#some protector

You walk in fifteen minutes after he does, wearing a dress he’s never seen before and a smile that almost passes for real. Your new boyfriend is beside you.

The thought had crossed his mind, he’ll admit. He met and became friends with the newly engaged couple through you, so there was always a decently high chance you’d be here tonight. But he hadn’t let himself linger on the thought long enough to plan for it, and he especially hadn’t allowed himself to consider the possibility you’d bring a date with you to a party you knew he’d be at. But nothing could’ve prepared him for it anyways. No amount of mental prep would’ve soothed the ache of watching another man’s hand find yours.

At first, Spencer can’t bring himself to look at you directly. But he tracks you in pieces — the tilt of your chin, the curve of your smile, the hand at your waist. The neckline of your dress, dipping just low enough to undo something in him.

You haven’t seen him yet. He’s not ready for when you do.

The room hums — clinking glasses, laughter pitched too loud, someone making a joke about wedding hashtags like it’s the cleverest thing in the world. But none of it reaches him. It all sounds submerged, warped by memory.

One hand tightens around his glass, the other buried in his pocket, fingers curled tight. He’s trying to ground himself, or maybe just keep himself from doing something stupid. Like walking up to you. Like saying your name. Like asking if it’s still his to say.

Spencer knows who your boyfriend is. He’s heard his name dropped casually by mutual friends. He’s done the requisite, ill-advised Google stalk with Garcia’s help. He’s memorized the basics: Ian Lockhart. Works in marketing. Graduated top of his class from UPenn. Youngest of three. Allergic to shellfish.

But that doesn’t stop the question from forming:

Does he truly know you?

Does he know you hate mint in desserts and prefer dark chocolate over the overly-sweetened milk variety? That you dog-ear the pages of whatever you’re reading instead of using bookmarks, even though you own at least fifteen of them? That you sleep with one hand curled under your chin like a child, hum under your breath when you feel safe, get hiccups when you’re anxious, and apologize for things that aren’t your fault?

Does he know the way you sound when you say Spencer’s name?

He hopes not. He hopes so. He doesn’t actually really know what he hopes for.

You’re smiling up at Ian like the weight of the room hasn’t doubled. Like this is just another party, not a place where Spencer’s body remembers every single version of you it ever loved.

And then — you spot him.

Over someone’s shoulder, through the blur of motion and candlelight, your eyes meet Spencer’s.

Something shifts in your face — a memory breaking the surface too fast to hide from. A flicker of something that looks a little like wanting, followed by restraint. You don’t look at him like a stranger. You look at him like before.

You tilt your head — a trace of kindness tugging at your mouth. But it only lasts a second before you turn away.

Spencer can’t breathe.

He’s still stuck in that second. He feels it like a match struck behind his ribs.

—

By the time the first toast of the night is over, you’ve disappeared down the hallway towards the kitchen. Spencer lets his gaze follow you just long enough to punish himself for it.

You still tuck your hair behind your ear the same way you used to, he notices. That quiet, automatic gesture like you’re not even thinking about it. You’ve always done it that way, like muscle memory.

And now he’s thinking about September, nearly three and a half years ago. Your first fall together.

It had been raining that day — that steady kind of rain that makes everything feel like it’s underwater. You’d been sitting on his couch with your legs tucked under you, a book splayed open in your lap, your thumb idly tracing the edge of the page. Spencer was talking too much, as usual. A fact spiral he hadn’t meant to fall into, born out of habit and the way you made the room feel safer somehow just by being in it.

“And there’s this theory,” he’d said, glasses pushed up too high on his nose, hands fidgeting with the frayed edge of the blanket between you, “that we can smell the weather changing — like, literally smell the oils and sugars released by leaves breaking down. That’s why autumn feels so…”

He trailed off, embarrassed, suddenly sprung back into hyper-awareness of how long he’d been speaking. But you just looked at him and smiled, that full-faced kind of smile you didn’t hand out easily. “So you’re saying you can smell fall coming?”

He nodded, sheepish. “Sort of. Yes. And I like it — the smell, I mean. It kind of reminds me of being a kid. Like old books and new pencils and being a person who still thought the seasons changing was like magic. Not that the seasons changed much in Vegas, but… still.”

You laughed. Not a sharp laugh, not mocking, but a delighted one. The kind of laugh that only shows up when someone says something completely true and completely weird and you’re so completely glad they said it.

Spencer looked at you like he didn’t quite know how to process how beautiful you were in that moment. Not just physically (though yes, that too), but emotionally. You didn’t flinch away from his oddities — you leaned toward them. Like maybe you were made of the same quiet strangeness he was.

You closed the book in your lap after folding down the corner of the page and laid it gently on the coffee table. “Tell me more things that remind you you’re a person.”

He blinked. “What?”

“That’s what you meant, right? That the smell of fall makes you feel human. Tell me more things like that.”

He hadn’t realized it, but that’s exactly what he meant. And so he did. All night.

Little things. Soft things. Things no one else ever asked him about. The sound of his mom reading him Chaucer and Kempe when he was still too young to really process what the stories meant. The hot sting of seatbelt buckles in the desert sun. The click of a lamp turning on in a dark room. The way library cards used to be made of paper and crinkle at the corners. The feeling of your hand in his.

You listened like every one of them mattered. And every one of them did, to you at least.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. One minute you were curled beside him on the couch, both your heads tipped toward each other like magnets. The next, the sky outside had gone black and your fingers tangled loosely in the drawstring of his hoodie like you’d nodded off while trying to keep him from drifting too far away.

He never told you this, but when he woke up — before you stirred, before the world returned — he’d studied you. Every tiny detail. The part in your hair. The sleep-creased edge of your cheek. The way your mouth twitched when you dreamed. He counted every last freckle splayed across your cheeks. Drew constellations between them in his mind.

That was the night he knew he’d fallen hopelessly in love with you.

He blinks, and all of the sudden he’s back in the present, back at the party. You’re walking towards your date, two glasses of wine in your hands. The one you hand Ian is red. The one you sip from is white — you’d always preferred a colder, crisper Sauvignon Blanc over a full-bodied Chianti or Merlot.

You glance towards Spencer, and in that look, he swears he can see it. The ghost of that night. The version of you who laughed at the way he thought autumn smelled like #2 pencils and old books. The one that fell asleep easily with your body pressed to his side because you trusted him not to move.

He doesn’t look away.

Not yet.

Someone calls his name across the room and he answers with a vague nod. His body is here, but his mind is hovering somewhere else. Caught in the gravity of your glance, still trying to make sense of the soft exhale it pulled from his lungs.

—

You find him before he can decide to leave.

There’s a stretch of seconds as you weave through the room when Spencer wonders if he’s imagining it. If he’s hallucinating your trajectory out of want.

But no, it’s real. You’re coming toward him — slowly, carefully. Like you don’t trust what might happen when you finally get close.

“Spencer.”

His name falling from your lips still sounds just as gentle as it always had. He straightens. Not because he needs to — he’s never felt like he needs to perform for you — but because his body can’t help but brace when you look at him like that.

“Hi,” he manages, his voice quiet, like too much sound might make the moment collapse. “You look…”

Beautiful isn’t neutral. Radiant is worse.

So he lands on a very lame, very simple, “You look well.”

Your smile tilts, crooked and familiar. “Have you been avoiding me tonight?”

Spencer hesitates. He doesn’t look away, but something in his expression shifts — like he’s been caught doing something he didn’t realize was visible.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he says carefully. “Not intentionally. I just… I thought it was better to keep my distance. I didn’t want to intrude on you and...”

You nod once, like you expected that. You look across the room towards where you’d left Ian.

“He’s getting another drink,” you say, mostly to fill the space.

Spencer only nods. He doesn’t ask about him. He’s already heard enough from others. And what would you say, anyway?

He studies the curve of your wrist as you lift your glass. He used to press his mouth there — absentmindedly, in greeting, in gratitude. He blinks the memory away.

You glance down at your feet, then up again. There’s something almost sheepish about it. “You cut your hair.”

His hand grazes the back of his neck. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“I like it,” you say softly.

There’s no teasing in it. No flirtation. Just something honest. Small and steady, like the thrum of your voice used to be in the mornings, not yet fully awake, legs tangled beneath the covers.

“Thanks,” he says.

Another silence. Not awkward, not exactly. Just… weighted. Like you’re the only two people in it who remember something that’s no longer allowed to exist.

You wet your bottom lip, the way you always do when you’re thinking too hard. Spencer looks away. It feels dangerous to look for too long.

“I saw you on the news last month,” you offer. “That case in Pittsburgh.”

His gaze flicks back to you. “Yeah. That was…” He lets out a sigh. “Long week.”

“You looked tired,” you murmur. “More than usual.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s not even concern, not exactly. Just observation. You always did that — noticed things he didn’t say out loud.

He shifts his weight. “We’ve had worse.”

You nod, but you’re still watching him, seeing right through him. He used to hate that. He used to love it, too.

There’s a long pause. Then, voice soft: “You still forget to eat when you’re anxious?”

Spencer huffs a breath — almost a laugh. “I still forget almost everything when I’m anxious.”

You smile, but it’s a sad thing.

“Your mom still calls me sometimes,” you say so quietly he almost misses it. “Thinks we’re still together.”

His breath catches. “She forgets. I’m sorry. I’ve told her a bunch of times.”

You shake your head, silently telling him the apology isn’t necessary. “She always asks if you’re eating. And if I’m making sure you sleep.”

Spencer nods and swallows, hard. He can’t bring himself to answer right away.

“I never correct her. She’s always so happy when I say yes.”

That lands somewhere deep — deeper than it should. Maybe it’s easier this way. To pretend, in some small corner of the world, you’re still his.

The silence creeps in again, fuller this time. You step an inch closer, not on purpose, not consciously. He doesn’t step back. The space between your arms hums with memory.

There’s a ring on your right pointer finger, the same one you always wore — a vintage, gold band from your grandmother’s jewelry box. Spencer used to twist it mindlessly while you read.

He wonders if you let Ian do that now. He wonders if he even notices it.

“I like the dress,” he says with a nod towards your outfit before he can stop himself. “The color.”

You tilt your head. “You always liked lavender.”

“I still do.”

Internally, you start to wonder: Did you wear it because you knew he’d be here tonight? Subconsciously, did you pick this dress out of your closet with Spencer in mind?

You look down again. Then up. You meet his gaze a second too long, and for a moment, it’s like everything falls away — the party, the boyfriend, the reasons you shouldn’t still care.

Then Ian calls your name from somewhere behind you.

The sound breaks whatever thread had been holding you there. You blink, eyes clearing, and step back half an inch — enough to remind yourselves what year it is. Where you are. What this isn’t anymore.

You glance over your shoulder, then back at Spencer.

“I should—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in gently. “Of course.”

You hesitate. Just for a breath. And then: “It’s really good to see you, Spence.”

Spence. He nods, slow and careful. “You too.”

You walk away. Spencer stays where he is, heart knocking unevenly in his chest, eyes fixed on the place you’d just stood like maybe you’ll return if he waits long enough.

You don’t. But you do turn around, just once, halfway through the room. Your gaze finds his again.

It’s brief, that look. Barely a second. But it says enough:

You remember everything.

—

Somewhere across the room, you laugh.

It’s not at him — Spencer doesn’t know what was said or why it was funny — but it’s the sound that stands out to him. That specific cadence. The one that always tumbled out of you just after midnight when you were tipsy and barefoot and glowing with affection you never tried to ration.

Your hand lands on Ian’s arm, light and familiar, fingers curling just slightly.

And that—

That’s what undoes him.

Because you used to do that to him. You used to touch him like he belonged to you.

Images swirl in his mind — your palm against his skin. That sweater. That night. That look on your face when you pushed him down onto the couch like you didn’t need words to tell him you wanted him. The memory ambushes him, full and bright and dizzying, like it’s been waiting all evening for the right moment to strike.

—

One month into dating, you wore a loose red sweater on a date with Spencer — one that hung off your shoulder and drove him to the edge of restraint. He’d never say it aloud, but that sweater still haunts him. The curve of your collarbone. The bare sliver of skin at your hip when you lifted your arms. The softness of it. Of you.

You hadn’t slept together yet. Spencer had been so careful about it — cautious in that way he always was when something really mattered to him. He wanted to be sure this thing between you was real first (it was). Wanted to be sure you were ready (god, you were). Wanted to be sure he was ready, too.

You’d come back to his apartment after dinner, your thigh pressed against his in the cab, your voice syrupy and laced with secrets, low in his ear: “You gonna keep being shy, or are you gonna do something about it?”

He kissed you the second the front door closed behind you. Harder than he meant to — sloppier, too. But you moaned softly into it and fisted your hands in his jacket like you didn’t want to waste anymore time being polite about this.

It was a little frantic at first. Your back hit the wall. His belt clattered to the floor. You laughed into his mouth, breathless and giddy, hands everywhere — threading through his hair, yanking at his shirt, skimming down the front of his pants like you already knew exactly how he liked to be touched.

He walked you back into the couch, then you took the reigns and pushed him down onto it. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, grinding down in a slow, devastating rhythm that made his vision blur.

Within minutes, you were undressed from the waist down, the sweater still on. That somehow made it even more intense — or maybe it would’ve been that way regardless, he couldn’t really say for sure. All he knew was the skin of your thighs, the heat of you moving against him, the breathy way you said his name when his hands cupped your ass and pulled you tighter into his lap.

“Spencer,” you gasped, mouth against his jaw. “Please.”

He remembers the exact moment you said it — the way your breath caught, the stutter in your hips, the way your fingers curled at the back of his neck.

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his, so close he could feel every shake of your inhale. And then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m yours, Spence. Okay? Don’t be gentle.”

And that was it. Spencer Reid — always careful, always afraid of taking too much — finally let go.

That night, he told you he loved you with every part of his body. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew you heard it anyway.

He fucked you slow and deep from below, gripping your hips as you rode him and matched his rhythm with every grind of your body against his. Not tender, but not rough either — just real. Like every motion was a word he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud. You clung to him, nails pressing into his shoulders, moaning softly as his lips found every part of you he could reach — your throat, your collarbone, the delicate skin just below it. He mouthed at the place your pulse fluttered hardest and stayed there until you broke.

And when you did — when you came around him with his name caught in your throat like something sacred — he followed, buried deep inside you, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer only he knew how to recite.

After, you collapsed on his chest, the red sweater twisted around your ribs, your legs still tangled with his. You were quiet in that way that only happened when you were fully content. One hand traced over the back of his — slow, barely there — like you couldn’t stand to not be touching him, even in sleep.

Meanwhile, he didn’t sleep at all.

Just lay there memorizing you: the shape of your mouth, the curve of your waist, the warmth of your bare skin under the blanket, the rise and fall of your breath.

Spencer had been with others in the past. But he’d never touched someone quite like that before. Never been touched like that either — not with that kind of need or care or want.

And now?

Now you’re across the room with someone else’s arm around your waist, yet he still can’t stop thinking about that night. About your mouth. Your hands. Your voice when you begged him not to hold back.

You catch him looking with a twitch of your lips like you’ve caught a secret.

For a second, he thinks you know what he’s remembering. Maybe you’re remembering it too.

And then, just like that, the moment passes. You look away and turn slightly toward Ian, laughing again — softer this time. But something about it’s off — you smile too quickly, blink too long, seem too practiced.

And god, Spencer feels it now — an ache that starts behind his ribs and spreads. He knows that look. The forced composure. Your tight little nod. The way your shoulders curl inward, just enough to seem invisible.

You’re tired.

Not just from the party or the heels. Not even from the fact that Spencer is here. No, you’re tired in a quiet, cell-deep way. The kind of tired that creeps in when you’ve been holding everything too tightly for too long. He used to see it in your posture before you ever spoke. In the way you’d knead at the back of your neck. In the sound of your keys hitting the kitchen counter just a little too hard.

His whole body aches with the memory of it.

Because he can’t touch your elbow now, can’t draw you into a hallway and press his hand to your spine and ask, Is it bad today? in a voice soft enough to disappear into your skin. He can’t guide you to the couch and take your shoes off for you and rub slow circles into the arch of your foot. He can’t be that version of himself for you anymore.

But he remembers. He remembers it all.

—

You’d had a rough shift.

Spencer knew before you said a word. He heard it in the way your bag hit the floor when you’d walked into his apartment — not thrown exactly, but dropped with too much force. Watched it in the way you kicked off your shoes in the hallway like they’d betrayed you. You didn’t kiss him hello. Didn’t even meet his eyes.

You just paced the kitchen in your scrubs, hands trembling slightly. Your voice cracked when it finally came. “She was just a kid, Spence. She died right in front of me.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just crossed the room, took your phone gently from your hand, and set it down on the counter.

You looked at him like you weren’t sure if he’d understand. Like some part of you expected him to step back.

But then, you broke.

It happened all at once, because panic doesn’t slow down or ask permission. One moment you were upright, breathing, trying — and the next, you were not. Your breath hitched. Your eyes went wide. Your hands clawed at your chest like you needed to open it, like the air in your lungs wasn’t enough.

“I can’t— I can’t—”

“I know, baby,” he said, already reaching.

He slid to the floor with you, back against the cabinets, his body folding around yours to hold you steady. His hands were firm but gentle — one at your shoulder, one at the base of your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re okay. You’re right here.”

You let out a single, ragged sob and collapsed against him, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling through the floor. He didn’t flinch — just tightened his arms around you, voice soft and measured in your ear.

“Five things you can see,” he murmured. “Just try for me.”

You shook your head, breath shallow, shoulders tight. “Can’t.”

“Okay. Okay. Just look, then.” His hand moved slowly along your back. “The floor tile. The fridge magnets. The photo of us in Vegas framed on the wall. That stupid spiky plant you named Steve. Me. I’m right here.”

You gasped — air, finally — and he held you through it.

“You’re not alone,” he said, steady as a heartbeat. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

It took seven minutes for your breathing to settle. Even longer for your hands to stop shaking. But he didn’t let go.

Later, when you were curled against his side in bed — voice scratchy, eyes raw — you said it like a confession:

“I’m sorry, Spence. I…I don’t want to be too much.”

He turned toward you and answered without hesitation as he pulled you closer into him.

“There’s no such thing as too much. Not with you.” He pressed a soft kiss to your temple before adding, “You’re just enough, all the time.”

—

The memory lingers long after it fades.

Spencer exhales, slow and shaky, chest tight with the ghost of it — your voice in his ear, your fingers curled into his shirt, the unbearable tenderness of that night on the kitchen floor. He can still feel the imprint of you, sharp as breath in cold air.

When he blinks, the present returns in pieces: music pulsing, voices laughing, people moving all around him. But it’s your absence that hits harder: You’re gone. You’re not near Ian, not near the party hosts, not near anyone. You’ve slipped out of the crowd, vanished discreetly like you always could when your shoulders got too heavy to hold up.

He knows where you’ve gone before he even moves. Knows the way you seek out quiet. Knows the exact rhythm of your retreat.

And so he follows.

—

It’s started to snow.

Not hard — just flurries, soft and inconsistent, the kind that hover before deciding whether or not they want to stick. String lights stretch across the balcony railing, catching in the wind.

You’re alone. Or trying to be, at least.

One hand rests on the railing. Your thumb circles the condensation on your wine glass, which you’ve long stopped drinking from — just holding it now, mostly for the sake of keeping your fingers occupied.

Spencer finds you like gravity. Like an orbit he never quite escaped.

You don’t turn when you hear him step outside. You don’t have to — you already knew he’d be the one to track you down.

The door hushes shut behind him. He doesn’t speak, not at first — just stands there for a moment in the doorway, watching your silhouette outlined against the snow-smeared sky.

You exhale through your nose. “Ian talks too much when he’s nervous.”

Spencer steps closer. “You used to say the same thing about me.”

You look over your shoulder. Not smiling, but not not smiling either. “Yeah. But it was different with you.”

He doesn’t respond, but you hear the way his breath catches. He shrugs out of his jacket without thinking — an instinct time hasn’t yet pulled from him. It’s the same instinct that used to make him drape it over your shoulders on late walks home, or leave it folded at the foot of your bed after an argument, still carrying the shape of his body. He eases it around you gently, and you let him. You hold it closed at the collar with one hand, and for a second, Spencer swears you lean into the warmth of it — the him of it.

“Has it always been this cold in January?” you ask with a laugh, eyes on the city skyline.

Spencer’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Yeah. But I think we just didn’t notice it the last few Januaries. Or at least I didn’t.”

You turn your head to look at him, slowly this time. “Why not?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Because I had you.”

And just like that, the wind cuts through the silence between you. You both shiver, but neither of you move.

“Some nights I still wake up thinking I heard your voice,” you say quietly.

He blinks.

“I don’t know what it says. It’s not really words — just… the shape of them. I think my brain fills in the rest.”

Spencer swallows, hard. “What does your brain imagine?”

You shake your head. “All kinds of things, I guess. But it definitely misses how you used to say my name.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hands twitch at his sides. His throat works around something sharp.

“You know,” he says softly, “I still talk to you sometimes. In my head. I still tell you about cases, and books you’d hate, and little things I see that remind me of you.”

You blink quickly, but not quick enough to hide the sheen in your eyes. “Do I ever answer?”

He nods, his voice rough, a sad smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah. Sometimes you do.”

A beat passes. The snow starts to stick in your hair.

You both move at the same time. Just a half-step closer, your bodies angled toward each other like two halves of the same thought.

His hand brushes your wrist on the railing. Yours lingers at the lapel of his jacket, still clutched around you like armor. Your eyes drop to his mouth then flicker back up. You’re not smiling. Neither is he.

The city exhales around you. Somewhere inside, a champagne cork pops. But it feels like you’re the only two people on the planet.

Spencer leans forward — just barely. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough to feel your breath warm the space between you. His voice, when it comes, is barely a sound:

“I would’ve done anything to keep you.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t cry. You just whisper, “I know.”

And you do. You know. You’ve always known.

A full minute passes like that. Eventually, you pull back and shrug the jacket from your shoulders, hold it out with an unsteady hand. Spencer takes it slowly, without a word, fingers brushing yours for a half-second too long.

You step towards the door and turn slightly, just enough to get a look at him. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you?”

Spencer watches the snow catch in your hair. “Of course.”

You nod once. “I meant it.” You pause, blink back a tear before adding, “I still mean it.”

You look at him then — really look, as if you’re expecting him to say something in response, but he doesn’t. And so, after one more tremble of hesitation, you’re gone.

Spencer doesn’t go inside right away. He watches the snow collect in the grooves of the railing, in the spaces between bricks on the balcony wall. Watches his breath fog in the air like smoke. He can still smell your perfume on his jacket. Still feel the shape of your voice in his chest.

And god, if you’d asked him, if you’d reached, if you’d said come with me, he would have, without question.

But that’s the thing about moments — they pass. And once they do, all that’s left is the before. And the after.

He presses his palms to the cold railing. Breathes deep. And then, the darkest memory comes.

—

You weren’t angry. That was the worst part.

You were quiet. Controlled. A little too still — like someone who’d already cried in the car then reapplied her makeup and practiced how to sound fine. Spencer had been reading when you showed up, a case file open beside him, a mug of tea cooling untouched on the coffee table.

He hadn’t been expecting you.

But the second he looked up and saw you in the doorway — your jacket still zipped, your eyes dim, your shoulders pulled back like a wall — he knew. Even before you spoke, he knew.

You sat on the edge of the couch without a word. You didn’t take off your shoes. Didn’t reach for his hand. Just stared at him, quietly. Like you were still deciding whether or not to break your own heart.

“I don’t want to do this,” you said softly once you finally got yourself to speak.

Spencer’s breath hitched. “Then don’t.”

But you shook your head, eyes glassy. “It’s not that simple.”

And he felt it then — that slow, precise tear in the fabric of something he thought he could still fix. The moment peeling open like skin beneath a dull blade.

“I love you,” you said. “That hasn’t changed. I need you to know that.”

His lips parted. He said your name — soft, small — like maybe saying it would anchor you both back to solid ground.

But you went on. “I just don’t know how to be with you when you won’t let me in.”

He blinked, confused. “I let you in.”

“No.” You shook your head again, more tired than anything else. “I know you wanted to. And you thought you did. But… you didn’t. Not really.”

Spencer looked down. He knew you were right.

He’d been quietly withdrawing for months — not in big, obvious ways, but slowly. Case after case. Canceled dates, sleepless nights, long silences between texts. Promises made in touches instead of words, apologies offered in the form of forehead kisses and new books and please don’t ask me to talk about it.

You’d stayed anyway.

You kept showing up — with dinner, with warmth, with hope. And he kept failing to reach back the way you needed him to.

He wanted to believe you knew that he loved you, even if he didn’t always know how to say it when the weight got too heavy. But he never really told you where the weight lived. Never let you see what it cost him just to hold it all together.

“It’s not you,” he said, the words spilling out too fast, like they were trying to outrun the inevitable. “It’s just— I’ve been… I’ve been trying not to make it worse.”

Your brows knit in confusion. “Worse?”

“For you,” he said softly. “I didn’t want to drag you into my darkness. I thought… I thought I was protecting you.”

That was the moment something shifted in your face. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just that quiet kind of grief that comes from loving someone who keeps pointing you to a door without handing you the key.

“I didn’t need protecting, Spencer,” you said. “I just needed you.”

He reached for you then, without thinking. Not to fix it — he already knew it was too late for that — but to hold on to you one last time.

You almost let him, but then you pulled away. The moment had already passed. The truth had already landed.

“I keep waiting for you to let me all the way in,” you whispered. “Keep hoping. Keep thinking if I just love you a little harder, maybe you’d stop holding back.”

He wanted to tell you he never meant to. That he never meant for the silence to feel like distance, or for his grief to become a barrier. But he couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t even lift his eyes to meet yours.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way,” he choked out.

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

And then — like a wound coming undone at the seam — you stood.

He stood too — reflexive, as if maybe just the movement would change your mind. But you were already reaching for your bag, already curling into yourself, one arm tucked across your ribs like you were barely holding your body together.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I can’t do this anymore. I need to feel like I can breathe again.”

He nodded. Because what else do you do when the person you love more than anything else in the universe is asking you to let them go?

You turned toward the door and took a few strides before hesitating and looking back.

Spencer was still standing there, frozen in place, eyes red and rimmed with tears, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller — like if he could just shrink the hurt, maybe you’d stay.

You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out a key — your key to his place, the one you’d already taken off your keychain as you cried in the car. You set it down on the entry table, and your fingers lingered over the shape of it for a second too long before pulling back and reaching for the door.

You steadied yourself enough to speak, but your voice still broke as you did. The kind of words that echo louder once the silence sets in:

“I’ll love you forever, Spencer. Even if I have to do it from far away.”

Despite your best efforts, you froze once more before you could bring yourself to step outside. “I’ll never stop,” you added in a whisper.

Then the door closed behind you.

—

The snow’s falling heavier now. Slow, deliberate flakes, shapeless against the sky.

Spencer stays outside long after the cold has sunk into his hands, long after the balcony door clicks shut behind him. Somewhere behind the glass, people are laughing. A new song is starting. But all of it feels miles away.

You’d asked him — softly, like it might break if you said it too loud:

“Do you remember the last thing I said to you?”

He’d thought it was just nostalgia. A prompt for some shared memory, a fragment you wanted him to hold with you for a final moment before moving on.

But it wasn’t.

You weren’t asking if he remembered — no. You were asking if he still believed you.

I’ll love you forever. I’ll never stop.

I still mean it.

He grips the railing tighter. Because now he understands: you weren’t reaching back into a memory. You were reaching towards him. Tentatively. Hopefully. Asking if it still means anything. If it’s still real.

You’ve moved on, at least that’s what you tell yourself. Maybe Ian — solid, safe Ian — is more than just a placeholder. Maybe it’s still the wrong time for you and Spencer. But maybe some small, stubborn part of you is still tethered to him by a thread neither of you has had the courage to cut.

Maybe that look you gave him tonight wasn’t just nostalgia. Maybe it was permission. Or forgiveness. Or both.

Maybe it’s not too late.

Or maybe it is.

But maybe — just maybe — if he reaches, you’ll reach back.

And for the first time in 313 days, Spencer can’t bring himself to just wonder from afar.

He needs to find out.

—

The warmth of the party hits him too fast once he steps back inside.

It's jarring, like surfacing through ice. Noise and light and heat pressing in on all sides.

He moves before he knows where he’s going. Not calmly. Not with logic. Just instinct — pulled forward like a tide. Past the hallway. Past the bar. Past an acquaintance calling his name.

He’s scanning the crowd now with something closer to desperation than hope. Looking for the lavender of your dress, the curve of your mouth, the shape of a future he once held in both hands.

He thinks he sees your hair by the fireplace, but it isn’t you. Just someone with the same soft tilt of the head. Another not-you in a sea full of not-yous.

He checks the hallway. A guest bedroom. The stairwell. The far end of the kitchen.

You’re not there. You aren’t anywhere.

The edges of the room start to blur. For a moment, he thinks he’s too late. Thinks maybe you’ve already slipped through his fingers for good.

But then — he sees you.

Near the front door, coat draped over your arm, ready to leave. Ian’s standing beside you, saying something low near your ear. You’re nodding, distracted. Your fingers tighten around your purse strap.

Spencer stops moving.

His whole body goes still — like someone hit pause mid-scene. Like the universe has given him one last, final frame to memorize you before you’re gone.

He could go to you. Reach for you and pull you into him, Ian be damned. Say your name. Tell you the truth — that it’s been 313 days since you left and he’s loved you for every single one of them. That when you turned to him on the balcony and said I still mean it, he should’ve said I never stopped, either.

But he doesn’t.

Because the part of him that’s always loved you best — the part that curled around you on the kitchen floor, the part that kept you at a distance thinking it was safest — knows what it means to protect someone.

And sometimes it means letting you walk away, even when it feels like it might kill him.

So he stays where he is. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He just watches.

Watches the way you pause at the door like something intangible is tugging at you. Watches the moment your head turns, as if your muscles knew he was there before your heart could catch up.

Your eyes meet Spencer’s across the foyer, and for a second, the rest of the world vanishes.

Neither of you smiles. Neither speaks.

But everything is said.

It’s in the way your mouth parts like you might call his name and then don’t. In the way you look at him like you remember it all. Like you never stopped remembering. Like you never stopped wanting.

He wants to go to you. God, he does. It takes every ounce of strength in him to hold back.

And after one long, fragile heartbeat, you look away and leave with Ian’s hand pressed against your back.

The door closes softly behind you. Spencer doesn’t move.

He watches the snow blur the windows. Watches the space you left behind.

And in the quiet, he holds it all. The ache. The memories. The weight of a love he never stopped carrying. The feeling of caring so deeply for someone from the outside of a life that used to be his.

Because that’s what he is now — an outsider.

Not your partner. Not your future.

Just some protector.

And maybe — for now — that can be enough.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

Gator knew it before he hit the first hallway. It was too quiet. Not empty, just hushed. Like someone was waiting for a bomb to go off. Every set of eyes clocked him when he passed. Some turned away. Some didn’t bother.

He didn’t look at them. And Gator didn’t walk, he prowled. Moved like something out of a hunting reel, his shoulders squared, fists loose at his sides, boots hitting tile in even, echoing steps. The hall wasn’t a hallway. It was a long stretch of battlefield. 

And he had a single target.

Jake was laughing about something near the lockers. Mouth open. Face smug. Reed’s boy. Second-string linebacker, all bark, no bite. He didn’t see him coming.

But everyone else sure did.

The moment Gator stopped in front of him, the air snapped tight.

Jake blinked. “What the hell—?”

Too slow.

Gator slammed him against the lockers with one arm like it cost him nothing. Jake’s head hit metal, hard. The clang bounced down the corridor. The group of kids behind him scattered. Some didn’t even pretend not to watch.

Gator’s face didn’t flinch. “Where is he, Simmons.”

The words were low. Flat. Dead still.

Jake blinked hard. “Who—?”

Wrong answer.

Gator’s fist slammed into the locker beside his ear hard enough that the whole wall shuddered. Jake jolted. His face went pale.

“Don’t.” Gator’s voice didn’t rise. If anything, it dropped lower. “You know who.”

Jake’s mouth worked for a hot second. Then he laughed. Nervously. Weakly. “Man, I don’t—”

“Not your man.” Gator yanked him forward by the collar, face-to-face. “Try again.”

It wasn’t a request. 

It was a last fucking chance.

Jake’s eyes darted. He was taller, broader. Six-foot-three next to the six-foot-even that had him pinned, but it didn’t matter. None of it did. Because Gator wasn’t bluffing. He never had to.

There was a long second where Jake considered lying.

And then he broke.

“Okay—okay. He took his car to the shop. Madison’s place. That’s it, I swear—he’s just laying low there.”

Gator stared at him. Silent.

Then he let go.

Jake slumped against the lockers like his bones gave out. The sound of him sliding down the metal was pathetic.

“Atta boy,” Gator sneered, leaving him in the dust. 

He didn’t look back. Didn’t pause. He just turned, stalked down the hallway, and pushed out the front doors like nothing had happened.

The sun was still low. Bleached and cold across the pavement. Gator pulled out his phone and shot a single text to Bill:

Gator 🐊: first period’s canceled. meet me at ur truck.

Gator marched off to his classroom to find him the second that he’d sent it, not leaving any wiggle room.

Bill blinked up from his textbook, half a bagel in hand. “Boo bear, you’re on the wrong side of the school—”

“Check your texts.”

The blue-eyed cowboy’s brow furrowed. He reached for his phone, which of course was already tucked away in his bag on silent. Like a good student usually should do before his class starts. He lifted a brow at the screen.

“Skip first with me.”

“You serious?”

Gator didn’t repeat himself. He just looked at him.

Bill sighed. “You know I can’t skip, man. My mom’s—”

Gator straightened, already nodding towards the door. He didn’t beg. Didn’t plead. But he didn’t need to in order for Bill to clock onto the fact that was something was way, way off.

“Fuck it,” Bill muttered, yanking his hoodie up. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t argue it any further as Gator marched ahead of him. Bill showed up in the lot a few minutes later after he stopped at his locker, keys in hand and expression tight. Gator climbed in without a word, and Bill drove.

They didn’t talk for the first few blocks.

Bill kept glancing sideways. Gator’s jaw was set. His eyes were fixed on the road. Elbow to the window, and still as statue.

After a moment, Bill finally spoke. Warily. “You gonna tell me what this is?”

“Nope.”

Bill nodded once. That was enough.

His gut already knew this was about Mercer. Because the only time Gator got quiet like this, the only time his rage didn’t come out swinging? It was about her.

Bill gripped the wheel tighter. “She okay?”

“She’s fine.”

The words were clipped. Final. But something about the way Gator said it made it clear: someone had tried to make sure she wouldn’t be.

Someone had gotten too close. Hurt her in a way that didn’t leave bruises. And that someone was currently hiding in the dumbest place on earth.

Because out of every garage in Fargo, Reed Calloway had picked the wrong one. Bill’s father’s shop.

The laugh that escaped Gator’s chest was sudden and sharp, dry as a bone. It wasn’t humor. It was satisfaction.

“You believe that shit?” he muttered, more to himself than not. “Bastard took his car to your dad. Couldn’t have drawn me a bigger map if he tried.”

Bill exhaled slowly. “You wanna tell me what you’re gonna do?”

“No.”

“Right.”

They pulled onto the back road that led toward the shop. A pale streak of light cracked across the sky behind them.

“Whose car?”

“Reed Calloway.”

“So he’s the culprit.”

Gator just stretched his fingers once, cracking his knuckles… Then smiled. Just a little. The kind of smile that promised hell.

“How bad, Gator?”

“Bad enough.”

“How—”

But Gator was already out the door, nodding at him to follow. So Bill killed the engine, followed with a grunt and that was it. He didn’t ask again. Just followed his best friend into his dad’s autoshop. But his stomach was in knots. Because whatever had happened?

Gator was hunting.

And when Gator hunted, it was never clean.

The low buzz of Kent Madison’s auto shop rolled out like static, the kind that prickled behind your eyes. A hydraulic lift hummed in the back bay. Metal tools clinked faintly. The air stank of grease and tire rubber and stale coffee, the kind that lingered no matter how many times the shop door opened.

Reed Calloway stood just outside bay three, watching two of the shop guys work on the back end of a silver Porsche. 

His Porsche. 

The one with a freshly fucked bumper, one that Mercer had lovingly introduced to a guardrail less than twelve hours ago before kindly depositing it back at his house, earlier that morning before having Ronnie pick her up and take her to school.

Reed was tense but trying not to show it. Acting cool, relaxed. Arms folded, jaw set, pacing slowly like some guy trying to look like a man. He’d rolled his sleeves halfway up, hands marked with old ink and fake confidence.

That smug, cocky posturing?

It evaporated the second a low voice cut through the open garage door behind him.

“Need a hand?”

Ah, shit.

Reed froze. His spine went straight as board, but his neck turned slowly, carefully… like even looking too fast might provoke something he wasn’t ready to face.

Sure enough, Gator Tillman stood tall, framed in the doorway like a stormcloud with a pulse — one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, the other lifting a vape to his lips. Sweet smoke rolled out his mouth like it had something to say in a band of rings.

The sigh of it made Reed Calloway turn ghostly pale.

“…listen, man…” His voice came out much higher than he’d probably wanted it to. He cleared his throat, tried again. “I didn’t mean for any—”

“I ain’t your man.”

Oh, Gator was not fucking around

Bill stepped into view behind him then. Quiet, calm, but stone-set. He didn’t say anything at first. Just gave a small nod to the two occupied mechanics working on the car.

“Bill?” Devin asked, confused.

“Hey,” he answered casually, friendly as if this was a social call. 

“What you doin’ here, kiddo?” Bob asked him, grease slick and voice gravelly. “It’s a school day.”

“I know, swear I’m not skipping,” Bill chuckled easily. “Could I borrow you both for a second? Got a weird noise coming from my truck out back, and my dad’ll kill me if I don’t fix it before he gets back.”

The two guys looked between each other, then at Bill, then at the unmistakable presence of his tall best friend standing in the doorway. Gator Tillman, lit fuse incarnate.

Gator just exhaled slowly, eyes hooded and sharp as he jut his chin out towards them in acknowledgment before setting his glare right back on Reed.

Neither of the mechanics asked questions. They didn’t want to know. They’d both been young and stupid once, so they left their tools and followed Bill out the back, all too glad for the excuse.

Inside the shop, the silence got thick.

Reed swallowed hard. “I didn’t do anything.”

Gator smiled. Not a nice smile. Not even close.

It was slow, wicked, and dangerous… The kind of smile that only showed up whenever someone already knew the ending, and it wasn’t gonna end well for them.

“Didn’t you?” Gator asked, like he already had the answer in his pocket.

Reed’s jaw tightened. 

“Didn’t get to,” he snapped, very defensive now, teeth bared like he was trying to reclaim some ground. “Bitch stole my fucking car.”

Gator’s brown eyes glittered. That grin never wavered. He took one deliberate step forward, rings of sweet vapors falling off his tongue.

“That’s what you’re mad about, huh,” he mused. “Not the fact you got told no and went for it anyway?”

Reed’s throat jumped. His hands twitched, half-curled into fists for a second before unclenching again. “I didn’t—nothing happened.”

Gator tilted his head, just a little. “What’s wrong, Calloway?”

“Nothing.”

“Ya sure?” Gator tossed his vape off into the corner. The cherry of it sparked briefly, then died. “You don’t look so sure.”

“I’m sure I haven’t got shit to feel guilty for.” Reed took one unsteady step back. “And I don’t want trouble, Tillman.”

Gator exhaled, slow and level. “Fucker,” he seethed, rolling his neck until it cracked. “You already got it.”

And then he swung.

One brutal punch, straight to the jaw. 

Reed’s head snapped sideways. He stumbled back, arms flailing. He didn’t fall, though. Just clenched his jaw with one of his strong hands, eyes disbelieving, cursing under his breath.

So Gator didn’t stop.

The second punch caught him square in the face. Cartilage cracked. Blood flew. Reed collapsed backward onto the shop floor, his palms skidding out to catch him.

But Gator crouched down over him. Grabbed him by the jaw with one hand, just tight enough to hurt, and forced Reed’s face toward his own. His lip was split. Blood bubbled on his chin. His chest heaved.

“Christ, Tillman—that fucking little good-for-nothing princess has you whipped—”

“You ever try that shit again…” Gator’s voice dropped low, like the last sound you’d hear underwater. “You ever put your hands on her again… You ever so much as fucking breathe near her again?”

He paused, just to let the silence throb. Then he gave him a cold, dead smile. 

“You won’t need this shop.” 

Another pause.

“You’ll need a grave.”

A tense beat passed over them. Then Gator let go, straightened up, and brushed the dust from his sleeves like Reed wasn’t even worth the stain.

And Reed? He didn’t move. Didn’t say shit. Because even he knew damn well that he was so eternally fucked.

Bill had re-entered during the tail end. He’d heard most of it. His face was newly pale and grim, locked down with a stone hard expression of disgust that didn’t move. He stepped over the oil trail, boots silent, and stood over Reed’s body with a dark scowl.

“Well you’re lucky it was him that got to you first,” Bill said in a deep, surprisingly terrifying voice.

Reed looked up, bleeding and blinking. “Oh piss off, mama’s boy.”

Bill’s brows shot up. 

“Mama’s boy,” he mused aloud, half to himself as he hauled Reed to his feet — one tight fist clenched in the collar of his hoodie. “You’re done here.”

Reed tried to jerk out of it, but Bill slammed him back into the wall of the garage, not hard enough to knock him out but enough to rattle every last excuse in his chest.

“I’ll be happy to send your daddy a fat invoice for this little visit,” Bill said. “Hope you can afford it.”

Reed scoffed through blood, lips twisted. ”Jesus—ain’t no way that prude is worth all this trouble.”

Bill looked at Gator then, like he was asking for permission. 

And Gator? He gave his best friend a crooked little nod. Like a dare.

So Bill did the honors and punched him. One clean shot to the eye.

Reed dropped again, moaning.

Bill shook out his knuckles. “Had to.”

Gator grinned, finally satisfied. “Damn right you did.”

They didn’t wait around for cleanup.

Bill swung his keys around his fingers and led the way to the old red Chevy idling out front, and Gator followed, not bothering to look back.

And inside that truck, both of them knew it didn’t matter that Mercer wasn’t Gator’s girlfriend or Bill’s blood sister.

She was theirs.

And no one fucking touched her when she said no.

Chapter Four Some Protectors

💿 -> “Some Protector” by ROLE MODEL

12:05 PM

Mercer slung her bag higher on her slim shoulder and stepped out of class with a silence that roared. The bell shrieked above her like it always did, metallic and overeager, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink.

The long hallway flooded with students and all the usual chaos — squeaking sneakers, voices hollering, papers crumpling, backpacks unzipping, lockers slamming like gunshots in broad daylight. And she threaded through it all like a ghost through a warzone, her chin lifted, mouth set. 

Unbothered. Composed. Untouchable.

She hadn’t seen Reed all day. Not once. Not between classes. Not lurking around corners. Not at his usual morning haunt next to the vending machines, where he always ran his mouth and swaggered like a stock character in someone else’s bad story.

The fact that he was absent didn’t surprise her. Not even a little. In fact, it made her sick.

And also? Somewhat darkly amused.

Because the coward had probably been waiting for her to fold. Maybe to cry. Maybe to stay home. But she hadn’t. She’d come to school in her coven black satin, subtle eyeliner sharp enough to cut, and a look in her eyes like she’d already survived whatever the hell he thought he could do to her.

Still, the pit in her stomach hadn’t left. Not really. 

Not since last night.

Because she might’ve been jaded, she might’ve seen too much and grown up too fast, but she was still a girl. Sixteen. 

And the thing about trying? It had taken so much. 

She’d tried. 

Mercer had picked out a pretty dress from her mother’s closet. She’d gone to dinner and made conversation. She’d agreed to a movie and took the time to pick one she’d actually wanted to see, maybe even discuss and debrief afterwards with him.

She’d opened a door.

And Reed had only tried to shove himself through it like she owed him something.

Dark corner of a parking lot. Cold metal of the car behind her. His breath hot and sour in her face. His slimy hand crawling…

The memory made her grimace. She clenched her jaw, her fingers curling tightly around the strap of her bag as her sleek black trousers flicked around her slender thighs.

The thing that really got to her wasn’t even just how inappropriately he’d acted. It was how he’d tried turning her into something that she wasn’t. 

A slut. A story. A notch. A brag. 

And hell, maybe to some people, that wouldn’t have meant as much. But Mercer? She was rough. She was loud. She was borderline feral on the worst days. But her body? That was hers.

Untouched, undiluted and still hers.

Because no matter what had been ripped away from her growing up — her peace, her safety, her goddamn innocence — this one thing hadn’t been stolen. She had chosen to keep it. She chose every day. Even if Gator Tillman never looked at her like that, even if he never touched her the way she dreamed about when she couldn’t sleep… she still wanted it to be him. 

Only him. 

Or no one at all.

With a deep sigh through her nose, she turned the corner and made her way into the cafeteria. Shoulders back, calm and collected.

And immediately…

“Baby gworl!”

Andy Jenkins.

He swooped in like a tornado in colorful sneakers, flinging an arm around her shoulders as if she’d summoned him with some ancient spell of chaos.

“What the hell are you doing here—?” she laughed, unable to help it, her voice cracking with a rare note of real amusement and shock.

“Excuse you,” Andy scoffed, pressing his palm to his chest. “Can I not simply grace these cursed halls of teen mediocrity without being persecuted?”

“You literally don’t go here anymore.”

“Ah, but I am a man of the people.” He spun her in a half circle with one arm still slung around her before planting his feet again with the clumsiness of a baby calf. “Plus, I’m bored. My philosophy professor cried today. That’s enough college for the week.”

Mercer was really laughing now. Actually laughing. 

And when she opened her mouth to deliver a smartass retort…

“Is this public school flirtation?”

Crawford.

Six foot three. Beige sweater, hair combed to hell, looking like he’d just stepped out of a sexy teen cologne ad, absolutely deadpan as he approached — a tray already in his hands.

Andy gasped. “Is that broccoli on my plate?”

“Yes, because you haven’t consistently eaten anything green since 2012,” Crawford deadpanned.

Mercer arched a brow at him. “Is this your way of bullying him into adulthood?”

“I’m not bullying,” Crawford clarified calmly, spooning some mashed potatoes next to Andy’s clump of mystery meat. “I’m curating his survival.”

Andy turned to Mercer. “Do you see the domestic abuse I endure?”

She snorted.

But beneath the easy rhythm of it all, something inside her stirred as she took in her immediate surroundings. The way Andy had shown up today. The quiet fury simmering beneath Crawford’s cool exterior. The slight, almost imperceptible shift in how close they stood beside her now.

They knew.

They knew.

Gator had told them. Or maybe he told Bill, who told them. 

Maybe both.

And maybe she should’ve been furious about that breach of her privacy. But she wasn’t. Not even a little bit. Not when she looked up and saw the way Andy was still rambling to fill silence, and the way Crawford was shielding her on one side, carefully stacking her tray with shit he knew she hated but would still eat because it made him feel better.

They weren’t here to talk about it. 

They were here to stand with her, even if she never said a word.

By the time they reached their table, Tiff appeared like a storm cloud in platform boots and glitter eyeliner.

“MY BITCHES!” she howled, arms flung wide.

Mercer rolled her eyes but grinned. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you’re so hot, it’s disturbing,” Tiff sang, flopping down beside her and draping an arm dramatically across Mercer’s lap. “Don’t ever wear that shirt again unless you want me to die.”

Mercer leaned into her, cheek to temple. “You’re already brain dead.”

“Only when I’m near you,” Tiff sighed faux dreamily, then added in a sincere whisper, “I heard.”

Mercer stiffened.

But Tiff just pecked her cheek then kept talking to her and the boys about the hot substitute teacher in second period like she hadn’t said anything secret at all.

They were all dancing around it, and somehow that made it bearable. It made Mercer feel like herself again. Seen. Known. But not broken.

Then heads turned.

And there they were.

Gator and Bill. Both moving through the cafeteria with a casual swagger that looked way too deliberate. Bill was smirking, all big shoulders and baby-face charm. Gator was unreadable, rigid and detached, his tray in one hand and his dark gaze slicing sideways toward the jock table.

Reed’s table.

All of them were there. Reed’s friends. His little pack of future frat boys and probable felons that would get away with it and break girls until they bled. Their eyes followed Gator and Bill like wolves tracking another predator. But they didn’t dare move. They didn’t say a word. Because they knew better.

Because Reed had gone home today, and he wouldn’t be back for a while.

And if Roy Tillman had anything to say about it, he’d stay the hell gone. Because whatever line had been crossed last night, Gator already ensured it wouldn’t be crossed again. And his daddy? He had his own twisted sense of loyalty, one that started with Mercer’s father and ended with whatever dirty favor kept them both breathing in a world where most men didn’t get to.

Mercer’s eyes stayed on Gator until he finally looked at her.

And when he did?

God. That look.

It burned through the space between them, slow and quiet and viciously protective. Not soft. Not sweet. Not gentle.

But hers.

All hers.

She dropped her eyes. Just for a second.

When they finally sat down at the table, no one said a word about the bruises on their knuckles. No one asked why Gator kept flexing his right hand like it hurt, or why Bill looked so pleased with himself for a guy eating cafeteria chili.

Instead, they talked shit.

Andy roasted Crawford for his sweater. Crawford listed off every possible vitamin deficiency that Andy had. Tiff threatened to seduce Mercer just to make everyone uncomfortable. Bill stole food off Andy’s tray like it was a game. Gator stayed quiet for the most part, but he never stopped watching the girl he’d never stood a chance at not looks after since childhood.

And Mercer?

She leaned back, ate her food, laughed when it felt right to laugh. And for the first time in a long time, she simply let herself feel soft. Just like she’d claimed that she would when speaking resolutions out loud, wrapped up in the middle of them. Her people, her wolf pack. Then and now.

No one had to say it. 

She was safe.

And Gator?

Well, he wasn’t grounded anymore come Monday.

TGIF, motherfuckers.

TAGLIST: @thecreelhouse @madaboutjoe @petalborn @curbitkirby @filmtv2022 @keerygal @chloewatersss @keerygal @messybunbookclub @tangledluver @slutforpumpkins @corrodeddeadlydoll @cherrynukas @jellyfishsthings @ratfrogs @moonlightdreamer111 @yikesmama3 @just-a-harmless-patato @cardiganswillow @cheugy-djobe @kimberly-boggs @ninas-sayers @ahoytherebean @buckyandlokirunmylife @s3xytosomeone @shouldakissedyouanyway @dernierefillenancy @lovelymadeline126@4ria790 @tuffluuhv @nicherthanu @the-emma-bee @idontcareforausernamesblog @hipsternerd9 @ludachrissy@tiltandcurve@snowtargaryen @raspberry-sunshinee  @the-emma-bee @notahappystan @yerim773@peachy-ve @glennspopeye @watermelon-online

🤍🤍 Baby M’s got the most protective ring of friends around her at all times from a 360 degree angle. And it’s only the beginning of the manic thrill ride that awaits us, rest of book three.

As I said: get comfy.