Sam peeks from over his shoulder at you with an inspectionary check up-and-down, before redirecting his gaze towards his brother. “Dean, what are you doing?” he questions. It’s a simply framed question, but out of Sam’s mouth, it sounds like the startup of a lengthy chastising.

Dean raises his hands off the wheel. “No one’s gonna see you any different if you tap out, Sammy. We can drop you off and loop back around when we’re done—no problem.”

“It’s gonna be like any other case. You don’t need to bench me just because it’s Stanford,” Sam spews. Dean hangs his head.

“Don’t start,” he warns, “You and I know it’s not just Stanford.” Because Stanford, even after all this time, also means her. It would always trace itself back to Jess—Sam’s Jess.

It isn’t difficult to pick up the furtive effect she has on Sam. She’s there when he adds three and a half sugar packets to his black coffee instead of straight creamer, when he latches his Rolex onto his left wrist before he steps out the door, when he avoids any offers of a haircut—because she’d always insisted on doing his hair. No matter how many nights he’d have to spend scrubbing blood out the edges of his fingernails and off the sleeves of his flannels, she was always with him in one way or another.

“Dean kind of has a point,” you sigh, scooting out of your corner of the backseat, “You haven’t been back since you left. It’s an open wound and it makes you… vulnerable.”

“Kid’s right. Last thing we need is you getting soft and ending up on the receiving end of some teeth-to-neck action,” Dean grumbles obstinately.

“I appreciate the concern. I do. But, I’m not made of glass—” Sam’s defense falls off the second your palm brushes against his back. You clasp your hand around his left shoulder and squeeze the plush cotton of his flannel. You can see his Adam's apple bob in the slightest.

“We know that,” you tread lightly, “But, it’s just…you know how this goes, Sam. No room for distractions. Distractions get people hurt…”

“...and worse, killed, I know.” Sam angles his head and you retreat your hand to a more comfortable position finnicking with the zipper on your jacket. In the unlit shell of the car, you make out the traces of a grimace on his face—namely, the poor attempt Sam makes at trying not to clench his jaw and frown.

He was supposed to be a pallbearer. He should have been—but Sam at twenty-two was too naive and too hellbent on vengeance to give himself time to grieve. You know he regrets it; you can see it in his eyes, right beside the pleading attempt at getting you on his side.

“Fine! Fine. Just… let us do most of the heavy lifting,” you cave. Now, it’s Dean’s turn to whip around, brows furrowed. He tosses a short-lived scowl in your direction before pivoting himself back to face the windshield.

“You forget your backbone in Nevada?” he probes sarcastically. You flick the back of his head in retaliation and he yelps, flinching at the contact and rubbing his scalp gingerly. Sam holds back a snort.

“Don’t be an asshole, Dean,” you utter, before slinking yourself back into your corner of the backseat.

“Fine. If things go sideways, don’t say I didn’t tell you so,” he mutters, before sliding the keys back into the ignition, placing his right hand at twelve o’clock, and cruising the Impala back onto the road. Sam hauls his arm over the backrest of the front seats to pull your hand into his as a silent thanks. His grip is warm and you can feel the calluses on his palms brush your knuckles. Dean sneaks him a sideways glance as he reaches to crank the volume up. The Eagles blast and Sam’s hand is taken away as soon as it’s given.

—

Your fingertips brush against the hilt of the knife under your pillow as soon as you feel a soft nudge to your side. You’re just about ready to make a sizable gash into whatever miserable vermin that’s descending itself upon you—until you crack your left eye open and take in the blurry visage of Sam, knelt-down with his left index finger pushed to his lips. His hair is damp, hanging in nibs over his forehead, and his everyday woodsy cologne comes in strong to your senses. You hand inches away from your stashed blade.

“Just me,” he murmurs, before pointing behind you, where Dean is sprawled out, stomach-down—tangled in sheets and hanging half off the pullout couch in the corner of the motel room. Then, he brandishes the Impala keys hanging off his right index finger with a gentle chime. “C’mon. Let’s get a bite to eat.”

The morning air in Stanford is frigid and fresh as the two of you slink out the door of the motel room and into the Impala. You aren’t surprised by the “refined” state of it all; it’s exactly what you’d expect from a university town—especially, from a private university town: excessively clean and meticulously maintained. Even the motel is nicer than what the three of you are used to; there isn’t a trace of peeling, thirty-year old wallpaper, murky tap water, or stale air. You can rest there reveling in the acute feeling that no part of the room will push your development of a terminal lung disease. It’s a dream.

As you settle into the shotgun, Sam tosses something light onto your lap. “Pocketed it from the lobby,” he says, sliding the keys into the ignition. The Impala’s motor purrs to life.

You look down at a tacky, cheaply-printed local newspaper. It’s got something you think reads “The Stanford Gazette” strung along the top in an insufferable serif. The headliner on the front page, above the fold, reads: BODIES FOUND IN STANFORD MAUSOLEUM IDENTIFIED. “Two freshmen, one sophomore, all male and all found dead on site after being missing for a week straight,” Sam recalls.

“Sounds like hazing gone wrong,” you counter, tossing the paper on the dash as the Impala pulls out of the lot.

“That’s what I thought at first too, but get this: each victim was disemboweled.” It rolls off the tongue simple and easy—nothing new.

“Occult—coven, maybe,” you start, “...or Baby Frankenstein.” 

“Funny.” Sam gives you the ghost of a smirk without taking his focus off the road. You like it when he drives—nervous about making even a millimeter-long scratch on the paint, but acting like he’s never the wiser. He continues, “It should have been virtually impossible for them to get in. It isn’t like a regular cemetery where you can just come in with bolt cutters. They’ve got it monitored. Guards, cameras… they’re careful,”

“Gotta love old money,” you roll your eyes.

“Lucky for us, they’ve put the whole place under lockdown now and they’re restricting access to the whole area,” Sam professes, “Something tells me they’re not gonna buy the FBI shtick. We’re gonna have to go old school and sneak in after hours.”

“Seems simple enough. Tonight, we’ll go in, vet the place, and get out.”

Pinned to the passenger seat’s window, you’re feening for a decent—no, affordable—bite to eat; the thought of a nine-dollar latte makes you want to hurl, and it’s been the only option for the five blocks of restaurants and cafes Sam has driven you past. At the sight of blue and red neon, you perk up. On the corner, two blocks ahead, lies a classic American diner that looks far more like what you’re used to—a beautifully trashy beacon of comfort. “That looks good,” you point expectantly.

“Huh.” The flatness of his tone makes you tilt your head. In your peripherals, you see Sam’s eyes glaze over with something wistful. He looks at you like you’ve just run his dog over and you have to fight to hold back a flighty, nervous chuckle. 

“Not in the mood for diner food?” The Impala comes to a grinding halt at the next stop sign. Sam’s hands are gripping tight onto the wheel, but it isn’t enough to fight the tremor running through them. You wait for him to catch back up to you and stumble out of a response. “No—it’s, uh, where I took Jess on our first date.” There it was.

You bite your lip—cursing your luck and regretting not having gone for an overpriced meal two blocks back. You’re just about ready to shoot out an apology before Sam pulls up next to the nearest vacant meter and shifts the Impala into park. Then, he sets his right hand on your knee. “Don’t sweat it. There’s no way you could’ve known.” He gives you a reassuring smile, and you give him one back. Apology accepted.

You’re inclined to feel grateful for Sam’s empathy, but you’re preoccupied in your attempt to calm the profusely flustering heat radiating itself out of your cheeks—because his hand is still clasped over your kneecap and he’s still looking over you like he’s searching for a reason to stay there. When he doesn’t find it, he reels back. “They make great breakfast. Let’s go.”

During the walk from the Impala to the diner, you keep a foot’s distance away from Sam—like getting too close will cause some type of unprecedented calamity. He doesn’t try to close the gap.

—

“I wanted to take her somewhere nice. Like, some upscale Italian place where the waiter would come up with the towel, pop the cork… and we’d drink and eat like a normal couple on a normal first date.”

“And you ended up…here?” The diner is…traditional. On your left, a framed photograph from the seventies of a woman, sitting on the shoreline with nothing but a scantily see-through swimsuit cover-up hangs on the wall. On your right, the pass-through window into the kitchen gives you the peek of five-pan pile-up and grease-ladened stovetops. Between, there’s Sam, who gives you a sheepish look before fixating determinedly on the flimsy menu on the table in front of him. “Classy, Sammy.”

“It was on a whim—her choice. She practically had to drag me through the doors to get me to go in,” he justifies quickly.

“That afraid of all-American burgers?”

“It wasn’t really the food.” He tosses the menu down. “It was just… Stanford was supposed to be different. No motel-jumping, no vamp-hunting…”

“…no twenty-four hour diners.” Sam gives you a tight-lipped nod; you’re right on the money. “But Jess didn’t want to spend all the money on a posh one-and-done; she kept on insisting that we should choose a place we’d actually wanna come back to.”

“That’s sweet, Sam,” you mumble quietly.

“We would always sit in that corner booth in the back. We were supposed to go there again on our anniversary, before…” he trails off. He fidgets at the worn-out plastic corner of his menu. “I spent three months prepping a down payment for an engagement ring.” The admission comes out foreign and reluctant. He was going to marry her.

It’s inappropriate, this mental image you have of Sam in a Lacoste polo and slacks, wedding band glinting as he sautés fresh vegetables. It’s all in a nonstick frying pan, one of those fancy, cast-iron kinds that comes in a set of five—the kind of kitchenware that’s unnecessary when all you eat is takeout. He’s making bed-in-breakfast for someone, and he’s happy—not in the fleeting, temporary way that Sam gets happy when things go right on a case or when Dean says stupid shit when he’s drunk. He’s content. And you feel guilty, because the pit in your stomach you have isn’t grief for Sam and what he lost. It’s envy.

You view yourself a little bit more lowly in that moment because of how selfish it is to even feel that way, but it’s true: you don’t have the capacity to provide the type of normal Sam wants—or, needs. Surrounded by the laminate booth seating and the chrome-plated tables, you feel embarrassed by the state of yourself—because it all feels so homely. Being tainted by the hunter’s lifestyle isn’t something you can change; it turns gore into work and bars into spas. It’s not something you can just wash off. Deep down, you know Sam is just as lost. But, it doesn’t change the fact that he tried. He left once. You’re sure he can leave again.

“It’s good to still want that, Sam. You shouldn’t give up on it because of how things turned out.” You dance around the word marriage like you’re incapable of saying it out loud. “I bet you’ll end up with a med student doing her residency in the middle of some hospital center in… Oregon or something. Maybe she’ll even teach Dean to suture better.” You reach under the strap of your tank top to feel the stitching on your right shoulder—compliments of a rugaru in Phoenix two weeks prior.

“Maybe she will,” Sam agrees, mustering up a strained grin. You believe what you’re telling him, and you think he might too, and maybe that’s why you’re unsettled by the thought of it actually happening. He points his index finger up at you, “Is it healing okay?”

Dean’s good at a lot of things and being light-handed isn’t one of them; it’s a given that the gash is still sore to the touch. “He’s done a worse job before,” you consider, tilting your head, “Better to end up patchwork than dead, right?”

“Let me do the next one,” Sam blurts. His offer hangs in the air. It’s hard to say no to him, especially when you know it’ll heal faster and look less like a five-year-old’s chicken scratch. “You really don’t have to,” you insist.

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t want to deal with it. I mean, it’s a mess with the blood, and I get squeamish,” you list, grasping at straws. It’s all white lies; Sam does Dean’s stitches and he’s patient enough not to mind the fussing. What bothers you the most is the hour-long span of time where he’d have to be all too close to you and your bare skin.

“I’ve seen way worse,” he reminds you, “And, there isn’t gonna be a med student anytime soon. Just me.” You wish anytime soon had meant ever, but you’ve already come to terms with the fact that Sam will inevitably fall in love with another sweet girl. It might be better to take whatever you can get while you still can.

“I’ll think about it, Sam,” you negotiate. He’s satisfied enough with the half-answer to leave it be. Just in time, the waitress comes to serve your orders on a tray balanced atop her palm. You’re grateful for the reprieve—letting free a breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

—

You’re a step in through the motel door, your key and to-go bag bunched up in one hand, when you notice the pullout couch is folded back up and Dean—wide-awake and dressed—is sitting right on it, pulling his boot up onto his right foot. You feel Sam nearly tumble onto you; his large frame presses against the back of you before hastily pulling himself away from you and mumbling out an apology. The motel room feels ten times warmer.

Dean beams, looking warily between you and Sam, “Well, aren’t you just two peas in a pod?”

“Way to ruin the surprise,” you scoff, passing through the doorway and swinging the takeout onto the coffee table. You clamber onto the plush couch like a teenager caught sneaking out and sink down beside Dean; Sam keeps himself tethered to the nearest bed, tossing his pack on the duvet.

“Please,” Dean raises his hands out ahead of him, offended, “Heard you take off an hour and a half ago. Took you two long enough.” He goes to fiddle with the knot you’ve wound tightly to bind the takeout—until he gives up and flat out tears the plastic. The styrofoam container he pries open reveals a crisp burger and fries; customarily, Dean goes to town.

“Do you even enjoy your food, Dean?” Sam narrows his eyes. Dean swipes at the ketchup in the corner of his mouth with his thumb like it’ll make him look any less messy than he actually is. Mouth full, he slurs, “This is me enjoying it.”

“It’s like I’m watching a coyote chow down on a dead deer,” you mutter, passing him a napkin. He takes it with a low hum, fusses with it for a second, and then discards it on the table haphazardly. “Poor, poor Bambi,” you click your tongue.

“At least I’m not nibbling away at grass,” Dean shoots back, pointing his half-eaten burger in his brother’s direction. Now, Sam raises an eyebrow in offense, somewhat unimpressed, and Dean is otherwise unaffected. “Let a man eat.”

It takes about another minute for him to choke down the rest of his food, before he takes to the napkin again and achieves a more decent attempt at cleaning himself up. “A little birdie told me you put in requests for a couple of autopsy reports.” Bobby, of course. “Worth our while?” Dean inquires, gathering his mess into the ripped to-go bag and stuffing it into the empty trash can in the corner. He brushes his hands together.

“Definitely our kinda gig,” you confirm, “We should ask around. School like this? Everybody knows everybody; figure someone’s bound to know something.”

—

You take it back. Interrogations are a bust, because all you’re getting is hearsay.

First, the three dead students are, like you assumed, pledges forced to camp out overnight. Then, they’re environmental science students trying to get an analysis of cemetery soil contamination. The closest you get to something even hunt-worthy is Leland Stanford—the school’s founder—rising from the dead and ripping the three boys to shreds for disturbing the resting place of his wife and son. It’s a working theory Sam shuts down before it can run very far; students carry events every year at the mausoleum for Halloween, meaning if the rumor had any weight, deaths would’ve started far earlier.

To top it all off, you’ve just about had it with Dean—who’s manning an ambitious, one-man mission to screw a metaphysical philosophy T.A. She’s a tried-and-true office siren—slim lenses and pressed pinstripes. Dean parrots back “Kant” to her in a poor play off words, and she minds it minimally, because he’s biting his bottom lip and eyeing her…well, everywhere. As soon as she bats her lashes after fifteen whole minutes of banter, Dean is crossing his fingers behind his back and twirling them in a circle: a signal for you to get the hell out of Dodge.

You and Sam ditch him in a heartbeat, chirping out short and cordial goodbyes to the professor before making a beeline down the hall. Out of earshot, Sam jeers, “That’s one way to kill time.” He’s right. In a way, Dean is smart to find something to occupy the next couple of hours, till sundown comes and the three of you can step onto the mausoleum grounds. Better that than sitting on your ass with nothing to do.

You pull at Sam’s sleeve and point to a pair of double doors opening and closing intermittently with the bustling of students exiting an afternoon lecture. “You ever have a class in that one?”

“Close, actually. I had a gen-ed art history class in…” Sam trails off, picking up the pace to an identical set of doors three down and facing across from your original guess. “This one, I think.” You get on your tiptoes to peer through the gridded windows and see nothing but vacancy—enough empty chairs for two-hundred or so students.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s gonna be in anytime soon,” you say, before gripping onto the handle and swinging the left door open. Sam tilts his head in intrigue and you direct your hand for him to enter in.

Side-by-side, the two of you amble up the stairs and sidle into the back row. The hinges on the cushions creak in resistance as you unfold them open and cross your legs over the backseats ahead of you. It’s calm here—no traces of imminent danger, just silence.

“I used to sit closer to the middle,” Sam discloses, “over… there-ish.”  “Halfway point between blending in and actually paying attention. Good pick,” you reply, nudging the tip of your boot into his sneakers. He nudges right back. “Do you miss school, Sam?”

He leans his head back to look up at the ceiling. “Like hell. You?”

“Sometimes. But, it’s easy to make up for it in our line of work, isn’t it? All the archival work, and the lore, and the symbols, and the spells. We never stop learning with this stuff.”

“We never stop fighting, either,” he says, bringing his head back up. You don’t deny it; you have enough healed wounds, on top of the fresh ones, to corroborate his claim.

“There’s always a trade-off.”

At that, Sam looks wearier. He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “I’d do it all over again, you know. Even if I knew how things were going to end, I’d choose Stanford every time. I had a good life and a great girlfriend.” Almost fiancé, you remind yourself. “I’d have passed the bar by now… but things happen the way they’re supposed to.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“It’s like… every time I try to get out, something pulls me back in, right? Maybe Stanford was a fluke—something I was never meant to have.” You don’t enjoy it when he talks like this. It’s cruel and coated with self-blame the way he blurs what he thinks he deserves with what he’s “meant to have.” Sam persists, “It’s always either someone else’s blood on my hands or my blood on someone else’s. Most people just nick themselves from paper cuts and we—“

“We don’t,” you affirm. He’s eyeing the bandage on your shoulder. You remember the searing heat that had buried itself into your flesh when the rugaru plunged its nails into you and kept on pulling. You knew you’d be okay because it didn’t feel quite like dying, and Sam was clinging to your side as soon as Dean had lit the sucker on fire. You blotched his flannel red; he had to scrub it out in the motel sink the next morning. 

“I meant what I said, Sam. Even after all is said and done, it’s still good to want good things.”

“Do you?” Sam mutters.

You don’t know how to give him a straight answer. Hesitantly, you settle on: “All the time.”

It’s subjective. Sam wants white picket fences, but you? You’re satisfied enough with the smaller stuff… long drives and berry pie, bar crawls and pool hustling. Moments when you’re able to slow down and take it easy are like batteries to keep you running.

Out of all the good things worth considering, Sam takes first place. It’s Sam, when it’s late into the night and he’s pouring you a cup of hot coffee to keep you awake for research. It’s Sam, when he invites you to lay on top of his bed and channel surf on shitty CRT cable television. It’s Sam, when he insists on letting you toss on his Carhartt when your jacket gets soiled.

Or, like now: when you’re crammed into tight lecture hall seats with your shoulders brushing against each other, and he’s scanning over your face like he’s trying to get a read on you. As soon as you turn your head to face him, he seems apprehensive. His breath catches in his chest like he knows. He’s too observant. It might be the one thing about Sam you actually spite. Maybe, the longing in your face is clear, and your refusal to admit anything is even clearer. You don’t want to start something that, for his sake, you just can’t finish. It makes you wonder if it was easy for Sam to love Jess, not because she was normal, but because she was uncomplicated.

The thought is enough to make you ignore the warmth pooling in your stomach and whip your phone out of your back pocket and tap away with shaky hands. “We should find—”

“—Dean, yeah,” Sam cuts you off, angling his face out to avoid your gaze. His shoulders tense as he crams his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

—

Dean’s in a chipper mood—enough to whistle the entirety of the way from the motel after packing the trunk and back towards Stanford. You’re sure if you were back on the highway, he’d be blasting the speakers loud enough to crack them straight down the middle; you thank God he’s opting for the stealthier choice of the two. The radio silence between you and Sam must be getting to Dean’s head too, because he’s fishing desperately for a conversation starter.

“Awfully quiet,” Dean remarks. His head tilts up to look at you through the rearview mirror, even though he can only see your still silhouette.

You can only sigh out, “You learn a lot about Descartes while you were gone, Dean?”

“Her first name is actually Nora,” he replies matter-of-factly, “and she has a P.h.D.” Sam scoffs. It’s the first real reaction you’ve heard him have in the past hour.

“That’s not what I… never mind,” you concede, “Did you get her number or not?”

Dean raises his right hand off the steering wheel, waving it toward you. You turn on your phone and set it to the highest brightness; sure enough, her number is scrawled across his skin in black marker. He chortles, “Score.”

Dean continues to drum his fingers on the wheel as he rolls the Impala into a lot beneath a brush of overhanging trees; the mausoleum is a ways away, a stark white Greek-like structure erected out of the cement and blocked off by bright yellow police tape. You identify two beaming lights swinging around the perimeter as security makes their rounds down the walking paths.

As soon as Dean snatches his keys out the ignition, Sam begins reaching for the handle of the car door and is quickly interrupted by a loud click. The chromium nail at the corner of his window is down; the door’s locked. His hand draws back, and from the backseat, you can see him shoot out a huff of annoyance. He pulls up on the nail and—click—it goes down. Dean locks it again. “Slow your roll, dude.”

“Dean.” Sam says his name like a warning shot. He pulls up on the lock. Click. Dean locks it again. Sam is slack-jawed. “What are you, five?”

“Three’s a crowd and someone needs to keep watch,” Dean says, tongue in cheek. “Don’t worry, Sammy. I’ll crack the window open for you.” With that, he swings his door open and shuts it softly.

“Oh, thanks.” Sam grumbles something that sounds like ‘asshole’ under his breath. After pulling yourself out the backseat, you mouth an apology to him from the outside of the passenger's seat window. He gives you a short wave and you turn on your heels to catch up with Dean, who’s already a yard away on the grass.

—

The glow of lamp posts lining the nearby residential streets are getting dimmer and dimmer the further you and Dean trudge across the lawn. The soles of your boots are sinking down into the muddy grass in faint, unrelenting squelches.

“What’s goin’ on with you two?” Straight to the point. Dean has a parental, chiding edge to his voice—like you haven’t been carrying out your weekend chores.

“It’s nothing.” You’re lying through your teeth.

“Bull. One second, you’re all buddy-buddy. The next, you can’t even speak to each other,” he recounts, before stopping in his tracks. “Did you two screw?”

“No! We didn’t screw, Dean. Jesus.” You flatten your palm against his back and push him to keep moving.

“What, then?”

“…Did you know that he was going to propose to Jessica?”

 “No.” He mulls it over, tugging on the leather cord around his neck. “I only met her the one time. Chick was, like, model-level gorgeous—way too good for him.”

You’ve seen a photo of Jess, printed on glossy photo paper and tucked into the front page of John’s hefty leather-bound journal, which doesn’t see the light of day unless Sam or Dean need to extract it out the trunk of the Impala for a push in the right direction.

She has a gray Stanford sweatshirt on—big red ‘S’ tucked behind a redwood tree across her chest. The fabric of the sleeves are pooling at her wrists as she grasps her fingers into either side of a crisply clean U-Haul box. It's practically a dress on her. It has to be Sam’s, even though you’ve never seen him wear it before—lost in the fire, maybe. Jess was gorgeous, like Dean says; in the picture Sam saves, she’s got blonde beach waves and a wide smile and she looks kind—like she would’ve understood if Sam had told her the whole truth. He just… couldn’t.

“If he wanted a way out, she was definitely it,” Dean avows. It was an opportunity that came and went faster than Sam could appreciate it.

Wordlessly, the two of you are near the backside of the mausoleum—where two female sphinxes carved delicately out of limestone are making a dominion out of their shared vigil. You scour the lawn around you to make sure there aren’t any unwanted guards, before ducking under the nylon tape barricading them off. Light on your feet, you hug to the nearest corner and scale the side; the mausoleum is identical from front to back, save for the engraved placard and the gated-off door that prevents you from simply strolling right in. You kneel down on one knee at the mausoleum’s double doors and pull a pair of tacky lock picks out of your back pocket to breach the gate.

“And here I thought Stanford was going to be a problem for Sam.” Dean probes further, “Now I’m traveling with two unhappy campers.” You glance up at him, before aiming your attention back towards the gate and sliding the picks into the lock ahead of you. The floral accents of the decorated metal press cold impressions into your forearms.

“I just… I told him he shouldn’t give up on it. Apple-pie life, I mean.”

“Now, why would you do that?” Now, Dean looks downright appalled. You expect it as soon as the words leave your mouth—because you know Dean’s version of a good thing is living on the road like you have been; Winchesters and Co. is all he thinks he’ll ever need. You can’t make out a good estimation of his features in the pitch black of night, but you’re sure he’s got a sour scowl on his face.

“He wants it, Dean. And, deserves it,” you whisper low, before jostling the pick in your right hand until you hear a click and a half.

“So, he’s still planning on moving on. And you’re wondering where that leaves you.”

“No, I know where it leaves me,” you deny. “With you. Until either one of us drops dead, obviously.” You’ve come to terms with how Sam will retire and the two of you will carry on without him. You don’t hate the thought of taking the shotgun seat and changing the cassettes when he tells you to.

“Is that what you want?”

The outer gate creaks open, leaving the doors unprotected for you to slip in quiet and shut them behind you. For a moment, you’re stalling just outside of them, because you just aren’t sure if it is what you want.

“You don’t have to spare my feelings,” Dean asserts, raising his hands out in front of him, “ I might be a simple guy, but I’m sure as hell not clueless. And you’re not subtle either, goo-goo eyes.” You’re itching to clench a fist and plunge it right at Dean’s left arm.

“Goo-goo is a stretch. Get in,” you dismiss him briskly. Dean shuffles in and you follow right behind him. It’s even harder to see inside the mausoleum and you can hear Dean fiddling around in his jean pocket.

“Hey, you could play pretend as long as you want. Little piece of advice? Sam’s a smart cookie. He’s probably just waiting for a sign…” Dean’s words die in his throat as he switches on his flashlight. He gulps. “It’s like the goddamn Red Sea washed through here.”

It’s an apt description. Every surface is saturated in coagulated guts. You wouldn’t be able to tell that any of it was meant to be white if it weren’t for the mausoleum’s exterior. Evidence flags are sprinkled evenly across the floor, and there isn’t a single sanitary inch of ground to tread upon. As Dean pans the light across the room, you think you see a cavity in the marble. You nudge his hand back and reach out to aim it between the tombs.

“Dean? Does it look like someone could fit through there?”

—

It’s a miracle you aren’t claustrophobic, because the brick-lined steam tunnel you’re traipsing through single-file is narrow and stuffy with mildew. By ear, you’re tailing the rattled, feeble  groans of another college kid being ripped up and feasted upon. Sam is tired of scrunching his shoulders smaller and walking with his chin tucked down, and Dean isn’t doing much better.

“It just had to be Dig-Dug,” Dean gripes, “Friggin’ hate ghouls.”

“Let’s just focus on chopping the thing so we can get the hell out of here,” Sam derides from behind you. You wish you had jammed yourself in front of the pothole and down the ladder before Dean rather than after him; then, maybe, you wouldn’t have to silently handle the feeling of Sam boring two holes into the back of your head with his eyes.

Soon enough, the tunnel deposits into a maintenance room chock full of grime. There’s a sliver of moonlight pouring in from a grate above down below. Front-and-center, a twenty-something year old is crucified across a corrugated pipe with metal wire wrapping his wrists; he must be on death’s doorstep, because his face is ashen and his stomach is pouring with guts you think are supposed to stay inside. The ghoul is huddled at his feet. From the back, she doesn’t look like anything more than a girl—ginger and mousy—but you can hear her gnawing away at pulpy flesh like it’s her last meal. 

“Yuck,” you whisper. Dean jabs you in the side with his elbow.

She turns slow. Blood sloshes off her palms and splatters onto her shoes. The tip of her nose down is coated rouge, and her smile seems rabid. Her left hand is full with kidney, so she opts for using her wrist to smear away the mess. It doesn’t help.

“I know you, pretty.” she perks up, taking a step towards Sam. You shoot out in front of him, unlatching the machete strapped onto your right leg. The ghoul gives you a giggle and stays put. “Yeah, yeah… Blondie’s boyfriend.” Sam’s eyes narrow. Jess. 

“I picked her up at Holy Cross. Pretty charred, hard to swallow, but the face?” She whistles, “Came in handy. Boys—they're so easy.” You feel him lurch forward behind you, but you grasp tight onto the fabric of his hoodie. He puts up a little resistance but doesn’t try any further.

“If it makes you feel better, Sam, I left most of her.”

You push Sam back and swing your machete over your head; it slices down straight between the eyes, breaching her skull. It's a brash and bitter action you know won’t amount to much—but you’re infuriated for Sam and won’t let him do it himself.

The ghoul takes a step back, letting the kidney fall. The machete is still lodged into her head and she tugs the hilt from your hand with a jerk. Then, she plucks it out and tosses it aside like it’s a cheap butter knife. “Better luck next time.”

Dean charges next—pinning her against the closest wall. You take the time to swipe your machete up off the floor and use it to cut the half-dead kid loose. The wires across his wrists slink onto the floor. He nearly slumps to the ground, but you scoop him up and over your shoulder. “There ya go, bud. Come on.”

Sam is a deer in headlights glancing from you to Dean; when you realize he’s ready to choose the latter, you holler. “Take him.” You don’t wait for a response, grabbing Sam’s wrist and practically discarding the kid onto him. You walk lighter without having to bear his dead weight over your neck.

“No heavy lifting, Sam. Get him out of here.” Sam halts at your demands, reluctant and bewildered. He should be allowed to take the thing’s head off. You splay your hand across his chest and give him a soft, “Go.”

As soon as he’s traveling back down the tunnel where you came from, you turn around and find Dean on the floor; the ghoul has him on his back and she’s straddling him with his hands pinned over his head. “You’re the brother, right? Dean?” she spits venomously, “Little Jessie did not like you.”

“This would be hot under any other circumstance,” Dean coughs out. She looks pleased and reaches to pull a chunk out of him.

As soon as her fingertips are brushing his chest, you swipe up the discarded wiring on the floor and wrap them around your hands. “Not so fast, you sick freak.” You slip it around the ghoul’s neck and haul her backwards. She lets out a muffled retch and Dean slips from out under her.

The wire digs into your skin tighter and tighter as she struggles against you, breaking skin and slicing the meat of your palms. It smells like copper and only makes the ghoul thrash harder. With a quick maneuver, you cross your arms and yank hard.

Schlick. Her head tumbles onto the floor and comes to a rolling stop.

Dean brushes his hands against his jeans. “When’s the last time you got a tetanus shot?”

—

You’re careful to keep your hands away from the cushions while you’re propped up on the motel couch. Dean’s off in the shower and Sam is eyeing your hands with remorse as he lays the contents of his first aid kit across the table. They’re indented with too many lacerations to count.

“Least there’s nothing to stitch,” you offer. 

He doesn’t decide to humor you—only tears the wrapper of a hydrogen peroxide wipe and slides the sheet out. “Don’t move. S’gonna sting.” You hiss as he dabs it on your skin. It seeps in searing and you’re fighting not to flinch away from him.

Sam does the bandages next. He holds your hands like glass as he wraps each four times clockwise, tears the linen, and smooths it down to make sure it sticks. You take his fixation on your palms as an invitation to look him over. His brows—nearly shielded by his bangs—are furrowed with concern and the corners of his mouth are downturned into a frown; it’s sickly sweet how careful he’s attending to you like this. You can’t help but utter a “sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he asks gently. Now, he’s looking at you with a softened expression that makes you feel even worse. “You didn’t do anything.”

“But, the ghoul…” It desecrated her; you don’t want to admit it out loud, because you think it’ll worsen the blow.

“There’s nothing we could’ve done. And, you killed the damn thing anyway. I should be thanking you,” Sam assures.

“Jessica—” you start.

“Jess is… gone. She’s gone, and it’s okay. I’m okay.” He scoots closer to you to massage his thumbs into your wrists. “But you…” Covertly, he’s feeling for your pulse: a reminder you’re still there.

There’s a lull in the conversation because you’re not saying a thing and he isn’t either. His eyes trail down to your lips. You whisper his name like a prayer under your breath.

He’s moving to say something, but he can only swallow down his words. Sam tries again—this time, by dragging his fingertips tenderly from the side of your jaw to your chin. It’s out of your control the way your body sways closer to meet him like a moth to a flame.

He gets in one awkward peck on your mouth before you push him away, flustered.

“You can’t, Sam,” you sustain, “Too much happened today. I don’t want you to kiss me just because you’re being rash.” It isn’t a decent enough reason, and he’s not taking it. He looks determined; he can tell there’s things you aren’t willing to tell him.

“I’m not. I’m kissing you ‘cause I want to.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I shouldn’t kiss you? Or I shouldn’t want to?”

“Both.” You know it would delay his retirement, telling him the truth—saying you love being around him and you might even love him. You know Sam. He would want to stay by you just to figure out if anything’s there between you two. But, it’s cruel—keeping him where he isn’t meant to be. “You’re not gonna have a cookie cutter life with me, Sam.”

“That’s it?” He sounds amused. “You don’t want to kiss me because we aren’t gonna have a house and a dog?”

“Blood, Sam. It’s always the blood. It follows us everywhere and it doesn’t stop following us, and  this—“ you motion briskly, “If it works out, then you’re stuck in it—because I can’t give up hunting. I don’t want to.”

“Then, let me be stuck.”

“It’s not fair to you.”

“It is,” Sam urges, “I want to be with you, blood and all.”

“You’ll regret it.” Your voice drops off before you can make the full sentence: You’ll regret it if I die.

“I’ve lost too much already to regret wanting this.” He lost Jess. He’s not willing to lose you before he can even have you in the first place. Sam’s right, like usual. Life is short—and even if you kick the bucket in a day, or a month, or a year, it won’t change the fact that it’s you and him, ‘till the end of the road.

“It’s good to still want good things,” Sam parrots. “This is a good thing. I’m not asking for perfection.”

This time, you kiss Sam first. His lips brush against yours and it’s like he’s trying to take his time with you—testing the waters like he isn’t sure about the best way to please you. It‘s trying your patience, and it makes you press more firmly into him. He must take the hint, because he starts pulling at the back of your leg to coax you onto his lap.

There, you’re sinking deep into him, melting against his touch. You’re keeping your balance using your forearms on either side of his head, and brushing your hands in mellow strokes through his hair. He keeps you steady, in return, by wrapping his hands around your waist. He hums into you, content. You feel hazy.

You split as soon as you hear the shower shut. You press your forehead to his for just a moment, feeling your chests rise against one another, before scrambling off of him. “Careful, your hands,” he mutters, letting out a breathy laugh.

Dean doesn’t have a need for the pullout couch that night, and he doesn’t complain a lick about it.

—

During your final stop before leaving Stanford, you find that Jessica Moore’s grave is loved. She is loved. The lillies lined atop her headstone in pink glass vases are new, and the water feeding them is clear. There’s candles, too, that look like they’re lit every so often—but never long enough to let the wax touch the surface.  “She would’ve torn me a new one for not making that interview,” he admits.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all. She just rooted for me, hard.” When you look at Sam, his eyes are sparkling with amusement. “Sound familiar?”

You reach for his hand and he runs his palms against the stiff, scratchy fabric of your bandages. You nod, “Good to know we’re all on the same team.”

It doesn’t look like how Sam thought it would when he left in November. It’s polished granite—not brown, but a bluish, light gray. Jess’s picture is blown up bigger and there’s two angels flocking either side of her. He doesn’t have flowers for her. His Stanford sweatshirt is folded up and tucked under his shoulder. He places it down flush against her headstone. He kept it after all that time at the bottom of his duffel—never thinking it was ever really his.

- - -

While the light of the dying sun fades from cozy oranges and yellows to muted blues and purples, Colt is dashing around the edges of the set, frantic.

He calls it a set, but it's really just a fisherman's dock on a private property where the crew is filming. They've had it rented for a few weeks now, so Colt knows his way around.

The dock is set deep into a swampland, with dark, muddy water creeping back to aspen and elm trees, whose branches hang low and curl back toward the water.

A few shallow skiff boats line one side of the dock where Colt is milling around. The skiffs are used to get camera crews out to filming locations, so there's a lot of them. But, lining the other side are several other types - pirogues, flat boats, airboats, and more.

The one that Colt is fussing over is a simple motorboat - one with an engine set low and near the back third of the craft, but with a helm large enough for a captain to sit and a viewing area out the front side.

That, is where his attention is.

The viewing area has a flat, cushioned bench in front of the captain's helm, with seats to the left and right going toward the nose of the boat. In the middle of the U-shaped seating area is a flat table.

Colt is currently sticking bits of putty to the table, the chunks no larger than the nail on his pinky finger. It's dark on the ship; he can't risk turning the lights on and being caught.

Not yet, at least.

He makes a ring of putty chunks around the middle of the table, stuffing the excess putty packet into the small plastic grocery bag on the seat next to where he is kneeling.

A deep groan makes Colt jump, a yelp falling from his lips as he whips around. His blue eyes flash around the boat to the dock behind him, scouring over the other boats before he hears it again.

He flinches, less this time, but then he focuses on pinpointing where the sound came from. Then, there's a splash. Colt looks over the edge of the boat toward the swamp behind him, and he sees the ripples of freshly disturbed water.

It's just a bullfrog.

He lets out a sigh before turning back to focus on the table. There's only the sound of crickets and mosquitoes now, the quiet humming and buzzing of the insects a pleasant calm.

The blonde faces his plastic grocery bag again, digging past the putty to find a 12-pack of LED tea lights. One by one, he pulls the tabs out and sticks them to the wads of blue putty.

When he's done, there's a wonky circle of mini candles flickering with small bits of light. A lopsided grin spreads across his face as he moves toward the other side of the table.

A crockpot sits on one of the bench seats, now lukewarm from being unplugged. He picks the pot up and sets it in the middle of the tea lights, feeding the cord down the far side of the table to an outlet.

The small lights on the front of the crockpot spring to life, and he pushes one of the buttons to turn it to Medium. Once he's deemed that suitable, Colt checks his phone to look at the time.

Shit, it was already 8:06 p.m.!

He scrambles to his feet and launches towards his final bag of goodies - one containing a key lime pie and a box of sporks. No, it wasn't the most graceful dinner, but it would have to do.

Colt sets the dessert and utensils on the edge of the table, outside of the ring of mini candles, before brushing off his clothes. He wasn't the best at this sort of thing, but he was trying to make every piece count.

He had put on one of the nicest shirts he had in his trailer - a simple white button down. It didn't have any dirt or stains on it, so it would have to do. He matched it with a pair of medium wash jeans and his Redwings.

As he brushes off bits of dust from his outfit, he sees headlights flash from the parking lot. A wave of nerves rushes over him as he scampers over to the helm, where an old CD player is plugged in.

He double checks that it's loaded with the proper CD, so when he turns the boat on, it'll start playing. The lights from the parking lot disappear, and Colt curses under his breath.

Double-checking everything is in the right spot and nothing has moved unknowingly, Colt climbs out of the boat and onto the dock. He can barely see the figure moving toward him in the dark of the Louisiana night, but the light shining from a single post illuminates the dock just enough to make it out.

It's you.

You're wearing a pair of baggy gray sweatpants with an old set of sneakers. You weren't sure of what you were meeting Colt on set for, so you had opted for one of his Miami Vice sweatshirts he let you borrow.

Your (colored) gaze scans the dark dock, an eery feeling settling over you as you look around. There's no one in sight. It is private property, after all.

But there's nobody from the cast or crew here, there's no one. You can hear the sound of bullfrogs croaking as you get closer to the dock, your arms wrapping around you as you look around.

You had checked the time when you climbed out of your car, Colt had said just after 8, and it was 8:10 p.m. when you cut your engine.

Stepping down onto the dock, you listen to the waves lapping against the wooden boards. You look around, spinning for a moment to see if you can make out the figure of your boyfriend.

He had texted you just after lunch: Come to dock set after 8

No context. No reason. No punctuation.

That's Colt for you. You can't resist him, though.

Despite being tired after a long day of shooting, you got a shower and threw on the comfiest clothes you could find. Now, you can't seem to find the man who lured you out from the comfort of your bed.

You take a couple of steps backward as you face the parking lot you had come from, frowning when you don't see him. Just as you reach for your phone in your pocket, you bump into something.

A scream rips out of your throat as arms latch around your waist, holding you as you thrash and flail. You quickly try ramming your elbow backward, and you make solid contact with your assailant's stomach.

A male's low groan sounds out, and you spin around, eyes wide with panic as you try to catch your breath. You ball your hands into fists and take a step back, ready to launch at your attacker.

"Baby, baby, it's me!" the voice comes, and you pause. You blink, and then squint. In the darkness, you have to focus your gaze to make out of the features of the man in front of you.

You can see when he puts his hands up in the air in surrender, the limbs backlit by the rising light of the moon. Then, you see one of the hands go from a flat palm to a thumbs up, and your heart lurches.

"Oh my gosh, Colt!" you squeal as you launch forward, crushing him into a hug, "I am so, so sorry, I didn't know that was you!" The assailant, now identified as your boyfriend, grunts in response as you squeeze the air out of him.

He still wraps his arms around you, though, and when you feel his embrace, you soften yours ever so slightly. You slide your arms from around his waist up his chest before they stop around his neck.

Colt hums at the contact and murmurs, "Sorry baby, I didn't mean to scare you. I thought you heard me walking up." You giggle lightly into his neck, nuzzling at him as you reply, "I guess at least we know I'll fight if I have to."

Colt chuckles at that, and pulls back from the hug ever so slightly to get a good look at you. It's difficult in the low lighting, but he can make out the twinkle in your eyes and the curve of your smile.

Sweetly, he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your awaiting mouth. Your hands wrap around his neck, sliding up and into his hair, threading your digits through his dirty blonde locks.

The kiss is short, but it lifts a weight off of your shoulders, and you pull back with a content sigh. Colt lets out a breath too, and silence comfortably fills the gap between the two of you.

There is something scratching at the back of your mind, though, and you can't help but break the silence. "Why did you ask me to come to the dock set this late?" you wonder quietly, your voice gentle as you glance up at the stuntman.

Colt shoots you a grin and reaches for your hand with a chime of, "Let me show you." Only when he starts to pull you along the length of the dock do you take in his outfit. You can see the obviously nicer clothing Colt is wearing, and you pause in your tracks.

The tug of your arm halting Colt's movement has him turning around to face you, and you can just barely make out the confusion on his features.

"What's wrong?" he asks, rubbing his thumb along the backside of your hand. You blatantly check him out before locking eyes with him and saying, "You're dressed nice."

Colt just looks at you for a second quizzically before he does the same to you, "And you look beautiful." You scoff and roll your eyes, playfully swinging your interlocked hands.

"What I mean, is that you're dressed nice and I'm not. You didn't tell me to dress nice," you grumble out as you look down at your comfy clothes with a bit of insecurity.

Colt moves quickly at your downcast gaze, cupping your cheek with his free hand and tilting your head back up to look at him. His dark gaze flits around your face before he whispers, "I didn't tell you to dress nice. I just wanted to see my girl tonight, no matter what."

His words make your heart flutter in your chest, and you shy away under his gaze. His hold on your cheek keeps you from moving away, so you just groan playfully and slump forward until your face crashes into his chest.

Colt releases his hold on your face to slip an arm behind you, his hand sliding down your back and over the curve of your ass. His palms knead at the soft flesh before they dip just below it.

Then, in a quick movement, he hoists you up and into his arms. You yelp as you clutch at him, your whole world moving as Colt wraps your legs around his waist and starts walking again.

You go to protest, but Colt's voice cuts you off, "Sweetheart, I've got something to show you." This shuts you up, and you hang onto the stuntman as he carries you to the end of the dock to a medium-sized motorboat.

It's even darker out here at the end of the dock, but you trust Colt's footwork as he climbs down the stairs and gently sets you down outside of the helm's compartment.

You silently watch as he unties the boat from the dock, and your eyes widen in surprise as you stutter, "W-what are you-" "Just hold on," he cuts you off gently, sliding into the helm of the boat.

He turns the key on, and your eyes widen even further in surprise. "Colt, you, you can't steal a boat!" you whisper-yell, looking around like someone might hear you.

The blonde smiles as the boat comes to life, the fairy lights he had hung above the helm twinkling. Then, the CD player turns on a moment later, and you hear the chords of your favorite artist sliding out of the small machine.

Your mouth falls open as you take in the decorations, and Colt grabs your hand as he pulls you onto his lap. All you can do is stare as Colt begins to drive the boat, your hands settling on his chest as you get comfortable on his lap.

For a moment, it's just the sound of the boat's engine and the music humming in the background. You stare in awe at Colt as he nonchalantly maneuvers the boat out onto the open water of the swamp, far from the dock.

Emotion starts to well in your chest as realization sets in. You sniffle and rub at your eyes, mumbling, "Colt, you so did not have to do this." Colt glances at you as you start to speak but does a double take when he notices the tears in your (colored) gaze.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" he rushes, quickly slowing the boat down and turning the key off, his hands fussing over your face. "Y-you aren't supposed to be crying," he emphasizes, panic flooding him at the tears beginning to stream down your face.

You giggle as you cover his hands with your own, and wiping at your face again, you mumble, "I'm not sad, Colt. I- I just love you so much. Thank you for this."

Your words ease the panic that had settled over the blonde stuntman, and he gives you a tender smile before his expression lights up. He cracks a wide grin as he whispers, "This isn't even half of it!"

He drags you to your feet and pulls you out of the helm and to the front of the boat where the viewing area is. You instantly catch sight of the tea lights twinkling and the foods Colt has prepared.

You can't help but gasp as you turn to look at him, surprise covering your features. He gives you a lopsided grin and a shrug of, "I love you too."

Colt moves to press a kiss to your temple, one of his hands sliding around your waist to tug you close to him. You lean your head back against his chest as you look at the non-circular ring and the crockpot in the middle.

"What's for dinner tonight?" you ask with a coy smile. You can feel Colt take a deep breath as he hums into your ear, "Jamalaya from the locals. I borrowed a crockpot from the food tent."

You glance up at him, once again surprised. "You got local food for us to try? And borrowed? Baby, knowing you, you stole it," you say.

The blonde tightens his grip around you and chuckles out, "Yes, and... guilty as charged." You giggle with him for a moment, but then you hear his voice again, "I got us some dessert too. Only the best for the best."

Your eyes widen as you whisper, "Key lime pie?" Colt smiles down at you and whispers, "Key lime pie." You squeal with delight, turning around in his arms to catch him in a tender kiss.

You may have been busy. You may have been tired. But you wanted nothing more than to be on a boat, floating on the bayou, with your heaven-sent boyfriend.

You hadn’t wanted to take the job. God, you couldn't stress how badly you didn’t want to take the job.

You were no stranger to who Shannon’s young protégée was. You’d seen him on more than one occasion when you went to the garage to conduct business deals on behalf of Nino; cars, parts, and other very illegal forms of contraband.

The tall, blonde, stoic man always kept to himself when you were there, bent over in the yawning recesses of a different car every time. Broad back turned to you, his dirty white shirt clinging to toned muscles as he rooted around under the hood.

Only once had you managed to meet his eyes, and the piercing blue irises that were always so full of unbridled violence had always sent a chill down your spine.

But, when Nino orders a hit, you don’t disobey. Unless you want to be the next one in the ground, laying with the worms.

So here you were, crouched outside on a metal fire escape in the dead of the night while the city below you went on, never sleeping.

The metal creaked dangerously beneath your weight, and you shifted on the balls of your feet. This building was falling apart, much like everything else in the city. In front of you, through the darkened glass, the apartment beyond was draped in shadows, obscuring all within.

You’d cased the building earlier that day, pretending to be another drunk straggler like all the other vermin that lived in the building. Just another lowlife trying desperately to find their way back to a bed to sleep off a drug or alcohol induced haze. You were certain this was the correct unit; after all, you were good at what you did.

There was a reason Nino entrusted the job to you.

You slinked toward the closed window like a cat, your dark clothing blending into the dark brick, and palmed the knife strapped to your thigh. Quiet as a mouse, you unlatched the window and slid it open smoothly, pleased that it made no noise. Then, you slithered through the opening, landing on the pads of your feet.

You turn to shut the window, then think twice. Better to leave it open in case a quick escape is needed. You were, at the end of the day, dealing with a dangerous predator.

But not more dangerous than you.

The dark apartment smelled faintly like oil, leather, and some kind of woodsy cologne. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you could make out a small couch, dining table only big enough for two, a kitchenette, and a small hallway leading further back into the unit.

The place feels abandoned.

You know better than to hope so, however.

Standing up to your full height, you move down the hallway, passing a small bathroom that’s dark. Only one place left that your quarry could be.

The bedroom door is already open, much to your relief. You almost scoff.

A man as wanted by Nino as he was, and he didn’t at least lock his bedroom door when sleeping?

You peer into the shadows, squinting as you scan the room. Too late do you realize the queen size bed is empty, blankets pulled up. They’re only slightly ruffled, as if whoever lay on them hadn’t bothered to slip beneath the sheets. Your knuckles whiten as they tighten around the knife clenched in your fist.

Suddenly, a hand is around your throat, having snaked out from behind. You’re slammed against the bedroom wall, head aching with the impact against the cheap paint. The hand is replaced by a large forearm as it pins you to the surface. Through the shadows, you can see the figure towering over you is holding a hammer aloft, the blunt end hovering only a few inches above your eye socket.

Driver looms above you, icy blue eyes only faintly illuminated by the street lights shining through the blinds from across the room.

He’s clad in his signature white scorpion jacket that you’d seen him in the day before as you tailed him through the city streets in an attempt to memorize his patterns.

You breathe hard through your mouth and move your knife hand behind your back, saving it for a better moment to strike.

His gaze rakes down your face; not cold or angry, but calculating. Analyzing. An eerie expression of calm encompasses his features. It scares you more than if he wore a mask of rage.

Hammer still held up, ready to swing down at any moment, he speaks in a low, smooth voice. “Who sent you?”

You don’t answer, staring up at him defiantly. A muscle in your jaw ticks.

”Nino,” he confirms for you. Of course it’s Nino. Who else would it be?

You don’t move or speak, performing your own little form of stubborn rebellion by doing so.

“Why’d you take the job?”

You blink, not anticipating the question. Why hadn’t he just brought that hammer down on your skull and ended it already?

”Because saying no wasn’t an option,” you say finally. And you mean it.

Driver notices the way your eyes flicker to every possible exit in the room, the exhaustion under your eyes, the faint bruise on your cheekbone. He notices everything.

And suddenly, the hammer in his hand is lowering. You furrow your brows in confusion at this, still staring into those deep blue eyes of his. He doesn’t remove his arm from your throat, but the pressure has lessened slightly. There’s a faint thunk as the hammer falls to the floor.

He’s looking at you now with a very predatory look, and your heart races. Against your will, a deep warmth pools in your body, flowing from your chest down, down to the apex of your thighs at that look. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly moves his now free hand down to your hip, fingers grazing the dark fabric of your jeans.

They dance along the hem before sliding back to the knife clenched in your fist. Gently, as if handling something fragile, he slowly wraps a large palm around your knife hand and moves it up, pinning it and the knife against the wall above you. He doesn’t look away from you once. The heat in your body flares brighter; you feel like a rabbit being pinned down by a dog.

With spine-chilling realization, you now know that you entered this apartment as the predator, but are now the prey.

With one hand pinning yours against the wall, his other one moves to replace his forearm on your throat. He doesn’t squeeze hard, but still presses. His hands are so large they almost reach all the way around your throat.

You can feel your pulse thudding painfully against his warm skin and you wait with bated breath, anticipating the cold slide of your knife into your belly.

But Driver doesn’t intend to kill you. No. His eyes flicker from your eyes, to your lips, the back.

“If you wanna tail someone, you should try harder to blend in,” he says softly, lowly. Then, his lips are on yours.

You gasp into the kiss; his lips are warm, soft, and hungry. He kisses you like a man starved, tilting his towering form into yours. Your body flares as if it’s been lit on fire, and your knife hand above you slowly relaxes. The knife clatters to the floor.

Driver replaces the weapon with his own hand, lacing his fingers through yours against the paint possessively.

Every nerve within your body is buzzing. The sensation of his lips moving against yours makes your head spin. As if sensing the weakness in your knees, he moves a jean-clad thigh between your legs. The sudden contact of the denim on your core sends an electric shock up your spine, and you accidentally bite down on his bottom lip. The coppery taste of blood washes across your tongue.

You expect him to grow angry, to throw you to the side and end you, but instead he whines. Like a dog. The noise almost short circuits your brain.

Sticking your tongue out, red with blood from his now cut lip, you drag it up his neck, leaving a faint trail of crimson. He groans deep in his throat; in one smooth motion, his hands leave your neck and palm and shoot to the bottom of your thighs as he lifts you into the air. You dangle, wedged between the wall and his hard body. Your legs wrap around his slender waist, and he dives in to kiss you again, even hungrier than before.

”Think you can break into my fucking apartment without me knowing?” He snarls against your lips. Your eyes roll back into your head at the gruff tone.

His tongue slides into your mouth without permission, lapping up the coppery tang of his blood. He rolls his hips into yours and you moan at the hardness pressing through his jeans into your core.

You couldn’t believe what was happening. You were supposed to kill him; instead you were two seconds away from being fucked against the wall.

In a split second, you decided, you weren’t killing this dangerous predator. Nino could go fuck himself for all you cared.

”What are you going to do about me breaking in?” You gasped as he sucked at the soft skin on your neck, where your jaw met your ear. There was undoubtedly going to be a mark after.

He bit down and you yelped. “No talking. You’re gonna keep your mouth shut unless I tell you to speak.”

He sank to his knees fluidly for a man with such long and gangly limbs, and expertly popped the button of your jeans with one hand. His heated gaze never left yours as he slowly and tantalizingly pulled your jeans down, leaving you in your underwear. When the article of clothing reached your ankles, he gripped your hips tight enough to leave bruises and stared at the soaked front of your panties.

“Up,” he commanded, and you obeyed like a loyal puppy, lifting your right leg as he pulled the jeans down and over your sneakers. He repeated the process with the other side.

You stared down at him, breathing heavily and pupils blown wide as he rubbed one long finger on your clit through the fabric covering your cunt.

”Stupid slut, you came in here to kill me and now you’re soaked. You should be ashamed.”

Normally you would’ve bristled at the words, but instead they sent a fresh wave of slickness to the apex of your thighs. You moved against his finger, desperate for friction. “Please…”

The whispered words from your pretty lips made his jaw clench; he leaned forward and mouthed at your covered clit, tongue swirling over the soaked folds. He groaned and grabbed your leg, throwing it over his shoulder. He used two fingers to pull your panties to the side and dove into your slick.

”Oh fuck,” you yelped as he lapped at you. You’d never been eaten out like this before and your body was reacting with alarming speed as your fluids began to slowly drip down your thighs.

He licked, sucked, and ate like a man on death row, moaning deeply all the while. The band in your lower belly was beginning to tighten already, threatening to snap. Just when you thought the sensations couldn’t get any more overwhelming, two of his long fingers were entering you. Between the sounds of his mouth, fingers, and your combined groans, the noise in the room was filthy, almost embarrassingly so. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this good.

You clenched around his fingers and he began to palm himself through his jeans with one. hand, thrusting up into the air. The sight sent you over that cliff edge and you cried out as you came all over his face.

He didn’t even give you time to recover. As you struggled to come down from your high, he was standing and undoing his belt buckle; it clinked in the room as you gasped. Not even bothering to pull down his pants, he freed himself from his briefs. Your eyes went wide.

He was long with a thick vein pulsing on the side of his shaft. It curved slightly to the left as it stood straight out, the tip angry and red and leaking precum.

He grabbed your jaw in one hand and kissed you hard; you could taste yourself on his lips. “I’m going to fuck you against this wall now, and I better not hear silence while I do it.”

You whined at his words and moved your hips eagerly, desperate for something. Anything.

He picked you up again without any effort and your legs immediately locked around his waist again. You nearly sobbed as the tip of his cock brushed your entrance.

Without even needing guidance, he pushed up into you, grunting with each inch. You felt a brief pinch of pain as your body stretched to accommodate his length before it faded to pure bliss. When he was fully seated inside, he groaned weakly and dropped his face against your neck; his forehead was slick with sweat.

He began to move slowly, almost teasing, lips against your ear. You gasped with each thrust, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“When this is over,” he grunted into your ear, speeding up, “You’re not going to go back to Nino. You don’t belong to him anymore.”

You cried out as his balls smacked against your ass; the room was filled with the sound of skin meeting skin mingled with wet slaps.

He rutted up into you even harder, possessively. “I’m going to kill Nino. Then you and I are gonna get the fuck out of this city.”

The tip of his cock was hitting that spongy part of you perfectly and you could feel the edge of the cliff nearing. You wrapped your arms around his neck and fisted his hair as your body jolted up against the wall with each thrust.

He moved his head back to look directly into your eyes. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“You understand?” He breathed in that calm voice.

”Yes, yes,” you cried out, absolutely fucked out of your mind with bliss. “I’m yours now. I’m yours.”

At your words, his hips stuttered and he groaned through gritted teeth. As his warm essence pumped into you, you tumbled over the edge with him.

You both moaned loudly, certain the neighbors would hear. He thrust a few more times, milking himself on you, and you jolted with the overstimulation.

He gently set you down on your feet and pulled out with a wet squelch. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. You stared up into his eyes, the irises almost completely swelled by his pupils. He gripped both your hips tightly.

“What happens now?” You gasped.

Driver looked at you for a long moment. He lifted one hand to brush a strand of sweat-soaked hair from your cheek. “Don’t answer your phone.”

He stepped back slowly, gaze never leaving yours.

“Nino is done.”

A few feet away, Driver stands silent beside the black sedan he’s been precision-driving for the high-speed inserts. The scorpion jacket is unzipped just enough to show the tight black shirt underneath. He hasn’t said much all night, but he’s been watching you those pale, unreadable eyes tracking every move you made while you coordinated the sequence. Now he’s looking at you like the only stunt left is how fast he can get you out of those pants.

You fold your arms, trying to keep your professional tone even though heat is already pooling low in your stomach. “This is still a work site, boys. Cameras are off, but security still does rounds.”

Colt pushes off the car and steps closer, crowding you gently against the side of the sedan. “Security knows better than to come back here when I’m testing rigs.” His fingers brush a loose strand of hair from your face, surprisingly gentle for someone who throws himself off buildings for fun. “And Driver… well. He’s been real patient all week. Haven’t you?”

Driver finally moves. He closes the distance on your other side, gloved hand settling on your hip with unmistakable possession. The leather is cool against the sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up. He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks for the first time in hours, voice low and gravel-rough:

“Take a break.” His fingers tighten. “Now.”

Colt’s grin widens, playful but hungry, as he tilts your chin toward him. “What do you say, sweetheart? Let the stunt team take care of you for once.”

The decision is made with barely any words. Colt flashes that boyish, troublemaker grin and tosses you the keys to his truck. “You’re riding with me, Coordinator. Driver’s gonna follow. He drives like a goddamn ghost anyway, better not lose him.”

Driver doesn’t argue. He simply nods once then slides into the black sedan. The engine purrs to life.

You end up in the passenger seat of Colt’s big black truck, the scent of motor oil, cologne, and faint gunpowder still clinging to the leather. The lot gate barely swings shut behind you before Colt’s hand finds your thigh, squeezing possessively as he pulls out onto the dark service road.

“Been thinking about this for weeks,” he admits, voice lower now that it’s just the two of you and the rumble of the engine. His fingers slide higher, rubbing slow circles against the inside of your thigh through your tactical pants. “Every time you chewed us out during rehearsal… every time you climbed up on the rigs in those tight pants… yeah. Real professional of me, I know.”

In the rearview mirror, Driver’s headlights stay right on your tail; close, steady, never falling back.

The drive to your apartment is only fifteen minutes, but it stretches. Colt keeps teasing, his hand stroking higher, thumb the seam where you’re already aching. He doesn’t go further than that. Not yet. Just enough to make you squirm in the seat while he murmurs filthy little observations about what he wants to do to you once you’re home.

When you finally pull into the underground parking of your building, Driver’s car glides in right beside you. The three of you step out in charged silence. Colt slings an arm around your waist as you lead them to the elevator. Driver walks on your other side, gloved hand resting at the small of your back, heavy, quiet, and impossibly controlling.

The elevator ride up is thick with tension. The second the doors close, Colt crowds you against the mirrored wall, kissing you hard and greedy, all tongue and playful nips. Driver watches for half a second before stepping in, turning your chin toward him with two leather-clad fingers and claiming your mouth next, slower, deeper, almost devastatingly intense. You taste the difference between them instantly: Colt’s heat and cocky hunger versus Driver’s quiet, barely-leashed control.

By the time the elevator dings on your floor, your lips are swollen and your pulse is hammering between your legs.

You fumble with your keys at the door. Colt’s chest presses against your back, lips on your neck. “Hurry up, sweetheart. I’ve got plans for you.”

Driver’s voice is right at your ear, low and rough: “So do I.”

The door barely clicks shut behind the three of you before the tension snaps.

Colt’s hands are the first to find you, gentle but eager, sliding around your waist from behind as he presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your skin, voice warm and reassuring. “We’ve got you. No rush.”

Driver steps in front of you, his gloved hand cupping your jaw with firm, deliberate pressure. He tilts your face up to his and kisses you hard, deep and commanding, tongue stroking possessively against yours until your knees feel weak. When he pulls back, his pale eyes are dark with intent. “Breathe,” he orders quietly.

They work together without rushing you. Colt’s fingers find the hem of your fitted production tee, slowly peeling it upward. Driver’s hands slide down to unbuckle your belt and work open your tactical pants with precise, efficient movements. Every time your breath hitches, Colt murmurs soft praise against your lips, “Good girl… so fucking pretty for us”, while Driver keeps one firm hand on your hip, grounding you.

Soon your clothes are pooled on the floor, leaving you in just your bra and panties. Driver’s gloved fingers trace the edge of your bra with strict patience before unhooking it. Colt drops to one knee, kissing down your stomach as he tugs your panties down your legs, helping you step out of them.

“Bedroom?” Colt asks softly, lips brushing your hip.

Driver answers for you, voice low and authoritative. “Couch. Closer.” He guides you there with a firm hand on the small of your back.

They sit on the couch side by side, legs spread, both still fully dressed. The sight of them, Colt with his easy grin and Driver with that intense stare, makes heat flood between your thighs.

You sink to your knees between them. Colt reaches out first, stroking your cheek tenderly. “Only what you want, baby. Take your time.”

Driver’s hand slides into your hair, grip firm but not painful, guiding your mouth toward the obvious bulge in his black pants. “Open.”

You start with him. Driver watches with strict focus as you unzip him and take his thick cock into your mouth. He doesn’t thrust, he lets you set the pace at first, but his hand in your hair tightens when you take him deeper, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “Good. Deeper… that’s it.”

After a few moments, Colt gently turns your head toward him. “My turn, sweetheart,” he says softly, voice thick with need. His cock is already free, hard and flushed. He’s gentler, fingers stroking your hair instead of gripping, whispering praise as you swirl your tongue around him. “Fuck… look at you. So good for us. Just like that…”

You switch between them slowly, taking turns. Colt’s moans are breathier, encouraging, while Driver’s are quieter, rougher, his instructions low and commanding when he wants your attention back on him. Every time you switch, one of them is touching you, Colt’s soft caresses down your back and shoulders, Driver’s firm hand keeping you steady.

Driver’s patience finally snaps.

He slides his hand from your hair to under your chin, tilting your face up. His thumb drags across your swollen lower lip, voice low and commanding. “Enough.”

Before you can catch your breath, he pulls you up from your knees with strong hands under your arms and turns you around. Colt shifts on the couch, making room, his eyes dark with arousal as he watches. “Easy with her, man,” Colt murmurs, but there’s a thrill in his voice.

Driver doesn’t answer with words. He bends you over the arm of the couch in one smooth, firm motion, your chest and stomach pressed against the cushions while your ass stays raised for him. You feel the cool leather against your skin as he kicks your legs wider apart.

“Stay just like that,” Driver orders, voice rough and strict.

You hear the sound of his jeans rustling, then the blunt head of his cock is pressing against your soaked entrance. He doesn’t ease in. With one brutal thrust, Driver buries himself to the hilt inside you, stretching you open in a single hard stroke.

A sharp cry leaves your throat. The roughness is immediate and overwhelming, his hips snap forward again and again, fucking you deep and mercilessly. Each thrust is powerful, controlled, and punishing. His gloved hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise while the other presses between your shoulder blades, keeping your upper body pinned down against the couch.

“Fuck-,” you gasp, fingers clawing at the couch as you attempt to grasp anything to try and anchor you.

He leans over you, chest against your back, teeth grazing your shoulder as he growls low in your ear, “Take it. You can handle it.” His pace doesn’t falter, hard, relentless strokes that make the couch creak beneath you. The wet sound of his cock driving into your cunt fills the room, obscene and loud.

Colt moves closer, kneeling beside the couch so he’s at eye level with you. His hand strokes your hair tenderly, contrasting sharply with Driver’s rough pounding. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he praises softly, voice warm and soothing. He kisses your temple, your cheek, your parted lips. “Look at you taking him so well… so fucking pretty when you’re getting wrecked like this.”

Driver’s grip tightens. He straightens up again, slamming into you harder, one hand fisting in your hair to arch your back. Every thrust hits deep, brutal, and perfect. The intensity makes your legs shake, pleasure bordering on too much as he uses you exactly how he wants. Each brutal thrust rocks you harder against the arm of the couch, your moans turning into broken, desperate sounds. His gloved hand leaves your hip, only to come down hard on your ass with a sharp, resounding smack.

The sting blooms hot across your skin. You cry out, clenching around his thick cock.

“Again,” Driver growls, voice dark and commanding. Another hard slap lands on the same spot, then the other cheek, the impact sharp enough to make your eyes water even as pleasure spikes through you. “That’s it. Squeeze my cock just like that.”

Colt’s hand gently cups your jaw, turning your face toward him. “Breathe, baby,” he whispers tenderly before capturing your mouth in a slow, deep kiss. His lips are soft and reassuring, tongue sliding against yours in sweet contrast to the way Driver is pounding into you from behind. Every time Driver’s hips slam forward, Colt swallows the resulting moan, kissing you like he’s trying to ground you in the middle of the storm.

Driver’s hand slides up your back, over your shoulder, and wraps firmly around the front of your throat. He doesn’t hesitate as he squeezes, cutting off just enough air to make your head spin while he keeps fucking you. The leather of his glove feels cool and unforgiving against your heated skin.

Colt pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “You’re so fucking good for him… taking everything he gives you.” His thumb strokes your cheek lovingly as Driver’s hand stays locked around your throat. “Let go, sweetheart. We’ve got you.”

Driver’s pace turns even more savage, hips snapping against your ass with wet, filthy sounds. He keeps one hand choking you while the other delivers another sharp slap to your already stinging skin. The combination of Driver’s rough thrusts and Colt’s soft kisses has you trembling, pleasure coiling tight and vicious in your core.

Driver leans in close, lips brushing your ear as his grip on your throat tightens just a little more. “You’re gonna cum like this,” he states, not asking. “Right on my cock while I fuck you."

You nod quickly, desperately wanting to be good and cum for him. It only takes him a few more hard thrusts and quick spanks before you're clenching around him. Whining as wave after wave of pleasure hits you as you finish around his cock.

Driver gives one final deep thrust before he stills, groaning low as he cums hard. He stays buried inside you for a few seconds, hand losing his grip around your throat, before slowly pulling out. You’re left shaking, bent over the arm of the couch, thighs slick and trembling as his cum slowly drips out of you.

They give you a short moment to breathe.

Colt gently pulls you up and turns you around, kissing you softly as he sits back in the middle of the couch. His cock is hard, flushed and ready as he shoves his pants down a little with one hand before settling his hands onto your hips.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he says tenderly, guiding you onto his lap. “You’re tired. Let me do the work.”

He helps you straddle him, hands supporting your weight as he slowly sinks you down onto his cock. You both moan as he fills you, thick, warm, and gentler than Driver’s brutal pace. Once he’s fully inside, Colt keeps his hands on your hips, rocking you in slow, controlled movements so you don’t have to use your exhausted legs.

Not to say that forty year old science teachers can’t bounce on it. In fact, from where you are, more of them definitely should. It’s one hell of a view you have: sweat drips down between his pectoral muscles in a delightfully lickable line, his eyes squeeze shut in pleasure and his head rolls back so that you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he moans.

Yeah, it’s great from down here.

The strap he’s fucking himself on is a girthy six inches, and it’s a pleasure to watch the purple silicone disappear inside him with every thrust. There’s a little nub inside which presses on your clit just right as he goes, inching you closer to your orgasm with every luscious movement of his hips.

Oh, he is stunning. He is goddamn perfect.

“Fuck…” he chokes as the head of your dick hits his prostate and his cock leaks pre onto your stomach in a pearlescent line.

“Uh-huh,” you agree. The two of you are too fucked out to communicate clearly. It’s mostly just noises of appreciation and that’s just fine.

“I’m… I can’t…”

“Can’t what, honey?”

“Can’t keep going…” it’s said almost regretfully, like he wants to stave off his release for as long as possible so he can keep enjoying this. Your hands have been holding his hips so tightly that divots have formed, but you begin to rub comforting circles into his skin with your thumbs.

“Finish for me, handsome, go on.”

“Oh-hh-hh fuck,” he manages, and then suddenly his eyes are open and his gaze fixed solely on you, blue eclipsed with black from his lust. He’s suddenly working double time, his pert ass slapping lewdly against your harness as he speeds up.

Then he says something crazy, because that’s what happens when you’re caught up in a moment where you’re more horny than sensible.

“Put- a- baby- in- me,” he begs, punctuating the gaps between words with bounces. Your eyes go wider than his and your grip turns iron-tight as you start to control his pace, making him go even harder, making your clit get even more pressure.

“Yeah. Yeah Ry, gonna knock you up. Get you pregnant. Everyone’s gonna know who you belong to, ‘cause you’re mine.”

You lock eyes. For a second, both of you are convinced you can actually do it.

Ryland’s cock spurts with so much force it hits both you and him in the face. His shaky aftershocks move the strap just right and you’re pretty sure you flood the mattress when you come.

He collapses onto you, mewling as your cockhead hits his overused prostate. The two of you just lie in a sticky mess for a while as your breathing syncs and calms.

“In hindsight, I know that was a pretty wild thing to say. Sorry for not clearing it with you,” he mutters from where his face is tucked into your neck. You laugh.

“That’s okay, it was hot. I am aware you don’t have a womb though, so carrying a baby would be pretty difficult.”

ᯓ★

The first time, you could probably play it off as a heat of a moment sort of thing.

Adrenaline gets you going. You can't help it, so why fight it? Your ears were still ringing from the gunshots earlier. You'd gotten into a skirmish with some guys that were looking for the same perp as you, March, and Healy, getting out by the skin of your teeth.

Healy had been furious with March for almost getting everyone killed, and insisted on calling it quits. The passenger door of March's car slammed shut behind Healy as he stormed back to his apartment, and then March had met your gaze in the rearview mirror, an odd look in his eyes.

"I need a drink," he'd said, and it sounded more like an invitation than a statement.

"Okay," you'd said. You got out of the car and slid into where Healy had been sitting moments before, and March drove the both of you home, the Los Angeles night coasting by.

And that had been that.

You try not to make a habit out of it. Both running with the "Nice Guys" and sleeping with Holland March. You like to work alone, and March is too much of a mess for you. He drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney, with no intention of slowing down, and it affects his work. Sometimes you worry he'll get himself killed, but he always comes out mostly unscathed. Besides, it's not any of your business.

Sometimes your paths will cross, hunting the same person or chasing the same lead. This city is big, but it's not that big. And, without fail, you and Holland March fall into bed together every time you run into each other. You're pretty sure Healy knows, but he never mentions it in front of you, which you're thankful for. It's already embarrassing enough.

You don't have a similar excuse for the second, third, or fourth time. And so on. You have to be somewhere close to twenty now, after the last two years, and pushing forward steadily.

"Hey, you."

You glance up from where you'd been digging around in your purse for your keys. March is in front of you, leaning against your car. His suit is a dark green, a white tie—or is it beige? You can't tell in this lighting—sits snug against his throat. One hand is shoved in his pocket, the other ashes a cigarette onto the asphalt. He looks so obnoxiously smug that you consider slapping it off of him.

"Why are you here?" You look around the empty parking lot with no small amount of suspicion.

You'd been working a case tonight, talking up some patrons of a bar your client's missing brother went to sometimes, but came up frustratingly empty handed. You haven't seen March or Healy in a couple months, not since June, at least, and you have no idea what his business could possibly be, tracking you down like this.

Well… you have some ideas.

"I'm a detective, baby," he says, making a vague gesture with the hand holding his cigarette. "It's my job."

"You're washed up," you say, but you're smiling. "And don't call me that."

"I know you like it," he says, and now he's smiling, too. "Seriously, what are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing involving you. Move."

He pushes himself off of where he was resting against the driver side door with a dramatic flourish. You unlock your front door and he opens it for you, allowing you to get in but stopping you from closing the door, a hand wrapped around the frame.

"Woah, woah, woah," he says. He places the cigarette back in his mouth, smoke curling around his face, and you pause where you were about to jam your keys in the ignition. "Where are you goin'?"

"I'm going home, March," you say, unimpressed.

"Without me?"

You wrinkle your nose. "Why would you come with me?"

You know why. You know exactly why. And March knows you know, too, because his grin widens, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"Can't a guy just wanna see a girl he misses?"

"Not if it's you," you say, "and not if it's me."

"That's too bad, baby, 'cause it is me, and it is you."

You roll your eyes. "I hate you."

"Can I get in?"

"Fine."

March lets out a triumphant whoop and skirts around the hood of your car. You lean over to unlock the passenger door from the inside to let him in, and before you know it he's buckling himself in beside you and you're driving back to your apartment.

He's the same as he always is, moronic and charming and irritatingly handsome. He messes with your stereo and turns the music up, rolls down your window to flick his cigarette out and thumps his hand against the door in time with the beat of whatever's playing. You think if you got into a fatal car crash you wouldn't be too upset about it, but a part of you knows you can't say no to him even if you try your hardest.

This is the first time either of you have seen each other outside of work bringing you together. You wonder what made him want to seek you out—if he'd been thinking about it, or if it was a spontaneous itch he wanted to scratch. You also wonder how he found you, and how he got to you without his car. Stupid bastard.

The ride to your place is short, less than ten minutes, and the moment you've closed your front door behind you, March is on you.

His hands are everywhere, at your waist, your back, sliding down to squeeze your ass, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you in to press your mouths together. You want to tease him for being so desperate, but you're just as bad.

You kick your heels off without breaking away, grabbing him by the tie to keep him close. His mouth is warm and wet, tongue sliding against yours with familiar ease. He tastes like cigarette smoke and cheap beer and mint, and you wonder for a moment if he brushed his teeth before coming to see you.

You both stumble backward in the vague direction of your room. March fumbles with the zipper on the back of your dress, managing to tug it down so it loosens around your chest, the straps slipping down your shoulders. You get him to slide his suit jacket off, and it falls to the floor, forgotten.

"Been wantin' this so bad, baby," he murmurs against your lips. "Missed you so much."

"Missed you, too," you breathe against him, and the noise he makes at your words is worth the admission, even if you know he'll never let it go.

Despite having semi-regular sex and your obvious interest in him, March is always chasing your praise. Any compliment, encouragement, any notion of flattery, whether it be sexual or work-related, has him eating out of the palm of your hand. It's a bit pathetic, but you like it that way.

March wants to be good for you, and who are you to deny him?

He pushes your door open and walks you backward until your legs hit the bed. You sit, pulling him down into another kiss, teeth clacking painfully with the force of it. You thread your fingers in his hair and your other hand smooths over his shoulder, nails digging into the muscle of his back through his dress shirt. When you pull away, he gives a small sound of protest, his mouth chasing yours.

"March," you say, and you're nauseated at how wrecked you sound, scratchy and needy.

"'M sorry," he mumbles, and you know he has no clue what he's apologizing for. He mouths at your neck, moving down to nip at your collarbones, leaving bruises for you to deal with tomorrow.

You don't respond, instead opting to flatten your hand over his shoulder, pushing him down gently.

You regret any time you thought, or told him to his face, that March is an idiot. Right now, he's a very, very smart man. He kneels on the floor, positioned between your legs, and looks up at you with big, glassy eyes. His irises are slivers, pupils blown wide with want, and a thrill crawls down your spine, landing right in your core.

"This what you wanted, hm?" he asks, his words slightly muffled by your skin as he peppers kisses along the inside of your knee.

"Yes," you say, swallowing hard.

He doesn't waste any time shoving the material of your dress up above your waist, exposing your underwear and the damp patch over your center that tells him exactly how much you want him. His mouth trails from your inner thighs to hovering over where you need him most, and he waits.

"March," you complain. You dig the heel of your foot into his back to urge him forward, but he doesn't budge.

"Holland," he says. His breath is warm against you and you're aching, aching so badly for something, anything. His mouth or his hands or his cock—you don't care. And he's not giving it to you.

"What?" you ask, and it comes out as more of an impatient growl than an actual question.

"C'mon, sweetheart." An unhurried kiss is pressed to the space just above your clit. For a man that could hardly wait to touch you earlier, he sure seems to be perfectly happy taking his sweet time when it comes to devouring your cunt. "You know what I want."

"Are you fucking with me?" March hasn't once given you any indication that he cares what you call him. Before, if you'd told him you wanted a dog, he would have gotten on his knees and barked. Now, you're not so sure.

"I wish I was," he says wistfully. He yanks your panties to one side before you can respond, a thumb swiping through your embarrassingly wet folds. You shudder and let out a small, shaky exhale, your hips jolting.

"Okay," you say, your voice pitched a bit higher than normal. You gasp as he repeats the motion, this time letting his thumb settle over your clit. Maybe you should be disappointed in yourself for folding so easily, but your desire is a pulsing thing, and you'd do anything to soothe it. "Okay, fuck. Holland, please."

He smiles, victorious, and pulls back slightly in order to tug your panties completely off. "Since you asked so nicely."

He rewards you immediately, lapping at you with poorly contained groans and hums. You fist his hair, thighs tightening around his head. Your head lolls back, a low, throaty moan ripped from you as you feel two of his thick fingers slip inside you with little resistance.

He alternates between licking and suckling your clit as he pumps his fingers, obscene squelching sounds filling your bedroom, his eyelids drooping in self-satisfied pleasure. You think if he went at it long enough he could come just like this, untouched. His free hand digs into the soft skin of your hip, keeping you close even as you writhe underneath him. The scrape of his facial hair against your inner thighs is a pleasant sting, grounding you in the moment.

"Holland," you pant, unable to stop yourself from grinding against his face. "Fuck, yes, that's so—feels so good."

He moans into your cunt, the vibrations sending heat rippling through you, your chest, down to your toes that curl involuntarily. He works you toward the edge with a patience that could be considered cruel. You come with a choked sob, the world dissolving into a white-hot wave of bliss. March lifts his mouth from your clit, the bottom half of his face glistening with your arousal, but he doesn't stop pressing his fingers into you, curling with every plunge until you really are about to cry, dazed and overstimulated.

Your hand shoots down to clamp around his wrist, pausing his motions, and he finally relents. He pulls away, leaving you to clench helplessly around nothing, and holds his sleek digits in front of your mouth. Your lips part and he pushes them inside. You suck eagerly, head spinning, and keep your eyes fixed on his as a loud breath escapes him.

"So pretty, sweetheart," he says, a note of condescension coloring his tone. "Do you like that? You like how you taste?"

Your approving whimper is muffled around his fingers. He takes pity on you, drawing them out, smearing your own saliva over your lips and chin. He sits back on his knees, fumbling to get his tie off and unbutton his shirt. He throws them both on the floor and stands. You find his belt and start unbuckling it for him, hands trembling with impatience. He tugs roughly on your dress so your breasts spill out, then helps you out of it completely, sliding the fabric down your legs.

He kicks his pants off, nearly tripping in his haste to get his boxers to follow, which has you smiling despite the tense, electric atmosphere. As soon as he's steady on his feet, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock. He's so hard that it must hurt, and he's heavy, hot in your hand, precum smeared on the head. You give a few slow, velvety pulls, giving a pleased hum when March's knees nearly buckle under your touch.

"No, baby," he says, and it's his turn, now, his big hand coming to cover yours, making you pause. "Not tonight. C'mon, I wanna fuck you. Let me fuck you, please…"

How romantic. Your brow pinches, and he laughs softly, a bit sheepish, as if reading your mind. He slides from your fingers to encircle your wrist, pulling it away from his erection. He crowds in on you, his free hand pressing against the small of your back, guiding you to lie down on the bed and slotting between your legs once more.

You watch with wide eyes as he grabs your other hand, pinning both your wrists above your head. He rests a bit of weight on them, pressing into the mattress. If you tried to escape, he would be strong enough to force you to stay put. The thought sends goosebumps prickling over your skin, the hair on your arms rising and the back of your neck tingling in anticipation. March would never do something like that, you know in your heart, but the idea that he's even capable of it sends a new flush of arousal cutting through your post-orgasm haze.

Keeping hold of your wrists, his free hand snakes between your bodies. He fists his cock, stroking a few times before dragging the head over your entrance, collecting the slickness gathered there. His head drops, chin tucked to his chest, as if unable to look away from the lewd sight.

"You're so wet," he says reverently, more to himself than anything. "All for me, huh, honey?"

You nod, trying to lift your hips up, hoping his cock would catch and he'd slip inside, or at the very least grind against your clit, but he shakes his head.

"Let me hear you say it," he says.

"March," you grumble, face reddening.

You glance away, prepared to argue, when he releases his hold on himself, delivering a light slap to your pussy. You yelp, jerking in surprise at the sensation. Your eyes snap back to his face and you have a brief moment of clarity in which you wonder what the actual fuck this guy's problem is. The last two years have been full of secretive hook ups, quickies, entirely vanilla sex (though still thoroughly enjoyable), so something must have put him in an exceptionally punishing mood to be acting like this.

Not that you're complaining, if you're honest.

"Holland," he corrects.

"I'm sorry," you plead. "Holland, I'm sorry. Just, please…"

Another slap. Your words break off into a feeble moan. You arch your back, wrists straining against the death grip he keeps you in.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp out, feeling as though the air has been punched from your lungs. Your brain is starting to feel fuzzy, overwhelmed with both verbal and physical stimulation, you can hear it in your voice, the way your words slur together. "It's for you. It's only you, Holland."

Content that you've learned your lesson, Holland lets go of your hands. They fly to touch him as though with a mind of their own, one squeezing his forearm and the other sliding over the muscle of his abdomen, nails ghosting over his skin. He leans down, nipping at the shell of your ear.

"What a smart girl," he coos. He pinches one of your nipples, rolling it between forefinger and thumb until you're crying out, then switches to give the other a similar treatment. "So smart, and beautiful, but you're such a slut, too. Isn't that right?"

You nod. It's like you're floating, somewhere halfway between heaven and earth, in a way that only Holland can make you feel. He knows it—can see the euphoria written on your face—because as you look up at him, eyelashes fluttering, he's wearing a proud smile.

"I know, sweetheart," he says, mockingly sympathetic. "I know. Don't worry, I'll give you what you need."

He enters you in one smooth thrust, your breath faltering at the sudden intrusion, the sudden fullness. He curses, hissing through his teeth, and when you glance up, you see his eyes screwed shut, reveling in the feeling of you around him. He gives you a moment's reprieve before he slides almost all the way out, driving back into you with a sharp snap of his hips. You claw at his back in an effort to keep him as near as possible. The heat of his chest against yours is comforting, in a way. He feels more real like this, as the head of his cock drags deliciously against your walls, and you think you could stay in this moment forever.

Holland scoops your legs up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders and folding you into a mating press. He braces himself on his hands, caging you under him. He sets a harsh, incessant pace, both of your moans rising in volume at the new, deeper angle.

He whimpers your name into your neck and bites down, firm enough to make you shudder but gentle enough not to break the delicate skin. You clench mindlessly around him, keening a string of words that hardly passes for English. He lifts his head and a droplet of sweat rolls from his hairline down his nose, landing on your mouth. Your tongue glides over your lower lip without thinking, and you're only allowed to relish in the tang of salt for a moment before he's kissing you again.

He stays like that, noses brushing, hips slamming against yours and groaning into your mouth. Every thrust caresses your cervix, pleasure sparking behind your eyelids. You mewl, powerless, unable to do anything but take what he gives you.

You're lucky that Holland is feeling generous tonight.

"Holland," you babble. "Fuck—oh, my god, Holland, yes. Don't stop, please don't stop, I'm so close, I'm so close—"

"Yeah," he rasps, "I know, honey, I've got you. Come for me."

Your orgasm is startling in its intensity, your spine tightening with tension and releasing with pleasure as you convulse. Your walls spasm, squeezing Holland as he moans in response. You're gripping his back so hard you're certain you've drawn blood, but he doesn't seem to mind.

He fucks you through it, unrelenting even as his pace stutters, strokes becoming erratic while he chases his own climax. It feels good, you think, to be used like this. To be used by him. He pulls out at the very last second with a whine, spurts of come coating your stomach and breasts, hot on your skin. When he's ran himself dry, he tilts his head down and leaves absent-minded kisses on your mouth, then your cheeks and your throat. His cock, already beginning to soften, rests on your pubic mound, and he grinds against you once, then twice, as if to savor the feeling.

You don't know how long you linger there, pressed together and breathing heavily. Holland's back is slick with sweat as you run your fingers up and down the ridge of his spine, exhaustion already beginning to lull you from consciousness.

Eventually he pulls himself off of you, leaving you utterly boneless. You can hear the rustle of fabric as he yanks his boxers back on, then the sound of him rummaging around in the closet. He returns to bed quickly, familiar with where you keep your things, a big sleep shirt and a clean towel in hand.

"Hey, baby," he says, settling beside you once more. You don't even have the energy to tell him to stop calling you that. He cleans you off with tender, reluctant swipes, like he would rather keep you like this, painted in his come as evidence that he had you, at least for a little while.

When he's finished, he tosses the towel away and hands you the shirt. You put it on, running a hand through your hair. It won't fix anything; Holland has affectionately told you before that you get "sex hair" (he claims to be the one that invented this term), but it calms that small, bashful worry in you, so you do it anyway.

It's a wordless exchange, one you're both acquainted with by now—the way he rolls you onto your side, curling up behind you and pulling the sheets over you both. His chest presses against your back, breath tickling your neck, slinging an arm around your waist. He flattens his palm against your stomach as if to bring you closer despite the entire length of your bodies touching, and a warm, fluttering feeling blooms in your chest.

You know, in about ten minutes, Holland will kiss your shoulder and get out of bed. He'll gather his things, say a quick goodbye, and be on his way like someone lit a fire under his ass. You try to stay awake in order to be there when he goes, struggling against the sleep that threatens to overcome you, but you are so, so tired.

It doesn't take long for you to fall asleep in the warmth of his arms, childishly wondering if tonight was so different simply because he's finally planning to stay.

When you open your eyes, the other side of the bed is cold.

Morning light paints your room in stripes, bleeding through the slats of your blinds. You shift, your body sore and protestant, and wipe the bleariness from your vision. Holland must have left without waking you, leaving you to sleep through the night.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, chiding yourself. Did you really expect him to stay? You're being ridiculous. You and Holland have an arrangement, and it works because neither of you ask for more. You occasionally team up for cases and have casual sex. You're hardly even friends.

But… you do want to ask for more, don't you? And you think you have for a while now. Even then, maybe last night had been a mistake. It's more than likely you had misinterpreted the way he was acting—like you might disappear if he went too long without touching you, like he needed you to breathe, to live—and you're reading too much into things. The only way this will end is with you hurting your own feelings.

You sit up, coming to the unfortunate conclusion that you should probably end things between you and Holland, or at least start going out of your way to avoid him and hope he gets the hint, when something catches your eye on your nightstand.

Propped against the lamp, stark white against the dark wood, is his business card. You pick it up and frown, wondering what the hell you're supposed to do with it. You know Holland's number, have for a while now from working together. Why the hell would he leave it here for you?

You can't chalk it up to the card slipping from his pocket. For one, it was laid out far too neatly to be an accident and secondly, you'd think you'd find something like this on the floor, rather than your nightstand. You run your thumb over the illustration of Holland's face, the big block letters spelling out "THE NICE GUYS AGENCY" and mill it over in your head.

He wants you to call him.

The realization hits you hard, the cold, apprehensive knot that had been building in your stomach melting into an elated heat that pinkens the tips of your ears.

"What a coward," you murmur, turning the card over in your hand. He took the easy way out, using plausible deniability in case you either didn't pick up on his message or rejected it entirely. It's smart, in a stupid way.

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh, and reach for the phone.

ᯓ★

Loneliness, at least in Japanese, could be written in two ways and it would still be pronounced similarly.

Sabishisa was the common reading. The difference lay in the characters used. "寂しさ" was the usual spelling, and the other, "淋しさ". They both meant the same thing: loneliness, desolation; forlorn or melancholy. "The fact or condition of being alone", if you were to go by the wise words of your dictionary.

The old thing, which had been sitting in a box inside your home in Wisconsin, was from your mother. She bought it when she was still a young woman, fresh out of college, before eventually lugging it along when she married your father. There, on a designated bureau in her study the dictionary sat; always within her reach, always a companion that satisfied her desire to learn.

You unearthed the dictionary from its box after you came back from New York. Layers of twenty-plus years of dust reduced you into a coughing mess like the greeting of a long lost friend, and that's not the only unintentional offense that it dealt upon you. Its pages detached from the spine when you attempted to check its integrity. They came crashing down in small and big chunks, like an avalanche of paper and old memories. The worn-out glue, bless its heart, could no longer render its services to you. You mulled over what you should do about it. Store it away? Ignore it? You frowned. The thought of leaving it to waste away hurt too much.

You didn't dare bury that relic back in its enclosure. You put the sections back into order, alphabetically arranged like before; you dusted it carefully, gingerly; until no speck besmirched your palm and fingertips when you delivered a measured swipe over the edges. Only then did you returned its weary body on the now-polished bureau, which was another of your mother's possessions. All of this was done out of the belief that even when the bones of the dictionary were no longer attached to its spine, they stood to serve the same purpose. They were still whole. Still useful.

You reminisced about the years gone by, specifically the times when you relied heavily on this dictionary. You used it when writing your essays in school; and whenever you encountered a new word in a book that you're reading. The second circumstance was the most prevalent reason.

You loved to read. You were sure that you inherited it from your mother, because she too had a voracious appetite for knowledge, evidenced by the extensive collection displayed in the library slash family room, where she read to you when you were a child.

She was no longer surprised to find out that her most beloved pastime rubbed off on you, when you picked up your first book at five years old — Hansel and Gretel — and began reading the words as if you had learned them already in a past life. Children were sponges like that. They modeled the behaviors of their closest caregivers, and more often than not, carried those well into their later years.

You, being quite the zealous academic of the family, took it to the extreme and developed an obsession. The time you spent indoors was dedicated to burying your nose in a book. You read anything and everything: storybooks, textbooks; the home-making magazines that your mother kept in a pile in the living room, and all the novels that she bought you every year on your birthday.

Come high school, your knack for reading enabled you to breeze through Austen, the Brontes, and even Dickens. You never struggled in your literature courses, and your skills in comprehension even supplemented your performance in your other classes. In eighth grade, you joined a book club to meet more like-minded people. You were even club president once.

Your time in university didn't lend much leeway for you to devour novel after novel, however. College was a whole other landscape. You weren't anymore cushioned from the realities of the world, and life, you found, was devoid of the ease that your parents allowed you to have to adjust to its whims. The world was no longer wrapped around you, and you couldn't rely anymore on the consistent arrival of all the good things that built your first formative years.

How dearly you missed the days when your adolescent, overachiever brain could go through five books per month, all while attending classes that began at seven-thirty AM, maintaining an impeccable academic performance, and actively participating in your extra-curricular activities.

That time had passed. You had put that part of you to rest, complete with mental waterworks and a bereavement period of just about a week. You were a college student. Your allotted time for mourning was a measly five minutes, and after that, you had to start working again.

The Big Shift happened to your other habits and inclinations too. You were now horrified at the thought of having to wake up for an eight AM class. Nine was pushing it. The caffeine dependency emerged (from which you're still recovering); your solid sleep schedule, derailed; you didn't join any student groups, either. You were simply focused on getting good grades.

You considered it to be a miracle to have gotten into this specific university, because against almost a hundred-thousand, you emerged victorious. There was no way you were going to squander your chances of preserving your place in the fray. You were going to sacrifice your blood, sweat, and tears to prove that you were worthy of your slot, even if it meant forgoing an integral part of your college experience.

Your undergrad years, if you were to employ a piece of classical music to embody its soul, was a dramatic, emotionally charged rendition of Edvard Grieg's In the Hall of the Mountain King: a fitting leitmotif for a slow descent into madness; an intermingling of fury and misery that followed you like a shadow 'til present-day.

Every week you were bombarded with papers to write. Never did you run out of exams to study for and deadlines to meet — which, for some reason, were always scheduled to coincide with one another.

Once, when you were a freshman, you had three big group projects due on a single Tuesday. You also had a final exam later that day in an elective history course. A literal glimpse of hell on earth, if you were ever asked to describe that incident.

You knew that your professors didn't mean to do that on purpose; the stacking of deadlines, that is — they couldn't possibly be ganging up on you in secret — but on your worst days, that was what your exhausted mind would resort to when you attempted to craft a reason to explain such a period of suffering.

It would have been easier if they just told you upfront that you didn't deserve to rest. You would have reacted to that more favorably, with an indignant double thumbs up to match before you slumped on your desk to continue toiling. You ate, breathed, and lived in your notes and textbooks.

Apart from the brutal and heavy academic work that battered your brain, your well-being also took significant blows from the rose-tinted college social life that proved to be just a phase in the end.

You grew close with a few students at your dormitory in your junior year, after a dry spell of almost two years of your books being your only companions. You learned about the lives of these people and their hearts behind the curtains of academia, and they, yours. You even considered them your siblings at some point. You took care of one another like you were bound by blood. That was what you wanted to believe, and for a while, the faith that you invested in your friendship was honored and reciprocated.

But even the most devoted believer can have their faith tested and slashed by their own god, like lightning ripping through the trunk of an indestructible tree, forever scarring it and damning it to never bear any foliage again, so long as it stood above ground. Being cut down would have been better.

The pristine tabernacle, within which you stored your trust for these people, began forming fissures along its facade. You didn't see them at first. You thought that everything was fine, that you had nothing to worry about, because whatever problem you encountered, all of you would make an effort to mend and address it.

Only, these cracks proved to be too deep; too embedded in the structure for them to ever be isolated from the parts that were yet to face harm.

Jealousy, oh, that fiend.

You're briefed by M— about the problem that took root a few weeks ago, while you were unpacking your luggage. You had just come back after winter break; you weren't at all expecting to be on the receiving end of this; to be confronted with a dilemma, much less one with a romantic nature.

M—, who had feelings for I—, was suspecting J— of "stealing" him away from her. So M— cleaved to L—, in an attempt to make the other jealous. The story was mentally nauseating. Inter-friend group romance never ended well. You knew this because the same thing broke your high school friend group apart, and your expectations for how this recent one was going to turn out hardly differed from that of a few years ago.

Recalling the trigger that set off the literal Series of Unfortunate Events only made your head hurt. It was stupid. Puerile. Jejune. The synonyms just kept on coming. You were university students, for goodness' sake, yet no one wanted to own up and swallow their pride. You weren't supposed to be acting like this, and yet here you all were.

You were a Violet without a Klaus and a Sunny to help you devise a plan to worm your way out of Count Olaf's schemes. Try as you might to merge the broken pieces back together, your efforts turned out to be futile. All you were left with were bloodied hands; gushing red with the vital fluid by which you thought you and your friends were eternally bound. You were losing pints of it by the second, and you didn't know how to replace what you were starting to lack.

This tragic conflict cursed and poisoned your circle. You realized, after the dust settled, that this was incited by the insensitive and irresponsible nature of one guy — L—, whose name you lambasted from hell and back to this day. He couldn't apologize for shit, and when he did apologize (begrudgingly at that), he sounded more like he was pinning all the blame onto J—, the girl he used to like in your group.

A lesson from your high school swimming class echoed in your mind: a drowning person will drag down whatever his hand latched onto. You could only shake your head. Your mother's dictionary had more spine than that wimp of a man.

This unfortunate screw-up ultimately led the original twelve to drop to a population of eight. Another problem came your way some time during senior year, and then you became six. You all took another hit after that. This one hurt a lot, because you were caught in the crossfire between two of your closest friends. You're down to three.

And when you graduated — one.

———

You got a position at a bookstore in the city while you were doing your master's degree to gain some experience, just before you actually tread the career path that you wanted to take. The job paid as well as it could a fresh graduate like you at the time. Your boss and coworkers were nice, at least, and you didn't feel like you were slaving away your days in that bookstore.

The only downside was the lack of time to make any deep and meaningful connections. Making long-term friendships in a concrete jungle like New York was difficult, much less a romantic partner. All of your connections were shallow; none was good enough to compare to the bonds that you made in university; the ones that you failed to save, and had been yearning for ever since. It's as if they left a sizeable hole in your chest that could never be filled by what life had to offer you now that you were a working grad student.

That was the sobering truth of adulthood. It's bleak, tedious, and cold. Everyone was simply too tired to care. No one wanted to slow down, because if they did, the demands of their lives would run them over, like a hapless, insensitive motorist committing a hit-and-run on a dimly lit road.

The next hurdle that you needed to overcome, apart from this increasing sense of isolation, was your parents' deteriorating health. They retired and moved back to Wisconsin some time before you finished college, and you'd been left to fend for yourself, with just their support from afar keeping you afloat in a city that you had to call home.

You were ready to drop everything so you could take care of them when the news of their diagnoses came your way, but they didn't let you. Your father was the most steadfast in his insistence that you stay in New York to finish your degree. He knew how much you wanted this; you'd practically been dreaming, since your toddler years, of becoming a librarian — a job where you're surrounded by books — and he wasn't going to be the ball that's chained to your ankle and impede you from accomplishing and realizing that dream.

Against your roaring counter arguments, you stayed. You persevered through the brunt of juggling your academics and your job, and the growing weight of your separation from your family, whose state you had no way of monitoring save for the occasional phone call that lasted for a mere couple of minutes.

You received the dreaded correspondence one day after a tiring eight hours of work that your father was dying. Every ounce of blood in your body seemed to have been drained when you opened the text message from your aunt, and for a moment you couldn't think. You clearly remember just sitting at the edge of your bed in your small apartment and staring at the wall for a good few moments before springing to action.

You filed for an LOA and used up your saved vacation days at work to fly back to Wisconsin. They couldn't possibly stop you from visiting now, especially since the situation had turned too dire to ignore. You could set aside your timeline temporarily and be the daughter of your parents; a daughter who was prepared to give up what you had if it meant that they would survive this year.

But the universe let you down one more time. Your father was the first to succumb to his ailing heart, and then in a few days, your mother followed. Her extreme grief was likely the cause of her immediate departure and consequent reunion with her husband in the afterlife.

Life gave you two options then: persist in loneliness in a city where you had no ties, or replant your roots in your hometown, which was more familiar, but where you had to live on your own in the same house where your parents died.

You chose the latter as soon as you got your degree. No one came to your ceremony. You packed what little belongings you had when you returned to your apartment, hired some movers, and went on that booked flight back to your hometown.

———

Wisconsin had, for the most part, no familiar faces to greet you, at least not the ones you had once been acquainted with.

You no longer had any contact with your high school friends — most of them had moved out, and the those who stayed, you weren't so close with — and it was only once in a blue moon that you'd get an email from J—, too, one of the original twelve who stood by you during your last days as college seniors. You looked forward to reading her updates about her life and replying to her about your own.

Not that you had anything interesting to say, though. Your life revolved around working, eating, and sleeping. Rinse and repeat.

The local library welcomed you with open arms when you sent in your application form a week before your move. Steph, your supervisor and the very woman who interviewed you, even knew you by your last name.

She hired you exactly because she believed that you were dedicated to master the trade, and she wasn't wrong. You passed the training with the highest marks. You were meant for this; you'd always tell yourself that in the past, when you were still a student, and now, you finally cleared the last lap.

You wished that your parents would have lived a little longer to witness this moment. Instead, you had to go to the cemetery as soon as you got the confirmation that you were officially an employee at the library; clutching a bouquet that you bought at a flower shop.

They were not for you to celebrate your win, though. You stood over the gravestones of your mother and father, told them of your achievement, thanked them for everything, and set the flowers down. You drove home before the rain began pouring.

Bereft of any close companionship in your early adulthood, you turned to and sought comfort in a habit of yours from your youth. You decided to start reading books again, for you were working in their abode, and you had just finished finally cleaning your mother's humble library in the second floor. The project took a whole week of vacuuming, dusting, and lots and lots of moving, but you got the job done.

Now you had to put the room into good use.

You commenced your endeavor to reintroduce yourself with your forgotten pastime upon a memory from high school. Your club adviser recommended you Natsume Sōseki's Kokoro after seeing you read I Am Cat one afternoon, after a discussion on a few chapters of Don Quixote. She said that Kokoro was life-changing for her. That it really "puts into perspective" one's place in the world, particularly during a period of drastic change. Her words, not yours.

You didn't understand what she was saying then. How could you? You were only in ninth grade. You weren't that much interested in bigger philosophies other than your own egocentric, teenage ways. You weren't on the verge of a "drastic change". The most "drastic" thing that happened to you that year was your classmate confessing that he had a crush on you. And it was the bad kind of drastic.

But since you respected your club adviser, you filed her suggestion in the deep recesses of your heart. That flashback came tugging at your heartstrings when you stopped by a bookstore downtown in search for your first novel.

You spotted Kokoro in the international section. It was like seeing an old friend; a recognizable face in a sea of unrecognizable personalities. You walked up to it with a glimmer of hope in your heart.

You read the synopsis. It was too vague for you to glean the actual plot, which was perfect, and bought it. You didn't read it right away. You set it on your nightstand as a little pre-slumber treat, for when you get off work tomorrow.

———

Twenty pages in, and you couldn't put the book down at all.

You brought it to work and continued reading whenever no one was at the counter to borrow anything or had any questions about using the online catalogue on the computers. You weren't going to get in trouble for doing this, anyway. What good was a library that discouraged its staff from reading?

There weren't any chapters in the story, as you found out. It was merely divided into three unequally portioned parts: the narrator and his relationship with Sensei, his family, and then finally, an entire chunk that was meant to be a letter addressed to the narrator, written by Sensei. You didn't dare spoil yourself. It was too good, and you wanted the experience to remain untainted until the very end.

A colleague of yours — Nadia — took interest in your break time activity. She specialized in Asian literature, as per what she told you in the past, and studied Sōseki closely as part of her dissertation work. The two of you sat together to talk about your new book.

"In the original Japanese, he used a different character for the word 'loneliness'," Nadia told you while you two were having lunch. She produced a pen from her breast pocket and drew on her hand. "'寂しさ' is the common spelling. It's the standard translation, and in everyday speech you'll hear it a lot. Sōseki used this, though," she wrote a new set of characters on her palm. "'淋しさ', is how he spelled it in his book. It means the same thing, and it's interchangeable with the first version, but '淋しさ' denotes a… let's say a more 'inner' loneliness, than a 'physical' one."

"What's the difference?" You asked, intrigued by the nuance. You forked at your food.

"Well, you know how even when you're in the company of others, you still feel lonely? Like, you could be in a room, a party full of people, but there's this feeling inside you that makes you feel like you aren't really with these people? That. That's what the second spelling denotes."

You grew quiet after hearing that explanation. You put on your best interested yet nonchalant facade, nodded along, and shifted the focus of the conversation onto another subject. You didn't want to confront that sinking sensation in the pit of your stomach yet. You were at work. You needed to keep it together long enough so you could last through the day without falling apart.

You only let the dam break when you're alone in your bedroom that night, because all of your memories — an aggregate of your fondest high school and college years — came flooding back to you in a cruel deluge, washing you from head to toe with the contrasting loneliness that you're now left to deal with as an adult.

Nothing could describe the emptiness that engulfed you every time you arrived at the conclusion that you were really all you had now. Sure, you hung out out with your coworkers at the library from time to time, but apart from that, there was… nothing. Just you. And your comically large house in the middle of some town in Wisconsin. You felt like a girl in a movie. You wished you were a girl in a movie, because maybe then this would all be so easy.

It didn't help your case that the property also wasn't within the vicinity of traffic. You almost never heard anyone passing by, except Robert (or "Bob", as he insisted you called him) the postman who delivered your monthly bills, and Beth from USPS, when you ordered something online. You did your best to befriend them, because damn it all if you couldn't. You were going to go crazy with cabin fever and you were running out of things to polish and scrub and refine.

You got into the business of regularly cleaning the house a few months after your move aside from reading, as a "hobby". Signs of aging, you assumed. And you were only twenty eight.

You often surprised yourself — and this sparse company that dropped by every now and then — with your ability to keep your home tidy and gleaming. The postman asked you this question once. You told him you happened to like the chore, and he said that that's a good habit for a young person like you to have. You only smiled. What you weren't telling him was that it kept you from ruminating about your situation.

Try dusting a hundred ornaments, and see if you still have the energy to think about how isolated you are.

You lay in bed with your tear-stricken face almost every night, and tonight wasn't any different. You lacked the language to describe your state, which was laughable, considering you were always surrounded by hundreds and thousands of pages chock full of words that could embody your sorrow. You'd been working with them for years. One of them ought to be able to describe the whispers of your heart.

Well, Kokoro probably could.

This was enough reading, you decided. You inserted the bookmark and put the novel back in its designated spot near your lamp, and you turned the remaining light source off. You pulled the duvet up to your chin, yawned, and closed your tired eyes.

You needed to sleep early — it was Sunday tomorrow. You wanted to show up at the seven AM service.

–——

Church was nice.

You weren't expecting to have found comfort in a place like this — you weren't particularly religious, even though your parents were when they were still alive. One of the many items they left you were figurines of a crucified Christ and Mary in a niche in the staircase, complete with other paraphernalia to decorate the altar.

You put a framed picture of your mother and father there while you were cleaning once, and you replenished the flowers in the vase every week.

As for your inclinations, they were nowhere near that of your parents'. You had grown distant and evasive about religion; your environment in college only encouraged this, as you had more pressing matters to worry about than your spiritual state.

But really, the avoidance was due to the sanctimonious bible-thumpers that you'd meet every once in a while. A guy from college, whom you met at a random mixer to which that your friend dragged you along, turned out to be one of these people. You thought he was chill at first; he wanted to be friends until he bared his fangs at you when he found out that you swore and happened to be okay with "unholy" things. You ended up breaking off things with that guy and actively avoided him on the campus.

You experienced more encounters with people like that guy afterwards. You found it quite ironic that their avid dedication to evangelization only drew you further away from the god that they were introducing to you. That was not the kind of god that you wanted to meet — that was the main issue.

The God that you welcomed into your life resided in the chapel of your town; the one that you used to go to with your parents every Sunday when you were but eight years old. This God was warm; welcoming and kind; not at all tainted by the agendas of discrimination and exclusion, and He certainly did not tell you that you were going to burn in hell just because you had an extra piercing on your helix.

Reverend Bock, as you had come to know, approached you the first time you showed up, which was nearly a week after your return. You came early that day as they were still setting up the altar. He said he recognized you, and made the connection when you told him who you were, and that you moved back from the city to live in and look after your parents' house.

"I was only a deacon here, when your parents attended mass; they'd bring you here, every Sunday!" He said. "We're glad to have you back." He smiled, pat you lightly on the shoulder, and turned back to the altar. You took your seat in the second row of the pews.

Another reason of your preference to spend your Sunday mornings in this place of worship were the sounds of people. They soothed you; made you feel less alone. You liked closing your eyes when the choir and the congregation sang the hymns. You joined them whenever you knew the song; if you didn't know the words, then you simply stood and listened.

In the second week, you even availed a booklet of the songs so you could learn how to sing them.

You came home one day with this reflection in mind: people's experience of religion probably wouldn't be so traumatic if they were allowed to explore it for themselves. Nobody liked being force-fed dogmatic doctrine.

A lot could be said about the open doors of a chapel: everyone was free to enter just as they were to leave. You wouldn't be forced to stay, nor would you be excluded from joining, should the idea strike your fancy.

Conversely, if you bumped into someone on the street who coerced you into attending mass simply because they knew your late parents happened to be church folk during their lives, you'd have done everything in your power to steer clear of the chapel and its attendees.

But, now that you were entirely in charge of your experience with religion, you happened to like the people with whom you were spending your Sunday mornings.

You'd linger afterwards to socialize with some of the congregation members — this group was mostly composed of the elders — they noticed a new face (your face), asked when you moved in, and were even more delighted when they found out that you used to be a resident here as a child.

They were sympathetic to your situation; Mrs. Petersen and Mrs. Gruener most specially; they were the most concerned out of the bunch when you told them that you were by yourself now.

Your current reality — your being a young lady living alone in a relatively secluded area — was no source of abnormality to you, due to having been exposed to the many different kinds of lives when you were still in New York. To them, on the other hand, it was the opposite. You were susceptible to many difficulties because you had no one to look after you.

"You sure you're alright being on your own in your house?" Mrs. Gruener asked as you stood by your car. She was a little more open to your assertion when you said that you were fine; you were getting on pretty well and could handle most of the things that came your way; but she still had her reservations about your well-being.

You gave her another reassuring smile. "I'm alright, Mrs. Gruener. I'm used to it. I've been by myself since I was living in New York."

"You ought to marry soon so you wouldn't be alone," chimed in Mr. Hofstedtler. You sweat dropped and could only give him an awkward chuckle. Mrs. Gruener glared at him, as if to say, "not another word from you!"

"Well, it's good that you have a job at the library. You'll meet more people there, and you can make friends at work." She said as she pat your arm. "You know what? I'd like to have you over for dinner. I know that my Stephanie knows you already — you don't need to feel like a stranger."

"You're too kind, Mrs. Gruener. I really don't want to impo—"

"Nonsense!" She cut you off. "I'll see you later at six, you hear?"

Sheepish and hesitant, you acquiesced; you took your leave, unlocked your car, and slid into the driver's seat, running a new and revised mental note to pick up ingredients for pecan and blueberry pie.

———

Someone from church, you noticed, had been dropping by the library pretty consistently throughout the better part of this year. Until now, actually; and your coworkers were, in good faith, making a guessing game out of their observation. You weren't so sure what to feel about it, though.

A certain Lars Lindstrom had been making more frequent appearances at your workplace. He came almost every week, either to borrow or return a book, and his visits always occurred right when you were stationed at the check-out. Your coworkers were starting to wonder why this is. The game operated with one single question: "Why was Lars Lindstrom specifically timing his visits to coincide with the new full-time librarian?"

You didn't pick up on this unremarkable detail at first — it always went over your head, as you were more focused on the demands of your occupation — it was only after the ninth reiteration that Nadia mentioned their preoccupation over this interesting study, and you, too, began picking up the pattern.

Sometimes Lars would make conversation; usually it's something about the weather getting colder; if you had new books coming soon, and some technical queries about the online catalog. You replied to him as best you could; you didn't want to come off rude to a patron, and he appeared genuine in his desire to maintain some level of familiarity with you. The least you can do was to respond in kind.

The most you could do was save yourself from embarrassment and keep your mouth shut about what you really thought about Lars, because you did know him. You knew Lars because you had been friends during your childhood. You couldn't tell a single soul at work about it, though. That piece of news would sell like hotcakes, and you didn't want that unnecessary attention.

———

You met Lars one afternoon during the height of spring.

Your father took you for a walk in the small wooded area just a little ways from your house, because you wanted to pick some wildflowers for your room. Your grandmother made you a small ceramic vase for your sixth birthday, and you told your parents that you were putting it to good use instead of simply relegating such a beautiful, nacreous piece to become a mere passive dust collector.

The beaten path to the forest was your guide. You could have easily traversed it yourself without the supervision of a parent, but your mother didn't want to risk losing you in the woods, even it wasn't too dense or vast, and that you memorized the way back. You were a child. You shouldn't be left alone.

So there you were, right hand clutching your father's larger left, and the other, holding a straw basket and swinging the empty receptacle as you filled the silence with chatter directed solely at your father.

You managed to collect a sizeable bouquet already at around the thirty-minute mark, but you insisted on seeing the lake. Your father was skeptical — it was nearly five, and he intended on getting the two of you back home before dusk — but he relented after the second pout that you used against him. He was weaker to your schemes compared to your mother, and he couldn't stand to not indulge your requests.

Three people had beaten you to your spot when you arrived: one man and two boys. Your father was acquainted with the former, you soon learned. Mr. Lindstrom, as per his introduction to you. The latter were his sons, Gus and Lars.

He called them over to meet you. You, however, did the bravest thing a six-year-old could do at that time, and hid behind your father's legs, unsure of how to behave around the opposite sex.

Gus was the older sibling. He was more understanding of your shyness, and settled with waving at you as you peeked at him. The youngest — Lars — was more similar to you. He was also cowering from you. Your fathers had to drag you out of your hiding places so you could properly exchange names.

He wasn't even looking at you when he told you his. In an effort to get him to like you, at least — you were the same age, and thus were likely to be playmates — you offered him a bluebell from your basket, as some kind of truce.

Lars stared at the flower for a while. He took it from you and smelled it, then his eyes flickered at you. He must have muttered a 'thank you' then, but you didn't hear it clearly. He ran off to join his brother right away, gripping the flower in his left hand.

You saw him more frequently in the forest after that. You played all sorts of games with him and Gus, but you sensed that Lars was beginning to prefer you more, as he stayed close to you almost all of the time and rallied your aid for when his brother teased him a little too much. You'd "protect" Lars from Gus with no hesitation; the latter would only laugh at this, and redirect his provocations towards you, calling you Lars' "girlfriend" and that you were no fun for not playing along.

But why would you join in on teasing Lars? You didn't understand the way that these boys — or at least Gus — played. Lars was too soft-hearted, too kind to be treated this way. He was always the first to run up to you when you scraped your knee, or got your sweater fibers snagged by a stray branch.

He always held your hand when you walked back to your house, and promised you that you were going to see each other again tomorrow; if not at the forest, then at your house. "Yours is bigger," he'd say. You didn't mind; you liked having him over.

For a while, everything was perfect. After school and on weekends, it was an immediate guarantee that you'd be coming home to Lars.

And then, two years after you met, life happened: your father's job required you to move to another state. You had to leave everything behind. Your beloved home, your school, the forest, and Lars. Your Lars.

You hated and loved that day, because that was the last one that you had been permitted to spend in the woods with Lars. You watched the sun set into the horizon as you said your good-byes. He gave you a paper ring as you sat by the lake; something to remember him by — as if you could ever forget him.

Lars cried. He didn't understand why you couldn't stay. All he got from your words was that you were leaving him, and that he wouldn't see you for a very long time. You apologized — you didn't want to leave him, you asserted, but you had no other choice; you had to obey your parents. You reminded him that this was what they taught you two in church.

That wasn't enough of a reason for Lars. In full childish fashion, he asked you to elope with him. You told him that you couldn't possibly do that, for it'd be all for nothing; your parents would still separate you from each other. Neither of you were ready to face the glaring truth that the end was near, and that there was nothing you could do to prevent it.

You could only murmur a promise to Lars that you were going to go back to him some time in the future, once you were an adult yourself. You were going to meet each other here again when the time comes. If it comes.

Lars wasn't placated with that. He was adamant in his refusal to let you go; irrevocably convinced that you'd be gone forever if you slipped away now. You were both thrashing and weeping and stubbornly grasping onto each other — he even had to be physically pried from you, as he had laced his fingers into yours the entire time you walked back to your house, where his father had been waiting for him.

That was, perhaps, the most surprising occurrence that transpired on that evening. Lars, who always claimed that touching another person's skin burned him, was latching onto you; holding onto you so tightly that he wished he could be molded and attached to your flesh so that nothing and no one could ever sever him from you. And his grip hurt. It hurt so sweetly; like he wanted you to be haunted by that ache, so you'd carry that feeling in your body and never, ever forget him.

Therein lay the last time that you saw Lars Lindstrom: almost eight years of age; his eyes, glimmering with tears and red from strain, and his lips uttering pleas for you to not leave him; to come back to him, and fulfill your promise.

———

It had been twenty years since that sorrowful night.

You couldn't find it in you to broach the subject to Lars. For one, you thought the idea inappropriate. You weren't "friends" anymore (or at least that's what you believed); your relations were restricted between that of a librarian and a patron, and your being fellow churchgoers.

You weren't sure if he still remembered you, either, judging by how he'd speak to you. He's formal; distant, and tentative. Nothing about your shared history or even an inkling of your face being familiar to him came out of his lips. His eyes landed on you like he was seeing you for the very first time, and it stung like hell.

Lars had most likely blocked you out of his memory. That was your most viable theory as to why he wasn't able to recognize you. He had every reason to, anyway. In his eyes, you abandoned him. You believed it likely that the thought of you was just as painful to bring up as that of his late mother, so it wouldn't surprising if his consciousness had repressed to oblivion every trace of you.

For old times' sake, you went to the very forest in which Lars asked you to run away with him all those years ago, on a Saturday, after you had come back from town to pick up groceries.

Your goal was to revisit the lake. You didn't care that it was cold out; you were desperate for nostalgic comfort after having been miserable by yourself for months. You deserved this, at least. You took your time putting away the items into the pantry and the fridge before trudging up the stairs to get dressed and protect yourself from the elements.

You put on the headphones attached to your Walkman as you made your way to your destination. The songs on this CD hadn't been updated in a year, you suddenly recalled. You'd been planning to burn a new one at the library for a while now; you had to put it off, though, since you were still compiling a list of songs that you could listen to on your daily commute to work.

Devon, another coworker of yours, promised you he'd lend to you his Dusk and Summer CD so you can get a copy of the songs you wanted off the album. God bless that guy.

For now, your companions on this sojourn were Natalie Imbruglia and The Cranberries. Your hands were stuffed into the pocket of your jeans to protect them further from the cold, but you let your hair be swept by the wind, so you could at least bask in the crisp air blowing against your face. You couldn't get tired of this. You really do begin to appreciate such seemingly insignificant things like air quality once you reach a certain age.

The forest floor crunched beneath your boots with each step you took — you couldn't hear these, of course — and the views that your surroundings offered you, your eyes drank up greedily. Light blue contrasted against the dark brown branches of the trees all around you. "Greenery" probably wasn't so smart of a word choice. The foliage had yet to return; not for another few months were you bound to see the leaves sprout back in their usual lush glory along the boughs overhead.

Despite the lack of verdant growth, you found the scenery beautiful. You lifted one of the ear cups and listened to the burbling lake in the distance. You smiled. If you closed your eyes, you could see flashes of you and Lars, both twenty years younger; running around the bank and doing all sorts of things together.

The images warmed and squeezed at your heart. All of them were so easy to envision, yet so hard to let go. You could reminisce as much as you wanted, but you were painfully aware that you were never going to replicate that time in your life again, like watching castles built from sand slipping through your fingers as the wind blows past them, or a giant wave felling them with a single, unforgiving surge.

You wished Lars was here with you to ease the bitter-sweetness of it all.

You emerged from the tree line and reached the clearing in no time. Even after two decades, your feet knew exactly where to take you like it's muscle memory; inducible even without your willful, conscious direction.

A familiar figure in the distance made you stop dead in your tracks. You hadn't even crossed the halfway point when you noticed him — him — and he's where you once stood as children.

It's Lars. You'd know that two-toned jacket and the beanie anywhere.

He didn't see or hear you approaching — thank God — his back was to you and he was deep in thought.

You took this opportunity to back away slowly and leave without being detected. You didn't foresee that your wishful thinking would actually produce a tangible manifestation of your thoughts; you asked for Lars and the universe gave you him. Funny how that didn't work out all those years before.

Then, as if to mock you for your cowardice, the universe smote you by having you step on a bent twig. The sound didn't fail to announce your presence, because Lars was quick to whip his head around to spot you where you were now frozen in place. You had no choice but to accept this wish back into your palms and join him at the edge of the bank.

Lars was already smiling upon seeing you drawing near him.

"Hi," he said. You took off your headphones, gave him a similarly polite smile and returned the greeting.

"Do you come here often?" He asked. You shook your head.

"Not really. I just didn't have anything else to do on my day off." You fiddled with the wire that was attached to the Walkman. "I live nearby, so I decided to check out the nearest place outside."

"Oh? Which house?" He gave you a curious smile, like he was humoring you.

"The one directly from the path on the west side."

"That's all yours?" Lars asked, again, like he was humoring you.

Your heart twinged at that question. Did he or did he not remember you? He wouldn't have asked that if he did. You pushed the feeling away so you could respond.

"Yeah," was the only thing you managed to say.

"It's a pretty big house."

"My parents left it to me."

You were desperate to come up with a better way to continue the conversation; to sustain the topic that could branch into a dialogue about your past friendship, because the elongated pause was clearly evincing that you're somewhat inept at rekindling the connection you once had with your childhood friend.

Lars beat you to it, however.

"I requested a book at the library a few months back," he began. You looked up at him. You couldn't believe that this was now the same Lars who used to stand on his tiptoes so he could coronate you with a twig crown. He was tall; similarly worn by the toil of early adulthood, but he was recognizable. He was still Lars. The same child-like spark flashed across those dazzling blue eyes of his as you stared into them.

"…but I haven't seen it on the catalogue yet. Any idea when it's gonna come in?"

You cleared your throat when you caught yourself gawking at him. "Um… When did you put in the request?"

"Last June."

You hummed. "New acquisitions usually take a few weeks, or sometimes one to six months — at least at our library — to appear on the shelves… And we've been getting a lot of patron requests lately. The process take a bit longer when it's like that — and some books can be pretty difficult to acquire. May I ask what the title of the book is? I can check it for you in the inventory on Monday, if you want..." You trailed off upon realizing how much you had chattered.

A flush of red bloomed on Lars' face, which you found strange. "I… I don't remember it now anymore, 'c-cause it's been so long…" He said. He was clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides and avoiding your eyes. Those mannerisms… You'd seen them all before. He's nervous; about what, you didn't know.

You blinked at him. "Oh, well… That's too bad. Hopefully it's there and you just haven't seen it."

You looked down at your hands, which had resorted to coiling the wire out of desperation to be occupied with something other than just hanging idly by your sides.

This was too painful to bear.

"I'll get going now. It's getting pretty dark, and I need to turn on the lights in the house." You gave Lars another small smile as you made your exit. He didn't say anything until you were at least a few feet away.

"See you at church tomorrow!"

You looked over your shoulder one last time. You raised up a hand to acknowledge him.

———

It's six in the morning and your bed was on fire. Your body felt like it was on fire.

Your head was pounding and your sinuses were blocked; the faint morning light, that you used to look forward to wasn't so pleasant now; it was hurting your eyes; and to complete the syndrome, like the proverbial cherry on top, the Sahara and all of its cacti tenants had relocated to your throat overnight. You pulled the duvet closer to your body, cursing the cold despite the heater having been turned on and rolling onto your stomach in an effort to ease the discomfort.

The temporary darkness that enveloped you provided you with the space to identify the culprit of your illness: the walk that you took yesterday. You didn't cover your head, and had been too indulgent in your desire to let the wind card its fingers through your hair. Now you were reaping what you had sown.

You were no stranger to this problem. You had taken care of and nursed yourself back to health before, when you were all alone in New York — this was no different. This was why you kept medicine in your nightstand.

But first, breakfast. You're nauseous and you certainly didn't want a repeat of last year when you took that Tylenol on an empty stomach.

Another reminder flashed in your mind. You groaned.

You had to call Steph first, and let her know that you won't be able to come to work for at least a week. You had saved up enough sick days for this, since you weren't falling ill every month — someone would be able to take your place while you recover from the consequences of your minuscule blunder.

On the count of three you got up, despite the plethora of protests that your muscles were raining down on you. You shrugged on a dressing robe — a gift from a distant aunt — and did your best to descend the stairs without toppling to the first floor like a child who just learned how to walk. Once you got there safely, you called the library's landline and asked for Steph Gruener.

"Oh, you poor thing," she said upon hearing the reason for your incoming week-long absence. "Trish will cover for you, don't you worry. You rest up and call if you need anything, alright?"

You rested your head on the wall by the phone. "I will. Thanks, Steph." You hung up and massaged your temples. This flu was doing a number on you. You really should have worn a hat yesterday, you berated yourself. Your mother would've told you the same thing.

The next order of business, after putting in a notice, was to make breakfast and take your first dose of medicine.

It took damn near every drop of effort from your feeble body to whip up a batch of chicken noodle soup, but you pulled through; soon you were sitting at the kitchen table and savoring every spoonful until you were satiated. You could spend the entire day just eating this. The craving, really, was less about the flavor and more about the feeling that your mother was here with you, helping your recuperate.

Suddenly you're seven again, and nothing is amiss in the world.

You downed the Tylenol with some ginger tea and went back upstairs to lounge in the library, Kokoro in hand with a blanket draped over your legs. The sun wasn't scalding today; you figured some sunlight would do you good, being plagued with a cold and all. You could hear your mother's voice recounting every single thing you had to do for your health to improve. Well, you always did seek her advice for almost everything in life, even after she had passed.

You're abruptly awoken from your nap — after having cleared only a few chapters through the second part of the novel — by a series of knocks that were echoing through the dead silence of the house. At first, the disturbance irked you. A sharp headache introduced itself around your forehead and temple area and you mulled over pretending to be asleep until the ruckus would convince itself of your indifference or to get up and see who it was at your porch.

The second option outweighed the farcical nature of the first. Groaning and moaning, you peeled the blanket off yourself and put on your slippers before making your way downstairs as carefully as you did prior. You pulled the robe tighter to your body.

Who could be dropping by? Robert, Mr. Postman? He had already dropped by this week; you weren't expecting any letters from anyone anyway. Everybody used their cellular phones for that now.

You braced yourself for the incoming interaction with the postman, only for your expectations to be subverted by a certain tall gentleman in that two-toned jacket and beanie. And a scarf. He was wearing a scarf this morning.

Lars.

Worry was written all over his features as soon as you opened the screen door and eliminated all barriers between the two of you. You maintained your distance, however; you stepped back when he stepped closer to you, something that might have stung him a little, because his expression twitched upon seeing your reaction to his implicit need for proximity. You didn't want to risk infecting Lars. That's really all there was to your avoidance.

Whether or not it was wise to uphold and apply that view onto every circumstance involving said young man, you really couldn't tell.

The two of you exchanged greetings.

"You weren't at church today," Lars observed with a small, concerned frown.

Right. You did sort of agree to "see" him in church yesterday at the clearing. You mentally added that to your list of transgressions against your estranged childhood friend.

He didn't let you defend your absence — it was not out of malice, from what you could tell from his demeanor — rather, it's as if he was preserving your dignity and assuming that you were simply unable to show up due to a reason outside the zone of your control or intention.

A small paper bag was put in front of you. "This is from Mrs. Gruener. It's… soup, I think. She says it's good for colds. And there's extra medicine in there… somewhere," he said. You took the bag from him, purposefully avoiding brushing against his hand when you do. You congratulated yourself for being successful. He handed you another item (the one he was hiding behind his back) to complete the small care package.

"And this," Lars continued. "These are for you, too."

It's a bouquet of pink chrysanthemums. You blinked at the arrangement for a moment before you snapped out of it. The crinkling of the wrapping paper was so needlessly loud when you received them from Lars — you couldn't even look at him straight. You cradled it in your arms.

"Are these also from Mrs. Gruener?" You asked.

Lars gave you a tight-lipped smile. That told you all you needed to know: the mums were from him.

"Y-yes," he said. The smile widened. Liar. You bit back your own delighted reaction. "They're from her, too. You —" he faltered; he started fidgeting with his hands, which were now free. "You aren't allergic, are you?"

You shook your head. "Thank you for these. Please extend my thanks to Mrs. Gruener, too."

There was that smile again. Lars bade you good-bye and went back to his car not long after. You also retreated inside the house, but you watched him depart from the driveway through the screen door, and until he disappeared from your view.

You mourned that your cold had dulled your olfaction, thus disabling you from appreciating the flowers that you had received. Nonetheless, they weren't neglected: you prepped and transferred the mums to an unused crystal vase that you delegated to reign over the space on the living room coffee table.

You stared at it for a good few seconds before uprooting yourself to take another nap. You checked the time. Your next dose of medicine wasn't for another few hours — you clambered back up the stairs and returned to bed for some much coveted sleep.

———

Your week off work, dedicated to your recovery from the nasty cold that you caught from your unfortunate walk in the forest, was characterized with a healthy peppering of visits from Lars, much to your surprise and mild bewilderment. They happened only in the morning at around seven or earlier. You speculated that he might have been dropping by before heading to work.

He never really went inside (again, you didn't invite him in, so as to contain the contagion within your domicile); he just stood at the porch (while exponentially getting closer to you each time) and inquired after your well-being; after that, he'd exit and get back inside his car to leave. You generously enlightened him about your progress every time he came by, as that visibly made his face glow brighter, and even more when you told him that you were confident that you'd be alright in no time.

You began to wonder if someone was putting him up to this, and it inundated you with remorse. Maybe Mrs. Gruener? Or Karin? You didn't really know. You wanted to tell Lars that he needed not go through the trouble of checking in on you every day; that he could just call your landline and ask from there.

But you didn't have the heart to discourage him, for he appeared so genuinely excited to see you emerge from the screen door, looking slightly better than last time.

You allowed yourself to believe that Lars wasn't being coerced or instructed. He was, you convinced half of yourself, doing this because he himself wanted to see you.

Why else would he have beamed when you told him that you might be strong enough already by Sunday to attend the sermon?

"Church isn't the same without you," he said to you that day. He was fidgeting with his gloves. "Neither is the library."

You lingered by the doorway upon hearing those words from him. "Really? Trish is covering for me, though."

"Trish isn't you," Lars countered. He sounded a little hurt.

You two shared a look. You refused to ask him to expound on what he could've meant by that; you didn't think your heart could handle it. (Could it ever?) You needed to steer the conversation to another direction, so you took that chance when it presented itself.

"Did you find the book you requested?" You asked.

"Yes," Lars nodded. He scratched the back of his neck. "It arrived last Monday."

You smiled. Something about that also sounded like a bluff, but you didn't worry yourself about it. Or you tried to, at least. "That's good to hear."

You directed your eyes at some nondescript portion of the Australian tea shrubs behind Lars before deciding that you needed to end this conversation now. You didn't want to keep him any longer for an exchange that hardly offered him any utility or entertainment. At least in your belief, that is.

"Thanks for dropping by again to check on me," you said. You made a move to retreat to the safety of the foyer. "I'll… get back inside now. Don't want to—"

Lars interrupted you. "You'll be at the service tomorrow, right? You'll be healthy enough?"

You stopped where you stood. "I… I hope so," you said. You softened the blow with a smile and a harmless request. "Save me a seat?"

Lars nodded. "I will. You can sit next to me and Gus and Karin."

The image of that very proposition flashed briefly in your mind. Beautiful. Idyllic. Temporary.

That's why it broke your heart when it rained the next day. You didn't want to risk venturing out into the cold once again, especially at such a precarious state, where you're teetering between being en-route to recovery but treading the fine line that's keeping you from falling into that God-awful cold again.

Twenty-eight years in this body had been enough for you to be well-acquainted with your proclivities. You were weak to the cold; that's a hardened fact. Even if you'd be bundled up enough to not let it seep through your layers, or if you turned on the heater in your car, exposing yourself to a weather such as the one outside at this moment would likely take you back to square one.

Your body was notorious for relapsing when sick. That point was made very clear by your mother countless times in the past. If anything so much as triggered your symptoms, you'd be in for another round of chicken noodle soup and Tylenol and ginger tea and steam inhalations and — ugh. It would never end.

You needed to be at your most vigilant in this stage of the cold, so you put off hearing mass. Missing it was a glowing, red, hot knife to your chest. And to Lars'. Oh, Lars. He was expecting you today. He'd have saved you a seat. He'd have told Gus and Karin about you. He'd had waited eagerly, patiently for you to show up through those doors.

You had settled for that scenario in this context, because the other one — the one closer to the promise you made as children — as symbolized by that paper ring, didn't seem so possible now. All you needed to do was to go to church, and you didn't. You couldn't.

You whispered an apology to Lars against the fleece blanket in which you were wrapped, like you were confessing to an imaginary priest inside an equally imaginary confessional, hoping to be absolved of your sins one last time.

You looked at the clock. It had been an hour since seven-thirty, and you're alone in your stupidly large house, vaguely sick and stewing in guilt for something you couldn't help.

You curled in on yourself. The feeling curdled in your stomach, and it hurt; you soothed it by repeating to yourself that this is what's needed to be done, that if you didn't do this, the outcome would be worse. You couldn't control the weather. You couldn't put your health in jeopardy again. If you didn't stay in, then your efforts to take care of yourself, along with Mrs. Gruener's and Lars', would've been wasted. If you didn't do this, then it'd all be for nothing.

You found yourself feeling like you were twenty years younger under that blanket; you're in your parents' car, watching from the back seat as you pulled away from your house and left the town you once called home because of the demands of your father's job. Because it's what was needed to be done. You understood him. He was being responsible. He was simply an adult who had to make a difficult decision. You were an adult who had to make a difficult decision. But doing what was needed to be done never once stopped leaving a bad taste in your mouth.

You were moments away from falling asleep again when three loud knocks promptly yanked the opportunity away from you. You would've have noticed by now, had you been keen enough to discern that specific pattern — it had been your alarm of some sort these past couple of days — but as it was, guilt and drowsiness, when mixed, created a substance that put you into a state of stupor, and you were drowning in it.

You secured the robe over your body and got up, bothering no more to fix your hair or to look more presentable as you unlatched the chain and opened the doors.

You couldn't even get a word in. You're frozen in time, in both the present and past tense, as Lars drew you into his arms as soon as all barriers between you disappeared. No longer was this the embrace of an eight-year-old that was powerless in the face of his father. Lars was sturdier now. More certain. More determined and stubborn.

He wasn't bound by weakness born out of his circumstance, nor the pleasantries that he'd been employing last week. At long last, he had crossed the threshold of your home and had broken down the walls that you two had been pretending to respect over the past couple of days. Your leg, which instantly stepped back to prop yourself up, struggled to bear your combined weights. He sensed your plight, and gently tipped your forward, so you were leaning onto him.

Lars told you once, when you were children, that touching you "didn't burn". You never really understood what he meant by that at the time. You only knew that he loved being near you; holding your hand, linking arms with you, and hugging you each time you said good-bye to each other. You never truly parsed his reason for choosing you above everyone else.

You were about to find that out now.

"You didn't come to church," Lars said. You could barely hear him. His grip around you tightened. "I was worried."

You swallowed that enormous lump in your throat. "It's raining and I'm still unwell," was your only response. Lars didn't let up.

"You told me you'd be okay." He frowned, cupping your face with his hands with so much familiarity that it nearly took your breath away. His words too, pushed that knife deeper into your chest. You were bleeding and it's getting all over him.

"The rain — the rain makes me sick, Lars," you reasoned, half to yourself to alleviate the guilt, and the other, to Lars. You tried to look away. "It would've made me feel worse."

"I know," was what he said. He embraced you again, nuzzling into your neck. You weren't sure if you could breath still. "But I was hoping you'd still come. Karin said you get less sick when you're older. And we aren't kids anymore."

You pulled away just enough to look at him. Lars met your eyes. He drew you closer than ever before and rested his forehead upon yours. You didn't know if the tear that rolled down your cheek was his or your own because of how little the space between the two of you was.

All of a sudden you're being carried to the living room. Lars' steps were heavy upon the floorboards; they creaked beneath you and him; a large contrast to the light pattering of his and your feet whenever you used to play inside your house. You wrapped your arms around his neck in response, afraid to fall down or slip from his grasp. He smiled sweetly at you.

"I got you," he said. "I can lift lots of things now."

Lars sat on the divan — that's where you had been laying before he came. Now you were in his lap. The feel of his jeans against your legs were doing all sorts of things to you that you couldn't name, so you just elected to push them aside and unpack them later.

Your heart stopped when Lars put out a hand to fix your hair. He righted the strands around your face; he combed down with his fingers what he could reach, and finished it up by tucking the last loose tuft behind your ear.

"Did you keep it?" Lars asked.

Your mind was too busy taking all of it in; frankly, you hadn't the slightest idea as to what he was pertaining.

You stared at him. "Keep what?"

"Your ring. The one I gave you." Lars leaned in. He took one of your hands and laced his fingers through the gaps like he used to. You mirrored him.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten about that."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Good," he said, searching your eyes. "Because I meant what I said back then."

That pulled a soft chuckle from you. "What, that you'll elope with me?"

Lars laughed too. "No, silly. There's no need for that." He bumped noses with you. "You're here now. You came back to me."

"You remember me?" You pressed, hopeful. He closed his eyes. His big, warm palms enclosed your arms and caressed them.

"I never forgot about you," he said. "I didn't need to say anything about it because I know you remember me, too."

You were sure now that the salt you were tasting were from your own tears.

"I'm sorry, Lars," your fingers curled into the material of scarf he was wearing. Your vision, unfocused and bleary, turned him into an indiscriminate palette of his colors. Your bottom lip quivered. "I'm so sorry for leaving. I'm sorry for not going to church today."

He shook his head. "Not your fault."

That was the blow that broke you. Lars drew you back in, and there, onto his shoulder you wept. You let everything out: the pain that you'd been carrying since your parents' death, the relief of confirming Lars' lack of resentment, and the happiness derived from this happy, seamless reunion. Here you were, finally — back in Wisconsin, wearing your mother's heirloom negligee and being held together by the last line that led you back to your childhood.

Through it all, Lars kissed you; along your neck, your cheek, your temples, and the small sliver of skin that your slightly disheveled robe presented to him. He ran his hands up and down your back as a response to the shudders that tormented you.

How terribly you longed for his touch; it seared and cured you at the same time, like silver laving over a burn to promise its speedy recovery. Nothing could ever compare. Nothing could have ever felt so good as this.

Lars kept you there and didn't move until you faced him. That's when you saw that he was crying, too. You kissed away his tears before he decided that this simply wasn't enough anymore.

The reconnection was swift. Those twenty painful years were nothing but ash as he fit his lips onto yours, finalizing his and your agony. Lars never said anything because he knew he didn't need to. Your heart could recognize him anywhere. His place in it never disappeared; neither did yours in his. You just needed to be reminded of it.

An unembellished kiss would have sufficed, but you're both older now; a little wiser, too, perhaps, but definitely hungrier. Lars had gone from bruising your lips and sucking on your tongue to spoiling your neck with the same fervor. You could only hold onto him and receive all of his affection as it came onto you like a deluge. You're a chalice, and Lars was the river that flowed from the throne of the Lamb — whatever spilled out of your cup, he poured back.

Lars sat up. He peeled and took off everything on his person, even the shirt that he wore beneath, until they were but a pile of clothes on the carpet. You ventured to go through the same motions, but he stopped you.

"You'll be cold," he said. "Stay like this."

You protested. "You'll warm me up. It's okay, please."

"No," he asserted. "Keep them on. You look really pretty in them."

You hung your head in defeat. "Oh, Lars… Since when did you become like this?"

He pecked at your chest, right where the sweetheart neckline of the negligee dipped; just a little above the lace trim and where your cleavage began. "You've been gone a long time," he said. Your chest constricted at that remark, but you're quickly brought back under the rays of his teasing by his continuation. "I've changed just as you had."

"Hopefully not too much," you murmured.

He shook his head. "I'm still me," he tilted his head and gave you a peck.

Lars flipped the tables so you were the one leaning back this time. He returned to your lips, and sans the guidance of his vision, he slowly hiked up the hem of your slip. Your thighs zipped up on instinct, but one discreet pass of Lars's hand over your skin was enough to relax them and allow him room to feel you up and more. He ridded you of your panties; he was beyond delighted that you were already soaked just from kissing and being kissed by him.

"Do you remember when—" he slid the flimsy material off your ankle, "—when we used to play here? We'd pretend the divan was a boat and I would row it for you." He said, amused by the recollection.

"It's…" you gasped when his finger rubbed between your folds to collect what you'd produced for him, "it's a bit hard to… to think when you're doing this to me, Lars… Ah…!"

He pushed a sodden finger in; the longest of his five. You were full of him right away. The heel of his callused palm felt so heavenly on your clit. "But you do remember?" He insisted, and curled the digit once or twice. You couldn't tell. You were busy hanging onto him to preserve your sanity.

"I do," you replied. You didn't see Lars smiling at you as you were bowing your head, watching as he fingered you open for him.

"That's what people say when you ask them to take you as their spouse," Lars said. "If they want to, of course…"

You failed to see what Lars was getting at, and even more did you fail at keeping your eyes open after he added a finger. Puffs of air escaped your throat as he settled into a slow and steady rhythm. Lars watched you all throughout, wanting to bask in every twitch and shift of your features to see what felt the best for you. You adored how attentive he was, but you were too bashful to verbalize it. You could only moan and kiss him as a response to his loving effort to make you feel good.

Lars nosed into your cheek. "I've so many things I want to say to you," he confessed, "but… It's like my mind is a sheet of white. My heart's doing all the talking."

You seized his arms for support. "And what's it — nngh! — what's it saying…?" You shivered as he crept so dangerously close to that throbbing patch of nerves within you.

"That I miss you. And I love you," he kissed you between almost every word, "and you're so pretty—"

You jolted when he nudged you a little further, and in return, your fingernails injected into his upper arm.

"— that I could just eat you up," he concluded, chuckling to himself.

He needn't be told that he found where you wanted him most — your body did that for him by arching off the high armrest and into his chest. You stayed there, arms now looped round his shoulders as he sped up. The pace was maddening; he could reach so far into you that it almost felt like he was licking at your deepest spots and gnawing at your soul from the inside out.

"Lars," you cried out. The band was about to snap. "Lars, I'm—"

He nodded into your hair. "I know. I'll get you there. Please don't hold back..."

You crumbled earlier than you expected. Lars was there to gather you back into one piece, however; he cooed at you as you came, coaxing you back to the real world gradually by holding you fast to his chest, reminding you again that he had you and that you're okay.

With what little strength you had, you wrapped yourself around him and soaked up his warmth. Lars was soft. He always was.

The two of you stayed like that, just holding each other in the silence of the moment. Lars allowed you take off the robe at least — it had gotten a little too unbearably warm for you, and you had begun perspiring — he undressed himself all the way, too, and you're overcome with shame from the way your mouth watered upon seeing him in full. You were all over him again.

"Can I touch you…?" You asked. His half-hard cock was heavy against his stomach.

"Yes," he took your wrist to bring you to him. "Please."

Lars hissed as you began stroking him up and down his length. You didn't spend much time on that, though; you mounted him just enough so you can replace your hand with your cunt, covering him with your slick from the head to the base. He groaned. He bit his lip and grabbed hold of your waist.

"Stop teasing," Lars whined. He didn't seem like he meant that, though; he was subconsciously canting his hips up into you himself.

"Do you really want me to stop?" You asked, breathless.

His reply — a tearful "no" — urged you further. You ground onto him with renewed fervor, angling yourself just enough so your clit would catch onto the feel of his cock. In no time, you're bowing your head and letting your jaw go slack at the onslaught of sensations dulling your previous headache; you set an even rhythm as you transfer your grip from his arms to his shoulders.

Lars was no different. He was rutting into your wetness just as desperately as you were coating him in it. He put out a hand to cup your cheek, eager for you to keep your gaze on him. You honored his request by joining him there; resting your palm atop his. He couldn't believe it. You came back. You're here, and you were giving yourself to him.

"I want—" he sucked in a sharp breath, "I want to be inside you," he murmured against your lips, replicating your apologetic confession from earlier — his, however, was of molten desire — potent, scalding, and concentrated; a shrift that asked not for a consequent absolution, but for wholehearted fulfillment.

You halted. Lars took the initiative and laid you back down the divan, right where you had left your blanket from earlier. He took his time to make sure that your head was resting on the pillow. You gave him a kiss of gratitude as you welcomed him in.

Lars fit into you so easily, as if you were always meant to be joined like this. His hands, which had been gripping the cushioned seat of the divan, found your own; he pinned them on either side of your head, so he could moor himself before proceeding to move his hips.

He's wracked with tremors at the first three drags; his brows were cinched tightly together as he tried his hardest to compose himself. He couldn't help it. You were so soft, so tight, and so, so warm; he'd never felt this before. Nothing measured up to this, to you — the cynosure of his love, his heart's long-lost keeper — he'd been waiting for you just as much as you had, and now that you were here, coupled with him, he was determined to never let you go.

You wriggled loose from Lars' left grip and brushed at his cheekbone to reel him back in. He opened his eyes when he felt you touch him. He pressed his lips to your palm; his gesture of gratitude and a reply to your implicit inquiry of his state.

All your intentions to reorient Lars with reality vanished when he started moving again. He took his time savoring you in this languorous pace, and he dipped down to kiss you again. Truth be told, it was taking everything in Lars to keep his composure; to remain level-headed even if every fiber of his being was screaming at him to fuck you.

And you could feel it. You could feel it in his kiss; how hard he bore down unto you, and how he ravened the air that your body was producing. He caged his appetite for you within the confines of osculation; abstemiously eschewing the longing that had since grown into an esurient, rapacious entity ever since he went through that front door.

You freed yourself from him, done out of both the necessity for oxygen and the decree you had prepared to let him do with you what his entire being had been imploring since the onset of your lovemaking.

"Lars," you sighed, gulping down everything that your lungs required, "I can take it, Lars… Please."

Lars shook his head. "I… — ah — I don't want to hurt you…"

"I want all of you," you protested. He faltered, and you groaned at the sudden surge of his cock inside you, but he scrambled to right himself. You shook away his last quiescent hand and ordered him to look at you by capturing his chin.

"Let it ache, Lars. Give it all to me."

Like a taut rope finally cut, you're pulled into two behests: one, to sustain your mastery of your lucidity; and two, to hold space for the duress of Lars' pivoting to a harsher cadence.

You didn't bother stifling the sounds that he's tearing out of you. You're now consigned to wail an incoherent admixture of his name and your vocalizations of pleasure, most of which he imbibed and fed on as he fucked you with unmitigated ardor.

"You love me this much?" Lars rasped, smiling lopsidedly from how affected you were by him.

You nodded; your eyes were clouded with blissful tears as you affirmed his suggestion. He kissed your forehead — an act so tender, so chaste in contrast to how he was jostling you on the divan.

Lars licked the tears that rolled down your cheek. "I love you, too. I've a-always… loved you…"

He scooped you into his arms and took every liberty to ensconce himself into your hair, where you could hear him grunting and moaning each time he sunk into you. You were no better. You were getting exponentially louder the more his pelvis rubbed deliciously against your clit — you needed more of that — that was what you needed to clear the final leg of your ascent and eventual collapse.

You made an effort to buck your hips up into his to chase your nascent orgasm. Lars perceived your needful wish, and sought to perfect it by lifting himself up and off you; he tacked his thumb on your aching nub to draw tight, desperate ringlets upon it — his adoring answer to your impassioned adjuration.

You had not the presence of mind anymore to anticipate the intensity of your fall. You're screaming his name in billowing swells that matched your body's erratic undulation. Lars absorbed all of it; he followed closely, pumping you full with his cum until he was satiated and empty. Your vision turned velvet black, and the last thing that your senses detected was Lars swathing you with his arms.

———

You woke up some time in the afternoon.

Lars must have cleaned you up while you were passed out, because you mostly smelled of your soap; you're in your pajamas (and considerably more covered than earlier), and you're lying in bed. He, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found.

You couldn't have dreamed of the events of this morning; you would have woken up still in the living room if you did. Your hips were sore, too; you're heavily decorated with pink and purple under the collar of your top which you noticed on your way out, when you passed by the mirror on the closet door. You smiled as you lightly grazed your fingertips over the patches.

You headed downstairs, and there you happened upon Lars; now presentable but more visibly at ease in his brown plaid shirt. He was standing by the phone. You noticed him blushing upon spotting you emerge from the staircase, but he didn't join you just yet. He was still talking to someone on the other line, so you decided to take initiative.

"…Yeah. Yeah, she's fine. She just needed some rest," you heard him reply to the person that he was in correspondence with. You approached him for a hug, and he pulled you in. The conversation continued.

"I'll be home later. I wanna hang out with her for longer." Lars said, looking down at you with a smile. "Okay — bye, Karin."

You stood on your tiptoes to kiss him, and he scooped you up to meet you halfway, prompting you to wrap your legs around him. He was taking you back to the living room, but this time he sat on the window alcove. The rain had let up by now — you could see every fine detail on his face from the sunlight filtering through the curtains. You smoothed down the stray, dirty blond strands that framed his face.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Lars asked. He rubbed noses with you. "You should be resting."

"You weren't there when I woke up," you replied, "I was worried that you left already…"

He shook his head. He sat back and brought you into his chest so that you were laying on him. "I could never leave you like that," he said. He was playing with the tips of your hair. "We've been apart for too long. It's not right."

You relaxed into his body, breathing in his scent and yours.

"I saw the book that you were reading." Lars said after a while.

"Yeah? You read it?"

"Just a little," he replied. "I wanted to read more, but I had to make a call. I'd been gone for hours. Karin was worried about me, and also about you. She thought you'd relapsed."

You laughed. The vibrations rumbled throughout his chest and encouraged Lars to pull you in closer, like he was reassuring himself that you were here, in his arms; real, alive, and permanent.

"Sorry for worrying her. And for monopolizing your time," you chuckled, "but I hope you'll let me be greedy for a while."

You craned your neck to look up at Lars. He kissed you once more.

“-said he’s showing remorse?” 

Simon hears a voice he’s never heard from down the hall along with three sets of footsteps. 

“Yes, Mrs. Grace, but he’s still-“

“I don’t care, mark him down. Dr. Grace needs another set of strong hands. His file says he’s strong, right?” The voice is pleasant, more pleasant than anything he’s heard while in this cell. He doubts it’ll stay pleasant once it sees him, but it’s nice to listen to right now. 

“If that’s what you require, ma’am.” 

Huh, that was an easier deference than Simon is used to hearing. Normally these assholes put up more of a fight. Mrs. Grace must be important. 

His cell is a one person cell, light grey concrete floors, light grey concrete walls. His bed is built into the wall, just enough clearance for him to be able to sit up. He’s currently wrapped up in the single, thin blanket he was given, facing the concrete wall. The footsteps near but he doesn’t turn, doesn’t think they’ll be stopping for him. Though he was given a clean set of clothes this morning (given is generous, they were pushed through the slot in the glass that covers the front of his cell and he was ordered to change and push through his old ones). His old set had been the same color as the concrete walls, but this set is dark green. It’s the most color he’s seen in months. 

The footsteps do actually stop in front of his cell, and yet he still doesn’t turn. Maybe they’re just making a quick stop to talk more about the lucky bastard who’ll get out of here. 

“His name?” The voice asks softly. He can hear you pick up a clipboard, one that was hanging on the wall outside his cell, to the left, “no last name?”

“Didn’t give it if he does,” it’s one of the guards that aren’t as harsh to him, the one that brings him his half breakfast bar each morning. 

“Thank you, you may take your leave. I’ll call if I need anything.” 

The two guards you’re with hesitates but ultimately walk away. Once you're satisfied he hears you say his name. 

“Simon?”

He flinches a bit but doesn’t respond. It’s the first time his name has been used since he arrived. He was either called Convict or Eden Boy or Eden Scum. He’d almost forgotten what the sound of his name felt like in his chest. 

“My name is Y/N Grace, has anyone talked to you about the Convict Realization Program?” You ask, voice soft, warm, alien to him. 

“Yeah,” he doesn’t turn away from the wall but the mention of the program does draw out a word from him. A woman named Ava had been in front of his cell just yesterday, talking about the program. She’d talked about an exploratory mission to a moon that had been found, though, and he’d agreed to do it. 

“Great,” he can hear the smile in your voice, “I know you already agreed to Ava’s program, but I was wondering if you would be okay listening to what I have to offer instead? I promise it’s much better.”

“Sure,” comes the one word response. He still doesn’t turn though, maybe out of some notion it gives him a sliver of power, more likely because he’s just so tired. 

He hears the little slot open, “I have something for you, in exchange.” 

That peaks his interest enough that he turns and looks over his shoulder, sees a hand dangling inside his cell, holding a small silver foil square out to him between two fingers. He’s not sure exactly what it is. His eyes travel up the hand, up the arm, and to your face, and he has to stop himself from just staring. You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, standing there in the ugliest place he’s ever been. You’re smiling at him, eyes flashing conspiratorially. 

“I know I’m not really supposed to be giving you anything, but I figured this might help break any tension. Ryland loves these, I had to sneak them out of his stash, but I know he won’t mind.” You laugh softly, and even your laugh is pretty.

Rolling over slowly, he stands and makes his way to the front of the cell, waiting for you to drop it and move away. But you don’t. You stand there, waiting for him to approach, and when he does you drop it into his outstretched palm. He brings it close and unwraps the foil, peering down at five different colored circles with what looked like crystals on them.

“They’re sour skittles,” You answer his unspoken question, “Well, homemade sour skittles. Real ones are probably all gone now, but Ryland likes them so he commissioned someone to make them for him.”

“What . . . is it?” He asks, voice rough from disuse, “Is it . . . a meal replacement?”

“Oh!” You laugh softly, and for some reason he knows it’s not meant to be a mocking thing, “No, it’s candy, just a little treat really.”

He’s heard of the concept, but never seen anything like it before. His earlier suspicions were correct, you and Dr. Grace are very important people, very wealthy people.

“Go ahead, they’re a little sour at first but sweet when you bite down,” You coax. Your hand is still in the cell, and he could grab it, tug on it sharply, see your face hit the glass, break your nose, but it doesn’t even cross his mind. 

Picking one up with his other hand, he places it on his tongue, keeping eye contact with you. You’re right, it is sour, he almost spits it out, he’s not used to real taste because of the bland meal bars he’s been fed for a couple years now here. But he remembers what you said and bites down on it, the sweetness bursting over his taste buds, soothing the sting of the sour crystals.

“What do you think?” You ask. He watches as you pull one out of another package and pop it into your mouth, “I can’t have too many, but Ryland will make himself sick off of them.”

“Good,” he says simply, closing the foil and tucking it into his pocket. He’ll stash it under his bed later, once you leave, savor them.

“I’m glad you like them! I’ll bring you some more the next time we meet,” Your posture is relaxed and you bring your hand in, resting it on the lip of the slot, elbow facing him, resting your chin on your wrist, posture relaxed, “Can I tell you my offer?”

He nods, standing at one step down from attention, facing you. You’re the first soft thing he’s encountered in a very long time, and he’d really like to hear what you have to offer him.

“So my husband, Dr. Grace, or Ryland, needs help around his lab, and I need help around the house. You’ll live with us, we have a bedroom for you on the other side of the house, so you’ll have your own space. Essentially we would like for you to split your time between the lab and our home. We’ll give you a communication device so if one of us needs you while you’re at the other place we can let you know. You’ll have free time at the end of the night, after dinner, and we can work out a day or two every month that you can have totally to yourself. Does that all make sense so far?”

Not really, actually. He doesn’t know a single man who would willingly let another man help his wife around the house, alone. It would make more sense if he was going to be relegated to the lab at all times, but to have his own room in their house? He nods anyway.

“Good! If you agree, we have to follow a protocol, meaning you and I will have to meet two more times here just to make sure you don’t show any aggression towards me, but Ryland and I are going to buy out your sentence, so even though you’ll be with us, you’ll be free from your sentence.” 

Free of his sentence?? Did he hear that right?? “. . . Free?” he asks, his voice breaking.

You nod, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like you aren’t offering him a second life that he just doesn’t deserve. He eyes you, taking you in. Your clothes are nice, in good shape, fabric that needs to be washed regularly. You look well groomed, like dirt and grime has never touched your skin. If he was under your protection . . . he could be untouchable. 

“Yeah, Simon, free. Ava’s offer still stands, of course, I did kind of take your name off her list already because I think you’d be better suited with us, but if you wanted I could get you back on.”

He shakes his head, the fastest movement he’s made so far, “No, no I want your offer. Please.”

Your smile is the brightest thing he’s ever seen. 

—--------

You come around again the following week and he knows it’s happening because he gets another new set of clothes, this time blue. Your footsteps are unaccompanied this time. He still has one skittle left, he wanted to have it in your presence, to show you how much he appreciated it. 

The first thing he sees is your hand again, it proceeds you. Today your fingernails have polish on them, a bright red, and you’re holding a small cloth bag that has a star pattern on it with a yellow leather draw string at the top. When the rest of you comes into view he thinks you must have come from an event, because you’re dressed up. You look beautiful.

The slot is opened and you thrust the bag through, a smile on your face, “Evening, Simon!” 

He was waiting for you a few feet behind the glass, holding the open tin foil in his hand, ready to pick up the last skittle. Instead he steps forward and gently grabs the bag from you, finger tips brushing yours. The touch of your skin sends shivers down his arm: when was the last time he touched another person? A very long time, he thinks. 

“Promised I would get you more skittles! Ryland even gave me this bag so I could give you more, he’s very excited to meet you, you know. But he’s really busy right now, says he’s on the cusp of a break through. He tried to get the warden to let us bypass this whole two more meet up thing but he didn’t budge. Did say I could come back next week though, normally they want at least a month in between visits but Ryland helped him out a while back and so he owed us a favor.” You ramble idly, watching as he opens the bag and sees the bag is half full of those skittles. 

“Thank you,” He bows his head slightly, adding the singular skittle to his new pile. He realizes halfway through the head bow that’s an Eden thing, not a C.O.I. thing, but when he looks up you aren’t looking at him with disgust, you’re still just smiling pleasantly. 

“Of course! Have they been treating you better?” You ask, “I asked them to give you more than half a ration for meals because we need you to not be starving and have your muscles waste away.”

He nods, because yeah, they actually have been treating him better. As soon as his clipboard was updated with his intended designation the half ration bars became full and they were no longer chucked into his cell in passing. They were still dropped in, but now it didn’t feel like they were trying to whip him with them. He’d also been given a new blanket, the same color blue as the outfit he’s wearing now.

You peer into the cell and your eyes light up when you see the blanket spread out over his bunk, “Oh good! And they gave the blanket to you, I was worried they wouldn’t.”

“It’s very nice, I am in your debt.” He has to stop himself from bowing his head again.

You wave him off, “Don’t worry about it Simon, we’re in the process of getting your room together right now and Ryland bought it for you because I told him how thin your blanket looked. We weren’t sure what your favorite color is, so he picked mine.”

“Blue is your favorite color?” He asks, “Why?”

He can tell you’re delighting in the full sentences he’s giving you because of the way your eyes sparkle, “Ryland’s eyes are blue. What’s your favorite color?”

“Green, like plants.” He wants to meet this Ryland, he’s not sure if he trusts your perception of him, if him being your husband gives you rose colored glasses. He hopes Ryland is as good as you say he is. 

“Oh! Do you like plants?” You ask quickly, interested, “I have the opposite of a green thumb, I can never get them to stay alive, and Ryland has too much going on in his head to water them.”

He nods, looking away as he thinks of the sprout that was taken from him. The chord is still on his wrist, he rubs at it absentmindedly, “Yeah, I like plants.”

“Would you like me to get some for you to take care of? I would love some more greenery in the house.” You’re asking him what he wants, it’s so foreign. The ask seems genuine, so he nods. 

“I would, thank you. Will Dr. Grace be okay with that?” He’s not sure how the ownership of the plants will work, if they’ll actually be his or if they’ll be the Grace’s and he just takes care of them. It doesn’t really matter either way in the end. But it’s better to double check if this is something that might be taken away from him. 

You wave your hand, not dismissive of him, but of the thought that Dr. Grace might care, “No, he won’t mind at all. It may take him a while to even notice plants,” You laugh softly, “Also, you can call him Ryland.” 

He will not be doing that, just like he won’t be using your first name either, but he nods anyway.

“Okay so I need to get you plants,” he watches as you take a little notepad and pen out of your pocket, “I wanted to write down some stuff you think you’ll need so I can finish the shopping tomorrow.” He watches you scribble.

Simon has no idea what to say right now, which seems to be a common occurrence around you. You’re treating him like he’s not a convict, like he didn’t blow up a station and kill 62 people that you may or may not have known. You and/or Dr. Grace are high up here, that was obvious, but what exactly did either of you do for the C.O.I? You’d mentioned a lab the first time you were here, was Dr. Grace a scientist? If so, what kind? 

“What else do you think you’ll need?” You ask, smiling at him, pen poised, “We’ve already got things like your bed and some furniture. I’ve already got some clothes being made for you, they’ll mostly be in our family colors because, well, you’ll be part of the Grace family. I did actually want to ask about that, you don’t have a last name right?”

He blinks rapidly at you, thrown by the rapid changes in the conversation. He’s not used to people talking to him, let alone asking questions. He’ll need to try and be better about keeping up with you, hopefully Dr. Grace doesn’t do this as well. Maybe he’s more of the strong, silent type. He doesn’t miss the talk about family colors, though. That’s another notch in his theory that you and Dr. Grace are way above any station he’s ever dealt with. 

“Uh, no, I don’t.” You should know that he’s from Eden, it’s his chart. There’s no last names on Eden, only designations. He’d been ‘Simon, Son of Eden’ there. Now, without Eden, he was just Simon.

“Would it be okay if we started signing your documents with Grace as your last name? It’s completely fine if not, you can always pick your own, it’s just making this a little more difficult because they’re just so into full names here.” You huff out an annoyed laugh, “I was using Grace before we were properly joined just because of it all.”

What would be the price for using Grace as his last name? Would he have to give more of himself? “What, uh, what would I have to do if I did?”

“What do you mean?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, confusion on your face.

“Sorry, I’m not great at . . . talking.” He cringes a bit, “I was wondering what kind of debt I would be in, taking your last name.”

“Oh! No debt, it would be a gift, mainly just a tool really.” You shrug, “Like I said, you can just pick one and I’ll say you told me while we were talking today. Ryland is okay with it, if that’s also a hang up. He actually suggested it over dinner last night.”

Before he can respond something beeps on your wrist, and he realizes you're wearing some kind of watch, “Shoot, I have to go, I’m so sorry but we have this stupid dinner tonight with the Talbot. I really don’t want to go but Ryland is so bad in social situations like this, he’ll freak out if I’m not there.”

Talbot is the captain of the space station they’re both on currently. That’s . . . okay yeah that’s a really big deal. 

“I am going to see if I can take you home sooner than next week though, his partner and I are - not quite friends? But friendly enough.” You stick the pad of paper and the pen through the slot and he stares at it for a moment, “Write down the things you want and give it to your guard? Like I said, I really want to try and have your room ready for you.”

He takes it gingerly, looking at where you’ve scrawled his name at the top and the words plants, underlined neatly, “Okay, I can’t promise the guards will give it to you, though.”

“They will,” You smile cheerfully, your tone has no room for argument, like you know that if you ask the guards will just do it, “Take your time, of course, but if you could give it to your morning rotation guard that would be super duper helpful!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Grace,” another head bow, rotten soil, why can’t he stop doing that??

You bow your head back, a smile curving at your lips as you turn and start to walk away. He hears your footsteps stop then double back, “Oh! Our family colors are blue and yellow, by the way. I really hope you don’t hate either of those!” and then you’re hurrying down the hall. 

—-------

The next morning he’s waiting for the morning rotation guard. He spent all night trying to figure out what to write, what he thought he might need. He’d written down things like ‘food’ and ‘water’. He’s pretty sure you would give those to him regardless, but he had nothing else in his mind that he could think to ask. Of course he wanted homey things, like maybe a plant for just his room, a clock, an extra pillow, but how was he going to ask that of someone who’s already done so much? He’s wrestling with the idea that he’s going to be in a far greater debt than he ever was here through yours and Dr. Grace’s generosity. Well, at least he would be in debt to a pretty face.

He hears the footsteps of the guard as he walks down the hall, and he rises to his feet, making sure his skittles bag is hidden under the thin pillow. He’d been taking one at a time from the bag and chewing them thoroughly, savoring each one. He was determined to make them last, just like he’d done with the first ones he’d been given. The guard's footsteps slow as they reach his cell, and he waits in the customary spot, in the far left corner, hands in front of him. He’s got the notepad and pen in full view, and he’s looking at the floor.

“Okay Simon, change of clothes. Dr. Grace will be here today to get you.” The guard says, and Simon can hear the sound of fabric being shoved through the slot and dropping onto the floor. 

Simon looks up, stunned. Today? He was being freed today??? 

“Don’t look so surprised,” the guard, he thinks his name is Marco, stands at the slot still, arms crossed, “You’re a lucky bastard.”

“I -” He starts before immediately shutting his mouth. He almost asked a question, which would have gotten his ass beat.

Marco motions for him to continue speaking, “You’re technically a free man now, I’m not allowed to lay a hand on you. Paperwork went through last night after hours. You want to ask me a question about the Grace’s, don’t you?” Simon just nods, eyes drifting to the fabric on the ground. Instead of sweat material he sees a pair of thick navy cargo pants and a bright yellow t-shirt. Both look like they’re exactly his size, made with proper material. He also notices a pair of clean, thick white socks, a pair of navy blue boxer briefs, and Marco is holding a pair of dark brown boots made of what he thinks might be actual leather. 

“Dr. Grace is the leading scientist here. He’s the reason everyone stays alive. He’s eradicated most illnesses, aside from the big ones of course like cancer and shit, but the reason why no one gets a house cold anymore is because of him. In terms of importance, even the captain will defer to him on some things.” Marco shrugs, “He’s been here for a little bit, her not so much, both of them are outsiders. Dr. Grace went to a different station to collect some data and he apparently met her there. Brought her back and said she was his wife. No one questioned it, of course, and no one really knows where she came from, but she’s nice and she’s pretty, so-” 

Simon nods, “So . . . what you're saying is my sentence was bought out by one of the most important people in the C.O.I?”

“Ding, ding, ding! Looks like Eden scum can be smart, after all,” Simon tries not to flinch at the insult, it should be normal, it shouldn’t make his heart race and make him feel like a stain on the floor, “Dr. Grace never lets anyone into the lab to help him, so when Mrs. Grace came down saying they wanted to be a part of the Convict Realization Program so he could have some help, it sent everyone in a fucking tizzy. The amount of paperwork the two of them had to sign was astronomical. Not to mention the fact that they’d been given a list of prisoners that were deemed ‘acceptable’ and Mrs. Grace plucked the full list of prisoners off the warden's desk to read and they just let it happen. You weren’t on that original list, by the way.”

“I figured I wouldn’t be,” he murmurs, drifting towards the pile of clothes on the floor. He strips off the sweatshirt, chest bare save for the harness they let him keep. 

“They tried to get her to change her mind, even tried to circumvent her and talk to Dr. Grace, but he said that all decisions would be going through her. Ain’t that something?” Marco whistles low under his breath. He’s looking away from Simon now, he’d always been the most respectful one of the guards. Not that Simon cares anymore, at this point every single guard has probably seen everything he has to offer. 

He nods, shucking his pants off and putting them next to the sweatshirt. He’s about to take off the underwear too when Marco stands up straighter, and Simon hears hurried footsteps down the hall. The gate is different from yours, it sounds like the person has longer strides, but it’s also not the rhythmic footfalls of a guard. 

“So sorry I’m late, I had to sign even more paperwork. Which is kind of ridiculous, since Talbot sent word that this was all okay." The voice is masculine, hurried, bright, it sounds nice in Simon’s ears, which surprises him, “Talbot wanted me to get him, it was part of our agreement, just in case. Where is he?”

Marco motions to the cell Simon is in and steps to the side. Simon remembers a little too late that he’s almost naked when what he assumes is Dr. Grace steps into view. Dr. Grace is just as pretty as you, and the breath leaves Simon as he remembers how violently bisexual he is. He’s a little taller than Simon, but slimmer, with a head of blond, tousled hair that falls just to his ears, pushed around like he’s been running his hands through it absentmindedly. His gold, wire rim glasses accentuate ocean blue eyes, and Simon understands why you said blue was your favorite color. Dr. Grace has on a pair of light wash jeans, a tucked in matching jean button down, and a cream colored cardigan with foxes on it over top. 

Dr. Grace looks over into the cell, a smile on his lips, before taking in Simon’s state of (un)dress. A blush flashes over his face and he immediately turns away, covering his eyes with both hands, “Oh cheese and crackers!! Simon I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t . . . fudging fudger!” He watches Dr. Grace do a complete 180, “Please let me know when you’re done changing!!”

Simon’s lips quirk up at Dr. Grace’s antics, unused to people being flustered by his body. He changes quickly though, folding the clothes he’d been given last night. Like he suspected, the clothes fit perfectly and feel good on his skin. 

“I’m done,” He says, turning to the bed and grabbing the blanket you had given him. It’s already folded and he puts it under one arm, holding it tight to his body, slipping the notepad and pen into one of the pockets of the cargo pants. He grabs the bag of skittles last and slips that into another pocket on the other side. 

Dr. Grace turns around, the blush still firmly on his cheeks, but he’s got that smile back, “Great! As soon as you get your boots on we’ll be heading home, Y/n is waiting for us with some breakfast.”

He nods, staying back as the door to the cell opens. It’s such a weird feeling seeing that cell door open not for the purpose of showering or using the restroom. He’s not sure if he fully trusts that he won’t be back here just yet, but Dr. Grace seems to be as nice as you say he is. That might change once they get to their house, but for right now he can at least step outside the cell in real clothes, wearing real boots, and towards a man saying they were going home. 

Dr. Grace takes him through the maize of the prison system and up an elevator. He’s been quiet, but Simon can tell he’s buzzing to talk. He likes hearing people talk, but he’s not really sure how to get the blond to start. 

“Um, I wanted to say thank you,” He starts, clearing his throat before he speaks.

Bright blue eyes turn to him, “Thank me? For what?”

“Buying out my sentence,” he gives Dr. Grace a little headbow because he’s kind of just decided fuck it, they know where he’s from, and you hadn’t had a bad reaction when he’d slipped up and done it twice to you. Besides, this may be a good test to see how Dr. Grace will react to being reminded he’s from Eden. If Marco was correct it didn’t sound like he had a real say in him being picked.

“Oh, yeah, you don’t have to thank me for that,” Dr. Grace laughs softly, “It felt weird to bring you into the family while you still were incarcerated by the C.O.I.”

The way he says ‘the C.O.I’ pings something in Simon’s brain, like Dr. Grace doesn’t count himself among them. He doesn’t ask though, he doubts Dr. Grace would give him that type of information freely. 

“Well, thank you then, for . . . bringing me into your family.” That felt even weirder to say. It would have been so much easier if they referred to him as the help or the servant, or even the convict they bought, but to be labelled as family already? After barely meeting you twice and Dr. Grace once? It was just weird. 

Dr. Grace shrugs, “We needed another set of hands, and Y/n said she fell in love with you the moment she saw your photo on file. Said something about how you looked strong and capable. I mean, I agree, of course, I’m excited to work with you in the lab. Oh! Y/n kept forgetting to ask, do you know anything about molecular biology or botany?”

“I know about botany, actually. I was trained to be a Gardner.” Simon didn’t realize the elevator would take this long. How deep in the station had he been? The very bottom?

“Great!! That’s incredible!! I’ll put you in charge of the plant studies then, we’ve been trying to grow different types of plants here, including trees and such. But the soil kind of sucks here so I think we need to try and see if we can genetically modify either the plants or the soil. I have a bunch of research material you can go over, probably some classes as well that you can take on the computer, just to fill in any gaps. Do you know if Eden teachings are pretty comprehensive? Like did you learn about the molecular structure of plants?” Dr. Grace is talking so quickly, and Simon realizes that it’s both of them that does that. And the way he so casually asks about Eden? Like it’s nothing? Like he knows anything about it and is comfortable with it?

“We did a little bit, enough to understand what the different plants needed.” He responds, the elevator finally signaling that they were at the top of where they needed to be, “But I’d like to learn more, if you would allow.”

The doors open and Dr. Grace turns to Simon with a serious expression, “Simon, you never have to get permission from me for something like that. Both Y/n and I love to learn, and anything you want to know, you can either ask us or ask Arm-ando, okay?”

“Who -” He stops himself, if no one had mentioned another person living with them, then he didn’t need to know about it. 

“Whoops, sorry, Arm-ando is our robot,” Dr. Grace laughs softly, starting to walk to a four person utility vehicle. Simon watches as he pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. They have a little beaded fox charm on them, “He helps with our health and can get you almost any answer you’re looking for that isn’t like, how we feel about something or whatever.”

Simon follows, waiting till Dr. Grace is settled in the vehicle before climbing into the passenger seat himself. There’s a little high walled basket under the dashboard in front of him. It’s dark green and looks to be made of a sturdy cloth.

“That’s for you, by the way.” Dr. Grace says, motioning to the basket as he starts the vehicle and guides it onto a pathway designated for them. 

“For me?” Simon’s brows knit together as he smooths the blanket on his lap, bending over to pick up the basket. 

“Yeah, Y/n wanted you to have it as soon as possible. I told her it could probably wait till we got home, but she insisted. And since Talbot wouldn’t allow her to come get you today as part of the agreement to let you come home early, I figured it wouldn’t hurt. She really sweet talked Talbot, you shoulda seen her.” Dr. Grace has a look of such fondness on his face, it’s obvious how much he loves you. It makes Simon’s heart clench a bit, and he’s not sure why. 

He peers into the basket and the first thing he notices is his mother’s sheath. He can’t help the small gasp that escapes his lips and he reaches in, stroking the leather with his thumb. How did you know about this? He thought it was lost forever, that they’d gotten rid of it with the rest of his clothes. 

“She’s really smart,” Dr. Grace says, conversationally, “She has this incredible knack for finding things out, getting information. I guess it has to do with her upbringing, she said she had to learn it. I’ll let her tell you her story, of course, but I think this is her way of trying to tell you that you're not alone, not anymore.”

Fuck, he doesn’t know how to respond to that. What was there to say? He could possibly blame the wind from the fast pace of their vehicle in his eyes for the tears that spring, but even if he tried Dr. Grace wouldn’t believe him. 

The next thing he pulls out is a small, dark green journal with a lock and key attached to it and a set of black pens. 

“I suggested it might be a good idea for you to have a place to put your thoughts that no one else can see. Y/n does the same thing, though she leaves her key in the lock because she knows I won’t invade her privacy like that. But we can get you a chain or something for yours so you can keep it close to you. I promise we won’t go through it, but I understand the trust isn’t there yet.” Dr. Grace shrugs a shoulder, taking a turn down a section of the station that’s much better lit than the common areas. 

Simon just nods and sets the journal to lean against his stomach. He almost doesn’t catch the way Dr. Grace’s eyes linger on his stomach, move up to his pecs. That’s an interesting development. Was Dr. Grace gay? Were you two in a marriage of convenience? Or was he possibly like Simon? He distracts himself with the next item, which is another large bag of sour skittles.

“Y/n said you really liked them, so I had a bigger stash made for you,” Dr. Grace smiles pleasantly, “We have more kinds than these, but these are my favorite, as she probably told you, so you’ll see more of them around the house. This one is for you to keep in your room and refill whenever you want. If you ever see that we’re out in the kitchen, just let one of us or Arm-ando know so we can place the order for more.”

Finally they get a section of the station with parking spots. Dr. Grace maneuvers to one that has ‘Grace Residence’ carefully painted on the outside of a large white box. There’s another one already parked, and Dr. Grace stops right next to it. He turns off the ignition and slips the keys back into his pocket, stretching as he does. 

“Do you by any chance know how to drive one of these?” Dr. Grace asks as Simon gets out, holding the basket and blanket close to his body.

He shakes his head and Dr. Grace purses his lips in thought, “That’s okay, we can teach you. You’ll need to be able to use one to get back and forth from the house to the lab. Unfortunately the lab is almost all the way across the station. It sucks but it’s a necessary evil. Once you learn how to drive one we’ll get you your own.”

“My own?” The words slip out of his lips before he can catch them, and he immediately wants to stuff them back inside. Why is he questioning anything right now? He needs to just be silent, let Dr. Grace talk to him, take in as much information as he can about who owns him now. 

Dr. Grace nods, motioning for him to follow down a hallway, “I need mine to get back and forth from the lab, Y/n needs hers for her errands, and you’ll need your own for the lab and for anything Y/n may need you to run out and get while she’s working. She’s probably already started making a charm for you.”

Simon watches as he pulls out his keys again and dangles the little fox charm, “She made me this a while ago, held up really well honestly. It helps us distinguish whose keys are whose. Very helpful early in the morning when I’m half asleep and the coffee hasn’t kicked in.”

It’s been a while since Simon has seen real beads or thought about coffee. 

It’s a trek down the hallway, they pass a handful of doors coated in different colors with different names. The only one he recognizes is the Talbot Residence. He quickens his pace as he walks past that one. Finally they make it to a yellow door, Grace Residence in script font affixed to it. Dr. Grace pulls his keys out again and slides a large one into the lock, turning it swiftly. 

“Darling?” Dr. Grace calls, stepping inside, leaving the door open for Simon to walk through. 

The inside is luxury unlike anything he’s ever seen before. He thinks this is what a real home on earth would have looked like. The floors are a medium stained wood, the walls a beautiful light blue, it reminds him of what the sky looked like in the documentaries from Earth he’d watched on Eden as a kid. Straight in is a white, fluffy carpeted, recessed living room with a step down into it, a dark grey sectional couch with fluffy cushions and blankets folded on it, a large TV mounted on the wall, and glass windows that have a simulated scenery of cliffs and waves playing. To the left is a decently large kitchen, and to the right is a dining room. The tables been set with three plates and three sets of utensils, as well as empty cups. 

There’s a hallway to the left and another to the right, but from where he is he can’t see down to take in what’s there. There are personal effects everywhere: pictures of Dr. Grace and you, a bookshelf half filled with science books and the other half filled with different types of literature. Against the glass window there’s also five different plants. He immediately spies a monstera, a pothos, a bird of paradise, a jade plant, and something he does recognize. They look brand new, a little neglected from where they’d been bought, but nothing he couldn’t get to perk up soon with a little care and attention. 

“Coming!” He hears our voice from down the hall to the left.

“So, what do you think, Simon?” Dr. Grace smiles, hands on his hips as he looks around as well, “We tried to make it as homey as possible, try to put as much of ourselves into it as we could while we’re here. You’ll have to tell us things you like too, so we can get some of you in here too.”

“It’s very nice, Dr. Grace.” Simon responds as he looks around again. He’s not sure what ‘some of him’ could mean. He wasn’t really much of him right now. So long in a jail cell will do that to someone. 

“Did Y/n not tell you you can call me Ryland?” He asks. At first Simon thinks it’s a rhetorical question, a type of question where they both know the answer and this is more of a reprimand than anything. But he takes a peak at Dr. Grace’s face and it’s open, earnest, confused. 

“Uh, yeah, she did.” He looks away, unable to meet Dr. Grace’s eyes. He doesn’t want to be asked why he won’t ever call him Ryland, why he won’t ever use your name either. You and Dr. Grace own him now. It wouldn’t be proper, wouldn’t be right. It would blur the lines too much, and the generosity between the two of you has already blurred a lot of things for him. 

Before Dr. Grace can ask though, you come walking in, wearing blue sweatshorts and a matching sweatshirt. The shorts are shorter than he’s seen any other person wear, and they cause a blush to creep to his face and he has to look away quickly. 

“Simon!” You cry, smiling wide, running over and throwing your arms around him in a big hug. He stiffens immediately, unsure what to do. He’d touched your skin in the cell briefly, but feeling it like this is causing electric pins and needles to sweep through his whole body. He wants to push you away, he wants to hold you closer. He does half of each, putting his arms around you and just holding them there.

He looks over at Dr. Grace, who's watching with a soft smile. He must be incredibly secure in his relationship with you, and the look he’s giving you makes him sure that he’s not fully gay. Dr. Grace’s eyes travel from where Simon’s hugging you to the swell of your ass, and yeah, Dr. Grace is definitely not fully gay. He’s most likely like Simon, half gay. It sends a little thrill through Simon for some reason, amplifying the electricity from your touch. You pull back too soon and cup his cheek with your hand, smiling blindingly at him. “I’m so happy you’re here and not in the cell anymore! I hated thinking about you being there.” You say, and he thinks the feeling of your palm on his cheek will be imprinted into his DNA forever. 

“She’s right, she ranted a lot about it,” Dr. Grace chuckles, dodging your swatting hand. 

“Honey, will you grab the stuff from the kitchen for breakfast while I show Simon around?” You ask Dr. Grace, and Simon is convinced that Dr. Grace will get huffy, that he’ll refuse, because kitchen duties aren’t a husband’s job. Instead though, Dr. Grace nods and the smile stays on his face as he walks into the kitchen. 

You grab Simon’s hand and tug him towards the hallway on the right, “C’mon, I wanna show you your room and bathroom first!”

His room and bathroom? He got his own room and bathroom?? Sure enough, straight down the hall is a closed door that you open, showing him a room bigger than his cell. There’s a large bed with silken looking black sheets, and a thick dark green comforter with plants etched in embroidery in the middle of the room. On either side are dark wood side tables. The walls are a rich, deep green, and there’s a false window set to the same rocky beach scene that’s out in the living room. There’s actual warm lights, a matching dark wood desk with a chair, empty shelves, and a closet with an open door, showing off all the clothes inside. The floors are that same wood from the front, but there’s a black rug under the bed that encompasses a good portion of the room. 

“This is you! I had the walls painted, if the color isn’t what you want just let me know! Also, since this was such short notice, I obviously never got your list, so I wasn’t sure about the things you wanted in here. We’ll go shopping tomorrow, I think today should just be about you settled in.” You’re bustling around the room, smoothing the sheets down, fluffing one of the four pillows on the bed, “However you want to decorate this room is up to you! I want you to feel at home, you know?” 

No, he doesn’t know. Even on Eden he’d never been given anything like this. A room of his own, with a lock? With a bed that looks like it could fit three people? Clean sheets, a wardrobe full of clothes, space for his few, meager possessions? What can he say to this? What would be enough of a repayment? 

“I - this is - I’m not . . . I’m not used to this.” He forces out, looking down at the blanket that’s still in his hands. He’s still holding the basket and the blanket. Part of him is terrified that if he sets them down they’ll disappear, that if he acknowledges that all of this is for him and he accepts it, that he’ll wake up right back in that cell and the guards will tell him neither you or Dr. Grace exists.

You pause your flitting, looking down at the bed and smoothing it again with your hand, thinking, “They don’t really prioritize comfort on Eden, do they?”

He shakes his head, “No, uh, they don’t.” 

“Well, Ryland and I prioritize it here. We’ve both been in situations where comfort was an after thought, and we made a vow that we would find comfort wherever we are, and that vow now extends to you, Simon. We want you comfortable here, okay?” You smile warmly at him, “I mean it, I know you won’t believe me for a little while, I understand what Eden’s indoctrination does to a person. But I’m going to do my best to show you every day, okay?”

That’s the first moment Simon thinks he might be in a different kind of trouble. 

—-------

The first few weeks are a whirlwind of getting settled into the sporadic routine of the Grace household. During the week Dr. Grace will leave early in the morning, before you’re awake generally, and come home before dinner. Simon has started making sure he’s awake before Dr. Grace is so he can have coffee ready in a thermos after the fourth time Dr. Grace came home complaining about having to go to the cafeteria for his coffee ration. The first time he did it Dr. Grace had jumped when he noticed Simon in the kitchen, he wasn’t expecting to see him there. 

“Oh! Hey Simon, is everything okay?” Dr. Grace had asked after jumping out of his skin. 

Simon held a thermos out to him that he’d dug out from the bag of the cabinet, it was blue with stars on it. It held more coffee than the one Dr. Grace always forgot so Simon thought it would be better received. 

“Is . . . is that for me?” Dr. Grace asked, gingerly taking it from him. He slid back the top and took a sniff, “Oh! You made me coffee??”

Nodding, Simon shifted from foot to foot, “Yeah, you, uh, complained about forgetting it and I’m normally awake at this time,” he was not, “so I figured I would just have it ready for you.”

“Ugh you’re a fudging angel, thank you so much!” Dr. Grace had taken a sip as he walked out, “Bye Simon, have a great day!!” 

That was about a week into living here, and every morning he wonders when Dr. Grace is going to take him with him to the lab. So far he hasn’t, which has left Simon to find things to do around the house. He’s fixed everything already, there had been a few small leaks here and there, the air conditioning was sporadic, he’d also learned how to mount the TV on the wall and how to hide the cords. Yesterday he was so bored he sorted the books on the shelf by authors last name while keeping respect to the fact that the science based books were kept separate. 

You didn’t have as strict a schedule as Dr. Grace, so it was hard for Simon to pin down when you would be out of the house or not. It seemed like you did a lot of random work here and there, mainly keeping people company. You mentioned to Simon that you used to have people over often, but wouldn’t for a while until he was fully settled in. He was grateful for that, he didn’t really want to deal with people staring at him or being weird towards him, didn’t want to put either of you in that situation. 

Simon was quickly growing . . . fond of you and Dr. Grace. It was weird, how quickly he felt like he assimilated into your lives. You never forgot to set out a third place setting, never forgot to make a third portion of food. You’ve added him into the movie night picking rotation and he’s gotten to watch whatever he wants with you and Dr. Grace. He has his own blanket on the couch including the blue one he’d first gotten in his room. It’s all very . . . domestic. 

It’s early in the morning a month in and he’s waiting for the coffee pot to percolate, Dr. Grace’s thermos freshly washed out by it. His thoughts are hazy in the early morning, the after images of his dreams flitting through. Images of soft skin, blue eyes, a warm feminine voice. It’s interrupted by slow footsteps heading towards him from the hallway. He turns to look, seeing Dr. Grace in an oversized sleep shirt and short boxers. 

He’s seen Dr. Grace in an outfit like this before once, when Simon couldn’t sleep and he’d been reading. Dr. Grace had come out to get a glass of water and hadn’t noticed Simon on the couch with a little reading light you had given him that day. He’d let himself watch Dr. Grace move over the top of his book, ready to look down if he saw him. Even if he had wanted to, Simon wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from looking at Dr. Grace’s ass, his long, mostly bare legs. Simon had to concede that he thought Dr. Grace was attractive, wouldn’t have minded having someone like him in Eden to fool around with. Though honestly, Simon also felt the same way about you.

“Mornin’, Si,” Dr. Grace yawns, voice soft, “I need you to come with me to the lab today if that’s okay?”

That was a new nickname, Dr. Grace hasn’t used it before, he likes it. 

“Yeah, I can do that.” Simon keeps his voice soft as well, not wanting to wake you, “Do I need to bring anything?”

Dr. Grace shakes his head, another yawn overtaking his face, “Nah, just wear long sleeves and pants. I’m gonna have you sorting through some things for me. I got another project put on my desk last night and I need another set of hands to make sure the old project gets finished.”

“I’ll go get ready.” Simon nods, heading back to his room. He feels Dr. Grace reach out to him and grab his wrist gently. He stops, looking back at the blond with confusion.

“Wanted to say thank you for everything you’ve done around here, before I forget again,” Dr. Grace’s smile is warm, unguarded, something like fondness in his eyes, “I keep forgetting, scatterbrained.”

“Uh, it’s nothing, just trying to be useful.” Simon shrugs, the feeling of Dr. Grace’s skin on his sending sparks up his arm. What is wrong with him? Sure he doesn’t really get human touch even now, it’s like the two of you are hyper careful about not touching him, but it’s just Dr. Grace.

Dr. Grace squeezes his wrist, “Well, even so, thank you. You also don’t have to be useful to be important to us, by the way.”

He has no idea what to do with that. You and Dr. Grace say shit like that all the time to him and no matter how many times he hears something like that he can’t get a hold of the blush or the way his mind races at a million miles an hour. When he doesn’t say anything Dr. Grace lets go of his wrist and pats his shoulder, heading back to his and your bedroom. 

Simon shakes his head and goes and gets ready, a little more worked up than normal. It was because of the dream he had last night, the one with two bodies next to him in his bed that he couldn’t remember who they belonged to, as well as Dr. Grace’s pajamas and his honeyed words. He gets frustrated as he tugs on the navy blue long sleeve shirt, this all would be so much easier if you both treated him like he deserved to be, like a convict, a bad guy. But neither of you did, you both treated him like a person, like a human being without blood on his hands. 

He’s pouring the coffee into a second thermos, one with a yellow sun on it, when Dr. Grace comes out, dressed in his usual khakis, blue striped polo, and that stupidly endearing cardigan with the foxes on it. 

“You ready?” He asks Simon, taking the thermos Simon holds out to him with a nod of appreciation. 

“Lead the way.” Simon nods, following behind Dr. Grace. 

—-------

A couple months in all three are sitting at the dining room table after a long day of research for Simon. Dr. Grace had given him a project of his own, trying to figure out why the soil on the station won’t let any plants take deep root. Simon spent all day researching different ph levels, what makes roots tunnel so deep, what would cause a root to travel back upwards instead of down when there was plenty of soil. He was tired mentally, and honestly it was a pleasant feeling to not be so in his head. He’s never flexed his brain muscle this hard before, he really likes it. 

“Simon, could you please pass the mashed potatoes?” You ask, patting his arm to get his attention.

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” He mumbles, reaching over and grabbing the bowl. He hears Dr. Grace’s cutting stop and he looks over, noticing both of your surprised faces, “Did . . . did I say something?” 

“You, uh, called me sweetheart.” Your smile is confused, but it’s trying to not be anything that might scare him. 

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck how had that slipped through?? He’s been holding it back for the last month, somehow your name had morphed into sweetheart in his head because that’s exactly what you were, a sweetheart. You were so nice and sweet to everyone around you, especially him and sunshine- Dr. Grace. Yeah, another fucking thing he had to deal with. While you were sweetheart, Dr. Grace had somehow become sunshine. He couldn’t even bring himself to use your first names, why was he so hung up on cute little pet names?

“I’m so sorry,” He says after a moment of pure panic, “I, uh, it won’t-”

“It’s okay,” Dr. Grace says, shrugging, turning back down to his plate, “She is a sweetheart, though that’s not a pet name I tend to use, right darling?”

You nod, turning back to your own plate, “And I don’t mind it, I think it’s cute.”

Simon stares at the two of you for longer than he probably should, trying to understand how he isn’t being punished, especially by Dr. Grace. He’d just called the man's wife a pet name reserved for husbands. Why was he letting that slide? Acting like it didn’t matter? That it was normal? Eden’s Roots they were so fucking kind to him. 

“Um, R-” Simon clears his throat and starts again, determined to get it out, “Ryland, you offered to teach me about the water cycle, could we do that tomorrow?” The smile that broke across Ryland’s face was in one word: beautiful. Simon thinks it’s radiant, beautiful, and he wants to see it again. He sneaks a look at you and you have the same fucking smile on your face. Fucking hell, it’s just his luck that he’s so insanely attracted to both of you. 

“Yeah!! I would love to teach you about the water cycle!!” Ryland says, still beaming, “Also, I really like hearing you say my name. I mean, I like hearing you say anything, but especially my name, if that makes sense? Like you could probably recite the alphabet and I would like to listen, so you can say anything really-” 

He sees you lay your hand on Ryland’s forearm gently, which interrupts the weird spiral he was going down. Simon doesn’t miss the appreciative look he gives you, or the way you laugh softly. 

“I think what Ryland is saying, is that we’re very glad you’re starting to feel more comfortable here. It’s what we’ve been hoping for, honestly.” You place your other hand on Simon’s arm, and the three of you are connected for a moment. 

He likes feeling connected.

—-------

Ryland is crying again. 

Simon knows why, it’s because Ryland hasn’t really slept the last week and he’s been freaking out over an experiment that keeps failing. Simon is sitting at the kitchen table, unsure what to do right now. He wants to try and comfort Ryland, but he’s not sure how to. There’s also the fact that Ryland is trying to pretend like he’s not crying, hiding behind his tablet, his sniffles soft and quiet. Finally Simon stands, heading over to the couch and sitting down on the other side of it, still looking at the book he’s reading. Simon’s kind of hoping that his close proximity will help, but it seems like when Ryland sees him he just cries harder. He flounders, trying to think of something to say, when finally you enter the living room, humming softly under your breath.

“Hey you two how - Ryland? Honey, are you okay?” You ask after seeing Ryland’s tear streaked face. You quickly hustle over and sit next to him, a questioning glance at Simon, who shrugs. You know Ryland’s been overworking himself again, it happens at least once a month. He doesn’t know, however, why his presence is making it worse. 

Simon feels really bad about it, he wants to be helpful, wants to be good for you both. He thought he’d been doing really good, you both seemed really happy with him. But how good could he be if he couldn’t comfort Ryland when he was crying? “Sorry, sorry, I’m just . . . so tired,” Ryland hiccups, looking at you. Simon sees the way his eyes cut to Simon for a moment before going right back to your face. 

“It’s okay, you’ve been working too hard. You agree with me, right, Si?” You soothe, running your fingers through Ryland’s hair. Simon immediately clocks the way Ryland leans into the touch, how much it calms him down. 

“Yeah, yeah sunshine, you’ve been working too hard,” Simon echoes, entranced by the action, not realizing he’s let the nickname slip. He’s been so good about it since that time at dinner. 

He hears Ryland’s soft, wet gasp at Simon’s words, his words almost a whisper, “Have I?”

You nod, and Simon watches as you lean forward and kiss Ryland on the lips. There’s a deep ache in Simon as he watches that, unsure of who he wants to be more: you or Ryland. Or both, maybe. Maybe he wants to be in the middle . . . maybe he wants to feel both of your lips on him.

Ryland melts into your touch, tugging you onto his lap, your lips still connected. The tears have stopped streaming down his face, replaced with a primal need that Simon wants to continue watching, but finds himself quickly standing and heading towards his room. He can’t watch, he can’t intrude on this private moment between the two of you. And if he takes care of himself in the privacy of his bedroom, listening to the soft moans and whimpers from the living room, then that’s his cross to bear. 

—-------

“Hey Simon, did I ever tell you where I’m from?” You ask one afternoon as he cleans the kitchen.

He’s got his hair up in a bun, gloves on, scouring the oven. It’s a once a month chore and you’d mentioned that you had it on your list, so he decided to do it before you could. This was what he was here for, after all, to make you and Ryland’s lives better. He wasn’t needed in the lab that day, and he really didn’t have anything planned save for pruning the plants and sweeping the floors. 

You’d come into the kitchen a few minutes prior, surprised to see him already halfway done. 

“No, you haven’t.” He grunts out in response, trying to get a particularly tough build up of food out. Ryland always made such a fucking mess when he cooked, no matter what it was. Simon would bet anything this was from that stupid cheesy chicken casserole he made a week ago. 

He hears you walk over, your footsteps soft. You sink to the ground next to him, leaning your back against the cabinets as you watch him work. He pulls out of the oven and looks over at you, and eyebrow raised, waiting for you to start talking. He doesn’t really know much about you or Ryland’s past, just that you both don’t really view yourself as part of the C.O.I.

“Well, I was born on Mars,” You start just as he sticks his head back in the oven to work over that spot. He pauses his movements, listening intently. You were born on Mars? Like him?

You’re quiet for a few minutes, maybe gathering the strength to say what comes next. He knows you weren’t on Mars during The Quiet Rapture, or you wouldn’t be here. 

“My family made the leap to Eden a few years before The Quiet Rapture.” Your words are soft, contemplative, trying to distance yourself from what you’re saying by making it sound like a story or an academic paper, “And I spent most of my life there.” 

He keeps his head in the oven, worried that if he moves the spell will be broken and you’ll walk away, giving him nothing more. 

“I, uh, I was in your classes, growing up.” You confess, nervous, “You kept to yourself and I . . . I didn’t want to be on Eden so I never made any friends. I think the only reason I knew who you were was because of your connection to Claude.”

Claude, Father Claude, the Father. He’s never heard anyone say Father’s first name like that before. It felt wrong, a hold over from living with the man and his brothers for so long. But damn, you were there? Why didn’t he remember you?

You continue, he’s not sure how you take his silence but you keep talking anyways, “I ended up being designated as a Finder. I found scattered bits of information that float in the vacuum of space between the different stations and factions. I was the one who came in contact with Ryland’s ship first when it circled around. It was all so hush, hush, I don’t think even the Sons of Eden were made aware.”

“We weren’t made aware of a lot, despite popular thought,” Simon says finally, pulling out of the oven. He looks at you and sees how scared you look, like he’s going to tell you how much he despises you, demand to know why you didn’t tell him before. 

He honestly had a feeling you were from Eden, or at least had been there. Little things that added up to the picture that’s been laid out in front of him. The way you didn’t flinch at his head bow, how you casually used Eden verbiage sometimes. It makes sense, honestly. 

“So, did you know I was . . . Who I am when you came to the prison?” he asks, sitting back on his haunches and wiping his gloved hands on a towel. 

You nod, “Talbot’s partner mentioned a few weeks before I met with you that a person from Eden had been in the prison for a while, that Ava was looking for volunteers for her program. Ryland and I hadn’t been told of any prisoners surviving Filament. I mean, it made sense why we weren’t, no one knows I’m from Eden. But when I was told Ryland agreed to go and see who it was. I recognized you instantly.”

“Why did you save me?” His voice is soft, a little broken. Suddenly there’s a new angle to this, to you and Ryland buying out his sentence, saving him from what he knows now after reports spread around the station of the AT-5 incident, “You knew who I was . . . what I’d done . . . and you still saved me?”

“Oh, Simon, the things you did weren’t your fault.” You sigh, looking at him intently with your soft eyes, “Claude made you believe it was the only thing you were good at. Being . . . being Him.”

Being the Butcher. 

For the longest time he did believe that. He did believe that the only thing he was good at was killing and hurting and ripping apart lives. Had believed it until you and Ryland threw yourselves into his life and helped him see he was actually kind and gentle and loving. 

Leaves Above, he was loving now. He did things out of love, because he wanted to, because he wanted to make you and Ryland feel happy and good. He didn’t think like a man in a cage anymore, didn’t look for exits immediately walking into a room. You both gave him a freedom he never experienced before. He has his own space, his own vehicle, his own things. Anything he requested was given to him with a smile. 

“I’m sorry,” You say, voice small, looking away, “I should have told you sooner.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He smiles, turning back to the oven, “I’m just glad we both got out.” 

—-------

It’s almost a year in when Ryland is called to assist an exploratory ship. You’re beside yourself with worry, pacing in Simon’s room as he sits on the bed. It’s his day off and he’d been scrolling through a catalogue, trying to figure out something he could get each of you for his anniversary of coming to live with you two. Ryland had given him a line of credit a week after arriving and he’d only used it a handful of times: once to get himself a plant for his room, and another time to order hot chocolate mix. He knew you two were getting him something, he’d accidentally overheard the other night and he wants to make sure he has something in return. 

“I can’t believe they’re doing this, again!” You’re ranting. He’s listening and halfway watching your form as it moves back and forth. He’s got a little debate with himself on whether or not you’re going to wear a path in his floor, “They promised he would be done with these!!”

“Can’t he just tell them no?” Simon asks, glancing up, “And is it really that bad? It’s supposed to be exploratory, right?”

“He tried to tell them no, said I needed him here, that the station needed him here, but they refused. They said they wanted him to do studies on board of the thing they plan on picking up. They won’t even tell him what the thing is!! It feels bad, Simon, I hate it. I don’t like him being so far away from us.”

Simon watches in horror as you start to cry, big tears filling your eyes. He jumps up quickly, taking you in his arms and holding you tight to his body, “Hey, hey it’s okay! Ryland will be okay, I promise. He can take care of himself.”

You cling to him, and he can feel you try to get a hold of yourself, to stop the tears from flowing. It’s not working, in fact you're just crying harder. He wants to comfort you somehow, to distract you from your spiraling, but he doesn’t know how. He hates when either of you cry, Ryland tends to cry when he’s over tired and over stressed, you cry when you’re overly emotional. He’s seen the way you and Ryland stop each other from crying, but there’s no way he can do that, no way he can go that far. He still remembers the first time, can still see it in his mind's eye. 

“What if he dies?? What if something happens and he leaves us alone??” You sob, gripping the front of his shirt tight, tears dampening the front of his shirt, “I can’t live without him, Simon!!”

Simon walks the two of you back, feeling the back of his knees hit the bed. He sits and pulls you onto his lap, feeling the way your knees bracket his hips. Your move against him as you situated yourself more comfortable, and he takes in the look of surprise on your face. Thankfully the tears have stopped, but you're still sniffling a bit. 

“You back with me, sweetheart?” He asks gently, trying to ignore how close your face is to his. It wouldn’t take much to bring his lips to yours, to taste you after so long wanting you. 

Your gaze is a little dazed, you aren’t back with him, clearly, but at least you aren’t crying actively anymore. 

“He’s gonna be okay, I promise. Sunshine isn’t gonna leave us. He’s gonna go on the trip and come back before we know it.” Simon soothes, rubbing your back. He leans his forehead on yours, as close as he’ll allow himself to get to your face.

“Simon?” You whisper, voice still thick from the tears.

“Yeah?” He whispers back, feeling the change in the air. It’s no longer a desperation for Ryland’s safety, but a desperation for something else. 

He feels your lips on his before he fully understands what’s happening. He’s moving his mouth against yours, drunk off the sensation, feeling the way you draw yourself tighter to him. He’s had so many dreams of this moment, and it’s better than even his imagination could come up with. Your lips are soft against his, insistent. Your tongue swipes against his lips and he opens them for you with a soft groan, allowing you to slip your tongue inside his mouth and explore. He grasps the small of your back, feeling the way your shirt rides up so he can touch your bare skin. You suck on his bottom lip, drawing it into your mouth and biting down on it softly. The gasp that escapes him brings a smile to your face and you do it again. He feels your fingers dig into his back, pulling yourself even closer, your clothed heat dragging along the bulge in his pants. It draws another gasp from him, and his hands go to your hips, holding them tight. Whether or not he plans on stilling your hips or moving them back and forth he isn’t sure, because he hears a throat clear from his doorway.

Breaking the kiss quickly, he looks over at Ryland, who’s standing there, leaning against the doorframe. The reality of what just happened comes crashing over him like a tidal wave, pulling him under into the depths of panic. Eden’s Roots he just kissed another man’s wife. Another man’s wife is on his lap, grinding down in his erection still. 

“Hey honey,” Simon can hear the smile in your voice, feels your lips kiss his jaw.

“Hi darling,” Ryland smirks, and Simon’s never seen this look on Ryland, this . . . self-assured arch to his brow, the slight purse of his lips, the hungry eyes. 

Ryland moves then, pushing off the doorframe and using his long legs to close the distance towards them with ease. Simon braces. He’s not sure for what honestly, for Ryland to deck him probably. Instead, Ryland gently grabs him by the back of his head and slots his lips against Simon’s in a possessive kiss. Simon has never kissed a man before, and he’s sure that he’ll never want to kiss another man other than Ryland again. The kiss is everything he’s dreamed about, just like with you. In his dreams though, he’s the dominant one, moving both of you to his whims, taking what he’s craved since the moment he’s met both of you. It’s obvious now though, as Ryland bullies his tongue into Simon’s mouth, that will not be the case. And he’s more than okay with that. 

You’re still moving your hips against him, your lips moving from his jaw down to his neck, down to the juncture between that and his shoulder. You bite down softly and he whimpers against Ryland’s lips.

“You like that, sugar?” You ask, nipping again at the same spot, soothing your tongue over it.

His lips are still on Ryland’s or he would be nodding emphatically. Instead he whines, his hands tightening on your hips. He hears your pretty laugh and Ryland pulls away from his mouth - he already misses the feeling on his lips. 

“Stop teasing him, darling.” Ryland admonishes, burying his fingers in your hair and tugging back gently. You willingly follow where he leads, arching her head back, exposing the column of your throat.

Ryland turns to him, a wicked grin on his face, “Do you want to give her a little payback?” 

He looks between the two of you, wild eyed. He wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into the soft skin of your shoulder, to mark you up. But this is insane, right?? There’s not a world in which he gets to have this, have both of you, wanting him. 

“C’mon, starlight, bite her back. She gave you a pretty bruise, give her one too.” Ryland coaxes, using his hand to move your head back farther, a little whine leaving you at the sensation. You're humping his lap still, chasing friction that isn’t enough to satisfy you. 

Finally he leans in and attaches his lips to your skin, biting softly at first. He feels your whole body shudder and he bites down harder, drinking in the moan that spills over him. Fucking hell that sound is like music to him, so much better in front of him than separated between walls.

“Good boy,” Ryland coos, smoothing his hand over the back of Simon’s head. Well, he didn’t expect to like that so much. 

Simon pulls back and kisses you again, feeling Ryland’s hand still on him, knowing Ryland’s other hand is fisted in your hair. The idea that he’s touching both of you while you kiss makes his cock twitch and he’s desperate for it to be freed, to be touched. He wants so badly to be buried inside you or Ryland in some way, doesn’t matter which way. Keeping on hand on your hip he removes the other, waving it around, trying to find purchase on Ryland somewhere. He makes contact with Ryland’s side and holds on tight, shucking up Ryland’s shirt so he can grab onto the bare skin there. Ryland’s chuckle just spurs him on, breaking the kiss with you in order to drag kisses down to your collarbone, sucking marks there.

“Oh fuck, Simon!” your voice is breathy, like heaven, like sin. 

“He making you feel good, darling?” Ryland asks, leaning forward and placing a couple quick kisses on your mouth.

“Wanna taste him, please can I taste him, honey?” You plead, moving your hips faster against Simon’s aching, still clothed cock. 

“Only if he wants you too,” Ryland’s voice is patient, with an edge of barely constrained hunger and want, “Simon, do you want Y/n to suck your cock?”

He can’t lift his head fast enough to respond, in fact the sudden motion triggers a bit of vertigo, but he powers through to say, “Yes! Yes please!”

You lift yourself off Simon’s lap, and Ryland quickly removes your shirt, letting Simon get a good look at the soft flesh there, at your breasts. He brings his hands up slowly, waiting to be told no, but Ryland and you watch eagerly as he places his hands there, kneading them reverently, listening to your soft noises in wonder. 

“Isn’t she pretty?” Ryland asks, voice low, “She’s been so needy for you, starlight. We both have.”

“Really?” He breathes, looking between the two of you.

“Yeah, we have.” you bite your bottom lip, “for a while now . . . we weren’t sure if you felt the same.”

“I do, fuck, I do. Been dreaming about this for so long.” He removes his hands and slides off his own shirt, eager to feel both of you.

Clothes are removed quickly and Ryland guides Simon to rest with his back against his head board in the middle of the bed. Simon feels a bit self conscious, exposed, completely naked on the bed with you and Ryland there. How many times has he dreamed of this? Honestly too many to count, but it was nothing like the real deal. 

He watches as you crawl up the bed towards him and get settled between his legs, looking at him with a wide, eager smile. Ryland kneels on the bed next to him, capturing his lips again in another possessive, fiery kiss. He leans into it, jumping only a little when he feels your lips on his cock, feather light kisses up and down his hard shaft. He whimpers into Ryland’s mouth, and Ryland runs his hands over Simon’s skin, just feeling him. Simon brings his hand up and encircles Ryland’s waist, holding him close to his side. 

When your lips close around him fully he gasps softly, feeling the smile on Ryland’s face. Ryland pulls back a bit, lips barely brushing over Simon’s, “How does her mouth feel, starlight?”

“So good,” Simon moans softly as you travel farther down his shaft, tongue flat against him, “So fucking good!”

“Yeah, she’s so good with her mouth, aren’t ya, darling?” Ryland coos, placing his hand on your head and guiding you down faster just a little bit. You hum against his cock, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of him on your tongue, of Ryland’s hand on your head. 

Simon watches with wide eyes as his cock disappears more and more into your wet mouth, getting closer and closer to the back of your throat. When it hits he sucks in a ragged breath, hips twitching as you swallow around his cockhead. 

Ryland gently guides Simon’s head to look at him, “Are you good with your mouth too, starlight?” 

He nods quickly, “Yeah, yeah can I taste you?”

“Of course, asking so pretty for me, of course I’ll let you taste me.” Ryland breathes, Simon’s words obviously getting to him. He maneuvers himself so it’s easier for Simon to draw Ryland’s hard cock into his mouth and run his tongue up and down, circling the tip once, twice, a third time. Ryland’s moan above him is like an aphrodisiac. 

Simon’s eyes flick down as he sucks Ryland off, making eye contact with you as you bob your head up and down. You’re watching with enrapt eyes, hand starting down to your cunt and starting to rub your clit as you watch. He wants to tease you, to ask if you’re enjoying the show, but with the way he’s fucking his mouth on Ryland’s cock, it’s impossible. Besides, he doesn’t want to take his mouth off for a second, even to try and draw more whimpers from you. You’re doing a fine job on your own anyways, yours and Ryland’s moans filling his bedroom like a fantasy come true. 

He starts to get close, to close, and somehow you sense it. You pull back with an obscene pop, smiling wide, panting a little bit, “Can I ride you while you suck Ryland’s cock?”

You’re already straddling his hips when he pulls back and nods, gasping in quick breaths, “Please, wanna feel you around my cock, sweetheart.”

“I agree, let’s see you bounce on his cock, darling.” Ryland smiles wide, leaning over and giving you a quick kiss. 

You line yourself up and sink down slowly, and Simon whines at the feeling. Your pussy is so warm and slick, your walls like velvet around him. He’s worried he won’t last long with how good you feel, how good this all feels. Then Ryland gently tangles his fingers in Simon’s hair, brings his head back to his cock, and slots himself deep in Simon’s throat. He starts fucking into him gently, watching as you bounce and whimper and moan. Ryland matches your pace and Simon feels so full, it’s incredible. Tears prick his eyes at the sensations and he’s never felt so happy to just be used before. He doesn’t feel like it’s a bad kind of used, it’s a kind where you both care so much about him that if he wanted you’d both stop immediately. He’s confident that if he pushed back against the cock bullying his throat Ryland would immediately stop and ask him what’s wrong, how he can fix it. Same for you, if he put his hands on your hips and stilled you you would check in with him, ask what’s wrong. He trusts you two in a way he’s never trusted anyone else before. He loves you two. 

Ryland pulls out of his throat after a few sloppy thrusts, panting heavily. Simon watches as he pinches the base of his cock, trying to stave off the release he was close too.

“Fuck,” Rylands pants, voice wrecked, “God, Simon, your throat is incredible. You’re incredible.”

He kisses Simon again (Simon’s never been kissed this much during sex before) before getting off the bed, legs a little wobbly, “I’ll be right back, don’t stop.”

Both you and Simon nod quickly and Ryland laughs softly as he quickly heads out the door. 

You attach your lips to his as you roll your hips, kissing him like you needed the air from his lungs to breathe. He willingly gives it, putting both hands on your hips and feeling the motion as you grind into him. He thrusts up into you on a whim, then does it again when you gasp so sweetly into his mouth. 

“Simon!” You whimper, nails digging into his shoulder, the pinpricks of pain so sweet.

“Is that the right spot, sweetheart?” He murmurs, snapping his hips up harder, “Is that the spot that makes you see stars?” 

“Yes!! Yes!! Feels so good, love it!! Please!! More!!” you plead, babble really, voice high pitched as whiney. It sounds so good to his ears, his cock twitches as he drives up into you again and again.

Ryland comes back shortly holding a bottle of lube. He stands and watches for a moment, appreciating the sight of his wife and Simon joined like this. 

“Pause for a moment,” He says then, and the tone of his voice leaves no room for argument or disobedience. With a whimper Simon stills his hips, looking around you at the blond. 

“Simon, how would you feel about my cock in you?” Ryland asks, crawling up the bed and moving behind you, pressing his front to your back, “If you don’t want to right now I can always fuck Y/n’s ass, it’s up to you, pretty boy.”

Pretty boy. Roots Below The Last Tree, Simon’s never heard anything so filthy, so salacious, so hot.

“I want it,” He whimpers, fingers flexing on your hips. He wonders distantly if they’ll leave a bruise, if you’ll wake up in the morning and see the marks on your skin and think of him. He’ll carry marks of the two of you forever, burned into his soul, into his DNA. He’ll never, ever be the same after this. And that’s okay with him. 

Ryland smiles wide, brilliant, blinding, and he instantly preens, ecstatic to have made Ryland so happy, “I was hoping you would say that, pretty starlight.”

Ryland moves you off Simon’s lap, depositing you next to him. He then grabs Simon by the calves and yanks him down so he’s laying flat on the bed. Ryland’s strength surprises him, he didn’t think the scientist would be able to mandhandle him like that. He loves it. Ryland then directs you back on Simon’s cock, pressing a hand to your back, laying you flat on top of Simon. He’s surprised for a moment, he thought Ryland would have you sit on his face, but instead he lets you sink back down on him, lets his cock warm in your fluttery cunt. You must be close, he sure is. 

“Okay, I’m gonna go slow. Darling, will you fuck your sweet little cunt on his cock? Help loosen him up?” Ryland asks, voice sugary sweet in contradiction with his filthy words. 

You nod and start moving your hips again, yanking another long, low moan from Simon. You bite into his collarbone and immediately soothe the area with your tongue. Your teeth drag dark colors to the surface from shoulder to shoulder, the pain so delicious it almost makes him miss the generous slathering of lube on his asshole, almost makes him miss when Ryland slowly presses his cockhead in. He doesn’t miss it though, thank Mary, he feels every push, every bit of stretch, as Ryland slowly slides home. 

“Ah! F-fu-uck! Ryland! Y/n!” He moans, holding onto you like you're the only solid thing left in the world. You keep bouncing on his cock, keeping a steady rhythm, sucking a harsh mark in front of the base of his throat. 

Ryland moans as he bottoms out, holding onto Simon’s knees, which are spread as far as they’ll go on the bed, “Simon, holy fuck, you’re so tight, you feel so good! Such a good boy, taking my cock, letting Y/n ride you. You’re so perfect, so fucking perfect for us!”

Simon loves the praise, loves every little bit of it. He didn’t realize how much it would affect him, being your and Ryland’s good, pretty boy, but he loves it, wants to do anything and everything to keep that title, to please you both. 

You’re nodding along with Ryland’s words, hips moving faster and faster as you chase your climax, “Yes!! Yes!! So good for us!! Love it, love you, love you, Simon!!”

“Yeah, yeah, love you, Simon, fuck, love all of you!” Ryland’s voice is breaking the closer he gets. 

Simon is about to tip over the edge from the words, from the feeling of fucking and being fucked. It’s all so much, so good, so much, so everything. There’s not a world in which he gives this up, where he doesn’t confess the thing he’s been hiding for months now, the reason he gets up early in the morning, the reason he tries so hard to please you both. He’s in love with both of you.

“I love you both too!!” He forces out, tears in his eyes. He lets go of your left hip and reaches out to Ryland, who takes his hand and squeezes tight. 

From there it devolves into streams of moans, whimpers, whines, praises, declarations. You’re the first to tip over the edge and into euphoria, collapsing onto Simon. He holds you tight as you keep moving your hips against his, wanting him to cum as well.

“C’mon starlight, ‘m so close, you are too, I know you are. Be good for me, for us, fill her with your cum, make her drip with you.” Ryland babbles, his rutting turning sloppy, driving in and out of him at a relentless pace. 

And he does, he climaxes with a choking sob, holding your hips down onto his cock as he releases deep inside you, painting your walls with his hot cum. Ryland follows immediately after and he gets a taste of what you must feel as Ryland fills him up as well. 

Three panting, sweaty bodies lay still on top of each other as the three come down from the euphoric high. He can’t believe that just happened, that he was allowed to be a part of that. He feels like the luckiest man in the world, a man who doesn’t deserve a second chance and not only gets it, but gets it with the best people this cruel universe has to offer. He wants to hold you both tight and never let you go.

Ryland pulls out first, pressing a couple kisses first to the back of Simon’s hand that he’s still holding, then to the back of your shoulder as you lay on top of Simon’s chest still. 

Simon watches as he makes his way to the bathroom, running the water for a moment. He comes back with a damp washcloth and gets to work cleaning all three of you up. You sigh happily, nuzzling your head into the crook of his next. His softened cock is still inside your slick pussy, but neither of you make a move to remedy that. Ryland doesn’t comment on it, in fact he’s careful to not dislodge it as he cleans, humming softly to himself. 

After he’s done, Ryland lays down next to Simon on his side, curling around both of you, resting his head on the pillow next to Simon’s head. 

“What do you say about us getting a bigger bed?” Ryland smiles as you slip into a content sleep. 

“Yeah, I think I’d like that,” Simon laughs softly, kissing your forehead, then turning to kiss Ryland’s nose. 

“Good, good. We meant it, you know.” Ryland yawns a bit, removing his glasses and placing them far away from where he might accidentally roll over on them.

2005, JANUARY The rain was the same as always: thin but relentless, turning the narrow streets into mirrors of grey sky. You’d stepped onto the fire escape for some air, stifled by the pre-storm humidity in your eighth-floor apartment, when you noticed him already there above you, leaning mindlessly against his own fire escape with a cigarette burning down between his fingers.

Henry Letham, the brooding artist from upstairs whose grungy nineties music sometimes bled through the walls at 3am, not that you minded: you liked knowing someone else was awake if you couldn’t sleep.

Henry snapped out of his trance as his cigarette burned his finger. As he looked down to take a drag, he caught sight of movement below, and the unusual sound of footsteps on metal. His hair flopped into his eyes as he peered down at you. You nodded politely up at him, giving him a cordial smile and a small wave. “Ok if I sit down here?” He eyed you cautiously, then returned his gaze ahead of him, watching the cars pass like he didn't care if you lived or died. “Do what you want.” You didn't reply, almost taken aback by how rude he was— even for a New Yorker. You scoffed and turned away to sit with your back to your flat. With your knees drawn up, you opened the book in your lap and began to read.

The silence stretched lengthily, the sound of light traffic and wheels on wet concrete making you forget there was anyone near you at all. Until, after a few minutes, the man above you exhaled sharply and you saw a cigarette butt fly over the edge of the fire escape. “You’re new." He said it like a statement rather than a question, though you were certain he was looking for a response. You stopped reading and dog-eared the page, twisting around so you could speak to him without craning your neck. “I guess," you replied. He just looked on ahead at the road as if he'd never spoken in the first place. "I...moved in last month?” You were unsure how he didn't know somebody was occupying the apartment below him. He glanced back down, blue eyes sharp and guarded like he was waiting for something else.

You learned then that Henry didn’t do platitudes: he grunted and returned to his apartment; you stayed out and read.

FEBRUARY You never pushed to speak to Henry after that— he seemed depressed, self-loathing, a bit of an energy vampire— but at the very least he knew you were there. Since January, you had spoken to him twice: that one time on the balcony, and the one time you offered him soup after you heard him coughing for three straight days.

You told yourself it wasn’t your business: he was a grown man that chose to smoke a pack of day, and who was also kind of an asshole, if you were being honest. You almost talked yourself out of it, but the coughing continued as you began to turn around, raw and miserable, and something stubborn in you won. Some people aren't happy enough to be kind; others just don't know how. You weren't sure which category Henry fit into, but you knew that the only way to combat either of them was to be kind in turn.

If all other philosophy failed, at least the soup would stop him from coughing so madly late at night that it woke you up.

Thus, you found yourself standing in front of his apartment door on the ninth floor, tupperware warm in your hands and feeling increasingly heavy. You knocked: it took a long time for him to answer. When the door finally opened, Henry looked better than you expected, even as pale and unshaven as he was. He was wearing a long-sleeved jumper and dark jeans, hair falling once again into his face. He blinked at you like he was trying to remember who you were. "What?" You cleared your throat. “I, uh, heard you coughing from downstairs.” You lifted the container to his eye line. “Thought this might help." Henry stared at the Tupperware for a moment, expression unreadable. You furrowed your eyebrows, confused by his silence. "My coughing interrupting your beauty sleep?" he accused. You weren't sure how to reply to this. You were a little annoyed, but you don't know what you expected based on your first interaction. “You don’t have to take it,” you scoffed, “I just figured... better than coughing up a lung. Whatever."

As you began to turn away, Henry grabbed the container from your hands, eyes never leaving yours. His long fingers brushed your own: they were surprisingly warm. Then, he stepped back into his apartment and slammed the door, the frame rattling in its wake. You stood there, stunned, staring at the peeling paint on his door. Right. Of course. You turned to leave, sighing, when the door opened again. You spun around to find Henry stood there, one hand on the knob, looking forlorn. "Thanks,” he said, voice hoarse, chewing his bottom lip. You blinked. “Sure." He closed the door again, gently this time.

Henry thought that he hated your small kindnesses at first, your pitying glances and delivering of his mail when it got posted through your letterbox instead of his. He hated even more the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about you, and how much he looked forward to seeing you. He found himself on the fire escape more often, smoking more often as an excuse to be out there. He felt sick when you didn't come out; he felt sick when you did.

On the afternoons where you did venture onto your make-shift balcony, you rarely exchanged more than a few words with Henry. A week after you'd visited him at his door, you asked how the soup was. He had said "good," and handed you back the tupperware. You'd leaned up to grab it from his fire escape, and he'd taken great pleasure in the brushing of his fingers against yours. He wished he had more stuff of yours to give back.

You didn't know it, but this tiny bi-weekly conversation acted as a dog-ear in the story of his life, a sort of oiling-of-the-engine that kept him going for days between seeing you.

MARCH In the dim light of his apartment, surrounded by half-finished canvases and scattered sketches, Henry found his hand moving across the page without permission: your profile on the fire escape, the way your fingers curled around a mug, the quiet set of your shoulders when you were holding your own. Something about drawing what was around Henry gave him control over it— that's what he told himself.

He also told himself that he despised your behaviour, and that's why he couldn't stop thinking about it: the way you refused to flinch at his oddities, or run from his awkwardness, or— even worse— fill the silence with empty optimism. You just took everything in stride. It unsettled him more than any fake cheer ever could because it felt real, and it wasn't safe to get attached to real.

APRIL The day things shifted, you had locked yourself out of your flat at 1am. You sank to the floor with your back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing measured, enduring the fact you'd done something really stupid. Fuck. You'd never thought to buy a mobile phone, so you'd have to wait hours until you could ask a neighbour to use their phone and call a locksmith.

Henry, ever the night owl, came up the stairs an hour afterward, and stopped short at the sight of you crumpled by your own doorway in your pyjamas, looking rather pitiful with your head in your hands, asleep. You didn’t realise someone was there and he suddenly felt quite protective, then irritated: who the fuck falls asleep in a hallway in New York? You're just asking to get mugged.

Henry stood frozen for a few minutes, fists clenching and unclenching, unsure whether to wake you up and tell you to move, or to invite you into his apartment and offer you his bed. The sharp retort of his thoughts died on his tongue as he opened his mouth to speak, and something like a friendly quip came through instead. “What's with the endurance act?” Your eyes shot open, surprised you'd managed to fall asleep in such an uncomfortable place. You blinked up at him: he towered over you, so you once again craned your head up to see him. You really weren't in the mood to deal with Henry, tonight. “Locked myself out,” you sighed sleepily, letting your head drop back onto the door behind you. "Need me to move so you can get past?"

Henry hummed, stalling, then slid down the wall beside you. You tensed up: he was closer than he’d ever been to you before. Your shoulders brushed but you didn’t pull away, and the contact sent something odd through his chest— fear, maybe relief. He wasn't sure anymore. He hadn't felt anything but anger in a while. "That blows."

You opened one eye and peered at him out of your peripheral vision. Was this actually Henry? Keeping you company? Empathising with you? You turned your head fully to look at him, unsure whether he was being serious or not. You couldn't help but smile when you saw that he was soaking wet, hair dripping into his eyes. "Jesus, where've you been?" you scoffed. Henry completely ignored your question and swiped the hair out of his eyes, pushing it back over his scalp. “I’ve been a dick to you,” he muttered, charcoal-stained fingers flexing at his sides as he looked down at his knees. “On purpose. Every time you came around. I hate being pitied, and I know I don't help myself." You kept your gaze on his side profile, wishing he'd meet your eyes. "I don't pity you, Henry," you smiled, turning away. "I actually kind of think you're an asshole."

You swore you could see a grin tugging at Henry's mouth, so often down-turned or pulled straight in anger that you barely recognised it. "Yeah, well," he began, "I'd still rather that than pity."

You sat together chatting about your lives for the first time ever until you fell back asleep. Your head lolled onto Henry's shoulder, and he wasn't sure what to do. Henry didn't want you to see his depressive flat, covered in dirty dishes and take out bags, so he didn't invite you back. Instead, he stayed with you until the sun came up, disappearing at 5am when light came through the hallway windows and he was sure you wouldn't get mugged.

MAY After that, the walls came down quickly. He started painting on the fire escape instead of just smoking and wondering whether he'd die if he jumped. You’d sit below him, on your fire escape with your book as he sketched, no expectation of conversation there. Henry would glance over and feel the knot in his chest loosen just a little.

One afternoon, Henry got brave. You'd been doing this little routine for a few weeks now, and he found himself craving the contact of your shoulder that he'd felt that one night. "Can you... come up here and tell me if this line is straight?" he called down, so quietly you weren't sure if you'd really heard it. You smiled up at him, dog eared your book, and made your way up the half-flight of stairs to his fire escape: you'd still never been up here, yet, let alone into his apartment to see his art.

Henry stepped back, fiddling in his pockets for a cigarette and a lighter as you peered at the canvas facing the street: a beautiful charcoal sketch of the landscape before you— tall buildings, taxis, people below all effortlessly on paper. You couldn't help but gasp. "Henry.... that's— that's fucking fantastic!" Henry preened quietly next to you, practically purring with the attention. He hid it well, smiling to himself into his cigarette as you leaned forward to view every detail of the canvas. "Is it— is it straight?" "Oh, right, sorry. Which line?" you squinted at the page.

As you admired his work, he admired you; he absorbed the profile he'd drawn so many times, the downstairs neighbour he found himself drawn to without explanation. As you turned back toward Henry to give him your feedback, he felt like time had slowed down: your lips were moving but he couldn't hear you speaking. "I think it looks fine, but maybe I'm—" Before you could finish your sentence, Henry had plucked the barely-smoked cigarette from his lips with a pop, flicked it over the fire escape, and strode forward toward you to grasp your face between his charcoal-smudged palms. He kissed you with something like a fury, a passion driven by confusion and curiosity for why he felt this way.

Before you could even begin to lean into the kiss, to part your lips to make way for his tongue, Henry pulled away, resting his forehead against yours. "Henry—" you began, chest heaving as you gripped his jumper. He stayed close, thumbs still brushing over your cheeks, charcoal smudges streaking your skin. His eyes were almost frantic as they searched your face. “I don’t know why I did that,” he said, “I just… fuck. I needed to try.” He swallowed hard. “Don’t ask me to explain it because I can’t. I just know that when you come around, I feel a little less like eating a bullet.” Henry’s breath trembled against your lips as he leaned in again, slower this time, giving you the chance to pull away. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, “and I will.”

You didn't dignify that with an answer.

JUNE Weeks blurred together, but losing time with Henry was always welcome. Henry sought you out on the bad nights, and so you learned all about his near-fatal car crash, his survivor's guilt, and the therapy he'd been trying to make work.

He never seemed to use the front door, perhaps worried that it'd throw your routine off balance. He'd jump down the fire escape, cigarette hanging between his lips, and knock softly at your window, worried that he was bothering you. Every time, he would end up with his head in your lap on the worn couch in your apartment, your fingers threading gently through his hair while the static in his mind quieted. He’d close his eyes and whisper things he’d never told anyone. “You scare me,” he admitted one night, voice muffled against your thigh. "Yeah?" you whispered back in the darkness. "Yeah. I think it's easier to want to die for someone than want to live for them."

As you mulled it over, your fingers stopped tracing in his hair. He peered up at you, snapping you out of his trance when he softly took your hand and placed it to his chest, instead. "You're a good guy, Henry. You're really good." You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

Nowadays, he’s completely undone; he’s putty in your hands, soft in ways he never thought he could be. He takes your suggestions to eat more, to take his medication, to cool it on the smoking, and he runs with them; his apartment isn't a shithole, most of the time— not in the way it used to be, anyway. He feels like you freed up some space inside of him, and now he's got the bandwidth to care about something bigger than his past: his future.

When your own issues come knocking, he doesn’t hesitate to pull you into his apartment and wrap his arms around you from behind, burying his face in your neck. “We’ll sit with it,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. "Hmm? We'll just sit with it."

You raced around the arena floor on horseback. Gracefully, you guided your buckskin mare, Peaches, to jump over obstacles, strut backwards, and dance on two legs while you somehow held on to the saddle. Ken held his breath as he watched you take Peaches out to the edge of the floor and bring her up to top speed. This was his least favorite part of your routine. But it was always a crowd favorite. No matter what anyone said, you wouldn't give up the trick. You let the reins go and slowly climbed up onto the saddle. Once your balance was stable, you raised your hands and beamed up at the crowd as Peaches did one lap around the floor.

Ken grabbed the metal hoops that had been leaning against the railing. Then, at the exact right moment, he threw them to you as you flew by. The crowd burst into murmurs and cheers as you began to juggle the rings.

You looked so confident up on that saddle, like you were born to be there. Grinning and laughing as the wind picked up your hair and dirt flew into your face. Skin radiant under the blinking lights of the Ferris wheel and makeshift spotlights of the arena. You looked beautiful.

Off to the side, the metal gate of the arena floor clanged. When Ken looked over, he could see the bull that was supposed to be used in the next act getting anxious. The handlers were trying to calm him down, but it was no use. He bucked against the metal bars holding him in place, against the hands that tried to hold him down. One moment, there was just the usual commotion of handlers yelling at one another and a bull's angry grunt. Next, the gate was wide open, and the anxious bull was sprinting into the arena.

In the middle of your act. With you still standing on the saddle. You flinched when you heard the metal clang against each other and the crowd gasp, then you looked over your shoulder and saw the bull. Stamping its feet into the dirt and looking for something to be mad at. It was that slight off-centering of your balance that threw you from the saddle.

You landed in the dirt with a sickening thud, flat on your back, the wind knocked from your lungs. You gasped for air as you stared up at the stars.

Ken didn't think; he just moved. Shouting your name, he bolted across the arena floor until he was between you and the bull.

"Hey, pal, it's not your act yet! Stop stealing the spotlight!" he called to the bull as he moved this way and that, trying to keep its attention away from you as you struggled to get up.

A few members of the audience laughed. People were still in the stands?

The bull groaned as it stamped the ground, horns lowered in Ken's direction. Then it charged. Full speed. A one-ton bullet. Ken shrieked as he ran away, making a direct line away from you, as the bull went after him instead. He ducked out of the way at the last second, and the crowd oohed at his ability. The bull was distracted for the moment, and in that moment, Ken looked back at you. On your hands and knees, crawling towards the fence slowly.

Oh, God. You were hurt.

Ken ran as fast as he could while the bull wasn't looking and helped you to your feet. You wheezed as he scooped you up by the armpits and then looped one of your arms around his shoulders. Within a few steps, you were at the fence.

"Come on, you gotta go," he told you quietly as he grabbed you by the hips and popped you up onto the fence.

You swung your legs over and landed on the other side roughly. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about me." He gave you a wink and a smile he didn't feel confident in but hoped you did. "I got this."

His next girlish scream as he ran away from the bull said otherwise. But before you could see if he got the bull back into its pen, the medical team was at your side and whisking you away to their tent.

At midnight, the rides were shut down. The last of the patrons were shuffled away from the carnival grounds. The animals were in their stables for the night. Family dinner was done and cleaned up. The carnival was ready to pack up and do it all over again in the next town.

And you were sitting in your trailer, one ice pack on your head and another on your aching ribs. Nothing was broken, thank goodness. You couldn't afford a trip to the hospital. But a concussion and bruised ribs were enough to have your act shut down for the next two weeks. Of course, you grumbled and groaned to Luke, the carnival's showrunner, but he wasn't going to hear a word about it. He wanted his people safe.

Really, you couldn't argue against that. Luke was a good boss. Fair. Thought of his employees like family. It was just that...Without riding and performing, you didn't quite feel like yourself.

As you were about to drift off in your recliner, there was a knock at your trailer door. Probably Luke coming to check on you one last time. You groaned as you got to your feet, but you were slightly taken aback when you opened the door and Ken stood on the other side. Twisting a single wildflower between his forefinger and thumb and focusing anywhere but on your face.

"Hey, Ken," you greeted as you leaned against the doorframe.

"H-Hey," he replied, then cleared his throat. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Oh. Thank you."

He finally looked up into your eyes and for the first time...You realized he was attractive. Maybe it was the fact that he wasn't painted like a clown just now. But he wasn't just carnival junky attractive but...Beautiful. Bright blue eyes like ice in winter. Sharp jaw - sharp everything. That platinum blond hair you were pretty sure he got from a box, but the dye job looked too good to be done in a trailer bathroom. He looked up at you now, bathed in light from your open trailer door, with such genuine care in his eyes that it felt like hitting the dirt all over again. The air knocked from your lungs.

Ken had been with the carnival for about a year. You were friends, of course; he worked with the rodeo unit. You were a tight knight group. And Ken fit in so easily. Sure, he was a little odd sometimes - somehow completely unaware how the world worked in some aspects. But he was kind. Giving. A good friend. You always sat together during family dinner and often wound up riding in the same vehicle during travel days.

But this was the first time you thought of him in...This way. A more-than-friends way. And maybe it was because he saved your life earlier. Maybe it was because he was now arguably the cutest guy in the carnival. But you weren't mad about it.

"Are...You doing okay?" he questioned, then shook his head. "But, if you don't wanna tell me, that's fine. I'm cool. I'm super cool. Totally...Didn't pick this flower on the way here. I've just had this."

With a smile, you stepped down from your trailer and shut the door behind you. "It's fine. I'm okay. Concussion - bruised ribs. Nothing I can't handle."

"Okay. Good. Good. Not that those things are good. Those...Bad." Ken shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Those fine," you chuckled, "Thank you, by the way. For saving me."

"Oh, geez, that was...That was nothing. Just my job."

"Still." In a bold moment, you popped up onto your toes and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "Thanks, Ken. I appreciate it."

The kiss left him a babbling, blushing, grinning mess after that. Mouth opening and closing like a fish. Eyes wide. Cheeks the color of cherry cotton candy. You giggled as you plucked the wildflower from his grip and brought it up to smell.

"You wanna come inside...Maybe?" you asked as you looked up at him from beneath your lashes.

He was nodding before he finally pushed out, "Yeah. Yeah. That sounds good."

ryan gosling taglist part 1 -

@electronicheartpersona @rommies @anixszci @leahuzumakisblog @scarlinrouge @penquinsarecool @toddthebitch @stormyparker @loganskittycatears @mercyismymom @yourfavpersonalityhire @downsobadforthatoneguy @caitsmissinglefteye @taycepascal @toneystank-3000 @tinnygems @mrsandorbby @daniiibananiii @acidwhiskey @munchkin1923 @lastwandastan @ladybirdbeetle7

@bbeadyeyes @mcmjsts @100percentlazybonez @eimethyst @jackiebabieee @flwer555 @unknownplayr @caramelsugarcookies @miaaaoa @deadlymistress24 @justatiredhuman @fyodorslave @scoredlobster68 @ailishmgk @gneepgnrop @alaniuser @mak-in-cheese @mothhballl @ghostslittleprincess @loki-kinda-scared-chat @leonkennedyslefthand @laurasenchantment

Colt is leaning against the bathroom frame now, a casual non-chalance as if he hadn’t thought his brother an intruder just minutes ago. “You look like you’re about to ask someone to marry you or, you know, explain why their insurance claim got denied.”

“Is it too much?”

Colt raises an eyebrow as his twin looks down to reassess what he’s wearing. Ryland’s never given a rat’s shit for his comments before. It’s almost endearing, reminds Colt of high school prom and helping his brother fix himself up.

“Depends what for.”

“Second date.”

That definitely paralyzes Colt, almost as if a deer in headlights. There’s a voice in his head trying to convince him he had misheard, but the way Ryland had mouthed the words had been so clear. He was going on a second date.

Despite hearing the boy, loud and clear in-fact, Colt asks him to repeat. “What?”

“Ilyukhina said she’d asked for a second date.” Ryland is grinning now, trying to adjust the collars of his dress shirt. “You impersonated me so well that you got me a second date.”

Oh, no no no. Fuck. No no no.

This is the subject of Colt’s worst nightmares.

Because Colt hadn’t been imitating. Because Colt, not even halfway through the date, had slipped past the pretense of being his brother and was simply being himself. And you had asked for a second date. You liked Colt enough that you wanted to see him again.

You thought he was the love of your life, too!

The words repeat like a broken record in Colt’s head.

Somehow, the consequences of his actions on that first date are only rolling in now, flooding him, and hitting him like a freight train with no warning bells.

Questions of jealousy are soaking in, waters reaching dangerous levels as he stares at his own twin brother—Do you even know the path to her home? Do you know she laughs so unabashedly that it makes your heart twitch in a wholesome way? Do you even know how many times she had to change outfits for the first date?

(Five, by the way.)

And despite everything he wanted to ask, Colt could only manage to let out a one-word question out of the paragraphs he had been thinking of.

“What?”

Ryland laughs, completely unaware of the mental scuffle in his brother’s mind. Though, Colt might have himself to blame for that. When Ryland had asked him how the first date went, he tried to answer as vaguely as he possibly could to not accidentally confess how completely and utterly fucked he was.

Now Colt is here, and still completely and utterly fucked.

(Maybe even more than he was that first date.)

“I know. I wasn’t expecting it either.”

“And you’re going?”

Ryland turns to him, then. His eyebrows are lifted in that amused manner he does when Colt asks something questionable. One time he’d asked about snot-flavored chips and elicited the same lift of eyebrows before it turned to one of disgust.

“I’m dressed up and fixing my hair, Colt.” Deadpan. “Yes I’m going.”

“But…”

Colt’s heart is beating so loudly that he’s convinced Ryland can hear it. And his mouth, clumsy and desperate, is pushing and pulling at words before his brain can process he’s even uttered them.

“You told me she was nice, and that the conversation was easy.”

You are nice, and the conversation did come easy. But, it was with Colt! You were nice and talked easily with him. You asked him to walk you home. Colt Seavers, not Ryland!

He hopes the distress he’s feeling isn’t written plainly on his face, because he’s pretty sure he currently looks constipated.

Ryland smiles to himself, smoothening out wrinkles that aren’t there so he’d have something to do with his hands. “I figured I’d be kind of stupid to not see where it goes. She has the stamp of approval from my brother.”

She has the stamp of approval because she’s the love of my life, Colt thinks but doesn’t say. He can’t, because his face is still constipated, and his heart is beating out of his chest, and his stomach is twisting.

Instead, he settles for something equally controversial. “You can’t go.”

It’s Ryland’s turn to ask what apparently is the most common question of the afternoon. “What?”

“I mean…” Colt curses himself, almost slapping a hand on his mouth for being so rash. He’s scrambling for something else to say, scrambles. “You… shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Because she’ll end up liking you, Goddamnit! Someone kind, and smart, and who definitely hasn’t committed identity theft.

Colt thinks it’s so obvious (as if being the love of his life wasn’t reason enough), but his brother is standing there completely puzzled. Until something cuts through Colt’s head and reminds him that his brother doesn’t know about his feelings, and it would be a great time to try and save yourself and your remaining dignity.

“I was kidding.” He blurts out with a painfully rehearsed laughter that he might’ve tried out a few times in his mind before committing to it, a dismissive hand waving to compensate. “Thought it’d be funny if you actually started doubting yourself for a second.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You just tried to convince me not to go on my own date.”

“I just told you it was a test!”

Ryland is squinting his eyes suspiciously at his twin, but he doesn’t choose to overthink it. With long strides to the living room, he grabs his wallet and slip it effortlessly into his back pocket. “I might be late, so just buy your own dinner.”

“You’re not gonna give me money?”

Ryland has to. If he was going to steal the love of Colt’s life, he might as well slip in a couple bucks and pay for the victim’s dinner.

“You have your own money. Bye, Colt!”

The front door clicks shut behind him, and Colt stands alone in their apartment like he had been earlier this afternoon. It was just that, then, he hadn’t known of the dooming fact of Ryland’s second date. Now, his mental scuffle are yelling over one another.

“Fuck.”

You choose the place this time.

It’s an unbusy diner you used to frequent a lot when you were still in college, tucked away between a laundromat and another old store. Its decor is as a usual diner would be, tiles of alternating black-and-white, and a whole lot of red—walls, couches, tables. Even the jukebox has hints of red, but that hasn’t been working properly for nearly a decade now.

You think you love it because it’s a place to feel human in. Inside here, you’re never in a hurry, even back in college. At-your-own pace and smiling in front of Ryland who sits across from you in your usual corner booth.

For a few minutes, neither of you says anything. It isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it isn’t easy either. Ryland smooths a thumb along the condensation gathering on his water glass before glancing at you, looking as though he’s rehearsing three different opening lines in his head and quietly discarding every single one of them. Not a single one makes the cut, apparently seeing as he still hasn’t spoken a single word.

(Ryland, who usually blabbers anything and regrets it after saying it is also perplexed at how uncharacteristic he’s being.)

You offer him a small smile in encouragement, and he smiles back just as warmly, but the effortless rhythm you’d stumbled into on your first date seems to have been left somewhere outside the diner.

“This place is really nice.” He finally says, looking around, eyes darting from one piece of decor to another. Safe. It’s something safe to talk about.

And it’s endearing, his quiet curiosity, his want to be in a world you know, his attempt at making the moment less awkward.

“It is.” You smile, and there is a feeling almost proud in your heart. “I used to come here all the time.”

“Really? Tell me all about it. If you uh— if you want. If you feel comfortable with… sharing that with me. Yeah.”

Your smile grows even more at his innate curiosity to know you, and the way he stumbles over his words the way he hasn’t ever before. And he watches you go on and on about the place, really, and the memories you’d built on this booth all drunk, or crying over an exam, or with friends after a long day. Sometimes the owner would give you fries for free. And he listens, all with his chin in the palm of his hand and eyes fixated on you.

The great awkwardness dissipates from the air in record time, leaving only remnants of it behind.

“And they have the best pancakes.” You’re leaning forward, almost whisper-like, as if it was just a secret between the two of you.

“They serve pancakes this late?”

“They’re an all-day breakfast place.”

“That’s dangerous information for me.”

“I knew you’d like it. I guess it’s something about the teacher in you. I don’t know why I associate teachers with breakfast.”

This time, it’s Ryland who laughs. It’s different from when you’d been on your first date. He’s a little more reserved with his laughter, and there is something self-depracating about him that he hides behind sheepish smiles and dry humour.

“I’ll be sure to research the correlation between that and let you know if I find something. It’s kind of like when, uhhhh, shark attacks increase when ice cream sales go up.”

“Really?” The way you maintain eye-contact is intimidating, wide eyes full of mirroring curiosity swimming in them. Ryland doesn’t know how Colt had managed. Here you were, looking at him, listening genuinely, and smiling so beautifully.

“No, I’m sorry.” He laughs. “I mean, it’s honestly more just correlation. More people buy ice cream in the summer, more people swim in the summer, so there’s more shark attacks. But, correlation doesn’t necessarily mean causation.”

Your mouth drops, eyes now squinted with a betrayed voice to pair. “You tricked me.”

“I technically didn’t. It’s called a spurious correlation. Okay, maybe partially tricked…”

“Still tricked me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Where first-date Ryland would’ve fought back, Ryland now just mutters an apology with a shut of his eyes in a sort of embarrassment.

“You know, Ry. I notice you’re using pretty big words now. It’s honestly a massive upgrade from telling me the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

Oh my God, Colt. That idiot.

Ryland ducks his head into a laugh before he can stop it, the sound escaping him in little bursts. It catches him off guard just how vividly he can picture Colt saying exactly that, puffed up with misplaced confidence as though he’d personally discovered the fact himself.

“So, you’re back to science teacher mode. Does that explain the change in look?” You smile at him a little intrigued, a hand reaching out to press against his cheek. It’s hesitant, ghost-like.

You haven’t been in each other’s orbits long enough for prolonged moments that drift back and forth from the line of intimacy. “You shaved.”

Ryland is trying hard to pay attention to what you’re saying, which proves to be a difficult task when he can’t stop wondering what to do with the fact that he liked how your hand felt against his cheek. “And the glasses are cute.”

A faint flush creeps onto his cheeks, instinctively adjusting them at the mention even though he has a poor habit of peering over them which has only worsened the condition of his eyesight. (Colt had scolded him a few times.)

“Must’ve been wearing contacts on our first date. Are these uh, good changes?”

“It’s cute. You’re still cute, don’t worry.”

Colt never mentioned how forward you were. Maybe if he’d known, he would’ve practiced not getting flustered so easily.

A sort of silence falls between the two of you at the moment, but the background goes on to make their noises in complete disregard of the both of you. There’s silverware clattering from plates, a little kid asking if pancakes count as dinner, and the static of a jukebox that still insists on playing even though it’s been unsuccessful for a decade.

The waitress comes back balancing two mugs of coffee and a towering stack of pancakes a moment later. Ryland had ordered the same thing, courtesy of your suggestion.

Besides, he had a little sweet tooth anyway.

“That’s enormous.” Ryland says, mouth agape at the tower of pancakes staring back at him. You glance up at his sudden comment, and it makes a smile tip over your lips.

“I told you. I’ve never actually finished it before.”

“And yet it’s still your go-to order?”

“I’m committed now. It’d feel like cheating if I ordered something else.”

You’re really blowing into his life now, sweet and warm and comfortable, and unexpected but not unwelcome. You had an endearing charm, and your smile reminds him of flowers. His bones are a-chatter as you smile more to yourself.

“Even though I always regret it around pancake number four.”

“There are six.”

“I never really learn.”

He only smiles, albeit fond. But, he doesn’t bite back longer than he should. And there’s something else, something different about him, something you keep trying to ponder on as you both eat your pancakes.

You try to insert it between conversations, between each bite, thinking and pondering and staring as you shuffle through your few memories with him.

He’s talking less, but when he does say something, it’s straight from his head in a subtype of clumsy he didn’t have on your first date. He always looks like he regrets what he’s saying instead of laughing it off, noting a habit of closing his eyes or scrunching his nose a little when he does. He’s less teasing, too. His level of playfulness seemed to have dialed down a little. Like he’s picking apart things about himself before letting you have it.

“You know…” You start, and the immediate way you have Ryland’s attention makes you look down shyly at your plate, makes you fiddle absentmindedly at the sleeves of what you’re wearing. “You seem calmer.”

“Calmer?”

“Mhm. On our first date…” You smile at the memory. “Everything that came out of your mouth surprised even you.”

Ryland looks like he’s taking in the information, like he didn’t live through it himself. He looks at you curiously. A little worried.

“Can I ask you something? It’s kind of stupid, though.”

“Those are usually the best questions.”

You let out a small breath through your nose, your smile finding its back where they belong before you brave the courage to make eye contact. “You still like me, right?”

Ryland’s face softens at a ridiculous pace, and he almost wants to reach out and ask you what prompted you to ask him, but it looks like you want to say more. He keeps his patience, and leans forward to let you know he’s listening to you.

“Sorry.” You’re laughing awkwardly now. It’s compensation. “I know how that sounds. It’s just… you’re really different today.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, suddenly finding your empty coffee mug more interesting. “Like I said, calmer. Quieter. It seemed like you had more fun on our first date. It isn’t bad, but when I have a point of comparison… I don’t know. I guess I just got in my own head.”

“Hey, no, no, that’s not it. I’m having a lot of fun right now.”

Ryland reaches out, and it’s hesitant. He’s reaching a hand out, just enough to touch your fingertips. He wants you to look at him, to look at the softness in his features. And when you look at him, he offers you a sheepish smile. Gentle.

“I think I might’ve maybe put a lot of pressure on myself tonight.” He explains.

“You did?”

“Yeah.” His tone is low, abating the tempestuous anxieties that had been swelling in the pit of your stomach. “I kept thinking the first date went so well that I didn’t want to accidentally ruin whatever that was.”

You lean in at that, fingers moving to touch just a little more of his hands until you’ve slotted just your fingertips between his own on the table. “So you were trying to impress me?”

“Maybe a little too hard.”

I had big shoes to fill in, Ryland thinks. And he thinks it with an embarrassed smile manifested physically on his face.

He cringes a little at his words, wants to drop his head on the table at how that might’ve come off, maybe even crawl under the diner booth. But he looks at you now, and you're looking at him with warmth, and a face that’s trying very hard not to smile. “I can’t take back what I just admitted to?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No can do, Ryland.”

You’re staring at your semi-intertwined hands, at how your fingertips are holding onto each other. And Ryland can’t help but let his eyes travel around your face, studying your features, and how you might feel about him.

“We’re okay?” He chooses to ask, and from the smile that stretches on your face, he seems to already know your answer.

“We’re okay.”

“Good.”

You reach across the table and steal one of his fries with your free hand, trying to lighten the sudden shift in the air. Your other hand remains on the table with his. “I was worried for no reason, then.”

“Were you just distracting me so you could eat my fries?”

“Maybe.”

Your laughter rings out the moment he asks, and he barely feels the twinge of your fingers against his because he’s too busy relishing in your crinkled eyes and how they’re in sharp contrast to the anxious, uneasy way it had looked earlier.

And it’s all he can think about even after he’d paid the check, and was now walking you home.

You don’t seem to mind his sudden amnesia at the path towards where you lived. You did spend the entire night on your first date bumping shoulders and trying really hard not to kiss each other, so the memory lapse would be warranted.

There is a certain beauty of the streets being reflected by the warmth of the streetlights and the glow of the moon, and every few steps your shoulders brush together. No longer accidental.

“I had fun.” You tell him, playfully leaning towards him before fixing your eyes straight ahead.

“Even if I was a little different?” Hopeful. There’s a certain tone Ryland’s been giving, like he was making up for something.

“Different isn’t always bad. Just needs getting used to.”

He smiles at this, and he keeps smiling the walk back until you abruptly stop in your tracks. It isn’t something he notices right away, too in his head about the entire night, but footsteps started sounding like two instead of four. It finally warrants him to return to the real world in search of you.

You look like you’re in the middle of a decision. “You know, I’ve been trying very hard to behave myself.”

His brows knit together, tilting his head, but his smile never leaves. “Should I be worried?”

“Maybe. It’s just that I've wanted to do something. I really wanted to do it after our first date.”

“Yeah?”

Ryland thinks he knows where this is heading, and he can’t help the butterflies in his stomach. He feels like a schoolboy again, in front of his crush, waiting.

“And I’m usually good at behaving myself. But, it’s been really persistent.”

“I don’t think I’d mind if… if you misbehaved a little.” He whispers, and that’s all confirmation you need to reach up and catch his dress shirt with your hands, bunching it up between your fingers and pulling him down to kiss you. Soft, warm, and brief. And so fucking exhilirating.

When you pull away, you’re immediately smiling into the pavement, your ears burning, but Ryland has better ideas when he laces his fingers with yours, tugging you beside him.

“I’ve really wanted to do that since the first date.”

A smile slowly spreads across his face. “I’m really glad you did.”

“Did it feel nice, then?” You ask him, a little bashful as the two of you resume walking. You can see the way he’s smiling, and he’s already nodding his head before words can form in his mouth.

“Better than nice.”

Ryland doesn’t even make it past the front door before the apartment fills with him, though to a very unwilling participant.

“Coltcoltcoltcolt—-“

“I’m right here.”

Ryland barely acknowledges the response. He’s halfway out of one shoe, hopping awkwardly as he tries to kick the other off without using his hands.

There’s a smile threatening every corner of his face, one that keeps slipping back no matter how much he tries to bite it down.

He’s jittery and giddy, and it seems he’d implode if he wasn’t moving in some way. “It went well. Really well.”

“Yeah?”

A strange relief settles over Colt. Not for himself, because inside he is still bitter and irritated. But, you (the love of his life) deserve a good second date. And he’s happy his twin brother could do that for you. Happy, yet irritated.

“I don’t even know where to start.” He’s rushing to the spot next to Colt on the couch, fingers mindlessly unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt. He needs the room to breathe, especially after the exhilarating night he had.

“Usually the beginning would be a good start, but I don’t know. Maybe that’s just me.”

“Don’t be mean.” Ryland nudges him with his elbow, smile suddenly elated at the memory of your date. He really can’t stop thinking, can’t stop the way his mind and heart is buzzing.

“She took me to this diner she’d been going to since college. The owners knew her by name, it was really sweet. Apparently, she’s really committed to these pancakes that she’s never actually ever finished.”

Colt hums, trying very hard not to look like a bitter man. But it’s so hard when he’s stuck in a kerfuffle. Ryland, unaware, is trying to catch his breath as the words tumble out of him.

“But she keeps ordering them, anyway. And, we just talked a lot. She’s really easy to talk to.”

That’s what I told you, Colt thinks bitterly.

“Yeah, I mentioned.”

He wants to react more positively, but his mouth is dry. There’s so much he’s supposed to say as a supportive brother. He can’t, not when it feels like there are fingers being shoved down his throat.

Colt can picture it in his head, no matter how hard he tries not to. It’s burning in his memory, etching and bonding itself to every bone until it’s all he can think about—you, sitting in front of Ryland, elbows on the table and eating your Goddamn pancakes, and laughing over whatever the hell you were talking about.

Colt doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to taint the memory of your laughter that he thought was reserved for him, but was now apparently overused in Ryland’s hearing, too.

And the way his brother is looking at him, narrating all about your night? It feels like his heart is being stomped on, grinded to the ground, until it’s nothing but unidentifiable powder because what was Colt even expecting.

Of course Ryland would fall for you. It’s hard for anyone to spend an evening with you and not leave completely head over shoes.

“I really like her.”

Colt’s heart gives one slow, painful thud against his chest because the thought had just materialized. It had become realer than it was when it was just in his head.

“And…” Ryland’s ears turn pink at whatever thought he had conjured up. Colt doesn’t really want to listen anymore, his brother was probably gonna say something about how he had walked you home, how you’d giggled at his jokes, how you’d—

“She kissed me, and God, Colt. It was perfect.”

Colt jolts awake, his self-pity sobering up a little. Maybe it was the rush of grief that suddenly surged through his bloodstream or maybe it was simply his brain telling him ‘I told you so’, but with complete disregard for the moment, Colt stands up abruptly, and he’s running a hand through his face and saying stop-stop-stop, because his brain was already conjuring up the image and that was something he did not want to picture.

“Colt?”

He wants to vomit. There’s heat behind his eyes that are threatening to leak if he doesn’t run away. And while his face still has a smile plastered for his brother, he feels his facade cracking, and he tries to grin wider to mask it.

“That’s good, buddy. Sorry, I’m just… I feel… weirdly exhausted.”

It’s a terrible excuse, completely lame. Paper-thin. But he can’t think of anything else. Not when the love of his life has just kissed his brother. And said brother also apparently really likes her.

Ryland snorts. “It’s barely nine.”

“Long day.”

“You took a nap before I left…?”

“Weird how the body works, huh. But maaaaaan, if I stand here another minute, I might fall asleep on you.”

“You’re being really dramatic, Colt.”

“It’s one of my better qualities. Haha, but yeah, uh, your story deserves better than that. Tell me the rest tomorrow?”

“Okay. Goodnight!”

It’s only when Colt is in the comfort of his bedroom, lonely and empty, does he lean his forehead against his wooden door and sigh out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The smile he’d been sporting finally slips off.

It’s silent for a moment. A calm before the storm.

Until there’s a burn in his heart, just under his chest and it’s squeezing so tightly. When he closes his eyes, all he sees is you, and it sends ugly tears streaming down his cheeks.

The reality of the situation is dawning on him, and it is so, so painful.

A spell of dizziness sends him tumbling towards his bed, heart racing and palms sweating and tears flowing.

He curls onto his side, one arm thrown over his eyes, or somewhere that can try to block you out. But he falls asleep at the thought of you, anyway.

The transition happens without warning.

Colt stands behind a glass door, something blooming before his eyes. One step then another, and then it’s suddenly so fast-paced. It started with Ryland being on his phone a lot more than usual, and then he’d be gone some evenings.

The man ponders over waiting it out, but there is no place for him to want to be absent in his brother’s lovelife when he’s the only family member Colt has left.

It feels heavy, though. But Colt never allows himself the moment alone because he’s afraid he might think about it. Instead, he busies himself with work, with going to the gym, with teasing Ryland and apparently going over the top about it because he loves the pain he subjects himself to.

It does start small, though. He thinks he deserves at least some credit for that. Ryland would come home smiling at nothing, and Colt would tell him he looked insufferable.

And then it just escalates from there.

“Have fun kissing your girlfriend!”

“We’re not kissing, and she’s not my—”

Ryland never gets to finish his sentences.

“You know it’s getting really lonely in this apartment. My brother has replaced me with a pretty girl.”

“I haven’t replaced you with anyone!”

It gets to a point where it’s just blatantly ridiculous.

“Oh, we’re hiding messages now?”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“You never used to hide your phone from me. Come on, let me read. I need good stories if I’m gonna be your best man.”

It’s sadistic, honestly, the things that Colt does to himself. He thinks it’ll shield him from the pain, but every time Ryland goes out, he’s suffocated by the same bitter jealousy and the tears that always manage to spring to his eyes.

Mr. Number One Yearner over here.

And it might be ridiculous. You had only gone on one date, while you and Ryland were banking on four together. But, he really felt a genuine connection with you. He still thinks about how he’d walked you home, and how he almost kissed you. It’s still embedded in his memory the way you smiled at him, and walked just a little closer so your hands would brush against each other’s.

It exhausts Colt. He never has time to really think because he’s always rushing.

The watch on his wrist reads 00:04, and it’ll only be a few minutes before the noise of his own mental scuffle overwhelms him. They always do. He does the only thing he can, plugs in his earphones to try and drown it out while listening to Sad Boy Playlist on Spotify.

This is what living with a brother who’s dating the love of your life is like. He lives off of sadistically teasing his brother, jumping into stunts with a little less fear, and sleeping really late at night.

It’s been like this for a few weeks. The same routine, over and over. Colt thinks he messed up somewhere. If only he had told you that night—but it’ll be the same unsaid conversation in his head repeating. It always ended in you kissing him, and it would end there until his alarm would blare and he’s reminded of his bleak world.

He stares at the ceiling, as he does every night before falling asleep, and the only sounds that accompany him are the loud volume from his earphones and the echo of your laughter in the background.

Until, one day, he decides he’s been too cruel to himself. Apart from his heart breaking, he had lived on stale coffee on sets and the black coffee that Ryland makes.

A coffee shop would do him good.

The cafe is so busy that you almost miss him. Keyword: almost.

He’s just by the pickup counter, a baseball cap pulled lower over his forehead, and a black face mask covering the lower half of his face. One of his hands is shoved effortlessly in the pocket of his pants, while the other is mindlessly tapping against his takeout cup.

But you’d recognize him anywhere.

“Ryland!”

Colt freezes from where he’s sipping his coffee, his blood running cold at the familiar voice. He hasn’t exactly seen you since you’d gone on that first date together.

“What a coincidence.” There’s that smile on your face, the exact same one he had fallen for. The one that had rearranged his life, his routines.

You just move, and the whole world moves with you. Including him, who has suddenly forgotten he knew how to speak, his feelings overwhelming him before he can process vocabulary.

He has half a mind to tell you just how much the sight of you smiling makes him feel, his stomach twisting, his heart begging to be let out.

“Hi.” He chokes out a response after staying silent for too long, hoping it doesn’t come out awkward. You don’t seem to mind.

You stop in front of him, your own coffee balanced carefully between both hands.

“I didn’t know you came here.”

“Sometimes.”

Apparently, his feelings had also decided on one-word responses.

“I’m always here. It’s disappointing we haven’t bumped into each other sooner. Cool get up, by the way with the cap and the mask, and everything.”

He only laughs, throat stuttering over words he can’t say, so he chooses to just shift his cup to his other hand. The sleeve of his jacket rides up in consequence.

Your eyes immediately catch on something just beneath his wrist.

“Hey, is that new?”

Colt follows your gaze, eyes finding the familiar healing scrape from yesterday’s stunt rehearsal. He’s still forming another one-word response when you reach for his arm, settling feather-light against his wrist.

“That looks like it hurt.” You frown, looking up at him.

Your hand is warm, almost too warm against his. And he notices the same callouses he did that night of your date. He assumes they’re from hard work like his. There are questions at the tip of his tongue, a desire to know what kind of life put them there. It’s the same questions echoing in his head before he falls asleep.

“It didn’t.”

“Not even a little?”

“Maybe a little.”

You give him a look, but it’s playful more than upset. “Okay, brave boy. Just, uh, one second.”

Before he can ask what you’re doing, you’re already rummaging through your tote bag. There’s clatter of pens, lip balms, a few receipts are pulled out with an accompanying grumble, until—

“Got it!” You triumphantly lift a little packet, showing it to him proudly.

“You just carry around band-aids? Who are you, Dr. McStuffin?”

You laugh. “Well, yeah. My friends are kind of clumsy. One time, someone in my office cut themselves over opening a bag of chips.”

Colt laughs, too, despite himself. It’s not so much the story, but the way you say it, the way your hands move. It reminds him of that night, that one fateful night, and the same animated way you’re telling him stories.

“A bag of chips?! That seems more your friend’s fault than the chips.”

“Hey! They’re surprisingly dangerous. I’m afraid I’ll have to file some sort of complaint. Needs more hazard warnings.”

You peel it open, staring down at his stubborn scab, before looking up at him. “May I?”

Colt nods hesitantly. He can’t not say yes, not when he’s hyperfixated on the way you hold his hand, resting it on the counter and working hard on applying the bandaid.

You’re so gentle, settling it on the scrape before smoothing the edges down with your thumb. The action makes his face flush an embarrassing color. You don’t seem to notice. You’re too preoccupied to look at him in the face.

It’s a small thing, barely lasting a minute, and yet it was a curiously intimate thing for you to attempt to take care of him through a band-aid. There’s that very identifiable feeling in his heart he doesn’t want to think about right now, and there’s a subtle change in the air that he needs to address.

(Not with himself, he’s had this conversation enough times already. He might just have to talk to his brother soon.)

“There.” You smile proudly at your work, smoothening over it one last time. “Good as new.”

Your fingers remain curled loosely around his wrist, your thumb resting against the inside of it, even after a whole minute has passed. You only seem to notice when your eyes flick up to his, and back at his hand that you’d apparently refused to let go of.

“Sorry.” You let go immediately after the realization, smiling sheepishly.

“No.” Colt says, soothing you at a similar immediate pace. “I don’t mind, really.”

“Okay then, Ryland.”

Colt should’ve thought of the thrill your giggles always send him, but right now, he seems to cling to how strange it still sounds, the name of his brother, coming from your mouth when talking to him. Even until now.

‘Colt’ would be so much more comfortable to say, and it’s one-syllable instead of Ryland’s two that’s a little more clumsy to fit in a sentence. With how he feels, sometimes he forgets he’s still ‘Ryland’ to you.

He can’t help but wonder if he’ll always be just ‘Ryland’ to you.

When he notices he’s been quiet for too long, he stands up a little straighter and finally tunes back into the present. The first thing he discerns is the little cartoon bear printed on the Band-Aid.

“Thanks, though. The bear is cute. Nice touch.”

“It was that or dinosaurs.”

“I would’ve liked the dinosaurs.”

“God, I knew I chose wrong. I spent like ten minutes mulling the decision over. Gee, thanks Ryland!”

He laughs. From being in his head a lot, he’d almost forgotten how easy this was—talking to you, and being around you. It feels like stepping back into a room he was forced out of too early.

The barista calls another name in the background, and someone gets up from a table by the window.

“Oh, quick, quick! A table opened.”

Colt should leave. He should leave if he wants to make this easier for him. Instead, he lets you take his hand and guide him to the empty table. And conversation follows, like it always seems to with you.

None of you notice the untouched coffee on the table that’s now cold, nor how forty full minutes have passed. You’re so engrossed in conversation that none of it matters. Everything is just background as you talk about your coworkers and how the pigeons keep harassing the woman who works by the window, or how he had accidentally set off a smoke detector in their apartment while he was doing a science demonstration.

(He was actually helping Ryland when it happened. But, he can’t mention that.)

And the both of you are laughing so hard that your ribs are starting to hurt, and your lungs are tired from the constant inhale and exhale of recovery right after.

“No family emergency to fake today?”

“Nope. I’m stuck here with you, sadly.”

Your jaw drops in disbelief. “Sadly? I’d have you know I’m quite good company. I won ‘Most Friendly’ all throughout kindergarten.”

“That’s a surprisingly low-stakes achievement to be bragging about.”

“It was actually very competitive. I had like three people I was competing against. God, what about you? You must’ve been a nerd.”

“I was actually pretty cool back in the day. You would’ve had a crush on me. I was as charming as I am now.”

“Charming? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Worked on you.”

A blush creeps up on your cheeks, but you don’t let him win the moment. You can’t let him, not with that smug look on his face. “Suuuure, Mr. ‘Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell’.”

Colt groans, dropping his face briefly into his hands.

“I was hoping enough time passed for you to forget that one. That wasn’t very charming of me.”

“How could I?” You smile teasingly. “I laughed so hard when you said that. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

“Might have to send a personal thank you to the mitochondria then.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told.”

“But I think…” Your smile is less teasing now. It’s softer. Fond. And a little nostalgic. “I missed ridiculous.”

The remnants of laughter settles warmly between the two of you, and you allow yourself the time while he’s chugging down his cold coffee to study him. He doesn’t tell you it’s an excuse to hide the way his ears are tinging pink from what you’d just said. If he’s drinking, his face wouldn’t smile so much. He wouldn’t have to think of how you said you missed ridiculous. Missed him.

“Can I say something?”

He nods.

“You’re really…” You smile to yourself at the thought that’s forming. “You today. I don’t know if that makes sense. You’re just…”

You’re searching for the words, similar to him when he’d seen you that first second in the coffee shop almost an hour ago.

“You’re a lot like our first date.”

His heartbeat quickens.

“I kept wondering if maybe our first date had just been… one really good night.” You toy with the sleeve around your coffee cup. “But today, well, I don’t know. You’re looking at me like that again, and making me smile, and making my stomach hurt so much from laughing. It just feels like I got you back.”

Your smile turns impossibly fond. “I guess you do still like me.”

“I really do.” Colt’s response comes out quicker than intended, without the executive decision of his brain. It seems, his heart just went ahead and answered what it’s been shouting for a few weeks now.

You grin so brightly that it almost splits your face. “Good. Cause I really like you too. Show me this side of you more often, please?”

“Okay.”

It’s in moments like these that have Colt reconsidering how forever would feel like, and how he wouldn’t mind having this moment last for a little bit longer than it should. Sitting here with you, a mere spectator amongst the warm glow of the cafe’s lighting, makes Colt feel hopeless.

It makes him wish he could freeze time, keep this moment untouched, something that you break by glancing at your watch. Couldn’t you have spared him a few more minutes?

“Oh, wow. I didn’t realize the time. I should really get going.”

Disappointment flashes across his face before he can hide it. “Right.”

You stand, gathering your bag and slinging the strap over your shoulder. “Don’t look so upset. I’ll see you later, Ryland!”

The name lands in his chest like a bruise that he doesn’t process what your parting statement had implied. And this time, it lingers a little longer.

He watches you disappear through the cafe doors. And only after you’re gone does he look down at the little bear band-aid on his wrist.

He doesn’t take it off. At least, not for the rest of the day.

You meet Ryland again later in the day for a fifth date. And you’d think after meeting a while that the nerves would be worn off, but it never completely washes away. Not completely, at least.

There are still moments where your heart forgets what it’s doing whenever Ryland smiles at you a little too long, or brushes your hand without meaning to, or makes you laugh like he did all that afternoon. The thought of its repeat makes you a little nervous tonight.

But the constant reminder that this was your Fifth date has softened down the nerves a little, comforted them and asked them to keep down for a moment.

Tonight, he meets you outside the little independent bookstore you’d been insisting on taking him to for almost two weeks now. He’d told you over text that from the number of times you’d talked about this place, it was about time that he actually saw it with his own two eyes.

So now he stands outside beneath the flickering storefront sign, hands buried in his coat pockets against the evening chill.

“You made it.”

“I’m just finding out there’s a little restaurant inside.”

“I was trying to save the best part as a surprise.”

“Good choice.”

You spend almost an hour wandering the aisles, going through book titles and synopsis, and on occasion, imitating the book covers. Ryland, on the other hand, picks up every science book he can find, reading blurbs aloud with the innocent enthusiasm of someone who genuinely forgets other people are around.

You have to physically steer him away from a shelf after he spends ten full minutes debating whether an author misunderstood a science concept you don’t even remember.

“I don’t think arguing with a book is a good look for you, Ryland.”

“If I told you I was winning, would that change your mind?”

“Not quite, but I was swayed a little.” You laugh, and he pockets it as a victory on his own part, finally putting down the children’s book he had been criticizing for the misinformation on the science aspects.

Ryland is very passionate about teaching children correct information early on, even if that means arguing with a book meant for a five-year-old to read.

By the time the two of you settle into the bookstore’s restaurant, there’s already two steaming mugs waiting for you at your table, and you’ve laughed enough that your cheeks are starting to feel a bit sore. Though, not as much as your ribs had stung earlier in the afternoon.

You watch him stir his hot chocolate, and he catches you looking. You’re never really subtle with the staring, you’ve noticed.

On the first date, you had told him he was really pretty.

“What?”

You smile, shaking your head. “Just that… there are so many versions to you, did you know? It’s always a surprise to know which Ryland I’m going to get.”

Tonight, Ryland had felt like a friend. You pondered over it over your own cup of hot chocolate. You’d been feeling weird for quite a while. The past few weeks, that was how Ryland felt to you. But meeting him this afternoon had sent a surge of romance through your bones that you almost forgot how giddy you had felt that first date.

Ryland’s spoon pauses halfway around the mug. ”I don’t think I get what you mean.”

“It’s not anything bad.” You say, elbows propped on the table and palms resting on your cheeks. “It’s kind of interesting. I mean, there’s first-date Ryland. And there was second-date Ryland. And really, who could forget Science-teacher Ryland who just argued with a bunch of children’s books.”

“I like that Ryland.” He mumbles, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose once he feels it start to slip.

“Of course you do.” You laugh, and then you think of the last Ryland, the one that had made your heart flutter earlier. “And then there’s coffee-shop Ryland.”

Ryland’s smile falters. He doesn’t have any memories with you in a coffee shop. And he’d consider his memory quite good, remembering pieces of information that he needs to as a teacher. There is always information locked behind his mind, and this, this was not one of them.

“Coffee shop?”

“The cafe this afternoon. He was cute. You looked like you never wanted the conversation to end. It was funny, really, because we already had plans tonight.” Your smile softens at the memory of sitting with him by the window and laughing at God-knows-what.

“You just kept finding new things to talk about. You even let me put that stupid bear band-aid on you. And, even after all that, you still looked disappointed when I had to leave.”

That… wasn’t him. He wasn’t in a coffee shop that afternoon. He had been in his classroom, teaching his kids. And—

Horror dawns on Ryland immediately when he realizes. His brother had come home wearing that bear band-aid. He remembers because he’d made fun of it. The same brother who had barely looked him in the eye when he’d asked how the afternoon went. Kept repeating the same words, “nothing interesting”.

That can’t be it. No, Colt would tell him.

Wouldn’t he?

Something flashes in Ryland’s mind, just in that split second of questioning—his brother persuading him not to go on the second date, the look on his face that morning, the redness in his eyes he said was from lack of sleep.

Ryland feels something cold settle in his stomach, freezing his bones, his lungs, his heart, until it seeps into every part of him. It spreads slowly, water seeping and searching for every crack, and by the time the realization reaches his head, he thinks he might actually be sick.

“Ryland? Are you alright?”

Your voice pulls him back. You’re looking at him with concerned eyes, but he can’t seem to brave eye contact.

“You’ve gone somewhere else.”

Every memory from that first date belongs to someone else. Every detail you mention always seemed to hold a semblance of his brother in there. There was always more fondness when you’d talked about your first date, and when you were talking about the coffee shop he’d never been to before.

That was all Colt. Colt who had been the one on your first date, who had walked you home that night, who you had thought about kissing, who stayed at that coffee shop because he couldn’t bear to leave you.

“Can I ask you something?”

You’ve asked that question so many times that it feels weird being redirected back at you. Odd, but not unwelcome. “Sure.”

“When you said…” He clears his throat, trying to find the right words to get his point across. “About coffee-shop Ryland. Did you like that version of me better?”

There is no mistaking the confusion that morphs into your face, trickling into every feature of yours that it almost isn’t necessary to say what you ask next. “What?”

“Were you happier with me then?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Now, there’s a hint of frustration in your voice you can’t hide. You’re confused, and a little frustrated because why is it that the question is necessary. Had you been conflicting with your feelings?

At the end of the day, he was all entirely one Ryland. Everything was him, so what did it matter which version of him you liked more?

“It doesn’t matter. I liked who you were on our first date, and the second, and even today when you’re arguing with books. I liked you this afternoon, too. I just like you.” You spread your hands helplessly. “All of those people are you.”

Ryland feels his chest tighten, averting his gaze elsewhere in the habit of being scolded. And, in a softer voice, he says, “Not entirely.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Just answer the question, please. Did you like me more then?”

You sigh, eyes shutting in that same frustration you’d been branding since he asked it in the first place. “You looked like you liked me more then. And I couldn’t stop smiling. So, maybe, yeah. I like when you’re that version of you. I never have to think about what’s in your mind, because in those moments, it feels like I already know.”

Ryland goes quiet.

His eyes drift somewhere just beyond you, unfocused, as though he’s trying to solve a problem that keeps changing every time he thinks he’s reached the answer. He never quite gets to the right answer.

His chest tightens with a dull, unfamiliar ache. It isn’t jealousy. It isn’t even heartbreak. It’s the sort of realization that all this time, he had been trying to compete with someone who he’d never be. You had always imagined that he was Colt.

“I see.”

Ryland rubs both hands over his face. He’s unsure of what to do, and you’re not sure how to perceive this conversation anymore. There are many things you understand with ease, but this is asking far and beyond for you.

Why was he reacting so greatly to this?

“Can you…” Ryland laughs, he actually laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “This is going to sound completely insane. I just…”

He looks at his phone on the table. There is only one thing to do.

“Can you give me five minutes?”

“You’re leaving? I don’t think we’ve finished our conversation.”

“Just five minutes. I just… I need to talk to someone.”

“Right now? It can’t wait til later?”

“Please.”

The laughter that leaves your lips is dry, almost incredulous. “I’ve been trying to understand your absurd questions and your vague responses for the past few minutes, and you suddenly want to make a phone call right now?”

“I promise it’ll make sense. I’m sorry. Please.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes shut for a moment as you try and breathe out the things you’re not understanding to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Okay.”

“Okay. Thank you. I just… I should’ve realized sooner. Will you please wait?” He tries to smile gratefully, and he hopes you saw it from how he’s already reaching for his phone and stumbling out the bookstore with Colt’s contact in hand.

The phone rings. Under his breath, Ryland mutters, “Pick up, you idiot.”

The apartment is loud now that Ryland has left and gone on another date with you.

Ever since Colt’s recent new heartbreak, he had invested in buying his own speakers. Sometimes, the plugs in his ears aren’t enough anymore. He needs the songs blasting and echoing around his walls. It’s not like Ryland’s home to complain anyway.

That’s how Justin Bieber ends up in his apartment.

If I was your boyfriend—

“No.” Colt points accusingly at his phone, rushing to pick it up and switch it to the song he’s intending. Because he wasn’t your boyfriend. It was an evil, sick joke his phone was playing on him to remind him exactly that. “Wrong song.”

Everybody’s laughing in my mind, rumours spreading ‘bout this other guy—

“There it is.”

He throws himself dramatically across the couch, laughing at his pathetic state as the tears keep streaming from his eyes down to his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.

“This is a healthy way to cope.” He says into the air, voice congested from all the crying. He doesn’t know who he’s defending himself to, but he felt it necessary to be said out loud. As if Whoever The Fuck was judging him in this moment.

He buries his face into one of Ryland’s throw pillows, leaving behind wet patches of his tear strains. He’s sure they’ll dry by the time Ryland comes home. This is fine.

The song continues as he sobs pathetically.

That should be me…

“Exactly.” He points at the ceiling this time. “That should be me.”

His phone buzzes, but Justin Bieber’s making some pretty good points through the speakers. Ryland can wait.

He silences the call, letting Bieber preach his truth.

Ryland’s probably just calling to geek out over you anyway—how you’re so incredible, how another date is set for tomorrow, how beautiful you are. But that should be him! So for now, Colt has the right to ignore him.

The song ends, music switching to another Taylor Swift song, and Colt can only groan louder at the pillow.

“I am not the kind of girl who should be rudely barging in on a white veil occasion…”

“And you are not the type of girl who should be marrying the wrong boy!” Colt finishes for Taylor, purposely switching out the pronouns so he can feel his misery more. As if, in some way, he was directly talking to you.

Because it is You. You’re going to get married to Ryland, and he will be forced to watch. You’re probably planning your wedding dress right now, the type of cake you’ll want, the flowers, and Ryland’s going to make him best man, and oh God, he thinks he might vomit—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

The phone keeps buzzing. Because who is Ryland if not persistent? (Despite Colt’s misery.)

Taylor barely has time to belt out her bridge when the buzzing was starting to kill the mood. Colt groans loudly into the pillow, kicking his legs around in a mini tantrum. Can’t he have this one moment to yell along the lyrics, to vicariously live through Taylor as she finally ‘speaks now’.

After his tantrum, and a few more frustrated tears, he finally picks up.

“What.” He sniffles right after, and he can only hope that wherever Ryland is is full of noise to mask the pathetic way he had sniffled.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Home? Where else would I be?”

“I’m sending you an address.” Ryland sounds extremely panicked. He only sounded like this when he was missing a deadline. “I need you here.”

Colt sits upright at that, Ryland’s throw pillow still clutched tightly in one of his arms. Another sniffle. “Why?”

“Why didn’t you just tell me, Colt?”

“I’m afraid you’re not really making sense right now, bro—“

Ryland’s voice climbs. “That you like her!”

Colt finds that multiple words are stuck at his throat, it dries and thickens, and it’s getting a little hot in this room, and is the airconditioning still on? It’s impossibly hot and sweaty right now.

“Buddy, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tries to deflect. A palm wipes at tears? sweat? whatever was gathering on his cheeks.

“Cut it, Colt. I know you’re in love with (Name). I, just, since when, Colt?”

He coughs as a response.

“Answer me, Colt.”

“Since the first date.”

“Jesus.” If Ryland didn’t sound stressed before, he definitely was now. Colt can almost picture him tugging at his hair, eyebrows furrowed in the way it does when he worries. “You didn’t think I’d want to know?”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It mattered! It definitely mattered! If you’d told me—” Ryland almost shouts, but he’s quick to calm himself. It’s like a switch, really. Like he’d somehow remembered the years of teaching himself patience.

Instead, he starts speaking in a smaller voice. Quiet. Almost guilty. “I would’ve never gotten in the way. I wouldn’t have gone on that second date if you’d told me.”

“I’m sorry—“

“No time. Look, I’m outside of this bookstore trying very hard not to accidentally ruin her entire week. So, get your ass here, Colt. Or I swear to God.”

Panic suddenly settles in Colt. He stares at his phone for a second too long. His thoughts are suddenly everywhere at once, tripping over each other before any of them can fully form.

“What am I supposed to do when I get there?”

I’m sorry for pretending to be my brother? Sorry that I ended up falling for you? Sorry that I was just crying to Justin Bieber a few minutes ago?

“Just get over here and fix this.”

Ryland’s right, and Taylor’s right. He has to speak now. This is his last chance.

“I have to speak now or forever hold my peace.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Ryland stands outside the bookstore for a full minute after the phone call before he gathers up enough courage to go back in.

There are multiple things he’s going to say to you to stall for some time. It’s not like the bookstore was far from his apartment, so he’d only need to say the words he had practiced and are in his head at that moment. A few apologies, a heartbreaking parting line, anything.

Unfortunately, none of his rehearsed words ever survive long enough to reach your table because when he walks in, you’re already putting on your coat.

His heart drops at the sight.

You look up at the exact same moment, lips in trial of a smile. “I think I should go. I just suddenly feel a little embarrassed. I think I got a little ahead of myself tonight.”

“You didn’t.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder, and it makes Ryland even more frantic. He’s fumbling over getting you to stay, all while trying not to touch you disrespectfully. If it had been anyone else, he’d have just grabbed onto your arm, but he can’t do that to you. Anyone but you.

He glances toward the door, then back at you, and then at his phone like an answer would suddenly present itself. “Just a few more minutes, please.”

“Ryland.”

“(Name).”

He really is persistent, following you all the way to the front door all while pleading you to stay for another minute without exactly explaining why, just that “it’ll all make sense”.

The second the door opens, cold air slams into both of you. It’s raining, hard and nasty and harsh, sheets of water swallowing the street until it almost disappears behind the downpour. Wind rushes into the bookstore, tugging loose strands of your hair across your face and sending the little bell above the door into a frantic fit.

You instinctively step back.

Ryland, on the other hand, almost laughs.

Of course it starts raining now.

He’d finally worked up the courage to tell Colt to get over here, finally accepted that you were never his in the first place, your heart had always belonged to the boy on that first date with you. Of course, the universe had apparently decided to make getting here as difficult as humanly possible.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

A crack of thunder answers him.

Ryland tips his head back for half a second, eyes falling shut. At least it got you to stay a little bit, despite the sudden awkwardness growing.

Right when he’s about to give up, he spots movement in the corner of his eye. It looks a lot like someone running across the street, sprinting through the harsh heavy-hits of the rain.

Your eyes narrow at the figure that is very much running towards the direction of you and Ryland. It’s almost uncanny, a little bit creepy.

The man reaches where you’re sheltered, bent over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath the moment he’s finally escaped the rain.

You’re about to step away from the stranger, trying not to get yourself wet, when he suddenly looks up. Your breath hitches at the sight. Absolutely fucking not. There is no way.

“Hi.”

You look at him, and back at the person beside you. And you start laughing. Actually laughing with a serene smile to the absolutely fuckery that was your life right now. Like you’re almost sorry for yourself for existing in this exact moment.

“I think I’m hallucinating.”

If one more thing fucks your head up today, you swear you’ll start crying.

You look between them again, still shaking your head in a bewildered laughter. Like you can’t quite believe it. This must be the peak of your satirical life.

“There are two of you. I’m gonna need someone to start talking or I’m actually going to pass out.”

Ryland—the dry one—lets out a sigh. “That would be my cue. Just know I’m really sorry, (Name). But uh, he’s got this one.”

He pats your back gently, and then he’s pulling at his exact replica, whispering a harsh, “Dude, were you crying before coming here?"

“Of course not, what am I? A fucking loser? Go, go. Go away.” The wet one is shooing him away, and you really are about to pass out. This must be a simulation, a mockery of your life for believing someone as attractive as Ryland could hold feelings for you.

He’s looking at you now, with eyes red and puffy, and easy to discern trembling lips. His hair is plastered to his forehead, rainwater rolling down the bridge of his nose and off the sleeves of his sweater.

And despite the tear strains that look like trembling contrite, you’d be able to make out that face in a crowd of thousands. It’s the same face you’d stared at for a long time that night—that first night you’d gone on a date with him—trying desperately to behave yourself and not kiss him.

He had the same stubble, the same scar just beneath his jaw from an injury that probably never healed.

“Ryland?”

The guilt on his face is immediate, and there is a lonely, melancholic chuckle that leaves his lips at the name. “No. That… would be the guy who just left. I’m Colt.”

You stare, with furrowed eyebrows, like you still don’t understand.

“We’re twins.”

“I don’t— I don’t understand. The first date, and a while ago, that was—“

“That was me.” His shoulders droop just a little.

“And tonight, that—“

“My brother.”

Rain drums loudly against the awning above you. Colt, you now know, is dipping his head, hand linked behind his back, and his expression schooled into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks like he’s trying hard not to start crying again.

“Then that means— I don’t…” You’re stumbling over your words, stepping back a little from him. You don’t understand, even with the facts laid out. You don’t understand how this could’ve happened.

“Ryland was busy that first date, so he asked me to go for him.”

“Oh.”

“It was only meant to be for an hour.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better? Now, I just feel like a victim of some awful prank. I feel like I’ve been… played with.” You frown at the thought.

“No—“

“Was it fun, then? Switching between the two of you and laughing cause I never found out? Was this all some sort of sick joke you’re playing as twin brothers?”

There’s a strain in your voice now, and fuck, Colt doesn’t think he can bear the sight of your tear-strained eyes, doesn’t think he can handle the quiver in tour lips.

“No, no, no. You have us—me all wrong. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“What was it like then?” Your voice wavers, and he can see you sucking in a deep breath. Your eyes shine in a way they hadn’t before. It’s confused, and hurt, and betrayed enough that Colt almost has to look away. But it also breaks his heart that you’d ever imply that.

The accusation hits him harder than the rain had earlier. He would never play with your feelings like that.

“Everything was real.”

“I don’t think that’s fair to say.” Tears are slipping past your eyes, and you move to wipe them on instinct. “You introduced yourself as someone else.”

“I know.”

“And you kept pretending to be someone else, even this afternoon.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve told me.” Backed up by feeling like everything had been one-sided, your fingers tighten around the sleeves of the top you’re wearing, and you’re shaking your head at his mere audacity.

“I should’ve, and it was my mistake. I should’ve told you after that first date, at the coffee shop, at any point. I should’ve told you.” Colt drags a hand over his soaked face. “But I was afraid. I was afraid you liked my brother more, I was afraid I was only a placeholder, a hostel until a house in the form of Ryland came.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.” The words taste bitter in your mouth.

“I wanted to tell you, I really did. But then you’d smile at me, and you’d talk, and you’d make me laugh, and you’d put that bear band-aid on my arm.” Colt’s having difficulty speaking, especially with the lump in his threat, and the tears that had been spilling for a while. His thumb brushes over the cartoon bear still stuck beneath his sleeve. “But I kept thinking of Ryland, too. What was I going to tell him? By the way, I met with the girl you were supposed to go on a date with, and now I’m in love with her.’”

The words leave him in one breath. They flow, through strings and untangled spools, and he says it straight that it makes you wonder how long they’ve been rehearsed in his head.

“I didn’t know what to do. I wanted the best for my brother, but I’m so in love with you. So, I didn’t— I couldn’t tell you. I’d rather my feelings hurt than his.”

He sounds ashamed, and the break in his voice does nothing to disguise his guilt.

It’s silent for a moment, like you’re thinking real hard about his words. There’s still a frown on your lips that slowly morphs into a sort of heartbreak he doesn’t know could manifest on the mouth. There is chewing of your bottom lip, trying hard to keep it from trembling, and there is the hesitation in your eyes as you look up at him after staring at the wet floor for a long time.

“Was any of it really real?”

He doesn’t allow a second to pass before he replies, “All of it.”

“The first date?”

“My favorite night I’ve had in years.”

“And the coffee shop?”

“You left me, and I spent way too much money on coffee that I let turn cold. I was basically heartbroken twice.”

Your lips twitch, barely.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You said you missed ridiculous.”

You look back down at the puddles collecting around your shoes, letting out a breath. “I do… I— I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What about Ryland?”

There is softness in your voices now, a sort of gentle compared to the frustration it had held.

“He didn’t know until now that I like you. He’s a good person, he’d never do anything to intentionally hurt you. He’d never do anything to hurt me.”

You remember the look on Ryland’s face before he left, when you’d told him you liked the version of him in the coffee shop better, and every single time you referenced your first date. “And the dates?”

“They were real, too. He liked you. How could he not?”

But Ryland was never the one you kept asking about, now that you know Colt. You’d kept asking and asking him if he still liked you, but you didn’t know he didn’t have the answer for that. You’d been asking Colt, and he wasn’t Colt.

“But I just kept thinking he was you. I feel… God, I feel so guilty. I kept talking to him about you. I thought he was you.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I really should’ve just told you.” He sighs, and with a more tentative voice, a question follows. “Would it be wrong of me to ask if I totally fucked up my chances with you?”

You think about it, and Colt spends the entire silence of your thinking with the same constipated face, albeit a bit hopeful.

“You pretended to be someone else. And you lied to me. And you made me cry just now.”

“All fair points.” His voice is thick and heavy, looking at your eyes for a second before looking down on the pavement. Like he doesn’t deserve to look at you yet.

Colt looks dejected at the reminders, eyes still puffy, and there is a pathetic voice in him telling him to smile even though he feels like he’d just lost.

“I don’t know. But I…” Your eyes trail to the rest of him — wet hair, slumped shoulders, slightly trembling hands. “I’d still like to get to know Colt despite it all.”

He looks up at you suddenly, like he hadn’t heard you properly. “Really?”

Colt blinks, frozen in front of you. Suddenly, he feels lightheaded, like he didn’t think that answer could’ve been possible. He might even be on cloud nine, he can’t tell from the blood rushing to his ears and making it ring. You could’ve answered with anything, and he would’ve thanked you and apologized at the same time. He just didn’t expect that. That you’d say something about wanting to know him.

You nod your head. “This time, maybe you could… introduce yourself properly.”

“Okay. Yeah, of course.” The relief that washes over his face is almost comical, his shoulders straightening after being hunched the entire evening. And he’s offering his hand, outstretched and patient.

“Hi. I’m Colt.”

“A bit late.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He smiles sheepishly. A last sniffle. “But I figured I still owe the girl I’ve been in love with since our first date an honest introduction.”

Your heart melts, and you find yourself mirroring his smile.

“Hi, Colt.” You take his hand in yours, shaking it once. His name from your mouth could’ve made him faint, heartbeat thumping and thudding impossibly at finally hearing it. “I’ve known you for quite a while, but it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Can I take you out of here, (Name)?”

“Depends, Colt. Will there be a family emergency to fake this time?”

Of course he said yes. The only problem was, by the third time you repeated yourself, his cock was already straining against his suit pants.

So you try again another time, asking him if you can try.

Again; immediate erection.

Several failed attempts were made before you decided to not ask and just do it.

But that doesn’t work either.

The second you trap him unexpectedly against the kitchen counter and your fingers brush over his belt, he’s hard.

There was only one other thing you could think of doing to get your wish.

Holland looked heavenly in the golden morning light. He looked particularly ethereal one morning; sprawled on his back in nothing but a pair of tight boxers, snoring softly and hair ruffled in sleep. His legs were already so graciously parted for you, leaving a perfect gap for you to lay in.

You took extra care to not wake him as you tugged his boxers down his thighs, just enough to free his cock. It laid dormant against the fabric, soft and flaccid; asleep just like the rest of him.

This was something you had discussed wanting to try before, but you were always on the receiving end up until now. Holland would wake up and couldn’t keep his hands to himself before you woke up so you’d be roused from sleep with his cock rutting into you or his head between your legs as he ‘ate his breakfast’ as he so lovingly called it. This was the first time you were returning the favor.

Feeling Holland’s soft cock was exhilarating. Gone was the usual firmness, the pulsing heat and the rigid structure. It was limp in your gentle hand; still heavy but squishy instead of being rock hard.

You saw a muscle on his inner thigh twitch at your touch but he stayed still otherwise.

The brush of your lips on the tip was light. When you guided the soft shaft further onto your tongue, you had to stop yourself from groaning.

He slid into your throat so easily like this.

You didn’t need to worry about choking or bruising the back of your throat. The length went exactly where you wanted it to and stayed nice and silky smooth as you did.

A noise grumbled in Holland’s throat- not a moan but a sound of confusion. His hand shifted where it lay on the bed to feel the sheets, sliding to your side of the mattress and searching for your body.

When his hand found nothing, the man’s head lolled to the side. Still asleep but brain quickly beginning to piece together that something was off.

Running out of time, you tried to make the most of his soft cock. Keeping as gentle a rhythm as you could, you bobbed your head steadily, not trying to work him up to an orgasm but just to savor the taste of his skin and the squish of the shaft. You had to keep a rather firm hand around the base though, to give the length some sort of structure.

“Mmmm-“ Holland hummed blearily. His legs shifted against your body but you stayed planted where you were so he couldn’t roll away.

The cock in your mouth started to rapidly change, much to your disappointment. As it filled with blood, your mouth adjusted to accept it.

“Wha’s- huh?”

Holland’s eyes fluttered and his brow pinched. The hand that had been searching for you moved to your head, feeling your hair and tiredly grabbing hold. You didn’t release your seal on his cock but did look up to watch the PI’s eyes open and attempt to blink the sleep away.

“Baby?” He groaned, lips smacking and head lifting to look down at you. His eyes remained heavy but his eyebrows skyrocketed. “What’re ya doin’?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. You just swallowed around his cock, constricting your throat, and began putting your back into the blowjob.

Holland whined and grabbed at your head with both of his hands this time, bending his legs to bracket your head and lower back arching off of the bed.

It didn’t take long before he was painting the back of your throat white.