It wasn’t so much that she was surprised to learn Killian was looking for her, necessarily. She’d seen his texts, the missed calls too. She’d deleted voicemails, opting to wipe them from her phone before playing even a second of them, knowing that hearing his voice would surely send her running back in a heartbeat. He hadn’t tired in his efforts to bring her home, yet hearing it spoken out loud, from a real person with wide eyes, a look of concern, and a beating heart was entirely different. It had shattered something inside of her. She’d stumbled back to her motel in such a state of disarray, barely even recognising how she’d gotten there to begin with. 

Days had passed since their meeting, and she’d fought the urge to call him ever since. Her chest ached in ways that she’d never experienced before. Being away from Killian had been unimaginably difficult, yet knowing he was so close and stopping strangers in the street in an attempt to find her... somehow, this was worse. It gave Amira the kind of hope she didn’t think she’d earned, a yearning to be back with him, as though no time had passed, and no damage caused. 

Now she sat nervously in the motel lobby, head hung low to avoid the curious stares of the employee behind the desk; the same woman had watched her make this very trip three times a day in the past week, never biting the bullet and making that call. She gripped the receiver of the motel payphone, her other hand hovering over the coin slot, coins placed precariously between her fingers, and finally dropped her coins in and tapped Killian’s number into the machine. 

The shrill dial tone made her wince, her head spinning at the volume with which the phone rang, her eyes squeezing shut with anticipation. She expected the call to amount to nothing, that nobody would answer, and by the time she heard the rasp of Killian’s all too familiar voice she realised she wasn’t quite ready at all. She hadn’t prepared herself for what it might do to her, hearing him after all this time, his greeting a simple uttering of her own name, a question in his tone.  

With a sharp intake of breath, her throat constricting, she squeezed the receiver tight, willing herself to say something. 

“Hey there, Killer,” she breathed, suddenly at a loss for words. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

Cassandra’s head snapped up, the soft British accent pulling her from her daydream immediately, her eyes finding the owner in an instant. She wasn’t personally friendly with Amira, the pretty girl behind the counter, but she’d seen her with Dean at the gym a fair few times. Truth be told, she’d seen her appear on his Instagram feed far more times than pleased her, their flirty banter impossible to miss. Not that she was the jealous type, of course. All the same, as fast food went, this particular diner was one of her favourite local spots, and Amira was always sweet when she served her.

Cassie made her way to the counter to retrieve her takeout, smiling brightly at the man handing it to her. Just as the paper bag passed hands, his fingers grazed her wrist, startling her, a sharp gasp escaping Cassie as her eyes widened. He frowned in confusion, snapping his hand back and rolling his eyes as he walked away, grunting under his breath about dramatic females, leaving a sticky residue behind, just below her palm.

Breathing fast, Cassie spun around on the spot, heart racing as she scurried towards the condiment counter, snatching up napkins aplenty. Her hands were frantic as they rubbed at her wrist, aggressive enough to bruise, her breathing becoming far more erratic with every second.

She knew she was being unreasonable, knew that the man had meant her no harm, but the touch of his grimey, unwanted fingers on her skin had sent her into a spiral. As her hands began to tremble, Cassie knew that she needed to get out and get home, so she turned sharply, intending to race right out the door, but instead found herself colliding with another body, sending her paper bag and all its contents straight to the floor.

Dropping to her knees with a sharp cry, Cassie whined, “Oh no, no, no. I’m such an idiot. Oh gosh, I’m so stupid.”

She peered through the hazy cloud in front of her, to the bottles behind the bar top, the scantily clad bartenders and the neon ‘Budweiser’ signs clamped to the wall. It was busy - well, it was a Saturday, what did she expect? But the press of bodies, sweaty and gyrating, made it difficult for her to spot who she was here to see. Even when pushing herself up onto her tiptoes, teetering slightly, she couldn’t see him.

Just as she was about to tug her phone out of her shorts, it buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and tapped the screen. A text, the sender’s only identification being the rat emoji. Partly because, contrary to popular belief, Ramona wasn’t an idiot and knew not to save her dealer under any sort of identifiable contact name. But mostly because the tiny little rat image was fitting for Paul.

Running late, was all the text said. No apology, because that wasn’t necessary. Paul wasn’t in the business of being polite and they both knew Ramona was desperate enough to wait. The fifty dollar bill rolled up in the cup of her bralette knew it too.

She reacted with a thumbs-up then clicked her screen off, sighing to herself. Figuring she could slip away to the little girl’s room and thumb away the mascara smudges under her eyes after a long shift at the club, she twisted around the throng of dancers in the middle of the bar, doing her best not to get trodden on or squished in between the heaving mass of clubgoers. 

Squeezing herself out, she nearly managed to make it to the bathroom without incident, were it not for a bartender who looked harried and frazzled, skirting by her with a tray full of empty drinks. She dodged out of his way in a poor attempt at trying to make his job easier, only to collide with a body behind her. Quickly, she squeaked and turned around, ready to issue an apology and then bat her eyelashes if that didn’t work in her favour.

The words died in her throat as she stared at the man though. Leather jacket and sharp jawline. Broad shoulders and alert eyes. Suddenly, her mouth was as dry as the Nevada desert she’d grown up in. She stared at him, a heady thrill shooting through her chest. Could it really be him? Something about the picture seemed funny to her in the darkened, dusky club, but that could also just be the shots Betsy had pressed into her hand earlier. She squinted, feeling her cheeks heat up. No, it had to be. That was the same face that had helped her document her early days in Vegas, where she’d been darting back and forth between different venues, bombing auditions and shaking like a nervous filly. He’d been there the whole time to reassure her, to lift her up, to make sure no man at any of the casinos touched her in a way she didn’t like. And now, years later, here he was in front of her.

She swallowed, and tried to find her voice.

“Sebastian?”

Shoving his mug away and across the table, his gaze landed on a gaunt looking guy across the room, partially obscured by one of the few booths in A Novel Idea. They were usually a pretty hot ticket, as seating went. It was rare to see one person monopolising a booth all on their own, tucked away in the vast confines that could’ve made for a cosy space for a larger group. The man in question was a little... haunting, so to speak. Not that Sidney was against fucking a guy he found a little scary. He’d fucked Lauren, hadn’t he? In a sense. And she was decidedly not his type in the least. This stranger, though, he’d been staring. Ever since Sidney had taken his seat, this guy had been watching him, seemingly of the belief that his pointed glances were obscured by his cosy little alcove. 

Resigned to the idea that Dawsey would not, in fact, be showing his face, he pushed up from his seat, letting it scrape along the floor before striding confidently across the cafe. Coming to a stop at the broody stranger’s table, he tipped his head to the side, appraising him openly, without insecurity. 

“Do I know you? I mean, you look vaguely familiar so I can only assume we’ve either fucked or fought,” he mused, pressing his hands to the edge of the table, ass perky and poised to the air as he bent down to glean a better look at the man. “Or both...” 

There was something familiar about him, that much he could ascertain. He just couldn’t wrap his head around what it was exactly. Surely he’d remember fucking the real life equivalent to Jack fucking Skellington? He’d have broken his silence around his sexuality far sooner if it meant recounting to Dawsey that he’d let the Pumpkin King fill his hole. I mean, what a brag. His memory was vague and blurry, filled with bright flashes of a gay club and this certified hotty towering over him. 

“Wait, shit. Do you follow me on insta?” he asked, lighting up as he recalled the vague follow request. 

That had all changed the minute Amira had left, of course. It had taken exactly 12 days for Matty to even hear of her disappearance, her silence growing ever more concerning, Matty unsure how to broach the subject at all. His texts and calls had gone unanswered from her, the flat seemingly always empty whenever he’d stopped by. Matty was as aware as anybody that was left alone with the two of them for more than 5 minutes just how wrapped up in each other they could become; it was any wonder the two weren’t a couple, he’d always thought. He’d tried to put his concerns down to paranoia, after the first few days he’d told himself that the two of them were probably holed up in their home, or had perhaps taken a break someplace else so that they could stare intensely into one another’s eyes for an alarming amount of time without ever addressing it. After the first week, his chest had ached, and he missed his friend. 

Matty had been furious with Killian when he’d finally told him the truth, completely bewildered at why the other man would have kept that information from him. It seemed to go entirely over Killian’s head, a total non-issue. It hadn’t once occurred to him that he wasn’t the only person who loved Amira, that would be concerned about her safety and wellbeing. Now, over two months later, it appeared he still didn’t understand the severity of the situation and didn’t seem at all interested in passing on information to Amira’s very own friends. Matty had just had to learn, secondhand, that not only had Killian been eagerly searching for Amira this whole entire time, but he’d actually spoken to her.  

It was that information that resulted in a flustered, disgruntled Matthew banging on Killian’s door, fist twinging as he hammered it against the wood. 

Matty was by no means a confrontational person, and her certainly wasn’t what anybody would deem as threatening. He’d moved three and a half thousand miles across the world, away from his family, and had surprised himself by carefully curating his own, found family in the process. Amira had been a special part of that, a genuine light in Matty’s life. He knew how much Killian loathed the easiness of their friendship, outwardly sneering at the way the two of them would slide their hands together, fingers entwining as they walked down the street. He’d seen the way Killian would shrink into himself any time he spotted Amira sporting one of Matty’s sweaters, the fabric drowning her, but her cheeks warm and rosy from amusement. The two of them were friends, and yet Killian often seemed threatened by Matty’s presence in their life. 

“You complete and utter tosser,” were the first words out of Matty’s mouth when Killian finally opened the door.