#ttulipwritezz

You had asked in a rather foolish tone, holding onto hope that may as well have been thoroughly shattered.

"I mean, I just kind of wanna get away from...here, yk?”

He had gestured vaguely around the parking lot. You lifted your eyes to see where he was pointing: nothing but a clearing where the trees parted ways, leading to a walkway. But you knew; you always did.

You knew that his hand pointed not towards the vague expanse of foilage around you but that it pointed to his house, three blocks down the road. His father's house.

His hand had lowered only slightly before he clenched his fist and continued.

“...I mean, I don't even know what I'd study in college." 

Understandingly, you had nodded and leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth. The night had ended with whispered promises and transient moments spent in silence.

Tim Bradford was the first boy you'd ever liked.

Somewhere between the pages adorning his crooked handwriting, recounting days from where he was posted, there was care. It was simple at first, simple country-border postings that he tried tirelessly to belong at.

He'd tell you how he missed you and how his days had been boring without you; he'd talk about your smile, your lips, your humour and your eyes.

He talked a lot about your eyes. 

Tim Bradford was the first boy you fell in love with.

And you—oh, foolish you—you'd told him as much.

You'd found yourself smiling at his stories, replying in blue ink that you had made sure to test for smudging—lest he be unable to read it.

Eagerly you had scribbled out in running hand how you’d fallen. Hard.

Tim Bradford was the first boy who broke your heart.

When his letters stopped coming mere days after he was deployed to Afghanistan.

Days after you had professed your undying love for him, marked in that careful blue ink, curved letters adorned the otherwise boring military-stamped paper.

You waited; god, you waited, but after the third month you figured he must've gotten too busy, too distant. 

Or maybe he had decided you weren’t worth loving at all.

Your heartbreak came like a hurricane, shattering all the pieces of your trust. Days were spent crying in your father's arms or hurling insults at the setting sun.

The anger mellowed after a while, fading to a low hum in the back of your mind. The pain still present, still gnawing, but shallow.

Bearable.

You studied and built a dream for yourself. A dream away from the suburban houses of Los Angeles. Away from your memories of teenage years, amusement parks, stolen kisses and secret bike rides.

A dream away from him. 

You’d kept in contact with Genny, Tim's sister, and had even been unfortunate enough to receive the news that he came back after twelve long years, from Iraq, a posting you knew nothing of.

You'd begged her to not say more, afraid that whatever she may reveal about Tim, his new job, or his new home may force your heart to seek him out all over again.

In the years that followed, whenever you had to visit, well… LA was big enough if you tried hard enough.

Twelve years, huh?

Time never had been on your side.

It isn’t until eight more that you return to Los Angeles, a transfer in your job.

That is what brought you to the Mid-Wilshire Police Station as an acting literary analyst, in the core of the city you remember calling home.

The same city with broken promises, crooked smiles and flushed faces that you kept under lock and key in your very mind.

~~~~~~

The bullpen smells faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee. Your feet carry you towards the centre, where Detective Angela Lopez, Watch Commander Grey and your new partner Emma are all standing together reviewing a case file. The same case that you were called in to assist on.

When you pause a few feet away from the trio, their eyes turn towards you. The detective promptly gives you a smile as Sergeant Grey extends his hand in greeting. You shake his hand, along with Emma's, and introduce yourself.

"Welcome! I hope you find everything to your liking here. I’ll make sure to introduce you at roll call.” The sergeant promises.

You give all three a smile and decide to utilise the time until roll call – fifteen minutes – and take a stroll around the precinct, thinking of how it’ll be advantageous in case you have to stay long-term.

That's when you spot him.

He has just walked out of the locker room; a woman – with a straightened uniform, taut bun and flustered expression – accompanies him.

He stops after putting his hands on his hips and turns to the woman, expression unreadable, as he seemingly reprimands her in a hushed tone. The woman nods, flustered, then scrambles to join a few other similarly dressed officers on the other end of the room.

Tim Bradford, Your Tim, has just crashed your new place of work. And what’s worse is that it seems he belongs here far more than you do.

He doesn’t see you yet, and you take the opportunity to turn around and make a beeline towards the water fountain. Your footsteps echo in your own ears once you’ve made your way far enough away.

First, confusion takes it's rightful place in your mind. How could this happen? What are the chances?

Then, doubt. What if he doesn't remember me? Am I ready to face him again?

In that moment you’re presented with a choice.

Either you make your peace with what happened and move forward professionally, or you let your feelings get in the way and request your firm to appoint someone else to the case, demanding a transfer at once.

No. 

You’ve survived Tim Bradford before; you can survive him again.

You choose the former.

And so, when the fifteen agonizing minutes have passed, having been rehearsing your first words – if any – to the boy who broke your heart when you were seventeen, you stand at the door to the briefing room waiting to be called in.

Your eyes are trained on Tim; he’s sitting at the far end of the room, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest assertively. He looks older; of course he does, but still, he is the Tim you used to know.

His eyes haven't changed; though, they’ve hardened in the years you haven't seen him.

His shoulders are broader, more muscular. He hadn’t necessarily been a lanky kid back then but certainly didn’t have biceps that threatened to rip his shirt at the seams, or shoulders that gave him this boxy appearance.

What is the most striking is his hair. It’s the same buzzed-down cut from all those years ago, as if the man sitting here and the boy you loved all those years ago were one and the same.

Grey announces your name loudly, which forces you to turn your attention towards the head of the room. You walk confidently, your stance unwavering.

You’re here with purpose, a job to do. And you intend to make that abundantly clear.

“Here is our literary analyst for the case; she’s been appointed by the city, and they believe she’ll be a great asset in addition to our forensic department.”

You face the room full of officers; the three crisp-uniformed ones are sitting at the front with straightened spines, a row of detectives at the back and several other uniformed officers scattered about.

A voice quips from the right.

“What’s the point of a literary analyst in this?” 

That's another thing that has changed, you suppose. His voice. It’s deeper now, hoarser than you remember, carrying a seriousness you never noticed two decades ago.

Murmurs follow Tim's query, many officers agreeing with the doubt.

You turn your head towards the watch commander, silently asking if you may address the question. At the nod of his head, you prepare to reply. 

Doubt floods your mind again. What do you call him? Do you even take his name at all?

You settle on ‘Officer’.

“The investigation department has assigned me to the case due to my expertise in the location, Officer. Not to toot my own horn, but otherwise, I assure you it is not a matter of general intervention.”

Clear. Concise. To the point.

Professional.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t see any recognition flash in his eyes, no longing, no sympathy, not even resentment.

There's tension in the room long after the briefing is over.

~~~~~~

When your name was announced, Tim thought he was hearing things. That his mind was still repeating the name of the girl, from his teenage years, that he could never let go.

But then you walked in.

Your professional block-heeled shoes clacked loudly on the tile, announcing your presence. Your shirt was smooth, tucked into your knee-length skirt, paired with translucent stockings. A binder was in your hand, blue and comically overfilled with pages and tabs.

Tim took in your appearance like he was seeing you on your first date all over again, holding a stick of cotton candy for you, smiling so wide it had hurt his cheeks. 

Your hair was longer now, not anymore in a ponytail at the base of your skull but instead left open and free. You’d grown taller, though, only slightly, and your nails were painted; Tim could tell as much, even from his position, seated at the desk.

He couldn’t help himself, really, when his words carried themselves through the room, breaking the curt atmosphere and giving rise to murmurs from other officers.

He wanted to know.

He needed to know if you remembered him.

So when you answered his question with a lifeless statement and didn't even mention his name – which he knew you would know – Tim knew he was done.

The rest of the day felt like torture. The officer wanted no more than to be off duty and let out some steam by punching bags or lifting weights.

He had to stop himself before he lashed out at Lucy for forgoing an otherwise negligible step of protocol. Even she had pin-pointed the extra tension he carried in his jaw and his sudden meticulous attention to detail.

Dejection and delight hung in his mind side by side, like he was unable to really tell if he was to be angered or relieved.

By the time their shift was over, the rookie officer was left slumped in her seat, dejectedly playing with the chipped polish on her fingernails.

~~~~~~

Exiting the locker room, Tim caught himself mid-walk, almost having run into a figure that he didn't see.

You.

Your head was angled downwards, fingers wading through the three folders you held in your arm. At the commotion that his boots had made while halting suddenly, you turned your head to look at the source.

Tim nodded once to acknowledge your presence and again when he addressed you apologetically.

“Analyst.”

Analyst. Not your name. Not even your last name.

Just an analyst.

Tim's hand stilled on the strap of his bag, his mouth stretched into a thin line.

You scoffed once, irritation evident on your features.

“I have a name, you know? Officer.”

Tim said nothing for a while, simply glaring into your eyes with a clenched jaw and furrowed brows, all traces of guilt wiped off of his face.

“I know.”

His shoulder brushed slightly against yours as he stepped around you to continue towards the exit.

Your pulse was left pounding as your feet remained glued to the station tile.

Part from your exchange and part from his proximity. The brush against your shoulder felt both like a distant memory and an unyielding force.

Continuous, but fading.

You heaved a sigh, returning to the files in your arms, flipping through them with practised ease.

~~~~~~

Genny's eldest son was the one that opened the door, his eyes lighting up at the presence of his favourite—only—uncle at their doorstep.

Excitedly he called out to his mom and gave Tim a hug before padding down to his room to retrieve his brother.

Tim's sister entered the living room with a smile, ready to greet her brother, but her smile faltered at the sight of his tight frown, eyes boring into her with precision and something close to – but not quite – anger.

“She's back and you didn't tell me?” Tim huffed, moving to drop his bag onto Genny's couch.

Genny stood still for a moment until her feet moved on their own; she placatingly laid a hand on his shoulder, speaking.

“She told me not to say anything, Tim. I would've otherwise.”

Just like how you'd asked her to not speak further about his return, you had asked her to keep quiet about your own whereabouts as well, unsure if your heart could handle another heartbreak.

Tim shook his head and let himself plop down on the couch, shoving his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.

“She didn't even recognise me.”

His muffled words made Genny's eyes widen. She took a cautious step, moving around the couch.

“Wait, what? Tim, what are you talking about?”

Tim looked up at that, briefly meeting her eyes. He tilted his head questioningly as he answered.

“She saw me, didn't say a word. Not my name, nothing.”

Genny frowned and sat down beside him, the thoughts in her mind running a hundred miles an hour. 

“But she knows you. She's seen pictures; there's no way she didn't—"

She cut herself off with a sigh from saying anything further, abruptly standing and heading into the kitchen, leaving Tim alone in the company of his own thoughts.

By the time she returns with two glasses of water, Tim's eyes are bloodshot. His gaze is fixed on something indistinct outside the window in her living room, distant, unfocused.

She knows what he's thinking, how he's processing.

He thought you moved on. He convinced himself he deserved it.

She knows there isn't anything she can do other than just let him be.

~~~~~~

The next time Tim sees you, you’re laughing with Avery Finley, another forensic analyst who has flown in from Chicago to assist on the case.

Your eyes are crinkled in the very way he remembers from your first date, your hands placed loosely on your hips.

He sees you shake your head with a smile at whatever the officer says before his feet are moving, footsteps sharp, decisive and loud.

You turn your head at the sound, mouth still quirked up from the remnants of your laughter and then your eyes land on him – and incidentally – on the report he’s carrying in his hand.

Behind Tim, Detective Hall follows, and your eyes dart towards him instead.

It is then that you realise Tim isn’t looking at you, infact he’s looking past you even as he hands you the rather bulky envelope.

You accept the article with minimal movements, muttering a ‘Thank you, officer' and turning away instantaneously to work on something at your desk. 

The two other men exchange glances at the sudden shift in atmosphere, looking between you and Tim curiously. The smile on your face has faded completely; in its stead is a tight-lipped scowl. Tim's posture is rigid, his hands resting stiffly upon his duty belt.

You ask Avery a question; Tim takes it as his cue to leave, boots thudding on tile, leaving Detective Hall to stare at his retreating back.

Once the officer is out of earshot, Hall turns to you, making you pause your movements on the keyboard.

“Okay…?” he says, dragging out the two syllables as you simply raise a brow at him.

“What was that?” Finley finishes for him, an incredulous stare accompanying his question.

You huff, giving a shrug as a response. Your voice tumbles out evenly.

“No clue what you’re talking about."

Avery’s hand dramatically flies to his chest, muttering something about ‘betrayal’ and ‘thought we were friends’ while Hall rolls his eyes.

You give another shrug at their actions, and resume your typing.

“I used to know him once. That's all.”

~~~~~~

Three weeks.

Three weeks is how long it took for the case to be closed. Three weeks and your briefcase was being shut with sharp precision, a meticulous stack of all your belongings: papers, cards and a score of pens bundled neatly within a pouch.

You would be moving back to headquarters tomorrow, not the one back “home” in Boston, but the one here in LA.

Still far from the Mid-Wilshire Police Station, you had become comfortable walking into each morning.

After hearing the latch click shut, you gathered the handles of your briefcase and set it down on the chair accompanying your desk. You collected the last few pieces of scrap paper and inkless pens to throw away on your way to Grey’s office.

As you spin around to reroute your steps, a  broad, hard surface collides with your form, pushing you backwards and forcing your arms to latch onto the first thing you could grab, pens clattering to the ground and scrap paper fluttering on their way down.

oh.

Him.

One of Tim’s hands finds your waist, and as if on instinct alone, his other hand reaches out to stabilise himself – and you – on your desk.

Your eyes widened as you braced for the fall that never came, breath stuttering at the sight of the training officer.

You could’ve sworn you saw him glance downwards at your lips, but with your heart racing like a Formula One car and fingers still desperately death-gripping his biceps, you couldn’t be so sure.

And oh.

You suppose that, in the three weeks that you have been at the station, you never quite noticed how handsome Tim Bradford has become.

How he has remarkably grown into his features, with blue eyes almost always narrowed slightly, a sharp jaw set in place and smile lines adorning every inch of his face.

Oh-

He’s attractive.

Wait – no. Snap out of it!. He broke your heart, girl!

…But damn, those biceps—

Tim clears his throat as he firmly places you back on your feet, and you swear you can see his face flushed under the dim lights of the bullpen. He brings one hand to the back of his neck while the other remains on your desk, half-caging you between it and his body.

“Uh— Grey wanted me to take you to his office, said you had a meeting…?”

Trying to cool off your now flaming cheeks, you watch him blink twice before you bend down to retrieve the fallen pens and papers and respond.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec.”

You only hope that your voice didn’t betray your calm confidence as you stand up and discard the objects carelessly on your desk while Tim awkwardly stands, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

He clears his throat again and gestures in the general direction of the watch commander’s office, giving you a curt nod and walking away.

Huh. You guess that’s one habit he hasn’t grown out of. The gesturing.

You straighten your posture and tighten your ponytail, continuing to stare at the spot he had just stood at. 

Shaking your head, your hands gather the papers once again before heading towards Grey's office at last.

~~~~~~

Divorces and second marriages had been the topic of conversation in the break room today. 

Nyla was the one that began the discussion, Nolan having contributed with his own little sprinkle of knowledge.

But with only those two in the group being 'experienced' and Nolan skipping over to the coffee machine, the conversation soon shifted to a 'worst love life' contest between you and your female colleagues.

One of your own coworkers, Emma, a forensic analyst, moves the spotlight to you and asks if you've dated your fair share of men.

"Oh, me? I guess… and I kind of got engaged once…?" you reply, half-heartedly rolling your eyes at the redhead.

"Kind of?" Lucy asks, as she tilts her head forward.

"Yeah, I mean, he broke it off before we even planned the wedding. I guess I just thought I had to say yes."

You finish with a laugh, already having moved past the awkwardness.

The women pass along their own little comments. 'Good for you, girl,' 'His loss,' and 'What a loser,' accompanied by giggles, filled the small space.

None of you seemed to notice the way Tim looked up from his coffee or how his cup was gripped a little harder in his hand after.

~~~~~~

You exit the precinct with a smile, the zeal from the pleasant interaction of the day still buzzing off of you.

It isn't until you've quietly fished out your keys from your bag that you train your eyes forward, towards your car parked neatly in its designated spot.

Your smile falls.

Your steps stutter for a moment, confusion evident in your gaze as you take in the picture in front of you.

Tim Bradford, leaning on your car. His arms are crossed, one ankle crossed over the other as well. You take your bottom lip between your teeth unconsciously, chewing without a thought.

You straighten your back and walk forward again, confidence radiating off every stride.

You stop about two feet from the man, stance questioning, already impatient from whatever he must have been here to say.

You don't look at him; no, instead, you focus on the tap of his finger against his elbow, the fluorescent light illuminating each curve.

You expect an order, maybe a rush on the report you need to file tomorrow.

"You moved on."

It's not a question; he doesn't ask you anything. It's a declaration, like he's accusing you of something he didn't think you were capable of.

You laugh bitterly as your hands begin to fiddle with your keys, shoulders squared with tension that you can't quite place.

Of-fucking-course he eavesdropped on that breakroom conversation; you thought you had seen him lift his head up in your periphery.

You glance at him, his azure eyes locked in on you with purpose, the kind that's built after years of mastery. 

You swear you can see traces of longing in them, but you blame the navy filter that this night has put on the two of you.

"You disappeared. What was I supposed to do?"

A mindless chuckle falls in between the two sentences, breaking them up uncomfortably.

Tim has the audacity to scoff. He fucking scoffs.

He shifts his weight on one leg, angling his body towards you in a way that screams business. Like you're some criminal he has to deal with in the interrogation room, with accusations or insults.

"I disappeared?"

His brows are lifted in amusement, his eyes flitting over your figure, up and down. He pushes himself off the body of the car and uncrosses his arms.

This whole conversation is amusing to him, you conclude—a mask he puts on when things get heavy.

Twenty years you haven't seen each other.

Even after twenty years, his gaze is fixed on the way your hands remain still when he moves, keys no longer jingling. 

Like he still knows you. Like he still has the right to know you.

And here, you pretend to not know him.

He doesn't read your mind when he utters his next words, but the way he says them still knocks the wind out of you one way or another.

"Why did you pretend to just not know me then? When you came back."

The words prick you, hard. His figure becomes nothing but a blur, and you're not sure you want to know if it's your anger that clouds your vision or your tears.

Your pulse feels loud enough to shake your ribs, your breath falling short and throat stinging with the pain you try so hard to keep down.

"Because you fucking abandoned me, Tim!"

Your voice gets uncharacteristically loud, Tim notes. You're no longer the calm, patient, put-together analyst.

You're seventeen again, with crushed promises and a broken heart making home in the palm of your hand.

Tim doesn’t respond, not yet.

It takes you a moment to gather your breath, chest still heaving from the sheer strength it took to be that loud.

It takes another moment to recall where you are for the smallest bit of embarrassment to flood your senses. Not enough for you to stop, but enough to manifest as discomfort.

You're still at the station, in the parking lot.

The light from within the building is blinding to your right, a constant presence you cannot seem to ignore.

Shadows dance across the pavement. Someone's hand reaching out, pulling the shoulder of another away from watching whatever scene you two have created.

Lucy, Jackson.

Even amidst the angry huffs and the faint hum of traffic on the nearby road, you can make out a few gasps, some shocked, some scared.

Someone even whispers, 'what the hell?'

Your feet move before your mind can comprehend. In a haste, you turn your body away from Tim completely, seeking whatever semblance of ignorance you can muster.

His footsteps are loud, too loud, as he crosses the distance you had put between you two with little effort.

Your jaw is clenched; you can feel its pull. You can also feel the tremble of your hands as they stay at your sides, keys now held looser in your grip.

You swallow; Tim shifts somewhere behind you.

His next words aren't loud enough to reach the station, but they're loud enough for you. Uttered with careful urgency, like they were meant for your ears and yours alone.

"If you cared so much, why didn't you reply to any of my letters?"

Tim doesn't shout. He doesn't increase his volume; he doesn't even forcibly thrust the words in your direction.

He says it like he's asking himself, wondering – no, demanding – where he went wrong.

Your thoughts scatter. Suddenly, you're thinking of a hundred things at once.

Your rooftop. The Ferris wheel. The confession. The park. The letters.

Wait.

The letters?

You spin on your heel with such haste that your feet stumble against eachother. Eyes narrowed, fists now clenched, you put words to your doubt.

"What letters?"

Your brows are furrowed. Tim is looking at the space above your head, as if afraid to meet your eyes.

A beat passes.

"After you told me you—"

He pauses mid-sentence, like saying the words physically pains him. Like they probe a knife through his chest with no mercy. He inhales deeply, then releases the words with his breath.

"—after you told me you loved me."

He winces right after, like the knife has now been twisted viciously.

The air gets caught in your throat, your eyes widen, and something akin to a gasp escapes you.

You move your head to the side, eyes stubbornly not leaving his, which have started to stare right back at you.

"Tim...what letters?"

His name comes out in a whisper, the rest following in a haze.

You can see the moment recognition flashes across his face, the moment the resolve crumbles and the anger slips through the cracks.

The anger slips away through the cracks.

He takes one step towards you, his chest nearly colliding against yours with the motion.

He stands close enough for you to make sense of his musky perfume, still fresh, still—

Lilac?

You'd recognise that scent anywhere. His eighteenth birthday gift. The one you gave him even prior to his enlistment, knowing he'd be spending his birthday alone. The one he made fun of and said he'd never use.

That one must've expired long ago. Unless...

Unless he never changed it. Unless he buys it over and over and uses it to this day.

You open your mouth to try and give an explanation, one you know he deserves. But what do you explain?

You still have no idea what he's talking about.

What fucking letters?

For the third time in your life, and in all the time that you've known Tim Bradford, you hear him stutter.

First, when he had opened up about his father.

And second, when he had asked you to be his girlfriend.

And third now.

"I-I wrote you letters from Afghanistan; they always came back. Always, always, stamped 'return to sender'."

For a moment your world stops, and not in the good way.

You say his name first, then take one step backwards.

It's not intentional, your movement, but Tim notices. He always notices.

He takes your response as rejection, the way he was trained to, in the way that was wired into him – no, hammered into him – from the days before he met you.

He turns on his heel before your fingers can reach him, your hand hanging limply in the air as the sound of his footsteps gets quieter until his truck door slams and the engine starts.

By the time you move your feet, his truck has left the parking lot.

You can't quite tell how long you stood there until Lucy's hand brushed your elbow as she calmly guided you towards your car.

She drove you home in silence. No explanation, no questions, nothing.

You don’t remember saying a word either.

~~~~~~

The entrance to Tim's house is slammed shut with a bang so loud that it rattles the windows and causes the jackets hung behind his door to nearly fall. 

He rakes an unsteady hand over his face, head angled upwards, silently willing the tears to not fall.

He stalks towards the bedroom like a dead man, doesn’t even bother locking the front door. He takes off his boots and sits on the edge of his bed.

He lets out a shuddering breath. His hands are clammy; he knows it. The traffic noise from the street outside is too loud; it makes him wonder if he left a window open somewhere.

His phone rings for the eighth time that night, and to Angela's surprise, he finally picks up. Her voice sounds partly like static through the speakers.

“You wanna tell me what happened back there? The whole station got a view of that spectacle.”

Tim grunts, bringing the phone closer to his face. He pauses initially, then replies.

“I can’t. Not right now.”

He doesn’t think he’d recognise his voice if someone played him a recording of this later; he can’t bring himself to care. Angela says his name once; it’s preceded by a sigh of her own.

Tim swallows, though; tonight it feels like he’s swallowing down bile that has threatened to rise up.

“Angela, I really can't," he says, almost like he’s begging.

Angela sighs again on the other side of the call and mutters something about ‘being here’ before the call cuts.

Tim sits in silence for a while, mind blank, knuckles whitening over his knees.

He stands up, swaying a little as he walks toward the closet.

A neat arrangement of greys and blues stares back at him. He thinks that the brown box, a stark contrast to the rest, must be mocking him while he pulls it out.

The lid opens; inside lies a stack. A stack of at least a hundred letters, neatly placed, each stamped in angry red ink ‘Return to sender’.

One envelope is crumpled, lying on top of the rest, like it's worn out from being carried everywhere.

He did—carry it everywhere, that is. For all twenty years, it sat undisturbed in his chest pocket, only being moved here three weeks ago.

"Because you fucking abandoned me, Tim!"

Did you really believe that he chose war over you? You were the one that gave up on him when he was alone in a foreign country.

Weren’t you?

~~~~~~

You don’t know why your feet have brought you here or why your fingers had tirelessly skimmed through address logs until you spotted his name. Why you’re standing at his doorstep in navy pyjama bottoms and a sweatshirt thrown on haphazardly.

You don’t know why you even ring the doorbell, why you don’t shy away from it in an instant, why you suddenly hold your ground and decide to be the ‘mature’ person.

Scratch that.

You do know why you’re here.

You know it’s the same reason you refuse to meet his eyes at work, the same reason you talk to him with clipped tones and minimal words.

Time never had been on your side.

It’s only moments later when the door opens, yellow light from the hallway bulb shooting forward through the crack.

His eyes follow next. The vibrant azure hue that you’ve come to expect is somehow dimmer than you remember. They widen the moment he registers your figure.

He yanks the door open hastily, taking a moment to square his shoulders as his brows furrow. He looks you up and down once, taking in your odd outfit choice and glassy eyes.

You tilt your head and begin to look around, now avoiding his gaze that suddenly makes you want to curl in on yourself.  You open your mouth a couple times, closing it again when no sound escapes.

He says your name. You can’t quite place why, but it makes your heart swell.

Not ‘analyst’. Not ‘ ma’am’.

Your name.

It gives you the courage you needed to speak.

“I-I can leave—" you offer, shrinking under his blatant stare.

His response is immediate; the door opens further, and a quiet 'no' whas you dragging your feet through the door despite yourself.

“We should talk.” he says after a moment.

You both cautiously pad further into the home, past his living room, stopping near the kitchen.

Like two teenagers who got caught sneaking out.

He offers you water like he doesn’t know what else to do. You accept before sitting down on a stool at the island, jumping in your seat when he sits on the one beside you, pushing forward a filled glass.

You rub your feet against one another, tapping one finger on the counter, the other hand resting tentatively on the glass as if to stall time. Tim breaks the silence first.

“I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re wondering." 

His tone is light, airy and carefree. Like everything between the two of you, past and future, doesn’t depend upon this single conversation. You smile without meaning to as you trace your finger on the edge of the glass.

Tim lets out a breathy chuckle, and once his laughter dies down, you take it as your cue to talk.

“I…” 

An inhale. An encouraging nod of his head. 

“I never got your letters. The ones after…” you trail off, hoping he catches the sincerity in your words.

At his lack of a response, you grasp that, much like you, Tim has also spent the last 6 hours, between the station and now, figuring things out. And much like you, he has reached the same conclusion.

With no one to condemn and nothing to blame, you let out a bitter laugh, the collective weight of twenty years lifting from your shoulders.

Tim follows it with a laugh of his own and shakes his head as he speaks.

“So… I guess that was stupid, huh? The twenty years, hating eachother.”

“I didn’t hate you," you instantly reply, turning to him with a frown.

Tim only raises his brows before a smile breaks out on his face, yours following soon after.

The two of you fall into a solemn rhythm, littered with acknowledgement and acceptance. It’s not easy conceding the damage and how it happened. You admit you were kids. You admit that it still hurts.

You don’t notice when the two of you shift closer, when your knee starts touching his and your arms fold neatly onto the counter beside his own.

By the time the conversation has lulled, moving to stories and memories, Tim says something you have to take a second to process.

“You were the only good thing in that house.”

He says it like a confession, hanging his head low and fiddling with his empty glass. You don’t realise when a tear falls from your eye, a burning sensation hitting your throat. Not until his hand reaches up to wipe it away, muttering a kind ‘hey’.

His hand stills on your cheek, cupping it gently. His face moves closer as another whisper escapes him. 'I'm okay now’. A reassurance, a promise.

Your eyes dart to his lips, gulping at the realisation of how impossibly close he has gotten. His gaze moves downwards aswell, just for a second. 

Your eyes flutter before you look up, seeing his eyes still trained on your lips.

He stops. 

And then, barely louder than a whisper, he speaks.

“We’re not seventeen anymore."

You nod instantly, hand grasping his – that was still on your cheek – and bringing it down. Pushing your legs back, you stand, tugging at the sleeves of your sweatshirt.

“I should—" You motion towards his front door, already straightening your socks. He nods once, slowly, then follows you to his house’s exit. 

You halt your steps on your way to your car, turning around in a hurry. Tim tilts his head, silently asking if something happened.

Glancing around, you rock on the balls of your feet, swaying on the front porch.

“So… friends?” 

A smile breaks out on his face at your suggestion; he nods, watching you turn around and comically walk—skip—over to your car.

He then closes the door with a smile and a shake of his head.

~~~~~~

Tim’s friends are also your friends.

It’s been about a month and a half of having transferred to your new job at HQ. After the completion of that case, your help has been both requested and required at several other precincts across the state.

Despite having to travel several hours each workday, you’ve found yourself making time to visit your ‘friend’ Tim, spending days at the station during your off time or making yourself at home in his apartment when he’s on duty.

His coworkers talk to you almost every day; brunch dates with Lucy, clothes shopping with Angela and Genny, and back-and-forth debates with Wesley have kept you busy long enough to forget about Boston and get used to LA again.

As for with Tim… It was awkward at first, having to relearn eachother after years of longing, guilt and distance.

So much distance.

But it's been comfortable, oddly so, like you simply picked up where you left off, laughing at the TV and making sassy remarks about eachother’s food preferences.

His friends, on the other hand, have started to comment on his changed demeanour. How his insults carry no weight and his reports have become more generous.

Most of all, they comment on his eyes lingering on your form long after you have turned away, a soft look on his face, uncharacteristic of the brooding T.O.

Lucy teases him about the way he smiles when you ramble. 

Angela lifts her brow at dinner when he wordlessly slides his mushrooms to your plate with no hesitation.

Wesley tilts his head at the coffee you bring him one morning before a meeting he has with the lawyer.

You really think nothing of it when the same looks and questioning stares make their way into your own routine.

~~~~~~

Tim has been meaning to assemble a new armchair he got recently, and being his bestfriend (self-proclaimed), you took it upon yourself to help. 

He sits cross-legged on the carpeted floor, brows furrowed at the set of instructions in his hand, sixty pages long. You return from the kitchen, beer bottle in hand and stop at the back of the couch, peering over the backrest to see his tense shoulders, bowed head and tightened hands.

A laugh escapes your throat at his focused expression, prompting him to look over the instruction manual. 

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing…” you respond.

It’s easy being Tim's friend. Sometimes too easy and you find yourself wondering if he’s just grown comfortable with you now or if there is something deeper going on.

Sometimes, just sometimes, there are certain lines that blur.

Like when his hand hovers too long over the small of your back, guiding you to his desk or the exit.

Or when his eyes linger on your lips as you finish speaking, darting to your eyes soon after.

Little things.

Tim motions for you to get him a screwdriver while tearing open a package of screws with his teeth.

Your feet padded down the hall. You turn to the right and enter his bedroom, heading straight for the closet where you know he keeps his tools. Your hand skims the handle of the toolbox before your attention is drawn elsewhere. 

A brown box, half open, with white paper within, seemingly screaming your name, like it's begging you to see what's inside, like an itch you can’t yet scratch.

You take the gamble, pulling your hand away from the toolbox and towards the cardboard instead. Steady hands pry open the lid the rest of the way. 

A stack.

At least a hundred letters, neatly placed, each stamped in angry red ink 'Return to sender’.

One envelope lies wrinkled, having been crumpled and then flattened out, atop the rest. You reach for the stack first, all considerations of privacy thrown out the window carelessly.

The stack is heavy in your palms, with sharp folded edges, compressed from years of being kept together, nearly merging into one.

The smell of old paper hits your nose the moment you lift it from the box, somewhere mixed with lilac and the lingering scent of ink.

The first letter is written in jet-black, careless, boyish writing, scribbled hastily on the paper. It’s dated. And as you recall, only a week after your confession.

Your eyes fly across the words, reading each line twice.

“I keep thinking about your eyes.

The way they crinkle when you’re trying not to laugh.

I think about them when it gets loud here. It helps.”

Your breath picks up, fingers beginning to quiver unconsciously, hesitant. You reread the words again. 

Your eyes. He used to mention your eyes.

You take a breath, just one, willing yourself to push down the lump that has formed in your throat.

The next letter is sharper, with more full stops littering the paragraphs. More concrete thoughts framed into those boxy letters.

“I don’t know if you’re reading these anymore.

I keep replaying the way you looked at me the night I left.

I can’t tell if I imagined it. Or if you already knew I wouldn’t stay.”

You blink several times, fingers nimbly closing the flap of the envelope.

The angry red letters stare back at you; in the creases you can see fragments of the boy from highschool.

The crooked smile. 

His stare at the back of your head in math class. 

His fingers shielding his eyes as he looks up at the sun.

You don’t read one, you read all of them. They lengthen as you progress, getting more detailed as you near the end.

“You used to look at me like I meant something.

Like I wasn’t just… my father’s son.

I don’t know if anyone’s ever looked at me like that since.”

You press this one to your lips, a ghost of a laugh escaping you. The plastic is still moving in the living room, your heightened senses picking up on each rustle.

The next letter makes your hands tremble. The words are shaky, frantically etched onto the paper, tripping over eachother. The sentences are clipped, smaller than the rest; the ink is angrily smudged towards the corner. 

“It was loud today. I kept thinking, What if I die here?

You’ll never know I meant it. I meant it. I did.

I kept my eyes closed longer than I should have.

And all I could see were yours.”

A quiet sob escapes you as the words drill into your mind.

You smooth out the minor wrinkles with your knuckles, fingers slow and intentional. Your head tilts back to look at the ceiling, and that's when the first tear falls.

The crumpled one is different; it’s not dated, not even addressed, no red stamp bleeding through the back. The handwriting is tighter, straighter, and less boyish.

He starts the letter normally.

“___,

I don’t know if you’re getting these anymore.”

Then there’s a scratch through your name. It's not messy; it’s deliberate. A single strike stretching to cover the length of your name

Like he tried to write it, stopped, then started again beneath it.

“I don’t know if you want to hear from me.”

Then it goes into the mundane; he talks of the sky, clouds and birds, the dust, and how quiet it has been lately. How he misses your bike rides and your lame dad jokes.

Then the handwriting tilts again, smoother, as if the words were writing themselves before the mind could comprehend.

“I thought loving you meant I was allowed to hope.

I think…maybe I misunderstood.”

Your breath stutters at the next line and the one that follows. Because at the bottom, when he signs off, he writes:

“I won’t write your name again if you don’t want me to.

- Tim

(the one you used to look at like he was worth something)”

The letter flutters as it falls down, your hands having left the paper, now one at your mouth and the other fisting your shirt, hoping to fruitlessly ground yourself.

Sobs rake your body, louder now, reality crashing down on you with each passing second. Your mind drifts to each day spent with the boy at seventeen, laughing, hands linked, hours bleeding into dusk.

You break.

Not because Tim Bradford stopped loving you. 

But because he thought he had to.

~~~~~~

By the time Tim enters the room, your tears have dried. There you were, kneeling between his closet and his bed, holding a bundle of red and white, your cheeks streaked with saline water and mascara.

When he arrives, the door creaks.

His footsteps echo, thumping loudly as he hurries to your side, a quiet flurry of 'What happened?' and 'Hey's accompanying him.

Your body is still shivering with the remnants of your sobs when his hand lands hesitantly on your shoulder.

You look up to meet his eyes, and another wave of tears gathers at your waterline. His face twists into concern again, and his eyes dart down to your hands at the crumpled letter you’re gripping onto.

He meets your eyes again, and you can barely give it much thought; you push yourself forward and wrap your arms around him, taking him by surprise.

There is no hesitation when he wraps his own arms around your frame, swaying gently with one hand cradling your head.

“I’m so sorry," you whisper, the words wedged between sobs.

You feel Tim shake his head, still buried in the crook of your neck, and you cling harder onto his shirt, like he’ll disappear again if you let go. 

You jerk back like you’ve been burnt, your eyes wide and frantic, pushing Tim off yet holding him at arm's length. Words tumble out. Raw, unfiltered. Weak.

It's now or never.

“I love you! I’m still in love with you, Tim. I tried—and trust me, I did—I tried to make it smaller, to make it all go away—”

Your voice falters at the edge of your words, rough and raw. But you continue despite it.

“But I just can’t not love you. I—you're still everything to me.”

Tim’s eyes widen, his hand stilling at your nape. He swallows once, then opens his mouth to no avail.

At his lack of response, you continue, having just now registered the weight of your words, wishing you could have taken them back.

“And I get it if—if you’ve moved on and you don’t ever wanna see me again, I—I’ll deal with that. But i just had to tell you, after reading them and—”

Your voice has returned to a shallow whisper by the time you finish. The rest of the words getting stuck like thorns on your tongue.

The air shifts then, his hand tightening on your neck, an anchor, and yours coming up to rest on his chest.

He opens his mouth and closes it, swallowing.

And then he leans in.

Any remaining thoughts get pushed to the back of your mind the moment his lips crash into yours, one of his hands still at your shoulder.

Like he’s afraid you’ll break if he presses too hard.

His thumb brushes the damp skin beneath your eye. Your fingers tighten in his shirt without you realising.

It’s slow and unsure, nothing dramatic. There is no collision. Not a desperate clash of tongue and teeth. It just is. A declaration of the words Tim wishes he could say out loud.

He pulls back with a slight flush on his cheeks, his hand limp around your neck. Your eyes are wide open again, lips slightly parted, heart still racing abnormally fast.

He doesn’t have to say it. Not out loud, and the way his hand stays at your neck, like it belongs there, feels like answer enough.

But he does anyway.

“Not going anywhere," he says, softly.

The softest of smiles curves at the corner of his mouth. He presses his forehead to yours, quiet, just breathing.

And for a moment you’re not in his bedroom anymore; the room feels suspended suddenly, like the world is small and moving below you.

You're high above the city lights, metal creaking softly, one hand intertwined with his, the other clutching the seat of a Ferris wheel carriage, afraid to look down.

“I’m not going anywhere." he had said then, and you hadn’t believed him.

But you sure as hell believe him now.

And for the first time since you were seventeen, it makes you trust that maybe, just maybe, you survived the great war.

~Fin.~

General Taglist: : @desikudisworld @wh0re-for-w0lfstar

Tags for this fic: @steveharringtonsidepiece

Tysm for reading, as always, reblogs are the heart of tumblr, if you liked this fic, a reblog would mean the world to me.

"What?"

Her eyes are wide, eyebrows lifted and shoulders squared as whatever task that previously held her attention—the burrito—is shifted to the back of her mind.

You reiterate your sentence, punctuating each word with a tap of your finger on her desk.

"I. Have. A. Problem."

Her response comes much quicker this time, in the form of narrowed eyes and a curling scowl. You swear you can see her brain racking through a hundred and one possible crisis scenarios before you interrupt her spiral with an explanation.

It makes you feel like a teenager as you say the words, and only after they've escaped your mouth do you realise how childish they sound.

"I have a crush."

Angela immediately snorts at your statement before (poorly) covering it up with a cough. She's at that stage when it would make a lot more sense to hear this from her son than from the colleague she's worked with for most of her career.

You frown at her reaction, trying to seem as serious as you can before your brain catches up to your mouth and you realise what you just blurted out. You close your eyes and heave a gentle sigh, thinking about how you definitely could've phrased it better.

A rougher, deeper voice cuts in from behind you before you can say anything else.

"Who even says 'crush' anymore?"

Tim.

Tim Bradford, only the most irritating, annoying and infuriating co-worker you've had the displeasure of working with. The man who makes your blood boil from the way he orders boots around. The man who competes with you every chance he gets. The man who rolls his eyes at your kinder approach, often belittling you when you make the wrong call. The man who clenches his jaw so hard you almost worry he'll chip a tooth.

The man who one day walked into your apartment. His arms gently wrapped around you in such a way that even in your drunken haze you could feel the heat radiating off his biceps. The man who laid you down on your bed, promptly closed his eyes and turned away while handing you clothes so that you could change in privacy, and then and only then—after making sure you were safe in your bed and not sobbing at a bar counter drunk out of your mind from heartbreak—left your home to get any sleep for himself.

The man you might have a teeny, tiny—humongous—crush on.

Fuck.

Angela sees your eyes widening before you even realise it and, being an excellent detective—and certainly not because she wants to win the bet she made with Harper—puts two and two together.

Before you can give a sassy response to the brooding man, already having turned on your heels with a single index finger pointed into the air, she politely (not) invades the conversation.

"She does, and she can say it all she wants, Timothy. Ya jealous?"

Tim's face immediately transforms into an unimpressed scowl, a scoff escaping him in mere seconds.

"Jealous? Pshh—she wishes."

Your index is still hovering somewhere in the space between you and the sergeant, and you think to make good use of that as you wave your finger around and respond with equal amounts of sass and dread.

"None of your business, Tim. And in my defence, I didn't think it through before i said the word 'crush'." ""

Your voice both dies down and speeds up towards the end of the sentence, leaving both your colleagues to decipher your words like a cryptic message.

Tim only rolls his eyes at your antics and places his hands on his duty belt before turning and walking (you like to say stomping) away, once again leaving your poor index pointing at nothing.

~~~~~~~~

The day has been slow; you have yet to utter the word "quiet" into the expanse of your shop—courtesy of Harper.

The engine is humming, the radio silent except for the few bursts of static every once in a while. Your windows are rolled up, which you insisted on because the LA air just happened to pick up speed this afternoon.

After your possibly hundredth sigh (as Tim would put it), Tim breaks the silence, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual, not that you noticed.

"So...about that crush."

From the moment you two left the station in his shop, thanks to Lucy being away on sick leave, you have been dreading this moment.

The moment Mr 'I'm-Not-Nosy' Tim inevitably asks about the fact that you mentioned having a "crush"

You groan as you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, already wishing for the shift to just end.

"Drop it, Tim."

You drag out his name like it might prevent him from slipping in a few more words, but when you remove your hands from your eyes, the car is at a red light, and Tim Bradford is looking straight at you.

Straight at you with that stupid mouth of his curved into that stupid smile that sends stupid butterflies to your stomach and makes you feel stupidly safe and attracted to him.

Yes, you know it's a weird choice of words.

"Come on, you rarely share much at the station, and now that I have found out that you happen to like someone, you best bet I'm gonna find out who it is."

You roll your eyes before the car starts again and stifle another groan at Tim's voice continuing to reach your ears.

Why is this man so talkative today?

"Okay, don't tell me, is it one of the rookies? Is it Penn!?"

He takes in an overdramatic gasp before he lists out more names, an absurd amount.

"Nolan? Juarez? Wait—Smitty!?"

As Tim continues to list out names, you reach your hand out to press the button to the window. The window rolls down little by little, and the Los Angeles wind starts to nip at your skin.

The howling of the wind is loud enough to drown out the sergeant's voice, and the last thing you catch is something along the lines of-

"Wait, no—are you blocking me out—"

Tysm for reading, as always, reblogs are the heart of tumblr, if you liked this fic, a reblog would mean the world to me.

"Uh-huh! He says you're prettyyy." Dragging out the last word, his voice went down a few decibels as he spilled the hunter's secrets.

"I'm curious, RJ, where did you hear all that?"

A glint of amusement danced in your eyes, something the little boy mistook as mischief. You opened your mouth to add onto the pile of burning questions, now metaphorically sitting at little Rick's feet, but his sister beat you to the punch.

"What's he talking about, Auntie?"

Her little feet tapped against the wooden stairs that the buildings of Alexandria oh so conveniently housed. Her sheriff's hat was sitting atop her head a little lopsided, clearly unaccustomed to her small head size.

"Your little brother seems to have discovered that a certain Mr. Dixon, has a humongous crush on me."

Your exaggerated voice hushed down in feigned secrecy to match that of RJ. Judith's little hand flew up to her mouth to suppress her giggles. Not even a minute later her head was thrown back as she laughed her heart out at her brother's "discovery." All the while the seven-year-old's features curled into a frown that expertly sat amidst his round face.

"They're married, silly!"

Judith's voice rang out in the living room, the words coming out as a cacophony of giggles that she miserably failed to hide.

"Ahh...makes sense."

RJ replied, a hand placed on his chin to, no doubt, mimic the hunter in question, as he appeared deep in thought.

The not-so-little girl turned swiftly on her heels and exited the house, her shoulders shuddering with the remains of her laughter.

"RJ, baby?"

"Yes, Auntie?"

"You don't know what married means, do you, bud?"

"Nope."

And he popped the "p" before returning to the safe haven of his colouring books.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, a hushed giggle fought its way out your throat as you remembered the events of the afternoon, walking into your shared bedroom after having brushed your teeth for the night.

Daryl sat with his back facing the door, messing with parts of his crossbow, an oily rag in hand.

His ears seemed to perk up at your giggling, as he glanced over his shoulder to pinpoint the source of your amusement.

A tilt of his head accompanied with a raise of his eyebrow had you moving to his side of the bed as your laughter quieted down.

"Wha's da matter? Wha's got ya giggling into the night?"

You wrapped your arms around your husband, pulling him close and burying your head in the crook of his neck.

"RJ thinks you have a crush on me, Mr. Dixonnnn~," you dragged out his name as a flurry of giggles followed your words, carrying them further into the redneck's ears.

Daryl opened his mouth to respond before a laugh bubbled its way through his throat, picturing the little boy tattling to you like a kindergartner.

"Oh yeah?"

A contented sigh from your lips followed his response, your posture relaxing into your husband as you collected the aftermath of the little comedy show.

"Mmhm! said you call me pretty. Judith told him we were married, but I figured the poor kid doesn't even know what it means."

"What'd he say?"

"He responded with a very confident 'makes sense.'"

Daryl harshly exhaled through his nose, setting down his crossbow on he bedside table.

"Poor kid."

The two of you moved with practiced ease to lie on the plush bed. Alexandria had its ups and downs, but you knew that no matter what, hilltop's beds couldn't begin to compare to the soft mattresses offered here.

Your bodies moved in sync, pulling each other into your limbs and pulling the blanket over your entangled bodies. Your head lay on his chest, hand mere inches away from your face, drumming a rhythm you had yet to figure out.

As sleep almost graced your worn-out body, the quiet murmurs of your husband flooded your ears.

"He's right, though. I do have a crush on you, Mrs. Dixon."

~

A/N: Guess who figured it was time for her to even maybe kinda sorta write for Daryl Dixon...????

This is so fun, i got this idea while reading the story "Red" on wattpad by KealaLeilani.

I love the story so fricking much istg go give it some love. And while you're at it go give my lil drabble some love too.

-tulip🌷

You feel yourself hit the hardwood, the doorknob digging into your lower back, the cold sting from its metal seeping in through your thin top.

Tim, still heated from the exchange you had long forgotten, moves further into your proximity, barely leaving enough room for your mingled breaths.

Third wave.

You remember closing your eyes, senses heightened, hearing every sound, and being able to feel every piece of lint in your sock.

You take one breath, then another, and try to dissipate both the anger and the unease from your system.

That is until you feel the smallest gust of wind from your side, enough to move the tiny, stray pieces of hair on your face.

Last wave.

Because by some cruel twist of fate, it is just then that Tim trips over his own two feet, palm finding purchase on the wall beside you in a hasty attempt to brace himself.

You freeze. 

You can feel the way your breath hitches. The way it stops right after.

You wait for something, anything. The clink of a belt buckle, the feel of a broad hand over your mouth. The silence that follows, the dread that becomes an unwelcome guest.

He notices. He catches the flinch in your system. The way in which you angle your head away from him, how the moment that your eyes open your pupils are blown wide with fear. 

He's seen that fear before. It's not the kind that befalls you when you're faced with an armed suspect or waiting to rescue someone from a burning building.

He saw it the day he saw you run out of your superior's office, chin tucked, hair frazzled, a few buttons at your collar undone. He saw it in the way you had hurried over to the locker rooms and avoided every officer in the precinct that passed you with confused glances.

He knows what it means, what you think is going to happen.

He puts distance between the two of you at once, moving his arm so that his elbow rests awkwardly somewhere between himself and your shoulders. He speaks before he can stop himself.

"Shit, I—"

His own inhale cuts him off as he rakes his hand through his hair; you don't see it. You recoil even at his lower volume, your shoulders dashing towards your ears, mind blank. You can't think of anything.

Anything but that.

Silence becomes a dense fog, opaque and thick, blanketing over the two of you. You decisively break it with an unsteady voice.

"T-Tim, I just—I need a second, please."

You don't exactly ask him to leave, but the way you move away from the door so as to give him the space makes him believe that it's what you want.

Space. Time.

Before he has the chance to mull over it, and before his mind can make up a thousand apologies, his feet carry him outside. He hesitates at the door for a moment before he pushes it shut with a distinctive click.

He doesn't move; he doesn't keep walking or sit down.

Guilt begins to eat away at him. The image of your frail stance, widened gaze and quivering lips—a permanent etching in his mind. It reels over and over like a tape that he forgot to pull out.

Seconds pass before he takes his first step forward, feet immediately leaving your 'welcome home' mat.

Then another, and the third one lands him a reasonable distance away from where you remain inside the house.

All at once his senses are flooded. The faint traffic horns outside the hallway window and the sun beating down on only a part of his face make him scrunch his nose and turn away entirely. He's mildly aware of how his knuckles flex at his sides, clenching and unclenching, as he exhales through his nose.

All these stimulants do little to drown out the noise of your sobs, followed by the dull thud that he is sure is your body sliding down the door to sit.

His chin meets his chest in a harsh, jerky movement.

The noises from within your apartment haunt him, crashing against him in powerful waves as well.

~~~~~~~~

Tim has yet to see even a ghost of your presence at the Mid Wilshire station. It took him two days to finally learn that you had taken to working the graveyard shifts instead, preferring to work in the quiet, where you're sure no one can bother you.

It took him another three days to realise he hadn't reached out, save for one text sent a little too late, a couple of days following the ‘argument’, and your reply was just a little too dry.

He opens his phone only to be met with the remains of that last conversation. Your name on the top produces a dull ache in his chest, like an ailment whose cure he has yet to get his hands on.

"You alright?" 1:06 am

"Mmhm" 1:27 am

His thumbs fly over the screen as he types an apology, one he thinks was owed a long time ago.

He pauses for a second, then another. 

The engine of the shop is running idle, its tremors quaking throughout the car. He hears the faint loudening of voices two houses down, a couple arguing.

Training Officer Bradford knows he should intervene as his rookie steps out of the vehicle to assess the scene.

Tim, however, holds the backspace on his keyboard until what stares back at him is another blank message, waiting to be filled.

He rewrites it; it's not a plain sorry, aiming to explain himself and forge a path back into your world.

He deletes it again; it doesn’t sound right, it’s too long. Too much about him.

The uniformed officer shuts off his phone, the screen going to black. The silence rushes in again, filled with all the ways reaching out could do more harm than good. 

Tim taps his foot on the floor of the shop, mind reeling from the many possibilities where he might just be dragging you back to something you’re running away from.

Instead, he resorts to stepping out of the car, his boots landing not so gently on the asphalt.

At least he’ll be easing the issues of one couple today.

~~~~~~~~

For you, the days that follow the argument are ruthless. Graveyard shifts allow little time for rest; the daytime brings about even more unrest.

At home, the time you spend is less in the building and more in your head.

Swathed in sorrow, guilt, and, worst of all, shame.

Shame on the past version of you for not standing up sooner, for tolerating.

Shame at the fact that you froze the other night. How your body went rigid and your heartbeat quickened under Tim’s unyielding grip.

You’re not ashamed you reacted that way; you’re ashamed that you reacted that way with him.

Tim, of all people, the kind, sweet, hardened-from-the-outside officer who’d give anything to see his loved ones safe. The man who had wrinkles beside his eyes simply because of how much he did smile with you, whose stubble tickled you when he buried his head in the crook of your neck.

He was there when it happened, not there per se, but there for the aftermath. When your walls crumbled down and pain had engulfed the breath in your lungs. When you felt like your world was being drowned out around you, failing to grasp any air, only being flooded more and more each time you tried.

He was there to ground you, to remind you where you were, that you were surrounded by the smell of break-room coffee and fabric softener, and that the duty-bound murmurs of uniformed officers and detectives were still reaching your ears.

That you weren't back in that office that had medals littering the walls, desk askew, with papers falling over. 

Assuring you that your dignity hadn't fallen; it had mercilessly been ripped away from you without a moment's notice, not for a second letting you think it was your fault.

That you were still you.

He was there when news came that the officer had been suspended permanently. There when the man walked out of his office with an eye darkening around the corners, jaw clenched.

Tim was the one that had walked out behind, a faint bruise of his own adorning his knuckles.

The rice cooker beeps once to alert you that it's done.

You blink once, then twice.

Another beep before the kitchen swims into view.

You’re home, not at the precinct, not at the mercy of your superior officer, not waiting in agony for the other shoe to drop, the other hand to grab you.

You turn the switch off before you reach for the cupboard to pull out a bowl; cold ceramic meets the warmth of your fingertips, and before you can think, you’re pulling it out.

Your grip falters. The bowl slips and falls, collapsing to the ground with a clamour that is louder than it should be.

The world stops. 

Your shoulders move upward by themselves, guarding your ears as your eyes widen.

And suddenly you’re not home anymore.

You can feel the cold of the drywall on your back, hear the hum of the thermostat. The room rushes in and out of focus. 

It takes you half a second to recognise your surroundings.  To register his office. A curtain of his unruly black hair is falling over one of his eyes, the hazel of his pupils boring into you.

The vase on his desk was dangerously close to the edge before it fell over and shattered, fake flowers spilling out and remains of glass pinching at your feet.

You can remember your hands reaching behind you to grip something, anything, and then—

The clink.

It's the one sound that is the loudest.

Suddenly the air in your kitchen feels too dense, too much, all at once.  You can feel yourself gripping the doorknob before your mind can process it, your bare feet tapping upon the cold linoleum outside your front door as they carry you out. 

No direction, no destination, just escape.

The apartment isn't a home, not at this very moment. It is a controlled environment, one where each variable is accounted for.

Every exit. Every weapon. Every sound.

All predictable, all noted.

And in this experiment, one variable just went out of your grasp.

Your arms reach out to stabilise yourself at the railing, slipping once before finding purchase. Your breathing quickens; you can feel your throat constricting with each second that passes. Your eyes close before you tighten your grip.

You count. 

"One, two."

Your pulse quickens, fingers going numb. It feels as if his hand is cold against yours, clamping down hard and rough, enough to cut off blood. 

"Five, six."

Tim's palm slams into the wall loudly, announcing itself instead of simply gracing it.

"Ten, eleven."

'T-Tim, I just—I need a second, please.'

You’re drowning again.

It's days like these when you spend twice as long in the showers, hot water stinging your back and lathering your loofah with all the strength you possess. 

It's days like these that make you want to disappear, scrubbing till all the remnants of that man—that office, and those eyes that refuse to unbond with your skin—are gone.

~~~~~~~~

It’s almost sunset when Tim closes the door of his locker. He swings his bag over one shoulder and walks out of the locker room in haste, fingers toying with the keys in his hand.

The officers from the night shift have started piling in; Tim quickly scans over each of their heads, hoping to catch a glimpse of a particular bun, pulled taut, spine straight.

A low voice from his left makes him stop his movement; the sentence has him jutting his head in the direction.

“She’s been off lately.”

He doesn’t know the names of these officers; he doesn’t bother to, but there is one thing that makes him still and listen.

 The mention of your name.

“Yeah, I mean… quieter, I think.”

The conversation shifts entirely the next second, moving onto weekend plans and complaints of unwashed fruits.

Tim huffs a sigh of disappointment before resuming his stride.

~~~~~~~~

The pain doesn’t resurface all at once, but you can tell that avoidance has accelerated the process.

You tense at the commander’s loud order, aimed at another fellow nightshift officer.

Your eyes close momentarily at the boisterous laughter from the other side of the bullpen.

Your fingers tap your pen more often than write with it.

You’re aware of each of them, each action adding onto the pile of decisions you didn’t make.

You had processed the trauma a while ago when it actually happened. The department shrink had cleared you up for active duty well within the week. Your friends and fellow officers had welcomed you with open arms and kind smiles.

But the pain never truly leaves. It haunts in a way that feels almost… invasive. Clawing at the door constantly, scratch marks embedding themselves on the wood. The pain drags on in these moments, beyond your control, yet affecting you the same.

It’s a rare instance of a heavy call that night. A woman, helpless, sobbing as she relentlessly begs the dispatch worker to just ‘send help’.

The call is patched in to your shop as you floor the gas, her voice cutting through the previously light atmosphere you and your partner had set up. Having been littered with stories from academy days and the tales of her daughter's third birthday.

You arrive at the scene with caution, back straight, hand over holster. The two of you take small, careful steps towards the house.

You knock three times with no response. Your partner backs up so she can breach the door with the side of her body.

The door swings open just before she has the chance to. A man, in his forties maybe, peeks his head out from the small crack.

Your partner explains the situation as you allow your gaze to wander over the man’s face.

A grotesque bruise lines the underside of his jaw, punctuated with a small cut above his lip.

You tilt your head at the sight, hands twitching at your sides. Your voice is even when you speak.

“Sir, we need to take a look inside.”

The man makes a noise of protest, looking to your partner for a split second before he nods and closes the door to presumably remove the chain link.

A beat passes before your partner sighs and slams into the door with her shoulder; the door splinters and cracks at the edges before swinging open.

Loud footsteps echo down the hall, thundering against the stillness of the home.

Your partner takes off to run after the man while you focus your attention on conducting a standard sweep of the house.

First the living room, then the guest room.

A beam of light catches your attention. You find yourself following it to the door on the far end of the hall, having been left slightly agape.

Your movements are cautious and slow, yet charged with an urgency you can't quite place the source of.

The door creaks loudly as it opens, and the sight inside is not a welcome one.

A woman sits on the floor in front of the bed, back slumped against it, unconscious. A line of bruises trails up her legs, stopping just short of the skirt she wore. Her arms are tied tightly to the bedpost with rough rope, wrists raw from, no doubt, fighting against the jute. Her phone is lying about three feet to her right, the screen cracked in an almost uncanny way that makes a shiver run up your spine. 

The last thing that catches your eye is the strap of her black tank top, lowered down too much for it to be accidental.

You cover the few feet between her and the door quickly, fingers hurriedly working at untying the scratchy rope. You press your digits to the column of her neck, feeling the faint pulse and radioing for an R/A unit.

The scene is processed quickly afterwards; the woman is treated, her statement taken, and the man is soon in custody.

Later that night, as it neared dawn, your fingers simply hovered over one contact that you’ve avoided for the last seven days.

~~~~~~~~

It takes Tim another five days before he finds himself at your doorstep.

The doorbell rings in an untimely manner.

You peel your eyes away from the red ink on the paper on your table. It’s late; none of your neighbours have reached out at this hour before, you wonder. You dust off your hands on your pants as you stand up and slide your feet into your slippers.

From the other side of the door, Tim hears the careless rustling of paper, followed by your uneven footsteps, getting louder as they near.

The door swings open, causing your breath to catch.

Your hand stills on the doorknob.

Your actions pause all at once, as if to evaluate. Like assessing damage you don't want to name.

He's standing a few feet away, the tips of his shoes merely touching the same doormat he walked away from two weeks ago. It’s crooked now.

Neither of you says a word; you take the time to glance around the hallway. It’s a welcome sight, one you haven’t seen in days, having been cooped up in your home. 

You look at the doormat once again and reach out with your foot to straighten it. You stare at the new plant your neighbour has put out to soak up the sun, its leaves now glinting against the dark backdrop of the night sky. 

You look anywhere but at him. 

There's palpable discomfort in the air; it sticks to your skin and settles in the breath escaping your agape mouths.

The fire from the argument has died down, its aftermath residing in embers beneath your feet. A festering pile of ashes that has overstayed its welcome.

Tim clears his throat; at the same time, you reach to pull the door open wider.

And unlike the last time you saw each other, this time you invite him in.

It's subtle, a nod of your head and a shift in your frame, that makes him shuffle his feet into the familiar home. He stops for a moment, a split second where he contemplates, hesitation crossing his features.

It's a mess, your apartment. It immediately betrays the put-together woman from right outside the threshold. His brows shoot up as he makes note of it all; of course he does.

Pages lie scattered across the coffee table, corners curling and overlapped. A stack of three mugs placed beside them leans dangerously to the right. The couch cushions are slumped, having been reaped of their fullness and overworked to exhaustion.

The door to your bedroom is uncharacteristically closed, from what he remembers. The kitchen island is empty, save for the two unfilled glasses, clouded like they're begging to be washed.

And you—

You're clean, striking as an anomaly in the distressed apartment, sticking out like a sore thumb.

He rakes his eyes up and down your body, like he’s deciphering a code he just can’t get quite right. He looks away, then at you again, like the answer might reveal itself if he stares long enough. Your hair tied up, not a strand out of place, skin tinted the slightest red, like it’s been rubbed raw of whatever stubbornly clings to it. He swears he can catch a whiff of your shampoo, followed by a lingering scent of your vanilla perfume.

You're...clean.

The seconds he spends moving his eyes through your living space feel more like hours; you stand there, hands grasping at each other, trying to ease the worry in the back of your mind.

The guilt gnaws at both of you, walls built that neither one of you is sure how to approach.

Like tempered glass—clear, composed, engineered to hold together even when everything around it says it shouldn’t. 

Tempered glass. 

An indistructible show of strength compromised only at one point of contact. Shattered in milliseconds at the same.

The unspoken apologies from both sides evaporate into the air.

The seconds stretch, and you let them. Counting helps when the silence starts to prick. A grounding technique your therapist suggested to deal with being anxious when the world goes quiet.

It's a minute and 21 seconds before Tim breaks the silence. He inhales before the words escape him in one breath.

"I haven't seen you around."

It's so unsure. So, very, careful, like all the things he wanted to say cannot be packed in that sentence. But you hear them all the same.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I'm here; I care.’

‘I can leave if you'd like.’

You choose to answer the last one.

"Stay."

To the outside world it sounds like deflection, an odd answer. But between you and Tim, there is a silent accord. It's an unspoken promise. 

The dam doesn’t break, not yet. But strain becomes audible, a low hum residing as the background noise for everything else.

It’s nothing dramatic, not a declaration. Just final. A crack, small and deliberate, right at the point where the pressure has been building.

He moves with delicate steps, easing himself into your apartment. His touch brushes the cotton of the sofa as he straightens the cushions, grabs the empty cups and glasses, brings them to the sink, and sets a pot of water on the stove.

He moves like the place still belongs to him, and in many ways it does. His steps are certain, body turning to avoid certain corners of the counters, confidently grasping the handle of the fridge to open and peer inside.

A beat passes before your hands fly to your hair, smoothing down the few strands that have started to stick out, taking out your bun, and retying it into a low ponytail.

You take his silence as a cue to move your feet, digits working nimbly at the papers scattered about, picking them up, and piling them into something resembling somewhat of an orderly stack.

The pot of water begins to bubble, its sounds mingling with the whispers of shuffling papers.

You don't talk; neither of you needs to.

For now, you let the embers sit.

You trust the glass.

You don’t test the dam.

You just stay.

~~~~~~~~

There are only so many night shifts that Sergeant Grey can allow a day-patrol officer to take up, so by courtesy of that, it’s only another 2 days before you’re forced back on the day shift.

They’re more chaotic, with less room for quiet. But a part of you feels ecstatic to return back to the norm.

Angela greets you straight at the door to the roll call room, fixing you with a glare that seemed more accusatory than judgemental.

“Where have you been?”

She enunciates each word with sharp precision; it easily causes you to widen your eyes and force down a gulp. You open and close your mouth a couple of times like a fish, no words seeming to come out.

How do you explain to your friends that the very past they helped overcome was now haunting you once again?

A hand on your shoulder startles you before you can respond—not that you were really going to. The ghost of a touch is gone almost as soon as it comes, the warmth that lingers seeping through your navy uniform.

“Angela.” 

His voice is hoarse; it makes you furrow your brows in concern before he resumes his stride with a clearing of his throat. You don't have to look back to imagine the face he is making, silently begging her not to probe.

She drops the topic soon after, but something about the way she leaves has you believing this conversation is far from over.

It’s only a few moments before Grey enters the room and everyone shuffles to take their seats. He pairs you with Lucy for the day, explaining that he has some work with Bradford till lunch, after which you may switch back.

His exit from the room is accompanied by the sound of scraping chairs, and the chirpy voice of Lucy Chen enters your senses with far more zeal than you were expecting.

You’ve seen her at the station. You recall the incident from not long ago when she had almost died. Truly one of the most resilient rookies you’ve had the chance of working with.

She’s strived to prove herself in the months following the incident—to whom? That remains a mystery.

She easily passed her post-incident evaluation, but it takes you less than a few minutes to understand what lies behind her confident facade. You recognise the girl who still refuses to go for drinks, hasn’t been on a single date since and flinches at the sound of banging metal.

It hit too close to home whenever you did observe her.

The woman that stands before you tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling as she repeats her question that you seemed to not catch the first time.

“Do you want me to get the warbags, ma’am?”

Nodding, you watch as she retreats to the armoury, her strides confident as they echo long after she has left.

It’s 40 minutes to lunch when a BOLO alert comes in through dispatch: a teenager reported missing, assumed kidnapped. There’s not much you can do except keep an eye out, as it isn’t really your call.

You catch the strain in Lucy’s shoulders; you see the way she tenses. Before you can think, your hand is reaching out, knuckles rubbing unsurely against her own. She startles and looks at you.

Mustering a smile that you hope comes off as comforting, you speak.

“I’m here, Lucy; I get it.”

Clearly, she correctly infers what you refer to, as is made obvious by her response.

You know she can’t help the scoff that escapes her, followed by words that you’re not entirely sure are appropriate to say to your superior officer. 

“You get it? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you knew how it felt to be drugged and kidnapped by a guy you went on a damn date with.”

You understand her ire. Why she iterates her words like she wants them to hurt.

You wear a solemn expression, eyes softening at her outburst. She’s not alone; that’s something you want her to know.

“No...but I do know how it feels to be betrayed by a man you thought you could trust.”

Her lips part as she takes in a deep breath, having been unprepared for your reply.

You take it as your cue to continue.

“I had just hit P2; Tim was my partner at the time. It started off as a normal week, only with far more arrests than usual. So many more arrests that I just kept getting under my belt. My name was the one front and centre on the reports; Tim let me put it as primary on most occasions.”

Lucy drops her gaze as you continue, your voice level as opposed to what you were seemingly confessing.

“That Friday, right at the end of the shift, the watch commander called me into his office. I remember my chest bubbling with what I deemed was excitement. You know? The kind you feel when you know you’re about to receive praise? The kind that you think is well deserved.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out where this was going to go, and lucky for you, Lucy Chen was nothing short of just that.

Her throat bobs as she gulps before you resume.

“I think...the moment I stepped into his office, something shifted. That’s probably when I should’ve known what my gut was trying to tell me. It wasn’t praise that I was called for, and I know it felt so apparent at that moment. Lucy, when—”

You choke on your own words before swallowing, the remains of your doubts going down with them.

“—when he—well… I—I froze. My feet just glued themselves to the tiles and refused to move. It took me months before I could even think I was okay again.”

You take a second to look over at the woman; it’s as if you can see the gears in her head turning at the revelation. You can also make out the faint traces of guilt swimming in her eyes.

“I—I had no idea, ma’am—”

You cut her off before she can begin to profusely apologise, taking her hand in yours fully.

“I’m not telling you this because I want you to feel bad, Officer Chen. I’m telling you this because I want you to know that you’re not alone.”

She nods once, and you take that as your cue to return your hands to the steering wheel before you begin driving. The rest of the shift is quiet, but this time it’s not discomfort in the air; it’s a mutual recognition, one that eases your nerves for the time being.

It’s safety.

Talking helps. You note.

The forty minutes pass by quickly, and you pull into the parking near the circle of food trucks. Lucy exits the shop to go have lunch with the other rookies, and you stay behind for a bit, assuring her you’ll eat soon.

You heave a sigh once the passenger-side door closes, palms coming to rest flat on your lap. You know you’ll have to face Tim one way or another, but after how you woke up that morning in your bed, with no sign of him anywhere in your home save for the washed plates beside your sink, you’re not sure you want to.

It’s begrudgingly that you leave the shop too, your feet bringing you to the all-too-familiar table that you share with the usual group. Angela and Nyla are engrossed in a conversation that you’re sure you would want no part in. 

Tim sits beside them, staring deeply at the empty chair beside them. It’s not long before your eyes shift to the plate placed in front of it, a steaming portion of your usual order. It takes you another moment to register that it’s for you, too mild for his taste and straying a little too far from Angela and Nyla’s orders.

As if on cue, Tim’s head lifts as he stares directly at you, leaving you feeling like nothing but a deer in headlights. You take a cautious step forward, and the sides of his lips quirk up a small amount, the smile subtle but still there.

You smile fully at him as you pull out the chair, drawing the attention of the two previously conversing officers. They give you smiles of their own before including you in the conversation—albeit against your will—as you dig into the plate of food set in front of you.

You don’t miss the way Tim smiles to himself, a look of pride and hope blooming across his face.

You don’t acknowledge it either. It’s now that you realise why he wasn’t there that morning.

It wasn’t abandonment, just a simple gesture that was just…him.

It was him giving you the space you so desperately needed.

~~~~~~~

There's a different kind of panic surging through the station today. Officers walking from one corner to the other in haste, files shuffling loudly and piling onto large stacks of cases on desks, and phones ringing, overflowing with tips.

The case of the missing teenager from last shift is in full swing. It’s been a while since the station has had to come together for an emergency of this level. It was only after the threat had been identified as a previously cold case of an at-large serial killer that Grey had authorised such overtime.

The kidnapped girl from yesterday's shift turned out to be much more than a typical teenage kidnapping case. Traces of her presence were found at the diner she went missing from: a broken bracelet found near the sewers, a torn piece of sequin fabric at the foot of a flight of stairs,

And most obvious of all, a pendant.

Not just any pendant, a pendant in the very recognisable shape of an orchid flower. The same kind that was found on the site of a serial killer from three years ago.

They named him the Orchid Killer for obvious reasons, but the killings had stopped after three strenuous months. However, this pendant was deemed so rare that it could only indicate the revival of this old case.

Your fingers are playing with the hair that has come loose from your bun, twisting and turning in repetitive motions. In front of you lies an open case file, having scanned its contents several times. You’re on your fourth reread when Tim’s voice cuts through the chaotic stream of voices otherwise holding your attention.

“Dispatch reported a red hatchback belonging to our suspect heading east on South Boulevard. We’re sending in officers now. Chen, Nolan, you’re with them.”

Continuing to list off at least five other officers, Tim says your name last, telling you you’re with him, and giving you a nod of his head as you hurry to close the file and grab the warbags. The thought of finding that girl dead—or worse—has you spiralling into a world of your own.

You close your eyes for a moment to collect your thoughts.

You don’t realise when you start counting again, as Tim appears beside you seemingly out of nowhere.

Your eyes flutter open at the feeling of his palm pressing into your shoulder, seeing him standing right in front.

“Counting?” he mouths, his gaze dropping to follow the movement of your lips.

You nod as he moves his hand back to his side. He doesn’t stop you, he doesn’t rush you either. Instead, he begins to count with you, picking up where you falter and doing it out loud.

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

An unspoken understanding passes between the two of you, and you almost smile at the thought as you feel your nerves calming themselves.

~~~~~~~~

The station has calmed in the days that follow the arrest of the orchid killer.

Shifts don’t feel as rushed, and you seem to be easing into your previous routine. Roll call no longer feels like it stretches on, the patrols feel lighter, and there is an air of calm to your overall demeanour.

You credit part of that to Tim.

To the little things he has done for you without asking, the changes he has made that seem so subtle yet are apparent to you, and only you.

The days he leaves an extra coffee on your desk, the way he always keeps a safe distance when you converse, the way he always leaves the exit free when in a room together.

It all adds up, and little by little, a little becomes a lot.

It has been exactly three weeks since the night of the argument, and with each day following his unannounced presence at your apartment, it seems that there is an air of understanding between the two of you now.

More shared smiles, more soft touches.

More…him.

So you take your own advice and find yourself leaning against a familiar truck in the parking lot at the end of your shift. Waiting to catch a pair of cerulean orbs leaving glass doors of the station. You feel his presence before he makes himself known, watching as he shifts his bag to rest on his shoulder. 

His eyes widen the slightest bit when you meet them. Your lips quirk up on their own accord, unable to contain your joy at seeing him.

“Hey...” 

His brows are furrowed as he speaks, and you understand why. He’s thinking about why you’re here…and more importantly, he’s wondering if you are ready to talk yet.

Luckily for him, you answer just that.

A beat passes as hesitation crosses your features; your hands are stumbling over themselves, picking at the dry skin at the base of your fingernails.

“I— Uh… I think I’m ready to talk.”

He nods once at your suggestion, gesturing to the door of his truck as he himself moves to the other side to unlock it. You climb in soon after, resting your hands on your lap, silently begging them to stay still as you rehearse the words you want to say.

You can feel his gaze on the side of your head. You can feel the patience that radiates off of him, lingering softly in the air inside the truck. The engine is turned off, its hum having ceased as soon as you stepped inside.

You take another deep breath to brace yourself for the words you're about to say; even the fifty trial runs you gave yourself don't seem to be enough.

Talking helps. You recall before you speak.

“When you—when we.”

You correct yourself before he misinterprets it.

“When we argued and you grabbed my wrist. My body thought it was somewhere else.”

That one sentence seems to have stolen all the breath from your lungs. And you will yourself to repeat one thing in your head like a mantra.

Talking helps.

Out of your periphery, you see Tim nod slowly, one of his hands moving to clutch your own shaky ones. Successfully grounding you with one move.

His touch doesn't feel dangerous. It's softer than you remember. 

It probably was this soft that day too. You think.

He breaks the silence before you can speak any more.

“You don't have to explain anything.”

He follows it up with your name, and there's something different about the way he says it. It's so gentle, so kind. You find it hard to even think about how you pushed him away that day.

You turn your head to look at him as your vision begins to blur. You can hardly make out the smile on his face through your tears.

A gentle touch of his knuckles on your cheek has the dam breaking. Your tears begin to cascade down your cheeks in full motion, and Tim furrows his brows in concern once again.

It's hard to tell him that it's joy that you're crying in, not pain and certainly not fear.

He never really needs you to, though. His other hand reaches up and cups the side of your face as his eyes stare longingly into yours.

There's an unsaid apology in them, one you refuse to even acknowledge.

You move forward to lay your forehead against his, your breaths mingling, falling into the same rhythm.

Apologies aren't needed when it's you and Tim. When it's safe.

It's Tim. And it's safe.

And the few remaining ashes blow away entirely.

All because he chose to stay.

-fin-.

General taglist: @desikudisworld @iamgayforyourmom1510

Tysm for reading, as always, reblogs are the heart of tumblr, if you liked this fic, a reblog would mean the world to me.

The sun peeked from within the blue curtains, threatening to make its appearance on another morning in Alexandria.

You moved your gaze from the ceiling towards the old wall clock, its dial turning in rapid motions. 

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

It was early.

Your eyes moved on their own accord, glancing at the man sleeping soundly beside you. His chest rose and fell as his eyelids twitched ever so often. He looked peaceful, as much as he could.

Your eyes traced the hair on his chest, peeking from beneath the covers, the scars littering his shoulders, and the soft breaths escaping him slowly. Memories of the night before flooded your mind, a glance down only confirming what you thought.

‘Third night in a row.’

I sit and watch you,

And notice everything you do or don't do

You're so much older and wiser and I,

You and Daryl were something. Everyone would agree. Those from the farm had seen you bicker and quarrel. Even before, at the quarry, when you’d sit by yourselves near a fire separate from the others, it meant something.

Somewhere within the hushed whispers and the stolen kisses, he became yours and you became his. That much was clear.

Your hands moved with practiced ease, rubbing the soft material only harder over your gun barrel, cleaning the walker blood from yesterday's expedition. The prison walls were cold; your bare shoulder pressed hard against the one beside your bunk. Brows scrunched in concentration as you fought against a particularly stubborn stain.

A grunt caught your attention; you knew it was him. It had to be; that's how he announced his presence to you. More than he did for anyone else.

“I got this fer ‘ya” his southern drawl lingering in the words.

It was only then that you glanced at his outstretched palm, fingernails caked with dirt and blood that you only hoped was not his own. A ring lay in his palm, a silver band. You swore there were some hasty-looking engravings on its inside, though it was too far to tell for sure.

 A sly smirk graced your face before you could think much of it.

“What? You’re proposing already? At least buy me a drink first.”

You could see his features twitch, trying to refrain from showing his amusement; his next words were casual and soft. Too soft for it to mean anything, but that never stopped your mind from wandering.

“Please, ya’ barely old enough ta’ drink as it is.”

You scoffed, eyes flitting to the teasing look on his face, and you stood up before you could think, leaving the now dirty rag and your gun on your bunk. Crossing your arms over your chest, you held your head high.

“I’ll have ya know that I’ve been well over that age for eight years.”

He didn't miss the way you mocked his words, emphasising the redneck with a jut of your chin.

The exchange felt longer ago than you'd like to admit.

The prison had long since fallen, and as many around you would take note, so had you.

Your flirty comments, sly teasing, and words that riled him up just the right amount, had dimmed. His kind gestures, reserved only for you, going down with them.

~

The cool metal of the ring brought you back to your senses; the pad of your thumb brushed against it. His voice caught your attention from what felt like the far end of the room.

“Ya’ still have that?”

A pause followed his words, his eyes lingering on your face and yours lingering on your finger, the silver band reflecting the dim candles from the house. When you didn't reply, Daryl filled the silence with noise of his own, accompanying it with somewhat of a smile.

“I didn’t take ya’ out for drinks.” 

There's humour in his voice, something you don't seem to find in the situation.

 It only reminds you just how much older he is. How much wiser.

I wait by the door like I'm just a kid

Use my best colors for your portrait

Lay the table with the fancy shit.

"I made dinner."

The sound of Daryl's boots trudging from the doorstep filled the quiet of your home. His rough grunts followed, clouding the room in their echoes.

"Not hungry."

His answer wasn’t unexpected; you’d grown accustomed to it over the many nights he returned from hunting. He said it was to feed the small town, but you knew better; you always did. You knew it was to blow off steam and put his mind elsewhere, from what or whom you didn't know. Maybe it wasn’t even the hunting that he went out for.

He didn't notice the way your shoulders slumped or how your smile didn't reach your eyes as you nodded. Only carried himself further into the small bedroom.

You watched his figure retreat, the angel wings on his back bringing forth a pain in your chest. Something you tried so hard to hide, so hard to let go.

The irony wasn't lost on you. You and hunting; two sides of the same coin.

Both tossed for the same purpose.

And watch you tolerate it 

"Is that it!? A quick fuck, Daryl?"

You could feel your anger rising, the heat flowing through your body. You don't recall what made you put words to your thoughts. Perhaps it was the routine that you two had fallen into. Maybe it got too predictable. 

Maybe that's why you snapped.

Daryl let out a sigh, followed by a muttered string of curses, and he moved to stand in front of you, towering over you with a furrow in his brows.

He observed your face, eyes landing on the frown of your own that was starting to form. Taking a deep breath, he braced his hands on either side of your face, noting the way your eyes softened at the touch.

“It ain’t like that, y’know it. I know yer angry, tha’s got you talkin’, not thinkin’.”

You averted your eyes, choosing to look at the ground instead. He followed your gaze, ducking his head to peer at your eyes, leaving you little to no choice but to look at him again. With your attention on him, he spoke.

“We’ll talk about this later, okay? We will.”

His hands cradled the back of your neck, so tender, like there is no place else he’d rather be. So gentle, you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes. You savoured the feeling when his lips met your head in a kiss that, this time, wasn't born out of desire.

Later never came.

If it's all in my head, tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

I know my love should be celebrated.

“It’s not healthy! You don’t know if he’s even out there, Daryl. Dead body or not, staying out there only puts your life on the line. Why can’t you understand that!?”

A frustrated, jerky head nod followed your words, your hands balling into fists at your side. A sigh preceded Daryl's next words as if he was carefully considering them. As if he wasn’t about to leave the safety of the community. And for what? In search of the man everyone long presumed to be dead!?

“But I have to try. Ya’ know I do.”

Daryl didn’t meet your eyes when he said that, choosing instead to stare piercingly at the gravel beneath his feet, his lip curling up the smallest bit. There was a desperation in his voice, one that you chose to ignore.

No other sounds followed his declaration, his boots thudding as they carried him out the open gates. He didn't look back, only rolled his shoulders with a huff, pulling his crossbow to his back and holstering his knife before swinging his legs over the motorcycle.

You swore you saw a pause before it, a moment of hesitation. Like he was considering it. But you knew better; you always did. The same conversation has happened a hundred times, mostly in your head.

The outcome never strays from this.

But you tolerate it.

The arguments subside as the days turn to months. Before, eventually, they stop altogether. Winter rolls around. It becomes a routine. The reunions feel longer and more overdue with every visit. The goodbyes hurt a little less each time.

“Be careful out there.”

“Always am.”

His reply comes out mumbled. Short and heavy, as if he shoulders all the weight in the world. He never does meet your eyes when leaving. And you never do tell him how it feels to watch him not turn around.

And the smallest part of you hopes that it's guilt.

I greet you with a battle hero's welcome

I take your indiscretions all in good fun

I sit and listen

I polish plates until they gleam and glisten

You can feel your heart hammering in your chest; moreover, he feels it. He feels the steady thump he has grown to recognise over the years. It quickens as you feel his arms around you tighten.

“It’s not your fault.”  You don't recognise your voice as you repeat the words like a broken record. 

His body racks with the sobs, muffled by your chest as he lets himself feel. Truly feel, this time. Your hand caresses the back of his neck, the other rubbing gentle circles on his shoulder.

You feel his breathing quiet, but he doesn't let go just yet. And you hope he plans to hold on a little longer.

It ends how it always does.

When the sun peeks through the curtains once again the new day begins like it always does. With you in his bed, his arm draped over your bare waist as his breath fans the back of your neck. He’s fast asleep; you’re wide awake. 

How it always is

And watch you tolerate it.

"I met someone."

Carol’s head snapped towards the redneck, who was focusing his attention on sharpening one of his bolts as if the words he had just uttered were nothing to mull about.

"What?"

Her confusion was evident, but something told Daryl that she had heard what he said, and he’d be right. Not wanting to repeat himself, his head moved to the side as he continued.

"Shes nice…got a dog."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable; Daryl never acknowledged his words again. He had something to tell Carol, and he did. 

To him, that was it.

You're so much older and wiser and I

I wait by the door like I'm just a kid

Use my best colors for your portrait

Lay the table with the fancy shit

"You're back?"

You can feel the heat of the sun beating against your back, sweat beading at your shoulder blades, and a few drops running down your spine. Your hands cradle each other, thumb picking at the new scabs you’ve acquired over the week. 

A run gone wrong. 

A nick on the side of a broken shelf. 

A punch thrown in anger at the wall.

"Jus' for a bit, gonna get back out there; here to check on carol, see how things are."

His response is quick; different from the other times, it’s uneasy and filled with shame. Even in your anger you don't fail to notice that.

"Okay...yeah, okay." 

Your words are breathy; you can feel your heart picking up its pace again. You don't hide how it hurts, you don't try to show it either.

‘Check on Carol. Okay. He doesn't have to check on you. It's okay.’ You tell yourself.

But it's not.

A part of you wishes, begs, that it was you he'd stay for once. That the longing stares and fleeting touches could mean more.

That maybe, just maybe, you'd be more than his girl. That you’d mean more than ‘his girl.’

If it's all in my head, tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

I know my love should be celebrated

But you tolerate it

“So, what’s up with her?”

Carol's voice startles him; he jumps the smallest bit. There’s teasing in her tone, hard to miss.

Daryl knows who she's talking about; he knows it's not the woman he spoke to her about last month.

He knows it's you from the way her lip curls upwards and her eyes trace back to the third house on the block, the one that had blue steps on the porch instead of the usual white. Your house. 

The porch that he helped paint.

He’s sitting on the grass, his arms thrown carelessly over his bent knees, hand twirling around a flower stem he picked up off the grass.

“Nah, it ain’t like tha’.”

She takes a beat before plopping down on the grass beside him, her eyes wide, brows furrowed in mock concentration as she studies the man beside her.

“Like what?”

She’s pushing now; it’s obvious even to you, who’s sitting on the other side of the large fence that separates the pair from you, ears straining to listen to their exchange.

"I saw you leave her house in the morning. It was too early for it to be a friendly chat." 

She continues, her words losing all humour as the sentence goes on.

"I don't—we—nah...I don' like her, okay? It's not like that. It’s just—”

He sighs before he finishes.

“—just is."

That seems to be enough for your legs to stand up on their own, book discarded on the wet grass. Your feet carry you further away until their voices are just a murmur in the distance, nothing more.

Carol pauses, the gears in her head turning. She searches for a reply, landing on a question in its stead.

"What are you protecting her from, Daryl? What's stopping you?"

He looks at her again, this time holding her gaze.

A silent answer lingers in the air. She knows what it means. It makes her pull him into her side with a sigh of her own.

'Myself'

While you were out building other worlds, where was I?

Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?

"You're leaving again?"

A few seconds pass, seconds you'd swear feel like days. You’re sure he won't even answer; you’re prepared for him not to.

"I have to keep lookin’ "

A sharp inhale. A beat.

You don’t look up this time.

"No, I…"

You know your words are stuck in your throat. The conversations have dulled; there is little room left in your heart for the ache of it all. Little room left for waiting, holding on, hoping.

“...I get it."

You don’t wait by the gates for him to leave this time.

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky

Now I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life.

The next time he returns, you don't greet him at the gate either. You don't rush over at the rev of his motorcycle. You don't glance out the window.

His presence only makes itself known when the air carries his scent through your front door, the familiar thumps of his boots echoing against the carpet.

The same scent clings to your bedsheets when you wash them the next morning.

Drawing hearts in the byline

Always taking up too much space or time

You assume I'm fine

"You're married?"

It wasn't phrased like a question; the lady saw it as a means to start up a conversation. She was new at Alexandria, another survivor of the many that had taken to joining the small community.

"Huh?" Your response was instinct, an admission to the lack of thought that you’d given to your current work partner.

"The ring? It's pretty." 

You don't blame her; you know how it looks, and you can get where she's coming from. But that doesn't stop the shame from creeping up your neck, your stomach tightening.

"No, uhm..." 

Your response comes out choked, eyes darting between the metal on your finger and the woman in front. The air suddenly feels too heavy, the ring even heavier on your finger.

"We're not...—not really, uhm—"

You clamp your mouth shut, pursing your lips. Your mind raced between the things you could possibly say to her.

The woman gives a tight-lipped smile, squeezing your left hand before resuming her task.

You sense pity on her face. You know what she assumes, what everyone does.

And as you slide the ring off to let it drop into your back pocket, only one word loops in your head, over and over.

‘Stupid’

Not knowing that your hand had missed your pocket entirely.

The faint clink of the metal hitting gravel is drowned out by the groans of walkers outside the fence. Pushing.

Pushing.

But what would you do if I, I

Break free and leave us in ruins

Took this dagger in me and removed it

Gain the weight of you, then lose it

There’s a palpable silence in the room. The only sounds are his ragged breath bouncing off the stone walls. And the soft crackle of the flames in the fireplace. The cold outside penetrates your home, burning the skin at your knuckles and turning each breath of yours to mist.

There’s a faint murmur of laughs outside the door; the children are playing. It’s their first snow in Alexandria in a while; their giggles and words, though unintelligible, do little to bring comfort within the place. It feels colder inside than it should; the fire is burning, and the windows are closed. 

You wonder if it’s you. If the guilt, the fear, and the shame are what make this visit different from the rest.

You glance at him once. Then twice. Until you choose to set your eyes on his figure.

It’s slouched, curling towards himself like he was protecting something, something dear.

His hand is resting over his crossbow, his finger lying lazily beside the trigger. The other in his pocket. His eyes are staring at the window, which is fogged up and frosted over. You can see his eyes follow Judith, and Michonne as she cradles RJ in her arms.

You don’t speak; neither of you do. Your shirt—his shirt—hangs loosely off your shoulder, the lacy tank top visible underneath. The sheets on your bed are ruffled, hastily put back in their place.

Even in the dim light of the bedroom, you can see his throat bob up and down as he swallows. The words were dying on his tongue before he had a chance to let them escape.

You flit your eyes elsewhere; you don't see his hand clutching something in his pocket. You don't see the faint, round outline beside his fingertips.

You don’t bother breaking the silence this time.

It brings you more comfort than you’d admit.

Believe me, I could do it.

You know you’re in for nothing short of a lecture when you hear the sound of Carol's feet stomping over the dry leaves behind you. You know it’s her because you had caught her gaze earlier this morning before you left the house. His house.

You prepare yourself for an earful, a sigh, or even a distasteful joke.

What you don’t expect is her hand reaching out to put something in yours. The cold metal stings your hands before you can retract them.

You roll it around again, not recalling when it left your being. You know what she implies, what the furrow of her brows means, and what the scowl on her face indicates.

You swallow the bile rising in your throat at the thought. You don’t say anything; she is the one that breaks the silence.

“You’re only hurting yourself.”

She sounds sincere, concerned for a friend who has found themself too far gone into a place they cannot return from.

You knew it wasn’t a lie. You knew it all wasn’t in your head. You knew it. So why?

Somewhere along the way, between the rigid body, the calloused hands, and the gruff demeanor, you had found something that was rarer than an undead in this world.

You were his, and he was yours…right?

The glances turned to something more, something deeper, something so hard to miss that it would have you replay the moments over and over until your heart stopped pounding and your head had had enough.

You knew it. You believed it.

So why did the woman standing a foot to your right, the ring in your palm, and the man at the brink of your mind all make you think otherwise?

Could you? Leave—that is.

You could. 

If you wanted to.

If it's all in my head tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

I know my love should be celebrated

But you tolerate it

As his lips moved against yours, you knew you shouldn't; every cell in your body wanted to fight against it. Against him.

But your heart. No, no, your heart doesn't let you. 

Your hands trace his arms, trained with years of mastering his crossbow and twisting the throttle on his bike. Arms that held you when you were sick, when you’d returned from a run, and even when you had given up on the world.

Your eyes travelled, moving between every inch of his body and his face, committing it all to memory.

His hands. The ones that wiped your tears when you lost your sister. His lips—the ones that kissed away all your worries. His eyes that held so much emotion, emotion he refused to show otherwise.

Your hands glide to his neck, touching the hair on his nape. His hands found your waist, not taking a moment to break the kiss. Like a dance only the two of you knew. Rehearsed so many times, over and over.

You don't know how or when your back hit your bed, falling down with him on top of you. When his lips found your neck or his hand found purchase on the skin on your inner thigh. The other gliding down your back, easing you into the bed.

Every inch of your mind repeated one thought. One prayer. Him.

~

It ended how it always did. Began the same next morning.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Third year in a row.

I sit and watch you.

~~~

General taglist: @desikudisworld @iamgayforyourmom1510Tags for this fic: @maciswack

Tysm for reading, as always, reblogs are the heart of tumblr, if you liked this fic, a reblog would mean the world to me.

The crisp air of the winter morning seems to jolt Remus awake as he stands with his arms folded over the railing.

Sleep, it never came to him easy, his lycanthrophy paired with the constant chronic pain that pestered him was what led to his insomnia.

To say he hasn't been able to sleep well the past 13 years, would be an understatement. 

But now, after talking to his child, his son, his flesh and blood, that he didn't know he had.

Sleep comes even more seldom.

Footsteps echo behind him, they're familiar.

Moving in a rhythm perhaps only Remus himself could recognise.

“What is it, Pads..?” He finds himself speaking before he can think.

He can hear air leaving Sirius's nose as he huffs a laugh.

The wind howls louder, seemingly cutting through the tension that had resided over the pair.

“Here to tell me how shitty I was?” a smile stretches across his face, yet his words don't imply the same.

“You know better than anyone, i wouldn't” 

Sirius rests his hands on the railing, next To his best friend. The cold picks his skin and he winces ever so slightly before continuing. 

“What is it? Did you sleep at all last night?”

Sirius knew Remus had the tendency to lock himself in solitude, think over things in silence and forget that he has a life.

Sirius also knew that he couldn’t do it alone.

Remus’s mouth opens, yet no words come out. He lets out a huff and his mouth closes once again. 

A sigh accompanies the tapping of Sirius’s fingers. His question was left unanswered.

“She named him after my brother…” 

He introduces something new, something to pave the way for the “elephant in the room”

“...he’s a good kid, from what I can tell. Like you, have you seen the number of books he has in this room alone? Godric, that kid is spoiled”

Remus’s brows furrow at that, Sirius isn't here to talk about books or Regulus's likeness. He knows that he ought to receive a lecture. But what could he do but wait as Sirius gathered his thoughts.

“Just say it, what you came here for. You’re not one to beat around the bush are you?”

Remus feels his face get warm, a tingle that spreads through his nose and cheeks. He wants to cry. Cry like a little kid, sob in his lover's arms.

And yet you’re so far away.

Perhaps it is shame that flows through him, or guilt, maybe hatred. That he doesn’t know.

Sirius’s next words feel cautious, yet they’re the most someone has understood Remus without his own words.

"He may be your kid, moony. But you're not his father yet."

Remus’s eyes widened at that, the bitter truth that he hoped would never reach his ears.

But he’s right, Remus was no father, merely a stranger, an old professor, a coward.

Sirius would know, he had grown up with a father that never felt like one. 

Those feelings have long been forgotten though, as now he walks past his father's portrait in the hall with a smug smirk on his face, seemingly proud of himself for having tarnished the family name.

Remus heaves a sigh, blinks back tears and nods.

The wind continues to howl, that it never stops.

“Regulus come downstairs, everyone is waiting!”

Your voice echoes through the staircase, all the children were already at the table, awaiting breakfast.

Begrudging footsteps follow the warning call as Regulus, still angry, follows the Weasley twins downstairs.

“Thank you, boys” you offer to the twins before turning to your son.

His eyes are wide, red. He had been crying, you conclude.

You reckon yours aren't in much better condition either. After what happened last night, the thoughts of being a bad mother plagued you more than you’d like to admit.

He stares at you for a moment, then silently sits at the far end of the table.

Remus and Sirius shuffle down the stairs after, you give them a reprimanding look that Sirius immediately ignores and goes to talk to his nephew. Leaving you and Remus in the hallway.

“Breakfast is ready, go sit down, I'll get you a plate.”

You feel your face flush, memories of you crying in your husband's arms flood your mind.

It hurts, you conclude.

Your son doesn’t want to speak to you, perhaps rightfully so, you don’t want to talk to your husband, yet you yearn for him and there seems to be a fine line between forgiveness and closure. 

You toe the line, from which side you do not know, but it hurts.

Yes, it hurts.

Breakfast ends with a discussion of the order's responsibilities. They still leave you somewhat out of the loop, to them you're a host, in Sirius's childhood home. Nothing more.

Remus's figure floats into your view, his auburn hair blocking your vision.

His eyes travel searchingly across the room, everyone shuffling out as the meeting comes to an end.

You stare at him, knowing he has something to say. Him biting his lip and tapping his fingers gives that much away.

“Well?”

You initiate, trying to let your stubbornness subside as you hold his gaze.

His mouth opens decisively, a sigh follows after.

“Can we talk?”

You feel your eyes widen, and before you can respond he gets up and walks towards the living room, presumably expecting you to follow.

You do so with little to no hesitation.

The fire crackles with glowing embers, ease as you settle on the plush of the living room sofa.

Remus’s figure occupying an armchair directly across as you wait for him to talk.

“I talked to Regulus”

He says, his words Hurried, like you'd leave the moment he brought up the topic.

Giving out a moment of thought you replied sharply.

“I told you, Lupin, do as you please-”

“Don't call me that.”

He cuts you off, an old habit of his, you recall.

A scoff escapes your lips before you can register.what he says. A witty reply following suit.

“It's your name.”

Your brows furrow In what you can only assume is anger, You wouldn't dare feel anything else for the man.

“Not to you…”

He pauses, taking a breath.

“…Dove”

At that you feel yourself grow hot, embarrassment flowing through your blood, making you sigh before standing up. The couch squeaks, as your footsteps echo across the polished marble floors.

“oh! please do call me that, doesn’t bother me at all”

An eye roll accompanies your words, laced with sarcasm.

And although Remus cannot see your face he imagines it to be just that. Sassy.

A sad smile tugs at his lips as he too gets up, following at your heels.

He joins you by the open window, the wind has subsided to a calmer flow.

He maintains a rather respectful distance as he too, leans over the railing, a mirror image of your stance.

A moment of vulnerability, you realise. Something you never thought you'd have again.

You wonder if you'd forgive him. You think of Regulus, his eyes when he knew the truth.

How much you've been through these 12 years.

How much you've grown.

“What do you want me to call you then, dove?”

You look up to him at that, disdain evident on your face. It melts away at his smile. How genuine it is makes you laugh.

“Y/n would be nice” you hold his gaze while you reply.

Defeated he nods, as the both of you look over at the horizon once again.

The sun is setting now, casting a golden glow over the two of you.

“Y/n…”

His velvety voice catches your attention. You turn your head to him, only to see him not looking at you. You’re sure he’s seen your movement though, as he takes it as his que to continue.

Nothing. Nothing could brace you for the words that were to follow.

“I love you.” Your eyes widen. He continues.

"I have never been able to forgive myself, I left you and I was a terrible person– am a terrible person but– I love you, Please give me another chance."

Your eyes flicker away from him, thinking of a way to phrase your thoughts.

Remus's eyes are downcast, taking your silence as rejection, ire even.

Taking a deep breath, you move forward, taking his hand in yours.

"Remus...You've done something so, so unforgivable. You left me remus, I hated you for it, hated myself for it...." you almost don't recognise your voice as you speak. 

As he opens his mouth to respond, you give his hand a squeeze, showing that you're still talking.

"...but to you...? I would give a thousand chances."

You can almost hear it, the rhythmic palpitations of your heart, how they speed up as his hands squeeze yours back, and speed up even more as he leans forward.

Your instincts force you to take a step back. Remus, though cautious, fails to get the memo.

"Dove...I- I promise, I will make it up to you. I will, just wait"

Your heart still yearns for him, his solemn touch, his wrinkly smile, his broken laugh.

He can see the love you hold for him in his eyes, or so he thinks.

In a movement as swift as a fox, Remus swoops forward and almost presses his lips to yours.

Almost.

You let out a choked noise and back away, putting distance between the two of you.

For good.

"Remus, can-"

He panics for a moment, it's reflected in his eyes.

"I- Uhm- sorry. I don't know- actually, i wasn't- You know...thinking"

A hum from you is what he gets in return.

"Can we- can we take it slow?" 

You ask cautiously, still catching your breath.

"Yeah, yeah of course. I should've asked, I'm so- so- sorry. God i fucked up already huh?"

Remus replied, a pathetic chuckle at the end of his sentence. 

"Uhm...it's okay, really."

In a world of boys he's a gentleman.

“D- Uh, Y/n..I had to ask…uhm..is regulus a…is he? Uh like me?”

You try to connect the dots, you always had a knack for finishing his sentences.

“A lycanthrope? Remus?”

All Remus musters us is a nod, his eyes are glassy, there’s the smallest glimmer of hope in them.

A shrug follows his movement, unable to provide a clear answer.

Your heart breaks for the man. Yet you still hate him.

Lies.