Henry Cavill

Despite being able to tell behind your closed eyelids that the room is half-filled with sunlight, it takes you a while to truly wake up the next morning. You’re just so comfortable, surrounded by tons of fluffy pillows and laying underneath a giant duvet that’s so soft you feel like you're cocooned in the clouds. You’re subconsciously scooting yourself closer to Sy when you suddenly realize that he’s not on the side of the bed he usually sleeps on–it’s all backwards–and your eyes pop open. 

To your right, there he is, already awake and quietly watching television with two big pillows shoved behind his neck. As you lift your arms high above your head in an audible stretch, he looks down at you with a fond expression. “Mornin’.”

You return the greeting through a yawn. “Forgot where I was for a second,” you say in a gritty voice, moving closer to him. “Thought we were in bed at home.”

He lifts his arm when you match your body up with his. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mmhm.” You rest your face on his bare chest. “This is nice, too.”

Trying to be lazy while you can, you close your eyes again. You have plans with your family practically all day, and all related to food: you’re having brunch with your grandparents, then a late lunch at your mom’s house, and last, supper with your dad. Loosely cuddling under the covers, you and Sy are in no rush to get the day started. 

Instead, you drink hotel coffee together, watch TV, and quietly relay last night's events, focusing on the fun times with your friends and not the other Unpleasant Thing that happened. You’re happy that Sy seemed to hit it off with everyone so well, like he literally just fit right in. That’s never happened before, not so naturally. You goad him to share some of the conversations he had with the guys while you were hanging out with the girls, but he’s not very talkative about it, though, and you roll your eyes.

Afterwards, you and Sy kiss for a bit, just sleepy little closed-mouth things that don’t lead anywhere though they probably could. You wouldn’t have a problem with it, at least, even if it’d make you late for brunch. After watching him go all alpha-male last night, you honestly want to hop on his lap to show your gratitude. Or go to your knees. You aren’t picky.

Maybe as a way to decompress from everything that’d happened the night before, you and Sy lay around in bed way longer than usual. Finally, you have to accept that you can’t stay there all day, though, and you drag yourself out from underneath the covers with a groan. While Sy continues watching the news, you shower, then do your hair and makeup, then get dressed. By the time you're almost done, Sy’s just finishing his own shower, yet somehow, you're both entirely ready to head out at the same time. 

By the hotel door, you stop in your tracks. Sy's wearing a nice-fitting pair of dark blue jeans, brown boots, and a sweater that's pushed up to both his elbows. He's holding his large jacket in one hand, showing off his watch on his wrist and cords of muscle along his forearm. Relatively speaking, it’s a nice and casual-looking outfit, but on Sy, it looks like he should be in a magazine ad or something.

Sy lifts an eyebrow. “You alright?”

Slowly, you nod. “You look…really good.”

Sy gives you what you've begun referring to as his Christopher Reeve smile, just a slight uptick at the side of his mouth. “Well, so do you, baby.”

You look down at yourself. You're relatively conservatively dressed in a dark long-sleeved dress and black leggings, but you don't fight the compliment. 

“Necklace looks nice on you,” Sy murmurs next, referring to his Christmas present to you. You reach up and briefly touch it.

He reaches out and fixes the chain where the clasp has fallen from the back to the front, and as you grab your bag and your coat, there’s probably a stupid look on your face. You feel like a real girlfriend. 

Before Sy opens the door, you push yourself up on your tip-toes and give him a kiss–this time, drawing it out since you’ve both brushed your teeth. His eyes show a little confusion at your seemingly random enthusiasm, but he doesn’t speak on it.

Downstairs, you both put toboggans on and bundle up in your coats before heading outside, walking around small crowds of people who sound like home when they talk. Sy decides to take the wheel again and you just give directions, and you’re unable to stop yourself from pointing out more things to him throughout the drive. Where you used to gather to watch fireworks as a child, where you went caroling one time with your first-grade classmates, where your mom got pulled over one time and whisper-yelled at you to put on your seatbelt before the officer came to her window.

“Where're we goin’, anyway?” Sy asks. “Your grandparents’ house?”

“Oh, no, the Cracker Barrel,” you answer. “It's Nanny's favorite. She’s obsessed. Growin’ up, we’d go there on just about every special occasion.”

“Yeah?” Sy offers another one of those small smiles. “MawMaw, too.”

“Now she goes there every single Sunday after church.”

“MawMaw would do that, too, if we had one close enough.”

You hum. “I bet they’d get along real well,” you imagine quietly. 

You spend the rest of the drive mentally picturing your family members in the same room as Sy’s family members. What would they say? How would they act? Would they get along as well as Sy had with your group of friends? You have a feeling they would. Well, everyone except for your dad, at least–but he’s ornery and doesn’t count.

After arriving at the restaurant, Sy finds a parking space and turns off the car, and you give him a tentative smile before getting out. You really hope he’s not internally dreading this. 

Together, you make your way through the chilly parking lot to the front entrance, and a nearby voice calling your name makes you pause. There in a set of rocking chairs sit your grandparents, and you almost gasp. 

“Y’all, it’s freezin’ right now,” you say, almost chiding. “I thought y’all’d be waitin’ inside, not out here.”

Your grandpa gets up first, so you hug him first, and after he helps your grandma stand up, you hug her next. “Nanny, your hands are seriously like ice.”

“Oh, tell me about it.” Your grandma squeezes you through a long hug and then kisses your cheek. “It's so cold the chickens are linin’ up to get in the oven,” she says before giving your grandpa a look, “but your grandfather wanted to sit out here, so.”

“Aw, it ain’t that cold,” your grandpa counters, but their bickering is friendly, so you grin and step back to Sy’s side.

You don’t have to introduce Sy; in moments, he’s introducing himself, giving your grandfather a firm handshake and your grandmother something more light. 

“Well, it’s sure nice to meetcha,” your grandma says, and Sy returns the sentiment before opening the entrance door for everyone while simultaneously taking off his hat.

In the restaurant’s foyer, Nanny gets close to you before Sy is able to step inside. “Well, he’s a right catch,” she whispers to you, and you grin. “How’d you even meet a man like that?”

You want to laugh; the words could easily sound like she’s meanly saying he’s out of your league–which he is–but from her, the question is just funny. You think of the night of the bonfire where you’d almost face-planted into the flames. “Uh…It just sorta…fell in place.”

She takes one of your hands in hers and then covers the top of it with her other hand, softly tapping. You interpret the gesture to be her saying something like I’m happy for you, or–maybe, but hopefully not–don’t mess this up.

Your grandparents are salt-of-the-earth type of people, welcoming and friendly and maybe a little embarrassing–but in a cute way. In true Appalachian style, they honestly speak whatever’s on their mind and have sayings for just about everything, jokes for just about everything, too. Conversation flows easily while you place your orders and wait around for your food to come out, and once it does, everything’s just as natural. 

It’s easy because your grandpa loves talking and telling jokes. Sports and the military are the commonality between him and Sy, so just with that, they bond. Then with your grandma so outwardly curious about Sy–almost to the point of being smitten–she asks question after question after question, keeping any silence sparse. You don’t even get to actually catch up with her about how she’s been recovering from her recent hospital stay or about any of the things going on in your life until you’re outside, prolonging your goodbyes.

“You’re visitin’ your momma after this?” Nanny asks after sharing some of her ongoing medical issues as if discussing the weather.

You nod. “Shame y’all couldn’t make it to her place. We could’ve all just eaten together. Or I guess we could’ve invited her here.”

“Well, I’ve been keepin’ my distance this week,” she evasively says.

“Oh, good grief,” you mutter. “What are y’all arguin’ about now?”

“We’re not arguin’,” your grandma says, and your grandpa makes some sort of face behind her back. “But you know how your mom is. She runs around like a chicken with its head cut off–” again with the chicken analogies– “but it’s just like she’s movin’ around all the time without ever gettin’ anything done.”

“Okay,” you slowly say. Where’s the lie? “...And?”

“That’s it,” your grandma laughs. “I said somethin’ about how she’s gonna stroke out one of these days, and she got upset.”

“Jeez,” you reply. “But you of all people know she’s always been like that, though. Us comin’ to visit right after Christmas probably has her stressin’.” 

“Honey, you got no idea. Stressin’ about the food, stressin’ about the house, stressin’ about what outside her house looks like. I’ve had to hear it for weeks. Now if it was her comin’ over to my house to visit, don’t matter how long it’s been, she’d just have to deal with what it’s like when she got there.”

You frown. “Poor Mom. I just wanted to visit her, not…cause some sorta issue between y’all.”

“If she’d just take her medicine,” your grandma mutters. “But that’s apparently outta the question. It’s either that it makes her stomach hurt, or her head hurt, or she has to take it with food and doesn’t feel like eatin’, on and on.”

You want to comment on how accurate all of those things technically are, but there’d be no point. Your grandma was raised in a different generation, that’s all. She just doesn’t get it. You quickly brush aside the fact that she’d probably judge you, too, for worrying the way you do. 

But she’d say it to your face, at least. There’d be no behind-the-back gossiping. 

“Nanny, she–Be nice. She can’t help it.”

Your grandma’s eyebrows briefly scrunch together in a very worried expression, and she ultimately sighs. “I just want her well. I love her. And I love you, too, honey,” she says before giving you a hug, and then she reaches into her pocket and not-discreetly-at-all slips you a folded up green bill. 

You huff. “Nanny.”

“Merry Christmas,” she just says, ignoring you, then she steps towards Sy and actually hugs him, too. “Now, I’m gonna have me some beautiful great-grandchildren one day, I just know it.”

Your mouth falls open. “Oh, my God, Nanny,” you utter in mortification, but Sy just chuckles, giving her a warm smile. 

“If they get Y/N’s genes,” is his quick reply, and while the area fills with light laughter, your face heats up so much you could probably start sweating, right out here in the cold mountain air. 

“Nice meetin’ you,” your grandpa tells Sy, shaking his hand again, then he turns his attention to you. “Well, doll baby, don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t,” you promise. “But I didn’t even get to talk to you, I feel.”

“Oh, I’m just a borin’ old man,” he brushes off. “Anything worth knowin’, your Nanny’ll tell you.”

You laugh and reach up your arms to hug him, taking in the old-man cologne he’s worn forever. “You make sure he treats you right or you call me,” he whispers into your ear, inconstruable to anyone else.

When you take a step back, you just look at him and offer a small nod. “Love you, Paw.”

“Love you, doll baby,” he parrots. “Y’all drive safe.”

“Yes, sir,” Sy answers, and he lifts a casual hand to wave goodbye.

And like that, you’re on your way back to the car, comfortably full after a nice warm meal. When you’re alone in the car waiting for the engine to heat up, you look at Sy expectantly. 

“What’dju think?” you ask. “It wasn’t horrible, right?”

He grins. “They’re good people.”

“They got weird at the end there,” you mumble around a fingertip in your mouth. “Or Nanny did, at least. I promise she’s not a mean person or anything. She’s just really blunt.”

Sy shrugs. “I didn’t get the impression she’s mean at all. Sorta reminded me of MawMaw.”

Your muscles relax as you lean back against the seat, but you feel like your shoulders are clenched for some reason. You drop your hand from your mouth and try to lower your arms to loosen up, then you keep just sitting there while waiting for Sy to move the car. Apparently, there must be a look on your face because Sy stalls exiting the parking lot in favor of just staring at you. You turn your head inquisitively.

“You good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply right away. 

That answer would satisfy most people, but Sy’s not most people. “What’re you nervous about?”

You shrug. “I really don’t know,” you let out, trying to chuckle at yourself and failing. “I’m keyed up for some reason. Like, my muscles are all tight. And my heart just started thumping. It makes no sense.”

“Wanna go back outside?”

You shake your head. “I’ll breathe through it.”

Sy rolls down your window half-way anyway and patiently waits while you begin taking deep breaths.

“I feel like–I feel like my body thinks something bad is going to happen for some reason.” You bring your thumbnail back up to your lips and begin chewing on the nail. “Does that make sense?”

Sy reaches out and coaxes you to stop biting your nails and he holds your hand with his. “Perfect sense.”

You glance at him dubiously because what you just said did not make sense, and you know it. “Are you just sayin’ that?”

“My job used to literally be waitin’ around for somethin’ bad to happen,” he reminds you. 

“Oh. Right.”

Sy puts his hand on the top of your leg. “Everything’s safe,” he says. 

You take a slow, deep breath. “Yeah,” you agree.

“You’re with me.”

You nod. “I’m with you,” you exhale. “Right.”

“When you’re with me, you’re safe.”

Not caring how childish it may be, you soundlessly repeat that sentence to yourself again, and then again. Everything else dissolves away, because it’s simple: when you’re with Sy, you’re safe. 

You finally feel normality come back like paint being poured on you from above. You shake out your arms a little, take a few more deep breaths, and then–it’s like nothing had even happened. 

“Okay,” you mutter. “I’m good.”

God, you’re so fucking weird. 

Sy squeezes your leg and then moves his hand to the back of your neck where he keeps it for the next few quiet moments. “What do you think was the trigger?”

“I really don’t know,” you honestly say, and you give Sy an almost helpless look. “But I’m okay now.”

He keeps his eyes focused on you, and satisfied with whatever expression’s on your face, he squeezes your neck one last time and then drops his hand to the gear-stick. “Alright.”

As he reverses and looks over his shoulder, he stretches out his right arm along the back of the passenger seat, and you use the opportunity to take in how hot he looks while doing it. Yeah, you’re doing it to keep your mind single-focused on just one thing lest the random panic come back, but in no time, you don’t have to focus on trying to focus. It’s Sy.

When he moves his hand to the gear-stick again, your eyes follow the motion, a little chill running through you at the confident way he puts the car into drive, at the I’m in control of this car vibe that he’s exuding. At the you’re okay ‘cause you’re with me vibe from the ghost of his hand on your neck.

“Y/N,” you hear, and you flick up your eyes to Sy’s. He looks at the road briefly and then back at you.

“You’ve been zonin’ out over there,” he says. “You sure you’re good?”

Your eyes widen for a second, but you smile, almost laughing at yourself. “Totally fine, sorry. Didn’t mean to…be strange. I was just watchin’ you.” Like that didn’t come out weird as shit. 

He comes to a stop-light and lifts an eyebrow. You laugh while rolling up your window.

“Your hands are big, shut up,” you just mutter. “You need to turn left here, by the way.”

He’s got a smug smile on his face as he asks, “Goin’ to your mom’s now?”

You shake your head. “Not yet. We don’t have to get there ‘til, like, two-thirty. I wanna show you a place first.”

“What kinda place?”

You twist your body to face him. “Are you up for a little walk?” you ask. 

-O-

Thirty minutes later, you and Sy find yourselves sitting together on a giant log. The walk is a little longer than just a regular stroll, and there are hills and patches of snow everywhere to deal with, but you find the destination to be worth it. 

The fallen tree trunk, huge enough to even not be decayed by now, is the aftermath of a nasty storm long ago. It rests on a relatively flattened patch of dead grass, and you’d discovered it while hiking one day in high school. That’s when you’d realized that beyond it is the perfect hidden overlook of the mountain ranges nearby–just like those overlooks on the sides of interstate highways where people stop and stand around taking pictures. 

But this view isn’t to be shared. It’s yours. 

The mountains ahead are rolling and expansive, full of dark green pines topped with white snow too stubborn to melt, and all around you are a ton of trees and rocks. Technically, the spot is actually dangerous if you were to walk too far ahead of the log, but that’s another reason you like it: no one else would be stupid enough to spend time here if they didn’t want to slide down the mountain. 

“I used to come out here when I wanted to be alone,” you finally speak up. “This was my spot.”

Sy looks around. “It’s serene.”

“It’s actually really ugly right now,” you admit with a dry chuckle. “Better in the spring and summer. Or fall. Literally any other time but now.”

Sy softly chuckles back but maintains that he likes the view. For a while, you both just sit there, looking around and taking everything in. He keeps his arm wrapped around you, and after you snuggle close to him, you barely talk. With your head resting on his shoulder, you both just…exist together. 

The wind is neither fast nor loud today, so when you feel a quick cold gust of high-pitched air touch your faces and then breeze around to touch the trees around you next, it’s almost like nature’s recognizing your presence in this one particular spot. Like it’s approving that this is now Sy’s spot, too. He's not out of place in your hometown.

Eventually, it’s time to get out of the cold and start actually heading to your mom’s place, though, and you leisurely make your way back to the car while giving Sy a rundown of what to expect from your mom–a lot of outwardly expressed anxiety and sort of neurotic behavior, a lot of talking, but a matching amount of genuine care and thoughtfulness, as well.

As it goes, your mom is already at the front door when Sy pulls up in the driveway, her excitement and nerves evident: she’s smiling, but she keeps smoothing her hands over invisible wrinkles on top of her pants. As you approach the door, though, she holds her arms wide open, and you embrace as long as possible with a bag of presents in one hand. 

Close behind you, Sy takes the bag out of your hand, and you instantly hug your mom strongly, breathing in her familiar scent. “Heyyy, Momma.”

She makes a noise as she rocks you side to side a bit and then steps back. “It’s so good to see you,” she says, then her eyes light up when she looks behind you. “And you must be…Sy, right? That’s what you go by?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers.

“Oh, you don’t have to call me that,” she laughs. “Makes me feel so old.”

Sy’s just holding out his hand when your mom raises both of her arms, her intent obvious, and you take a step aside to let them hug. You meet Sy’s eyes while they briefly embrace, and you smirk a little while raising your eyebrows, giving him a look that says, This is just how she is.

“Come in, come in, get out of the cold, y’all. And don’t look at too much–this place is such a mess,” she says while leading you both into the entirely clean living room. The air smells like lemon cleaner and garlic chicken.

You and Sy take off your jackets, and after you drape one over the loveseat that’s directly to the right of the door, Sy follows suit. Instantly, your mom picks up both coats and opens the closet door directly to your left, and she hangs them up. You’d say something sarcastic to her, but she’d take it as you making fun of her, so you don’t.

“Are you already cookin’?” you ask.

“Yeah,” she answers a little breathlessly as she shuts the closet door, “but I don’t know how good it’s gonna be. I’m tryin’ a new recipe, and you know what they say about that.”

Briefly, you look to the side. “What do they say?”

“Not to try a new recipe when you’re feedin’ people,” she answers like it’s obvious. 

“Oh, just try it out when you’re alone,” you tease, and she nods.

“I’ve gotta check on the chicken real quick,” she says, and she starts walking towards the kitchen. “Excuse me just a second, please. Y’all just make yourselves right at home.”

Sy looks at you. “She’s cute.”

“She’s a mess,” you murmur back, smiling. 

The house is pretty small, just a regular little ranch-style home. Down the hallway leading left, there are a few small bedrooms and one sole bathroom. The living area, dining area, and kitchen are all in one big rectangle shape with a little L-shaped wall separating the kitchen from the main space. Sy is instantly a huge presence in this space.

A console table is to your immediate left, and on the TV, your mom has the Pandora app open playing a Traditional Christmas channel. You smile to yourself as you carry her presents to the little artificial tree she’s kept up beside the dining room table.

“Would y’all like anything to drink?” your mom asks from the kitchen’s doorway. “What can I get y’all? There’re waters in the fridge in here, and I made a pot of coffee earlier, too, if you’d like that.”

“Sure,” you answer, knowing that, despite your lack of thirst, if you were to decline, it’d hurt her feelings. “Coffee’s fine. I can pour it.”

“No–sit, sit,” she says, and then she looks at Sy. “Are you a coffee drinker?”

“Yes–prob’ly too much,” he answers, and you can tell by the little quirk of his mouth that he’s trying to remember not to say ma’am. 

“Oh, tell me about it,” she replies while walking through the living room. “Doesn’t matter the time of day, I’ve got coffee at the ready.”

Your mom starts brushing invisible fibers off the couch’s seats and then again on the perpendicular loveseat. You can tell she’s happy when Sy sits down on the couch, and you take the spot directly beside him. 

“These new pillows look good,” you comment.

“Oh, they’re kinda raggedy now,” she says. “I got them the other year at the after-Christmas sale down the road. You know they still have wrappin’ paper and all types of stuff for less than a dollar? And all sortsa cute decorations, too. Oh, I just miss when you were little. There were all types of crafts for kids at the store the last time I went, like those ornaments you made from clay in second grade. You remember?” 

She walks to the Christmas tree and takes an ornament off, holding it up with a grin. “Isn’t that so cute?” She turns it around. “With the year on the back, look. You had your numbers backwards, but it’s still just so adorable.”

“Talented second-grader,” Sy remarks, and you gently elbow him.

“I can't believe you still have that.”

“‘Course I do,” your mom replies. “I've got totes in the basement full of stuff. Art projects, report cards, all that. Plus about twenty photo albums in the closet over there. You just might catch me gettin’ ‘em out to show Sy.”

You groan. “Oh, please don't.”

As your mom walks off to the kitchen laughing, you lean in closer to Sy and lower your voice. “She seriously drinks about a pot or more to herself every day,” you whisper, trying to explain that her energy right now is a mixture of caffeine and pure anxiety. Not that she’s anxious that you’re here or anything, but anxious that she’s the one who’s hosting. She wants everything to be perfect.

She calls out your nickname, and you look up. “I can never remember what you can and can’t have,” she sticks her head around the corner and says. “No milk, right?”

“Right,” you remind her. 

“I picked up lactose-free milk at the store if you want that?”

You make a guilty face. “Aw, Momma, you didn’t have to go out of your way to buy that,” you tell her. “But it’s not the lactose that I–there’s an actual protein in the milk that I can’t…Anyway, I’m so sorry, but I can’t have that, either.”

“Oh, okay,” she says. “Sy? Is it okay that I keep callin’ you that?”

“Yes,” he answers, his lips pulling together after the word as if he’s about to make the ‘m’ sound. “Sy’s just fine.”

“How do you like your coffee?”

“Black, please.”

“Yuck,” she says good-naturedly. She smiles widely, making you and Sy smile in return. You’ve missed her.

Your mom brings out two cups of coffee at once, and before setting them down, you reach over Sy to get coasters from the side table before she says something. You and Sy thank her at the same time, and though the coffee is still pretty hot, you take a small sip because you know your mom won’t settle down unless you confirm that what she’d prepared for you isn’t outright garbage.

“Too sweet?” she asks. 

“No, it’s great,” you reply honestly, and then she mutters something to herself and goes back into the kitchen. 

When she returns, it’s with a platter of chips, peanuts, crackers, and cheese, all divided into little sections. She sets it out on the coffee table in front of you and then returns with a second platter a few moments later that’s full of fruit. You’re excitedly popping a pineapple chunk in your mouth when you hear some sort of alarm go off in the kitchen. 

Your mom holds up a finger before stepping away. “Ope, one sec.”

She misses the way you heavily sigh. “I’m gonna be right back,” you tell Sy before standing up and walking into the kitchen. 

“What can I help with?” you stand in front of the stove and ask, starting to stir a pot of greens.

“Oh, please, Y/N/N,” she says in a low voice, “I just want y’all to enjoy yourselves.”

“Uh, no,” you instantly reply. “You’ve got, like, five different things goin’ on at once. Did you plan to send us home with leftovers or somethin’?”

“Your boyfriend’s out there alone,” she deflects.

“I think he’ll manage my absence for a few minutes.” You pop your head around the wall and call out to Sy, “You won’t die of loneliness if I help Momma finish up in here for a little bit, will you?”

He smirks, and you smirk back. 

You walk back to the stove. “He said just five minutes ‘cause then he’ll start witherin’ away.”

“Oh, Y/N/N, stop pickin’ on me.”

You’re taller than your mother is, so you step behind her and give her a hug, then a kiss on the cheek. “Stop carryin’ the world on your shoulders,” you let go of her and say, almost bullying your way to be in front of the stove alongside her.

Quietly and efficiently, you both move around each other in the kitchen–opening cabinets to get last-minute add-on spices, pulling stuff out the fridge, draining pots at the sink. When you’re done, you put your hands on your mom’s shoulders and lead her into the living room. 

“Take a seat,” you tell her. “Relax.”

She laughs at your command. “This is my house, Y/N.”

“So, sit down.”

She moves as if about to go back into the kitchen. “Why don’t you give Sy a tour and I’ll get this stuff ready to present at the table?”

“Ready to present?” you ask. “We’ll just stand in front of the stove and pile our plates with whatever we want, it’s fine.”

Stubbornly, she says on her way to the kitchen, “I’ll set the table in a bit.”

You roll your eyes then look at Sy. “Wanna grand tour?”

He stands up with a grunt. “Lead the way, babe.”

On your way down the humble and short hall, you point at the doorways you see and label each room while slowly walking. “This is a small bedroom used as an office…. the bathroom’s here… Another bedroom actually used as a bedroom…and then this–” You open the last door on your right and step inside– “is me.”

Sy enters behind you and starts looking all around, eyes mainly lifted upwards at all the random stuff covering the walls. Mainly, there are posters of various rock bands, and while examining them, he’s quiet, but he’s smiling. 

“Were you expectin’ sparkles and pink?”

His smile turns into a grin. “I know you better than that,” he mutters as he starts walking towards your dresser. Stopping just before the mirror there, he takes in all of the small photos, movie stubs, and random notes you have displayed around its perimeter.

You chuckle. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhm.”

“This room hasn’t changed since I was in high school,” you tell him before sitting on your bed, “so it’s basically a time-capsule. Don’t judge.”

Sy sits beside you a moment later, making the mattress dip with his weight, and next, he begins thoroughly observing your blanket and pillows. “I wouldn’t even be able to fit on this thing without my feet hangin’ off the end.”

“Yeah.” You smile. “If we’d’a stayed here instead of the hotel, it would’ve been a tight squeeze at night, huh?”

Sy lewdly wags his eyebrows, and you roll your eyes through a poorly hidden smile. Before going into some crass joke that you know is on the tip of his tongue, Sy reaches out for a thick yearbook on your bookshelf instead.

“Oh, c’mon,” you mumble once he starts thumbing through it.

“I showed you old pictures of me,” he reminds you. 

You huff. “Fine.”

As your school was relatively small, Sy finds your photo fairly easily. “What’s wrong with this?” he turns the book around and says. 

“Oh, God. The hair, the over-plucked eyebrows, the shirt choice?” you say. “All of it combined?”

He grins. “I woulda hit on you so hard.”

“Oh, please. Yeah, right.”

“Say what I mean,” he almost sing-songs. 

Letting Sy into this space feels intimate, almost as intimate as it had when first letting him in your bedroom back in Georgia. It feels like you could reach for an invisible zipper at your throat and start unpeeling your skin to bare your blood and your veins and your organs and bones, with your biggest vulnerability right there front and center: your heart. 

Maybe that’s why you were a little anxious earlier today after parting ways with your grandparents. Maybe you’re so used to boyfriends judging or rejecting your family that it has your nervous system anticipating the pattern to continue or something.

 …And having Sy in your hometown–your place with your people and all your history, embarrassing or not–that’s probably a factor, too. Like maybe, somehow, Virginia Y/N is different than Georgia Y/N, and your subconscious mind is sounding out, He won’t want you when he sees your roots! He won’t love you anymore!

Logically, you talk yourself through those intrusive thoughts like you’ve begun practicing with all the rest. Sy would never do that. There’d be no reason. 

There was a reason Michael rejected your family; you’d just figured it out way too late. He was jealous of them and the time they got with you, and pushing them out of your life by saying they “didn’t deserve you” was a way to manipulate you so he could continue to keep you reliant on just him. 

Now, you almost laugh at that thought. You weren’t reliant on him for anything–financial, emotional, or otherwise–and looking back at how you were back then compared to how you are now… You’re kind of proud of yourself. 

You’ve just got to get your nervous system on track. 

You deeply inhale and then exhale, formally breathing out the bullshit, and by that time, Sy’s already going through an entirely different yearbook. When he stops at a page full of formal-looking photographs, you realize he must be looking at your senior pictures. Wordlessly, you both glance down to find your photo. 

Once you both spot your teenage self, it gets so quiet that it actually becomes loud, and you want Sy to say something. Instead, he keeps looking at your picture. In the distance, your mother calls out, “Come on and get it!” 

Sy closes the heavy book on his lap, and you glance at him almost expressionless. He’s gigantic on this bed of yours, his widely-spread muscular legs only adding to his broadness. After sliding your yearbook back on the bookshelf, Sy–tall and beefy Sy, military-hair and big-bearded Sy–turns to you with soft eyes. He reaches out and brushes his thumb over the apple of your cheek. “You’re pretty.”

Your face does something odd in response, but mostly it just heats up. “Thanks,” you murmur. 

Slowly, you both stand up. Sy places an unnecessary yet appreciated hand on your lower back while you step back out into the hallway, and then in about ten more strides, you get to the dining table. 

Your mom has it set up like Thanksgiving. She’s put the leaf in the middle to elongate it, and she’s covered it with a dark tablecloth. In between the three plates that are set out with silverware carefully placed on cloth napkins, there are several bowls of food with large spoons stuck inside. In the middle of the table is the roasted chicken on a large serving dish.

There’s a little ooh-and-ahhing from you at the presentation of all the delicious-looking food, and you excitedly sit down, almost wiggling in your chair like an excited child. Your mom’s done good; you can eat almost everything she’s cooked. You thank her profusely, and Sy politely does, as well. When you glance at him and notice him practically salivating at the mouth, you soundlessly laugh at him.

Sy slices the chicken and places pieces on your mom's plate, then yours, and lastly his own. Covering your plates with the rest of the food takes some time, but when everything's been salted and peppered and everyone's finally digging in, your mom starts making conversation in between bites. 

She looks at Sy and asks, “So, are you originally from Georgia?”

Sy nods. “Born and raised,” he answers, and if this were you meeting Sy’s mother, you’d probably be so nervous that you’d leave it at that, but Sy’s Sy, so of course he goes on. 

“My entire family’s from Georgia, actually–my momma’s side and my dad’s side. My grandma actually got into genealogy a few years back and traced back our ancestors to modern-day Germany and Denmark, then some Wales, southern England, Scottland.”

“Oh, that’s so fascinating,” she replies. “I've always wanted to get that done. All I know is my side is Scots-Irish, but it’d be neat to really delve into all that, you know? To get the stories these people had.”

You slyly glance underneath the Christmas tree where you have a 23-And-Me kit wrapped up for her, and you smile to yourself. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees, almost mindlessly.

“Oh, you stop,” your mom says through a smile. “So, I imagine you’ve had to move around a lot with the military, right?”

“Right,” he answers. “Especially on active duty, but even then, it was pretty steady, at least. A move maybe once every two years or so. I got lucky to be stationed in Georgia towards the end of my time, then I just headed back to my hometown after that.”

“I really need to go down there and see it for myself,” your mom says. “All this time and I still haven’t gone. Maybe I’ve been waitin’ on Y/N to move back, but I guess that won’t happen now, huh?”

She laughs while Sy smiles, and meanwhile you push down niggling thoughts about how she’s had tons of opportunities to visit you in the past two years if only she’d wanted to. But it’s really not a big deal. She’s being good-natured about it. 

“Think I’ll be stayin’ there for good, Momma,” you confirm. She looks between you and Sy with a soft smile on her face while yours heats up. Under the table, you feel Sy's boot touch your shoe. 

Conversation flows as you continue eating. Your mom is sincerely interested in Sy, and you watch her facial expressions while they talk to guess what she’s thinking of him. Once he makes her laugh–really laugh, her loud and expressive one–then you know he’s in. She loves him already. She’s probably gonna tell him that when you have to leave.

After eating, Sy puts his hands on his stomach and thanks your mom once again. “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” he looks at her and compliments. “Thanks for all’a this. You’re a great cook.”

You glance at him, and you know he’s not bullshitting. “Never wondered where I got it from?” you ask him, and though it’s obviously meant to be funny, your mom instantly starts chiding herself for not teaching you to cook the way her mom had taught her. 

It’s nothing you haven’t heard before; she likes to take blame for your disinterest in cooking. “Sy likes cookin’, and he’s really good at it,” you explain. “I clean up after. It’s a good arrangement.”

“But still, Y/N/N–”

You interrupt her with a sigh. “I can cook just fine, Mom.”

“We’ve actually been makin’ supper together most nights, here lately,” Sy speaks up. “Breakfast, too.”

Softly smiling at him, you joke, “Just gotta work on my mid-day meals, huh.”

After that, your mom offers dessert and another cup of coffee for each of you. While Sy eats a giant heap of cobbler, you drink some more coffee, and your mother graciously only shares a few stories from your childhood. At some point, you stand up to stretch, and you end up clearing some plates off the table to help your mom out. That causes Sy to quickly finish his food and mirror your actions, and together, you both work efficiently enough that your mom doesn’t have to carry anything to the kitchen.

She still starts washing all the dirty dishes, of course, and you try to butt in the best you can to make her stop. It’s futile, though, so you just grab a dishtowel and dry off what she washes. Meanwhile, Sy scoops leftovers into Tupperware bowls, and you catch his eye and mouth “earning those Mom points” at him. 

Later on, you all open presents in the living room while Christmas music still plays in the background. With every present that is distributed, your mom has some sort of explanation before it’s unwrapped. For Sy, the Amazon gift card is only because she didn’t know what else he’d like, and she’s so sorry that there’s nothing else for him to open.

“I wasn’t even expectin’ anything at all,” Sy graciously deflects. “I’ll definitely be able to use this. Thank you.”

For your first present, your mom has to mention before you open it that she’s still got the receipt in case you want to return it.

“I’m not gonna return it, Momma,” you chuckle without even knowing what’s inside the box. “I’ve literally never returned any gift you’ve ever gotten me my entire life.”

“Well, you never know–”

You interrupt her by tearing the wrapping paper and then carefully opening the box. You look down at a gorgeous shirt and instantly smile. “Aw. This is really nice.”

“‘Cause you said your job has you goin’ to court sometimes.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “You remembered.”

You and your mom take turns opening gifts, but you’d gotten her a lot of little things this year, so she has more to go through. “Well, I feel awful that y’all are just sittin’ here watchin’ me open these all alone.”

“Nah, you deserve it,” you tell her, and you’re happy to see her excited expression when opening the DNA ancestry kit and the other little sentimental items you’d gotten her.

Only after cleaning up the wrapping paper on the floor is your mom able to truly relax. Now that she doesn’t feel like she has to wear her Host hat, she finally leans back on the loveseat and starts browsing through different channels. You and Sy take spots at the couch again, and you feel like you could take a nap.

“You're goin’ to see your father after this?” your mom asks. 

“Yeah,” you say with no hint of excitement. “Gonna leave here in, like, thirty, forty minutes. Texted him earlier so we could meet up for dinner.”

“You're goin’ out?”

“He didn't want to,” you reply, and your mom makes a face that says “what's new?” 

You strategically comment on whatever your mom has gotten interested in on TV, and that easily leads to a brand new topic of conversation. She talks, and she talks, and you just watch her.

It's nice to be with her in person to hear her talk instead of just listening through a phone.

-O-

After a prolonged goodbye at your mom’s house that’s full of half-a-dozen hugs and an almost endless amount of thanking one another back and forth, you find yourself behind the wheel of the car. You're the one driving now because going up the mountain your dad lives off makes you a little nauseous if you’re a passenger. Sy says he'll take one for the team this time and just throw up out the window if it happens to him, too.

You don’t talk much on the drive to your dad’s house; your mind is loud enough for both of you. Sy glances at you from time to time, but you don’t give much away. He’s about to meet the most difficult person in your life.

Why did you plan this visit as your last one of the day? Why hadn’t you done it earlier, gotten it out the way first?

You try not to let any negativity consume you as you take winding turn after turn. After the road changes to gravel and finally straightens out a little, you take your last turn–the turn to his long lane. Going down the long, inclined path, you realize there are ruts everywhere, making the car bounce. You cuss under your breath about popping a tire.

“Feel right at home on this road here,” Sy jokes.

“I hate this road,” you grumble. Underneath the trees lay patches of snow that the sun has never touched, and they’re gonna get iced over when the sun goes down.

Sy gives you a little more quiet time before checking in. “You don’t seem too thrilled to be goin’ here.”

Understatement. “Yeah, well. My dad is…complicated.”

“...Meaning?”

You sigh. You haven’t really talked much about your dad with Sy, only that he and your mother divorced after he left her for this woman he dated in high school. Now they’re split up, too, and he lives alone like a hermit on the top of the mountain.

“He’s just not a really welcoming person,” you explain. “Not to me, not to anyone, hardly. He’s antisocial. So, uh. Just please don’t get offended or anything if he kinda comes across like a dick. I really don’t want you to be scared off.”

“Ain’t possible.”

You side-eye him. “I wasn’t jokin’ when I said he’s antisocial,” you comment. “This is about as far out as you can even get in the county. He has no neighbors. He’s happy to just be up here all alone.”

“No pets?”

You shake your head. “Not anymore.”

By the time you get to your dad’s property, the sun has dropped low, filtering through all the trees. You turn off the car and look outside the window. With green moss coating the outside paneling, your father’s trailer appears dirtier than the last time you saw it. You make no move to step out.

“Well, this is it,” you quietly mutter.

Sy puts a hand on your shoulder. “You okay?”

With a frown, you shrug. After glancing away from the trailer, you can barely look up from the steering wheel.

“You know I ain’t judgin’.”

“It’s okay to, though,” you murmur. “To–judge. You’d be right.”

“Right about what?”

“I don’t know.”

Your dad isn’t a dirty person or anything, but that’s not to say he’s neat. He’s messy, and he says there’s a distinction. Three cars are off to the side, all in random states of disrepair. In front of them is a rusty burn barrel. Your father seems to have no issues living out in the woods alone in what could practically be considered a camper.

After stepping up onto his little stoop, you knock on the thin door and wait for it to open. When it doesn’t, you jiggle the handle and, finding it unlocked, push it open.

“Dad?” you loudly call out, waiting for any type of movement inside. “It’s Y/N!”

You briefly look back at Sy and then take a step forward into the living room.

“Hey, you in here?” you call out again. “Dad!”

Your dad rounds the corner while wiping off his hands on his jeans. “Oh, there you are,” he says.

You slightly smile. “Yeah, we made it.”

Without hugging, you both just look at one another. You step fully inside to get out of the cold, shifting to allow Sy to enter behind you, and once he closes the door, the three of you stand around for a few moments, silent. Your father scratches his arm.

You’re about to introduce Sy when you hesitate, not knowing how he’ll want to be introduced–his first name or just simply “Sy”--but he thankfully takes initiative to handle that on his own.

After reaching out his hand, Sy says his name, and your dad remains still for a moment. “So. You’re with my daughter,” your dad comments.

“Yes, sir. Nice to meetcha,” he replies while dropping his hand to his side, and you almost snicker out loud. Of course Sy’s showing his manners. And your dad is just here…existing. As tall as Sy is yet with none of the muscle mass, they both remain eye-level with each other. 

Well, the moment couldn’t get more awkward, so you begin absentmindedly looking around. In the nearby kitchen, fly-tape hangs from the ceiling above the sink. Lingering in the air is a strange stench, the kind of smell when things haven’t been moved around or aired out enough. The odor of stagnation.

You grit your teeth. Sy’s quiet, probably waiting on a cue from you. You both slide your jackets off and drape them over the nearest piece of furniture you can find, a small table near the door covered already with a bunch of envelopes and pieces of paper. 

“So,” you look at your dad and speak up, “how’s it been goin’?”

“Not bad,” he answers with a shrug. “Not much ever goin’ on ‘round here.”

“Haven’t gotten any work lately or anything?” you ask since he mainly makes his living doing under-the-table odd jobs.

“Nah, not in the winter, no.”

“Ah.”

Your dad won’t keep the conversation going by reflecting any questions back to you, you know. No “How’s work been goin’ for you?” or anything like that. Maybe later on he’ll ask a thing or two about what you’ve been up to in general, but right now he’s clearly being the same antisocial man as he always is. And even though you’d internally hoped that he’d be different upon first meeting your boyfriend, you knew somewhere deep down he wouldn’t be. Your decision to not talk him up to Sy was for the best, you guess. You’ll let Sy make his own opinions.

There’s a couch and a recliner in the corner of the living room area that you’re already standing in, but you don’t make your way there to sit. It’d just be a continuation of awkward silences with only the drone of the television to fill.

“So, uh, what do you think we should do for supper?” you ask. Having something to actually do while being around each other would probably make this whole thing more bearable. 

Your dad goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a tray of raw, seasoned chunks of meat. “I was just gonna throw some steaks on the grill.”

There’s a small pause, and Sy sharply glances at you. You minutely shake your head, telling him not to say anything.

“Need any help?” Sy asks right as you’re interrupting with, “You sure you don’t wanna go out somewhere in town?”

“Well, you already went an’ drove up the mountain,” your dad says.

“Yeah, ‘cause–” You cut yourself off, looking around the kitchen. There’s nothing in the oven or on the stove-top. “What else did you wanna have? With the steak?”

He shrugs and begins heading for the door that’s in the middle of the hallway, the one that opens up to the back side of his property. His little grill is out there. “I’ll see what I got in a minute.”

The second he’s outside, you swear under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”

Sy looks at you. “Think there’s anything in here you can actually eat?”

“It’s fine,” you deflect, and beside you, Sy heavily inhales through his nostrils.

Knowing Sy’s body language very well by now, you get the silent impression that he’s starting to feel over-protective over you, and you hope this night isn’t a fucking disaster because of your father’s bad attitude and apathy. You don’t want it to be a thing. Your dad is just like this. You remember being younger and not having solid plans on what meals you’d be eating on a day-to-day basis, too. It’s fine.

You take a few steps into the kitchen and open some cabinets. There, you find random canned items and a bunch of packets of instant meals. Out of everything, you determine that you can eat corn, baked beans, and oatmeal. You look in the fridge next. It’s sparse in there, as well, mainly full of condiments and beer, but you spot a container of eggs that may look promising. 

“If I make eggs,” you start, “that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have with steak, right?”

“I’d eat it,” Sy says, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’d eat it, or would it taste okay together?”

“Steak and eggs go together, sure,” he reassures, even putting a light hand on the small of your back.

“Okay, and baked beans, too?”

You feel Sy’s thumb begin to gently rub circles on your back. “Think we can rustle up somethin’ edible with that.”

So. Beans and eggs for you; steak, beans, and eggs for the boys. 

You walk to the hallway and open the door to see your dad’s hunched figure barely visible in the weak light of the porch bulb. The sun has entirely set by now, and the sky is a dark blue that you know will quickly turn black. “Hey.”

The grill sharply pops right as your dad straightens up and looks back at you. “While you’re finishin’ that up, I’m gonna heat up some beans and make some fried eggs. That okay with you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

That’s all you need before you’re heading back into the kitchen to grab a skillet and a pot. You know the steaks won't take hardly any time on the grill since your dad likes them pink–“He didn’t even ask how you take your steak,” you mutter to Sy–so you try to cook in a rush so the rest of the food will be ready at the same time. 

After adding seasoning to the beans, Sy helps taste-test, and he holds out a plate for you to lay the finished eggs on, as well. They’re all over-easy, and you put the one whose yolk accidentally spills open onto a separate plate for yourself. By the time everything's ready, your dad’s already at the table with a beer, a knife, and a fork, cutting his steak. Sy takes the seat in front of him. 

In the middle of the table is a large plate with three other steaks piled on top. You put the pot of beans and the plate of fried eggs beside it, take a seat beside Sy, and refrain from immediately standing up to add food to your dad’s plate for him. You aren’t able to refrain from immediately standing up to get something for you and Sy to drink, however, and deciding to not even ask your dad because you know he’ll just answer with a grunt, you grab two unrefrigerated bottles of water from the twelve-pack on the kitchen floor and hand one to Sy before sitting back down. 

“Thanks for grillin’ the steak,” Sy says while stabbing the one on top with a fork and settling it on his plate. Your dad nods his head. “Looks great. Medium rare’s how I cook mine, too.”

Sy puts the other items on his plate only after you’ve served yourself first. On your plate are two over-easy eggs–one flat with spilled yolk–and a small spoonful of baked beans because you’re not about to spend the entire ride back to the hotel filling the car with gas. You start to slowly, slowly eat.

“Sy’s retired from the Army, Dad,” you eventually speak up, fishing for a topic that he’ll cling to. 

“Oh?” he asks. “Yeah, looks the type.”

That gets him and Sy talking for at least a little bit, but your dad unfortunately doesn’t ask many questions, so it’s up to Sy to navigate the conversation by supplying bits of information here and there and asking your dad questions. Man talk comes easy, though, just like it always does. Sports. Hunting. Fishing. 

All-in-all, it’s not the worst dinner conversation, but there’s an underlying awkwardness to it, some sort of simmering tension. The long stretches of silence caused by your dad’s four- or five-worded sentences doesn’t help, nor does the fact that he asks you nothing at all. Even after supplying him with great conversation fodder–your upcoming graduation–there’s nothing more from him than a little noise of interest, another little, “Oh?” and that’s it. No further questions about what date it’ll be so he can plan to come down for it, no inquiries about your dissertation, no nothing. You try not to take anything personally.

Sy eventually catches your eye. Just a tiny, imperceptible lift of his brow–You good?

You give a subtle nod–I’m fine–then you lift an eyebrow, too–are you? 

There’s barely any change in Sy’s face. You imagine that there’s some small bit of movement, though. You hope so, at least. You hope he's not downright suffering right now. 

You hate that this is how the day is going to be ending. If only you'd started with an actual breakfast steak and eggs meal with your father and ended the day at your mom's house… If only you hadn’t been idiotic enough to fill the day with so much… 

You share another private look with Sy and then go back to pushing your food around your plate. While you stab a singular bean on your fork, the air is weird for a second. You look up and catch your father blatantly staring at you and Sy while he's chewing a bite of food, and you reach up to itch your neck. 

“So. What’re y’all’s intentions here, anyway?” he finally asks, and your mouth parts at the tone of his voice. It's not quite disapproving, but…it is. “Considerin’ y'all's ages.”

This is where the pot boils over. You knew the weird tension would reach a head eventually, and for good reason: you know your dad very well. More than being just antisocial, he can be a downright asshole. You warned Sy, at least. 

Still, it doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t make the upcoming criticism from your dad any easier to hear. 

He'd asked about “y'all's” intentions as if addressing you both together, but he's only looking at Sy. With a tone of incredulity, you warn, “This is your very first time meeting him, Dad.”

“Intentions?” Sy speaks up.

Your dad chews again, then swallows, then belches in a gross way that doesn't make noise and seems to be swallowed. “Mm.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Sy is slow to say. He lifts his eyebrows and continues to speak carefully. “D’you mean why we’re here visitin’?”

Even though Sy’s probably either trying to be cordial or trying to at least fake being cordial, you’re outwardly frustrated. You look at him with thin lips. “He’s just tryin’ to–”

“Why you’re together,” your dad interrupts, and you forcefully stop yourself from rolling your eyes for fear they'll get stuck that way. Sy isn’t even that much older than you are, but you know that’s where your dad’s going with this. That and probably a dozen other things. 

Sy looks towards you right as you’re looking away, but you catch his expression from your peripheral vision, anyway. His jaw is tense.  

Your eyes turn blank before staring at your plate because you know what’s about to happen with this much testosterone in the room. Your dad’s not being respectful; Sy won't accept you being disrespected. Your dad’s not the best parental figure; Sy wants you to be taken care of. 

From your father’s side of it, though, y’all are on his property, and even though the trailer isn't much, it's his. He’s basically daring Sy to say something. He's challenging him.

You close your eyes for a moment. You know that, if it really were to come down to it, Sy will definitely not back down from a challenge. Even if it’s your fucking father. 

“Why we’re together…” Sy puts his arm around the back of your chair before pointedly looking at your dad. “Well, I reckon I’m just lucky.”

Your father outrightly chuckles. 

“Gee, thanks, Dad,” you say, peering up and frowning. Sy discreetly rubs his thumb over your shoulder.

“Oh, hell, Y/N,” he answers before taking another bite of steak. “Y’know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, okay. You were only laughing when he called himself lucky,” you mutter. 

He mumbles something back that you don’t make out, but you know it’s something defensive.

“Whatever, Dad. It just–It just sounded disrespectful,” you quietly say, sighing lightly. “That’s all.”

“Whatchu know about respect, Y/N?” he asks, and it doesn’t sound mean, not even condescending. Maybe that’s what makes you angrier–the forced calm. The conversational tone all of a sudden.

You’re almost positive that he’s referring to you and Sy’s silent discussion he witnessed you having just a few seconds ago with just your eyes. He’s being a dick because he’s probably feeling like you and Sy are judging him, and again, you want to roll your eyes like a teenager. Instead, you huff. “A lot of things.”

“Like?”

Sy moves his hand from the back of your chair and straightens up in his own seat. “Like that respect is somethin’ that’s earned and not given, for one,” he answers on your behalf, leaning a bit forward.

Oh, Jesus. Here we go. 

Your father takes a sip of his beer. “More like that respect for flesh and blood should trump anything else,” he comes back with, looking right at Sy. “That’s biblical.”

Your dad doesn’t even go to church, so what the fuck is his deal right now? Why’s he trying to instigate shit? To establish that he's the dominant one for knowing you longer or something? To show the worst parts of himself from the very start as a way to test him, to try to run him off? To keep just challenging him in some way for fun? What the actual fuck?

Sy smiles down at his plate, and it’s a shit-eating grin, not his genuine one. “Ah, at the end of the day, flesh and blood just means you’re related to someone.”

Your dad wipes the side of his mouth where you see a smirk forming. 

Is this seriously happening right now? What is happening right now?

“Flesh and blood equals family,” is your dad’s retort, “and, makes sense that that's where respect should start.”

“Except flesh and blood ain’t really the same as family,” Sy argues back lightly. “Just the same as respect, I think family’s a word that's gotta be earned.”

Sy doesn’t break eye-contact with your father after speaking, and at that, you slightly drop your mouth. Without saying as much, Sy’s essentially calling your dad a bad parent, not worthy to hold the title of being called family. And while he may not be entirely wrong… This can’t go on. It’ll end horribly. They’re both being ridiculous.

Your dad’s about to respond right when Sy’s about to keep talking, too, and you let out some sort of exasperated groan. 

“Oh, my God, would y’all please just stop?” you forcefully drop your silverware on your plate and pleadingly ask. “Stop. Please. Both of you."

Both Sy and your father look at you with some sort of quiet shock at your out-of-character outburst. 

"Just–stop. You're here havin' some sorta pissin' contest over--over what? Over what?” You look at Sy and then back to your father. “This is so stupid. I love both of you, you're both important to me, and you both don't have to sit here competing with each other about absolute bullshit, okay?”

The men continue to stare at you in surprise as you go on, your voice clear and firm in a way it usually isn’t.

“Whatever the hell problems y’all came up with in your heads about one another, get over it and get over it quick, or else I'm gonna get up and walk right out this dirty ass trailer." 

Frowning, you look between Sy and your dad again. 

“I’m a grown woman, and y’all are both grown adults. So you should put aside your egos and act like it.”

As both Sy and your father continue to look at you unblinkingly, you put your hands on the table. “I’m right here–literally right in front of you both–and I can speak for myself. If you have any questions, Dad, ask me. Ask me instead of murmurin’ all this stuff under your breath like you just did after you disrespectfully laughed when Sy said he’s lucky to be with me.”

Your father takes his time sipping his beer. “Just was wonderin’ why you’re with him, that’s all.”

Unbelievable. Yet another person who can't just be happy for you.

“Well, mostly just the sex, Dad,” you answer straightaway, “but I’m also usin’ him for his military pension.”

Sy makes a half-choking, half-laughing noise in the back of his throat, and you don’t even look at him. “I’m with him because I love him,” you firmly tell your father, never breaking eye-contact with him. “Not that I need to explain my choices to you, anyway, ‘cause you've never given a damn about any of them before. And you definitely haven't cared about who I've dated before. But if you really wanna know, Sy’s a good person, and I love him, and I’m happy. And he's not even that much older than I am! Now, if you could just pretend to be happy for me for the rest of this dinner, that’d be great. Otherwise, like I said, I’m just gonna leave.”

Your dad stares at you until you're done, then he gives you a singular nod, slightly lifting one hand from off the table like he’s accepting what you’ve said.

"And you," you turn to Sy and address. "You don’t have to–Thank you–" you pointedly look at him with soft, grateful eyes– "but you seriously don’t have to stick up for my honor or anything right now. It's…It's just my dad bein' my dad. Please just chill, okay?"

Like your father, Sy curtly nods at you, and under the table, he puts a hand on your leg. His and your father’s eyes don’t move from your face for quite some time, but after they finally glance at one another again, it’s mere moments before they look back down at their plates and begin to silently eat again.

Utensils lightly clank against porcelain for a few moments. Sy makes a deep noise in the back of his throat while he’s chewing to politely indicate he likes the food, but internally, he's probably angry as shit that you’d just embarrassed him like that. 

“How’s your grandma doin’?” your dad breaks the silence.

“She’s okay,” you answer, and then you pick up your fork and begin to eat once more. Your stomach is suddenly hurting, though–Sy's gotta be quietly stewing internally, and you know that when you're alone together after this, you're gonna have an argument regardless of how patient a man he is.

“How’s your mom?” he asks next.

"You live here, Dad, not me," you answer without any bite, happy that most of his alpha machismo has settled and that he’s actually begun to ask you questions now. "You see her more than I do, I'm sure."

Your dad grunts like Sy would. “One thing about this town is everyone knows everyone's business."

"Mm. Momma said she got a phone call the other night from one of her neighbors that saw me comin’ into town."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. She told on me for buyin' alcohol at the Citgo."

Your dad laughs.

"It's not funny,” you say through a smile, though honestly, you’re still frustrated with him. And nervous about your upcoming argument with Sy. “It’s nosy as hell. I'm an adult."

“As you have reminded us twice in the past five minutes.”

“Mm,” you just say. You finish the tiny bit of food left on your plate. “What’s with all the cars outside, anyway? I meant to ask.”

“They don’t run,” he answers before taking a sip of beer. “The Honda needs a carburetor. The Ford had the catalytic converter stole’t out it. The other two just got a bunch'a stuff to work on.”

Sy perks up a bit but doesn’t say anything.

“You're just leavin’ ‘em out there to rust?”

Your dad pushes his plate forward. “Eh, I'll get to ‘em eventually.”

“So what are you drivin’, then?”

“The truck.”

You nod but don't say anything else. Your dad's been driving “the truck” since you were young, a blue Toyota that looked nice at one time, but definitely not anymore. The driver’s seat no longer has upholstery; there's just a tattered yellow cushion your dad sits on while driving. The color of one of the doors doesn't match the rest of the vehicle’s paint. Somehow you're not surprised that the truck is still his preferred method of transportation.

After everyone’s done eating, your dad goes outside to smoke a cigarette, and you clean off the table. Sy quietly helps you wash the dishes you’d just dirtied along with whatever else is already in the sink, but when that turns into you scrubbing the counters and then cleaning your dad’s greasy microwave, Sy quietly steps aside. 

And you get it. You know how upset he's gotta be with you. You'd humiliated him in front of your father…the very first time they’d met. 

Well. Your first real argument as a couple was bound to happen sometime. Of course it would happen now, outside your grumpy-ass dad’s trailer.

Sy puts on his jacket and leaves the front part unzipped, and then he takes a few large strides back to you. Standing behind you, he kisses the top of your head for some reason, then he murmurs, “Be right back.”

You don’t get why he’s still acting affectionate. If you stiffen a little bit, you try to hide it.

You take the time to dry the dishes the best you can with the paper towels you see laying out, then you put everything away without much care to where it goes since there’s no organizational system in place that you notice. After that, you find a broom and quickly start sweeping the kitchen floor, then the living room floor, then the floor underneath the kitchen table. 

It’s not much different when you’re done, but it’s somewhat better. If your dad owned any cleaning products whatsoever, it’d even smell nice. Still, using only water and soap is an improvement. After that, you stay busy with throwing away pieces of blatant trash you find laying around until the front door opens again.

When your dad steps inside, he makes a bee-line for the fridge. Sy enters next and shuts the door behind him, then you hear the click and hiss of a can opening.

"You could probably do well with cuttin' back, Dad,” you uselessly say while approaching Sy. You quietly point outside to gesture to Sy that you want to leave soon. After that, you keep your eyes diverted from his.

Sy holds up your coat as you push your arms through the thick sleeves, and you quickly and briefly look up at him in thanks, trying to hide your nerves. “You…have a good chat?” you ask.

Instead of answering, Sy’s lip curves upwards at one side. He'smadatyouhe'smadatyou. In the next instant, your father steps closer to you.

"What for?"

You turn your attention to your father again and do some mental tricks to remember what he’s even referring to. Oh–alcohol. “I dunno, Dad,” you say with a shrug. "Your general health."

“Eh, my liver’s fine.”

Leaving you to talk with your dad alone, Sy points to where the bathroom would be down the hall before heading in that direction. You watch him until he's out of sight. 

“I highly doubt that,” you respond while zipping up your coat.

Your dad moves until he’s standing right beside you. “Even if it ain’t, when I go, it’ll be my time to go.”

“Well,” you look up and comment, “other people might want you around for longer, then, have you ever thought’a that?”

“Who?”

“Maybe me.” You shrug. ”Need someone to walk me down the aisle eventually.”

Your dad reaches out to touch your elbow, and he leaves his hand there for a few seconds before dropping it. His way of showing affection is so weird, but you've accepted it. Maybe this is even his approval of Sy. You can only hope. 

In the background, you hear a toilet flush. If the main spaces of the trailer have been this uncared for, you can only imagine the state of the bathroom that Sy’s currently exiting, and you frown. How freaking embarrassing. Just–all of this. 

“You’ve got to get this place cleaned up better, Dad,” you turn back and softly plead, piling on more stuff to parent him over. “This…It just can’t be good for your health.”

Your father clearly hears what you say and chooses not to respond.

After Sy walks back into the room, he stands in front of your father and holds out his hand. “Thanks again for havin’ us,” he says while they briefly yet firmly shake hands. “It was nice meetin’ you.”

“You, too, son,” your dad replies, and you turn towards the door and make some sort of hidden, shocked face. Son?

“Alright, well.” You briefly look behind you before opening the door and letting in the cold. “I’ll let you know when I’m in town again. Probably not ‘til spring break.”

Your dad nods. “Drive safe.”

That’ll be the only other outward display of care that you’ll get from your father, so you slightly smile. “Yeah. We will. Bye, Dad. Was good seein’ you.”

He uses your nickname when he returns the sentiment.

Outside, it’s now entirely dark, and you hurry down the small set of stairs until you’re back on flat dirt again. You can’t help wrapping your arms around yourself. Fuck. This is gonna be you and Sy’s first fight–real fight. You absolutely dread it. You could cry.

The way you’ve acted tonight, the way you’ve talked… You knew that being around your dad would bring out a different side of you, and you wish you’d exercised way more control over your behavior and word choices. You shouldn’t’ve even come here. 

Maybe that's being dramatic, but you don't care. 

By the car, you stall with the  keys in your hand. You accidentally drop them and have to bend over to pick them up, and when you stand upright again, you notice Sy tossing a tiny piece of gum in his mouth. As he starts chewing it, you just know he’s just continuing exercising his self-control. 

The trip back to the hotel is going to be tense as shit unless you apologize now. You clench your teeth together and turn to face Sy head-on. Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Well, that was–” Sy stops in his tracks once you look at him. “Whoa, whoa–hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

"I’m so sorry, Sy," you tell him, touching your temples and sighing like you’ve just spent an entire day at work. "I really, really am.”

Genuine concern paints his handsome face. “What’re you sorry for, baby?”

“For everything I said to you…and for my dad being…my dad. Sorry for this whole entire freaking dinner.” You throw your hands in the air in exasperation. “This entire trip. It's just–Being around him just, like, really triggers me, and I–I'm sorry for–"

You’re interrupted by fingers on your chin gently tilting your face upwards. With minty breath, Sy’s mouth covers yours quicker than you can even anticipate it, and obviously you kiss him back, but you mumble against his lips until he stands upright again.

You touch your lips with two fingers. “Wh–what was that for?”

Crouching down to kiss your forehead next, Sy slides down to your nose and your mouth again, then down to your chin and your neck, even pushing your coat to the side to get more access. He drags his mouth around so much that his beard tickles your skin. The noises he makes are content–little mm, mm, mhmm sounds–and you just stay frozen.

“I don't get why you're doing this,” is the only thing your brain can put together. 

With hot lips, he speaks against your neck, and out of pure instinct, you tilt your head to the side to allow him room to work with. Still, your mouth remains open in confusion. Your arms hang limply by your sides.

“Wh–? How–?” You have to take an actual step back because you don’t understand what the hell's going on. You’re wearing a winter coat, and here he is trying to devour your neck. Outside your dad’s trailer. When he's mad at you.

When you straighten out again, prompting Sy to follow suit, you sniff before asking, “What’re you doin’, Sy?”

Instead of an argument like you were expecting, this is…entirely differently. You were expecting anger, you were expecting embarrassment, some sort of shock at the nerve of you to dare talk to him that way, but this–this is–this is the exact opposite. Sy’s grinning in your face, downright happy. 

His grin gently softens as he moves his hands to your hips. In the glow of the front porch light, his eyes are just as gentle.

“I am so fuckin’ proud’a you, Y/N,” he says, then he literally hefts you up and spins you in a circle. 

You let out a high-pitched noise. "Oh–Good lord, Sy, what?” you squeak, dizzy when you’re back on flat ground again.

“I’m so proud of you,” he repeats.

Leaning backwards against the driver’s side door to get your balance, you ask, “And this is you showin’ your pride?”

Sy just nods through a roguish smile and leans in to deeply kiss you again, muffling your “For what?” 

It's impossible not to give in, but you're confused and you're getting cold, and leaning on this car isn't comfortable at all. “Sy,” you chide, “we’re still at my dad’s.”

When he kisses you again, you indulge in it for a few more moments before lifting your hands to his thick jacket. "Ugh, no, I’m bein’ serious…I need a shower. After how gross it was in there–"

"Aw, was like the barracks I'm used to,” Sy says with a shrug. “Felt like home."

You burst out laughing. It’s quiet shortly after that, though, and you divert your eyes away from Sy and also from the eyesore of your dad’s trailer. “You’re seriously not mad at me?”

In response, you see Sy just shake his head, simple as anything. Happiness bordering on glee covers his face. “No.”

“I mean–but I said…Sy, when I was sayin’ that stuff, I was…I was actually talkin’ to you, too, you know. Earlier. In there. You and my dad.”

“Oh,” Sy instantly says, “I know you were.”

You finally meet his eyes. “And that got you…What, that’s what you’re proud of?”

“Seein’ you stand up for yourself?” he asks. “Knowin’ you’ll put me in my place if I need it? Fuck, yeah, that's what I'm proud of. It means you ain't afraid to speak your mind.”

Sy takes your face in both hands. “You trust me enough to tell me off, to tell me to stop. I…I couldn't be any fuckin’ happier right now.”

You blink a few times. You hadn’t considered it like that before. When you think of it like that, it’s not so bad after all.

Still, it was rude, and you say as much. Sy brushes your apology aside again. 

Guilt is slow to evaporate, but Sy’s kisses help. There’s nothing but eager hunger when he slides one of his hands to the back of your head and starts earnestly making out with you–jaw working, tongue working, face moving from the left to the right to change the angle of the kiss and explore more. 

Feeling small and enveloped, you get carried away at being literally ravished like this, and the inadvertent noises that escape your mouth only spur Sy on. When his hands travel up and down the length of your sides and then down to your ass, however, you have to protest.

Everything feels good, but too good. You have no other option but to stop like you're ripping a bandaid off–fast and all at once. Roughly, you tear your mouth from Sy's, leaving you both panting out condensation into each other's faces.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Sy. I really don’t wanna do this here,” you tell him, yearning for a hot shower and a clean living space and maybe some more clarification on exactly what the fuck is going through Sy's head right now.

“Alright, baby. Alright.” His hands loosen up instantly. “Then c’mon,” he says, reaching to open the car door behind you.

Before Sy is able to, you sit down in the driver’s seat, and he stands outside, protesting. “Hey, I’ll drive. I don’t mind.”

“Neither do I,” you tell him with a smirk before shutting the door on him. 

When he’s in the passenger seat, you start the car and flick on the headlights. Next, you switch the heat to full-blast and just sit there, trying to simultaneously catch your breath and warm your hands. Almost shyly, you look over at Sy. Unabashedly, he grins. 

“So, uh. The woods sorta freak me out at night,” you admit, trying to slow your breathing down to a normal rhythm, “and if I’m not the one drivin’, then I’ll worry way more.”

“Ah.”

“Drivin’ at least keeps my brain occupied so there's less, like, room in there to worry.” You let out a small chuckle, and Sy makes a little noise in return. 

“That’s smart.”

“Known to happen from time to time,” you murmur, trying to joke to make light of the fact that you sound like a broken record all the time, worrying about everything. “Plus, your focus, uh, seems to be on just one thing right now, anyway.”

“Can’t fault me for that,” Sy replies, eyes fully focused on you. You glance at him again, and instead of seeing a cocky grin, there’s a genuine contented smile there–one that tells you that despite his obvious enthusiasm, he’s truly in no rush. He’s just happy.

You don’t know if you’ll ever fully wrap your head around the fact that–entirely sober–he looks at you like you’re the fucking sun and treats you like you’re something both precious and desirable. A momentary smugness of your own washes through you as you remember that you’re the only one he shows this side of himself to–this romantic and sort of soft side. The inside of the car is dark, but you make sure Sy sees you smiling back at him.

Taking a deep breath, you put the car into drive and start slowly crunching along the bumpy dirt lane. Bordering the long path are endless trees, and in them you suddenly see a bunch of raccoons, some sitting and some hanging, all with their huge beady eyes reflecting off your headlights.

“I fucking hate raccoons,” you grumble, evoking an actual laugh from Sy. Normally he just grins and chuckles.

“Well, alright then,” he says, clearly amused.

You look over and smile at him. “What? They’re horrible. When I was little, they used to break into the trash cans and get crap everywhere. And guess who had to clean it up.”

“You poor thing,” he tuts and says with a deep tone, and instantly, like his very voice is being injected straight into your bloodstream, your heart begins to thump.

All his words are a lot. He's a lot. 

Driving with just one hand, you chew on the nails of your free hand. Despite your desire to just have one fucking night without worrying for once, you’re still unable to stop ruminating on the events of the night. Mainly you focus on supper, obviously, but then you start over-analyzing what Sy had said and done just moments ago in the yard, too.

He said he was proud of you. He said he was proud of you for “putting him in his place.” Proud of you. Like, excessively proud. Spin-you-in-the-air proud.

Not having anything to compare this situation to, your mind is reeling. What does that mean? You simultaneously love yet can’t accept praise, and that’s something that you just can’t…what does that even mean?

“You’re thinkin’ real loud over there,” Sy notices.

Quietly, you let out a little puff of air through your nostrils. “When am I not?” 

“I’ll protectchu from those raccoons, baby, don’tchu worry.”

In response to his joke, you only offer a tight-mouthed smile, and you see how Sy tries to tilt his body more towards you. In the small car, it doesn’t make much of a difference, but you feel his heavy attention on you nonetheless.

“Hey,” he says, changing tones. “What’s up?”

You put your right hand on the steering wheel to join your left while you think of how to phrase what you’re thinking. “Okay. So, a few minutes ago.”

Briefly, you glance at Sy and notice his face is focused, eyes serious.

“You said you were…like.” Why’s it hard to even say? “Proud of me.”

“So fuckin’ proud,” Sy corrects.

Your face gets hot just from continuously hearing that word. “But...for what? For putting you in your place?”

“Mmhm.”

“Like. Could you maybe define what exactly that means?”

“I said somethin’ outta line,” he easily answers, “and you stood your ground and told me to stop.”

Your eyes dart around the road to make sure you don’t see any deer in the distance. Sy reads your silence as confusion.

“Tryna buck up on’ your dad within an hour of meetin’ him…Not my best move,” he admits.

“He was tryin’ to buck up on you.”

“At any rate, I made up for it.”

You briefly look at him. “How?”

“We talked outside. We’re good.”

You lower your speed as your dad’s lane finally ends, spilling out onto a public road. It's still just dirt and gravel for now, but it’ll change to asphalt soon. You take the turn carefully; there are patches of snow everywhere, and there’s something like twenty back-to-back curves up ahead that you’ve got to navigate on the rest of the way down the mountain. 

“I’m sure it was riveting,” you comment with a twinge of curiosity. “He’s an excellent conversationalist.”

Sy chuckles. “Still haven’t told me what’s wrong,” he supplies, slipping a hand on your leg for a second. 

“I mean, nothing’s wrong,” you try to explain.

“Do you not believe that I’m proud’a you?” he guesses.

“No, I believe you,” you instantly reply just as he’s finishing with, “‘Cause I don’t throw that word around for nothin’.”

You glance over at Sy to see him still watching you attentively. “I know–I’m just, I dunno…I’m confused, I guess.”

The heater is humming, the tires are crunching along the road, and the radio is almost imperceptibly dull. Sy patiently waits in silence for you to get your words together.

“So, uh. Okay. You don’t have, like…a thing with ‘being put in your place’ or something, do you?” 

You carefully step on the brakes while you take a hair-pin turn, grateful that this road is so curvy you have to really pay attention to it. You’re so embarrassed at this topic that you couldn’t bear to look at Sy’s face right now.

Still, you feel Sy’s eyes on you. “Whatchu mean by that?”

“Like…I dunno, that’s just a…You don’t like to–I mean, it’s totally okay and all, ‘cause, like, we always have good sex, but–You don’t want me to–” you lower your voice– “boss you around or anything, do you? It’s just ‘cause I’m not really sure if–”

Loudly, Sy lets out a laugh. “Oh, now, you know damn well what the answer to that is.”

Relieved, you smile, but then just a second later, you’re rolling your eyes again. He looks and sounds like such a fuckboy right now, laughing like that. You honestly think you’ve rolled your eyes enough times tonight for them to be stuck.

“And you like it, too,” he adds deeply. “Me bein’ in charge.” 

You keep your eyes on the road. Maybe.

“Don’tchu?”

Though you try fighting it back, a smile breaks out across your face. “I don’t–”

“Yes, you do,” Sy supplies confidently. 

You chuckle. “No, that’s not what I was gonna say. I was gonna say that I don’t like to make a whole lotta extra decisions. ‘Cause, like…I do that all the time at work and on campus as it is. So it's nice. To…not have to do that."

“That’s where you can leave the worryin’ to me, darlin’.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, and you can’t help squirming in your seat. Though you still can’t entirely understand why he’s proud, you take his words at face-value. He'd said it, and he only says what he means. 

“Looks like ice up ahead, babe,” Sy points out, conversation continuing along as if you hadn’t made everything awkward as shit. 

“Oh, gosh,” you mutter before you carefully swerve around a large patch of ice on the road. 

“Shoulda got some chains for these tires,” he mutters to himself.

“Oh, it's not so bad,” you speak up. “I got this.”

Sy glances at you. “Yes, you do.”

The air in the cabin is heavy during the rest of the drive, but it’s not unpleasant. It’s charged heaviness–anticipatory like the moment between thunder and lightning, comforting like sleeping under your new weighted blanket, molten like trying to breathe at the humid forest floor of a jungle. It goes unsaid what’s going to happen later.

Sy’s eyes have lost their earlier wildness and have steadily changed into something more calm. Still, when you pull up to the hotel, you turn off the car and look at him pointedly. “I’m seriously gonna take a shower in, like, two minutes exactly,” you tell him, “so don’t jump me the second we walk in the room.”

All of Sy’s teeth show from the grin he gives you, the crooked one on the side getting your attention immediately. “Now, that ain’t fair.” 

You stick your tongue out at him.

On the way to your hotel room, you and Sy kiss in the corner of the elevator, taking advantage of being alone. Unable to stop smiling, you laugh against his lips at first, but you end up with your face and mouth going entirely lax within a few seconds, your tongues sliding together hungrily. With one of Sy’s hands on your waist and the other leaning on the elevator wall above your head, you feel small and owned and encapsulated–with his mouth, with his scent, with his entire body. 

After stepping out onto your floor, Sy looks both ways to ensure you’re still alone, then goes back to kissing you while you attempt to reach your room. You break away from his lips to get your key-card, and while still steadily continuing to walk, albeit sideways, you accept even more kisses.

“Military self-discipline, my ass,” you mutter under your breath once you arrive at the correct door, and you shriek out a laugh when Sy outrightly smacks your backside.

“Damn, so loud,” Sy mumbles. “Gonna get management called on us.”

You squint your eyes at him. “And whose fault would that be?” 

Sy innocently lifts his hands. You bite your bottom lip through a smile and let yourself in the room.

Inside, you drop your things on a nearby table and go straight to the bathroom to switch on the lights. You keep the door open while you strip out of your coat and the rest of your clothes, and Sy leans against the door-frame and calmly watches you. 

“You weren’t jokin’ about takin’ a shower right away, huh.”

You bend down to turn on the faucet, flipping up the diverter to switch the water to the showerhead next. Feeling somewhat bold, or as bold as possible while nervously playing with your thumbs behind your back, you turn to look directly at Sy. 

Giving him a full-frontal view and an almost-shy expression, you quietly ask, “You gonna join me or what?”

With tenacity, Sy drops his jacket to the floor. “You ain’t gotta ask me twice.”

He reaches over his shoulder for the middle of his sweater and tugs it over his back and head in one motion. Next, he kicks off his boots and undoes his belt, looking ahead at you instead of paying attention to what he’s doing. You take him in, too, eyes flitting over his wide torso and chest the very moment they’re bared. You’ll never get over the sheer breadth of this man.

As Sy pushes his jeans and boxers down together, the metal of his belt clinks in a sound you entirely associate with sex. Immediately, you glance downwards and stare at how filled out his dick’s beginning to get. When he walks into the bathroom, he catches you, and you look up at him through your lashes.

Slowly, Sy approaches you, and he drops a barely-there kiss to your forehead. He takes your hand a few seconds later to unnecessarily help you step into the tub. 

After both of you are inside, you close the curtain and get under the warm water as quickly as you can, avoiding your hair. Sy continues to just watch you. There’s just this–this look he’s got on his face. This subtle smile. The smile he’s been donning since leaving your father’s place that just won’t fully leave, like he’s quietly self-satisfied, but satisfied with you–like he’s truly and sincerely radiating pride.  

“This’s gone entirely to your head,” you try to joke. There’s no preamble prior to saying it, and there’s no explanation afterwards, either. You both know what you’re talking about. 

Sy reaches outside of the shower for a washrag. He hands it to you before securing the curtain again. “It’s no small thing, Y/N,” he says seriously. “You know that, right?”

You look up at him, and the somewhat-smug smile has dropped. He reaches out and finds your forearm, and he lightly wraps his fingers there. “It means you feel safe enough to really speak up, maybe push boundaries some. It means you trust me.”

Just then, a scene pops into your mind from not too long ago: you and Sy on your bed. You, crying yourself dehydrated. Him, holding you while you got it all out. The night you’d both said “I love you” for the first time. The night he'd gotten you roses and cooked dinner for you only for you to have a complete emotional breakdown in front of him. 

He'd said the same stuff back then, too. He'd said he only ever wanted you to just drop your shields around him, to fully trust him. To trust that he wasn't just with you for all the good times, but the bad times, too. And he’d said that communicating with each other was the only way that that kind of trust would come about. Your emotional breakdown was rough, but you’d talked everything out that night. Now look at you.

It had been so hard for you to comprehend at that time that someone would willingly want to go through challenging times with their partner. Since then, though, you’ve held up to your promise to voice not just pleasant things but the unpleasant things, as well, and since then, Sy’s proven time and time again that he won’t overreact, won’t use anything against you. He's shown that he just wants you to feel comfortable enough to share everything–that’s all. No hidden motives. 

“I do trust you,” you say, almost whispering it because it feels sacred. “I really, really do.” 

Still blinking up at him, you watch as obvious adoration and pride returns full-force to his face. His hand moves down your forearm to your hand, and he gently squeezes it before letting it go. 

You zone out for a second while holding the washrag in the direct path of the falling water. “God, I really thought you were gonna be so mad at me. I was expectin’ us to argue. Not…this.”

“You thought I was gonna argue with you?”

You nod before putting a superfluous amount of body wash on the washrag. You’re determined to wash yourself resplendent. “I thought you were just holdin’ it together ‘til we were alone,” you mumble while running the washrag all over your arms, then your chest, then your stomach.

Sy’s eyes lose their earlier mirth, turning downwards at the side. “Y/N…No.”

“I mean, I know I have a lot of deprogramming I still have to work on,” you admit as you reach behind you to wash your neck and back, “but–I just didn’t know what to think. I said out-of-line stuff.”

Sy nods with a frown, a weird mixture of emotions washed over his face. “Your dad said outta line stuff,” he corrects. “You just stood up for yourself–and for me. And I can’t tell you how fuckin’ proud I am.”

You’re so unaccustomed to hearing anybody tell you that they’re proud of you–and so damn repeatedly–that it still sounds foreign to your ears. When your eyes search Sy’s face, again, his happiness is evident. 

The expressions on his face have been all over the place tonight. You love this one the best, the one right now. The smile that makes his eyes crinkle and his mouth widen and his eyes soft.

“You really are proud of me tonight, huh?” you whisper. 

“This whole weekend, actually,” Sy answers with an accent like butter. Akchalee. His voice only turns more seductive when he adds, “So proud of my girl.”

You glance aside. In reaction to hearing him say these things in that deep voice of his, your breathing stutters, and as usual, your heart minutely quickens. You briefly turn around with the guise of washing between your legs, wondering if Sy truly knows the full extent of the impact these simple words have on you. 

“I don’t want you ever to be afraid’a me,” he tells you when you turn around. “Ever. I’m dead serious about that.”

“I know, Sy,” you reply. “I’m not.”

Things have gotten a little intense, so you bend down to wash all the lower parts of your body. When you stand up, you give the washrag to Sy and–with difficulty–switch places in the shower so you can rinse off.

“...But that doesn’t mean that you can’t be mad, you know?” you go on. “I mean, realistically, there’s gonna be some time that you’ll get angry with me. I’m not perfect. We’re...I mean, it sucks, and I really don’t want to, but at some point, eventually we’re actually gonna argue.”

It’s quiet after that, and you’re fully aware you’re starting to ruin the moment Sy’s been building up. Because of course you are.

Sy doesn’t speak until you look at him again, almost like he’s been waiting for you to. “And that’s the entire point I’m tryna make,” he says, smiling. “Even if I am mad about somethin’, or if you’re mad about somethin’, neither of us should have to hold our tongues ‘cause’a some reaction we’re afraid of. The only way to work shit out is through communication. And real communication won’t happen without believin’ you’re gonna feel safe even sayin’ what’s on your mind.”

You take the time to absorb all of that. “Right,” you agree. 

“So you get now why I’m a little fuckin’ happy?” he asks. “Thatchu felt you could say whatchu did?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Sy doesn’t buy it yet. “...But?”

You chuckle. “But I just…I don’t want to ever say wrong things, though,” you look down and mutter. “Like, what if what I said tonight really did make you mad? ‘Cause it was disrespectful?”

Sy lifts your face softly with a finger on your chin. “Then we’d talk,” he replies.

Like the words don’t compute, you stare at him blankly. 

“Baby, it’s me,” he reminds you, and his eyes shadow with something pained, a phantom ache that you’ve picked up on from time to time when you say certain things. 

“I know,” you try to placate, looking away for a second. Of course. “I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

Sy steps in to hug you, and even though you’re skin-on-skin and can literally feel every part of him, there’s nothing sexual about it. You put your hands on his love-handles before wrapping them around his slick back, and while you keep your hands there, you rest your cheek on his chest. 

“Sorry you always have to deal with the same stuff from me all the time.”

“You’re my favorite thing to deal with,” is his reply, and you huff in amusement against his wet skin. 

You place a kiss on his chest, and it smacks when you back away. “But really. Thanks for always bein’ so patient with me, Sy.”

While you squeeze Sy’s back, you feel a kiss at the top of your head. “I love you,” he murmurs, and in the words, you hear a background of other meanings. You hear loving you ain’t a hardship. You hear well, it ain’t necessarily an effort I have to make. It just is.

Back in your driveway again, your hands almost shake after you hop out of the truck and walk through the front yard. Sy’s presence is palpable, taking over the entire acreage surrounding the house, taking over the very atmosphere, taking over you–your heart, your breath, your nerves.

You know what could happen tonight. The question is…Will it?

Unlocking the door, you look back at Sy as you shove forward with your shoulder. While he follows you inside, you can't make out his expression.

There's no denying that he’s sensing your racing thoughts. After taking his damp coat off, he helps you out of yours, and his fingers easily find their way back to the small of your back–just a graze. Still, it’s soothing.

You imagine it's more.

You clear your throat as you both begin kicking off your shoes and wet socks, and then you stand there, stalling.

You don’t know. Nothing even has to happen tonight. You’re happy to solely have the sort of intimacy you’ve had together every weekend–just to be with one another.

“I guess I should probably shower,” you murmur directly before your stomach loudly growls.

Sy lifts an ironic eyebrow and glances at your torso. “...Or we could eat first?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I actually am really hungry. I… just gotta change into something dry first.”

You begin walking to your bedroom, and Sy follows. “Right behind you.”

In the bedroom, you and Sy stand in front of your individual closets–yours on the left and his on the right. While picking clothes out, phantom domestic memories pop into the forefront of your mind just like they’d done in the woods earlier, almost as if they’re playing out live in holographs.

Sy in front of the bathroom mirror with a razor in his hand, bending forward to close-shave his neck. Sy at the end of the bed, bending down to tie his boots. Sy in front of his closet just like he is now, staring at his shirt options before asking your opinion on which one you prefer. Sy at your bedside in the morning carrying cups of hot coffee in each of his hands.

Sharing space with him for regular tasks like changing clothes is something you’ve missed more than you were even aware.

In the middle of taking off your clothes, you discreetly glance over at Sy to find him shirtless with his back towards you. His exposed skin has obvious flaws in places, and you pause to observe the different textures. Some scars are inverted, just divots of lightened skin, and some scars are thicker, angry and raised and pink. On the top of his left rear deltoid is a particularly off-color spot alluding to what must’ve been at one time quite a large wound, maybe a burn. Some of them you've seen before, but most of them are new. 

They shouldn’t be new to you. None of them should be new to you. You should already be familiar with all of these marks. You’re his wife.

Frowning, you turn your attention back to your own closet and get back to changing clothes, only glancing at your husband through the side of your eyes when his bare ass is briefly displayed—muscled and just as pale as ever.

It’s not until you’re redressed and turning back towards a fully-clothed Sy that you realize what you’ve even put on. Wordlessly, he stares at you, and his eyes are so–different–that you look down at yourself.

You’re just in a shirt and loose athletic shorts. It’s honestly nothing special at all–

Oh. You’re wearing one of his shirts.

“Oh, I…” You shrug. “Guess I'm just used to wearing shirts like this in the evening.”

He takes a step towards you and glances into your closet. “You been keepin’ my clothes in your closet?”

“I mean…Some of your shirts, yeah,” you reply. “They’re comfy. Not your underwear or anything weird like that.”

Sy smiles, and he looks good. He actually looks good, like there’s no grief clouding over his head, no guilt showing in his eyes, no anguish in the faint wrinkles of his face. In a large t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, he looks genuinely comfortable, too.

He turns and begins walking out of the room. “You’ve worn my boxers before,” he teases.

“One time.”

Sy hums. You catch up to him in the narrow hallway and elbow him in the side. In turn, he lightly elbows you back and quickly struts ahead of you so you can’t retaliate.

His behavior is almost boyish, like he could pull your hair and run away cackling or something, and you can’t help but smirk while he slips on an old pair of shoes that've remained unworn for months by the front door. Some of your nerves from earlier begin to leave you as more Hope fills the empty spaces left behind.

While Sy goes out to his truck to get the cooler full of food, instead of setting the table, you find a blanket and lay it out in the middle of the living room floor. Maybe this would align with what Sy had originally planned. Maybe he’ll like it.

“Is this stupid?” you ask uncertainly when Sy walks back in the house. “Should we just eat in the kitchen?”

He kicks off his shoes and sets down the cooler on the edge of the blanket. “I planned a picnic,” he just says, then he sits down and starts emptying the cooler. “And it was supposed to be on a rock, so why not do it on this hard old floor instead?”

He offers you a horrible wink, and you smile before sitting down next to him and pulling out paper plates, napkins, and cutlery from the cooler. Sy removes bread, deli meat, condiments, all different types of fruit, crackers, and cheese.

“Want me to pour us some wine?” you ask. “To go with the cheese and crackers?”

Sy doesn’t answer at first, but he ultimately agrees. You get up to walk into the kitchen, and when you come back with two glasses of white wine, you sit down again.

“You haven’t gone entirely alcohol-free, have you?” you ask. “Am I–Is this okay?”

"No, yeah,” Sy says, scratching his beard. “Just been tryna make new habits. So I’ve cut back to almost nothin’, mostly durin’ weekdays. I, uh. Can’t find it in me to go completely sober.”

“Just this one glass, then,” you say, lifting up the glass by the stem. Sy follows suit. “To us being us.”

Sy’s eyes smile at you. “To us bein’ us,” he repeats, and you both press the tops of your glasses together with a small clink.

You each keep eye contact while taking small sips of wine, then you both focus on your food. Sy has already made a sandwich for you, knowing exactly how you like them prepared. He works on making his own sandwich while you put crackers and fruit on both of your plates. After you quickly cut a few pieces of cheese next, you disperse them between the two of you.

Sy sprawls out on his left side and rests his body weight on his forearm while he starts to eat with just his right hand. You choose to sit cross-legged in front of him.

Back in the day, you’d make a joke about how his old-man joints won’t allow him to sit like you are, but you aren’t sure how that would be received right now. Plus, it’d be a stupid statement, anyway; the way he’s laid out gives you a perfect view of the long expanse of his thick body.

While you eat together, it’s…cute. Sy jokes around with you a lot in that half-teasing, half-flirting way you’ve missed so much that your stomach feels fluttery upon getting the receiving end of it. Maybe you should make that old-man joke, after all. Then Sy would raise his eyebrows with a challenge and say something like, “I’ll show you an old man,” and then you’d lay back on the blanket and–

The doorbell rings as you're finishing eating, and you instantly jostle and furrow your eyebrows. You’re not expecting anyone.

“You gonna get that?” Sy eventually asks when you make no move to get up.

“I didn’t invite anyone over.”

Sy checks his phone and puts it back in his pocket. “Well, see who it is,” he nods towards the door and says, and it’s less of an order as it is a teasing remark.

You hesitate. “I don’t want to.”

“Go on,” he almost chuckles. “Open it.”

“Can’t you?” you whine. “You’re the man of the house.”

His eyes briefly change, but still, he stubbornly replies, “No,” and it’s so out of character that you roll your eyes.

“Fine,” you huff. “Jerk-face.”

You reluctantly stand and slowly walk to the front door, grumbling about how you’re going to be cold in what you’re wearing. The sky is already getting dark. You don’t have a peephole or a nearby window to see who it even is, but Sy’s right behind you if it’s somebody weird. Even if he’s technically still laying down and no help at all if there were danger. Even if he's being strangely and stubbornly motionless.

By the time you open the door, the porch is empty. You look around in confusion and notice a van slowly driving past your mailbox like it’d just backed out of your driveway, and you watch as it drives down the street. While craning your neck to see if you can read anything on the back of the vehicle with the little bit of daylight left, it’s then you see that there’s a vase of flowers next to your front door.

A smile grows on your face as you bend down to pick up the bouquet. This time, Sy’d gone with red roses.

How romantic of him.

You should’ve known that there was a reason Sy wanted you to open the door yourself. Any other time, he’d be the one to handle any sudden issues, no problem.

His note is simple, cliche, and makes your stomach flip: Every day I love you more than the day before.

You walk back inside the house carrying the vase with your cheeks hurting from how large your grin is. And though it’s obvious what the meaning of red roses is, you’ve gotten used to flipping the little note cards around, so you do.

Did You Know? Red roses are a universal symbol of romantic love throughout the world. They also convey feelings of passion, desire, beauty, and courage.

A huge sensation slams into your chest then, or no–it doesn’t slam at all. It’s from the inside trying to push out, like your heart is six times too big and your lungs are too full to breathe and like there’s not enough room to fit everything inside. The smile slightly falls from your face while you try to let everything you’re feeling settle in your body.

You place the vase on the coffee table and gently touch the delicate petals before sitting back down in front of Sy. You can’t look at him yet.

He places a hand on your bare leg. “You good?”

Quickly, you nod. You won’t cry. “It’s really thoughtful,” you quietly murmur, then you lift your head. “You're thoughtful.”

He keeps staring at you, his blue eyes almost iridescent. Carefully, you lean down and kiss him, and when you break away, your lips slowly and audibly smack.

“You already got me flowers earlier,” you murmur, glancing at the yellow flowers on the kitchen table. “Think I’m gonna get spoiled one of these days.”

“Good.”

“You don’t have to keep getting flowers to make up for anything, Sy,” you say. “If that’s what you’re doing.”

“I’m gettin’ ‘em just to see you smile,” he replies, and you roll your eyes at the sap but still can’t help but smile again in response. “Ah, there it is.”

With his hand remaining on your leg, Sy begins to run his thumb absentmindedly against the inner side of your knee. It’s not suggestive, but…it could be. You haven’t had contact on bare skin like this in forever.

You look down at where he’s touching you until he clears his throat.

He sits up. “Wanna put somethin’ on TV?”

“Uhh..I mean, I really should actually shower first,” you murmur. “I feel a little gross.”

“Wonder why,” he grunts while he stands. “Only jumped in ten dozen mud puddles earlier.”

You stick out your tongue, and, with a smirk, Sy holds out his hand to help you up.

He keeps your hand in his as he begins walking to the bedroom. “Need a shower, too,” he mumbles.

It’s been a careful month, a month of reservation, and for him to act like this…for him to take your hand in his and lead you down the hall… It's no small thing. He’s acting like it’s his home again.

Even if he didn’t answer the doorbell just now. But that was for a reason, you remind yourself with an internal giddiness.

In the bedroom, you hesitate in front of the en-suite door. Sy said he wanted a shower, too, and the bathroom is small and far from fancy. The tub is cramped and decades old.

“I can…Want me to go first, then?”

You look up at Sy to see him slightly scratching his beard before briefly looking away with a little light in his eyes. Ultimately, he looks back at you and shrugs one shoulder. “Want you to step in first,” he says.

Oh.

It's daring.

It's a hook.

It's letting you make the decision.

“If you’re okay with that.”

You pause for only a moment, then you nod. You guess you’re doing this. Like you used to do.

Like before.

With your eyes trained on one another, the next minutes are silent as you both lift your t-shirts and let them drop to the floor. Your shorts and his pants go next as your heart begins to race.

And it’s almost silly; you’d stripped next to one another not even an hour ago. But–that was different. That was…that was a practice for this, you guess. It was private. Just hesitant little peeks at exposed skin. This isn’t like that at all.

This room is small and the air is still, the space between your bodies next to nothing. There’s no way to hide and also no use: you don’t want to hide. You only divert your eyes to step out of your underwear and twist around your bra to unclasp it, but it’s momentary, and when you’re fully naked, you look back up and find Sy entirely nude, too.

He’s thick and hairy as ever, chest covered with swirls of dark hair leading downwards as it narrows into a long broad strip over his stomach. Beneath, it’s somewhat bushy yet still trimmed, and as you try not to stare there for too long, you move your eyes lower to rake over the straight hair trailing down his large legs.

Just as you’re taking in Sy’s body, he’s watching yours, and you take a deep breath, briefly feeling self-conscious. It’s been such a long time that you're worried that maybe he won't even be attracted to you anymore. 

Sy’s always been this work of art to you–scars and flaws and all–and it's a lot to live up to. 

He loosely puts his hands on your hips, staying away enough so that no other parts of his body touch yours. “I’m allowed to look?”

“Of course,” you quietly murmur. “You’re my husband.”

“And you’re my wife,” he replies just as quietly. “So why’re you actin’ shy?”

You whisper your admission. “I’m nervous.”

“About what? Me?”

You inhale deeply.

How do you even explain this?

“We ain’t gotta do anything.”

You start shaking your head. “No, that’s–it’s not anything like that.”

“All I want is for you to…" He sighs. "I just want everything to be alright.”

“It is, it is," you reassure. "I just..."

Sy gives you a second to finish.

Looking and sounding foolishly young, you bite the side of your lip and ask, "Do you...like what you see?"

His fingertips twitch over your hips, and it's just then when you finally make eye-contact with him again that you realize his pupils are blown. 

He clears his throat. "Very, very much."

Feeling like this is the first time you've ever been together or something, you smile and reply, "Me, too."

“Why's it look like you’re ‘bout to cry again?"

You try to chuckle. It comes out odd.

“It’s just been a long time…since…and what I feel inside me is–it’s this giant thing,” you try to explain, lifting a hand to the left side of your chest. “So huge it’s like my heart’s pressing against my skin trying to get out. Like it could burst or something. And it’s…it’s just a lot. And I just don’t want to mess anything up…If that makes sense.”

You’ve been looking away, but when Sy’s thumb starts caressing your skin, you meet his eyes again. “Don’t think you have to worry about messin’ anything up, baby,” he says. “That’s my job.”

You immediately want to deny his words and tell him how untrue they are, but at the wry look on his face, you don’t. He’s got his dry military gallows-humor embedded within him, you know, and though his words may be blunt, they come from a place of grim acceptance of his role in what’s been going on these past few months.

You lightly place your hands over Sy’s wrists where they’re still at your hips. “Not anymore.”

His eyes bore into yours. “Not anymore.”

He offers a small and somehow serious smile. “I feel the same way you do. You gotta know that. This is a…huge thing, and I already came so close to fuckin’ it all the way up. And I really couldn’t live with myself if…” He clears his throat. “I mean that.”

“That won’t happen,” you reply, tattooing this moment in memory–Sy talking about feelings. “Because we’re good now.”

He leans in and carefully kisses you, and all those emotions from the forest come back. The emotions from when you’d picked up the roses on the porch come back. The emotions from years past, of being the sole object of his adoration, of marrying him. A giant firecracker going off inside you, a million pop-rocks exploding in your stomach, a warmth that coats your entire body–all of it.

Your fingertips dance over the backs of his hands still holding your hips. You have too much inside and nowhere for it to go except his mouth. It’s easy since his beard isn’t scratchy whatsoever–it’s soft, and his lips are soft, and his tongue is soft, and everything’s tender, and you mentally keep repeating we’re us we’re us we’re us.

Sy breaks away first, and after staring at you for a long moment, he opens the shower curtain and turns on the water. He even holds his hand out to steady you while you step inside.

He enters next, and you’re so close that you can feel his dick brush against your skin as he turns around to slide the curtain closed. You look down and bite your lip. Just from kissing, he’s filled out.

You both have to stand sideways in order to feel the warm water and not block it from one another, and in the narrow bathtub, that leaves hardly any room at all to move. Facing Sy, you lean back against the wall, and he puts his hands on your hips again. He watches your expression before stepping even closer to you.

When he says, “We always used to be good together,” you nod at him.

“We did,” you agree.

He repeats his words from earlier in the woods. “What we had was good.”

“It was.” You nod again.

And then he’s right there again–warm and shamelessly close, everywhere. He’s so close you can feel the coarse flattened hairs underneath his chest pressing wetly against your breasts, the thickness of his feet planted outside your own, the stiffening between his legs poking your lower stomach.

“I’ll make it good again.”

Like he's giving you time to come to terms with all of this, or say no, or say not yet, he stands unmoving and just holds you until the tension drains from your shoulders, until your heartrate settles, until you can lift your arms and wrap them up around his neck.

“It’s not just a one-person job, honey,” you say, turning to rest your face atop his chest. “Not everything’s always on you.”

In turn, his hands slide around from your hips to your back, pulling you in closer, and he hugs you back. You close your eyes.

For long moments, things are quiet but for the water spraying on your bodies and falling to the floor. When Sy breaks the silence, it’s to say, “We’re still us.”

You look up and meet his eyes, then his mouth. Saying those words like a mantra makes this reality believable, both for him and for you. Despite all the challenges from the past and the ones inevitably to come in the future, you’re more or less the same. You're still yourselves at the core.

Both you and Sy smile simultaneously. “You’re sayin’ all the same things you said in the woods.”

“‘Cept this time you ain’t against a tree,” he replies while inching forward, “and we don’t gotta stop.”

You soon find yourself being carefully pressed against the shower tiles, one of Sy’s large hands cradling the back of your head while the other grasps your waist, and when he kisses you, there’s a desperation that doesn’t necessarily match the tenderness of his touch, but a vulnerability that definitely does.

He kisses you like he needs you to breathe, jaw working intently and mouth working strongly, and you want him back just as much, but it's just–it’s a lot all at once.

Over his beard, your hands move to hold him in place while his pursed lips open and close, partly as a way to try to tame the kiss, and partly as a way to simply steady yourself. When everything gets more urgent and deep, your lungs protest, and you need to break away. Your hands find Sy’s pecs and softly push there, but it’s no use; he’s all muscle.

Instantly, he’s panting in your face, mouth dislocated from yours. His eyes move quickly all over your face. “Too much?”

“No, it’s–I can’t breathe, is all,” you explain while gasping for air.

“Shit,” he says, panting, too. “I–Damn it, I just wanna–”

“Me too, me too,” you reassure. “Just–Maybe let’s slow down a little. We have…we have time.”

He listens. After putting both of his hands on the tiles on either side of your head, he leans down and kisses you again, and it’s shorter, shallower. It gives you time to relax and lower your hands to his waist. It gives you time for your fingers to start twitching before they grip too intently.

Sy starts carefully, and you follow his lead, just exchanging little sipping kisses–wet and soft and adoring, precious little things that you both want to covet.

When your tongue slips out to lick Sy's upper lip, he copies your action, and after you break away to look at one another in a bit of a daze, he goes back in and starts slowly massaging your tongue with his, now having the green-light for more.

Everything grows heady, your tongues and mouths working almost to the power of before, but you can tell Sy’s keeping himself and his speed in control. Still, making out like this has you gripping his skin, squeezing and trying not to pinch.

You feel like your knees could buckle and give out.

Sy’s grown entirely hard, and his cock starts to press against your stomach every time he moves.

“This okay?” he checks in.

Your voice comes out shaky. “Yeah.”

With another kiss, Sy runs a hand up your stomach until he reaches your chest, and he squeezes over the mound there before brushing his thumb over your nipple.

“Still okay?”

Quickly nodding, you hum.

“You can say no,” he says into your mouth. “You can say no to anything.”

“I don’t want to,” you slur into his. “Say no.”

With a smack, he moves his mouth to your chin, then your cheek, then your jaw. He follows the line of your throat as you tilt your head to the side, his mouth open and sloppy.

“Beautiful,” Sy murmurs against your skin.

You’ve forgotten this. You’ve forgotten how–much–he can be when he wants to be. The way he’s treating you, it almost makes you want to fly into the clouds, to melt entirely, to crawl into his body and stay. With how steamy the room has gotten, it’s easy to imagine yourself simply evaporating away.

Your hands travel up his stomach to his pecs where you grip at his chest hair. When he lowers his mouth to one of your nipples, your arms fall down, and you let out a shuddery breath as you feel Sy’s tongue start to move in circles.

“God,” you murmur, finding the back of his head and pulling him in. The urgency from before is coming back.

Sy stands up again, and his face is entirely wet, his beard dripping. There’s almost a look of pain across his features.

You finally look down at what you’ve been feeling against you for so long, and with your mouth open, you stare. Sy’s so hard it feels and looks like it hurts.

The next quick kiss has the desperation from before, needy and deep, and he begins making little inadvertent movements forward to slide his cock against your slick skin.

With a gasp, you tear your mouth away and lower your hands. You–you guess this is happening. You glance around at what you can brace yourself on.

“Hang on, hang on,” you rush out, “let me turn around real quick.”

Sy doesn’t move, and he stares at you for a second, just panting. “I–” He presses his forehead against yours and shakes his head. “Not like this.”

Still, your hand reaches down to wrap around the top of his cock, and with the first touch you’ve had like this in forever, you slide the hot skin all the way down to the root before pulling your hand back up. There’s hardly any give.

“Fuck,” he lets out, squeezing your arm, then shakes his head again. “Not like this, baby.”

“You sure?” you ask, stroking him again and feeling a smug satisfaction that you’re affecting him. “Just to take the edge off?”

“I–” He lets out a little chuckle-groan.

You find his frenulum and begin to rub tiny circles atop it with your thumb, causing him to curse. “Yeah?”

When he groans in a certain tone, you know that’s him consenting.

“Kiss me again,” you whisper over the running water, and Sy instantly does.

Everything comes back to you second-nature. You know Sy's body, you know what he likes. You know how to tease him and draw it out, and you know how to get him there quick.

Trying not to slip down the shower wall, you move your wrist slow and loose, not trying to be slow on purpose but simply trying to make him enjoy the next few moments before they’re over.

There’s only the feel of his cock in your hand and his tongue in your mouth, the sensation of his heartbeat inside your palm, his impending orgasm taking up the shower.

Eventually, Sy can’t kiss you anymore, and he presses his forehead onto yours again. Together, you share the same hot air while looking down between your bodies. You pick up speed then, able to focus better without his tongue in your mouth taking you away someplace else. Staying mainly at the top of his cock, you twist and pull and tighten your hand, and… it’s not long after that.

Sy firmly squeezes both of your arms right before groaning, “Oh, fu-uck,” and you keep gripping his cock while watching him desperately jackhammer himself into your hand.

When he starts rhythmically squeezing your upper arms and releasing, you feel a similar rhythmic pulsing underneath your fingers, and then you watch everything come out–first a few spurts upwards onto your abdomen, then a creamy collection that slides down atop your circled index finger and thumb.

Your hand stops moving, but you keep it where it is while waiting for Sy to come down.

“Fuck,” he repeats breathlessly, and he slides his wet forehead sideways against yours before he stands upright. He lets out a deep breath and a sideways smile, and when you rub your thumb over the head of his softening dick, he jerks forward and hisses.

When you finally let go of him entirely, he stands unmoving.

“God damn,” he just says, then he travels his hand down your sticky-wet stomach and pauses, looking for your reaction before going lower.

You put a hand on top of his and gently shake your head. You then look to the right to blatantly signal to the bedroom. “Maybe we should get out. We’re gettin’ pruney.”

Sy nods. “Gimme just a minute.”

He grabs the washrag hanging on the shower caddy and pours a fair bit of soap onto it before reaching out and literally beginning to wash you.

Starting with your stomach and then moving up to your chest where he spends much of his focus, he then washes your neck and your arms. With a little smirk, he leaves the rest for you, so when you’re done with your legs and feet, you rinse off the rag and put some of his own soap on it.

You wash him just as intently as he’d done to you, running over his shoulders and arms and chest and stomach, even his pubic hair and dick. You keep the washrag there for a moment.

“You good?” you ask.

He nods.

He’s being quiet. Too quiet.

“Are you–” You briefly look down. “Are you sure?”

Sy raises an eyebrow. “My dick still works, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

“You know–Obviously I know that,” you drop the washrag and say. “That’s not what I was gettin’ at.” In a gentle voice, you ask, “Are you okay?”

Finally realizing what you’re wanting to know, he smiles. “You fishin’ for compliments, baby?”

“Shut up,” you mutter. “I just wanted to make s–”

“‘M better than I’ve been in a long fuckin’ time,” he interrupts you.

A smile blooms across your face, a big smile, and Sy returns it, crooked and almost radiant. You haven’t seen him so carefree like this in so long.

You step out of the shower and shiver at the temperature difference, instantly toweling yourself off and then wrapping yourself up. After turning off the shower, Sy does the same, and then you slowly walk back into the bedroom.

You’re nervous again.

The early-setting winter sun has long left, and you don’t turn on the light in the bedroom, so the room’s only illumination comes from the bathroom. At the foot of your bed, you stop and look up at Sy, and he steps closer until his toes touch yours.

Then he reaches out.

Like he’s touching something precious, Sy loosens your towel where it’s secured over your breasts. He's seen literally all of you just moments ago in the shower, but when he opens the towel, he stares at your bare skin like it's a brand new treasure he's discovering. His expression is vaguely awestruck.

You look at him with wide, open eyes as you reach out and push his own towel to the floor.

He watches you for long, tender moments, then he mutters, “Get on the bed.”

Heart thumping, you walk around the mattress and climb onto the middle. Once you’re laying back on top of the duvet, Sy takes a second to stare at you some more, then he gets in bed and matches his body atop yours. You're chilly and gladly welcome the heat. 

You open your legs for him, but he doesn’t give you his body weight yet. Instead, he trails his fingers up and down your sides, so light it’s almost ticklish, then he leans in, puts his weight on his forearms above your head, and kisses you.

You fall naturally into the rhythm of kissing again. It’s like you both don’t tire of it at all–you just want the connection. Sy makes love to your mouth, and it was good in the shower with water cascading around everything, but it’s even better like this–with him on top of you like you’re his, like he’s pouring himself down on you, like you're just a vessel.

Sy reaches down to take your wrist and lead your hand to the back of his neck. When it’s there, he runs his hand down the length of your arm and then underneath it where he holds your hip for a little bit. Ultimately, he just trails back up your abdomen to cup one of your breasts, and he holds there while his tongue swirls against yours.

All of the kissing has you squirming underneath him, and your movements become so insistent that he backs away and looks down at your body. Your half-lidded eyes watch his hand as he slides low low low to finally touch your pussy for the first time, and you gasp.

After he whispers, “You’re wet,” you breathe more heavily. Audibly.

Yeah, you're wet. You've been wet.

“You want this?” he asks.

You nod.

“You really want this?”

“Yeah,” you answer, moving and angling your hips upwards until you make contact with the dripping head of his dick. “I really do.”

He props himself up on one hand and looks down between your bodies to watch what you’re doing.

“We’re still us, Sy,” you remind him in a whisper.

“Yeah.”

He continues looking down as he takes hold of his cock and leads himself to where you're the wettest, and you break your attention from his slack-jawed face to momentarily glance in between your bodies, too.

When you start to feel pressure and then the absence of his knuckles against your skin, you suck in a gasp. It’s been so long that the piercing hardness almost feels foreign, and as Sy gives you more of his body weight, you squeeze his shoulders while inadvertently clenching your legs.

Slowly, just barely, Sy pulls out and pushes his hips downwards again, sending himself only a fraction deeper inside you, but already, you feel like you’re being stretched and filled to the absolute limit. With your lips clamped shut, you press your forehead up into his neck while you hold your breath and keep your noises inside. It’s just been so long.

“Fuck,” Sy lets out on an exhale, and you just dig your nails into his shoulders more firmly to keep him from moving any more.

He still tries to. Finding you unwilling to yield just yet, he seeks out your face, your eyes, panting in mid-air before pushing up his upper body to actually look down at you. Now unable to keep your face burrowed into his neck, you squeeze your eyes shut. It's just so–much.

“Baby. Hey. Look at me,” he says, breathless, so you do. You know your face is slightly twisted up.

The room is dark, but you can see all of Sy’s features. His dark eyes look almost pained in restraint and concern, all of his muscles tight.

“I’m okay,” you promise, quickly nodding in reassurance. Even just that comes out strangled. You can barely speak. “Just–gimme a second.”

“Fuck,” he mutters again, lowering his upper body and putting his forehead on yours, and you know he’s straining himself to keep still.

You’ve got to get used to each other again.

Breathing tightly, you nod at Sy a few moments later, and you’re wet enough that when you relax your legs, it’s easier for you to take more. Sy still holds back as he withdraws, though, forearms almost shaking against your own arms, and his lips quiver against yours while he slowly starts carving a place of his own again.

At one time, he’d already completely had you. Now, he’s returning to you.

And he’s not going to leave again. You're not going to give up again.

Reading when you widen your legs even more, Sy bottoms out with the next careful thrust. Unable to help it, as your body hitches up the bed a bit, a loud moan escapes your mouth. The noise Sy makes in return is similar to a gut-punch.

He must want to make sure your noise was a good one. “Tell me you’re okay. Tell me this’s–”

“I’m good,” you let out shakily while you grip the back of his neck with both hands. “I’m really good.”

Everything is humid between your faces. Sy kisses over your cheek while he remains entirely still, and after you tilt your hips up and start the momentum, he finally starts to genuinely move.

He starts slowly, just rocking his hips in tiny little circles without withdrawing at all, and it makes his pelvis continuously grind against your clit so that you’re starting to light up both inside and out. Quietly moaning with every breath now, you press the heels of your feet against Sy’s ass and push him even closer into you.

Sy slots his mouth against yours to kiss you just as deeply as he’s rocking into you, and you both tell each other with your little groans and whimpers how much you’re liking everything.

That’s when he pulls back a little. Slow at first, he’s deliberate with each thrust, but he works up a quicker rhythm within moments, spurred on by your sounds. Closing your eyes, you throw your head back and open yourself to him. You feel every bit of him against your skin. You feel every bit of him inside you.

With how quiet the room is, every noise is accented and obvious–the mattress moving, your mutually heavy breathing, the soft sound of skin meeting skin.

With a vulnerability you haven’t seen on his face since the first time you ever had sex together, he hasn’t looked away from you once. The way his eyes keep taking you in like he’s recording the sight of you to memory, it sincerely is almost like your first time together.

You stare right back at him, but–you can’t think. You can hardly speak at all. All you can focus on are the sensations overwhelming your body, and all you can do is whimper and gasp through it all.

You crane your neck upwards to kiss whatever bit of skin you can get your mouth on, and Sy twists his face over to meet your lips with his own. Under your fingertips, his skin feels different in places, and you memorize each spot.

You inadvertently turn slightly rough before long, scratching him while moving your hands constantly up and down his arms, but you’re just so pent up with the gravity of all of this that you don’t know any other way to let it out. Thankfully, he’s not overly gentle with you either, and his thrusts quickly turn merciless as your hips start grinding upwards to meet him.

With your mouth dropped open and unable to close, you can’t kiss him anymore.

If he keeps moving like this, you’re going to come.

Your eyes grow wide. “Please.”

“I’ve gotchu.”

Your whimpers and heavy breathing graduate to non-stop quiet moaning, and what brings out an actual high-pitch sound is when Sy pushes himself up on his hands, rakes his eyes all over your body, settles his gaze at your swaying breasts and mutters, “Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” almost as if to himself.

His knees dig into the mattress while your feet dig even more into his ass, and then there’s the rhythmic swaying of his balls slamming against you while both of you grow more vocal. Just as Sy’s face pinches and turns intense, he slows down, almost stopping entirely. Then, in an easy display of his strength, he suddenly leans down again, wraps his arms around you, and flips over.

Taking you with him, you’re entirely on top of him within seconds. “Ah!” you let out as your center of gravity teeters.

Suddenly Sy’s no longer inside you, and you’re too uncoordinated to fix it; your hips just rock against his pelvis while you try to get positioned again in any way that’ll give you the friction from before back.

It was good, it was so good, it felt so good, and you want it back, and why had he stopped?

“Go back in,” you hurry out, “go back in.”

Sy hurriedly pushes himself backwards on the mattress until he’s leaning against the pillows by the headboard, and he pulls you with him. It's then you realize how sweaty you both are. 

Still breathing heavily, you stare at each other for a second, and Sy’s expression is almost a dazed look of wonder. He takes your ass in one hand and holds his cock in the other, trying to align with you again. You lift yourself up a little to help him out and  ultimately take over impatiently, holding him and lowering down just the right way. 

After he’s entirely spearing you, you both inhale sharply.

Though you still feel impatient, things lose their frenzy from before. You wonder if that was Sy's goal in flipping you over–to have this go on longer–because he wraps his arms entirely around you in the largest bear-hug ever and no longer sounds like he’s about to come.

You try dragging yourself up the length of Sy’s cock and then back to the bottom again, but with the position of your bodies, it’s shallow and only at the tip. When Sy stops hugging you to hold you at the hips, you’re able to move more freely, and while you start taking more of him inside you, you slot your open mouth to his and lick into his mouth.

His hands can’t keep still. He squeezes one of your breasts while lowering his face to lick around and suck, then he does the same with the other. Then his mouth is all over your chest, then the side of your neck, then your earlobe then your jaw then your mouth. You hold onto his head the whole time. 

When your legs start to burn, you forgo riding him to switch to grinding against him, and that’s somehow even better. It keeps near-constant contact to a spot deep inside you, keeps you entirely stretched and full, and keeps constant friction on your clit against him, everything sticky-wet and slidey.

You lean your forehead onto Sy's, grip his slippery neck, and start breathing in his air. Your noses touch, and you purse your lips in an attempt to kiss, but you're uncoordinated and end up just barely touching his upper lip. 

“Feel good?” he asks, barely audible over how heavy he’s breathing.

It feels so good. So good you can barely talk. “You don’t know how good,” you whisper.

He squeezes your ass and groans. “Yeah, I do.”

Spurred on by Sy’s hands on your ass pulling you in every other second, you rock together shamelessly. The rough calluses on his thumbs are as familiar as they used to be.

You’re so wet that it squelches when you rut together desperately, and those lit-up nerve endings multiply to the hundreds and then the thousands while building up stronger and louder and more and more, and both of you start moving together erraticly.

You feel so good you can’t stand it, and it only gets better with each second. You're sweaty and exerted but you just don’t want it to stop, you never want it to stop, and all you want is more–forever.

“I want this forever,” you slur, and that’s when things get urgent.

With force, Sy grabs the back of your head to smash your mouth against his. You’re still unable to kiss, and all you can do is moan into his mouth as you heavily breathe against it, your fingers holding onto him like a lifeline.

“Fuck, I can feel you,” Sy groans against your lips just as you rush out in a whisper-moan, “I’m gonna come.”

You couldn’t control it if you tried. As your climax entirely takes over, you don’t recognize how high-pitch your voice is when you whimper again, “Sy, I’m gonna–Sy.”

“Do it, baby,” he whispers. “Take everything.”

Sy’s wide-blown eyes stare intensely into yours until your mouth falls obscenely open on top of his own and your eyes squeeze shut, and with a loud cry, your legs lock and your pussy starts to convulse around on his dick.

The pulses take over entirely until they leave you quivery and overwhelmed. While your noises lessen from loud moans to tiny gasps, your chest rapidly rises and falls and your legs tremble against Sy’s skin.

“Oh, my God,” you say, and then again: “Oh, my God,” like it’s your new mantra, like Sy has to know everything you just felt. “Oh, my God, Sy.”

With Sy still rock hard inside you, sparks continue to pass through you like little jolts of electricity causing you to jut your hips forward from time to time, and it’s then that you feel Sy’s hands tightly gripping your hips to slightly lift you up and keep you in place. He holds your ass before quickly snapping his hips up, and, totally useless to do anything else, you clench around him as tightly as possible, staring ahead at his pleasure-drunk expression.

Soon, you lower your face into the damp crook between Sy’s neck and shoulder, and you suck a kiss there. Like he’s been holding back to wait on you, within moments, you hear him let out a few curses before starting to deeply groan from within his chest. It’s a coveted sound–your name a frantic whisper before a few desperate-sounding grunts, then groaning while he empties himself inside you. You feel it fill you up.

While Sy’s fingers remain gripping you so hard it’s though he’s worried you’ll leave, you keep your face planted into his neck, heavily panting. His rapid pulse thumps against your lips.

Sy’s hold on you eventually softens, and your breathing eventually grows lighter together. Nothing feels finished, though; besides wrapping his arms around you again, he doesn’t move at all, and you don't make any effort to get off him, either. You keep your head resting on his shoulder, keep your eyes closed, and keep trying to settle your breathing.

For a brief moment, you oddly feel like crying.

All your crazy emotions merge into one–grief, and arousal, and want, and hurt, and need, a yarn-ball of colossal fervor. This is the reunion you should’ve had when he came home all those months ago, the one you’d envisioned. The safety of having him back. The mutual love. The desire. Just the fucking comfort of someone knowing you.

God, you’ve missed him. So much you don’t even see how it’s possible, so much that you can’t even comprehend it.

Soon, Sy softens inside you to the point where you feel like you should disconnect, but even then, you barely move. You just don’t want to. Holding one another during the come-down feels like falling asleep while basking in the sun, like being shot with a tranquilizer.

Eventually, your body sadly protests the position. "My hips are gonna be sore like this," you mumble, still making no effort to dismount.

Sy slowly lays back, taking you with him. "Then move," he says, also making no effort to drop his hands from you.

You grumble, “You move.”

Chuckling, Sy juts his hips upwards, and you have a brief idea that maybe you should try to go again, but instead, you decide to lift your leg up and roll over. In the messy afterglow, you and Sy both stretch.

Your mind runs wild while his cum leaks out of you–Was that as good for him as it was for you? Is everything okay? Is everything still okay?

Thankfully, he doesn’t give you time to over-think, and he pulls you against his side when he realizes you’re no longer touching. Immediately, he reaches out to cradle your face, and he kisses you.

You kiss and kiss and kiss some more, and though they’re kisses without purpose, a thought enters your mind that maybe Sy does want more. When he detaches from your mouth and lowers himself down the bed, it certainly seems that he’s after more, and while you're questioning what he’s doing given the fact that your inner thighs are still sticky with him, he stops halfway down your body.

Seemingly overcome all of a sudden, he presses his cheek to your stomach, squeezing his eyes shut. He clutches you to him, an arm encircling your waist, another arm fully holding your still-sweaty lower back.

While you reach out to touch his closely-shaved head, raw grief for what you’d once had together rolls over you. You wonder if it does Sy, as well. You stare at the ceiling.

How had you drifted so apart in the first place? How’d you ever get to such a painful place where you both lived parallel lives without any intersection, without any sort of communication, without any sort of touch at all? How did it go on for so long? How did you go without this for so long?

It hurts–the despair of time lost–and yet you lay with it, making yourself really feel it. If you let it consume you this one last time, you'll know how you never, ever want to feel again.

Sy’s voice is quiet when he speaks his first real words since—before. “I never stopped, you know.”

Quietly, you ask, “Never stopped what?”

“Thinkin’ aboutchu. I thought aboutchu–I think aboutchu all the time.”

“Me, too, Sy,” you softly tell him, and you wish he’d come back up the bed so you could just hold each other properly.

Instead, surprisingly sudden, Sy’s shoulders begin to shake like they’re literally jumping. You instantly push yourself up on your elbows. He won’t let you see his face.

“Sy…Baby…”

Sy abruptly lets go of your body and sits up, turning away from you to go to the end of the bed where he places his feet on the carpet and his elbows on his legs. Quickly and roughly, he digs his fingers into his eye sockets. Even when you’re able to fully sit up to comfort him, he still won’t let you look at him, instead letting out an involuntary sound from deep in his chest before ending it with some sort of a snort and a cough.

Behind him, you put your forehead against the middle of his back and place a hand on the large scar atop his shoulder. Ultimately, you decide to wrap both of your arms around his torso, and even though your hands can’t meet together over his stomach, you hug him all the same. You’re both quiet for a long, long time.

“I know I ain’t exactly the same, and maybe I won’t ever get there,” he lets out with a gravelly voice, then he snorts again, “but I won’t go back to before. I’ve been workin’ hard. I won’t go back to before. I just. I want you to know that. I want you to see.”

“I do, baby. I do see it,” you respond, and you tighten your arms the best that you can to hug him tighter.

It’s when he puts his hands on top of yours and squeezes you back that suddenly the emotional release you haven’t been aware you’ve even been suppressing happens for you, too, and without warning, you find yourself outrightly sobbing against his spine.

You aren’t sad. You’re happier than you’ve been in forever. It’s just so much, you love him so much, and he’d hurt you so much, and you missed him so much. Your eyes well up and burn and leak while you’re overcome with jerky, snotty cries.

“Oh, hell,” Sy utters, turning around and looking at you with wide eyes.

“I just want our life back,” you cry.

He easily takes hold of your waist and helps you slide back up the bed until you’re resting on a pillow, and he tugs at the blanket to secure it over the both of you. Settling his head on the same pillow you’re on, he looks at you with red-rimmed eyes and puts his hand on the side of your face. There are millimeters between your faces.

“Shh,” is all he says while you let everything out. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I could be normal about this. I’ve just m-missed you for so long,” you wetly say. “When you were gone and when you were back, and now it–now it feels like you’re really back, and I’ve just missed you.”

“I never stopped thinkin’ aboutchu,” he repeats quietly.

Against the pillow, you nod. The sheets beneath you are dirty, and both of your bodies are sticky with sweat, and you’re crying, and he just got done crying and is trying to hide it, and you snuggle closer to him and place one of your legs in between both of his. You’re together as physically close as you can literally be.

“I never meant to bring you any of this pain.”

You wetly chuckle. “Sy, you’ve been through hell. I just–It’s okay now. You’re…You’ve let your walls down. That’s all I’ve wanted. And I know how hard it’s been.”

“For you, too,” he mumbles.

“Yeah. For both of us in its own way.” Sniffing, you just hold his forearm closer to your body, which is hardly at all. “But we’re okay.”

“Still us.”

Sofly, you smile. “Yeah. That’s our new sayin’.”

Just like earlier, you both hesitate to let one another go. You really ought to go to the bathroom, though, and you need to get dressed and change out the sheets where there are…remnants.

After laying together for a long, ling time, Sy is ultimately the first to get out of the bed. Naked, he walks to collect his clothes from the bathroom, and when he returns fully dressed again, you sit up and uselessly cover your chest with the blanket.

"...You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

Sy puts his hands in his pockets. “That’s up to you.”

“I want you to stay,” you say. “For good.”

He gives you a look that you interpret as…a lot of things. I’m sorry. I love you. I shouldn’t’ve ever made you cry.

“Then it’s settled.”

Feeling slightly nervous again, you smile without showing your teeth. “Okay, well…I’m gonna put some clothes on and start gettin’ something ready for supper, then.”

Sy walks to your side of the bed and leans down to kiss your head. His thumb slides along the puffy skin underneath one of your eyes before he straightens all the way up.

“I’ll go clean up from lunch,” he says, and you nod.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and stare at your reflection. Your hair is disheveled and your eyes are pink, but you don't care. 

You clean yourself up before getting re-dressed, and you stay in the room by yourself for a minute, just looking around. Things feel utterly surreal.

It takes time for you and Sy to get in calmer headspaces together after the intensity from before. You both sit on the couch and start watching the middle of some movie that’s playing on cable, and later on when it’s done, you work together side-by-side in the kitchen–Sy chopping up food and you actually cooking it all.

“We gonna cook supper together every evenin’ now?” you ask.

He smirks. "If I move back in, then yeah."

"You said it was settled."

"Thought that was just for tonight," he says lightly. 

"No, you're moving back in for good," you comment before pointing at him with the spatula. “But I still want our weekend dates.”

He smiles down at the cutting board. “Yes ma’am.”

You eat dinner together on the couch with glasses of water, and you watch football until you feel like going to sleep.

Everything has been purposefully lazy and easy between you after such a cathartic release, but it’s there in bed after your respective nighttime routines where it gets heavy for you again. You’re going to be sleeping beside one another.

There still feels like so much guilt between the two of you, regret of time missed. You’re married, and this is the first time you’re happy to go to bed next to Sy in…forever.

There’s Hope now, and it’s filled the entire house, and it’s on your side.

Also on your side is Sy himself. Because his body simply radiates heat, you can’t truly cuddle or anything, but you’re closer than you’ve been in months while you both drift off to sleep. The fingers of his outstretched arm touch the side of your leg all night.

________________

The next morning, you wake up to Sy spooning you from behind, and with the morning chill in the room, you’re actually grateful that his body’s like a furnace.

Under the covers, you’re sleepy and lazy and warm. You’re caught in that hazy post-waking-up window where you’re too comfortable to actually get out of bed but not sleepy enough to fall back asleep, and there’s a conscious buzz in the air that’s palpable. You know from Sy’s breathing that he’s awake behind you.

When Sy slots his large leg in between both of yours and wraps his arms around you a little tighter, he lets you know that he’s aware you’re awake, too.

Your body tightens in a stretch. “Mornin’.”

In response, he just grunts a little. One of his hands reaches underneath your shirt to start caressing your bare stomach.

“Sleep good?”

The next grunt is more happy. Affirmative, then.

You chuckle. “Me, too.”

You’re both quiet after that, but before too long, you feel Sy’s dick literally twitching through his boxers as it starts to press against your ass.

You twist around slightly to look at him, but you can barely see his face. “Really?”

He leans into the back of your neck and breathes in your scent. “You feel good.”

You let out a smile despite him not being able to see. When his hand starts exploring more suggestively, tracing along the top of your sleep pants, you hum.

“This okay?”

“Mmm.”

Together, you both shift so instead of laying entirely on your sides, you’re both halfway on your backs. With your right leg draped over his, it’s easier for Sy to continue touching your navel and then above, just feeling your skin underneath your shirt. He trails his hand lower, but he stays atop your pajamas while touching the tops of your legs and then, finally, the spot where they join.

You remain quiet while his hand starts a slow, circular rhythm, but your breath hitches, and you just let the sensation wash over you.

It’d be nice to turn your head to kiss him right now, you think, but it’s the first thing in the morning, and even this is nice–being so so close and so so comfortable.

Blindly, you reach behind you to slide your hand either into or above Sy’s boxers, but he doesn’t let you. “This’s just for you.”

You move your hand away. “Why,” you start to tease, thinking of last night’s shower, “‘cause you have to be even with me?”

At the nape of your neck, you feel a huff of air exit his nostrils, followed by the press of his lips. “‘Cause I didn’t have any manners last night,” he says lowly while pushing down your pants, and you know what he’s talking about. Normally he’d try to make you come first. Normally he’d do more.

Under the covers, you kick off your pajamas and your underwear together. “But, Sy, everything was–”

“Relax,” he interrupts. “Just enjoy it.”

You roll your eyes, but they just end up closing as his fingers slide down your slit and just barely find slight wetness below. It’s not much, but when he slides his fingers around and goes back up to rub your clit with what he’s collected on his fingertips, it’s enough lubrication for everything to feel soft.

Taking off your pants messed up the angle you had just a minute ago. “Open up for me,” Sy says.

Instead of complying, you squirm and lift your leg entirely off of his. Laying flat on the mattress beside him, you widen your legs and finally look at his face. His eyes are puffy with that just-awoken sleepiness, and his lips are a little dry, but he’s just as handsome as ever. His eyes are dark, but they’re bright, and he gives you a little side-smile that you instantly return.

As he changes the movement of his fingers from circles to little left-and-right motions, you start breathing quicker. It’s insane how good he is with just one hand, but then again, it shouldn’t be. He’s always known your body.

Soon his fingertips dip lower where you’re wet enough now that he entirely coats the tips of his fingers. After doing so, he slides his hand upwards then downwards again, then again, and again, repeatedly gathering slickness and spreading it all over. It’s indulgent enough that you have to close your eyes.

Sy focuses on just your clit after that, going back to larger circles and then finally to tight, quick ones that have your hips jumping up and your breath gasping and ultimately, your body crashing. Everything locks up for one long moment, and you’re washed in the feeling of being known and being loved and being wanted.

Even with your entire body buzzing and a dopey smile on your face, you can’t help yourself from reaching down to trail your thumb over the tip of Sy’s dick over top of his boxers. That was so nice.

“Was supposed to be just for you,” Sy utters, but he still moves to lay on his back when you sit up and start to slide down his boxers.

“And this is gonna be just for you,” you tell him, moving in between his thick legs to pull his underwear all the way down. Your head rings with the sudden shift in position so soon after coming, and it also rings with the view you’re presented with.

You keep the blanket around your shoulders and Sy’s legs. After running your hands up and down his thighs and taking in your share of him, you lean down, take his cock in one hand, and slowly lower your mouth. While you swirl your tongue around and suckle just a little, you look up through your lashes to find him already staring down at you, his eyes droopy.

With the salty-skin taste of him covering your tongue, you start moving your mouth. Sy reaches down and traces your lips with one of his fingers, then he puts his hand on the back of your head. He keeps it there without pressure as you use your mouth and your hand in tandem to get him off, and the sun shines in the room and the blankets are bunched around your bodies and nothing feels gross and everything feels right.

You’d been shaky and desperate after coming under Sy’s fingers, but now, with him staring down at you with a lazy desire you can feel through whatever invisible string it is that connects you both, a brand new intimacy rushes over you.

Everything is safe.

The days go on. Sy officially moves back in. Things continue to evolve into a semblance of normality again.

You go to work, Sy goes to the VA. You begin joining some of his therapy sessions with him, and you learn how to support him in the way he actually needs, not just in the way you think he needs.

He begins taking medicine at night to help him get to sleep and to keep night terrors away. He buys you flowers every week. He makes contact with his old friends again. You even go on double-dates with some of them. Poker continues, but not as much as before. He grows his hair out a little. 

You have a sex life again. Still, there are times when he doesn’t want sex, and there are also times when you don’t. There are times that you catch him staring at a television set that’s turned off. There are times that his eyes look like he’s watching something far, far away. There are days where he doesn’t leave the house, and there are days where he doesn’t want to be home at all.

When the weather gets nicer, he goes back to his old pastime of fishing. You join him on the lake sometimes, but he enjoys the alone-time on the boat so much that it’s not very often. He never goes to a spot without cell reception.

Most especially, you still go out on dates every Saturday, and they no longer feel like small apologies. Instead, they’re just moments of togethernes– sometimes just fast food and the movies, sometimes long strolls and picnics, sometimes fancy restaurants.

You know it’s not easy for him–that civilian life in general isn’t easy for him. You know that what he’s been through has changed the wiring of his brain. You know that he has to actively put effort every single day into forming new habits and erasing the bad ones, into compartmentalizing memories in his head to cope with them better. Into remembering that who he is inside isn't just what the military built him to be.

On the way home from one Saturday night date–a suit-and-tie and cocktail-dress place–it really hits you how far he’s come. You keep staring at him in the truck as you unbuckle your seatbelt, and again when you make your way to the front door together.

You love him. 

Sy pauses with his keys still inside the handle of the door. “What’s this look for?”

“Hm? What look?”

“You keep lookin’ at me like I’m a prize or somethin’.”

“Well, you are,” you murmur with a little smirk, stepping ahead of him into the living room. “Just..I’m proud of you.”

Sy follows and shuts the door. “Proud’a me, huh?”

“Mmhm. You’ve been workin’ really hard these past few months.”

He slightly chuckles, but you can tell he really appreciates the praise and recognition.

“Maybe I can make somethin’ else hard, myself,” you murmur, and it’s more of a joke than anything else.

Still, Sy’s nostrils flare when you finish your sentence, and with a small smirk, you quickly turn around to kick off your heels. Just as quickly, Sy reaches out and firmly touches your chin, making you look over at him again. “Don’t look away after sayin’ somethin’ like that–Christ.”

You innocently blink. “What?”

In a confident move you relish in, he takes hold of your shoulders, turns you around, and presses you against the door at the same time he lowers his mouth to yours. On your tip-toes, you make yourself taller, and while Sy lowers a hand to grasp your waist, his other wraps around your neck to cradle your head.

“What?” he mocks, then he kisses you like it’s been on his mind all night.

While you lift your hands to grasp his shoulders, your lips fall into cadence naturally–though it takes a few seconds to match his specific speed. It’s heavy, but it’s not rushed, so you’re still able to breathe and keep it going. He kisses so well that your legs clench together, and that only makes you slide down the door.

Sy kisses along your jaw and behind your ear before lowering his mouth to your neck and paying close attention to your pulse-point. Your mouth drops in arousal, but as a certain image enters your head, you let out a little laugh.

He detaches from your neck before dropping his forehead to yours. "What’s so funny?"

"Just something I remembered,” you tell him.

“What?”

“When you came back from bein’ stationed in Germany.”

Sy pauses, and as the memory washes over him, too, you watch as his eyes soften in recollection. He chuckles against your mouth while putting a knee in between your legs, widening them to press his leg against your pussy. “Had us a good reunion that time, didn’t we?”

Looking up at him while biting your bottom lip, you just nod.

“Those days when we couldn’t wait none and did it right against the door,” he chuckles, moving his hands to your hips and then widely splaying his fingers out as he trails both of them down your thighs and then around to cup your ass.

“All our clothes still on,” you add.

Sy grins. “Pulled your panties to the side, got my pants down to my knees. Didn’t even take my boots off.”

You accept another kiss from Sy and then say against his mouth, “You tripped 'cause it was so dark."

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” You can’t help but smile while he keeps trying to kiss you. “Knocked your big head right into my face."

Sy squeezes your ass cheeks. “Still ended up findin’ the right hole, didn't I?” he challenges.

You're smiling too largely to continue to kiss again, but Sy finds a way to steal another one from you anyway. "You're good at that."

He laughs, and you feel his smile against your mouth, too. "I sure as hell’d like to think I am."

“Let’s go find out,” you say, and as you playfully escape his hold and scurry ahead of him to get to the bedroom, he easily catches up to you and smacks your ass.

Cackling, you jump on the bed and lay on your back, casually bending your knees and leaving them slightly open so that when Sy instantly settles directly in between them, he’s easily able to push your dress up to your stomach and slide your underwear down your legs.

The next thing you feel is his hot mouth and tongue all over your inner thighs and then your pussy, laving lazily before flicking and sucking at the top where you’re most sensitive. When two of his big fingers easily dip into your wetness and start smoothly pumping in rhythm with his mouth, you bite your lip and undulate your hips upwards.

Sy looks up at you and reaches out his free hand, and you entwine your fingers with his before running your fingers through his hair. With his mouth never pausing, you stare at one another for a few heavy moments until he starts crooking his fingertips upwards against your inside walls, and you gasp and throw back your head.

You have to close your eyes, but when Sy squeezes your hand, you squeeze back. You’re in the middle of what should be a crass act–Sy’s mouth is insane–but all you can think right now is how right you feel, how good you feel, how at home you feel.

Mainly, how loved you feel.

It's the middle of the night when you're awoken from your sleep by a faint and distant noise. 

Since moving in with Sy, you’ve discovered many strange noises belonging to this old house. Though admittedly a little unnerving at first, it wasn’t long for you to figure out which sounds were the floorboards creaking due to temperature changes, which were just the old windows rattling from the wind, and which soundswere the fireplace popping. Combined with all the other background noises that naturally come with living out in the country, by now you’ve gotten used to all the small sounds, and typically, they don’t even bother you at all anymore. 

So, with this particular noise being nondisruptive enough for you to keep your eyes closed, you scoot your ass backwards towards Sy, fluff up the pillow underneath your face, and wait for sleep to take you under again like usual. 

The background sound only increases in volume, however, somehow rhythmic yet spotty, and it just–won’t go away. The steady whirring of the floor fan in the corner of the room does nothing to even cover it. 

For a moment, you think it’s just a residual part of your dream, but that can’t be right. It’s getting louder, so it's definitely not in your head. And it’s definitely not a regular “old house” sound, either. 

Using the dim light from Sy’s bedside alarm clock, you roll over and slowly open your eyes to look around the room. Next to you, Sy is fast asleep on his back, shirtless with the bed’s thin blanket resting just below his chest. Because he sleeps in all different types of positions depending on how he feels on any given night, it’s not odd at all that he's flat on his back like this. What is definitely odd is how stiff he appears. Instead of being relaxed in sleep, all of his muscles are visibly taut.

You push yourself up on your elbow and stare at him. His mouth is entirely closed, his jaw tightly clenched and his lips pulled downwards in a deep frown, and that’s when you realize that the strange sound isn’t coming from the house at all. It’s coming from him.

Like a deep, muffled hum forming in his chest and trying to push its way up his throat and out his mouth, the sound is…it's weird. There’s no other word for it. It's weird. 

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever heard before, actually, and as it grows louder, it only grows weirder–like Sy’s trying to bellow with a hand held over his mouth. Never able to truly escape, the shattered sound forms in his chest and gets caught in his throat. Every single time. 

As your sleepy brain finally gets your body to fully register the situation, you sit up all the way in bed. You know Sy has bad dreams sometimes because he’s told you he does, but you’ve never been awoken by him actually having one–not ever. He's been doing much better, he said. He told you recently that he hardly has nightmares at all anymore. 

The next series of events happens so quickly that it’s hard for your still-groggy brain to make sense of what you’re even witnessing. Despite the darkness, you see sweat visibly begin to coat Sy’s hairline and even start beading up on his forehead, and his tensed-up arms start to twitch by his sides like he's seizing. The entire time, the awful noises from his throat continue trying to escape.

With your mouth suddenly dropped open, you watch in shock while Sy’s head then turns side to side on the pillow and his arms start stiffly jerking so much that they get caught up in the blanket covering his waist. The entire time, the noises he emits are just horrific, more high-pitched and desperate than you’ve ever heard Sy’s voice sound before, all with his mouth entirely shut. 

When Sy's chest starts to jerkily rise and fall, you throw the covers off yourself and hop out of bed, helplessly staring at him violently moving.

Shit. 

This isn’t a bad dream. Hell, this isn’t even a nightmare. This is a full-on night terror like he's said sometimes happens, and you don’t even begin to know what to do. All of this has happened in the course of a minute. 

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, walking around the bed so you’re directly next to him. Within a second, the sound of your beating heart starts to join the room’s panicked noises from Sy.

The sounds are starting to scare you; they seem so urgent that you feel like you’re in the middle of a battle or something, like there must be danger right around the corner that you need to brace yourself for, and you’re not prepared for this, you’re not–you’re not ready to handle something like this–you don’t know what to do. If Sy’s showing this immense amount of fear, then surely you have a reason to be afraid, too.

But then you remind yourself that this isn’t real. None of it is real. And even if you aren’t prepared for this whatsoever and have absolutely no clue what you’re gonna do right now, and even if you’re still shaking off sleep yourself, there’s no other option besides helping. 

You’re gonna step up and do whatever it is that you can for Sy. Just like he always does for you. You have to act. You have to. You must. 

You take a shaky breath. “Okay, uh–Wake him up,” you mumble to yourself. “He said to wake him up if this happens.”

By Sy's nightstand, you reach out to touch his tense shoulder. Feeling its sticky sheen barely give under your fingers, you try to shake it.

“Sy,” you call out, shaking his shoulder again amidst his unpredictable movements. “Sy, baby—wake up.”

He responds by growling at you, and–Oh, God, this is so different than just a nightmare. This is–This is scary. Sy is scared.

You take a deep breath and try to get a handle on your nerves. You can do this. This shit happens to you, too. You get scared at things that aren’t real. You can do this. He’s safe. You’re safe. And you’ve got to make him feel like he’s safe again. You've got to wake him up.

“Sy!” you call out again, bending over him and shaking his shoulders with both of your hands now.

You try to apply more strength in your attempt to wake him up, but a second later, one of his hands–no, one of his fists–quickly comes barreling upwards from underneath the covers. Gasping, you quickly move away as fast as you can while his arm rises upwards in the air, but his knuckles still end up briefly making contact with your left earlobe before you fully get out of the way. 

The contact is slight yet unexpected, and it leaves a residual sting that’s sharp enough for you to lift your hand up to alleviate. Instantly, your earring–one of the tiny studs you typically don't even remove for bed anymore–falls to the floor.

“Okay,” you tell yourself shakily, taking another deep breath as the stinging by your ear dissipates. “Okay. You’re fine, it’s fine, it’s okay.”

You don’t care about your earring. Well, you do because Sy gave it to you for Christmas, but–You don’t care at all. You’ll get it later. 

Let’s try this again.

Being more careful this time but also somehow more forceful, you shake just Sy’s left arm, staying away from actually bending over his body since that obviously wasn't a good idea. 

When you get both of your hands around his bicep, you move his arm side-to side as strongly as you can, calling out louder than before over his muffled shouts. “SY! It’s me! SY!”

Continuously, you shake his arm, feeling as if you’re trying to yank dead-weight off the bed, and all the while, his noises grow absolutely haunting. Some of them are long and harrowing, but most of them are quick and urgent. All of them are loud. 

“Wake up!” you urgently plea. "It's okay, Sy, you're okay, but you gotta wake up. Please. You gotta…you gotta wake up."

As you begin losing strength and getting tired, you let go of Sy and let out a dry, desperate sob to match the next hauntingly tortured scream he lets out.

“Please, babe, just wake up,” you beg. “Just wake up. I’m right here. Come on, Sy.”

In a flash, Sy’s eyes open wide, startling you enough to gasp. With eyes big enough to match his, you wipe off your cheeks and just stare at him. Though he’s blinking, he doesn’t seem awake at all. 

Because he’s not. He can’t be. Looking trapped in his body, his breathing is still rapid and panicked. Worse, the bellows from deep in his chest go on and on, making you feel like you’re doing nothing to help.

“You’re okay, Sy,” you say in the gentlest, most confident voice you can, despite it shaking. “You’re–You're safe. I promise. Everything’s okay.”

Suddenly, Sy bolts upright and gasps like he's emerging from water, and with huge eyes, he stares outward at nothing. Even in moments of vulnerability, you’ve never seen Sy appear anything but confident and strong, and upon witnessing the most helpless expression in existence spread over his face, you cover your mouth with your hand.

In the next second, the noises Sy’s been making finally stop, and his shoulders seem to slump a bit. With your own shoulders still up by your ears, you take a small step forward and slowly lower the hand that’s been resting over your dry, shocked lips. 

You don't know if you should try to touch him again. You don’t know if it’s too soon…if he’ll feel threatened by you like he probably did just a few moments ago when you were leaning over his body… You still don’t know what to do.

“Sy?”

Sy falls back onto the mattress in one fast movement and looks to the side of the bed where you were laying just a few minutes ago. Quickly pushing himself up on his elbows, he then begins to look around the room in a rush, only stopping when he sees you standing next to him.

"Get down!”

Gasping again at the volume of his voice, you stay frozen. “I–”

“Get down!" he orders again. 

Your hands stay useless and shaky by your sides. 

"You let her go!” Sy urges forcefully, and you step to the side so he’ll be able to see you clearer. “You let her fuckin’ go right fuckin’ now!”

“Sy, I–I’m here,” you tell him, getting whiplash from how quickly he’s gone from hauntingly groaning to outrightly shouting. He sounds so convincing that you have to force yourself to be rational about this; even though it sounds like these words are directed towards you, obviously they’re not.

He bolts upright again, and you step back with another gasp. “Get in position! Now!” he orders. “I got front.”

You swallow, watching him in an agony all your own. “Sy, you’re h-home,” you say, your mouth twisting down. “No one’s comin’. You don’t–It’s just me.”

"You–said–she–was–free!"

As your stomach hurts from anxiety, your heart positively aches, and you fight the urge to cry. “You’re having a–you’re havin' a... You’re in bed right now, Sy. You’re in your bed in Georgia. Everything’s okay. You’re safe.”

Sy's shouts incomprehensibly get lower in volume, ultimately turning to mumbles. Resolutely, you take another deep breath.

“I promise you’re safe, Sy. I promise. You just gotta–You just gotta wake up and see. Everything’s fine."

You heave in another lungful of air.

"Everything’s completely fine," you repeat, clutching your hands together. "You're okay. You’re okay. And–And so am I. Wake up and come back. Come–Come back to me."

Like a gloss has been lifted from them, Sy’s steely eyes change in the darkness, a shift that you can acutely sense. The second he finally focuses on your face, you recognize a semblance of consciousness behind a screen of intense worry.

“Y/N?”

Exhaling all your trembling air, you shakily nod and take a hesitant step towards the bed. 

This was…This was no joke. This was…It honestly was scary, and you’re glad it’s over now. For both of you.

“Y-Yeah.” Your voice has gone dry, so you clear your throat. “Yeah,” you repeat.

“You need to be–What’re you doin’ out here?” he asks intensely, almost in accusation, and your mouth drops open. “Get back! Get down!”

It’s not over yet.

Sy's eyes hold residual panic while he looks behind you. Before he can interject like you can see he's about to, you carefully turn on the lamp atop his nightstand.

Slowly, you hold out the hands you’ve just been wringing and gesture around the bedroom. “You're home. See?”

Untensing his muscles, Sy looks side-to-side. After several thick and silent moments pass where all he does is breathe heavily, he finally falls back in exhaustion, bringing a hand to his forehead. The other reaches out and takes hold of one of your wrists, and he pulls you closer to him, squeezing there like a lifeline. 

"Oh, thank fuck," he quickly whispers under his breath, and it’s not until he says the words that you’re able to relax a little bit. 

But only a little bit.

Gritting his jaw so heavily that it's extended almost in an underbite, Sy examines the ceiling with the passing ghost of fear on his face.

Lowering your shoulders–this time for good–you simply stare at Sy. He’s back, but his face looks like it’s been through a very brief, very intense war. 

He’s covered in more sweat than should even be possible, all of his body hair flattened onto his chest and stomach. The bedsheets underneath him are stuck to his back, the pillow underneath his head stuck to his neck. You feel his quick pulse through the hand he’s gripping you with, and with visible effort, you watch as he struggles to catch his breath.

You sit down on the sliver of mattress beside him and put a gentle hand on his chest. “Shh. Try to slow it down.”

“I was–” He closes his eyes. “You–”

You mimic taking a slow breath before speaking softly. “You’re safe. You're okay."

Sy doesn’t keep his eyes shut for long, and he doesn’t remain laying down for long, either. Within seconds, even as you're trying to comfort him, he sits upright and swivels, moving until he’s at the very edge of the bed. After putting his feet on the floor, he shakily puts his elbows on his thighs and drops his head into the palms of his hands. You hear him let out a loud breath like emptying all the air from his lungs.

“I don’t even remember–It was–”

You put a hand on Sy’s damp back, making silent circles until you eventually just stop to keep your arm securely wrapped around his waist. After a while, he places a hand on your bare leg and keeps it there, squeezing. You both sit still in the aftermath, holding each other.

“If that scared you,” he eventually mumbles, "I'm so fuckin’ sorry."

You rest your cheek on his arm. “You don’t have to say sorry. For anything.”

Once Sy lifts his head, you don’t know what else to say or do, so you don’t say or do anything. You just hold onto him, wondering what images he must’ve seen just now, and where he had gone, and what he had been through. 

His breathing finally evens out entirely with the help of you audibly assisting him.

“There you go," you murmur, and he clears his throat.

You do the same. 

“Are you…Are you feelin’ any better?”

Sy just nods at you. He doesn't let go of your leg. 

“Want some water?”

Wordlessly, he nods again, and you stand up to quickly breeze out of the room, glad to be doing something to help, even if it’s just something small like getting something from downstairs. When you ascend the stairs again with a plastic bottle of water, your eyebrows crinkling together in worry, you catch Sy stepping out of the hallway bathroom, dabbing his face with a small towel.

After walking ahead of you into the bedroom, he gets in bed again, sitting up at his sweaty section of sheets and staring blankly ahead at the wall. All earlier fear and exhaustion from his face is erased. Now there's just a shadow of scorn.  

You swallow as you approach him, standing next to him like he’s in a hospital bed for a moment, but when you figure you’re probably acting strange, you walk around the bed and join him. 

You’re not worried that the blankets are all messed up and wrinkly or even that they’re damp and dirty. There's nothing on your mind except Sy. 

He drinks the water you give to him in one go, squeezing the plastic and almost sucking it entirely down, then he tosses it carelessly on the floor. Laying down all the way, he scowls at the ceiling, and you climb in bed beside him and worry even more.

While he lays horizontally, you stay upright, crossing your legs and turning your body towards him so your kneecaps touch his side. You get as close to him as possible, gently touching his chest and running circes over the skin there. He closes his eyes under your touch, so you don’t stop.

You don’t speak until Sy finally breaks his stillness to lift a hand to his forehead. He keeps it there with no purpose before reaching out to touch you, grasping your sleep-shirt and holding it in his clenched fist almost like a lifeline. You cover his hand there with your own.

“Do you not like to talk about it either?” you carefully ask. “Like when I…Like with me?”

Sy shakes his head. 

“Okay,” you tell him softly, continuing to touch his fingers until they finally loosen up a bit. “Then we don’t have to talk about it.”

When he finally lets go of the death-grip on your shirt, he keeps his hand on your hip, and the heat from it sears your skin through your clothes. After that, the room remains oddly still. Even the fan in the corner of the room seems quiet.

His croaky voice interrupts the silence. "They just…"

You lift your eyebrows. 

"Nothin'," he finishes. 

"You can tell me."

He shakes his head. "Just wanna forget that shit even happened."

In understanding, you nod. “I have medicine you could take if you want,” you keep your voice down and offer.

“Ah, I’m alright,” he tells you, almost dismissively, and you just continue to softly frown down at him.

That can’t possibly be true. Not with the look on his face right now, the residual doom, the fear from earlier that no amount of strength or willpower could get him through. Not with the noises he had made. Not with the things he'd said. 

Well, he does have the skills to work through this stuff, you know. Alone. He’s not just physically strong; he’s mentally strong, too. His military training and experience are kicking in by now, and he’s probably pushing the occurrence deep down in his psyche. Trying to forget it even happened. Just like he said. 

But he’s human, though. And everyone has their limits.

Sy inhales deeply and lets all the air out in a rush while lifting his hand from your side and running it over his forehead again. "Gonna shower," he mumbles.

After nodding, you lean down and kiss his mouth, as gentle and slow as possible. When you back away, your hair falling onto his shoulder, the two of you just stare at one another. While holding each other's gazes so long it almost becomes sentimental, you reluctantly slide your hand off his chest. 

"You want any company?"

He tries to smile, but it's only the corner of his mouth purposefully twitching and then evening out again. "Just gonna be a minute," he says, his version of asking for space.

After touching your face and staring into your eyes for another heavy moment, Sy rises. Soon after he walks out into the dim hallway, you listen as loud, cascading water from next door audibly sounds out. 

Then it’s just you by yourself. 

The guilt from everything that had just happened starts to shroud you, layering up so much in the forefront of your mind that your head becomes heavy.

Of course it’s not your fault that he’d had a night terror or anything, but the fact that he gets night terrors at all…it has you feeling helpless. It was horrific. It was horrific to witness, and it must’ve been just as horrific to experience.

As always, you struggle with the desire to fix everything and make it peaceful and nice again, but with this, you’re in uncharted waters. Uncharted waters that Sy’s had to navigate countless times. With no help. 

To keep your mind off worrying with no end in sight, you step out of bed and mindlessly begin to clean up the room, first collecting your earring that had fallen to the ground. Your ear feels sore, so you don’t put it back in your earlobe; you just remove the other earring and put them both on your nightstand. 

In between biting your nails, you throw out Sy’s discarded water bottle next along with some other pieces of trash laying around. You then pick up some random clothes on the floor, toss them all in the hamper, and then finally begin to just strip the entire bed. Sy’ll appreciate not having to lay on top of dried sweat directly after showering. 

After putting all of the dirty sheets in a giant pile in the corner of the room, you get a set of fresh linens from a closet in the hallway and then get to work stretching everything over the large expanse of the mattress, taking care around all the corners. 

Since moving in with Sy and putting your own touch on the house, the bedroom is a little more cozy than the utilitarian way it'd looked before. A new chair sits in the corner of the room, the large window facing the front of the house now has curtains, and a large rug is now underneath the bed, tying together the space by the fireplace on one side of the bed and the window on the other. 

You’d like to think the bedroom is more welcoming now, more home-like. That maybe, possibly, by chance, it’s helped Sy’s mind calm down a little. 

He's always said that sleeping next to you keeps the bad dreams away, at least. 

Usually. 

Until tonight. 

A recent memory enters your mind while you put a pillowcase on Sy's favorite feather-pillow. When the forest began showing signs of green again–around the time you'd first moved in–you’d opened the windows and watched the newly-purchased curtains move in the spring wind. Sy had walked into the room to catch you staring outside, and he’d matched his chest to your back before placing his chin on your shoulder. Together, you looked out at the pink blossoming cherry trees in the distance, at the bright yellow forsythia bushes scattered throughout the woods beyond the long winding lane, at the random array of tulips you were surprised to see pop up by the garage. You'd remained quiet together. Just looking. 

Now that summer’s come early, you’ve started to open the same big window to let fresh air into the house. You frequently still stare outside. At the greenery and the rabbits and the chickens and the deer. 

You softly smile while finishing up the bed. You’re happy living here, happy with settling in. And, like Sy's always said, he's happy when you're happy. He honestly doesn't mind you changing or rearranging things. Not even if it requires him to help with heavy lifting. Not even if you move something and decide you liked it better where it was before all along. He may give you a look, but he truly doesn't care. 

These bedsheets you've kept the same, though. Sy’s got good taste in bedsheets. 

He says it’s because he’s gone too many years sleeping on the itchiest military-grade bedding imaginable and won't settle for less now. You say it’s just because he sleeps naked so much and the expensive sheets feel better on his skin. You hear his voice in your head asking, “And why exactly can’t it be both?” 

You can only hope the clean linen offers some sliver of peace to him after his shower. That he can fall into bed and just…be comfortable. 

You don’t know. Just…knowing how he is, he’s going to have a hard time relaxing again. 

You hope he can go back to sleep after this.

By the time Sy re-enters the room with a towel around his waist, you’re back under the covers in bed again, head on your pillow. You watch him lazily drop the towel by the door while simultaneously opening the top drawer of his dresser. He puts on a new pair of boxers before walking towards the bed and joining you underneath the sheets, and within seconds, the rich and spicy scent from his shower fills your nose. Getting closer to him as he gets situated in his spot, you breathe more of it in. 

After Sy finishes fixing the pillows underneath his head, he lifts his right arm in invitation, and you snuggle even closer while staying curled up against your pillow and the fresh blanket. It takes a few seconds before you get settled–your earlobe feels tender depending on how you lay–but you finally stop shuffling around after a minute passes. 

In the still air, you run your fingers through Sy's damp chest hair. He stays quiet. 

Your hand flattens and pauses in between his pecs while you strain your neck to kiss whatever skin is closest to your lips. Right over his ribs is where your mouth connects. He still stays quiet. 

Finally, you lower your hand to rest atop his stomach, and at that, Sy places his own hand atop yours. Gently, he squeezes there. You squeeze back. 

"Good shower?" you check in after the silence goes on forever.

"Mm."

"Feelin' any better?"

The noise he replies with is a mixture between a scoff and a chuckle, a sarcastic coping-mechanism you’ve seen him use before. 

You know it’s just a facade, but still, you frown. From where your face is pressed so close to Sy’s chest, he can’t see it. 

"I just wanna make sure you're okay," you explain against his skin. 

"I'm fine, baby," he tells you through a long exhale, and he sounds perfectly normal. "Don'tchu worry 'bout me none. You got work in a few hours."

“I mean…I’m gonna worry,” you admit, glancing up at him. “I just don’t want you to…not be alright.”

His eyes soften a bit when he sees your face. “Just stay like this.”

You nod. He’s probably just as used to his night terrors as you are with your panic attacks. In the shower, he probably already came to terms with what happened and compartmentalized it in his head. Now he just needs time to decompress.

"You stay right like this next to me and get back to sleep," he says with a squeeze to your body. 

"Are you gonna?" you ask. "Get back to sleep?"

There's a pause. "With you like this, I can."

You kiss the side of his chest again and then roll over. Facing the window, you cuddle back against Sy until he rolls over to match his chest closer against you. 

“Bed smells nice,” he mumbles.

“Mm.”

As he drapes his arm over your body, you recall a similar scene from several months ago–the night of your first panic attack in front of him. On his motorcycle. On the side of the road. Where he helped you breathe again. When you had been mortified.

You both were in this exact same position later that night–spooning in bed.

You sincerely hope his mind isn't running as much as yours had that night.

Maybe this is comforting to him. Just like this. You reach out for his hand that’s wrapped tightly around you, lift it up to your mouth, and kiss it. 

“I love you,” you whisper, and Sy kisses the back of your head.

His mouth moves against your hair when he says, “You got no idea how much I love you, too.”

Breathing evenly with your fingers interlocked, you cuddle together and don’t say anything else. With the way he firmly holds you against his body like he doesn’t want you to move at all, you’re eventually lulled back to something resembling sleep. A few hours later when your alarm starts beeping, though, Sy’s no longer next to you.

Finding his departure from bed slightly upsetting but more or less predictable, you groggily get dressed for work and head downstairs without any makeup on and without doing anything whatsoever to your hair. You mess around with it while walking through the foyer so at least it'll look semi-okay for the day.

Drinking coffee at his regular spot at the kitchen table, you find Sy dressed in an old t-shirt and jeans. A wrinkled-up Car and Driver magazine is open in front of him that he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to. 

As these things go, there's a strange feeling in the air while you help yourself to the coffee Sy's prepared, but he had already told you last night that he doesn’t want to talk about what had happened–at least not yet–so you're going to respect that. 

When you sit down next to him, you hook one of your feet around his ankle under the table and treat him like you would on any other regular day, making small-talk about your plans for the day. Sy will be working on expanding the chicken coop out back before the afternoon heat gets too unbearable; you'll be at the office. Next, Sy will be working on Liana's car in the garage; you'll still be at the office. 

Though your morning coffee together is quiet and intimate, it's careful. What had happened last night floats around the room above your heads, but you don’t dare bring it up. Even after all this time with him, you still struggle on a regular basis with knowing the difference between expressing concern for someone and pestering them.

He’d set a boundary, though. He said he didn’t want to talk about it. You’re just being respectful. 

After standing up, Sy kisses the top of your head and carries both of your empty mugs to the sink. He stands there for a few moments, just staring out of the window at the windchimes hanging on the back deck. The almost forlorn look on his face propels you to stand up and walk to him.

"You okay?"

He grunts. While he pours coffee into a thermos, you walk to the foyer and put your work heels on. They click on the hardwood on your way back into the kitchen where you meet him by the back door to say your goodbyes. 

After an exchange of softly-spoken I love yous, he steps outside through the back door, and to save your shoes from the mud out back, you leave through the front. 

Naturally, you worry during your entire commute about Sy. About if he’s really as fine as he seems. About your role in all this. About whether you're not doing enough. 

Not able to help it, the moment you're in front of your work computer, you log in, bypass your email alerts to open up a search engine instead, and simply type night terrors. After pressing enter, you click on the first legitimate link you see. 

You're not a complete dumbass, so much of the article's information is self-evident and doesn't help enlighten you much, but in the span of one minute, something you read makes your stomach drop.

Under no circumstances should an individual attempt to wake up a person having a night terror. 

You read the article three times in a row to make sure you correctly understand what’s written. And even after going to another article to make sure you’re not reading entirely incorrect information–and another article–and another–you find they all say the same thing. Don’t wake up the person having a night terror. 

You had…not done that.

You hadn’t done any of the things the articles advise. The more you read about night terrors from an outsider's perspective, the more you realize how ill-prepared and impulsive you really were last night. 

You hadn’t stayed out of Sy’s way like these articles suggest. You hadn’t stayed calm, either. 

And you had tried to wake him up.

What if that had made it all worse? What if your voice somehow made its way into his head and panicked him more? What if you genuinely scared him?

You think of your own panic attacks. You've had two in Sy's presence already. Two. And he's dealt with you expertly. He's always known what to do. 

Though you’re always unreasonable at first, still entirely stuck in your own head and afraid you're dying when you logically should know better after all this time, he's always unfazed. He always focuses on the goal of getting you to breathe again, and afterwards, he always sits with you in silence. 

His presence is perfect to have. 

He doesn’t make a huge deal about it in the aftermath.

He’s always so confident when it comes to you and your needs. He knows what to say. He knows what to do. He knows everything. And you…You aren't like that at all. Of all people. 

Feeling inadequate, you close the door to your cubicle and stare at your computer monitor until the images get blurry and you have to wipe the corners of your eyes. 

You have nothing to offer Sy. Really, you just don't. It's always him helping you. Never you helping him. All you do is take. You never give. You're always the one needing assistance. And the one time Sy needed it from you, you still couldn't do it in the right way. 

You successfully isolate yourself from your coworkers and your supervisor while putting off all the work you definitely could be catching up on, and the phrase keeps entering your head, again and again–You could've done better. You could've done so much better. Last night and this morning.

But then, even if you had, you'd be sitting right here in this same spot wondering if you’d pestered him. 

Your brain just won't let you fucking win. 

You close your eyes. What would Sy say to you if you voiced all these thoughts out loud to him? What would he say if you told him you'd read articles about night terrors and that you discovered you'd fucked up? And more than that, that you trying to wake him up maybe made the whole thing worse than it otherwise would've been? 

It takes seconds for you to predict Sy's response. 

"I was the one who toldja to wake me up before, baby," he'd tell you. 

Because he did. He said that. He said that before. 

And if you expressed concern that you weren't calm like you were supposed to be–– "It scared you," he'd also say. 

And if you worried that you hadn't done a thing at all to actually help— "Just you bein' there was all I needed."

That's what he'd say to you. You can hear it in your head just as clear as if he were truly beside you speaking it. He'd be understanding. He’d be kind. And if you truly had fucked something up, he'd be forgiving. Because he always is. 

Talking to yourself internally in a mixture of Sy’s voice and your therapist’s voice and the newly-emerging inner voice of your own, you take a deep breath in and a deep breath out, and you rearrange your mindframe. 

Maybe he was a little forlorn and shut-off this morning, yeah, but that’s not a reflection of you; it’s the aftermath of the situation he’s personally dealing with. That’s all. And what happened isn't your fault. 

You sigh. You can’t believe that he’s the one who had a night terror, yet here you are needing to reassure yourself over it. It’s ridiculous. 

But here you are. Y/N. And you’d done the best you could. 

You really had tried your hardest to stay calm. And hell, maybe you actually did exude calmness somehow without you realizing it. Maybe your wavering voice still got through to Sy in the throes of it. Maybe it really had helped. Maybe holding onto one another afterwards was enough for him, and maybe when you get home tonight, he'll be okay. 

And besides, you hadn’t really woken him up to begin with, had you? You’d tried, but you failed. He was in too deep. So…Maybe you hadn’t fucked up too badly, after all.

You’re still gonna have to talk to him about it tonight, though. The thoughts will eat you alive unless you let them out. 

Going easier on yourself, by mid-afternoon, you open up your message thread with Sy to check in with him. When he sends you a picture of himself in the garage, you tell him that you’ll grab supper at his favorite fast food place on the way home. That’ll be one less thing for you both to have to worry about, you reckon. 

Even though you end up working a bit late–well past what this little town calls its rush hour–when you finally leave your agency's parking lot, you're surprised to find the traffic unusually thick. Even for a typical Friday, the number of cars out on the road and people walking around the streets is odd. 

It takes you a minute to put it together: Memorial Day is Monday. Folks are visiting for the holiday, preparing for the parade that'll go down Main Street.

The drivers in particular seem to be preparing for the parade early–creeping down the road with no regard to any traffic patterns. Cars with people hanging out of the windows. Cars slowing down at stop lights to catch up with friends and family members they recognize in the car next to them. People walking in the streets. 

Impatiently navigating around it all, you mutter under your breath, just wanting to get home to Sy. He’d be pretty upset to see what he considers a really somber day be used as an excuse for this sort of excitement.

In addition to all the people out on the roads, there’s also a long line at the drive-thru. The fast food chicken joint, Sy’s favorite, is conveniently positioned directly next to Sy’s favorite junkyard. “The poor man’s KFC by the poor man’s AutoZone,” he likes to say. Normally you crack a smile thinking about that. Now you’re simply too annoyed.

After ordering grilled chicken for yourself and fried chicken for Sy, you load up on a bunch of sides and wait about twenty full minutes to leave with all your food, gratefully speeding once you hit the open, windy roads of the country. You just want to get home.

By the time you arrive and step inside the house with your arms full of bags, it’s quiet. You look to the left to see if Sy’s in the living room, but it’s empty. Next, you walk down the hallway and peek into the kitchen, only to find it entirely empty, too. And clean. Spotlessly clean. That's when you hear muffled music and the sound of clicking metal from down the hall.  

You place the bags of food onto the counter and walk towards the work-out room. You stand at the doorway and quietly look inside. 

In the middle of a set of bench-presses, Sy loudly grunts while repeatedly pushing his loaded-up barbell away from his chest. With his last rep, he lets out an extended groan before setting the barbell onto the rack above his head.

With no break at all, he sits up, panting, and instantly bends over to lift a singular free-weight off the floor. You continue to watch as he begins doing bicep curls, starting with his right arm and then moving on to his left. In the muscle-shirt he’s wearing, you’re enamored for a bit at the sight of his muscles at work, and you feel like it's worth readdressing his idea of putting a large mirror on one of the walls. 

Since Sy hates having headphones in his ears, you clear your throat when you see your opening to get his attention, and he looks back at you instantly, shoulders temporarily rising in a moment of shock that’s short-lived. A line of sweat drops down the center of his nose, and he sticks out his bottom lip to blow it off. 

You offer a small apologetic smile after accidentally startling him. “Didn’t hear me come in, huh?”

Sy wipes off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Guess not.” 

As he takes a long sip of water, you take in his appearance. His gray shirt is drenched in sweat, almost soaking wet. His loose athletic shorts stop just where his knee-brace begins. His body looks just the same as it always does–impressively large, confident in the space it’s in–but his face is haggard. His eyes are red-rimmed. He’s tired. 

You tilt your head to the side to gesture to the kitchen. “Surprised all that yummy-smellin’ chicken didn’t give me away,” you comment, trying to keep things light. 

"Yeah," he replies.

You clear your throat. “I’ll warm everything up whenever you’re done. Just say when.”

Sy makes a hand-gesture by his throat to indicate he’s finished. With a grunt, he stands up from the bench and begins to walk towards you. 

“What all’d'ju pick up?” he asks before he leans down to pretend-kiss you. 

You slide out of the way of his dripping-wet face and stick out your tongue. “Chicken, taters, slaw,” you answer. “Green beans and rolls…The regular.”

While pulling his arms behind him in a stretch, he makes a long, low noise of appreciation. “Thanks, baby.”

You just smile, and Sy stands there momentarily, looking at your face. Seeming to inspect your hair next, Sy’s eyes linger by your cheek in a way that has you tuck a few stray pieces behind your ear with lingering self-consciousness you suppose you’ll never be able to shake.

You’re about to ask if you have something on your face or something, but then he just says, “Gonna shower, then I’ll come back down,” so you nod at him.

Sy lightly taps your ass as he walks around you, and you reach out with your foot to kick his ass in retaliation as you follow him. On your way into the kitchen, the dryer buzzes from inside the laundry room. You gaze inside to see a few baskets of linens sitting on top of the washing machine.

You call out to Sy who’s heading down the hallway, “You do laundry?”

“Yeah,” his muffled voice calls back, and you tilt your head to the side.

“Huh,” you simply murmur. He cleaned up the kitchen and he’s done laundry, and he’s worked outside and in the garage, too. “Well, jeez, Sy, you’ve been busy today.”

You set the table in the now-entirely-finished dining room with care while reheating all the food that’s had time to cool down on your drive home. You even move all the food into nice-looking dishes before setting it all out. It may be fast food, but still. 

When Sy comes downstairs in another muscle-cut t-shirt and an old pair of sweatpants, you meet him in the foyer and gesture to the dining room with an exaggerated flourish. “Hope you’re hungry.”

He stretches. “You got no idea.”

After Sy takes his seat at the end of the table, you get behind him and put your chin on his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him the best you can. You squeeze him for a while before kissing his scruffy neck and standing back up and sitting down next to him.

Sy loads his plate up like it’s Thanksgiving, and you fill your plate with the things you’re able to eat. Though he’s acting normal, he looks utterly exhausted, and you can’t help but be concerned.

You don’t know how much concern is appropriate. You keep going between “He’s fine, he’s gone through this before, he knows how to handle this” and “He’s repressing what happened, he’s not fine at all, you need to help him.”

You clear your throat before taking a bite of mashed potatoes. “You been out in the garage most of the day?” you ask, looking at his hands as he shovels a bite of food into his mouth, too. Though he’d just showered, there’s still grease underneath his fingernails.

He nods while chewing. After swallowing, he just comments, “Liana’s air conditioner blew.”

“That sucks.” You make a face. “It’s gettin' so hot outside already.”

Sy grunts. "’Course that’s not all that needed fixin’. Spark plugs covered in grease. Brakes worse’n yours were last year.”

"Oh, no," you make another sympathetic face and reply. "Does she have somethin' to drive while you work on her car?"

Sy nods. "She's in MaMaw's car."

“Oh, nice,” you say. “That car’s pristine.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, “‘cause she never uses it.”

You smirk. “Thanks for also findin’ time to clean and do the laundry,” you tell him before you begin eating. 

He nods. “No problem,” he says quietly, and his face turns a little more serious as he chews. 

It’s because you’ve reminded him why the bedsheets needed to be washed in the first place. Now the topic is Out There.

After going through a mostly-silent dinner together due to combined hunger and good food, Sy puts his fork and knife on his plate and leans back in his chair. As he wipes off his mouth and beard with a napkin, you know the time is now. 

You take a deep breath in preparation to speak, but before you even let out a word, Sy's already talking.

“I got a question for you.”

In slight surprise, your eyebrows lift, and after you swallow, you agreeably nod almost instantly. In reaction to Sy's serious face, you touch the area around your mouth, nervous you have food there due to how intensely he’s suddenly looking at you.

"...Yeah?" 

He sharply inhales through only his nostrils, and you're….confused.

"Didju have a nosebleed last night?"

The question takes you as off-guard as his surly demeanor, and your eyebrows furrow in confusion while you shake your head. 

"No…" you answer slowly.

Sy mumbles something impossibly quietly, and you continue staring at him, utterly lost. 

You've only seen this particular look on his face two times–once with his sister Liana's ex and once with yours. He's angry.

"Sy, what's the matter?" you ask, now growing more worried than confused. "What's gotten you so mad?"

"Myself," he replies. 

Your confused face only accentuates. "What on earth for?"

"Your pillowcase has blood on it," he answers. 

You pause. “What, the pillowcase in the dryer?”

"The pillowcase that’s on the bed now.”

“Oh…I mean, I might’ve had a nosebleed then, I dunno,” you say, but Sy still doesn’t relax. He keeps looking all around your face.

"What did I do to you?" he asks you through his teeth. 

Lost, you blink a few times and then slowly bring a hand up to your left ear. "Oh, that!"

Sy lifts a thick eyebrow at you. 

"My earring…" you murmur, reaching up to touch your bare earlobe. "It got snagged last night and fell out. I guess there must’ve been dried up blood from that.”

"It got snagged how?"

"It was–when I–"

You could lie and say it just happened in your sleep, but you won’t. It was when you'd bent over Sy to try to wake him up. Because for some reason, you had thought that doing that was a good idea. To hover over a person actively having a night terror.

"I hit you, didn't I?" 

Upset again at the fact that you’d done something so stupid to scare the shit out of Sy in the first place, you frown and look away briefly. That seems to give Sy his answer, and he sharply takes in a breath. 

“Just barely, Sy,” you instantly reassure him, not knowing if you should be frustrated or flattered at this sort of response. “Seriously. Just, like–” You make a gesture by the side of your jaw to show how his hand had just barely touched your ear. “Like a graze.”

As Sy's face twists in deeper anger, wrinkles begin to spread along his forehead. To feel that this sort of reaction could be directed at you, you almost wither, but you sit up straighter instead. You know within every pore of your body it can't be directed at you. It’s directed at himself. He’d said so himself.

"Sy, it wasn't 'cause'a you,” you promise. “It was me. I leaned over you and scared you."

Like your words are just making things worse, a grimace takes over the scowl on Sy's face.

“Babe,” you say gently, reaching across the table with open palms. “It’s seriously fine. I promise.”

"You were bleedin’. ‘Cause’a me. You know that ain't fine.”

"I mean, I…I get that that’s how it seems, but it really wasn't–It really was hardly any–" You sigh. “It’s fine.”

"Hittin’ you and makin’ you bleed ain't just somethin' that's fine," he interjects with venom.

You blink a few times. You really weren't expecting this sort of emotional response from him. 

While you sit frozen in shock, Sy just shakes his head at himself and stands up from the table, collecting your plate and then his own so the utensils rattle on the porcelain. You quickly rise from your chair and follow him into the kitchen.

“It’s fine because you didn’t mean to,” you tell him. "You had no idea what you w–"

“Doesn’t matter what someone means to do,” he puts the dishes in the dishwasher and gruffly says. “Matters what they actually do.”

“Okay, so, uh. You didn’t actually do anything, though, Sy,” you say, trying another angle. "It was just your knuckle touching my ear. I didn’t even know it was bleeding."

Sy stops messing with the dishwasher and stands upright. He emits a tired-sounding sigh and rubs his face with both of his large hands. “Okay.”

You stare up at him in yearning, hating this stubbornness that's so rarely directed towards you.

"You're makin' me feel bad," you whisper.

"How?"

You shrug. "Like I can't even handle a microscopic injury on my earlobe."

"You didn't–This ain't about what you can handle here, Y/N," Sy says, sounding exhausted. 

"I'm–I get that. But I swear to you, I'm fine."

"Okay," he says again, and though it's not condescending–Sy would never–it's still so…dismissive. 

You sigh. You’d just told him that he’s making you feel bad by acting like this, so now he’s trying not to make it worse. Now he’s separating himself from you.

After another quiet trip into the dining room, you and Sy both end up in the kitchen once more, loading dishes into the dishwasher together.

You touch his arm once his hands are empty. "You didn't mean to."

He just looks down at you wearily. "But I still did."

Your mouth falls open while you try to think of something else to say besides "I'm fine" and "You didn't mean it" and "It was just a scratch." None of those words have gotten through to him at all. 

Ultimately, Sy leaves the kitchen before you can change tactics and think of anything else to say. Approaching the stairway, he briefly turns around and pauses. 

“Thanks for bringin’ home supper,” he meets your eyes and says loud enough for you to hear through the hallway. "It was…Everything was great."

You simply nod, almost amused that even while stubborn and grumpy, he’s using his manners. You can’t really be amused when you’re still so worried for him, though. He's being unreasonably hard on himself. 

Giving Sy and yourself the alone-time you both need to regroup, you finish clearing the dining room table. After scraping all the leftovers into tupperware and stacking the containers in the refrigerator, you rinse off dishes in the kitchen sink. You load everything into the dishwasher on auto-pilot and then wipe down all the surfaces you can find even though they’re clean already. 

Next, you head down the hall to finish up the laundry that Sy had graciously begun taking care of earlier. A giant twisted ball of bedsheets greets you when you open the dryer, and you yank them out and drop them into a wide wicker basket on the floor to get them out of the way for a bit. 

Afterwards, you pull out the lint-trap from the back of the dryer while simultaneously reaching out for the giant Mason jar on the shelf on the wall beside you. Peeling off all the fluffy residue from the lint-trap, you add a giant screen of white lint to the existing ball of blue and gray inside the jar, and then you place the lint-catcher back into the dryer. Sy won’t use the collected lint any time soon, but when it gets cold again, it’ll be good for starting fires. You make a mental note to bring a new jar into the laundry room since this one’s getting full.

You fold the two baskets of bed-sheets while letting your mind roam for a bit, and then you go upstairs and put everything away in the hallway closet. 

Sy’s in bed watching a movie when you step inside the bedroom, and you know you’re going to have to handle this delicately. The pillow that’s next to him has a tiny spot of brown blood on it. 

He watches you from the corner of your eye while you change into comfortable clothes –a pair of athletic shorts and one of his old Skynyrd shirts–and then you join him in bed. Before settling back next to him, you pointedly flip over your pillow. 

Really…his hand accidentally hitting your ear had been comparable to him accidentally stepping on your foot that one time you’d gotten him to dance with you at your cousin’s wedding—a quick, sharp sensation that dissipated within seconds. And he hadn’t reacted like this then. At all. If you recall, he'd actually laughed with you that time. 

This is nothing like that, though. There’s nothing good-natured at all about this.

“I don’t wantchu to feel bad just ‘cause I’m in a bad mood,” he grumbles. 

“I don’t wantchu to feel bad just ‘cause I made a mistake,” you counter. 

His answer is a heavy yet clipped sigh. 

"Is all this still just 'cause you think you hit me?"

He glances back at you in an instant. "I did."

"Sy, I promise it’s fine. It really is.”

His head thuds against the headboard. “It shouldn’t be fine to you, Y/N."

"But it was an accident. A total accident. You didn't mean for it to happen."

“An' yet it still did.”

"Because I leaned over you," you explain. "It wasn't your fault."

"So you're sayin' it's your own?"

"I mean…" You shrug. "Yeah."

He mumbles something under his breath you can't hear, and you feel him tense. 

You've never seen such a bullheaded side to him before. Not towards you, at least. You've seen it to a degree with his family, but this is the first time for you.

"Sy, please," you beg. "Try to see it from my side, okay? You were–You were basically, like, paralyzed, and I was tryin’ to wake you up but I couldn’t, and I shouldn’t’ve even attempted to do that in the first place, but I leaned over you while you were already–I scared you.”

“That’s not how I’m seein’ it.”

You sigh. “How are you seein’ it?”

"I’m seein’ a man hit a woman, and now that woman's blamin' herself."

You blink. Your face softens. Your heart slightly breaks. 

"Sy, I–It's nothin' like that. At all."

He remains quiet.

"Look, do you wanna see my ear?" you offer, turning your face to show him. "See for yourself. There’s nothin’ there."

Sy's quiet for a long time until saying, "Let’s just watch this movie."

You try to watch the movie, but you can’t focus. Long minutes stretch by with your mind somewhere else. 

“I don’t…I don’t like knowin’ you’re upset.”

"I ain't upset with you."

"Upset at all," you clarify. 

"There really ain't no changin' that, babe," Sy says humorlessly. "It is what it is."

You blanch. "I don't think you're bein' fair to yourself. At all."

"It's fine," he gives you a non-answer.

The evening slowly passes. You continue mindlessly watching the movie that Sy’s put on. You do your nightly routine in the bathroom. You get back in bed and decompress by scrolling on your phone. Sy turns the lamps off and switches the channel on TV to ESPN.

Normally ready to pass out after such a long work-week by now, it’s hard for you to actually wind down. 

"Please don't shut me out," you whisper into the stillness of the air.

Genuinely struggling with this, Sy looks up at the ceiling. You watch his chest constrict as he takes in a breath. 

“We can talk more about it tomorrow,” he says. “Just get some sleep.”

With a frown, you move your eyes from him to the flickering television set in front of you. After sighing, you crane your neck out to offer him your lips, and he meets them with his own. Morphing the meeting of your mouths from just a sulky goodnight kiss to something more meaningful, Sy pours a longing sort of dogged passion into his lips before breaking away.  

Like always, when Sy uses his mouth not just to speak, he says much more.  He looks at you almost fiercely after breaking away, and you want to just shake him and hug him and pull out all his pain. 

"You're a good man," you tell him quietly. "And I love you."

His eyes leave yours after only a few seconds, and he nods almost solemnly. 

For once, you’re able to experience first-hand exactly how it feels to want to help somebody so badly and to have them continuously brush you off, saying they’re fine. The situation is eye-opening at best and despondent at worst. You just don't know what to do. 

Closely spooning, you and Sy hold each other tightly all night, and all you can do is hope to discuss this again in the morning with well-rested brains.

The next morning, however, the spot next to you is empty again, and you reach out to touch the indentions of Sy's heavy body on the mattress with a wistful hand.

After getting up, you use the bathroom and stare at your completely-fine ear in the mirror while brushing your teeth. Still wearing your pajamas, you go downstairs to find Sy at the kitchen table drinking coffee alone. Just like yesterday. Same spot, same outfit, same scene. 

You pour some coffee for yourself. “Mornin’.”

With a voice that sounds off, Sy greets you back. You approach the table and curiously glance at him, and what you see is bad enough that you almost drop your mug of coffee. He looks horrible. 

You don’t often think that about Sy, but it’s undeniable–he looks unwell. His skin is dry and pale yet dark under his eyes, and his eyes themselves appear not only red-rimmed like they were yesterday but bloodshot now. Long enough to touch the tips of his ears, his hair is longer than he typically lets it grow, and he hasn't shaved the stubble covering his throat, making his beard extend far down his neck.

Good God, he’s starting to get physically affected from this. 

“Sy, you...” You put a hand on his forehead. "You look awful,” you worry aloud. 

Sy just makes a noncommittally deep noise, and as he's planning to stand up from the table and dismiss you altogether, you decide to do something rash, especially for the first thing in the morning: you move your hand to his shoulder so he’s forced to remain in his chair. 

In response to the challenge, he looks up at you with weary eyes. You just shake your head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Sy, this–this isn’t okay. You have to know that this…We really need to talk. You’re not okay. You know you’re not okay.”

He takes a deep breath before replying, “I’m fine.”

You audibly set down your coffee cup. “And I say that shit when it’s not true, too.”

Your sentence hits him, and instead of responding, he looks away from you. 

You don't take it personally. This surly behavior obviously has everything to do with his self-directed anger that he’d accidentally hit you, but you don’t know how to get him to see that you’re fine. He's clearly hung up on it.

Surely he must subconsciously understand you're fine, though. You'd shown him your ear–your completely fine ear. And his opinion of you would have to be seriously low to think you couldn't handle something as small as a piece of jewelry cutting your earlobe. Yeah, he's protective of you, but you're not made of damn glass.

There's something else going on. This is more than just simple guilt. There has to be something else going on. And he's being way too stubborn to really talk, so you’re going to have to get to the bottom of it yourself, then. 

Closing your eyes, you channel the inner workings of his mind.

Sy…Sy…Sy….

Sy. 

Similar to how much you hate having panic attacks because of how out-of-control they make you feel, you know Sy’s got to hate his night terrors just as much, if not more. For someone with such a high level of self-control, you imagine that the loss of control would be devastating. He must've hated that you’d had to witness it. 

And obviously that he'd accidentally hit you during it–the entire reason you’re in this situation to begin with. 

He’s got extremely high standards for personal conduct. One of the only things he's truly unforgiving about is people mistreating the people he loves, so now he’s probably lumped himself in with that category of people he despises. …Which has now resulted in this self-hatred. And moodiness. And stubborn detachment.

Your face softens, and you slowly take a seat in the chair beside Sy. You scoot directly next to him and place your hand on his knee. 

To imagine Sy feeling like he's turning into someone like his step-father or something…It fills you with grief. He's such a great man. 

He just won’t budge, though. He won’t listen to your reassurances that he's a good person and it was an accident. At all. He’s being far too stubborn.

And that stubbornness goes hand-in-hand with his high standards for personal conduct…the self-control only borne from the military. But he’d slipped in a moment of weakness. Or–in a moment of what he’d consider weakness.

So…Knowing him, that act was unforgivable–even if it was just your earlobe–and this detachment he’s showing is his version of…of what? Of protecting you from him? Of trying to put space between himself and the event? Of punishing himself?

You’re almost positive that he wants to protect you from himself. As if you'd ever have to protect yourself from him–but you know how his brain works. That’s probably exactly what it is. He hates that what happened had happened at all, but it did, and he had no control over it. So…now he’s going to do everything in his power to keep it from happening again. But since that’s something he still has no control over…like, he can't predict that another night terror will happen again, or when it’ll happen again since he’d be unconscious during it, now he's–

As your lips part in realization, your eyes widen. You stare into the dull color of Sy’s own. 

“You’re not sleepin’ at all,” you whisper aloud your realization. “Sy, you’re…you’ve been makin’ yourself stay awake, aren't you?”

He doesn't respond. 

"Because you think you hit me and you don’t wanna do it again."

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his broad chest. "I did hit you."

"Your knuckle touched my ear.”

Sy won't look at you. "That's called hittin', Y/N," he says before diverting his eyes and standing up, and then he walks into the living room.

You sigh. Here we go again. 

You stand up, too. Unlike last night, you’re not going to give up on this. You’re settling the issue once and for all. You won't continue letting him go on like this. If it means being just as stubborn as he is, then that’s what you’ll do.

Following Sy to the next room, you say, “Sy, it was on me."

“It wasn’t.” 

You take the seat next to him on the couch. “Yes, it was.”

He turns to look at you and points to his chest. "I took the action to hitchu."

“Because I took the action to bend over you while you were thrashin' around," you counter. "I got in the way. That’s what happened. I didn’t move out of the way quick enough. That's it.”

Sy closes his eyes, and he tensely inhales.

“Everything I’ve read says that I shouldn’t’ve done that, Sy, but I didn’t–I didn’t know. I had no idea not to wake up someone havin’ a night terror. I just…" You speak quieter when you say, "I was just tryin' to help."

When he opens his eyes, Sy’s expression seems to shift, and you desperately try to read what he's feeling but not able to say. It seems like…shame? 

Shame over what, though? For accidentally hitting you? For having night terrors in the first place? For requiring your help? 

Your bottom lip inadvertently quivers.

"Please, don’tchu go cryin'..."

"You're not hearin' what I have to say," you tell him.

"Baby, I am hearin' it," he replies after sighing. "I just can’t get myself to agree."

Frowning, you sit still for a few moments. When you finally do speak, your voice is lower than a whisper. "I hate sayin’ this, but you’re almost makin' me feel like I’m inadequate," you utter, looking down at your lap. "Like I’m glass. Like I can't handle somethin' as small as my earring fallin' out."

"It didn't–"

"It didn't just fall out," you interrupt him and finish despondently. “Yeah. I know.”

"Y/N, it ain't that I'm aimin' to treatchu like glass," he sighs again and replies. He puts an arm around you and brings his other hand up to rub his face. “That ain’t what this is.”

"Then what're you aimin' to do?" you ask. "Punish yourself 'til you die of sleep deprivation?"

You can tell he's amused by your blunt statement, but he's still holding on to such a resolute opinion that he won't let anything besides sternness show. 

“Y/N….I don't think you're weak. I've said that before. So if that's what you're gettin' from all this…"

“You’re actin’ like you bashed my head against the wall or somethin’,” you argue. “Your hand was, like, going up in the air–probably ‘cause you knew someone was hoverin’ over you–and it just…"

You take Sy's hand that’s draping over your shoulder and just barely tap on the side of your ear. He still doesn’t say anything.

“Why won’t you bend on this, babe?” you ask desperately. “Just–” 

"Look, I know you,” he interrupts you with a sigh. “I know you very well. You're a people-pleaser. Whenever somethin' bad happens to you, you got the tendency to think it's not that big of a deal ‘cause you don’t wanna be seen as a problem if you complain."

He squeezes your shoulder to show he’s not trying to be unkind. Finally, he twists his body so he can see you better and make eye contact. 

"This isn't me doin' that, though," you earnestly respond, hating the deep bags under his eyes. "It really did only happen 'cause I leaned ov–"

“You also blame yourself all the time when somethin’s not your fault so you can spare anyone else from feelin' bad," Sy interrupts. "When someone else is uncomfortable or somethin’, you’ll do whatever you can to get things calm again. This is exactly one of those times.”

“I–”

Sy knows what you talk to your therapist about. You share just about every conversation with him. You know that he knows how you have a habit of fawning. How uncomfortable you are with other people’s discomfort. How you’ll willingly take blame for things that you don’t need to just to keep things peaceful.

He knows that. But this really isn’t that. This isn’t you taking on something that’s really not your burden to bear. 

“It literally was just one time, Sy,” you say, and apparently it’s the wrong thing to say, because Sy’s weary eyes flash.

"One time is one time too many,” he retaliates.

“Sy, I literally was in your face,” you put a hand on his leg again and tell him. “I was bent over you shaking your shoulders. I was trying to wake you up when you were in the middle of–of–I still don’t know what. But I know it was scary. And I know I made it worse.”

“Y/N…”

“That was on me. I shouldn’t’ve done that. I just…I didn’t know. I really didn’t. But I know now.” You take a deep breath and let it out. “I know now, and I won’t ever do it again. Which means I won't get in the way of your hand again.”

“Just stop blamin’ yourself, Y/N,” Sy mutters. “You didn’t do a thing. You didn’t. I did. People get woken up like that all the time without doin’ what I did.”

“Normal people, yeah,” you retaliate. “Not someone havin’ a night terror. You’re a vet who’s been through a lotta shit, Sy. A lot. A lot you probably won’t ever tell me even ten years from now. You were–You were entirely somewhere else in your mind, and I know that I had to’ve scared the shit outta you. I made it worse. I just–I didn't know."

“So it’s all okay?” Sy challenges with a quiet internal scoff. “It’s okay for me to punch my fuckin’--”

You slightly shake his leg. “You didn’t, though.”

“Your ear was bleedin’, Y/N,” he argues. "You don't wanna say what happened, and I get that, but I know. I know what I can do. I hit you, and even after you changed the sheets you were still bleedin’."

"You've never hit anyone in your sleep before," you murmur. "You've never done that. You told me that before."

He’s silent long enough for you to check in.

"Have you?" you clarify. “Hit someone?”

His answer is immediate. "No."

"Then why do you think you did this time?"

"Because I did."

"You didn’t. Your knuckle made contact with the bottom of my ear, and my earring snagged and fell out,” you explain, going over the same information you already have. "But Sy, I've literally run into a door before and had that happen. It’s really not hard to do."

"I made you bleed."

You challenge his stare. "Gettin' it pierced in the first place made me bleed."

"Which you did voluntarily," he counters, starting to slur. "You knew whatchu were signin' up for."

"And I could say that I did the same thing by tryin' to wake you up," you murmur. "But I did it anyway. Because I wanted it to stop for you. Because I care."

He’s silent.

"The arguments never stop with you, huh?" you try to make light. “Tryin’ to think of another one?”

"It ain't a matter of arguin', baby, c'mon.” Sy looks upwards at the ceiling. “I hit you. You bled. That's it. That's what happened. I hitchu."

"It was just–"

"It ain’t what it even was, Y/N,” he exasperately interjects. “It’s what it coulda been. That's whatchu ain't gettin'.”

Your face falls. “Oh.”

“Who's to say that this don't happen again tomorrow night and then it's your face? Then it's your head? Then it's–” He cuts himself off with a heavy sigh. “That’s my point, Y/N. You’re focusin’ on one thing and I’m focusin’ on another."

Impulsively, you make the decision to straddle Sy's lap. It takes him a second to realize what you’re doing and adjust the way he’s sitting, and his legs are so big that it honestly takes a good deal of work, as well, but once you’re fully seated, you reach out for his upper arms and firmly grasp them.

“Sy. I know you say that I have a tendency to downplay things sometimes,” you whisper while looking directly at him face-to-face. “And maybe that’s true. And I’m super happy that you speak up for me all the time ‘cause I’m still…me. And it's hard. But you have a tendency to think that nothin’s ever my fault, and that’s just impossible. Because sometimes things are."

His face gets surly, his mouth turning into a thin line. “This wasn’t,” he maintains, leaning back on the couch so he's now looking up at you. "I hit you."

Your hands fall from Sy’s shoulders and you tilt your head to the side. “I could argue with you,” you reply, “that it probably wasn’t the smartest idea to lean over a man who’s, like, eighty percent muscle actively havin’ a night-terror.”

Sy is about to interrupt, but you continue to speak before he gets the chance to. “But,” you clarify, “you’re right. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know not to bend over you to wake you up. I didn’t know not to try to wake you up so…abruptly. But now I do. And it won’t happen again.”

You’re being a lot more forgiving towards yourself than usual, and you credit therapy for that as well as the fact that you’ve been living with Sy long enough to start to believe all of the things he says all the time.

“You can’t predict that,” Sy mumbles, slightly lifting his hands in the air.

“Predict what?” you ask. “I just said I won’t get in your way, babe, and I won’t.”

“But you can’t predict that I won’t hurtchu,” he argues. “I can’t–What if I–what if it happens when you’re still fuckin’ sleepin’ next time? What then? You can’t predict that. You can't.”

Your face drops while witnessing the distress on Sy's own. Watching him show anxiety in a way he normally never does has your heart feeling torn.

Still, you remain calm. 

“Sy, your noises would…they'd wake me up before it ever came to that,” you tell him seriously. 

Soft and quiet and serious. Just like how he is with you after you have a panic attack. That’s how you keep your voice. 

“You…The noises you made weren't like anything I've ever heard before," you say while trying not to shiver. "They were…They…They'd definitely wake me up first. I promise you.”

Sy still wants to argue, you can tell, and the rebuttal is right there forming on his lips, right there about to exit, but when he closes his mouth, you know he’s finally accepting what you have to say. That, or he’s growing too exhausted to continue to fruitlessly offer arguments. 

You're left watching him struggle internally.

“Babe, if it happens again," you promise, "I’d get out of the bed just like I did before, and I’d–"

You'd be worried sick. 

You’d be worried and anxious and maybe afraid again, but you’d be prepared and resolved and headstrong, too. You'd be there for him. Just like he always is for you. Every time. No matter how hard it still is for you to accept his help. 

"Next time, I won’t lean over you. I won’t get in the way tryin’ to wake you up. I won't make you feel threatened." 

You realize your eyes are growing prickly, so you blink a few times in a row. 

"And it’ll be fine," you finish. "We'll both be fine.”

Sy takes a long, deep breath, and with deliberately slow words, he responds to you. "You should never have to make up a plan designed to protect yourself from me."

"I–"

"Not from me. Of all people."

"It's not to protect myself, Sy. It's to help you."

"Still shouldn't have to do it."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't have to bring me paper bags when my lungs don’t work," you reply humorlessly, "but here we are anyway, aren't we?"

Sy clicks his tongue. “You can’t help that.”

“And you can’t help this.”

He takes another deep breath, and you put your forehead on his.

“It’s not me protectin’ myself from you, Sy,” you quietly repeat, now putting your hands on the sides of his face. “It’s me tryin’ to help you. You help me all the time. I wanna help you, too.”

"Y/N…"

"Just let me help you. I don’t want you to have to deal with it all alone. I hate that I get panic attacks just as much as I know you hate this. I get it. Of all people, I get it. But it’s not your fault. It’s…You really can't help it," you softly tell him. "It makes you feel so outta control…At least for me, so I can imagine it's the same for you."

Sy shuts his eyes, and he remains sitting there with you on his lap, squeezing your thighs like he’s grounding himself. 

"I feel like I'm rude as shit to you when I'm having a panic attack. I always…I always tell you to leave me alone and stuff. Right when I need you the most. And I don't mean what I say at all. And I always feel horrible when it's over. 'Cause words can really hurt. They really can. But what is it you always tell me?"

You don’t give him the time to answer before you’re continuing.

"You tell me I have nothin' to apologize for," you answer for him. "You always say that–You always tell me that you know I didn't mean to push you away. This is me tellin' you….You have nothin' to apologize for, Sy. You really couldn't help it."

Sy opens his droopy eyes, and with an intensity, he says, “You’re important to me. You know that.”

You touch his nose with yours. “You’re important to me, too,” you whisper, starting to see that he’s starting to become so tired he's growing delirious.

"I couldn’t live with myself if I did somethin’ t' hurtchu like that," he practically slurs. "I mean it. I really couldn't. That ain't me. I could never.”

“I know.” 

You stare into his eyes for a long, long time. He’s never one to hold back his tongue, but when it’s stuff that he’s ashamed of like this, you get that it’s hard. It's hard for him to not be strong in every single situation.

“You wouldn't ever hurt me, Sy," you tell him.

Practically unblinking, his eyes are like a midnight ocean. On one hand, the heavy intensity is taking you aback; it really was just a knuckle to your ear because you got in his way. On the other hand, though, you get the symbolism of it all.

“You wouldn’t ever hurt me,” you repeat. “Even on accident. You love me too much.”

Sideways, he finally offers a little smile. “I do, but that ain't how it w–”

"And anyway, I've got pretty quick reflexes thanks to workin’ out with you."

Sy lowers all of his fingers at once so they’re in between the webs of your hands, interlacing them in mid-air. "I'm bein' serious here," he says, almost grumpy again.

"So'm I," you maintain, slightly pushing on his palms. "You'd never hurt me while awake, and you wouldn’t hurt me in your sleep. I’ve already told you that your noises would wake me up, and plus, I've got quick reflexes. We're covered."

Your concise and simple summary seems to finally be accepted by Sy–finally–and you pray that he doesn’t drag out his self-flagellation any more. 

You know how intimidating he can be. To the people who deserve it, you know exactly what his hands are capable of. You know the pure strength he carries in his muscles. He'll never show you the true extent, but still, you know. 

"I'm not scared of you, Sy," you whisper in finality. "You know I'm not." 

After a long time, he turns his head and looks out the front window. Several moments pass before he speaks again.

“Thought they were gone,” he whispers. “Hasn’t happened in so long. Thought that I…Thought I was in the clear.” 

You reach out and touch his face. “Is there somethin’ that happened recently?” you ask. “That maybe…had somethin’ to do with it?”

He sighs like letting all the air out of his lungs at once. “Shit just comes up ‘round this time’a year more, that's all."

You pause. "Memorial Day?"

Sy nods. You reach down for his hands again and put your smaller fingers in between his larger ones, interlacing them once more in between your bodies.

You remember meeting some of his military friends at Amelia and Johnny's Christmas party. You remember hearing them talk about the people who aren’t around anymore. 

"I'm sorry this is somethin’ you have to deal with," you say somberly, and his shoulders shake a bit as he chuckles. 

The response would either confuse or offend someone who didn’t know him, but you do know him. You’re aware that his humor can be somewhat dark at times.

You’re also aware that dealing with the loss of so many people leaves its mark, leaves its holes behind. You know Sy in particular carries everything with him deep down, in a way that he almost never, ever shows. 

Just like with Aika. 

"I get that laughin' is your way of coping, and that's fine," you say, "but I am serious, you know. I'm really sorry that you have to re-live stuff like that when you’re awake and then again when you’re asleep. And that you can’t control any of it. And I’m sorry that you…I’m sorry that it traps you like this."

“Just the price,” he murmurs, looking back at you, and you frown. He’s been up so long his words are starting to be indecipherable. 

You nod. “I get that. I know I’m just one person and can’t, like, prevent it from happenin’ or anything, but I’m here to help. However I can.”

He mumbles something you can’t make out. You lean in closer. “Hm?”

“You do, y’know,” he repeats himself. “Help. Livin' here. Bein’ around."

You touch his forehead. “I know. Now let’s getchu back in bed, baby,” you decide.

“C’mere ‘n kiss me first,” he slurs, and you smirk and oblige, but when he wants the kiss to go on for longer, you disengage. Instantly, he sits all the way upright on the couch and wraps his arms around you.

You chuckle quietly while disconnecting his hands from your back. “You’re gonna go upstairs and get some sleep now.”

He lifts a tired eyebrow. “Am I?”

You nod and slide off his lap. “You're done bein' stubborn."

"Yeah? Says who?"

"Says me. Get up."

"Mm?"

"Mm,” you repeat while tugging on his arms to fruitlessly help him get up. “Go upstairs. It's an executive order.”

He lets you pretend to boss him around while you walk him up the stairs, and he watches in amusement as you tuck him in the bed.

He starts to drift immediately, his eyes heavily falling shut and his lips parting like he's about to do some serious mouth-breathing.

His exhaustion doesn't stop him from mumbling one last thing, and you have to lean close to his mouth and ask him to repeat himself.