#gray's requests

Your focus had drifted elsewhere.

Across the room, Ellie sat hunched over a plate she hadn’t touched, shoulders taut beneath her hoodie. Dina was leaned in close beside her, whispering, her hand twitching near the hem of Ellie’s sleeve. Every so often, they both cast a glance toward the kitchen—toward Seth. Toward something.

It didn’t sit right with you.

Ellie hadn’t left her room in days. She’d been a ghost, a locked door and a muffled silence since the makeshift funeral. And now, suddenly, she was here—sitting in the corner of the bar, speaking low and fast like time was running out.

Your stomach twisted.

“…and Tommy said we might get hit with rain tomorrow, so I told him—hey, you good?” Jesse’s voice cut in, finally noticing your distance.

You hummed a distracted reply, eyes still trained on the pair across the room.

Something was wrong.

You didn’t know what yet—but you were going to find out.

“Just because Tommy loves me doesn’t mean I can twist his arm about patrol routes,” you murmured, eyes flicking toward Jesse. You tried to keep it light—playful, teasing—but the words rang hollow in your mouth.

He didn’t pick up on it. Or maybe he did and just let you have the out.

You leaned back, sighing as you nursed the warmth of the coffee mug between your hands, even though the liquid inside had gone cold. Your gaze drifted again—always, relentlessly—to the corner table.

Ellie had stopped pretending to eat. She was just staring down now, brow furrowed in thought while Dina talked low and fast, her hand cupped around her drink.

Both of them were a little too alert, their bodies too coiled.

Like they were waiting for a signal.

Something was off. You knew it at this point. Practically confirmed.

If you said something—if you told Jesse that Ellie hadn’t spoken to you in a week, hadn’t so much as looked you in the eye since Joel’s death, and now was suddenly conspiring in corners with Dina—it would break whatever delicate thread was still binding you to her.

To them.

And if you told Tommy… if you went to him with this?

There’d be no stopping what came next.

You loved her. Ellie. Like a sister. Like a daughter. Like someone whose fire you’d seen sputter and still tried desperately to keep alive.

You just want to do right.

At least two days had gone by.

Two days of subtle watching. Of quiet steps and careful glances, pretending you were just passing through the stables or the mess hall, when really, you were tracking them like prey.

It felt ugly.

Worse, it felt necessary.

You’d seen enough now to piece it all together—how Ellie and Dina lingered by the supply room longer than they should’ve, how food that didn’t perish was quietly lifted in small batches. How ammo was skimmed from the armory, just low enough to not trigger suspicion. How they'd begun tucking patrol rifles into their horse’s saddlebags, hidden beneath blankets and feed sacks.

They were going to fucking Seattle.

Your chest ached with the weight of it, like your ribs were bracing for something to crack. You wanted to tell Tommy—every hour that passed, you felt it clawing at your throat.

But what would that do? What would it fix?

He’d try to stop them. Of course he would. And if he couldn’t, he’d go after them himself—angry, impulsive, grieving. Just like Ellie.

And you’d lose him, too.

So you swallowed the guilt like poison. Let it rot in your stomach. Because this wasn’t about choosing sides. It was about saving what was left of your family, and praying to whatever was still listening that it didn’t cost you everything in the process.

That night, you sat in the dim glow of your shared bedroom, boots still on, jacket unzipped, staring at the floor as Tommy paced.

He was talking—something about the next patrol schedule, who was going to shift into rotation—but you weren't really hearing him.

He stopped.

“Hey.” His voice was low, serious. “What’s goin’ on in that head?”

You looked up, mouth dry, “Nothin' … Just tired.”

It was the first lie you'd told him… ever, really.

And it hurt worse than you thought it would.

Tommy watched you for a long moment, one hand braced on the dresser, the other rubbing at the side of his neck like he could smooth the worry out of his spine. Though it never worked.

He was tired too—you could see it in the slope of his shoulders, the way his holster still hung loose around his hips like he hadn’t noticed it was there.

Like, since it happened, he wanted to sleep with it.

The day had worn on him, but not as much as the last few weeks had.

“You sure?” he asked, quieter now, like maybe he already knew you were lying and was giving you the space to fix it.

You nodded. Too fast.

“Yeah. Just… lot on my mind, s’all.”

He sighed and crossed the room, lowering himself beside you on the edge of the bed. His hand found your knee, warm and calloused and steady—always steady, when the rest of the world tilted sideways.

You leaned into him automatically, pressing your cheek to the side of his arm.

You didn’t deserve how good he was to you. Not tonight.

But he didn’t know. And he didn’t ask again.

Because that’s the kind of trust you’d built. And that’s exactly why it was killing you.

You tilted your face up to him, managing a small smile, and his expression softened—some part of him still melting at the sight of you, even after all the scars and years.

“You know I love you, right?” you murmured.

Tommy chuckled, brushing your hair back, his fingers careful as ever. “You better. I been runnin' this town like I’m tryna impress you all over again.”

You laughed—real, for a second. And God, it made the guilt sting deeper.

“I do,” you whispered, “I love you so damn much, Miller.”

His brow furrowed slightly at your tone, but he didn’t press. Just leaned in and kissed your temple, lips lingering longer than usual, like he could feel something shifting but didn’t know what it was.

You let him hold you that night. You let him trace little circles into your back with the pad of his thumb. And when his breathing slowed, chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep, you stared at the ceiling—wide awake, spine coiled tight.

Because tomorrow Ellie and Dina would be gone.

And you’d be right behind them.

Unfortunately. their trail wasn’t subtle.

Even if you hadn’t known what to look for, the fresh hoofprints in the half-frozen mud and the trampled frost told you everything. One horse is missing from the stable.

It didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to catch their rhythm.

Seth had let them out. Of course he had.

There’d be hell to pay for that. You could already hear Tommy’s voice—the sharp edge of it, all gravel and fury—as he tore Seth a new one.

You almost pitied the man. Almost. But not quite.

For now, you kept your distance. A mile, maybe two. Close enough to keep a line on them, far enough not to be seen. The cold air gnawed at your fingertips through the reins, and the sky had that winter-gray dullness that made everything feel heavier.

It wasn’t until your horse crested the ridge past the old pasture that you saw them.

Two figures, stopped just beyond the wooden fence line, where the land dipped low into a grove of wind-stripped trees.

Your breath caught.

Joel.

The air thickened in your chest, something ancient and sorrowful. Of course they would come here before the road.

Before the war. One last visit. One last goodbye.

Your horse shifted beneath you, restless, as if it could feel the grief in your bones.

You didn’t dismount.

You didn’t need to get closer.

Instead, you watched—quiet, still—while Ellie knelt at the stones, Dina standing just behind her, a hand hovering like she wanted to touch but didn’t know how.

You swallowed the knot in your throat.

They weren’t just running away from Jackson.

They were running toward him.

You took a breath, let it burn down your lungs like whiskey, then turned your horse toward the path again. You had to give them time. Just a little longer. Then you’d follow.

Because no matter how far they went, you’d never be far behind.

Not when Tommy was still in the dark.

Not when Joel was still in the dirt.

━━━

Dina noticed you first. No surprise there.

She’d always been sharp, wired for survival in a way that didn’t make her hard—just alert. Wiser than her years. You’d taken a liking to her long before this mess, half-joking once that if she weren’t so damn independent, you would’ve twisted Tommy’s arm to bring her under your wing.

She didn’t flinch when she saw you, just narrowed her eyes, the faintest twitch at her jaw.

"You won't make it a day in Seattle acting this recklessly," you said, voice low and even as you stepped from the hang of the tree.

Both girls stiffened. Their hands dropped from the grips of their weapons, not out of ease, but in recognition.

Of you.

You weren’t here to threaten them. Not really.

You stepped forward slowly, the leaves crunching beneath your boots, and stopped a few feet away.

Ellie’s mouth opened—whether in protest or guilt, you couldn’t tell. Her face had paled, but her eyes were stubborn, gleaming under the overcast sky like glass about to crack.

"How long?" you asked, not angry.

Just tired. Just worn down.

"Two weeks," Dina answered first. Quiet, but not ashamed. "We've been planning it for two weeks."

Ellie bristled, but didn’t speak. Her knuckles were white where they clenched the strap of her pack.

“Does Tommy know?” Dina asked, her voice low, almost wary, as she guided your horse toward the tack.

“No.”

"I promise."

You didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.

Ellie shot you a look sharp enough to cut, “You haven’t told your almost fuckin’ fiancé?”

She said it like it was treason.

And maybe it was.

The word fiancé hung heavy in the air—sacred, intimate, too clean for what you felt now. He hadn’t pushed for anything official, hadn’t said now or soon. He just wanted you with him.

Forever, if the world allowed.

But you hadn’t told him.

Not about Ellie. Not about Dina. Not about Seattle.

And it felt like a betrayal stitched under your skin, pulsing hot with every step you took closer to letting them go.

He probably already knew you were gone.

Waking up for morning patrol to an empty bed.

“You think I didn't want to tell him?” you asked, voice taut. “You think I don’t wake up every day knowing what kind of man he is? What kind of man I’d be risking if he followed your stupid fuckin' asses?”

Ellie opened her mouth, but Dina placed a hand on her arm. It was like a conversation without verbals.

"I'm going with you."

It slipped from your lips in a breathless hush, the weight of it settling like dust in the stillness. Dropping your pack to the ground beside theirs, the thud echoed louder than you'd meant.

"Whether you like it or not."

The forest around you seemed to still, the distant rustle of leaves and wind nothing compared to the storm coiling in your stomach.

"You promised," Ellie said after a long beat, quiet but sharp. “You swore you wouldn’t drag anyone else into this.”

You exhaled, steadying your voice.

“And I’m not. I’m walking in beside you.”

Ellie laughed, dry and bitter. “You think Tommy’s just gonna let that slide? When he finds out where you are?”

“I’m not doing this for Tommy,” you cut in, your voice low and level. “I’m doing this because I won’t let you walk into this alone.”

There was a silence—tired, heavy silence. The kind that meant you all knew the shape of what was coming, and knew it wouldn't be kind.

They're scared.

Frankly, so are you.

“Look,” you exhale, low and steady, the weight of the words pressing against the cold air. “When I first walked into Jackson, this place—it felt like home. And then I met Tommy. He felt like home.”

You shift slightly, eyes flicking to their tent, half-pitched and swaying in the restless breeze—fragile, but standing.

“And you—both of you—feel like home, too.”

Your voice softens, but every syllable carries a fierce certainty.

“I’d be losing a piece of myself if I didn’t go out there and try to protect you.”

Ellie looks away again, but you catch the glimmer of something.

Something almost like relief.

There’s no argument now, only the hard, fragile bond of blood and choice.

SEATTLE DAY 3

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” Dina hissed through clenched teeth, the words tumbling from her mouth like a broken record. Her leg kicked instinctively, but your hands were already firm—one pressing down on her thigh to slow the bleeding, the other cradling her hip to keep her grounded.

The arrow was still lodged in deep—no exit wound, no clean break. Just ragged pain. Shit.

“I know, … I know,” you murmured, your voice trembling with the effort to stay calm, to sound like safety even when everything around you was falling apart.

Your eyes flicked toward the boarded theatre doors—shadows stretching and shifting with every sound beyond the wall.

Ellie and Jesse were gone.

Vanished into the dark without a goddamn word, leaving you to tend the bleeding girl with nothing but a half-stocked med kit and the echo of her cries.

“Where the fuck did they go,” you muttered under your breath, voice low and sharp like a blade unsheathed.

Not angry. Not really. Just scared in that deep way you couldn’t show—not with Dina looking up at you like you were the last bit of steady ground she had left.

The theatre lights flickered overhead, humming with weak electricity. You felt the dust cling to your sweat-slick skin, the dampness in the air from the sealed-off walls closing in.

“Okay, you’re gonna breathe for me now, yeah?” you whispered, brushing the hair from her forehead, even as your hands were stained with her blood. “In, out. Count with me.”

Her grip tightened around your wrist, her knuckles white with pain.

“I’ve got you,” you said again, quieter now, like a prayer. Then, more to yourself: “And when Ellie gets back, I’m gonna wring her little neck.”

A pause, then a huff from Dina—a half-laugh, broken and breathless.

“There she is,” you smiled faintly, pressing your forehead to your forearm for a heartbeat before you reached into your bag.

“Hold still, babygirl. We’re getting through this."

And you meant it.

Even if you had to tear the whole world apart to do it.

You crouched lower, your knees aching against the moist carpet, breath shallow as your fingers hovered just above the arrow’s entry point.

The shaft jutted from Dina’s thigh, slick with blood and trembling each time she whimpered.

There was no scalpel. No sterile field. The tin of supplies was down to rusted scissors and half a bottle of alcohol.

This was going to be brutal.

Your hand steadied the arrow. The other braced her leg.

“Dina…” you started, voice a low thread of calm wrapped in exhaustion. “I have to pull it, okay? There’s no other way—If I leave it in, it’s going to poison you from the inside out.”

You tried to speak gently.

Tried to carry softness in your tone like it might cushion the truth—but the second she realized what you meant, her panic overtook her.

“No—please, don’t let me die—I can’t—I can’t—” Her hands scrabbled against the floor, against your wrist, against the air. Her breath caught in her throat, eyes wide with fear.

You moved fast, crawling up beside her and cupping her cheek with a blood-warm hand. “Look at me,” you said, urgent now. “Right here, eyes on me.”

She blinked, her pupils blown wide.

“You’re not going to die. Not on my watch. Not in this theatre. You hear me?”

A pause. Her breath stuttered.

“That’s my girl,” you whispered, nodding, trying to ground both of you. “Now hold on to me. Bite down if you have to.”

You reached into your coat pocket, pulled out the rag you’d been using to keep your hands dry, and gently offered it to her.

“Use this. Scream into it if you need to.”

She took it with shaking hands, her lips already parted in dread.

You braced her thigh again. Drew in a breath.

“Three,” you said softly. “Two—”

You didn’t wait for one.

The arrow came out with a sickening wet sound, torn muscle giving way beneath your fingers. Dina let out a strangled scream, her whole body convulsing in your arms. You threw the arrow aside and immediately pressed gauze—what little you had—against the wound, applying pressure with everything you had left in you.

Her screams faded into broken sobs.

You didn’t speak for a long time. Just held her as the blood slowed, your hands trembling now too.

When she finally stopped crying, you stroked a thumb beneath her eye and whispered, “You did it. You’re here. Still with me.”

And though she didn’t say it, her grip around your arm said everything you needed to hear.

Though the world outside was still a war zone. Ellie and Jesse were still out there chasing ghosts. But in this flickering, blood-stained theatre, you were someone’s safe place.

And that had to be enough—for now.

After what felt like hours—your hands sticky with old blood, your knees stiff and sore—you finally wrapped the last strip of cloth around Dina’s thigh. The wound still wept a little, but the bleeding had slowed. She was pale, quiet now, drifting in and out of a fevered sleep against a backstage dressing room cot you’d thrown together with old coats and torn curtains.

You sat with her until her breathing evened out, brushing damp hair from her face, whispering promises she probably couldn’t hear: I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m right here.

But then the theatre groaned, and something shifted.

You stood slowly, pistol already warm in your palm. The door—barely barricaded, creaking against the night wind—stood like a challenge. The silence outside felt wrong. Too quiet. Like a breath held too long.

Then—footsteps.

Fast. Familiar.

You didn’t even have time to raise your gun before Ellie and Jesse burst in, panting and soaked through, rain trailing down their necks.

But it wasn’t them your eyes locked on.

Tommy.

Jesse had never told you that's who he brought.

He stood in the doorway, backlit by pale grey light, coat dripping, rifle slung low across his chest. You could see it before he even opened his mouth—anger clinging to him like a second skin.

Cold. Alive. Unforgiving.

You froze. The words stuck in your throat.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, stepping inside, boots heavy on the warped floor. “I had to hear from them that you were in Seattle? That you lied to me? That you followed them out here like some goddamn fuckin' idiot?”

“Tommy—” you started, voice small and broken already.

“No. No—you don’t get to speak first.” His voice cracked like a whip. “You lied to me. You. The one person I thought I could count on to be straight with me.”

Ellie and Jesse stayed silent, watching the unravel happen from the sidelines, rain still dripping from their sleeves.

“I couldn’t tell you,” you said finally, stepping forward just once, slowly. “Because if I had… You would’ve stopped me.”

“You’re damn right I would’ve.” His eyes were blazing now, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch. “You were supposed to be safe. You were supposed to wait for me to make a decision.”

“Your brother died, Tommy,” you hissed. “You think I was gonna sit in Jackson and bake pies, and knit while the people I love walked straight into hell?”

Almost immediately, "And you think I need to lose you too?!"

It was loud. Echoed through the entire building.

The hurt in his expression sliced through the anger just long enough for you to see it: guilt, grief, the kind of ache that never sets right in a man’s bones

And still—he looked at you like he didn’t recognize you.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, voice lower now, hoarse. “Every fucking day since you left, I thought I’d find your body strung up by those freaks, or rotting in some back alley. You know what that did to me?”

He looked away.

“Upstairs,” you said quickly, voice low and clipped, already moving toward the staircase that led to the mezzanine.

You didn’t wait to see if he followed.

The creak of the steps beneath your boots was the only sound between you. That, and the distant static of Jesse’s walkie-talkie downstairs. When you reached the upper level, the silence cracked.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Tommy’s voice cut through the dark like a rifle shot. “Jesus Christ, you really went and followed ‘em?”

You turned to him. “What did you expect me to do? Let them walk into hell alone? Let you come out here and—”

“No.” His jaw clenched, and he stepped forward. “I expected you to stay. I expected you to protect what we built. I expected you to be there when I got back.”

“You think I didn’t want to?” you shot back, heat rising in your throat like bile. “You think this was some fucking joyride?”

“I don’t give a damn if it was a funeral march!” he barked. “You promised me. You promised me, and then you left like it meant nothin’!”

“It meant everything!” you shouted, stepping into him. “It meant I couldn’t watch them die too!”

He flinched like the words slapped him. Your chest rose and fell violently, heart pounding in your ears, “Joel died, Tommy."

"He fucking died, and we’ve all been tearing at the seams since.”

He looked away, shoulders tight, breathing hard.

That undid something.

“I had to go,” you whispered, voice cracking. “If I stayed, I would’ve broken into a hundred pieces. You—You don’t get to be the only one with grief in your bones.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped, eyes glossy, teeth clenched like he was holding something back. “You think I haven’t woken up every goddamn night reachin’ for you?”

Your face twisted at the words.

He took a breath, like he was steadying himself.

“I was scared,” he said, quieter now, but no less angry. “Not of the WLF, not even of those damn cultists. I was scared I’d lose you, and I wouldn’t even be there to say goodbye.”

That landed.

Fuck.

You crossed your arms, holding yourself steady, “I’m right here.”

“For now,” he said bitterly, voice shaking. “But for how long?”

You stepped toward him again, slower this time, your voice tender despite the storm in it.

“I didn’t leave you. I followed them because they needed me. Just like you would’ve.”

Tommy laughed. It was cold. Hollow. Nothing like the man you used to curl up with in front of the fireplace. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he spat. “Don’t you put me in the same breath as what you did.”

“What I did?” your voice cracked, turning sharp, “You think this was easy? You think I just packed my shit and skipped out of Jackson with a smile on my face?”

“You left without a word,” he said, stepping in. “You left me. You lied. To my fuckin’ face.”

“I had to!”

“No, you didn’t!” he exclaimed, stepping so close your chests nearly brushed. “You just didn’t trust me.”

“That’s not true.”

You could feel the anger simmering under your skin.

“The hell it ain’t!” His voice was thunder now, echoing against the empty theatre walls. “You didn’t even give me the chance to say no. To say anything. You decided you knew better."

"Like always.”

You shoved at his chest, hard.

“Because you would’ve stopped me!”

“Damn right I would’ve!” he shouted. “Because I love you!"

"Because I couldn’t take losing you too!”

The silence after that was vicious.

Not soft, not comforting. Just ringing.

You fucked up.

You knew that deep, and fleshed out.

"I love you," It came out deep, breathless, like it had torn a hole in your chest just to leave your lips.

"I love you so fucking much."

Tommy didn’t answer. Didn’t breathe, didn’t blink.

Just stared at you like he wanted to yell or throw something—or maybe fall to his knees and beg for time to rewind.

Then, suddenly, he moved.

One hand was in your hair, the other grabbing your waist so tight it almost bruised, and then his mouth crashed into yours.

No patience. No sweetness. Just teeth and desperation and too many sleepless nights spent hating the distance between you. The whole four days.

You gasped into him, fingers digging into his jacket, pulling him closer like you could anchor yourself in the wreckage of him.

It was violent—the way your mouths moved against each other, like a fight without fists, like you'd been waiting weeks to tear each other apart and this was the only language you still knew how to speak.

“Fuck you,” he growled into your mouth, hands shoving you back against the mezzanine wall, his breath hot against your cheek.

“You came all the way out here, didn’t you?” you bit back, tugging him down by his collar, lips brushing his.

He kissed you again, harder this time—nothing tender, just fury and need and that sharp edge of grief that never seemed to dull. You groaned against him, back arching into the wall as his hands mapped the curve of your waist, gripping, grounding, like he could crush the betrayal out of his own lungs.

Hands underneath fabric, frantic and rough. Bruises from fingers pressed too hard, teeth catching lips too sharp.

You didn’t care. Neither of you did.

You’d both lost too much to ask for softness.

He broke first, forehead pressed against yours, panting like he’d just been in a shootout. “You fuckin' wrecked me,” he said, voice shredded.

And you kissed him again, even harder this time—because you both knew this might be the only way you’d survive each other.

His hands moved to your shirt, undoing the buttons with ferocious intent, uncaring of the fact that the girls you had practically helped raise were only a floor below you. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps between the crash of mouths.

“You think this fixes it?” Tommy rasped against your neck, voice thick with anger, teeth grazing the bruise blooming at your jaw. “You think this makes up for you leavin’ me behind, thinkin’ you were dead somewhere in this hellhole of a city?”

You leaned up to kiss him just as hard as he talked, because you needed him to know you hadn’t fallen out of love with him—you’d just been burning in its silence.

His hands found your belt, fingers working the worn leather loose with swift, practiced intent. It slipped through the loops with a slow hiss, unspooling like breath between clenched teeth—until he yanked it free and let it fall, forgotten, to the floor.

“Turn around—”

"Bend over.

It came out rough. Hoarse. A command, not a question. Nothing of the man who kissed your forehead at dawn or teased you with whip-creamed slick fingers at breakfast.

No—this wasn’t Tommy wrapped in warmth. This was him stripped down to his marrow. A man burning with too much love, too much fury, too little time.

This wasn’t about gentleness.

This was about need. The kind born from war echoing in the distance and the knowledge that peace is always borrowed, never owned.

About staking a claim in the only safe place he’s ever known—you.

Here, in the hollow of a mezzanine doorway, with the world outside teetering on the edge of collapse, he held you like a last prayer.

There was no performance. No pretending.

Just a man who had survived too much and still chose to love like this—fierce, unrelenting, and all in.

“Tommy—” you started, voice catching on the weight of it. But the look he gave you—

God.

It hollowed you out, stripped the fight clean from your bones. That look didn’t ask. It ached.

“This doesn’t fix the problem—” you tried again, even as your body betrayed you, leaning in, breath stuttering.

But he was already there—so close his breath tangled with yours, lips not touching but hovering, like he didn’t trust the moment to hold if he moved too fast.

“You got a fuckin’ solution, then?” he murmured, low and splintered. Somewhere below, you heard the soft clink of his belt buckle—quiet, final. You swallowed hard, nerves pulling tight.

And then he said your name.

Not casual. Not soft. He said it like a confession—like every syllable dragged sin out from his lungs.

Like the way he said it the first time. The night he crumbled in your arms saying he loved you.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “… tell me that feelin’ you come apart in my hands ain’t gonna fix somethin’. Even if it’s just for a minute.”

His voice almost cracked into a smile. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Tell me if I make you scream my name, I won’t believe—just for a second—that you’re still here. That I won't lose you.”

His gaze was burning now, unblinking, like if he dared look away you might vanish into the next loss.

“That I got time left. That I ain’t already lost you.”

He swallowed hard, jaw flexing, every breath shaking loose from somewhere buried deep.

“That I don’t gotta bury you too.”

Now, as he stands before you—scared, desperate, begging without pride—you realize the danger isn’t in loving him.

It’s in the thought of ever having to live without him.

“Yeah,” you breathe, voice steadier than your heart. “I… need you.”

He stirs—not in body, but in something quieter, deeper. A flicker behind his dark eyes, calculating. Weighing. His gaze snaps toward the row of half-folded theater seats, now ghostly in the low light.

A step back. Then another. His eyes rake over you, still burning with that same relentless heat he’s worn like a second skin for the past thirty minutes. Deliberate, he turns, moving toward the seats. One broad hand spreads over the velvet cushion, pressing it down with a controlled grace. His chin tilts—an invitation. Or a command.

“Knees here,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint.

“Face down. Ass up.”

A startled laugh slips from you—quiet, breathy, incredulous.

He can't be serious.

“You’re joking.”

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak.

That silence—so complete, so unwavering—is the answer.

He’s serious.

Heat floods your face, blooming down your neck, across the delicate tips of your ears. You’re burning. Embarrassment crackling just beneath the skin.

This feels exposed. Laid bare in his gaze. Too open. Too visible.

Too wrong.

And yet… it coils low in your belly—right.

You hesitate only for a heartbeat. One last glance at the cracked door down the hallway. Then back to him.

And then you move.

A few tentative steps. A breath caught in your throat. A knee pressed to the worn cushion. The rustle of fabric and nerves.

He’s unhurried—deliberate—as he reaches for you. His hands already at your waist, anchoring you. Guiding you.

Slow. Certain.

“You’re gorgeous.”

The words are quiet, almost reverent, spilling from his lips like a confession. His hands shift from your waist, finding the edge of your jeans. Fingers curl, drag, tug—slowly peeling the fabric down your thighs.

The air hits you like a snap of winter.

Skin prickling. Every nerve lit with cold.

The seat’s metal edges dig into your calves—unforgiving, near bruising. But you stay. Let it press. Let it mark. It angles your body forward, bends you in offering.

And there you are—bare, open, arranged before him.

He guides you down with a gentleness that contradicts the sharpness of the moment. One hand at your spine, coaxing you into a deeper arch. The edge of the adjacent seat bites into your midsection—unyielding, coiled pressure digging in.

He doesn’t rush. His touch drifts lower, tracing the heat that pulses between your thighs.

His fingers linger—barely there. Not giving. Just knowing.

“For a woman who just screamed at me,” he breathes, voice low and amused, “…you’re awfully excited, huh?”

“Tommy—” you warn, breath catching, but he’s already there—pressing the tip of his cock against you, a ragged exhale slipping between clenched teeth.

“I’m kidding—” he murmurs, the words meant to disarm, to soften—“Fuck, sweetheart.”

The push is deliberate. Low. Slick. He moves slowly, savoring every inch as he slides in, like he wants to memorize the feeling.

Your head dips forward, jaw tightening to trap the rising whine, the overwhelming fullness. One arm lifts blindly, bracing against the cold metal of the chair, your forearm muffling the wet, trembling sound that escapes.

“Fuck,” he rasps, shifting forward, body heaving to find a deeper angle. “I—”

He falters—genuinely falters—for the first time since you’ve known him, words catching like breath in his throat.

His hips draw back, then roll forward—measured, indulgent. Not brutal. Not frantic. Just slow, deliberate depth. His grip is unrelenting, palms anchored as he pulls your hips into each thrust. It isn’t him moving anymore—it’s you, guided and used, rhythm dictated by his hands, and brain alone.

Your fingers stretch forward, then curl tight—white-knuckled—into the fabric of the next theater seat. The sharp sound of skin meeting skin echoes through the closed space, amplified by its hollowness.

You can’t feel the room. Can’t process the world outside this moment. You're buried in sensation, in the obscene fullness of him, your thoughts unraveling—reduced to nothing but heat and ruin.

“To—Tomm—y.” It tears out of you raw, breathless—half-whimper, half-animal—dragged up from somewhere deep and trembling.

“I know—” he breathes, voice thick, wrecked with restraint. One hand leaves your hip, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, calloused palm sliding up until it cups your breast in full possession.

“You look so fuckin’ good from this angle.”

The praise doesn’t wane. If anything, the way he’s buried so deep only sharpens his hunger—makes his words rougher, more reverent.

“Missed this… Bein’ so fucked up inside you.”

He shifts—just enough—lifting one knee to brace against the chair’s arm, angling himself deeper. The new alignment drags him forward, deliberate and unrelenting, until he’s brushing in soft, pulsing rhythm against your cervix.

Fucked up barely begins to cover it.

You clench around him, tighter, your whole body shivering with the effort to stay silent. He groans—low and guttural—mouth grazing your shoulder as he sinks down, chest flush to your spine, every inch of him sealed to your trembling form.

You’re already wrecked—thighs trembling from the sheer effort of holding yourself upright. Every motion spreads slick heat between you, each slow thrust leaving you messy, glistening, undone.

“Can’t lose you,” he gasps—strained, breaking apart. His voice cracks beneath the weight of it, tangled in groans and ragged whines.

“Fuck—”

Your name falls from his lips like a curse, again and again. Like he’s punishing himself with it. Worshipping it. Haunted by it. Every syllable like gold.

“Oh my god—” It escapes you in a panting breath, fragile and frayed—hovering somewhere between a cry and surrender.

He notices—your trembling, the way your body starts to falter—and lets out a frustrated exhale. But it isn’t your exhaustion that draws it from him. It’s everything he’s been holding in. All the tension coiled tight beneath his skin, buried deep in muscle and bone, haunting him through every hour of the day.

He pulls out with a groan, rough and reluctant—like the absence of your warmth physically pains him. You echo it, a soft, broken whimper slipping from your lips as your head drops lower, hips unsteady and shaking.

He leans forward into the narrow aisle, hands threading beneath your arms, one anchoring at your waist. He lifts you—effortless, like muscle memory—but this time, there’s a fever behind it. A kind of urgency.

Your back meets the cold theatre wall with a shiver, stark against overheated skin. And without a word—no warning, no pause—he drives you down, presses you forward. Fucking up into you, hard and sure, with the wall at your spine and nothing to catch you but him.

This time, you can see him. The way he looks at you—really looks—as your flushed face lifts, eyes half-lidded and dazed, finding his. It’s desperate, a silent plea hanging between parted lips, breath caught, no sound escaping.

His arms are locked around your waist, holding you close—coiled, trembling with something deeper than lust. His head dips forward, brushing a kiss against you—soft, dry-mouthed, his breath ragged.

“I was so fuckin' scared.”

It slips out like a confession, barely above a whisper, his eyes flicking up through the weight of his lashes.

“I can’t live without you—” Before, he was slow—drawn-out, savoring, lost in the rhythm of his own need. But now? He’s driven.

His hips pound into you with punishing precision, each thrust unrelenting, slamming up into that one devastating spot he knows by heart. No mercy. No pause. Just raw, rhythmic force.

It doesn’t take long—seconds, really—before the pressure starts to build, that tight coil gathering low in your belly, threatening to snap. Your eyes betray you first, going wide, glassy.

He sees it. And breathes it in like a promise.

“There she is…” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours before crashing in—tongue, teeth, breathless urgency. “Come on… give it to me—give it to me, sweetheart…”

You think it’ll be his name that slips out.

But it’s not.

“I’m sorry—” It leaves you like a broken sob, breathless and cracked, your head thrown back, eyes clenched tight.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry—” But the rest is stolen—devoured—his mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that’s all desperation and heat, messy and unrelenting, more collision than connection.

You shudder against him, unraveling fast, sobs catching in your throat as your thighs clamp hard around his hips—tight enough to bruise, to mark, to mean it.

He pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours, breath hitching—shallow, ragged. His eyes are half-lidded, glassy, like he’s barely holding on.

“That’s it… Fuck—Jesus Christ,” he groans, voice breaking around the edges. His hips stutter, slipping in and out with erratic desperation, like his body refuses to let go, refuses to stop feeling.

“Shit—I’m…”

His mouth finds yours again, quick and needy, like the words are too dangerous to finish aloud. His grip tightens, grounding himself in the curve of your waist, the tremble of your body under his.

“Don’t let go yet,” he breathes, almost pleading. “Not yet—stay with me. Just a little longer.”

One hand drifts upward, tracing the curve of your spine before tangling gently in the thick, tangled strands he’s come to crave. He doesn’t tug—just lingers there, holding you captive in the ache of his touch.

It’s his snarl that betrays him—a ragged, breathy growl caught between a plea and a promise.

Then the heat crashes in, spilling fiercely into you, relentless and unforgiving as he drives himself hilt deep, locking you together in raw, brutal surrender.

He leans closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and ragged.

“God—fuck—you're all I've ever needed."

You settle into the quiet between breaths, bodies entwined—breathing in each others every release and inhale. His forehead presses gently into the hollow of your neck, still holding you captive against the cold wall.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is a soft murmur, thick with exhaustion and something fragile as your hands lift from your slack side to rest against his collarbone and jaw.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I know,” he exhales, tilting his head back to meet your gaze. His hand rises slowly, brushing away a stray lock of hair plastered to your sweat-dampened forehead. “I know.”

He swallows hard, those deep brown eyes tracing the contours of your face like a bittersweet memory—like you’re already slipping away and he’s mourning every second.

“I would’ve done the same,” he whispers, voice thick with regret. “That’s why I’m angry. Because I would’ve left you in Jackson—just like you left me. Because I want to keep you safe. Hide you from this fucked up world.”

You nod, the weight of his words settling deep inside you. Because fuck—if you could cage him, shield him from every shadow that prowls this city, you would.

God wants to tear him away from you.

He will. One day.

But not today. He’d have to pry him from your cold, dead fucking clenched hands.

The aftermath is gentle. He lowers you from his hold with care, tugging at the hem of whatever undershirt he’s wearing to blot the sheen of sweat from your skin before discarding it somewhere haphazard.

He mutters something about the mess he's made—how the moment you’re back in Jackson, he’ll draw you the warmest bath. How all this grime and sweat can’t be good for you.

It’s strange. Almost laughable, really—how, amidst this fractured, war-torn world, his mind lingers on something as tender and mundane as your cleanliness.

You only catch his words when his fingers, gentle but sure, thread your belt through the loops of your jeans, tugging your zipper closed.

“Just… let me speak,” he murmurs, low and steady—knowing full well that if he stumbles, if he says too much, you’ll cut him off without hesitation.

“I love you.”

“I love you—and I’m not letting you die out here. Not like this.”

“I won’t let this fucked-up world steal away the one thing I’ve got left.”

You part your lips to reply, but he shakes his head—warning, fierce.

“We have so much left to do.”

“So much I haven’t given you.”

“A real goddamn house… a ring… a family…”

He pulls you closer, voice dropping to a rough whisper, almost desperate.

His hands tighten on your waist, thumb tracing slow circles, grounding you in the moment.

“I swear, I’m gon' make it right."

"I'm gon' fix it."

But beneath it all, you know—he cannot sever the threads fate has woven tight. No matter how he pleads, how he weeps, how fiercely he fights, the relentless clock beats on for both of you—unyielding, inevitable. Only sheer raw defiance stands between you and that monster.

Your hand rises, trembling, to his face—soft, reverent. Thumb tracing away a stubborn speck of dirt, lingering over freckles you adore.

“I’m not losing you to this city, Tommy,” you breathe, voice fragile yet fierce. Tongue swiping nervously over your lips, your resolve shaking.

“I’m not losing them. I’m not losing you. And damn it, you’re sure as hell not losing me.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss that’s deep and urgent—soft but laden with a desperate hunger. Not like the hunger before, not the hesitant tremble of uncertain resolve. This kiss is a silent confession, a wordless sobbing into each other’s mouths, like gasping for breath in pools of water.

Because come morning, who knows if you’ll still find each other alive.

authors note: did you understand the position i put them in on the chair.. or did u have to do the thing.. where ur like.. ??what they doin' . anyway. mwah mwah