#bo sinclair fluff

You walked toward the gas station shortly after breakfast, the warm hum of the early sun brushing your shoulders. The workshop door was half-open, an arm, a leg, and the lower half of a familiar figure sticking out from under one of his cars.

You paused in the doorway.

Bo’s boots were planted firmly on the dusty concrete, oil stains blooming across the knees of his jeans. His shirt—usually crisp—was half unbuttoned, sweat and grease streaked across his arms. You heard a muttered curse, a clatter of metal, then his voice:

“Son of a—if this damn bolt would just—”

He scooted further under the chassis just as you picked up a loose wrench from the floor.

You stepped inside fully.

“Need help?”

There was a startled thump, his head hitting the underside of the car.

“Jesus—” His voice echoed. “Warn a man, would you?”

You laughed softly. “Sorry.”

The wheels of his creeper scraped as he rolled out from beneath the car. When his eyes found you, something in his expression loosened. The irritation melted. The stubborn set of his jaw eased.

“…You.”

It came out softer than he meant. He cleared his throat immediately, trying to recover.

“Didn’t expect you down here.”

“I wanted to help.”

Bo blinked. The world held still.

“…You did?”

He looked at you like you’d handed him something delicate—something he didn’t know how to hold without breaking.

You offered the wrench.

“I figured you might need this.”

He stared at it for half a second before taking it, fingers brushing yours. His touch was rough—calloused—warm. The moment stretched.

Bo looked away abruptly, trying to hide the color warming his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “that’s… yeah. I needed that.”

But his voice was different this time. Quiet. Careful.

Like he wasn’t used to anyone offering him anything without conditions.

He went back under the car, but this time his movements were less tense. Almost relaxed.

You crouched beside him, leaning on your knees. After a moment, he spoke again—voice drifting from beneath the car.

“Most folks don’t like bein’ in here. Smells like oil. Too hot. Too dirty.”

“I like it,” you said. “It’s… very you.”

There was a sharp clang as he dropped the wrench.

He rolled out, eyebrows raised. “Very me?”

“Yeah.”

Bo stared at you like he wasn’t sure whether to smirk or melt.

“…Explain.”

“It’s practical. Messy. Honest. A little stubborn.”

His cheeks twitched—something between irritation and flustered affection.

“That supposed to be a compliment?”

“It was.”

Bo swallowed, throat bobbing visibly. His fingers tightened around the wrench before he rolled back under the car again, but his voice came out a touch raspier:

“…Well. Good.”

You reached beside him and grabbed a spare rag, wiping down a few tools scattered around. Bo watched your hand reach across the concrete, and he nearly dropped a bolt.

“You don’t need to do that,” he muttered.

“I want to.”

He froze under the car.

Not for long. But long enough.

Then he mumbled, quieter, like the words were dragging themselves out of his chest:

“…Alright. If you want to.”

Bo Sinclair, king of denial, accepting help? That alone was monumental.

You continued sorting tools, handing him whatever he asked for before he even named it. After the fifth time he hesitated:

“How’d you know I needed that?”

“Lucky guess.”

He huffed. “Uh-huh.”

The car groaned as he tightened the last bolt. When he slid out again, his hair was sticking up in every direction, grease on his cheek, sweat making his shirt cling to his chest.

You reached instinctively to wipe the smear from his face.

Your thumb brushed his cheekbone. Warm skin. Warm breath. Warm moment.

Bo froze. Completely.

His eyes locked onto yours, blue burning in the slant of sun filtering through the door.

“…Why’d you do that?” Not angry. Just stunned.

“There was grease,” you murmured.

He swallowed hard. “Could’a done it myself.”

“Maybe I wanted to do it.”

Silence.

Not cold. Not thick. Just… full.

Then Bo looked away, shaking his head with a soft, disbelieving laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.

“You’re somethin’ else.”

But he didn’t move away from your hand. Not until you did.

He stood, wiping his hands on his rag, shoulders rolling back. You stepped beside him and leaned against the workbench.

Bo leaned too.

Not quite touching. Close enough to feel his warmth.

“So,” you said lightly, “what’s next? Need me to hold something?”

He snorted under his breath. “Yeah. My sanity.”

You elbowed him gently, and he cracked—literally cracked—a smile. A small one. But a real one. A soft curve of his mouth you’d never seen directed at anyone else.

His voice dropped. “You really don’t mind bein’ around me?”

You blinked. “Why would I?”

Bo stared at the floor. “’Cause I ain’t easy.”

You softened. “I know.”

He looked up sharply, searching your face for mockery. There was none.

“…And you still came down here,” he murmured.

“Of course I did.”

Bo let out a breath through his nose, slow and steady.

“…Alright then.”

It sounded like surrender. Or acceptance.

Something big, anyway.

You ended up following him around as he stocked shelves, organized tools, fixed a crooked sign outside the station. Every time he reached for something heavy, you were already there. Every time you passed close, his breath hitched. Every time your hand brushed his, he went still for a fraction of a second.

Eventually he sat on the hood of the car he’d just repaired, wiping sweat from his neck. You climbed up beside him, legs dangling.

You felt the tension the second you sat— Not bad tension. Just awareness.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket but didn’t light it. Instead, he toyed with it between his fingers.

“You know,” he said slowly, eyes on the horizon, “I ain’t always good with words.”

You hummed. “I’d noticed.”

He shot you a sideways look. “Smartass.”

You smiled. “You’re good with actions, though.”

Bo froze, cigarette halfway to his lips. “…Yeah?”

“You show you care. Even when you pretend you don’t.”

He looked away, jaw tight, ears turning pink.

“Care,” he muttered, like the syllable burned. “That’s… that’s a big word.”

“Only if you’re afraid of it.”

He stared at you. Hard. Not angry—just exposed.

“…I ain’t afraid,” he whispered.

He said it like a lie he wanted to be true.

You nudged his shoulder with yours. “You don’t have to be.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before darting away again.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice shaking just a little, “you’re gonna ruin me.”

You grinned softly. “Not planning on it.”

Bo stared at you for a long moment.

Then—carefully, hesitantly—he let his shoulder lean into yours.

Barely touching. Soft. Quiet.

But real.

A moment he never would’ve offered to anyone else.

As the sun dipped low, painting the station in gold, he finally broke the silence:

“…You can stay longer, if you want. Don’t gotta leave yet.”

He said it in a rush, almost embarrassed.

You turned to him. “Do you want me to?”

Bo’s breath hitched. He nodded.

Small. Almost imperceptible. But completely honest.

“…Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

You smiled. “Then I’ll stay.”

Bo looked away, biting back a grin he refused to let fully show.

“Good,” he murmured. “Good.”

And for the first time, Bo Sinclair wasn’t tense. Wasn’t hiding. Wasn’t bristling or denying anything.

He was calm. Steady. Soft.

With you.

By the time you were fourteen, you had learned how to rebel quietly. You started sneaking out your window after dark, barefoot across the dewy grass, running into the arms of a boy who smelled like stolen cigarettes and car grease. Caleb. He was two years older, handsome in a sun-bleached, small-town kind of way, and he knew how to hot-wire his daddy’s truck. You spent most of your nights with your feet up on the dashboard, watching the flickering neon sign of the diner on the county line as you passed it by. Sometimes he pressed you up against the passenger door, his kisses clumsy and sour, tasting like the beer he had stolen from the gas station.

You loved him, or at least, you loved the freedom that came with him. You loved the way he laughed too loudly at his own jokes and how he called you his girl with an exaggerated Southern drawl, just to make you blush. You loved the way he made you feel reckless and young, like the preacher’s daughter was just a girl with bare legs and a crooked smile.

But the town always found a way to take things from you.

When you were sixteen, you finally were able to admit that an older man from your father’s bishop Isaiah had cornered you after a service the first time years ago, pressed his hands where they didn’t belong, and took something from you that you didn’t know you could lose. It took everything in you to ask for help with what had been happening. And the town? They blamed you for it.

“A girl like that? She had it coming.”

“Nothing but a Jezebel, parading around with the devil between her legs.”

No charges were filed, Isaiah still came to dinner every Tuesday, and no one ever spoke of it unless it was in whispers between hymns.

You did as you were told after that. You stopped asking questions. Stopped pushing boundaries. You had stopped being.

Then, your body betrayed you.

You didn’t know what was happening at first. You hadn’t thought about it, not after what had been happening to you. But when your skirts got tighter, when exhaustion weighed down on your limbs, when the sickness consumed you in waves every morning—you knew.

You hadn’t told anyone. You hadn’t needed to.

They had seen it in the way you held yourself. How you covered your stomach when you sat down, in the way you started avoiding the communion line, afraid that drinking the wine would make you more of a sinner than you already were. They repeated the same thoughts you had about yourself:

“How could she do this to her family?”

“How shameful, no matter how Godly the family, seems that Satan can’t be kept out.”

One evening your mama came bustling through your room, a travel bag in her hands, like she had made a decision she was too terrified to rethink.

“We’re going on a women’s evangelism trip into the city, you need to pack.”

You had done as you were told.

You had never been to Lincoln before, at least not like that. The biggest city in Nebraska, but it still felt small compared to the weight pressing down on your chest as you sat stiffly in the passenger seat, your mother’s hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She didn’t speak to you once, as if she were grappling with something herself.

The waiting room was quiet, except for the scratch of pens on clipboards and the hum of the overhead radio playing some secular music you’d never been allowed to listen to. Your mother sat beside you, her hands folded into her lap, eyes distant and almost glazed over. She didn’t tell you it would be okay, she didn’t ask if this was what you wanted—she had already decided for you.

“We won’t speak of this when we get home,” she said simply, and that was final.

The procedure itself was just a blur—cold, gloved hands, dull pain, empty murmured reassurances of a nurse who probably saw girls like you every day. You had wanted to cry, but you swallowed it down instead and dug your teeth into your inner cheeks till they bled. The taste of iron consumed the sobs, buried them so deep down where no one would ever find them.

The drive home was silent. A steady hum of the tires mixed with the wind and the road stretching endlessly ahead.

You just stared out the window, watching the sun fade out, bleeding pink and orange into the sky. Your fingers curled around the paper bag from the gas station like it was a lifeline. Mama had stopped to get you cola and some crackers, but you weren’t hungry. You still felt the nausea twisting in your gut, pulled so tight you feared you might split in two and spill.

You thought that Mama might never say anything at all. But then she did.

“Your daddy wasn’t my first choice, you know,” her eyes were fixed on the road ahead and her voice seemed steady, yet both of her hands gripped the wheel tight enough her knuckles turned white.

“But he had God’s voice behind him, and who was I to argue with that?”

Her voice was barely above a breath, but you felt it all the same.

Your chest tightened. Your throat closed up around words you couldn’t speak.

You didn’t need her to say his name.

“I didn’t want that for you.”

The car was silent after that. She didn’t cry, didn’t look at you. She just drove. The road stretched ahead of you, but you were still stuck somewhere behind it—back in that house, sitting stiffly in the pew, listening to his voice fill the rafters, preaching forgiveness with hands that had never known it.

And you knew.

She had been you once.

You hadn’t known what to feel when it was over. Relief? Guilt? Nothing at all?

But the town felt it for you.

Words, damn words like a wildfire spread nearly the moment you returned. You had been careful, you really had. Your mother never even let you out of her sight. But it didn’t matter. Maybe someone had seen you in Lincoln? Maybe the older women in the church could sense something different about you—like bloodhounds sniffing out sin.

Either way, the whispers had started before you’d even processed what you’d been through.

“She went away for a week, came back thinner.”

“The preacher’s daughter? I’d always known she was fast.”

“Her poor father, God rest his soul. How could he live with what she’s done?”

And then came the day you heard your brother talking to your mother in the kitchen.

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. You had only come in for a glass of water, but the moment you heard Caleb’s name, you froze. You pressed your back to the wall just beyond the doorway, fingers pressed to the chipped wood, holding your breath.

“Left out last week,” your brother was saying, his voice low and bitter. “Didn’t even tell his mama he was goin’. Just... took off. Enlisted.”

Your stomach twisted painfully, bile rising in your throat.

Enlisted.

You shut your eyes, leaning heavily into the wall.

Your mother’s voice came next, low, like she didn’t want you to hear.

“He didn’t even come say goodbye?”

“No, ma’am.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, remembering the last time you had seen Caleb. The way he had looked at you—the heaviness in his eyes, the way he had clenched his jaw and stepped back when you tried to touch him.

And then he left.

Left you. Not a word. Not a note. Nothing.

And you knew—you would never see him again. He would never come back.

Not for you.

Because you were already ruined. And he didn’t know how to hold something broken. So he left you behind.

Your whole world had stopped.

And the town just kept right on moving.

The Sunday after Caleb left, you sat in the same pew you always had—the one near the front, close enough for your father’s eyes to find you when he stood at the pulpit. The wooden bench had always felt too stiff beneath you, too straight-backed, too polished and unyielding. But that day, it had been unbearable.

You had felt their eyes crawling over you. The deacon’s wife behind you had clutched her Bible so tightly the cover had warped in her hands, her nails bitten down to the quick. The older men had lingered on you too long—calloused fingers turning the pages of their hymnals, but their eyes had never lifted from your back. The same men who had once tipped their hats at you when you passed by, the ones who had called you sweetheart and asked about your grades, now wore looks you hadn’t recognized. Their eyes had been hungry. Knowing.

The women had been worse.

They had clutched their pearls and whispered behind gloved hands, only lowering their voices just enough to feign decency. The same women who had once fussed over your hair after Sunday school, the ones who had praised your mama for raising such a lovely girl, now shook their heads when they had looked at you. They hadn’t even bothered hiding it.

You didn't need to hear the words to know what they were saying. You had felt the judgment in the way they had refused to meet your eyes, in the way they had exchanged quick glances when you had walked by.

Slut.

Whore.

You had stared at your lap, at the hem of your dress where your fingers had curled against the stiff, modest fabric. You had picked at a loose thread near your knee, pulling and twisting it until the fabric had puckered, fighting the urge to bolt. You hadn’t sung along when the choir had risen. You hadn’t listened to your father’s voice when he had spoken. It had been just a low, droning hum—familiar and far away, like you hadn’t even been there.

You had sat in that same spot your whole life, but now you had felt like an intruder. Like someone had come and skin you alive, draped your hollow carcass in your Sunday best, and placed you right back where you were supposed to be.

But everyone had known it hadn’t really been you anymore.

You hadn’t been the preacher’s daughter anymore.

You had been the ruined girl.

And no one had spoken to you outright. Not at first.

They had never needed to.

It had been in the way the girls you had grown up with had drifted away in clusters, casting you brief, wide-eyed glances like you had been something contagious—as if they could catch indecency. It had been in the way their mamas had gripped their wrists a little tighter when you had passed by at the grocery store. It had been in the way Mr. Allen, who had once given you a quarter for every A on your report card, had suddenly refused to look you in the eye when you had handed him your money at the counter.

But the men—the men had been different now.

The first time you had caught one of them staring too long, you had convinced yourself you were imagining it. 

You hadn’t been.

The boy who had bagged your groceries had suddenly let his hands brush against yours too many times. The clerk at the gas station had leaned too far over the counter when he had spoken to you, smiling like he had known something he shouldn’t have. When you had passed by groups of farmhands in town, they had stared you down without looking away. Their eyes had been slow and heavy, dragging over you like they were trying to commit the shape of you to memory.

You had started walking faster, keeping your eyes down, but it hadn’t mattered. They had already seen you. And it made you sick to know why.

Because you had known it hadn’t been the men who had told them.

It had been the women.

The mothers. The wives. The same women who should have clutched you to their chests and shielded you, who should have whispered, “We believe you, baby. We believe you.”

Instead, they had left you for dead.

The whispers had grown louder over time, thickening the air in the town like smoke. It didn't matter that you hadn’t spoken about it. The town had spoken for you.

You had never felt safe in that town. It had started long before you had even hit sixteen. But now? It had been like you were strung up by the neck, asphyxiating with every judgmental stare, every passing double-natured comment.

You had lived like that for two years, praying to God every night for forgiveness, asking why people ignored one of His most important teachings. Judgment had burned through you while loneliness had left a cold pit inside of you. Your father had barely spoken to you, leaving you behind on outings, raising your older brother above you as his golden child. And slowly, it had gone from not sitting next to the family in the church, to you being barred from coming at all.

“Whores aren’t permitted in God’s house. Not if I’m there.” He’d said as he had shoved you back into your bedroom when you had come out in your Sunday best. He had ordered you down onto your knees, throwing a Bible into your lap.

“Read, pray, beg, maybe someday God can grant you forgiveness.”

Your mother had never said a word, not even when you had started packing your bags. Maybe she had thought you were getting rid of old clothes, or maybe she had known exactly what you had been doing and had chosen to pretend otherwise.

You couldn’t have lived in that house, that town, that body.

The night before you had left, you had been in the kitchen helping your mama do dishes, staring at the same floral wallpaper that had been there since you were a child, when she had finally spoken on it.

“Where will you go?” she had asked, her voice hushed and defeated, as if she had known she wouldn’t get the answer she had been looking for.

“I don’t know. I just can’t stay here.”

She nodded. She hadn’t asked you to stay. Not to even write. She had just nodded, like she had known there had been no other way for this to end.

—

You had left the next day, your car packed full of what you would need and a bit of cash your mama had slipped you the night before. On the way out of town, you had made one stop: Isaiah’s house. He had lived alone, by choice he’d always said—that had been why he hadn’t taken a wife. Though you had known it had been more an issue of him preferring little girls to grown women.

You had been polite about it, knocking on the door and waiting for him to answer. When he had, he had been surprised to see you there. Isaiah had looked on either side of you for prying eyes before he had invited you in.

“Girl, what are you doing here?” he had asked, his gaze holding an air of confusion.

“I need to talk to you.” You had said, eyes dull as you had looked over him.

“Showin’ up without warning ain’t like you.” He had mused and shaken his head at you, his gait leading him back into the kitchen.

Isaiah had already been heading for the kitchen before you had even shut the door, muttering something under his breath, but you had barely heard him. The soft click of the lock sliding into place had felt louder than it should’ve—too sharp, too final—but your hands had still stayed on the knob longer than they had needed to. You hadn’t known why. Maybe you had already been contemplating turning around and walking out. Or maybe some part of you had already known you wouldn’t.

“You drink yet?” he said, casual as anything. You barely heard the words, too focused on the muted thump of the fridge opening and the hiss of the beer can being cracked open.

You stayed by the door, unsure, feet heavy and useless. You felt like a guest in your own body—lingering in some kind of in-between place, staring at your hands like they belonged to someone else.

The house smelled the same.

Cheap cigarettes and old wood. Sweat clung to the couch cushions. The faint, sour trace of whiskey hung in the curtains. You stood in the doorway, your fingers twitching faintly at your sides. The skin along your back prickled with an old, familiar heat.

“Don’t tell me you’re still playin’ holier-than-thou.” His voice came louder this time, a sneer clinging to the words. “You’re an adult now. Reckon that made you a big girl.”

You heard the beer tap against the counter twice—one, two—before you felt it press cold into your hand. You flinched without meaning to. Isaiah didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did, and he just liked it.

“Here.” His eyes were hooded, expectant, the lines around them wrinkling slightly with something close to amusement. When you didn’t take it, he nudged the can against your knuckles again, firmer this time. “Go on. I won’t tell your mama.”

Your fingers curled around the can then automatically, though your hands felt numb. You stared down at it like you didn’t know what it was. You’d never even liked beer all that much. Caleb used to drink it, though. That cheap kind that made his breath sour when he kissed you. Caleb, oh, Caleb.

Isaiah nodded for you to follow him to the couch, plucking the beer from your other hand and guiding you by the elbow into the living room.

And before you even realized it, you sat down.

Right there. In the same spot you always had.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, the crinkling killing the silence of the room. He slipped one between your lips wordlessly and you accepted it because you didn’t know what else to do, your lips curling around it.

Isaiah let out a low, breathy chuckle when you didn’t move. “Come on, big girls smoke too.” He sparked up his own cigarette and leaned over, grabbing your chin so he could press the tip against yours. You pulled, getting it to light so you could get his hands off of you.

You inhaled too fast, too deep, and the smoke hit the back of your throat harsh and bitter. You coughed once, sharp and dry, the sound catching in your chest. Isaiah only chuckled again, leaning back into the couch with a lazy sort of satisfaction, his cigarette dangling between his fingers. The white curl of smoke slipped from between his lips, slow and deliberate, filling the stale air between you.

“Been a while, huh?” he mused, eyes cutting sideways to watch you. His voice was low, drawling, coated with mock sympathy. “You’re outta practice.”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the cigarette in your hand, the trembling flame at the end, the small tendril of smoke rising into the dim room. You’d never liked smoking either, you still didn’t. But you took another drag anyway, the burn heavy in your chest, bitter on your tongue. The taste reminded you of Caleb, grounding you in a way.

Isaiah smiled faintly at that. Pleased. Like you were already doing what he wanted without even being asked.

His free hand slid across his thigh, slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to stop him. You didn’t. You couldn’t. You just sat there, sinking deeper into the couch, your body sluggish and foreign.

“You’re different now,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. The way he looked at you made your stomach churn, like he was studying you, inspecting you. Appraising you. His eyes trailed over your face slowly, heavy-lidded and lazy.

“Quieter,” he added after a moment. His lips parted slightly, just barely, like he was about to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he took another slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl out lazily between his teeth.

“You always were a quiet little thing, though,” Isaiah went on, voice low and familiar, like he was trying to make the words sound fond, as if he was daring you to remember. “Always so sweet. So polite.” His lips twitched faintly at the corner, and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Mindin’ your manners even when you shouldn’t have.”

The cigarette wavered between your fingers. You exhaled heavily through your nose, feeling the burn of it scrape down the back of your throat.

Isaiah reached over then, so sudden and fluid it didn’t seem like you had time to react. His hand brushed against your knee, fingers curling lightly just above the bone, testing the weight of his touch.

You flinched. You didn’t mean to, but you did. You felt your muscles tense automatically, your whole leg stiffening under his grip.

He noticed, of course he did. His fingers tightened slightly, just barely, not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you felt it. Enough to remind you that he could do worse.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, the room too quiet, the smoke thick and heavy in the air.

Then he smiled, that slow, lazy stretch of his mouth—like he was mocking you, daring you to move.

“Still shy, huh?” he muttered, voice low and almost affectionate. His thumb brushed slowly along the inside of your knee, the rough pad of it dragging over your skin. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Your mouth was dry. You couldn’t swallow.

You took another long pull from the cigarette just to keep your hands occupied so you wouldn’t have to feel the way they were trembling in your lap.

Isaiah’s eyes stayed on you, sharp and gleaming beneath the smoke-laden haze. You felt them moving over you, deliberate and heavy, following the slow, mechanical rise and fall of your chest.

His hand slid further up your thigh, slowly. Testing you, waiting for you to flinch.

“I have to use the restroom,” you muttered quickly, suddenly standing up and kicking over your beer in your stumble. The cigarette between your fingers was quickly tossed into the ashtray on the side table as you practically booked it through the kitchen to the bathroom. Your eyes caught a shine on the counter; a knife. It was no butcher’s knife, rather more of a midsized one, serrated on the end.

Isaiah followed you into the kitchen, throwing away the now empty beer can and glancing up at you. “You ran off pretty fast, angel, had me worryin’ ‘bout you,” he hummed, hands finding their way to your hips from behind. “Come’re…”

You squirmed, trying to turn around and your hands pushed at him to get him off. “Isaiah, don’t. I don’t want…”

His hand slid up your side, slow and deliberate, flattening against your stomach and holding you in place. You squirmed harder, your fingers twisting around his wrist, trying to shove him off, but he barely budged. His grip only tightened slightly, pulling you back against him with a low, satisfied hum.

“Shh…” he cooed, his breath warm against your neck, thick with stale beer and smoke. “You’re alright, angel.”

You shook your head quickly, a sharp, jerking motion, your nails biting into his skin as you writhed in his hold. But he didn’t let you go.

Instead, he moved fast—too fast. His hand shot up, catching you by the back of the head. His fingers threaded into your hair, gripping hard at the roots, and shoved you forward.

Your chest hit the counter with a dull thud, the edge biting into your ribs. Your hands shot out, palms slapping against the cold surface to brace yourself, but he was already on you, pressing down harder. His weight bore into you, flattening you against the counter, your cheek mashed against the worn laminate.

Your breath stuttered out of you in a sharp gasp. You clawed at the counter, your fingers slipping against the smooth surface, scrambling for purchase.

His other hand slid down, catching at the small of your back. His palm pressed flat, pushing down just enough to arch you slightly, keeping you still. His fingers splayed wide, spanning the curve of your spine like he was measuring it, feeling how you fit under him.

“Mm…” he exhaled softly, almost thoughtful, his breath feathering against the back of your neck. “You were real jumpy tonight. Why was that, huh?” His tone was mockingly sweet, almost pitying, like he was talking to a child. “What had you so worked up?”

You tried to push back again, twisting under his grip, but it only made him press you down harder. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, yanking your head back slightly, just enough to make your throat stretch. You let out a sharp, choked gasp at the sudden tug, your eyes squeezing shut.

His mouth dipped closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low, amused murmur.

“You grew up real pretty,” he drawled, almost pleased. His hand on your back flexed slightly, pressing down again, firmer this time. “Though, I miss when you were eager to please.”

You shivered beneath him, your stomach twisting violently, bile rising thick and sour in your throat. Your eyes flicked to the knife on the counter. You couldn’t reach it, not with your head against the counter. 

“Isaiah,” you choked out, barely above a whisper, your voice trembling. “Don’t. Please.”

His hand dragged down your back slowly, deliberately, the rough pad of his palm scraping over the back of your dress.

“Aw, now,” he murmured, his voice lilting with mock sympathy. “No need for all that.”

His lips brushed against your ear again, warm and wet, and you squeezed your eyes shut, a sharp tremor running through you.

“You came back, didn’t you?” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “That meant you missed me.”

His hand slipped under your dress and you froze. Every horrible, haunting memory flashing through your head. 

Suddenly, you were thirteen again on your knees in the church basement. Your hands were clasped together so tight in your lap that your whole body trembled. Isaiah was standing in front of you and he was guiding you through a prayer you’ve never heard before. His big hand guided through your hair while your head pressed against his thigh. 

“You’re so well behaved, angel. Open those pretty eyes for me.” He’d murmured, his hand moved from the top of your head under your chin. He tilted your head up, thumb caressing your bottom lip as you obeyed. When his eyes met yours, he let out a groan of appreciation and pressed the digit to your tongue. 

“Good girl. Open up a little more. Yeah, that’s it.” 

Then, you were fifteen, bent over the worn desk in his office. The wood was splintered at the edges, one of the legs uneven, making it wobble slightly under your weight. Your cheek was pressed against a stack of hymnals, the cracked leather biting into your skin. The faint scent of dust and old paper clung to the pages, but all you could breathe in was him; his heavy cologne, the bitter tang of whiskey on his breath, the musk of sweat clinging to his shirt. 

You could still feel the sharp bite of the desk against your hip bones, the uneven leg rattling slightly with every shallow gasp. You had stared at the wall—the peeling floral wallpaper, the faint water stain in the corner. You had counted the cracks in the plaster just to keep yourself anchored, just to feel like you were somewhere else.

Then, you were seventeen, in the seat of his car. It was the old, beat-up sedan he drove, the backseat perpetually cluttered with sermon notes and empty coffee cups. The vinyl seats were cracked and torn in places, the foam poking through in jagged strips. You remembered the smell of the stale air freshener; cheap pine, masking the scent of cigarettes.

Tears were streaming down your face as you clung to him in the driver’s seat. The other girls had bullied you out of the youth group that night. No one ever seemed to want you around. Isaiah found you crying and took your hand, leading you to his car without a word. 

“I know, angel, and I’m sorry. I know you feel alone. But I’m here.” He’d mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, letting his hands run over your back. 

And for once, he actually just drove you back home.

Maybe that’s why you thought coming here would give you the apology you deserved. 

Then, you were back in the kitchen. Isaiah’s hand was still on you, splayed wide across your lower back, his fingers digging into your skin through the fabric of your dress. You were still bent against the counter, your cheek pressed to the laminate, cold and unyielding. The sharp scent of stale beer clung to his breath, warm and humid against your ear.

And in that moment, something in you just snapped. 

Your hand found the handle of the blade in a flash and you turned as much as you could. The blade sank into him with a sickening, wet sound—a dull, meaty schluck as it punched through skin and muscle. You had aimed low and blind, but somehow, you struck true. The tip buried deep into his side, slipping just under the ribcage, slicing clean into where his liver would be.

Isaiah staggered back with a ragged, wet gasp, clutching at his side. His hand slapped over the wound, slick and clumsy, fingers trembling as they pressed against the gaping tear in his flesh. Blood seeped through the cracks in his knuckles, spilling in thick, syrupy ribbons down his wrist, dripping to the floor in uneven splatters.

He slumped heavily against the opposite counter, his knees bending slightly as his weight buckled. His breath rasped out in broken, uneven pants, shallow and wet, hitching violently in his throat. 

“Angel, baby, please, don’t do this…” He begged.

Isaiah’s eyes widened slightly, his chest stuttering with a broken wheeze. His hand pressed harder to the wound, smearing more blood across his shirt, as though he could somehow hold himself together, somehow keep everything from slipping through his fingers.

Your vision swam violently, the edges blurred and hazy, smearing together in a disorienting whirl of color. Your ears rang with a shrill, hollow static, drowning out the wet, labored gasps rattling from Isaiah’s throat. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the floor tilting unevenly beneath your feet, and for a brief, dizzying moment, you thought you might collapse.

“No, no, no, Isaiah, I’m—” You stuttered out, dropping the knife and grabbing him as he fell to the floor. His weight slumped heavily against you, knocking you back slightly as his legs buckled. You staggered, your knees nearly giving out beneath you as you sank to the floor with him, clutching at his trembling body. Your hands were slick with his blood, slipping against the fabric of his shirt, the warmth of it seeping into your skin, sticky and hot. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, don’t…God, in Heaven, be m-merciful…” You whimpered. Your hands pressed down hard over the wound, trembling violently as you tried to hold him together, trying to stop the blood that wouldn’t stop coming. It poured in sluggish, red waves between your fingers, thick and warm, slicking your hands, clinging to your skin in sticky rivulets.

Isaiah’s breath came in shallow, broken gasps, each one thinner, wetter, more rugged than the last. His chest stuttered faintly beneath your hands, the faint rise and fall uneven and weak. His bloodied fingers clutched at your arm, trembling violently, his grip already weakening.

You could feel the wet, sluggish stutter of his pulse beneath your palms. Weak. Slowing. Too slow. He was fading too fast to get help. But too slow to be humane.

And you knew—God, you knew—he was going to die either way.

Either slowly, choking on his own blood, whimpering as he suffocated…

You pulled his head into your lap, cradling it with trembling hands. His bloodied hair clung to your fingers, damp and sticky, but you still smoothed it back gently, softly, as though it might somehow comfort him. Your other hand fumbled blindly for the knife, slick with blood, your grip weak and shaking.

With a fractured breath, you brought the blade to his throat, your fingers trembling so violently you could barely keep it steady. Tears blurred your vision, hot and thick, streaking down your cheeks and dripping into his hair.

“Lord, forgive me…” you choked out, your voice breaking on the words. Your chest heaved with a sharp, ragged sob. “I’m…I’m sorry…”

And then, before you could lose your nerve, you pressed the blade down and dragged it across firm and quick.

His blood came fast, pouring over your hands in a hot, heavy rush. It was like he was giving all of himself to you, baptizing you in his life. You gasped, the air catching in your throat, and the sound of it tore through you like a sob you couldn’t hold back. Your whole body trembled, your grip on him tightening as you rocked slightly, tears falling from your eyes in jagged, uneven drops, landing on his cooling skin.

You held him longer than you should have—you knew it, but you couldn’t make yourself let go. His body was already going cold against yours, the warmth draining from him. The blood beneath you had started to thicken, congealing into sticky, clumpy patches that clung to your skin, leaving a slick, foul mess.

The room was eerily still. Too still. The only sound was the soft drip of blood hitting the tile, slow and steady, falling from your hands, your arms, as you shook. It smelled like iron, stale beer, sweat, and smoke. It smelled like him.

And then, reality hit you. You blinked, feeling dazed, your eyes unfocused and heavy. You pulled your hands from his body, slowly, shakily. The blood was so thick on your hands that it felt like they weren’t even yours anymore. Your chest hitched again, a soft, broken breath escaping as you stared at your trembling fingers, the dark, sticky smear of his blood stretching between them like a sickening string.

Your legs were stiff from kneeling too long, sore and unsteady, buckling slightly as you tried to push yourself up. Your palms slid against the counter as you braced yourself, leaving red streaks on the worn surface. The room around you swam, the walls tilting and bending, but you fought to say upright, your knees threatening to buckle again.

You didn’t think, you didn’t process—you just moved. Your body knew what to do even if your mind didn’t. You found his wallet on the counter, the old, cracked leather sticky with blood where it had fallen. With shaking hands, you pulled out every bill you could find, stuffing it in your pockets, his cash, his cards. 

Your breath was shallow, coming in quick, uneven gasps. Your chest was tight, your throat raw. You stumbled through the house, bumping into the walls, tripping over the rug. Your fingers fumbled, unable to find their way as you yanked open drawers and cabinets. You found more cash, tucked under a pile of receipts, and shoved it into your bag.

The floor wobbled beneath you as you made your way to the door, your hands slick and trembling. Blood stained everything you touched—counter edges, fridge handles, doorframes—leaving a trail of red wherever you went. You yanked the door open, feeling the sticky resistance of the knob, and stepped outside.

The air was thick and heavy, suffocating. You stumbled barefoot across the porch, your feet slapping against the dirt, the gravel biting into your soles. But you barely felt it. You barely felt anything.

Your car sat where you had left it hours ago, crooked in the patch of dirt. Your hands were slick with blood, fumbling as you grabbed for the door handle. It slid open with an unsteady pull, and you clambered inside, the door slamming shut behind you with a hollow thud.

Your fingers were clumsy as you reached for the keys, your hands weak and uncoordinated. You forced the key into the ignition and twisted it. The engine sputtered once, then roared to life with a low, grinding hum. You gripped the wheel, your knuckles white, and slammed your foot down on the gas.

The tires spun, sending gravel flying as you peeled out, the car jerking forward in a cloud of dust and dirt. Your hands were slick with blood, smearing the cracked leather of the steering wheel, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even look back.

You just kept driving, too fast, too erratic, but you didn’t care. Your mind was a blur, your vision too cloudy to focus, the road ahead just a faint stretch of darkness. The headlights cut through the night, but your mind was so far away, you couldn’t make sense of it. You didn’t need to.

You just kept driving.

— 

Bo sat on the porch, one boot propped up on the railing, the other tapping rhythmically against the wood. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily into the thick, sticky air, mixing with the sour scent of rain that was starting to roll in from the horizon. He flicked the ash off the end, watching it flutter away in the wind, and sighed.

Ambrose was as quiet as ever. Empty. There hadn't been a soul through this town in weeks, maybe months. Nothing but the steady hum of insects and the occasional gust of wind pushing the dust around. He liked it, in a way. The silence made it easier to hear his thoughts, but hell, there was only so much thinking a man could do before it got boring.

A storm was brewing off in the distance—clouds heavy and dark, swirling like a storm ready to eat the town alive. He could feel the pressure in the air, thick and sticky, like the whole world was waiting for something. His fingers drummed against the side of the porch, the rhythm of the storm creeping into him, making him restless.

There wasn't much to do in Ambrose anymore. Vincent was holed up inside doing whatever it was he did—Bo had stopped paying attention to him. Lester... well, Lester wasn't exactly company, but he was around. The dog, Jonesy, was more of a companion than anyone else, and even he had his moments when he was more trouble than he was worth.

Bo took another drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before he exhaled, watching the way it hung in the air, thick and heavy. The town was dead. There were no tourists passing through, no one to catch, no one to play with. He hadn’t seen another living soul in so long, he was starting to think they all just... disappeared. Maybe they were all part of the town’s secrets. Maybe they were never here at all.

The rain was getting closer now, the sky blackening, and the wind kicked up, rattling the trees. He flicked his cigarette away, watching it land in the dirt, and stood, stretching. A storm was always good for something. A little chaos. A little change.

But even as the first drops began to fall, it wasn’t enough. He needed something more. Needed some kind of distraction. Anything. Bo shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out over the empty streets again. It was going to be a long night.

He stretches his legs and his arms next, the sound of cracking followed shortly behind by a sigh of relief. Stretching as if the day knocked the wind right out of him. It didn't as another couple of hours was spent yet again sat on the back of his truck rather than in school, popping open cans of beer Bo had managed to coax some weak willed stranger into buying for him in exchange of 20 bucks. Today though rather than lounging around with metal screeching from his radio, he actually had a plan made up for today, for valentines day. It felt off for him to be the one to write out a card, to be the one giving a valentine rather than receiving as usual.

It's not like he had a crush, nothing major atleast. He just found them somewhat attractive is all, nothing more than a slight interest is what he told himself as he tucked the small card away in his back pocket upon standing up.

Stood outside of the house, bo looks around for just a moment making sure there was definitely no one else around even if it was around 1 am into the night. Ambrose was always next to dead when night time came around besides the singular bar where a few lonely drunks hung out, no one else really roamed the streets, this being a heavily religious, strict town and all. Tilting his new sweet bird cap down and standing in a shadow, he threw one then another small pebble at their window. Upon seeing a light flicker on inside, he steps back and disappears into the night leaving behind the valentines card tapped up to their window. Sure leaving it there was a bit bizarre but could he be blamed? Leaving it in their locker would've been 'wierd' and handing it directly in person would've been awkward for the both of them. This was the least awkward way he could've done it or atleast that's what he told himself on the way home. Not creepy at all, not for Bo anyway.