Frank knew what day it was the moment he awoke. He knew what day it was last night, when he fought sleep until exhaustion finally dragged his conscious into slumber. As if prolonging sleep would extend the hours in the day. Like time wouldn’t keep passing and the one year anniversary of your death—your murder wouldn’t circle around. 

He begrudgingly sat his body upright and dragged a hand across his face, using his other hand to grab the framed photo of you on the nightstand. 

It was the only picture he had of you. Frank because of his loss and the trauma that grew from it, never allowed you to take any pictures of him or of you two together and vice versa. But you looked so beautiful that day. He remembered everything about that moment, you wore a pink floral sundress you knew he had grown a favoritism towards. 

You had convinced him to leave the city for a bit and drive to the closest beach town, making a day trip out of it. He remembered you asking for weeks before he finally relented and agreed. Frank even recalled mumbling under his breath about the ordeal. Now, though, he wished he could go back in time and say yes the first time you asked. 

The tips of his fingers were white from the hard grip he had on the frame. You weren’t looking into the lens of the camera, but at him. Or past him that snapped the picture. The fondness and love in your gaze permanently captured in the photo was one that he now realized he took for granted. 

It was as though that reminder burned him as he slammed the frame down. The grief felt heavier today, it was a given. But he knew you wouldnt want him wasting away, chasing and hunting down the gangs not only responsible for the loss of his family, but for the loss of you. Maybe deep down, Frank believed that if he could continue to chase after these men, he could outrun the ghost of you that haunted him every morning when he woke and every night when he slept. 

So Frank got up and did his usual routine. Put on a shirt and jeans, brushed his teeth and ate breakfast that tasted like ash in his mouth. But he took care of himself, the way you used to. After all, he was the reason you were no longer here to do it. 

—

His body moved before his mind caught up. Before he knew it, Frank walked into the crystal shop—your favorite store in Hell’s Kitchen and the last place you two went on a date. The bell hung above the door chimed, signaling to the employee behind the cashier that someone had entered the store. 

She looked up briefly from her phone, glanced at Frank, before returning her gaze to her screen, muttering a half-hearted welcome. “Welcome to The Green Man Store. Let me know if you need anything.” It didn’t take a smart man to know she didn’t really mean the last sentence. 

Flashes of the date entered Frank’s mind. The way you passionately explained each crystal’s properties and meanings to him. How your eyes seemingly lit up more when they landed on your favorite one. 

He remembered sneakily grabbing the best looking one when you walked away after looking at the price and making an excuse he couldn’t remember for you to wait at the front of the store so he could purchase the crystal. 

The pure look of surprise and adoration that was evident by the toothy smile on your face when he gifted it to you later that night. How soft and gentle your lips were while you peppered kisses all over his face in gratitude. 

Frank had a sense of deja vu as he walked through the store in the exact same path the two of you did. 

He was a man of reason. Of facts. Frank respected your love of crystals and your belief in them. That didn’t mean he did too. But if there was even the tiniest inkling the crystals were as powerful as you made them to be, he would’ve done everything in his power to bring you back. 

His gaze landed on a shelf towards the back of the store. Various collectibles were assorted neatly on it. But one in particular caught his eye. It hadn’t been there the last time he was in here with you. Frank walked over to it before grabbing one of the red and white retro-styled boxes. One Wish Willow, Frank read under his breath. 

Amaze your friends! You only get one wish.

Maybe it was because this day in particular had a heavier effect on him than others. Maybe he thought it was a way to be closer to you. Frank found himself walking to the register, the cashier looking up as he set the item down firmly onto the counter. 

“What is this?” His voice was gruff, hoarse. The sound you’d expect for a man who hasn’t spoken much. 

The cashier, a blonde woman in her early twenties, grabbed the item before looking back at Frank with an unamused look on her face. “It’s a collectible.” A statement whose words were dragged out so much it sounded like a question to Frank. “No returns.”

Frank simply pulled out his wallet, throwing the exact amount for the item before heading out the door in three long strides. 

—

Here lies Y/N. Daughter. Friend. Fiancée. 

“Until we meet again.” The quote so fitting for you, Frank thought. He hadn’t been the one to choose it. In fact, it was Matthew and Karen who had arranged everything from the headstone to the casket. Frank was drowned in grief, in disbelief at the thought of having to bury the woman he thought he would be spending the rest of his life with. 

He had barely made it to the funeral. 

But he had gone to your grave every night after. This night was no different. Except it was. 

Frank didn’t know how many hours had passed since he arrived at the cemetery, only that he’d gone to a floral shop and purchased your favorite flowers right before.

“Hey, sweetheart.” It is—was—your favorite pet name he called you. You even preferred to be called that than your own name. And he happily obliged. Reality soon punched him with realization that you were no longer here to hear him say it. “Got ya flowers. Your favorite ones.”

God, he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. To dig himself so deep that he may be able to reach you, hold you, tell you he loves you. Frank’s hands formed into fists as they hung at his side, a physical restraint to remind him that you weren’t there. Your body was but you weren’t. 

He continued talking as if you were, though. “Stopped by that crystal place y’like so much. Even bought a toy you’d laugh at me for spending money on.” A slight breeze blew across his face and for a brief moment, he swore, your laughter echoed in the wind. 

He reached into his jacket’s pocket, fishing out the vintage toy. “Thought we could open it together, baby.” He stared at the print once more before turning the box to its side, opening it haphazardly. 

“Was never the gentle one. Y’know that sweetheart.” Frank reached inside the box for its content, his fingers grabbed onto the object inside and pulled it out. An eerie sound played when Frank tugged at what looked to be a plastic twig, the haunting music cutting into the quiet night. 

You only get one wish. Frank knew he looked pathetic. A grieving man standing before his lover’s grave, begging the universe for more time. So consumed by the loss, he bought a toy for its supposed magical properties. Frank knew he looked desperate. He was. But he was also a man who knew the dead stayed dead. 

Still, he held the twig by both ends, sparing a brief glance at your headstone and closed his eyes. He envisioned you. 

You in the middle of the night, eating ice cream straight from the tub, wearing only his shirt. Your face right before you came, always wanting to look at him as you did. You wiping the blood off him every night. You, the night that tipped the scale. Your face streaked with tears as your voiced cracked, exhausted from yelling but refusing to let him allow his anger to drive him into an early grave. 

The flashback to that night threw him back into the past, despite all efforts to stop it. 

“You walk out that door every night. Every fucking night, Frank,” your voice rising along with your frustration. “You leave me here in our home where I don’t know if you’ll come back. And if you do, I don’t know what state you’ll be in. How many injuries, wounds, or bruises that threaten to take you from me.”

Frank stood by the door, dragging a hand down his face, trying to keep his anger from reaching you. “I’m not going nowhere. ‘M right here.”

You retorted, “But you’re not. Your head is always in the battlefield. Every day, a little more of you is left there. I won’t let you do this to yourself.”

“You know what they did to Maria. To my son. My babygirl.” 

Your voice softened, face scrunched in sharing his pain and understanding. “I know, baby. But is this what they would’ve wanted? When does it end?” That seemed to set the moment aflame. His voice had gone cold, deeper and darker than he’d ever spoken to you before. “I don’t know what the hell they want. ‘Cause they’re dead. Murdered. So don’t go using that shit against me, you hear me?”

Frank watched as you stepped closer to him, trying to close the distance not only physically, but emotionally. “I can’t begin to understand that kind of loss. But I love you, Frank. They loved you. And it hurts to see you like this. Letting grief morph into an armor of anger that controls your life. You don’t have to wear your grief like a badge of honor. Like it’s proof they were real.” Your hand pressed gently against his chest, right above where his heart is. “They’re here. You’re proof that they’re real.

“I want there to be an after for you. With me.”

He didn’t deserve you. Didn’t deserve your care. Your understanding. Your love. How vulnerable your presence made him. It terrified him. So, he did what he knew. He pushed you away.

Frank took a step back, your hand falling from where it rested on him. He turned his body towards the door as his hand reached for the knob. “Don’t wait up.” 

Your pleas were cut off by the slam of the door. 

—

Frank returned sometime around 3 AM. But something was wrong. Off. 

He immediately reached for his gun, fear sinking into every fiber of his being when he noticed the front door of your apartment was slightly ajar. Frank kicked the door open, eyes methodically scanning the room. 

No.

No.

No.

Frank Castle was a man whose name alone instilled prey-like fear into his enemies. Hell’s Kitchen had even nicknamed him The Punisher for his brutality against criminals. But the second his eyes landed on your body in the middle of the living room, he was just a man. 

His gun was immediately forgotten as he cradled your lifeless, unmoving body. Your name was a prayer on his lips that he repeated over and over. “Baby, c’mon, open your eyes f’me.” More and more please left his lips to no avail. The single gunshot to your chest answered for them. His pants were drenched in your blood that pooled all around you. 

He begged, voice heavy with sobs that tore from his lips. “You’re okay. You’re okay, sweetheart, just open up those pretty eyes.” But they remained closed. 

The yell that tore from his lips was one of pure, unadulterated agony.

Frank didn’t move for the gun when he felt another presence enter the room. He hadn’t looked up, only hoped that it was the intruder coming back to finish the job. 

“Frank.” It was Matt.

No response. Frank continued to caress your hair, rocking the both of you as he pleaded again for you to wake up. 

Matt said his name again. And again. 

Finally, Frank answered, his voice fragile, so painfully fractured, that Matt almost didn’t recognize it was his. “Y’gotta help me, Red. Help me save her.” Each word threatened to be the string that pulled Frank apart completely.

Frank Castle, the name alone would send chills down men’s spines. The brutal, merciless, Punisher was a shattered, heart-broken man. Nothing like the stoic, unrelenting man that executed justice. 

No. Frank Castle was like a little boy hoping for Santa to come. Wishing on a shooting star as he begged Matt to save you. The man Hell’s Kitchen’s criminals feared was now met with something he couldn’t fight. No gun or brute force could beat the grief that consumed his entire being. 

“Don’t wait up.” Were his last three words he said to you. Three last words said in anger, in panic over being vulnerable. They weren’t the three words he had said to you every night before. And you would never hear the three last words from him ever again. 

—

A tear trickled down his left cheek, splattering onto the plastic twig. Frank Castle was a man of reason.

But he had never been reasonable when it came to you. So, he wished. “I wish Y/N L/N was alive again.” The sharp snap of the twig cut through the silence around him. 

Frank waited. And waited. For what, he wasn’t sure. Humorlessly, he shook his head as he left out a huff. “Losin’ it without y’here, sweetheart.” Frank pressed two fingers to his lips before moving them to your headstone. “I love you.”

—

Frank returned sometime around 3 AM. But something was wrong. Off. 

He immediately reached for the gun he kept on him at all times. Slowly, he unlocked the front door, before holding his gun up, scanning the room. Frank Castle was a man whose name alone instilled prey-like fear into his enemies. Hell’s Kitchen had even nicknamed him The Punisher for his brutality against gangs. But the second his eyes landed on you standing in the middle of the living room, he was just a man.

His entire body froze, like time stood still. You were wearing exactly what you’d been wearing that night. Every inch of your body completely unharmed. Untouched. 

You said his name. So gently, like his name was precious. Sacred. “Frank?” It had undone him completely. In two long strides, he stood before you, hands holding your face between them delicately. Like if he held on any tighter, you’d disappear. 

“Are you-Are you real?”. The question sounded incredulous to your ears, the crease between your brows evident of that. But you smiled anyway. “What’re you talking about, Frankie? Of course I’m real.” He didn’t question it as he wrapped his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. Though you were still confused, comforting Frank took precedence in your mind. You gently caressed his hair, which you noticed had impossibly gotten longer in the few hours you’d seen him.

His tears soaked your shirt and his embrace almost left you unable to breathe but you continued to whisper words of comfort in an attempt to soothe him. “Wanna tell me what’s got you so upset, baby?” Frank didn’t respond. Didn’t trust his voice to not give out. 

And he didn’t want to pull away even a centimeter. He knew he wouldn’t survive if he opened his eyes and you were no longer there. So he simply shook his head. 

You nodded, voice still soft in a tone you only ever used with him. “Okay, okay, we don’t have to tonight. But let’s get you changed and ready for bed, yeah?” His grip on you tightened the second you tried to unravel yourself from him a bit. His head shot up from its place in the crook of your neck. His eyes filled with fear. Panic.

Now it was you who cupped his face. “I’m here, Frankie. I’m here. See?” You gently grabbed his hand and placed it above your heart. It was supposed to be a soothing gesture and it was. But Frank couldn’t feel the soft thumps of your heartbeat. Not thinking much of it though, Frank blamed it on how hard his own heart was pounding and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. “C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

He let you drag him into your shared bedroom.

Everything remained unchanged. Frank hadn’t moved a single item from its place since your death.

He let you help him take off his shirt and pants before helping him slip into a pair of grey sweatpants. “Better?” You asked him. He nodded before closing the small distance between you. One of his hands slipped around your waist while the other gently caressed your cheek. Instinctually, you wrapped your arms around his neck. 

You couldn’t make out every emotion etched onto his face. So many fleeting after the other. But you didn’t have time to begin to decipher them as Frank smashed his lips against yours, pouring every emotion he couldn’t say. You responded with just as much rigor.

His hand that held your cheek joined his other one in wrapping you into a tight embrace, pulling you impossibly closer. His grip on your waist slowly moved to behind your thighs, you wrapping your legs around his waist in response. Frank slowly lowered you onto the bed, trapping your body in between his legs. Your hand found its way to Frank’s curls at the nape of his neck, tugging at them gently. He groaned into your mouth, the sound pulling a moan out of your lips in response. “Frank.” Your voice breathless. 

“Say my name again.” His lips traveling down to your jawline. To your neck where he began to gently suck at the sensitive skin. “C’mon, sweetheart. Say it.” 

“Frank.” You moaned, your nails lightly scratched his back in pleasure. He moved his lips to your sweetheart he had memorized. Your hips bucked into his when he gently nibbled at the spot. “Frank!”

He had missed the sound. Missed you. He had let you die without letting you know how much he loved you. 

Frank would not make that mistake again. He helped you out of the shirt you were wearing—his shirt. And he so gently helped you out of your lacy underwear, and attached his lips to yours once more. You felt his tongue trace your bottom lip. The feeling of his tongue dancing with yours elicited another pitchy moan from you, Frank grinned his hips into yours in response, his mouth swallow the sound. Slowly, his lips made their way down to your neck before moving to your breasts, nipples hardened in anticipation and pleasure. He took one into his mouth, switching from swirling his tongue to gently sucking on it, as his other hand kneaded your other breast before switching. 

You were light-headed in pleasure, hands pulling at his hair as you moaned his name over and over. Frank moved down further til his head was in between your thighs. Not waiting another moment, he pressed his tongue flat onto your clit, before licking a long, slow strip up. Your hands gripped the sheets, trying to ground yourself in the moment. He continued to lick and suck as one of his hands began rubbing in a circular motion.

“Missed you, sweetheart.” His tongue continued to lap at the space between your sensitive folds. “‘M so sorry.” His breath was hot against your flesh. “Oh, Frankie,” you panted, your fingers tugging even harder at his hair. “Don’t stop, I’m close.” And he didn’t. He continued to work your clit with his mouth before he suddenly added a long, thick finger. You clenched, adjusting to the stretch. Your hips moved against his face, the feeling of his large nose bumping your clit was almost enough to make you come.

The pleasure built further as he added another finger, curling them inside you, hitting the spot he knew would make you reach your climax. Your thigh clenched, legs slightly shaking as you orgasmed. Sounds of pleas left your lips as he lapped up all your juices. “So sensitive, Frankie, please.” Only then did he move his body so that he was directly on top of you once more. The bottom half of his face glistened with your cum, making you blush as you pulled him down for another wet, messy kiss. Your hands made their way to the waistband of his boxers, one of them moving to palm  his hardened length. He gently bit down on your lower lip, pulling it slightly before releasing. 

You watched as he pulled the boxers off quickly, the head of his cock leaking with precum. He’d been inside you before, but you could never get used to the sheer size of him. Had this been another night, Frank might’ve smirked and teased you about gawking. But tonight, he needed to feel you, be inside you as fast as possible. He moved back onto the bed, placing his arms on either side of your head, moving his hips so that the head of his cock was lined up with your entrance, pressing slightly. 

He bottomed out in a singular thrust, your nails digging into the skin on his back as you moaned. You felt so full. 

Frank looked down at you, searching for any signs of discomfort. When your eyes finally met his, he began moving. Each thrust was slow as he pulled himself almost all the way out before thrusting back in fully. You felt euphoric. Each thrust hit a spot so deep inside you. The spot he knew made you roll your eyes back in pure bliss. “Oh god, Frankie, right there-“ You begun to say incoherent sentences. He moved a hand to throw a leg over his waist, gripping your thigh so it felt even deeper. “Feel so good around me, baby.” He groaned, voice raspy and deep. “Only one f’me ever.”

Tears fell from the outer corner of your eyes as you reached your second climax. Frank came not long after, releasing after you’d clenched hard around his length. He peppered gentle kisses on your face, bringing you down from the high. 

When your breath finally evened out, he carefully pulled out. You whined at the loss of contact. Frank entered the bathroom and came back with a damp towel, it felt warm and soothing against your sensitive skin as he wiped you clean. When he finished, he placed a delicate kiss on your inner thigh before throwing the towel into the laundry basket. “Did so good, sweetheart.” 

Frank remained awake long after you’d fallen asleep. His mind wouldn’t allow him to succumb to slumber. He feared that if he closed his eyes for longer than a second, he open them to find you gone. So he tightened his arm that was wrapped around your sleeping body and watched as your chest rose and fell rhythmically.

—

A week had gone by. Every morning, you woke up in his arms. Every night, you fell asleep in his embrace. Seven days of normalcy. 

Seven days of Frank being able to wrap his arms around you while you cooked. Placing kisses onto your shoulder.

Seven days of Frank kissing you at any given moment just because he could. 

Frank had begun to allow himself to let his guard down. To allow himself to melt into your arms. Your kisses. Your love. 

But one should know, all magic comes with a price.

—

Frank woke up to a blood curdling scream. Your scream. He reached for the gun that rested atop of his nightstand, sitting upright, scanning the bedroom. Though he found no intruder, his body remained tensed as you screamed again. 

He said your name as he shook you slightly. “Baby, wake up.” 

Your body jolted upright. Chest heaving. When it seemed as though you finally came to your senses. You turned to look at Frank, who adorned a worried expression on his face. “Frankie?”

He gently grabbed your face in between his large, rough hands. Eyes searching for answers on your face.  “You were screaming in your sleep, sweetheart. Wanna tell me what happened?” 

Your eyes now had a daze look to them as you tried to recall the events of your nightmare. “I…it was so scary, Frank. I was so scared.” His arms immediately came to wrap around you in a protective embrace the second your voice broke. 

“‘M right here. Not gonna let anythin’ hurt you, ya hear me?” Not again, he meant. 

You swallowed, throat suddenly becoming dry as you moved back a bit so you could look up at him. “It was night. I was by myself in our apartment.” Frank patiently waited and you collected your thoughts together, rubbing his hands up and down your arms in a soothing manner. 

“I remember feeling like my heart was so heavy…like there was something sitting on my chest. I think I was waiting for you to come home but I got sleepy.” You played with the hem of his shirt you’d worn to sleep. “The lights were barely turned off when I heard the front door open. I’m sorry, Frankie, don’t be mad but I don’t think I remembered to lock the door in my dream-“

“Ain’t got nothing to be sorry for. Y’hear me?” He gripped your chin, making sure you looked at him as he said it. You nodded before continuing, “I thought it was you so I went to the living room. A man was standing there.” You were gripping his hand now, Frank not minding the tightness of it one bit. “I was frozen, didn’t know what to do, and then…he shot me point blank.” 

Tears welled up in your eyes. “I know it was just a dream, Frankie. But it felt so real. The pain from the bullet was agonizing and I don’t remember where he went after. But all I could do was just lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling as I began to lose feeling in my limbs. But that wasn’t the worst part.” It was now Frank’s turn for his grip to become vine-like. 

“It was after. After…was just nothing. It wasn’t darkness. Darkness is a color. It was just…nothing. I tried screaming in my dream but I couldn’t. Didn’t realize I was actually screaming out loud.” For a moment, Frank said nothing. 

All the blood seemingly drained from his face. It couldn’t be. You had just recited the exact events leading up to your death. Except, you thought it was just a dream. You didn’t know it had been Frank’s reality just a week ago. Your voice broke him from his thoughts. 

Your eyes peered up at him, oozing with vulnerability. He pressed a soft kiss on your lips before coaxing you to lie back down. “It was just a dream, sweetheart. You know I’d never let anyone or anything hurt you, yeah?”. Frank pressed another gentle kiss on your lips once you nodded in agreement. 

You managed to fall back asleep after some encouragement and words of assurance from the man. Frank was not a lucky. His mind raced and searched for any possible explanation. He hadn’t slept an ounce by the time you woke up. 

—

Two nights after the incident, Frank sleepily reached for your body, immediately sitting upright when his arm failed to find you. “Baby?” He called out, trying to silence the fear that began to bloom in his chest. Seeing the bedroom door slightly open, he followed his instincts into the living room. It was completely pitch dark, save for the moonlight that streamed in from the window. When his eyes finally adjusted, he saw you standing abnormally still in the living room. In the exact same spot where he’d found you. Swallow harshly, he called out to you cautiously. “Sweetheart? What’re you doin’ awake?”

No response. You didn’t move an inch, your gaze remained fixated onto the floor. He called your name again. “C’mon, sweetheart, gotta answer me. ‘M worried.” Silence. 

Then, when he was just inches from you, you finally spoke. But your voice didn’t sound like yours. It sounded foreign and far away. “This is where I died, isn’t it?” Frank swore his heart almost stopped. “Say that again, sweetheart?” He had heard you clearly. 

You tore your gaze from the floor, meeting his. Gone was the love your eyes always seemed to hold whenever you looked at him. In its place was a haunted look that had settled in your eyes. “I died.” 

Frank mouth had gone dry. It opened and closed as he tried to find the correct words. “It was just a dream, remember, sweetheart?” He had chose to lie for he could not face the truth yet. He could not explain how he had simply snapped a plastic twig and you appeared in the room where you died, untouched. 

You repeated your words. “I died. It felt real because it happened. In this exact spot. Where’s my heart, Frank? Where did my heart go?” Frank didn’t answer. Because he didn’t have one. 

One of your hands move to your chest, right where your heart was supposed to be beating. “I don’t feel it, Frank. I don’t feel anything. Just this…agonizing pain. All the time.” You noticed the tears that threatened to leave Frank’s eyes as he stood there, helpless. “Frank…

“How am I here?”. 

Your voice was so delicate, like a quiet breath. Your eyes were still hollow. A ghost of who you used to be. 

Frank couldn’t admit it to himself, let alone you. How could he tell you that he noticed from the very beginning that something wasn’t right. That he didn’t feel your heartbeat that first night. Or any other when he rested his head on your chest, pressing his ear against it searching for even the lightest thump. He refused to acknowledge the lack of warmth your skin held. How drastically cold it was in comparison to before your death. But the longer he stared at you, the more he realized just how different you looked. 

Your hair, once shiny and health and become dull and lifeless. Your skin, once so warm, so soft and felt smooth whenever his hands roamed every crevice of your body was now cold, corpse-like. Your eyes, the ones that used to look at him like he was the center of your universe, had lost its flame. 

You looked dead.

As if all the strength left his body, Frank fell to his knees before you, wrapping his arms around your legs, muttering apologies. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. It was so selfish of me. But I just missed you. So damn much.” Your hands hung limp at your body. “I didn’t think it was real. Didn’t think much at all.

Frank looked up at you when he felt your hand caress his cheek. He leaned into it, despite the situation of it all, he just wanted you. Whatever was left. And so slowly he explained all of it, the vintage collectible item, the twig inside the box, how he’d snapped it at your grave. “I made the wish because I was drowning in misery. In pain. And for a moment, I let it believe it was all real. No cost.

“I was selfish when I left that night and I was selfish the night I snapped that fucking toy. I dragged you into the hole with me.” The tears fell. God, Frank knew he didn’t deserve you the first time around. He should’ve known he didn’t deserve a second chance with you. Not after how the first time ended. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” You kneeled so that you were now almost eye to eye with the way he hung his head. “Frank. Look at me.” He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he could handle what he’d see.

You called his name again. “Frank. Please.”

Slowly, he lifted his head and met your eyes. You grabbed his face gently between your hands, resting your forehead on top of his. “I understand.”

He pulled back in shock, though you didn’t let him get far. “I understand. I’d have done the same, Frankie.”

“Life has been so hard on you. I’m not angry at you for reaching out for help. I’m sad because my absence has added to your grief. But you have to let me go.” The silence thickened at those last three words.

“What’re you talking about, sweetheart?”. Frank couldn’t let you go. He’d just gotten you back.

“This is my body. This is my voice.” You paused. “But it’s not me. I’m not the woman who died that night.” Frank shook his head. “I can’t…I can’t lose you again, sweetheart. Can’t.” 

“You’re not losing me. I’m here.” You pressed your hand against his chest, feeling how fast his heart was pumping. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. “I’m always with you.” 

“Sweetheart, please—“ No one would believe it if you had told them that the almighty Frank Castle had fallen to his knees and was begging. You kissed him, as hard as he had that first night, pouring in everything words would fail to encompass. 

“Frankie, you have to let me go.” He knew you were right, but he had to pick a fight, because if he gave in, you’d slip through his fingers. Again. 

“I loved you then. I loved you in death. I love you now.” Your gaze filled with so much love yet was so hollow had completely shattered his heart. His chest physically aching as a result. “I know my words alone will do little to soothe the ache. And I know nothing I leave will ever be enough. But—“ Your voice cracked, as if him finally loosening his grip on his wish was beginning to set you free. 

“If you ever miss the sound of my voice. My laughter. Or you begin to forget the color of my eyes, check your phone when I am gone.” You had left voice notes, for various scenarios and you had left pictures. You had been able to prepare this time.

“But if you begin to miss my presence, step outside and feel the breeze by my grave.” Your voice began to sound quieter, as if you were farther than you really were. But your cheeks were beginning to flush. Your eyes were gleaming even in the dark room. Frank swears your temperature has risen. He pressed a feather-light kiss on your palm. “The pain will fade eventually, my love.

“I’m just glad we were given a chance to say goodbye this time.” He pulled you into him in a tight embrace, one that you couldn’t escape from even if you wanted to. You didn’t. And pressed right against his chest, he could feel your heart beating for the first time since you’d been resurrected.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, toying with the ends of his curls one final time. “Keep your hair like this. I like it.” He held you tighter.

“I’ll do whatever you want, sweetheart. I love you.” 

One moment, you were in his arms.

The next, you were gone. Vanished into thin air. Like the three words he’d spoken to you had finally set you free. 

Frank Castle was a man whose name alone instilled prey-like fear into his enemies. Hell’s Kitchen had even nicknamed him The Punisher for his brutality against gangs. But as he knelt in the exact spot your body was when you died, he was just a man who loved you so much, he let you go.

Your car, without even the slightest warning from the dashboard, has decided to start shaking abruptly and billowed out three huge smokes in the middle of the highway. You couldn’t even accelerate past a thousand rpms in the process. The drive back to the garage was brutal. You could only be grateful you made it home in one piece from the metal death trap.

Once you returned back to your unit, you learned that your gas stove refused to ignite. Aside from your worries of carbon dioxide poisoning from a possible leak, this prompts another list to add on your notes of things to sort. 

The water is another problem in and of itself. Your showers are now performed with gritted and chattered teeth for hot water is practically not an option for you in the middle of winter—and not to mention, when your quarterly water bill arrives, you are indignantly puzzled by the excessive charge.

Your nights are lately spent calling your family and friends over the phone of your domestic troubles—though they are too far or unfit to be of any help, their reassuring words work at least some wonders to your aggrieved mental state. 

The next incessant calls would be made to your property manager, then to your nearby mechanics, then your local water authority for a metre test. It’s been rough sleeping through the nights with a lot on your mind. Such is the life of your poor, local metropolitan girl.

You can continue feeling sorry for yourself and order in takeout with ridiculous service fees for the nth time, or you can start focusing on things you can control. Like for example, keeping a positive attitude—and also, purchasing a portable butane stove top.

After days of cold cut sandwiches, cold showers, and colder walks to the station—you fear you might die of hypothermia before the season ends. 

And so here you are after work, pedantically looking over the warranties and reviews of a gas burner at the first hardware store you see. You think of the many hot meals you can make out of this thing—perhaps even heat some water up for your shower; though you mournfully think about the painstaking time that would require. 

A shadow encompasses your being from your left side. You shift advertently to your side to give space, but the person remains close. 

‘How entitled,’ you think begrudgingly. 

You hold your ground but the moment lingers too long for it to be respectable. You lift your gaze up to the corner just to see what kind of person they are before you take your leave—but their brown eyes meets yours expectantly. 

You fix your face quickly. 

“Simon,” you breathe out a laugh. 

What a coincidence; you are lucky to remember his name for all the stress that’s mounting on your desk, you had forgotten all about your brooding encounter with the biggest man you’ve ever seen. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” Though it’s just what people say in passing to make small talk, it wasn’t an entire lie. You’ve been so on edge waiting for him to call in his favour that never came; you begin to think that you’ve been talking to a ghost. 

But here he is; alive and well—you suppose. 

“Goin’ somewhere?” he pointed gruffly towards your sleek black, shiny stove in your hands. 

“Oh—I think there’s something wrong with my gas line. My landlord’s looking into it,” you say, trying to sound as inconvenienced as possible. “In the meantime this is my substitute for the next week or so.”

He hums lowly. 

You guess he is the same as you saw him last—maybe a bit more tired, and dressed accordingly to the weather. You try and not to take notice of the bolt cutter or the heavy-duty zip ties he has on his person, lest you make a bad joke he might not appreciate. 

“Mind letting me ‘ave a look?” 

You blink at his offer and shake your head profusely. “I don’t want to trouble you more than I already have.”

“Rubbish,” he interjects roughly. “Just let me know the time, and I can swing by.” Simon grabs some butane canisters, engulfing you around him for a split moment. You think of his arms around your waist; the memory is scored into you, you can still feel the phantom weight of it. 

Your eyes immediately search for anything else other than him—silently praying he’s not some mind reader. Politely taking a step back from his space, you concede and nod in small. 

“Alright, thank you. I appreciate it.” 

He follows you to the register, a scene all too familiar for your liking. Simon lets you go ahead first and while you ready your phone to tap on the point-of-sale system, you eye him covertly and hold out your arm as if to block him in jest. He seems to find it amusing.

A lazy smirk appears on the corner of his lips. You think you prefer him this way rather than his impassive manner. Efforts to engage in more one-sided conversations seem a bit easier now—only because you know you’re about to separate ways again. You wait for Simon to finish up and before you could even take a step further from him, he stops you. 

“You’re walkin’?” 

The wind whips your hair against your cold cheeks when you look back at him.

“Yeah,” you reply. “It’s not far from home.”

“An’ where’s home?” Simon crosses his arms. There is a strange feeling that he isn’t going to like your answer either way. 

“Just three blocks or so down the road,” you say apprehensively. “It’s not bad—I quite like the walk.”

He nods lightly but seems to disregard it all the same.

“Get in,” Simon says offhandedly; his keys clinks as a black Hilux flash in the distance. “I’ll drop you off.”

“—You don’t have to.”’

“I ain’t askin’.”

You’re about to protest some more but he’s walking back to his truck as if he knows you’ll follow—which you do but that’s besides the point. It reminds you of your first impression of him; a mix of coarse manners. It’s as if he doesn’t know his actions to be kind.

He opens the door to the passenger side for you as you give him a sheepish thanks. When the door closes and he tracks around his car, you clandestinely feel the outline of your mobile in your pockets. You figure you know him well enough, though you remind yourself to be vigilant should anything happen. 

“Righ’, your address.” He asks as the engine comes alive. You answer accordingly, getting ready to tell him the way back to your building. He seems to know your location the moment you mention the street name with the way he scoffs out a mutter, “three blocks my arse.”

The heating from the air conditioning system is immediate, you’re relieved to feel the blasts of warm air hitting your cool skin even from beneath the layers of your clothes. 

The conversation is light as he pulls out from the parking lot. Simon makes a casual remark about you wandering around in sub-zero temperature at night. It was at this time that perhaps you might have overshared. 

You begin to tell him all about your car issues, then your gas line, then your water boiler and how you’re lodging an application to get your water meter tested for leaks. Despite the negative circumstances you find yourself in, you couldn't help but laugh at your own predicament. Talking animatedly at such length to the quiet man who doesn't seem to mind your prattling. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” He drawls when you finish. You hum and stare past the street lights. 

Simon moves his gaze surreptitiously from the road to you. He wonders why you stopped talking, he wanted to hear your voice more—wanted to hear those laughs that sounds like bells to him. He wants you to continue to tell him how awful your life has been, and how he can make it better.

In the past week he wondered why it was easier to overfill your engine with oil or mess with your unit systems instead of just shooting you a text. There is a definite guilt in his conscience when he looks back at his actions; nothing proud of the things he did to get your attention—but regret? Nonexistsent. 

Because where he’s at right now, driving you home in his motor, it makes it all worth it. 

“I can see about it,” He brings it up as he turns the corner to your street.

You stare at him incredulously. It’s hard to believe this man who seems so detached and devoid of any sentiments could be so courteous and generous with his time. 

“You’ve done so much for me already.” You shake your head gently. “Besides, I’m already in the process of calling around. It should be all in order–”

“How much they chargin’ you?” he puts the vehicle in park, leaning back slightly as he looks ahead before moving lazily to you.

“Umm.. “ You trail and grimace when you reluctantly say a four figure amount, knowing you’re just proving his point—indicative with the increasingly smug look on his face. “But I’m paying for convenience aren’t I? And it can't be helped, I’ve done my research—unless you know someone who does it for cheaper–”

“Yeah,” he cuts you off gravely. “Me.”

You bite your lip and drop your hand in defeat, “I still haven’t gotten you back for my groceries last time.”

“You still goin’ on about that?” He raises his brows at you, as if it was odd for you to hold onto something that was so insignificant. Simon exhales and regards you with his brown eyes.

“So what’s it gonna be?”

You practice fiscal rectitude ever since you moved out—can’t afford anything less. You do your due diligence, keep a spreadsheet when things get complicated, you make sure your credits and savings are on track. So when you make your round of calls, you know you can’t accept any first quote—but here he is, proposing a much nicer offer. 

The last thing you want is to take advantage of someone; more so, be in more debt with a high compounding interest rate with someone like Simon. As kind and considerate he seems to be, you are highly suspicious that he is doing so purely out of the goodness of his heart—a case in which you hope that you’re wrong. 

However after living in the cold, big city, you learn that everyone here has a motive. Not to mention, it would be a lie if you said that his appearance doesn’t unsettle you in the slightest. You’ve never really rubbed shoulders with people—or more specifically—men like him. And as disgustingly classist and discriminatory as it might sound, it comes from a cautious place.

As a woman on your own, you now live alone; far from the immediate support of your family. Should anything happen, you need to figure it out and help yourself. 

So you do what you think is best; you give him the benefit of the doubt. You surmise the pragmatic warnings in your head are just disguised as bigotry, and you are above that. 

Instead, you let him in. You expect him every few days or so after six in the evening—ten in the weekend morning. Simon’s frequent visits to your apartment fits seamlessly to your schedule. The sight of him working away at your engine and your unit systems is beginning to be a familiar one. 

He takes his coffee black; his tea with a splash of milk. There’s no music when he works away, so you fulfill it with useless chatter. You’d like to believe he appreciates the noise pollution from your side—there is never any protest from him when you do anyway. 

One afternoon, you almost leap into him with joy when he calls you to your bathroom, and you feel the warm water hitting your palms from when he twisted the handle. You imagine finally crawling into bed without shivering now—which is a huge plus since you feel a cold catching. 

On top of that, he has fixed the issue going on with your water bills, and your gas stove. You feel light as a feather with each problem he fixes, feeling as if you finally have control over your life. 

Much to your chagrin, Simon takes no reimbursement, not even a charity meal—which is upsetting because you feel as if you’re exploiting the poor man. He comes and leaves without so much as uttering a word of himself, making him remain more or less a stranger to you. Your efforts to learn more about him is met with a curt one-worded answer:

Does your family live close by?

No.

Do you have any siblings?

No.

What’s your last name?

Riley.

Do you have a football team you support?

Man. U.

What do you like about them?

Nothin’.

There is no inclination that he is willing to give himself away anytime soon; this didn’t bother you in the slightest—

Until one late night, a sudden haze of paranoia takes over your senses. Your rhythmic heartbeats run a little faster; your mind is restless with a nonsensical impression that you’re being tricked—but by what? You don't know yourself. 

The laptop emits a glaring blue light in the dead of the night. You bite your nails as you search up his name. Nothing. Typing his name on every social platform you can think of and clicking each profile with the alliterations of his name—zero results. 

Your fingers hover over the keyboards as you hesitate your next search—fearing as if he, himself is in the room with you. After a few moments of stillness, you proceed anyway. Much to your simultaneous relief and defeat, his name doesn’t appear in any offender registries. 

You sigh and rub your hand down your face before closing your laptop; leaving you to sit in the dark and contemplate your ill suburban-like preconceptions on the goodwill of an innocent, yet seemingly, ghost of a man. 

An email notification from your phone distracts you from your moral conundrum, pulling you from your pensive reflection. It was a reminder for your five-week cooking class a friend recommended when you attended her end of year dinner. In the midst of everything the past week has thrown at you, you’ve forgotten all about your long-awaited cooking courses. 

Checking the time and venue for the first class, you make a reminder on your phone in the case another series of unfortunate events occurs. 

Simon is still working away at your car; he tells you all the issues going with your engine and how much time it will take for him to repair. It sounds pretty serious when he talks you through it—but really you’re just grateful he’s even looking at the piece of junk, even while he adamantly refuses for you to take it to the shop, claiming he can do better. 

With your car still out of commission, you’re left with no choice but to rely on public transport.

Giving yourself ample time to take into account delays, you head out to your door in a rush right after you clock off from work. Before you could even step outside the threshold of your home, Simon unexpectedly appears before you; hands curled into a fist by his chest as if he is about to knock on the door. 

“Oh!—Good evening,” you chirp, flashing him a smile. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to come today.” Pulling out your phone, you frown and look over any misread texts you might’ve missed from him.

“I was just ‘round,” he responds in indifference. “Thought I’d drop by, sort your car out.” Simon eyes your handbag and the keys you have clenched in your hand. 

“Where you off to?” 

“I just have this cooking class I signed up for about a month ago,” you say eagerly in the pretense of containing your unease when he looks down at you with his arms crossed. “I’m so sorry, Simon. I have to get going, bus leaves in five and–”

“Didn’t think t’ ask me, then?” 

You look up at him, as if contemplating the words he uttered is sincere or not. “I’d hate to impose and waste your time..”

“Tellin’ me how to spend my time?” His bite of a question reduces you to a flustered mess, copiously denying any negative implications he might have. 

Simon can’t help but scoff and twist his lip at the sight. Honestly, how you get by without him all your life is something he can’t wrap his head around. Luckily for you, your life expectancy just went up now that you’re with him—albeit, he admits, he is still a lesser man—though he promises hell would freeze over before he sees you with a better, deserving man.

“Relax,” he says with a brusque reassurance. “Go on—give us the location.”

It takes you a moment to register his words before you weakly trail after him. You figure asking if he is okay to take you would just be a waste of your breath. So you acquiesce and follow him to his parked truck, let him open the door for you, and pretend that you didn’t feel the graze of his fingertips against your back. 

Once Simon settles into his own and turns the key, he covertly adjusts his blind spot mirror until you come into view. He watches as you fuss with your seatbelt then to your bag, knowing just how anxious he makes you feel.

You’re a good girl and he hates that you know it too. Carrying yourself just a little high but never stooping low enough to condescend. You play nice; give him the time of day—but he knows you would rather send him on his way should you be given the choice. 

That’s why it makes it all so difficult for him—knowing you know your worth to be hanging around a man like him. Simon can’t ask you to bend over so he can fuck you stupid in the backseat of his truck. You’d probably turn your pretty nose up and slap his face like the proper princess you are. 

And worst of all is that he’d take it; he knows he’ll still have the affection to chase. Like a lurcher tracking blood, sweat, piss—you can go anywhere you like and it’ll never be far enough. For it to be called an exaggeration on his part would be a lie. It is still a viable option reserved for the worst, but you'll probably do something smart and get the police involved. 

Which is why he’s on his best behaviour. So that you could possibly see the vestiges of goodness in him and think him fit to be yours. Simon will never know if he’s the kind to ever settle for marriage; nothing of the sort ever crosses his mind when he thinks beyond the present—always assuming something between a proper burial or a carcass rotting away from an MIA.

And yet with you, he finds himself curious. 

Curious of what it's like to have the whole white picket fence. What's it like for you to call him ‘love.’  What it would be like to have you love him unconditionally; the kinds of arguments you’ll have, and how devastatingly sweet you would be during the make-up sex. Simon will go on further to toy with the idea of a couple of brats crawling around your feet— 

He figures he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there. 

Nonetheless, it’s irrefutable. His nihilistic tendencies subsides when he thinks of you. Simon is daring to change the narrative for himself, and he needs your help to achieve it—because in all honesty? Simon has declared a silent proclamation on the day you called him your husband that he will not accept a life where it isn’t realised. 

Soon enough, the building you’ve checked over a dozen times finally appears ahead. Simon pulls into the lot and just as you’re about to thank him, he tells you to wait as he steps out of the vehicle. 

Your hands pause at the buckle as you follow him walking around the hood of the car, blankly staring before it registers to you that he’s to open your side of the door like a gentleman. Keeping a bashful smile, you thank him in quiet—almost embarrassed that he’s gone through the trouble for the kind gesture. You peek from behind to see him follow you into the lobby—but not before pushing the door ahead from beside you. 

A blonde lady with a neatly tied bun warmly greets at the sight of you two walking in. “Are you two here for the cooking session at six?” 

“Oh, just me,” you clarify as she instructs you to sign your attendance form. 

“Apologies, it’s because couples have a special two for one deal.” 

As if you’ve both been stricken with the same thought; Simon’s eyes meets yours when you whip your head up at him. 

“Do you.. ?” The question never fully leaves your lips as he rubs the side of his chin in contemplation. Simon almost has to contain the smug look on his face when she advises the offer. He never truly believed in some kind of divine intervention—but this surely has to be some kind of providence sent from his manifestations. 

“You always sayin’ that I needed to ‘elp out more ‘round the house; weren’t ya, love?”

The lady behind the desk lights up at his inclination to join before fetching a registration form for him to sign. Meanwhile, you look at him with uncertainty—as if you can’t believe he would willingly choose to spend his Friday night learning how to sauté and blanch vegetables and proteins. 

“Are you sure, Simon?” You ask in a whisper. “I can find my way home. You don’t have to accompany me.” 

“Always meant t’ learn anyway.” He regards you nonchalantly. “You was goin’ on about payin’ me back; think of it as this way of doin’ that.” He signs the waiver and she gestures to the double glass doors to the right. 

“You’ll just ‘ave to pretend t’ be my wife again,” Simon murmurs before opening the door for you. “Hope you can stomach it.”

You’re ready to refute him with a flurry of excuses—that you’re humbled by his kindness, and that you’re grateful to have met someone like him; you can leave out the part where his attention and threatening disposition makes you nervous. But in the end, you would never reproach him when he’s shown you nothing but consideration for your poor situation. 

Instead, you hold his hand and squeeze thoughtfully. 

“I’m happy you’re here.” You smile softly, hoping that your sincerity reaches him. 

Simon looks down at your small hand around his; your fingers outstretched around his palm that you’re unable to close. And for the first time in his life he doesn’t have any smart quips in his arsenal, only settling for a subdued hum. He doesn’t actually quite believe your words—not yet at least; but he would settle for this and take what you’re giving him for now. 

You both take your spots at an unoccupied kitchen island. The ingredients are neatly laid out along the left side of the table, and by the looks of it, you’ll be making an elaborate roast for your first lesson. 

Taking out your pen and notebook diligently from your bag, you wait patiently for the culinary mentor to start. Tapping your fingers, you glance around the room and notice Simon is one of the few men here—endearingly sticking out like a sore thumb; looking entirely out of place. 

The people around are starting to notice the six foot something guy with a hardened mien that’s attended the class; suppressed giggles and glances his way are natural—for you yourself would never admit that you actually find his fair lashes against his warm, brown eyes so, so pretty.

He catches you looking and you regret pretending not to, like you justified what you did was wrong. That sudden insecurity you had when his arms were around you creeps back in. You can’t afford to feel something—not when you’re still figuring out what he meant to you: a passing acquaintance? A friend?

..

You refuse to entertain the idea he was anything more than that.

The thing is, you’ve never been the one to start things without intention—loneliness persists in your day to day life but you can’t see yourself settling for the first person to look your way. And with how convenient he slots himself within your schedule, you refuse to be romanced by proximity. Besides he doesn't see the type to want to win your parents over or even the one to want a serious, lifetime connection. 

Thankfully, the mentor, vetted by prestigious culinary experience, finally begins—distracting you from your thoughts. It continues without a hitch, you follow along easily and Simon is surprisingly cooperative; washing his hands and spatchcocking the chicken with such ease that it earned a commendation from the chef herself.  

His sudden popularity among the teachers and your peers has you simmering with a longing,  envious admiration. You catch one of the mentors passing by to comment on your potatoes. You deflate once she dismissively approves without a second glance. 

Simon gives you a condescending look as he washes the carrots. 

“Don’t patronise me,” you state half-heartedly, resuming your mash with a little too much force. 

“Ain’t said nothin’.” He drones smartly in response. 

Simon cuts the tomatoes beside you and you’re reminded again just how overwhelming he is against your whole being. The knife in his hand could easily be passed off as a butterknife with how comically small it is when he uses it. The tattoos peeking from his sleeves—you don’t know why you’ve bothered to notice, but the motifs he has painted on his skin is rather grim.

You know better than to shrink into yourself around sharp objects—and yet, your mind couldn’t help but wander; call it feminine intuition, but you can’t help but feel as if he likes you. 

Truthfully, the idea of it hasn’t left when his lips touched your fingertips.

Could it be absurd to think so? Too self-absorbed? With how nonchalant he presents himself to be, his actions lead you to believe he might be into you. You are highly suspicious of his game; the theory that his benevolence might be a quid pro quo. 

The thought is onerous—what if you’re to refuse him? What would he do then? Whatever it is, you certainly couldn't stop him.

It sits heavy in your mind, the expectation for reciprocity. You feel burdened by his kindness, his attention—as welcome as they may be, they’re unwarranted. Simon doesn’t look like the type to struggle with attention from anyone, so why does he chase what he can’t have? 

Doesn’t he see what kind of person you are by now? A good, every day samaritan who is far too boring to enjoy unlawful adrenalines. Surely he can tell by how tongue-tied you are by his dark humour, or how his antisocial disposition upsets you whenever you try and make a connection—so why does he continue?

Perhaps you’re to send a subliminal, so that he can see that you are a friend to him.

There really is no ego when considering his possible, romantic attachments. In fact, you might even go as far as to say that he can do better. This is not you demeaning yourself in the slightest way, but forecasting the future ahead; you know that it’s not fair to surmise the kind of values he has, but you think you’ve got a pretty good idea. 

The needs you want in a partner, you don’t think Simon can deliver. You don’t doubt he’ll be good to you, but the discrepancies are already too stark to miss. There is a distant vision of you both fighting; you frustrated at him that he’s nothing like the man you made up in your dreams and him aggrieved at the expectations you set for him on top of the constant faults you point out. 

Without his knowledge, you made his choice for him. He's to look elsewhere because he can’t be what you need him to be; he will surely resent you in the process if you ask him to. 

A sigh absentmindedly leaves your lips; the irony of playing house despite the complexities you feel for the man. 

You didn’t know it then, but with your thoughts endlessly preoccupied with dozens of hypotheticals; you unknowingly drop the freshly cut and very wet potatoes into a pot of hot oil instead of water. 

Simon reacts before you do. You gasp at the sight of oil bubbling over, making sharp, crackling noises and spilling over the countertop. His hand closes around your side, critically setting you aside as he reaches for the handle—unconcerned with how the searing oil splashes onto his forearm with a nasty hiss. Simon wrenches the pot away from the stove and drops it promptly into the sink. 

“Are you okay?”

Immediate guilt wrenches into your stomach. You’ve been assassinating his character in your head when he’s placed himself in the frontline of danger for you. 

Shaking your head you retort back, “are you okay?” 

Two of the mentors came by to check in. Luckily, aside from a few drops of oil on the floor, the damage is minimal. Simon brushes you off when you try and point out how he might’ve been burned in the process—he won’t hear you; you sink further into guilt. 

The remainder of the lesson passes with you leaning close to him, fretting over his hand. Again and again you whisper of his wellbeing, the same quiet questions into his ear; each one he dismisses, as though your concern were nothing more than a nuisance. 

You sit in the passenger seat with a warm, manila bag resting on your lap, the savoury smell of roast filling the car. A slight frown tugs at the corner of your lips as you look towards him. His hand is now red, and you are unrest with the lack of consideration he gives it. You suggest stopping by a hospital, a GP, the chemist—anything. 

He ignores you and takes the route directly to your home. You don’t get out of the car unless you see to his burn—this he inclines all too easily. 

Simon is now perched comfortably on your sofa, making himself at home with his head against the backrest and his legs spread apart. 

You sigh as you gather your supplies under your arm. Padding through the hallway, you crouch before you sit on the floor, placing the items onto the low wooden table. Setting aside the teas and biscuits you haphazardly made for him, you gesture for him to hold out his hand—in which he wordlessly obliges. 

It is a nasty sight; bright, red, angry, shiny patches. You wonder as to why he’s so vehement in tolerating the pain instead of treating it straight away. Male ego—you suppose. 

Applying a generous dollop of the burn-aid gel, you soothe the area gently so as to not irritate it further. Unfortunately, the gel only came in travel-sized tubes from the first aid kit—and you’ve squeezed it dry knowing this burn will continue to singe. 

Which is why you’ve brought out your high-end aloe vera gel from your vanity that you use explicitly for your aesthetics. It’s not meant explicitly for a superficial injury such as this, but you are confident it’ll soothe his skin and alleviate the pain. 

“Keep applying this throughout the next few days,” you advise, offering out the sleek, verdant cube with slight gold accents. 

Simon scoffs as he waves away your vetted, topical treatment that eats up your savings, mumbling out an affronted line claiming it’ll heal on its own. Your brows and lips are downturned at his petulant attitude. 

What is it with men and medical attention?

“Why are you being so difficult?” you finally say, exasperated.

“Difficult?” he repeats.  “I’m sittin’ ‘ere like a proper patient, ain’t I?” You have nothing to say back; only a scolding, pleading look. Simon concedes with a roll of his eyes. 

“Alrigh’ fine. Give it ‘ere”

He gives it a look over before raising a light brow and setting it beside him. 

“You’re posh.” Simon comments unwarrantedly. 

“And you ain’t livin’ right.” You quip smartly, slipping into a hint of his cockney accent. Unravelling and cutting a loose fitting gauze, you carefully apply it to his forearm all the while he watches you from above. When you’re satisfied that it’s secure, you begin to pack the supplies back into the kit. 

Simon glances over your work before lazily tossing his arm to the side. 

“What?” he grunts. “You not gonna give it a kiss better?” His tone is dry, but you know it was his poor attempt at a joke.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes despite the slight smile playing on your lips. Your hands suddenly slow before deliberating into a complete stop as you look back in hindsight of the day—no weeks, that had transpired. 

“I’m very sorry, Simon..” You feel so small at the apology; not daring to look at his face lest he gives you a look that sinks you further into shame. 

“Wha’ for?” 

“For everything.” Your eyes widened slightly at the statement. “I think I’m bad luck on you.” 

This he laughs at. “Yeah, maybe.” He thinks it’s funny; but you are sincere. 

“You’re really kind.” You finally have the courage to face him when you say, “Truly; I don’t think I deserve all your help, but you insist anyway—and for that I’m really grateful. I mean it. If there’s a chance for me to repay the favours, you just call and I’ll come running.”

Simon is silent for the longest time, long enough for you to wonder if you’ve said something out of line. You’re about to break the stillness but he beats you to it.

“Wha’ if I told you I wasn’t?” 

Like a stone cast into a sleeping pond. 

“That I’m a selfish man; an angry man; a righ’ pissed geezer. Would you regret lockin’ in your door with me inside then?” You don’t know why Simon is trying to scare you but you call his bluff—not because you don’t believe his words, but out of something akin to survival rather than courage.

“I find that hard to believe.” You shut the kit down with a sharp clip. “And I only regret to have caused you so much trouble.”

He hums at that before adding, “guess you have.”

“You’re supposed to say the opposite.” You admonish playfully, giving him a slight glare. You laugh lightly, deciding the banter is more comfortable than his usual brooding silence—even if his humour isn’t exactly to your liking. 

“Thought honesty’s the best policy.” He shrugs—and you don’t know why you feel just a little hurt by that. 

“Then why do you do it?” the question slips before you even think. 

Simon looks into the distance before responding simply, “Maybe I’ve got too much time on my hands,” He sighs as he stretches lazily. “Comin’ over around yours like I lived ‘ere—that it’s dead sad seein’ you struggle like that, like you ain’t got a clue what you doin’.” His gaze drifts back to consider you once again.

“Or maybe I just like you.” He snags a twisted, cynical smile when he scoffs out, “God knows; wha’ do you think?” 

You don’t know if he’s making fun of you or if he’s genuinely being honest—you don’t like either possibility. 

“I think it’s getting pretty late.” Your reply is soft and ambivalent, avoiding his stare as you get up to excuse yourself. You didn’t exactly lie; it’s well past midnight and where you should be huddled under the covers—you’re tending to a poor man’s wounds for the past hour, entertaining conversations that could be misconstrued as something more.

His words find themselves in your heart. Instead of brushing them off like the dust on your shelf you wipe before placing the box back in their place, you’re immediately confronted by the need to answer. 

You are sure he’s a good man—not the sort you’d usually find yourself wanting—but no reasonable cause for you to turn him down either. And thus, the feeling you have is horrible. You don’t know why this man is insistent on you. While whether his intentions are borne out of pure kindness or to leverage himself in your heart is unclear, you do know you don’t feel anything for him. 

There are certain qualities you imagine yourself with, characters in which he seems to fall short in. Simon is a great man; a better friend, in fact. You’re torn with the chance of losing him altogether—and perhaps what he would do should you refuse him. 

Treading lightly back to the living room, you are surprised to find Simon completely knocked out on your couch. He sleeps upright with the side of his face resting on one side, chest rising with a slow and deep ebb and flow. 

“Simon..” You whisper, hesitant as you approach closer to his being. “You can’t stay here..” 

Looking at the time, you purse your lips and decide that the pity you have for him weighs far too heavy than the boundaries you’ve set up. Quietly gathering a spare fleece blanket, you dim down the lights and drag your heater closer to the couch. 

As you cross the threshold, your eardrums immediately pulse to the bump of the bass as music blares all around you; enveloping you and dulling your senses as you cross the dingy living room of the frat party you begrudgingly agreed to attend after the relentless begging from your friends. Lighten up, they said. College is meant for letting loose and enjoying a party every now and then. You really did need a break—grad school was not for the weak—but being at this party was definitely not high on your list of priorities for a Friday night. Warm beer, misogyny, and socialization. Perfect. Everything you had dreamed of after an endlessly overwhelming week of labs, research, and more dissertation prep. Your eyes flicked around the room, not recognizing any of the faces congregating around you. Great, you got dragged all the way out to this party and your friends aren't even here yet. Awesome.  Really, the only thing you had been looking forward to all week was curling up on the sofa under a heavy blanket and marathoning some mind-numbing reality television for two days. Was that so much to ask? To have just fourty eight hours to clear your head and not have to think for another second about microscope slides or macromolecules or nucleotides or— Ryland Grace.  In the midst of your internal rumination, you had somehow made it across the crowded room and collided with something—no, someone—while squeezing your eyes shut in a feeble attempt to settle the freight train you called your thoughts. Slowly forcing your eyes back open, you find that you are now standing face to face—well, face to chest—with the only person on campus you hated more than anything else. Ryland Grace. 

He towered over you, flashing his trademark cocky grin as you rolled your eyes upwards to meet his. There was a subtle glint in his eyes—behind the gold frames that he always wears somewhat haphazardly—that you couldn't quite place as the arrogance that was permanently etched across his face made your blood begin to boil. Asshole. Of course he would be here of all places tonight. He clearly had the same idea as you for the weekend, just a much different approach. His plan apparently included getting inebriated beyond comprehension while playing his favorite game of being passed around the student body as the frat-party-boy-toy. His presence and sudden proximity to you was almost nauseating, paired with the stench of stale beer and sweaty partygoers prickling at your nose. 

This wasn't the first time you've encountered him outside of academics during the course of your program; you've actually been witness a few times to how he chooses to blow off steam outside of preparing for his own PhD. Ryland always seemed to have the need to be the center of attention, no matter the context. It was almost as if he would suddenly keel over and die if all eyes weren't focused on him. Whether it was contradicting every statement you brought up during your shared lectures over the last few years, arguing with you over every protocol and move you make in the lab, or, God forbid, even offering unwanted criticism on what snack you chose to purchase from the Science department's vending machine. You have almost begun to believe that he has just developed a personal vendetta towards you, and you, only. He must be trying his hardest to derail your academic career before it even begins. Ass. Hole. 

"You should really watch where you're going, y'know. I could have been a tray chock-full of microorganisms that you just spilled aaallll over the floor. I can't say that I'm surprised your subpar lab standards carry over to your personal life." 

"If I had known it was you, I would have made a better effort to hit you harder." You bite out in retaliation. God, you couldn't stand him. "Cheap shot by the way, we both know my lab standards are golden compared to yours, Grace." 

"Mm, if that were the case, maybe your paper would have been chosen for the conference and not mine." He punctautes his counterargument by crossing his arms over his broad chest, taking on a more assertive stance. His forearms flexed in your eye line as you glared up at him. Fuck, why are you looking at his chest? Why are you looking at his arms?

"Oh, fuck you, Grace." The words are bitter on your tongue as you spit them back at him, turning on your heel to leave the party. 

Every conversation the two of you had always seemed to end in some sort of verbal sparring, but he had never taken it this far. He knew it was a sensitive subject, but still threw it right back in your face. Asshole. As you storm off in the opposite direction of Ryland, you angrily grab a drink off the fold out table against the wall and throw it back. Ugh. The lukewarm beer trickles down your throat and you breathe deeply a few times, closing your eyes in an attempt to center yourself and cool off. What a dick. A hand clamps down on your shoulder causing your eyes to shoot back open in a brief panic, only to be met with your friends' smiling faces. Finally. 

"There you are! We've been looking all over for you near the entrance! I thought we were meeting up there?" One of your friends chirps, leaning against your arm. 

"Oh. Yeah, sorry. I was distracted and just kept walking when I got here." You admitted with a shrug. "I think I'm actually gonna head out though, I'm not feeling very well all of a sudden." 

Your other friend looks back at you, tight-lipped before glancing around the party. Her eyes narrow slightly as she focuses on something just over your shoulder. 

"It's Ryland isn't it? Did he say something to you?" You shake your head rapidly, tears brimming your eyes and burning as you try to blink them away as quickly as they appeared. "He did! That motherfucker! What did he say to you?"

You clear your throat, thick with tears, before speaking. "It's nothing, he just said something stupid about my paper because he knew it would piss me off. It's fine, I'm just going to get out of here and try to enjoy the rest of my Friday night. I love you guys, I'll text you later!" You move to step around your group of friends, but a hand pulls you back. 

"C'mon, don't let an asshole like Ryland ruin your night! Let's go grab some drinks and have a good time together away from him." Your friend now has both of your hands in hers and is shimmying and swaying in an attempt to win you over. Unfortunately, it's working. You sigh in defeat and give in as one of your other friends pushes a shot into your palm. You throw the liquor back without thinking twice and smile at them as the liquid burns down your throat. You'll be just fine.

The music thumps around you as you sway your hips to the rhythm of some nondescript pop song, another drink firmly grasped in your hand. You squeeze the plastic red cup in your hand, its shape crinkling under the pressure. How many have you had? Whatever. Who cares? It's the weekend and you're letting loose. This is what everyone wanted, right? A new song begins to blare out of the speakers and you shriek along with your friends, belting out the lyrics and jumping in time to the beat. The alcohol courses through your body and leaves you feeling feather-light and carefree, a welcomed contrast to how you were feeling just an hour ago. 

"I’m glad to see you're feeling better!" Your friend shouts over the music, continuing to dance with you. "He never seemed to be too upset, though." Your eyes follow the direction of your friend's finger, pointing across the house at Ryland. 

You gawk at the scene playing out in front of you; shrouded beneath the strobing, colorful lights bouncing around the room. He's sandwiched between two other students you don't recognize, taking a pill from the hands of one and chasing it with a shot from the other. After swallowing and flashing that stupid, cocky grin, he continues grinding with the two bodies to the beat of the music. You continue to watch them from afar, unable to tear your eyes away. Unbeknownst to you for reasons you can't explain, your blood begins to boil at the sight of him slipping his tongue into someone else's mouth as his hands roam all over their body, another set groping at him from behind and laving their tongue down his neck.

He is such a slut. And why are you angry? Obviously, you believe that everyone deserves the right to act on whatever impulses they please, and you would never slut-shame someone for choosing to hook up at a party. That's their business, not yours. But when it's Ryland—Wait, what the fuck? Unless… the reason you're so upset is because he isn't doing those things with you. Huh? There's no way that you have any feelings for Ryland other than the ones stemming from pure hatred, right? Right? 

You continue to glare in his direction, mouth agape and dumbfounded, watching as other students slip in and out of his orbit, everyone taking a piece of him and getting a taste. Suddenly, your feet are carrying you across the floor as you hear the vague shouts of your friends behind you. You've made it halfway across the room before your mind catches up and realizes what's happening. Mindlessly, you grab a shot out of someone's hands as your feet continue to march you closer towards where Ryland and his gaggle of bodies are standing. He smirks as you approach, cockiness practically oozing out of every pore as several hands continue to roam over his body. 

"Move. Now." Your voice comes out short and clipped, in a demanding tone that is typically reserved just for Ryland. The students gathered around him pull back and retreat, but not without exchanging confused glances with one another and Ryland as they step out of your path and disperse. 

"That wasn't very polite, sweethear—" The words are punched out of his lungs as you push him down with one strong shove of your palm—still grasping the shot in your other hand—onto the worn couch behind where his orgy was just previously unfolding. You are almost amazed at your strength for a moment, but then again, when it comes to Ryland, you could probably lift a burning vehicle from the adrenaline that comes from having an undoubtedly condescending conversation with him. 

Ryland stares up at you from where he has flopped back onto the cushions, wide eyes and bruised lips parted in surprise. God, he already looks so wrecked and the night is still so young. Boy toy. Now, it's your turn to shoot a cocky grin of your own at the man beneath you as you swing a leg over his hips, settling down onto his lap with a flourishing shimmy of your own hips. Ryland quickly glances down to where you're straddling his legs, and then back up to your face, swallowing thickly and licking his lips before meeting your burning gaze. 

"What's the matter, Grace? Cat got your tongue?" Your voice drips with honey and an underlying caustic quality as you lean in closer until your lips just barely graze the shell of his ear. "Maybe you just need a little liquid courage." You feel him shudder beneath you as you pull back minutely, slamming the shot and feeling the cheap vodka burn in your mouth as you hold it there with bated breath. 

You toss the glass somewhere to the side, not really caring where it ends up, to wrap that hand firmly around Ryland's strong jaw. You squeeze once, your middle finger and thumb placed on opposite cheekbones, indicating for him to open his mouth. He obeys immediately and lets his mouth go slack-jaw, staring up at you through his lashes as his tongue lolls out. You can't help but smirk slightly as you bring your lips right above his open mouth and let the mixture of warm vodka and your saliva trickle down his throat. 

As he pulls his tongue back in to swallow your offering, your mouth is on his in an instant, still gripping his jaw with a bruising strength. Your lips capture his in a hungry kiss, mouths moving incessantly against each other; firm, warm, and unwavering. He gasps and lets out a small whine as your hand moves from his jaw to tangle in his hair, pulling his head back to deepen the kiss further. You greedily swallow his noises and take the opportunity to push your tongue into his mouth, the muscle grappling with his own and swirling around his teeth to taste the traces of vodka left behind. Both of your arms have now snaked up to wrap tightly around Ryland's neck, fingers dancing along the hair that gathers at his nape as you continue to devour each other on this dingy frat couch. You let out a small moan as you feel someone brush past the two of you, finding that you don't really care who is watching. The shock has seemingly worn off as you feel Ryland's hands start running up your thighs and hips, traveling to find purchase on your waist as you grind down subtly into this lap. After a few more moments, you pull back, catching his bottom lip between your teeth. A string of saliva connects your mouths under the flashing lights of the party still going on around you. 

Ryland peers up at you, his pupils wide and blown with pleasure—or maybe just the effects of the pill you watched him take prior to jumping him—his chest rising and falling in time with your own panting breaths. You stare at him for a moment, taking in the rare sight of an absolutely ruined Grace. His fingers begin to dance up your sides and you give him a sweet smile before untangling your arms from around his neck. He keeps his eyes trained on you and furrows his brows slightly as you pull away from him, his body trying to chase the warmth of your contact. You lean forward and press one last, chaste kiss to his lips as his eyes flutter shut before retreating once more—coiling your arm back as if it were spring-loaded—and slapping him across the face as hard as you can manage. Ryland's eyes open the millisecond before your palm makes contact with his cheek, instantly widening at the stinging pain making its way across his face. He had no idea it was coming. 

You rock back on your heels—still planted firmly in his lap—reveling in the stunned expression that has painted itself across Ryland's face. Both of his cheeks are now burning crimson, despite you only making contact with the one. Huh, that's a little strange. You shift your weight slightly on his lap and suddenly everything clicks into place in your mind. He stares up at you, chest heaving and eyes glimmering with drunkenness, as his cock begins to harden against you. His eyes are darkened with lust, only a sliver of his usual blue irises eclipsing around the dark pools. You raise an eyebrow up at him in question and his mouth upturns into a new shit-eating-grin, just a touch different from his usual cocky expression. He licks his lips and blinks up at you a few times before opening his mouth once more. 

"Do it again. Please."

authors note ✮⋆˙ @sipofchai this is all for you babe!! i’m so sorry it took so long but i hope i did your silly little idea justice <3 thinking about college!ryland every second of every day,,

you've been staring too long. you stand up, straightening your shirt as you walked through the glass doors, and out into the small waiting area. he stands immediately, pulling his hat off. 

"abbott," you say, "what brings you in?"

he looks almost conflicted for a moment, like maybe he's rethinking his decision to walk in here. you can hardly say you blame him. your families have been feuding for years, long before either of you'd been born. 

"i, uh," he starts, then clears his throat. "i'd like to commission something... if you have time."

now that, surprises you even more. you'd known rhett socially in high school. he'd been friends with some of your friends, and their boyfriends. it was inevitable that you'd cross paths, well, that and you'd lived next door to his family your whole life. you'd been the weird tillerson girl; the quiet one covered in paint, sketchbook like an extension of you, barely rooted in reality. even two of your older brothers had made comments about you making your other brother, billy, look normal. you didn't care about ranching, the politics of it, or the money. you especially didn't care about the money. 

after high school, you'd took off to new york to study art. but, four years later, you returned to wabang. you'd felt like you'd left half of yourself behind when you left, and that had nothing to do with the ranch, or, selfishly, your family. you'd just missed wyoming. wabang was your home. so, begrudgingly, with your trust fund, you'd purchased a building in town, and turned it into an art studio, a non-profit that helped bring art back to your hometown. you'd helped fund the severely lacking art department at your former high school, and helped build a warm, caring community for the next generation of artists. 

you'd crossed paths with rhett and the other abbott's upon your return, but it was different. while before, most people respected you solely for your last name, tillerson's weren't to be fucked with, much less you, the whimsical, soft spot of your down-right scary older brothers. but now? you weren't just the weird tillerson girl. you were an active, loved, member of the community. you stood on your own two legs, not propped up by your family's legacy. you were consciously carving your own path forward. 

the abbott's had always been kind to you, especially cecilia, and later, amy. who frequented your art classes, a trail of questions about shading, technique and many other things falling from her, that you'd answer patiently, and warmly. rhett you'd seen around; nights at the bar, or bull riding. but, this might be the first time he'd looked you in the eyes and actually spoke to you since high school. 

"i've got time," you reply, tilting your head. "why don't you follow me,"

you turn, walking back into the main office. you quickly gather your paperwork up into a stack, and tuck it away. you bend sideways, pulling your portfolio out from one of the desk drawers as rhett settled, uncomfortably in the chair in front of your desk. 

"i don't often get commissions anymore unless they're huge ass murals for the town," you admit, setting the binder down. "what were you thinking?"

"it's my parents wedding anniversary in a couple of months," he says, eyes trained on your hands, which are folded on top of the binder in front of you. "my mom, she, uh,"

his blue eyes flick up to meet yours. 

"y'know those live painting's that they do now adays?"

you nod, "sure, i've done a few of them over the years,"

"i overheard her talking to rebecca, and she'd really wished she'd known that was a thing when she and my dad got married. so i was wondering, if i got the video of their wedding, if you might be able to recreate their first dance or something,"

your eyes light up, "yes. oh i'd love to do it."

he chuckles at your enthusiasm, lips quirking up, "my only concern,"

you know where this is going, "cost?"

he nods, "what's the damage gonna be?"

you take a deep breath and sit back, "that kind of depends on three things. medium; acrylic, oil or water colour. detail. and what exactly you're looking for. i can do mock up's, uh, sketches to give you an idea of what it could look like, but it'll be vague because you won't be able to see how the paint looks."

"sure," he's chewing on his bottom lip as he mulls over what you've said.

rhett is way out of his depth here, you know that, and so does he. so you lean forward, and flip open the binder.

"i can show you some finished examples. again, it'll give you an idea of what it could look like." he nods again, focusing in on your hands ghosting over the plastic lined pages.

you flip to an acrylic painting you'd done years ago, it was actually of rhett. something in your chest flared, embarrassment maybe? at the time, you hadn't realized it was him. you'd been sitting in the stands snapping pictures, and sketching what you saw. you'd gotten home that night, and stayed up until dawn. billy had come into your room to fetch you for breakfast when his eyes landed on the finished painting sitting on your easel. he'd tilted his head to the side, "why'd you paint rhett abbott?" he'd asked.

your eyes had flashed to the cowboy's back, scrunching your face up. "it's not... what?" billy had stepped up to the drying canvas, and pointed to the dark blue shirt, and then to the number. "abbott was the only one wearing blue last night," he'd said it so matter-of-factly that it left your face burning. of course billy of all people would notice that rhett was the only bull rider in blue that night. billy hadn't teased you, he'd just mutter "breakfast" and left, a melody following him as he swept out of your room.

your face is hot, as you flick past the page, settling on a different page. dear god, did he notice that? did he recognize himself? it was a long time ago. hopefully he hadn't. okay, maybe you'd noticed rhett a bit more than you were letting on, but you'd been warned about the abbott's your whole life. so, your pull towards rhett had been shoved down, ignored. you'd broken all kinds of family rules, shattered expectations, but getting close to the abbott's wouldn't break a rule, it would be setting your life on fire, and probably mean losing your brother's in the process. there'd be no coming back from that betrayal.

anyway, who's to say that rhett even saw you. you were strictly off limits in his family too. royal was polite to you when he'd occasionally pick amy up from class, but you could see the distain in his eyes clear as day. it was the same way he looked at your brothers, and father. you can't force your eyes up to see, you just tap the page, and turn the binder so he can see it better. it's your eldest brother luke, sitting on his favourite horse, staring out over one of your family's pastures.

"this would be an example of what water colour might look like," you say, wanting to disappear into the floor.

"wow," he mutters, leaning forward to get a better look. "you painted that?"

your chest tightens, "uh, yeah... it was for luke's graduation."

you lift a chunk of pages up, and flip it over, stopping on a family portrait you'd done of your family last year. your mother had been dropping hints about wanting one of all six of you to hang up over the fireplace for months, so, you'd forced your brothers into posing for reference shots, and then for her birthday you'd given it to her.

"this is from last year. i used oil paints. heavier canvas, and longer drying times."

you're barely getting through this consultation, and you're praying that your assistant, ivy would hurry her ass up. at least you'd have a buffer. you can feel his eyes on you again, and you flip to another print, the last one.

"this," you say, trying really hard to keep the nerves from leaking into your voice. "would be acrylic."

his eyes trail back down to the binder, and the silence that stretches has your heart in your throat. you'd just flipped. you didn't look. your eyes snap to the page, and your heart slams into your ribcage. good god. it's a piece you'd completely forgotten about all together. it's... well, you and rhett, and few other friends. an example portrait you showed in your intermediate classes, a group photo. it had been the best photo of yourself you'd ever seen. you were tucked into rhett's side, free arm tossed casually over your shoulder as he tried to make room for everyone.

it wasn't how you normally saw yourself in the slightest; you were smiling big, radiant beside him. if anything, it was how you wished to be seen. your reference photo for this one had been from yours and rhett's senior year. and if you remember correctly, rhett had taken it. a throw away group photo you hadn't thought about in years.

it was early june, you were at a field party your friends had dragged you along to and you'd stood on the outskirts taking pictures for the yearbook, trying to keep it pg. when rhett had snuck up behind you, stolen the camera from your hands and had called over your friends to get in. "you're always takin' pictures tillerson, you should be in some," he'd winked at you. winked. it had caught you so off guard that you'd laughed, and he'd managed to capture that moment. you still had the original photo stuck to your fridge, a small memento of simpler times.

"i remember this," rhett says, finger siding over his face, and then yours. "you were takin' pictures for the yearbook."

you swallow hard, trying and failing to calm yourself again. embarrassed seems to be the theme for today.

"yeah," you mumble, face burning. "uh, anyway,"

you shift uncomfortably in your seat, and then snap the book closed. need to fuckin' strip your portfolio of everything. you'd never been this embarrassed in your life. you'd shown these pieces to everyone who'd ever been interested in your art, and had never. never. felt this way about it. you finally lift your eyes up, and he's already looking at you. you're trying so damn hard to be professional, but you know the minute he leaves you're going to start throwing things.

"what were you thinking? do you have a preference?" you ask, voice small as you tear your eyes away from his, busying yourself with tucking your portfolio back into the drawer.

"i think i liked the oil paint, but you said that was more time consumin' so i'm guessin' that means more expensive?"

you nod, scrunching your face. then you hear a loud crash from the back of the studio, and you're on your feet, all but running, rhett hot on your heels. ivy's standing by the back door... well at least there used to be a door there. now, it's laying flat on the floor just a few inches from the doorway. ivy's got her arms hooked through bag handles, and a cardboard tray of iced coffees in her free hand. 

"shit! sorry," ivy says, staring at you wide eyed. "i just, i tried to open the fuckin' door and it came off it's hinges. 

you sigh, "it's fine. are you okay?"

she nods, "scared the shit outta me, but yeah, all good... uh, who's your shadow?"

she tips her chin forward, gesturing to rhett, who you're now hyperaware is directly behind you. he slips past you, hand brushing your lower back as he goes. you step forwards easing some of the bags out of ivy's grip. setting them down on the counter by the doorway. she flashes you a look that says he's hot. and you just shake your head sending her a pointed, not now look. rhett bends down, in the doorway, and then scoffs. 

"the wood around the frame looks like it's rottin', it's gonna have to be replaced." rhett straightens, picking the door up off the floor and setting it back into place. "it can stay like that, but you're gonna have to use the front door 'til it's fixed."

you groan, rubbing your temples, this is the last thing you need right now. you've got a gallery coming up, and then the town gala afterwards. you've really got no time to be chasing down a handyman or contractor, or whoever you're going to need to come in to fix this until later. and having a back door that falls in when you try and open it, means you're more likely to get broken into. not that the studio has much money floating around, but your art supplies are pretty pricey. especially when you live two hours from the closest art supply store. 

"great," you laugh humorlessly, "just fuckin' great." 

"i can, uh, fix it. for you?" rhett offers awkwardly, clearing his throat. 

your head snaps over to look at him, "seriously?"

"yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

"you do this, i'll wave the cost of your commission." 

his eyes widen, "really? wait— no. i couldn't—"

"rhett, i need this back door fixed, and i really don't have any time to call around and find someone. you'd really be helping me out."

"ok, uh, just, this is gonna take a couple hours, i don't think that's really fair."

"we have other things that are falling apart if you're that worried about fair," ivy cuts in, and you cast a sideways glance at her. "what?"

you mull it over. ivy's not exactly wrong. there's plenty of stuff that needs fixing, tables falling apart, cabinet doors that have long since fallen off. your concern is having rhett this close, for an extended period of time. you can already hear the small town gossip, and the heated arguments at your family dinner table over it. the back door needs fixed. rhett can't afford your services. win-win. sort of. you sigh, against your better judgement you nod. 

"she's right, we can trade. i'll give you a list of shit that needs fixin' and i'll do the painting's."

rhet smirks at you, "i think that'll work,"

you stick your hand out towards him, and he shakes it. 

"you got somethin' to put in front of this in the mean time? somethin' big." rhett asks, and you turn, eyes scanning the room. 

you settle on a paint cabinet, you gesture to it, and he nods. he follows you over, and while ivy scoots out of the way, the pair of you slowly shift it over to be in front of the doorway. once it's secured, you hear your eldest brother luke's voice echo from the front of the studio. damn it. damn it all to hell. what is my fuckin' luck today? you glance at rhett who's smile has disappeared, and you shuffle out to the front, ivy and rhett trailing behind you. he's standing in the hallway between the office and the waiting area. 

"luke," you say, trying to gauge his mood based on his posture. 

what ever mood he was in is instantly soured when his eyes land on rhett.

"what's he doin' here?" his voice is laced with venom, as he glares you down. 

"he's a customer," you snap back, meeting his energy. "he was placin' an order when the back door nearly took ivy out,"

luke relaxes ever so slightly, eyes landing on ivy, "you okay, sweetheart?"

she nods, "yeah. fine."

"what are you doin' here anyway?" you ask, annoyance dripping from your voice as you cross your arms over your chest.

"came to pick my girls up for lunch," he says, and you check your watch. 

it's noon alright. you'd entirely forgotten you'd agreed to going to lunch with ivy and luke. you really don't feel like going now. not when you'd already been dreading family dinner tonight, much less the third-degree you were likely going to get over lunch. you're not hungry now. 

"luke, i have to finish this consult, and honestly i'm not very hungry. you and ivy go ahead," 

he sighs at you, but ivy ducks back behind rhett and then reappears with her purse. she hooks her arm through luke's, sensing the hostility. ivy's always been good at reading your brother, you think that's part of the reason they work so well. she shoots you and rhett an apologetic smile, and mouths "i'll bring you back some fries," with a wink before tugging luke out of the studio to his truck.

you relax, arms dropping to your sides, "fuckin' hell, today's been goddamn interesting."

you sigh, and turn to head back into your office, jumping slightly because you'd managed to forget that rhett was standing right behind you. 

"jesus, sorry." you laugh, "i forgot you were here,"

"i can see that," he chuckles, as you side step him to go back into the office. 

"so, uh, if you can get me the video before the end of the week, i think i can get you some sketches by mid next week and we can finalize everything before i start. how's that sound?" you ask, sliding back into your seat to grab your planner to start marking your timeline in. 

"sounds good. when do you want me to start on the door frame?" he asks, sliding back into the seat across from you, picking his hat back up and setting on his lap.

"uh, i guess that depends on when you're free. i know you're busy with the ranch and, training?" you mumble, glancing up at him. 

"yeah, usually have a clear schedule around 7-8ish?" he says, his gaze set firmly on you.

"okay, well, i live upstairs, so, whenever you're free you can slide by."

his eyebrows pull together, "you don't live on the ranch anymore?"

you inhale sharply, shaking your head, "uh. no. i moved out six months ago. couldn't handle everything going on with dad, and trevor and luke. besides, i really liked living by myself after i left new york. craved the freedom of being able to walk around no matter the hour without anyone breathing down my neck."

he chuckles at that, "that i get."

he shifts in his seat, and you nod. 

"so, i guess that's everything. unless you have any questions for me?" 

he shakes his head, then pauses, "can i see your portfolio again?"

your blood runs ice cold, as you nod. it feels nervous, it probably looks awkward from the outside as you slip the binder back out from it's spot, passing it over the table. at this point, you doubt you could get any more embarrassed. duking it out with luke wiped out the last of your energy. you can't help but watch him out of the corner of your eye as he flips through the pages. your heart's in your throat when you see see the page he stops on. oh fuckin' christ. he knows. he smirks to himself, and then hands you the book back, and your heart slams into your ribcage. 

his fingers brush yours as you take it back, and snap it closed. then he stands, placing his hat back on his head. he steps around the chair, resting his hands on the back at he looks down at you--towers over you. 

"your number still the same as in high school, or did you change it?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he looks at you. 

you're certain he knows your flustered, you can feel the heat creeping back up your neck as you shake your head. "nope, still the same."

"great, i'll text you when i'm on my way over," he winks at you, fucking winks, before heading out of the studio. 

you wait until the door clicks closed, and drop your head down on top of the desk, smacking your forehead against the glass. you want to scream.