#cadeaton

she wasn’t used to this—emotions born of connection, not convenience. not the fleeting intimacy of a one-night escape, but something slower, steadier. something that lingered. something like cade.

there was a quiet gravity to him, a gentleness in the way he didn’t ask too much. he just observed. he listened. his presence never demanded, only offered. and somehow, it was ENOUGH.

maybe it was the way his touch softened the edges of her, the same way sunlight thaws through the tail-end of a bitter winter. or the way silence didn’t feel suffocating when he was around. with him, it came easier. the tension in her shoulders eased. she caught herself smiling [ really smiling ] though the ache behind her honeyed gaze never fully disappeared.

he wasn’t a replacement. no one ever could be.

grief like hers wasn’t something that could be swept away or rewritten. it lived in her—an ever-present shadow trailing behind every fragile moment of peace. a storm cloud she carried in her chest. some days heavier than others. some days, nearly suffocating. but if there was solace to be found, it was in these quiet, flickering moments with him. she’d take it.

the nightmares hadn’t come in a while.

the kind that ripped her out of sleep, breathless and broken. the kind that took her back to that day. that impossible, blood-stained day. THE CHAOS. the screaming. the gunfire. it had all unraveled so quickly, a blur of sound and color and violence. but the aftermath? that part never faded. the image of her son and daughter, crumpled and still, surrounded by a sea of red—

that stayed. especially in her dreams.

her body jerked before the scream could fully form, limbs thrashing against damp sheets, breath catching mid-sob. sweat clung to her skin, pooling along her hairline, trailing down the curve of her spine. her fists gripped the bedding like an anchor as the broken words poured out.

“no, please… lisa, frankie… no!!!”

she shot upright, breath ragged, vision blurred, her hands trembling as they reached instinctively for something that wasn’t there. she stared down at them in horror, half-expecting to see blood. but there was none. not anymore. just silence, and her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. and then—his hands. gentle. careful. a whisper of comfort against the wreckage of her panic. but even that was too much. she recoiled. not meaning to. not from him. but from the unbearable weight of it all.

“i’m fine.”

the words were a SHIELD, dull and brittle. she didn’t mean for them to cut. didn’t mean to sound cold. but comfort had never come easy after the storm. guilt always arrived first. why did she get to feel anything resembling peace? why did she get to breathe when her children, her husband [ her entire world ] lay buried beneath the earth?

“i need a minute,” she added softly, already slipping out of bed, the floor cold against her bare feet. she disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a quiet finality. she stood there for a moment, staring at her reflection. alive. but not whole. not yet.

he'd  never  get  used  to  the  way  a  ranch  smelled  ──  dirt,  sweat,  &  manure  culminated  into  one  very  distinct  aroma.  it  clung  to  clothes  &  invaded  the  senses  until  one  couldn't  tell  the  difference  between  fresh  country  air  &  farmland.  he  missed  it.  the  certain  sense  of  peace  that  washed  over  him  like  a  wave  whenever  he  stepped  back  to  take  it  in.  he  wasn't  in  LA  anymore  &,  for  something  that  gave  him  pause  not  hours  earlier,  he  didn't  really  mind.  "  yeah,  but  that's  not  all  that  happened,  right  ?  "

Samira stares down at the spilled coffee on her shirt. It's hot, enough to sting. Enough so that she's instinctively pulled the fabric of her scrub top and undershirt away from her skin.

And yet, the thoughts swirling through her head are not curses or dismay. No, she's thinking of her tight budget and groceries. She's thinking about how about this morning's coffee was a definite splurge. Seven dollars on coffee and milk, really. Unnecessary and senseless.

Tears sting her eyes; she gets emotional, sometimes, when overwhelmed. A habit she thought she'd trained herself out of the first two years of residency.

for weeks now, it had been too hot. too clammy. too dry. couldn't count how many people who'd come through the ER with severe dehydration. today however, it somehow managed to feel even worse. like something was brewing, and judging by the dark clouds slowly rolling in, it certainly was. it felt like relief when the drought broke. the silence, probably the first sign. silent. the animals were going into hiding. and then big, heavy raindrops slowly start hitting the ground. the pavement. the front porch. the windows. a slow exhale as she step out from under the roof and head tips back, feeling the rain hit her skin, slowly soak into her hair. it's refreshing. the air cooling down, and she knows it means thunder and lightning. but that's not happening just yet. there is time to just enjoy it. turning a little, back towards the front porch and a grin form upon features, holding a hand out for him. " come on, it's definitely worth a dance, "

by the way her eyes are still heavy and it's still dark outside, no birds chirping or people moving about on the farm, she should by all means still be in bed. get another few hours of sleep, before starting her day. instead she is curled up in one of the kitchen chairs, already gotten dressed in a too big hoodie and yoga pants, pulled unruly curls into a ponytail, and hands are wrapped around a warm mug of coffee. sipping from it like there might be hope in the bottom of it, at waking up. so far, it hasn't helped. had to leave soon however, to get to the hospital in time. it helped most days, the car ride. some music, have some time to wake up before meeting people. chin rest in the palm of her hand, barely there smile tugging at the corner of lips, feeling the kiss to the top of her head. " good morning, " it's a low murmur, head turning just enough to look up at him. " there's coffee ready for you, "

normally, she was the one doing the reading. it came with the job. most people didn’t wander into a bar because life was treating them kindly—it was usually the opposite. they came to nurse heartaches, regrets, quiet defeats. maria had long since learned how to recognize the signs. she was good at it, too. a steady presence behind the counter—sometimes a gentle listener, sometimes a guiding voice, and often, just a quiet comfort in the periphery. a kind of light in the thick of other people’s darkness. but tonight felt different. the man across from her had this way of observing hidden parts that made her skin prickle. not in discomfort, but something… adjacent to it. she felt seen. not in that fleeting, flirtatious way she was used to brushing off, but truly SEEN, like someone peeling back the layers she worked so hard to keep intact. and she hated how easily it was happening. a few years into a new life, new state, [ even—smiling through the ruin of everything she once had ] and yet, this stranger, this man with the quiet eyes and sharp perception, was seeing right through the practiced ease of her demeanor. it was unsettling. disarming. still, she played her part, let the rhythm of the moment guide her, even as her heart tightened beneath the surface. “s’that so?” she asked, brow arching with playful defiance as the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. she slowed the motion of wiping the bar, leaning just a bit closer across the worn wood between them, the cloth in her hand suddenly forgotten. “tell me, cade… that is your name, right?” she teased, voice light but edged with INTRIGUE. “do you always make a habit of overanalyzing strangers, or am i just one of the lucky ones who happened to catch your eye tonight?” it was flirtation, sure. but beneath it [ behind the honeyed tone and effortless charm ] something else flickered. something raw. those soft honey eyes, no matter how cleverly masked, still carried the ache of truths too painful to speak aloud. and though she smiled, it didn’t quite reach the parts of her that mattered.

WYNONNA EARP S2 >> accepting.

"how am i holding up?" what kind of question is that, anyway? it's not like she's been asked often, what with the everyone always assuming she's gotta be fine bullshit . . . that she definitely makes worse by always insisting that she actually is fine.