#grayandthyme

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

firefly!reader; your heart dropping when you realize what that actually means. That the mission isn’t just a handoff. It’s your burden. One girl. One miracle.

firefly!reader who meets Joel. The introduction brittle. Brittle like the ice you’re forced to walk across together. Tess stands between you like a reluctant bridge, laying out terms neither of you like. You don't mind her. You knew he'd be difficult—hell, you'd heard stories. But you didn’t expect the weight of him. The silence. The grief in his bones. He looks at you like you’re a waste of space. You return the favor. He's an asshole, you think. That's it, end of story.

firefly!reader who greets Ellie with a smile anyway. A real one. Because someone has to. She’s a kid, and you're the only one who seems to remember what that even means. While Joel scowls and Tess counts bullets, you tell Ellie stories of Fireflies who did the impossible. Individuals who blew through enemy lines, stitched the world back together, piece by shining piece.

You don’t know if they’re true. But it doesn’t matter. Someone has to believe in something. Right? Right.

firefly!reader who watches Tess die. The bite deep within her skin, crawling and licking at your consciousness. This time it’s not just another name to add to the list—it’s a blow you feel. She wasn’t a Firefly. She wasn’t one of yours. She didn’t believe in the cause. But she was real. Human. Brave. And she died for your mission. Your cause. You think about the empty building, about the lie Marlene might’ve told. About whether any of this is still worth it.

firefly!reader who grows quieter. Dimmer. No more bedtime stories. Joking with Ellie. No more laughter echoing down ruined hallways. Just silence, and the crackle of campfires, and the hollow sound of your own breathing. You let Joel take first watch more often. Not because you trust him—but because you're too tired to keep pretending you don’t. Sometimes you switch with him, letting him take the much-needed rest. Not because you care about him. But, because it'll get you to the end faster.

firefly!reader who starts to notice the way Joel looks at you. Not kind, not soft, but different. Like he’s trying to solve you. Like he doesn’t hate you as much as he used to. Like maybe you’re the only other person still standing in this ash-covered world who knows what it means to have lost everything. You’re both bleeding hope. You both want to stop caring. But you don’t. Not yet. You’re too stubborn.

fuck the light. fuck.

but you still carry it. it's the only thing you have.

firefly!reader who’s learned to watch his hands. The way they twitch before danger. The way they clench when he talks about his past. You think, maybe, he's done terrible things. You think, maybe, so have I. But you don’t ask.

firefly!reader who patches up Joel’s minor cuts and scrapes without speaking. Hands practiced, efficient, but gentle in spite of yourself. You’re not sure when that change happened—when the anger faded into calm, silent understanding. Maybe it was when he let you take first watch for once. Maybe it was when he didn’t complain about the firefly emblem on your jacket anymore. Maybe it was just time.

firefly!reader who starts dreaming again, even if you hate yourself for it. Of what comes after. Of a world where the girl makes it to the hospital. Where you find a place to rest. Where people stop dying for a cause that’s already half-dead. You don’t share these thoughts aloud. But sometimes, you think Joel sees them in your eyes. You miss the light. You missed when it shone so brightly.

firefly!reader who wakes up with frost biting your fingertips in Colorado, the wind howling through broken windows. Teeth chattering so loud you feel as though they might shatter. You’re used to discomfort by now, but Joel drapes his coat over your shoulders before you can reach for your own. You say nothing. Just nod. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Though, you can't help but tense at the feeling in your stomach.

firefly!reader who learns Joel isn’t as heartless as he seemed. Not really. He suggests Ellie like she’s his own—except he doesn’t at the same time. Not directly. Not with words. But in the way he watches her. In the way he teaches her to shoot, to listen, to run. In the way he touches her shoulder when she’s scared. You see it all. And you never bring it up.

firefly!reader who gets grazed by a shot in the side outside Salt Lake City, and Joel panics. Really panics. Blood all over his hands, cursing under his breath, cradling you like you’re made of something fragile. You try to laugh through the pain, say something witty, but his voice breaks—"I ain't playin' around, stay still, damnit."

The concern in his eyes made your breath falter.

Like it meant something. Did you.. mean something?

firefly!reader who hears Joel yell before you see the fall. One second he’s pulling you up the stairs, the next—he’s gone. Crashing through glass, landing hard, the metal rod impaling him like the earth itself wants to take him. The sound that leaves your throat is something raw, something not human. You didn't know the light could vanish that easily. That the darkness would swallow you whole. Leaving a rotten, sickening taste in your mouth.

firefly!reader who scrambles down with trembling hands, blood slick on your palms as you press into his side, trying to stop the flood. “Stay with me, Joel. Stay with me.” His face is ghost-white, eyes slipping. “You’re gonna be fine, we’re gonna get out of this—Ellie needs you—fuck—fuck…"

"… I need you."

firefly!reader who has to help Ellie drag him through the snow, each step a prayer, each breath a promise. You sleep sitting up, holding his hand, whispering nonsense stories like you used to—about cities lit back up, about summer days, about stars no longer hidden by ash. You're not sure if he hears. But you need him to.

He'll wake up.

Yeah. He'll wake up soon.

firefly!reader who wakes one morning and finds Ellie gone. The tracks in the snow lead away from the cabin, and your heart sinks so fast it steals the air from your lungs. You nearly tear the door off its hinges, waking Joel. "Joel—She's gone, okay? You stay here—Please, just rest… I—"

firefly!reader who watches him stagger to his feet, nonetheless, still half-dead, fury in his eyes like fire set loose. You load your rifle. You don’t say a word. Because you know exactly what it means to love a child who didn’t come from you.

firefly!reader who finds the Silver Lake cabin with Joel, your breath coming in panicked gasps. The smell of corpse rot, of smoke. The gut-deep feeling that something is wrong. You search every building. Then you hear it—Ellie’s scream. And it shatters you. It's not a mission anymore. You know that for sure.

This is your girl. Your girl.

firefly!reader who kicks the door open seconds after Joel, and finds Ellie bloodied, clutching a knife, trembling. He runs to her, pulls her into his arms, saying, “It’s me, baby girl. It’s me.” You stand there, stunned. Watching the girl who’s fought everything now collapse like a child.

firefly!reader who sinks to your knees beside them, one arm around Ellie, the other on Joel’s back. Fingers grasping for any semblance you can. They're alive. You're alive. Fuck, that's all that mattered.

firefly!reader who sees Ellie cry for the first time when winter ends. You comfort her like a sibling, like a parent, like someone who remembers what it’s like to be a child forced to grow up at gunpoint. Joel watches, quiet. Afterward, he sits beside you and doesn’t say a word for hours. But his leg touches yours the whole time. Knees softly brushing against each other, but eyes toward the fire.

firefly!reader whose fingers softly graze against his as you sleep, only a few feet away from each other. The silence between you is no longer awkward but heavy with meaning. You don’t talk about what’s changing. But it’s there. In the way he lingers beside you when Ellie runs ahead. In the way he tells you to sleep first, that he’ll take both watches. In the way your names start to sound softer in each other’s mouths.

firefly!reader who kisses Joel first—under the highway overpass, after Ellie nearly drowned. Fingers threaded through his curls, it tasted of coffee from the morning previous. It's desperate. It's like clinging to life. He holds your face like he’s afraid it’ll vanish. Like you might vanish. You don't say it. Neither does he. But the kiss is the kind you only give once you're already in love.

You don't talk about the kiss after it happens.

You don't say anything to each other.

firefly!reader who wakes up in the back of a hospital truck, dazed, alone. The Fireflies found you. They sedated you. Took you away. You ask where Joel is. No one answers. You already know. Breath hitching as you look around the room. Begging, pleading to take you to him. Take you to Ellie—for something. They look at you like you're a threat. Their stares no longer filled with light, and hope—now tight, and knitbrow.

You're an outsider.

firefly!reader who hears what they plan to do to Ellie. That the cure will kill her. And the screaming in your chest doesn't stop. She's a child. She's a person. And when you try to stop them, they lock you in a room like you're the one who betrayed the cause. Thrashing against the wooden door, slamming your shoulder repeatedly. Throwing objects in the room against the small pane of glass in the door. It feels like a lost cause. You're caged. A caged fucking dog. Betrayed by the light.

firefly!reader who hears the gunfire echo through the halls, and knows it's him. Of course, it's him. The blood trail, the dead silence. Joel kicks open the door, panting, wild-eyed. "Come on," he says. He doesn't explain. You don't ask.

firefly!reader who drives away from the hospital in a haze, Ellie unconscious in the back seat, Joel's hands tight on the wheel. Your fingers brush his thigh. He doesn't move away. His jaw tightens. "They would've killed her," he mutters, "I couldn't let them."

You nod.

firefly!reader who sits beside Joel later that night, both of you watching Ellie sleep under a canopy of stars.

And finally, finally, you say it. "I would've done the same." Joel looks at you, eyes full of something too raw to name.

And he says, simply, "I know."

"Y'know.. they used to force it into our heads," You inhale deeply, "when you're lost in the darkness… look for the light." Eyes dazed against the stars, then back to Ellie, as if she might disappear if you look away too long.

Who were you if not a firefly? If not, someone who believed in a new hope?

A few long beats of silence pass before he finally speaks:

"Used to think that meant somethin’. Lookin’ for the light." He shakes his head, voice low, "But turns out, light can lie, too."

Then he looks at you. Long, thoughtful.

"You? You ain’t a lie. That counts for more."

reader who loves him.

Not in spite of the monster. Because of the man. Because of the things he still tries to protect, even when the world gives him no reason to do so. Because even when hope dies, he still chooses you.

Not in the last two years, anyway. The cold always came early, sharp and cruel. It gnawed at the town, and at Tommy—tightening its grip with each passing day.

Illness had started to spread, food stores had thinned, and every home begged for more insulation than they had to give.

And through it all, he carried the burden—Jackson’s protector, whether he asked for it or not.

You hated how powerless you felt.

Ideas buzzed endlessly in your head, half-baked plans and desperate wishes—none of them enough.

Sleep had become a stranger. Guilt made sure of that.

The front door creaked open, slow, as if even the hinges understood the weight of the man walking through the entry. Tommy's boots hit the floor with a dull thud. You could hear him exhale as he hung up his coat—bone-tired and quiet.

Upstairs, you sat still, listening.

You could hear it on him. The heaviness. The wear in every breath.

It twisted something weary in your chest.

And still—what could you do?

All you had was your love. Your presence.

Silent prayers that no one else would fall ill.

That no more names would be added to the list of the lost.

That he wouldn’t lose himself beneath it all.

“Tommy?”

Your voice was soft, coaxing, as your hands pulled your hair into its usual protective twist for bed. “I’m upstairs.”

You heard the stairs groan beneath his weight. Slow steps. Heavy. You pictured his hand dragging along the banister like he was holding himself upright with it.

He was.

When he appeared in the doorway, your heart ached at the sight of him. His face was blank, jaw tight, eyes darker than usual—not from lack of sleep, but from everything else.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything right away.

You tried to keep your voice light. “Did you eat anything?”

“No.”

Just that. A clipped syllable, tossed carelessly into the air between you.

You sat up straighter. “You should’ve grabbed somethin’. I left soup on the stove.”

He shrugged off the comment like it was a coat he didn’t feel like wearing. “Didn’t feel like it.”

"Oh—"

"I can grab you a bowl," You blinked. "Tommy—"

"Can we not?" he muttered, already tugging off his shirt, turning his back to you. His shoulders were hunched, tense like a coiled wire.

Your stomach tightened. “Not what?”

“This." He gestured vaguely. "The questions. The fussin’."

"...I just want five goddamn minutes without someone needing somethin’ from me.”

Five goddamn minutes without your suffocating love.

Isn't that it? Isn't that what he really meant?

You stared at him, stunned by the bite in his voice. “I’m not someone from town, Tommy. I’m not asking you to fix a generator or build a fence—"

"… I’m asking if you’re okay…"

"… If you’ve eaten.”

He turned to face you, exasperation flaring behind his eyes. “And what do you want me to say, huh? That I’m not okay? That everything’s goin’ to shit and I can’t stop it? You think sayin’ it out loud makes it better?”

He just isn't himself these days.

Not the man you married.

Not the man you fell in love with.

“No,” you said, voice rising in spite of yourself. “But shutting me out doesn’t make it better either.”

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw twisting like he wanted to say something worse.

But, he bit it back.

“I’m tired,” he said finally, like that explained everything.

Like that excused all of it.

Silence settled between you, cold and thick. He sat on the edge of the bed, back to you again. You didn’t reach for him. Neither of you spoke.

And after a while, you leaned your head back against the headboard, hands still tangled in your half-finished updo. The sound of wind whistled faintly through the old windows.

It was cold in the house, but colder between the two of you.

Weeks since you had last been intimate.

Days since the last time you had eaten dinner together.

Minutes since the last time you had looked at each other.

Seconds since the last time you thought of each other.

Maybe this was the breaking point.

Not the kind that comes with shouting or slammed doors—but the quiet, bitter kind. The kind that settles in the chest and whispers you’ve had enough.

Maybe tonight you were done pretending that his silence didn't scrape at your insides.

That every sigh, every shift in the sheets, wasn’t treated like a personal offense.

You stood up slowly, breath steady but hands a little tight around the pillow.

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” you said, voice low, final—not angry, just… finished. You grabbed your water bottle off the nightstand, the metal clinking against your ring.

Behind you, Tommy shifted, but didn’t speak. Not right away. You were halfway to the door when his voice cut through the dark.

“What, now you’re punishin' me?”

You turned, the weight in your chest heavy. “No, Tommy. I’m giving us space. You don’t want me near you right now, and I’m not gonna beg for scraps of patience you don’t have.”

His expression darkened. “You think this is about you?” He gave a humorless chuckle and ran a hand down his face. “Christ. I can’t even be tired without it turnin’ into a fight.”

“You’re not just tired,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, level.

“You’re angry."

"And mean."

"… And I get that things are hard right now, but I’m not the enemy.”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked away, jaw tense, like the words were too much.

Like you were too much.

And maybe you were.

For tonight, at least.

So you turned.

Left the room with your pillow clutched tight to your chest, like it might hold the pieces of you still trying to stay soft. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but it was nothing compared to the chill in that bedroom.

Out here, at least, the air didn’t feel so heavy. You could breathe without the sharp edges.

Downstairs, you settled onto the couch. The cushions were stiff, unfamiliar. You pulled the blanket up over your legs and stared at the dark ceiling for a long while.

It had been nearly two years since you last slept alone.

When you got married, Tommy had made a quiet vow—not just in words, but in practice.

He stopped working nights, made a point to come home, to come to bed.

No matter how hard the day had been, no matter how tired or withdrawn he felt. He always made it back to you.

And those nights mattered—whether they passed in conversation, on-and-on, or in silence, with a book in your lap or his head on your chest.

He was there.

Always.

Every night ended with him. And most mornings began with his warmth still lingering beside you.

Until now, that is.

Now the absence was sharp, jarring in its unfamiliarity. You lay back, blinking at the ceiling. Pretty unsure if sleep would come at all.

Morning arrived without mercy.

Early light filtered through the curtains, indifferent to your unrest. It felt like you’d slept maybe two hours—scattered, shallow fragments of rest between the tossing and the waking.

Every groan of the old house, every twack of wind or branch against the windows pulled you back to the surface. Sleep had never been this fragile—not when you had his arms around you.

You'd almost forgotten how much quieter your mind was when he held you.

Was the world always this loud?

Even so, even bone-tired, you rose. Slowly, peeling yourself from the couch. Your body ached from the angles of the cushions, the way they never gave quite enough support. The living room was still, untouched by anyone else. Just you. Just cold.

You stood. Stretched out the tightness in your muscles, rolled your shoulders back, and breathed.

Then—against the weight in your limbs—you moved.

Back up the stairs. Not out of hope, exactly, but out of duty. Out of love that still lived, and lingered somewhere in the mess. You didn’t know what you’d say. You didn’t know what would be waiting on the other side of that bedroom door.

But he shouldn’t be alone. Not like this.

And when you finally opened the door—against all odds, against every hope he’d still be there—he wasn’t.

The bed was made. Curtains drawn open, exactly the way you did every morning. But the room was empty. He was already gone.

And just like that, the sinking feeling returned. That familiar, dreadful kind—the one that creeps in when you realize something is beginning to unravel. When the ground shifts beneath you, and nothing feels solid anymore.

The kind of fear that whispers, this is when everything starts to go really, really wrong.

Your chest tightened. That helpless, aching question echoing in your mind,

How are you supposed to carry his burden, when you’re starting to feel like one yourself?

It was that sensation you get when you trip over a sidewalk crack—just for a second, your whole body in freefall. That stutter in your breath, the instant rush of adrenaline as your brain prepares for pain. Just pain. Pain all over.

That’s what this feels like.

That’s what this room feels like.

Still. Clean. And utterly abandoned.

There wasn’t much you could do.

Just exhale.

Breathe in.

Gather yourself for the day ahead.

And send up a silent prayer—to whatever god might still be listening—that they wouldn’t take him from you. Not yet. Not like this. You weren’t finished. Your story wasn’t done.

So you stepped into the bathroom, steadying yourself against the sink. The light was soft, cold against your skin. You moved through the motions because they were the only things you could control.

You slipped off your ring. Then your bracelet. Set them gently on the counter like they might shatter if handled carelessly.

And then you began your morning.

Because what else was there to do but keep going?

You washed your face with the clove and ivory soap a farmer down the street had made just for you. It had come in a basket filled with sweetgrass and other homemade scents—gifts from your wedding day.

Now, these simple things were part of your daily ritual, grounding you in a world that felt anything but steady. And you routinely asked for these products.

Usually—most mornings, you’d pause in front of the mirror and smile softly, your hands would reach up and dab the soap onto Tommy’s face—gentle, playful, tracing through his mustache with quiet laughter.

He always let you.

Every single time.

That small act, so ordinary, had become a language of its own—one that spoke of tenderness beneath the weight of everything else. And, you hadn't done that today.

After your morning ritual, you stepped out into the gray light of Jackson’s small town market.

The heart of the community when everything else felt fragile.

The chill in the air bit at your cheeks, but you barely noticed.

There was work to be done. People to help.

You spent the morning helping vendors unload crates, set up tables, and arrange produce with practiced care. Each small task felt heavy—not just from the cold, but from the weight of knowing Tommy carried the town on his back.

And today, you were determined to carry some of it for him.

Even if you weren't on speaking terms.

A few familiar faces caught your eye—Mrs. Harper, already at her flower stall, smiled softly as you helped her lift a box of fresh daisies.

“Thanks, dear. You always make things easier.”

You smiled back, brushing a stray hair from your face. “We do what we can.”

At the bread stand, Mr. Lawson handed you a warm loaf with a grateful nod. “Tommy’s lucky to have you.”

Was he?

Was he really lucky? Or had the weight pressing down on him blurred the lines between what he noticed and what he feared to see?

By midday, your hands were raw, fingers cracked from cold and work, your feet aching from hours on unforgiving ground.

But you pushed forward anyway.

An older woman had asked you to fetch a crate from the back, and you’d agreed without hesitation. You trudged through the snow, the cold biting through your gloves as you pulled them tighter, careful not to drop the crate.

Then—The sudden crunch of boots behind you made you turn sharply.

Tommy.

Steadfast. Solid.

Before you could say anything, his hands caught your wrist, firm but gentle.

“Are you okay?” His voice was softer than it had been in weeks—less command, more question, more a fragile confession caught in his throat.

“Tommy—” You exhaled, startled by the sudden contact, your eyes locking onto his as if trying to read the worry etched deep beneath his steady gaze.

“I’m fine.” Your words came quick, but unsure. “What’s—what’s wrong?”

He hesitated, swallowing hard. His eyes flicked down to your left hand, the absence of the wedding band that you didn't know about glaring like a missing piece of a puzzle he wasn’t ready to face.

“You’re not wearing your ring,” he said quietly, his voice taut—tight with a panic that trembled just beneath the surface.

What?

You shook your head firmly, a silent no. Slowly, deliberately, you slipped your glove off, heart sinking as your fingers searched for the familiar weight.

It wasn’t there.

You must have left it in the bathroom after your morning routine—forgotten in the rush of thoughts and the quiet chaos inside your mind.

“Shit—” you breathed out, the word sharp and tangled with regret. “No, no… I forgot. I must’ve been thinking too hard… and just left without putting it back on.”

He shifted uneasily, a flicker of doubt shadowing his eyes—like maybe he wasn’t sure if he believed you.

“Hey,” you murmured, lifting your bare, gloveless hand slowly to his jaw. Your fingers traced the line gently, sliding back until your thumb rested softly against his cheekbone.

“I’m still your wife.”

“That doesn’t change,” you said quietly but fiercely, “... just because I slept on the couch last night. It doesn’t change because you carry a weight that feels like the whole damn world.”

Your voice held steady beneath the tremor of everything left unsaid—a tether meant to hold him close, even when everything else felt like it might unravel.

He exhaled slowly, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—though it hadn’t yet reached the shadows in his eyes.

His hand slipped into the pocket of his worn jeans and pulled out the ring. A simple silver band, rough and weathered, crowned with the largest gem he’d been able to find in this fractured world—still bold, still fierce. About the size of a pea, catching the light like a stubborn spark.

“Oh no,” you teased, a soft laugh escaping as your fingers reached for the ring. “You’re gonna have to get down on one knee if you want to give this back to me.”

He hummed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing with a spark of mischief.

“Well, if I did it once…” His grin twisted into something fond and teasing. “I reckon I can do it again.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling low. “Good… ‘Cause it’s only payback.”

“Payback?” he echoed, sliding the ring onto your finger with a touch both gentle and reverent.

You smirked, nudging him lightly. “Payback for being just like your brother. A grumpy ass.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Hey, I’m not that bad.”

“Oh, come on.” Your grin deepened, teasing but warm. “You’re a hell of a lot worse. But honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Tommy’s smile softened, the rough edges melting away as he closed the distance between you, pulling you in just a little tighter.

“Yeah, well… lucky for you, I’m stubborn as hell.”

You exhaled, slow and steady, your fingers weaving through the roughness of his hairline, tracing the familiar lines until you drew him closer still. His hands found your waist, steady and sure, anchoring you both.

“As stubborn as a bull,” you murmured, pressing gentle, scattered kisses to the planes of his face—each one a small claim, a quiet promise of holding.

Tommy’s lips curved into a crooked grin, the kind that made your heart skip—a flash of the man you knew beneath all the weight and worry.

“You know,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “if I’m a stubborn bull, you’re definitely the matador.” He gave you a playful shove, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Always finding ways to make me follow your lead.”

You laughed, nudging him back. “Someone’s gotta keep your ass in line.”

He winked, that familiar cocky edge sliding back into his voice as his fingers tangled in your hair with a possessive ease.

“Yeah? Well, don’t get used to it. I’m a wild one.”

You smiled softly, your breath warm against his skin as he pulled you closer, the weight between you easing, if only for a moment, a fleeting second. “And that’s exactly why I’m sticking around.”

With a reluctant grin, you pulled away just enough to break the spell.

“Come on, get back to work. I’ll see you at home.”

You pressed a few lingering kisses along his jawline, savoring the quiet closeness before stepping back and reaching down for the crate, the cold biting at your fingertips but your heart a little lighter.

Home was a refuge—warmer than the biting cold outside.

Wrapped in the steady glow of the fireplace you’d left smoldering, just enough to chase the chill but not so much to waste fuel.

By the time Tommy came home, the house hummed with quiet comfort. You were already curled up in bed, half-lost between sleep and wakefulness, fingers loosely clutching the worn book resting in your lap—its pages blurred by your drifting thoughts.

Exhausted. You were exhausted.

The door creaked softly behind you, and then his presence filled the room before you even saw him.

He moved quietly, shrugging off his coat and slipping out of his boots without a sound. He slid beneath the covers beside you, his arms folding around your waist—steady, warm—a silent promise that no matter how heavy the world pressed down, you were still his.

Here. Now. Safe.

“Miss me?” he murmured into the hollow behind your ear, his voice low, softened by something tender and raw.

You settled into the curve of his neck, breathing out the day’s weight.

“Always.”

But then, with a playful grimace, you pushed at his arms.

“But—your hands… they’re so fucking cold.”

Tommy grinned against your skin, voice teasing as he tightened his hold just enough to spark a little fire between the chill.

“Cold hands, warm heart. You get the full package, don'tcha?”

You rolled your eyes, a soft laugh escaping you. “Seriously, you’re freezing.”

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating through your skin like a familiar pulse. “Yeah? Then warm me up.” His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, cool at first but purposeful, settling on the curve of your hips before sliding slowly upward.

A sharp gasp caught in your throat, breath hitching as you barely managed to say his name. “To—”

But he silenced you, his mouth claimed yours—urgent and fierce, but tender all at the same time. Then his hands traced the path of your stomach with deliberate patience, pausing just beneath your fluttering ribs.

His lips moved against yours with a slow, steady heat, tracing promises. His hands, cold and sure, slid from your ribs to your sides, grounding you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

You melted into him, breath mingling, heart beating in time with his. The cold from earlier faded away, replaced by the fire he always managed to kindle.

That burning pool in your belly.

When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were soft, searching, and a little vulnerable. “You alright?”

You nodded, voice barely a whisper. “Better than I’ve been in days.”

A slow, tender smile curved his lips as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Me too.”

You tilted your head, letting out a soft yawn into the quiet space beside him. His smile deepened, fingers leaving your hair, gently gripping your cheeks between his pointer finger, and thumb.

Tilting until you meet his stare.

“Fallin' asleep on me?”

“The couch wasn’t exactly welcoming,” you murmured, pursing your lips in mock protest beneath his touch. A soft squish.

“Too bad,” he breathed, his head dipping down to rest against the hollow of your neck. “There’s a whole lot I’ve been wanting to do to you tonight.”

Every evening, like clockwork, neighbors would wander by with beers in hand or a bag of venison fresh from the hunt, waving you over with that easy, worn-down grin.

It was their way of saying, 'Thank you for this safe place.'

You and Tommy—you’d stand on the porch, the warm light spilling over the wooden railings, watching the flicker of bonfires and hearing laughter ripple through the night.

Sometimes you’d sip your drink, sometimes you’d just hold Tommy’s hand and let the noise fade into something quieter—a reminder that here, in this wild little town, you had something steady. Something worth holding onto.

It wasn’t like you hated all the food. Or the invites.

You weren’t exactly an introvert—never had been. You liked people, liked the easy comfort of familiar faces, and the quiet hum of a small town gathering.

But sometimes, you just wanted to shut the door behind you, curl up close with Tommy, and disappear from the world until Monday rolled around again.

You imagined it often: staying in bed late, feigning innocence as you made him late for morning patrol, maybe even begging him not to go at all—to just stay tangled up in the sheets, right there beside you.

The food at these parties was… well, it was interesting.

Nothing ever looked outright bad, but the generosity of these families often came with a side of weird.

Lamb, for example. How in the hell did they even find a lamb out here? You tried to smile, tried to pretend you weren’t eyeing the strange cuts on your plate with suspicion.

That night, after one of those dinners, you couldn’t shake it. Your body felt stiff and heavy, like your skin was too tight around your bones. Nausea churned low in your stomach, but you didn’t want to make a fuss.

You told Tommy it was fine, that you just needed to sleep it off.

But when three in the morning crept in, the quiet was shattered. You were bent over the toilet, bile burning your throat, the sound barely loud enough to stir him from his sleep.

Tommy was there in an instant, steady hands on your back, voice low and rough with worry.

“Hey—hey. It’s alright. I’m here.”

He held your hair back with steady hands, careful but firm enough to keep it from falling into your face.

His fingers found little spots on your scalp and scratched gently, like he was trying to soothe something deeper than just the sickness—the kind of quiet comfort only he could give.

His brow was knitted tight, that rough, protective look he wore when he didn’t know how to fix what was wrong. You hated seeing him like that—worried, helpless—but he was never the type to just stand by.

“You think you ate somethin’ bad?” His voice was low, rough around the edges but soft when it was just for you.

You gave a weak shake of your head, tasting bile again, but managing a faint, half-smile through the nausea. “Maybe the food. Or maybe I’m just weak-willed.”

He snorted, the sound mixing with his quiet chuckle. “You? Weak? Nah. You’re tougher than half the people I know.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But right now, your body felt like it was turning against you, and no amount of bravado could stop that.

Tommy’s eyes never left yours. He pulled a damp cloth from the bathroom sink and wiped your forehead gently, his touch careful like he was handling something fragile—even if you didn’t feel that way to yourself.

“You don’t get sick like this,” he said, voice thick with concern. “Not you.”

You bit your lip, swallowing the lump that was rising in your throat.

He knew you better than anyone. He knew when you were holding back, and this wasn’t just a little stomach bug.

“Maybe it’s somethin’ else,” you whispered, voice shaky, "… Anxiety.. who knows."

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “You gonna let me figure it out, or you just gonna sit here and pretend it’s not serious? Cause' if it was me over that toilet, you'd be shittin' fuckin' bricks figurin' it out."

The banter was still there—a shield you both wrapped around yourselves when things got too real. But beneath it, the worry was raw, honest.

He stayed by your side through it all, silent except for the occasional soft word, the small reassurances that made the room feel less cold and less scary.

When you finally settled back against the pillows, exhausted, Tommy pulled a blanket up around you and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand finding yours in the dark.

It had been mostly fine. You’d eaten breakfast that morning—not much, but enough to count. And for a few days, things had settled.

You had your usual energy back, that glow in your eyes Tommy knew better than the back of his hand. You even teased him over dinner like nothing had happened.

He let himself believe you were better. Let him breathe.

But it didn’t last.

That morning at the Tipsy Bison, the air was thick with the smell of sausage, eggs, wood smoke.

Familiar. Ordinary.

And then you flinched—a sudden sharp recoil, your hand shooting up to warn Tommy off like he was a threat, like he could make it worse by being near you.

Before he could say a word, you were gone. Darted toward the bathroom, hand clamped over your mouth, the sound of the door swinging shut behind you loud enough to crack the mood wide open.

Tommy stood there, stunned, like the air had been sucked out of the room.

From the bar, Joel was already rising to his feet.

He hadn’t come in for breakfast—just coffee, just to talk about Ellie’s birthday plans. But his eyes had tracked you the second you walked in. Joel had a quiet way of watching, like he saw more than he let on.

He walked over, slow but steady, nodding toward the swinging bathroom door before turning to Tommy.

“She been sick long?”

Tommy rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how tight the muscles there had gotten. “Couple nights last week. Threw up bad. Thought it was just bad meat or somethin’. Then she was fine. Least, I thought she was.”

Joel didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stared, jaw working, brow drawn the way it always did when he was circling something in his mind—something he already knew, but didn’t want to name just yet.

“She ever get sick like that before?” he finally asked.

Tommy shook his head, “Nah. She’s usually the one takin’ care of me. You think it’s a bug goin’ around?”

Joel’s gaze slid toward the bathroom, and when he looked back at his brother, it was softer somehow.

Not pity—Joel didn’t do pity—but something older.

Something heavy.

“Smell hit her hard?”

Tommy blinked. “Yeah.”

“She tired?”

“All the time, now.”

Joel nodded, slow, like the pieces were all falling into place in his head, even if Tommy hadn’t caught up yet, “She ain’t sick, Tommy.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes, “Then what the hell—?”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at him.

That look that said you know where I’m goin’ with this.

And that’s when it hit him.

Joel didn’t have to say it. He didn’t have to say anything at all. Not when that familiar ache passed behind his eyes—the kind of ache that didn’t belong to the years after the outbreak, but the ones before it.

Joel sighed. “Just… keep an eye on her. That’s all I’m sayin’. Maybe take her to that doc we got… You don’t gotta panic yet.”

The bathroom door creaked open then, and the two men fell silent. Joel patted his baby-brother on the back, once—solid, grounding—and moved away, giving you space.

You looked pale, but steady on your feet. Your eyes met Tommy’s across the room, questioning. He gave you a smile—soft, worried, but full of something else too.

“Sorry, boys…” you hummed, brushing the hair back from your face as casually as you could manage. Your voice had a lightness to it — practiced, bright. “Guess no more cookouts for me, huh?”

You nodded toward the barstools like you were trying to steer the moment somewhere safer, somewhere easier.

The kind of place where everything could stay simple—just Joel, Tommy, and talk of summer cookouts and birthdays instead of the bathroom door you’d just stumbled out of, and the questions that were clearly building behind Tommy’s eyes.

Joel gave a small, understanding smile, the kind that didn’t press too hard. “Yeah, well. Can’t blame you. They were servin’ somethin’ today that looked like it crawled outta the woods and cooked itself.”

You laughed—a little too hard, a little too quick.

“Right? I swear I saw it blink at me on the tray.”

The conversation picked up from there, just like you wanted it to.

Joel launched into a low rumble about Ellie’s birthday—how she’d been dropping hints that weren’t even hints anymore.

"She said, 'i'd kill for a comic book I haven't read yet,' That was yesterday,"

"Day before it was, 'a flamethrower would be sick'."

You leaned in, the corners of your mouth twitching upward. “So… books or explosives. Got it.”

Tommy chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Because the truth was, he wasn’t listening.

Not really.

His eyes were on you—tracing the edges of your face, the new paleness in your skin, the way you kept adjusting your posture like your body didn’t know how to sit right anymore. Your hand rested on the counter, fingers tapping a rhythm that felt restless, distracted.

And beneath the humor, there was a flicker of something… distant in your gaze.

You were talking, smiling, keeping the energy up like it was second nature. But he knew you better than that. Knew the difference between your real laugh and your performance.

And this one? It wasn't a performance. More like a lingering fear. An inkling of something.

Tommy leaned back slightly on his stool, arms crossed, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

She’s deflecting. She knows something’s off. She’s scared to say it out loud.

Joel glanced over at him, catching the look on his face. Said nothing. Just gave the faintest shake of his head. Not yet. Let her lead.

Tommy didn’t answer out loud, but he sighed through his nose and nodded once, subtly.

You were still talking, “Maybe we get her a slingshot. Y’know, low-tech flamethrower. More sustainable,"

"She can take someone's eye out or somethin...'"

And you laughed again, tipping your head back, doing your damned best to keep everything light.

Even if fear clung to your insides. The inkling had planted itself, and you were sure as hell going to run to Maria's house after this.

"Environmentally conscious murder. I like it,” Joel drawled.

But Tommy was still staring. Quietly, carefully, like if he looked hard enough, he’d see through the mask you were wearing—see what you weren’t saying. And underneath the warmth in his chest—the love that never went away—was something else now.

A slow-growing, aching kind of hope.

He was excited.

The sun had already started to climb higher by the time you left the Tipsy Bison.

The light was sharp and golden, dust glinting in the air like tiny flecks of glass. The walk back to your house wasn’t long, maybe ten minutes if you strolled, but Tommy felt every second stretch long and thin between your footsteps.

You were quiet. Too quiet.

Not the relaxed kind of quiet either—not the peaceful, post-laugh, full-bellied kind.

This was tight. Withdrawn. Like the inside of you was folding in on itself.

Tommy walked half a step behind, watching how you carried your weight. Your shoulders hunched slightly forward. Your hand pressed to your side like you were trying to hold yourself steady without making it obvious.

Your skin had that sheen to it—not from the heat, not entirely. Something clammy. Cold-sweat kind of sick.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low, casual, but the tension in it betrayed him.

You nodded without looking at him, brushing a hand across your forehead.

“Yeah. Just—god, I think the heat’s gettin’ to me.”

But it wasn’t that warm. Not really. Not compared to the kind of summer heat that Jackson was known for. And you’d survived hotter days in thicker clothes, with more weight on your back and a full patrol route ahead of you.

This? This wasn’t the sun. It was something inside you.

Tommy didn’t press. Just nodded like he believed you and offered his hand. You took it, fingers slotting into his, even though yours were trembling slightly. By the time the house came into view—that small, familiar cabin with the porch he’d patched up in spring, and the garden you insisted on starting even though nothing ever grew right—your steps had slowed.

You paused at the bottom of the stairs, pressing your other hand to your chest like you were trying to quiet something that had started spinning out of control.

Tommy moved in front of you, still holding your hand.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You hesitated—eyes not quite meeting his.

He tilted his head, voice softer now, something deeper threading through it.

“You’re pale, sugar. You’ve been sick off and on for over a week. And now you can’t even walk ten minutes without lookin’ like you might pass out on me.” He gave you a little smile, trying to lighten the weight of his words.

“I know you’re tougher than that. So, what’s goin’ on?”

You shook your head, blinking hard. “I don’t know. I don’t—” You paused. Swallowed. “I just… I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”

Tommy’s chest tightened. “Sure about what?”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him.

And for the first time in days, your eyes stopped performing.

“I think I might be pregnant.”

The words hit him like a soft blow—not painful, but deep. Bone-deep. His breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his ribs.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped closer, hands rising to cup your face, thumbs brushing across your cheeks where the flush had settled in streaks.

“You sure?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“No,"

"Not yet.” Your voice cracked, not from fear, but something more tender.

Fragile.

He nodded slowly, pressing his hand to your jaw, fingers large enough to thread through to the back of your scalp, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin despite the sweat. Despite the nerves. Despite the fact that the world still wasn’t a place where things like this ever came easy.

“How late,” he murmurs.

It isn’t a question. Not really. He’s not asking because he doesn’t know—he’s asking because you do. Because you’ve already counted the days. Because he’s seen it in the way you’ve been moving around the truth, ducking your head and brushing off the nausea, the way your hand finds your stomach when you think he’s not looking.

You don’t answer right away.

Your hands are resting on his chest now, not pushing him away, just resting—like if you let go, you might float off into something too big to hold alone. Your fingers twitch slightly.

“Almost six weeks,” you whisper.

Tommy’s breath leaves him slow.

Like he expected it, and still it knocks something loose in him.

You finally glance up, searching his face.

“I didn’t wanna say it. Not until I was sure. I thought maybe it was just stress—or my body acting weird. But then the smell of food started turning—and I couldn’t keep anything down. And I just knew.”

He lets the silence linger for a beat.

Then two. His thumb strokes absentmindedly along your jaw— gentle, grounding.

“Jesus,” he breathes, more to himself than you. “We… we might actually be—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, not harsh, but urgent. Your voice trembles just enough to betray the weight you’ve been carrying. “Not yet. I can’t—if it’s not, I don’t wanna hear it out loud. Not until I know for sure.”

Tommy nods, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Okay,” he says. Simple. Solid. Like a promise.

“Okay?”

“Yeah—” His voice thickens a little, something tight behind it that he doesn’t bother hiding. “Alright, Sugar,"

"... We’ll wait. No pressure. No rush—just you ‘n me, alright?”

You nod and exhale shakily, leaning your forehead against his chest again. He wraps his arms around you, holding you like he already knows. Like he’s already made space in his chest for something else—someone else.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, and then says quietly, “We’ll go to the doc' in town, Yeah?—tomorrow—just to be sure.”

You nod again, barely.

“Okay.”

Tommy holds you tighter, eyes scanning the horizon over your shoulder like it might give him answers. But the only thing he feels is your heart beating against his—fast, uneven, but real.

Anxious.

Morning came gray and quiet. Overcast skies rolled low above Jackson, pressing the light into something dull and slow, like the day itself was reluctant to begin.

You stood at the top of the stairs, one hand clamped so tightly around the banister your knuckles had gone white.

The wood creaked under your grip, and your other hand hovered near your stomach again, fingers twitching uselessly—like you didn’t know where to place them.

Tommy was downstairs already, boots on, jacket slung over one shoulder. You could hear him moving through the kitchen, pouring coffee neither of you really wanted.

Trying to pretend this was just any other morning.

But you couldn’t pretend.

Your stomach was churning again, not from nausea, not entirely— but from dread. From the impossible weight of what if.

You hadn’t even made it down the first step.

You didn’t want to go.

You didn’t want to hear someone else say it—say it out loud and make it real. Because what if it wasn’t real?

What if the doctor looked at you with that soft, apologetic face people used when they didn’t want to say the truth out loud? Or worse—what if it was real?

And what if you weren’t ready?

A part of you didn’t know if you wanted this.

Not in a world like this.

Not when everything still felt like it could be ripped out from under you at any second.

It wasn’t that you didn’t love Tommy—you did.

So much that it hurt to even look at him some days.

But the idea of bringing someone else into this world—into this life—made something sharp settle in your throat.

Are you strong enough? Strong enough to protect them both?

Footsteps. You didn’t even hear him come to the base of the stairs. Tommy looked up at you, eyes soft, unreadable. “You alright up there?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Instead, your grip on the banister tightened.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you said, voice raw. “I don’t even know if I want this.”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He just looked at you like he always did—with that impossible patience, like he’d wait all day if he had to. His tongue jutting against the inner of his cheek.

“You don’t have to decide any of that right now,” he said quietly. “We’re just gettin’ answers. That’s all.”

You shook your head, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. “But what if I can’t handle the answer?”

He took a step up. Then another. Slow, careful, until he was just one step below you. He reached out, gently brushing his fingers over yours where they were still wrapped around the wood.

“Then we face it together,” he said. “Whatever it is. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him.

And God, he looked so tired—like he’d been up all night thinking too, running the same circles in his mind.

He probably had.

You knew bits and pieces of his childhood.

Nothing there really spelled out; I can't wait to be a dad!

But still, he was there. Steady as ever. Just like always.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. And then, quieter, “Me too.”

You exhaled slowly, chest shaking. The silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t as heavy.

Just lived-in.

You nodded once. Not fully ready—not even close—but willing.

The infirmary was small. Sparse.

A couple of old plastic chairs, a cot pushed against one wall with sheets too white to look trustworthy, and a narrow counter that probably used to be a breakroom table in another life.

It smelled like antiseptic and stale air.

The test sat on the counter like a live grenade.

Not touched. Not looked at.

Just there.

Tommy sat in the chair beside you, legs bouncing. You could feel the motion through the floor. He’d been quiet on the walk here, but now, now that the test was done and the clock was ticking—he couldn’t sit still if he tried.

You were perched stiffly at the edge of your chair, arms wrapped around your stomach.

“Jesus,” you mumbled, “I think I’m gonna throw up again.”

Tommy glanced at you quickly, “Again? We ain't even eat.”

“Doesn’t matter.” You groaned, rubbing your eyes. “My stomach knows something’s wrong.”

He leaned back, lips twitching. “I mean, yeah. We’re sittin’ in a glorified janitor’s closet waitin’ on a test that could change every damn thing we know. I’d be worried if your stomach wasn’t pissed about it.”

You laughed once, sharp and breathy, “You think ten minutes could go any slower?”

Tommy checked his watch like it had betrayed him. “I swear time’s been stuck at seven minutes for the last goddamn fifteen.”

You tilted your head back and stared at the ceiling, trying to breathe, “God, this is worse than patrol. At least when someone’s shootin’ at you, you don’t have to wonder.”

“Speak for yourself,” he muttered. “I’ve seen the way you look at clickers—like you’re already figurin’ out if you can shove me into ‘em and make a run for it.”

"Oh—Ha—Ha." You mock laugh, weakly. “Don’t tempt me.”

The silence returned, but not cold.

Just nervous.

Your eyes drifted back to the test sitting there on the plastic counter. Face down. Innocent.

But somehow, it carried the weight of the entire world in it.

“Feels stupid to be this scared,” you whispered.

Tommy didn’t answer for a second. Then, softly: “It ain’t stupid.”

You turned your head, met his eyes.

“It’s not stupid to wonder if we’re ready,” he continued, “Not in a world like this. Not after everythin’ we’ve seen. Hell, part of me still feels like I’m barely holdin’ it together some days.”

You leaned into him, just enough that your shoulder pressed against his.

“I keep thinkin’ about all the ways this could go wrong,” you admitted.

“Yeah,” he said,

“Me too.”

Silence again. The clock ticked—loud in the still room.

And then:

“I mean,” Tommy said slowly, “... at least if it’s positive, we’ve got a solid excuse to get out of the next five cookouts.”

You laughed, soft.

“And,” he added, nodding seriously, “Ellie’ll probably cry. You know she’ll lose her mind over bein’ some kinda badass apocalypse aunt.”

You gave a low, shaky laugh. “We’d never hear the end of it.”

“Nope.”

More silence. The minutes had almost passed.

You exhaled and stared at the test again. “You look first.”

“Hell no,” he said immediately. “Last time I looked at somethin’ first I ended up on patrol alone for two weeks ‘cause you got mad about a possum.”

“That possum was in our bathroom, Tommy.”

“And I told you—it was probably more scared of you than you were of it—”

“Tommy—”

He turned to you, eyes wide, “What?”

“I think it’s been ten minutes.” It came out more fractured than you had meant it too.

The quiet stretched until it felt unbearable. The test hadn’t moved, hadn’t shifted an inch—just lying there, face-down on the counter like it didn’t hold a future inside it.

You both stared.

Tommy finally let out a long sigh, stood, and rubbed a hand down his face.

“Alright,” he muttered. “If we just sit here, it’s gonna sprout legs and tell us itself.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He glanced at you, then reached for the test with a kind of cautious reverence—like it was holy. Or cursed.

His fingers hovered above it for a second.

“Ready?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

You shook your head.

“No.”

He nodded. “Cool—me neither.”

Then he turned it over.

And looked. His breath hitched. You could only stare at his face—the way it stilled.

All the air in the room seemed to press in, watching, waiting.

Tommy looked up, slow. Eyes wide and soft, like he was trying to process everything all at once.

“Well?” you breathed, voice already shaking.

A long beat. He held the test out toward you with one hand like he didn’t trust himself to speak.

You took it, fingers trembling. One look.

Two lines.

Clear. Definite. No guessing needed.

Your mouth opened. Closed. No sound came.

And then Tommy—ever the idiot—cleared his throat and muttered, “Guess I should’ve started workin’ on the nursery.”

You let out a choked sound, something between a laugh and a sob.

“Tommy—”

“I mean, I don’t even know what babies need. A crib? A rattle? A very tiny gun—”

“Tommy, please—” you were laughing now, but it cracked, the edges fraying fast.

“We could call it Clicker if it’s ugly—”

And just like that, your knees buckled.

You sank into the nearest chair, hands covering your mouth as the first sob tore out of you—raw and loud and helpless. You didn’t even know where it came from, only that it had been waiting.

Waiting for this moment. For confirmation. For truth.

Tommy was by your side instantly. Dropping to his knees, both hands on you—arms, shoulders, whatever he could touch.

“Hey. Hey, Sweetheart, look at me—”

"Look at me.”

You couldn’t. Your face was wet, hands shaking. The fear was everywhere, full-bodied. Your whole world had tipped on its axis and you couldn’t get a grip on anything.

“I’m scared,” you gasped, “I’m so scared. What if I mess this up? What if something happens? What if I’m not enough?”

"Jesus fuck—Two people to worry about.. I can't—I can't—"

Tommy cupped your face, firm and steady. “Hey, look at me. Please.” You did. Barely. Your vision blurred and eyes red.

“You won’t mess this up,” he said, voice low and fierce. “You hear me? You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known. You’ve kept us alive. You’ve held me together more times than I can count. And you won’t be alone in this.”

You let out another sob, softer now, body sagging forward until he caught you. Held you.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whispered.

“Neither do I,” he murmured into your hair.

“We’ll figure it out... Together. That’s all we’ve ever done.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, still crying, but holding him tighter now. He didn’t let go.

And for a while, you just stayed there. In that too-bright little room. With the test forgotten on the counter and the whole future quietly rearranging itself in your arms.

The walk back was slow, the kind of slow that lets the world catch up with you—but this time, it wasn’t heavy.

It was softer, almost like the tension had slipped out through cracks you hadn’t noticed before.

You fell into step beside Tommy, shoulders brushing, breath mingling in the cool morning air.

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “Hell, I’ll ask Joel to give me a crash course. He’s seen more kids than I have—well, in his own way.” His grin softened when he looked over at you. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”

You felt something warm twist in your chest, the edge of your nerves dulling just a bit. “You askin' Joel for lessons?” you said, a smile tugging at your lips. “That’s kinda exciting, actually.”

He glanced at you, eyes softening, “Yeah? Maybe it is.”

You squeezed his hand lightly. “Maybe this whole thing’s not as terrifying as it feels.”

Tommy nodded slowly. “Yeah. We’ll learn."

The walk back felt lighter now, and for the first time in quite awhile, the future didn’t seem quite so scary.

Sunday night came with the soft clatter of dishes and the low hum of familiar voices filling Tommy and your small kitchen.

The smell of stew simmered on the stove, and Ellie was already teasing Tommy about how he “overcooked the potatoes again,” just like every week.

Joel leaned back in his chair, eyes soft but watchful—always tuned to the undercurrents in the room.

You sat beside Tommy, hands intertwined under the table, your fingers laced tight like a secret you both held close.

Dinner moved along with laughter and easy banter, the kind that made the walls feel less like shelter and more like home.

And then, as Ellie reached for the last piece of bread, Tommy cleared his throat—a rare thing that pulled everyone’s attention.

“If we told you guys something… a secret, almost,” you exhaled, fingers writhing in Tommy’s palm, “… would you keep it with us?”

Joel’s eyes narrowed just slightly, the kind of look that said I’m listening, but don’t test me.

Ellie’s smile flickered into something quieter, more curious.

Tommy nodded, his voice low but sure. “It’s big. Good big.”

Ellie leaned forward, elbows on the table, her grin replaced by a look that was almost reverent. “Try me.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to get out. Then, steadying yourself, you spoke.

“We’re gonna have a baby.”

The words hung in the air, soft but undeniable.

Joel blinked, his usual tough-guy mask cracking just a little. “You’re serious?”

Tommy’s grin broke free. “Yeah. Ain’t no joke.”

Ellie’s eyes lit up like the sun had just come out after years. “Holy shit!” she bursted out, the words tumbling free before she could stop them.

Joel’s eyes snapped to her, sharp and unyielding for just a moment. “Language,” he muttered low, but then the edges of his mouth twitched into that rough, almost-grin he reserved for moments that mattered.

You let out a breath, nodding toward Tommy.

“So… you guys gotta help us tell the entire town.”

Tommy’s grin deepened, a spark lighting in his eyes. “Yeah. We ain’t exactly keepin’ this quiet, not with you two around.”

Ellie laughed, her usual fire flickering back. “Guess everyone’s gonna know sooner or later.”

Joel leaned forward, voice softer now, steady, a nod, “Well, you got us. We’ll make sure Jackson hears it from the right folks.”

You felt the tight coil of fear inside you loosen just a bit, replaced by something warmer—the kind of steady, fierce love that had carried you this far.

Ellie’s grin turned mischievous. “Hell, I’m already planning the biggest damn welcome party this town’s ever seen.”

Joel shook his head, chuckling quietly. “You’re impossible.”

"n' they're called.. baby showers.. not 'welcome parties.."

. . .

It was only two months in that you had finally realized just how much of a monster this pregnancy was turning him into.

“Tommy,” you exhaled, leaning heavy against the stair railing, one hand pressed to the swell of your lower belly—still decently flat, but betraying you in all the quiet ways. “I’m havin’ a kid, not dying. I can go on patrol for a bit longer…”

He turned from the front door, boots half-laced, eyes narrowing like you’d just told him you were joining a damn raider crew.

“Oh yeah?” he drawled, setting his foot back down and folding his arms over his chest. “And when was the last time you made it two blocks without needing to sit down or puke your guts out?”

You glared. “I made it three yesterday.”

He arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Only ‘cause I carried you the last one.”

You let your head thunk lightly against the railing, groaning. “You’re suffocatin’ me, Miller.”

“I’m keepin’ you alive,” he corrected, taking a few steps closer, “There’s a difference.”

You squinted at him.

“Barely.”

Tommy gave you that grin, the one that meant he knew damn well he was being an ass—and that he couldn't care less.

“I swore to protect you. That didn’t come with a clause about unless you’re real stubborn and feelin’ fine for five minutes.”

You shoved lightly at his chest when he got close, but he just cupped your cheek, warm hand steadying your half-sagging posture.

“I love you,” he murmured, serious now. “But you’re not goin’ back out there with our baby in your gut and a pack on your back.”

You blinked up at him. “You’re really pullin’ the baby in your belly card?”

“Damn right I am.”

"Gross. Makes me sound like a shell." You exhaled. He kissed your forehead, gentle and firm. You melted into it despite yourself.

Low resolve. Blame the hormones.

“Fine,” you began, “But I’m still gonna yell at you for bossin’ me around.”

He smiled, tongue swiping against the front of his teeth, “Please, sweetheart, it keeps me goin'.”

. . .

Tommy’s hum was low and steady, a quiet thread weaving through the soft morning light spilling into the room.

His fingers brushed your hair back, careful, like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

The scent of breakfast floated in—smoky, warm. A promise of normalcy after the storm.

“You gonna sleep all day?” His voice was gentle, almost teasing.

You exhaled, sinking your face deeper into the pillow, hiding the tired ache in your eyes. “Well… I was up all night.”

He raised a hand in mock surrender. “I slept through it. I know—I’m a monster—sorry.”

You cracked a tired smile. “Yeah, you are.”

Your eyes drifted to the crib near the window, soft light casting gentle shadows over the small, sleeping form.

A quiet breath escaped your lips—a mix of exhaustion and something like peace.

“Go on, Daddy,” you said, voice light but sure. “Get a move on.”

The words slipped out easy, like a promise wrapped in encouragement, as you pushed yourself up from the bed, steadying against the weight of your body and the weight of sleep.

Tommy caught your gaze, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Alright, alright... I’m on it.”

He rose, the faint creak of the floor beneath him filling the quiet room, and with a glance back at you—soft, full of unspoken love.

masterlist

Tonight was the Christmas dinner. The big one.

And just like every year since you first settled behind these walls, you were hosting it.

It had only been a year ago that you brought the idea to Tommy—transforming the holiday from a quiet, private gathering to a community-wide Tipsy Bison feast. “Why keep it small,” you’d said, chin in his lap as he sat in that old armchair, “when there’s so much love to go around?”

You still remembered the way he’d looked at you then—like you’d strung up the stars yourself. His fingers had drifted through your hair, the other hand warm against your cheek. “You’re perfect, ain’t ya?” he whispered, not asking, just stating something true.

Now, the scent of roasting meat wafted through the air, kids screamed in the distance as they pelted snowballs, and inside the hall, you stood with your arms crossed, brow furrowed at the crooked evergreen bough above the hearth.

"Higher," you said, voice sweet but firm, hands settled on your hips as you leaned back to assess the greenery.

Tommy let out a long, theatrical grunt from where he stood on the chair, stretching just a little more to pin the garland. "You sure this ain’t high enough? I’m about to pull a hamstring for a damn pine branch."

You squinted, tilting your head, "Mmm… now a little to the left."

He froze. "…Sweetheart," he warned, glancing over his shoulder with narrowed eyes, "if you ask me to move this thing one more time, I swear—"

"You'll what?" you teased, stepping closer, a grin tugging at your lips. "Grumble at me until I die of old age? It's workin'…"

Tommy chuckled, low and fond, shaking his head. “You really like bossin’ me around, huh?”

"You make it too easy," you said, eyeing a bit of snow from his shoulder that had stuck to his coat when he rushed in from patrol. "Besides, you’re the one who ran here the second you got back. I didn’t even ask."

He stepped down from the chair then, hands going to your waist, eyes sparkling with something warm and wicked, “Didn’t need to ask. You say jump, I’m already in the air.”

You rolled your eyes, even as your heart stuttered. “Hopeless.”

“Hopelessly in love,” he corrected, leaning in to steal a kiss. “With a woman who makes me decorate trees after I’ve walked ten miles in the snow.”

You laughed against his mouth, fingers tangling in his coat collar. “And you love every minute of it.”

"Only 'cause it's you," he murmured, voice dropping just enough to melt something inside you. "Now… how crooked is it, really?"

"…Crooked enough that you’re gonna need to get back up there.”

Tommy groaned dramatically, already turning for the chair again. “Lord, give me strength.”

“Hey!” a familiar voice echoed through the mess hall entrance, followed by the unmistakable stomp of snow-covered boots. “This place looks sick!”

You turned just in time to see Ellie practically burst through the doors, cheeks red from the cold, a scarf wrapped around her neck like she got tangled in it mid-run.

Joel followed behind her, a little slower, shaking the snow from his coat, feet gliding against the entrance lip to keep snow from coming in, arching a brow at her enthusiasm.

Ellie spun around, arms stretched wide. “You guys really went all out this year—look at this!” She gestured dramatically to the garlands, the lights, the long tables draped in handmade cloths.

“Glad it passes inspection,” you said with a grin, brushing your hands off on a stray dish towel, shedding any dirt or pine oil.

Tommy once again hopped off the chair with a soft thud, muttering, “She’s lucky she showed up after the garland wars.” … “Only one casualty,” Tommy said, shooting you a playful glare. “My damn patience.”

Joel gave a faint, amused huff and patted Tommy’s shoulder on his way in, “It’s like… Hallmark threw up in here." Though it was quiet enough that only Tommy let out a huff of air in amusement.

You leaned in, stage-whispering toward Ellie, “Don’t let him fool you. He’s been humming Christmas songs under his breath all day.”

“Betray me, woman," Tommy gasped, placing a hand over his heart, mock-offended.

Ellie rolled her eyes, grinning widely. “You guys are gross.”

“You say that now,” Joel muttered, pulling off his gloves, “but wait ‘til she’s ropin’ you into hanging ornaments next year.”

Ellie made a face. “Yeahhhh—I’ll just be in charge of the music.”

“Only if it’s not that weird stuff you like,” Tommy teased. “Last year you played that sad punk song about—what was it—dyin' in the snow?”

“It’s poetic! It's Slipknot!” Ellie defended, dramatically offended. “It has layers!”

You just laughed and moved to straighten one of the place settings, glancing up at the group with a warmth that settled in your chest like the glow of a fireplace.

This was what you’d wanted when you first brought up the idea: a night where nobody had to be on guard, where jokes could be tossed around with ease, and where people who'd fought so hard to survive could finally just be.

Joel’s eyes wandered the room, lingering on the wreath above the hearth, the tables arranged with care. He nodded, quietly approving. “Looks good.”

High praise, coming from him.

You gave a little mock bow. “Why, thank you, Mr. Miller.”

He raised his lip, that semblance of a smile, “You’re welcome, Mrs. Miller.”

Tommy sidled up behind you then, slipping an arm around your waist. “If we’re done admirin’ her genius, how about y’all help set out the cider?”

Ellie perked up. “You made cider?”

Tommy grinned. “Well… mostly she did. I just stirred it once or twice and took the credit.”

“Shocking,” you said, elbowing him lightly as you walked toward the kitchen, his arm still draped around you.

Ellie bounded after you. “Okay, but is there whipped cream? Because if there’s no whipped cream, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

Joel sighed behind her. “Kid, it’s cider, not dessert.”

“Says you.” Was that a fat joke?

Tommy chuckled, then turned his head slightly, murmuring in your ear as the others bickered playfully behind you. “This right here? This is why I don’t mind bein’ bossed around by you.”

You looked up at him, heart soft. “Because I make great cider?”

He leaned down, brushed his nose against your temple. “Because you make this feel like home.”

𓇼ㅤ ㅤ𓂂ㅤㅤ ˚ㅤㅤ ◌ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏

“Ellie!" you called, already halfway back to the box of leftover decorations, “... you’re in charge of the string lights. Grab Jesse and have him help you run them along the ceiling beams.”

“On it!” she shouted back, already tossing her scarf toward a chair.

“Wait—why me?” Jesse called as he walked through the door, blinking snow out of his lashes.

“Because you’re tall, and you just got here,” you said, pointing towards the box.

Tommy let out a low whistle, watching you move from one task to the next like a conductor in front of a half-chaotic orchestra, “Lord help us. She’s in general mode now.”

Joel, who was currently uncoiling a bundle of firewood near the hearth, smirked under his breath. “Don’t fight it, Brother. It’s easier just doin’ what she says.”

You pointed a finger in their direction without even looking. “Speaking of—which one of you is getting the fire started?”

“Already on it,” Tommy said, tossing a small log into the hearth. “You want it roaring or romantic?”

“Roaring,” you replied. “It’s freezing out there.”

Tommy crouched beside his brother, striking a match. “Don’t think she knows how not to make things romantic.”

You caught that one and just smiled as you passed, hands full of small cloth-wrapped bundles for the tables.

You weren’t barking orders—no—no one would’ve called it that.

You had a softness in your voice, a way of asking that made people want to please you. Like it was their idea all along. It wasn't manipulative, but it was enough of a push that make people want to entertain. Maternal. Caring.

Ellie was already arguing with Jesse over how to untangle the lights, their banter echoing through the hall. “No, you loop it over that beam—what do you mean it’s stuck? Use your freakishly long arms!”

“Long arms?”

“Freakishly.”

You laughed to yourself, their bickering just adding warmth to your heart, adjusting a centerpiece on the nearest table, already moving to the next one.

There was a flow to all of it. Like the dinner wasn’t just being set up—it was being built by hands that wanted people to feel seen, safe, and loved.

You weren’t just hosting a meal.

You were holding a whole town’s worth of worn-down hearts together with pinecones and cider.

And maybe that’s what struck you, as you paused for a breath and watched them all—Tommy, grinning beside the growing fire; Joel, quiet and steady as ever; Jesse helping Ellie, begrudgingly, reach for another beam.

They were all yours, in some small way.

Not possession. Not only romance. Just… yours.

Trusted you. Looked to you.

It felt almost sacred.

You didn’t have to be just Tommy's woman. But it felt like, for the ones who had no one else—you were.

And that was enough.

He caught your eye from across the hall, hands now dusted with soot, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You gonna sit down at some point tonight?”

“Eventually,” you said, blowing a hair from your face. “After I single-handedly bring order to the post-apocalyptic North Pole.”

He chuckled, stepping forward to press a kiss to your temple. “You know they’re all following you like you hung the moon, right?”

You gave a half-hearted shrug, not out of modesty, but because there was always more to do. “Somebody’s got to keep things moving.”

“And nobody does it better,” he murmured. “But don’t forget to let yourself enjoy it too.”

You leaned into him just for a second, letting the warmth of his chest and the crackling fire fill your lungs. “I am enjoying it. This is joy.”

You pulled away, clapped your hands, and called across the room: “Ellie, when those lights go up, you’re getting the first cup of cider.”

She whooped, hands leaving the ladder Jesse was standing on, “Hell yeah!”

“And Jesse, if you fall off that beam, I’m not bandaging you until after dinner.”

“I’m not gonna fall!” he said, “…probably.”

Tommy laughed beside you, and Joel shook his head as he stoked the fire, a quiet grin forming.

And for just a moment, with the scent of pine, the hum of voices, and the low crackle of warmth in the hearth—this place felt like the safest one on earth.

Taking your break, you slipped out of the main hall and into the kitchen, the swing door creaking gently behind you.

The warm scent of roasted vegetables and spiced cider hung heavy in the air, curling around you like a blanket.

The dishes were set out in organized chaos by Seth—covered platters, still-warm trays, foil-wrapped pots lined up for the eventual dinner.

You moved on instinct, checking lids, stirring where needed, straightening one of the larger trays that had started to tip. The clatter and laughter from the hall was muffled now, just a faint hum behind the door.

You didn’t hear Tommy come in until arms wrapped around your waist from behind, drawing you back into the solid heat of his chest.

“Caught you,” he murmured against your ear.

You grinned, still stirring the pot of mashed potatoes with one hand. “Caught me? I’m working, Miller.”

He moved into the crook of your neck, facial air tickling at air-sensitive skin, voice low and lazy, “Mhm. Always workin’. Always takin’ care of everyone else. Thought I’d steal a minute before you disappeared back into Christmas mode.”

You laughed, setting the spoon down and turning in his arms. “Oh, so now you want to slow down. Not when I was hanging garlands, or setting tables, or bribing Ellie to stop tripping over extension cords—now?”

Tommy leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Exactly now.”

His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs stroking idle circles through your sweater, his other finger through your belt loop to keep you put.

There was something in his eyes—mischief, sure, but also something softer. Admiration was tucked behind the usual boyish charm.

The kind of look that made you feel like the only light in a room full of lamps.

"You know," he said, voice just above a whisper, “you keep runnin’ around makin’ everything beautiful, I’m gonna have to fight off half the damn town.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. “And who exactly would be bold enough to test your claim?”

He grinned. “Nobody if they know what’s good for them.”

You leaned up, brushing a kiss against the corner of his mouth, “Possessive looks good on you, Miller.”

He smirked, but it softened into something else, quick, “I ain’t just proud of you, y’know.”

You tilted your head, curious. “No?”

“I need you,” he said, voice suddenly quiet—serious in the way that made your chest ache a little, “All this—this whole town, this dinner, this life—it runs ‘cause you make it feel like it’s worth buildin’ Worth stayin’ for.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the weight of it. And he saw that in your eyes, because he gave you a small shrug and smiled again, a little more sheepish this time as if removing weight, “Just sayin’. While I got you to myself.”

You kissed him then. Slower, firmer. Your hand came up to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing across the scruff of his cheek. He leaned into it like it was something he’d been waiting for all day.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

“We’ve got about two more minutes before Ellie breaks in here demanding cider again.”

Tommy groaned, dramatically, “Can’t we just barricade the door and say dinner’s canceled?”

You laughed, kissed him once more—just quick this time—and turned back to the trays.

“Help me carry the rolls,” you said with a wink, lifting a basket. “And maybe later, I’ll let you sneak me into the coat closet.”

Tommy grabbed a tray, “Fuckin' Christmas miracle…”

You both walked back out to the hall, hands full of food and hearts full of something far warmer than the fire.

𓇼ㅤ ㅤ𓂂ㅤㅤ ˚ㅤㅤ ◌ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏

The mess hall had shifted entirely.

Where once it had been full of echo and motion, now it buzzed with a gentle hum—laughter bouncing softly off the walls, forks clinking on plates, chairs scraping as people leaned into stories and leaned closer to each other. The scent of roasted root vegetables, smoked meat, and spiced cider filled every corner.

You moved between tables like a steady current, checking on folks, sliding napkins back into place, refilling cider mugs as if it were second nature. Everyone looked so full—not just their plates, but their faces.

Smiling. Relaxed. Safe, for once.

Tommy had already slipped into his seat beside you, a little too proud of how many compliments he’d gotten on your recipes. The combination of your genius and Seth's skills.

You gave him a nudge and sat down at last, your plate mostly neglected, your chest still warm from the earlier kitchen moment.

Then, from the far end of the room, a voice called out, sounding like Eugene.

“Hey, someone’s gotta do a toast!”

A few cheers followed, cups raised in mid-air. Jesse added, “Not it…” quickly, and made a quick motion to lower his head. The future of Jackson just hid from a speech.

She shoved him, grinning. “Come on, don’t be a coward!”

You laughed, shaking your head, trying to retreat into your cider. But then Ellie’s eyes lit up, and she pointed right at you. Little shit.

“Don't hide, Cmon—” she said, smug. “You're the reason any of this came together anyway!”

Tommy turned toward you, eyes already warm. “Got my vote.”

The rest of the room started chiming in. Some teasing, some sincere, but all in agreement.

“Yeah, c’mon!”

“Speech! Speech! Speech!”

You could feel the heat rise in your face, not unwelcome—but definitely a little overwhelming.

Looking at Tommy for help, but he just gave you that look—half fond, half you got this, darlin’.

An even bigger shit.

You cleared your throat, standing slowly, mug still in hand. The chatter dimmed into expectant silence.

“I—uh,” you started, immediately laughing at yourself. “I didn’t really… plan anything.”

Someone from the back shouted, “That makes it better!”

You smiled down at your cider for a second, then looked up.

They were all watching you—not with pressure or scrutiny, but with the kind of warmth that came from knowing you were among people who loved you.

People you’d fed, and worried for, and teased, and built something real with.

So you tried again, this time a little steadier.

“I guess… I just wanted tonight to feel like home. Whatever that means to each of us.” You looked around the room, letting your eyes land on a few familiar faces—Ellie, laughing quietly over her plate; Joel, looking at you with the smallest of nods; Maria, arms crossed but with a smile that said she was proud.

“I know the world doesn’t make much room for softness anymore. But we made this. We kept this. And I think that means something.”

Your voice caught just a little, nerves, but you pushed through it, heart pounding.

“So if you’ve got a full plate, and someone at your table to share it with… then you’re already lucky. And if you don’t have that yet—then you’ve still got this room. These people. This town. And you’ve got us.”

You glanced at Tommy—his eyes didn’t leave you once. There was a glisten there, no hiding it.

“So… cheers,” you finished, lifting your mug with a bashful smile. “To Jackson. To the people who made it home."

The room erupted in soft clinks of mugs, low cheers, and a few watery laughs.

Ellie wiped her eyes in a dramatic-fake-crying motion, and Jesse pounded his hands on the table to add to the claps. Even Joel looked a little off-kilter, quietly murmuring, “That’ll do.” It only earned a breezy eye roll from your features.

You sat down again to Tommy slipping an arm around you, fingers kneading into your jeans pocket, lips pressing to your temple with barely-restrained pride.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, voice low, “Think I fell in love with you all over again.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, smiling like your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Good,” you whispered. “I was starting to worry your resolve was slippin'.”

He chuckled. “Not a fuckin' chance.”

The fire crackled low in the hearth now, casting golden light that danced across the walls.

Plates were being picked at lazily, conversation lulled into warm after-dinner murmurings.

Ellie and Jesse were halfway through a heated card game with Maria pretending not to keep score. Joel was quietly sipping cider, eyes distant but not unkind, adding his finger to the play, telling Ellie which card to deal. Backseat poker-ing.

And next to you, Tommy was fully leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the back of yours. He looked content—belly full, boots stretched out, cheeks still a little pink from the fire. That belt buckle wouldn't last long if he had another bite.

Every so often, he'd glance around the room with that quiet pride, like he couldn't believe he got to be a part of this.

You turned toward him, shifting just enough so that your lips barely grazed the edge of his jaw, quirked near his ear. Your voice dropped, soft as the snow still falling outside.

“Y’know,” you whispered, brushing a hand across his arm, “I was just looking at you, and thinking…”

He glanced at you sideways, the faintest smirk already tugging at his mouth. “Dangerous start, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, “I was thinking… you’re my favorite thing here.”

He tilted his head toward you, eyebrow raised, teasing. “Outta the whole town? Even with the cider?”

“Even with the cider,” you whispered, leaning closer. “Even with the fire, and the lights, and the people I love more than life.”

Tommy’s teasing fell quiet under your voice, his eyes softening as you continued.

“I know I run around makin’ sure everyone’s got a seat, or a spoon, or a slice... I like doing that. But when I sit down next to you… That’s the part that feels like rest. Like breathing.”

You felt him exhale, slow and deep. His hand slid down to lace his fingers through yours, resting between your chairs.

“I love you, Tommy,” you said, still low and quiet, just for him. “I love this with you. All of it.”

He didn’t say anything for a second—not because he didn’t know how, but because he felt it. In his chest. In the place no one else had touched in years.

Then he turned, eyes so full of affection it almost hurt to look at.

He didn't reply.

As vocal as he usually was, sometimes love bit him hard, a little obscure in the back of his memories.

The small comments about his father and childhood. Desert Storm and the way he would clutch the handle of every iron in his grip. This felt like balm to soothe the constant panic.

You gave his hand a squeeze, letting your forehead rest against his temple for just a beat before pulling away.

“Just had to say it. Before the kids start asking for seconds and I forget again.”

Tommy chuckled, brushing a kiss to your temple, then to your cheek, then just beneath your ear. “Say it as many times as you want, sweetheart, I ain’t never gonna get tired of hearin’ it.”

You sat back in your chair, still holding his hand, still wearing that quiet smile.

The world outside was still cold. Still cruel. But here—in the flickering firelight, with laughter echoing and love so thick it was stitched into the walls—you were warm.

𓇼ㅤ ㅤ𓂂ㅤㅤ ˚ㅤㅤ ◌ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏

The mess hall had quieted into that sleepy, late-night hush—candles still flickering low, wax puddled around the wicks. Plates were mostly cleared, chairs pushed back, laughter long since mellowed into the softer kind, the kind that sat under the ribs and stayed there.

Ellie, Jesse, and Dina had darted out an hour ago—something about sleds, or a fort, you hadn’t really caught it. Joel just shouted “Gloves!” before they disappeared into the snow.

Now, it was mostly just the silent, contented ones left.

The ones with sore backs and full bellies and stories that always got better after midnight.

You were leaned against Tommy on a bench along the wall, both of you drowsy and loose-limbed from cider and comfort. He had an arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders, his thumb dragging light circles into your upper arm.

Gail and Eugene were still picking at dessert scraps at a table over, the two of them grinning in that knowing way old friends do. Their love was pure, one so obvious you can see it at first glance.

Joel was near the fire, legs stretched out and sipping from a cup of something strong—his usual kind of quiet, watchful.

“Y’know,” Gail said suddenly, looking straight at you with her chin propped on her knuckles, “it’s criminal how good you two look together. Like somethin’ outta one of those pre-outbreak holiday movies.”

Eugene chuckled, nudging her. “Yeah, all domestic and warm. Like a damn postcard. All you need now’s a couple’a rugrats running around.”

You felt Tommy chuckle beside you, a low vibration on your side. “Here we go,” It came out quietly, just for you.

You groaned playfully and lifted your head. “We host one community dinner and suddenly it’s baby shower season?”

“Oh, c’mon,” Gail teased, sipping her tea. “Don’t pretend it ain’t crossed your mind.”

“It hasn’t,” you said, at the exact same time Tommy said, “Maybe once or twice.”

That made everyone laugh—including Joel, who gave a soft, raspy heh from his seat, barely looking up as he took another sip of whiskey.

You turned to look at Tommy, arching an eyebrow. “Once or twice, huh?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered, eyes full of mischief.

“I mean, you’re good at takin’ care of people. Organizin’ chaos. Wrangling overgrown kids like me. Feels like it’d translate pretty well.”

You gave his thigh a gentle smack, pretending to scold. “You trying to flirt your way into trouble?”

His grin turned downright dangerous. “Ain’t I always?”

The table chuckled again, Gail fanning herself with a napkin. “Lord, you two are disgustingly in love.”

You laughed, cheeks warm, and tucked your head back against Tommy’s shoulder.

Joel looked over finally, that ghost of a smile still on his face. “If they do have a kid, we’re gonna need a whole second mess hall by next Christmas... Just sayin’.”

You pointed at him, mock, “You’re not off the hook, old man. I’ll be expectin’ somethin’ rustic and overengineered. Gotta put you to work somehow.”

Joel tipped his cup toward you. “Noted.”

Eventually, the others began to gather their coats and hats, leaving with hugs and cheek kisses and murmured thanks.

Gail gave you an extra squeeze, whispering something about how you’re already everyone’s girl, honey—wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to be a mama for real someday.

Jesus.

Something about the holiday had people saying their thoughts out loud.

When it was just the embers, Joel, and you, and Tommy left behind, the stillness finally settled.

Tommy yawned and leaned his head back, arm still snug around you. “Can’t believe we pulled it off again.”

You looked around at the soft glow, the empty plates, the leftover cider cooling in mugs. “We didn’t just pull it off,” you murmured. “We gave people something to believe in. And, I think that's pretty damn cool.”

He kissed the side of your head, slow and sure. “That’s all you, darlin’.”

You turned your face up to his, close enough that only he could hear: “…Think we’d be good at it?” you whispered. “If we ever did?”

His brows lifted—surprised, maybe, but not in a bad way. Then he softened like butter on warm bread. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, and gave him a look. “Might not be tonight though. I’m still covered in pie crust and stress.”

He grinned. “Fine by me. I’m just enjoyin’ the preview.”

From across the room, Joel cleared his throat—not quite loud, not quite subtle—and stood with a smirk.

“I’m headin’ out before this turns into a second honeymoon,” he muttered as he passed, giving your shoulder a brief pat. “Merry Christmas, you two.”

“Merry Christmas, Joel,” you both said, voices overlapping.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And just like that, it was you and Tommy, finally alone in the quiet afterglow of something beautiful built together.

The mess hall was still warm, but the hush had settled in for good now. Just the crackling of dying embers, the faint hum of wind against the frosted windows, and the clink of ceramic as you and Tommy started clearing the last of the dishes.

You were both slow about it—not lazy, just… lingering. Hands brushing over each other’s as you stacked plates, trading little smiles over crumbs and napkin piles.

Tommy grabbed two mugs, swishing out the leftover cider into a pot. “I swear,” he muttered, “I saw Jesse hide a whole slice of pie in his coat pocket.”

You snorted, wiping down a table. “If he brings ants into the single dorms again, I’m blaming you.”

“Me?” Tommy grinned, tossing a rag at your side. “You’re the one who makes the pie like it’s magic.”

You caught the rag mid-air and lobbed it right back, hitting him square in the chest, mocking a huff, “That’s why I married you. Strong reflexes. Keeps things exciting.”

He caught your wrist before you turned, tugging you toward him with that crooked grin you’d fallen in love with—mischievous and soft all at once.

“Oh, that why?” he murmured, voice low as his other hand landed on your waist. “Not the shoulders? The hands? The fact I can fix a water heater and field-dress a deer?”

“All perks,” you hummed, fingers slipping up to play with the collar of his shirt. “But mostly it’s ‘cause you look real good holdin’ a broom and doin’ what I say.”

He laughed into your hair, the sound muffled and tender. “Woman, you own me.”

“Damn right I do.”

For a few seconds, you just stood like that, wrapped up in each other in the middle of a room still echoing with warmth.

It was wild, sometimes—how easy it was to forget the world outside these walls, how deep the roots had grown inside the two of you.

People came to this place because they needed safety. Peace.

You were the kind of love story folks whispered about in awe.

The kind that made them believe in second chances.

“I think we did good,” you murmured after a bit, voice soft.

Tommy nodded against your temple, “We always do.”

He stepped back reluctantly, just enough to finish the task—grabbing chairs to stack, humming low under his breath. You followed, drying the last few dishes, snuffing out candles with a licked thumb and forefinger.

By the time you turned off the string lights and locked the mess hall doors, the snow outside had grown thicker, quiet and pillowy under your boots. You looped your arm through Tommy’s as you made your way back to the house, the wind nipping at your cheeks.

The door creaked open with a low groan, familiar and unbothered. Tommy reached around you to flip the switch, but the overhead light stayed off. Instead, the glow from the hall lamp spilled golden into the room—just enough to warm the corners, to soften everything.

You kicked off your boots with a sigh that came straight from your soul. “My feet are killing me,” you mumbled, peeling off your coat and scarf. “I’ve been standing for, like, ten years.”

Tommy was already unbuttoning his flannel, eyes on you like you were the first thing he’d ever want to see in soft lighting. “You were runnin’ that dinner like a damn general,” he said with a grin. “Pretty sure even Joel listened to you when you told him to stir the gravy.”

You laughed, low and tired, and stepped forward to help him out of the shirt. He let you, arms lifted, smiling all lazy and smitten.

“I like being useful,” you said, brushing lint off his undershirt, “Makes me feel like I mean something.”

He caught your wrists gently, pulling your hands to his chest. “This place means somethin’ ‘cause of you, sweetheart.”

You didn’t argue. Not tonight.

You just pressed your lips to his jaw, soft and pebbled. Let yourself rest there, eyes closed. His thumbs rubbed soft circles into the back of your hands.

Eventually, you pulled apart, shedding the rest of your layers in tired silence. Eventually, climbing up the stairs and settling into the bedroom.

The fireplace was still glowing low from earlier—it hadn’t gone out completely—and Tommy knelt to add a log and stoke it back to life while you disappeared into the bathroom to wash up.

When you returned in an oversized flannel and wool socks, the bedroom was dim and golden, all low firelight and heavy quilts. Tommy was already under the covers, hair damp from a quick rinse, arm lifted in silent invitation.

You didn’t need to be asked twice.

You slid in beside him and tucked your body close, face pressed into the curve of his shoulder, one leg hooked over his.

“Mm,” he murmured, voice already sleep-heavy, rough with comfort. “You’re cold.”

“You’re warm,” you whispered back, fingers trailing lazily along his ribs. He had always been a personal heater, carrying so much warmth it was astonishing.

He shifted to hold you better, like instinct. One hand cradled your head. The other rubbed up and down your back, slow and steady.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Just the sound of your breathing, the quiet pop of firewood, the way his thumb brushed behind your ear.

Then, so softly, you whispered, “Think we’ll always have this?”

Tommy kissed the top of your head. “Yeah,” he said, without hesitation. “I do.”

You smiled against his skin, nose brushing the hollow of his collarbone. “Feels like I belong here. Like we’re part of the house.”

“We are the house,” he mumbled. “You’re the heart. I’m the dumb cowboy who fixed the floorboards.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his chest. “I like the dumb cowboy.”

“Good,” he said sleepily, pulling the blankets tighter around you both. “He’s crazy ‘bout you.”

You sighed, eyes slipping closed, breathing in his scent—woodsmoke and worn cotton.

You were just about to drift off, legs tangled, the weight of the day finally softening in your bones—when Tommy shifted, just a little, and pressed his mouth to your jaw with slow intention.

One kiss turned into two, then three—trailing toward your ear, lazy but unmistakable. You smiled into the pillow. Damn, cowboy.

“Tommy…” you warned, voice already low with amusement.

“What?” he murmured, lips brushing just below your ear, “Can’t a man kiss on his wife a little before bed?”

But there was nothing little about the way his hand skimmed down your side, slipping under the hem of your shirt, or how his mouth found yours—hot, tender, teasing.

You responded without hesitation, fingers winding into black curls as the kiss deepened, stealing the breath right out of your chest.

It was slow at first, more laughter than urgency—soft giggles between kisses, teasing touches, his grin against your mouth when you tugged him closer.

Then the warmth grew into something deeper, heavier. Familiar. The kind of intimacy that only years of love could make feel both playful and feisty.

By the time your shirt was halfway off and the quilt was bunched around your hips, you weren’t laughing anymore—all teeth and tongue.

"On your stomach," His voice was hoarse—an area between sleep, and need. Something he so often craved at this time of the night, hell, probably every moment of the day.

You were quick to turn around in his grasp, face buried into the pillow—fingers lacing through thin sheets, white knuckling as he pulled each bit of fabric from your flesh.

Hands moving to the front of your shirt, a palm splayed against soft swell of breast—it was natural, reverent. He was quick to sink in, breathless and turbulent.

You didn’t even remember when you stopped kissing and started just… being.

The quilt had been dragged up again, wrapped around both of you like a shielding secret.

Your legs were still tangled, bare skin pressed to bare skin, the kind of closeness that made it hard to tell where you ended and he began.

You shifted just enough to glance up at him again, your fingers drawing light circles along his ribs. “Y’know… if this is how we’re doin' Christmas eve, I’m scared to ask what you’ve got planned for New Year’s.”

Tommy let out a lazy, shameless grin, eyes still half-lidded with sleep and satisfaction, “Darlin’, if you let me, I’ll make a tradition outta this.”

You raised a brow. “Mm. A tradition that involves nearly breaking the bedframe?”

“That bed’s tougher than it looks… I on the other hand…” He gave a mock groan, rubbing a hand over his face, “You might’ve just finished me off. You proud of yourself?”

You grinned, impossibly smug, “Devastatingly.”

Tommy reached out to pull you fully on top of him, your laugh muffling against his bare chest as he buried his face in your hair. “God help this town if they knew what their golden girl gets up to after hours.”

You looked up at him with a wink. “Please. Let’s not give them more reason to build me a shrine.”

He huffed a laugh. “Too late for that. I already light candles for you every time you bend over that damn bed.”

You let out a chuffed breath, somewhere between a whine and a laugh, smacking his chest lightly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he whispered, tilting your chin up with two fingers, “here you are, in my bed. Again.”

"Our bed," The correction lingered, you kissed him slowly, smiling into it, "Only ‘cause you’re pretty.”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, pulling the covers up tighter around you both, “And humble too, don’t forget that part.”

You let your head fall back onto his chest, your laughter finally softening into a sleepy sigh, "So humble, Miller…"

A long pause stretched between you, soft and golden in the low firelight. Your fingers drifted across his chest like they had nowhere else to be.

Then your gaze caught something glinting just above the blankets. The leather band on his wrist. The scratched face of that old, worn watch Joel had fixed up for him last year, told him to finally get a handle on what time it was.

You squinted at it, blinking drowsily. And then you smiled.

“Tommy…” you murmured, tapping the watch face. “It’s after midnight.”

He lifted his wrist with a tired grunt, turning the watch toward his line of sight. The corners of his mouth twitched into a grin.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “It’s Christmas.”

You looked up at him with a crooked smile, chin resting on his chest, “Guess that makes me your present.”

Tommy chuckled, low and rough. “Sweetheart, you were the best damn thing under the tree and the one who wrapped it.”

You laughed, nose wrinkling. “Smooth.”

He leaned in and kissed you again—softer now. Slower. All warmth and afterglow. “Merry Christmas, baby,” he whispered against your lips.

You touched his cheek, thumb grazing the stubble there. “Merry Christmas, Tommy.”

Settling into each other once more, bodies warm and tangled beneath the blankets, hearts still beating in sync.

The fire cracked low beside you, the snow fell silent beyond the window, and for one more night in Jackson—one more night in this life you built from the wreckage of everything lost—you were happy.

masterlist

There's so much Love to go around; Synopsis: You and Tommy throw a dinner for Christmas. Tomfoolery with the town. I think we have much more Love to give; Synopsis: A sequel to 'there's so much love to go around.' Feeling sick lately? You definitely caught something. It's something you're far from ready for.

We'll Snuff out like Fire; Synopsis: You hear the whispers—your lover lost his brother, how the girl you care for shut down. But, when she moves like nothing happened, sneaking out with Dina—you follow them to Seattle. Tommy ensures you pay the price for stepping out of line.

requests the morning

Home. That word didn’t sit right anymore.

Still, there were benefits. No rent. Warm meals. A roof that didn't leak. Time, too—time to write from the corner of your old bedroom, the wallpaper still faded in the shape of childhood posters. In exchange, you’d help out around the house. Maybe lend your skills to the family business, if they asked.

It was manageable. Comfortable, even.

Or so you told yourself.

Until the past started pressing in, as soft as a breath on your neck. Austin carried its ghosts well, and you knew exactly which ones still lingered. The Miller family hadn’t left town. You hadn’t dared drive past their old place—hadn’t even thought about it, not really.

Too afraid you'd catch a glimpse.

Too afraid you wouldn’t. 

Now, every trip to the store felt like a gamble. You kept your head down in aisles, your chest tightening at the sound of familiar boots scuffing tile. The shape of a man’s shoulders could turn your blood cold in an instant.

It wasn’t just home anymore. It was haunted.

And you weren’t sure you were ready to face the one ghost still walking around in broad daylight.

It’s stupid, really—how he still lives in the corners of your mind after all these years.

Especially now, back in your childhood room, sitting cross-legged on the same threadbare carpet, staring at that rusted metal tin under your bed. 

You haven’t touched it. Haven’t dared. It’s exactly where you left it, gathering dust like the part of you that never moved on.

Was he still in town? Married? Kids tugging at his sleeves, calling him dad? 

Hell, if you knew. Hell, if you wanted to know.

What you did know was this: whatever you and Tommy had, it had taken root deep—deeper than you realized until you came back. And now it stretched through you like ivy, tightening with every breath, every thought that wandered too far into the past. 

It didn’t just haunt you. It hollowed you out.

You always thought teenage love was supposed to fade—burn fast, leave nothing but a scorched memory. Something you could laugh about years later, over drinks with old friends.

But this? This wasn’t that.

This was different. This one never died. And part of you was terrified it never would.

The grocery store was nearly empty—just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional wheel squeak from a lone cart. Nine p.m. on a Wednesday was strategic. No small talk. No familiar faces. Just you, the shelves, and the quiet. You could wander without armor, float between aisles like a ghost.

A bottle of wine. A couple of wilting vegetables. A gallon of water. Your cart looked more like a motel mini-fridge than the groceries of someone edging toward thirty. 

You rounded the corner, drawn by the cereal aisle like a moth to a glow. You told yourself you’d skip it. Be good. Grab something green. But what else would keep you company at midnight, spoon in hand, staring at the glow of the fridge light?

Cheerios.

You reached forward—and so did someone else.

Your hand met theirs. Warm. Small. Fingers painted with chipped purple nail polish, a fraying string bracelet wrapped around the wrist.

Something soft. Something familiar.

And suddenly, the quiet wasn’t so quiet anymore.

“Aren’t you a little old to be buyin’ Cheerios?”

The voice was laced with a southern drawl—sharp, playful, too clever for its own good. She sounded bold. Bright. And young. Really young.

You glanced over and blinked. She was young. A kid, no more than ten, maybe eleven. Big eyes, a spark of mischief, and all the confidence in the world.

Without thinking, your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

“Where the hell are your parents?”

Smooth. Real smooth. Maybe not the best thing to say to a stranger’s child. 

Definitely not in the cereal aisle. Definitely not while holding a box of Cheerios like some kind of existential prop. 

You sighed internally, wondering when exactly your life had become a string of awkward moments and low-stakes public breakdowns. Before you could backpedal, a voice rang out behind her—low, worn, and gravel-thick.

“Sarah!”

It hit like a dropped match on dry grass. That voice. You hadn’t heard it in years, but your body remembered before your mind did—spine stiff, breath caught, blood rushing somewhere you couldn’t name.

Familiar. Undeniably. Panic took the wheel.

You held out the box, almost like an offering. “Here—take it.”

Your voice cracked on the edge of a breath as you gripped the cart’s handle, fingers tightening like it might anchor you to the moment. You considered walking away. You wanted to walk away.

But something in you hesitated. Stayed. Hoping—dreading—that your gut was right. That the familiar voice wasn’t just a cruel echo. There are faces that time can’t erase. Some are etched too deeply. Etched into blood, into memory, into the space between heartbeats.

“Am I even allowed to take Cheerios from strangers?” the girl muttered as she crossed the aisle, drifting back to his side with all the ease of someone who knew exactly where she belonged.

He shot her a look—half stern, half fond. Then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, he lifted his head. And your whole world tilted. For a moment, your body didn’t know what to do. Vomit? Collapse? Spontaneously combust? All of the above?

You stared. Then, softly—barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud might break something—you breathed it out:

“Joel?”

You hadn’t seen this man since—God, what? 1990? And now he was here. In front of you. Looking older, sure—but still him. Still Joel. Lines carved deeper into his face, a little more tired in the eyes, but the foundation was unchanged. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then your gaze dropped.

Wait.

Wait.

Does he have a kid?

Your brain scrambled to catch up, blinking fast as your eyes darted from the girl—still clutching the box of Cheerios—to him. Back and forth like a bad tennis match. You were trying to do the math in your head, but none of it added up, and suddenly the air felt too thin in your lungs.

Yeah. Yeah, you might actually throw up.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you—jaw tight, unreadable. That Miller silence, always more loaded than a whole damn conversation. He definitely recognized you. You could see it in the way his eyes no longer sat tired and low. 

“She yours?” you finally managed, voice rough around the edges. It wasn’t judgment, not really. Just shock. Curiosity wrapped in disbelief.

He scratched at his beard. “Yeah,” he said, simply. “She’s mine.”

Something behind your ribs clenched. Not jealousy—no, that wasn’t fair. It was more like grief with nowhere to go. Like walking through the front door of a house you thought had burned down. Because this means the chances of his brother being around are only larger. 

“Oh, right—Didn't... know,” you murmured.

He gave you that look.

The same one he used to shoot your way when you were seventeen and reckless with love—when he was older, angrier, and always carrying the weight of something he refused to name. Eyebrows lifted just slightly, one corner of his mouth tugging like he might laugh, or maybe just break.

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Life’s funny like that.”

You felt it—the sting, low and stupid, blooming behind your ribs. Your throat tightened.

Don’t ask. Don’t do it. Don’t say his name. Don’t let it crawl out of your mouth like some pathetic ghost. You’re older now. Stronger. You survived it, remember?

You even believed that for a second. Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“How’s your brother?”

God. Fuck.

Joel’s jaw tensed, the weight of the question landing between you both like a dropped hammer. He looked away, just for a second—just long enough to say everything he didn’t. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, and Sarah, still clutching the box, watched the moment pass with the quiet awareness only kids had.

“He’s…” Joel started, then hesitated. “He’s around.”

Around.

That word—around—cut deeper than a clean answer ever could.

Around as in… here? This very fucking store? Around as in… Alive? 

You nodded slowly, lashes fluttering like your body was trying to blink away what your heart refused to accept. Of course, he was around. Somewhere. 

Living a life with wide open skies and no trace of you in it. Breathing. Existing.

Your arms folded across your chest—not defensively, but like scaffolding, like something to keep your ribs from caving in. Joel shifted beside the cart. At first, it was just a glance. A habitual scan. But then—he really looked. You felt it. That weight behind his eyes. 

Like he was seeing something impossible. Like he was trying to stitch the image of you now to the ghost of the girl you once were—laughing barefoot on the Miller porch, chasing fireflies, lips stained with cherry popsicles. His brother was never far behind.

Joel’s brow furrowed, and his voice dropped low.

“You grew up.”

It wasn’t said with surprise, exactly. More like quiet awe. Or regret.

You managed a tired smile. “Yeah—Life's funny like that." Only echoing his words from earlier.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he added, his tone edging toward something heavier, quieter.

You swallowed. “Didn’t think I’d come back.”

He nodded. It hung between you. All of it.

“I’d say I’m sorry,” Joel muttered, glancing toward Sarah, who had wandered a few steps ahead, already bored of the grown-up tension. “For what he did. But I figure that ain’t mine to apologize for.”

Your throat tightened. “No. It’s not.”

A long beat passed.

Then Joel’s voice softened in a way you hadn’t heard since you were a kid and scraped your knee on his driveway.

“But he was a damn fool for leavin’ you like that.”

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t trust your voice not to crack.

Instead, you asked, gently—like the wind might blow the moment away if you weren’t careful:  

“Does he still live around here?”

Joel hesitated. That pause said more than words ever could.

“He’s back,” he said finally. “Moved back a while ago."

"My guest bedroom...” He said it like it was a joke. 

You felt something in your chest slide loose. Raw. Heavy.

Joel glanced down the aisle.

“If you want…I can let him know I saw you.”

You looked away. At the flickering grocery lights, at the Cheerios box still clenched in your hand like it meant something.

Then: “No.”

Joel blinked. “No?”

Maybe?

No.

You shook your head, voice tight. “He's smart—he knows where to find me.”

And with that, you turned—hands tight around the cart handle, knuckles pale with restraint, as if you could just walk away. Like the past wasn’t licking up your spine like fire. Like it didn’t still have teeth.

You made it to the next aisle before the mask cracked.

Your hand flew to your chest, gripping at fabric, trying to anchor yourself, trying to breathe. But the air wouldn’t come. Not fully. Every inhale felt like it got caught somewhere in your throat, shallow and scraping.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out the overhead music, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the rest of the world. You leaned against the shelf, next to a row of canned beans and sadness, and let the weight settle in.

He was here.

He left and never looked back. But you? You came home.

The house felt smaller than it used to. Every creak in the floorboard was louder, every familiar room more suffocating. Being home again wasn’t as soft as you thought it’d be. It was rigid. Airless. Your old bedroom still smelled faintly of dust and childhood. But now, the walls felt too close. Too loud. You couldn’t sit still in it for long—pacing was safer. Something about the silence made your thoughts too sharp, too unkind.

You kept telling yourself you were fine. That one aisle encounter in a grocery store didn’t mean anything. That Joel’s words didn’t loop in your brain at night like a skipping record.

“He’s around.”

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“He was a damn fool.”

You hadn’t even unpacked fully. Suitcases still half-zipped, laundry spilling over the edges. You told your mom you'd get to it. You lied.

The worst part?

You started hearing things. Little things. The clink of boots outside. A truck engine that sounded too familiar. That gravelly voice, echoing where it wasn’t. You’d look out the window. Nothing.

The metal tin under your bed—still untouched—started to feel radioactive. You’d stare at it some nights like it might burst open on its own, spill out the parts of you he never came back for.

The food tasted like cardboard. You stopped writing. Sat in front of your laptop, fingers frozen above the keys, stuck in a loop of opening old drafts and closing them again.

Your mother noticed. Asked gently if everything was alright, “Just tired.” You meant... I think I’m falling apart, and I don’t know how to stop it. Until the dam finally broke. In the thick of your late-night anxiety spiral, you did what you always did when your mind wouldn’t stop racing—you fled to your laptop. The glow of the screen was a small comfort, a lifeline to something tangible.

You dove into the local municipal website, fingers trembling as you searched the address you once knew like the back of your hand: the old Miller house.

It had been sold.

Two years ago.

That meant they were gone. They weren’t here anymore. Not in that house. Not in the place that held all the ghosts you thought you’d outrun.

And, you weren’t going to camp outside the grocery store, waiting for Joel to come back, begging him to say something—anything—about his brother.

You weren’t that crazy. Okay, maybe you were.

You exhaled slowly, the breath tight and uneven as you tried to push back the anxious knot settling deep in your stomach. You mindlessly scrolled through the local ads, searching for something to distract, anything to grab onto.

That’s when it jumped out at you.

Your eyes locked on the listing: Miller Construction — bold letters beneath a grainy photo of a faded pickup truck and a logo that looked slapped together but somehow genuine.

And there it was. A phone number.

You stared at it for what felt like minutes, heart pounding in a frantic rhythm that only anxiety could compose. Your fingers itched to pick up the phone, to dial those digits and shatter the silence that had been suffocating you for weeks.

But then doubt crept in.

What if no one picks up?

What if Joel answers?

Fuck, what if Tommy answers?

What if it’s not even them anymore?

Your mind spun, painting every worst-case scenario in vivid, merciless detail.

You told yourself, Maybe it’s better not to know. Still, your thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. One call could change everything. Or ruin what little peace you’d fought to keep. The room felt smaller. The air is heavier. You closed your eyes and swallowed hard.

Just one call. But you didn’t do it. You didn’t call.

Because some battles aren’t meant to be won—not yet. Not when the wounds are still raw, and the cost too high. Maybe it was finally time to kill that stubborn dream. The one you’d been clutching like a lifeline—the future you almost had with Tommy, back when everything still felt possible.

The future where you held his hand through late-night study sessions and half-forgotten promises. You built a life together, one small piece at a time, giving him the family he never got to have. Where he escaped the shadows of his past and made his own way—free and whole.

But not in this life. No. This life was different. In this life, you weren’t meant for that kind of happiness. Not with him. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to let that ghost go.

To mourn what could have been. And learn how to live without it.

Tomorrow, you told yourself.

Tomorrow you’ll wake up, open your laptop, and finally write again. You’ll make a real breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee strong enough to chase away the weight in your chest. You’ll laugh when your dad grumbles about the news, and nod along when your mom reminds you to check the mail.

And maybe, just maybe, it’ll feel like something in you finally let go.

Like some part of that aching, hollow dream was finally laid to rest.

You’d mourned it. Buried it. Let yourself believe you’d moved on.  

Or at the very least—you were trying to.

And for a while, it almost worked. You made that breakfast. Brewed that coffee. Sat at the kitchen table and filled blank pages like your life depended on it. Day after day, you showed up for yourself. Pretending the ache had dulled, that time was stitching over the old wound. And for nearly a month, the rhythm held. You wrote. You helped around the house. You laughed when it was called for, and cried only when no one was looking.

You were healing. Or faking it well enough that it didn’t matter. Until one morning, the pattern cracked wide open— and nothing felt safe after that.

The knock came just past nine. Sharp. Measured. The kind of knock that wasn’t just passing through. You shuffled to the door, mug in hand, warmth still clutched between your palms. You weren’t expecting anyone. The morning was still fragile. Undisturbed.

Until you opened the door.

Joel Miller.

Joel Miller stood on your front step like a fragment of some half-buried memory you’d spent the last two weeks trying to drown. Even his face reminded you of his younger brother.

Older now. Weathered. But still him. His voice was rough with that dry Southern rasp, “Your dad around? He said we were clear to start this mornin’.”

You blinked.

“…Start what?”

He nodded back toward the curb, where a truck idled loudly and low, “Backyard. Said it needed regrading. New fence. We're doin' a couple other things.”

You gripped the doorframe like it might help you stay tethered.

'We'

'We're'

You followed his gaze.

Another figure rounded the truck—shoulders broad, posture familiar even after all these years. You didn’t need to see his face. You knew that walk. You knew that silence.

The past wasn’t dead. It had just been biding its time. Curled in the corners of your quiet life, patient and unblinking—waiting for the right moment to crawl back in.

You stared at Joel like he’d cracked open something sacred, like he’d reached through time and dragged your ghost straight into the daylight. He stepped into the house casually, like nothing was out of place, like this wasn’t a ruin you’d spent years quietly rebuilding.

Your voice came out thin. Unsteady.

“Why—” Your voice cracked under the weight of it, barely holding shape as you forced the word out. You swallowed hard, tried again, and tried to steady yourself. “You brought him?”

Joel didn’t flinch. He stood like stone, hands in his pockets, gaze level—not cruel, just worn down by time and truth. “Didn’t know your dad was your dad until we pulled up,” he said, voice flat, matter-of-fact. “Work’s work.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. The tight coil in your chest drew tighter, shoulders pulling inward like armor about to snap shut. “You didn’t know that my childhood home was my home?” Your tone sharpened. Bitter. “That’s bullshit, Joel.”

His jaw ticked. A tiny movement, a tell. But still, he didn’t deny it. “You think I remember every address from twenty years ago?” he muttered, but it wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even convincing.

“Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Your eyes drifted past Joel, drawn like a tide to the figure moving around the truck.

Tommy.

And God—he looked good. Time had carved him into something fuller, heavier at the shoulders, solid in a way that made the earth seem to hold its breath around him. That broad back, once boyish and lanky, now bore the shape of a man who carried too much. And still—still—he moved like he used to. That quiet, slow confidence that made you fall the first time.

His hair was slicked back now, all sharp and polished like he was trying to tame it—those wild curls that once spilled like ink between your fingers. Back then, they had a mind of their own. 

So did he.

Now? Now, he looked like a man trying to keep himself in check. A cowboy dressed for control. It didn’t suit him. Not entirely.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

You stepped onto the porch before hesitation could catch up to you. The screen door gave its familiar groan behind you, the sound slicing into the quiet morning like a memory you hadn’t invited. Sunlight spilled across the wooden planks, drawing a clean line between past and present—and you stood right at the edge of it.

He looked up.

Not startled. Not surprised. Like some part of him had known you were there all along. Like he’d been waiting. And without meaning to—without even really deciding to—you spoke.

“The back door’s open,” you said flatly, arms crossed tight against your chest. “I’ll leave the front unlocked, too. I’ve got work upstairs, so I won’t be in your way."

"... Just… try not to track mud through the house.”

Your voice was ice. Not cruel, but practiced. Sharp. The kind of cold you learned to wear like armor. You didn’t look directly at him—not for more than a second. Your gaze swept across the two brothers like they were just another chore to handle. Just another thing on your list.

Then, with the kind of grace only bitterness could teach, you pulled the screen door back. Just enough. Enough space for him to walk through.

If he wanted to. Tommy’s eyes lingered on yours, searching. But you didn’t give him anything. No softness. No invitation.

Only the door. A silent challenge.

He stepped forward, boots heavy against the porch boards. Hesitating at the threshold like a man about to cross into holy ground. Or wreckage.

He paused. “Thanks.”

You didn’t answer.

And then he slipped past you—into the house he hadn’t set foot in since he left it behind. Joel gave you a longer look. Not pitying. Just tired. Knowing. You turned without a word, shutting the screen door behind you. It snapped closed with a final, decisive click.

Upstairs, you sat at your desk. Fingers poised over your keyboard. But the words didn’t come.

Downstairs, you heard the quiet murmur of male voices. Boots scuffing against the tile. Familiar footsteps in an unfamiliar context.

The past wasn’t dead. It was walking through your childhood home. It was standing in your kitchen. It was breathing your air. 

You stared blankly at the blinking cursor, heart climbing into your throat. And then—uninvited, unwanted—came the thought: What if he never left this time? Would you even let him stay?

The next few days passed in a strange rhythm. Tight. Unyielding.

You kept to yourself. Mornings started early—coffee, eggs, laptop open, headphones in. A fortress of routine. You made sure to stay upstairs when the work started, and when you did come down, it was surgical. 

Quick. To the kitchen. To the laundry. Back up again. 

But somehow, Tommy was always there. Not talking. Not looking for conversation. Just… nearby.

He was in the hallway when you went to grab your charger. On the back steps, when you went to let the dog out. In the yard beneath your window, hammer in hand, sleeves rolled up. The exact kind of cruel coincidence that made the air feel thinner.

You didn’t speak. Not much.

When you passed each other in the hall, it was a glance. Maybe a nod. If he said “mornin’,” you didn’t answer.

When he asked once—just once—if you wanted anything from the hardware store, you said, “No.”

He brought back a bottle of your favorite iced tea anyway. Left it on the counter without a word.

You put it in the fridge and never drank it.

At night, you heard him laughing with Joel in the backyard, low and warm. That familiar sound—the one that used to carry across your bedroom floor like music when you were seventeen—now curled around the edges of your chest like smoke.

You stared at your ceiling for hours.

On the fifth day, you handed him a beer from the fridge.

It was nothing. Just a gesture. A momentary lapse in your rigid silence. It didn’t mean anything. Not a crack. Not a thaw. Not anything.

Right?

“Here,” you said, voice flat, nudging the chilled bottle through the half-open sliding door. “It’s like... eight hundred degrees out there.”

He glanced at it, then at you. The sun caught in his lashes, sweat clinging to the edge of his hairline. He didn’t smile.

He took it.

“Thanks,” he murmured, voice low, gravel-worn.

You nodded once, already stepping back, as if you stayed too long in his orbit, you'd come undone. “I didn’t do it to be nice,” you added, backing toward the stairs. “I just didn’t want you passing out in my yard.”

Tommy lifted the bottle in a small, sardonic toast, “Would hate to inconvenience you like that.”

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.

You turned and walked away.

But it snagged something in your chest on the way out—like a fishhook caught beneath the ribs. Goddamn it. Was this how it was going to be? Was this all it was going to be?

No. No—you reminded yourself. Steeled your spine. This is how it should be.

Silent. Distant. Cold.

He left you. Walked out of your life like it was easy. Like you were just another part of the small-town scenery, he was shedding on his way to something bigger. Like what you had—what could’ve been—was forgettable.

Like you were.

You kept to that script for days.

Short answers. Avoiding eye contact. Locking yourself in your room to write and rewriting the same sentence fifteen times because your mind won't shut up.

And Tommy… he didn’t push. Not exactly. But he lingered. 

Took his breaks on the back steps just under your window. Adjusted his work schedule so he was still around when you came down for coffee. One evening, you walked into the garage to grab something—and found him already inside, fixing the latch on the side door. 

He startled, turned. So did you. 

You both froze in the dim light, dust swirling between you. He looked like he wanted to say something. You waited, against your better judgment. But he didn’t. So you walked away. Again.

You climbed the stairs like the house itself was heavier now, like the walls remembered everything you’d said—and all the things you didn’t. That night, you sat at your desk, the pale glow of your screen washing over your face. 

The document was still empty. Still waiting. The cursor blinked in the silence like a pulse—steady, unyielding. A heartbeat you couldn’t silence. 

A reminder that time hadn’t stopped, even if everything else had.

And for just a moment—just a breath suspended between memory and ache—you let yourself go back.

Back to that night. The night he left.

You remembered how small you felt, sitting on the edge of your bed. Your knees drawn up to your chest. Bare skin touching bare skin, like you could hold yourself together. 

The hum of cicadas outside had filled the space where his voice should’ve been. The night had swallowed him whole. And all you had left was the shape of him in your bedsheets, the echo of him in the room.

He never said goodbye.

Not a word. Not a note. Just gone.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—how he didn’t leave with a slammed door, didn’t give you a fight to cling to. He left softly. Quiet. Like he didn’t want to wake you. 

Like he thought erasing himself gently would somehow hurt less.

You could survive the loss, maybe. You’d done that already—day after day. 

But the not knowing. The lingering weight of all the almosts? That’s what gutted you.

Because how the hell are you supposed to stop loving someone who never let you say goodbye?

Someone who never gave you a final page to turn?

You didn’t want a clean break. You would’ve settled for jagged. 

Shattered. Anything other than this quiet, aching permanence. 

The grief of a love that just… drifted.

Like he took all the chapters you were meant to write together—and lit them on fire before you ever saw the ink.

How can you love someone you never closed a chapter with?

You didn’t have the answer. So you just lived. That’s all you could do.

The next morning was bleak. The kind that felt colorless from the moment you opened your eyes—sky the shade of wet concrete, air too still, too heavy. 

The kind of morning where nothing quite sits right on your skin. Sleep. Sleep and read. That’s the kind of morning this was. 

The boys had shown up early, hammers already echoing against the bones of the house by the time you dragged yourself from bed. The second addition—the part your parents conveniently forgot to tell you about—was underway. 

A whole wing is being built like an afterthought. Like the house needed more rooms to feel emptier.

You stood in the kitchen, pouring your coffee into your chipped mug, the one with the fading rim and spider-crack down the side. Your phone was pressed between your cheek and shoulder, your mother’s voice crackling through the receiver.

"Yes, Mom… I know," you said, your voice edged with sleep and irritation. "I’ll tell them not to use the darkwood."

You stared out the window as the boys moved like ghosts across your backyard. Dust in the air. Heat is already rising off the soil. You squinted.

There he was.

Tommy.

Shoulders bent under the weight of some lumber, jaw tight, shirt sticking to his back like it was a second skin. He looked like the summer you’d tried to forget. Just older. 

“I just don’t understand why you didn’t plan this before you left the country,” you muttered, lowering your voice. “You left me with the world’s most cryptic blueprint and no answers.”

Your mother sighed on the other end, already tuning you out.

“I have to go, sweetheart,” she said. “Tell Joel I said hi. And Tommy, too.”

No goodbye. You took a sip of the coffee, bitter and burnt, but it gave you something to hold. You opened the back door.

“Hey,” you called out, your voice cutting across the morning. Tommy looked up, blinking sweat from his lashes.

“No darkwood,” you said plainly. “Apparently, it clashes.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, leaned slightly on the beam in his hand. “What the hell doesn’t clash with this house?”

You almost smiled. Almost. But didn’t let the edges of your lips rise.

“My patience.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, then nodded, and turned back to the work.

You stood there for a moment longer, your fingers tightening around the handle of the mug, watching him move like he belonged to the earth. Like the weight of the wood grounded him. Like he didn’t once disappear from your life like a ghost at dawn.

You hated that it still made your heart ache.

And somehow—worse than anything—he always seemed to know when you were watching. Like there was some invisible thread still strung tight between the two of you, humming in the silence, pulling at the air when your gaze lingered too long.

As he rounded the corner of the house, he paused—just once. Looked back.

And your eyes met. It was brief. Barely a second. But it knocked the wind from your lungs all the same. You ducked instinctively, your head bowing out of view behind the kitchen window. Staring down at your hands like they held something worth inspecting. Like you could pretend you hadn’t been caught in the act. Caught in him.

Feigning indifference. Feigning innocence.

But it was too late. The moment had already happened.

And it was enough to remind you of the thread between you. It had never truly broken.

You stayed hunched for a while, eyes on your fingers as if they might still tremble. You hated that he could still do that—look at you and stir something deep in your chest, something old and warm and traitorous.

Eventually, you forced yourself back into the rhythm. Coffee cooling beside your laptop. The dull hum of construction outside pulsing against the windows like a heartbeat.

Work. Just work. You had an article due, something about the resurgence of analog photography. But the words wouldn’t come easily today. Your fingers hovered over the keys, twitching. Restless. The sentence you typed three times already still sounded like someone else wrote it. It was so hard to write lately. 

With a heavy sigh, you pushed back from the desk and wandered into the kitchen, legs stiff from too many hours of sitting in your own silence. You reached for an orange—bright, firm, promising something clean and sharp to cut through the fog pressing against your skull.

Maybe the acid, the scent, the bite of citrus would jolt something loose. A sentence. A metaphor. A way to end the paragraph that had been rotting on your screen for the past hour.

You steadied the fruit on the cutting board and pressed the knife down—careless, distracted.

The blade slipped.

It was quick. A sudden, slicing kiss across your palm. You barely saw it happen before the sting bloomed, hot and biting. Then came the warmth—blood pooling fast, dark against the pale ridges of your skin. The orange rolled lazily toward the sink, abandoned.

“Shit—” you hissed, instinctively clenching your fist. Blood welled instantly, thick and crimson, dripping in slow, syrupy globs onto the tile.

You barely had time to grab a towel when the back door opened.

“Hey, I—” Tommy’s voice stopped short. The sound of his boots scuffed once, twice on the threshold, and then—

He was at your side.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just crossed the room like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Like he hadn’t been gone for over a decade.

“Let me see,” he said, low. Not a demand. Just the kind of voice you don’t argue with.

You tried to turn your hand away from him, but he caught your wrist gently, his calloused fingers curling around yours like they remembered how.

“It’s nothing,” you murmured, not trusting your voice to be steady.

“You’re bleeding all over the damn place,” he muttered, brow furrowed, eyes flicking down to your palm. The concern in his expression was too raw, too real—something that didn’t belong to a man who had left you behind without a word.

He pressed the towel into your palm, firm but careful. “You got a first aid kit?”

“Yeah, it’s—” The words stalled in your throat as your gaze lifted, catching his.

He was close. Too close. Close enough that the air felt different between you—thick with heat, tension, history. You could smell him: sun-warmed sweat, the faint bite of cigarettes, and something faintly artificial… cologne?

You blinked. He wore cologne?

For work?

Your mouth went dry.

You swallowed hard. “It’s under the bed.”

He froze for just a beat, eyes lifting from your hand to meet yours.

And for the first time since construction began, you really looked at each other—no shielding, no avoidance, no polite glances and feigned distractions. It was raw, heavy. The kind of eye contact that rattled something deep in your ribs. That said everything neither of you had the guts to.

Grief. Anger. Ache. Love. All of it—pressed into a single, suffocating second.

Tommy’s breath hitched, but he covered it with a short nod. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. “I’ll get it.”

He didn’t ask where. He didn’t need to.

Because he already knew. It was exactly where you left it. Years ago—tucked under your bed, in that old shoebox, next to the flashlight and extra batteries.

 Just in case.

Just in case he ever needed it.

He shifted his hand, covering yours atop the towel—a silent invitation to press down, to steady the pain yourself. Without another word, he headed upstairs—not rushing, but with a purpose that betrayed a memory sharp and certain. He knew exactly which door to find.

When he returned, he knelt before you as if by instinct—as if the years hadn’t dulled the unspoken understanding between you. The kitchen seemed to shrink around him, heat thickening the air. His presence was unbidden, yet it felt like something that belonged.

You might not pass out from blood loss, but the fact that he was kneeling in front of you. 

“You didn’t have to—” you began, voice rough and tight.

“Don’t,” he cut in, quiet but resolute. And you didn’t.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, trying to pull your hand back, your voice brittle beneath the heat rising in your cheeks. “I can handle it.”

Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Doesn’t look like it.”

His fingers were already unfurling gauze from the battered first aid kit, hands working with the same stubborn care he used to fix broken fences and busted drywall. 

Steady. Precise. Unapologetic.

“You’re bleeding through the damn towel,” he added, eyes flicking to the deep red soaking through the cloth like it had something to prove.

You weren’t. He was being kind of dramatic. 

And then—his hand wrapped around yours again. 

Warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

For just a breath, just a flicker of a moment—you let it happen. Let yourself imagine it was still then. It was still a hot July night, and he was slipping through your bedroom window like he belonged there. 

That he hadn’t taken every soft thing you gave him and vanished into silence.

He peeled the towel back slowly, and hissed through his teeth.

“You always did this,” he muttered under his breath, almost like he didn’t mean for it to slip out. “Couldn’t cook without hurting yourself. Still clumsy as hell.”

You blinked. The words cut deeper than the blade had.

“Don’t,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, trembling but sharp as glass. “Don’t talk like you know me.”

His jaw tightened. But he didn’t let go. Didn’t retreat. His thumb moved without thinking—just once—over the edge of your wrist, where your pulse thudded wild and panicked, like it knew better than to trust him again.

“I do know you,” he aid at last. His voice wasn’t soft, or angry.

Just… worn.

Tired.

“That’s the part I can’t seem to forget.”

The kitchen went quiet—stifling quiet. Only the hum of the fridge, and the sound of your own breath snagging on the edge of emotion.

And still—he held your hand like it was something worth protecting.

Like maybe, for once, he was the one who couldn’t let go.

As if summoned by the thrum of your fear, the front door creaked open. Joel stepped inside, a paper bag slung casually in one hand, eyes narrowing the second he caught sight of the kitchen.

“The hell’s goin’ on in here?”

“Nothing,” you said too fast—your breath hitching in the middle of the word. “I’m fine.”

You yanked your hand back like it had caught flame, heat rising in your cheeks. Hold the line.

Tommy didn’t flinch, but something passed over his face—quick, unreadable. He flexed his fingers once, then raised them slowly in a mock surrender. His tongue pressed into the corner of his cheek, but the tension in the air pulsed too loudly for jokes.

Joel clocked every bit of it. His brow lifted. 

Silent. Sharp. Suspicious.

You didn’t say anything else. Just turned and walked out. Quick, sharp steps—an escape. Because staying? Staying meant unraveling. Splintering the whole house down the middle.

Tommy stayed frozen, hands braced on the counter like he might push the whole kitchen away. His jaw ticked, tongue dragging over his back teeth. Joel didn’t say a word, but Tommy could feel his stare like a weight at the base of his neck.

Finally, he glanced up, exhaling through his nose.

“…Hell of a thing,” he muttered. “Cuts an orange and suddenly it’s a goddamn Greek tragedy.”

“Go get the goddamn cement bags…” Joel exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. 

It had been a month since construction began. 

A whole month of the Miller brothers tearing apart your backyard and piecing it back together—sweat-streaked days of lumber stacks, concrete dust, and the whine of power tools cutting through the silence you'd once cherished.

Expanding the house wasn’t easy. Adding a whole new wing wasn’t some HGTV weekend project—it was invasive, loud, exhausting. The kind of change that pressed into every corner of your life, even the ones you thought were safe. You were managing it all on your own, with your parents halfway across the world chasing their latest academic obsession, sending vague texts about ancient temples and unfiltered sunsets.

You were the one answering questions, signing off on adjustments, pretending like you had it all under control when inside, everything felt like it was slipping.

The house didn’t feel like yours anymore. Not with brothers tracking in dirt, rearranging your walls, changing the literal structure of the space you grew up in. And especially not with Tommy Miller’s ghost—his voice, his laugh, his scent—pressed into every hallway, lingering long after he'd gone for the day.

It felt like trying to build something new on top of bones you hadn’t buried properly.

Like every hammer swing was driving something deeper into your chest instead of the walls.

The heat pressed down like a second skin, sticky and relentless. 

One of those nights where even a cold shower leaves you clammy, soaked through with sweat you can’t wash away. 

You rose from your chair, limbs stiff and aching, the words on your screen blurring into nothing—meaningless. 

Your writing, your efforts, all of it felt hollow, like shouting into the void.

Fuck. Everything felt wrong.

Downstairs, the air still carried him—faint traces of beer, the sharp cotton scent of his shirt, and that subtle, feral tang of sweat that somehow smelled like home. Like, even when he was dirty, rough, and exhausted, he was cleaner in your mind than anyone else.

Your eyes flicked toward the back door, still ajar, a sliver of the night creeping inside. Tommy groaned low, shifting his workbag over one shoulder, muscles tensing with the familiar motion.

“You’re still here?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, hesitant and rough. Bare feet slid over the hardwood, soft as a ghost’s approach. “It’s like... ten at night. You do know we’re not paying overtime, right?”

He glanced up, surprise flickering across his face, but he didn’t let the bag slip from his grasp. Instead, he let out a tired chuckle, dry and short.

“Yeah, I figured.” His voice was rough around the edges, like gravel smoothed by time but still sharp enough to cut. “Work’s slow when it’s this hot. Thought I’d get a head start, try to wrap it up before it gets worse.”

You nodded, though your heart pinched with something you couldn’t name. The space between you stretched taut, loaded with unsaid things. “You—” Your voice caught, words tangled in the tension thickening the air. You stopped yourself, the weight of what you wanted to say crushing the breath from your lungs. “You didn’t have to come back.”

His eyes locked with yours—steady, unflinching, almost unapologetic.

“I came back for the job,” he said quietly, voice rough around the edges. “…Save Joel some time.”

The words settled between you like cold stones. You swallowed hard, but the heaviness wouldn’t lift. It anchored you where you stood.

“His kid is cute,” you said then, voice clipped, sharp enough to draw blood, “Sarah...” 

His niece.

It wasn’t a question or an invitation—it was a declaration, a wall built from years of silence.

Tommy’s gaze flickered for a moment—something like regret, or maybe pain—but he didn’t respond. The silence stretched. You hated how much you still wanted him to say something, anything.

Instead, he shifted his weight and muttered, “Yeah. She is.”

Your heart twisted—bitter, raw, aching in a way that felt both familiar and unfamiliar.

This awkwardness between you? It wasn’t who you were. Not the way you’d been before, back when laughter filled your rooms, when teasing and jokes were the language you both spoke effortlessly, when you prodded and pushed at each other with no walls between you.

When you were each other's first. 

“How’s...” You faltered, fingers drumming nervously on the granite countertop, “How’s your dad?”

He paused, tongue pressed to the side of his cheek like he was swallowing something hard.

“Dead.” The word came out clipped, a breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a growl, frustration threading through it.

Your mouth opened, his name on your tongue, but he cut you off with a sharp shake of his head.

“Don’t do this—"

"Not tonight.”

The silence after his words was thick, loaded. You wanted to push, to ask more, to unravel the years of silence, but something in his eyes warned you off—this wasn’t the time.

Was it ever going to be?

“You left.” The words hit the room like a jagged blade—plain, sharp, unforgiving. “You slid out of my bed. Climbed out my window. And you left.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stand taller, spine stiffening like steel under fire.

He tilted his head, that old, familiar frustration simmering just beneath the surface—like a storm you’d weathered before, one you knew too well. You've seen it before. Hell, you were there when it was made. 

Your name slipped from his lips, low and urgent, a warning:

“Please.”

But you didn’t back down. You couldn’t. Why would you?

“You left,” you spat, voice breaking but fierce, “And you never came back.”

He stepped back slowly. The weight of your words knocked the breath from his chest. The work bag slipped from his shoulder like a dying limb, thudding softly against the floor.

You didn’t let up.

“Do you feel guilty?” you asked, voice trembling with fury. “Do you even want to apologize?”

Silence. So you pressed harder, cutting deeper.

“Did you like it?” The words came like venom. “Wasting all those nights I let you sleep in my room. Pretend nothing was wrong. Hiding from your father... while I—while I held you together.”

His jaw tensed. Still nothing.

“Did you like it?” you hissed. “Fucking your best friend—”

That shattered him. He stepped forward so fast the air shifted, his voice raised above yours for the first time.

“Jesus—fuck…” he barked, dragging a palm down his face like it might erase the moment.

Anger. Sweat. Shame. It was all there, bubbling just beneath the surface.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. His presence filled the kitchen like smoke from a house fire—heavy, choking, impossible to ignore.

He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to argue or fall to his knees.

“I was seventeen,” he said, low, guttural. “And I was drowning.”

You blinked, your voice quieter now. But not kinder.

“And I was there. Every single night. And you still left me.”

He stepped back, that frustration blooming into something more brittle. Regret. Maybe even grief.

“You think I haven’t thought about it every goddamn day since?” he asked, his voice cracking at the edges. 

You laughed. It was short and bitter, “Not enough to come back. To apologize.” The silence that followed was loud enough to swallow you both whole.

He stared at you—really stared. But this look was different. It was weighted.

You could see it in the quiet collapse around his eyes. The carved-in creases along his brow. The lines hugging his mouth like they'd settled there after years of clenching. 

He looked tired. Weathered. Older.

Hell, so were you.

But the boy you once knew—the one who whispered secrets against your bedsheets and flinched at every car door slam—he was still in there. Flickering behind the amber-brown of his eyes, freckled skin flushed from heat and memory.

“What do you want me to say?” he finally rasped, voice rough as gravel. Another step forward. Closer.

“That I love you?”

Your breath caught.

“That I was a dumb fuckin’ kid who fell for his best friend?” His voice grew sharper. “That I hated my life? That you were the only good thing in it? That every day, I thought about leavin'—and I don’t mean runnin' off to the army.” He looked at you then, unflinching. 

“I mean, leaving. For good,"

"My dad ain't keep his gun in no damn safe.”

You flinched, a ragged inhale escaping before you could stop it. Your arms folded around yourself like armor.

But he didn’t stop. He took another step—careful, cautious, like you were something sacred he didn’t know how to hold.

“That seeing your face—sneakin’ into your window, smelling your shampoo on my fuckin’ hoodie—that was the only thing that made me feel alive?”

Your silence begged him not to go on.

But he did.

“That every hit I took, every time I bit my tongue bloody just to keep quiet... I did it so I could make it to the next night? Just so I could hear you laugh?”

“Just so I could feel like a fuckin’ person for once?”

He was close now. Close enough to break you.

And when you didn’t respond, when your body remained rigid and your lips sealed shut, he added—soft, but ruined. “You think I wanted to leave you?" 

“I didn’t leave you—I left me.”

The words landed like a hammer to the chest.

Blunt. Unforgiving. And, final.

You exhaled, a sound more sob than breath, and your knees nearly buckled with it. Tears tracked silently down your cheeks, warm and steady like they’d been waiting all this time for permission.

That wasn’t the answer you wanted. But it was the one you got.

And God, it gutted you. Because you'd spent years stitching his absence into abandonment. Into betrayal. You’d made it about the leaving—not the why. Not the rotting town that carved him hollow from the inside out. Not the bruises he kept quiet. Not the glassy stare he wore like armor. You never realized. And now it was too late to fix it. 

He stood there, just looking at you—eyes wide and wild with something close to regret. And then, his breath hitched. He lifted a hand—hesitating—like it wanted to reach for you, to cradle your cheek, wipe away the wreckage.

But it faltered. It dropped. He couldn’t even touch you.

“Fuck—” he rasped, stepping back like your pain had burned him, “I’m sorry. That was—” He choked on the next words, shaking his head like they wouldn’t come.

“Too much,” you whispered for him. Your voice thin. Broken.

His eyes flicked to yours again.

And for a second, there it was.

That same goddamn look. The one he gave you on that night—your window cracked open, the summer air thick, his hands trembling as he kissed you like it was the only thing that could save him. That night he left without a goodbye.

He still looked like that boy.

But this time, you weren’t seventeen. And this love wasn’t enough to rewrite history.

You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, jaw trembling. “You don’t get to do that. Drop some tragic confession and expect it to make the mess prettier. You left, Tommy. You chose to disappear.”

“I didn’t have a goddamn choice,” he said low.

“You did.” Your voice cracked on the last syllable. “You did, and you didn’t choose me.”

The silence between you turned heavy, thick with all the years lost to what-ifs and should’ve-beens.

Finally, you turned toward the stairs, wiping your face again. 

“Just—lock the back door when you’re done.”

You padded up the stairs, each step heavier than the last. Behind you, his voice barely filtered through—just the edge of a broken exhale, the muffled crack of “Fuck,” and the restless shuffle of feet with no direction, no place to go.

But you kept climbing.

Because what else could you do?

You reached the landing and closed your door like it could block out the past. Like it could erase the way his words were still ringing in your bones.

I didn’t leave you—I left me.

It echoed like a curse.

You stood there still. Shaking. Eyes darting across your room like they were searching for something to hold on to—something that hadn’t already been shattered.

But everything looked different now. Smaller. Older. The bed where you once whispered into the dark with him. The chair where he used to sit in silence, a quiet escape from the bruises on his ribs. The window he’d disappeared through.

You slumped to the floor.

What the fuck were you supposed to do with all of this?

With the memory of a boy who’d wanted to die—who’d only stayed alive because of you—and the boy who never told you. Never gave you the chance to carry any of it.

Cry?

God, yes. You cried.

It wasn’t graceful—wasn’t soft or cinematic. It tore out of you like a wound reopening under pressure. Sharp. Immediate. Ugly. Loud. The kind of crying that hollowed your ribs and made your molars pulse. You cried like your body thought grief was a fire to be purged, like noise could rewrite history if you screamed loud enough. If you hurt hard enough.

You didn't even remember falling to the ground. One moment you were upright, the next you were on your side—curled fetal on the cold floor like some ghosted version of yourself. Your fists clutched the hem of your t-shirt, pulling so hard you thought the fabric might tear, might snap you out of this. But it didn’t. Nothing did.

You couldn’t breathe around it—this grief, this truth that clawed at your lungs like it was trying to make space for itself. You wanted to crawl out of your skin. Tear the memories out of your skull. Rewind to the summer of ‘89 and beg him not to go.

And the worst part?

The cruelest part?

You still loved him.

You still fucking loved him.

Through all of it. Through the leaving. Through the years of nothing. Through the not-knowing and the silence and the way he looked at you now like he still held your name behind his teeth.

You loved him, and he had left anyway.

Not because he stopped. But because he didn’t know how to stay.

And that? That broke you worse than if he’d said he never loved you at all.

authors note: hi .. was this bad.. idk feedback is like so appreciated.. i am intimidated.

special thanks to nic and kaylee for beta reading.. ilyvm (@/joelmillers-wife , @/sassconvict)

You breezed past him with all the grace. All of the grace of someone ready to make this the best tenth birthday party imaginable. Inside, the house was already vibrating with the sounds of children—laughter, running feet, a shriek that sounded too dramatic to be joyful but not quite worried enough to interrupt your stride.

“You’re lucky it’s Sarah’s birthday,” you muttered, setting the boxes down on the kitchen island, “or I’d’ve left you outside to flirt with your reflection in the car window.”

Behind you, the storm door clicked shut, and Tommy’s voice followed close behind, all smirk and sunshine. What an ass.

“You think I don’t already?”

You turned just enough to give him the look—the one that needed no words, no translation. A look honed over years, sharp as a warning flare.

It said, Take this fucking present before I abandon it on the tile like a forgotten Amazon package.

He met it with a flicker of amusement, tongue running slow along the back of his teeth. The toothpick jerked upward with the motion, a gesture halfway between a grin and a challenge.

Then—at last—he moved. Reached out, and lifted the boxes from your arms like he hadn’t just watched you struggle like a packed horse in strappy sandals.

“What a gentleman,” you deadpanned, rolling your shoulder now that it was no longer bearing the weight of Barbies wrapped in glitter paper.

You followed, unhurried, a crooked smile tugging at your lips. “Aw, does that mean you’ll fuck right off for my birthday?” you asked, sweet as syrup and twice as sticky.

The tone was familiar—half tease, half challenge.

This was the game, the language you both spoke fluently: flirty jabs wrapped in barbed ribbon, a constant tug-of-war to see who could get under the other’s skin first.

Tommy didn’t turn around, but his voice came back clear, pitched just loud enough over the shrieks of a water balloon fight in progress.

“Depends—when is it again? So I can schedule my sudden disappearance. Preferably overseas. No cell signal.”

You let his remark pass with little to no acknowledgment, gaze drifting toward the deck—already a scene of chaos.

The aftermath was unmistakable. Water everywhere.

So much splashing.

Your fingers found the handle with practiced ease, a gentle grip. The storm door opened with a smooth pull, creaking slightly in the stillness. You stepped out onto the deck, hands resting lightly on your hips, eyes sweeping the mess before you.

Assessing.

“God,” you muttered, scanning the scene. “It’s a war zone.”

“Yeah,” Tommy exhaled beside you, folding his arms across his chest.

The motion was casual, effortless—but it did things.

The subtle tension in his forearms, the way his fingers flexed and shifted like he was ready to react, or maybe just wind you up.

It was hot. Unreasonably hot.

Probably the weather, though. Probably.

Right?

You cleared your throat, adjusting your tote bag like it was suddenly too heavy. “So… what’s the plan? Sacrifice one of them to distract the others, then make a break for it?”

Tommy’s mouth twitched. “I was thinking more along the lines of arming ourselves. Equal footing. But I like your bloodlust.”

“I’ve always been a tactician.”

He nodded, surveying the battlefield.

“Smart. And when the cake hits the table, that’s when it gets serious.”

As if on cue, one of the smaller kids shrieked and launched a foam missile directly at your ankle. You dodged, but just barely.

“Okay,” you said, pointing at Tommy. “I’m gonna need you to take a hit for me at some point. You’ve got main-character energy—they’ll go for you first.”

He grinned, already pulling a Nerf blaster from behind his back like it was a sacred relic.

Was that in his waistband the entire time?

“Deal. But if I go down, I expect a heartfelt eulogy. Minimum three tears.”

You grabbed a neon green water pistol from the toy bin and cocked it like a pro. “Only if you die heroically. If you trip and fall in the sprinkler, I’m laughing.”

He raised the blaster and pointed it at you, mock-serious.

“We go to war.”

“War,” you confirmed, tapping your pistol against his.

Birthday party warriors, armed to the teeth with Nerf water blasters, and pride too big for being as old as you were.

Though...

The party wasn’t all chaos and noise—it had its quiet beauty, too.

Sweet, thoughtful touches woven into the frenzy, proof of just how much love, and how much effort—Tommy and Joel, especially, had poured into the day.

White and lavender balloons floated lazily above the yard, clipped to trees and beams. Some dusted with glitter, others speckled with aluminum polka-dots.

Paper stars swung from the porch beams, catching the breeze—the string capturing a reminder of Joel’s scavenger hunt through four different Party City stores, which you’d heard about in hilarious detail.

The cake was a dream—vanilla layered with crisp wafers and a buttercream so decadent you’d swear Tommy cross-county drove it from a bakery halfway to Dallas.

All her friends were there.

And Sarah? Radiant. Giggling, twirling in her sundress, dancing with bare feet on wet grass. When she blew out the candles, the moment held for just a second too long—and you could have sworn Joel blinked back a tear.

But your eyes?

They’d drifted to Tommy.

He wasn’t looking at anyone but her. And the smile he wore—it wasn’t one you’d seen before. It was soft, unguarded. A rare thing, reserved only for his niece.

His Brothers happiness personified. His daughter in another life.

By the time the sun began to drop behind the fence line and the sky turned that drippy pink, it was nearly seven-thirty. The last of the girls had gone home. All that was left was the remnants of the party simmering behind in lost swim goggles and forgotten goodie bags.

From the kitchen window, you could see Sarah and Joel at the counter—her voice bouncing with excitement, probably mid-monologue about the new CD she’d unwrapped or the tiny Barbie accessories you’d chosen with precision.

Sat too damn long in that Toys'R'us.

You were barefoot now, dress peeled off and slung somewhere inside. The Texas heat still clung to everything, heavy and slow. Your swimsuit stuck to your skin as you bent to scoop up pool noodles from the grass.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

“Okay,” you murmured, not to anyone in particular—maybe just to the door itself. “Maybe today wasn’t so bad.”

“I think you might be a little old to enjoy a ten-year-old’s birthday party,” Tommy said, exhaling a quiet huff of laughter as he leaned against the railing. He watched you from the porch, arms resting loosely, the last traces of sunlight painting shadows across his skin.

His shirt still hung open, half-forgotten, fully unbuttoned.

You were out there, barefoot in the grass, collecting waterlogged floaties in the dark. It was ridiculous, and somehow—unfairly—endearing.

Admirable, even.

How completely, effortlessly cute you managed to be, even like this.

He stepped to the side, once, then twice—flicked a small switch near the post, and with a quiet hum, the backyard bloomed into soft light.

Fairy lights strung overhead blinked to life, casting a golden wash across the patio and the ripple of the pool.

You looked up, strands of hair stuck to your cheek, fingers pushing them back with a tired sort of grace.

“Oh,” you exhaled, the smallest smile breaking through the haze of heat and sweat. “Nice touch.”

Tommy grinned, slow and satisfied, turning back toward the railing. “Let there be light, huh?”

The soft glow of the fairy lights hung suspended between you like something delicate—but felt.

It lingered in that narrow space neither of you had quite dared to cross all afternoon.

Your bare feet whispered across the damp grass, soft pit-pats against the earth as you made your slow rounds along the pool’s edge. The last of the floaties drifted near the deep end—one stubborn noodle, lazily bobbing just out of reach like it knew you were tired.

You sighed dramatically.

Enough was enough. The day had been long, the heat relentless, and now this neon foam menace was the final insult.

Planting one foot on the ledge, you leaned out, stretching toward the floatie with a strained grunt, fingers wiggling in the thick, humid air. So close. Almost—

“You look like you’re one bad decision away from a water rescue,” Tommy called behind you, voice amused and far too pleased with itself.

You didn’t even turn around.

“If you’re not gonna help, at least don’t narrate.”

A beat of silence.

“Yeah?"

And suddenly, hands—steady and smug—pressed lightly against your back.

You had just enough time to gasp.

The world became water.

You came up sputtering, hair plastered to your cheeks, water dripping down your lashes as you whipped around mid-pool.

“Are you serious?!”

Tommy stood at the edge, arms crossed, smirking like a man who had never known fear. “You looked hot. I figured I’d help.”

“Oh, you helped all right,” you said, treading water, narrowing your eyes like a predator.

He chuckled, crouching down with a mock-offer of sympathy.

“Come on, I’ll help you out. Hand?”

You swam toward him, grumbling something indecipherable—but your fingers curled around his just the same. His grip tightened, already bracing to pull you up.

Then you yanked.

And with a satisfying yelp of surprise, Tommy went down like a stone—shirt, smugness, and all—right into the water beside you.

He surfaced a second later, spitting out chlorinated water drops.

“You fuckin' yanked me!”

You shrugged, smiling sweetly, treading just far enough away. “You looked hot. I figured I’d help.”

He blinked at you for a moment, then laughed—deep and real—and pushed his hair back from his forehead.

“Oh, did I?” he said, eyes locked on yours, voice low and amused, "Yeah?"

He hummed low in his throat, a playful warning, as he began wading through the water—steady and unhurried, like a predator who already knew the chase was pointless.

With his height, the water barely reached the middle of his chest, droplets glinting across his collarbones as he moved.

You let out a laugh—half-giggle, half-gasp—and twisted away, kicking into a frantic swim. Not graceful, not coordinated—just pure, desperate doggy paddle, arms slicing water in wide arcs, trying to keep distance between your body and the inevitability behind you.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” you shouted over your shoulder, already knowing it was useless.

He surged forward, sending ripples across the pool, cutting through them with ease. You felt it—the shift in the current, the moment before—

Splash.

His palm landed with a gentle thump on the crown of your head, and down you went with a yelp, water closing over your ears in a rush of soundless blue.

You popped back up, coughing, flinging your hair out of your eyes with dramatic flair. “Oh, you’re dead,” you gasped, launching a wave of retaliation.

A war broke out—slapping splashes, arms thrashing through the shallow light, laughter echoing off the patio tiles.

You clawed through the water like a gremlin, trying to pull his arm down; he countered with a full-body wave, sending you stumbling back into the deeper end.

You squealed. He grinned. It was mayhem.

Then—his final move.

He moved fast—too fast—his hand pressing down again, dragging you beneath the surface.

Your shoulders sank, hair swirling like silk strings in your vision.

Then, just as quickly, you broke through the water’s edge, gasping, water spilling from your lips as your eyes blinked to clear the haze.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm as he stepped closer, the splash of his movement echoing faintly in the cool night air.

His hands rose, gentle but certain, framing your face with careful tenderness.

His thumbs brushed lightly over your eyelids, wiping away the remnants of mascara and stray droplets clinging to your skin.

His touch was soft, deliberate—the pads of his thumbs moving to rest into the apples of your cheeks, holding you steady.

The air between you thickened, charged with something unspoken but undeniable.

Heat pooled low in your belly, spreading through your chest and settling behind your eyes.

The world narrowed, the fairy lights flickering like stars caught just for you two.

His breath hitched slightly, mingling with yours, and the distance between your lips shrank, breath mingling in the space where everything changed.

"Tommy—" You could only exhale before he tilted.

And you met him halfway.

His mouth met yours.

It began soft—tentative—like a question into the hush between heartbeats.

Your fingers found his damp hair, tangling there, grounding you as the kiss deepened—unhurried, each brush of lips carrying the weight of something that hadn't been foretold.

The night held its breath. The pool lapped quietly at your bodies, a gentle rhythm beneath the tension, as heat sparked and settled into something both wild and unbearably tender.

"Tommy." You said his name again, barely more than a breath, needing him to hear it.

To see you.

Your palm pressed flat against his chest, fingers curling against the soaked red fabric like a plea.

He exhaled—sharp and loud—as if he’d been holding the moment back, afraid to let it break.

“Stop talking.” The words slipped from him like instinct. Then one step, and he had you pinned to the cool wall of the pool, his hands cradling your face with a reverence that contradicted the urgency in his touch.

He pulled back, just for a moment, his gaze flickering toward the back porch—searching.

For Sarah. For Joel.

But the kitchen light was already dark, the house hushed.

Then he looked back at you.

His pointer finger curled inward, knuckle grazing a slow path down your throat, stopping where your collarbones met like an unspoken pause.

“Try to keep it down,” he murmured, his voice low—threaded with dark amusement. His hand slipped beneath the water, slow at first, but purposeful—tracing heat through the quiet current.

Then came the snap of fabric, deft and sudden.

His fingers slipped beneath your swim bottoms, knuckles brushing skin, deliberate—each movement a slow invasion, a quiet claiming. Just a curl, a touch—and then he was guiding you forward, folding you gently into the water.

“Wouldn’t want you to ruin a birthday party… now, would we?” he said, almost laughing, the words soaked a semblance of control.

tommy taglist: @xodilfluvr @angeleen777 @starwars8979 @chateaujoon @noorvell @theretrofuturista

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