he shielded her. Just enough to keep her hidden.

Aaron walked right past them. Oblivious.

But the second he disappeared—Meredith shrieked. Pushed him hard.

“Stay away from me! Just… just let me go!”

She ran.

Like a sinner from a church fire.

And Silas?

He just stood there.

Staring down the hallway she’d vanished into, like it was some holy place she’d just escaped from.

Feeling...

Was it power?

Or was it something else?

Because no matter how much control he thought he had…

It was her.

Only her.

The only one who could make him feel… So Damn….Human.

Anyway, I couldn’t talk about it when Julie asked who you were to me. The words just tumbled out: “Just someone I used to know.”

And it crushed me.

Because I couldn’t tell them. Couldn’t say it was the man I was supposed to spend forever with.

The love of my life.

The Dean Winchester.

A man who loves pie, old motel rooms, and classic rock bands. Who prefers a greasy burger over a salad any day.

The man who wore his dad’s leather jacket like some kind of keepsake—some reminder of what not to be.

But for me? It was just another thing that made you you.

Damn, babe, I miss you a little more every day.

Oh—by the way, Sammy’s doing good. I still check in on him… them. Baby number two is on the way, and he’s over the moon about it.

But I can tell—he misses you.

When that Led Zeppelin track comes on the radio, or when he grabs two beers instead of one without thinking. I just take the extra one like it was meant for me. Like you’d want that.

Now, wait—before you cuss me out for drinking beer all of a sudden instead of my favorite red wine, let me explain.

I’ve gotten used to the bitter taste.

Like the bitterness buried deep in my damn bones.

Don’t worry—by now, I’ve gotten used to it.

But I’m still your sunshine baby.

Sorry about the teardrop smudging the ink… I still cry a little when I think back to the first time you called me that.

It was early morning.

I looked a little rough—hair all disheveled from the night before.

Our first time together… and damn, babe, it’s etched into my memory like it happened just now.

The sun was streaming through those cheap motel curtains, casting this soft glow over our tangled limbs.

Your calloused fingers brushed the hair from my face.

And then your voice—deep, rugged, like whiskey over gravel—murmured,

"Sweetheart… you’re my light in this dark world. My sunshine baby."

My heart melted. My stomach fluttered.

And even though I always loved your voice—Darnit, that morning?

It swept my feet out from under me.

It’s like I can hear your laughter right now—that famous Dean chuckle, cocky grin and all.

"I knew you’d miss me, sweetheart."

And right now, babe? I’m trying my damn best to smile…

But the tears won’t stop. They never do.

Hell, the other day, Julie set me up on a blind date.

And I went.

(I’m truly sorry. But don’t worry—I felt guilty for days.)

Anyway… I pulled out that dark blue top you liked so much. The one you said made me look like a lady, instead of the oversized shirts I always stole from you.

Damn it—teardrops on the ink again. Sorry.

Let’s go back. The date.

I threw on my jeans and favorite pair of boots, met the guy at a coffee shop.

(Couldn’t do a bar—they all remind me of you.)

The guy was nice. A gentleman.

But after coffee, when he walked me home… he tried to kiss me.

And it was reflex, okay?

I slapped him across the damn face.

He left with a bloody nose.

And me? I haven’t gone on another date since.

I’m fine growing old alone.

…Okay, that’s a lie.

I don’t want to grow old—not if it’s not with you.

Dean, I’m gonna shoot it to you straight.

I’m feeling that anger again. That deep, bitter, soul-splitting anger.

You left.

You died.

Why the hell didn’t you fight harder to stay?

For Sammy.

For me.

Dammit, I’m so mad at you. And I love you so much, it’s unbearable.

I can’t even look at a damn pie without crying.

I kind of hate you.

And don’t you dare look at me with those emerald eyes and say:

“No you don’t, sweetheart. You just miss me.”

This pen won’t stop trembling in my hand.

This heart won’t stop shaking in my chest.

I miss you, babe.

And it’s not getting better.

Anyway… I should try to sleep.

It’s 3 a.m. by the way.

Yeah, I’m sleeping on the couch again.

The bed’s too big… too cold… too cruel.

'Til next time, babe.

Love—forever yours,

She hadn't seen another in seven days. Not a soul. Not a grunt. Just her own shadow and the big open empty sky.

Then came the snap of a twig. Iris froze mid-step, her breath caught, her heart didn't.

Someone was watching. The sound came closer. Deliberate. Heavy.

Iris backed towards the trees, hands trembling, as they slid into her pockets. She didn't reach for the knife, she never did - afraid she'd might have to use it.

"Hey" barely louder than a whisper as she called out, "I'm not... I'm not here to hurt anyone, just passing through. Promise."

No answer, just the creak of a branch, the whisper of boots over fallen leaves.

With a quickened breath "If you're gonna kill me, could you maybe not be creepy about it?"

A shadow moved low, fast, slicing through the treeline.

He stepped out from the shadows, crossbow slung over his shoulder, hair wild like he hadn't seen a comb since the world went to hell. Dirty tank top, blood on his jeans, - Hopefully not his own, his eyes met hers with the kind of intensity that made her stomach twist. Cold. Calculating. Almost as if he was trying to figure out if she's even worth speaking to.

"Who the hell are you?" He rasped, voice like gravel soaked in whiskey.

Iris blinked "oh. Uh... Hi"

His brow twitched, just slightly.

Quickly adding "Iris" holding her hands up in the air, like some kind of peace offering . "Iris Lane" then quickly adding "I don't have a gun, group or... Anything really. Just me and some peanut butter"

He didn't smile, didn't move, just kept glaring at her like a hawk sizing up a songbird. He didn't raise his crossbows, that felt like a win.

"I talk a lot when I am nervous" she admitted, biting the inside of her cheek , almost shrugging her scrawny shoulders "sorry".

"Don't talk at all" he muttered, finally stepping towards her, like she was nothing more than a stump on the road.

Iris turned to follow him with her eyes, watching as he melted back toward the woods.

"Wait, seriously?" She called after him. "That's it? No robbing, no stabbing, I said I have peanut butter, no 'leave before I shoot you'? You're just gonna walk off like that?"

He came to a halt , "if I was gonna shoot you, you'd be on the ground already" he huffed.

"Comforting" she utters barely above a whisper, but she saw it, just for a second there was a glimpse of something in his eyes, plus he hadn't actually told her to leave - frankly in a world that's full of monsters, that hesitation was the closest thing to an invitation she's gotten in a long, long time. So like a fool, perhaps even a brave fighter she followed him further into the woods.

At first he didn’t say anything when she followed him. He didn’t even look back, her steps ghosting behind his, like a stray pup too stubborn to get lost. They walked in silence, the sounds of the forest filling almost like they were on a quiet stroll, and there weren’t danger lurking behind every tree, every corner. Birds in the green big trees, twigs underfoot, every now and again you can hear the disturbing moans of the dead, but it was in the distance and Iris was just three steps behind him. Hands fidgeting in her sleeves, chewing her bottom lip raw.

After about twenty minutes or so, of some uphill trail, he finally spoke. “You always follow strangers?”

“Only the scary ones, keeps things interesting” she said brightly, “and besides your only a stranger because I don’t know your name”

His eyes cut over to her with a threatening scowl, but the moment he saw her little smile, something deep inside him stirred, it’s been awhile since he’s seen a genuine smile, the scowl faleterd a bit, even if it was just for a few seconds. “Got a death wish, or just stupid?”

“Not stupid” she said softly, “just tired of being alone, that’s all” then barely above a whisper “I’ll take dangerous and brooding over the silence anytime”

He stopped. Sharp, like the ground ahead dropped into nothing. She nearly ran into his back. “Look” he said, turning around to face her full on, voice low, serious. “I don’t know who you think I am, but this ain’t no damn slumber party. I’m not here to make friends. I don’t do babysittin’. I sure as shit don’t do tagalongs”

Iris shrank a little under his stare, but her eyes didn’t waver. Big, round, green as spring grass after a storm. Behind them- pain. Quiet, constant hurt. The kind that didn’t bleed but bruised in silence,

Softly, so soft it was barely audible, “I didn’t ask for any of that,”

A long moment stretched between them, wind rattled through the trees like ghosts of everything they’ve lost.

“You gonna cry?” he snapped, trying to tear through her kindness with cruelty.

Blinking, biting the inside of her cheek hard, so hard she could almost feel that metallic liquid, “No, just… wondering what kind of man growls at a girl who offered him peanut butter.”

His jaw twitched, just a little, an almost smirk, but it died before it reached the surface. “Don’t slow me down, if you do, I’ll leave you behind” He started walking again.

She smiled behind his back, “I won’t slow you down, I’m quite fast ya know, I mean not the fastest, my legs can only run so fast, something tells me you can run fast. Can you run fast? Uhm…” as if waiting for him to answer, to maybe say his name.

He growls a little, “Darryl… Darryl Dixon” then lower “Stop talking, your giving me a damn headache”

“Darryl” she whispers as if testing out his name, then she nods, not like he can see behind his back, but she did it anyway “Oki doki, I ain’t much of a talker anyway” fine that was an absolute lie. If her uncle-father-something she never quite knew what to call him, could hear her lie so openly, he’d tell her it’s a sin. A big sin - to spread lies, or say something that ain’t the truth, but she knows from experience that, even though he was a minister, you couldn’t trust everything he said, he lied too, to the people he ministered to, about her… about the things he's done.

Shaking her head asif she needed those memories out in an instant, then as a way to stop drowning in silence she starts rambling, about how nutritious peanut butter is. Oh and poor Darryl tried his best to not snap, but as a man who was used to silence he barked out his orders “Just shut up dammit” In an instant Iris lips stopped moving, with wide green eyes she kept following him, trying her best not to breathe harder than she should.

The silence was heavy, the woods swallowed them whole, branches tangled like claws above, dark and scary, leaves crunching soft beneath their boots.Daryl moved like a shadow- quiet, alert. Iris… not so much. Every snapped twig underfoot made her flinch like she’d stepped on a landmine.

Then she heard it.

A groan

Low. Guttural. Wrong

Her breath hitched. Daryl stopped in his tracks.

Another groan, closer now. Then a wet shuffle through the underbrush. The unmistakable drag of dead weight.

Iris’s voice trembled “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

Darryl didn’t answer. He just pulled the crossbow off his back in one slow, steady motion.

From the brush, they came- three of them. Rotten skin sloughing off bone, mouths slack with hunger. One was wearing a wedding dress- veil still tangled in brambles like the world had left her waiting at the altar. Another had no jaw, just a slick mess of blood gashing.

Iris whimpered, stepping back, nearly tripping over a root. “Stay behind me” Darryl snapped. No hesitation, no fear. Just the dark growl like thunder in his chest. With pure muscle memory, the first bolt flew, burying itself in the forehead of the bride. She crumpled like bad paper.

The second walker lunged, groaning, grunting, Darryl moved fast - but not fast enough, Iris yelped, she lunged forward, high on adrenaline she pushed the walker away from her, and turned to run away. As she tried to get away, she tumbled against the third walker, he groaned, she stared at him wide-eyed, she didn’t move, didn’t scream, didn’t breathe. She was stone, ice, a deer in the headlights of the world that no longer braked, the walker nearly on her, his wet blood-soaked fingers against her arm, then- a knife slid through its skull like butter. It dropped at her feet with a wet thud. Then with trained skill, he took the last one out with yet another arrow.

He turned to her then, face inches from hers, his voice was low and hard “You freeze like that again, and you’re dead.”

Iris blinked. Her lips moved but she couldn’t form words, her heart beating in her chest. Darryl’s eyes narrowed. “You ever killed one before?”

She shook her head, barely a twitch. He looked at her, like really looked at her, his voice low “How did hell did you survive this long.” it wasn’t really a question, more a statement, a thought. He growled at her, “stay close” She nodded and with trembling hands she fidgeted with her sleeves again.

They kept walking into the night. One minute they were suffocating under the branches and the dark sky the next - it opened. A clearing, quiet and overgrown like time forgot it existed. An old hunting cabin slouched in the middle, half-collapsed porch and ivy strangling what was left of the windows.

He didn’t say a single word, he just moved forward, checked the door, gave it a quick nudge with his boot. It creaked open like something out of a horror movie, but hell - it was shelter.

Iris followed like a ghost, she hadn’t said a single word since she froze.Inside the cabin was cold, empty. Dust thick enough you could choke on it. A table, a few broken chairs, a busted lantern. But it had four walls and a roof. It was enough for the night.

Darryl lit a match, set it to the stub of a nearly burned out candle, that was left on the windowsill. The soft light flickered over Iris’s face - that’s when he saw it.

She was shaking. Not like she was cold. Like she’d just crawled out of her own grave. He tossed her his blanket, “Get some sleep” he muttered “We move at dawn”

She took it, wrapped it around her frail body, as if it could actually keep all the evil out, the silence lingered for quite a while, when her soft voice broke through it “W…What if I am not built for this world Darryl?” In that low rumble he said - “None of us were at first”

The room held its breath. Church bells rang somewhere in the distance, but time stood still.

"You ready boy?" The old man asked low and gruff, but he couldn't answer Bobby, hell he couldn't even move. He only looked at you.

His girl.

The love of his life.

The woman he fought for. Bled for.

The one he lost...

The image cracked, the chapel with its wedding bells melted away into the dull, flickering light of a motel room. The only thing that stayed was silence, and the ache.

The motel room smells like cheap whiskey and cold lonely nights. He sat there, his emerald green eyes locked on the flickering TV, muted, forgotten as his calloused thumb brushes over a picture burned into his brain - the one where you smiled like you were his. Like you'd always be his.

He took another sip of whiskey, the lingering thoughts of the wedding - just a cruel fantasy, a beautiful lie.

Letting out a scoff, the aisle never came, the vows never said, the happy tears never spilled, the ring never left his pocket.

"I would've said it", whispering to no one. "If things were different... I would've said I do".

He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. But even in the dark behind his eyelids, he saw you.

The tears.

The heartache.

The goodbye.

Folding the laundry like it matters, - like it means something, but it doesn't, everything lately is just noise, a blur... Ever since he left, you do stuff, but nothing, not a damn thing gets Dean out of your mind.

Seeing him in strangers, hearing him in your own heartbeat, like he's still there, his lips against yours, his fingers curling around your waist.

Folding the same shirt twice, then again and again. - hands moving but your mind, it's somewhere else ...

Back at the chapel that never existed, wearing the dress you never got to wear. Walking down the aisle you never stepped foot on.

Eyes locked on his. Damn those eyes, green like forest after rain, green like the only place you ever felt safe.

Today would have been your wedding, well not officially - more like this would've been the date if he ever asked. If the world just tilted just slightly different. If hearts weren't so stubborn and if love were enough, today would've been the day, you'd look at him and say "I do".

Tears threaten, but you've cried too many times over him. There's nothing left but the salt burned into your ribs.

The phone vibrates on the table. You ignore it, - because unless it's Dean calling to say "I'm sorry sweetheart, I'm coming home" you don't want to hear it.

Pouring yourself a glass of wine, the red liquid spilling into the glass, like it's your heart bleeding. Curling up on the couch, by the window looking out, the sky's doing that soft, grey thing - like it's mourning too. Wondering... Is he thinking of you? Is he sitting in some broken, lonely motel room, with that same haunted look in his eyes, remembering the dress you never wore?

Because you haven't moved on. Not really. Oh but you tried, dates, distractions, smiles that never reached your eyes.

But no one feels like Dean, an exhausted sigh leaving your body, no one ever will.

Your fingers finding their way to the necklace still hanging on your collarbone - the one he gave you that night underneath the stars, right after the hunt in Arizona, "Something to remember me by", he with a half-smile as if you could ever forget him.

Closing your eyes, and there it is again, that damn image. White lace, Church bells and I do's. A life never lived, a future that never began. But the love? It's still there, loud and aching. Maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there, he's whispering your name through the quiet, just like you're whispering his now.

He doesn't remember what started it, some hunt, some stupid mistake, a bottle too many, his mouth running before his brain could catch it. All he remembers is the look on your face. The way your voice cracked when you said it. "Before you do that... Think about what I'll do without you."

That stopped him cold, not because it was too dramatic, not because you were begging, - but because you meant it.

You stood there, trembling, breathing hard, tears hot on your eyes, but they weren't rolling down your cheeks. No you were done fighting, done pleading, but still holding onto hope like it was the only thing keeping you standing, keeping your heart beating, keeping you from crumbling to the floor.

And what did he do? He walked like a damn coward. Not because he didn't love, - no because he loved you too much to keep pulling you into the chaos that followed him everywhere. He really thought he was protecting you, like letting you go was mercy. But it was slaughter - for both of you.

He slams the half drank bottle whiskey down, pacing the motel floor like it'll change something.

It's been months now, time means shit now, it's just "before you left" and "after you were gone".

Picking up the phone again, thumb hovering over your name. You still haven't blocked him, which somehow feels worse. But he can't call, not when he's like this, not when he still doesn't know how to fix what's broke.

His voice catches in his throat as he mutters your words again "Think about what I'll do without you".

He does, every damn day, and the answer? This. A lonely motel room, a bottle, a ghost he still calls "mine".

Wiping at his eyes, angry at the wetness there. He's Dean Winchester. He fought monsters, the worst kind, got hurt, nearly died, lost everything, but you? You're the only thing he chose but couldn't keep.

Your fingers, curled around the stem of that wine glass, remembering the night he left, it started like every other fight. Raised voices. Empty beer bottles, the motel door half open, like he already had one foot out.

But this time? It's like you knew he wasn't coming back. You were done pretending, it was just stress, the job or his damn trauma he never let you carry with him.

He always said he was protecting you, like you were a little damsel that needs saving, - but you weren't, you were his partner, his home. - but still he ran.

You stood there in front of him, heart thundering, the air thick with words neither of you could say, that's when you said it "Before you do that... Think about what I'll do without you." Your voice wasn't loud, it wasn't a scream or a threat, it was desperate, small - like a child whispering in the dark. He froze, you saw it, the war behind his eyes, for a single split second you thought he'd turn around, he'd stay, that love would win.

But all he said was "I'm sorry" and he walked into the darkness like some kind of shadow. When that door shut, at first you didn't cry, you couldn't, there was a strange calm. Like your body couldn't handle the grief, all at once, so it made you numb.

Making your way towards the bathroom, unsure why but it felt like the right place to break down - lonely, cold, hollow - like your heart.

You collapsed against the tub, your fingers curling around the tile, gripping it like it could stop you from falling apart. But oh it didn't.

The tears came and they didn't stop. You didn't cry like in the movies - soft, pretty, poetic.

You sobbed, ugly, shaking gasping sobs that made your ribs scream. Screaming his name into a towel, cursing the universe, begging for him to come back

But he didn't, the worst part? You still loved him, even after everything, the silence, the wreckage, even after he took a piece of you, with him, leaving you with a barely beating heart. And even though he didn't stay, the love did.

Dean hasn't slept. Not really, he passes out sometimes - liquor heavy, face down on some shit motel pillow - but he never truly sleeps, not like he used to... Not since that night. Your voice over and over in his head.

Thinking he was saving you, but instead he abandoned you. And now... Now he drinks more than he hunts. His hands shake when he holds his gun, no, not from fear-but from withdrawal, exhaustion and regret.

He tried sleeping with someone else once. Didn't even get her shirt off before he saw your eyes. He bolted, leaving that bar like the damn place was on fire, because no matter where he goes, no matter who he talks to... It's you, it's always you.

He pulls out that picture of you, the one of you, where you laid on that picnic blanket, hair messy, from the wind that day, a smile on your face, a book in your hand, the sunlight casting a golden hue around, you looked like an angel. To be honest you were - his angel, the only one who could make him feel that life was worth living.

He sighs as he puts down that photo, picking up the bottle, hell he doesn't even bother with a glass anymore, what's the point?

He stares and mutters like a damn lunatic, voice wrecked and low; "I should've stayed, Dammit baby... I should have stayed..." His throat tightness, "I didn't want to hurt you... I wanted to protect you..." He stops mid sentence, every breath hurts, everything feels dark, lost, cold.

Grabbing the Impala's keys, he knows what he should do, so he gets in that car, whiskey on his breath, broken heart and determination in his forest green eyes, he puts the car in drive.

He's been driving for hours, he sobered up by now, the shitty gas station coffee helps a little to fight the withdrawal from the whiskey.

Now, he's outside her door, hands trembling, heart screaming.

It's raining - of course it's raining, even the sky is crying about you. He deserves it, the cold, the wet, the weight of everything soaking into his bones, - maybe if it seeps deep enough, it'll drown the pain he's been choking on since he left. He stares at the door, he drops right there, on that cold, wet concrete steps, to his knees - because standing feels like pretending he's strong, and he ain't, he hasn't been strong for awhile now.

His breath shaky, he chokes out "I messed up everything sweetheart," the rain mixing with the salt water on his freckled cheeks, "I see you everywhere" he whispers "in my head, I see you laughing, crying, wearing that stupid oversized hoodie you stole from me like it's yours now..."

A bitter laugh slips out, it breaks halfway through, shattered. Like him. Knocking softly, one.... Two, "I can't even breathe without you" it was a whisper, a confession, a plea.

He stays there on his knees in the rain, hoping if she opens that door, that she'll take him back. That maybe they can carry on, that he can take that ring out his pocket, that he can ask her to be his wife.

The door doesn't open, the rain stops, the wind dies down, he stands, fist clenched, his cold hand tries the doorknob.

It's unlocked, as if she's waiting for him, his breath catches, he pushes it open, maybe she's in the kitchen making tea, or curled up on the couch in that blanket he never liked, reading that book he never understood.

But the house is silent, he steps inside, no smell, no warmth, nothing. - Just emptiness.

The echo of his boots on the floorboards is loud, overwhelming, there's boxes, packed and labelled.

The living room - bare, walls stripped of all the memories, the photos, everything - like she took the color with her.

His breath hitches, the lump in his throat swells, he moves through the space like a ghost. Bedroom? Empty!

Closet? Just the oversized hoodie of his-hers.

He stumbles back, like the air got punched out of him, then he finds it, the note folded. Neat ... Tucked under the bottle of that perfume he once said smelled like heaven and bad decisions.

Hands shaking as he opens it.

"Dean"

"I couldn't stay. I tried. Dammit, I tried. But this house, this town... Every corner has you in it. And it hurts too much. I waited. For a call. A knock. Anything. But you didn't come. So I had to save myself before I drowned in the ghost of us. I'll always love you, but I have to learn to live without you. Please don't come looking. Not yet."

"-Yours, even when I shouldn't be"

The paper crumples in his hand as he falls back against the wall, sliding to the floor.

He lets out a sound - not human, raw animalistic. Like his souls just split in two.

She's gone - and the worst of all, he let her leave, because he was too late, he should have stayed, should have asked her... Should have said "I do".

You don’t know how you got to this point, but you’re rambling. As you bounce around on the bed, you’ve been babbling on for the last 10 minutes about crochet, of all things. The worst part? You don’t even know how to crochet anything. Well, that’s not true.

“Well, that’s not true, I know how to do single crochet, and chain stitch, and I know how to do slip stitch. And I guess I technically know how to do double crochet, but I don’t know how to make anything. I don’t know how to apply any of what I’ve learnt, and I’m not exactly willing to spend 30 dollars on a pattern for a beanie, because that’s ridiculous. I mean, it’s probably super easy, I just have to figure it out. And I can do a scarf, but that’s just a really long rectangle, so it’s really easy. But I want to learn to make sweaters, and I want to make you a sweater-”

Sam’s lips capture yours, and you immediately melt into the kiss. Your hands clasp at the front of the flannel he’s wearing, brushing past the scarf you had presented him nearly 10 minutes ago, the one that had begun your little crochet rant.

He pulls back, leaning his forehead against yours. You can see his gentle smile, and it causes you to smile back. “I love it. I love you.”

“I love you too.” You whisper back, pecking another kiss to his lips. For once, Sam is looking up at you, but only because you’re standing on the motel room bed. His arms are wrapped around your waist, and he pulls, causing you to let out a loud squeal of surprise, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“I can’t believe you made me a scarf.” Sam mutters as he presses kisses to your jawline, your neck, your hemline.

“Oh, well, it wasn’t hard. It just took time, that was the main thing. That and trying to remember how to crochet, based on those wack ass instructions that the lady gave me, and attempting to apply it to making a scarf. The hardest part was hiding it from you because I wanted it to be a surprise.” You let out a little moan as he sucks on a particularly sensitive part of your neck.

“Come on, baby, keep telling me all about how you made the scarf.” Sam urges, smiling up at you.

The rest of the night is spent telling Sam how you made the scarf, all while he spoils you rotten as a thanks for your gift.