Shameless Hoe HQ

“You’re much better at cooking than you think,” Nick assured you. “And it really does look and smell and taste amazing.” 

“Taste?” you echoed, giving him a half-hearted glare. “Did you sneak tastes when I was trying to find placemats for the table?”

“I definitely did,” he grinned. “Those mashed potatoes? Well, let's just say you’re lucky I love you, otherwise I’d hoard them all for myself.”

Your inner omega chirped happily at your beta’s praise–especially for something so homemaker-y, which you knew wasn’t exactly a strength of yours. It was probably one of your biggest insecurities actually, especially when it came to finding an alpha. 

But you were trying. You were trying so hard. 

You really wanted everything to be perfect for when Frank arrived home from work. 

It was the very least he deserved for saving you from Omega Control, from being shipped off to a breeder and God knows what kind of misery and abuse would have awaited you then. 

Surely nothing you haven’t already experienced in foster care, a mean little voice spoke up in the back of your mind. 

You closed your eyes against the onslaught of memories that stirred up. At the vivid intrusive thoughts that played against the back of your eyelids at what could have happened if you’d been torn away from Nick, from Frank, from the life you had worked so hard to live as freely and happily as possible. 

You had been so close to losing it all. 

And you still weren’t convinced you hadn’t already lost Frank, for good. 

“Omega?”

The sound of Nick’s concerned voice had you surfacing from the swirl of anxiety filling your head, and you blinked your eyes open, trying to muster a smile for him. 

It had been a really long time since you felt this anxious, this helpless. But you had to shove it all down. All of it. 

You had to finish this perfect dinner for Frank and welcome him home like a perfect omega would and–

The sound of the front door opening and the jangle of keys being tossed on the entryway table had you perking up in alarm. Your eyes flew to the clock above the stove and you gasped, “Oh my god! I didn’t realize how late it was! He’s home! Oh my–”

Your words faded away as Nick framed your face between his hand and tugged you in for a brief, soft kiss. 

“It’s all amazing, and so are you,” he whispered, giving you a soft smile before pulling away. 

A moment later, Frank’s tall figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. His brow was furrowed, his eyes wary as he glanced from the three places settings at the dining table, to you standing over the stove in an apron you had found in the back of the front closet along with the linens that now adorned the table. 

“Why are you wearing that?” Frank snapped, his face darkening in a way that made you whine and stumble back a step.  

“What?” You glanced down at the apron. “I-I didn’t want to make a mess–”

“That isn’t yours. Take it off!” Frank snarled, stalking toward you. 

“Hey, Frank, calm down,” Nick’s voice was as soothing and careful as ever as he stepped in front of you, holding up his hands in the universal gesture of meaning no harm. 

“It’s not hers! It’s…” Frank’s voice broke, his eyes gleaming with a wild kind of grief as he stared at you, then at the apron, like he was gutted.

And you realized that he was, and then why.

Horror dawned at your misstep–at what you had unintentionally done–unearthing something that had belonged to his late wife. 

“Oh god,” you quavered, quickly untying the apron and slipping it off. You folded it carefully, respectfully, your tears already spilling over as you held it out to Frank with trembling fingers. “Frank, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t realize.”

“Hey, let’s all just take a deep breath and calm down,” Nick encouraged, shifting sideways so he could give you a gentle look. “You didn’t know. It was an honest mistake.” He turned back to Frank, who was holding the apron between his hands with the look of utmost sorrow clouding his features. “Frank, she was just trying to do something nice for you. Spent all day cooking a really great dinner–”

“I didn’t fucking ask for any of this,” Frank rasped, shaking his head as he crumbled the apron between his hands. “I didn’t ask for this!” he held it up, his eyes wet with unshed tears and his face flushed in anger, in heartbreak. “I didn’t ask for this!” he swept a hand toward the stove covered in steaming pots as the delicious aroma of the meal you had worked so hard on all day filled the air. 

“Frank,” you wobbled, unsure of what to say but knowing you felt as devastated as he looked. 

He shook his head, jaw clenching. “I can’t… do this. I can’t. I won’t. I won’t.”

And then he turned on his heel and stormed from the kitchen, leaving you and Nick staring after him, utterly devastated for an entirely different reason.

A couple of hours later, Nick tentatively eased open the door leading from the kitchen to the garage. 

He heard soft clinking sounds, and the low hum of classic rock playing from a beat up stereo set on the corner of Frank’s work table. 

The man himself was ducked under the hood of a fully restored 1967 Mustang Fastback. It was royal blue with white rally stripes, and it was gorgeous enough to have Nick whistling before he could really think better of it. 

Frank went rigid, easing away from the car’s engine that didn’t really need any work, but it was just his way to keep himself busy, to keep his mind quiet when he needed it most, to hide.

“What do you want?” Frank grunted, looking tense as his grease-stained fingers twitched at his sides. 

“Nothing, just thought I’d bring you one of these.” Nick held up a beer in each hand, one for him and one for Frank. 

Frank’s eyes landed on the proffered beer and lingered long enough that Nick exhaled in relief. He moved closer, a soft, hopeful smile curling his lips as he held out the beer to Frank. 

After a long, tense moment, Frank swiped the bottle from Nick’s grip, taking a long pull before turning away and ducking back under the hood of his car. 

“I know you don’t want us here,” Nick murmured, inching closer before taking a tentative seat on a nearby crate. “I’m sorry that we’re encroaching on your space, on your home–”

“It’s not a home,” Frank said sharply before taking another gulp of his beer. “It hasn’t been a home for a long time. I don’t do homes, not anymore.”

“Right,” Nick breathed, his features softening, looking so very, very sad for the rigid alpha standing a few feet away. 

Frank turned to set his beer aside to free up his hand and caught the way Nick was looking at him. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t pity me. I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity, Frank. It’s empathy.”

“I don’t want that either,” Frank gritted, moving to grab a wrench from the toolbox placed on the mobile cart between them. He pointed it at Nick, his eyes hard. “Don’t fucking feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t,” Nick said earnestly. “I feel sorry for what you went through, and I’m sorry for… for all of this. How messy it all turned out. You deserve better, so much better–”

“Christ, can you just be quiet?” Frank scoffed. 

Nick snapped his mouth shut, his gaze falling to the floor as he took a small sip from his beer. He was trying so hard to smooth things over–for you, for himself, too, and for Frank. 

He so desperately wanted to see the potential that you had so joyfully spoken about for the past few months. 

All three of you had been through so much in different ways, and it was poetic, in a sense, that the Universe had brought you all together. 

He just knew that if Frank would let some of that emotional armor crumble, if you two could just get through to him–earn his forgiveness–there was a chance that this could be something special. 

The three of you, you could be a pack. 

You could be each other’s home.

“Hand me that grease rag behind you,” Frank muttered, making Nick sit up at attention. 

Blinking in surprise, that Frank had not only asked him for something but hadn’t kicked him out yet either, Nick twisted to the workbench behind him, plucking said grease rag from the surface and holding it out to Frank. 

Frank’s eyes met his for a brief second–enough for Nick to feel the spark of something between them–and if the way Frank quickly looked away and his shoulders tensed was any indicator, the alpha had felt it, too. 

Suppressing a soft smile, Nick watched Frank work, familiar with what he was tinkering with since he was the one who maintained your van. And before Frank could reach for the next tool he needed, Nick had scooped it up and had it held out. 

Again, Frank’s eyes found the beta’s, some of the icy glint fading into something else–curioristy, perhaps. A touch of confusion, too, and just the tiniest, tiniest glimmer of what could have been admiration. 

Regardless, whatever it was, it had Nick’s belly swooping and his chest fluttering with a tentative kind of hope. 

The next morning, Frank was intent on getting out of the house to head to work before either you or Nick emerged from the guest room you were sharing. But as he went to pass by said guest room, the sound of your sharp, raised voice made him pause. 

Frowning, because he had never heard you sound so irritated, Frank hovered just outside the door, which was cracked open, listening in on the conversation between you and Nick. 

“Please,” your voice was softer this time as you took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Just, stop.” 

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Nick swore as he crouched before where you were curled up on the window seat overlooking the side yard. “I’m just worried. You’re having nightmares again–”

“So?” you challenged, your features set and stubborn as you met his gaze. 

Nick sighed. “You haven’t had nightmares like this in a really long time.” 

“It’s nothing,” you insisted, feeling more tired than even Nick knew. “I’m fine.”

Nick’s touch was so painfully gentle as he held your hand, his thumb trailing back and forth over your knuckles. “It’s okay if you’re not, considering everything you’ve been through.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, your exhaustion seeping into your voice now as you tried so hard to blink back the tears gathering. 

Nick’s hold on your hand shifted, until he was guiding your palm to the center of his chest, where you could feel the steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath your touch. He leaned into you more fully, his free hand lifting to cradle the side of your face, making your gaze meet his. 

“You haven’t told me anything about what happened at Omega Control,” he looked pained by this, his eyes flickering between yours, looking more worried than you had ever seen, so much so that you couldn’t hold his gaze any longer and looked away instead. “Usually you tell me everything.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it ever again,” you whispered, turning away from Nick and curling in on yourself as you fixed your gaze outside–both yearning to be out there but terrified of being caught again. “We should keep the past in the past.”

At the sound of Nick’s disappointed sigh, Frank eased away from the door, frowning at the way you had echoed his own words to you, about keeping the past in the past. 

Because everything inside of him–especially his inner alpha who was listlessly hovering beneath the surface, yearning to comfort you, to get to know Nick more–was telling him that you needed to talk about what happened. That it wasn’t a weight–or fear–that you should carry on your own. 

Frank watched as his hand moved toward the doorknob, trembling slightly. Every rusty caretaker instinct inside of him was screaming at him to walk through that door, sweep you up against his chest, and soothe you with his alpha purr until you felt safe enough to tell him and Nick what had happened. 

It would be so easy. All he had to do was press the door open, make his presence known, and just… allow things to go from there. 

But instead, Frank took a step away from the door, then another, until he was jogging down the steps, swiping up his keys and briefcase from the entryway table, and shoving outside into the bright morning sunshine. 

And the whole time he walked to his car, he thought the same thing over and over–that it wasn’t his place to take care of you, to protect you, that you had Nick for that. 

You didn’t need him.

You didn’t.

It was nearly midnight once Frank finally returned home. He was exhausted, and had spent the hours after work at his favorite dive bar, nursing a couple of beers and eating bad frozen appetizers for dinner when all he really wanted was to go home. 

But after this morning, what he had almost done…what he had wanted to do…

It felt safer to just stay away. 

So it was like some kind of twisted, cosmic joke, that as soon as Frank stepped inside the house, he was instantly enveloped in your sweet, addictive omega scent. 

Only there was a sour note to your divine smell, one that instantly had Frank as alert as his inner alpha. 

Because that sour scent meant that you were distressed–terrified. 

Before he realized what he was doing, Frank was dashing into the living room, only to pull up short. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to find–but it wasn’t you curled up on the sofa, asleep and visibly trembling as you whimpered at whatever nightmare had you caught in its dark web.

A beat later, Frank registered the distant sound of the shower running, which explained why you were by yourself in this state, and why Nick wasn’t there to soothe you. 

But you so obviously needed soothing in this moment as you gave a choked sob, your features twisting in the utmost distress as you curled in on yourself tighter. 

Frank was across the room in three long strides, before he even realized he was moving. 

The need to calm you was like a visceral thing rippling over every inch of him–clawing at him from the inside out–and it was all he could focus on as he knelt on the floor beside you and tentatively reached out to touch the crown of your head. 

“Shhh, omega,” Frank rumbled, his voice the softest it had been with you in weeks as he gently caressed your hair. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

This close now, Frank could see the glimmer of tear-tracks along your cheeks, how tense your body was as you laid in the fetal position and tried to make yourself as small as possible. 

Frank murmured your name, hesitating for a second before he held his wrist gland beneath your nose so you could breathe in his alpha scent. “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re okay now.”

You shuddered hard, your brows furrowing in your sleep, a soft whimper falling from your lips as you shifted and pressed your nose against Frank’s wrist without even knowing it. You were just desperately seeking the sudden source of your comfort–of the familiar–of something, no, someone who made you feel safe. 

“There you go,” Frank praised softly, resuming his pets along your head as he watched your body go lax and the rigid tension slowly ease from your frame. “Such a good omega.” 

Frank’s voice broke, his breath shaky as he watched you sleep, as he really looked at you for the first time in weeks–since everything had happened. 

You looked so tired, and so small. 

So vulnerable. 

And it made him ache. It made him want. It made him yearn. It made all of his instincts–both man and alpha–stir up and rise within him in a way that terrified him. 

Because he never thought he would feel this way again. 

Frank never thought that he would care about someone so deeply again. 

In fact, he had tried so fucking hard to avoid it at all costs, because he knew what it felt like to lose it all. To lose the person you loved most. To lose the future you had been so hopeful for. To lose your entire family, your home, everything that made you who were in one awful, tragic fell swoop. 

He’d had it all–the love, the future, the life, the home. And he was supposed to protect them at all costs.   

And he had failed. 

He had failed as a man, as an alpha–as a husband and as a soon-to-be father. Frank had failed in a way that still haunted his every waking moment five years later. 

So when he looked at you, when he felt what he felt for you, when he got caught in Nick’s soft, warm gaze and wanted to stay there–it terrified him in a way that made him want to turn his back on it all–on everything. 

But he couldn’t find it in himself to do that right now. 

Not when you clung to his wrist in your sleep and a quiet chirp spilled past your lips. Not when the sour note faded from your scent and was replaced by the warm, spicy tones of your contentment and relief. 

All Frank could do was watch you, convinced that in this moment, he was the only thing keeping your nightmares at bay, and that was enough for his protective instinct to override his sheer panic. 

It was enough to have the rest of the world fade away as he focused on soothing you into a peaceful sleep, completely unaware that Nick stood in the doorway, having witnessed this entire tender, protective display.

And finally getting to see with his own eyes the kind of alpha that Frank Adler could be, and why you were so completely taken with him.

OH EM GEEEEE. I’m kind of in emotional shambles right now, ngl. This story feels so messy lol, but I’m also kind of in love with it anyway. I just want them all to be happy and loved 🥺

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Ransom grinned, dipping his face as he touched a finger beneath your chin and lifted your own. When your gazes reunited, he quirked a brow in silent question.

"Soft," you explained, glancing at his hair, your fingers twitching in your lap like you were itching to run them through those glossy locks once more.

It was slow, the way the wicked grin unfurled across his lips, amusement sparkling in Ransom's gaze as he drawled, “How about you stroke something hard now?” 

As he expected, his innuendo was completely lost on you, despite weeks and weeks of hot and heavy makeout sessions that had become Ransom's new preferred method of entertainment.

"What?" you asked innocently.

Chuckling, he shook his head, letting the subject drop as he watched you. "I don't mind, you know." At your questioning look, he elaborated, "I don't mind you touching my hair. It felt nice."

"Oh," you smiled excitedly, hedging closer. And then your hand shot out again, your touch so careful–almost reverent–as you raked your fingers through his hair. "So pretty." Your eyes shifted from Ransom's hair to his handsome face. "You're so pretty."

"Right back at you, kitten," Ransom purred, his eyes fluttering as he sank back in his seat, enjoying the way you were playing with his hair.

A moment later, when you moved closer and hesitantly straddled his lap, he enjoyed that, too.

Your fingers fell from Ransom's hair and down his neck, trailing along his skin, your eyes still big and awe-filled, like you couldn't quite believe that you got to be this close and touch him like this.

He just watched your gentle explorations, his hands gravitating to your hips and gripping. His fingers played along the hem of your sweater until they could slip underneath and finally touch your warm, bare skin.

"Kiss?" you asked on a breathy whisper, your face already closing in as your eyes flickered to his. 

"C'mere," Ransom murmured, cradling the back of your head and reeling you in. 

He sighed against your lips, feeling more at peace than he ever had before with your flavor on his tongue and your body pressed flush to his. 

Distantly, Ransom was aware of the way your fingers returned to his hair, gripping more than petting now as you squirmed in his lap and tried your best to keep up with every eager press of his lips against your own.

If someone would have told him that just weeks ago had been the very first time you had ever kissed someone, he wouldn't have believed it, because now? 

Now you were a pro. 

Somehow, you had picked up on every trick he knew, and then some. Ransom had a feeling it was your shameless enthusiasm and curiosity to learn what felt good–what made him feel good–more than anything.

And he reveled in it.

In fact, Ransom had never enjoyed kissing more in his life, and he knew it was because it was with you.

Like now, when his tongue pressed past the seam of your lips and you moaned in surprise, he groaned, his free hand sliding up your back and yanking you right up against his chest as he kissed you with the kind of desperate fervor he had never felt before.

Ransom had just started to rut up against you–his body craving more from you–swallowing your sweet, eager sounds as you instinctively rocked against his lap in return when a quiet throat clearing had you both freezing.

Sighing, Ransom pulled away, smiling at your glazed look and gently touching your cheek before looking over your shoulder to where Savannah was watching the two of you with a disapproving look, despite the fact that this was hardly the first time that she had caught you and Ransom making out.

There was a long moment of awkward silence before Ransom snapped, "Well? Did you need something, or were you just enjoying the show?"

"No, be nice," you whisper!wailed at him, tucking your face against his neck to hide from Savannah's gaze.

The older woman couldn't resist a smile at that, growing fonder of you by the day, as she sighed before saying, "Mr. Jennings is pulling around the car for the young miss' appointment. Will you be accompanying us into town?"

"Yeah," Ransom replied, stroking your back as he frowned at the thought of you going into town for the first time without him. "We'll finish getting ready and be out front soon."

"Yes, sir," Savannah nodded, giving you both a lingering look before turning on her heel and retreating to the kitchen.

Ransom waited until he was sure that she was long gone before he spoke, murmuring against your ear, "You okay, kitten?"

You nodded against him before popping your head up, looking a little less dazed than before. "Kissing isn't bad?"

Ransom's smile was soft. "No, kissing isn't bad."

"Feels bad sometimes," you told him, playing with the collar of his sweater as your eyes fell away. "I don't like her seeing."

"That's because some kisses, and other stuff, are private, but it's not bad."

"Okay," you glanced up at him, your lips curling. "Some kisses?"

Ransom's lips twitched. "Yeah, some kisses are just sweet and innocent, like you. Like this." He kissed the tip of your nose, grinning as you giggled. "And this." He stole a quick peck from your lips. "And some kisses, some kisses are just for us," he purred.

He shifted beneath you, smoothing his hands up your sides until you were shivering and squirming for him just as his lips touched yours. Ransom gave you a more thorough kiss, the kind that had you whining against his lips and clutching his shoulders, pouting as he pulled away. 

"See the difference?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

You nodded, your lips parted and kiss-swollen as you blinked at his mouth before meeting his gaze. "I really like kissing."

"I really like kissing you," Ransom countered, booping your nose and making you laugh. He sighed, sitting up as he said, "Come on, we gotta go into town for your doctor’s appointment and then we can go out to lunch, how's that sound?"

"Good!" you chirped, excitedly scrambling off of his lap. "I'll go get my shoes and coat!" 

And then you were off, scurrying upstairs and leaving Ransom smiling after you like a dope as the taste of your sweet lips still lingered on his tongue.

You exited the doctor's office pouting and cradling your arm, which was more numb than sore at this point, but still felt strange. Your countenance brightened immediately as Ransom rose from a nearby bench where he'd been waiting for you. 

"Everything go okay?" he asked, shifting his weight as he glanced between you and Savannah.

You nodded, smiling a little as Savannah gave you a fond squeeze. 

"All is well, sir. The doctor had no concerns to speak of." 

She gave you a warm smile, which you returned, grateful that she had come inside with you, as strangers still made you nervous, even though you knew doctors were supposed to help take care of you. 

Some of the tension immediately eased from Ransom's form, and you went to him out of instinct, to comfort his obvious concern and also because you were still feeling uncomfortable from your shot and vulnerable from your exam and conversation with the doctor.

Ransom's arms immediately embraced you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head as you burrowed against his chest. "You okay, kitten?"

You nodded, frowning up at him as you continued to cradle your arm. "Feels weird."

His brows furrowed. "What feels weird?" His narrowed gaze shot to Savannah. "I thought you said everything was fine."

The older woman clasped her hands in front of her, looking uncomfortable. "It is, sir. She just…got a birth control implant. Her arm will be numb for a couple of hours and then may be sore for a day or two, but all is well."

Ransom's eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline as he stuttered, "Oh. Uh. Okay. Girl stuff. Got it."

"Relationship stuff, I would say," Savannah said, giving him a challenging look.  

“So this whole thing was your idea?” Ransom glowered at her. "I think you need to remember your place."

Savannah's mouth dropped open in offense, her hands falling to her hips. "It's clear the girl has very few people who take her best interests to heart. I only wanted to encourage her to think ahead and be safe, all things considered.” She gave Ransom a pointed look. “I was looking out for her, the same way I would one of my own."

"Does she even understand what you talked her into?"

"I didn't talk her into anything," Savannah insisted. “I just wanted to make sure that she understood what she was getting herself into and the possible consequences of your combined actions.”

Before Ransom could respond, you spoke up, loudly. "I understand," you said, frowning between Ransom and Savannah. 

His features immediately softened when you began to smooth the furrow on his brow with your pointer finger. 

"I understand," you whispered to him. "I'm not stupid."

"Hey," Ransom gently grasped your shoulders and ducked close, so your eyes were level with his and you could read the earnestness in his gaze when he vehemently told you, "I do not think you're stupid. You're so smart, and I witness it every day. I just want to make sure you're not being talked into anything you don't want to do."

"I wanted it, to be safe, just in case," you murmured, gently touching your arm. "I don't…I don't want to be bad like my mother. I don't want that."

At the shine of tears building in your eyes, Ransom nodded, giving you a smile as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Okay, whatever you want. You made the right decision for you. You did so well."

When you sank against his chest for a hug, Ransom gave you a squeeze, his gaze flickering to Savannah, who was watching you both with an expression torn between softness and concern. Clearing his throat, he quickly returned his attention to you.  

"How about a little shopping before lunch?"

You smiled at his offer, plastering yourself to his side as he led you down the main street in the center of town.

There weren't too many people out, but there were enough for you to bounce between wariness and curiosity as you watched a mother with a stroller go by, and an older couple slowly walk together arm in arm.

Ransom pointed out the different stores, explaining what they were, but it wasn't until you came upon a jewelry store, and the beautifully arranged display window sparkling in the sunlight, that you showed any real interest in your surroundings. 

"So pretty!" you gasped, breaking away from Ransom's side to move closer to the storefront.

Your eyes were big as you pressed your hands to the window, gazing down at all the elegant pieces twinkling up at you. There were so many of them! Various gems and stones, metals too, and you didn't know what most of the materials were, just that they were lovely and you had never seen anything so pretty in your life.

Well, except for Ransom.

"Do you want to go inside?" he asked.

You glanced up at him, then to the window display and beyond, spying quite a few people in the small shop as an old man stood behind a counter and spoke with a couple.

Swallowing nervously at the thought of being surrounded by so many strangers, you eyed the jewelry in the window one final time before shaking your head and reaching for Ransom's hand. 

"No thank you," you smiled up at him. 

"Are you sure?" 

You nodded, grinning as your stomach growled. "Can we have lunch now?" 

"Yeah, of course," he smiled, glancing behind you both to where Savannah patiently waited. "Any suggestions?"

Her eyes flickered between the two of you, lingering on you before she spoke, "There's a nice, small restaurant at the end of the block that shouldn't be too crowded this time of day."

Ransom nodded, gesturing for her to lead the way as he corralled you against him with his other arm. 

Soon you were tucked into a booth at the back of the restaurant, which thankfully wasn't very crowded at all. Savannah sat across from you, shooting you a smile whenever your gaze met hers, and beside you sat Ransom. 

He held a menu between you both, reading and explaining the dishes to you as you bounced in your seat, eager to eat.

Once you all settled on your meals, he gestured for your waitress so you could order, and you were delighted to dig into the complimentary bread basket she left behind once she departed.

"Still warm!" you told Ransom, holding out a piece of bread for him.

He smiled, taking it and popping it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, then opened his mouth to reply but paused as his cell phone began to buzz. Sighing, he pulled it from his back pocket, rolling his eyes as he glanced down at the screen. 

"I need to take this," he muttered, giving your back a rub before he slid from the booth and hurried outside.

You stared after him, watching him pace along the sidewalk–looking agitated–as he spoke on the phone, and then your gaze returned to the bread basket. You slowly reached for another piece, glancing at Savannah shyly.

"It's good, isn't it?" she smiled, pushing the bread basket your way. 

"So good!" you chirped, nabbing another piece.

She watched you for a moment, her gaze flickering to Ransom–still outside on his phone–before returning to you. Leaning in closer across the table, she kept her voice low as she spoke. 

"Miss, I know it's not my place, but you don't seem to have many folks looking out for you, and I just…I want to encourage you to be careful with Mr. Drysdale."

You straightened in your seat, finishing chewing your food before asking. "Ransom?"

Savannah nodded. "I know he's very kind to you, and you've known him since you were children, but he's changed a lot since then. He's known for…getting into trouble, and I would hate to see you get hurt."

You frowned, dropping your hands into your lap as you began to anxiously fiddle with the hem of your sweater.

You knew that Ransom had been sent here because his parents thought he was bad, but you didn't actually know why they thought that. 

However, you did know that Ransom was so good to you, and he took care of you. 

He cared about you, you know he did, just like you cared about him.

"He wouldn't hurt me," you replied at last, your gaze wary as you eyed Savannah. "He's my…friend."

You frowned at that word, that descriptor for Ransom that suddenly fell flat.

That didn't feel right anymore.

Ransom felt like so much more than your friend.

He felt like–

"Alright, miss," Savannah relented, holding up her hands in a gesture of surrender. Her smile was small, but genuine as she watched you. "Forgive me, I was only trying to help. Just know that if you need anything, I'm here and I'm happy to help."

You nodded slowly, still feeling wary and confused but mustering a smile nonetheless. "Okay, thank you."

Picking at the bread on your little serving plate, you pressed another piece into your mouth, perking up in your seat as you spotted Ransom making his way back to your table.

When he slid back into his seat beside you, shooting you a small grin and smoothing his hand up your back, you forgot Savannah's warning altogether as you snuggled close to his side and offered him another piece of your bread. 

It had been weeks since your outing with Ransom and Savannah. 

Weeks since the older woman's gentle warning and your realization that things had shifted between you and Ransom. 

In the rare, stray moments when you were left to your own devices–usually late at night as you lay in bed, waiting for sleep–you struggled with trying to put a name to what Ransom was to you.

You coveted his friendship so much, you had since you were a little girl.

And even more so these last few months as he welcomed you into his own home and took care of you like no one else ever had in your life.

But you knew that what you had with Ransom was more than a friendship. 

All the kisses and the touching and the desire - you wanted him so much more than was appropriate for a friend.

Ransom wasn't just your friend anymore, he was your everything.

And he was making you feel so good right now as you squirmed beneath him on the sofa, gasping and clutching at his muscular back as he kissed a trail down your throat, his big body gently rutting against yours.

The manor was dim and quiet this late at night, you and Ransom the only two occupants, free to enjoy some private time together that you craved more and more with each passing day.

It was addictive, the way Ransom made you feel, the way he could so masterfully work you over, eliciting so many different–and exciting–sensations from your body with just the press of his lips or the squeeze of his big, strong hands.

You never knew until now that it was possible to feel this good.

To want so much.

But you did. 

You wanted more from Ransom, you wanted everything, and you wanted to give yourself to him completely.

"You okay, kitten? You're quieter than usual." Ransom's voice was low and smoky, the way it always got when the two of you indulged in this type of activity for a good, long while.

You shivered, your insides clenching hard as you hugged him close and nodded. 

"Do you wanna stop?" Ransom asked, smoothing a hand over the crown of your head as his face hovered over yours.

You watched him for a long moment, once again finding yourself distracted by how gorgeous he was. You couldn't help it as your hand lifted and your fingers gently traced all along his features: the perfectly straight arch of his nose, his sharp jawline, those pillowy pink lips.

"I want more," you whispered at last, giving voice to the carnal craving–the deep, wanting ache–that was consuming you.

You weren't even completely sure what more was at this point, you just knew that despite how good Ransom was making you feel, it wasn't enough. 

Your body was throbbing and desperate for whatever came next.

"Fuck," he breathed, dropping his forehead to yours and swallowing hard. "You have no idea how long it's been for me."

You stroked his hair as he just laid against you for a moment, unable to help it as your body squirmed and gently writhed beneath him, pressing against the sharp jut of his erection that was nestled against your belly.

You loved knowing that–his excitement and desire–was because of you, that you were making him feel so good that he was overcome and needed a moment to collect himself.

Groaning at the friction your squirming created, Ransom pressed up over you, gazing down at you for a beat. His eyes were so dark they were nearly black, his lips cherry pink and kiss-swollen, and his soft hair flopping over his forehead.

"You're beautiful," you whispered your thought aloud, touching the pads of your fingers to his bottom lip.

"And you're so fucking sweet," he hummed, dipping close and kissing you with the kind of feral passion that had you panting and staring up at him with wide eyes once he pulled away. "M'gonna take such good care of you, kitten. Gonna make it so good for you, gonna make you feel so fucking good."

"Yes, please."

Ransom all but vaulted to his feet, grabbing your hands and tugging you up against him so enthusiastically–and with such a boyish grin curling his lips–that you couldn't help but giggle. 

Moments later you were upstairs in his bedroom, not resisting one bit as Ransom slowly undressed you, until he had you down to your t-shirt and panties and was gently guiding you to lay back on his bed.

He was still dressed in his jeans and sweater as he stretched out over you, pressing his forearm to the mattress above your head as he ducked impossibly close and kissed you slowly.

When you whimpered, desperate for breath, he relented, his lips retreating from yours and instead blazing a hot, open-mouthed trail down your throat. Ransom shifted over you, guiding your body beneath his, until you were on your belly and gazing over your shoulder at him with big eyes. 

Smiling, he stole a kiss from your parted lips, his hand giving your ass a firm grope before he was rising to his feet.

You watched as Ransom yanked off his sweater and flung it aside, your eyes going rounder at the reveal of his naked torso. 

His shoulders were broad and rounded, his chest wide and pale and peppered with dark, wiry hair, and the muscles of his stomach were taut and flexing as his big hands dropped and started working open his belt.

The metal clink of his belt was like ice water being dumped over your head, washing away your desire in an instant and replacing it with a wave of dread so strong that you couldn't help but turn away and bury your face in the covers, terrified. 

Because you knew what that sound meant.

You were a bad girl, after all. 

It was like you were suddenly back in the small, dirty shed all over again. Poppy looming over you–angry and hateful–his belt twining around his hands and he prepared to deliver a world of pain–

But the gentlest press of lips against the exposed small of your back had you gasping sharply in surprise, your mind returning to the present and some of the dread-infused tension easing from your frame as Ransom slowly rucked up your shirt, kissing each new inch of revealed skin as he went. 

Ransom stopped suddenly, and you felt him shift over you, his hand a warm press to your back as he realized, "You're shaking."

You were, and you couldn't find the words to respond and explain why as you trembled beneath him, sniffling into the blankets as a few stray tears streaked down your cheeks.

"Are you okay?" Ransom's voice was laced with concern, his hand smoothing up your back and taking your shirt with it as he told you, "We can stop if you…jesus!"

His exclamation had you peeking over your shoulder at him, finding him staring down at your back in horror. You shivered as his fingers gently traced over the mess of scars that littered your skin.

Ransom swallowed, his sorrowful gaze finding yours as he asked, "Your family did this to you?"

"Poppy did," you whispered. "When I was bad."

"You're never bad," Ransom said vehemently, his face twisting with anger that you knew wasn't for you. "Let alone bad enough to deserve this. You're so good," he murmured, dipping low and pressing a kiss to your marred back, then another. "You're so beautiful. So sweet. You're mine."

"Yes, yours," you echoed, your chest fluttering with happiness at his declaration. 

You sank into the mattress beneath you and fisted the covers as that wanting buzz began to overtake you once more, all the fear and memories from earlier fading far, far away with each new press of Ransom's lips to your skin. 

"Always yours," you whispered on a dreamy sigh.

When Ransom's lips reached your shoulders, he nuzzled close, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Tell me if you want to stop, or if you don't like something, okay? I just want you to feel good."

"Okay," you whispered, peeking at him from your periphery and smiling as he pressed another kiss to your cheek.

Soon, Ransom had you both naked as he guided you onto your back, his hands and lips mapping every inch of your skin that they could reach and lingering each and every time he found a spot that evoked a noise from you, or an eager rock of your hips or a beautiful arch of your back.

When his mouth reached your breasts and lingered, taking its time to lave along your nipples and suck them into little peaks, you whined in carnal delight, your core clenching hard as you felt more seep flow from your cunt.

Humming in victory at your reaction, Ransom doubled down on mouthing and kissing along your breasts, kneading them in his hands as you writhed beneath him, whimpering at the onslaught of pleasure wreaking blissful havoc on your body.

"Please!" you begged, not really sure what you were asking for, just knowing that your body felt like it was right on the edge of something you couldn't quite reach on your own. 

"I've got you, sweetheart," Ransom murmured, leaning up just long enough to grant you a sultry, lingering kiss before his mouth was back to working along your body, trailing down, down, down.

You shuddered at the sight of him settling between your legs, his lips lingering just below your belly button as he gazed up at you with eyes so dark and desirous that you felt another flood of juices seep from your center.

When Ransom nuzzled at the very top of your mound, you whined, instinctually spreading your legs wider in invitation as you tried to scoot closer to him. "Ransom, please. Please."

You reached for him, your fingers just able to sift through his hair and trail down his cheek. His eyes were so soft as he leaned into your touch before turning his face and kissing the pads of your fingers. 

Then his laser focus returned to the soft, wet place between your thighs.

“Time to feel good, my sweet, little kitten. Wanna kiss you here," he rumbled, thumbing up your slit, his touch lingering and circling along the little nub crowning your pussy and making your body jolt like you'd been electrocuted. "Is that okay with you?"

"Yes!" you replied, breathless and nearly mindless with need, squirming some more as you whined. "Yes, please. Anything. Anything you want."

The slow smile that unfurled across Ransom's lips was wolfish and pleased, with a hint of that boyish excitement from earlier that had your tummy swooping in a way unrelated to your desperate desire.

And all you could do was stare down your naked, trembling body to where Ransom was settled between your legs, his big hands smoothing up your inner thighs and spreading you open even wider for him. 

You watched as his dark gaze dropped, his tongue sneaking out to wet his bottom lip as he groaned, and then he was ducking close and dragging his tongue up the cut of you.

Your back bowed as you gave a wordless cry of shocked delight, your eyes so big and startled at how good it felt–how pleasantly naughty too–as Ransom tongued along your folds once more.

You couldn't keep still at the onslaught of his mouth, especially once he tugged up the hood of your clit and started lapping at your sensitive little nub, each stroke of his tongue drawing a quiet keen from between your lips.

Laughing as you thrashed and bucked against him, Ransom dropped a heavy arm over your hips to keep you in place, his fingers tugging your folds apart so he could watch the latest wave of your arousal pool at your pretty, clenching hole.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he cooed at you, dragging his thumb up your slit and circling your clit until you were moaning and sagging back against the bed, dazed.

"So good," you panted, gasping as Ransom rewarded you with another firm, slow drag of his tongue up your cunt. "Oh. Good, so good. More! More, please."

You could feel him laugh against your center as you just started chanting "please," and he gave you exactly what you wanted, his mouth eagerly–and expertly–working along your cunt until your toes were curling and you were giving sweet little cries as you rutted against his face. 

"Come on, kitten, let go for me, sweetheart," Ransom rasped, sucking at your clit as he eased a finger into your fluttering cunt. "Let it feel good, you deserve it."

You moaned, your head so blissfully foggy as Ransom's finger began to move inside of you, dragging back and forth against your velvety walls and making your insides tighten more and more with each sinful caress.

When his mouth returned to your clit just as he slid a second finger inside of you, you sobbed, feeling all of the exquisite, dueling sensations building up inside of you finally reach their peak. 

You gave a sharp, wordless cry of ecstasy as pleasure burst inside of you before flooding through every inch of your body.

It was like your body went wild, your muscles locking then releasing over and over again, wracking you with each and every wave of your release as you distantly registered Ransom's gravelly voice talking you through it. 

"There you go, such a good girl, look at you, kitten," he murmured, smoothing a hand up your quivering belly before catching your fingers with his and giving you something to hold onto as you rode the waves of your release. "You're so pretty when you cum, sweetheart."

When your body finally came down from its high, sagging back against the covers, you whimpered, breathless and overwhelmed as you dazedly blinked up at the ceiling. 

Ransom's handsome, flushed face moved into your line of sight as he stretched out over you, smiling with a smug gleam in his eye at your glassy, debauched state.

"You doing okay there?" he asked, laughing as you immediately reached for him and yanked him down against you for a hug.

When he realized that you were sniffling, he pulled away enough to see your face, frowning as he swiped away a few stray tears from your warm cheek. 

"Hey, I didn't hurt you, did I?"

You shook your head, burying your face against his chest, your words muffled as you replied, "So good, just a lot."

Shifting until he was stretched out beside you and tugging you close, Ransom pressed kisses all along the crown of your head. 

"You did so well for me, kitten." Another kiss. "Letting me take care of you like that." He nuzzled along your temple. "Love seeing you feel so good. Love making you feel that good."

Shivering, you snuggled closer to Ransom, pressing a kiss to his collar bone to show him without words that you were okay and appreciated him. Your lips quirked as you heard him chuckle before he was raining down another wave of kisses all along your head.

After a while, you realized that despite the innocent way in which Ransom's hand was smoothing up and down your back, his hips were gently rocking against you, pressing his hard length into your belly.

You shifted, your curiosity getting the better of you as you tentatively reached for him. You paused just before you touched him, tipping your face up to find Ransom watching you with a look so feral and wanting that you clenched around nothing, distantly wishing for Ransom's fingers to fill you up again.

"I can touch?"

"Fuck yeah you can," Ransom immediately replied. 

You laughed, feeling shy as you trailed your fingers along the smooth, hot length of him. When Ransom jerked and moaned in response, your wide eyes shot up to him, noting the way his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched, like he was holding himself back in some way. 

"Feels good?" you checked, your fingers itching to touch him some more.

He nodded, swallowing hard, his hand no longer rubbing along your back but gripping your ass. "Yeah, kitten, feels really good."

"Good," you hummed, returning your attention to his cock.

You dragged the pads of your fingers up and down, up and down, then down further still as you explored the foreign texture of his sack.

"Fuck, you're gonna drive me crazy," Ransom gritted. He reached for your hand, guiding it back to his cock. "Like this, grip it and squeeze a little. Yeah, fuck, just like that, stroke it nice and slow."

You squirmed as Ransom groaned, his head dropping back against the bed as you pressed your thighs together and continued to touch him the way he showed you. 

You were mesmerized by his cock, the weight and girth of it in your hand, the way touching him in such a simple way could reduce him to a moaning, groaning mess. And when the head of his length started to dribble white cream, you perked up, swiping it away with your thumb before sucking it into your mouth with a hum.

"Ohhhhkay, that's it," Ransom moved so fast, you squeaked, rolling you beneath him as he settled between your legs. "Please tell me that you're ready for more?"

You blinked at him, your taste buds still tanging with the salt of his pre-cum. "More?"

"I wanna be inside you. Wanna fill you up with my cock," he groaned, rutting against your stomach.

When your eyes went comically wide, your mouth dropping open, Ransom huffed a laugh, his shoulders shaking with mirth as he dropped his forehead to yours.

"Jesus, you're so fucking sweet, c'mere," he murmured. 

When he cradled your cheek with his hand and descended on you with a round of hungry, thorough kisses, you hummed your appreciation, your fingers sinking into Ransom's hair as your lips met his press for press.

"Can I have you now, kitten?" Ransom murmured against your lips, his eyes heavy-lidded as he ground against you with a quiet groan. "Want you so bad."

"Yes," you didn't hesitate to reply, letting your legs fall open even further around him in invitation. "Wanna make you feel good, too."

You pet along his hair, dazzled by how beautiful Ransom looked like this, desperate and needy–for you–his handsome face flushed and his eyes blown fat and black with lust.

You felt Ransom's hand drop between your bodies, another quiet moan hitching in his throat as he prepped himself with a few strokes before he was guiding his cock to your entrance.

He paused then, blinking some of the lust addled haze from his eyes as he watched your face. "Relax for me," he instructed just as the head of his cock caught along your fluttering hole.

Your breath hitched at the unfamiliar feeling, but you tried your best to listen to Ransom, letting your body sink even further into the mattress beneath you as your fingers dug into his back. 

He plunged into you slowly–carefully–his lips parting and eyes fluttering as you gasped at the strange feeling of his body joining with yours.

The stretch of his cock filling you up was unlike anything you had ever felt before. There was a slight twinge of discomfort but it became a distant memory the longer you watched Ransom, saw the way pleasure and relief danced along his features as he moaned and gently rocked against you.

Your breath hitched as he reached his limit, feeling so full and floaty as you realized you'd gone most of your life not even realizing how empty you were until now.

That there had always been this space inside of you, waiting to be filled by another.

And the fact that it was Ransom…

It was Ransom inside of you, his body now one with yours, making you feel whole for the first time in your life.

You whined in overwhelm–and greedy desire for more, for him–your hands sliding along Ransom's back and yanking him flush against you, your desperation to feel more of him consuming you. 

"You okay?" he asked, his brow furrowing with concern and his jaw gritting as you clenched around him hard. "Fuck."

"More, please," you pleaded softly. "Make me feel good. Make us feel good, please, Ransom?"

"I've got you, kitten," he murmured, dropping his lips to yours for a kiss.

When his body started to rock against yours, his hips pushing and pulling, you swore your body lit up like a sunrise.

You felt that feeling from before start to build up deep inside of you, growing stronger and stronger with every deep plunge of Ransom's cock inside of you. Eager to feel that bone rattling release from before–the pinnacle of your pleasure–you curled your legs over his hips, moving your body against his.

"Oh god, that's it," Ransom moaned, his hand finding yours on the bed and lacing your fingers together as he dropped his forehead to yours. "Squeeze around me, kitten, squeeze my cock, let me feel you."

Whining, you tried to do what he wanted, victory washing over you as Ransom groaned, his hips snapping harder as he sought his pleasure in the deepest depths of your body.

"Fuck, so good, you feel so good," he babbled, grunting as he gave a particularly deep thrust and lingered inside of you, panting against your parted lips.

You watched him, mesmerized, the sight of Ransom unraveling before your eyes driving you closer and closer to the edge.

And when he slid his free hand between your bodies and started rubbing at your clit as his pace increased, you finally tipped over the edge of that exquisite, blissful precipice that you so longed to revisit.

You gave a quiet keen as your body seized, your orgasm rocking through you so hard that it made Ransom groan as you clamped down on his cock and writhed beneath him.

"Oh god, fuck, I'm so close, s'close," he muttered, panting as he pounded into you. He nipped at your bottom lip, groaning as you whimpered and gave him another squeeze before going pliant and boneless beneath him. "M'Cumming."

Mewling as Ransom gave another hard, deep plunge, your insides quivered before he suddenly pulled out of you, nestled his cock between your sopping folds, and rutted against you until he finished.

You watched, wide eyed and mouth parted in a little 'o', as he came with a series of quiet grunts and moans, his cum spurting all along your cunt and belly in warm, creamy ribbons until he was finally spent.

"Fuck," Ransom breathed, sinking back on his haunches between your sprawled legs and gazing down at your messy pussy like it was his most cherished treasure.

You squirmed as he reached out and rubbed your combined messes all over your folds, jolting as the pressure on your clit had you squeaking in surprise.

Grinning, Ransom slowly crawled over you, his eyes so warm and his hair falling over his forehead as he touched your cheek like you were as delicate as finely spun glass and kissed you until you were both panting for breath.

"God, that was amazing," he hummed, stealing one more kiss before flopping down on the bed beside you. "You good, kitten?"

"Very good," you nodded, watching as he tucked a hand behind his head, his eyes fluttering shut as he sighed in content. "Thank you."

"Ditto," he grinned, his eyes still closed and his free hand blindly reaching for you, until you pressed your palm to his and twined your fingers together as you shimmied closer to him.

He was so beautiful like this, and he looked so happy, so at peace–for once–and you did that.

Smiling to yourself, you perched your chin on the side of his chest, enjoying the quiet together as your eager gaze flickered all along Ransom's naked body. You tentatively reached out and touched the wiry hair on his chest, surprised by the coarseness of it.

When you shifted closer to touch him some more, you suddenly became hyper aware of the mess all along your thighs and core. You glanced down, realizing Ransom's seed was starting to dry and pull against your skin uncomfortably.

You frowned, realizing how dirty you were.

You didn't like to be dirty.

"Hey, you okay?"

Your head popped up, your startled eyes finding Ransom's.

There was still a smile tugging at his lips, but his eyes were shining in concern now, too.

"Need to get clean, please," you told him, gently pushing yourself up to a sit and frowning down at yourself. "Please." 

At the ring of desperation–a different kind than before–in your voice, Ransom immediately sat up beside you. His big hand touched your back as he smiled at you. "Yeah, of course, come on."

He corralled you to your feet and laughed when you went to leave his room to retreat to your own. 

"Not tonight, kitten. Tonight you're staying with me."

Your face lit up, a big, beautiful smile breaking free as you replied, "I am?!"

"You are," Ransom confirmed, leading you into his bathroom and the big glass shower beyond.

He was quick to get you both cleaned up, being extra gentle with you, especially once you started to sag against him in exhaustion. 

Soon he was donning a pair of boxer briefs and tugging one of his clean t-shirts over your head before leading you back to his bed.

"I can sleep in your bed tonight? With you?" you gave him a sleepy smile, so sweetly excited that Ransom couldn't help but laugh. 

"Yep." He kissed the tip of your nose before pulling back the covers and gesturing you inside. 

Once he joined you, you immediately snuggled close, clinging to him as your eyes grew heavier and heavier with each passing second. 

"I made you feel good, too?" you murmured, glancing up at him with a hopeful look. 

"Yeah, kitten, you were incredible." Ransom smoothed a hand over your head. "You made me feel so good, sweetheart."

You quietly trilled your delight, nuzzling against his bare chest, so close to sleep but still unable to stop yourself from gazing up at Ransom with a soft smile. You reached up, gently touching his lips and smiling as he caught your fingers in his and kissed the tip of each one.

There was a different kind of feeling building up in you now, something vibrant and happy and glowing. 

As you stared up at Ransom, on the receiving end of that soft, warm look in his eye, after the night you had just shared together, you finally realized what he was to you.

And it was so far beyond a simple friend.

But you were too tired to find the words to express it, so you just snuggled closer and reached for his hand, fitting your fingers between his before your joined hands settled against his bare stomach. 

"Good night, Ransom," you whispered, your words slurring with exhaustion and making him smile.

"Really good night," Ransom replied, earning one final giggle from you before you were drifting off, his next words lingering in your mind as you surrendered to sleep, "Sweet dreams, kitten."

And they were.

OKAY. THESE TWO. I JUST ::FLAPPY HANDS:: THE LOVE I HAVE FOR THEM IS ENDLESS. PLEASE TAKE A MOMENT TO DROP A COMMENT. ❤️

NEXT PART

—

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You shrug and stare at the floor. You sit on the fold out sofa and mope. "I guess..." You murmur. You swallow. "Thank you, Frank. But... My grandma is right, I can't do anything right--"

"What do you mean? You made me that dragonfly. You make good coffee. And you got a sweet soul, girl. We're not gonna listen to her. And we're done talking about her." He says as he slides his wallet off the counter top and flips it open quickly before closing it and tucking it in his pocket.

"I'm sorry." You sniffle.

"Don't need none of that," he drawls gently as he puts his keys in his pocket. "I don't think I got no shoes that'll stay on ya, so..." He approaches and you get up.

"Oh... Yeah..." You look down at the borrowed socks. Even rolled, they're slipping off.

"No worries." He says and scoops you up just like the night before. You're just as surprised, letting out a pitchy help. "You best to stay off that foot anyhow."

"Frank." You gasp.

"My name never sounded nicer, I think." He chortles. "Come on."

He carries you outside and around his truck. He has you open the door before he puts you up on the seat. You steady yourself and sheepishly smile.

"Don't forget to buckle in." He warns and shuts the door.

He strides around and climbs into the driver's side. He twists the ignition as you pull down the seatbelt. He grips the ridge wheel with one hand and cranes to back out.

"First thing, we'll get ya some shoes." He says as he cranks the wheel to put the truck straight.

"Um, oh... But..."

"I don't want ya to worry about it. Let me tell you, I never do nothing I don't wanna." He steers along the gravelly road. You refuse to look at your grandma's lot. "'sides I got other things to take care of. Been meaning to and all."

You nod and rub your palms together nervously. You stare out the windshield, floating off into the full blue of the sky. The engine rumbles through your anxious trance. Frank's not gonna put up with you forever, no one does.

You wince as Frank reaches in your peripheral. He flips the radio on. It lights up as the cassette inside winds through the track in progress.

They say compassion is a virtue, but I don't have the time

So many people have no problems

I'm not interested in their problems

I guess I'll experience some problems

The man's unique voice and cadence underline each lyric with an erratic energy. It's different. Confusing but intriguing.

Frank pulls into town as the music feeds your anxiety. He stops at a plaza and cranks the shifter to park. He clears his throat and runs his hands over his hair.

"I'ma run in quick and get something to put on your feet for now." He explains. "What's your size, sugar?"

It takes a moment to answer. You've been shoving your feet into too small hand me downs for years so you tell him a size bigger than the faded numbers on the insoles. He slaps the wheel before he goes, telling you to lock the doors.

You reach over to push down the metal stick on his side. He stalks into the general store as you wring your hand around two fingers. You can't do anything but what he tells you to. There's nothing bad about that but you need to figure out what you'll do when he's done with you. It's happened twice, it'll happen again. You can't always be someone else's problem.

Frank comes back out. You unlock the door for him and he sighs as he get in. He looks down at the pair of cotton shoes in his hand. The cotton ones with eyelets but no shoelaces, just an elastic strap sewn inside.

“It's what they had.” He offers. “But it'll do for now. There's a place a town over. I wanted to go there instead–“

“Is it far?” You ask as you take the shoes. “Thanks. They're cute.”

“Yeah? They only had grey.”

“It's good.” You assure him.

“Ain't too far,” he clicks his seatbelt into place. “Won't complain for time together, huh?”

You carefully bend your legs, one at a time, and slip on the shoes over your socks. You hum in agreement, nothing else to say in your head. He pulls out of the lot and continues onto the roads.

“Tape's done,” he says as you get to the town limit sign. “There's some more in the glove box. Your choice.”

“Oh, um, I just listen to whatever uh…” you stop yourself from mentioning your grandma. “Okay.”

You open the glove box as he ejects the tape. He hands it over and you switch out The Talking Head for Fleetwood Mac. You know them a little.

“Good ear.” He praises as he blows down the country roads.

“Mm, I just picked whatever.”

“No complaints from me,” he intones.

You look out the window and watch the trees dwindle to farmland then pop back up. You nearly squeal as a weight settles on your shoulder and squeeze. “You okay?” Frank asks as he steers around a bend with his other hand.

“Good,” you cheep as you put your head straight.

“Almost there.” He promises as his hand trails down your arm and he lets go.

“Okay,” you accept as you wiggle your foot anxiously.

“Maybe we'll grab something to eat while we're at it. It's gon be a long day.” He says.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, honey, you take your time. I want you to pick stuff you like.” He explains.

“Erm.” You chew your lip.

“You know, this isn't probably where you wanna be. Stuck with me.” He says. “But we'll figure out, won't we?” He shifts slightly and stretches his neck with a grunt. “You're a nice woman and you're creative. You got a lot goin' for ya and I'm sure once you know it, you'll be leavin’ me in the dust.”

“What?” You squeak. “No.”

“It's okay. I'm an old man, sug. And you're so…” he goes quiet and shrugs, fingers tapping on the wheel. “Well, ya know, I'm just an old soldier. I'm used to losing people.”

But Walt had.

So, Ransom could only nod at Agent Rogers, his hands clenched into fists in his lap. The hard metal of the cuffs dug into his wrists, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered but you at this point, and he'd do you this last favor because he owed it to you. 

"Just make sure she stays safe, and I'll give you everything you need." 

Agent Rogers nodded, his knuckles tapping the table before he stood to exit the room. 

Ransom dropped his head to the table, not realizing or really caring that Rogers had stopped near the door. 

"Would you like to see her a final time? Explain things yourself. Maybe make it less awful than it's going to be."

He hesitated. 

If he saw you, could he actually go through with this plan? Could he actually make it so you walk away from him, angry but unscathed? Or would he crumble, and worse, beg you to not leave him while his world imploded? 

No.

No, he was doing this right. 

He'd already sworn to himself he would do right by you. 

But, he did want to see you. 

He could do this. 

He could make this the goodbye you need to move on. 

So, he nodded.

Agent Rogers left then, but returned within minutes with you in tow.

Tears streaked down your face as you rushed to his side. Your arms wrapped around him the best they could with his current position and cuffed hands. God, you looked even smaller than you were with the way you tried to fit his massive body in your shorter arms. "What's going on, Ran? Why are you here? Why are you cuffed? Is this about your family?"

"All you need to know is that you're going with him," he nodded towards Agent Rogers stood near the doorway. "He's going to set you up somewhere far away from here. You're getting a second chance."

"I don't want it," you swore, your gaze never leaving Ransom, "not without you." 

"Look, Polly Pocket, this was never meant to last. We've run our course, and it's time to move on." 

You lurched away from him as if you'd been burned. In a way, you had. 

Ransom knew how sensitive you could be about your shorter stature, but he had to play dirty here. If he didn't, you wouldn't leave. That was the one thing he couldn't afford to have happen. So he pushed on, the words tasting as bitter as days-old coffee. "Go and find someone more your size, yeah? Or at least someone whose knees and back don't kill them every time they're wanting some loving from you."

He refused to say how much he liked how his back and knees ached every time he brought you pleasure. He'd do it a million times over just to have you shaking beneath him and looking at him as if he were worth all your sacrifices. He had his mission, and he wouldn't deviate from it. 

"You're being such an asshole," you hissed, swiping away your tears with fisted hands. 

He swallowed but nodded. "Yeah, I'm aware. What's your point? Not sure why you're still here. Go on and leave, will ya?"

"This isn't you," you whispered, conviction clear as was the sadness that had so quickly replaced your anger. 

Ransom swallowed again, but pushed on. "Maybe I was pretending to be better, darlin'. Just to see what it's like with a shorty like you, but it was never going to last. Like you said, I'm an asshole. Assholes get what they deserve, don't they?"

"And you deserve whatever you're doing now?"

"Yeah, I do," he murmured, meeting your teary gaze for a final moment before swiveling to Agent Rogers, "Get her out of here, huh? I've said what I needed to say, so why's she still here?"

Rogers appeared ready to argue, but Ransom shook his head. 

It was better this way. Let you be angry at him. Let you believe you were better off without him in your life. You probably were. Your life will go on, and you'll find someone who'll love you the way you deserve without all the baggage that he'd bring to you. That's the clean break he could give you from the life you two had been building. 

"Come along, miss," Rogers said softly to you, his hand reaching out but not quite touching. "Agent Levinson is finishing up your paperwork. I'll have you look it over and make sure it's as it should be. Then, we'll take you somewhere safe tonight." 

You stared at Ransom for a long moment. 

He could feel the heat of it even as he kept his gaze locked on the wall beyond Rogers' shoulder. 

Just as he could feel when you finally turned to walk away. Your final words were little more than a whisper, but they might as well have been shouted as you said, "I forgive you, Ransom Drysdale. I hope whatever you're doing here tonight works out for the better. I really do."

You left then and didn't look back. 

He knew you wouldn't, and he couldn't say it didn't kill him that you didn't. 

But that was for the best. 

They'd warned him the mob life wasn't a place for you, and they'd been right. 

But it also turned out it wasn't meant for him, either, but he'd learned that too late. 

And it'd cost him the only person who'd ever meant the world to him. 

It had cost him the future he'd always wanted but would never accomplish.

The flight in the private jet back to Boston is the first time you’re confined to a space alone with Andy since the morning after everything unraveled at the villa. The two of you had orbited around each other, and he’d only forced your company for the social engagements. It had been shocking, and you had expected there to be some point at which he’d demand an interaction.

But he hadn’t.

Even the morning of your departure, there’d been a note left on the kitchen counter that there was business associate he and Lloyd had to take a meeting with, and so he’d see you on the tarmac.

He hadn’t taken any meetings for nearly seven weeks, so why he had one on your final day seemed like an excuse, but one you were glad he’d made.

You keep to yourself for the first hour, blanketing yourself in music and noise-canceling the entire plane. The flight attendant brings you food; you turn it down. Andy doesn’t even look up from his tablet or whatever he’s staring at. You’re astounded by the discipline, the sheer restraint. Seven weeks of being together—sleeping together, eating together, sometimes not even breathing unless the other was in the room—and now you’re basically anonymous passengers to each other on a plane. You should be grateful for the reprieve, but it makes you feel something worse than anger. It’s a fatigue that’s half heartbreak and half relief, an exhaustion so deep it feels stitched into your bones, making it hard to want anything at all—not even vengeance.

For the last week you’ve harbored the exhaustion of wanting something you’re ashamed of wanting, the kind that makes thirty-five thousand feet of sky feel like the bottom of the ocean.

Even now, you think about calling your mom or calling Thea, and you can’t stomach it. You don’t want to be the fool who messed up again, and you know neither of them would let you feel that way, you do know that. But you still can’t stomach having to talk about everything that’s happened.

You look up at the roof of the cabin when the familiar ache at the back of your throat gets worse, when you realize your vision has gone blurry at the edges. You let yourself cry only once at the villa. You don’t want to be crying, and you certainly don’t want him to see it, but of course he does.

You feel it before you look up—the cabin contracting, his attention shifting from deliberate absence to something still and fixed. When you look over, he’s there, eyes on you, not bothering to look away.

He’s not glaring. He’s not smirking. He’s just sitting there, hands braced on his knees, head slightly lowered, as if he’s waiting for a verdict or maybe for you to say something—but you have nothing to say to him, not right now, not ever in a way that wouldn’t cost you more than you can afford.

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until you see stars, then look away, back to the window. Nothing out there—just black, the kind that makes you feel like the plane is standing still, like there’s nowhere left to arrive. The hum of the cabin fills in around the edges. You. Him. Whatever it is you’re going to have to figure out how to carry when you land.

He does finally speak, somewhere over Newfoundland, in a tone so flat it could almost be the engine noise.

He says your name. Not Mrs. Not wife. Just your first name, like it’s a code word or a trigger. It floats across the cabin and you can feel it snag deep in your ribs, a sudden, sharp tug. You keep your eyes straight ahead.

“I know I can’t fix what happened in Italy,” he says. His voice is calm—not soft, not kind, just controlled. “But I want to know if you’re coming back to Boston as my partner, or as my hostage.”

You laugh, a sharp, biting sound that comes out before you can stop it. “Was there ever a choice?”

He lets it hang. The cabin is silent but for the white noise of engines and air rushing past aluminum. Quite reluctantly, you look at him. He’s leaned forward in his seat, elbows braced, hands locked tightly together.

“I need you to understand something,” he says, and the rattle of the cart in the galley is the only sign the world is continuing outside of this conversation. “The life we’re going back to is not going to feel like that house.”

“You made that abundantly clear,” you say, “You told me yourself—liminal space, not real life. Isn’t it a relief to get back to the world you designed?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He lets the words pool between you, absorbs them. His stare is unwavering, stripping away the distance between your seats, but it’s not cruel—if anything, it’s the most exposed you’ve seen him outside the night he gave you his mother’s brush.

“No, it’s not a relief,” Andy says finally. “It’s a liability.” He stops. Inhales. “You’re a liability.”

You did not expect those words, and almost lands as an insult, but instead you’re almost proud—finally, something true and ugly, not polished for effect. “I’ll try not to be,” you say with a humorless smile, but the ache in your throat is getting worse, and now it’s not from fatigue.

He sighs, and you hear the edge of human tiredness in him, not the constructed fatigue of someone performing the part. “I know I was ruthless with you. I know what I am.”

The questions of why did you do any of it, then? why take the risk? why force me? why pretend? swirl in you like a storm, but you don’t let any of them out in this moment.

Instead, you venture, “Do you want to know what I hate the most?” You give him a look so sharp you hope it draws blood, but you’re too tired for real malice. “I hate that it was good. I hate that you were better than I expected in ways that made me want things I couldn’t have. I hate that you made me want to stay, and then made it impossible to stay.” You take in a deep breath and then say the worst part. “I hate that I’m heartbroken.”

Andy absorbs this. He doesn’t try to talk you down or walk back the truth you’ve lobbed at him. He just rubs a hand over his bearded jaw, and when it drops away, you see the faint trembling in his fingers.

“I didn’t want it to end that way,” he says at last, staring at the tabletop between you like it might yield the correct answer if he keeps staring. “I thought if I took you far enough away, surrounded us with something perfect, we could…” He searches for the word, but even he doesn’t seem to know what shape to give it. “It doesn’t matter.”

You almost want to ask him what it was supposed to be between you, but what does it matter? How are you supposed to trust any of it?

Andy turns his head, gaze fixed on the oval window, the blue-white arc of the jet’s wing. “I can’t shut it off,” he says after a long beat. “I thought with you, maybe—” He stops. “I wanted to.”

You blink, not sure you heard it right. Maybe he’s angling for sympathy, but the words don’t quite land that way; they’re surrendered, not given.

You almost say, I wanted that, too. But the words feel buried under the weight in your throat. You’ve been in almost this spot with him before, and you won’t give him another soft admission this time.

You remember the reverence in his voice one of those blissful, happy nights in Lake Como, a tone you’d never heard before.

“I like us here,” he’d murmured into your ear.

And you, caught in the spell of it, had admitted, “I do, too.”

“I’ll be in New York for the next week. Maybe two.” Like he’s talking about going out for a carton of milk. “There are things I need to set in order since I’ve been gone.”

Everything inside you wants to spit something cruel, but you just nod, keeping your eyes fixed on the window. “You’ll have Shep and Mark. I’m not leaving you unprotected. But…” he pauses. Sighs, the word dissolving before it’s fully formed. “You can do what you want with the time.” You wonder if he thinks this is a kindness. If he expects gratitude. You say nothing. The silence endures, painful, invasive. He says, “I’ll be out of your way,” again, softer, and this time you almost believe he means it as penance.

You land at Logan airport. The customs officials board the plane and clear you for re-entry. The black Range Rover is waiting on the tarmac, backseat climate-controlled and softly lit, Mark up front, Shep waiting with the rear door open, his posture all respectful deference and zero curiosity.

Andy doesn’t make a show of seeing you to the car. He simply helps load your bag in the trunk and shakes Shep’s hand as if he’s passing along a charge. There’s no hug, no goodbye, but there is one last look. Short, and with a nod. Then he’s on the phone before you’ve finished getting into the back seat, and he’s striding back to climb the stairs into the plane and leave you for New York.

The city’s lights seem surgical after weeks of olive oil and sun, a whole different wavelength—unfamiliar, then familiar, because Boston is still utterly, inescapably home. The perimeter of things you have to face here is coming into focus, and beyond the ache in your ribcage and the hollowing exhaustion, there is a brittle sense that you are braced for it. At least some parts are. The rest is raw and soft and probably always will be.

You expect the house to be cold and dark, but you forgot that Andy’s people would keep the mechanisms of daily life humming and stoke them back to full life for your return. The lights are on, the entry immaculate, flowers everywhere.

The re-entry is a shock to the system. You wander upstairs and stand under the shower’s sterile, even heat, so different from the sun-warmed water at the villa. You let the cold marble chill your feet, a grounding sensation, and watch condensation erase your reflection in the glass.

You are halfway dried off and dressed in a robe when you hear Shep’s voice through the hallway, relaying some detail of tomorrow’s schedule to Mark—something about groceries and deliveries and your standing appointment at the studio. You almost want to cry at the normalcy. The urge to resent Andy for anticipating all your needs, for giving you back this version of your life like it’s a favor is strong, and yet it’s a relief to not have to fight for things to start up again.

You are almost ready to crawl into bed and lose yourself in a marathon of whatever the algorithm serves you, but there’s a knock at your bedroom door. You’re so unused to being summoned that your first thought is that you imagined it. The knock comes again, firmer.

A voice follows: “Ma’am?” It’s Shep.

You cinch the robe, open the door. Shep stands there, hands folded in front of him, gaze respectfully averted.

“Shep, you really can’t keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ You’re, what? Eight? Ten years older than me? It’s weird.”

He gives a short, almost silent laugh. “Forgive me. It’s not a matter of age. It’s just—never first names, not in this line of work.” His words settle with a gentle finality, as if he’s stating one of the few things in his world that is simply not negotiable. You want to argue—tease, even—but there’s a dignity in Shep’s posture that tells you he’s not performing. It’s not subordination, but a kind of personal code. “If you don’t want ma’am, I can use Mrs. Barber, or an equivalent. But never your first name. That’s not respectful.”

You almost smile at this. “Fine,” you say, “ma’am if you absolutely must. But you can drop the tone like you’re addressing the principal.”

He nods, a fraction less rigid. “Understood.” The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely.

“Is this just a courtesy check, or?”

“No, there’s a small matter that needs your attention down in the kitchen.”

“Alright, give me just a moment.”

He nods, and you close the door. You throw on leggings and a cashmere sweater, not bothering with makeup or anything else, and head down the wide staircase, following Shep. “What about a nickname? Like my security detail codename! You have those for us, right? Like the Secret Service?”

“Your codename on the records is ‘Mrs. Barber.’”

“That’s lame,” you huff. “It literally couldn’t be anything more interesting than that?”

Shep’s shoulders hint at a shrug, and the movement smooths out his usual ex-military stony bearing. “He insisted upon it from day one, ma’am, but we all would have. Codenames are for assets, not family. You’re not an asset.”

“I might as well be,” you mutter. But you drop it as Shep steers you into the kitchen, where the lights are bright, the air is flush with the smell of American fast food, and two figures you’d know anywhere are such a profound relief you could weep.

Your parents are standing at the island, your father in his battered Red Sox sweatshirt and your mother wearing a navy cardigan you would have called “teacher-core” if you had the emotional bandwidth for jokes. She’s unpacking a paper bag from Shake Shack, a guilty-pleasure custom sandwich in each hand. Your dad is setting out cartons of fries and the crinkle-cut pickles that only your mother will touch, and both parents look up in the same instant when they see you.

For one sharp, embarrassing second you nearly cry. Not from homesickness, but an animal relief you didn’t realize you’d been holding at bay for weeks. You’re in your own kitchen, your parents are here, and you have never felt so much like a child in your adult life.

Your mother, of course, crosses the kitchen in three steps, gathers you in a hug so tight you hope your ribs pop. She doesn’t let go, not when your dad comes around to add his own arms, both of them holding you in a sandwich of warmth and cheap detergent and fryer grease.

She smells your hair, then cups your jaw with one hand, tilting your face to the light. “You look too thin,” she says, which is her form of ‘I missed you so much it hurts,’ and you almost laugh, because you know you undoubtedly filled out more with all the indulgent meals and sweets that you never worried about at the villa.

“Oh, she’s fine,” your dad says, and then to you, “You look great, kid.” He scuffs your shoulder and draws you in, rolling his eyes at your mother in the way of a man who has built his whole life around loving her, and of course you.

You mumble something about not expecting them, as you step back.

“Did we overstep?” your mom flusters. “Andy texted us yesterday that you were coming home but that he had to go directly out of town for a bit, and he said there’d be nobody here to greet you. I thought—”

“We didn’t want you coming home to an empty house,” your father finishes.

You’re hit with the double impact of their presence—the comfort of being known and the mortification of being inspected by people who will always see more than you want them to.

“You didn’t overstep,” you say, because you realize it’s the closest thing to relief you’ve felt since boarding the plane. “I just. I’m really glad to see you.”

Your mother beams. “You don’t have to thank us, dear. You know we’d walk through fire for you.” She is, as ever, immediately in motion, pulling a chair out and patting it, already unwrapping your sandwich, refilling your water bottle, doggedly ignoring the bags under your eyes and the maternal worry warping every word. “Sit, sit, and tell us everything.”

You sit with them at the kitchen island, because that’s what you’ve always done, and let them fuss and fill your plate and ask questions you are both eager and terrified to answer as you fill your stomach with food that feels like home.

You do not tell your parents about the end of what happened in Italy, but you do tell them every detail of the lake, the food, the neighbors, and Lloyd—your mother wants to know everything, leaning forward on her elbows, and your father sits back with his arms crossed and a look on his face like he can’t quite decide if Lloyd is the funniest thing he’s ever heard or if you’re making him up. You leave out his mafia affiliation, of course.

You focus on what isn’t hard to say: the meals, the wine, the impossible blue of the water, the way Andy cooked from his mother’s recipe book. You skip all the nights of the last week, and edit your time down to just sun and laughter and the gradual narrowing of a world to the shape of the villa.

You let yourself be cared for. With every bite of the familiar food, every casual question about their friends, the tension in your shoulders eases. They are a shelter you didn’t know you were desperate for. You watch them, these people who have nursed you through everything, and know their love could contain the entire ugly truth. But the words won’t come—not about Andy, not about a marriage that feels both forced upon you and chosen, the two truths tangled so tightly you can’t find the start of either one. Especially not now, with damage you haven’t yet found the language for.

When your mother’s phone lights up mid-anecdote with a call from one of her friends, she excuses herself with an apologetic grimace and heads down the hall. You expect her to linger in the mudroom or maybe stand in the foyer, but she vanishes properly, leaving you and your father alone at the island.

He checks to make sure your mother is out of earshot, then sighs and leans in, folding his arms on the stone counter. He’s never been good at letting silence hang, so you brace for the bluntness you know is coming.

He says your name, softly. “Level with me. Are you okay?”

You look at your father, and your first impulse is to say, yes, of course, because you always want to be his strong, brave little girl. But you’re beyond empty, and the real answer is floating so close to the surface.

“No,” you say. “But I will be.”

He tilts his head, studying you, and you recall, with a sick kind of fondness, how your dad has never bought a single lie out of your mouth, not since you were six and inventing elaborate reasons for missing homework. He waits. His face settles into something patient and unguarded, the same expression you remember from every hard conversation you’ve ever had at a kitchen table with this man.

You flex your fingers around your glass, smearing the condensation that’s gathered there, and then you admit, honestly, “I don’t know, Dad.” Your voice comes out calm, steadier than you expected. “This all spun out a little faster than I thought it would.”

He nods slowly, his eyes dropping to the Shake Shack wrappers between you. “Your mother threw a plate at me once.” He says it quietly, picking at a napkin. “1987. We’d been married two years. I’m not telling you marriage is hard—you know that.” He finally looks up, his eyes steady. “I’m just telling you it’s your choice. And if you ever needed to just… come home,” he gestures vaguely at the room around you, “you could. You know that, right?”

You force yourself to nod, not trusting your throat to work around too many words. “I know. I do.”

Your father’s face breaks into a tiny smile, and it’s the only thing that keeps you from falling apart entirely. He squeezes your hand, then clears his throat. “It’s better with a full stomach,” he says, gesturing at the wrappers, “and better with company.”

Your mother returns, phone call over. “You two didn’t finish all the fries, did you?”

You shake your head and say, “Wouldn’t dare.”

Your father passes the rest of his fries to her, and your heart thrums happily watching them.

The evening winds into a tangle of low, sweet moments—your mother gushing over some of the gorgeous kitchen appliances, your dad quietly snooping through the fridge and coming back with four pints of ice cream, and insists you all do blind taste tests until your tongue is numb and you cannot stop laughing.

Eventually the yawns win out, your mother shooing you off the kitchen stool like a child past her bedtime. You protest, but your body sags in grateful relief as she ushers you up the stairs. Your parents gather their things, making you promise to come by theirs Sunday for brunch and any other night you just want company while Andy’s gone.

Back upstairs, you truly internalize that you’ve never been alone like this in this bedroom alone before. It’s the same room, the same balcony view, the same walk-in closet and familiar textures, but no one was waiting, and no one will eventually join you.

Andy is not here. He is not coming—not tonight, not for a week, probably not for longer.

The actuality of it feels weirdly hollow.

You drift through the motions of bedtime. You try to read for a bit, and you’re sure you do, but the words blur and ghost by. Your teeth are brushed, your face is washed; you can’t quite remember doing either. You are so wrung out you can barely cobble together the will to change into pajamas. You settle for underwear and a t-shirt, and sink into the endless white of the sheets.

You fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when you surface again, it’s to a spill of midmorning light and an unfamiliar quiet. For a second you forget where you are. The confusion is clean, like you could be anyone and in any life, and you let it last until the dull ache in your chest has time to catch up, and you realize you’re in the bed, alone. You feel oddly rested. Not good, necessarily, but not the emotional hangover you’ve been battling back bit by bit each day, either. It’s as if your body has decided, somewhere deep inside, to metabolize all the heartbreak and embarrassment into a low, manageable hum now that you’re back in Boston.

You rouse yourself and stretch, expecting the sensation of Andy’s hand on your lower back, but there’s only the cool rush of linen and your own skin. You lie there, staring up. The ceiling molds itself around the sunlight in a way that makes you ache for the lake villa, for the slow, gold mornings that rewired you to want gentleness.

You get up, pad across the cold floor, and spend an aimless hour in the shower, letting the spray needle your scalp until your thoughts turn clear. You towel off, dress comfortably, and head for the kitchen, not even bothering with a bra or shoes because this giant house is where you live and you don’t care who sees you here.

After breakfast, you meander into your study, pleased to see your plants were well taken care of in your absence, but after only glancing at the elegant desk with your laptop, you wander back out and head upstairs again.

You settle for the easiest distraction: unpacking. You’d only pulled out a couple of essentials the night before, and the suitcases are still half-zipped and listing open on the bench in the walk-in closet, the contents slumped and jumbled, exactly as you left them in the haze of last night. You unfold a tangle of linen dresses, roll up the last of the swimsuits. The second suitcase ends up containing the soft things you’d loved in Italy and the handful of gifts Andy had forced on you (a silk robe, the ridiculous but beautiful leather boots, the scarf you’re embarrassed you already missed). You’re nearly finished when you see it: a heavy cream envelope, not sealed, with your name written in Andy’s all-caps print.

You pause, thumb knocking the edge, considering whether to open, wait for some future courage, or refuse to read it altogether.

You stand in the middle of the closet, the envelope dense with the weight of what it might contain, and make yourself hold it for a count of ten, the way you once trained yourself to resist the urge to scratch mosquito bites as a child. Then you set it on the bench, hands steady, and back away as if it might be hot to the touch. You busy yourself with the rest of the suitcase, but your eyes keep wandering to the envelope. Eventually, you give in—how could you not—and stalk out of the closet, grab your phone, and hit Andy’s number before you can change your mind.

He answers before the second ring is finished. “I was waiting to see how long it would take,” he says, not quite soft, but without the shield of irony.

You don’t let him steer any further, not this time. “I found your letter,” you say.

There is a half-beat of stillness, then, “You haven’t opened it yet.” Not a question. A reading of you, as accurate as it is infuriating.

“No.” You squeeze the phone tighter, shift your weight from one foot to the other. “I hate you for knowing that.” You mean it to land with more weight, but it sounds raw.

“I figured you’d start with a text,” he replies, “but this is better.”

You close your eyes and force yourself to inhale, to let the silence expand before finally finding the words you want. “I can’t believe you wrote me a letter,” you tell him, and now the irritation has a shape and a target. “You don’t get to be Mr. Darcy. You don’t get to drop all this on a page.”

Andy lets out a short, breathy laugh. “I’m not pretending to be noble or romantic, or whatever you want to call it. I wrote it because I thought… I thought it might be easier for you to hear without having to look at me. Or fight me. Or argue.” A pause. “And maybe as a showing that I heard you and that you can read it in your own time. Or you don’t have to read it at all. It’s your choice.”

You want to hang up, to tell him that nothing on a page can fix the fact that you’re speaking only because of a letter he left for you to find, like some reverse land mine meant to detonate all of your resolve. But you don’t hang up.

“I might read it,” you say. You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone pressed to your ear. You don’t look at the envelope. “But since you might be listening, I’ll say this: I don’t care what you wrote. I need you to know it’s not about the letter. It’s about whether I can trust you to give me a real choice. A real relationship. Ever.”

Andy’s breathing is barely audible. “I know,” he says.

“I’m going to hang up now,” you tell him.

“Okay.” The word is a soft exhalation. Then he says your name, and you wait another moment before ending the call. “If you ever want to talk, I’ll always answer. No matter what.”

For those of you who were hurt/betrayed/livid after last chapter: I want you to know Andy doesn't get a quick fix overnight. I promise.

For better or for worse, because of how things combusted between them in Italy, our reader is going to be more assertive, more resistant, and hold her boundaries and demands more firmly. She still holds complicated feelings for him, but the feelings won't excuse or circumvent things anymore.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Instead, you venture, “Do you want to know what I hate the most?” You give him a look so sharp you hope it draws blood, but you’re too tired for real malice. “I hate that it was good. I hate that you were better than I expected in ways that made me want things I couldn’t have. I hate that you made me want to stay, and then made it impossible to stay.” You take in a deep breath and then say the worst part. “I hate that I’m heartbroken.”

Okay. First, I loved her parents showing up. And her dad knowing things weren’t all peachy. I think she really needed to be comforted in that way and seen by someone other than Andy.

I’m glad Reader is more steely and guarded now, and also that we see some remorse in Andy, but just like Reader, I don’t actually trust him or it or that it all won’t flip on its head eventually. It’s kind of ironic in a really sad way—I imagine because of Andy’s life and profession, absolute trust would be so important to him, and yet he keeps fucking it up with the person he seems to care about and want most. He needs a good, long period of groveling 😤