Henry Cavill

. . . 

After the messy divorce that followed his turbulent marriage, Sy was not looking forward to any relations with the opposite sex, if possible. With his former profession a constant hurdle to his life as part of a unionized pair and marital bliss, what had started as a promising relationship had turned out to be one of those unfortunate marriages where children were sought as a last resort to perhaps save the remnants of the already rotten love between man and wife. Though being someone from a background that held family in the highest esteem and always having been fond of the idea of his own lot, Sy loved his children more than life itself and there was not a thing in the world he would trade for them. And that was the reason why he had preferred to opt for an early retirement so custody would not be an issue between him and his ex-wife who was more than eager to shed off everything affiliated with the name Syverson like an illness.

You, on the other hand, though not much experienced with the opposite sex were not too warm to the idea of children. Being a student in her last year of higher education and only so old as you were, your attitude hardly deserved to be subjected to scrutiny. That, and the fact that you hadn't really had many young ones around you while growing up as an only child, calling you a foreigner to the scene would not qualify as an exaggeration and hence it can be said that it is more indifference than contempt on your part. 

So naturally, when it happened, it was strictly unplanned. And very fateful. With a rather traumatized Sy in a sort of an emotional limbo who had more than enough reason to keep to himself, and a stressed with soon approaching future endeavors as well as disillusioned with the opposite sex you, the night you had bumped into each other outside the bar restrooms where Sy had been dragged to cheer up by his friends and you to loosen up by yours, the rather fast yet steady rate at which the two of you had woven into each other had been unexpected to say the least. 

But now, as Sy fires up the grill in his backyard to begin the little BBQ he has planned for today when you meet his children for the first time, the prided and much experienced grill expert nearly burns his hand because he is so busy inwardly fawning over how quickly his rugrats have warmed up to you. And you, Sy will swear on anything that you are just the most perfect woman— person alive. Everything is just right with you. Even on days when the world seems to press down on him, your mere presence is there to help his spirits back up and elate as well as support him in every sense.

Though he had been honest about his condition since the beginning, after his initial reluctance to get with you as you were so much younger and inexperienced compared to him, children weren't peculiarly a topic that came up between the two of you except occasions where Sy wanted to share a little victory or rant with you. So as you keep his toddler on one hip with a protective arm around her, your perfect body -Sy's words- clad in a bonny bright coloured sundress, and hold the hand of his 5 year old who excitedly shows you around the mini patio of the modern farmhouse, memories of his own mother scarce if any, your making conversation with the boy and giggling along to his lisp droning flutters Sy's heart in a way that he thought he had outgrown. 

It also excites him with a kind of boyish heat that the former military Captain had thought he had shed off with his adolescent youth.

And so he just has to have you by yielding to a similar impatience and desperation, the musical sound of your giggles faintly fluttering its melodies upon his flush and thumping ears as he gets to it.

“God, Sy!” The huff in your words fires him up even more and he cannot hold back any longer. “You’re such a brute!” His coarse and scarred paws heavily pull at your dress with a crazed desperation to help you find the restroom, as he had told one of the farm hands that he had left the children under. “Oof!” The whine you let out before instinctively craning your head to try and ease the way his thick beard tickles the tender skin of the curve of your neck makes him growl into your carotid pulse that he worships with his hot lips, the pressure of your pressing your face into his as well as the soft pants you let out, your chest bumping into his with each heave of your lungs, only lithifies his bulging erection even more. 

“Gon' fatten up your pretty lil’ pussy with my cum, baby” Sy's breaths scorch your clammy skin with their burning weight. His hands grope and expose you everywhere they can reach, and they can do so everywhere because of how much smaller hence ragdoll-like you are compared to him. “Wouldja like that, angel?” Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he boosts your thighs up his tall legs and around his waist, the fat and leaking tip of his cock grazing against your holes from how he is kissing you everywhere he can reach. “Me stuffing that cute tummy full of siblings for Tim and Bethy, huh?” You know he would never actually do something as serious so callously without a prior discussion so you breathlessly nod, pushing your oral muscles to gulp down the thick bile in your throat and tip your head against the wall to prepare yourself to withstand his intrusion of your pussy that thanks to his girth always feels like not only your first time with him but your very deflowering in general.

 “Yes” your mouth falls open as he reaches below the hold with which he has your whole body propped up. “Yes, please~” his balmy tip finds its destination in the tiny, drenched and quivering closed up band that leads to your reproductive cavern. “Please fimme with your babies, Sy~” when the stretch makes your tiny hole burn around his girth, your mouth lets loose all the obscene words of vulgar desire. 

“Yeah, baby?” Sy's fingers flex over your ass and caress their way up your side before coming down and repeating the action, his thumb stealing strokes of your nipples as he does. “Wanna make me a Daddy, yeah?” A hiss leaves your mouth and your back arches at the feeling of your walls sheathing him deep within themselves. His breathtaking urgency nearly puts a dent in your innards. “Want me to make you all round and heavy here?” Your pussy clenches around the hilt of his cock when he suddenly gropes your naval into a greedy handful.

“Yes, please, Sy!” Your whole form bounces up in the air when the man gives you a thrust so powerful that has you mewling and digging your nails in his shoulders. “Wanna make you a Daddy so bad, Sy!” His dick has always had a hypnotic effect on you, for the minute it's in the vicinity of any of your holes, you become a brain dead parrot for him. 

“Atta girl~” he cooes, tossing your body further up with a strong stab of his hips so he can clamp his teeth down on one of your boobs.

MASTERLIST

. . . 

word count: 4k

warnings: semi public sex, raw, breeding, dirty talk

author's note: wanted to pair it w the gif but it got flagged 🥲 I used an ss of it in the edit (3d icon). it's from a movie called Lorelei and the character reminds me of sy!

you're not invisible but sometimes you're just there. your girlfriends are giggling about things you don’t relate to — about boyfriends. about sex. you suck on your straw, although your milkshake is by far gone, because you're too deep in thought to realize it.

there's silence and then you realize the waiter is standing before you. did they order something else? you release the straw with a faint pop when you realize he's looking at you and suddenly there's another milkshake on the table like the one you had finished drinking moments ago. “he said uhm—” the waiter stutters over his words anxiously and you kind of feel sorry for him. “he said it's a gift to occupy your mouth” and then he's leaving without any other information about whoever it is that treated you.

your girlfriends seem more excited than you do because your interest overpowers all excitement. your eyes scan the bar and take in every possible suspect, it isn't packed since it's not a busy day. everyone seems normal or they're too good at acting nonchalant. until you spot them — a pair of blue eyes watching over your every move possible ever since you entered this establishment. your breath hitches and although you have no clue of who the man is, you just know the tasty gift is from him. his stare forces you to clench your thighs as you take him in — piercing eyes, ungroomed beard and a shaved head. the sleeveless leather he's wearing makes him even more intimidating but it isn't fear that you experience upon exchanging glances with him. the stranger eventually gets up, muttering something to the other men in his table, and walks away. you follow.

“ya’ know, it ain't real kind to leave gifts unattended like that.” you turn so fast that you have to grip the sink behind you to not lose balance. “w-what?” the blue eyed man scans you from head to toe as he takes a step forward, towering over you. “the milkshake. ya didn't drink it.” you aren't sure where to look — his eyes, his lips, that beard. or maybe those large tattooed arms that looked like they're not afraid to handle you. you try to take a step backwards but the sink digs into your waist and you gasp. “i... i’m full.” the man laughs loudly and you realize he's amused while you're utterly taken aback by the situation. “full? have you any idea what it takes to be full?” his gaze darkens and you swallow as your heartbeat reaches your ears. you don't get him but you're about to.

the message in his words becomes obvious when sy’s hand clutches the side of your waist while the other hand lifts your leg to slide it around his body. “there we go. what a sweet girl you are.” he rasps as he slides his cock inside your pussy and all you can do is whimper as your walls wrap around him too tightly because it's been a while. and oh he's so thick. “gonna move now. gonna show ya what full really feels like,yea?” he doesn't wait for your reply as he draws back until only the tip of his cock is breaching your entrance. you stare at him with those wide eyes of yours and he can tell you're excited but also nervous. he lowers his head to supposedly kiss you but brushes his beard against your cheek instead and the action makes you smile. your smile turns into a silent ‘o’ because he's thrusting his cock inside you then, inch by inch, until you've swallowed most of him and his tip is kissing your deepest parts. and gods you get it now because this is what makes you full. this completes you.

your hands grip his leather jacket as he fucks you, feeling every inch of his thick cock splitting you open without any mercy. he’s impatient and he deserves this — he deserves this ever since you've walked into the bar and drawed his attention. “so fucking pretty. so wet too.” he growls and grounds his hips against yours while your pussy flutters around him when he starts pressing wet kisses across your neck. “made my whole day, baby. come here.” you can't even think straight as he presses his lips into yours and kisses you. he fucks you like he hates you but he kisses you like you're his favourite sweet. your mouth parts for him willingly and you let his tongue devour you, the taste of your drink still lingering in your pretty mouth. “please.” you find yourself muttering between open mouthed kisses and deep thrusts that have your eyes rolling to the back of your head. each time the man thrusts his hips forward, his skin slaps against yours painfully. it burns and you enjoy every moment. “please what? use your words baby.” you whine in protest and he rolls his hips punishing slow to make you feel the entire stretch his cock offers to your pussy. “want to come- want to be full-” you say and he smiles because this is good, you're a fast fucking learner. he grins, teeth on full display, as he picks up the pace and slams his cock directly into the spot that clouds all your senses. you arch your back and your breasts are squished against his chest, pebbled nipples brushing on him and making him lose his mind. “you sit so kindly. pretending to be good.” you want to protest and say that you are good but his hand clutches your hip and pushes you down on his cock as he thrusts up. “sipping on your milkshake. so sweet,aren't ya?” it's like you can't think anymore when his other hand slides from your hip to your swollen clit and starts rubbing there deliciously. the drag of his cock is heavenly and his eyes can't help but take a peak between your bodies whereas you're connected. it's difficult to not cum just by the sight of your wetness coating his bare cock but he holds back to care for you first. you cum with a cry around his cock and his fingers stay on your clit, toying around with it until you feel so oversensitive. “no more— can't do more!” you protest but he's silencing you with a kiss again while dragging his cock in and out of you, the sight of your unshed tears bringing him closer to the edge. “course ya can — fuck — come on. one more, baby.” and you really don't want to disappoint this big man as he places both of his hands on your hips and holds you flat on the sink, driving his cock exactly where it should be. you don't know how long it takes you to get there but you're squeezing around him again as you orgasm and this time he doesn't hold back either. his chest crashes against yours as he empties himself inside you, burying his face into your neck, and you can feel his cock faintly pulse within you. you're spent as he pulls his cock out of you and helps you stand properly, his hands still resting on your hips. “thank you.” you mutter almost shyly as you fix yourself and your clothing — just enough to look presentable. he does the same although his eyes never leave yours and you can tell that he has things to say. “ya got a paper on ya?” his question surprises you but you shake your head. “scuse me for this then.” he mumbles as he fishes a marker out of his trousers. you want to question him but you don't need to when he's grabbing your arm gently and writes on your skin with the marker. “in case you want another milkshake.” he says with a wink and he's out the door before you know it.

you stare at your marked arm. then at the phone number. and then at the giant syverson written on your skin.

Y/n " ......" you sit inside a cell alongside Norm, Grace, and Jake as the rest of the team is elsewhere. You are very upset and sad right now after the fall and the destruction of the home tree. 

Quaritch " Y/n, I have come to speak with you."

Y/n "How could you?"

Quaritch: " I need to do what is best for humanity, and you will come to understand."

Y/n " No, I can't understand. There were many other ways we could have handled this situation. We had to go the military and RDA way, now we have destroyed the omatacyia home. Not just that we have ruined their lives, but many lives have been lost. You had lied to me and used Jake to get what you wanted, and see where we are now, Quaritch."

Grace, " I still can't believe you fell for this jarhead."

Quaritch: " I will not betray humanity like the rest of you, favoring the navi over your own species."

Jake " I didn't want for this to happen, Colonel, you went back on our deal."

Quaritch " I kept my deal corporal, you along with y/n will come to understand in time, as we deal with the rest of your clan, we will be doing the best for humanity."

Y/n " betrayal seems to be common around here, now don't you say, Colonel."Quaritch said nothing else, as he soon left with his team. As you had made eye contact with him and his team. They are all very close to you, but the betrayal and broken promise have left you feeling heartbroken. 

Jake, "We will not let them hurt Neytiri and her people anymore. Look y/n you have many reasons to trust me. Please believe me when I say I will do anything, that to take to make up for what has happened."

Y/n " I believe you, Jake Sully." Jake had nodded, and soon enough, Trudy and he came and got everyone out. Escape had happened, but not without grace and you getting hurt, meeting up with the omatacyia clan, and then the loss of grace as well. Plans had been made to fight against the RDA, which was long and hard. Soon, there had been victory at the end, and it was time to rebuild as well. 

Y/n " ...." You had been with Jake and Neytiri, helping them make a plan for the clan. 

Neytiri: "Is everything okay with my friend?"

Y/n " I don't know, I haven't been feeling so well..." Soon, everything had gone dark, and your body went limp, as you heard Jake and Neytiri, along with others, calling out your name as they raced towards you. 

Y/n " ummm." You had slowly opened your eyes, thinking you were going to wake up in your human body and on base. You didn't, as you were in the tshaik medical hut and still in your avatar body. 

Moat " Y/n, you have woken up Neytiri. She wakes to go get Jake and his friends."

Neytiri " Yes, mother."

Moat " Tsutey make sure the clan knows she is safe now."

Tsutey " Yes, tshaik." tsu'tey and Neytiri soon left as mo'at helped you sit up. 

Y/n " What happened, and how long have I been asleep?"

Moat: " A day you have been asleep, Norm and Max will be here to explain more to you."

Y/n "'Okay." Soon enough, Jake, Norm, and Max had come into the hut with Neytiri. They all looked happy to see you. 

Max "It's good to have you back with us, we had been worried."

Y/n, "It's good to be awake, but can someone explain why I'm not in my human body and still here? What has happened?"

Norm, " It seems like your injuries from the battle had some side effects, and your human body started failing. Jake and Neytiri brought you to the spirit tree, and we brought your human self. We had been able to make the transfer happen, like for Jake. So now you are full navi y/n."

Y/n " So that's why I'm still in my avatar body, and I will be like this for the rest of my life."

Max " Yes, but we have some other news to share with you."

Y/n " Okay, tell me."

Jake " Well, there was a test run when you were asleep, to make sure you were okay, and we found out you are pregnant as well."

Y/n "I'm pregnant."

Moat " Yes, the test can back saying you with child, of the sky colonel who was your mate."

Y/n " I can't believe I'm pregnant... What I'm going to do, Quaritch, and I never talked about having kids. I never thought I would be a mom now, and I never knew the avatar could have kids."

Norm " It seems like the avatar can."

Jake " You will not be alone in this matter as you will have us here as well, and we will make sure to be there for you and your kid."

Y/n " Thank you."

Snickers broke out around the room.

His jaw tightened. He stepped closer. Too close. “You think you’re funny?”

You stood slowly, maintaining eye contact. “I think you oughta take about three steps back before I demonstrate exactly how funny I am.”

His hand twitched toward your arm, your fist clenched, then the entire hall went silent.

A heavy set of boots hit the metal floor behind him. Colonel Quaritch didn’t have a loud introduction, didn’t need to. His presence was intimidating enough.

“Is there a problem here, Corporal?” His voice was firm.

The grunt stiffened immediately. “No, sir.”

Quaritch’s eyes didn’t leave you. Not once. He’d walked in expecting noise, typical base nonsense. Instead, he found you, stiff backed, defiant but you were smiling.

The corporal swallowed and stepped back like you’d told him to five seconds earlier.

“Good,” Quaritch said evenly. “Then you’re dismissed.”

The man practically fled.

You bent down, picked your wrench back up, and wiped it off on a rag like nothing had happened. Then you glanced up at the Colonel. You didn’t drop your gaze. You just gave him that same soft, smile.

“Afternoon, sir.”

The accent came out again at the casual greeting. Something like recognition flared in his eyes. He’d been stationed all over hell and back, heard every dialect under the sun. But that? That was home. Dusty roads and shotgun racks and heat rising off asphalt. Something he hadn’t heard in years.

He studied you openly.

“Where you from?” he asked.

“Alabama, sir.”

His brow lifted just slightly. “Is that right.”

“Yes, sir.” You tilted your head faintly. “You?”

“Texas.”

Your smile widened just a hair. “Well I’ll be damned.”

A few people nearby pretended very hard not to eavesdrop.

Quaritch stepped closer. “You always handle your own business like that?”

You shrugged lightly. “I was raised to.”

He believed it. There was no tremor in your hands. No lingering tension in your shoulders. You hadn’t needed saving. You’d had it under control. That did something to him. A slow but deliberate appreciation settled behind his gaze.

“I don’t tolerate harassment on my base,” he said, though his voice had shifted to be a bit softer “You got a problem, you bring it to me.”

You leaned one hip against the table casually. “I didn’t need rescuin’, Colonel.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I know.”

He’d seen it the second he walked in the way you stood your ground. The way the corporal had already been backing down before he even spoke. You weren’t prey, he realized.

His voice dropped half a notch. “What’s your name, soldier?”

You gave it to him.

“Mechanic?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

He glanced at the wrench in your hand. “You any good?”

You held his stare. “Id like to think so.”

A moment passed. Then one corner of his mouth lifted, just barely. The closest thing to a smile most people ever got from him.

“I’ll be expectin’ that,” he said.

He turned to leave but looked back over his shoulder at you.

“And next time someone steps outta line,” he added evenly, “I’d like to see what you would’ve done.”

Your grin sharpened. “Yes, sir.”

He walked out, boots echoing down the corridor. But for the first time in a long time, Colonel Miles Quaritch wasn’t thinking about Pandora.

He was thinking about Alabama.

----------------

The barracks were quieter this late.

Most of the grunts were either at chow or blowing off steam in the rec room. The hum of the base filtered through the walls, distant generators, metal doors sliding open and shut. You were stretched out on your bunk, boots off, one knee bent, a paperback balanced in your hand. A pen rested between your teeth while you flipped a page.

You didn’t hear him at first.

Quaritch filled the doorway, broad shoulders, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He’d meant to do a quick sweep. Check discipline.

Instead, he stopped.

“You always off in your own little world like that?”

You didn’t jump. Didn’t scramble upright like most people did when he appeared. You just lowered the pen from your mouth and glanced up.

“Well if it ain’t Texas himself.”

His eyebrow lifted. “You’re in my barracks, soldier.”

“And you’re in my line of sight, sir.” You marked your page with a finger but didn’t close the book. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He stepped inside, slowly and his gaze dropped to the paperback.

“What’s that?”

“Book.”

He gave you a look. “Don’t get smart.”

“Too late.”

A faint exhale left his nose.

He nodded toward it. “You read that stuff often?”

“All the time.”

“You got free time and that’s what you’re doin’ with it?”

You finally sat up properly, crossing your legs under you. “Yes, sir.”

He studied the cover, worn edges, notes scribbled in the margins.

“You some kinda nerd?”

There it was. The faintest teasing edge in his tone. You blinked at him. Then you smiled slowly.

“Well,” you drawled, “I reckon that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you think literacy’s a personality flaw.”

He huffed a short laugh despite himself. “I just didn’t picture you the bookish type.”

“And what type did you picture?”

He didn’t answer immediately. “More hands-on,” he said finally.

You tilted your head. “I can fix an engine and quote Shakespeare, Colonel. The two ain’t mutually exclusive.”

He folded his arms. “Shakespeare, huh.”

You watched him a second longer, then closed the book gently and set it beside you.

“Let me guess,” you said sweetly. “You were more of a… punch first, read never type.”

His jaw tightened just slightly. “You callin’ me stupid, soldier?”

You met his stare without flinching. “I’m callin’ ya a meathead.”

Anyone else would’ve swallowed those words the second they left their mouth. But you didn’t. You held eye contact. And then a slow smile spread across his face.

“Careful.”

“You started it,” you reminded him.

He took a step closer to your bunk. “You think I don’t read?”

“I think,” you said calmly, “that you probably read mission reports and ammo counts. I read history, poetry, philosophy. There’s a difference.”

He braced one hand on the metal frame of your bunk, leaning in just slightly. Close enough that his shadow fell over you.

“You always this mouthy?”

“Only when the other person can banter back.”

He studied you like you were a puzzle.

“You got guts,” he muttered.

“I’ve been told.”

“And you’re not intimidated.”

You shrugged. “Should I be?”

His eyes narrowed faintly. “If you were smart.”

You tilted your chin up just a fraction and scoffed. Silence stretched. Finally, he straightened, stepping back.

“What’re you readin’?” he asked again, more curious now than mocking.

You picked the book back up and held it out slightly so he could see the title.

“Military history,” you said. “Figured I oughta know some history of the branch I joined.”

His brow lifted. “You interested in that?”

You smiled lazily. “Maybe I like knowing how things work.”

He studied you a long moment longer.

“You surprise me,” he admitted quietly.

“That so?”

“Most people on this base got one setting.”

“And what’s that?”

“Loud.”

You laughed softly. “I can be loud.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Another silence. Then, unexpectedly, “You got any recommendations?”

You blinked at him. “For a meathead?”

His eyes flashed, but there was amusement in them now. “Watch it.”

You considered him carefully. Then you picked up a second book from your footlocker and tossed it lightly toward him. He caught it easily.

“Start there,” you said. “If it’s too many big words, I’ll find you somethin’ with pictures.” He looked down at the book in his hand. Then back at you.

“You better stop playin’.”

You rested back against the wall, reopening your original book.

“Colonel,” you murmured without looking up, “I would never.”

He rolled his eyes, but tucked the book under his arm and walking out of the room.

—--------

The hangar roared with engine tests and shouted orders, the air thick with fuel and the heat from the tarmac. You were halfway inside the open panel of a Scorpion gunship, boots braced on the ladder, wrench clenched between your teeth while your hands worked. Tank top. Cargo pants. Grease streaked along your ribs and collarbone.

Colonel Quaritch stopped a few yards out, arms folding across his chest as he watched you dismantle half a million credits’ worth of hardware like it was a lawn mower back home. He whistled loudly and you look down meeting his gaze. You slid down from the ladder, wiping your hands on a rag.

“Engine three was lagging on ignition,” you muttered. “Fuel mix was off by a hair.”

“You fix it?”

You glanced over your shoulder and nod.

“Well I’ll be.” He says begrudgingly amused. “You didn’t salute,” he noted.

You tossed the rag into your toolbox. “My hands are filthy, sir. Didn’t wanna disrespect the uniform.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the grease on your arms, the way your tank top clung damp with sweat in the heat of the hangar. Trying not to linger.

“Convenient.” He nodded toward the open panel. “You tear down a gunship for fun?”

You climb back up the ladder, messing around with some of the fuses in the back. “I tear things down when they ain't working at 100 percent.” You say calmly.

“You givin’ me that book the other night,” he said, tone casual but not really. “That your way of tellin’ me I’m reckless?”

You didn’t look at him. “I gave you a book about tactics.”

“You think I don’t have tactics?”

You tightened a bolt, then glanced down at him from above. “I think you prefer overwhelming force.”

“And?”

“And sometimes overwhelming force isn't the way to go.”

The corner of his mouth twitched and his eyes narrowed slightly.

“You takin’ shots at me, mechanic?”

“Depends,” you replied lightly. “Did you read it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Which told you everything you needed to know.

“I noticed the notes,” he said finally. You tried not to look pleased.

“Yeah?”

He stepped closer to the ladder. Close enough that if you leaned down, you’d be in his space.

“‘Appear weak when you are strong,’” he quoted evenly. “‘Win without fighting.’” His eyes met yours. “You think that’s me?”

“I think,” you said, voice steady, “that a smart commander knows when to be feared… and when to be underestimated.”

“You wrote in the margin,” he continued, “that brute force is insecurity in uniform.”

You winced faintly. “You weren’t supposed to read that one.”

A slow, low chuckle left him.

“So you do think I’m a meathead.”

“I think,” you corrected, climbing down from the ladder, “that you’re capable of more than you let people see.”

That caught him off guard.

“Funny,” he said, “I thought you were mockin’ me.”

“Oh, I was,” you said easily. “Little bit.” You stepped around him to grab another tool, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his chest. “But I wouldn’t have given you that book if I didn’t think you’d understand it.”

He watched you tighten another panel into place, movements efficient and sure.

“You mark up all your books like that?” he asked.

“Only the ones that make an impression.”

“And you think I’m worth it? Gettin’ to read your notes?”

“I think you’re used to being the loudest voice in the room,” you said softly. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not thinkin’.”

“You’re somethin’ else,” he muttered.

You smirked. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

He stepped closer again, not enough to touch, but enough that you felt a bit warmer, shakier.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “most people try to suck up.”

“And?”

“You hand me a book tellin’ me to fight smarter.”

You shrugged lightly. “Seemed useful.”

He studied your face.

“You got any more notes for me, Alabama?”

You smirk slightly and shake your head. “Not at the moment.”

“You fixed the ignition?” he asked finally.

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded once.

“Good.”

Then he turned to leave. But this time, when he walked away, it wasn’t just with the knowledge that you were competent. It was with the quiet understanding that you weren’t challenging him out of arrogance. You were sharpening him. And he actually kinda appreciated that more than he’d ever admit.

—-------

The music was loud, and the lights low. Someone had dragged half the base into one room and called it a party. Laughter bounced off the metal walls, bottles clinked, boots thudded against the floor in uneven rhythm. The air smelled like cheap liquor and sweat, different from the mess hall, but just as thick.

You were right in the middle of it.

Leaning back in a chair, one arm slung over the backrest, a bottle dangling loosely from your fingers. Your cheeks were warm, your smile easy, your laugh cutting clean through the noise.

“Jesus,” one of the techs muttered nearby, watching you tip the bottle back again. “How much has she had?”

“Enough to drop you,” someone else snorted.

“And she’s still upright.”

“She’s actin’ like she just got here.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, unfazed. “Y’all talkin’ about me like I ain’t sittin’ right here.”

“Ma’am,” one of them grinned, “we’re tryin’ to figure out if you’re human.”

“Born and raised,” you shot back. “Just built a little sturdier than the rest of you.”

More laughter and then the energy shifted.

Quaritch had stepped into the room, and it was like the volume dipped half a notch without anyone touching the speakers. A few people straightened. Others suddenly found something very interesting to look at in their drinks. He took in the scene, your relaxed posture, the empty bottles nearby, the way you looked entirely too comfortable in the chaos.

“You always drink like that?” he asked as he approached.

You tilted your head up at him, slow smile forming. “Depends who’s askin’.”

“Your commanding officer.”

“Well then,” you drawled, lifting the bottle slightly, “I drink responsibly, sir.”

A couple people nearby choked on their drinks.

“That right.”

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t leave, he didn’t correct you either. Instead, he reached over, grabbed a bottle off the table, and pulled a chair closer turning it so he sat facing you. That alone made a few heads turn.

“You plannin’ on slowin’ down anytime soon?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Why? You worried about me?”

“No,” he said easily. “I’m wonderin’ how you’re still conscious.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees. “Southern constitution.”

“That so.”

“You’d fold,” you added lightly.

His eyes narrowed, a spark of something competitive flashing through. “You testin’ me?”

You held his gaze. “You volunteerin’?”

He tipped his bottle back. And just like that, it became a contest.

Time blurred after that.

More bottles. More laughter. People drifting in and out. At some point, the noise faded into the background. He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm slung over it, posture looser than you’d ever seen. Not sloppy, but not sharp either. Tipsy. You were still steady.

“Told you,” you said, nudging his boot lightly with yours. “You’d fold.”

“I didn’t fold,” he muttered.

“You’re sittin’ cockeyed.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“Maybe I just like the view from here.”

Your brow lifted slightly. “Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“What?” you asked, softer now.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at you.

“I can’t stop thinkin’ about you.” The words landed between you. No teasing. For once, just the unpolished truth.

You didn’t speak right away. Didn’t smile it off.

“You’re drunk,” you said finally.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But that don’t make it not true. You show up, run your mouth, back talk me like you're tryin’ to get in my head-”

You let out a quiet breath. “I wasn’t-”

“You were,” he cut in, not harsh, just certain. “And I let you. I don’t let people do that,” he added.

“I figured.”

His eyes searched your face “And now I can’t get you outta my head.”

Your heartbeat kicked just slightly faster and you leaned back in your chair, buying yourself a second. “That sounds like a you problem, Colonel.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

His eyes don't leave you and you nervously stand, you needed to get away from this situation before you made a stupid decision. As you stand however, the multitude of alcohol you had consumed rushed straight to your head, making you grip the table. “Shiiiit…” you groaned.

Quaritch's hand found your lower back as he steadied you. “Easy Alabama…” he cooed. “Let me walk you back.”

"Yeah let's get outta here," you murmured, grabbing his hand. He followed without a word, his grip firm as you wove through the crowd of rowdy soldiers. The cool night air hit you outside, sobering you just enough to help you walk straight. He walked you back to your quarters, his presence a solid wall beside you.

At your door, you turned to him, pulse hammering. You simply stared up at him for a moment. You needed to thank him for the fun night, thank him for keeping you safe, and retire for the night. Under no circumstances should you do what you were thinking of doing. Screw waiting. You surged up on your toes and crashed your lips against his, rough, demanding, tasting the whiskey on his tongue as he growled into the kiss. He didn't hesitate. His huge hands gripped your waist, shoving you backward through the door with force and slammed it shut behind him. You stumbled into the room, laughing breathlessly as he pinned you against the wall, his mouth devouring yours teeth nipping at your lower lip.

"Eager little thing," he rumbled, breaking the kiss to yank at your shirt. Buttons popped as you clawed at his vest, fingers fumbling with the straps and zippers of his uniform. Clothes tangled and tore in the frenzy your top hit the floor first, followed by his shirt revealing the scarred expanse of his chest. He kicked off his boots while you shimmied out of your pants, kicking them aside in a heap.

Naked now except for your underwear, you pushed him toward the bed, teasing grin on your face. "C'mon, old man, think you can keep up?"

His eyes darkened, a smirk curling his lips as he grabbed your hips and flipped you onto the mattress. He loomed over you, stripping off the last of his gear until he was bare, his thick cock already hard and jutting out, veins pulsing. "I'll show you old man," he snarled playfully, voice low and promising. He dove down, capturing your nipple in his hot mouth, sucking hard while his hand slid between your thighs. Fingers parted your slick folds, rubbing your clit in firm circles that made you arch and gasp. You carded your fingers through his hair as his tongue lashed your other breast.

"Fuck, Miles," you moaned, hips bucking against his palm. He chuckled against your skin, the vibration shooting straight to your soaked cunt.

"That's right, say my name," he ordered, slipping two thick fingers inside your pussy, curling them to hit that spot that had you clenching around him. He pumped them slow and deep, calloused thumb pressing your clit, building the pressure until your thighs trembled.

You shoved at his shoulders, rolling him onto his back with a surge of playful strength. Straddling his waist, you ground down on his cock, feeling it slide easily through your folds, teasing your clit. "Not so old after all," you teased, leaning down to bite his neck, sucking a mark into the skin there.

He groaned, hands gripping your ass, spreading you as he thrust up, the head of his dick nudging you. "Keep talkin', sweetheart. I'll fuck that sass right outta you." With a shared grin, you sank down, taking him inch by inch until he filled you completely, stretching your walls around his girth. You rode him hard, bouncing on his lap, breasts jiggling with each slam. He met your rhythm, hips snapping up to bury himself deeper, one hand sneaking to pinch your nipple while the other slapped your ass lightly, the sting adding to the heat.

Sweat slicked your bodies as the pace quickened, the bed creaking under the force. His cock throbbed inside you, hitting deep with every thrust, your pussy clenching tighter. "Gonna make you cum first," he grunted, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing fast. The stretch of him filling you completely sends jolts of pleasure through your core, his girth pounding against your inner walls with every thrust upward he gives. Sweat slicks your skin, mixing with his, as you grind down, chasing that building pressure.

"Fuck, look at you," he growls, voice rough and teasing, his blue eyes locked on yours. "Riding me like you own a mechanical bull. Bet you've been practicing for this, haven't you, sweetheart?" His words hit you like a spark, making your clit throb as you clench around him tighter, the humiliation twisting into heat that pushes you closer to the edge. You ride him faster, your breasts bouncing with the force, nipples hard and aching. His cock hits that spot inside you over and over, relentless, pounding you until your vision blurs. The coil in your belly snaps, and you shatter, crying out as your orgasm crashes through you. Your pussy spasms around his cock, your arousal soaking him as waves of ecstasy rip through your body, leaving you trembling and gasping.

But Miles isn't done. With a feral grin, he flips you onto your back in one swift motion, pinning you beneath his weight. He hooks your legs over his broad shoulders, folding you in half, exposing you completely. His dog tags swing forward as he thrusts back inside, the cool metal brushing your cheek with each brutal drive. The tags dangle right in your face, clinking softly against your skin, a constant reminder of his dominance that sends fresh sparks straight to your core. He fucks you hard now, hips snapping with punishing force, his cock slamming deep into your oversensitive pussy. Each plunge stretches you wide, the angle letting him grind against your g-spot without mercy. You feel every inch of him, thick and unyielding, pounding you into the mattress. The dog tags sway with his rhythm, grazing your lips, your nose pushing you toward another orgasm faster than you thought possible. Your pussy flutters around him, the building tension coiling tighter, and with a few more savage thrusts, you come again, harder this time, screaming his name as your body convulses.

Miles' cock pulses deep inside your clenching pussy as he unloads, hot spurts of cum flooding you, marking you from the inside out. His thrusts slow to a grind, hips pressing flush against yours, holding you pinned with your legs still draped over his shoulders. The dog tags rest against your chest now, warm from his body heat, as his breath comes in ragged huffs.

"That's it, darlin'," he coos softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. One big hand strokes your thigh, thumb tracing soothing circles on your sweat-damp skin. "Breathe for me. Just breathe." His blue eyes soften for a split second, watching you pant and tremble in the aftershocks, your body limp and spent beneath him. You think it's over, your muscles ache from the intensity, your core throbbing with that delicious soreness. A sigh escapes you, eyelids fluttering as you start to relax into the mattress. But then his grip tightens, a wicked smirk curling his lips. Before you can react, he pulls out with a wet slide, his cum leaking from your swollen folds, and hauls you up like you weigh nothing.

"Not yet, sugar," he murmurs, flipping you onto your knees in one fluid, commanding move. Your hands scramble for purchase on the sheets, ass up and face down, vulnerable and exposed. He positions himself behind you, one arm snaking around your neck in a firm headlock, his bicep flexing against your throat, not choking but holding you right where he wants you, your head tilted back just enough to feel his control. His free hand spreads your cheeks, thumb brushing your dripping hole before his cock nudges against it. Still rock-hard, slick with your combined release, he shoves in deep with a single, brutal thrust. You cry out, the new angle letting him bottom out harder. The headlock keeps you arched, your back bowing as he rails into you, each snap of his hips driving him to the hilt.

"Fuck, you're takin' it so good," he growls right in your ear, hot breath fanning your skin. His arm tightens just a fraction, pulling you back onto his dick as he pounds relentlessly. "Look at this greedy little pussy milkin' me like it can't get enough. My perfect slut, huh? Built for my dick." The words pour out filthy and praising, his voice rough with lust, spurring you on as pleasure builds anew. It's incredible the way he dominates you completely, his body caging yours, the headlock making every breath a reminder of his power. Your pussy flutters around him, stretched and filled to bursting, the friction igniting sparks that race up your spine. He doesn't let up, fucking you with raw force, his hips colliding with your ass in loud, rhythmic smacks. Cum from before squelches with each plunge, easing the way as he claims you deeper.

"That's my girl," he praises, teeth grazing your earlobe. "Squeezin' me so tight, beggin' for more without sayin' a word. You love bein' locked up like this, don't you? My dirty little fucktoy, comin' apart on my dick again." His arm flexes, holding you steady as he grinds in circles, rubbing that sensitive spot inside until you're moaning uncontrollably, the pressure coiling hot and fast in your belly. The headlock adds to the thrill, your pulse thundering under his hold, every thrust sending you rocking forward only for him to yank you back. It's overwhelming, amazing, your body surrendering to the onslaught, pussy gripping him desperately. He senses it, speeds up, slamming home with grunts of approval. "Gonna make you soak me, sweetheart. Show me how much you crave this rough treatment. Cum for me, you filthy thing let it rip through ya."

His praises push you over, the coil snapping as ecstasy explodes. You shatter around him, pussy convulsing in violent spasms, juices gushing as you scream into the sheets. He doesn't stop, fucking you through it with savage delight, his own release building until he buries himself deep and erupts again, flooding your depths with another load while murmuring, "Good girl…atta girl…”

Quaritch collapses against you, his body covering yours as you both struggle to catch your breath. The room smells of sweat and sex, and you can feel his heart hammering against your back where he's still draped over you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he shifts, carefully pulling out before rolling to his side. The bed groans under his weight. His blue eyes sweep over your naked form, taking in the marks he's left on your skin - the bite marks on your neck and shoulders, the finger-shaped bruises on your hips.

"Don't move,” he rumbles, his voice rough from exertion. It's not a suggestion. You nod, too exhausted to form words. Quaritch reaches out, his large hand gently stroking your hair away from your face. His touch is surprisingly tender compared to how he'd been fucking you just minutes ago. He maneuvers you both until you're lying face to face, then pulls you against his chest. His skin is warm, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. One of his legs slides between yours, keeping you close. "Never done this before," he admits quietly against your hair. "Stayed after."

You look up at him in the dim light of your room. His expression is unreadable but softer than you've ever seen it. "First time for everything," you manage to say.

His lips brush your forehead. "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

16 years later

The seasons no longer flowed smoothly.

Once, the forest followed predictable patterns: growth, death, renewal. Balance. Even loss had its place.

Now, everything felt off.

Too fast. Too loud.

The Sky People did not return as they once did.

They arrived heavier.

Stronger.

Angrier.

The war didn’t erupt suddenly. It spread like fire through dry roots; village to village, clan to clan.

You heard them long before any proof appeared.

Machines moving like beasts.

Sky People who didn’t retreat.

And then, the stranger stories.

You first heard them from a hunting party that should have known better than to embellish; the mightiest warriors who are unafraid of battle and have seen the worst.

“There was one,” one said, eyes on the ground instead of the fire. “Not human. Not one of us.”

You listened silently.

“They wore our skins,” another added, voice strained. “But they moved wrong.”

Wrong

That word stayed with you.

You said nothing, but your chest tightened.

“They fought like Sky People,” the first said. “Not like hunters. Not like us.”

Your fingers froze on your blade.

Avatar, you thought. It made sense.

You had seen one before.

Jake Sully proved that the possibility of Sky People's minds in Na’vi bodies was a bridge between worlds.

But this was not like him.

No one mentioned Toruk Makto.

No respect was shown.

Only unease.

“They do not connect to Eywa,” someone else whispered. “I saw one fall. No song. Nothing passed on.”

A silence fell.

That was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

Everything returned to Eywa.

Everything.

You felt it, then, the same subtle shift you had sensed in the cave so long ago.

A disturbance in the pattern.

You told yourself it wasn’t your business. That whatever the Sky People created now was separate from what came before.

Separate from a cave.

From firelight.

From a sky man who once chose silence over survival.

Miles Quaritch.

Dead.

You clung to that.

You had to.

Because the alternative

No.

You refused to mull over the possibility

———-

You do not stay in one place long.

Not anymore.

The war made sure of that. But sometimes, the forest has a way of pulling you toward certain places, whether you plan to go or not. Sometimes, it pulls you toward people.

Towards trouble Heading to a balance that has yet to settle.

That's how you find yourself at the edge of the Sully clan’s territory.

Neither as a member nor a stranger.

Just a wanderer.

You trade when needed. Herbs. Salves. Knowledge of the deeper forest where others no longer walk. You do not stay long enough to belong.

But long enough to see.

To hear.

To understand.

Jake Sully’s name carries weight here. Not just as a leader, but as something more. A bridge. A warning. warning, of what the Sky People might become.

And what they can destroy.

You are gathering when it happens.

Your focus is steady, breath even, kneeling low, fingers brushing along the leaves of a plant that only grows where the soil stays cool and damp.

The forest is quiet around you until it isn’t.

The first sound is distant, a hum, low and wrong. Your body stiffens instantly. Then shouting, closer now, children. You rise in one smooth motion, your head snapping toward the sound. Not out of fear, but alarm.

You move before thinking, fast and silent. The forest blurs around you as you close the gap, your feet barely touching the ground. The hum grows louder, rotors slicing through the air, jagged against the natural rhythm.

Sky People. Too close. Too fast.

You burst through the brush just in time to spot them. The Sully children, Scattered and running. And above, a Samson roars through the canopy, its presence rattling the trees as ropes drop and figures descend.

Not sky people

Not Na’vi.

Something in between.

Your stomach drops.

They hit the ground hard and moving, weapons raised, voices sharp and controlled. Soldiers.

Hunting.

“Move! Move! Secure the targets!” one of them barks.

Your Instinct takes over; you don't think about clans, alliances, or consequences. You move

The smaller ones stumble, too slow, too exposed.

You’re there before the soldier is.

Your arrow flies first.

Clean.

Precise.

It hits, not to kill but enough to throw him off, to disrupt the advance. The shot draws attention instantly.

Too much.

“Contact!” someone shouts.

You grab the child and shove them toward cover.

“Run,” you snap. “Do not stop.”

They hesitate only a second, then obey.

Good.

You turn back And for a second, your mind refuses to understand what you’re seeing.

One of them.

That’s your first thought.

One of the Sky People soldiers is in a stolen body.

You’ve heard the stories, seen enough to know what they’ve done.

But then he steps forward, and your breath catches.

Your eyes lock on his face. Not the blue.

Not the stripes.

Just the face.

Your grip loosens on your bow without meaning to.

No.

No, that’s

Your gaze flicks over him again, faster this time, trying to correct what you saw, to set it right.

Blue skin. Taller. Broader. Built like one of the People.

But the shape of his face.

The set of his jaw.

That scar.

It all hits you at once.

That’s his face.

Miles Quaritch.

He’s staring straight at you now; focused and alert. Your stomach drops. He doesn’t react. Not the way he should.

No recognition. No pause. Nothing.

Just that steady, assessing look.

Your mind races to catch up.

“You...” The words get stuck, your voice shaky now. “What..”

You stop, because you don’t even know. What you’re asking.

What are you?

How are you here?

Why do you look like that?

Your gaze drags over him again, slower this time, as if you look long enough, it’ll make sense.

It doesn’t.

It only gets worse.

Because the more you look

The more certain you are.

It is him.

And it isn’t.

Your pulse is loud in your ears now. You take a step back without meaning to.

His eyes narrow slightly at the movement.

Tracking. Reacting. But not knowing.

That’s what hits hardest.

He doesn’t know you.

He’s looking at you like you’re nothing, just another savage to deal with.

Quaritch is supposed to be dead.

You know he is.

You built your understanding of balance around that truth.

Now he’s standing in front of you, wearing another body like it means nothing.

“No…” the word slips from you before you can stop it.

His gaze sharpens instantly, locking onto you with that same intensity you remember, but something is missing.

The longer he looks at you, the more that focus shifts.

Just slightly.

His brow tightens, like something isn’t lining up..

Your grip on your bow loosens, not lowered, not raised, caught somewhere useless in between.

Not Na’vi.

Not the sky man from the cave.

But not not him either.

Your chest tightens painfully.

Because you know that presence.

You remember the way he stood. The way he watched. The weight of him in a space.

And it’s still there.

Inside something that should not exist.

Around you, the fight is still happening, but it feels distant, muffled, like it belongs to another world.

All you can see is him.

All you can hear is your own pulse.

He takes a step toward you, Slow and Measured.

approaching you as if your frightened prey.

Your body reacts too late to the arrow lifting, but your hands aren’t steady anymore.

“You died,” you say, the words coming out sharper than you expect.

Quaritch head tilts at your words. There’s a flicker of confusion that's real and unguarded only for a second.

Your grip tightens on your bow.

This isn’t the man from the cave. This is something made. Something sent to kill.

“Lady,” he says, voice rough, “I don’t know what you think you saw, but..”

He cuts off mid-sentence.

Something shifts.

You see it.

Feel it.

That same pull, Stronger now. Closer.

His eyes narrow as he looks at you again, not like a soldier sizing up a threat. But as a man trying to remember something just out of reach.

“…have we met?” he asks.

It lands wrong.

Too casual. Too unaware.

Something in you hardens instantly. He should know.

After everything.

After the choice you made.

He should remember.

Your grip tightens again, anger cutting clean through the shock.

“You don’t remember,” you say, quieter now.

Not a question.

A realization.

“I’d remember you,” he says flatly.

You almost laugh at the undeniable truth that’s standing right in front of your face.

He truly doesn’t remember, but there’s still a part of him deep inside that still knows.

You don’t know if that makes this better Or just a whole lot worse.

“Target’s hostile,” one of the others calls. “Take her down!”

Quaritch doesn’t move. Not immediately; his gaze locked on you, unwavering.

Your pulse hammers, because you feel it too.

That pull is stronger now, like something unfinished snapping tight between you.

He steps forward, slow and measured

You stare at him,there it is again, that split second where his focus wavers. Where something almost surfaces

Then it’s gone as quickly as it came.

Your chest tightens.

Because he doesn’t understand it.

Whatever that is

He doesn’t know it’s there.

Behind him, one of the soldiers calls out, “Colonel, we’ve got movement; what do you want done with her?”

Colonel.

Of course.

That lands exactly where it should.

Your jaw sets.

Right. That part didn’t change.

Your movement fractures

Too slow.

A sharp crack.

Pain explodes through your side.

Your body jerks as something hits you from behind. hard, fast, enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The arrow slips from your grasp as you drop to one knee, vision flashing white for a second.

A Stun round.

You try to move but You can’t.

“Got her!” a voice snaps.

Rough hands grab you, forcing your arms back, binding them before you can recover.

You try to move

Nothing.

Your gaze snaps up through the haze straight to him.

He’s already moving toward you, fast and focused

He crouches in front of you, studying your face with an intensity that feels invasive, searching for answers he cannot find.

Quaritch lifts his hand, quickly pausing for a brief moment, then grips your jaw, turning your face slightly toward the light.

You jerk against it, anger flaring despite the weakness in your limbs.

“Do not touch me,” you hiss.

Something flashes in his expression. “…I’ve seen you,” he says, quieter now. “Somewhere.”

The cave.

The fire.

His tiny pink hand engulfed in yours

You hold his gaze. Cold and Unyielding.

“No,” you say.

The lie sits heavy between you.

Because part of you wants him to remember.

And part of you is terrified of what happens if he does.

Behind him, one of the soldiers calls out, “Colonel, we’ve got the others moving. What do you want done with her?”

Quaritch doesn’t look away from you.

Not once.

His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

“…she comes with us,” he says.

——-

Taglist

You are still awake, sitting at the entrance of the infirmary, with your hands in your hair and tiredness weighing more than an armor. You hear steps behind you,no one walks like this, except him.

"You should sleep," Syverson says, his voice is deep but gentle.

You watch him as he approaches, his beard unkempt, his face marked by sweat and sand, his uniform still on, as if he had never allowed himself a moment's rest.

His steel-colored eyes soften as soon as they see you.

"You should do the same," you reply, sketching a smile.

Syverson approaches, crouching next to you, leaning his rifle against the wall without ever lowering his guard, except with you.

"When I see you... for a few seconds I forget where we are."

Your heart skips a beat and you look at him, surprised.

He’s not a man who speaks so easily, if he says something he means it and feels it.

“And where are we, exactly?”

“In the middle of chaos. But you’re the only thing that feels real to me.”

Slowly, he takes your hand.                         His is rough, strong, but the way he touches you is incredibly delicate.

As if he’s afraid of breaking you.

Or maybe… to break himself...

"Today was hard, I was afraid of losing something… that I can't protect."

You move closer and place your forehead against his. His breathing stops for a moment.

“I don’t need protection Sy... Just someone who stays.”

And he stays. His lips rest on yours with a painful sweetness. It’s a silent kiss, long, full of restrained tension.

His hands move over your arms, over your shoulders, slowly descending, as if every gesture were a blessing.

“Stay here tonight,” he says against your lips.

“Even if the alarm goes off?”

Back in your driveway again, your hands almost shake after you hop out of the truck and walk through the front yard. Sy’s presence is palpable, taking over the entire acreage surrounding the house, taking over the very atmosphere, taking over you–your heart, your breath, your nerves.

You know what could happen tonight. The question is…Will it?

Unlocking the door, you look back at Sy as you shove forward with your shoulder. While he follows you inside, you can't make out his expression.

There's no denying that he’s sensing your racing thoughts. After taking his damp coat off, he helps you out of yours, and his fingers easily find their way back to the small of your back–just a graze. Still, it’s soothing.

You imagine it's more.

You clear your throat as you both begin kicking off your shoes and wet socks, and then you stand there, stalling.

You don’t know. Nothing even has to happen tonight. You’re happy to solely have the sort of intimacy you’ve had together every weekend–just to be with one another.

“I guess I should probably shower,” you murmur directly before your stomach loudly growls.

Sy lifts an ironic eyebrow and glances at your torso. “...Or we could eat first?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I actually am really hungry. I… just gotta change into something dry first.”

You begin walking to your bedroom, and Sy follows. “Right behind you.”

In the bedroom, you and Sy stand in front of your individual closets–yours on the left and his on the right. While picking clothes out, phantom domestic memories pop into the forefront of your mind just like they’d done in the woods earlier, almost as if they’re playing out live in holographs.

Sy in front of the bathroom mirror with a razor in his hand, bending forward to close-shave his neck. Sy at the end of the bed, bending down to tie his boots. Sy in front of his closet just like he is now, staring at his shirt options before asking your opinion on which one you prefer. Sy at your bedside in the morning carrying cups of hot coffee in each of his hands.

Sharing space with him for regular tasks like changing clothes is something you’ve missed more than you were even aware.

In the middle of taking off your clothes, you discreetly glance over at Sy to find him shirtless with his back towards you. His exposed skin has obvious flaws in places, and you pause to observe the different textures. Some scars are inverted, just divots of lightened skin, and some scars are thicker, angry and raised and pink. On the top of his left rear deltoid is a particularly off-color spot alluding to what must’ve been at one time quite a large wound, maybe a burn. Some of them you've seen before, but most of them are new. 

They shouldn’t be new to you. None of them should be new to you. You should already be familiar with all of these marks. You’re his wife.

Frowning, you turn your attention back to your own closet and get back to changing clothes, only glancing at your husband through the side of your eyes when his bare ass is briefly displayed—muscled and just as pale as ever.

It’s not until you’re redressed and turning back towards a fully-clothed Sy that you realize what you’ve even put on. Wordlessly, he stares at you, and his eyes are so–different–that you look down at yourself.

You’re just in a shirt and loose athletic shorts. It’s honestly nothing special at all–

Oh. You’re wearing one of his shirts.

“Oh, I…” You shrug. “Guess I'm just used to wearing shirts like this in the evening.”

He takes a step towards you and glances into your closet. “You been keepin’ my clothes in your closet?”

“I mean…Some of your shirts, yeah,” you reply. “They’re comfy. Not your underwear or anything weird like that.”

Sy smiles, and he looks good. He actually looks good, like there’s no grief clouding over his head, no guilt showing in his eyes, no anguish in the faint wrinkles of his face. In a large t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, he looks genuinely comfortable, too.

He turns and begins walking out of the room. “You’ve worn my boxers before,” he teases.

“One time.”

Sy hums. You catch up to him in the narrow hallway and elbow him in the side. In turn, he lightly elbows you back and quickly struts ahead of you so you can’t retaliate.

His behavior is almost boyish, like he could pull your hair and run away cackling or something, and you can’t help but smirk while he slips on an old pair of shoes that've remained unworn for months by the front door. Some of your nerves from earlier begin to leave you as more Hope fills the empty spaces left behind.

While Sy goes out to his truck to get the cooler full of food, instead of setting the table, you find a blanket and lay it out in the middle of the living room floor. Maybe this would align with what Sy had originally planned. Maybe he’ll like it.

“Is this stupid?” you ask uncertainly when Sy walks back in the house. “Should we just eat in the kitchen?”

He kicks off his shoes and sets down the cooler on the edge of the blanket. “I planned a picnic,” he just says, then he sits down and starts emptying the cooler. “And it was supposed to be on a rock, so why not do it on this hard old floor instead?”

He offers you a horrible wink, and you smile before sitting down next to him and pulling out paper plates, napkins, and cutlery from the cooler. Sy removes bread, deli meat, condiments, all different types of fruit, crackers, and cheese.

“Want me to pour us some wine?” you ask. “To go with the cheese and crackers?”

Sy doesn’t answer at first, but he ultimately agrees. You get up to walk into the kitchen, and when you come back with two glasses of white wine, you sit down again.

“You haven’t gone entirely alcohol-free, have you?” you ask. “Am I–Is this okay?”

"No, yeah,” Sy says, scratching his beard. “Just been tryna make new habits. So I’ve cut back to almost nothin’, mostly durin’ weekdays. I, uh. Can’t find it in me to go completely sober.”

“Just this one glass, then,” you say, lifting up the glass by the stem. Sy follows suit. “To us being us.”

Sy’s eyes smile at you. “To us bein’ us,” he repeats, and you both press the tops of your glasses together with a small clink.

You each keep eye contact while taking small sips of wine, then you both focus on your food. Sy has already made a sandwich for you, knowing exactly how you like them prepared. He works on making his own sandwich while you put crackers and fruit on both of your plates. After you quickly cut a few pieces of cheese next, you disperse them between the two of you.

Sy sprawls out on his left side and rests his body weight on his forearm while he starts to eat with just his right hand. You choose to sit cross-legged in front of him.

Back in the day, you’d make a joke about how his old-man joints won’t allow him to sit like you are, but you aren’t sure how that would be received right now. Plus, it’d be a stupid statement, anyway; the way he’s laid out gives you a perfect view of the long expanse of his thick body.

While you eat together, it’s…cute. Sy jokes around with you a lot in that half-teasing, half-flirting way you’ve missed so much that your stomach feels fluttery upon getting the receiving end of it. Maybe you should make that old-man joke, after all. Then Sy would raise his eyebrows with a challenge and say something like, “I’ll show you an old man,” and then you’d lay back on the blanket and–

The doorbell rings as you're finishing eating, and you instantly jostle and furrow your eyebrows. You’re not expecting anyone.

“You gonna get that?” Sy eventually asks when you make no move to get up.

“I didn’t invite anyone over.”

Sy checks his phone and puts it back in his pocket. “Well, see who it is,” he nods towards the door and says, and it’s less of an order as it is a teasing remark.

You hesitate. “I don’t want to.”

“Go on,” he almost chuckles. “Open it.”

“Can’t you?” you whine. “You’re the man of the house.”

His eyes briefly change, but still, he stubbornly replies, “No,” and it’s so out of character that you roll your eyes.

“Fine,” you huff. “Jerk-face.”

You reluctantly stand and slowly walk to the front door, grumbling about how you’re going to be cold in what you’re wearing. The sky is already getting dark. You don’t have a peephole or a nearby window to see who it even is, but Sy’s right behind you if it’s somebody weird. Even if he’s technically still laying down and no help at all if there were danger. Even if he's being strangely and stubbornly motionless.

By the time you open the door, the porch is empty. You look around in confusion and notice a van slowly driving past your mailbox like it’d just backed out of your driveway, and you watch as it drives down the street. While craning your neck to see if you can read anything on the back of the vehicle with the little bit of daylight left, it’s then you see that there’s a vase of flowers next to your front door.

A smile grows on your face as you bend down to pick up the bouquet. This time, Sy’d gone with red roses.

How romantic of him.

You should’ve known that there was a reason Sy wanted you to open the door yourself. Any other time, he’d be the one to handle any sudden issues, no problem.

His note is simple, cliche, and makes your stomach flip: Every day I love you more than the day before.

You walk back inside the house carrying the vase with your cheeks hurting from how large your grin is. And though it’s obvious what the meaning of red roses is, you’ve gotten used to flipping the little note cards around, so you do.

Did You Know? Red roses are a universal symbol of romantic love throughout the world. They also convey feelings of passion, desire, beauty, and courage.

A huge sensation slams into your chest then, or no–it doesn’t slam at all. It’s from the inside trying to push out, like your heart is six times too big and your lungs are too full to breathe and like there’s not enough room to fit everything inside. The smile slightly falls from your face while you try to let everything you’re feeling settle in your body.

You place the vase on the coffee table and gently touch the delicate petals before sitting back down in front of Sy. You can’t look at him yet.

He places a hand on your bare leg. “You good?”

Quickly, you nod. You won’t cry. “It’s really thoughtful,” you quietly murmur, then you lift your head. “You're thoughtful.”

He keeps staring at you, his blue eyes almost iridescent. Carefully, you lean down and kiss him, and when you break away, your lips slowly and audibly smack.

“You already got me flowers earlier,” you murmur, glancing at the yellow flowers on the kitchen table. “Think I’m gonna get spoiled one of these days.”

“Good.”

“You don’t have to keep getting flowers to make up for anything, Sy,” you say. “If that’s what you’re doing.”

“I’m gettin’ ‘em just to see you smile,” he replies, and you roll your eyes at the sap but still can’t help but smile again in response. “Ah, there it is.”

With his hand remaining on your leg, Sy begins to run his thumb absentmindedly against the inner side of your knee. It’s not suggestive, but…it could be. You haven’t had contact on bare skin like this in forever.

You look down at where he’s touching you until he clears his throat.

He sits up. “Wanna put somethin’ on TV?”

“Uhh..I mean, I really should actually shower first,” you murmur. “I feel a little gross.”

“Wonder why,” he grunts while he stands. “Only jumped in ten dozen mud puddles earlier.”

You stick out your tongue, and, with a smirk, Sy holds out his hand to help you up.

He keeps your hand in his as he begins walking to the bedroom. “Need a shower, too,” he mumbles.

It’s been a careful month, a month of reservation, and for him to act like this…for him to take your hand in his and lead you down the hall… It's no small thing. He’s acting like it’s his home again.

Even if he didn’t answer the doorbell just now. But that was for a reason, you remind yourself with an internal giddiness.

In the bedroom, you hesitate in front of the en-suite door. Sy said he wanted a shower, too, and the bathroom is small and far from fancy. The tub is cramped and decades old.

“I can…Want me to go first, then?”

You look up at Sy to see him slightly scratching his beard before briefly looking away with a little light in his eyes. Ultimately, he looks back at you and shrugs one shoulder. “Want you to step in first,” he says.

Oh.

It's daring.

It's a hook.

It's letting you make the decision.

“If you’re okay with that.”

You pause for only a moment, then you nod. You guess you’re doing this. Like you used to do.

Like before.

With your eyes trained on one another, the next minutes are silent as you both lift your t-shirts and let them drop to the floor. Your shorts and his pants go next as your heart begins to race.

And it’s almost silly; you’d stripped next to one another not even an hour ago. But–that was different. That was…that was a practice for this, you guess. It was private. Just hesitant little peeks at exposed skin. This isn’t like that at all.

This room is small and the air is still, the space between your bodies next to nothing. There’s no way to hide and also no use: you don’t want to hide. You only divert your eyes to step out of your underwear and twist around your bra to unclasp it, but it’s momentary, and when you’re fully naked, you look back up and find Sy entirely nude, too.

He’s thick and hairy as ever, chest covered with swirls of dark hair leading downwards as it narrows into a long broad strip over his stomach. Beneath, it’s somewhat bushy yet still trimmed, and as you try not to stare there for too long, you move your eyes lower to rake over the straight hair trailing down his large legs.

Just as you’re taking in Sy’s body, he’s watching yours, and you take a deep breath, briefly feeling self-conscious. It’s been such a long time that you're worried that maybe he won't even be attracted to you anymore. 

Sy’s always been this work of art to you–scars and flaws and all–and it's a lot to live up to. 

He loosely puts his hands on your hips, staying away enough so that no other parts of his body touch yours. “I’m allowed to look?”

“Of course,” you quietly murmur. “You’re my husband.”

“And you’re my wife,” he replies just as quietly. “So why’re you actin’ shy?”

You whisper your admission. “I’m nervous.”

“About what? Me?”

You inhale deeply.

How do you even explain this?

“We ain’t gotta do anything.”

You start shaking your head. “No, that’s–it’s not anything like that.”

“All I want is for you to…" He sighs. "I just want everything to be alright.”

“It is, it is," you reassure. "I just..."

Sy gives you a second to finish.

Looking and sounding foolishly young, you bite the side of your lip and ask, "Do you...like what you see?"

His fingertips twitch over your hips, and it's just then when you finally make eye-contact with him again that you realize his pupils are blown. 

He clears his throat. "Very, very much."

Feeling like this is the first time you've ever been together or something, you smile and reply, "Me, too."

“Why's it look like you’re ‘bout to cry again?"

You try to chuckle. It comes out odd.

“It’s just been a long time…since…and what I feel inside me is–it’s this giant thing,” you try to explain, lifting a hand to the left side of your chest. “So huge it’s like my heart’s pressing against my skin trying to get out. Like it could burst or something. And it’s…it’s just a lot. And I just don’t want to mess anything up…If that makes sense.”

You’ve been looking away, but when Sy’s thumb starts caressing your skin, you meet his eyes again. “Don’t think you have to worry about messin’ anything up, baby,” he says. “That’s my job.”

You immediately want to deny his words and tell him how untrue they are, but at the wry look on his face, you don’t. He’s got his dry military gallows-humor embedded within him, you know, and though his words may be blunt, they come from a place of grim acceptance of his role in what’s been going on these past few months.

You lightly place your hands over Sy’s wrists where they’re still at your hips. “Not anymore.”

His eyes bore into yours. “Not anymore.”

He offers a small and somehow serious smile. “I feel the same way you do. You gotta know that. This is a…huge thing, and I already came so close to fuckin’ it all the way up. And I really couldn’t live with myself if…” He clears his throat. “I mean that.”

“That won’t happen,” you reply, tattooing this moment in memory–Sy talking about feelings. “Because we’re good now.”

He leans in and carefully kisses you, and all those emotions from the forest come back. The emotions from when you’d picked up the roses on the porch come back. The emotions from years past, of being the sole object of his adoration, of marrying him. A giant firecracker going off inside you, a million pop-rocks exploding in your stomach, a warmth that coats your entire body–all of it.

Your fingertips dance over the backs of his hands still holding your hips. You have too much inside and nowhere for it to go except his mouth. It’s easy since his beard isn’t scratchy whatsoever–it’s soft, and his lips are soft, and his tongue is soft, and everything’s tender, and you mentally keep repeating we’re us we’re us we’re us.

Sy breaks away first, and after staring at you for a long moment, he opens the shower curtain and turns on the water. He even holds his hand out to steady you while you step inside.

He enters next, and you’re so close that you can feel his dick brush against your skin as he turns around to slide the curtain closed. You look down and bite your lip. Just from kissing, he’s filled out.

You both have to stand sideways in order to feel the warm water and not block it from one another, and in the narrow bathtub, that leaves hardly any room at all to move. Facing Sy, you lean back against the wall, and he puts his hands on your hips again. He watches your expression before stepping even closer to you.

When he says, “We always used to be good together,” you nod at him.

“We did,” you agree.

He repeats his words from earlier in the woods. “What we had was good.”

“It was.” You nod again.

And then he’s right there again–warm and shamelessly close, everywhere. He’s so close you can feel the coarse flattened hairs underneath his chest pressing wetly against your breasts, the thickness of his feet planted outside your own, the stiffening between his legs poking your lower stomach.

“I’ll make it good again.”

Like he's giving you time to come to terms with all of this, or say no, or say not yet, he stands unmoving and just holds you until the tension drains from your shoulders, until your heartrate settles, until you can lift your arms and wrap them up around his neck.

“It’s not just a one-person job, honey,” you say, turning to rest your face atop his chest. “Not everything’s always on you.”

In turn, his hands slide around from your hips to your back, pulling you in closer, and he hugs you back. You close your eyes.

For long moments, things are quiet but for the water spraying on your bodies and falling to the floor. When Sy breaks the silence, it’s to say, “We’re still us.”

You look up and meet his eyes, then his mouth. Saying those words like a mantra makes this reality believable, both for him and for you. Despite all the challenges from the past and the ones inevitably to come in the future, you’re more or less the same. You're still yourselves at the core.

Both you and Sy smile simultaneously. “You’re sayin’ all the same things you said in the woods.”

“‘Cept this time you ain’t against a tree,” he replies while inching forward, “and we don’t gotta stop.”

You soon find yourself being carefully pressed against the shower tiles, one of Sy’s large hands cradling the back of your head while the other grasps your waist, and when he kisses you, there’s a desperation that doesn’t necessarily match the tenderness of his touch, but a vulnerability that definitely does.

He kisses you like he needs you to breathe, jaw working intently and mouth working strongly, and you want him back just as much, but it's just–it’s a lot all at once.

Over his beard, your hands move to hold him in place while his pursed lips open and close, partly as a way to try to tame the kiss, and partly as a way to simply steady yourself. When everything gets more urgent and deep, your lungs protest, and you need to break away. Your hands find Sy’s pecs and softly push there, but it’s no use; he’s all muscle.

Instantly, he’s panting in your face, mouth dislocated from yours. His eyes move quickly all over your face. “Too much?”

“No, it’s–I can’t breathe, is all,” you explain while gasping for air.

“Shit,” he says, panting, too. “I–Damn it, I just wanna–”

“Me too, me too,” you reassure. “Just–Maybe let’s slow down a little. We have…we have time.”

He listens. After putting both of his hands on the tiles on either side of your head, he leans down and kisses you again, and it’s shorter, shallower. It gives you time to relax and lower your hands to his waist. It gives you time for your fingers to start twitching before they grip too intently.

Sy starts carefully, and you follow his lead, just exchanging little sipping kisses–wet and soft and adoring, precious little things that you both want to covet.

When your tongue slips out to lick Sy's upper lip, he copies your action, and after you break away to look at one another in a bit of a daze, he goes back in and starts slowly massaging your tongue with his, now having the green-light for more.

Everything grows heady, your tongues and mouths working almost to the power of before, but you can tell Sy’s keeping himself and his speed in control. Still, making out like this has you gripping his skin, squeezing and trying not to pinch.

You feel like your knees could buckle and give out.

Sy’s grown entirely hard, and his cock starts to press against your stomach every time he moves.

“This okay?” he checks in.

Your voice comes out shaky. “Yeah.”

With another kiss, Sy runs a hand up your stomach until he reaches your chest, and he squeezes over the mound there before brushing his thumb over your nipple.

“Still okay?”

Quickly nodding, you hum.

“You can say no,” he says into your mouth. “You can say no to anything.”

“I don’t want to,” you slur into his. “Say no.”

With a smack, he moves his mouth to your chin, then your cheek, then your jaw. He follows the line of your throat as you tilt your head to the side, his mouth open and sloppy.

“Beautiful,” Sy murmurs against your skin.

You’ve forgotten this. You’ve forgotten how–much–he can be when he wants to be. The way he’s treating you, it almost makes you want to fly into the clouds, to melt entirely, to crawl into his body and stay. With how steamy the room has gotten, it’s easy to imagine yourself simply evaporating away.

Your hands travel up his stomach to his pecs where you grip at his chest hair. When he lowers his mouth to one of your nipples, your arms fall down, and you let out a shuddery breath as you feel Sy’s tongue start to move in circles.

“God,” you murmur, finding the back of his head and pulling him in. The urgency from before is coming back.

Sy stands up again, and his face is entirely wet, his beard dripping. There’s almost a look of pain across his features.

You finally look down at what you’ve been feeling against you for so long, and with your mouth open, you stare. Sy’s so hard it feels and looks like it hurts.

The next quick kiss has the desperation from before, needy and deep, and he begins making little inadvertent movements forward to slide his cock against your slick skin.

With a gasp, you tear your mouth away and lower your hands. You–you guess this is happening. You glance around at what you can brace yourself on.

“Hang on, hang on,” you rush out, “let me turn around real quick.”

Sy doesn’t move, and he stares at you for a second, just panting. “I–” He presses his forehead against yours and shakes his head. “Not like this.”

Still, your hand reaches down to wrap around the top of his cock, and with the first touch you’ve had like this in forever, you slide the hot skin all the way down to the root before pulling your hand back up. There’s hardly any give.

“Fuck,” he lets out, squeezing your arm, then shakes his head again. “Not like this, baby.”

“You sure?” you ask, stroking him again and feeling a smug satisfaction that you’re affecting him. “Just to take the edge off?”

“I–” He lets out a little chuckle-groan.

You find his frenulum and begin to rub tiny circles atop it with your thumb, causing him to curse. “Yeah?”

When he groans in a certain tone, you know that’s him consenting.

“Kiss me again,” you whisper over the running water, and Sy instantly does.

Everything comes back to you second-nature. You know Sy's body, you know what he likes. You know how to tease him and draw it out, and you know how to get him there quick.

Trying not to slip down the shower wall, you move your wrist slow and loose, not trying to be slow on purpose but simply trying to make him enjoy the next few moments before they’re over.

There’s only the feel of his cock in your hand and his tongue in your mouth, the sensation of his heartbeat inside your palm, his impending orgasm taking up the shower.

Eventually, Sy can’t kiss you anymore, and he presses his forehead onto yours again. Together, you share the same hot air while looking down between your bodies. You pick up speed then, able to focus better without his tongue in your mouth taking you away someplace else. Staying mainly at the top of his cock, you twist and pull and tighten your hand, and… it’s not long after that.

Sy firmly squeezes both of your arms right before groaning, “Oh, fu-uck,” and you keep gripping his cock while watching him desperately jackhammer himself into your hand.

When he starts rhythmically squeezing your upper arms and releasing, you feel a similar rhythmic pulsing underneath your fingers, and then you watch everything come out–first a few spurts upwards onto your abdomen, then a creamy collection that slides down atop your circled index finger and thumb.

Your hand stops moving, but you keep it where it is while waiting for Sy to come down.

“Fuck,” he repeats breathlessly, and he slides his wet forehead sideways against yours before he stands upright. He lets out a deep breath and a sideways smile, and when you rub your thumb over the head of his softening dick, he jerks forward and hisses.

When you finally let go of him entirely, he stands unmoving.

“God damn,” he just says, then he travels his hand down your sticky-wet stomach and pauses, looking for your reaction before going lower.

You put a hand on top of his and gently shake your head. You then look to the right to blatantly signal to the bedroom. “Maybe we should get out. We’re gettin’ pruney.”

Sy nods. “Gimme just a minute.”

He grabs the washrag hanging on the shower caddy and pours a fair bit of soap onto it before reaching out and literally beginning to wash you.

Starting with your stomach and then moving up to your chest where he spends much of his focus, he then washes your neck and your arms. With a little smirk, he leaves the rest for you, so when you’re done with your legs and feet, you rinse off the rag and put some of his own soap on it.

You wash him just as intently as he’d done to you, running over his shoulders and arms and chest and stomach, even his pubic hair and dick. You keep the washrag there for a moment.

“You good?” you ask.

He nods.

He’s being quiet. Too quiet.

“Are you–” You briefly look down. “Are you sure?”

Sy raises an eyebrow. “My dick still works, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

“You know–Obviously I know that,” you drop the washrag and say. “That’s not what I was gettin’ at.” In a gentle voice, you ask, “Are you okay?”

Finally realizing what you’re wanting to know, he smiles. “You fishin’ for compliments, baby?”

“Shut up,” you mutter. “I just wanted to make s–”

“‘M better than I’ve been in a long fuckin’ time,” he interrupts you.

A smile blooms across your face, a big smile, and Sy returns it, crooked and almost radiant. You haven’t seen him so carefree like this in so long.

You step out of the shower and shiver at the temperature difference, instantly toweling yourself off and then wrapping yourself up. After turning off the shower, Sy does the same, and then you slowly walk back into the bedroom.

You’re nervous again.

The early-setting winter sun has long left, and you don’t turn on the light in the bedroom, so the room’s only illumination comes from the bathroom. At the foot of your bed, you stop and look up at Sy, and he steps closer until his toes touch yours.

Then he reaches out.

Like he’s touching something precious, Sy loosens your towel where it’s secured over your breasts. He's seen literally all of you just moments ago in the shower, but when he opens the towel, he stares at your bare skin like it's a brand new treasure he's discovering. His expression is vaguely awestruck.

You look at him with wide, open eyes as you reach out and push his own towel to the floor.

He watches you for long, tender moments, then he mutters, “Get on the bed.”

Heart thumping, you walk around the mattress and climb onto the middle. Once you’re laying back on top of the duvet, Sy takes a second to stare at you some more, then he gets in bed and matches his body atop yours. You're chilly and gladly welcome the heat. 

You open your legs for him, but he doesn’t give you his body weight yet. Instead, he trails his fingers up and down your sides, so light it’s almost ticklish, then he leans in, puts his weight on his forearms above your head, and kisses you.

You fall naturally into the rhythm of kissing again. It’s like you both don’t tire of it at all–you just want the connection. Sy makes love to your mouth, and it was good in the shower with water cascading around everything, but it’s even better like this–with him on top of you like you’re his, like he’s pouring himself down on you, like you're just a vessel.

Sy reaches down to take your wrist and lead your hand to the back of his neck. When it’s there, he runs his hand down the length of your arm and then underneath it where he holds your hip for a little bit. Ultimately, he just trails back up your abdomen to cup one of your breasts, and he holds there while his tongue swirls against yours.

All of the kissing has you squirming underneath him, and your movements become so insistent that he backs away and looks down at your body. Your half-lidded eyes watch his hand as he slides low low low to finally touch your pussy for the first time, and you gasp.

After he whispers, “You’re wet,” you breathe more heavily. Audibly.

Yeah, you're wet. You've been wet.

“You want this?” he asks.

You nod.

“You really want this?”

“Yeah,” you answer, moving and angling your hips upwards until you make contact with the dripping head of his dick. “I really do.”

He props himself up on one hand and looks down between your bodies to watch what you’re doing.

“We’re still us, Sy,” you remind him in a whisper.

“Yeah.”

He continues looking down as he takes hold of his cock and leads himself to where you're the wettest, and you break your attention from his slack-jawed face to momentarily glance in between your bodies, too.

When you start to feel pressure and then the absence of his knuckles against your skin, you suck in a gasp. It’s been so long that the piercing hardness almost feels foreign, and as Sy gives you more of his body weight, you squeeze his shoulders while inadvertently clenching your legs.

Slowly, just barely, Sy pulls out and pushes his hips downwards again, sending himself only a fraction deeper inside you, but already, you feel like you’re being stretched and filled to the absolute limit. With your lips clamped shut, you press your forehead up into his neck while you hold your breath and keep your noises inside. It’s just been so long.

“Fuck,” Sy lets out on an exhale, and you just dig your nails into his shoulders more firmly to keep him from moving any more.

He still tries to. Finding you unwilling to yield just yet, he seeks out your face, your eyes, panting in mid-air before pushing up his upper body to actually look down at you. Now unable to keep your face burrowed into his neck, you squeeze your eyes shut. It's just so–much.

“Baby. Hey. Look at me,” he says, breathless, so you do. You know your face is slightly twisted up.

The room is dark, but you can see all of Sy’s features. His dark eyes look almost pained in restraint and concern, all of his muscles tight.

“I’m okay,” you promise, quickly nodding in reassurance. Even just that comes out strangled. You can barely speak. “Just–gimme a second.”

“Fuck,” he mutters again, lowering his upper body and putting his forehead on yours, and you know he’s straining himself to keep still.

You’ve got to get used to each other again.

Breathing tightly, you nod at Sy a few moments later, and you’re wet enough that when you relax your legs, it’s easier for you to take more. Sy still holds back as he withdraws, though, forearms almost shaking against your own arms, and his lips quiver against yours while he slowly starts carving a place of his own again.

At one time, he’d already completely had you. Now, he’s returning to you.

And he’s not going to leave again. You're not going to give up again.

Reading when you widen your legs even more, Sy bottoms out with the next careful thrust. Unable to help it, as your body hitches up the bed a bit, a loud moan escapes your mouth. The noise Sy makes in return is similar to a gut-punch.

He must want to make sure your noise was a good one. “Tell me you’re okay. Tell me this’s–”

“I’m good,” you let out shakily while you grip the back of his neck with both hands. “I’m really good.”

Everything is humid between your faces. Sy kisses over your cheek while he remains entirely still, and after you tilt your hips up and start the momentum, he finally starts to genuinely move.

He starts slowly, just rocking his hips in tiny little circles without withdrawing at all, and it makes his pelvis continuously grind against your clit so that you’re starting to light up both inside and out. Quietly moaning with every breath now, you press the heels of your feet against Sy’s ass and push him even closer into you.

Sy slots his mouth against yours to kiss you just as deeply as he’s rocking into you, and you both tell each other with your little groans and whimpers how much you’re liking everything.

That’s when he pulls back a little. Slow at first, he’s deliberate with each thrust, but he works up a quicker rhythm within moments, spurred on by your sounds. Closing your eyes, you throw your head back and open yourself to him. You feel every bit of him against your skin. You feel every bit of him inside you.

With how quiet the room is, every noise is accented and obvious–the mattress moving, your mutually heavy breathing, the soft sound of skin meeting skin.

With a vulnerability you haven’t seen on his face since the first time you ever had sex together, he hasn’t looked away from you once. The way his eyes keep taking you in like he’s recording the sight of you to memory, it sincerely is almost like your first time together.

You stare right back at him, but–you can’t think. You can hardly speak at all. All you can focus on are the sensations overwhelming your body, and all you can do is whimper and gasp through it all.

You crane your neck upwards to kiss whatever bit of skin you can get your mouth on, and Sy twists his face over to meet your lips with his own. Under your fingertips, his skin feels different in places, and you memorize each spot.

You inadvertently turn slightly rough before long, scratching him while moving your hands constantly up and down his arms, but you’re just so pent up with the gravity of all of this that you don’t know any other way to let it out. Thankfully, he’s not overly gentle with you either, and his thrusts quickly turn merciless as your hips start grinding upwards to meet him.

With your mouth dropped open and unable to close, you can’t kiss him anymore.

If he keeps moving like this, you’re going to come.

Your eyes grow wide. “Please.”

“I’ve gotchu.”

Your whimpers and heavy breathing graduate to non-stop quiet moaning, and what brings out an actual high-pitch sound is when Sy pushes himself up on his hands, rakes his eyes all over your body, settles his gaze at your swaying breasts and mutters, “Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” almost as if to himself.

His knees dig into the mattress while your feet dig even more into his ass, and then there’s the rhythmic swaying of his balls slamming against you while both of you grow more vocal. Just as Sy’s face pinches and turns intense, he slows down, almost stopping entirely. Then, in an easy display of his strength, he suddenly leans down again, wraps his arms around you, and flips over.

Taking you with him, you’re entirely on top of him within seconds. “Ah!” you let out as your center of gravity teeters.

Suddenly Sy’s no longer inside you, and you’re too uncoordinated to fix it; your hips just rock against his pelvis while you try to get positioned again in any way that’ll give you the friction from before back.

It was good, it was so good, it felt so good, and you want it back, and why had he stopped?

“Go back in,” you hurry out, “go back in.”

Sy hurriedly pushes himself backwards on the mattress until he’s leaning against the pillows by the headboard, and he pulls you with him. It's then you realize how sweaty you both are. 

Still breathing heavily, you stare at each other for a second, and Sy’s expression is almost a dazed look of wonder. He takes your ass in one hand and holds his cock in the other, trying to align with you again. You lift yourself up a little to help him out and  ultimately take over impatiently, holding him and lowering down just the right way. 

After he’s entirely spearing you, you both inhale sharply.

Though you still feel impatient, things lose their frenzy from before. You wonder if that was Sy's goal in flipping you over–to have this go on longer–because he wraps his arms entirely around you in the largest bear-hug ever and no longer sounds like he’s about to come.

You try dragging yourself up the length of Sy’s cock and then back to the bottom again, but with the position of your bodies, it’s shallow and only at the tip. When Sy stops hugging you to hold you at the hips, you’re able to move more freely, and while you start taking more of him inside you, you slot your open mouth to his and lick into his mouth.

His hands can’t keep still. He squeezes one of your breasts while lowering his face to lick around and suck, then he does the same with the other. Then his mouth is all over your chest, then the side of your neck, then your earlobe then your jaw then your mouth. You hold onto his head the whole time. 

When your legs start to burn, you forgo riding him to switch to grinding against him, and that’s somehow even better. It keeps near-constant contact to a spot deep inside you, keeps you entirely stretched and full, and keeps constant friction on your clit against him, everything sticky-wet and slidey.

You lean your forehead onto Sy's, grip his slippery neck, and start breathing in his air. Your noses touch, and you purse your lips in an attempt to kiss, but you're uncoordinated and end up just barely touching his upper lip. 

“Feel good?” he asks, barely audible over how heavy he’s breathing.

It feels so good. So good you can barely talk. “You don’t know how good,” you whisper.

He squeezes your ass and groans. “Yeah, I do.”

Spurred on by Sy’s hands on your ass pulling you in every other second, you rock together shamelessly. The rough calluses on his thumbs are as familiar as they used to be.

You’re so wet that it squelches when you rut together desperately, and those lit-up nerve endings multiply to the hundreds and then the thousands while building up stronger and louder and more and more, and both of you start moving together erraticly.

You feel so good you can’t stand it, and it only gets better with each second. You're sweaty and exerted but you just don’t want it to stop, you never want it to stop, and all you want is more–forever.

“I want this forever,” you slur, and that’s when things get urgent.

With force, Sy grabs the back of your head to smash your mouth against his. You’re still unable to kiss, and all you can do is moan into his mouth as you heavily breathe against it, your fingers holding onto him like a lifeline.

“Fuck, I can feel you,” Sy groans against your lips just as you rush out in a whisper-moan, “I’m gonna come.”

You couldn’t control it if you tried. As your climax entirely takes over, you don’t recognize how high-pitch your voice is when you whimper again, “Sy, I’m gonna–Sy.”

“Do it, baby,” he whispers. “Take everything.”

Sy’s wide-blown eyes stare intensely into yours until your mouth falls obscenely open on top of his own and your eyes squeeze shut, and with a loud cry, your legs lock and your pussy starts to convulse around on his dick.

The pulses take over entirely until they leave you quivery and overwhelmed. While your noises lessen from loud moans to tiny gasps, your chest rapidly rises and falls and your legs tremble against Sy’s skin.

“Oh, my God,” you say, and then again: “Oh, my God,” like it’s your new mantra, like Sy has to know everything you just felt. “Oh, my God, Sy.”

With Sy still rock hard inside you, sparks continue to pass through you like little jolts of electricity causing you to jut your hips forward from time to time, and it’s then that you feel Sy’s hands tightly gripping your hips to slightly lift you up and keep you in place. He holds your ass before quickly snapping his hips up, and, totally useless to do anything else, you clench around him as tightly as possible, staring ahead at his pleasure-drunk expression.

Soon, you lower your face into the damp crook between Sy’s neck and shoulder, and you suck a kiss there. Like he’s been holding back to wait on you, within moments, you hear him let out a few curses before starting to deeply groan from within his chest. It’s a coveted sound–your name a frantic whisper before a few desperate-sounding grunts, then groaning while he empties himself inside you. You feel it fill you up.

While Sy’s fingers remain gripping you so hard it’s though he’s worried you’ll leave, you keep your face planted into his neck, heavily panting. His rapid pulse thumps against your lips.

Sy’s hold on you eventually softens, and your breathing eventually grows lighter together. Nothing feels finished, though; besides wrapping his arms around you again, he doesn’t move at all, and you don't make any effort to get off him, either. You keep your head resting on his shoulder, keep your eyes closed, and keep trying to settle your breathing.

For a brief moment, you oddly feel like crying.

All your crazy emotions merge into one–grief, and arousal, and want, and hurt, and need, a yarn-ball of colossal fervor. This is the reunion you should’ve had when he came home all those months ago, the one you’d envisioned. The safety of having him back. The mutual love. The desire. Just the fucking comfort of someone knowing you.

God, you’ve missed him. So much you don’t even see how it’s possible, so much that you can’t even comprehend it.

Soon, Sy softens inside you to the point where you feel like you should disconnect, but even then, you barely move. You just don’t want to. Holding one another during the come-down feels like falling asleep while basking in the sun, like being shot with a tranquilizer.

Eventually, your body sadly protests the position. "My hips are gonna be sore like this," you mumble, still making no effort to dismount.

Sy slowly lays back, taking you with him. "Then move," he says, also making no effort to drop his hands from you.

You grumble, “You move.”

Chuckling, Sy juts his hips upwards, and you have a brief idea that maybe you should try to go again, but instead, you decide to lift your leg up and roll over. In the messy afterglow, you and Sy both stretch.

Your mind runs wild while his cum leaks out of you–Was that as good for him as it was for you? Is everything okay? Is everything still okay?

Thankfully, he doesn’t give you time to over-think, and he pulls you against his side when he realizes you’re no longer touching. Immediately, he reaches out to cradle your face, and he kisses you.

You kiss and kiss and kiss some more, and though they’re kisses without purpose, a thought enters your mind that maybe Sy does want more. When he detaches from your mouth and lowers himself down the bed, it certainly seems that he’s after more, and while you're questioning what he’s doing given the fact that your inner thighs are still sticky with him, he stops halfway down your body.

Seemingly overcome all of a sudden, he presses his cheek to your stomach, squeezing his eyes shut. He clutches you to him, an arm encircling your waist, another arm fully holding your still-sweaty lower back.

While you reach out to touch his closely-shaved head, raw grief for what you’d once had together rolls over you. You wonder if it does Sy, as well. You stare at the ceiling.

How had you drifted so apart in the first place? How’d you ever get to such a painful place where you both lived parallel lives without any intersection, without any sort of communication, without any sort of touch at all? How did it go on for so long? How did you go without this for so long?

It hurts–the despair of time lost–and yet you lay with it, making yourself really feel it. If you let it consume you this one last time, you'll know how you never, ever want to feel again.

Sy’s voice is quiet when he speaks his first real words since—before. “I never stopped, you know.”

Quietly, you ask, “Never stopped what?”

“Thinkin’ aboutchu. I thought aboutchu–I think aboutchu all the time.”

“Me, too, Sy,” you softly tell him, and you wish he’d come back up the bed so you could just hold each other properly.

Instead, surprisingly sudden, Sy’s shoulders begin to shake like they’re literally jumping. You instantly push yourself up on your elbows. He won’t let you see his face.

“Sy…Baby…”

Sy abruptly lets go of your body and sits up, turning away from you to go to the end of the bed where he places his feet on the carpet and his elbows on his legs. Quickly and roughly, he digs his fingers into his eye sockets. Even when you’re able to fully sit up to comfort him, he still won’t let you look at him, instead letting out an involuntary sound from deep in his chest before ending it with some sort of a snort and a cough.

Behind him, you put your forehead against the middle of his back and place a hand on the large scar atop his shoulder. Ultimately, you decide to wrap both of your arms around his torso, and even though your hands can’t meet together over his stomach, you hug him all the same. You’re both quiet for a long, long time.

“I know I ain’t exactly the same, and maybe I won’t ever get there,” he lets out with a gravelly voice, then he snorts again, “but I won’t go back to before. I’ve been workin’ hard. I won’t go back to before. I just. I want you to know that. I want you to see.”

“I do, baby. I do see it,” you respond, and you tighten your arms the best that you can to hug him tighter.

It’s when he puts his hands on top of yours and squeezes you back that suddenly the emotional release you haven’t been aware you’ve even been suppressing happens for you, too, and without warning, you find yourself outrightly sobbing against his spine.

You aren’t sad. You’re happier than you’ve been in forever. It’s just so much, you love him so much, and he’d hurt you so much, and you missed him so much. Your eyes well up and burn and leak while you’re overcome with jerky, snotty cries.

“Oh, hell,” Sy utters, turning around and looking at you with wide eyes.

“I just want our life back,” you cry.

He easily takes hold of your waist and helps you slide back up the bed until you’re resting on a pillow, and he tugs at the blanket to secure it over the both of you. Settling his head on the same pillow you’re on, he looks at you with red-rimmed eyes and puts his hand on the side of your face. There are millimeters between your faces.

“Shh,” is all he says while you let everything out. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I could be normal about this. I’ve just m-missed you for so long,” you wetly say. “When you were gone and when you were back, and now it–now it feels like you’re really back, and I’ve just missed you.”

“I never stopped thinkin’ aboutchu,” he repeats quietly.

Against the pillow, you nod. The sheets beneath you are dirty, and both of your bodies are sticky with sweat, and you’re crying, and he just got done crying and is trying to hide it, and you snuggle closer to him and place one of your legs in between both of his. You’re together as physically close as you can literally be.

“I never meant to bring you any of this pain.”

You wetly chuckle. “Sy, you’ve been through hell. I just–It’s okay now. You’re…You’ve let your walls down. That’s all I’ve wanted. And I know how hard it’s been.”

“For you, too,” he mumbles.

“Yeah. For both of us in its own way.” Sniffing, you just hold his forearm closer to your body, which is hardly at all. “But we’re okay.”

“Still us.”

Sofly, you smile. “Yeah. That’s our new sayin’.”

Just like earlier, you both hesitate to let one another go. You really ought to go to the bathroom, though, and you need to get dressed and change out the sheets where there are…remnants.

After laying together for a long, ling time, Sy is ultimately the first to get out of the bed. Naked, he walks to collect his clothes from the bathroom, and when he returns fully dressed again, you sit up and uselessly cover your chest with the blanket.

"...You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

Sy puts his hands in his pockets. “That’s up to you.”

“I want you to stay,” you say. “For good.”

He gives you a look that you interpret as…a lot of things. I’m sorry. I love you. I shouldn’t’ve ever made you cry.

“Then it’s settled.”

Feeling slightly nervous again, you smile without showing your teeth. “Okay, well…I’m gonna put some clothes on and start gettin’ something ready for supper, then.”

Sy walks to your side of the bed and leans down to kiss your head. His thumb slides along the puffy skin underneath one of your eyes before he straightens all the way up.

“I’ll go clean up from lunch,” he says, and you nod.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and stare at your reflection. Your hair is disheveled and your eyes are pink, but you don't care. 

You clean yourself up before getting re-dressed, and you stay in the room by yourself for a minute, just looking around. Things feel utterly surreal.

It takes time for you and Sy to get in calmer headspaces together after the intensity from before. You both sit on the couch and start watching the middle of some movie that’s playing on cable, and later on when it’s done, you work together side-by-side in the kitchen–Sy chopping up food and you actually cooking it all.

“We gonna cook supper together every evenin’ now?” you ask.

He smirks. "If I move back in, then yeah."

"You said it was settled."

"Thought that was just for tonight," he says lightly. 

"No, you're moving back in for good," you comment before pointing at him with the spatula. “But I still want our weekend dates.”

He smiles down at the cutting board. “Yes ma’am.”

You eat dinner together on the couch with glasses of water, and you watch football until you feel like going to sleep.

Everything has been purposefully lazy and easy between you after such a cathartic release, but it’s there in bed after your respective nighttime routines where it gets heavy for you again. You’re going to be sleeping beside one another.

There still feels like so much guilt between the two of you, regret of time missed. You’re married, and this is the first time you’re happy to go to bed next to Sy in…forever.

There’s Hope now, and it’s filled the entire house, and it’s on your side.

Also on your side is Sy himself. Because his body simply radiates heat, you can’t truly cuddle or anything, but you’re closer than you’ve been in months while you both drift off to sleep. The fingers of his outstretched arm touch the side of your leg all night.

________________

The next morning, you wake up to Sy spooning you from behind, and with the morning chill in the room, you’re actually grateful that his body’s like a furnace.

Under the covers, you’re sleepy and lazy and warm. You’re caught in that hazy post-waking-up window where you’re too comfortable to actually get out of bed but not sleepy enough to fall back asleep, and there’s a conscious buzz in the air that’s palpable. You know from Sy’s breathing that he’s awake behind you.

When Sy slots his large leg in between both of yours and wraps his arms around you a little tighter, he lets you know that he’s aware you’re awake, too.

Your body tightens in a stretch. “Mornin’.”

In response, he just grunts a little. One of his hands reaches underneath your shirt to start caressing your bare stomach.

“Sleep good?”

The next grunt is more happy. Affirmative, then.

You chuckle. “Me, too.”

You’re both quiet after that, but before too long, you feel Sy’s dick literally twitching through his boxers as it starts to press against your ass.

You twist around slightly to look at him, but you can barely see his face. “Really?”

He leans into the back of your neck and breathes in your scent. “You feel good.”

You let out a smile despite him not being able to see. When his hand starts exploring more suggestively, tracing along the top of your sleep pants, you hum.

“This okay?”

“Mmm.”

Together, you both shift so instead of laying entirely on your sides, you’re both halfway on your backs. With your right leg draped over his, it’s easier for Sy to continue touching your navel and then above, just feeling your skin underneath your shirt. He trails his hand lower, but he stays atop your pajamas while touching the tops of your legs and then, finally, the spot where they join.

You remain quiet while his hand starts a slow, circular rhythm, but your breath hitches, and you just let the sensation wash over you.

It’d be nice to turn your head to kiss him right now, you think, but it’s the first thing in the morning, and even this is nice–being so so close and so so comfortable.

Blindly, you reach behind you to slide your hand either into or above Sy’s boxers, but he doesn’t let you. “This’s just for you.”

You move your hand away. “Why,” you start to tease, thinking of last night’s shower, “‘cause you have to be even with me?”

At the nape of your neck, you feel a huff of air exit his nostrils, followed by the press of his lips. “‘Cause I didn’t have any manners last night,” he says lowly while pushing down your pants, and you know what he’s talking about. Normally he’d try to make you come first. Normally he’d do more.

Under the covers, you kick off your pajamas and your underwear together. “But, Sy, everything was–”

“Relax,” he interrupts. “Just enjoy it.”

You roll your eyes, but they just end up closing as his fingers slide down your slit and just barely find slight wetness below. It’s not much, but when he slides his fingers around and goes back up to rub your clit with what he’s collected on his fingertips, it’s enough lubrication for everything to feel soft.

Taking off your pants messed up the angle you had just a minute ago. “Open up for me,” Sy says.

Instead of complying, you squirm and lift your leg entirely off of his. Laying flat on the mattress beside him, you widen your legs and finally look at his face. His eyes are puffy with that just-awoken sleepiness, and his lips are a little dry, but he’s just as handsome as ever. His eyes are dark, but they’re bright, and he gives you a little side-smile that you instantly return.

As he changes the movement of his fingers from circles to little left-and-right motions, you start breathing quicker. It’s insane how good he is with just one hand, but then again, it shouldn’t be. He’s always known your body.

Soon his fingertips dip lower where you’re wet enough now that he entirely coats the tips of his fingers. After doing so, he slides his hand upwards then downwards again, then again, and again, repeatedly gathering slickness and spreading it all over. It’s indulgent enough that you have to close your eyes.

Sy focuses on just your clit after that, going back to larger circles and then finally to tight, quick ones that have your hips jumping up and your breath gasping and ultimately, your body crashing. Everything locks up for one long moment, and you’re washed in the feeling of being known and being loved and being wanted.

Even with your entire body buzzing and a dopey smile on your face, you can’t help yourself from reaching down to trail your thumb over the tip of Sy’s dick over top of his boxers. That was so nice.

“Was supposed to be just for you,” Sy utters, but he still moves to lay on his back when you sit up and start to slide down his boxers.

“And this is gonna be just for you,” you tell him, moving in between his thick legs to pull his underwear all the way down. Your head rings with the sudden shift in position so soon after coming, and it also rings with the view you’re presented with.

You keep the blanket around your shoulders and Sy’s legs. After running your hands up and down his thighs and taking in your share of him, you lean down, take his cock in one hand, and slowly lower your mouth. While you swirl your tongue around and suckle just a little, you look up through your lashes to find him already staring down at you, his eyes droopy.

With the salty-skin taste of him covering your tongue, you start moving your mouth. Sy reaches down and traces your lips with one of his fingers, then he puts his hand on the back of your head. He keeps it there without pressure as you use your mouth and your hand in tandem to get him off, and the sun shines in the room and the blankets are bunched around your bodies and nothing feels gross and everything feels right.

You’d been shaky and desperate after coming under Sy’s fingers, but now, with him staring down at you with a lazy desire you can feel through whatever invisible string it is that connects you both, a brand new intimacy rushes over you.

Everything is safe.

The days go on. Sy officially moves back in. Things continue to evolve into a semblance of normality again.

You go to work, Sy goes to the VA. You begin joining some of his therapy sessions with him, and you learn how to support him in the way he actually needs, not just in the way you think he needs.

He begins taking medicine at night to help him get to sleep and to keep night terrors away. He buys you flowers every week. He makes contact with his old friends again. You even go on double-dates with some of them. Poker continues, but not as much as before. He grows his hair out a little. 

You have a sex life again. Still, there are times when he doesn’t want sex, and there are also times when you don’t. There are times that you catch him staring at a television set that’s turned off. There are times that his eyes look like he’s watching something far, far away. There are days where he doesn’t leave the house, and there are days where he doesn’t want to be home at all.

When the weather gets nicer, he goes back to his old pastime of fishing. You join him on the lake sometimes, but he enjoys the alone-time on the boat so much that it’s not very often. He never goes to a spot without cell reception.

Most especially, you still go out on dates every Saturday, and they no longer feel like small apologies. Instead, they’re just moments of togethernes– sometimes just fast food and the movies, sometimes long strolls and picnics, sometimes fancy restaurants.

You know it’s not easy for him–that civilian life in general isn’t easy for him. You know that what he’s been through has changed the wiring of his brain. You know that he has to actively put effort every single day into forming new habits and erasing the bad ones, into compartmentalizing memories in his head to cope with them better. Into remembering that who he is inside isn't just what the military built him to be.

On the way home from one Saturday night date–a suit-and-tie and cocktail-dress place–it really hits you how far he’s come. You keep staring at him in the truck as you unbuckle your seatbelt, and again when you make your way to the front door together.

You love him. 

Sy pauses with his keys still inside the handle of the door. “What’s this look for?”

“Hm? What look?”

“You keep lookin’ at me like I’m a prize or somethin’.”

“Well, you are,” you murmur with a little smirk, stepping ahead of him into the living room. “Just..I’m proud of you.”

Sy follows and shuts the door. “Proud’a me, huh?”

“Mmhm. You’ve been workin’ really hard these past few months.”

He slightly chuckles, but you can tell he really appreciates the praise and recognition.

“Maybe I can make somethin’ else hard, myself,” you murmur, and it’s more of a joke than anything else.

Still, Sy’s nostrils flare when you finish your sentence, and with a small smirk, you quickly turn around to kick off your heels. Just as quickly, Sy reaches out and firmly touches your chin, making you look over at him again. “Don’t look away after sayin’ somethin’ like that–Christ.”

You innocently blink. “What?”

In a confident move you relish in, he takes hold of your shoulders, turns you around, and presses you against the door at the same time he lowers his mouth to yours. On your tip-toes, you make yourself taller, and while Sy lowers a hand to grasp your waist, his other wraps around your neck to cradle your head.

“What?” he mocks, then he kisses you like it’s been on his mind all night.

While you lift your hands to grasp his shoulders, your lips fall into cadence naturally–though it takes a few seconds to match his specific speed. It’s heavy, but it’s not rushed, so you’re still able to breathe and keep it going. He kisses so well that your legs clench together, and that only makes you slide down the door.

Sy kisses along your jaw and behind your ear before lowering his mouth to your neck and paying close attention to your pulse-point. Your mouth drops in arousal, but as a certain image enters your head, you let out a little laugh.

He detaches from your neck before dropping his forehead to yours. "What’s so funny?"

"Just something I remembered,” you tell him.

“What?”

“When you came back from bein’ stationed in Germany.”

Sy pauses, and as the memory washes over him, too, you watch as his eyes soften in recollection. He chuckles against your mouth while putting a knee in between your legs, widening them to press his leg against your pussy. “Had us a good reunion that time, didn’t we?”

Looking up at him while biting your bottom lip, you just nod.

“Those days when we couldn’t wait none and did it right against the door,” he chuckles, moving his hands to your hips and then widely splaying his fingers out as he trails both of them down your thighs and then around to cup your ass.

“All our clothes still on,” you add.

Sy grins. “Pulled your panties to the side, got my pants down to my knees. Didn’t even take my boots off.”

You accept another kiss from Sy and then say against his mouth, “You tripped 'cause it was so dark."

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” You can’t help but smile while he keeps trying to kiss you. “Knocked your big head right into my face."

Sy squeezes your ass cheeks. “Still ended up findin’ the right hole, didn't I?” he challenges.

You're smiling too largely to continue to kiss again, but Sy finds a way to steal another one from you anyway. "You're good at that."

He laughs, and you feel his smile against your mouth, too. "I sure as hell’d like to think I am."

“Let’s go find out,” you say, and as you playfully escape his hold and scurry ahead of him to get to the bedroom, he easily catches up to you and smacks your ass.

Cackling, you jump on the bed and lay on your back, casually bending your knees and leaving them slightly open so that when Sy instantly settles directly in between them, he’s easily able to push your dress up to your stomach and slide your underwear down your legs.

The next thing you feel is his hot mouth and tongue all over your inner thighs and then your pussy, laving lazily before flicking and sucking at the top where you’re most sensitive. When two of his big fingers easily dip into your wetness and start smoothly pumping in rhythm with his mouth, you bite your lip and undulate your hips upwards.

Sy looks up at you and reaches out his free hand, and you entwine your fingers with his before running your fingers through his hair. With his mouth never pausing, you stare at one another for a few heavy moments until he starts crooking his fingertips upwards against your inside walls, and you gasp and throw back your head.

You have to close your eyes, but when Sy squeezes your hand, you squeeze back. You’re in the middle of what should be a crass act–Sy’s mouth is insane–but all you can think right now is how right you feel, how good you feel, how at home you feel.

Mainly, how loved you feel.

A mind-fog overtakes you the next week.

Between spacing out entirely in a strange state of disassociation, you spend every other waking minute on hyperdrive, overthinking everything. Everything. Everything you and Sy had said to one another, everything you and Sy had done to one another, everything that had happened in the past year, half-year, month, week, weekend. All of it runs through your mind, zooming by and colliding in the recesses of your brain, and even when you try to escape it in your sleep, it still trickles its way into your dreams.

Internal justification of your behavior wars with your ongoing guilt, sometimes coming out the victor and sometimes submitting to defeat. While your ego speaks loudly in your hindbrain in support of your decisions, your conscience speaks just as loudly to cover you in shame. 

Shame often wins. 

After all, you’d run from the conflict with Sy. You’d fled. You were given something too difficult to handle, and you just…ran away. To your parent’s house, of all places. So that you could be a child for a weekend. So that you could hide.

Sy’s never had that luxury. He's always had to face everything head-on. More than just that, he's had to lead people through it. And now that something’s happened that you can't seem to handle, you escaped it entirely. You abandoned him. 

Even as the guilt spreads through you, it’s not long before you automatically begin arguing with yourself in your own head again. He’s been running away, too. Maybe not to an entirely different home like you had done, but to the basement every night. To the bars and the poolhalls and the endless poker nights with friends. He’s been the person pushing you away in the first place.

But still–every time those thoughts try to worm their way in, you try to stop them before they can form any substance. Sy’s been silently struggling, too. For a long time. His actions have been the only way he’s been able to deal with the aftermath of returning to his home-country again, and you have to remind yourself that though this is difficult, it’s a two-way street. You’re both dealing with your own issues here. 

And so your thoughts go–back and forth, and back and forth again.

It's amazing, the perception of time. While the two days making up the weekend at your mom and dad’s house passed excruciatingly slowly–staring-at-the-ceiling slowly–all five days of the weekday pass at warp-speed. 

You guess that's just how it is when you have something to look forward to.

And you definitely are looking forward to seeing Sy again on Saturday. There’s no point denying it out of some silly preservation of your pride. You are. There’s true hope for your relationship again. Within a vase on the nightstand next to your bed, it’s in bloom. Not wilted at all. Not even a little bit.

Bright, and pretty, and…hopeful. With a note-card still present signed Your Sy.

During the week, you and Sy communicate, but only through texting, and only at night. When it’s late and you’re cloaked with the type of bravery that only comes from being in a dark room under a large blanket in bed, you send him messages wishing him a good night’s sleep, and he does the same to you. 

Always, you covet his responses.

By Saturday afternoon, a casual-sounding yet intentionally-sent text appears on your phone, asking if you're still on for tonight’s date. Simple and to the point, there’s still a possible antsy undertone you pick up from it. 

Maybe he’s just as nervous as you are. 

After simply replying with the word ‘yes’, you send a second text saying that you're looking forward to it, and then you add a red heart beside that for good measure.

The restaurant Sy’s taking you to is, like he told you last week, somewhere you’ve never been before. You know nothing about it besides that it’s in the city and is supposed to be fancy, and you don’t really know how to feel about that. You and Sy don’t really do extravagant things. 

When the evening rolls around and you’re all showered and primped and waiting on the couch in a nice dress and high heels, there's a tell-tale prickling in the palms of your hands that you can't get rid of, followed by a layer of embarrassing sweat breaking out. 

Despite the coldness from outside seeping its way in the house from the old windows, your hands continue to grow hot, and the heat only spreads throughout your body, making you antsy. You wipe your gross palms on the sofa and glance at the time on your phone with a nervous, clenched jaw. The instant the time changes over from 6:29 to 6:30, you hear Sy’s truck pull into the driveway.

You take a deep breath and try to loosen your jaw and your shoulders. 

Right on time.

You stand up and look in the mirror beside the couch for a few moments until you hear a few thumps at the door. The fact that Sy has a key to this house yet he's chosen to knock does something weird to your already-prickling hands.

After opening the door with a nervous energy, you stand frozen for a minute while taking a look at the man before you. Sy’s wearing an actual suit. The image takes you aback so much that your mouth falls open.

He’s wearing an actual suit, and he’s got an overcoat on and a nice pair of shoes, too. 

Everything’s intentional. The relatively early time of the date. The restaurant he’s chosen. The outfit he’s decided to go with. The message is clear. He’s trying to let you know he’s making an effort.

“You wore your hair down," Sy finally comments instead of offering a more traditional greeting, and upon hearing the words, you lift a hand to touch it.

“I did,” you murmur with a breaking voice. You clear your throat.

After a few more moments that Sy spends just taking you in, he finally murmurs, “Dress looks nice," and you almost want to laugh.

Finally, you grab your jacket by the door and put it on. “You don’t gotta butter me up, Sy.”

“Just tellin’ it like it is,” he simply replies, and there's a little mirth in his eyes, but there's also a reservation that's unusual for him, like he's being careful. 

You remember the early, early days when he used to be careful like this. He’d still be slightly mischievous and daring in the way that only Sy could really get away with, but he was always deliberate. 

It used to be endearing. Now, after all the time you've been together, it still is, only now it's somewhat sad. 

“You look nice, too,” you tell him quietly, and after giving you a sideways smile that actually makes you weak-kneed, he then displays a small bouquet of red carnations he’s kept hidden behind his back.

In surprise, your lips part before transforming into a small, shy smile. You slowly accept the flowers in your slightly sweaty hands and bring them to your nose. “Well, thanks, Sy.” 

Running your eyes all over the pretty flowers, you’d easily stand exactly where you are all night simply staring at them in wonder, but you make yourself stop. 

“Just, uh–Wait here just a second,” you hold up a finger and say, “and I’ll throw these in some water real quick.”

Your heels click against the floor as you scurry into the kitchen for a vase, and it’s then that you notice the little card on the side of the bouquet that matches the one that was on the daisies Sy recently gifted you. Even though he’s hand-delivered the flowers directly to you, there’s still a note he’s written on the card: Remember what I said last week. -Sy. 

Remember what I said last week… Remember what I said last week…

Well. He’d said a lot of things last week. All of which you’ve overanalyzed ad nauseam. You’re not sure which exact thing you’re supposed to be remembering.

You flip over the card and read: “Did You Know? Also meaning ‘my heart aches for you,’ dark red carnations stand for deep love and affection.”

If someone would’ve told you a month ago that Sy’s heart aches for you, you would’ve laughed. Now you stand entirely motionless in the kitchen and ache right back. You take a shaky breath and set up the flowers on the kitchen table.

Remember what I said last week.

After locking up the door behind you, you step out onto the front porch again with a small smile and an odd feeling. You love that you’re going on a date with Sy, and you love that he got you flowers again, but you can’t help but instrusively think that he’s only doing this to go through the motions of what he feels like he needs to do.

After giving you a somewhat tight smile of his own, Sy leads you along the front yard with a hand on the small of your back. Despite the thickness of your jacket, you feel the warmth of each individual finger.

But–So what if he is going through the motions? That’s what this is all about. He’d put it on the card on the daisies last week– ”I’d do anything in the world to make this right.”

Remember what I said last week. Maybe that’s what he’s talking about.

Sy opens the passenger door of his truck and makes sure you’re able to make the gargantuan climb into the cab with the heels you’ve got on before shutting the door for you. As he walks around the front of the truck to the driver’s side, his headlights shine on him, and you notice him uncharacteristically looking downwards at his own feet.

Once he’s inside sitting beside you, his cologne wifting through the air, the space feels intimately tight. It’s the closest you’ve been with Sy in…forever. If not physically the closest, then definitely emotionally. Along with the unique scent of him being so near you, there’s a sort of heaviness, too, a thickness of unspoken emotion. 

Though the truck’s engine is still running, Sy doesn’t move to put it in gear. He doesn’t even lift his hands to the steering wheel.

After several moments of silence, you glance at him and clear your throat. “How’ve you been doin’ this week?” you chance asking. 

Looking devastatingly broody and handsome, he looks over at you. “Fine.”

“Really,” you correct.

He takes a few seconds to think of his answer. “Okay at best.”

Briefly, you look down at your own hands in your lap, and, just like you, Sy clears his throat.

“What about yourself?”

“Same,” you let out quietly, and then he sighs.

And then it’s quiet.

“Sucks without’chu around,” Sy eventually comments.

You silently nod. You're glad he's being honest. Blunt, but honest. 

You just have no idea how to respond. The house feels cold without you home, too? I want you to come back even if we’re probably not ready for that yet? How did everything get to this point? Did you know I love you so much it hurts?

Sy saves you from having to speak by throwing the truck in reverse. While glancing at the road behind him, he briefly stretches his arm along the back of your head-rest. Once on the pavement, he switches gears and accelerates, and the loud engine sounding out in the night air fills the silence. 

He takes familiar turns throughout the neighborhood until navigating down busy roads you don’t typically use, then after a few minutes, he merges onto the highway. 

You’re heading into the city. The buzzing in the palms of your hands returns. 

The engine and the dim radio are the only sounds in the truck for a long time, so you get the feeling that the two of you are going to just wait until you’re actually at the restaurant before you have any type of discussion. You keep sneaking glances at Sy as he drives, though, and there’s a look in his eyes while he stares ahead that you just can’t place.

“Hang in there for me,” is what he’d told you. 

And that’s what you’re trying to do.

“What’d–” You clear your throat, finding it dry. “What’d you do this week?” 

“Not much of anything,” he answers, and he lifts his hand to his truck’s turn-signal before switching lanes.

You perk up a bit as he starts to exit the highway; you must be getting close now. “Me either,” you conversationally reply. “Just work.”

As Sy looks over his shoulder to check his blind-spot before switching lanes again, you realize that you’ve probably picked a stupid time to try to chat. He probably needs to focus.

“At your office or you just been workin’ from home?” Sy asks.

“At the office,” you clarify. “It’s been busy.”

He hums a little, then asks about the situation at your job. When he remembers the name of the coworker you’d been slightly struggling with a few months ago, you acknowledge yet another effort he’s making. Even though you know he’s dealing with way worse internal shit than the stuff that’s been going on at your office, you share some news about the most recent meetings you’ve had and some of your upcoming projects. 

It’s a boring topic, but for what it’s worth, Sy seems interested while he continues to drive along busy streets lined with tall buildings. Eventually, he pulls into a parking garage, and it’s quiet again while he slowly hunts for and finds a spot large enough for his truck to fit. 

After parking and getting out of the truck, Sy wordlessly takes your hand and begins leading you down the parking garage ramp. The gesture is less sweet than it is purposeful; you can tell by the way he’s keeping you close to him that he’s nervous about being in this environment. Over his shoulder, he clicks his keys twice until his truck beeps, then even after confirming it’s locked, he clicks them again. 

“There were some really good reviews that I read online about this place,” you casually mention. “Everyone said it’s really nice…that it’s in a good area.”

Instead of replying and making more small-talk, Sy just squeezes your hand.

Your heels click along the cement underneath you while you step out onto the sidewalk. Immediately, despite the cold weather, you’re in a sea of activity: tons of people are on the sidewalk, some loitering, some walking, some playing music. 

“Move your purse to your inside arm,” Sy directs, and he’s so quiet that you barely catch what he’s saying until he momentarily lets go of your hand. 

While you glance up at him questioningly, he actually removes your purse from your shoulder for you. You drape it over the shoulder of the arm that’s closest to Sy before he takes your hand again and resumes walking. 

“Nobody’s gonna…” You let your statement float out into the cold air, unfinished.

Remaining stiff beside you, Sy finally ends up jay-walking to a less-crowded part of the sidewalk across the street. He pulls out his phone. “Should be a few more blocks,” he murmurs.

You hum in acknowledgement, taking time to look at each shop, restaurant, and building you pass until you feel Sy start to slow down. 

“Here we go,” he says, one hand moving to your lower back while the other opens a door with the restaurant’s name on it.

“Whoa,” you utter once you step inside and are hit with a wave of warm air. The place is huge. Huge and busy and…expensive-looking.

Sy navigates through a crowded lobby-area to approach a hostess behind a tall table. “Syverson,” he tells her. “Reservation for two.”

After you’re escorted to your table, feeling like a celebrity for being seated so quickly, Sy unnecessarily helps you take off your purse and jacket before you sit down. He lingers by your side for a minute, glancing at the newly-bared expanse of your back, and his fingertips touch the exposed skin there.

When you’re both finally seated in front of one another, you clasp your hands in your lap and nervously look around at everyone and everything. You’re in the middle of the room, and off to your left is a long, dim bar with backlights highlighting shelves of glasses and liquor bottles. Patrons wearing pretty clothes sit along the bar, knees touching their neighbors while conversing in hushed tones over background classical music playing. The other tables host nicely-dressed couples quietly chatting and eating.

The place is seriously nice. Really nice. 

Sy’s in a suit.

Once he’s removed his overcoat, you're able to get a better look at what he’s actually wearing. Forgoing a tie, his white dress-shirt complements his light eyes, unbuttoned a little more than is necessary to expose curly chest hair. The suit itself is dark gray, and, in contrast to his beard, looks just…astonishingly handsome. 

He’s always cleaned up nice.

“This almost reminds me of that military ball we went to that one time,” you utter.

Sy blinks as memories of that night must come to him. That was a good night. After you’d come home from the event, you’d…It was a good night.

Simultaneously and a little wistfully, you both smile at one another.

Your silent moment is interrupted by a waiter. “Good evening,” he says before politely introducing himself by name and procuring two thick leather-bound menus. “Would you also like to look at the wine menu this evening?”

You raise your eyebrows at the waiter and then look at Sy. 

“Go for it,” he tells you.

“Sure.” You clear your throat and try to use actual manners. “Yes, please.”

There’s a tablet the waiter provides you with gloved hands, and after accepting it, you scroll through literally dozens of pages of wines as he politely steps back.

The options quickly overwhelm you. “Just a–Just this is fine,” you point to a red and order.  

The waiter nods. “For you, sir?”

Sy looks up. Without any scruples, he says, “I’ll just take Miller if you have it.”

After clarifying, the waiter nods and says, “Right away.”

You have no idea how to behave when the waiter returns and makes a big display of presenting and opening a bottle of wine in front of you, going so far as to offer the cork to you. 

With it in your hand, your mind blanks, and you look around in confusion until spotting a gentleman sniffing the cork that he's just been offered. You don’t know what the cork is supposed to smell like, but you awkwardly smile and nod at the waiter after briefly putting it up to your nose. 

“Uh–Great,” you brightly say. “Thank you.”

After your wine is poured, you look across the table to find Sy smiling at you, his shoulders slightly shaking.

“Shut up,” you mumble, but you’re smiling back in no time, as well. His top tooth is crooked. These days, he rarely smiles largely enough for you to witness his actual teeth at all. 

While Sy takes a first sip of his beer–given to him in a bottle and then poured into a fancy glass–you shift your weight in your chair and nervously touch the tablecloth draping close to your lap, disearnestly looking at your menu.

“Anything else exciting to share about your week?” you ask, grasping at straws here. You take a long sip of your wine to make yourself at ease, but in the back of your mind you're aware that if anyone were watching you, you'd come across uncivilized. You're supposed to swirl the liquid first. Plus, no one straight-up gulps wine. 

But apparently you’d gone and mistakenly ordered an entire bottle of wine and not just a glass, so…you may as well calm your nerves somehow.

“Not an awful lot, honestly. Went to the gun range,” Sy mumbles before lifting his glass and taking another drink. “Did the VA thing.”

Realizing he's not using the word “therapy”, you just comment, “Ah.”

“Stopped drinkin' a six-pack every night,” he adds with a small murmur. “So there’s that.”

You glance at his beer. "Down to just half?"

“Helps me relax.” He pulls his lips to the side for a second. "Helps me sleep."

You stare ahead at his face for a bit. His skin looks a little better. His eyes don’t look quite so exhausted. He’s cleaned up his beard. He looks great, honestly. Still, you’re worried.

“Have you been sleepin’ okay?” you try to clarify, but suddenly, the sound of a heavy pot clattering onto the floor in the back of the restaurant echoes out through the entire dining room and causes your shoulders to jump up as you gasp.

You–and about a dozen others around you-naturally turn your attention to the direction of the loud sound when there's another abrupt noise sounding out in front of you: Sy's just knocked over his entire drink. You whip your head back to the table just in time to see the contents of his glass actively spilling all over the tablecloth and onto the floor. His face is blank.

“Oh, gosh,” you widen your eyes and rush out before springing into action. While Sy turns the glass upright again with strangely shaky hands, you start gathering as many napkins as you can to sop up all the beer pooled up around it.

Within seconds, you end up getting your dress, hands, and forearms wet, but you don’t care. When you glance ahead at Sy, you realize his jaw has become stiff, and he looks almost angry. To an outsider, it would appear as anger, anyway. To you, you recognize it as his hyper-focused serious expression, and that’s when you realize that the sudden noise must have really affected him. He seems to be somewhere else. 

“Well, that sure was loud, wasn’t it?” you calmly ask with a small smile, still trying to wipe everything up. “Guess one of the cooks dropped somethin’.”

Sy clears his throat, and you casually reach out across the still-wet table and put your hand out.

“In a nice place like this, I wonder if they’re still gonna have their job,” you conversationally go on in a stage-whisper, trying to be lighthearted. 

"Guess there's my sign to lay off the drink entirely, huh," Sy mutters, reaching out to accept your hand. 

Your face slightly falls. “A little moderation’s always a good thing.”

The silence that ensues after that pressures you into filling it with spoken words, with some sort of noise to distract your heart, but you don’t. You sit with it. You sit in it, just touching Sy’s hand. 

When the waiter visits your table again, visibly rushing, he assists with the wet napkins you’ve piled up and even goes so far as to move you and Sy to another table despite your insistence that your spot–even with its wet tablecloth–is fine. 

You suppose that at a place like this, a kitchen-mistake disturbing diners is extremely against the restaurant’s reputation, so now they must be overcompensating. You’re led to a low-lit secluded section of the restaurant where the waiter offers a dim booth in the corner surrounded by tall windows. Upon sitting down, you’re presented with your bottle and glass of wine again. Sy orders a Coke.

It’s quiet while you try to sincerely focus on the menu to figure out what you’re even going to order here. “Whatcha gonna get?”

Sy turns his gaze to your face. “Huh?”

“To eat,” you say. “What’re you gonna get?”

Seemingly distracted, he pulls his hand from the table and drags it up to his beard. “The rib-eye, prob’ly.”

“Oh, yum,” you murmur. 

“What aboutchu?” he asks. 

Without looking up from the menu, your lips pull to the side. “I dunno,” you eventually stall. “I’m too indecisive…”

“No, you?” he jokes, and you glance up at him and truly smile. He's obviously in his head tonight, so it's good to hear him try to be funny. 

“Well, it’s not like I can even pronounce half the things on this menu. I’ll look like an idiot if I say the food wrong.”

“I’ll handle orderin’ it, then, if you just tell me what you want.”

Moments later, the waiter comes back with Sy’s new drink. “Hi, there. Would you like to place your order or hear any of the night’s specials first?”

Sy looks up. “Just another minute,” he says decidedly.

“It’s okay,” you instantly tell him. “I’ll just have what you’re havin’.”

He stares at you from across the table, his eyes strangely intense. “Don’t settle for somethin’ you don’t really want just ‘cause you’re under pressure.”

“Um…”

“I’ll be back shortly,” the waiter nicely says, and without looking at him, Sy nods.

“Ain’t nobody pressurin’ you here,” Sy says again. “Decide whatchu wanna decide ‘cause you wanna decide it.”

Your bottom lip slightly falls. Everything feels like double-speak right now. You finally close your mouth and look back at your menu.

After conspicuously using your phone to look up pictures of the various words on the menu, you finally close the small book and look up at Sy. 

“Verdict?” Sy asks. 

“I think I’m actually gonna get steak, too,” you decide confidently. Sy seems to study you for a bit but ultimately just nods.

After the server takes your order–filet mignon for you and rib-eye for Sy–you make efforts to keep up some sort of conversation.

“I ran into Richard at the commissary yesterday,” you mention.

“Oh, yeah?”

You take a sip of wine. “Mm. Says you haven’t been showin’ up for poker lately.”

“Not for a while now,” Sy confirms.

You tilt your head. You guess that during the night of your first big argument, he just…stopped going. 

“He invited us over for dinner with his family.”

“Mm.”

“I told him to just reach out to you to get plans settled,” you say, “but he said Fridays or Saturdays are best ‘cause of the kids.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a little more chit-chat after that, but when your food arrives, the two of you savor everything in appreciation with little conversation. Besides a slightly embarrassing moment of you accidentally spilling some of your wine, things go just fine, and afterwards, Sy covers the entire bill. You feel oddly guilty due to the price of everything, including the entire bottle of wine you’d ordered by accident and couldn’t even finish. 

You even go so far as to apologize, but Sy waves it off.  “You’re worth it,” he just says.

The drive home is pretty quiet, as well, and by the time you’re back in your driveway again, the finality of the date being over slightly depresses you. You make no move to get out of the truck, instead staring out the window at your front door. Everything was nice, but now Sy’s dropping you off, and he won’t be coming inside. 

To the home that’s just as much his as it’s yours.

Beside you, Sy clears his throat. “Did you like everything?”

You turn and look at him. “Hm?”

“The food,” he utters.

“Oh! Yeah,” you reply, trying to make your eyes convey excitement rather than dejection at having to go inside alone. “I really did.”

He chuckles. “You’ve always been a bad liar.”

“I’m not lying,” you say with a small smile. “I did like everything.”

“But…”

“No buts,” you clarify. Sy continues to stare at you until you nervously laugh. “What?”

Sy shakes his head. “Nothin’. So.” You curiously watch as he reaches into the front pocket of his coat and pulls out a very tiny gift bag. “I, uh. I gotchu somethin’.”

You squint your eyebrows in confusion. “You already paid for dinner and got me flowers,” you mumble. “Twice now.”

He chuckle-scoffs before offering the small bag to you, and with a somewhat anxious hand, you reach out and accept it. 

“Sy…”

“Well.” He nods towards the gift. “Open it.”

You reach inside and feel a small box. It’s obviously jewelry of some sort, but you’re skeptical. Besides your engagement ring, Sy has never really gotten you jewelry. 

After the fancy restaurant tonight, you’re almost expecting something way too extravagant for your taste, something that would blind you when opening the box, but when you do, it’s nothing like that. 

It’s hand-made costume jewelry. 

You look down at the plain, pretty earrings and genuinely smile, honestly relieved to feel a little more down-to-earth again.

"Wow,” you say softly. Though it’s stupid, you feel spoiled. Flowers, a nice restaurant, a present. 

He nods. “You, uh.” He clears his throat. “It ain’t much, but. We were at a store one time and you said you liked ‘em.”

“That was, like, a year ago,” you murmur. You pick up the earrings and immediately slide them on.

Sy’s eyes are gentle and bright, twisting at the edges as he smiles at you without showing any of his teeth. He reaches out to move your hair back and looks at the jewelry hanging from your left ear.

“Do I look pretty?” you joke.

His answer comes out a little quiet. “All the time.”

“Thanks, Sy.” Your voice softens as you add, “For everything.”

A beat of silence. “So,” he proposes. “Next Saturday. Same place, same time?”

You look at him in surprise. “What, like—to the same restaurant?”

“Nah, I meant—” He stops to smile– “here. The house. Same time and place to pick you up. For dinner. If that’s somethin’ you’d–”

“Oh, absolutely,” you interrupt.

“Okay, then,” he says quietly, and then he finally gets out of the truck. You follow suit. 

At the door, you stall, standing directly in front of Sy with your face expectantly lifted. He moves towards you slowly, being deliberately careful. Under the front porch light, you watch as his eyes travel around the different features of your face before pausing at your lips and then settling on your eyes. Instead of being dark and intense, his own eyes are oddly wide and vulnerable.

With your breath taking form in the cold air between your faces, you take a small step closer to Sy and hesitantly touch the open flaps of his overcoat. After he cups your face with both of his hands as if you’re delicate, the two of you just stare at one another. 

His cologne has seemed to soak into his skin by this time of night, mixing with his natural pheromones and turning his scent even more heady in contrast to the cold air surrounding you. In magnetizing diziness, you lean slightly forward as your eyelids flutter shut, and the next sensation you feel is his wet lips against yours, his beard against your skin.

Soft and sweet and still overly-careful, Sy’s kiss tastes of regret. It’s like you’re outside your parents’ house with tear-tracks on your face, desperation and anguish and guilt all warring with one another. Your fingers twitch against the fabric of his coat you’re holding onto while you try to morph the kiss into something else, anything else, but then it ends, and you’re left with only chilly air against your mouth.

You drop your hands and tightly smile. “Night, Sy.”

“Night, darlin’,” he replies, finally dropping his hands from your jaw, as well, and he just stands there staring at you until you finally turn towards the door. 

You feel like you should ask him to come inside. It’s his home, too. Having him walk back to his truck–It just feels so wrong. He should at least come inside for a little bit.

…But then what if things turn to shit? What if you have an argument? What if it’s too soon? You’ve gotten along this entire night. What if that doesn’t last?

You take a steady breath. You begin to ask, “Didju wanna–” just as he’s jutting his chin back to the truck. He beats you to it and asks quicker than you can: “Didju wanna go some place for dessert?”

Your mouth parts while you try to comprehend what he’s just said, and he sighs at himself.

“I know it’s bad timin’ since we’re literally already here, but I, uh.” He runs a hand over his shortly-cut hair. “Feel like I’ve sorta fucked this night up from the start, so...”

Your eyebrows bunch together. “What?” you ask in sheer surprise. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t–” He scowls at his shoes. 

“...This isn’t what?” you prompt.

There’s a long silence.

“I want to take you out to nice places,” he finally looks up and explains. “I do.”

You don’t know how to reply. You don’t know what he’s getting at. “It was nice,” you insist. “I wasn’t lyin’ in the truck when you asked about the food–”

“It ain’t that.”

“Then…What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “I know I ain’t the best at this, ‘s all.”

You blink. “At what?”

Sy makes a vague gesture to what he’s wearing and then to his truck. Your eyes follow his movements until you start to put together his meaning.

“Hey, it’s–Maybe we’re just a little out of our comfort zones because it’s been so long,” you quietly say. “But it’s okay, Sy. It really was a good dinner. I had a nice time.”

He glances at you for a moment before putting his hands in his coat pockets. “Didju wanna go get dessert with me?”

Biting your lip, you gratefully smile. “Yes.”

A while later, you and Sy find yourselves occupying a small booth side-by-side at the local Wendy’s, a large chocolate frosty with two spoons shoved inside it resting atop the table in front of you. A ridiculous smile overtakes your face.

Before diving into the thick milkshake he’s just bought for the two of you, Sy takes off his overcoat and his actual suit jacket, too, wasting no time in unbuttoning the sleeves of his dress-shirt and pushing them up his forearms to the elbows.

“I know you hate wearin’ suits,” you say before sliding your spoon in your mouth, “but for what it’s worth, you really do look nice in it.”

“Then that’s what matters,” he responds with a little mirth in his eyes.

You grin as he places both of his elbows on the table and then picks up his spoon. You’re so close that your forearms are touching. Besides the front porch just a few moments ago, this is physically the closest you’ve truly been all night.

“Don’t think they’ll want us back at that nice restaurant for a long time, though,” you conversationally go on. “The first drink that spilled was totally an accident, but when I spilled my glass of wine, too, that probably took it too far.”

“Yeah, guess you don’t wanna embarrass yourself in front of another wine connoisseur, d’you?”

You smile. “Oh, shut up. That entire thing was so weird how he presented the bottle and–”

Sy snaps his fingers. “She tells the truth.”

“I liked it,” you maintain, elbowing him slightly. “It was just…super fancy.”

“Which is a bad thing?”

You shrug and then briefly look away. “Not if you only did it ‘cause you felt you had to.”

“Did it ‘cause it’s what you deserve,” he easily replies. “It’s what you’ve always deserved. I just need to get used to it again.”

“Yeah, me, too,” you murmur. 

It’s quieter after that, though thankfully not awkward. With the both of you entirely over-dressed for where you’re at, you joke around together until your chocolate frosty is entirely gone.

The next time you find yourself in front of Sy on your porch, the mood should be much different this go-round, only it oddly feels the same. The same morose expression on Sy’s face. The same hesitance and regret that the night’s ending.

“Guess this is goodnight for real,” you murmur.

Sy looks at the front door. “Guess so.”

“Hey,” you utter, beckoning him to look at you. “Don’t look so sad. Now we get to kiss again.”

Sideways, Sy smiles, then steps closer to you. The way you both wrap your arms around one another is more natural this time–your arms wrapped around his waist, his broad arms around your entire frame.

You turn your head to rest your cheek against his chest and let out, “I missed this.”

“Me, too,” he admits, then–“Missed what?”

You slightly shake your arms to convey the act of hugging, then you squeeze him tighter. “This.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles against your hair. He moves one of his hands to cup the back of your head. “It’s crazy what you lose when…”

“Hm?”

Instead of responding, his fingers catch you by the chin to guide your face upwards. There’s a moment held in suspension while the both of you stare at one another, then within an instant, there’s Sy’s hot mouth covering yours, his breath strangely quivering.

You bring your hands up to cup Sy’s face right back, and with your fingers in his beard, you memorize every movement of his jaw. The kiss isn’t fast, or needy, or deep, but it carries you away nonetheless. It’s back-and-forth rippling, both of you relearning and remembering how you fit together. It’s healing. 

When it’s over, the world around you spins for just a bit. You’re left exhaling visibly in the space between your bodies, probably too overwhelmed from just a kiss, but then again, Sy’s breathing quickly, too, little bits of water vapor exiting his mouth in quick white puffs to show you that he is, too. The tip of his nose is pink, and his eyes look heavier than before.

You nervously clear your throat. “Did you–Did you wanna come inside?” you risk.

Sy briefly closes his eyes. When he opens them, they’re vaguely troubled.

“Or–I mean–Nevermind, it’s okay,” you immediately amend. “It’s fine. I-I don’t know what I was even thinking.”

He finds one of your hands and loosely takes it in his.

“I just wanna do this right,” he tells you while rubbing the back of your hand with his calloused thumb, and you nod, not knowing exactly what he means. Ultimately you just look down. “We said a month.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “but it’s not like–”

He interrupts, “I’ll keep puttin’ in the work, goin’ to the VA. And I’ll be back next Saturday. You just–You just keep hangin’ in there for me.”

While he squeezes your hand, you quickly nod. 

“Hey,” he says a little louder, and you finally look up again. “Can you do that?”

You smile softly at the determination in his eyes. “I can do that.”

“Good.” His free hand grazes your neck before he leans in and kisses you one final time. “Next Saturday,” he says against your lips. 

You repeat his words: “Next Saturday.”

Reaching inside your purse for your house key, your fingers are strangely shaky–due to the cold, you presume. You let yourself inside, and before shutting the door again, you lift up a silent hand to wave goodbye to Sy, the same hand that holds the ghost of his touch. 

He lifts up a hand in return. 

You aren’t able to shut the door directly in Sy’s face, so you turn around and push it shut with your back. After you hear it click shut, you slide all the way down the length of the wood and sit on the floor, staring out into the empty living room with your mind running a hundred miles an hour.

_________________

The next week finds you in a more carefree headspace than the week before. Your body feels lighter, and somehow, so does your mind. Your nights are almost dreamless. It’s clear-headed and comfortable and exciting, even, as your nightly texting with Sy evolves from a few words at a time to sentences. You imagine you’ll probably move on to actual phone calls soon.

The plan is to go to another restaurant with Sy on Saturday evening, someplace a little more casual yet still reservation-worthy at Sy’s insistence, and he said he’ll pick you up at 6:30 just like last week. When Saturday actually rolls around, however, you’re disappointingly rushed and stressed for reasons not having to do with your upcoming date at all.

After getting called into work last-minute, it messes everything up. You end up running frantically late.

While you give it an honest effort to be entirely ready before 6:30, you fail extremely badly. By the time Sy’s heavily knocking at the door, you’ve only just stepped out of the shower, and when you hastily open the door, it’s with a towel wrapped around you. 

Sy gives you a surprised once-over while standing entirely motionless on the front porch like he’s not allowed inside or something. A moment later, he shakes his head at himself and quickly steps in. 

“I’m so sorry,” you say in a hurry. “I should’ve texted you–”

He immediately closes the door behind him to stop the cold outside air from hitting your damp skin, and you briefly take in his appearance. He looks so nice and put-together–just like last week except without an actual suit jacket–and you’re in a fucking towel.  

“I had to go into the office today to finish up this important deadline,” you start to quickly explain yourself, “and then somethin’ else came up so I had to stay late–it’s a long story–then there was some water-main break on the road comin’ home, and somehow I still thought I could fit in a shower before you came, but–” You stop rambling and just heave a sigh, holding out your bare arms. “Here I am.”

Sy’s extremely quiet as he just listens to you finish rambling. “You don’t need to stress out none. Just me here.”

“It’s not just you. You–You’re important,” you mumble quietly, frowning. “You–And we had plans. You made another reservation.”

He shrugs. “I’ll cancel.”

You hesitate. “You really don’t have to do that,” you say, but he’s already pulling out his phone. “Seriously. I can–”

“Let’s just go somewhere here closeby,” he suggests.

“Okay,” you repeat quietly, lifting up a hand to clutch the front of your towel.

When you make no effort to move, Sy clears his throat while glancing away from your cleavage. “So, you wanna get dressed, or is it gonna be a clothes-off kinda date?”

Reluctantly, your smile grows, changing from shy to wide. “You’re so stupid,” you mutter as you turn around and head for the hallway.

“Why’re you smilin’, then?”

You mumble, “'Cause I can’t help it with you.”

Slowly, Sy follows you down the hall towards the bedroom. “You sayin’ I make you smile?”

"Maybe.” 

You enter your bedroom and begin grabbing clothes from your closet, and you make it to the bathroom door before Sy's silence prompts you to seek out his eyes. The banter has been going well, but there’s another frequency that’s entered the room. Something not just heavy but dense.

While he stands at the foot of your bed, he puts one of his hands in the front pocket of his pants. The other holds onto his phone. “Seem to remember you sayin’ all I do is torment you, actually,” he softly utters. 

Your face falls. You clear your throat and clutch the clothes you're carrying a little closer to your chest. 

“Um. At the…At that time,” you look at the carpet and answer. 

“At that time, but not now?” Sy questions, his massive presence in the room making the air feel thick. “Or…at that time, and still now?”

You lift your face to seek out Sy's sad, downward-turned eyes. You momentarily feel like dropping the clothes you're currently grasping in order to reach out to him, to hug him, but you hesitate.

“At that time," you whisper, "but not now.”

He sits down at the end of your bed. Your bed. Your shared bed. 

“Well, that’s progress, then,” he states. “I’m gettin’ somewhere. Not tormentin’ my wife anymore.”

While an array of guilt and anguish and hurt hits you, your mouth bunches to the side. “Sy–”

“Shh,” he interrupts, shaking his head at himself. He goes so far as to rub a hand over his face. “Go on’n get dressed. You’re the one who said that supper’s gotta be clothes-on.”

“I…"

The shadows on Sy's face smoothe out, and his eyes regain the brightness from earlier by the front door. It doesn't take long for you to realize that he doesn't want to get into anything deep right now. Not yet. That he’s already feeling self-deprecating enough over slipping out what he already has.

"I didn’t say anything,” you reply, trying to find it in you to chuckle again. “You’re just puttin’ words in my mouth.”

Sy lifts his eyebrows and brings a hand to the front of his dress pants, appearing as if he’s preparing to undo his belt. “Then…clothes off?” he asks.

You roll your eyes and step into the bathroom. After closing it behind you, you finally drop your towel. 

“You, uh–You look nice,” you say through the crack in the door. “By the way.”

Replying easily, Sy says, “I imagine you do, too, right now." 

It’s been forever since he’s seen you without clothes on. You slide your panties up your legs and jump into your leggings before staring at your bare chest in the mirror. Tilting your head to the side in consideration, you grab your tits with both hands and lift them up.

Letting your hands drop, you pause. “Well, thanks,” you end up saying, still shocked enough to be quiet but loud enough so he can hear it. 

While you hear Sy talking on the phone in the next few minutes to cancel his reservation, you put on your bra and the dress you'd picked out before sliding on the earrings he’d gifted you and then pointlessly messing with your hair. You spend the next few minutes applying makeup, and then, when you sigh and figure out that you look about as good as you’re going to, you step back into your bedroom in bare feet.

The sight awaiting you gives you so much déjà vu that you immediately pause in your tracks. Sy's sitting at the foot of the bed waiting for you to finish getting ready. Patient as he always used to be. 

Back when you used to go out on regular dates together.

Which…You’re doing again?

Though patient, Sy’s still obviously a little broody–you can tell from the deepness of his frown, the downturned angle of his eyes. When you take a few steps forward to stand in front of him, you exhale heavily and offer him a nervous smile. 

“Good?” he asks, smoothing out his face into another neutral expression, and you're frozen. For some reason, you're frozen. Right there in front of Sy. You can't move. 

Maybe it’s because it’s suddenly so quiet. Maybe it’s because the last time you were in this room together, you’d had a massive fight and then ran out on him. Maybe it’s simply because you’re in your bedroom all alone, and he’s sitting on the bed you picked out together years ago, and he hasn’t slept beside you in weeks.

For a moment, you don’t know what to do or say. When you gently touch his cheek, he makes unblinking eye-contact with you. It’s then you realize how tired he looks.

There’s still so much obvious hurt between you. If Hope is now a part of this relationship, Hurt can officially now be added into the polycule, as well. The question is, which one is going to stick around?

“Good,” you confirm quietly. “Are you?”

“I’m alright, darlin’,” he says quietly. And then he puts his hands on his legs and stands up.

Tentatively, you push yourself up on bare toes and place the gentlest of kisses against his lips. The kiss goes nowhere, but it’s long, and it’s sweet.

When you lower yourself again, Sy smiles at you, actually showing his teeth. “You’re wearin’ the earrings.”

“I like them.” You bring a hand up to touch one of them. Sy does, too.

After clearing his throat, Sy walks into the hallway, and you follow. By the front door, as you’re bending down to put on your shoes, he lightly taps your ass. You playfully narrow your eyes at him while standing up.

“So, where should we go, anyway?” you shove your arms into your coat and ask.

He shrugs. “I’ll drive around ‘til we see someplace.”

That place ends up being a steakhouse. About fifteen short minutes later, you’re walking through the parking lot with Sy’s hand in your own.

“Our first real date was at one of these places,” you reminisce.

“It was,” Sy acknowledges. “I saved up for two whole months.”

A little too loudly, you laugh, and as he opens the restaurant’s door for you, Sy smirks in the familiar way he’s always done upon saying something that you find funny.

You know he’s thinking the same thing you are, too. The job he worked back in high school was horrible, paying almost nothing. He didn’t have much time back then to work a lot plus do all the extra-curriculars he was already involved in, but damn if he didn’t spend any free moment he had trying to earn money, anyway. 

Saving for two entire months is a stretch, though.

There’s a small wait to be seated which you spend on a bench with Sy’s hand on your leg. While you look around with a hand on top of Sy’s, you absentmindedly run your thumb back and forth across his knuckles. The environment inside is just as dim as it was at the restaurant you’d gone to last week, but instead of being ritzy, this place is loud and lively and extremely casual. Without feeling high expectations to maintain proper etiquette, you relax against Sy until your surname is called.

Directly after you’re led to your booth, you order drinks from a waitress you catch staring at Sy for a few seconds too long, then you begin glancing at the menu before you. 

“More steak?” you guess.

“Gonna do a burger this time,” he mutters.

“Ah.”

It’s quiet, and Sy studies you for a moment. “Havin’ a hard time decidin’ whatchu want?”

You smirk. He knows you well. “Maybe I’ll close my eyes and just point at something random,” you say.

The waitress comes back with your drinks a few minutes later and looks directly at Sy. “Ready to order yet, or would you like a few more minutes?”

“A few more minutes, please,” he answers before immediately glancing back in your direction.

While your eyes continue to rake over the menu full of options, Sy pushes up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing thick cords of muscle that are accentuated when he reaches out for his glass of soda. You’re unable to pay attention to anything else as he brings his glass to his mouth. His chunky watch resting on his right wrist glistens under the low-hanging overhead light, and you’re enamored just watching him for a bit. His shoulders and chest are so damn big.

You clear your throat and finally just place your menu down because you’re too distracted to look at it any longer. At your ongoing staring at him, Sy questioningly raises his eyebrows.

“You look nice,” you explain. “Your–Your outfit.”

Under the table, you feel Sy’s knee bump against yours. “You, too, but I already said that,” he replies, and then he winks.

You’re left stupidly staring at one another for a few moments until the waitress comes back. “How’s it goin’? Have you decided anything?” she looks at Sy and asks. 

Immediately, Sy looks at you. You quietly mouth “I’m good.”

The waitress continues looking at Sy. “Would you like to start with an appetizer?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “The combo-plate for an appetizer, then a bacon cheeseburger for me–medium rare–with the steak fries.”

“Right away.” She looks at you next. 

You clear your throat. “I’m just going to get the fried chicken dinner,” you politely tell her.

“Alrighty,” she collects your menus and says, “I’ll put all that in for y’all and be back with y’all’s appetizer shortly.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, and then when she’s gone, you tell Sy, “I’m gonna be so full when we leave this place. I didn’t know you were gettin’ an appetizer, too.”

“You liked the combo plate the last time we came here,” he quietly says.

Trying to think of the last time you did come here, you blink. 

He’s…not wrong. You had liked it then. You can’t even remember when that even was, but you know you’d gotten the combo platter as an appetizer and had eaten almost all of it by yourself.

“Shoulda asked you,” he mutters when your silence goes on too long.

“No, no,” you say quickly. “I do still like it. I’m excited. Just…gonna be a lotta food.”

His face relaxes. “I toldju you’re gonna have to need your Thanksgiving pants.”

You take a tip of your drink through a smirk. “You said that for our date last week,” you remind him. “Not this one.”

“Takin’ you out for dinner and dessert didn’t have you changin’ into your Thanksgiving pants last week?”

You put your thumb and your index finger together to signal “almost” to Sy and continue smiling at his own stupid smirk he offers you. 

Things are nice and light between you in the moments that follow, but when the waitress comes back with your appetizer and you both start picking at the food on the hot plate, you chance asking, “How’s it been goin’ at the VA?”

“Went twice this week,” Sy says, not actually answering the question. “Solo and group.”

“Oh, good,” you genuinely comment. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” he replies non-tonally.

You take a bite of food and wash it down with a drink. “You disagree?”

He shrugs. “Just been…a helluva week. Been bringin’ up a lot of shit.”

You nod. “Is it easier with other people around that relate?” you ask. “Like, do the other people there have similar stories? At the group sessions?”

He shrugs while somewhat nodding. “Sorta similar.”

“I don’t mean to pry or anything if you don’t want to talk about it right now,” you mumble. “I’m just trying to…see how you’re doing.”

He meets your eyes and holds your gaze for a long moment. “It ain’t that. I don’t really like–” He sighs. “It’s hard to be the one doin’ the talkin’. Hard to talk about any of it at all.”

“Being vulnerable,” you murmur.

Sy grabs a buffalo wing from the plate and bites it. While chewing, he lets out a quiet grunt.

“But what if– Just hypothetically, what if it was one of your friends instead,” you propose. “...And what if they were havin’ some of the issues that you’ve been havin’? Or…that you’ve had. What would you say to them?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m probably not makin’ any sense,” you murmur. “I mean, like, what if they were tryin’ to get some help, and they were the ones at the VA? What kind of advice would you give them?”

Sy reaches out for a napkin to wipe off his mouth, and you watch his titanium wedding band dimly gleam as he moves his hand around. “What, durin’ groups?”

You nod and go back to eating your food.

“I’d tell ‘em to fuckin’ get it all out,” Sy ruefully says with a dark chuckle. “We’re all fuckin' scared sometimes. I always–” He glances up at you and then looks back down at his plate. “I always say it’s better to talk for a long time than to talk for the last time.”

“Mm. Yet you yourself don’t always follow your own advice,” you mumble with food still in your mouth.

He clears his throat. “Maybe not.”

“Why do you hold yourself to such a higher standard, babe?”

He steels his jaw. “'Cause I've got to.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” He takes a drink of his soda and slowly sets the glass down. He seems to mull over your question for a few moments, touching his beard before finally answering. “I’m the superior. I’m the one in charge.” He lowers his voice and mutters, almost as if to himself, “I was the one in charge.”

"Okay, but there're people in charge of you, and other people in charge of those people," you respond. “In the military, you’ve got those grades, right? Unless you’re literally just starting out, everyone’s literally gonna be the superior of someone else. It goes up and up and up. That’s just how it works. You’re always gonna be in charge of someone, but someone’s always gonna be in charge of you, too.”

“What are you tryin’ to say?”

“That you shouldn’t feel weird or–or stupid, or guilty, or whatever it is–for opening up and talking about everything,” you answer, but afterwards, you sigh, ultimately letting out what you’ve been wanting to say for a long, long time. “If you ever made a mistake–or, if you feel like you did, at least–then it was just that, Sy–a mistake. You were followin’ orders.”

There’s a beat of silence. “That’s not necessarily how it works.”

You tilt your head to the side. “So you’re sayin’ you were insubordinate or something?”

Sy narrows his eyes at your challenge. 

“Guess you were just followin’ your orders,” you conclude breezily.

Sy sits back and crosses his arms, and you soften your features. 

"It'll eat you alive if you let it, Sy. Don't let it."

He lets out a sigh as if releasing all air in his lungs at once. "Talkin’ about all my fuck-ups in combat is hard enough,” he admits, “but…it’s like I’m re-livin’ it. Like I’m lettin' everyone down a final time."

"Sy…"

"Maybe if I'd'a gotten to go to the actual funerals it'd be different,” he mumbles. “I dunno. Was stuck in hell tryna keep the operation from turnin' into a complete failure."

“And I’m sure that’s exactly what you did,” you say, reaching out and touching his knuckles with your fingertips, “and I’m sure that everyone’s thankful for you.”

“I don’t know if thankful would be the word I’d…” he trails off. 

When it’s clear he’s not going to finish his sentence, you both resume eating the rest of the snack foods in front of you in silence for a while. Your actual dinner plates arrive sometime later, and it’s only after Sy’s finished half his entree that he actually talks again.

“There’re some things I don’t know if I can ever really say out loud, Y/N,” he admits without looking at you. “About what I’ve seen. What I’ve done. Not to you.”

You nod. “I get that.”

He puts down his half-eaten burger and finally makes eye-contact. “But I want you to know that it ain’t ‘cause I don’t…It ain’t ‘cause I think of you less.”

“You just don’t want me thinkin’ of you less,” you finish. 

He stares at you unblinkingly–just open, earnest eyes.

“I wouldn’t, you know,” you almost whisper. “Think of you less.”

Briefly looking away again, he mildly shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

“I swear that I do,” you immediately reply, and when Sy looks at you again, you let him stare into your eyes as long as it takes for him to see you’re telling the truth. 

He wordlessly picks up his cheeseburger again and resumes eating, but underneath the table, he reaches out a foot and hooks one of his ankles around yours.

_________________

On your front porch with Sy again a few hours later, you both stall saying goodbye. 

After rocking on the balls of his feet, Sy asks, “Had a good night?”

“I did, yeah,” you answer with a smile. “It was nice.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “‘Specially that part about funerals.”

"Are you forgettin' already that you openin' up is what I want?"

Sy lifts a hand to briefly rub the side of his neck. "It don't make good date-talk," he mutters, and you give him a look, tilting your head to the side.

“Yeah, well. I don’t care what you think you’re supposed to say or what you think you’re not supposed to say. I want to hear,” you remind him. “We can’t pretend none of it’s there. It’s…It’s the whole reason we’re doing this one month thing.”

Sy’s quiet, but he ultimately nods.

You let out a quiet sigh. “I just want you to believe me,” you look down and mutter. 

“It ain’t that I don’t.”

“You just want to keep punishing yourself,” you murmur.

“I–” He slides a hand over his head and then drops it. “I’ve been runnin’ away from a lotta shit. I know I have.”

“I ran away, too, you know,” you quietly reply. 

He frowns. “I pushed you away,” he corrects.

“But still. It’s not just on you here. You don’t have to keep sufferin’ all alone.”

You take a small step forward until your shoes touch his.

“I know that when we were–when we were arguing recently,” you say, “I said a lot of stuff that I know made you feel bad, and I hate that, but–it’s just ‘cause I’ve been hurt. But I entirely understand that you’ve been hurt, too. So if you’re ever ready to do the counseling stuff with me there, too…I’d like that.” 

Without replying, he nods a little, his frown making his face slightly droop. After taking in a deep breath, he lets out a long, audible sigh just through his nostrils. 

“I’m not going to give up on you,” you finish, swallowing thickly. “And I’m not going to let you give up on yourself, either. In sickness and in health, remember? In good times and in bad.”

You remain silent while giving Sy time to reflect on your words. Standing entirely still, he looks oddly choked up. 

“I know I’ve said this already, but—” he clears his throat– “I really am sorry.”

You offer a small smile. “I forgive you.”

Sy shakes his head. “I don’t deserve it yet.”

“Why’s that?”

“I haven’t earned it,” he answers, and then he vows: “But I’m gonna.”

You don’t know what to say. “Sy…”

“It’s…” He looks down momentarily. “It’s a hard thing to admit when you’ve fucked up.” He lowers his voice even more. “Not just with your job. When you ain’t been a good man to your wife.”

A flaming arrow finds and momentarily chars your heart as it travels through your chest. “Yeah, but…the important thing is that you’re dealing with it,” you remind him. “That you’re moving forward. That–we’re moving forward. We’re here now. Together.”

The side of his mouth turns upwards. “Yeah, we are,” he says, and then, slowly, he leans downwards to meet your mouth.

Without embracing one another, your goodbye kiss is short. You don’t make a move to go inside once your mouths hesitantly break away, though, because you feel like there’s the chance to maybe talk more, to maybe kiss more. Just like last week…there’s a chance to smoothe over all of this hurt. Little by little, to salve the wound. To keep healing.

“Well…” You grab your house keys when you realize that your conversation must be final. “Goodnight.”

Suddenly, Sy touches your elbow. “That offer from last week still stand?”

You turn your face to look at him while unlocking the door. “What offer?”

He motions to the door with his chin and clears his throat. “Am I still invited inside?”

“Oh!” you let out, not sure why he’s changed his mind. “Uhh. Yeah. Sure.”

“Just a suggestion,” he murmurs, trying to be nonchalant and failing.

“No, it’s just–last week, you acted like you had this dead-set rule to not come inside for a whole month, that’s all.”

“Well, I gotta stop punishin’ myself now,” he tells you. “Wife’s orders.”

You look down and smile before pushing open the door and stepping inside. Like he’s been doing lately, Sy helps you out of your coat and hangs it up on the little rack by the door. Usually his cap and set of keys hang there, too. 

After standing awkwardly in the room for a bit while Sy hangs up his jacket next to yours, you take off your shoes.

“You want anything to drink?” you ask, taking a few more steps into the room. “You still got beer in the fridge.”

“I’m good.” 

Your reply is quiet. “‘Kay.”

Sy moves to sit down on the couch and naturally takes up almost half of it. “You can prob’ly just throw ‘em out.”

Taking a seat next to Sy, it’s surprising how naturally you lean into his side. It’s oddly intimate when he lifts his arm to let you move in closer. “What, you don’t drink anymore?”

“Been tryin’ not to,” he says, and before you can comment on that, he reaches for the remote and asks, “You still been watchin’ that one show you like?”

You softly chuckle. “You gotta give me a little more than that.”

“The one with that actor you like,” is what he goes with, and you playfully narrow your eyes.

“That’s not remotely helpful.”

“Yes, it is,” he genuinely smiles and says. “That guy with the accent.”

“Ooh, that show,” you realize. “I finished it.”

“Whatchu watchin’ now?”

You shrug. “Nothing. Just…whatever’s on until I fall asleep, honestly,” you answer. “HGTV. The Food Network. Boring stuff like that.”

Soon, Sy clicks to some sort of cooking show, and you can’t help but groan. “Ughh, not now, though. I’m still so full that I don’t think I can bear lookin’ at this.”

“Well,” he changes the channel and says, “I don’t know if I can compromise on the HGTV.”

You slightly elbow him. “Just put on whatever, I don’t care. You know we have Netflix.”

While continuously changing the channel, he takes his time to respond. “Yeah.”

You both end up agreeing to watch some new documentary on Netflix–an easy, safe choice. All the while, your fingers twitch where they’re smushed between your leg and Sy’s. 

Don’t you still want me? you want to ask. Don’t you want me at all?

With his arm around you, his hand stays appropriately-placed, not moving at all. Not even to caress. He just protectively secures you. After analyzing his lack of affection as his way of not jumping into things instead of his way of showing he’s not attracted to you, though, you start to relax.

It’s not long before your mind slows down while staring at the television ahead with your head tilted against Sy’s body, and you begin to match the cadence of his breathing–deep and full, full and deep. Being so close to him feels nice and warm and heavy. While you sink more into the couch and more into his side, you let yourself melt even more. Your stomach is full and your body is slack, and your nostrils and head are full of Sy’s scent. It’s nice… and warm… and heavy.

The next thing you remember is an insistent shaking near your shoulder. It’s persistent enough that you bolt upright and realize immediately from your heavy, disoriented head that you’ve fallen asleep.

“Shit,” you swear, your eyes gritty as they blink open. “What time is it?”

“Close to midnight.”

Your eyes grow larger. “Sy,” you whine. “Why didn’t you get me up?”

Beside you, Sy answers with a shrug, but there’s some sort of soft look in his eyes that you catch before he looks ahead at the TV. “You looked tired.”

“Yeah, guess I was,” you admit, wishing you hadn’t had to work earlier in the day. Maybe you would’ve had more energy to actually stay up. 

Yawning, you lift your arms above your head. Right at the same time, Sy audibly places both of his hands atop his legs.

“Guess I should prob’ly get.”

Still disoriented, you sit upright even more and rub your eyes. Everything seems too bright even though the only light is coming from the flickering television set. 

You turn to Sy and stare at him. His face is just so stupidly handsome. “Huh?”

“I’m gonna go on and head out,” he says again before standing up.

“Oh,” you utter. “Okay.”

When you stand up, too, you notice flowers that are new inside a vase on the coffee table. You reach down to touch them. “Where’d these come from?”

“Accidentally left ‘em in the car,” Sy tells you as he starts putting on his jacket. 

You softly trail the tips of your fingers across soft purple and pink petals. “These colors are really, really pretty together.” 

When you find the bouquet’s card still within its little plastic holder, you lift it up and flip it around. Did You Know? Hyacinths represent deep sorrow, guilt, and forgiveness. Lotus represents hope , overcoming adversity, and emerging stronger.

“Do you..” You look up at Sy and drop the card on the table. “Do you get these flowers on purpose?”

Instead of playing dumb, Sy just stands there. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I dunno,” you mutter. “I just…”

Without any further response, you walk directly to him and hug him around the neck. His return embrace almost squeezes the breath out of you, and you’re grateful; he does still want you. When you feel him cradle your head against his chest before leaning down to kiss the top of your hair, you wonder–not for the first time and not for the last–how the fuck you even got to this place together.

When the silent, heavy hug has finally gone on almost too long, you lower your arms and step back. Almost longingly, you stare at one another.

“I love you,” you murmur.

“I love you,” Sy softly responds. “You don’t know how much.”

Sy holds your face underneath your chin while kissing you one last time, then he separates again, his eyes still vaguely troubled in a way you wish you could make disappear for good.

“Next Saturday,” he says before opening the front door, and you repeat his words. 

This time, when he leaves, you stand under the front porch light and watch as his truck backs out of the driveway and then completely disappears.

In your bedroom, you take two long pillows and stuff them longways under the blanket on Sy’s side of the bed, making a vague person-shaped lump beside you. When you go to sleep, it’s to imagining the feeling of his arm around you on the couch.

__________________________

The next Saturday, Sy surprisingly mixes up the routine he’s created by picking you up at noon instead of in the evening, whichs means that both of you are gratefully wearing comfortable, casual clothes. While he stands on the front porch with a fresh set of flowers displayed in front of him, you’re happy to note that there’s color in his face again that’s been missing these past few months. 

“Hey, you,” he says, and you smile brightly as you accept the bouquet.

“Hey, yourself.” You push yourself upwards on your tip-toes to give him a long kiss. 

“Didn’t forget ‘em this time,” he says, and like you’d done the first time, you dash into the kitchen for a vase and flip over the card on the side of the bouquet.

Did You Know? Yarrows represent healing and love. 

You can barely stop yourself from skipping on your way out the house to his truck. Maybe this date will be different. Maybe the ghosts that’ve been hanging around you both will have finally found someone else to haunt.

Sy opens the passenger door for you. “Hop on in.”

“Where’re we goin’?” you ask in slight excitement. 

“It’s a surprise,” he says, waiting for you to buckle your seatbelt before closing the door. “Hope you don’t mind a bit of a drive.”

You wiggle on the seat. “Oooh. Road trip. Fine by me.”

The drive is long yet comfortable. Everything flows naturally, the music on the radio a background noise to the soundtrack of you and Sy truly coming together again. It’s helped that your texting has picked up this week, too, feeling like having true conversations throughout each day without either of you feeling pressured.

Eventually, you start noticing familiar signs and landmarks, and you turn to the side to stare at Sy. 

“What, we’re headed to our hometown?”

Sy looks self-satisfied. “Yep.”

“Oooh,” you say again, aimlessly smiling while wondering what surprise is about to happen. “Goin’ back home.”

While paying attention to the road, Sy smiles in response to your pleased reaction. The skin by his eyes crinkles in a way you’ve always found endearing. 

It’s nice. 

It’s nice until it’s not. 

Small droplets of water start to fall onto the windshield, and it’s almost instantaneous how quickly the lighthearted expression on Sy’s face drops. When those droplets start rhythmically falling quicker and heavier, covering the entire windshield and causing Sy to turn on his windshield-wipers, the mood within the truck entirely sours.

“God dammit,” Sy curses quietly, and you glance at him in confusion, unable to understand how he’s so perturbed over just a little rain. “Fuck.” 

“Ah, it’s okay. It’s just a little rain,” you murmur, trying to chuckle, but another look at his face shows you exactly how surly he’s being. “Sy, it’s seriously okay.”

“It’s horseshit.”

"Okay," you utter in slight discomfort. 

He sighs in apology. How you're able to discern what an apologetic sigh sounds like, you don't know, but it's clear Sy's aware of how he's coming across without meaning to. 

“You…want me to drive or somethin’?” you ask, and he just shakes his head. 

Your mind wanders. You start wondering if maybe he had a bad experience in the rain or something, something he’s never told you, something you need to be careful about discussing. 

It just doesn’t make sense. You don't understand his mood. Things had been going so well so far. There had been Hope.

Moments later while at a stop sign, Sy finally turns his head to look at you. “Was gonna take you down to the river," he explains. "To our rock. Didn’t look at the damn forecast first.”

At that, your eyes soften. “Aww. Well, we can still go,” you insist. 

“No, we can’t,” he mutters. “It’s rainin’.”

“We’ve got jackets on.”

“Hmpfh.”

“I wanna go,” you insist again, and Sy cranes his neck forward to look up at the gray clouds everywhere before giving you an unimpressed look. 

“Ain’t lettin’ up any time soon.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Gonna be freezin’ cold.”

“Woulda been freezin’ cold with or without the rain,” you comment. You take hold of his arm and gently shake it. “C’mon. Drive there. I’m excited now.”

And so, with a resigned sigh and the barest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, he does.

In another ten minutes, Sy’s truck slows down while navigating a muddy back-road and then finally slows down under a canopy of trees. 

“Everything okay?” you check in when he doesn’t make any further movements to get out the truck.

He rubs his beard absentmindedly. “I brought a buncha food in a cooler back here,” he gestures to the backseat and says. “Was gonna have lunch out by the water.”

“We could eat it here,” you suggest, unbuckling your seat belt.

He just stares at you. “Here,” he repeats. “In the cab of my truck.”

You shrug in consideration. “Nice view of the trees and stuff.” 

Sy’s shoulders shake. “Nice view of the trees.”

“You just gonna repeat whatever I say?” you ask. “Yes, it’s a nice view of the trees. I happen to like it here.”

That’s an understatement. One of the reasons you’re so happy to be here is that it’s–it’s your spot. It’s the one spot you used to hang out together at when you were young, where you could be truly alone together. It’s not only nostalgic but is an incredibly meaningful decision on Sy’s part. It’s…borderline romantic as fuck, actually.

“Yeah, well.” He’s still wallowing over the rain, but he quietly responds, “Me, too.”

He’s put a lot of thought into this. He’s putting a lot of thought into this–all of this, the dating-his-wife-again thing. You know it shouldn’t be cute for him to be so grumpy all over a little rain, but you get it. He’d planned something. He’d planned a picnic. 

He’s still carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s still blaming himself for not having every single thing go to plan.

Maybe it’s time you intervene.

You touch the door handle and pull it. “Actually, though… I don’t think I’m hungry just yet.”

“Huh?”

You push open the door.

”What in the hell are you doin’?” he stares at you and asks, and you stare right back.

“You told me we were gonna go to our rock.”

“That was the plan before the rain came.”

“And I said I still wanted to go,” you remind him. “We’ve got jackets on.”

“Y/N.”

“Sy,” you match his tone. “What, you afraid you’re gonna get your hair wet?”

Shaking his head, Sy smirks a little, the kind of smirk where he sticks his tongue in his cheek and you can still clearly see it even through his beard. “You’re crazy.”

“Yeah,” you simply answer. “It’s why you love me.”

Then you jump down from your seat. 

“Woman.”

Soft rain instantly begins to make contact with your hair and clothes, and the droplets are slightly chilly where they land. By the time you make it to Sy's side of the truck, you’re noticeably wet, but you start to spin around until Sy finally opens his own door. 

"C'mon," you urge, gesturing with both arms for him to step out. He remains still, just staring down at you while you spin around.

"Gonna tell me what you're doin'?" he asks while you get more and more wet. 

"Well." With your arms outstretched, you spin again. "Right now I'm spinnin’, but I know you won't, so once you get out here I'll just have to figure it out as I go, I guess."

You hold out your hand invitingly, and Sy just stares at it, prompting you to insistently wiggle your wet fingers. “Come on,” you say again, grinning, and he finally concedes, trying and failing to hide a smile as he gets out the truck.

As rain instantly falls atop Sy's closely shaved head, you take in his steadily-wettening coat and jeans and smile. You didn’t think he’d actually do this. 

Looking to the side where you know there's the path leading to the river, you momentarily peek back at Sy who’s assessing the forest with a stern brow, and you pause in consideration. 

You don’t think it could be triggering for him in any way. He mostly goes to desert environments with no rain, so you're comfortable that this won't remind him of anything bad. This'll be a new memory. You start walking towards the treeline.

"Didn't your momma ever tell you goin’ in the woods durin’ a storm prob’ly ain’t the smartest idea?” Sy asks as he follows you.

“Oh, c’mon, it’s not thunderin’,” you say. “It’s not like we’re gonna get struck by lightnin’.”

“Just by a fallin’ tree,” Sy comments, and you make a face before chuckling.

“It’s not even rainin’ that hard. The leaves are filterin’ most of it. See? It’s not so bad anymore.”

He pauses and looks around for a bit, muttering under his breath. “Smells like duck shit out here.”

You frown. You know that he’s been mentally dealing with a lot lately in therapy, having to unbury all types of stuff he’s been pushing way down. You get that his behavior all month is largely due to it. 

…Maybe you’re trying to be too playful here to counteract his negativity.

“You wanna go back to the truck for lunch?” you slow down and ask seriously, and Sy looks at you.

Realizing how he’s coming across, he pauses and reaches out for your elbow. He shakes his head at himself and gives you a slightly apologetic look.

“What’s the plan here?” he asks, and you shrug. 

“Not everything has to be planned, you know,” you tell him with a soft smile, moving your arm to take Sy’s hand in your own. “We’re just goin’ on a walk. To our rock.”

Sy’s chest expands as he takes a deep breath, and then he steps ahead. “In the rain.”

“Yep,” you say brightly, and then, with a quick squeeze of his hand, you drop it before you’re off, leading the way for once. “Maybe we’ll find some nice frogs. Or worms.”

"Too cold for the animals to be out."

Fighting back a sigh, you peek at him from the corner of your eyes. "Just us, then."

The straight path is deep in various spots, causing water to collect in pools within ruts, and instinctively, you tap at the standing water with your feet, ultimately hopping into some of the larger puddles.

“This whatchu got into while I was on tour?” Sy asks nearby. “Playin’ in the rain?”

You jump two-footed into a large hole in the ground so that the water within it splashes all over Sy’s jeans. “Yup," you answer, and then you do it again. "Should try it sometime."

"You go right ahead," he says in amusement. 

"Oooh, this one looks deep," you exclaim, finding a puddle that must be at least up to your shins, and you test it out. “Look at this one.”

Instantly realizing you’ve underestimated the depth of it, when you’re soon shin-deep in cold water, you squeal in shock. Laughing, you hold onto Sy.

The entire time he lifts you out of the rut, you grin. And then, with your socks drenched in water, you’re off. 

“Y/N!” he shouts, but you’re too busy laughing. 

This is where you’re from. This is your hometown. You and Sy have spent countless hours on this very dirt. You know the earth beneath you. The roots out here are on your side; they wouldn’t trip you. You leap over them easily.

“Y/N, it’s fuckin’ wet!” you hear from behind you, but you keep going. 

You slightly slip on the mud underneath you as your feet take off more confidently, gleefully speeding with the thrill of being pursued out here like the old days. Figuring it could be an issue for Sy instead of good fun if you were to actually get out of his sight, you never go too far ahead where he can’t see you, but your head-start and your smaller stature are both on your side. 

“Y/N!”

"I'm right here," you shout back, momentarily looking over your shoulder with a playful grin.

When you come to a briar patch, you stop, and you look side-to-side. There’s no clear path anymore to your left or right, and there’s no way to go through the bush in front of you without jumping over it, and that’s not happening; you’re having too much fun right now to get your jeans cut up. 

Hearing Sy close behind you, you dart to the left, but instantly, he’s there. You squeal before you look around, and when you see another mud puddle off to the side, you jump in it quickly, instantly splashing Sy and cackling.

For the first time in ages, he genuinely smiles at you. It starts small, almost hesitant like it’s been all month, and widens and widens and widens until all of his perfectly white teeth show, the one at the top a little crooked. His smile grows until it almost turns mischievous, and then he crouches down, leers at you, and collides with your body in a gentle tackle. Breathlessly, you continue laughing, and then you find yourself being pressed against the damp yet rough side of a tree. 

“Gotcha,” he says, almost victorious.

“You’re just too good,” you reply, out of breath. You let your body go lax, Sy’s hand cradling your lower back a buffer to the rougher parts of the bark behind you.

Sy’s heavily breathing in front of you, mouth agape as he heaves in air, and his eyes travel all over your face. You just stare back at him. 

“Look where we are,” you whisper.

He looks around and slightly smiles. “We made it.”

You’ve been to this spot more times than you can count. You used to come out to this spot all the time–mostly with Sy alone, but sometimes with friends. You’d listen to music as you drank cheap wine-coolers and snacked on cheap food. You’d waded and you’d swam in the water here, sometimes clothed and sometimes not. You’d laughed under the sun and the moon.

Sy showed off for you here, doing pull-ups on the low-hanging tree-branches, lifting boulders and throwing them just because he could, teaching you about the species of birds and fish and wildlife. 

More memorably, you’d race one another out here. Sy dedicated the entire year before he went into the military to training, and you made fun of him for army-crawling around in the mud back then because he’d look so ridiculous, but he took it seriously. You’d time how long it took for him to run to the barbed-wire fence by the cow field and back–a difficult trip over tons of tree roots, rocks, and poison ivy–and then you offered yourself up as a target to chase.

Just like you’d just finished doing a moment ago.

“We had a lot of good times out here, huh?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “We did.”

The expression on Sy’s face morphs from happy nostalgia to worry within seconds, noted by the angle of his eyes. “You coulda broken a damn leg doin’ that shit out here, Y/N,” he scolds. “Runnin’ like that.”

Instead of getting upset at his demeanor, you lift your arms and wrap your hands around his neck. “I’m wearin’ boots, Sy. And I was bein’ careful.”

“Still coulda happened,” he says. 

“Maybe,” you respond calmly while patiently looking up at him. Even though he’s crouching down, he’s still massively large. “But that would’ve been out of your control.”

In response, Sy lifts an eyebrow at you, and you tilt your head to the side.

"You can't always keep bad stuff from happenin', Sy."

Sy’s face goes through a series of changes, and, as if it were really visible somehow, you watch without blinking as some of the weight of the constant pressure he puts on himself begins to slowly lift.

He still wants to argue with you, you know, but he’s not.

“You can’t control everything,” you repeat yourself, softer this time while your hands slide down to rest atop his chest. “Not the weather. Not me slippin’ in the mud. Sometimes things just…happen. Things that're beyond your control. And that’s okay.”

His eyes look weary when they look into yours. “I’m only tryna protect you, Y/N.”

“I know,” you gently reply. 

“That’s all I ever try to do.”

“I know.”

“I married you ‘cause I love you, I fuckin’ do,” he forces out, fingers of one hand twitching against your back and fingers of the other grabbling for your waist, “and even if the person I have to protect you from is–is–”

“You don’t have to protect me from yourself,” you firmly grip his jacket and say. “You never have to do that. You take care of me.”

He continues staring at you, his face damp, his eyes a bit wild.

“You take care of me,” you repeat.

When he abruptly presses his lips to yours, they’re wet and a little cold. Your clothes are wet and a little cold, as well, and you’re definitely going to regret it when your adrenaline dies down, but for now, it’s worth it. You kiss him back just as fervently, chasing his mouth until he backs off, breathing quickly.

“You take care of me,” you repeat again.

He puts his forehead on yours. “I want to.”

“You do,” you repeat once more. “Because that’s your job. And you take your job seriously.”

Dangling from the tree branch upside down, Sy’s legs were bent at the knee to secure his weight. He crossed his arms across his shirtless chest in an X, and you watched from afar as he began to lift his upper body up to do crunches. 

Such a ridiculous and obviously attention-seeking guy your boyfriend was, but still, you were magnetized by the sheen of sweat on his skin, by the stamina and focused intensity he showed during his work-outs.

“Hey, you,” he said when you got closer.

You smirked. “Hey, yourself.” 

Still hanging upside down, Sy stopped exercising and reached out for you. Feeling silly, you leaned forward, grabbed his damp face, and kissed him, and you giggled into his mouth at the weird sensation of your lips being upside down.

The silliness died when he abruptly said without warning, “Marry me.”

You wanted to laugh at the way his eyes seemed to cross while he was looking at you, but you couldn’t. You took a step back. “What?”

He let go of the branch and dropped to the ground with an impressive flip. He took just two seconds to catch his breath, then he said just as seriously, “Marry me.”

Waiting for the punch-line, you finally let out your little laugh. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“Ain’t it obvious?” he answered. “I’m talkin’ about you marryin’ me.”

“No matter what job it is,” you go on, “you take it seriously. You take care of me.”

Sy’s hands don’t let go of their heavy grip on you.

“I know that the military defines you, Sy. I get that,” you quietly say. “It’s who you are and who you’ll always be. I know this. But…not everything is a mission.”

Sy continues to just breathe in the small sliver of space between your faces.

“And you can’t keep holdin’ yourself to these impossibly high standards, Sy. It’s not fair to yourself.”

He forces himself to take a deep breath. 

“You don’t have to be Captain Syverson all the time,” you softly say, almost shaking him. “You don’t have to get upset if everything doesn’t go to plan, like our dates or whatever. Everything’s been great as it is. You can just…let whatever happens happen. You can just…be Sy.”

“Just Sy,” he murmurs.

“Yeah. Sy. The guy I married,” you add. Then you pull his face down to yours.

“It’s what we’ve always talked about,” he’d said. “Gettin’ married.”

“Yeah, it’s just…” You took a few steps to the side until you reached the smooth expanse of the large rock by the giant tree. Your rock, you called it. You sat down and pulled your knees to your chest. “We just graduated.”

He shrugged before sitting down directly next to you. “Whether we’re young or not don’t change anything.”

You turned your gaze from the river ahead of you to Sy. “But doesn’t it?”

“Whether we do it now or wait five, ten years–what’s the difference?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, still in shock. “It just always seemed like something that seemed really far-off, that’s all.”

There was silence. “So is that a no?”

Stupidly, you laughed, and stupidly, you nodded. Even though you were both young, who cared? He was it for you.

“Yeah?”

Quickly, you nodded again, and you said against his suddenly approaching mouth, “Yeah.”

“Okay, then.” He laughed against your lips. “Let’s do it.”

“What?” you asked. “Now?”

“Well, not right this second,” he said. “Gotta get a ring first. Somethin’ pretty as you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Your lips purse against Sy’s and begin rippling, and Sy reciprocates as his fingers twitch against you. Breaking the kiss with a smack, Sy stands upright, and almost dumbly, he grins.

“What?” you ask.

“You smiled,” he whispers, and you just blink. “Against my lips. You smiled.”

You look at him with your eyebrows lifted.

“You used to do that,” he says. “You always used to do that.”

“Yeah, I–I did.”

“We’re still us,” Sy murmurs, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. Raindrops fall from the canopy of trees above, trailing down his forehead and clumping on the tips of his eyelashes before he blinks them off. “I’m still me.”

You nod. “You’re still you. I’m still me.”

“We’re still each other,” he whispers.

“We are,” you repeat, grinning so widely it almost hurts your face.

Briefly, he looks to the side. “Sound like a fuckin’ lunatic,” he mumbles under his breath, and you quickly shake your head, grabbing his face. 

"You don't," you reassure, making him look down at you. “You really don’t. Keep goin’.”

“I can kiss you however I want.”

Laughing, you nod. “You can.”

Then he does. With his hips now confidently pressing against yours, he gives you more of his body as he brushes his lips over yours again. His tongue delves in your mouth–again, and then again, and then again–and gone is the tentative hesitation you’ve watched him struggle with these past few weeks.

“What we had was good,” he says into your mouth. 

You’re slipping. “It was,” you slur quietly.

“I can make it that way again.” 

“You can,” you agree, then in between another kiss, you amend it to, “We can,” but you really, really like the control Sy’s taking back here. Your eyes remain closed while he suckles your bottom lip.

You kiss and squeeze each other and kiss some more, until your very teeth feel like chattering, and when you start to actually lose your breath, you have to disconnect.

“Okay,” you say, slightly chuckling. “I think–I think we might need to get back to the truck.”

Sy reluctantly loosens his grip on you. “You gonna race me?”

“Hell no,” you laugh, then you accept his offered hand and begin walking at a regular pace down the narrow muddy trail.

Together and side-by-side, you walk back to Sy’s truck, your body buzzing.

Inside the cab, Sy instantly turns on the heater, and you instantly take off your boots and socks. 

“You wanna eat?” he asks, turning to look at you and failing to hide how his eyes keep trailing to your lips. “I gotchu tons of stuff you like.”

“Of course you did,” you happily say, chuckling. “But we’re both soakin’ wet. Let’s go home and shower first, change clothes. We can…We can just eat at the table.”

Images of Sy in the shower enter your mind. Images of the both of you in the shower together enter your mind. Images of the both of you at the kitchen table enter your mind–domestic and familiar.

You actually used to eat dinner together at the table. You’d have intricate meals. The table would be decorated with flowers he’d buy you. 

He’s gotten you flowers every week now. 

You find yourself incredibly, unexpectedly sentimental.

“Hey,” Sy says, and you jerk your head, shaken out of your thoughts. “What is it?”

“Hm?”

Sy takes hold of your chin with his thumb and forefinger, leading you to look at him. “You’re about to cry.”

You lift your hands to wipe the sides of your eyes. Sy still doesn’t let go of your face, and you’re forced to bare your thoughts. “I just–I want you to come home,” you admit, your voice slightly breaking.

He slowly blinks. “But you–”

“I know what I said,” you interrupt. “I know. Just–come home, Sy. Come home.”

Sy lowers his hand from your chin. When silence fills the truck, you begin to grow slightly uncomfortable. “Don’t you want to?”

“It’s all I want,” he admits. “You wantin’ me there.”

Slowly, a smile grows on your face. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats resolutely. 

“So. Let’s go home.”

“And you could have told him how it makes you feel when you get ignored. You know he hates when you shut down and how you don’t want to listen. If you ask me,” she says with a nod toward his direction. “It was a big lack of communication on both sides.”

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of your drink, some concoction that makes you cough slightly.

“He can talk to me if he wants,” you tell her, turning on your heels to walk away.

You don’t get far.

You’re laughing at some joke with a few acquaintances. Something that isn’t funny but you’re committed to the bit, even going so far to add to it as the small group laughs harder.

“Something funny?” A voice says behind you.

All eyes lift to stare at him.

“Hey Sy,” one of them says, taking a step back as he crosses his arms while observing the group. “We were just making fun of Liam’s bad driving.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking right at you.

“Can we talk?” He asks.

You give a nod, following behind him as he walks down the steps, hearing the whispers of people as you try to remain composed. You know your mouth and your attitude is already going to get you into trouble and you might as well save up the fire you have for him when you’re alone.

His car comes into view - a matte black Challenger that starts when you take another step, making you nearly jump.

“We’re going to talk in your car?” You ask him. “We can talk out here.”

He leans against the car, arms crossed over his massive chest.

“Go on then,” he says. “I’m listening. Tell me why my girl decided to storm out like some spoiled brat when I’d told you I’d be working late.”

“You always work late.”

It was supposed to sound much more stern. People standing outside the house are watching and suddenly you don’t feel much like airing out your business to bystanders.

When you try for the passenger door, he unlocks it, letting you slide in as he goes toward the driver’s seat. Once you’re both buckled in, he leans his head back, his hand sliding down his jaw.

“Let’s go somewhere private,” he says, hand on the wheel as he accelerates, the car heading back down the main road. “Somewhere you can tell me exactly what’s on your mind and how I can fix it.”

His hand is on your thigh as you feel the heat in your belly.