Hi!!! Could you write a twisters fic where Boone and the reader share a motel room while chasing with the crew, and one morning, he finds the reader with one of his bandanas in her hair? They can be “friends”, or dating, I don’t really care. Whatever you think is best. I’ve been trying to write it myself, but I’m going through writers block right now and I haven’t liked anything I’ve written :(
Thank you!!!
Boone (Twisters) x fem!reader
You and Boone share a motel room while chasing with the crew, and one morning, he finds the you with one of his bandanas in your hair.
It drives him insane.
sorry this took so long lovely! i hope i did your idea justice and that you enjoy this mess!
The first time Boone notices it, he's still half asleep.
The motel room is dim with early morning light, pale gold slipping through the gap in the curtains and painting dusty stripes across the worn carpet, and for several long seconds he simply stares at the ceiling, listening to the familiar sounds of the crew beginning to wake outside. Someone slams a truck door. Someone else laughs. A generator hums in the distance.
Normal.
Ordinary.
Another day chasing storms.
Then he rolls his head toward the other bed.
And forgets how to breathe.
You are still asleep.
Curled onto your side beneath the motel blanket, one arm tucked beneath your pillow and your face pressed into the fabric, looking softer than he thinks he's ever seen you, all the sharp wit and stubborn determination that usually define you gone in sleep.
But that's not what catches him.
It's the bandana.
His bandana.
Wrapped loosely around your hair.
Red.
Faded.
Worn soft from years of use.
His.
Boone stares.
Actually stares.
His brain completely disconnects from the rest of his body.
Because that is his favorite bandana.
The one he thought he'd lost three weeks ago.
The one he'd searched for in truck seats and equipment bags and motel rooms.
The one he'd eventually given up on finding.
And somehow—
Somehow—
It's tied around your hair.
His gaze follows the line of it where the fabric disappears beneath the strands.
The knot sits near your neck.
The color looks ridiculous against your skin.
Ridiculous.
And beautiful.
Dangerously beautiful.
Boone immediately closes his eyes.
"Aw, hell."
His voice comes out rough.
Because this is bad.
Very bad.
Not because of the bandana itself.
Because of what it does to him.
Because suddenly all he can think about is the fact that you've been wearing it.
That you've touched it.
That maybe it smells like his cologne.
That maybe you put it on intentionally.
That maybe—
No.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
He sits up so quickly the mattress squeaks.
You stir slightly.
Boone freezes.
You don't wake.
Thank God.
Because if you looked at him right now you'd immediately know something was wrong.
He drags both hands over his face.
The problem is that he's been in love with you for months.
Possibly longer.
Nobody knows.
Not even him, at first.
It started slowly.
A joke here.
A smile there.
The way you always sat beside him during long drives.
The way you never seemed intimidated by him.
The way you looked directly into his eyes when you talked.
The way you laughed at things nobody else caught.
The way you remembered details.
The way you remembered him.
And then one day he realized his favorite moments of every chase somehow involved you.
And that realization had absolutely ruined his life.
Because Boone wasn't exactly known for discussing romantic feelings.
Or having them.
At least not publicly.
So instead he'd done what any reasonable man would do.
Pretended nothing was happening.
Unfortunately, his heart had never gotten the memo.
Which was why finding you wearing his bandana felt less like seeing someone borrow an article of clothing and more like being hit directly in the chest with a baseball bat.
You make a small sleepy noise.
Boone looks over again.
Instant mistake.
The bandana is still there.
Still tied in your hair.
Still making him feel insane.
He immediately stands.
Then walks into the bathroom.
Then stares at himself in the mirror.
"You are forty different kinds of stupid."
The reflection offers no argument.
You don't notice anything strange at breakfast.
At least Boone hopes you don't.
He's trying very hard to act normal.
Very.
Very hard.
Unfortunately his version of normal has apparently become staring at you every five seconds.
You sit across from him at a diner booth.
The bandana is still in your hair.
Still.
In.
Your.
Hair.
You'd apparently decided to keep wearing it.
Because God clearly hated him.
"You okay?" you ask.
Boone nearly chokes on coffee.
"Yep."
Your eyes narrow.
"No, seriously."
"I'm serious."
"You look weird."
"Thanks."
You laugh.
And somehow that makes everything worse.
Because Boone loves your laugh.
Loves it.
Loves the way it arrives suddenly.
Loves the way it fills a room.
Loves the way it always sounds genuine.
Everything about you has become a problem.
The bandana is merely the latest symptom.
You catch him looking again.
Your fingers automatically touch the fabric tied around your hair.
"Oh."
Boone immediately focuses on his coffee.
Too late.
You've already noticed.
"You found your bandana."
His stomach drops.
"I guess."
"You want it back?"
No.
Absolutely not.
Never.
You can keep it forever.
You can bury him in it.
You can—
"Whatever."
Your smile grows.
Dangerous.
Knowing.
Far too knowing.
"Whatever?"
Boone refuses to look up.
"Yep."
"Huh."
Silence.
Then—
"I stole it, by the way."
His head snaps upward.
"What?"
You shrug.
Completely casual.
"I stole it."
The entire table goes quiet.
The rest of the crew immediately starts paying attention.
Because of course they do.
"Why?" Boone asks.
Your cheeks pink slightly.
And that alone nearly kills him.
"I liked it."
The silence becomes deafening.
One of the crew members—Tyler—coughs suspiciously.
Another suddenly becomes fascinated by their pancakes.
And there are things a man absolutely cannot recover from.
That sentence falls firmly into category two.
You realize what you've said approximately three seconds later.
Your eyes widen.
"Oh my God."
The crew explodes.
Laughter.
Shouting.
Someone—Dexter—nearly falls out of the booth.
Boone doesn't hear any of it.
He's too busy staring at you.
Because you're blushing.
Actually blushing.
And suddenly a possibility that he'd spent months refusing to consider starts creeping into his head.
Maybe—
Maybe this isn't one-sided.
Maybe.
The storm chase that day is miserable.
Not because of the weather.
Because Boone can't think.
Every time he looks at you, he sees the bandana.
Every time he sees the bandana, he remembers what you said.
It smelled like you.
He replays the sentence approximately four hundred times.
By late afternoon he's becoming unbearable.
"You gonna tell her?" Tyler finally asks.
Boone glares.
Tyler raises both hands.
"Just asking."
"Don't."
"You've been staring at her all day."
Boone looks away.
Unfortunately.
He isn't wrong.
Across the field, you are helping secure equipment.
Wind whips through your hair.
The bandana remains tied in place.
His bandana.
Your bandana.
Whatever.
He doesn't even know anymore.
What he does know is that he's completely gone.
Hopelessly.
Irrevocably.
Gone.
The realization should probably bother him more.
Instead it feels strangely peaceful.
Because once he stops fighting it, the truth becomes obvious.
He loves you.
Loves your stubbornness.
Loves your intelligence.
Loves your kindness.
Loves your terrible jokes.
Loves the way you always steal fries off his plate.
Loves the way you automatically look for him in crowded places.
Loves every little thing.
The entire stupid, wonderful package.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
You feel something too.
That night they're forced into another motel after weather delays the drive home.
The room assignment is exactly the same.
One room.
Two beds.
Boone considers throwing himself into traffic.
You seem equally aware of the tension.
The air feels different now.
Softer.
Warmer.
More dangerous.
You disappear into the bathroom to shower.
Boone sits on his bed.
Waiting.
Thinking.
Overthinking.
The bathroom door opens.
And there you are.
Hair damp.
Wearing an oversized T-shirt.
His bandana tied around your wrist now.
Boone exhales slowly.
You notice.
Of course you notice.
"You really hate this bandana thing, huh?"
His laugh comes out rough.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
You look surprised.
Boone rubs a hand across his jaw.
Then finally decides he's tired of being a coward.
"It's driving me crazy."
Your expression changes.
The room suddenly feels very quiet.
"Why?"
Because I'm in love with you.
The words sit on the tip of his tongue.
Waiting.
Terrifying.
Necessary.
Boone stands.
You don't move.
Neither of you looks away.
And suddenly months of stolen glances and unfinished conversations and suppressed feelings seem to gather between you.
"You really wanna know why?"
"Yeah."
Your voice is barely above a whisper.
Boone takes a step closer.
Then another.
"I spent months trying not to fall for you."
Your breath catches.
His heart nearly stops.
"But every time I thought I was getting over it, you'd smile at me."
You stare.
Silent.
Wide-eyed.
Beautiful.
"And then this morning I wake up and you're wearing my damn bandana."
A laugh escapes you.
Small.
Shaky.
Emotional.
Boone continues anyway.
Because he's already falling.
Might as well hit the ground.
"And apparently it smelled like me."
You groan and cover your face.
"Oh God."
"I've been thinking about that all day."
"Please stop."
"No."
You're laughing now.
Blushing.
Looking happier than he's ever seen you.
And suddenly Boone knows.
Before you even say it.
He knows.
Because you're looking at him the same way he's been looking at you for months.
Like you've already chosen him.
Like you've been waiting.
Like maybe you've been just as scared.
Your hands fall away from your face.
"I stole the bandana because I liked you."
Boone's entire world narrows to those words.
Nothing else.
Just that.
"I know."
"No, you don't."
A smile pulls at your lips.
"I really liked you."
His chest aches.
"You did?"
"Boone."
You laugh softly.
"I've been in love with you for months."
The room goes completely still.
For one heartbeat.
Then another.
Then Boone crosses the distance between you.
One hand settling carefully against your cheek.
Like he's afraid you'll disappear.
Like he's afraid this might be a dream.
Your eyes close briefly beneath his touch.
And that simple act nearly destroys him.
Because it feels like trust.
Like home.
Like everything he's been looking for without realizing it.
When he kisses you, it's gentle.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
Just certain.
The kind of kiss that feels overdue.
The kind built from months of longing and patience and quiet affection.
You smile against his mouth.
And Boone swears he'll spend the rest of his life chasing that smile instead of tornadoes if he has to.
When you finally pull apart, neither of you goes very far.
His forehead rests against yours.
Your fingers curl around the bandana tied around your wrist.
"You still want this back?" you ask softly.
Boone looks at the faded red fabric.
Then at you.
Then back at the fabric.
A slow grin appears.
"Keep it."
Your smile brightens instantly.
And Boone realizes he'd give you every bandana he owns just to see that look again.
Outside, the wind rattles the motel windows.
Another storm somewhere in the distance.
Another chase waiting tomorrow.
But for the first time in a long while, Boone isn't thinking about the weather.
He's thinking about you.
About your hand finding his.
About the future neither of you had dared imagine.
And as you settle beside him, smiling into his shoulder while the night stretches quietly around you, Boone finally understands why every road had somehow led him here.
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The first time you wear Boone's clothes, his brain short-circuits.
The first thing you learned about Boone was that he liked control.
Not in a cruel way.
Not in a rigid, overbearing way.
Just… in the way men who spent their lives chasing tornadoes tended to like control because the sky gave them none.
He checked routes three times before leaving. Refused to let gas tanks dip below half. Knew exactly where every piece of equipment was in the truck at all times. He could predict storm movement with terrifying accuracy, but if someone moved his flashlight from the dashboard compartment, he looked personally betrayed by it.
Boone liked certainty.
Which was why watching his brain completely shut down over one of his hoodies was maybe the funniest thing you’d ever experienced.
It happened by accident.
Mostly.
The team had been driving for nearly fourteen hours straight, chasing unstable systems across Kansas before dropping south again after sunset. Everyone was exhausted, running on caffeine and stubbornness.
The motel you ended up in looked barely legal.
Dim flickering sign.
Questionable carpet.
One ice machine for the entire building.
You’d barely gotten your duffel into the room before thunder cracked overhead hard enough to rattle the windows.
You jumped slightly.
Boone noticed.
Of course he did.
He always noticed.
“You okay?” he asked from the doorway adjoining your rooms.
You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He studied you for a second too long, eyes narrowed slightly like he was trying to solve something.
Then his gaze dropped.
You followed it.
Right.
Your clothes were soaked.
The last storm core had hit harder than expected, leaving you drenched during equipment retrieval. Your sweatshirt clung cold against your skin, hair damp around your shoulders.
Boone’s jaw tightened almost immediately.
“You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I said—”
“You’re bad at lying.”
You glared at him.
He stared back.
Unfortunately for you, Boone had the kind of face that made arguments difficult. Strong jaw shadowed with scruff, tired eyes that always looked storm-dark, broad shoulders that somehow took up too much space even when he was standing still.
Worse, he knew exactly how to wait people out.
And you were tired.
So tired.
“Okay,” you muttered. “Maybe a little cold.”
His expression immediately softened.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to hurt your feelings a little.
Without another word, Boone disappeared back into his room.
You frowned after him.
Then he came back holding a dark gray hoodie. The one he'd been wearing earlier.
And your heart did something deeply embarrassing.
“Boone—”
“Take it.”
“I have clothes in my bag.”
“You also look like hypothermia’s annoying younger sister.” He tossed the hoodie at you. “Wear it.”
You caught it automatically.
It was warm from his body heat.
God.
That alone nearly killed you.
“You sure?” you asked quietly.
Boone leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“Sweetheart, I’m not offering because I hate you.”
Sweetheart.
That word had become dangerous recently.
He used it sparingly. Casually. Like it meant nothing.
Which somehow made it worse.
You swallowed. “Right.”
Then you escaped into the bathroom before he could see how affected you were.
The hoodie was massive on you.
Of course it was.
Boone was built like someone designed specifically to survive natural disasters.
The sleeves hung over your hands completely. The hem reached your mid thighs. It smelled like cedarwood, rain, coffee, and something distinctly Boone that made your chest ache unexpectedly.
You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long second.
Then groaned softly.
“Oh, this is bad.”
Because you already liked him too much.
And now you were wrapped in him.
There was no surviving that.
When you finally stepped back into the room, Boone was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through weather models on his laptop.
He looked up absentmindedly.
And froze.
Completely froze.
You stopped mid-step.
“…Boone?”
Nothing.
No response.
His eyes just locked onto you like his brain had genuinely stopped functioning.
It would’ve been concerning if it wasn’t so incredibly obvious.
You looked down at yourself self-consciously. “What?”
Still nothing.
His laptop slowly tilted shut beneath his fingers.
Thunder rumbled outside.
Boone blinked once, hard, like he was rebooting manually.
“You’re wearing it.”
You stared at him.
“…Yes?”
His jaw flexed.
Then flexed again.
Like he was actively fighting demons.
Something warm curled low in your stomach.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, suddenly delighted. “Are you short-circuiting?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Too immediate.
You narrowed your eyes. “Boone.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you just got hit by a truck.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You stopped blinking.”
“I blink plenty.”
“You absolutely do not.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched.
And then—because apparently the universe loved you—his ears started turning red.
You nearly lost your mind.
“Oh my god,” you laughed softly.
Boone dragged one hand down his face slowly.
“You should take it off.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Not because I don’t like it,” he said quickly, voice rougher now. “That’s actually the problem.”
The room went very still.
Your pulse skipped.
Boone looked at you the way storm skies looked before turning violent—heavy with something barely restrained.
“You have any idea what you look like right now?”
Your throat suddenly felt dry.
“Probably tired?”
His laugh came out low and disbelieving.
“No, sweetheart.”
And there it was again.
That dangerous word.
Except this time it sounded different.
Lower.
Warmer.
Like it belonged between the two of you.
Boone leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to regain control of himself.
The oversized hoodie across your frame, sleeves swallowing your hands completely.
You shifted under his stare.
Big mistake.
Because Boone’s eyes dropped instantly to the movement.
Then stayed there.
“Oh,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself.
Your stomach flipped violently.
“What?” you asked.
His gaze lifted back to yours slowly.
“You can’t wear my clothes around me.”
Your breath caught slightly. “Why?”
Boone stared at you for a long moment.
Then said, very honestly:
“Because apparently I’m weaker than I thought.”
That should not have affected you as much as it did.
And yet.
Heat crawled up your neck.
Boone noticed that too.
Of course he did.
His expression shifted subtly—something softer slipping through the cracks of his composure.
Like he couldn’t decide whether this was torture or the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Probably both.
“You’re staring,” you mumbled.
“You’re wearing my hoodie.”
“That doesn’t explain the crisis you’re having.”
“It explains plenty.”
You laughed quietly despite yourself.
Boone watched the sound happen.
Actually watched it.
Like he loved hearing you laugh more than he knew what to do with.
And suddenly the air between you felt too close. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you had said yet.
Thunder cracked outside again.
Neither of you looked away.
“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who faces tornadoes professionally, this seems to be rattling you pretty bad.”
Boone huffed out another low laugh.
“Tornadoes make sense.”
“And I don’t?”
His eyes met yours immediately.
“No,” he said quietly. “You really don’t.”
The honesty in it hit harder than flirting would have.
Because Boone didn’t flirt much.
He confessed accidentally.
In fragments.
In truths he probably didn’t mean to say aloud.
You took a small step closer before you could overthink it.
Boone noticed instantly.
Every inch of him sharpened with awareness.
“You’re staring again,” you whispered.
“Trying not to.”
“That seems difficult for you.”
“It is.”
Another step.
Now you were standing between his knees where he sat on the edge of the bed.
Too close.
Way too close.
Boone looked up at you slowly, and something in your chest squeezed painfully at the expression on his face.
Like he already cared too much.
Like it scared him a little.
His hands flexed against his thighs once.
Twice.
Not touching you.
Definitely wanting to.
“You smell like me now,” he murmured.
Your heart nearly exploded.
“That sounded possessive.”
“It probably was.”
You swallowed hard.
Neither of you moved.
Then Boone finally reached out.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was giving you every chance to stop him.
His fingers caught lightly on the sleeve hanging over your hand, thumb brushing the fabric softly.
The touch itself was innocent.
The way he looked at you wasn’t.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said quietly.
Your chest ached suddenly with how much feeling lived inside those words.
Not lust.
Not just that.
Something bigger.
Something terrifying.
Because Boone looked at you like you mattered already.
Like you’d rooted somewhere deep before either of you realized it was happening.
And maybe that was the real problem.
Not the hoodie.
Not the staring.
Not the tension thick enough to choke on.
It was the fact that somewhere between storm chases and motel rooms and late-night drives under fractured skies, Boone had become home to you.
And judging by the look in his eyes—
You’d become the same thing to him.
His hand slid gently around your wrist.
Warm. Steady.
“C’mere,” he murmured.
You went without hesitation.
Boone pulled you carefully into his lap, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you this way. The hoodie bunched beneath his hands as he settled you against his chest.
Then he just… held you.
Forehead resting lightly against yours.
Breathing.
Close.
You could feel his heartbeat.
Fast.
“You okay?” you whispered.
Boone laughed softly under his breath.
“No.”
You smiled helplessly. “Because I stole your hoodie?”
“Because you wore it.”
Your chest tightened.
And then, finally—like the inevitable thing it had always been—he kissed you.
Slow.
Warm.
A little wrecked around the edges.
Like he’d wanted to do it for longer than he’d admit.
You melted into him instantly, fingers tangling in the fabric at his shoulders while his arms tightened around your waist like he couldn’t get close enough.
When he pulled back slightly, Boone looked at you with the kind of expression people usually reserved for witnessing something life-changing.
“You’re keeping the hoodie,” he said quietly.
You laughed breathlessly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed your cheek softly. “Looks better on you anyway.”
And when he kissed you again, smiling this time, the storm outside finally stopped feeling louder than your heartbeat.
"Oh boo- there really is no justice left in the world, is there, Craig?" It's obvious the Legion assassin takes great amusement in most any punishment doled out on him. The most recent scrap between the two ending in what Cicero found himself in right now.
A real pile of shit is what it is. Bound and cut up- bruised.
Interrogation in an NCR holding cell. From what he'd heard, Silus had suffered a similar fate. Though, Cicero didn't seem all that bothered by the implication. Silus was weak. Silus was easily replaced. Silus wasn't Vulpes'.
The visit from this man came as a surprise to him though.
"Aren't you retired?" He would tease.
"Or did you just miss me?"
Crunch.
The sting of his cheek bone cracking rings in his head.
"Lemme guess-" He groans, "These profligates can't get anything out of me, and don't know what to do with me. So they called you back over, seeing if the familiarity would stir something warm and fuzzy.
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-closed starter for Boone and Cain @drzxmlxnd @wxldxheart
the Roadhouse, Lupis; evening
It was Mireia’s first time at a place like the Roadhouse and saying she was nervous would be an understatement, but her dear Boone had invited her over and she couldn’t say no.
It had been a long time since she last saw him, and concern had only increased when he shared the news about his very being. It was confusing, to say the least. As far as she knew, Boone was a human hunter when they first met at Osaerin’s Abyss. The very same hunters humans trained to take on the rest of them for survival, but it didn’t sound like his transformation had been forceful or even… undesired.
She shook her head, overwhelmed by the many questions she wanted to shake off. Even if she wanted to know the details, it was up to the newly transformed werewolf to decide how much he wanted to tell.
Lupis was a unusual territory for a fae to step into; the many looks and distant sniffs she was getting were proof enough, but despite her wariness, Mireia took a deep breath as she entered the bar. There was no way Boone would cause her harm deliberately, he had saved her life during the bloody Halloween events. Next autumn equinox she’d settle for a nice cup of hibiscus tea and one of her old records.
“Boone!” she cheerfully called out at the sight of him. The circumstances didn’t matter, she was happy to see her friend.
Your cramps are so bad, they force you to puke.
Boone freaks the fuck out.
Boone knew something was wrong the second you went quiet.
Not regular quiet.
Not your normal tired-after-a-chase silence where you curled into the passenger seat with your boots on the dashboard and half-listened to the others argue over radar readings.
This was different.
You’d gone pale sometime between Elk City and the state line. Pale enough that the freckles across your nose stood out starkly against your skin. Pale enough Boone kept glancing over every thirty seconds from the driver’s seat despite the rain hammering the windshield.
“You okay?” he asked for the fifth time in ten minutes.
“Mhm.”
Weak answer.
Too quick.
Your arms were wrapped tightly around your stomach beneath your hoodie, body curled toward the door.
Boone frowned.
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sweating.”
“I said I’m fine.”
That came out sharper than you intended.
Immediately guilt flashed across your face.
“Sorry,” you muttered, eyes closing. “I just… don’t feel good.”
Boone’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.
The Tornado Wranglers had spent years together. Years sleeping in shitty motels, crossing state lines at 2am, surviving gas station food and near-death experiences.
He knew your tells.
And right now every single one of them was screaming pain.
“What hurts?” he asked quietly.
You hesitated.
“Stomach.”
His eyebrows furrowed immediately.
“What kinda stomach?”
You almost laughed despite yourself because Boone approached every physical problem like a mechanic diagnosing engine failure.
“Cramping.”
“How bad?”
You didn’t answer fast enough.
Boone looked over again and saw tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.
His stomach dropped clean out of his body.
“Oh, baby.”
“I’m okay.”
“You are absolutely not okay.”
The next cramp hit hard enough that you folded forward with a strangled sound.
Boone swore viciously under his breath.
“Jesus Christ.”
You pressed your fist against your abdomen, breathing shallowly through the pain.
“Pull over,” you whispered suddenly.
Boone’s head snapped toward you. “Why?”
You slapped a hand over your mouth.
“Oh fuck,” Boone breathed.
He nearly drove the truck into a ditch trying to yank it onto the shoulder.
The second the tires stopped moving, you practically threw yourself out of the passenger side.
Boone was after you instantly.
Cold rain soaked through his shirt within seconds as he rounded the truck just in time to see you doubled over beside the road, vomiting violently into wet grass.
His entire face drained of color.
“Oh my God.”
You heard genuine panic in his voice.
Not concern.
Panic.
Boone dropped beside you immediately, one hand bracing your back while the other pushed your hair away from your face with frantic gentleness.
“Hey, hey, hey—”
Another wave hit you before he could finish.
Your whole body shook with it.
Boone looked horrified.
Absolutely horrified.
“Baby, what the fuck is happening?”
You tried to answer but another cramp twisted through your stomach so hard tears spilled down your face instead.
That seemed to genuinely scare him.
Because Boone had seen tornadoes tear houses apart.
Seen trucks flipped.
Seen people injured.
But seeing you cry from pain?
That wrecked him.
He looked seconds away from physically fighting the sky.
“Talk to me,” he pleaded. “Do we need a hospital?”
You managed to shake your head weakly.
“No.”
“You’re throwing up.”
“It’s just cramps.”
Boone blinked at you through the rain.
“…Cramps.”
You nodded miserably.
For a second he simply stared.
Trying to process that.
Then his expression somehow shifted from terrified to offended on your behalf.
“Your cramps do this to you?”
You let out a pathetic little laugh. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
Another cramp hit.
You made a broken sound and curled tighter into yourself.
Boone looked ready to commit homicide.
“Absolutely the fuck not.”
“It’s okay—”
“No, it ain’t okay.” He rubbed your back helplessly. “Baby, you’re puking from pain.”
Rain dripped from the brim of his cap as he crouched beside you looking utterly distraught.
You would’ve found it sweet if you weren’t busy dying.
“I just need a minute.”
Boone shook his head immediately. “Nope. No. We’re getting you somewhere warm.”
Before you could protest, Boone slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees.
You blinked in surprise as he lifted you effortlessly against his chest.
“Boone—”
“You’re not walking.”
“I can walk.”
“You can barely breathe.”
Fair point.
You gave up and rested your forehead against his soaked shoulder while he carried you back to the truck like you weighed nothing.
The second he got you inside, he cranked the heat to full blast.
Then he hovered.
Which was honestly more stressful than the pain.
Boone hovered aggressively.
“You need water.”
“I’ll live.”
“You need medicine.”
“I took some earlier.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“That was like twelve years ago.”
You almost smiled.
Almost.
Another cramp immediately ruined it.
You curled sideways in the seat with a whimper.
Boone looked devastated.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The tenderness in his voice nearly made you cry again.
He crouched beside the passenger seat, eyes scanning your face anxiously like he was trying to memorize every sign of discomfort.
“You sure this isn’t something else?”
“Yes.”
“You positive?”
“Yes, Boone.”
“You should not be in this much pain from a period.”
You laughed weakly. “Tell my uterus that.”
“I will fistfight it.”
That actually got a real laugh out of you.
Boone visibly relaxed for half a second hearing it.
Then you went pale again and his panic returned immediately.
“Okay, nope. We’re going to the motel.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I am not leaving you alone right now.”
The tone left absolutely no room for argument.
By the time you reached the motel, Boone was operating on pure instinct and anxiety.
He got you inside.
Got you into bed.
Got the lights dimmed.
Then disappeared for exactly seven minutes before returning with:
painkillers
electrolyte drinks
crackers
a heating pad
chocolate
three different kinds of tea
and, somehow, an enormous stuffed cow from a gas station.
You stared at the pile.
“…Boone.”
“I panicked.”
“You bought me emotional support livestock?”
“It looked comforting.”
You laughed softly despite the ache in your stomach.
Boone looked so relieved by the sound that your chest hurt a little for entirely different reasons.
He sat carefully beside you on the bed.
“How bad is it now?”
“Still hurts.”
“Scale of one to ten.”
“Like… eight.”
His face twisted.
“Jesus.”
You swallowed hard against another wave of nausea.
Boone noticed immediately.
“Still gonna puke?”
“Maybe.”
He was moving before you finished the sentence, grabbing the motel trash can and placing it beside the bed.
“You do this every month?” he asked quietly.
You shrugged weakly. “Not always this bad.”
“That’s still insane.”
He sounded genuinely angry about it.
Like he wanted to personally challenge biology to a duel.
Another cramp rolled through you.
You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing unevenly.
Boone immediately took your hand.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I got you.”
The warmth of his palm grounded you a little.
“You don’t have to babysit me.”
His expression softened instantly.
“Baby,” he said gently, “I want to.”
That nearly undid you.
Because Boone cared so loudly.
Completely.
Without hesitation.
He shifted closer carefully, letting you lean against his side while the heating pad rested against your abdomen.
“You comfortable?”
“Mhm.”
“You lying?”
“A little.”
Boone sighed.
Then, after a second of hesitation, he stretched out beside you fully and tugged you carefully against his chest.
His body was ridiculously warm.
Solid.
Safe.
“You’re like a furnace,” you mumbled.
“Useful skill.”
You could feel the tension in him still.
Even now.
Like he was one bad symptom away from driving you straight to the emergency room.
“Boone.”
“Hm?”
“I’m okay.”
He looked down at you immediately.
“You were crying.”
“So?”
“So I don’t like it.”
The blunt honesty of it made your chest ache.
His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye.
“You scared the hell outta me out there.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He frowned. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Another silence settled.
Rain tapped softly against the motel windows.
Boone kept absentmindedly rubbing circles against your back.
Then quietly:
“I hate when you hurt.”
The confession sat between you heavily.
You looked up at him.
Boone was already looking at you.
Soft.
Open.
Worried sick.
Your heart stumbled painfully.
“You take really good care of me,” you whispered.
A faint flush crept up his neck.
“Well.” He shrugged awkwardly. “You matter to me.”
Not for the first time, you wondered what it would be like if Boone stopped holding himself back.
If he let himself say everything you saw living behind his eyes.
Because nobody looked at someone the way Boone looked at you unless it meant something.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping away again.
There it is.
That almost.
Always almost.
“You should sleep,” he murmured.
“Will you stay?”
Boone looked genuinely startled you even had to ask.
“Yeah,” he said immediately. “Course I will.”
You shifted closer instinctively, face tucked against his chest.
Within seconds Boone had wrapped himself around you protectively, one hand still resting over yours against the heating pad like he thought he could physically shield you from pain.
“You still nauseous?” he asked quietly after a while.
“A little.”
“You puke again, I’m calling a doctor.”
You smiled sleepily.
“Bossy.”
“You love it.”
The smugness in his voice was comforting somehow.
Your eyelids felt heavy now, the medicine finally beginning to work.
Just before sleep pulled you under, you felt Boone press the softest kiss against your forehead.
Tiny.
Careful.
Like he didn’t even realize he’d done it.
And when he thought you were asleep, you heard him whisper quietly into your hair:
