#bbd x reader

It makes sense. You don't have a shift before tonight, and they're all so far behind on their work that it would be foolish to drag any of them away for a follow up appointment. You have no doubt any one of them would go with Serkan, but right now, you're channeling your inner BB—efficiency is best, and you are, without a doubt, their most efficient option.

"You okay with that, Serkan?" Sal asks, arms crossed over his chest.

"Yeah! That's fine with me," he replies softly, lacking the spunk he had before the accident.

You meet BB'S eyes across the room and he scratches his jaw. You can feel his gaze through his visor—he knows what you're thinking and he knows what you're trying to do for them.

So he lets you go.

You make it to the doctor's office and stand behind Serkan as he talks with the receptionist. It's been a while since the accident, but you can still pick up on his nervous energy. Time well spent with him has taught you his quirks—how he jiggles his legs when he thinks too hard, how his hands clench and unclench when he laughs nervously, how his eyes seem to stare hard into any empty stretch of wall.

How he cringes away from blood.

How he looks exactly like you.

When the conversation with the receptionist is over, you follow Serkan to the neat rows of soft, cushy blue chairs. The white, liminal walls cloud your vision as you sit next to him. There's a single painting on the far wall of some nondescript meadow, but Serkan's eyes are not pulled to it. He sits, hunched over, hands clasped together as his leg jitters. He's not looking at the painting or the walls or the stump where his finger used to be.

Instead, he looks up at you.

Then down at the floor.

Then off to the chair on his left.

Then back at you.

"Is everything okay?" you ask softly, tilting your head to meet his gaze.

"Fine! Yes!" he jerks up, spine straightening almost immediately, "Sorry."

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head, "Don't say sorry. You haven't done anything wrong."

"But—" he blurts, mouth hanging open uselessly as the rest of the sentence forms in his head.

"But?" you offer, searching his eyes for something, anything.

"But I...I took you away from work. And stuff. So sorry." he murmurs, feet shuffling awkwardly against the tile.

"You didn't take me away from anything," you furrow your brow.

"But, uh—sorry," he fiddles with his thumbs, laughing nervously, "Uh, is BMW okay with this?"

You freeze, confused. What does BB have to do with this? Of course he'd be okay with you looking out for one of his friends. Coworkers? Does BB have friends—?

"Why wouldn't he be?" you ask, confusion evident in your voice.

"Ah, I dunno," Serkan waves his arms around aimlessly, as if the motion alone will be able to properly convey his thoughts, "You...and me? I mean, not like that, sorry—but like, yeah? I mean...sorry."

That made no sense.

“Serkan,” you sigh, a smile playing at the edges of your lips, “I don’t know why BB would have a problem with me being here with you. Can you explain it to me?”

“...”

“It’s okay if you don’t know how.”

“...”

“BB and I aren’t an item, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve known him for a handful of months now but it’s not like I’ve known you guys less.”

“You’re...not?” Serkan looks up at you, finally meeting your gaze.

His eyes are full of wonder, a spark of something, as if he hadn’t dared hope for this very outcome. You laugh a little, warmth blooming in your chest—of course he’d keep this to himself, what kind of guy would step on his coworker’s toes like that? Not Serkan. Not the Serkan you know.

“I was literally on call with you and your family last week!” you smile, laughing harder now, “Sure, it was brief, but like—Serkan, come on—!”

“Hey—! I mean, what!? How was I supposed to know—!?” he stumbles, cheeks flushed red, hands waving in the air again like they always do, “I just thought you were being nice!”

“I’m nice to BB. I’m sweet on you. I hope you know the difference.”

“Urk...sorry...” he hangs his head like a kicked puppy.

“Serkan— !” you can’t help it, this time you do laugh, loud enough to cause the seven year old in the corner to look up from his mother’s iPod, “Don’t look so depressed, I’m just teasing.”

“You were joking...?” he looks up at you again, gnawing on his lower lip.

“No, silly. Teasing. I'm one hundred percent serious otherwise."

Then, you get the absolute pleasure of watching a flustered smile spread across his lips. You open your mouth to say something, anything to stop him from getting in his own head, but then a nurse steps into the waiting room and calls his name.

Serkan startles, as if he'd forgotten where he was. He turns to you with a look of flustered regret.

"It's okay, I'll still be here. Someone's gotta hold down the fort," you smile reassuringly, waving him to his appointment.

He positively beams, looking lighter than you've ever seen him.

It isn't a solution to his health problems, nor is it a bandage for the consequences of it. But today, you have made his life just a little bit brighter. And that's something you're proud of.

The pillow you threw at him falls to the ground with a dull thud, and you stick your tongue out, softly blowing a raspberry as he tugs your legs in retaliation. He narrows his eyes in amusement and smirks as you shriek, murmuring under his breath something half-hearted about women you don't care enough to dignify. Instead, you turn your sights to Lane's small flatscreen, where the PS3's startup screen begins to play.

"Devil May Cry 4? Seriously?" He stares boredly at the screen, one arm propped on your calf to hold up his chin, while the other traces absent shapes on the skin of your thigh. He can't help but stare at the rim of your shorts, catching the smallest glimpse of your underwear before you shift your legs.

Damn.

He sighs through his nose, leaning over your legs to finish the rest of your beer in a single dramatic chug just because he can.

Silence falls over the two of you, broken only by the sounds of Nero's grunts and the quiet clack of buttons as you aggressively handle his controller.

It doesn't take long at all until his hands start to wander. It's innocent enough at first, just a few lingering touches ghosting across your exposed skin. But then he's skirting around the hem of your shorts, the tips of his fingers brushing beneath the lifted fabric, just barely low enough to be considered decent, but high enough to make his intentions clear.

"Lane."

He shudders at the tone of your voice—the exasperation entwined closely with affection, and how it drips from your lips like sin itself.

God, the way you say his name should be considered a crime with how much he's willing to do to get you to say it again.

He grins at your suspicion with a shrug of his shoulders, the edges of his smile holding the familiar traces of what you've come to pinpoint as desire.

Your eyes narrow when they clash with clouded blue, the undeniable heat behind them sending a shiver down your spine. Trying to close your legs proves fruitless as he slots himself between them like he belongs there, tossing your legs over his broad shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

Fuck, you look so good beneath him with your shirt—his shirt, the possessive part of his brain preens—riding up to expose your stomach, your lips parted as your breaths get heavier, and your eyes beginning to glaze with a hunger only he has the power to satiate. He licks his lips, chuckling lowly when you imitate the action.

His palm travels over the newly revealed skin, resting just where your shorts meet your navel, while the corners of his grin sharpen into the cocky smirk you've grown to look forward to every shift. He leans down to kiss you, deceptively soft, but it's quick to devolve into a desperate clash of tongue and teeth, leaving you breathless when he pulls away suddenly, your lips connected by a thin string of spit that glimmers beneath his TV's blue light. You blink blearily as his other thumb swipes across your lips, eye twitching at his cocksure smile with an almost dejected scoff.

"I'm not doing anything, baby, just keep playing." The way he kisses the bend of your knee doesn't exactly feel like nothing, and the metal of his piercings is cold against your flushed skin, sending cold chills throughout the rest of your body. But still, you turn back to the TV, doing your best to focus as his thumb dips beneath the elastic of your shorts. He pulls experimentally, letting the band snap against your waist whilst he caresses your stomach.

His lips leave wet bruises along your inner thighs. "Tell me to stop, and I will," his voice an uncharacteristically soft murmur against the most recent of his love bites.

You don't look away from the screen once. "If you stop Lane, I'll smother you with a fucking pillow."

He snorts loudly, biting hard enough to draw a yelp from you. "Always violence with you women," he tuts, licking gently at the bruise in an attempt to soothe. You roll your eyes, trying to focus on your input commands while Lane works you out of your shorts and underwear in one smooth movement, tossing the garments haphazardly over his shoulder with little regard to whether you'd find them later.

Your legs try to close, more so out of instinct than insecurity, but Lane's hands pry them apart gently, exposing your glistening cunt to his greedy gaze.

He nearly groans at the sight, using his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you…So wet, and I haven't even touched you yet. Need me that bad, princess?"

"Fuck you." You hate how pitched your voice comes out, all breathless and needy, just the way he loves it. The controller in your hands nearly cracks in two when he laughs, the heat of his breath telling of just how close he's gotten.

He shifts slightly, settling against the couch when you spare him a heady glance. "Go on," he goads with that godforsaken smirk of his while he rests his cheek on your trembling thigh, "just keep playing. You suck ass, though."

You open your mouth to retort, but the only thing that comes out is a soft gasp of surprise when he licks a slow stripe up your pussy, his lips closing around your clit as he begins to suckle relentlessly. His hands hold you open, arms wound tightly around your thighs with a rare show of strength, leaving you at his mercy as you squirm in his grasp.

Still, you do your best to fight through the hordes of enemies, trying with little avail to ignore the wet squelches of Lane's tongue disappearing inside you. It only gets worse when he pushes his middle finger in, lapping at your swollen clit like a man depraved. The pace he sets is punishing, each flick of his wrist a silent promise of what's to come.

Blindly reaching down, you grab at his hair with a shaking hand, whether it's to pull him closer or push him away, neither of you cares.

"Shit…How are you still so tight? Can barely fit two fingers in you, baby." He groans against you as he pushes in his ring finger right next to the middle one, a snug fit, but the burn hurts so good. You keen at the feeling, dropping the controller completely in favor of tangling your hands in his hair.

"Lane…" The sound of your voice calling out to him so sweetly has him almost rutting pathetically into the couch cushions.

"That's right," he growls between obscene slurps, "say my name." He curls his fingers, deliberately hitting that soft little spot he's had mapped out since your first time sleeping together.

Your whines taper off into drawn-out moans with a vague similarity to his name, the warmth in your stomach spreading to the tips of your toes as your legs begin to close around his head.

"You're close, aren't you?" You can feel the smugness of his grin through the haze of pleasure, making the mistake of meeting eyes from between your legs. His face is flushed red, clear blue eyes crinkled at the edges with his trademark lazy arrogance, whilst you fall apart above him bit by bit. "Then cum."

The snap of pleasure inside of you has your back arching off the couch and away from him, Lane's shirt clinging to your sweat-soaked body like a second skin.

"L-Lane!" You pant, weakly grasping at his wrist, but barely slowing his movements as he cleans up the remnants of your orgasm with slow yet calculated strokes of his tongue. Only when you stop trembling does he pull his fingers out, whistling at the sheen of slick that coats his fingers as he slowly spreads them in front of you. His face fares no better—coated in cum that drips from his jaw onto his graphic tee.

The bastard doesn't even bother wiping his face, cleaning what he can with his tongue before capturing your lips in a disorienting kiss that you can't help but melt into. You feel the heat of him through his sweats as he grinds against you, the weight of his cock alone reigniting the need inside you once more.

He makes quick work of your shirt, shoving down the cups of your bra to palm at your tits. His fingers tweak at the perked nipples, tugging and twisting them in a way that has you arching into the touch, your head thrown back against the couch's armrest.

"You-you're so annoying, you know that?" Your eyes narrow at him, but your lip is caught between your teeth as you bite back another whimper.

"Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don't know, princess. Plus, you're the one who came over to my place," he rolls his eyes, tossing his shirt in the same forgotten pile as the rest of your other clothes, "condom or no condom."

"No condom…"

"Sorry, what was that? You're gonna have to speak up, pretty girl."

You're going to kill him. Right now.

If only you knew how attractive Lane found you right now, maybe then you'd curb your judgment.

"Kidding, now turn around for me, yeah?" He kisses the crease between your brows, not giving you much of a choice as he manhandles you onto your knees, your forearms propped over the armrest. You hear the rustle of fabric behind you, followed swiftly by a familiar nudge against your clit. Lane's hand holds you steady by the hip as you jolt, slowly sliding through your folds before finally pushing in.

"Breathe, pretty." He presses kisses along your back, ghosting his hands up your sides, and down your arms to ground both you and himself. He's trying, really, he is, to let you adjust, but holy shit, you're tight, debilitatingly so. He can feel the control slipping with every passing moment.

An eternity had to have passed before you're calling out his name like a siren's call. Don't you know what that does to guys like him?

"You can move."

And like the love-blinded sailor he is, he answers, first with a shallow grind that makes you push against him, pleading for more—for harder, then he's pulling out and thrusting back into the hilt, tearing a scream from your throat loud enough to have the neighbors looking for new listings.

You feel your knees buckle as your feet kick up, brushing against his thighs as he pummels into you from behind. His hands hold you up, their grip nearly bruising to keep you from collapsing.

He watches you shudder with every thrust with an expression that can only be described as self-satisfactory.

Nobody on this planet could make you feel the way he did.

Especially not that punk ass biker who always acted like he had some sort of weird claim on you. Last he checked, it was his name that you moaned out, and his cock that turned your brain into a fucked-out mess.

"Shit—keep clenching like that," he pants out, head hanging low as his pace becomes more erratic.

His name falls from your lips like it's the only word you've ever learned, woven between a slew of moans and whimpers that's making it substantially for Lane not to bust every second.

You feel the cold press of his nipple piercings against your back when his breath fans your ear, one of his hands falling from your hip to rub deep circles on your clit, which twitches from overstimulation.

"I'm gonna cum inside, alright?" He bites the lobe of your ear softly, pinning you to the couch with his weight. It creaks with every heavy thrust, clearly not built for someone of yours and Lane's libido.

You only nod frantically in response, your breath hitching at your own impending peak. "Lane, I'm close—!"

"I know, baby, I know. Let go for me, I've got you."

What could have only been described as pure ecstasy explodes beneath your skin, setting each one of your nerves alight as you orgasm with a strangled cry of Lane's name. It's not long until tears of overstimulation well in your eyes and blur your vision at the corners as he chases his own high, his face buried in the crook of your neck, and breathing in the smell of you.

The hand that had been rubbing your clit finds one of your hands, intertwining your fingers together tightly when his peak finally crests, filling you with enough cum to leak onto the couch when he pulls out.

He lies back with you on his chest for a moment, allowing his nerves to settle before stalking off with a yawn. He returns with a soft towel and a glass of water, wiping you down with enough thoughtfulness for you to think someone replaced your boyfriend while he was out.

He does not appreciate that comment and deliberately gives a rough wipe to your oversensitive cunt with a blank stare.

You kick him in the chest lightly, and he staggers back like he's been shot. With a fond roll of your eyes, you bend down to pick up the fallen controller as "Abandon All Hope" flashes periodically on the screen. "You're actually the worst, you know that?"

"Yeah, but you love me."

"Unfortunately."

So you sneer at him more. Wreck his entire existence if you want to. He is exactly where he wants to be, completely down bad and loving every second of it.

But right now? God damnit, you feel like actual trash because you are failing miserably at the whole girlfriend gig. You almost completely forgot his birthday. The only reason you even realized it was happening was because of a neon sticky note RJ slapped onto the schedule sheet in the storage room. 

Working consecutive night shifts had completely fried your brain, turning your memory into a total amnesia mess. And since it was already late and you were stuck on the clock, it wasn’t exactly the ideal time to orchestrate a mind blowing birthday bash.

Knowing Lane, you totally expected him to throw a massive tantrum, sulk, or pout. His girlfriend forgetting his big day? 

THAT IS UNACCEPTABLE.

Instead, the guy genuinely does not seem to care. He has zero shifts to give. He is being way more chill than usual and hasn’t even dropped a single passive-aggressive hint about it. 

You can’t help but wonder if this is some twisted, high level psychological tactic to make you drown in your own guilt. 

How is he not pressing you on this? This is the very first birthday he gets to celebrate with you, and you completely dropped the ball. 

Is he secretly furious? You have no idea, but you know you need to fix this disaster immediately. 

But you better come up with something to fix this mess ASAP because there is no way you are letting his birthday go by this pathetically.

And it does go by a little pathetically. Well, more boringly than pathetically

The two of you end up parked outside a random, dimly lit gas station, sharing cheap snacks and a couple of cans of lukewarm beer and soda. You bought them from RJ’s store, and yes, you actually paid for them. The poor guy’s business is already declining so fast you didn’t feel like speedruning his bankruptcy by shoplifting.

Since you aren’t drinking tonight, the beer is strictly for Lane. You volunteered to play driver so he could enjoy himself, a gesture that earned you that signature, incredibly dumb smirk the second you suggested it. 

Celebrate his birthday at this ungodly hour? The two of you should just be grateful there are still functioning streetlights on this block.

“So this is your grand concept of celebrating a birthday.”

He drops the snarky comment with a lazy grin. You want nothing more than to sigh heavily and shove his face away, but you actively restrain yourself. You are the one who forgot, so you are trying your absolute best not to be mean to him tonight.

“Bear with me. I’ll make sure we have a much nicer date tomorrow,” you answer quietly.

The smirk on his face only grows wider. It is so infuriating. 

Why does he always look so incredibly punchable and highly kissable at the exact same time? 

Like dude, pick a struggle.

Even before you dated him, you still thought he was obnoxious and lame. But unfortunately for your sanity, his face is 100% exactly your type, so you learned to mentally tune out everything coming out of his mouth and just pretend he is saying blah blah blah whatever while working together.

“I’m not complaining, though,” he chuckles softly. 

He cracks open a can of soda and holds it out to you. You take it from his hand, watching as he immediately grabs another can for himself. 

When you raise your eyebrows at him, Lane just looks back at you before taking a small sip.

“What?” he asks.

“You said you hated that flavor.”

You remember his weird, hyper-specific taste ratings for junk food very well. He has an incredibly critical scale for terrible gas station snacks.

“I like it fine,” he deflects weakly while you smirk.

You smirk, leaning in to remind him of his own words. “You literally told me last week that it tastes like medicine for a disease you don’t even have.”

He groans, rolling his eyes. “Okay, fine, it tastes like cough syrup. So what?” he argues in that dumb little annoying tone again.

“I’d rather stay sober so I can hear you sing me a birthday song loud and clear.”

You watch the curve of his lips slowly pull into a wider grin, and immediately you know he has another stupid idea brewing in his head. Every time that smirk appears, it is basically a warning sign.

He starts humming a terrible rendition of the tune, leaning way too close to your personal space. Frustrated, you plant a hand on his face and shove him away. 

He just laughs, a loud, genuine sound that echoes into the cold, dark emptiness of the night as he looks out into the distance.

You reach into your pocket and pull out your cigarette pack, only to find a single, lonely cigarette left inside. Your lucky one. 

You slide it out of the empty cardboard.

“Lane,” you call out.

His attention snaps right back to you. If you are being completely honest, Lane’s attention never actually drifts away from you, even when he pretends it does. He is always listening. He is honestly way more sensitive and observant than anyone else you’ve ever met. 

One minute he is a goofy, hyperactive idiot, and the next he can spiral into a total brooding mess. 

He is a difficult person to handle, but who is not?You aren’t exactly a walk in the park either. You two are just perfectly imperfect for each other.

“Make a wish.” 

You continue when he raises his eyebrows in confusion.

“Is this some kind of inside joke I’m missing?” he asks skeptically in that permanently irritated tone of his while you roll your eyes.

“There are no bakeries open at midnight, so I can’t get you a cake. Consider this your birthday candle.”

You explain while holding up the cigarette.

Lane lets out a mocking, irritated huff of a laugh. 

“Should’ve figured. Especially after you aggressively slapped my hand away at the cashier earlier.” 

He suddenly shifts his voice into a high pitched, incredibly obnoxious mockery of yours. “It’s your birthday, asshole, you said.” 

He cracks up at his own impression, thoroughly amused with himself. 

“Wow. Do I feel loved.”

You sigh again, the guilt creeping back in. He is being so casual about this whole disaster, which almost makes you feel worse, but you can tell he genuinely doesn’t think this is a bad night. 

You remember him mentioning once that he never really cared about his birthdays anyway.

And honestly, you kind of get it.

Your family was never really the celebrating type either. Most of your birthdays passed exactly like any other normal day. Just another Thursday.

Still, you have a brother, and you always made sure there was at least some kind of celebration for him even if it was nothing fancy.

Cheap junk food. Ice cream. Bags of chips. Cans of cheap beer the two of you secretly stole from the convenience store near your house.

Not exactly a heartwarming Hallmark birthday special, but at least it was something.

“Well, it is my lucky cigarette. So yes, you are indeed loved by me,” you say, cocking an eyebrow.

The unlit cigarette rests between your fingers. Lane’s eyes flick from your face down to the tobacco, a slow, amused smile spreading across his lips.

“For the record,” he says casually, “this is the worst birthday party I have ever had.”

You know he does not mean it. Lane just has that stupid way of joking around, and it barely affects you anymore when you already know half the things coming out of his mouth directly contradict whatever is actually happening inside his head.

And you can see that faint pink tint creeping across his face the second you say you love him.

He is a terrible liar, and you can see right through him, but if you call him out on it, he might just dissolve into some embarrassed, flustered puddle, so you keep quiet about it instead.

Besides, you have plenty of time to bully him about it later. He cannot cover it up with alcohol or some shit either, because he has not touched a single drop.

As for Lane, he is staring because he knows that one small habit of yours. You never really hide it, but to him it feels like something that has been with you for a very long time now. 

Every time you get down to the last cigarette in a packet, you always make a wish before lighting it up.

At first, he did not really care. Then, slowly, it turned into curiosity, wondering why you did that. 

And then weirdly jealous because where the hell and from whom did you even learn a habit like that?

His brain came up with every possible scenario. Some ex. Some charismatic asshole you used to date. Somebody memorable enough that their habits still stuck to you years later even when you claimed it had been forever since your last relationship.

Back then he was just your annoying dumbass coworker, so he had zero right to ask about it. 

But later, when he found out it actually came from your father, he felt weirdly relieved.

You told him your dad was not exactly a great father figure, but sometimes the man had this strange, dark sense of humor that still lingered in your life even after you left home the second you hit adulthood.

“You’ve had worse.”

You commented softly, your voice cutting through the quiet night and dragging Lane back from whatever distant land his mind was wandering off to.

Your words anchored him, pulling his attention right back to the present as his gaze locked onto yours again. He looked at you for a brief, heavy second.

He looks at you for a moment, only a brief second. “Yeah,” he spoke up, his voice dropping a fraction. “I had.”

The atmosphere shifted, brushing against a topic a little too sensitive for a birthday, and you immediately wanted to distract him from whatever bad memories were trying to creep in.

“So this is what you get, Lane.”

You urge him as You lean closer while speaking, trying to pull him away from whatever ugly memory started creeping up his head. Somehow, Lane instinctively follows your movement, mirroring you and leaning closer too.

“Birthday boy gets to blow the candle,” you say with a smile, emphasizing every word.

“You want me to blow on a cigarette.”

Oh, he felt so incredibly coy correcting you, didn’t he?

You couldn’t help it, you reached out and pinched his cheek. It was just hard enough to make him let out a sharp yelp.

“I want you to shut up, close your eyes, and make a wish like a normal person,” you repeat while staring at him.

His cold blue eyes settle onto you again.

They seem to seep into every corner of you whenever he looks at you like that. Even when he stays quiet, his eyes always seem to hold a thousand stories inside them.

He just keeps looking at you, much longer than usual. The kind of look that makes your stomach flip because Lane was never really a looker. Well, that is not entirely true. You always feel his eyes on you because subtlety has never once existed inside this man’s body.

But when it comes to staring contests, he has never been able to win against you. He always drops his gaze far too quickly. He is a floor-staring, wall-gazing kind of man, someone who keeps himself carefully hidden behind stupid jokes and cocky smirks.

But you know Lane. He is such a dishonest bastard sometimes. He bottles everything up until the pressure explodes so violently you barely get time to prepare for it.

So when he lets himself do this, holding your gaze longer than he usually can. It means he is giving in a little.

You notice his lashes flutter slightly before he finally closes his eyes.

Those bright blue eyes disappear behind his eyelids while he shifts closer, and your smile grows softer at the sight.

Despite laughing at you earlier, he is taking this way more seriously than you expected.

And when he finally opens his eyes again, meeting yours with that deep ocean stare, you cannot help smiling wider.

“Happy birthday, Lane. Hope all your wishes come true, dumbass.”

You speak softly, and his lips curve into a deeper smile.

He looks so stupid, so ridiculous, and somehow so stupidly charming all at once.

That rough, boyish edge to his smile mixed with the slightly disheveled state of his hair from sitting out beneath the night wind. The way his laughter spills softly into the cold air.

It is such a rare sight, seeing Lane without his usual cocky, irritated smirk, so you let him be. Let him laugh quietly to himself until his attention slowly anchors back onto you once more.

“You’re nicer than usual, sis.”

He teases you again with that nickname. 

You almost want to punch him for real this time because he really has a talent for killing emotional moments the second he gets embarrassed.

And judging by the slight redness tinting the tips of his ears, yeah, he is definitely embarrassed.

But instead of saying anything, you pull the lighter from your hoodie pocket and flick it open.

The warm orange glow spills softly across the space between the two of you, lighting every feature on his face more clearly. The flame dances in the blue of his eyes, cold ocean shades mixed with warm amber light, creating a contrast so beautiful it almost feels like the fire could melt straight through his endless blue sky.

The light paints his features so delicately that it almost feels like the world itself loves him, kissing every detail of his face. For a second you feel irrationally jealous of literally everything around him.

Because seriously, when Lane shuts the hell up, he is unfairly pretty.

You place the cigarette between your fingers against his lips.

For a brief moment, he hesitates, but slowly leans forward and takes it. The soft friction of his lips brushes against your fingers. The night air is cold but still heavy with humidity, and somehow his breath and that featherlight touch are enough to make you feel like you are burning.

And he lingers there, not pulling away even after you move your hand back to shield the flame from the wind. You press the lighter gently against the tip of the cigarette, burning it into a soft reddish glow that flickers quietly in the dark.

The old porch lamp above you buzzes and flickers like it might die any second. The light from the cigarette feels so small, like a cherry resting on top of a cheap whipped cream cake. Somehow, though, it is enough to illuminate the entire space between the two of you.

And throughout the entire process, Lane’s eyes never once leave you.

His eyes stay fixed on you. Every tiny movement.

The way your fingers shift.

The subtle movement of your body leaning closer.

The wind brushing loose strands of your hair across your face.

Even the way your breathing lingers near him.

Like he is trying to memorize every single part of you all at once.

‎♪⊹₊⟡⋆

And that tangy scent fills his lungs so familiarly.

You changed the brand you smoke because your favorite got discontinued. And even when Lane only smokes occasionally, he somehow misses that scent just as much as you do.

It feels strangely wrong not having that sour sweet cherry scent lingering around while he works, or when he steals a few drags from you. 

Because he never actually finishes a cigarette himself. He always takes one or two drags before handing it back to you, telling you to finish it, when clearly he is the one borrowing from you.

What a sneaky, shameless thief he is.

And he misses that signature scent on you. It used to carve so deeply into every part of you. 

Your hair, your collar, the sleeves of your shirt. 

Somehow it always ended up clinging on to him too.

Do you know there were nights when he did not want to change his shirt because the lingering scent reminded him too much of you?

You think there is a reason he always hangs around whenever you smoke even when he never asks for one?

You have no idea how many times he fantasized about you long before you even noticed his awkward, messy attempts at flirting.

He is pathetic. A desperate loser. He knows that already. 

Hell, he still does not know how he actually managed to bag you.

Sometimes he genuinely feels like the luckiest man alive.

You told him to make a wish, but he did not make one because he never believed in any of that bullshit. 

He made plenty of birthday wishes when he was younger, and none of them ever came true. 

But with you, it feels like he does not need to wish for anything anymore because somehow it always finds its way to him anyway.

You make him see and feel things he never even knew he wanted.

And weirdly enough, he does not hate it at all.

After taking one or two drags and exhaling that soft bergamot scent into the cold air, he realizes you really do like sour flavors in your cigarettes. Somehow, this scent feels much heavier and tangier than your old signature one.

But for some reason, he thinks it suits you even more.

Those Hellspits feel like frayed old memories you still try to hold close. Nostalgia, maybe. But it does not really suit you anymore, does it?

He actually likes the taste of Cindervein much better. 

At first, it took him a while to adjust and get used to it.

Somehow you changing brands feels like you are finally leaving those old memories behind instead of crumbling yourself apart trying to piece them back together again. Like you finally let go of things that used to hurt you.

And for some reason, that gives him more relief than it even gives you.

Because in your past, there was never any sign of him.

But in your present, he is everywhere, and he intends to make sure he stays in your future too.

Jesus Christ!!

That sounds so fucking corny and cheesy. 

No way he would ever admit something like that out loud to you.

But maybe you are sharp enough to notice that already.

Oh, Lane. You can never hide anything with a face that expressive. Dumb boy.

“What are you thinking?”

You take a sip from your soda before placing the cigarette against your lips again, dragging in that heavy scent as you enjoy the feeling.

Of the smoke drifts slowly through your lungs, warm and comforting, making your shoulders relax slightly.

Do you even realize the effect you have on him?

His eyes lock intensely onto the cigarette between your fingers. He is still lingering on that brief brush of his lips against your fingertips earlier.

And now you are placing your mouth right where he just…

Ughhhhhhh!!!!!

Why is he acting like a fucking virgin right now when he absolutely is not?

The two of you have done far more intimate things than this, and somehow one tiny movement from you is still enough to make him feel like he is sitting right on the edge of losing his mind.

Heat creeps from the back of his neck up to his face and ears. He can feel it clearly, and he knows you can see it too. Your lips slowly curl into such a knowing smile while the veil of gray smoke softens your gaze between the two of you, like a thin curtain hovering quietly in the space separating you.

“I just think it’d be funny if you sang me a birthday song right now.”

You nearly choke on your smoke as you sit up straight, coughing slightly while he gives you that mischievous, devious look.

“I didn’t agree to that.”

You quickly lower the cigarette over the soda can because there is absolutely no way you are embarrassing yourself further tonight.

He has way too many ridiculous ideas in his head sometimes. Half the time you cannot even keep up with them.

“It’s my birthday. You owe me that much.”

He leans back slightly, resting his hands behind him against the stone surface.

“I’m not gonna sing in a gas station parking lot, Lane.”

You emphasize every word while his eyebrows pull together into a slight frown, his lips turning downward too.

“Wow. That’s a lot coming from someone who claims to love me.”

Oh, he is absolutely doing this on purpose. 

Speaking so casually, but you can hear the sulking hidden underneath every word.

“Forgot my birthday and now refusing to sing me a birthday song.”

He teases while his gaze settles back onto your face again. You kick lightly at his leg, but he quickly pulls away before you can reach him properly.

“Fine!”

You sigh heavily while glaring at him.

And the asshole looks way too satisfied with himself.

He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the seat with the most devious grin imaginable, like he is fully prepared to sit there and watch you publicly humiliate yourself for his entertainment.

‎♪⊹₊⟡⋆

Did you sing him a birthday song?

Yes.

Did you enjoy it? 

Absolutely not.

Did Lane enjoy it? 

Oh, absolutely. The asshole even recorded you!!

That was so fucking terrible because not only did he record it, he also started criticizing your singing technique afterward like he was suddenly some version of Michael Jackson.

“That was terrible. You’re fired as my birthday bard.”

He manages to get the words out between his laughter because he is literally clutching his stomach, trying not to fall off the bench.

Meanwhile, you are one second away from grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him violently.

“Shut up. And you can’t fire me either.” 

You snap back, slightly offended, while he finally manages to calm himself down enough to breathe properly again.

Though his laughter still echoes through the empty parking lot, you can almost see tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Yeah, right. At least those still count as happy tears. 

You do not say anything else after that. Instead, you pick up the half-finished cigarette from earlier and take another slow drag from it.

Lane tilts his head while watching you, resting his knuckles beneath his chin before making another comment.

“You’re gonna burn a hole in your lungs someday.”

“Didn’t know you were a doctor now, Lane.”

You assume it is just another one of his usual dumb jokes, so you casually throw the sarcasm back at him, but this time he seems a little too serious.

“I’m just a concerned boyfriend.”

And you have no idea how to answer that.

Most of your exes never gave a single fuck whether you smoked or not. They barely cared when you were drinking yourself into oblivion half the time.

But seeing Lane worried about you feels strangely unfamiliar.

Though, to be fair, he has always shown affection in unusual ways.

“Are you worried about me?”

You ask teasingly while he rubs the back of his head awkwardly, shifting his gaze away from you.

“Am I not being clear enough?” he mutters quietly.

You look at him for a moment.

From this angle, you can only see part of his side profile, the reddened tip of his ear, and the messy dark curls falling over his forehead.

God, you really want to laugh.

Or maybe aggressively hug him.

Mostly because he is being so painfully obvious right now, and Lane absolutely hates when you point out his emotions directly.

“Lane.”

You call his name softly, and he turns slightly to look at you again.

“I’ll quit.”

His eyes widen immediately into the most ridiculous expression.

“Both the store job and the smoking,” you clarify again as his eyes slowly narrow at you suspiciously.

The job part is not exactly news.

He already knows you are leaving the store job soon. You have always talked openly about it. Truthfully, Lane feels the same way, he has similar plans himself. He has already found someone to replace him once he quits too.

That new girl can handle herself pretty well now, and having another reliable worker around would make things easier for her. Neither of you has hidden those plans from each other. It has been decided for quite a while already.

You both knew this was coming.

“That’s a lot of bullshit coming from you.”

Still, Lane sounds deeply skeptical about the smoking part.

You just laugh quietly and lean a little closer toward him.

“I used to be in rehab. Cigarettes are nothing compared to that.”

You rest your hand gently against the back of his neck, and the moment your cold fingers touch his skin, he flinches slightly.

You can feel goosebumps rising beneath your fingertip.

Cute

You softly laugh under your breath.

Why is he still so nervous around you after all this time?

Or maybe your hands are just freezing enough to startle him.

At first, he says nothing.

The silence stretches quietly between the two of you while his eyes wander across your face. From your eyes, to the cigarette between your fingers, and then finally… Settle on your lips.

“Have faith in your girlfriend, Lane.”

You slip your hand away, planning to put the cigarette out inside your soda can, but his large hand reached out and caught your wrist.

Your brows lift slightly in confusion.

Did he not just say he was worried about your health?

You watched as his long, pale fingers smoothly slid the cigarette out of your grip and into his own. It fits so naturally between his pale fingers that it almost feels like it belongs there.

You look up at him while he slowly brings it to his lips.

The cigarette presses softly against his mouth, and his icy blue gaze never leaves yours for even a second. 

They stay locked onto yours like he is planning something.

There is something unreadable sitting under his expression.

He takes one deep inhale, smoke filling his lungs slowly while you remain still, waiting to see whatever ridiculous thing he is about to do.

And before you can even process it properly, his hand slides to the side of your face, cradling the back of your head. In one fluid motion, he pulled you in while leaning closer himself.

He pressed his soft lips right over yours, catching you entirely off guard as he opened his mouth slightly to claim yours.

The heat of his lip hit you instantly, a sharp and intoxicating contrast to the freezing night air.

The smoke lingers between both your breaths, that gray veil that always seemed to drift between the two of you now tangling around your bodies instead, wrapping you together beneath the flickering gas station light.

He let the smoke escape from his lips right into yours, a shared, breathless exhale that tasted entirely of him, blending the sharp, familiar bitterness of tobacco with the sudden, sugary rush of that artificial soda.

You felt the warmth of his face so close to yours. His eyes closed slowly, though that lingering, intense blue gaze felt like it was still burned into the back of your mind even as his long eyelashes brushed against your skin.

Your vision blurred out completely. 

It wasn’t just from the rising smoke or the tangy, sour scent of the tobacco, but from the crushing intimacy of how he was holding you. Lane’s lips were soft, parting further as his tongue slid forward to seek yours out. 

He didn’t just kiss you, he consumed you, his tongue tracing the smooth line of your teeth before intertwining with yours in a slow, rhythmic dance that made your chest ache with fierce heat.

Why is it so gentle and so lingering tonight? 

Like he wants to savor every second of this.

He kissed you with a sudden, deep hunger, but it was anchored by a tenderness you had never really felt from him before. 

His large hand remained anchored on the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone while the cigarette still burned between his fingers. 

The sharp and smoky aroma seeped vividly into the air around you, tying you two together in the quiet night. 

His long fingers gently pressed against your jaw, his grip remained firm but careful as he angled your face up slightly so he could get better access to your lips and your tongue, so he could draw you into a deeper, wetter rhythm

He sucked softly on your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth with a gentle, agonizing friction that made a quiet gasp hitch in your throat, allowing him to deepen the kiss even further. His warm breath and radiating body temperature completely enveloped you.

You just let him kiss you like that, melting into a sense of profound longing. It felt as if he believed that after tonight, he might never get to taste you again.

Did telling him you were quitting smoking really affect him that much?

Why?

You never thought of smoking as something deeply sentimental, signature aspect of your life. You had already planned on quitting eventually anyway. 

It was just a habit you picked up from the people around you growing up. From old friends. Old versions of yourself. From pieces of your childhood stitched together into something messy and unhealthy.

But maybe Lane sees it differently.

Maybe to him, it feels like you are leaving behind another piece of yourself.

To abandon something that had been with you for so long, present in so many chapters of your life, it was a sacred ritual. It needed a proper mourning. And maybe this is his weird, emotional little way of saying goodbye to it.

The kiss grew deeper with each passing second, becoming heavy and desperate as his tongue stroked against yours, tasting the dark, bittersweet hint and the sour aroma that somehow tasted way better when tangled in his mouth. 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie as you pull him closer, feeling his other hand finally settle carefully against your waist.

Your arms moved to wrap around his neck smoothly, a motion so natural it felt like you had done it a hundred times before. Lane dropped the cigarette to the ground, entirely abandoning it to free his hands so he could hold you properly.

He pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around you as if he wanted to cradle you right there in the dark, as if he wanted to press his body so tightly against yours that you would carve directly into his heart and let you sink deeply into him forever. Where nothing else can ever take you away. 

Suddenly the kiss feels less like desire and more like desperation.

When he finally pulled away, a thin, silver string of saliva lingered between your lips in the dim light. 

His breathing is uneven now and so is yours.

And before you can even recover properly, Lane stuck his tongue out and licked your lower lip softly, catching the stray moisture, as if he still wasn’t satisfied, as if that devastating taste wasn’t enough to appease the impatient, needy man he truly was beneath all his bravado. That restless part of him he always tries to hide.

One taste still is not enough for him.

He is still greedy for more.

He presses his forehead against yours afterward, messy strands of his dark hair brushing against your skin lightly.

Your hand drifts to the back of his neck again. You lightly scratch against his skin just to tease him.

You know exactly how sensitive he is there.

You feel the quiet shiver run through him while he exhales a low laugh against your face.

And honestly, you enjoy tormenting him with it.

Testing his patience while pressing soft kisses against the side of his face.

“Was that your wish?” you asked quietly, your breath still slightly off-rhythm.

A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest.

You are not entirely sure if he is laughing at himself or at how stupidly sentimental the moment sounds.

“No,” he answers softly before nuzzling his face against yours again.

Your fingers slide gently into his curls, brushing through his hair while he practically melts against you.

He feels like some oversized clingy dog desperate for affection.

And the second you pet him gently, a low satisfied sound rumbles from his chest.

He laughs softly under his breath while your fingers continue moving through his hair.

“You said you’d quit smoking.”

He mentioned again, lifting his head slightly so his eyes could lock onto yours.

“Then do it as my birthday gift next year.”

His voice comes out so clear and sincere that it catches you completely off guard. And every word sinks deep into your chest.

You freeze for a second and suddenly you understand this is not really about cigarettes.

It is about him wanting you here next year. And the year after that. And every year after that too.

The silence stretches too long, and slowly you see something fragile creep into his expression.

The teasing confidence disappears completely, leaving behind something… melancholy.

He looked exactly like a pathetic puppy drenched under the rain.

Your chest aches immediately at his expression. 

“Fine,” you whisper softly when you see that look on his face. “I promise.”

His eyes flicker slightly.

“I’ll celebrate your next birthday too,” you continue quietly while cupping his face between your hands. “And the next one. And the next one after that too.”

You press small kisses all over his face between your words, laughing softly when you feel the faint dampness against his skin.

Normally, Lane would complain about how cheesy and gross you are before hiding his face somewhere out of embarrassment.

But tonight he does not pull away.

Tonight he just stays there quietly, letting you hold him, letting you kiss him, while his soft laughter echoes through the empty parking lot beneath the dim flickering lights.

And somehow, in that moment, you realize something.

Maybe whatever wish Lane made tonight already came true after all.

The hum of the fluorescent lights above you is loud in your ears as his eyes rake over your body. You’re not stupid. It’s obvious he genuinely thinks you’re attractive, or else he wouldn’t be so stupid about it. Lane shouldn’t be the man lighting a fire in your gut. His stare turns your brain to mush and your head feels woozy, but it shouldn’t. It’s dangerous, and it’s wrong, but his words make you want him to touch you. You know his hands on you would feel good. You shiver slightly at the very thought of it.

Lane notices. He stops running his stupid, infuriating mouth for two seconds, just long enough to register the goosebumps running down the length of your arms. Still, he doesn’t step closer...but he doesn't step away. You hold your breath, and he holds his, eyes latched onto your face rather than your chest.

Pervert.

You’ve never been more aware of your own heartbeat. Is it wrong to enjoy the attention?

Boldly, you step forward and take his hand in your own.

He freezes.

There’s a joke you could make about checking the melons in the produce aisle. You know Lane would make that joke. Or, he would if he wasn’t dead quiet, staring at your hand like you’re a hallucination. It’s satisfying to shut him up.

“If you wanted to hold hands, you could have told me,” he snarks, that infuriating grin spreading across his lips.

Of course, it didn’t last long.

“Do it then,” you shoot back, tilting your chin up at him, “Quality check them, if you want to so bad.”

Ah ha! Watching a red hot blush explode across his face was the highlight of your night. You should play him at his own game more often if it gets you reactions like that.

“You’re not serious,” he barks out a laugh, looking down on you.

It’s condescending.

You snort, yank his hand up, and place it right over your breast.

Lane freezes again, his eyes blown wide as he stares. Great, he’s ogling your chest again.

It’s kind of your fault though.

You don’t regret it.

“Cat got your tongue?” you taunt, pressing his hand firmly to the swell of your breast, “Well? How are they?”

His tongue darts out to licks to lips, wetting his dry mouth. You smirk, convinced you have the upper hand, when-

“Babe,” he groans, his lips curling into a smirk, “You do this with every guy you like?”

“Why would I-” you snap your jaw shut, but it’s too late.

“Oh? So I’m the first? I’m the first guy that gets to touch you like this?” he laughs, almost sounding disbelieving, “That’s dirty, pretty. I would have thought your parents would have raised a lady like you better than that.”

A pause.

“Don’t let the biker do this to you,” Lane steps away, his hand falling from your breast, “Don’t want you to come crying to me if he creeps on you.”

“What a gentleman,” is the only retort you can give.

“I know, right?” he flashes a smirk your way, “By the way, I’d rate them an eight. Let me know if you want me to check on any improvements you make.”

The fact that Mad Dog Convince was somehow still standing and not bare and closed is beyond you. But you know this place won’t stand forever, not if no real change happens. You’re not worried though. You’ll return back to the farm you grew up at and resume your life there.

You’re only here because your grandmother wanted you to get out more. Out of the countryside and try to thrive in the wild city. City life didn’t really interest you, maybe it did for a brief time when you were a kid, but as you got older you lost the appeal in it, more content with the peace of your home. But it was your grandmother’s dying wish, and you’d do anything for her.

The city was overwhelming and noisy. You really didn’t like it, and part of it definitely was because you were terribly homesick and missing your trusty stead. You ended up living in the poorer side of the city in a decrepit little apartment that had roaches, and needless to say you opted out within a month. You weren’t interested in college, nor did you want to be in that much debt for it either. You got a taste of the city and knew you wouldn’t dwell in it for long.

Mad Dog was nestled just slightly outside the city and only a 30 minute walk to the motel you stayed at. Again, you’re not sure why you’re working in this decaying store, Ronnie Joe certainly didn’t deserve you, and you definitely don’t go outta your way to try and save it. It’s not your store to care about.

But perhaps it’s because you know once this store inevitably closes it’ll be the end of the “city chapter” in your life. You’ll take your truck and head right back on home, going about your life and duties, and being a content hermit. Your grandma’s last wish would be fulfilled.

You didn’t bother forming strong attachments either, because you’re conditioned to the solitude. Your one real friend was back at your place keeping an eye on everything for you. Malcolm was enough for you. But you managed to befriend your lousy coworker’s sister. You liked her spunk and she was definitely easy on the eyes, and she took a liking to your no nonsense attitude and your fire. Amelia is her name, very fitting.

“Yo, pretty girl, you got a charger?” Lane asks, his head poking out from the storage room, his ice blue eyes standing out first before his noir hair does.

You give him a dismissive look, returning to counting the drawer. “And if I did, why would I give it to ya?”

Footsteps shuffle closer, the storage room door closing with a soft thump. Then comes Lane’s voice. “Aww, I thought we were friends. We’ve practically been hanging out for a month.”

“We have different meanin’s for friends, Lane. Cause you definitely ain’t my friend. Yer a lousy coworker I put up with,” you reply, your voice calm and straight to the point.

But of course Lane outwardly doesn’t express hurt, he’s only amused like a dog engaged in tug of war.

“Playing hard to get still I see,” he sighs, smirking gleefully. “But I’m not completely lousy. I clean sometimes and man the register.”

“After I nag you like a miserable wife,” you reply back, the ink pen singing as you write down the amount in the register.

“I’d love for you to be my wife. I’d be well taken care of for sure,” Lane agreed, leaning against the counter.

“So you admit I’d be miserable being married to you?” your smirk.

“You wouldn’t be miserable in bed with me~,” he winks.

“Dirty dog.”

“Only yours, Babe.”

Although he’s a bum of a coworker, at least he’s amusing sometimes. His nice face keeps him from getting beaten black and blue.

“Alright get outta my face, boy. Go scrub them toilets. It’s yer turn. And if ya don’t I’ll call yer sister up here to have her come embarrass ya.”

At that Lane groans like a whiny brat, dragging his feet to the bathrooms after getting the supplies, you smirking with triumphant.

With nothing else to do you man the front, idle until a customer comes. You only managed to find 4 words in your crossword puzzle when the sliding doors come to life, footsteps walking inside.

“Evenin’,” you greet, not looking up.

“Well aren’t you a pretty little lady~.”

His voice was like nails on a chalkboard and full of no good things. You let out a sigh, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt.

“Thank you. I know.”

The customer makes a sound and mumbles to himself, shuffling down an aisle. You continue on with your puzzle until he returns, setting down some canned goods.

He starts talking again. “Hey, pretty girl, have you heard about the disappearances around here? It’s pretty dangerous working at this time.”

“I heard about ‘em,” you responded nonchalantly.

“Aren’t you scared? Do you have anyone that’ll protect you?” he asks, leaning in slightly, looking a little to eager.

“And why do you need to know that?” you throw back, a pointed brown raised as you look at him with an unimpressed gaze.

“No need to act like that, sweetheart. I’m just a good guy that wants to protect girls like you. Hey, whataya say to giving me your number?”

“Hmm, no.” You put the last item into the plastic bag, muttering out his total and waiting expectantly.

The creep frowns, offended at your blatant rejection. “Listen here you bitch,” he spits. “I’m doing you a favor in trying to protect you! You wanna end up raped and dead in a ditch somewhere!?”

“I suggest you lower yer voice before you regret it,” your threaten, glaring at him with crossed arms, your heartbeat beginning to rise from the tension.

“I’ll teach you some manners you ungrateful—,” he grits, beginning to reach towards you until he feels cold metal kiss his Adam’s apple.

The tip of your revolver digs in just a little more as he swallows,. “W-What..? Y-You..!?”

“Now, either you pay for yer shit and get out, or I’ll put a bullet in ya,” you hiss lowly.

“Are you crazy?!”

“Naw, I just know how to deal with pest like you. Now, you gonna pay or not?”

“What the hell is going on out—?”

The creep is suddenly jerked backwards by the collar of his hood, in the grasp of a looming man in all black, faceless behind a helmet. The biker promptly shoves the creep toward the doors, the man tripping over his own pants and crashing to the floor with a harsh thud. The creep whips his head towards the biker and looks like a trembling chihuahua about seconds away from pissing itself.

“H-Hey man..! Didn’t mean to upset your girl..!”

The biker just stares like a predator, his fists clenched tightly at his sides as his chest rises and falls with barely contained rage.

You scoff at the creep’s change of tone now that a man twice his size has humiliated him. “Get the fuck outta here before I make due with my promise. Be lucky I’m bein’ real generous and haven’t put lead in yer knee.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t,” Lane mutters, drinking in the sight before him.

The creep runs out, his pants nearly falling off him in his haste. You huff and tuck your revolver into your jeans, putting your shirt over it. You gather the goods and prepare to put them back on the shelves.

“‘Preciate it, Biker Boy,” you say with a tip of your hat before passing him. Lane, like a puppy, follows at your heels, casting a suspicious, icy glare towards the biker.

“I leave for a few minutes and you nearly shot a guy?” he chuckles.

“The night breeds weirdos,” you shrug, getting a chuckle from Lane.

“Yeah, like that helmet boy.”

“Now why are you talkin’ shit when you can’t even scrub a toilet? Ya really ain’t worth a damn yerself, Lane,” you throw back with a barely there bite, but it was full of unrestrained truth. “Besides, you be sayin’ some questionable shit too.”

Lane rubs his neck, smirking as if saying “you aren’t wrong” with a slight blush on his fair skin.

Meanwhile the Biker stands there, his heart hammering away in his chest, his face hot behind the visor. But those softer feelings disappear when he heard Lane’s repulsive voice.

Lane continues yammering away and you just let him, haphazardly listening, but your gaze finally focuses on Biker Boy’s figure just…. Standing there, taking up space.

“Somethin’ we can help ya with or are you just gonna keep standin’ there like some serial killer?” you ask, your voice cutting through Lane’s ramble and shocking Biker Boy.

“I-I’m not a serial killer!” Biker Boy insists. “Sorry I… I just… T-The vending machine…”

“Oh,” you reply. “Yeah, my apologies for that. Works when it wants too…”

“You can’t be serious?” Lane scoffs at you, growing more fussy when you don’t answer him, so he barks loudly. “Hello?? Sunshine, are you being for real right now?”

One dog stands proud, drunk on the prospect of having won what he deems as his. While the other dog bristles with anxiety and anger as his prized possession was stolen from him.