#mac warfare

You and Mac pulled into the usual spot— it’s the same tired corner of the strip mall parking lot. The one with the flickering light post that was covered in slap tags and broken graffiti. The curb crumbling beside you. The truck’s A/C wheezes in protest as it idles, a faint hum beneath the static of silence in the cab.

Waylon sits in the backseat. He’s quiet, but chewing the end of his hoodie’s drawstring despite the hot summer heat— the nervous energy he never could quite shake when it came to these exchanges. He always tried to play it cool, it was just his mom, but his knee still bounced restlessly and his hands wouldn’t stop moving.

Mac cuts the engine and rests an elbow against the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the street in front of them. You could see it happening already— the subtle clench of his jaw, the shift in his shoulders. She wasn’t even here yet, and he was bracing for whatever dumbass remark she’d have to make to him today. He was bracing like it was muscle memory, spurred on by dealing with her time and time again for the last twelve years. Like maybe if he tensed in just the right places, the words she spat at him wouldn’t land so heavy in his chest.

“She’s two minutes late,” he mumbles and leans back in his seat.

“She’ll be five,” you say gently, laying your hand on his thigh. You give him a gentle squeeze, trying not to look at him directly. “She’s always five.”

He doesn’t respond to that. He just nods faintly, his eyes still locked on the far end of the parking lot. And right on cue at the five minute mark, her white town and country rounds the corner. She barely slows before swinging into the spot two spaces over. The back of the car dipping with the force of her brake pedal. The engine cuts, but she doesn’t get out. She never does. She waits for Mac to walk him over. 

And Waylon lets out a soft sigh as he starts to gather his things, his shoulders are already pulling in on themselves. Mac turns in his seat, an almost sad smile on his face— and he lies a steady hand on his son’s shoulder. “You good?”

Waylon nods and gives you a small wave as he opens the door. “See you Sunday.”

“Bye, sweetheart,” you say softly, your smile softening as he climbs out of the truck.

Courtney sits behind the wheel of her town and country as Mac climbs out. Like a queen surveying her subjects— her sunglasses are on, she’s scrolling her phone one-handed and she reaches up with the other to press a button. The rear door pops open with a mechanical click. Mac exhales slowly, like he could feel the tension in the air thickening just as he gets close. He grabs Waylon’s duffel bag from the backseat and hands it over to him, letting a hand linger on his kid’s shoulder for a moment. “You got everything?” he asks quietly, his voice low, not above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Waylon mumbles and then sighs. “Do I have to—?”

“Just the weekend, bud,” Mac smiles a little. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”

You stay in the truck, watching. The window’s down, it doesn’t offer them much privacy. But you don’t mind. You know how Mac gets around her. 

It starts off polite. Too polite.

“Hi,” Courtney huffs, not looking up from her phone. “He needs a haircut.”

“He just got one,” Mac replies, using everything in his power to keep from groaning, so he just rolls his eyes. “Same barber he’s always had.”

She glances up then, barely. Her eyes flick back to Waylon as he starts to walk over to the van, then they land on Mac. “Well, maybe ask them to cut all of it next time. He looks like a sheepdog.”

Mac doesn’t flinch. Just kisses the top of Waylon’s head and turns to grab the duffel from him.

“Did you pack his inhaler this time?” she asks loudly, raising an eyebrow. “Or were you waiting for me to telepathically remind you again?”

“He was fine when he left, Courtney. I sent one a month ago. You should have it.” He sighs as he starts to hand the duffel over. 

“Oh, sure,” she scoffs and shakes her head. “He’s always fine right up until he isn’t. Typical.” 

She takes the bag without even glancing at it, then adds, like it was an afterthought not a necessity to Waylon’s stay, “Also, his jeans didn’t fit when he came back last weekend. Either you shrank them in that prehistoric dryer of yours or you’re letting him eat like you do.”

That one hits deep in his chest and you see it in real time. The flicker in his eyes, the way his hand pauses on the strap just as the duffel makes its way through the window, and then he lets go of it.

She doesn’t stop there, no, she goes for the fucking jugular. “Actually,” she says sweetly, “I’ve been meaning to ask, Derrick… are you okay? Like, health-wise? Because you’ve really filled out lately.” She raises her brows, her eyes drifting over him and then back up to his eyes. “Like, really. I almost didn’t recognize you last time you dropped him off. Didn’t know being single came with a second chin.”

Mac doesn’t say a word back to her. Just crouches again, gives Waylon one more hug, whispers something only he can hear, and shuts the door once he climbs inside, with the same care you’d use to close a sleeping baby’s bedroom door.

Then he walks back to you— he’s stiff. Like each step was measured deliberately so his heart didn’t shake loose from his chest. He gets into the truck, he doesn’t look at you, just stares out the windshield until Courtney’s van pulls away, like he was willing himself to vanish into the hot haze.

“She’s always been like that,” he says quietly after a moment.

“Mmhmm.”

“I mean, whatever. I’m not… it’s not like I don’t know I’ve put on weight. I’m not blind.”

You reach over and curl your fingers around his tightly. “Did I say a single thing about it?”

“No, I just—” His voice breaks a little. He shakes his head, his eyes still forward. Then he turns the key and starts the engine like it gave him something to do other than think about the little bit of softness accumulating in his middle. One hand is clamped hard to the wheel, the other is still gripping yours like it’s his lifeline. “I don’t care.”

But he did. You knew it. You could feel it.

He was sitting small in the driver’s seat now, hunched in that way he got when he didn’t want to be seen. Like maybe if he held still long enough, his entire 6-foot body could disappear from himself and everyone around him. “Pull over,” you sigh quietly.

He frowns and risks a peek over at you. “What?”

“Pull over. That empty lot behind the hardware store. Now.”

He looks at you, confused— but he listens. He pulls into a spot in the middle of the lot and turns off the trucks. He’s parked behind a pile of busted wooden pallets, and he looks at you like he was waiting for a lecture. Instead, you unbuckle, toss your leg over the center and climb into his lap. It wasn’t graceful, not in the slightest. The console got your hip and the seatbelt clicked against your knee, but his hands fly to your waist like it’s instinct, steadying you. “Jesus— Baby, what are you—”

“I love every inch of you,” you say quietly. Framing his face with both hands as you whisper, just loud enough for him. “Every inch.”

His eyes are getting wet, but you don’t stop. “I love your body, Mac. I love the way you feel. I love that you’re strong and solid and warm, and that I get to fall asleep on your chest like it was made for me.”

He tries to look away. But you hold him tight, not letting him in the slightest. This was something he had to hear. “I love that you’re not punishing yourself anymore to look like you did at twenty-two. I love that you’ve lived. That you eat real meals with me now. That you’re present. That your body shows the life you’ve built, not the war you fought.”

His throat works like he wants to speak— but he doesn’t trust his voice.

“She doesn’t get to do that,” you whisper to him, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “She doesn’t get to dig into your skin and make you feel small again just because she feels sorry for herself. She fucked up. You’re mine now. All of you.” You kiss the edge of his mouth, then his jaw. “And for the record— you’re like… stupid good in bed.”

That gets a ragged laugh out of him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes yet, he won’t meet yours. “Derrick, do you think I’m lying?” you tease, soft, guiding his head until he has no choice but to look at you. “You fuck me like you’re trying to ruin me for anyone else. Like it’s your personal mission to make sure I never forget your name.”

His hands grip your thighs just a little tighter. “I think about you at work,” you mumble, your voice dropping as well as your hands. You run a finger up his chest and smile. “I think about how heavy you feel on top of me. How your belly presses against mine when you’re so fucking close and I wrap my arms around you like I never want you to move. Like never again.”

He groans, low in his throat. Like he shouldn’t be that turned on from just hearing you talk. His forehead drops to your chest.

“I love that little curve right above the waist of your jeans,” you whisper. “I love the softness in your middle and the strength in your arms. I love all of it, Mac. I love you. Exactly how you are… like this.”

His arms wrap around your waist and pull you in tighter than you were before. He kisses you then— it’s not urgent, but it’s so deep. Like he needed it. Like he was taking oxygen from your mouth. And by the time you pull back, your hands were threading into his hair and his eyes were glassy, tears threatening to spill. “You really think about me at work?” he chuckles softly.

“All the time.”

He laughs— hoarse, and in disbelief— but his grip on your waist doesn’t loosen. “I love you,” he says finally, each word punctuating deep in your veins like he means every single syllable.

You press your forehead to his, letting your eyes slip closed for just a moment. “I know you do. And I hope you know that I love you too. Exactly like this.”

He doesn’t say anything else after that, he just holds you like he’d never been held before. Like he was finally starting to believe that someone could look at him— just as he was— and want more than Courtney had ever given him.

-*-

There’s a movie playing— some action flick Mac picked, full of explosions and heavy sound design— but neither of you are really watching it. He’s lounged across the couch, his legs spread, one of his arms slung lazily over the backrest, the other lying loose across your thighs, thumb brushing the inside of blanket covered your knee. He’s warm beside you, radiating heat like a furnace, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.

You’ve been together long enough to recognize the difference between him being quiet and him growing more and more withdrawn. This is unfortunately the latter. You shift closer to him, tugging the blanket on your lap up just a little. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t respond at first. He just blinks at the TV, like he’s trying to stay interested in that instead. “It’s fine,” he says. It’s too quick. Too fucking soft. “Just tired.”

You place your hand on his chest and just feel the slow rise and fall beneath your palm. “You’re not tired, Mac. You’re sad. Because she said something fucking cruel, and you’re pretending it didn’t hurt your feelings.”

He doesn’t answer you right away, but his jaw flexes. Then— quietly— he sighs, “Yeah. I guess it did. I know she’s a piece of work. Hell, I was married to her for five years. I know she doesn’t matter… Or shouldn’t. But it’s like… once someone says it out loud, it’s all you hear for the rest of the damn day.”

Your heart aches for him. Not because you agree with her— God, not even close— but because he does. Because someone he once loved made him feel like less than he is, and he’s carrying it in his silence like a weight he doesn’t know how to set down. You do the only thing you can think of and move to straddle him, gently tugging the blanket down and off your shoulders. He looks at you, surprised— his eyebrows lifting.

“Baby…”

“I need you to hear me, Derrick MacDonald,” you say sternly, letting your hands slide up under his shirt. “And I need to show you. Because apparently you don’t listen and I don’t want even one more second to pass where you believe her bullshit more than you believe me.”

He looks like he’s going to try and argue— but you kiss him before he can. It’s slow and deliberate, with a quiet hum that melts into his mouth. Your hands are warm against his stomach, your fingers glide up his ribs. You’re feeling every inch of soft and solid skin that you love so much.

“Every single part of you,” you mumble against his lips, “is perfect to me. Not just tolerable. Not just good. Perfect. I look at you and I get so greedy.”

Mac huffs out a laugh. And then hums low in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper as your kisses make their way across his jaw and down his throat. “Your arms… Your chest… That perfect belly that I love falling asleep on. You walk around like this big, gorgeous mountain of a man, Mac… and you don’t even know how badly I want you all of the time.”

His hands settle on your waist, before you quickly remove them. His eyebrows knot down in confusion before you slide off his lap and onto your knees on the carpet. He leans back against the couch cushions and you tug gently at the waistband of his sweats. Then you pause.

“Can I?” you ask, your voice not above a whisper, looking up at him. 

He nods, the breath already knocked from his chest. “Yeah. Jesus, yeah.”

You peel his sweats down slowly, your fingertips brushing each newly exposed inch of skin. He lifts his hips to help you slide them down his thighs, and you tug his boxers down with them, revealing the heavy curve of his cock already growing thicker with every second that passes. He’s beautiful like this— half hard under you, warm, his skin flushed with the blood pulsing through his veins. His stomach rises and falls in slow, steady breaths as he watches you take your time in front of him, pressing kisses along the trail of hair that leads down, down. You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, stroking him slowly. You watch the way his mouth parts slightly and how his head tips back against the couch cushions. His thigh tenses beneath where your free hand rubs small circles into his skin, they’re thick and strong and a little soft around the edges— your favorite fucking thing to squeeze.

“Fuck,” he mumbles softly, letting his eyes slip close, his voice gravely. “You’re fucking unreal, baby.”

“No I’m not,” you say softly, leaning forward to lick a stripe along the underside of his cock from base to tip, “I just love you way too much to let you fucking doubt how hot you are.”

You give him one last smile before you wrap your lips around him and take him into your mouth. You’re slow about it, taking your time like you want to savor every. single. inch. He groans softly above you, his hand immediately coming down to rest against your head, his fingers threading through your hair gently. He doesn’t push— he never really does— he’s just holding on, giving himself something to do with his hands. You work him into your mouth deeper with every moment, your tongue dragging along the vein that runs underneath. Sucking him in until the head nudges the back of your throat and you try not to gag. You pull back up with a wet pop, saliva still connecting your lips to his cock, then you take him in again— messier this time. It’s hungrier, just what he needs. Your jaw feels like it’s working overtime, your breath coming hot and fast through your nose.

“Shit,” he breathes out softly, lifting his head to look down at you. His hand heavy against your skull. “I can’t— fuck— Your mouth… I can’t even fucking think.”

You moan around him when he speaks and then let your free hand slide up to his stomach. Your fingers splay over the softness there, loving him with touches. His body jerks under your touch. “I love this, too,” you mumble when you pull off of him again, your mouth slick and your eyes glassy. “I love all of you. You get that?”

He lets out a whimper— a whimper— his voice breaking as he mutters out a little please, his hips rock forward slightly just waiting for your mouth again, like he can’t help sitting still anymore.

So you give him exactly what he wants, he deserves it tonight. You lean back down and take him into your mouth. Your hand wrapping around the base of him and moving in sync, your tongue curls around him in ways that make him gasp and twitch under you. You suck, then swirl, then take him as deep as you can again. Your throat tightens slightly around him and he’s loud now. His breathing is harsh above you, he’s cursing under his breath as his grip curls around the edge of the couch cushion with one hand and tightens in your hair with the other.

“I’m close,” he warns you quietly, letting his head fall back again, low and strangled— straight from his chest, “Fuck, baby, I’m so fucking close—”

You moan in answer but don’t stop. You keep him deep in your mouth, looking up at him as you try and swallow around him. You let your nails dig lightly into the skin of his thigh as he jerks forward, moving both of his hands to your head to hold you there, his body hunching over you. He pulses in your mouth, that fire in his belly burning bright as he cums with a groan that you’re not sure you’ve ever heard before.

He spills hot down your throat, and you take it all— every fucking drop— then when his grip on you lets up and you can pull back, slightly, you gently suck him through the aftershocks. You don’t stop until his hand twitches and he mumbles something to you in that desperate and overstimulated voice he gets. You pull off of him slowly, licking your lips. And then as you climb back up into his lap, you leave a trail of kisses. You kiss his hip, his stomach, each part of him like it’s sacred. Then once you’re fully seated on his lap, your legs bracketing his hips, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. His eyes scan yours and then you dip down, resting your head against his chest. He’s still catching his breath but his arms wind tight around you.

“Jesus Christ,” he chuckles softly, his voice raw. “I didn’t even know I needed that.”

You tilt your head and press a kiss under his jaw. “Now you do.”

He lets out a weak, huffed laugh and then shakes his head. “You’re something else.”

You close your eyes and grin against his skin. “You feeling any better?”

“I feel like a Greek god who just got blown into another fucking dimension.”

“Pretty accurate, you look like one too.”

He catches your chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting it up. His eyes telling you everything he felt, then he kisses you long and soft and slow. His hand settles on the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your skin. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whisper softly, smoothing down his rucked up shirt.

He groans softly, peeking over your shoulder as you start to shift your body. “We are not turning that movie back on.”

“Mm. What a shame. I was starting to like it. Follow the plot, you know?”

“The plot now is you in my lap for the rest of the night,” he grins, hands sliding down your sides to slip under the hem of your shirt, tugging it up and over your head. “Might be my turn next.”

“Her?” He glanced at you, the white logo of the baseball team on your sweatshirt and your chin stuck out to read the drink menu in front of the other woman. “I didn’t even see _____ come in.” It was not a lie that he had any chance of getting away with, but it didn’t help that he said your name like it was a top shelf fragrance: expensive as it was alluring. 

Elliot hummed behind his last sip, loaded with disbelief while Mac smirked. 

“Nobody mentioned she was coming. That’s all. That’s why I stared for a second.”

“She’s literally on the team.” Mac chuckled to try and disguise how stupid he thought Tommy’s remark was.  Why wouldn’t you be at the wind-up party? You played outfield on the recreational baseball team with him and had for a few seasons, only missing last year due to being in a friend’s summer wedding that was more like a second job. 

Elliot had come around now, squeezing Tommy’s shoulder like a big brother might and then reaching over his head to accept another beer, foam slipping off the edge and catching his knuckles. 

“Okay, so after we played Plumpton…” Tommy began only to be interrupted by his friends barking like animated German Shephards, even Ray and Jake joining in from deeper in the bar. 

“The Saltdogs, yeah…” Elliot pointed at the center of Tommy’s annoyed face with the round end of his stubbly chin. 

“Yeah, well her bag ended up in my car.” They looked similar, you had said so yourself, both small black and white Nike duffel bags, with bats banging around inside. “So I drove it over to her place…” Tommy chose to ignore the ‘know-it-all’ grin and devious gaze that Mac shot up to Elliot. He felt like Danny Zuko in Grease when he was on the bleachers with the other T-Birds, trying to be impressive by sharing his conquest of Sandy, but Tommy couldn’t exactly say that. His buddies would  never stop razzing him if he mentioned a musical. It was cool when Ray rapped out some lines from Hamilton, but Tommy knew he would not be given the same carte blanche. “She invited me in. We hung out. It was…” What word did he want to use? Fun? Cool? Chill? 

“You spent a magical night in a human woman’s bed, Tommy. We’re all very proud of you.” Mac patted his friend’s back with gentle force and gave the glass he was holding a high-pitched cheers. 

“It’s just been kind of weird since. I left in the morning, but I texted and she just sent back a thumbs-up emoji.” Tommy suspected he sounded more like someone at the lunch table with the Pink Ladies than a cool leather jacket wearing T-bird, but it was too late. The words came out as stressed as his face appeared.

Elliot tried to avoid snickering by covering his teeth with a tight smile, but it was still easy to see his amusement. Not even the fullness of his mustache could conceal that he was entertained. 

“Sometimes, you make out with an old friend. It’s not a big deal, man. You can just talk to her if you want to talk to her.” Elliot said like it was nothing, his wife popped up under his arm with her doll-like eyes sleepy from margaritas, half of her second still loosely in her hand which Elliot took to keep it from meeting the floor. He held it over her shoulder, the coolest T-Bird of them all. Kenickie.

“Who is making out with their friend?” She sounded as soft as her skin looked. Elliot was texture and edges and she was silk, but for whatever reason, they were harmonious. 

“Tommy and _____ hooked up. He’s being weird about it.” Mac filled her in, gossiping about his friend like he was not right beside him. 

“Do you like her?” She squeaked loudly, jaw unhinged and eyes suddenly wide enough to be confused for sober, er, more sober. 

“Shh!” Tommy hissed and instantly regretted it. He was drawing more attention to himself and, while he had only ever seen Elliot let his wife handle herself, everybody knew without saying that if you rubbed Mrs. Miller the wrong way, you were going to find yourself at the very top of Elliot’s shitlist. Thankfully, Elliot still seemed pleased. “I just…I really don’t know her outside of baseball, like, I don’t want things to be awkward.”

“It’s awkward if you don't say ‘hi’.” She concluded. Tommy noted that it seemed like she was talking to both himself and Mac who was starting to return his gaze back to the television. He made a note to circle back to that. “I’d have thrown something at you if you didn’t say ‘hi’ at least after we first got together.” Leaning her head back on her shoulders, she was staring right up at her husband with her view hazy again. 

Tommy watched as they communicated nonverbally. Elliot lowered his gaze to meet hers, pulling her in closer so it was hard to see in the dimly lit bar where his hip ended and his wife’s began. He bowed his head, accepting what she had said as law, and kissed her. It was brief. She was obviously used to the tickle of his facial hair. Still, it was impossible not to feel how solid they were. Tommy didn’t feel jealous. It was longing that had a hold of him. He wanted that connection. It would be nice to go away and know that there was someone at home he was intertwined with. He wanted to return to more than a white fridge, night stand, and movies to catch up. 

As if her husband had not just given her eyes that could be described as ‘for the bedroom’, Elliot looked right back at Tommy and turned stern, “If you don’t say ‘hi’ to her, I’m going to meddle.”

“That is not a threat. It’s a promise.” Mac chimed in, leaning the neck of his bottle to Tommy’s shoulder, like he knew what he was talking about.

Over her head, Elliot mouthed in agreement. His wife would absolutely meddle and he, one of the strongest men in the room, would be powerless to stop her.

The walls of the bar felt like they were vibrating from all the noise once it passed ten-thirty. Tommy was no longer alone in thinking the place had grown warm. He weaved through the crowd, returning from the bathroom, to find his buddies who were feeling incredible about their season now that most of them were a few beers deep. He pivoted left when a guy stumbled in front of him, in need of somewhere to sit. Two blond women, seconds away from fighting, parted just enough that Tommy found you with a pool ball rack hugged in both hands and smile that had to be at least a hundred watts slid over your face. 

No thought beyond ‘pretty!’ had gone through his head when you spotted him and waved out of reflex, the smile never letting up. Tommy’s feet took control since his brain was behaving uselessly and he headed over. His hand rested on one side of the pool table between you as he watched you plopped the balls inside the plastic triangle. 

“Are you going to be a better loser than Dinah?” You teased, eyes sneaking up at him from the eight ball in your grip. He was mad at himself for imagining it as his cock, hard in your hand the way it had been nine days ago as you two clumsily moved around your Ikea couch. 

“Tough to say. Depends how much I lose by.” He laughed, circling the table to select a cue stick.

“I’m not really that good. I think Dinah is just drunk. And also not that good.” You laughed only because you knew your friend would have. 

Moving the rack and hanging it up, you watched carefully as Tommy leaned over the table, resting the weight of his chest on the edge, and lined up his cue with deep-set concentration. It was undeniably sexy. Your stomach sucked in as he pulled back and shot at the cue ball. A little sigh threaten to release itself from your mouth, but you sucked it back in and adjusted your posture. 

Tommy claimed stripes and set up his next shot and then another. 

“Were you going to tell me you’re a pool shark?”

“Just lucky.” Modestly, he replied with grateful eyes cast on the felt table. “There’s only so much you can do hanging out on base.” 

“I just always assume you guys are doing karaoke and looking at posters of babes in bikinis that are taped to the wall.”

“Not much karaoke.” He confirmed right before finally missing a shot. 

You could sense his eyes on you as you slid in with a side-step between him and the table. He took a second to back up, giving you room to set up your shot. The balls had rolled out in a way that did not make it easy, but there was some hope to sink the yellow one. Tommy’s eyes lowered as you leaned further down, glancing over your shoulder you felt glad over how he rolled both lips inward as he admired what he saw. If you hadn’t already felt his admiration all over your ass before, you might pretend that he just liked the stitched pattern on the pocket of your jeans. 

“Do you have a karaoke song? Ray has claimed ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ so you can’t choose that.”

Taking the shot, you sank in the yellow, but nothing else moved and you didn’t know how in the world you would get another point. 

“I don’t think I do karaoke.” In thought, his brows flexed down. 

Standing up from your missed shot, you nodded and wrapped both hands around the stick. This time Tommy had to look away. 

“Have you ever done it?” 

He shook his head, studying the layout of the pool balls. 

“How do you know you don’t do it then? You can’t know how you feel about something if you don’t try…” 

In the same second that he was beginning to crouch down, Tommy stood back up and pinned you to the untouched chalk scoreboard with his eyes. 

“Are we talking about karaoke?” He sounded suspicious and your cute little smirk did not help. Had Elliot’s wife already gone to you?

“We are. What do you think I'm talking about?” 

Fuck. 

Tommy's eyes fluttered as he tried to think quicker than his brain would allow. He missed the shot, barely tapping the cue ball as he loosely moved. 

“Nothing, nothing.” He tried to play it cool, walking around the table and holding his empty hand in his pocket, but inside, Tommy felt his pulse racing. He didn't have game like his friends. He couldn't just throw his arm over a girl and make her feel sheltered. His hands had shaken when he first touched you. He had to suppress whines of pleasure when you were only kissing him. 

“Did you think I was talking about you sneaking out without saying goodbye how many mornings ago?” You were walking around the table with your stick upright in hand and Tommy froze, watching you move like he was the ball you'd chosen to strike. “We can talk about that if you would like. Happy to.” The candy pink tip of your tongue was teasing him, sticking out just a touch between teeth. Trying to hide the instant blush that blossomed over his pale face, Tommy pulled his hand from his jeans and rubbed the back of his head back and forth.

You weren’t moving or even studying the pool table to come up with a thought. Tommy had your full attention now. He couldn’t help, but think to himself: Careful what you wish for, buddy.

“I…I did have a really good time.” He managed to stammer out, looking at the sticky and stained hardwood beneath his feet for too long before showing you his nervous smile. 

“That makes two of us.” 

“Hey, ______,” This time when Tommy said your name it was still plenty alluring, but it sounded comfortable now, something within reach. “I just….I never thought that this would happen.” 

“What would happen?” While holding onto the stick, you leaned forward, but you weren’t playing around anymore. You really wanted to understand how you two went from being friendly at baseball, having a great time talking and then decidedly not talking on your couch, to him behaving like a stranger. 

“You and me.” He said it matter-of-factly and watched you blink your way around the answer.

Your head dipped to the side and after a deep breath, he noticed your face fell in a sad, but pensive way like you were deciding how sad it made you. 

“Why never?”

This felt like a landmine and, out of instinct, Tommy looked around for Elliot. He would know the right way to navigate this. He was a firm stance and a smooth talker. When he couldn’t find his large friend, he looked for Erik. A superior. He hadn’t seen the guy since he arrived though. He was left to his own devices. In the crowded, popular spot, Tommy felt completely alone

“Come on, ________, you are…” With one hand, he was gesturing up and down your body over and over, but he stopped himself and thought twice quickly. It wasn’t just that he was attracted to you. He had a schoolboy crush and he was surrounded by alpha males all the time. Most of the guys chewed tobacco on the bench and when they walked into the room, people took notice. Tommy loved the feeling that came with being with his friends, but he did not yet feel like he was at their level. He didn’t think it would ever come and he would live like a little brother begging for a turn at Nintendo forever. “I really like you.” The confession came out collapsed and his chest followed suit. His pool stick had to hold his weight for a second, but he stood up as soon as it wobbled. “I didn’t come over to just try and score and…I hadn’t even worked up the nerve to ask you out and…”

“Were you ever going to ask me out?” Your hands had been in his underwear. This was no time to be coy. 

“I've wanted to.” He was looking down at the floor again. Blinking away the nerves, he tried to concentrate on the green light that it felt like you were giving him. “Would you want to get together sometime?” Maybe it wasn't smooth as butter, but it was straightforward and true. It felt good to be honest about what he wanted.

“The season’s over so we’re about to have free time. Might be nice to have something to do on Thursday nights.” Weighing the options aloud, you teased. Tommy looked white as a ghost all of the sudden so you didn't stretch it out. Instead, you reached forward and put a hand on his chest, checking his pulse. “I'm kidding. Yeah, I would. And not just Thursdays.” 

“You said you wanted to go to the pumpkin patch last game. Have you gone yet?”

“You want to carve pumpkins with me?” Genuinely, you were excited that he remembered. 

“Yeah, you're going to need someone to scoop the guts.” He even remembered you said by the dug out that you hated that part. The idea of his biceps flexing as he reached yanked out pumpkin innards had you feeling the same sudden heat in the pit of your stomach you felt on your couch, laughing with him and inching closer and closer until your knees knocked. 

“It’s a date.” One nod, you clarified. “Do you like scary movies? We could watch one after or during.” Turning your shoulder to Tommy, you finally took note of the shots on the table and started to position yourself accordingly. There was an opportunity to sink red, but it meant likely knocking one of Tommy’s in the basket too. 

“I can do scary.” He agreed, watching you as you pulled back your stick. “Just no clowns. I don’t do clowns.”

You're still unpacking. You've been putting it off for over a week now, and you decided this morning that you needed to finish. You don't want any more cardboard in your dang house.

Your home, in North Carolina, which you share with the love of your life. Everything is several times bigger than the California apartment you'd spent the last several years in, and the rent is less. Decor is a little sparse at the moment, but you'll get around to that later.

Travis loves his new bedroom, and was delighted to find that Mac had already put up a bunk bed when he arrived. "For when Waylon comes to visit," he'd explained. You repaid him for this unexpected kindness by helping him break in the new mattress in the master bedroom. And the shower. And the dresser. And the walk-in closet.

You were really, really happy about starting your happily ever after.

Plus, you have a back yard, and a patio to sit on, and it's so quiet you can hear crickets and frogs at night. You love it here.

You finally get to the door, and open it to reveal a tiny woman with big hair in a tight floral dress.

"HI!" she beams. "I'm Dallas! I know our official appointment's not until next week, but I was in the neighborhood, and I just had to meet you! Gosh, you're just the prettiest little thing. Derrick's a lucky man!"

"…our appointment?" you ask, having no idea who this woman is or why she's here or what's in the folder tucked under her arm.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she laughs. "I'm Jason's wife, the wedding planner!"

You remember a mention of a Jason somewhere on the base, but… wait, wedding planner?!

"Oh," you smile and nod, like you were even a little bit prepared for this. Right. Manners. "Nice to meet you! Uh, would you like to come in?"

"I can only stay a minute," she informs you, marching past in her impossibly high heels that match the flowers on her dress perfectly. She makes a beeline for the sofa. She's wearing expensive perfume that isn't completely horrible.

"Would you like something to drink? We have water, soda, lemonade…"

"Lemonade sounds amazing!" she says, unpacking a bunch of papers from her folder and lining them up on the coffee table.

You hesitate for a second, watching in horror, and then turn and scurry toward the kitchen. Travis stands just inside his bedroom, out of her sight, with a puzzled look on his face. You shrug and proceed to the kitchen, where you pour her a glass of lemonade.

"Thank you!" she smiles a little too widely when you place the glass on a coaster within her reach. "Is it fresh-squeezed?"

It's Kool-Aid, but there's no way you're telling her that.

"I haven't had time to unpack all of my kitchen gadgets yet," you reply apologetically. It's not a lie.

"That's alright," she smiles, taking an obligatory sip. "Yum! So I'm not going to get into any specifics today, I just wanted to meet you and give you a few things to think about before we officially kick things into gear. Do you have a theme in mind?"

Is not marriage the theme of a wedding?

"No," you say quietly.

"That's alright, there are endless options that we can explore later! Have you given any thought to the guest list?"

You know two people in this state, and you'd like them both to be there.

"Not really," you answer.

"Derrick implied that you wanted a small wedding, is that right?"

"Yes," you answer, quickly this time.

"Good! So we're thinking of a guest list around fifty?"

"Fifty?!" you ask, a little too loudly.

"A small wedding is typically around fifty guests," she says, shuffling papers like she's unbothered by your outburst. "The last wedding I planned went all out, and there were over two hundred!"

Two hundred guests at a wedding? You're going to pass out. Don't ask. Do not ask.

"Just out of curiosity, what might an over-two-hundred guest wedding cost?"

You weren't supposed to ask, dammit.

She stops shuffling papers and smiles at you in a way that makes your hair stand up.

"Larger weddings tend to run between $100k and $300k, depending on the choices of the bride and groom."

Yeah, you're gonna pass out.

"Which brings us to our budget! Did you have a number in mind?"

What is the current price of a marriage license in this state, you wonder?

"Uh… we haven't talked about that yet."

"That's alright, I know your man's making the big bucks now that he's just moved up a rank." She winks, and you do your best not to recoil. "For a small wedding with about fifty guests, you can expect to spend between $10k and $50k, depending on your choices."

You nod like you're not screaming inside.

"Now, I can't stay long," she reminds you, and it comes with relief. The pleasantness of that first whiff of perfume has passed. Now it smells sour, and it's getting harder to breathe. You'd like her to finish up and move on so you can go scream into a pillow. "But I wanted to drop off some papers. This is a list of decisions you'll have to make; themes and colors and whatnot. This one is a checklist of all the things you'll have to do before the big day; this one's more fun, as it's about shopping and invitations. This is my contract, which we'll all sign at the end of our first meeting next week. And this is my business card! Call or text me any time, day or night, and I'll be there!"

You nod, taking it all in.

"Okay," you eventually choke out through the cloud of perfume. "We'll look over everything tonight and talk about it."

"Great!" she says, standing and leaving a tree's worth of wedding nonsense on your coffee table. "It was so nice to meet you!"

"You too!" you lie, coming out of your shocked state and giving her the enthusiasm she requires. "Thank you for stopping by, you've given us lots to think about!"

"Of course!" she smiles, her dazzling white teeth catching the sun and nearly blinding you. "I'll see you soon!"

No, she won't.

"Have a great rest of your day!" you say instead.

"Thank you, honey! You too!"

She gets in her shiny Mercedes, waves, and backs out of your driveway.

You close the door and lean against it. And then go open a window.

"What was that?" Travis asks.

"A wedding planner," you answer, picking up the glass of lemonade she'd taken one sip from.

"A wedding planner?" he questions.

"Yup," you sigh, dumping it in the sink.

He gives you A Look.

"I know," you sigh again. "I'll talk to him tonight."

You can't avoid it any more. You have to talk to Mac about the wedding you don't really want to have.

You got through dinner without mentioning it.

You're sitting on the patio, watching the sun go down, next to Mac. The love of your life. Your fiancé. The man you want to spend the rest of your life with. Who, somehow, you cannot figure out how to discuss the wedding with.

"So…" You blow out a long, slow breath. "I met Dallas today."

"Shit," he says quickly, angling himself to face you on the little loveseat that the previous owners left behind. There's panic in his eyes. "Look, I didn't send her. I happened to mention that my fiancée was finally here, and one of the guys mentioned that his wife was a wedding planner, and I said cool, and he asked for contact info, and I maybe agreed that we'd go to dinner with them next week. But it was supposed to be just a feeling-out-this-thing mission. I didn't know she was just gonna show up."

You respond to his frantic rambling with a blink. His shoulders slump, and his head drops.

"So what I'm hearing is that we need to have a serious talk about a wedding."

"Fuck," he breathes. He looks up, eyes pleading.

"I know," you sigh. You both want this. Of course you want to marry your best friend and spend the rest of your lives together. But talking about the actual wedding part hasn't been easy. "I know you want a wedding. A real one, not just signing papers in the courthouse. Which, honestly, would be fine by me. But I'd like to know why."

"Why what?"

"Why do you want a big wedding, Mac?"

He stares blankly, and then the wheels start turning too fast. You reach for his hands, take them with a supportive squeeze, and he stares down at them.

"I wanted to do things right," he sighs. "I know you and Shawn didn't have a real wedding. I wanted you to have something good to remember this time. Because you deserve it."

All this is about Shawn?

"Shawn and I got married on paper, then he threw a big party to celebrate," you remember. "Invited everyone in the apartment building. I sat on the bedroom floor with my baby, keeping a blanket over his ears to protect him from the noise of the wedding reception I didn't attend."

Mac stares at you with pity in his eyes.

"Tell me about yours," you request.

His eyes fall to your hands again. He strokes the back of them with his thumbs.

"I married Annie in a church," he sighs. "Her church. Her and her mom planned everything. Place was full of people who'd known her all her life. Marrying some outsider with a crazy spinster mom who brought nothing but chaos to the ceremony. Felt like I didn't belong there."

"At your own wedding?" you ask, heart aching, when he stops talking. He nods.

"That one was cheap, at least," he sighs. "It was a potluck kind of deal, reception was at the church too. Church ladies can cook. Stephanie… she had other ideas. Everything had to be big, and shiny, and new. And I went right along with it, because I thought it would make her happy. Turns out, she slept with 6/8 groomsmen, and I was still paying off the wedding when I signed the divorce papers."

If you ever see her again, you're going to rip off all her fingernails and poke her eyes out with them.

Mac takes a deep breath and continues.

"And the third one was over before it hit the twenty-four hour mark," he sighs. "So clearly, I fucking suck at this. We can have whatever kind of wedding you want. I don't care."

"Yeah, you do," you sniffle. "This is as much of a do-over for you as it is for me."

Your eyes meet, and you hold his gaze. This is the last wedding either of you will ever have. You are going to have a loving, lasting marriage, and it's gonna start with a beautiful ceremony that you plan together.

"I love you," you breathe. "And I will marry you, any time, any place. This is our wedding, and you're right: we're gonna do it right this time. We're gonna make every decision together, and it's gonna be perfect for us."

"I don't even know where to start," Mac admits.

"She gave me some checklists," you sniffle again. "Hang on."

You go back inside and pull out the papers you'd hidden away in a drawer, bringing them back to him. He skims them, clearly as horrified as you were.

"You have to plan a year in advance?!" he finally asks, looking up at you. "We might not even be here in a year!"

"Which is why I propose that we fire our wedding planner and do everything ourselves," you smile.

"We can't fire her if we never hired her," he chuckles.

"Oh, she seems to think this is a done-deal," you inform him. "A small wedding, featuring about fifty guests, should run us between $10k and $50k, by the way. Depending on our choices."

Mac blinks.

"Depending on our choices," you repeat. "So, for example, I choose not to have a wedding planner."

He laughs.

"Look," you sigh, reaching for the year-long to-do list. You circle a few things. "This is the stuff we have to do. Officiant, marriage license, wedding bands. Mark three things you want in a wedding, and I'll do the same. We don't need all the bullshit, baby. We're not doing this for in-laws or Instagram. We're doing this for us. We get to pick what's important."

Mac leans over and kisses you, long and deep, then turns his attention to the checklist.

He circles a few things and hands it back to you.

You'll need a venue and a wedding dress.

"Just two?" you ask.

"Courthouse doesn't sound appealing to me," he shrugs.

"And a wedding dress?" you smile.

"I know that probably should've been one of yours," he sighs, shifting down in his seat so he prop his feet on the coffee table. It's the most relaxed he's looked since you started this conversation. "But I really, really want to see you in a wedding dress."

"Oh yeah?" you grin.

Mac nods.

You take the pen from him and add a cake and a day-of note.

"What's a day-of note?" he asks.

"I had to look it up," you laugh. You did. You spent most of your afternoon searching online for things on this list that you'd never even heard of. What the hell is a wedding stakeholder? Why would you need wedding insurance? How many damn photographers does one wedding need?!

"Well?" he prompts.

"You know how the bride and groom aren't supposed to see each other before the wedding?"

"Yeah."

"We'd write each other letters and open them that morning instead," you explain, angling yourself toward him and resting your elbow on the back of the loveseat. You wrote so many letters to each other while he was overseas, this would be a piece of cake. Which will be Travis's favorite part of the wedding.

Mac smiles. Is he getting misty?

"I thought we could do that instead of writing our own vows," you say gently, drifting your fingers through his close-cropped hair. "Takes the pressure off. Makes the ceremony go faster. Keeps things private."

"What needs to stay private?" Mac asks. "Everyone can see how much I love you."

"Yes, but do they need to hear that I promise to never stop smoking your pole like you smoked that cigar on my back porch?"

Mac, caught completely off guard during your serious discussion, lets out a high-pitched cackle and then falls into a fit of giggles. You laugh and wait for him to recover. He wipes away tears before he's done.

"Okay," he wheezes, "Private notes and standard vows. Sold."

"Yep," you grin. "So we need a location, an officiant, a marriage license, wedding bands, a dress, letters, and a cake. Anything else?"

"Just us," he says.

"And the kid," you grin.

"There's no one else you'd want to invite?"

"Mac, I know three people in this state, and I have to call one tomorrow and inform her that her services will not be needed."

He chuckles, but stares. It's unsettling.

"You don't want anybody else?" he asks. "Not relatives, or friends from back home, or Team Waylon?"

"Why, did you want to invite your mom?" you counter.

"Hell no," Mac scoffs. "She still doesn't know about #3."

"So your mother is going to think I'm your third wife?"

His spirits sink, as they often do when his mom is brought up.

"Don't worry," you whisper, leaning in to kiss his forehead. "I'm gonna be your last wife. That's all she needs to know."

"The Final Boss," he grins.

"Buckle up, buttercup," you tease. "You're not ever getting past me."

"Good," he breathes, coming in for a kiss.

You turn over, with the intention of getting up and beating him to the coffee maker, but a "no you don't" and a warm body tackles you to the bed.

Mac's on top of you.

"Go back to sleep," he mumbles against your neck.

"You're not the boss of me," you grin into the fluffy mattress that you're sinking into.

"No," he agrees, kissing the back of your shoulder. "But I love you and I want you to go back to sleep."

"And I want to make you some fucking breakfast," you grumble.

"I can take care of myself," he says gently, nuzzling his nose into the back of your neck. "You don't have to be awake yet. You've got unpacking to do, and a kid to keep up with all day. Rest."

You sigh and feel yourself sink into the mattress a little more.

"You just don't like the way I make coffee," you tease.

"I love the way you make coffee," he whispers, his breath hot on your neck. "I just don't want you to think you have to take care of me."

"I do, though," you protest.

"I love you," Mac sighs. "I love that you want to take care of me. But it's stupid early, and you don't have to be awake at this ungodly hour, so I need you to close your eyes and let me sleep vicariously through you."

"That's not a thing," you laugh.

"Is now," he chuckles, kissing the side of your neck.

"If you don't want me messing up your morning routine, you can just say so," you tell him quietly, trying not to sound like your feelings are already hurt by the very possibility of it. "I can take it." You can't.

"That's not it," he says, and you believe him. He breathes in deep and lets it out slow, like he's finding his words. "I've always had a hard time getting out of bed. It's harder, now that you're in it. But I think it'd be even harder, starting my day with you and then having to say goodbye."

Right in the heart.

"Go back to sleep," he begs. "I'll be home as soon as I can, then we never have to say goodbye. Just… good night."

You sniffle, because that's the most romantic thing you've ever heard. You are in love with the sweetest man in the world. Just when you think Derrick MacDonald cannot possibly be any more perfect, he goes and says something like this. What did you do to deserve a love like this?

"You okay?" he whispers.

"Honk-shoo, honk-shoo," you joke through the tears, pretty proud of your fake snoring noises.

Mac chuckles and kisses your neck.

"G'night, babe," he whispers. "I love you."

"I love you, too."