#anghkooey

The dim light of the oil lamp flickered across the wooden table, casting long shadows in the abandoned house on the edge of town.

Jade rubbed his temples, staring at the small cluster of pale mushrooms they’d found near the far trees.

“You’re sure about this?” you asked, arms crossed as you leaned against the doorway.

Your voice was low, trying to sound skeptical instead of hopeful.

Hope got people killed here.

Jade looked up, his sharp eyes meeting yours with that familiar mix of arrogance and exhaustion.

“No. But we’ve tried everything else. Radio waves, drawings, fucking visions… What’s one more hallucinogenic gamble?” He let out a dry laugh. “Worst case, we trip balls and see some new nightmare fuel. Best case? We finally find the exit ramp out of this hellhole.”

He picked up one of the mushrooms, turning it slowly between his fingers.

The air between you felt heavier than usual tonight—thicker with the kind of tension that had been building for weeks.

Stolen glances, sharp words that lingered too long, the way your bodies always seemed to end up closer than necessary when danger was near.

You stepped closer, dropping into the chair across from him. Your knee brushed his under the table, and neither of you moved away.

“Fine,” you said, reaching for one. “But if this kills us, I’m haunting your ass.”

Jade’s lips curved into a half-smirk, but his gaze had already dropped to your mouth for a second too long.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me here.”

He raised the mushroom in a mock toast.

“Bottoms up.”

They swallowed the mushrooms almost at the same time.

The texture was spongy and unpleasant, leaving a bitter, earthy aftertaste that clung to the back of your throat.

“God, that was worse than I expected,” you said, making a face as you reached for the half-empty water canteen on the table.

You took a long drink and passed it over to Jade.

He accepted it with a nod, drinking deeply before setting it down with a dull thud.

“Tastes like nature’s revenge. If this actually works and gets us out of here, I’m never eating another mushroom in my life.”

You snorted.

“You say that now. Ten minutes ago you were calling it our best shot since the radio tower fiasco.”

Jade leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, stretching his long legs out under the table until his boot lightly bumped yours.

He didn’t pull it away.

“Hey, I’m an optimist at heart. A very desperate, slightly unhinged optimist.”

For a while, nothing happened.

You both sat there in the quiet glow of the oil lamp, listening to the distant night sounds outside—the wind in the trees, the occasional unsettling creak of the old house settling.

The usual heavy dread of the town pressed in around you, but tonight it was mixed with a thin thread of nervous excitement.

“Think the others would call us insane for doing this alone?” you asked.

“Definitely,” Jade replied, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

“Tabby would give us that disappointed mom look. Boyd would probably lecture us about ‘protocol.’ Kenny would just shake his head and walk away.” He paused, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “But they’d also be pissed if we found a way out and didn’t share it. So… worth the risk.”

You smiled faintly, watching him.

Even exhausted and rumpled, Jade had a presence that was hard to ignore—sharp eyes, restless energy, that strange mix of brilliance and chaos that made him impossible to look away from.

Another few minutes dragged by.

You rolled your neck, noticing a gentle warmth starting to spread through your chest and down your arms.

It wasn’t unpleasant.

Just… noticeable.

Like stepping closer to a fire on a cold night.

“Starting to feel anything?” you asked casually.

Jade tilted his head, considering.

“A little warm. Maybe lightheaded? Hard to tell if it’s the mushroom or just the fact that I haven’t slept properly in three days.” He exhaled slowly, then smirked at you.

“What about you, tough guy? Ready to see pink elephants or glowing exit signs?”

“Warm too,” you admitted.

“And my skin feels a bit… tingly. But nothing dramatic yet.”

“Good. We wait it out.” Jade drummed his fingers on the table again, then stopped himself.

He glanced around the dusty room before his eyes returned to you.

“You know, if this actually works and we get out, first thing I’m doing is finding the best damn cheeseburger on the planet.”

You laughed softly.

“Priorities. I just want a long, hot shower. And to never see another tree line that looks exactly the same no matter how far you walk.”

“God, same.” Jade’s voice softened a fraction. “I keep thinking about stupid shit I used to take for granted. Traffic. Bad coffee. People who don’t disappear when the sun goes down.”

The conversation drifted like that for a while—easy, almost normal.

The kind of talk you rarely allowed yourselves in this town because it usually hurt too much.

Every few minutes one of you would check in:

a quiet “Still warm?” or “Head spinning yet?”

The answers stayed mild.

A slow-building heat.

A faint racing heart.

A strange, growing awareness of the other person’s breathing across the small table.

Jade loosened the top button of his shirt, fanning it lightly.

A light sheen of sweat had started to form at his hairline.

You caught yourself staring at the exposed line of his collarbone a second too long before looking away.

“Room feels smaller,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Yeah,” you agreed quietly, shifting in your chair. Your clothes were starting to feel too warm against your skin. “Definitely smaller.”

But the real shift hadn’t hit yet.

Not fully.

The conversation kept going, but it was getting harder to focus.

Jade rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers pressing into the suddenly overheated skin.

“Still nothing visionary. No glowing paths or magic doors. Just… this weird fucking heat. Like someone turned the thermostat up to sauna levels.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, shifting in your seat.

A fresh wave of warmth rolled through your body, slow and syrupy, sinking deep into your limbs and settling low in your belly.

Your pulse felt heavier, thicker, beating in your throat, your wrists, and places you were trying very hard not to think about.

“My skin’s prickling all over. Like static electricity, but warmer. And my heart won’t slow down.”

You tugged at the hem of your shirt, trying to create some airflow.

The fabric felt abrasive against your overly sensitive skin.

Even the slight movement of air made you aware of every inch of your body in a way that felt foreign.

Jade rolled his shoulders, then stretched his arms above his head with a low groan.

His shirt rode up slightly, exposing a strip of flushed skin above his waistband.

He dropped his arms quickly and leaned forward again, elbows on the table.

“Same here,” he muttered. “Feels like my blood’s moving too fast. Everything’s… heightened. The lamp looks brighter. I can hear the wind outside clearer than I should.” He gave a short, uneasy laugh. “If this is the prelude to some epic hallucination, it’s taking its sweet time.”

You nodded, swallowing hard.

Another pulse of heat swept through you, stronger this time. It pooled heavily between your legs, a deep, throbbing warmth that made your thighs press together instinctively.

Your breathing had grown a little shallower, but you tried to keep your voice steady.

“Maybe it’s slow release,” you offered. “We could still get lucky. Maybe in twenty minutes we’ll both be floating outside the tree line laughing our asses off.”

Jade smirked, but it looked a little strained.

Sweat had started to bead along his hairline. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and exhaled slowly.

“Optimism looks good on you. Terrible strategy for survival in this town, but still.”

He reached for the canteen again, taking another long drink. A drop of water escaped the corner of his mouth and trailed down his throat.

You caught yourself watching the droplet disappear beneath his open collar before forcing your eyes back to the table.

The room felt smaller.

Every creak of the old house, every shift of your clothes, every inhale seemed amplified.

The heat inside you kept building in steady, rolling waves — not painful, but insistent.

It made your nipples tighten uncomfortably against your shirt and sent slow, tingling pulses down your spine.

“Fuck, it’s getting warmer again,” Jade said under his breath, unbuttoning another button on his shirt without thinking. His chest rose and fell a little faster than usual. “You feeling that too?”

“Yeah,” you replied, voice tighter than you wanted.

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to ignore how sensitive your skin had become.

“A lot warmer. My legs feel heavy. Kind of restless.”

He nodded, drumming his fingers on the table once before stopping himself.

The silence stretched for a few seconds, thick and loaded, broken only by the sound of your slightly uneven breathing.

“Still no visions though,” he added, almost like he was trying to convince both of you. “Just… this. Whatever the hell ‘this’ is.”

Jade kept talking, his voice filling the heavy silence more than usual, like he was trying to anchor both of you.

“Remember that time we found those old maps in the basement of the police station? Total waste of a day. Boyd looked so pissed when we came back empty-handed…” He trailed off with a low chuckle, then wiped his forehead again. “Shit, it’s really kicking in now. My skin feels like it’s buzzing. You still with me?”

You nodded at first, not trusting your voice.

The heat had thickened, sinking deeper, turning into a slow, molten ache that pulsed low in your core.

Every heartbeat sent another ripple of it through your body.

Your thighs were trembling slightly, and the slightest shift in your seat made the fabric of your pants drag against oversensitive skin.

A tiny, involuntary sound slipped out — a soft, shaky whimper.

Jade’s eyes flicked to you immediately, but he kept his tone casual. “Hey… you okay?”

You swallowed hard and managed a quiet, “Yeah… just… really warm.”

Your voice was smaller now, breathier.

Another wave hit you, stronger, and your breath hitched.

A second soft whimper escaped before you could stop it.

The feeling was becoming too much.

It didn’t hurt exactly, but it was intense — too intense.

Your nipples were painfully tight, your skin flushed and burning, and the throbbing between your legs had grown heavy and slick.

It scared you how fast your body was reacting, how little control you seemed to have over it.

Jade leaned forward a little, watching you closely.

“You’re breathing pretty fast. The heat’s getting to you too, huh?”

He ran a hand through his damp hair, clearly fighting his own discomfort.

His shirt was half-unbuttoned now, chest rising and falling quicker.

“Talk to me. What does it feel like on your end?”

You opened your mouth, but only a quiet, distressed little sound came out.

You pressed your lips together, trying to stay composed, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

The room felt like it was closing in.

Every tiny movement made the aching need between your thighs worse.

“I… I don’t know,” you whispered finally, voice trembling. “It’s a lot. Feels like my whole body is… pulsing. It’s freaking me out a little.”

Jade exhaled slowly, his jaw tight.

“Yeah. I feel it too. Like my nerves are on fire, but in a weird, almost good way. Keep breathing, okay? We’re still in this together. No visions yet, but… fuck, something’s definitely happening.”

You whimpered again, softer this time, as another thick wave of heat crashed over you.

Your legs pressed together harder, but it only made the throbbing worse.

You were getting quieter by the minute, reduced to shaky breaths and small, helpless sounds while Jade continued talking, his own voice growing rougher around the edges as he tried to keep you both grounded.

Jade nodded and kept talking, his voice low and steady.

“Quiet spot sounds nice. I used to hate silence. Now it’s all I want.” He shifted in his chair again. “You still with me?”

“Yeah…” you whispered. The heat rolled through you again, slow and heavy. You pressed your lips together. “It’s getting warmer. My skin feels too tight.”

You took another small sip of water, then set the canteen down carefully.

A soft sound slipped out as the wave settled low in your belly.

Jade exhaled through his nose.

“Same. Like my clothes are scratching everywhere.”

He paused, then added, “Tell me if it gets too much.”

You gave a small nod.

“It’s just… a lot. Keeps coming in waves.”

Your voice was quieter now.

“I don’t know what to do with it.”

Another stretch of silence passed.

The oil lamp flickered.

You shifted again, trying to ease the building pressure between your legs, but it only made it worse.

A tiny, helpless sound escaped you.

Jade’s breath caught suddenly.

A very soft, low groan slipped from him, barely audible, as he watched you squirm.

He quickly cleared his throat and looked down at the table, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Still no visions?” he asked, voice a little rougher.

“No,” you murmured. “Just the heat. It’s everywhere now.”

He nodded slowly, fingers drumming once on the table before stopping.

“Yeah. Everywhere.”

You stayed quiet after that, breathing a little faster, letting out occasional small sounds when the waves grew stronger.

Jade kept glancing at you but didn’t push.

He just stayed close, talking occasionally about random things — old restaurants he missed, music he used to listen to — trying to fill the thick, heavy air between you.

You stayed mostly quiet after that, answering Jade’s occasional questions with short murmurs or small nods.

Every few minutes another slow wave of heat moved through you, making your breath hitch and pulling soft sounds from your throat.

The throbbing between your legs had settled into a constant, heavy ache that made it hard to sit still.

Jade kept trying to talk at first.

“Used to hate mushrooms… funny how things change,” he muttered, then went quiet for a longer stretch.

His fingers tapped restlessly on the table before he pushed his chair back.

He stood up slowly, rolling his shoulders.

“Can’t sit anymore. Too restless.”

He started pacing the small room, slow circles between the table and the dusty window.

At first he still spoke, though his words came slower.

“Should’ve brought a watch… no idea how long it’s been.” A pause. “Feels like my head’s full of static…”

His pacing continued. The sentences grew shorter, more spaced out.

“Hot…” He wiped his face with his sleeve. “Really hot.”

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, letting out another quiet whimper as a fresh wave rolled over you.

Jade’s steps slowed for a moment when he heard it, but he didn’t comment.

He just kept moving, his breathing audible in the quiet room.

Eventually even the short comments faded.

He paced in silence now, longer strides, clearly trying to burn off the building energy.

His hair was damp with sweat.

Every so often he’d mutter something incoherent under his breath — half a word, a low sound, nothing you could quite make out.

He passed by the table again, closer this time, then turned and paced back toward the window.

His movements were becoming more restless, almost agitated, but he stayed on his feet, like sitting down was no longer an option.

You let out a soft, shaky grown as another pulse hit you.

Jade’s steps faltered for half a second when he heard it, but he kept pacing, quieter now, almost lost in it.

Jade’s pacing grew sharper.

He no longer wandered in lazy circles.

His steps turned hard and frustrated, boots hitting the wooden floor with more force.

He dragged a hand through his hair roughly, then muttered under his breath, “This is bullshit…”

The room felt smaller with every pass he made.

When another one of your soft whimpers broke the silence, he stopped abruptly near the table, shoulders tense.

“Stop making that sound,” he snapped, voice low and edged with irritation.

He immediately looked away, jaw tight, and resumed pacing even faster. “Fuck. I didn’t mean— Just… shit.”

He kicked a loose floorboard out of his way as he turned, the sharp crack loud in the quiet room. His movements were getting more aggressive — hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, breathing heavier.

“Should’ve never eaten that damn thing,” he growled, voice rough. “Whole town’s a curse and now this…”

He passed close by the table again, eyes flicking over you for a second too long before he looked away.

The restlessness in him was turning into something sharper, almost angry.

He stopped by the window, gripping the frame hard enough that his knuckles paled, then pushed off and kept pacing.

“Too fucking hot,” he muttered. “Can’t think straight.”

His words were becoming shorter, more clipped.

Another aggressive lap around the room.

When he passed near you again he paused, breathing hard through his nose, fists clenched.

“Say something,” he demanded, tone rough and impatient. “Or don’t. I don’t know anymore.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He turned sharply and kept pacing, the tension rolling off him in waves as the mushroom’s effects continued to push him harder.

The aggression in his movements made the small room feel even more tense.

You stayed seated, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to breathe through the next wave of heat.

But inside your head, things were starting to slip.

God, look at him…

The thought came unbidden as you watched Jade stalk past you again.

His shirt was clinging to his back with sweat, the muscles in his shoulders and arms shifting visibly with every sharp turn.

Why does he look so good like this? Angry. Restless. The way his jaw keeps clenching…

Another heavy pulse of heat rolled through your core, making you sigh softly.

Your mind kept drifting, getting more explicit despite your best efforts.

His hands look so strong when he clenches them like that. What would they feel like on my skin right now? Rough? Hot? Would he grab me hard if—

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts away, but they only came back stronger when he passed close again.

The low growl in his voice earlier had done something dangerous to you.

You could still hear it echoing in your head.

Fuck… why am I thinking about his voice like that? The way he snapped at me… part of me wants him to do it again. Wants him to stop pacing and just—

You let out a shaky whimper, thighs pressing together tightly as a fresh rush of slick heat soaked into your panties.

The ache between your legs was becoming unbearable.

Your nipples were painfully hard, and every time Jade turned sharply on his heel, your eyes followed the movement of his hips and the tension in his thighs.

Stop it, you told yourself. It’s just the mushroom. It’s the stupid mushroom making me think about him pinning me down, tearing my clothes off, fucking me until I can’t think anymore—

Jade stopped pacing for a moment near the window, breathing hard, fists clenched.

The sight of him like that only made the thoughts worse.

You bit your lip hard, trying to stay quiet on the outside even as your mind kept spiraling into filthier territory.

Jade’s pacing had turned aggressive and restless, each step heavier than the last.

Don’t look at her. Don’t listen. This is the mushroom talking. You’re better than this. Stay in control—

But your soft, desperate whimpers kept cutting through his resolve.

He clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

She’s falling apart. You’re falling apart. Just hold on a little longer…

Another broken sound escaped you.

“Jade… please… I can’t take it anymore.”

That was it.

He stopped mid-step, breathing hard. For one long second he stood frozen, fighting himself. Then the last thread of control snapped.

“Fuck it,” he growled.

He crossed the room in two strides and yanked your chair toward him.

His hand gripped the back of your neck as he pulled you up and kissed you fiercely — hungry, frustrated, and full of everything he’d been holding back.

This is wrong. This isn’t you. It’s the pollen. You’re supposed to be smarter than—

The thought dissolved the moment your lips met his.

He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, breathing ragged.

“I tried so hard to fight this,” he rasped, voice rough and conflicted. “Told myself it was just the heat. Told myself I wouldn’t lose control. Wouldn’t let it turn me into this.”

His hands tightened on you, one in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“But I can’t anymore.” His voice cracked with frustration. “Every sound you made… every time you looked at me like that… it’s been driving me insane. I hate how much I need this right now.”

He pulled you closer, pressing his body against yours with barely restrained urgency.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he demanded, low and intense. “Tell me I’m not the only one breaking.”

You barely managed to whisper, “I feel it too… I need you, Jade. Please.”

That was all it took.

He let out a low, frustrated sound and kissed you again, harder this time, like he was punishing both of you for giving in.

His hands moved with rough urgency — one staying tangled in your hair, the other sliding down your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he muttered against your lips between kisses, voice strained. “Not like this. Not because of some fucking mushroom. But I do. God, I do.”

He walked you backward until your hips hit the edge of the table. In one sharp motion he lifted you onto it, stepping between your legs.

His body pressed against yours, radiating heat.

You could feel how badly he was fighting to hold onto some shred of control, even as his hands gripped your thighs and his mouth moved hungrily down your neck.

Every touch sent sparks through the burning haze inside you.

The overwhelming heat that had been tormenting you for so long finally had somewhere to go — somewhere to burn.

You whimpered his name again, fingers clutching at his damp shirt, pulling him closer.

Your mind was a mess of desperate thoughts:

More. Closer. Don’t stop. I need him to make it stop hurting like this.

Jade groaned softly, pressing his forehead to yours again. His breathing was ragged.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low and commanding, even as it shook. “If we do this… there’s no going back to pretending it didn’t happen.”

His hand cupped your face, thumb brushing roughly over your flushed cheek.

For a brief second you saw the conflict still flickering in his eyes — the brilliant, arrogant man who hated losing control warring with the raw need the mushroom had unleashed.

Then he kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense, like he was finally surrendering to it.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered against your mouth, aggressive and desperate all at once. “I’m done fighting it.”

Jade’s forehead stayed pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard in the small space between your faces.

His hands trembled where they gripped your thighs.

“I can’t think,” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t… fuck, I can’t think straight. All I know is I need you. Right now.”

You nodded frantically, fingers twisting tighter in his shirt.

The heat inside you was unbearable — a deep, throbbing ache that made your head feel fuzzy and your body weak.

“Me too,” you breathed, voice shaky and small. “It won’t stop. It hurts… Jade, please. I need you closer.”

He cut you off with another kiss, slower and deeper, but still edged with that same desperate hunger.

His hands slid up your sides, gripping your waist like he was afraid you might slip away.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and unfocused.

“Been fighting it for so long…” he muttered, almost to himself. “Trying to be smart. Trying to stay in control.” He shook his head, breathing ragged. “Can’t anymore. Just… need to feel you.”

He pressed closer between your legs, his body heat wrapping around you.

One of his hands moved to the back of your neck again, holding you there as he kissed you once more — slower, but messier, like his mind was too clouded to coordinate anything properly.

You moaned into his mouth, hips shifting restlessly against him.

Everything felt hazy.

The only clear thought in your head was more, more, more.

The mushroom’s heat pulsed through you in heavy waves, making it impossible to focus on anything except Jade — his scent, his warmth, the way his hands felt on you.

“I don’t care anymore,” you gasped when he broke the kiss to breathe. “I just need you. Please, Jade… make it stop hurting like this.”

He let out a low, broken sound and buried his face in your neck, kissing and nipping at your skin with barely restrained urgency.

“Me too,” he groaned against you. “Can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t stop wanting you. It’s driving me insane.”

His hands roamed slowly over your back, pulling you even tighter against him. Neither of you were thinking clearly anymore.

The pollen had burned away everything except this desperate, aching need.

Jade’s voice was rough and fragmented when he spoke again.

Jade’s breath hitched against your neck.

“God help me,” he whispered, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

But the words barely left his mouth before his hands tightened on you. The slow restraint started cracking.

He kissed you again, harder this time, more frantic.

His fingers dug into your waist as he pulled you even closer to the edge of the table, pressing his body flush against yours.

The heat between you was overwhelming.

“I need you,” he groaned, voice breaking. “Right now. Can’t wait anymore.”

You whimpered desperately, your hands moving up to clutch at his shoulders, then his neck, pulling him down into another messy kiss.

Your mind was spinning — nothing but heat and

Jade, Jade, Jade.

“Please,” you gasped between kisses. “Touch me. I need your hands on me. I feel like I’m going to lose my mind if you don’t..”

He didn’t let you finish.

A low, needy sound escaped him as he yanked your hips forward, grinding against you with sudden urgency.

His mouth trailed down your neck again, kissing and biting with less and less control.

“Fuck… the way you sound,” he muttered, voice rough and shaky. “Been killing me. Every whimper. Every time you moved.”

His hands roamed faster now, sliding under your shirt, desperate to feel more of your skin.

He was breathing hard, almost panting against your collarbone.

“I can’t stop,” he admitted, sounding almost frantic. “I need more. Need to feel all of you.”

You arched into his touch, a needy whine slipping out as you tugged at his shirt.

That seemed to break whatever was left of his hesitation.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes wild and dark, then kissed you again with raw hunger, hands moving with increasing urgency as the pollen-driven need completely took over both of you.

Jade made a rough, frustrated sound against your mouth and kissed you even harder, like he was trying to pour weeks of tension into every second.

His hands moved with frantic purpose now, tugging at your clothes, desperate to feel more of your skin.

“Need you closer,” he growled, voice thick and broken. “Can’t get close enough.”

You helped him as best you could, pulling at his shirt with shaky, impatient fingers.

The heat inside you was unbearable now — a constant, throbbing ache that made every brush of his body against yours feel electric.

He yanked your shirt up and over your head in one rough motion, tossing it aside.

His hands immediately returned to your skin, sliding over your sides and back, gripping and pulling like he was afraid you’d disappear.

His breathing was ragged, almost desperate.

“God, you’re burning up,” he muttered, lips trailing down your neck and across your collarbone.

"Can’t think about anything else. Just you. Just this.”

You moaned softly, your head falling back as you clutched at his shoulders.

Your hips rocked against him instinctively, seeking more pressure, more friction, more him.

“Don’t stop touching me,” you pleaded, voice high and needy. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I need more. Please-”

Jade groaned and pressed you down onto the table, hovering over you.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with the same overwhelming need that had consumed you.

He kissed you again, deep and messy, while one hand slid down your body with urgent intent.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped between kisses, sounding just as lost as you felt. “I’m right here. Not stopping. Can’t stop.”

His touch grew bolder, more demanding, as the last of his control slipped away.

Both of you were trembling now, driven purely by the desperate, feverish need the mushroom had created.

Jade’s eyes darkened with raw hunger as he looked down at you spread out on the table.

“I need to taste you,” he growled, voice low and rough. “Been thinking about it for the last hour. Can’t wait anymore.”

Before you could even respond, he dropped to his knees in front of the table, yanking your hips to the very edge.

He shoved your thighs apart and buried his face between them with zero hesitation.

The first long, hungry lick made you cry out sharply, your back arching off the table.

He groaned loudly against you, the sound vibrating through your core as he licked again — deeper, more desperate, like a man who had completely lost control.

“Jade” you whimpered, voice breaking pathetically.

Your hands flew to his hair, fingers twisting tightly in the dark strands as you pulled him closer.

Please Please Please. More More More. I need more.

He growled in response, the sound feral and muffled as he devoured you.

His tongue moved with ravenous intensity, licking and sucking with messy, greedy strokes.

He was completely lost in it — hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, holding you open for him while he feasted like he was starving.

You were falling apart fast, reduced to pathetic, desperate sounds.

“Please, Jade, please—” you sobbed, hips grinding against his mouth uncontrollably. “It feels so good… I can’t...I’m so close already. Don’t stop, please don’t stop. I’ll do anything—”

Jade moaned loudly against you, the vibration making your legs shake. He pulled back just enough to rasp, “That’s it. Let me hear how much you need it,” before diving back in even more aggressively, tongue working you with relentless hunger.

He gripped your thighs tighter and doubled down, ravenous and unrelenting, clearly determined to take you apart completely.

Jade was relentless.

He kept you pinned to the table with one strong hand on your stomach while his mouth worked you with greedy, ravenous hunger.

His tongue moved in firm, focused strokes, sucking and licking like he was addicted to the way you tasted and the desperate sounds you made.

You were completely pathetic beneath him — shaking, crying, begging without shame.

“Jade— please— I’m so close,” you sobbed, voice breaking. Your fingers were tangled so tightly in his hair it probably hurt, but you couldn’t let go. “I need to come. Please let me come. I can’t— I can’t hold it anymore. Please—”

He groaned loudly against you, the vibration pushing you even closer. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he became more aggressive, sucking harder, tongue flicking faster, completely lost in the taste of you.

The pressure inside you finally snapped.

You came with a broken cry of his name, thighs clamping around his head as intense waves of pleasure crashed through you. Your whole body shook uncontrollably, hips jerking against his mouth while he kept licking you through it, drawing out every last tremor.

Even after you started coming down, he didn’t stop right away. He kept licking slowly, almost possessively, like he couldn’t bear to pull away yet. Soft, desperate whimpers kept falling from your lips as you trembled under the aftershocks.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were shiny and his eyes were wild with need.

He stood up, breathing hard, and looked down at your flushed, trembling body like he wanted to devour you all over again.

“Fuck… you taste so good,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Could’ve stayed down there for hours.”

He leaned over you, pressing his body against yours again, hard and insistent. His hand cupped your face almost tenderly for a second before his grip tightened.

“But I’m nowhere near done with you,” he growled, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. “I need more. I need to be inside you. Now.”

His hands were already moving to get rid of the rest of your clothes and his own, frantic and impatient.

“Tell me you still want it,” he demanded, voice low and rough against your ear. “Tell me how badly you need me.”

You were still trembling from the intensity of your orgasm, but the heat inside you hadn’t faded at all. If anything, it burned even hotter now.

“I need you,” you whimpered pathetically, reaching for him with shaky hands. “Please, Jade… I still need you so badly. I feel so empty. Please fuck me. I can’t think about anything else.”

Jade let out a low, broken groan at your desperate words. He shoved the rest of his clothes down just enough to free himself, then pulled you closer to the edge of the table again.

“God, the way you beg…” he muttered, voice dark and strained. He lined himself up and pushed into you in one slow, deep thrust.

Both of you moaned loudly at the feeling. He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“Fuck… you feel perfect,” he rasped. “So fucking warm and tight.”

Then the last of his control disappeared.

He started moving — deep, hard thrusts that rocked the old table beneath you. His pace was urgent and needy, like he’d been holding back for far too long. One hand gripped your hip tightly, the other braced beside your head as he drove into you again and again.

You were a mess beneath him, moaning and whimpering with every thrust, your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“Harder,” you begged, voice hoarse and desperate. “Please, Jade— harder. I need it. I need all of you.”

He growled and gave you exactly what you asked for, fucking you with rough, ravenous strokes. The sound of skin against skin filled the small room, mixed with your broken moans and his low, guttural groans.

“Can’t get enough of you,” he panted against your neck, biting down as he thrust particularly deep. “Been driving me crazy all night. The sounds you make… the way you’re taking me right now…”

You could only sob his name in response, clinging to him desperately as another wave of overwhelming pleasure started building inside you.

“Don’t stop,” you pleaded pathetically, nails digging into his back. “Please don’t stop. I’m yours— I’m all yours tonight. Just keep fucking me.”

Jade’s pace grew even more frantic at your words, his grip on you almost bruising as he lost himself completely in the desperate, feverish rhythm.

Jade was completely lost in you now.

His thrusts were deep, hard, and relentless, each one driving you further up the table.

The old wood creaked loudly beneath you, but neither of you cared. The only thing that mattered was the desperate, overwhelming need connecting you both.

“Fuck— you feel so good,” he groaned, voice rough and broken. He hooked one of your legs higher over his hip, changing the angle so he could drive even deeper. “So fucking good. Can’t stop. Don’t want to stop.”

You were crying out with every thrust, completely pathetic and needy beneath him.

You moaned, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop. You’re so deep… I need it harder. Please, Jade- I’ll take anything you give me. Just keep going.”

He growled at your desperate begging and fucked you harder, hips snapping against yours with raw urgency. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your chest as he leaned down to kiss you messily, biting at your bottom lip.

“You’re mine right now,” he rasped against your mouth. “All mine. Taking me so well… making such pretty sounds for me.”

Your head fell back against the table as another wave of pleasure crashed through you. You were trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from how intense it felt.

“I’m yours,” you whimpered brokenly. “I’m yours, Jade. Please— I’m gonna come again. Please-”

Jade groaned loudly, his rhythm growing erratic and desperate as he felt you tightening around him.

“Come for me,” he demanded, voice low and commanding. “Let me feel it. Come on my cock like the desperate little thing you are right now.”

His words pushed you over the edge.

You came hard with a loud, broken cry of his name, clenching around him as pleasure ripped through your body. Your legs shook violently around his waist, and you pulled him down tighter against you, sobbing with how good it felt.

Jade cursed under his breath, thrusting through your orgasm with short, deep strokes, chasing his own release.

Jade kept thrusting through your orgasm, drawing it out until you were shaking and whimpering beneath him. His own breathing was ragged, hips losing their steady rhythm as he got closer.

“Fuck— you’re squeezing me so tight,” he groaned, voice strained. “I’m not gonna last… You feel too good.”

You were still trembling from your release, but the heat inside you hadn’t faded. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, pulling him as deep as possible.

“Come inside me,” you begged desperately, voice hoarse and needy.

That seemed to snap the last bit of his control.

He buried his face in your neck with a deep, broken moan and thrust hard a few more times before he came with a guttural groan. His hips stuttered against yours as he spilled deep inside you, holding you tightly against him while he rode out the intense waves of pleasure.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your heavy breathing and the faint creaking of the table beneath you.

Jade stayed buried inside you, his body draped over yours, both of you slick with sweat. He pressed soft, almost lazy kisses along your neck and shoulder, his aggression slowly melting into exhausted tenderness.

“Shit…” he murmured against your skin, voice rough. “That was… intense.”

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, still trying to catch your breath. Your fingers ran through his damp hair gently.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I don’t think I’ve ever needed someone that badly before.”

He lifted his head to look at you, eyes still dark but softer now. He brushed some hair away from your flushed face, thumb lingering on your cheek.

He kissed you slowly, deeply, as if sealing a promise.

Jade stayed buried deep inside you for a long moment, both of you catching your breath in the quiet, lamplit room. His body was heavy and warm over yours, and for once the oppressive weight of Fromville felt far away.

He finally pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead with surprising gentleness.

“Whatever that mushroom was…” he murmured, voice still rough, “it definitely didn’t show us the way out of town.”

You let out a soft, exhausted laugh, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back.

“No,” you whispered. “But it definitely showed us something else.”

Jade smirked, pressing one last slow kiss to your lips before resting his forehead against yours.

“We’ll deal with the consequences tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Right now… I’m not moving.”

You hummed in agreement, wrapping your arms around him tighter. The heat between you had finally started to settle into a warm, satisfied glow, though both of you knew it probably wasn’t gone for good.

For the first time in a long while, the nightmare outside the walls didn’t matter.

Tonight, there was only this.

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hiiii!! im so sorry this took so long to get out! life has been a bit rough and my writers block was insane. im not totally happy with this one but i wanted to get it out for you guys! :)

hope you guys like it <3

The rain hammered against the roof of the abandoned cabin like it was trying to break in.

You stood by the cracked window, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching the tree line for any sign of movement.

Behind you, boots scuffed against the warped floorboards. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.

“Great. Stuck with the princess again,” Randall Kirkland muttered, voice low and edged with that familiar sneer.

He dropped a battered backpack onto the dusty table, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

“Donna really knows how to punish people, huh?”

You finally glanced over your shoulder.

He looked as wrecked as everyone else in this godforsaken town—mud-streaked jacket and that fresh scar on his cheek pulling tight when he scowled.

His eyes, sharp and distrustful, flicked over you like he was sizing up whether you’d be more trouble than you were worth.

“Trust me,” you shot back, keeping your voice flat, “I’d rather be out there with the creatures than locked in here with you. At least they’re honest about wanting to kill me.”

Randall let out a harsh laugh that held zero humor.

He yanked open a cabinet, rifling through whatever canned goods were left from the last group that were here.

“Keep talking like that and I might just leave the door unlocked tonight. See how long that mouth of yours lasts.”

Tension crackled between you, thick as the humidity outside.

You’d hated him since the bus first rolled into town.

He was loud, aggressive, convinced everything was some sick experiment and treating everyone like enemies. You’d called him out more than once—told him his paranoia was going to get people killed.

He’d responded by calling you a naive bitch who’d be dead in a week.

Yet here you were.

Paired up again for supply duty because the others were stretched thin.

Just one night.

One night of this.

You turned back to the window, jaw tight. “Just stay on your side of the house, Kirkland. I don’t need you breathing down my neck.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.” The word dripped with mockery. You heard him crack open a can, the metallic scrape loud.

Then silence… except for the rain and the occasional distant howl that made your stomach twist.

Minutes dragged.

The air felt heavier with every passing second.

You could feel his eyes on your back, that intense stare that always made your skin prickle—part irritation, part something you refused to name.

When you finally risked a glance, he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like you were a puzzle he wanted to smash just to see what fell out.

“Problem?” you snapped.

His lips curled. “Yeah. You. Always acting like you’ve got it all figured out. Like you’re better than this place. Sweetheart—you’re not. None of us are.”

You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, anger flaring hot in your chest.

“And you think being a raging asshole makes you special? We’re all scared, Randall. Some of us just don’t take it out on everyone else like a scared little boy.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes—anger, maybe a flash of hurt—but it vanished behind the wall he always kept up.

He pushed off the wall, closing the distance until he was right in front of you, towering and radiating heat.

“Careful,” he said, voice dropping dangerously low. “Keep pushing me and you might find out exactly how scared I can make you.”

Your heart hammered.

The space between you felt electric, charged with months of biting remarks and glaring across Colony House dinners. You could smell rain and sweat on him, see the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

Neither of you moved.

Outside, something screamed in the woods.

You both tensed, the moment shattering.

Randall stepped back first, muttering a curse under his breath as he grabbed his pack again.

“Get some rest,” he growled. “I’ll take first watch. Try not to die before morning.”

He didn’t look at you again as he moved toward the front room.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your back to the wall. This was going to be a long night.

The hours crawled by like the rain dripping through the cracks in the ceiling.

You tried to rest on the sagging couch in the front room, but sleep refused to come.

Every creak of the old house made your muscles lock up.

Every distant, inhuman cry from the forest clawed at your nerves.

The single lantern on the table cast long, flickering shadows that danced across the peeling wallpaper like they were alive.

Randall had taken the armchair across from you, legs stretched out, boots planted firmly on the floor as if daring the ground itself to move.

He hadn’t said a word in nearly an hour, but you could feel him watching.

Not the window.

Not the door.

You.

Finally, the silence got too heavy.

“You planning on staring all night?” you muttered, not bothering to open your eyes. “Or are you just hoping I’ll do something stupid so you can say ‘I told you so’ when the creatures drag me out?”

A low, rough chuckle rumbled out of him.

“Wouldn’t mind the show. You talk a big game during the day, but I bet you’d scream real pretty if one of those things got its hands on you.”

You sat up slowly, glaring across the dim space.

The lantern light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the ugly, half-healed gash along his cheek.

He looked carved from something meaner than the rest of you—broader shoulders, restless energy that made the room feel smaller.

“At least I’m not the one who almost got people killed whenever you tried to prove one of your theories,” you fired back. “Some of us are trying to survive. You’re just looking for a reason to burn everything down.”

Randall’s eyes narrowed, that dangerous glint sharpening.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the movement slow and deliberate.

“Careful how you talk to me, princess. I’m not Boyd. I don’t do the whole ‘let’s all hold hands and sing kumbaya’ bullshit. When I see something that needs handling…” His voice dropped, low and edged with warning. “I handle it. My way. No discussion. No second chances.”

The words hung there, heavier than they should have.

You hated how they sent a flicker of heat through your anger—something about the absolute confidence in his tone, the way he didn’t ask, he just stated how things would be.

You shoved it down hard.

“Must be nice,” you said sarcastically, “thinking the whole world revolves around what Randall Kirkland wants. Newsflash: we’re all trapped here. You don’t get to bark orders and expect everyone to fall in line just because you’re bigger and louder.”

He stood up suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the floor.

In two strides he was across the room, towering over where you sat. Not touching you—but close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

The air between you crackled.

“You think this is about what I want?” His voice was quiet now, almost a growl. “This town doesn’t give a shit what any of us want. It takes. It breaks people. And when it comes for you—”

He leaned in just a fraction, eyes locked on yours like he could pin you in place without hands.

“—someone’s gotta make the hard calls. Someone’s gotta be in control.”

Your pulse hammered in your throat.

The scent of rain-soaked fabric and something darker—gun oil, sweat, that metallic edge that never quite left anyone in the Township—filled your lungs.

You refused to shrink back, even though every instinct screamed that Randall Kirkland was not a man you wanted this close when he was like this.

You rose to your feet instead, refusing to let him loom over you unchallenged.

Your chest nearly brushed his jacket.

“And who put you in charge, exactly? Last I checked, you’re just another asshole who got off the same bus as me.”

For a long second, neither of you moved.

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then back up, dark and unreadable.

A muscle ticked in his scarred cheek.

“Keep testing me,” he said softly, dangerously. “See what happens when I stop playing nice.”

The threat lingered, thick and unspoken.

Part of you wanted to shove him.

Part of you wanted to see what “not nice” looked like.

Instead, you stepped sideways, breaking the standoff.

“I’ll take the next watch. Try not to snore too loud, Kirkland.”

You grabbed the rifle from the table and moved toward the window, heart still racing.

Behind you, Randall exhaled through his teeth—a frustrated, almost amused sound.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he muttered, dropping back into the armchair.

But you caught him watching again as you settled in, his stare heavy on the back of your neck like a physical weight.

The rain kept falling.

The night stretched on, endless and suffocating.

Every minute in that house felt like another thread pulled tighter between hatred and something far more dangerous.

You didn’t speak again for hours, but the silence was louder than any argument.

The rain had eased into a miserable drizzle, but the woods outside had grown louder.

Those unnatural howls were closer now—too close.

You stood rigid at the window, rifle heavy in your hands, eyes straining into the darkness.

Your shoulders burned from the tension.

Every muscle felt wound too tight.

Behind you, Randall had given up pretending to sleep.

You could hear him pacing slowly, boots dragging across the creaky floor like a caged animal.

The lantern was turned down low, barely more than a weak glow, leaving most of the room swallowed in shadow.

“Anything?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.

“Nothing yet,” you replied tightly. “But they sound hungry tonight.”

He made a sound low in his throat—half scoff, half agreement.

Then he was moving again, closer this time.

You felt him stop just behind your left shoulder, close enough that the heat from his body cut through the damp chill seeping in from the cracked glass.

“You’re holding that rifle like a damn crutch,” he muttered.

One big hand reached around you, not quite touching, but close enough that his fingers hovered near yours on the stock.

“Grip it higher. Brace it proper. If something comes through that window, you’ll be too slow the way you’re doing it.”

You jerked your head toward him, irritation flaring hot.

“I know how to hold a gun, Kirkland. I don’t need you correcting me every five minutes like I’m some helpless—”

“Helpless?” He cut you off with a sharp laugh, stepping fully into your space now.

His chest brushed your back as he loomed, forcing you to either lean into the windowsill or press against him.

You chose the sill, but it left almost no room between your bodies.

“You’re the one who nearly got yourself killed last week because you froze. I’m not letting you get us both torn apart because you’re too stubborn to listen.”

His breath was warm against the side of your neck, stirring the damp strands of hair that had escaped your ponytail.

You could smell him—rain, salt, that faint metallic tang that clung to everyone who’d survived a bad night.

It should have been repulsive.

Instead, it made your stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear of the creatures.

“Back off,” you hissed, even as your pulse jumped wildly. “I don’t need you breathing down my neck.”

Randall didn’t move.

If anything, he leaned in closer, one arm bracing on the window frame beside you, effectively caging you without quite touching.

His voice dropped, low and rough, right by your ear.

“Yeah? Seems like you do. You’ve been wound so fucking tight since we got stuck in this shithole together. Acting like you hate me… but you’re always watching. Always pushing.”

His free hand ghosted near your hip—not grabbing, not yet, but the threat of it hung in the air.

“Maybe you need someone to put you in your place. Shut that smart mouth of yours and make you focus.”

The words sent an unwelcome spark straight through you.

Heat pooled low in your belly despite the anger still burning in your chest.

You hated how his voice wrapped around the idea—calm, commanding, like he already knew exactly how he’d do it.

Like he’d enjoy it.

You spun around fast, putting your back to the window.

The move brought you chest-to-chest with him.

He didn’t step back.

Randall just looked down at you, eyes dark and intense in the low light, that scarred cheek twitching with the ghost of a smirk.

“Fuck you,” you whispered fiercely, but your voice came out breathier than you wanted.

His gaze dropped slowly to your mouth, lingering there for a long, heavy second before sliding back up.

“Careful what you wish for, princess.”

Outside, a branch snapped loudly.

Both of you froze.

Randall’s hand finally made contact—firm on your upper arm, yanking you away from the window and behind him in one smooth motion.

His body was solid, radiating heat and coiled strength as he raised his own weapon, shielding you instinctively.

The silence that followed was agonizing.

Seconds stretched into a minute.

Then two.

Whatever had been out there moved on, the sounds fading back into the trees.

Randall didn’t let go of your arm right away.

His grip was strong, fingers digging in just enough to remind you he could hold you there if he wanted.

When he finally turned back to face you, his expression was unreadable—but his breathing was heavier, chest rising and falling closer to yours.

“You good?” he asked gruffly. The question sounded almost like an order.

You nodded, throat tight.

The space between you felt electric now, charged with everything unsaid.

Hatred.

Fear.

This new, dangerous awareness of how broad he was, how easily he could crowd you against the wall, how his voice sounded when he told you what to do.

He released your arm slowly, but didn’t step back.

Instead, he reached up and brushed a stray piece of hair from your face with surprising gentleness—then immediately looked like he regretted showing even that much.

“Go sit down before you fall over,” he said, voice rough again, back to that dominant edge. “I’ve got the window. And don’t argue with me right now.”

You wanted to snap back.

You wanted to shove him.

But your legs felt shaky, and the memory of his body so close, his low voice in your ear, was still burning under your skin.

For the first time that night, you did what he said—moving to the couch without another word.

Randall watched you the entire way, jaw clenched tight, like he was fighting the same war you were.

The lantern had burned even lower, throwing the room into a hazy orange glow that barely pushed back the shadows.

You couldn’t sit still anymore.

The adrenaline from the close call earlier refused to fade, leaving you restless and on edge.

Randall had been silent for what felt like forever, posted at the window like a statue, but you could feel the storm building in him.

You got up, moving quietly toward the small stash of supplies on the table.

Your boots scraped louder than you meant against the floorboards.

“Sit the fuck down,” Randall growled without turning around. “You’re making enough noise to bring every creature in the forest right to us.”

It was a small thing.

Stupid, really.

But after hours of his orders, his stares, and the unbearable tension, something in you cracked.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm as you deliberately grabbed a can of peaches anyway, the metal clinking loudly.

“Did I disturb your royal watch, Your Highness? God forbid I try to eat something so I don’t pass out from exhaustion.”

He turned slowly, and the look on his face made your stomach flip.

Jaw locked, eyes blazing with barely-contained fury.

“You never fucking listen, do you?” He stalked toward you, each step heavy. “I told you to stay put. I told you to keep quiet. But no—little miss independent has to do whatever the hell she wants, even if it gets us killed.”

You lifted your chin, refusing to back down even as he closed the distance.

“And I’m supposed to just obey every command that comes out of your mouth? You’re not in charge of me. You’re not in charge of shit except your own shitty attitude.”

That did it.

Randall snapped.

In one fast movement, he was on you.

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist hard enough to make you drop the can.

It clattered loudly on the floor as he yanked you forward, slamming your back against the nearest wall with controlled force.

The impact rattled through you, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“You think this is a fucking game?” he snarled, voice low and dangerous, right in your face.

His body pinned yours completely—broad chest crushing you against the old wallpaper, one thick thigh shoved between your legs to keep you in place.

His free hand came up, gripping your jaw roughly, forcing your head back so you had no choice but to look at him.

“You’ve been pushing me all night,” he continued, breath hot against your lips.

His fingers dug into your jaw, not enough to bruise but firm enough to remind you exactly how strong he was.

“Running that smart mouth, testing every goddamn limit I have. You want me to lose control? Is that it?”

Your heart hammered wildly.

Fear and something much hotter twisted together low in your belly.

You should have been terrified. Instead, the roughness—the raw aggression in his grip, the way he held you like he owned the situation completely—sent a rush of heat straight through you.

Your thighs clenched involuntarily around the leg he had wedged between them.

“Maybe I do,” you whispered breathlessly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Your voice shook, but not from fear.

“Maybe I’m sick of pretending I don’t see how bad you want to shut me up.”

Randall’s eyes darkened, pupils blown wide.

A harsh, satisfied sound escaped him—half growl, half laugh.

He pressed in harder, hips pinning yours to the wall, letting you feel exactly how worked up he was.

His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading roughly into your hair and tugging your head to the side.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said, voice rough and low, lips brushing your ear. “I don’t do gentle. I don’t ask nicely. When I snap, I take what I want. And right now?”

He tugged your hair harder, exposing more of your neck.

“I want to fuck that goddamn attitude out of you.”

You let out a shaky exhale, arousal flooding through you at his words and the brutal way he held you.

Your hands came up to fist in his jacket, not pushing him away—pulling him closer.

The hatred was still there, burning bright, but it had twisted into something filthy and desperate.

“Then do it,” you challenged, voice husky. “Or are you all talk, Kirkland?”

His grip tightened possessively.

For a second, the room was nothing but heavy breathing, the distant sounds of the forest, and the violent tension ready to explode.

Randall didn’t waste another second.

His mouth crashed down on yours in a bruising kiss—rough, angry, and completely dominating.

There was nothing gentle about it.

His lips claimed yours like he was punishing you for every sharp word you’d thrown at him all night.

Teeth scraped against your lower lip before he bit down hard enough to make you gasp.

The second your mouth opened, his tongue pushed inside, demanding and invasive, tasting like anger and rain and pure need.

You moaned into the kiss—pathetic and involuntary—and that sound seemed to flip a switch in him.

“Fuck,” he growled against your mouth, the vibration running straight through you.

One hand stayed tangled brutally in your hair, yanking your head exactly where he wanted it so he could deepen the kiss even further.

The other hand dropped to your hip, fingers digging in hard as he ground his body against yours, pinning you tighter to the wall.

You tried to kiss him back with the same fire, but he didn’t let you.

Every time you pushed forward, he shoved you back with his hips and his mouth, controlling the pace completely.

He was bigger, stronger, and right now he was using every inch of that advantage.

You were starting to fall apart already.

Another desperate little whimper slipped out of you as he sucked on your tongue.

Your hands fisted tighter in his jacket, but instead of fighting, you were pulling him closer, arching against him like you couldn’t get enough.

Your thighs squeezed around the one he still had wedged between your legs, hips rolling helplessly against the firm pressure.

Randall pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing hard.

His eyes were dark, satisfied, and a little cruel as he took in your flushed face and swollen lips.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice low and mocking. “All that fight and now you’re already falling apart for me. Pathetic.”

The words should have pissed you off. Instead, they made you even wetter. A needy sound escaped your throat as you tried to chase his mouth again.

He chuckled darkly and tightened his grip in your hair, holding you just out of reach. “Beg for it.”

Your face burned with humiliation and arousal.

You hated how easily he was breaking you down, but you couldn’t stop yourself. “Please…” The word came out small and shaky. “Kiss me again. Please, Randall—”

He cut you off with another savage kiss, rewarding your obedience by pressing his thigh harder between your legs, giving you something to grind against.

His tongue fucked into your mouth in rough strokes while his hand slid under the hem of your shirt, palm hot and possessive against your bare skin.

You were moaning shamelessly now, hips rocking desperately against his thigh like you had no pride left.

Every rough bite to your lip, every tug on your hair, every time he pinned you harder against the wall made you weaker.

The hatred was still there—burning underneath everything—but right now it only made you wetter.

Randall pulled back again, lips hovering just over yours, teasing.

A string of spit connected you for a second before he wiped it away with his thumb, smearing it across your bottom lip.

“That’s better,” he murmured, voice thick with lust and control. “Keep sounding like that and I might just give you what you need.”

He leaned in again, slower this time but no less aggressive—biting at your jaw, sucking a mark onto your neck while his hand kept you pinned exactly where he wanted you.

You were trembling against him, pathetic and soaking and completely at his mercy.

Randall’s hand was still fisted tight in your hair when he finally pulled back from the kiss.

His breathing was ragged, eyes dark with lust as he looked down at you—flushed, lips swollen, trembling against him.

“Get on your knees.”

The command was low, rough, and left no room for argument.

His fingers tightened in your hair, guiding you down with firm pressure.

You sank to the floor in front of him, knees hitting the dusty wood, heart pounding so hard you felt dizzy.

The sight of him towering over you like this—jacket open, chest heaving, that intense stare locked on your face—made something deep inside you melt.

He looked down at you with a dark, satisfied smirk.

“That’s it… look at you. Already so fucking pretty on your knees for me.”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, pressing inside just enough to feel the wet heat of your mouth.

“You hate me, but here you are. Pathetic and eager. Open.”

You obeyed, lips parting. The praise mixed with the degradation made your face burn and your thighs press together.

Randall unzipped his jeans with his free hand, pulling himself out. He was hard, thick, and already leaking at the tip.

He gave your hair a gentle tug, guiding your mouth closer.

“Go on, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice low and steady, talking you through it like he knew you needed it. “Take me in. Slow at first. Use that smart mouth for something useful.”

You leaned forward, wrapping your lips around the head.

The salty taste of him hit your tongue and you moaned softly around him.

Randall groaned, hips twitching forward.

“Fuck, that’s good. Just like that.” His hand stayed in your hair, controlling the pace but not forcing you yet.

“Suck a little harder… yeah. Good girl. You look so fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

The praise made you whimper.

You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, trying to please him.

Your hands came up to rest on his thighs, gripping the fabric of his jeans as you worked him with your mouth.

Randall’s head tipped back for a second, a rough sound escaping him, before he looked back down at you.

“Eyes up here,” he ordered. “I want to see you while you choke on me.”

You forced your gaze up, eyes watering as you took him deeper.

He hit the back of your throat and you gagged softly, but didn’t pull away.

The sound only seemed to turn him on more.

“Easy, pretty girl… breathe through your nose. Relax your throat for me.”

His voice was rough but almost coaxing now, thumb stroking your cheek as you struggled.

“That’s it. Good fucking girl. You’re doing so well for someone who was running her mouth at me all night.”

He started rocking his hips slowly, fucking shallowly into your mouth while keeping full control.

Saliva dripped down your chin.

Your eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed, completely lost in the moment—pathetic, needy, and dripping between your thighs.

“Fuck… look at you,” he groaned, voice dropping lower. “Taking me so deep. You love this, don’t you? Love being used like this after pretending you hate me.”

He gave your hair another tug, pulling you off him for a second so you could gasp for air.

Strings of spit connected your swollen lips to his cock.

“Tell me,” he demanded, tapping the wet head against your tongue. “Tell me you’re my good girl right now.”

You looked up at him with glassy, desperate eyes, lips shiny and swollen, breathing hard.

“I’m your good girl…” The words came out shaky and pathetic, barely above a whisper. “I’m your good girl.”

Randall’s eyes darkened with raw hunger.

He let out a low, pleased groan and stroked your cheek almost tenderly for a second.

“Yeah, you are,” he murmured, voice thick. “Such a good fucking girl when you stop fighting me.”

He tucked himself back into his jeans, still hard and aching, clearly not done with you.

Before you could catch your breath, he hauled you up by your arms and walked you backward until your ass hit the old wooden table.

In one rough motion, he lifted you onto it, shoving supplies out of the way.

The lantern wobbled but stayed upright, casting flickering light across your bodies.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered, already pushing your thighs apart with his hands.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, yanking your pants and underwear down in one impatient tug and tossing them aside.

The cool air hit your soaked core and you shivered.

Randall paused for a second, staring at how wet you were, a dark smirk pulling at his lips.

“Fuck… look at this pretty pussy. Dripping for me after sucking my cock like a desperate little thing.” He leaned in, breath hot against your inner thigh. “You really are pathetic tonight, aren’t you?”

Before you could respond, his mouth was on you.

He didn’t start gentle.

He licked a long, firm stripe up your center, then latched onto your clit with his lips and sucked hard.

You cried out, back arching sharply.

One of his big hands pressed flat against your stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t squirm away from the intense pleasure.

“Stay still,” he growled against you, the vibration making you whimper. “I’m not done tasting what’s mine.”

His tongue worked you relentlessly—alternating between broad, messy strokes and tight circles on your clit.

Every time you moaned too loudly, he’d pull back just enough to nip at your thigh in warning.

“That’s it… make those pretty sounds for me,” he said, voice rough as he pushed two thick fingers inside you without warning.

He curled them instantly, finding that spot that made your vision blur.

“Good girl. So fucking wet. You love my mouth on you, don’t you?”

You cried out sharply as his mouth worked you, hips jerking against his face.

The pleasure was overwhelming—his tongue relentless on your clit, two thick fingers curling deep inside you, hitting that perfect spot over and over.

Randall pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your soaked folds.

His voice was low, rough, and dripping with dominance.

“Who's pussy is this?”

You whimpered, head spinning, but the words caught in your throat.

The filthy question made your face burn with humiliation and fresh arousal, but you were too lost in the sensation to answer right away.

He didn’t wait.

His hand came down in a sharp, wet smack directly on your pussy.

The sting mixed with pleasure made you jolt hard, a broken moan tearing from your throat.

“I asked you a question,” he growled, eyes locked on your face as he delivered another firm spank to your clit. “Who's pussy is this? Answer me.”

“Yours—” you gasped desperately, voice cracking. “It’s yours, Randall—fuck—”

“That’s right.” He rewarded you immediately, diving back in with renewed hunger.

His mouth sealed around your clit, sucking hard while his fingers pumped faster, curling mercilessly against that spot inside you.

“Good girl. This pussy belongs to me."

You were falling apart fast—moaning pathetically, thighs shaking around his head, one hand gripping his hair like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Every lick, every thrust of his fingers, every filthy word pushed you closer to the edge.

He spanked your pussy once more, lighter this time but still sharp enough to make you clench around his fingers, then soothed it with a slow, broad lick.

“Tell me who owns this pretty, dripping cunt,” he murmured against you, voice vibrating through your core. “I want to hear it while you come on my tongue.”

"It's all yours," your voice whimpered, unable to say more.

Randall’s eyes flashed with dark satisfaction at your broken admission.

“Damn right it’s mine,” he growled against your slick folds.

He attacked your pussy with single-minded intensity—no mercy, no slow build.

His tongue flicked rapidly over your swollen clit while his fingers drove deep and curled relentlessly.

The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth echoed in the quiet house.

It didn’t take long.

Your first orgasm hit you like a freight train.

Your thighs clamped around his head, back arching violently off the table as you came hard with a loud, pathetic cry of his name.

Randall didn’t stop.

He kept licking and sucking through every pulse, fingers pumping steadily, drawing it out until you were shaking and whimpering.

“Fuck—Randall, please—too much—”

He pulled back just enough to deliver another sharp smack to your oversensitive pussy, making you jolt.

“You’re not done yet,” he said roughly. “I want another one. Be a good girl and give it to me.”

Before you could catch your breath, his mouth was back on you.

This time he was even more aggressive—sucking your clit hard, tongue working in tight, relentless circles while he added a third finger, stretching you open.

The overstimulation was intense.

Pleasure bordered on pain, but your body betrayed you, hips grinding desperately against his face.

You came again faster than you expected—harder this time.

A wrecked sob tore from your throat as your second orgasm crashed over you.

Your legs trembled uncontrollably, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming sensation.

Randall groaned loudly against you, lapping up every drop like he was starving.

He kept going even as you tried to squirm away, one strong arm thrown across your hips to pin you down.

“Stay still,” he commanded, voice muffled and rough. “I’m not finished with you.”

The third wave built almost immediately.

You were a complete mess now—whimpering, moaning brokenly, tears slipping down your cheeks as the overstimulation pushed you into that hazy, pathetic headspace.

Your hands tugged weakly at his hair, unsure if you wanted him closer or away.

“Please—Randall—I can’t—fuck, it’s too much—”

“You can,” he growled, sucking hard on your clit again. “Come on, baby. One more. Cum for me.”

He curled his fingers just right and sucked firmly on your swollen clit at the same time, and you shattered again.

This orgasm was the strongest yet—your whole body seizing up as you cried out, soaking his chin and the table beneath you.

Your mind went completely blank for a few seconds, nothing but white-hot pleasure and his name on your lips.

Only then did Randall finally pull back, lips and chin glistening with your release.

He rose to his feet, towering over your wrecked, trembling body on the table.

His eyes were dark with lust as he took in the sight of you: flushed, teary-eyed, legs still twitching from overstimulation.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking down at you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rough with arousal. “Such a pathetic little mess for me.”

Randall stood between your spread legs, staring down at your wrecked body.

You were still twitching from the last orgasm, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks, chest heaving with desperate little sobs.

The overstimulation had you completely broken—pathetic, soaked, and crying.

He loved it.

“Aww, look at you crying already,” he mocked softly, voice dripping with fake sympathy as he leaned over you.

One hand came up to cup your tear-streaked face, thumb brushing a tear away only to smear it across your lips.

“Poor little thing. Can’t handle getting that pretty pussy eaten, huh?”

You whimpered, fresh tears spilling as you nodded weakly.

The mocking tone only made you clench around nothing, aching for more.

Randall straightened up, finally freeing himself from his jeans again.

His cock was rock hard, flushed dark, and leaking.

He rubbed the head slowly up and down your oversensitive folds, teasing your clit until you jolted and cried out.

“Please…” you sobbed, voice small and broken.

“Please what?” He pressed just the tip inside you, stretching you open, then stopped. “Use your words, baby. Tell me what you need.”

The word slipped out of you so easily in your fucked-out state.

“Randall… please fuck me.”

Randall’s control snapped.

He thrust into you in one hard stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

You cried out sharply at the sudden fullness, fresh tears pouring down your face from the overwhelming stretch on top of everything else.

He groaned loudly, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled, starting to move immediately—deep, punishing thrusts that rocked the old table. “Crying on my cock already? That’s fucking pathetic…God such a pretty girl for me.”

He set a brutal pace, hips slamming into yours.

Every thrust hit deep, making your overstimulated body spasm around him.

You were a mess—sobbing, moaning, nails digging into his shoulders as he fucked you.

Randall leaned down closer, one hand bracing beside your head while the other wiped at your tears again with mock gentleness.

“Aww, don’t cry, pretty girl,” he cooed cruelly, even as he pounded into you harder. “I got you, baby. Just take it like a good girl. You can handle it, can’t you?”

You nodded frantically, sobbing louder as another wave of overwhelming pleasure-pain crashed through you. “Yes, fuck, I can’t—too much—”

“Yeah you can.” He grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him while he fucked you. “Look at me while you cry. I love seeing you like this. All broken and dripping for me.”

His pace somehow got even rougher.

The sound of skin slapping skin mixed with your sobs and his low grunts filled the room.

He reached between you and rubbed your swollen clit, pushing you toward another orgasm whether you could handle it or not.

“Come on, baby. Cum on my cock one more time. Let me feel you.”

You shattered again with a broken wail, clenching hard around him as tears streamed down your face.

Randall groaned at the feeling, fucking you through it without slowing down.

“That’s my good girl… fuck, keep crying for me just like that.”

Randall’s pace grew even more relentless, chasing his own release as your body continued to flutter and spasm around him.

He kept one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady for his deep, punishing thrusts.

Randall’s hips jerked forward one final time as he buried himself deep, groaning loudly while he came hard inside you.

You felt every thick pulse as he filled you up, his cock twitching against your overstimulated walls.

He stayed pressed against you for a long moment, breathing heavy, before slowly pulling out.

He turned you onto your back with surprising gentleness and hovered over you, one hand coming up to cup your tear-streaked face.

His thumb brushed away the tears still rolling down your flushed cheeks.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low and warm now. “You did so good for me. So fucking perfect.”

The words warmed your tear-stained cheeks.

“Hey… you okay, baby?” he asked softly, voice low but steady.

His other hand smoothed over your hip, rubbing slow circles there.

“Talk to me. Still with me?”

You sniffled, chest still heaving as you tried to find your voice.

“…Fuck you,” you mumbled weakly, though there was no real heat behind it.

Your hand came up to push half-heartedly at his chest.

“I hate you… so much.”

Randall let out a soft laugh, not moving away.

Instead, he brushed another tear from your cheek with his thumb, his smirk returning but softer around the edges.

“Where’s all that talk now, huh?” he teased, still stroking your face.

“All that screaming and fighting earlier, and now you’re just a pretty little mess under me. Real tough, baby.”

You glared up at him through watery eyes, but your fingers curled weakly into his shirt instead of pushing him away.

“Shut up… You’re the worst,” you muttered, voice hoarse and shaky.

“Acting all smug after… after that.”

He chuckled again, low and warm, leaning down to press a surprisingly gentle kiss to your forehead while his hand kept smoothing over your cheek.

“Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that,” he murmured, the mockery softened by the way he was still holding you close, thumb gently wiping at the corner of your eye.

“You can hate me all you want later. Right now you’re stuck here looking way too pretty crying on me.”

You huffed, a weak attempt at annoyance, but your body relaxed a little against him.

“Asshole…”

“Damn right,” he shot back lightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he brushed one last tear away.

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

so this one was a bit crazy to write lolll but i love me some mean randall!!! hope you guys enjoy :) this was a bit rushed so i hope u guys like it!

comment below some other characters you want to see content for :)

-nora

xoxo

Donna Raines

I feel like Donna would have immense trouble crying in front of someone.

She's the leader thus she feels she can't fall apart in front of her people.

So when you find her, its quiet. Not much words. But just comfort knowing someone is next to her.

Just know she'll never talk about it again though.

The first thing you noticed was that Colony House was...quiet.

Too quiet.

Donna was usually impossible to miss—calling for someone to stop slacking off, settling an argument before it became a fight, barking orders from one end of the house to the other. Even when she wasn't speaking, her presence seemed to fill every room.

Today, she was nowhere.

You asked around.

"Seen Donna?"

A few shrugs.

"Thought she was outside."

So you wandered around the property, expecting to find her chopping wood or fixing the fence.

Instead, you found her sitting on an old tree stump near the edge of the woods.

Her broad shoulders were hunched forward, elbows resting on her knees.

For a second, you thought she was just tired.

Then you heard it.

One shaky breath.

Then another.

Your feet stopped.

Donna never cried.

At least...not where anyone could see.

You should've turned around.

Given her the privacy she'd clearly fought to find.

Instead, a twig snapped beneath your boot.

Donna's head jerked up immediately.

Her eyes met yours.

Red.

Glossy.

She swore under her breath and scrubbed the heel of her hand across her face with almost angry determination.

"...Dammit."

You hesitated.

"I can leave."

"No."

Her answer came so quickly it surprised both of you.

She sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I mean..."

Another breath.

"...Do whatever you want."

It wasn't permission.

Not really.

It was exhaustion.

You walked over slowly, making sure every step gave her the chance to tell you to leave.

She never did.

When you reached her, you didn't ask what happened.

Didn't ask if she was okay.

You both knew she wasn't.

Instead, you lowered yourself onto the grass beside the stump.

Not too close.

Close enough that she knew she wasn't alone.

The silence stretched between you.

The wind stirred through the trees.

Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed from Colony House, blissfully unaware.

Donna stared straight ahead.

"I hate this place."

Her voice was rough.

Not loud.

Just...worn thin.

You nodded.

"I know."

"I bury people every damn week."

Another pause.

"I tell everyone it'll be okay."

She laughed once.

It held no humor.

"I don't even believe it anymore."

You looked at her.

She still refused to meet your eyes.

Her jaw tightened.

"I can't..."

She swallowed hard.

"I can't let them see me like this."

"You won't."

"I have to be..."

She gestured vaguely toward the house.

"...something."

"The strong one."

"Yeah."

The words came out almost bitter.

"If they think I'm falling apart..."

She didn't finish the sentence.

She didn't have to.

You understood.

Leaders didn't get the luxury of breaking down.

Not here.

Not when every person in Colony House looked to Donna the second something went wrong.

Without thinking too much about it, you shifted closer until your shoulder lightly brushed hers.

She stiffened.

Not because she wanted you to move.

Because she wasn't used to someone staying.

You didn't reach for her.

Didn't hug her.

Didn't make a speech about how it was okay to cry.

You simply sat there.

After a long minute, Donna let out a slow breath.

Her shoulder eased against yours.

Just enough that some of her weight rested there.

It was almost imperceptible.

But you felt it.

Another tear escaped despite all her efforts to stop it.

She made no move to wipe it away this time.

The two of you stayed like that for what could have been ten minutes or an hour.

Eventually, Donna straightened.

She stood up.

By the time she looked at you again, the leader of Colony House had returned.

Her expression was composed.

Her voice steady.

"...Don't."

You tilted your head.

"Don't ask."

"I wasn't going to."

"And don't mention this to anyone."

"I won't."

She studied your face for a moment, as if deciding whether she believed you.

Apparently she did.

Donna gave a single nod.

Then she held out a hand.

You took it, expecting her to help you up.

Instead, she squeezed your hand once.

Firm.

Quick.

Gone before anyone else could have noticed.

"...Thanks."

It was barely above a whisper.

The only acknowledgment she'd ever give.

By the time the two of you walked back toward Colony House, she was already shouting at someone for leaving tools lying in the yard.

And true to her nature—

She never mentioned that afternoon again.

Not once.

But every now and then, on the hardest days, you'd find a fresh cup of coffee waiting for you in the morning.

Or she'd save you the last piece of bread without saying a word.

Donna wasn't good at saying she trusted someone.

She was much better at showing them.

And somehow, after that day, you knew she'd chosen you as one of the very few people she didn't have to be strong around—even if she'd never admit it aloud.

--

Randall Kirkland

Boy oh boy, get ready because Randall will get defensive and mean real fast when you see him emotional.

Big tough guy can't handle someone finding him upset.

Especially if it was you.

You weren't trying to follow him.

You'd only noticed him storming toward the tree line after breakfast, shoulders tight, not looking at anyone.

Something about it didn't sit right with you.

So, after a minute's hesitation, you went after him.

You found him deeper in the woods than you'd expected.

His back was to you.

One hand braced against a tree.

His head hung low.

"...Randall?"

He didn't answer.

You took another cautious step.

Then he turned.

His eyes were red.

Your heart dropped.

For one second, neither of you spoke.

Then his expression hardened.

"The hell are you doing out here?"

"I was looking for you."

"Congratulations."

He spread his arms.

"You found me."

"I'm just checking—"

"I don't need you checking on me."

"I didn't say you did."

"Then what're you doing here?"

His voice was already rising.

"You stalking me now?"

"No."

"You got nothin' better to do?"

"You walked off."

"So?"

"So I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine."

You looked at him.

He laughed once.

Sharp.

"What?"

"Clearly you're not."

His face changed instantly.

"I'm fine."

"Sure."

He stepped closer.

"You think you know every damn thing."

"I never said that."

"You come out here looking at me like..."

He shook his head, angry enough that he couldn't finish the sentence.

"...Like what?"

"Like I'm some wounded dog."

"I wasn't."

"Bullshit."

"I'm not pitying you."

"I don't want your pity."

"You don't have it."

"You got that look."

"What look?"

"That..." He gestured at you in frustration. "That face."

"I don't know what face you're talking about."

"You do."

"I don't."

He laughed again.

This one sounded almost desperate.

"Jesus Christ."

He turned away.

"You should've just left."

"I wasn't going to."

"I didn't ask you to stay."

"You didn't ask me to leave either."

"I shouldn't have to."

Silence.

The woods felt impossibly still.

A breeze stirred the branches overhead.

Randall let out a long breath.

"...Just go."

"No."

His shoulders stiffened.

"I said go."

"No."

He spun around.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I don't want to leave you out here by yourself."

"I don't need you!"

"You don't have to."

"I said I don't—"

Before he could finish, you closed the distance between you.

Your arms wrapped around him.

The words died in his throat.

For a heartbeat, his whole body locked.

His hands stayed awkwardly at his sides.

"...What the hell are you doing?"

His voice came out quieter this time.

You didn't answer.

You just held him.

He made no move to hug you back.

"You serious right now?"

Still nothing.

"You don't listen worth a damn."

A beat.

"...You're an idiot."

You smiled against his shoulder.

"I've been told."

He huffed.

It almost sounded like a laugh.

Almost.

Another long silence.

Then, very slowly...

His shoulders dropped.

The fight left him all at once.

One of his hands lifted uncertainly before settling against the middle of your back.

Not pulling you closer.

Not really hugging you.

Just...

There.

You felt one shaky breath against your shoulder.

Then another.

No sobbing.

No words.

Just a man who'd spent his entire life believing anger was safer than grief finally running out of energy to be angry.

The two of you stayed that way until he was ready to step back.

When he did, he immediately cleared his throat and took a step away from you.

He pointed a finger in your direction.

"...Don't."

"Don't what?"

"You know."

"I really don't."

He rolled his eyes.

"This."

He gestured vaguely between the two of you.

"It didn't happen."

You nodded solemnly.

"It didn't happen."

He narrowed his eyes.

"...Swear."

"I swear."

Another pause.

"...Good."

He shoved past you, shoulder bumping yours on purpose as he started back toward town.

After a few steps, he glanced back.

"You comin' or what?"

You blinked.

"I thought you wanted to be alone."

"I changed my mind."

He said it like it annoyed him.

Like it was somehow your fault.

You smiled to yourself before falling into step beside him.

Neither of you mentioned the tears.

Neither of you mentioned the hug.

Randall spent the entire walk back complaining about Jade.

Which, somehow, told you he was okay again.

--

Kenny Liu

Oh my darling Kenny, this boy deserves a good cry!

I feel like he is pretty open about his emotions but he definitely is the type to feel like he's bothering someone when he opens up.

But around you, its easier.

He feels safe.

The sheriff's station felt strangely empty.

Boyd had gone out with a small group that morning, and Kenny had mentioned he wanted to organize some of the supplies while everyone was gone.

You'd expected to find him surrounded by paperwork.

Instead, his desk sat untouched.

"Kenny?"

No answer.

You checked the cells.

Empty.

The back room.

Nothing.

Just as you were about to leave, you noticed the back door standing slightly open.

Outside, the afternoon sun warmed the wooden steps behind the station.

Kenny sat on the bottom step, elbows resting on his knees.

His hands were clasped together so tightly his fingers had turned white.

He was staring out toward the trees.

You almost called his name.

Then you noticed him wipe quickly at his face.

Your heart sank.

You stepped outside anyway, letting the screen door creak so he would hear you coming.

He glanced over his shoulder.

The second he saw you, he offered a small smile.

It was automatic.

The kind people put on before they realize they don't have the energy to keep pretending.

"...Hey."

"Hey."

You walked over slowly.

"Mind if I sit?"

He shook his head.

"No."

You settled beside him.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The quiet between you had never been uncomfortable.

Birds chirped somewhere beyond the tree line.

A breeze rustled through the leaves.

Kenny let out a slow breath.

"...Sorry."

You looked over.

"For what?"

He laughed softly, though there wasn't much humor in it.

"You caught me."

"You don't have to apologize for that."

"I know."

He rubbed his palms together.

"I just..."

His voice trailed off.

"...I thought I was done."

"Done with what?"

He stared down at his hands.

"...Crying."

The words came out so quietly you almost missed them.

"I thought I'd gotten used to it."

He gave another little laugh.

"I don't even know what 'it' is anymore."

He looked out toward the woods again.

"Some days it's my dad."

A pause.

"Some days it's my mom."

Another.

"Some days it's just...everything."

He shook his head.

"It's stupid."

"It isn't."

"I'll be fine."

"I know you will."

That seemed to surprise him.

"You do?"

You nodded.

"I've never doubted that."

His shoulders relaxed just a little.

"But..."

You smiled gently.

"...That doesn't mean you have to be fine right now."

For a moment, he just looked at you.

Like he was trying to decide whether he believed you.

Then he looked away, blinking hard.

"I hate this."

"What?"

He swallowed.

"...Feeling like this."

"You don't have to hide it from me."

"I know."

He smiled sadly.

"I just always feel like..."

He searched for the words.

"...Like I'm dumping it on somebody. Giving them another thing to worry about."

"You've listened to me."

He looked at you.

"You've sat with me on bad days."

"You've let me complain."

A tiny laugh escaped him.

"...A lot."

"You've never made me feel like I was too much."

His eyes softened.

"So why would I feel that way about you?"

That seemed to be the thing that finally undid him.

He looked down quickly, trying to blink away the tears gathering in his eyes.

"...Sorry."

You sighed.

"There you go again."

"I know."

"You don't have to apologize."

"I know."

"But I keep doing it."

"I know."

Despite everything, he laughed.

A real one this time.

Quiet.

Warm.

"You make it really hard to argue with you."

"I've been told."

He smiled to himself before his expression faltered again.

Without thinking, you reached over and rested your hand lightly over his.

"I'm here."

He looked down at your hands.

Then back at you.

"You always know what to say."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I just know you."

His eyes searched yours for a long moment.

Then, without a word, he leaned sideways.

Tentatively.

Almost asking permission without saying it aloud.

You answered by opening your arm.

He immediately closed the rest of the distance, resting his forehead against the side of your neck as your arms wrapped around him.

The breath he let out sounded like he'd been holding it in for weeks.

One of your hands rubbed slow circles across his back.

The other rested gently against the back of his head.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

You couldn't help but smile.

"What did we just talk about?"

A sheepish laugh vibrated against your shoulder.

"...Right."

"No apologizing."

"No apologizing."

The two of you sat there for a long while.

Not talking.

Not trying to fix anything.

Just letting the weight of everything that had happened settle somewhere outside of Kenny's shoulders for a little while.

Eventually, he pulled back, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"...Don't tell Boyd."

You laughed softly.

"I won't."

"He'll ask if I'm okay."

"He asks that anyway."

"...Yeah."

Another smile.

This one reached his eyes.

"Thanks."

And as the two of you stood to head back inside, he held the door open for you with that same gentle smile.

For the first time all day...

It looked real.

--

Father Khatri

Father Khatri, my beloved!

This man is the embodiment of putting people before himself. And I think he would be this way even if he wasn't a priest.

Sure he has Boyd, but at the end of the day, he's still more of emotional support for him.

He's a tired man.

And for once, I think he wants to be the one to break down. The one to be held.

The church was empty.

It wasn't unusual.

Most people only wandered in when they needed something.

Hope.

Forgiveness.

Someone to listen.

You'd come looking for Father Khatri because you hadn't seen him since breakfast.

The front doors stood open.

Sunlight spilled across the worn wooden floor, illuminating rows of empty pews.

"Father?"

No answer.

You stepped farther inside.

The silence felt...different.

Not peaceful.

Heavy.

Your eyes drifted toward the altar.

He wasn't there.

Then you noticed the side door leading to the small room at the back of the church.

It was slightly ajar.

You knocked softly against the frame.

"...Father?"

No response.

You eased the door open.

Father Khatri sat in the chair beside his desk.

His elbows rested on his knees.

His hands were clasped together so tightly they trembled.

His head was bowed.

At first, you thought he was praying.

Then you heard it.

One uneven breath.

Followed by another.

Your chest tightened.

"Father..."

His head lifted.

For a fleeting moment, surprise crossed his face.

Then embarrassment.

He quickly straightened in his chair, rubbing a hand over his eyes as though he could erase the evidence before you'd fully seen it.

"I wasn't expecting anyone."

His voice was steady.

Too steady.

"I can come back."

"No."

The word escaped him before he'd thought it through.

He blinked.

Then offered a weary smile.

"...No."

He looked away.

"I'd...rather you didn't."

You stepped into the room, closing the door behind you with a quiet click.

Neither of you spoke as you pulled another chair beside his.

The room felt impossibly small.

Books lined the shelves.

A Bible lay open on the desk, forgotten.

The afternoon light filtered through the window, catching the dust in the air.

For several minutes, all you heard was the ticking of the old clock on the wall.

Finally, Khatri let out a long sigh.

"I've spent so much time telling people that it's all right to grieve."

A humorless smile touched his lips.

"I appear to be rather poor at following my own advice."

"You don't have to."

He looked over at you.

"I don't?"

"You don't have to be the strong one every minute of every day."

A quiet laugh escaped him.

"I fear that's become something of a habit."

"I know."

His gaze settled on the floor.

"There are days..."

He paused.

"...when I wonder if I've said the wrong thing to someone."

His fingers tightened together.

"If I offered hope where honesty would've been kinder."

Another pause.

"If I encouraged someone to keep going when...perhaps I had no right."

"You gave them something to hold onto."

"I gave them words."

"You gave them yourself."

That made him fall silent.

His eyes closed briefly.

"I don't always know the difference anymore."

The confession hung between you.

Small.

Fragile.

He wasn't doubting God.

He was doubting himself.

The man beneath the collar.

You watched him draw in a slow breath.

Then another.

As if he were trying desperately to gather himself before the cracks spread any farther.

"You know..."

His voice was quieter now.

"I hear so many confessions."

A faint smile.

"So many fears."

"So many people convinced they're alone."

He shook his head.

"And yet..."

He stopped.

You waited.

"...I've become remarkably good at convincing myself that I must carry my own."

Your heart ached.

"You don't."

"I know that."

His smile returned.

Gentle.

Tired.

"I simply haven't been very successful at believing it."

Without thinking, you reached across the small space between your chairs and rested your hand over his.

He looked down at it.

Then back at you.

His eyes had begun to shine again.

"I must look terribly foolish."

"You look tired."

That broke something in him.

Not loudly.

Not all at once.

His shoulders simply...

Dropped.

Years of responsibility seemed to leave his body in a single breath.

He looked away quickly, embarrassed by the tears gathering despite his efforts.

"Forgive me."

You smiled softly.

"There you go."

He laughed weakly through his nose.

"Old habits."

"The worst."

He nodded.

"The very worst."

Silence settled again.

Comfortable.

Safe.

You gently squeezed his hand.

"You don't have to say anything else."

"I know."

"..."

"...May I ask something terribly selfish?"

You smiled.

"You don't have to ask."

His eyes searched yours.

For permission.

For reassurance.

For just one moment where he didn't have to be Father Khatri.

Only the man beneath him.

You stood.

He looked at you curiously.

Then you opened your arms.

You didn't say a word.

You didn't need to.

He stared for a long moment.

Almost as though he'd forgotten what it felt like to be the one offered comfort instead of giving it.

Then, very slowly, he stood.

There was hesitation in every movement.

Not because he didn't want to.

Because he wasn't accustomed to needing it.

When he finally stepped forward, he did so carefully.

Almost reverently.

His arms settled around you with the same gentleness he seemed to bring to everything he touched.

The instant your arms wrapped around him, you felt him exhale.

A long.

Shuddering.

Exhale.

His forehead rested against your shoulder.

Not hiding.

Simply...resting.

For the first time in what felt like forever, there were no questions waiting for him.

No impossible choices.

No frightened townspeople asking him to explain the unexplainable.

No Boyd needing guidance.

No sermons.

No answers.

Just warmth.

Just quiet.

Just someone willing to carry him for a little while.

His grip tightened, ever so slightly.

Not desperate.

Just enough that you understood.

Please don't let go yet.

So you didn't.

You held him while the tears he had denied himself for so long finally came.

Quietly.

Without shame.

Without apology.

And for those few precious minutes, he wasn't Father Khatri.

He was simply a weary man who had spent so long tending to everyone else's souls that he'd forgotten someone might be willing to tend to his.

--

Jade Herrera

Part of me feels like he wouldn't even realize he had been crying.

He would be so wrapped in whatever theory or hallucination had been plaguing him so the tears just blended in.

I think emotions, especially difficult ones, stress him out. He likes logic and facts. Emotions have no logic.

So seeing you may be the only thing that would ground him.

You knew something was wrong the moment you heard the bottles hit the floor.

Not break.

Just...roll.

One after another.

The sound echoed from the root cellar.

You frowned.

"Jade?"

No answer.

The room was dim, lit only by a lantern hanging from one of the beams.

Papers covered nearly every surface.

Pages filled with symbols.

Numbers.

Half-finished diagrams.

Strings of notes that only Jade seemed capable of understanding.

He stood in the middle of all of it.

Completely still.

His back was to you.

"Jade?"

"...No."

His voice was distant.

Almost distracted.

"You ever notice..."

He didn't turn around.

"...they never stay where you leave 'em?"

You blinked.

"What?"

"The symbols."

He pointed vaguely toward one of the walls.

"They move."

You looked.

There was nothing there.

"...Jade."

"I swear to God, they're different."

His breathing was quick.

"They're changing."

Another bottle rolled across the floor after he'd unknowingly kicked it.

"I've almost got it."

"You've been saying that for days."

"I know."

"If I can just figure out why—"

His words stopped.

He stared at the wall.

Unmoving.

"...Why is there blood?"

Your stomach tightened.

There wasn't.

"Jade."

"It's gone."

He frowned.

"It was just there."

You took another careful step toward him.

"Jade."

"...Hang on."

His hand lifted as if asking you to wait.

"No, no, no..."

His breathing quickened.

"I almost had it."

"You need to look at me."

"I can't."

"You can."

"I said I can't."

His voice echoed through the cellar.

"If I stop thinking about it, I'll lose it."

"You've already lost yourself."

Silence.

He finally turned.

His eyes were bloodshot.

His hair was a mess from repeatedly dragging his hands through it.

And only then did you notice the tear tracks running down his face.

He didn't.

He looked at you as if nothing were unusual.

"What?"

"You've been crying."

His eyebrows pulled together.

"What are you talking about?"

"You've..."

You gestured toward your own face.

"...You're crying."

He stared at you.

Then lifted a hand to his cheek.

His fingertips came away wet.

He looked at them in genuine confusion.

"...Huh."

That was it.

No embarrassment.

No attempt to hide it.

Just confusion.

"...I didn't even notice."

Your heart broke a little.

He looked back toward the wall.

"I don't think they're mine."

You frowned.

"The tears."

He sounded completely serious.

"I think it's just..."

He searched for the words.

"...Everything leaking."

His laugh was short.

Frantic.

"I don't know."

You closed the distance between you.

"Hey."

"I'm fine."

"I know you think you are."

"I am."

"You haven't slept."

"I don't need—"

"You haven't eaten."

"I forgot."

"You've been talking to walls."

"They talk back."

"They don't."

"...Yeah."

A beat.

"I know."

The words came so quietly you almost missed them.

You reached out slowly.

Not for a hug.

Just your hand.

"Give me your hand."

He looked down at it.

"...Why?"

"Just trust me."

Another few seconds passed before he finally placed his hand in yours.

Cold.

His fingers trembled slightly.

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Can you feel that?"

"...Yeah."

"My hand's real."

He blinked.

"You sure?"

"I'm pretty sure."

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Huh."

You squeezed again.

"The floor under your feet?"

He looked down.

"...Real."

"The lantern?"

He followed your gaze.

"...Real."

"My voice?"

He looked back at you.

"...Real."

You nodded.

"Stay with me."

For the first time since you'd entered the cellar, his eyes actually focused.

Not on the walls.

Not on the symbols.

On you.

The frantic energy in his expression eased, if only a little.

He let out a long breath.

"...Jesus."

His shoulders sagged.

"I hate when that happens."

"I know."

"I think I'm losing my mind."

"You've thought that before."

"...Yeah."

"And every time, you find your way back."

He laughed quietly.

"Usually because somebody drags me back."

You smiled.

"Seems to be a habit."

He looked at your joined hands.

Then back at you.

"You know what's really annoying?"

"What?"

"I was this close to figuring something out."

"You'll still be this close tomorrow."

"...Maybe."

"You need a break."

"I don't do breaks."

"I know."

"...They're inefficient."

"They're necessary."

He sighed dramatically.

"I hate when you're logical."

"I learned from the best."

That earned you a genuine laugh.

Small.

Tired.

But real.

He shook his head.

"...You're impossible."

"So I've heard."

Another silence settled between you.

Not uncomfortable.

He kept looking at your hand wrapped around his.

Like it was anchoring him.

Like if he let go, he'd drift right back into whatever nightmare had consumed him.

So instead...

He stepped closer.

Not with the certainty of someone asking for comfort.

More like someone following instinct.

His forehead bumped lightly against yours.

"You know..."

His eyes closed.

"...I think you're the only thing around here that still makes sense."

You smiled softly.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It is."

A beat.

"...Don't let go yet."

You didn't.

Because for all of Jade's brilliance, all of his theories and impossible equations, all of his desperate attempts to make the town fit into something logical...

Sometimes the only thing capable of pulling him back to reality wasn't an answer.

It was you.

A hand in his.

A voice he recognized.

Something undeniably, wonderfully real.

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

since these were a bit longer, i have to split this into two parts! :)

hope you guys enjoy!

imagine idea creds to @sweetvengeancee <333

-nora

I never imagined myself as a homebody.

Before all of this, you could find me anywhere that wasn't my home.

Maybe it was because home never felt quite safe enough for me or perhaps it was the wild spirit within me.

After arriving in this town, it seems like all I do is stay home. While, yes, it is to keep me safe but it doesn't make it any easier.

Nights like these are what get me through.

The sun hung low in the sky, painting the abandoned clearing in long golden light and deep shadows. A makeshift bonfire crackled inside the old oil drum, more for comfort and tradition than warmth.

Someone had dragged it out here earlier that day, and now a small group of survivors sat in a loose circle on logs and battered lawn chairs, sharing ghost stories as the light slowly bled from the world.

I sat on a weathered log, knees drawn up, listening to the others spin their tales.

The atmosphere felt like an old horror movie: crackling fire, low dramatic voices, the way the wind made the trees groan and creak.

If I closed my eyes, it almost felt like it was normal. A normal bonfire at night with my friends back home.

A slight ache flooded my chest.

Someone told an old ghost story.

Ellis could barely get through his story without laughing.

It brought a smile to my face.

Everyone laughing and at ease. Almost forgetting what lurks beyond the trees that surround us.

I almost didn't notice that the sun had begun to dip lower and lower.

Ellis spoke up.

"Okay guys, time to start heading back."

A mix of sighs and groans filled the air. But no one fought back.

It was a truth that none of us like to acknowledged but we didn't fight.

This town had a way of doing that.

Making you feel normal, hopeful even. And then snatching it right from under your feet.

The group quickly scattered, hurrying back toward the safety of the houses before full dark.

I made my way to my home within the town.

At the moment, it was just me and this older woman who has been here for awhile. I liked her. She wasn't nosy and we stuck to our own thing.

The sound of the bell rang through my ears as I walked down the old town street.

I smiled as I passed by familiar faces and took in the last moments of evening air.

"You get home quick now," Boyd called from a few feet ahead of me.

"You know you don't have to worry about me," I lightly joke. But as the words leave my mouth, I find they taste different.

Like I knew it was a lie.

Images of the shadow standing just at the tree line outside my home flash through my mind.

My gut twists.

Boyds laugh breaks my thoughts.

He squeezes my shoulder as I pass by him. An almost father like gesture.

"I worry about everyone." he laughs lightly and then bids me goodnight.

I made it inside just as the last light faded, bolting the door behind me with a sigh of relief.

The old house creaked around me, but it was safe.

I went through my usual routine on autopilot.

First, I lit a couple of candles on the kitchen table, their warm glow pushing back the growing darkness.

I washed my face in the sink, the cold water a shock against my skin.

After, I shrug on an old lace nightgown I had found while rummaging through the diners backroom.

It was light and delicate. It was one of the few things I cherished here.

The older woman had gone to bed before me so the house was quiet.

The quiet had always been a bit eery to me.

You know that feeling when watching a horror movie and it becomes quiet right before a jump scare? That's how silence feels to me.

Perhaps it was the town that made it worse.

Or maybe it was

him.

The Cowboy.

I'd noticed him more and more lately.

The low tilt of his hat.

The way he seemed to look right through me, like he knew every secret fear and filthy thought in my head.

He was one of them — a creature, a monster — but something about him felt… different. More focused. More personal.

A quiet warmth begin to reach my cheeks.

I stood in front of the cracked mirror, slowly brushing out my hair in the candlelight.

At first, the thoughts were almost innocent. He was watching me again today… that same spot by the trees.

The way he stands so still, like nothing in this nightmare world scares him.

But the longer my mind lingered, the more dangerous the thoughts became.

Those hands… what would they feel like sliding up my thighs?

That low, rough voice saying my name right against my ear while he—

Heat bloomed low in my stomach.

I pressed my thighs together, imagining him behind me, that button down brushing my bare skin as he bent me over.

My breathing had grown shallow.

God, what the hell is wrong with me?

I shook my head sharply, forcing the filthy images away.

It's this town.

It's getting in my head.

Thats what this is, I thought to myself. It's just this town getting to me.

I blew out one of the candles and climbed into bed, pulling the blanket up around me.

The house creaked softly in the night wind. My thighs pressed together under the covers as my mind kept spiraling.

Think of something else.

Cmon.

Think about someone else.

Anyone else.

I tried focusing on Randall — his sharp mouth, the way he always acted like he didn’t give a damn about anything. I pictured his cocky grin, imagined him pressing me against a wall instead… but the fantasy fell flat almost immediately.

Randall felt loud and messy in my head. Safe, maybe, but boring.

The Cowboy’s image kept crowding him out — that quiet, predatory patience, the low drawl, the way he looked at me like he already knew exactly how I'd sound when I fell apart for him.

No matter how hard I tried to picture Randall’s hands on me, it was the Cowboy’s fingers I felt ghosting over my skin.

I let out a frustrated breath and rolled over, squeezing my eyes shut. Just go to sleep. Stop this.

I could hear was the steady chirping of crickets and the occasional buzz of night bugs outside the window.

I tried to let the familiar sounds lull me to sleep, breathing slow and deliberate.

Then came the creaking — soft at first, like old wood settling.

It moved slowly along the porch, deliberate and rhythmic, the unmistakable sound of boots on weathered boards.

My eyes snapped open in the dark.

The bugs kept chirping, but the creaking stopped right outside my window.

The only thing I could hear was my own heart pounding within my ears.

Holding my breath, I close my eyes and just pray this is just a dream.

A low, lazy humming started up.

An old, haunting melody — the kind you’d hear in a dusty saloon from some forgotten Western.

Slow and drawn out, almost soothing… if it weren’t coming from the thing standing just beyond the glass.

My stomach twisted with nerves.

My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat.

I pulled the blanket tighter around myself, suddenly very aware of how thin the walls were, how alone I was.

He’s right there.

Don’t move.

Don’t breathe.

But my body betrayed me with a rush of anxious heat, thighs pressing together as the humming drifted through the crack in the window like an invitation.

Then the humming faded, and his voice replaced it — low, rough, and far too close.

“Darlin’…”

The single word sent a shiver racing down my spine.

“…Been waitin’ out here just to see that pretty face.”

My breath caught in my throat.

Oh god, that voice.

It was exactly how I remembered it — low, rough, and far too gentle for something so dangerous.

My mind was screaming at me to stay quiet, to hide, but my body was already reacting, a warm flush spreading across my skin.

He let the silence stretch again, then spoke once more, softer this time.

“You don’t have to be scared, darlin’,” he murmured, closer now, like his mouth was nearly against the glass.

"...Just want to look at you."

My face burned.

Stop. Please stop.

But I didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

His words wrapped around me like smoke, slow and seductive, feeding every filthy fantasy I'd tried to bury earlier.

My thighs rubbed together under the blanket as arousal mixed with raw fear.

“Just open the curtain,” he coaxed, voice dropping even lower. “Let me see that pretty face in the moonlight. I promise I’ll be good."

My heart pounded so violently I felt dizzy.

Don’t.

Don’t you dare.

I clutched the blanket like a lifeline, staring at the heavy curtain covering the window.

The logical part of my brain was screaming at me — He’s one of them. People die when they listen. I'll never make it back inside.

But another part, the part that had been fantasizing about him while brushing my hair, whispered back:

Just a peek. Just to see him. You can close it again right away…

It's just curtains, right?

My hand trembled as I slowly sat up in bed. The floorboards creaked under my feet when I stood.

This is stupid. This is how people die.

Still, I took one hesitant step toward the window, then another.

My fingers hovered inches from the edge of the curtain.

One look. That’s all. Then I’ll go back to bed and pretend none of this happened.

The Cowboy’s voice came again, patient and velvet-soft.

“That’s it… I can hear you movin’ closer. You’re curious, aren’t you, darlin’? Been curious for a while now.”

My breath shook.

Every survival instinct warred with the aching heat building between my thighs.

After a long, agonizing pause, my fingers finally brushed the fabric.

I hesitated for several heartbeats, then began to pull the curtain back — agonizingly slow.

Inch by inch, the heavy material slid aside.

Moonlight spilled into the room in a pale silver sliver, and there he was.

The Cowboy stood just beyond the window, close enough that I could see the faint gleam of his eyes beneath the brim of his hat.

He didn’t move.

He simply watched you with that same unnerving patience, the corner of his mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile as my eyes met his.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

My hand stayed frozen on the curtain, ready to yank it shut at any second.

My pulse thundered in my ears.

“ There she is,” he murmured, voice low and satisfied. “Even prettier up close like this.”

My cheeks burned.

I knew I should close the curtain. I knew I should step back.

But I stayed rooted in place, breathing shallow, unable to look away from him.

I swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.

"What do you want?"

A soft, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving mine.

“I want to see you. Been watchin’ you… and all I could think about was gettin’ closer.”

My breath hitched.

I stood there trembling, one hand still gripping the curtain like a lifeline.

Fear and arousal twisted together so tightly in my chest that I felt dizzy.

This is how people die.

I should close the curtain right now.

But I couldn’t make myself move.

"This is as close as you'll ever get."

A low, amused chuckle rumbled out of him.

“Is that so?” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with challenge.

“You sure about that? You’re already standin’ here talkin’ to me in nothin’ but that little nightgown.”

My face heated.

“Don’t push your luck, cowboy. I could close this curtain any second.”

“Then why haven’t you?” he countered, voice dropping into a rough drawl.

“Why are you still standin’ here with your thighs squeezed together, breathin’ like you’re already wet for me?”

Heat flooded my face.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Am I?” He smirked, slow and predatory.

“Or are you just like me, darlin’? A little fucked up. Pretendin’ to be good when all you really want is somethin’ dangerous.” His voice lowered, intimate and knowing.

“I know you think about me. Late at night when the house is quiet. I know you touch yourself wonderin’ what my hands would feel like. What my voice would sound like right against your ear while I ruin you.”

I glared at him through the glass, equal parts humiliated and unbearably turned on.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

He made a low, disapproving tsk tsk sound, like a patient man scolding a naughty child.

“Now you’re lyin’ to me,” he murmured, the words carrying a subtle edge of promise. “That’s not very nice, darlin’. Might have to do somethin’ about that later…”

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped my lips before I could stop it.

The Cowboy’s eyes darkened instantly.

His jaw tightened and his posture shifted — still controlled, but there was a new, barely-restrained hunger in the way he looked at you. Like a wolf that had just tasted blood.

His hand pressed harder against the glass.

“That’s it… there she is.”

I blinked hard, trying to pull myself back together.

The flush on my face deepened as embarrassment hit me.

I straightened up slightly and shot back, voice shaky but defiant:

“Don’t get cocky. That… that was nothing.”

He just hummed in response.

Unconvinced.

"Whatever you say, doll."

The silence that followed was heavier than anything he'd said.

I should have closed the curtain. I knew it. My fingers even twitched with the intention.

But I didn't.

Instead, I watched his chest rise and fall.

Watched the way his thumb traced a slow, idle circle against the glass — a motion so casual it felt deliberate.

"You still here," he observed, and there was no mockery in it. Just quiet wonder, like he'd expected you to vanish the moment he blinked.

"I'm still here," I whispered, and I wasn't sure if it was a confession or a warning.

"How long has it been since someone touched you, darlin?"

The question my breath hitch.

Its been long.

Too long.

Even before I had got to this town, it had been too long.

"I'm not letting you touch me."

Even though I try my best, the confidence in my voice falters. Like my own voice doesn't believe me.

"Are you sure about that?"

My mouth doesn't open.

Because, no.

No, I'm not sure.

And that thought terrifies me.

He leaned in slightly, the brim of his hat nearly touching the glass. “Answer me, darlin’.”

I swallowed hard, cheeks burning. “I… I’m not opening the door. I won’t.”

A low, understanding hum left him.

“Alright. I can work with that.” His hand slowly dragged down the window pane, almost like he was tracing your body through the glass. “We can stay right here… if that’s what you need.”

"Grab that chair over there and set it in front of the window for me."

My fingers tightened on the windowsill.

For a long moment I didn’t move, caught between the heavy pulse between my thighs and the voice in my head screaming that this was dangerous. That I shouldn’t.

“I… I don’t know if I should,” I whispered.

He tilted his head, that low, patient rumble rolling through the glass.

“Easy now, darlin’. I’m not askin’ you to open the door. I’m not comin’ inside. Just want you to sit right there where I can see you. That’s all. Bring the chair over and sit down for me.”

My legs felt shaky as I dragged the chair across the floor.

The scrape of wood seemed too loud in the quiet room.

I lowered myself onto it slowly, back straight, knees pressed tight together like that could protect me from the way he was looking at me.

He hummed softly, approving.

“There you go. Lean back a little. Yeah… just like that. Now spread your knees for me, nice and slow. Let me look at you.”

I bit my lip hard, cheeks flaming.

My thighs trembled as I parted them, but only a few inches.

“This is… this is embarrassing,” I breathed.

“Nothin’ embarrassing about it,” he said, voice low and steady, like he was calming a skittish horse.

The night air felt cool against my skin.

“Such a pretty girl,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “I can see how much you’ve been needin’ this. Put your hand on your thigh first. Slide it up nice and slow.”

My breath caught.

I bit my lip, fingers hesitating before they finally moved, trailing up my own leg and pushing the hem of my nightdress higher.

“That’s it,” he said softly. “Keep goin’. Touch yourself gently over your clothes at first. Let your fingers move where it feels good.”

I whimpered quietly as my hand settled between my thighs, pressing lightly.

The simple touch made my hips shift.

Through the glass, I watched as his hand drifted down to the front of his jeans. He palmed himself slowly, not rushing, just steady pressure.

“Eyes on me, darlin’,” he reminded gently. “Don’t look away. I want you watchin’ me while you touch yourself… and I’ll do the same.”

He unbuttoned his jeans with deliberate care and freed himself.

The sight made my breath hitch. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking slowly, matching the tentative rhythm of my fingers.

“Keep your legs open for me,” he said, voice a little rougher now but still controlled. “Nice and easy. Just like that. Let yourself feel it. I’m right here with you.”

My fingers moved in small, hesitant circles.

The glass between us fogged slightly with my quickened breaths as we watched each other—eyes locked, hands moving in the same slow rhythm, separated but somehow impossibly close.

This is insane, I thought, cheeks burning hotter. He could kill me. And yet here I am, legs open in front of my window like some desperate girl who’s never been touched.

But I couldn’t stop.

My body had been aching for far too long, and the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing in the world—made something deep inside me tremble.

“Slow down if you need to,” he said gently, as if he could read every conflicted thought crossing my face. “There’s no rush tonight. Just breathe, darlin’. Feel how warm you are. How sensitive. Let your fingers press a little firmer… right there.”

I swallowed hard and obeyed, a soft, shaky sound slipping from my lips as the pressure increased.

God, it feels too good.

My thighs tried to press together instinctively, but I kept them apart for him, trembling with the effort.

He stroked himself with long, unhurried movements, his hand moving smoothly along his length.

The sight sent another wave of heat through me. I’d never watched anyone like this before.

It felt intimate.

Dangerous.

Thrilling.

“You’re blushin’ so pretty,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “I can see how hard this is for you… and how much you need it. Keep your eyes on mine. Don’t hide from me. I want to watch you feel every little spark.”

He’s too calm, I thought wildly. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

My free hand gripped the edge of the chair until my knuckles went white.

Every slow circle of my fingers made my breath hitch louder. I was getting wetter, the fabric beneath my hand damp and clinging. Shame twisted in my stomach even as pleasure coiled tighter.

“I… I don’t usually do this,” I confessed in a whisper, voice cracking.

“I know,” he replied, almost tenderly. “That’s why we’re takin’ it slow. Just you and me, right here. No rush. Slide your fingers a little lower… feel how slick you are for me. You don’t have to say it out loud. I can see it in the way your hips keep movin’.”

A broken little whimper escaped me as I followed his words.

My mind kept spinning—This is wrong. I should tell him to leave. I should close the curtains—but my body refused.

My fingers kept moving, chasing that growing ache, while my eyes stayed locked on his.

On the way his jaw tightened.

On the steady rhythm of his hand.

On the way he watched me like I was something precious and starving at the same time.

“You’re doin’ perfect, darlin’,” he praised softly, his own breathing growing deeper.

“Look at you… all flushed and shakin’. Keep goin’. Let it build. I’m right here with you.”

Too much, I thought, even as my hips rocked subtly against my hand. It’s too much… and I don’t want it to stop.

The pleasure was coiling tighter, hotter, making my head feel hazy.

My fingers moved faster despite myself, chasing something I hadn’t felt in so long.

Through the glass, his eyes never left mine.

His hand kept that same steady rhythm on himself, strong and unhurried, like he could do this for hours just to watch me fall apart.

I was trembling now.

My free hand left the edge of the chair and drifted upward without thinking. My fingertips brushed the cool windowpane right where his gloved hand still rested on the other side.

So close.

Just a latch.

Just one small movement and there’d be nothing between us.

What am I doing?

The thought hit me like cold water, but my body didn’t listen.

My fingers hovered over the latch, shaking.

If I open it… he’ll touch me. Really touch me. I shouldn’t. I can’t. It’s too dangerous.

But the ache inside me was screaming otherwise.

The way he looked at me, the low sounds he made, the sight of his hand moving in time with mine—it was breaking down every wall I had left.

I leaned forward slightly, breath fogging the glass, my fingertips pressing harder against the latch—

“Easy,” he murmured, voice dropping but still gentle. He didn’t pull away. “I see you, darlin’. I know how bad you want it. But you don’t have to open it tonight. Stay right there with me… just like this. Let me watch you come apart behind that glass.”

His words snapped me back.

I yanked my hand away from the latch like it burned, pressing it flat against my chest instead.

My heart was pounding so hard I felt dizzy.

Shame and desire twisted together so tightly I could barely breathe.

“I almost…” I whispered, voice breaking.

“I know,” he said softly, a hint of a smile in his voice. “And it’s alright. I won't hurt you. Keep touchin’ yourself for me. Don’t stop now. I want to see you finish just like this… eyes on me.”

My hand returned between my thighs, fingers moving quicker, more desperate.

The near-miss only made everything more intense.

I kept staring at him through the window, legs spread, body trembling on the edge, while his dark eyes held mine like a promise and a warning all at once.

But it wasn’t enough.

The realization hit me hard, and before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out in a shaky whisper.

“My… my touch isn’t enough,” I breathed, voice cracking with frustration and embarrassment. “It feels good but—it’s not… I need more. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

God, why did I say that out loud?

My cheeks burned hotter than ever.

I felt exposed in every possible way—physically, emotionally.

Part of me wanted to hide under the covers and never come out. The other part, the one that had been lonely for far too long, kept my hand moving, chasing that elusive peak that stayed just out of reach.

He let out a low, understanding sound, almost a sigh.

His hand slowed on himself as he leaned a little closer to the glass, the brim of his hat brushing against it.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with you, darlin’,” he said softly, his voice warm and steady. “You’ve been needin’ this for a long time. Your body’s just honest. It wants more than your fingers tonight. That’s alright. You don’t have to do it alone.”

I whimpered, my hips rolling helplessly against my hand. My free fingers drifted back toward the window again, hovering near the latch. The pull was so strong it scared me.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmured. “You don’t have to open the door yet… but you can talk to me. Let me help you get there like this. Keep those pretty legs open for me and touch yourself a little deeper. Slow strokes. Imagine it’s my hand instead of yours.”

I tried. I really did.

My fingers pressed lower, sliding against my slick heat, but the ache only grew sharper.

Another soft, needy sound escaped me as I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, eyes squeezed shut for a moment.

“Please… I need you,” I whispered, voice breaking with frustration and desire. Tears of shame and longing pricked at the corners of my eyes. “Please.”

For a second he went quiet. Then his voice came back lower, rougher, laced with clear authority.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered, no longer soft. “Look at me right now.”

I obeyed instantly, trembling. His dark gaze burned into mine through the glass, dominant and unwavering.

My fingers kept moving, but the ache only deepened. The glass felt like a cruel barrier now.

I stared at him—his dark eyes, the way his chest rose and fell, the slow movement of his hand—and something inside me finally cracked.

With a trembling breath, I reached up and unlatched the window.

The cool night air rushed in as I pushed it open.

My heart hammered so loudly I was sure he could hear it. What am I doing? This is insane. I shouldn’t—

But I didn’t close it.

He went still for a moment, eyes darkening with surprise and hunger. Then that slow, gentle smile returned.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice lower now that there was no glass between us. “Still nervous?”

I nodded, unable to speak.

My hand had stilled between my thighs, suddenly shy again now that the barrier was gone.

The night air brushed over my heated skin, making me shiver.

He didn’t reach through right away.

Instead, he stayed where he was, one hand resting on the windowsill, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“I won’t hurt you, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and haunting, like a shadow slipping through the dark.

The words hung in the cool night air, heavy and lingering.

“Not unless you beg me to.”

He let the silence stretch for a moment before his tone deepened.

“We’ll go as slow as you need… but you’re going to keep touching yourself for me. Just like before. I want to watch every tremble up close now.”

I hesitated, biting my lip hard, then let my fingers move again—slow, uncertain circles.

The lack of glass made everything feel more intense.

More real.

My breath hitched when his free hand finally reached through the open window, not touching me, but resting lightly on the frame beside my knee, so close I could feel him brushing the side of my thigh.

“Better?” he asked, voice rougher now.

“It’s… still not enough,” I whimpered, the confession spilling out again. My hips shifted toward his hand without meaning to. “I need… more.”

He let out a quiet groan, his own hand tightening around himself.

“Then let me help you, sweetheart.” His fingers finally brushed my inner thigh—slow, careful, giving me every chance to pull away.

“Keep your hand right there with mine. Show me how you like it… and I’ll take care of the rest.”

My mind was spinning—This is crazy. He could hurt me. I should stop—but the feeling of his warm hand against my bare skin drowned out every warning.

I kept touching myself as his fingers slowly joined mine, guiding, teasing, drawing me closer to the edge while we watched each other in the open window.

His touch was surprisingly gentle.

He brushed over my inner thigh, then higher, tracing slow circles that matched the rhythm of my own fingers. Every touch sent sparks racing across my skin.

“Easy, darlin’,” he murmured when I jolted at the contact. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Oh god, I thought, eyes fluttering.

He’s actually touching me.

The realization made my stomach flip with nerves and something much hotter.

I should have been pulling away.

Instead, my legs parted a little wider without thinking, inviting him closer even as my mind raced.

His fingers pressed more firmly over mine, guiding them in slow, deliberate strokes. Then he eased one finger alongside mine, sliding through my wetness. The sensation was so different from my own touch—firmer, foreign, intoxicating—that a soft, broken sound escaped my throat.

“That's it,” he praised quietly, voice low and rough. “Feel how wet you are. Been holdin’ this in for too long, haven’t you?”

I nodded shakily, unable to form words.

My free hand gripped the windowsill tight as his finger circled my most sensitive spot with perfect, teasing pressure.

He wasn’t rushing.

He kept everything slow and intentional, alternating between guiding my fingers and touching me directly—light strokes, gentle presses, learning exactly what made my hips twitch and my breath catch.

This feels too good, I thought desperately. His hand… it’s so much better than mine. I shouldn’t want this so badly.

But I did.

Every careful caress made the ache inside me sharper, sweeter.

My thighs trembled around his wrist.

He leaned closer through the open window, his hat nearly brushing my forehead. His other hand was still stroking himself in that same unhurried rhythm, eyes never leaving my face.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Don’t hide how good it feels. Let me hear those pretty little sounds you make.”

Another stroke of his finger made me whimper.

I was getting closer, the pleasure building fast now that it wasn’t just my own hesitant touch.

My hips rocked subtly against his hand, chasing more of that delicious friction as he kept touching me—patient, steady, and completely focused on pulling me apart.

“I’m… I’m so close,” I gasped, voice trembling. My fingers clutched at his wrist, not pushing him away but holding on like he was the only thing grounding me.

This is too much. He’s going to see me fall apart. I can’t stop it—

“Let it happen, darlin’,” he murmured, his breath warm against my cheek. “Don’t fight it. I’ve got you. Just let go for me.”

His fingers moved with a little more purpose now—firm, circling strokes right where I needed them most, never rushing.

His hand was slick with me, the sensation overwhelming.

My whole body tightened as the wave finally crested.

A broken cry tore from my lips as I came hard, thighs shaking uncontrollably around his hand.

“Please-oh god, please-” I whimpered, voice cracking as waves of intense pleasure crashed through me.

My hips jerked against his fingers, chasing every last spark. “Don’t stop… please, I need it—”

I pressed my forehead desperately against his shoulder through the open window, trembling violently while he kept touching me with that slow, relentless precision.

Soft, needy whimpers and broken little “please”s kept spilling from my mouth as he drew out my orgasm, refusing to let it end too quickly.

Every gentle stroke sent another pulse of pleasure rippling through my oversensitive body until I was gasping, whimpering, and barely able to hold myself upright.

“Atta girl,” he whispered, voice rough with restraint. “So beautiful like this.”

I was still catching my breath, dazed and fluttering, when I felt his rhythm change.

His hand on himself had grown faster, tighter. His forehead rested against mine, breaths mingling in the cool night air.

“Look at me,” he said huskily. “Want you to see.”

I lifted my heavy-lidded eyes to his.

His jaw was tight, dark eyes locked on my face as his strokes became more urgent. The sight of him—strong, composed cowboy unraveling because of me—sent another weak pulse of pleasure through my oversensitive body.

With a low, guttural groan, he came hard. His shoulders tensed, breath stuttering as thick ropes of release spilled over his fist. He kept his eyes on mine the entire time, letting me witness every second of it, just as I had for him.

For a long moment, the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the distant chirp of crickets.

His hand stayed gently between my thighs, soothing now rather than teasing, while his other arm braced against the windowsill.

“You alright, darlin’?” he asked softly, a hint of that teasing smile returning.

The warmth of pleasure barely had time to settle before a wave of cold regret slammed into me.

Oh god. Oh no.

I jerked back from his touch like I’d been burned.

My thighs clamped shut and I scrambled to my feet on shaky legs, heart hammering with panic.

“Oh my god,” I choked out, voice thick with shame. “What have I done?”

Tears stung my eyes as I reached for the window frame with trembling hands.

I pushed it hard, the wood creaking in protest.

My fingers fumbled desperately with the latch, clicking it shut.

“What have I done? I'm so stupid.” I repeated, barely louder than a whisper this time, more to myself than to him.

You let a monster touch you. You opened the window. You came on his hand like you had no self-control at all.

I wrapped my arms tightly around my middle, suddenly feeling exposed and dirty despite the nightdress still covering me.

The glass was closed again, but it didn’t make me feel any safer. It only made me feel more ashamed of how easily I had given in.

He was still standing there, breathing heavily, watching me through the window with a calm but concerned expression. One hand rested on the outside of the sill.

Through the glass, his voice came low and velvet-smooth, carrying that haunting edge that made the hair on my neck rise.

“Easy now, little one,” he murmured, almost tenderly, but there was something darker underneath — something ancient and hungry. “You don’t get to call yourself stupid after opening up so sweetly for a man like me.”

He tilted his head, the brim of his hat casting deep shadows over his eyes as he watched me retreat.

“You let the beast touch you… and you liked it. That shame you’re feeling? It’s mine now too. And next time you ache in the dark… you’ll remember exactly whose hand made you fall apart.”

But I shook my head, stepping further back into the room. “I shouldn’t have opened it. I shouldn’t have let you… I’m so stupid.”

My heart was racing so hard it felt like it might burst out of my chest.

Shame burned hot across my face and down my neck, but worse — much worse — was the fresh pulse of heat between my thighs.

My body was still traitorously slick, still throbbing faintly from his touch. I hated how much I wanted him to be right.

He didn’t move at first.

He just stood there in the moonlight, hat low, watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes. Then he slowly buttoned his jeans, never breaking eye contact.

“Darlin’…” His voice was low, calm, but there was something heavier underneath it now. “You can tell yourself you regret it all you want. But we both know the truth.”

I swallowed hard, unable to answer.

He took one step back, then paused. A faint, almost dangerous smile touched his lips.

“And next time you feel that ache again… I won’t be standin’ on the other side of the glass.”

He tipped his hat once, slow and deliberate, then turned and disappeared into the shadows beyond the porch light.

The porch was empty again. The night was quiet.

But as I stood there trembling in the middle of the room, arms still wrapped around my body like I could hold myself together, I realized something that made my stomach drop.

What did I just do?

And why did it leave me craving more?

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tbh i have never wrote something like this....so i hope its okay lol

i left it with an opening for a second part, so let me know if you guys would like to see that :)

-nora

xoxo

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hehe here is a little teaser intro for a future jade fic that i am working on! hehe

do you guys like the concept?

-nora

The house is quiet when I arrive back that morning.

My body aches.

I'm not sure if its from the night in the RV or the pain manifesting from witnessing Kenny finding his father dead.

Torn apart by those monsters.

I can still hear him crying.

Wailing.

I drag my feet to the kitchen.

Under the aching of my muscles lies a hungry stomach.

Screaming for anything to satiate it.

I find Nathan and Sarah in the kitchen.

Its strangely quiet.

Nathan looks up from the kitchen table.

His expression immediately changes.

"Oh, thank God."

The relief in his voice catches me off guard.

Like he'd been waiting.

Like he'd been worried.

Sarah stands by the sink.

Her back turned.

Completely motionless.

For a second, I think she hasn't heard me.

Then-

"I heard what happened."

Her voice is soft.

Too soft.

I swallow.

"Yeah."

Nothing else comes out.

The image of Kenny still sits behind my eyes.

Nathan rubs a hand down his face.

"Jesus," he mutters.

"Poor Kenny."

Sarah doesn't say anything.

Doesn't turn around.

Doesn't ask questions.

Doesn't ask if anyone else got hurt.

The silence stretches.

Uncomfortable.

Wrong.

I look at her.

"Sarah?"

Her shoulders tense.

Just for a second.

Then relax.

"I'm okay," she says.

The answer comes too quickly.

Nathan stands.

Walks over to her.

His hand finds her shoulder naturally.

Protectively.

Something about the gesture makes my stomach twist.

Not because it's strange.

Because it feels practiced.

Like he's been doing it all day.

Like he's already calming her down from something.

The thought disappears as quickly as it comes.

I sink onto a chair at the little table in the kitchen.

My hands still won't stop shaking.

"Kenny found him," I whisper.

The words sound foreign.

Nathan closes his eyes.

Sarah grips the edge of the counter.

Hard.

So hard her knuckles turn white.

I find myself rising from the chai and making my way over to her.

"Sarah-"

She doesn't let me finish my sentence before she turns around and crushes into me.

The forces rocks me back a bit.

"Hey, it's okay. I got you."

I hold onto her as tight as I can muster.

Her breath is quick and I can feel her heart racing.

"I-I wish you here last night. I was so scared."

Her voice is small. Weak.

A choked sound escapes her.

Her hands clutch the back of my shirt.

Tight.

Desperate.

My chest tightens.

God.

Of course she's falling apart.

Everyone is.

Everything that happened today-

Kenny-

Mr. Liu-

None of it feels real.

I hold her tighter.

"It's okay," I whisper.

The biggest lie I've ever told.

Because none of this is okay.

Nothing about this place is okay.

Sarah shakes against me.

Nathan stands but doesn't move closer.

He just watches.

A strange expression on his face.

Sadness.

Worry.

And something else.

Something heavier.

Like he's afraid of what might happen if she lets go.

"I know," Sarah whispers.

The words are so quiet I almost miss them.

"I know."

I assume she's talking about Mr. Liu.

About Kenny.

About all of us.

--

The house is quiet again.

After staring at the wall for about an hour, I mustered up the strength to shower and find some clean clothes.

A pair of jeans a size too big and a turtleneck probably from two decades ago.

Sighing, I look at myself in the mirror.

My eyes are red.

Tired.

Overwhelmed.

I barely recognize myself.

Shaking my head, I push the thought down and make my way downstairs.

A walk.

A walk should do me some good.

Before all of this, I would walk all the time.

I found solace in the quiet. In nature.

But now, I find myself walking through town with the echoes of Kenny's cries running in my brain.

The church was the last place I wanted to be.

Which was probably why I ended up there.

The afternoon sun hung high over the town.

People moved slower than usual.

Nobody spoke above a murmur.

The entire place felt bruised.

Like everyone was trying very hard not to touch the wound.

I stopped at the bottom of the church steps.

The doors stood open.

Warm light spilled onto the wooden porch.

Father Khatri sat near the entrance with a cup of coffee in his hands.

He wasn't reading.

Wasn't praying.

Sitting.

Watching the town.

Thinking.

The sight of him made something uncomfortable twist in my stomach.

Because if I was being honest-

I'd been avoiding him.

Ever since I got here.

It wasn't personal.

I didn't dislike him.

Actually, that was part of the problem.

He was too kind.

Too patient.

Too priest-like.

Growing up, priests only ever appeared when things had already gone wrong.

Funerals.

Hospital rooms.

Family tragedies people whispered about behind closed doors.

You didn't talk to a priest because things were fine.

You talked to one because something terrible had happened.

And some irrational part of me had apparently decided that if I never stepped inside the church-

if I never sat down with Father Khatri-

then maybe this place wouldn't become real.

Maybe it would stay temporary.

Manageable.

Something I could wake up from.

It was stupid.

I knew it was stupid.

But fear made people superstitious.

Then Kenny found his father.

And suddenly-

none of that mattered anymore.

Because there are certain things that break through every wall you've built.

Certain moments that leave no room for pretending.

I swallowed.

Father Khatri looked up.

For a moment, I considered turning around.

Pretending I had somewhere else to be.

But his expression softened.

Not surprised.

Not curious.

Expectant.

As though he'd been waiting.

"Afternoon," he said.

His voice was warm.

Easy.

Like we had spoken a hundred times before.

I climbed the steps.

"Hi."

The wooden boards creaked beneath my feet.

I lingered awkwardly near the railing.

He looked at the empty spot beside him.

Then back at me.

A small smile.

"I promise I don't bite."

The joke was gentle.

Careful.

Enough to ease the tension without drawing attention to it.

Despite myself, I laughed.

A quiet, tired sound.

"I know."

"Do you?"

One eyebrow lifted.

The smile never left his face.

"I was beginning to think I'd done something to offend you."

Heat immediately flooded my cheeks.

Oh.

Oh no.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

I looked down at my shoes.

"I didn't offend you, did I?"

The question wasn't accusatory.

Just curious.

I sighed.

"I think..."

The words caught.

How was I supposed to explain something so ridiculous?

"I think I've been avoiding you."

Father Khatri took a sip of his coffee.

"That much I've gathered."

The lack of judgment somehow made it worse.

"I don't know why."

A lie.

A terrible one.

Because I did know.

I just didn't want to say it out loud.

The silence stretched.

Patient.

Waiting.

"I mean..." I continued, "...I know why."

The breeze stirred the leaves overhead.

"Growing up, priests meant bad news."

The confession came quietly.

"Funerals. Hospitals. Family emergencies."

I folded my hands together.

"You talked to priests when somebody died."

A pause.

"When things got serious."

Father Khatri nodded.

Not interrupting.

Not correcting me.

"So I guess..."

I laughed softly.

"...some part of me thought that if I stayed away from the church, then maybe none of this was actually happening."

The words sounded childish.

Embarrassing.

Yet completely true.

For several moments, he said nothing.

Then-

"That's remarkably human."

I looked over.

His expression was thoughtful.

Understanding.

"Really?"

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"My dear, people avoid reminders of pain all the time."

He glanced toward the church behind us.

"Mine just happens to have a makeshift alter"

I laughed.

Actually laughed.

The sound surprised me.

The warmth in his eyes softened.

And neither of us mentioned this morning.

Neither of us mentioned the clinic.

Or Kenny.

Or the fact that, in the worst moment I'd experienced since arriving here-

I'd found myself standing beside him.

Some things didn't need to be spoken aloud.

The silence held them anyway.

For a while, we simply sat.

Watching people move through town.

Listening to distant conversations carried by the wind.

The world continuing despite everything.

And somehow-

that felt heavier than anything else.

Because life was still happening.

The sun was still shining.

People were still drinking coffee.

Still fixing fences.

Still talking.

As though Kenny hadn't fallen apart in front of all of us.

My throat tightened.

"I keep hearing him," I said quietly.

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Father Khatri didn't ask who.

He already knew.

And in that moment-

I realized why I'd come here at all.

Not because he was a priest.

But because he was the only person in town who had seen exactly what I'd seen.

And that mattered more than either of us needed to say.

The silence stretched between us.

Heavy.

Full of things neither of us had to explain.

People moved through town below the church steps.

Life continuing.

People carrying groceries.

Talking.

Fixing things.

As if this morning had happened to somebody else.

As if Kenny hadn't shattered right in front of us.

I hated that.

I hated how normal everything looked.

My fingers twisted together.

The words left me before I could stop them.

"I keep hearing him."

The confession was barely above a whisper.

Father Khatri didn't ask who.

Didn't make me say it.

He simply nodded.

The understanding hurt more than if he'd asked.

"I know."

The gentleness in his voice nearly undid me.

I stared out at the road.

The sunlight was too bright.

The air too warm.

Everything felt wrong.

"He sounded..."

The sentence died.

I swallowed.

Tried again.

"He sounded like a kid."

My throat tightened.

"Not... not an adult."

The memory hit all over again.

Kenny dropping to his knees.

The disbelief.

The panic.

The absolute devastation in his voice.

My breathing became uneven.

"He sounded like somebody who needed his dad."

The tears came faster than I expected.

Hot.

Sudden.

Embarrassing.

I looked away.

Wiping at my face.

"God."

A shaky laugh escaped me.

"I don't even know why this is hitting me so hard."

Father Khatri was quiet.

For a long time.

"Because you're human."

The answer was so simple that I almost laughed.

Instead-

more tears came.

I hated crying.

Always had.

Especially in front of other people.

Especially in front of people I barely knew.

"I barely knew Mr. Liu," I whispered.

My voice cracked.

"And I know that sounds awful, but I just..."

I shook my head.

"I shouldn't be this upset."

Father Khatri turned toward me.

"Who told you that?"

I blinked.

"What?"

"Who told you that grief has to be earned?"

The question caught me completely off guard.

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because...

Nobody.

Nobody had ever actually said that.

Yet somehow, I'd always believed it.

"I just..." I began.

"I keep thinking..."

The words stuck.

Something heavier sitting underneath them.

Something I hadn't wanted to touch.

Father Khatri waited.

Patient.

No pressure.

Just waiting.

And for some reason-

that made it impossible to keep avoiding.

"I keep thinking about..."

I stopped.

"What if it was somebody I loved?"

The words came out small.

Fragile.

The world seemed to stop.

My hands gripped my knees.

"What if I walked into that room..."

I swallowed hard.

"...and it was somebody I cared about?"

The tears spilled over completely now.

No stopping them.

No controlling them.

The fear was suddenly enormous.

Crushing.

Because this place had already proven something terrible.

The people you loved could disappear.

Just like that.

No warning.

No fairness.

Nothing.

A broken sound escaped me.

"I don't know how anybody survives that."

The confession hung in the air.

Raw.

Honest.

And for the first time since arriving in here, I wasn't trying to hold myself together.

Beside me, Father Khatri looked out at the town.

The afternoon breeze moved through the trees.

And when he finally spoke,

his voice was softer than before.

"Can I tell you something?"

I nodded.

He folded his hands together.

"When I first came here..."

A pause.

"I thought faith meant being unafraid."

The admission surprised me enough to look at him.

He smiled.

A tired, almost embarrassed smile.

"I thought if I trusted God enough, I'd know what to do."

His gaze remained fixed on the road.

"That I'd have answers for people."

The smile faded.

"That I'd always know the right thing to say."

The silence afterward felt impossibly heavy.

"Then I came here."

A quiet laugh.

Without humor.

"And I realized something."

I waited.

He took a slow breath.

"The people I admire most in this town..."

His eyes softened.

"...aren't the people who aren't afraid."

A beat.

"They're the people who love anyway."

The tears blurred my vision.

I looked down.

Unable to meet his eyes.

Because suddenly-

I understood.

The pain wasn't just about Kenny.

Or Mr. Liu.

Or this town.

It was about knowing that loving someone meant accepting that one day,

you could lose them.

And doing it anyway.

The realization cracked something open inside me.

A sob escaped before I could stop it.

Mortifying.

Ugly.

Human.

I covered my face.

"I'm sorry."

The apology came automatically.

Immediately.

Father Khatri laughed.

Softly.

Kindly.

"My dear," he said.

"If anyone should apologize, it's me."

I lowered my hands.

Confused.

He looked at me.

Really looked at me.

And for the first time, I didn't see a priest.

Just a tired man.

One who had witnessed the same horror I had.

One who was carrying it too.

"Because the truth is..."

His voice was quiet.

"I don't know how anybody survives it either."

The honesty shattered whatever walls I had left.

And suddenly-

for the first time since arriving in this impossible place-

I let myself cry in front of someone.

Not because he had answers.

Not because he was a priest.

But because, somehow...

he understood that neither of us had them.

The crying eventually stopped.

Not all at once.

Just...

Less.

The kind of exhaustion that came after holding something in for too long.

I sat there with my face turned toward the road.

Embarrassed.

Drained.

The afternoon sun warmed the church steps.

Neither of us moved.

Neither of us spoke.

the silence didn't demand anything from me.

For the first time since arriving here,

I didn't feel like I needed to explain myself.

Father Khatri let out a quiet sigh.

Then reached beside him.

"Well."

His voice was lighter now.

"Since you've already cried in front of me, I suppose we're past formal introductions."

A laugh escaped me.

Small.

Wet.

Pathetic.

But real.

I wiped at my face.

"I think this might be the worst first conversation I've ever had with somebody."

"Oh, I don't know."

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

"I once met a man who confessed to stealing a lawnmower before telling me his name."

I stared at him.

"Seriously?"

"Dead serious."

The corner of his mouth lifted.

"He was a wonderful gardener."

I laughed.

Actually laughed.

The sound startled me.

Because I hadn't expected it.

Hadn't expected anything except feeling terrible.

The warmth in his expression softened.

Not triumphant.

Not relieved.

Glad.

He picked up his coffee.

Made a face.

"Terrible."

I looked over.

"The coffee?"

"The conversation has been lovely."

Another smile.

"The coffee, however, is unforgivable."

A strange feeling settled in my chest.

Light.

Small.

But there.

I pulled my knees closer.

The wind moved through the trees above us.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

I hesitated.

"Did you ever think I'd come up here?"

The question left my mouth before I could stop it.

The smile on his face became thoughtful.

He looked out at the town.

"Eventually."

The answer was so immediate that it caught me off guard.

I blinked.

"What?"

He shrugged.

"People arrive here carrying all sorts of things."

A pause.

"Fear. Anger. Grief. Guilt."

His voice remained gentle.

"And sometimes, they need time before they're willing to let someone else see it."

The breeze stirred his sleeves.

"I never took it personally."

My chest tightened.

Somehow, that was worse.

Worse in the best possible way.

I looked down at my hands.

"You noticed?"

The question came out quieter than intended.

Father Khatri chuckled.

"My dear..."

A small smile.

"You are a very observant person."

The statement confused me.

"I am?"

"Oh, absolutely."

He leaned back against the steps.

"You watch people before speaking to them."

"You're polite."

"Careful."

"You always stand near exits."

The words made my stomach flip.

"You notice who comforts whom."

"Who eats alone."

"Who pretends they're okay."

The smile softened.

"But nobody ever notices when the observer needs looking after too."

The world seemed to still.

Because nobody,

absolutely nobody,

had ever said something like that to me before.

And somehow,

he was right.

The realization made my eyes sting all over again.

"Oh no," I muttered.

A quiet laugh escaped him.

"More tears?"

I covered my face.

"I hate you."

"An impressive turnaround," he replied.

"We've only just become acquainted."

The joke pulled another laugh from me.

And for a brief, impossible moment,

sitting on the church steps with a man I'd spent weeks avoiding,

I felt safe.

Not safe from the monsters.

Or the town.

Or whatever waited for us tomorrow.

Just...

Safe enough to breathe.

Safe enough to be tired.

Safe enough to let somebody else carry a small piece of the weight for a while.

And, in a place like this,

that felt dangerously close to a miracle.

--

I had spent the rest of the day helping out where I could.

An hour at the diner.

An hour or so at Colony House.

Even helped with the livestock.

It was almost the evening when I remembered.

Frank.

The father of the young girl who was murdered with her mother.

He was too drunk.

It was pure negligence.

So,

the box.

The box was something everyone in this town knew about.

We all walked by it.

It was made to deter anyone from doing anything stupid.

It worked for the most part. We haven't used it.

Well, till now.

By the time I reached the crowd, Boyd was already standing near the box.

The structure looked almost ordinary in the fading light.

Small.

Made of scraps.

Simple.

It was horrifying precisely because it wasn't.

Frank stood nearby with his hands bound in front of him.

His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something far heavier than rope.

Grief.

Regret.

Acceptance.

Nobody shouted.

Nobody protested.

The silence was almost unbearable.

I stood near the back of the crowd.

Unable to look away.

Unable to convince myself this was really happening.

Then...

Across the gathering...

I saw him.

Father Khatri.

He stood several yards away, his hands folded loosely in front of him.

He wasn't watching Frank.

He was watching the people.

Watching the town carry another impossible burden.

As though trying to bear a piece of it himself.

For reasons I couldn't explain, he lifted his head.

His gaze found mine almost immediately.

Neither of us smiled.

There wasn't anything to smile about.

We simply looked at one another.

Across the distance.

Across the crowd.

And somehow...

I understood.

The conversation we'd shared that afternoon didn't need repeating.

He didn't ask if I was alright.

I didn't have to pretend I was.

There was only that quiet acknowledgment.

A look that seemed to say:

You don't have to carry this by yourself.

It lasted only a few seconds.

Then Boyd's voice broke the silence.

The crowd shifted.

My attention returned to Frank.

I heard the box door creak open.

He walked inside without resistance.

Without looking back.

Someone beside me quietly began to cry.

I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until the door closed.

The sound echoed through the square.

Solid.

Final.

No one moved.

The sun dipped lower behind the trees.

I looked back toward Father Khatri.

He had bowed his head.

Not dramatically.

Not as though putting on a display of faith.

Simply...

A man mourning another soul.

I found myself doing the same.

Though I wasn't sure who, if anyone, I was praying to.

--

The town was quieter.

Not peaceful.

Just... exhausted.

Grief had a way of draining the sound from everything.

People spoke in hushed voices.

Doors closed gently.

Even the younger people seemed to understand something had changed.

I rounded the corner toward the little house I shared with Sarah and Nathan.

At first, I thought the front steps were empty.

Then the figure shifted.

Kenny.

He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring down at the dirt between his boots.

His hands were clasped so tightly together that his knuckles had gone white.

For a second, I simply stopped walking.

"...Kenny?"

He looked up slowly.

His eyes were swollen.

Not red from fresh tears.

Red from someone who'd cried until there was nothing left.

"I hope it's okay I came here."

His voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear it.

"I didn't really know where else to go."

Something in my chest tightened.

"Of course it's okay."

I climbed the steps slowly and sat beside him.

Neither of us spoke.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

Full.

After a long while, Kenny let out a shaky breath.

"I've been trying not to think about it."

I looked over.

"It's not working."

His laugh came out broken.

"No."

His hands tightened together again.

"I close my eyes..."

He swallowed hard.

"And I keep seeing him."

My throat closed.

"I keep hearing myself."

His breathing began to quicken.

"I keep hearing me yell for him."

His voice cracked so suddenly it startled both of us.

"I thought..."

He stopped.

Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"I thought maybe if I got there fast enough..."

His shoulders shook.

"I really thought..."

The sentence wouldn't come.

He tried again.

Nothing.

Just another broken breath.

I felt utterly useless.

There wasn't a single thing I could say that would change what had happened.

So instead...

Very carefully...

I reached over and rested my hand against his forearm.

Not forcing anything.

Just...

There.

He looked down at it.

Then, without warning, he folded forward.

His elbows landed on his knees as both hands covered his face.

And finally,

finally,

he broke.

Not quiet tears.

Not controlled breathing.

Real grief.

The kind that stole the air from your lungs.

"I wasn't there."

His words came apart between sobs.

"I left him."

His entire body shook.

"I should've been there."

My own eyes burned.

"Kenny..."

"I should've been there."

"You couldn't have known."

"I should've!"

The words tore out of him.

"I was his son!"

His breathing became ragged.

"I was supposed to protect him!"

Before I could think, I moved closer.

My arms wrapped around him almost instinctively.

For one heartbeat, he stayed frozen.

Then everything inside him collapsed.

He leaned into me so suddenly I nearly lost my balance.

His forehead pressed against my shoulder.

His hands gripped the back of my jacket like he was trying to hold himself together.

The sob that escaped him was quiet.

Painfully quiet.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered.

The confession broke me.

Not because it was dramatic.

Because it was Kenny.

Steady.

Reliable.

Always the one helping everyone else.

And now...

He sounded like a little boy who had just lost the person he loved most.

I tightened my arms around him.

"I know."

"I don't."

He shook his head against my shoulder.

"I don't know who I am without him."

The words settled between us.

Heavy.

Terrible.

Honest.

I closed my eyes.

"You don't have to know tonight."

His breathing hitched.

"You don't have to know tomorrow either."

The tears I'd fought all afternoon finally escaped.

"We're all just..."

I laughed weakly through my own tears.

"...trying to survive one day at a time."

For a long while, neither of us spoke.

The sun slipped lower behind the trees.

The porch creaked softly beneath our weight.

Eventually, Kenny's breathing slowed.

He didn't pull away.

Didn't seem embarrassed that he'd fallen apart in front of me.

If anything...

He looked exhausted.

Like crying had drained the last of his strength.

After another long silence, he spoke so quietly I almost missed it.

"...I didn't want to be alone tonight."

I looked at him.

"You don't have to be."

He nodded once.

A tiny movement.

Almost imperceptible.

"I think..."

His eyes remained fixed on the road.

"I think everybody else keeps trying to make me feel better."

A pause.

"You didn't."

I frowned slightly.

"I don't think anyone can."

He gave the smallest nod.

"No."

Another silence.

"That's why I came here."

Those words would stay with me long after that night.

Because out of everyone in town, Kenny hadn't come looking for answers.

He'd come looking for someone willing to sit beside his grief without asking it to leave.

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im not sure how i feel about this chapter. it was more filler than anything but building the friendship with khatri will prove devastating when he is killed in the future.....

hope you guys enjoy :)

-nora