Here For The Smut 🤭💕

Soon enough, they were in the kitchen, Florence buttering toast and Paddy reading letters people had sent him whilst he was away. She takes a bite of toast and leans over his shoulder, “Your uncle wouldn’t stop bloody writing, even when I told him you’d instructed me not to send them to you” Crumbs from her toast dropped onto his night shirt, and he playfully brushed them off. 

“Sorry”, Florence mumbled with a mouth full of toast, she returned to the stove as the kettle began to whistle.  Opening a cupboard she reached for the teapot, standing on her tiptoes. Paddy watched as her nightdress tightened around her. He admired her for a little while before standing and reaching for the teapot with one hand, the other on her back. He set the teapot on the side and his hand over her rear before retreating. Florence gave him that pointed look she managed so well before busying herself with steeping the tea. 

Paddy stifled a laugh, “What?  I’ve been in close quarters with some of the nation's ugliest arses dressed up in uniform. Seeing my wife’s arse on such a fine morn, even a monk couldn’t resist.”

Florence shakes her head and places the pot of tea in front of him, pouring it and grabbing the milk jug, “your wife's arse is rather worn out”, she smiles and kisses him. Paddy brings his palm to her behind, giving it a playful smack.  Instead of returning to her own seat, Florence puts her arms around his neck and sits on his lap, picking up her teacup and bringing it to her lips. “So, Mr Mayne, what's on the agenda? Or should I call you lieutenant?”

Paddy smiles, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I’ll be happy when I’m just Mr Mayne again, not Captain or Lieutenant, just your Mr Mayne.” Florence smiles and strokes his beard. Paddy continues, “I’m quite content here, maybe take a walk into the hills. But no big reunions, just you and me, ey?” Paddy can’t stomach the idea of seeing anyone, having to pretend the deaths of his friends are just war stories, some kind of tale to tell in a pub. Florence smiles, continuing to stroke his beard,

“Ok, we’ll stay here, I’ll cook, and you can read. Perhaps a picnic, just us. But first,” her voice gets louder, and she uses his chest to hoist herself up, “you need a shave”. Florence takes his chin in her hands, and Paddy nods.

“Aye, allright”, he stands taking her hands and walking towards the stairs, “But only if you do it, I’ve had plenty of blades held to my throat and most of the time its made me want to piss myself”, he wrapped his hands around the underside of her thighs and hoisted her legs around his waist, “You holding a blade to my throat would elicit another reaction from my trousers”. Her giggles take them all the way up to the bathroom. Florence knew their difficult conversation could not be joked about forever, but she could never resist putting a smile on his face.

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The screen door claps against the frame, rattling the loose hook in its eye, and the house takes the sound into itself with a long wooden shiver.

Outside, the pasture has gone dark at the edges, the mares moving in pale, restless shapes beyond the fence line, and the butchered hen lies wrapped in paper against your hip, still warm enough to leave its damp weight through the cloth.

The kitchen smells of iron, cornmeal, lamp oil, and hot wood, all of it made heavier by the wet breath of summer pressing against the windows. Blood has soaked through your apron in stiff patches. It darkens your knuckles, clings under your nails, and slicks the inside of your fingers where the washbasin has not yet had its turn at you.

Remmick sits at the kitchen table with supper cooling in front of him, fork laid across the plate like a prop in some poor play. Cornbread, beans, and a slice of onion sit untouched on the plate, though he had taken care to move his fork once or twice as if the habit of eating could make him seem less unnatural.

He's been better at pretending lately.

Better at wearing a man’s shape around your house.

That pretense slips the moment he sees your hands.

His eyes lift first, then hold. His mouth goes wet. The change comes over him with shameful quickness, a stillness so complete the whole kitchen seems to lean toward it. His fingers curl against the table, nails scraping once, soft and desperate, and he swallows as if something in his throat has gone dry despite the shine already gathering on his lower lip.

“Bring me the basin,” you say, setting the wrapped hen near the stove, “and stop staring like you’ve never seen blood in this house before.”

A sound catches in his throat, too low to be a laugh and too eager to be shame, but he rises quickly enough, chair legs dragging hard across the boards.

Months ago, when he first came to your land, you would have taken that quickness for threat and reached for the shotgun you kept by the pantry.

The first night he came to you, pale as a corpse in the moonlight and smiling like something raised wrong from the marsh, you had been in the stable with your sick mare, her flank hot beneath your palm and her breath sour with fever.

He had stood beyond the open doors with rainwater silvering his hair, asking after the road to the nearest town, then begging for a cup of water in a voice too soft for a man who looked as though he might open his jaw and show you a wolf’s hunger.

You had given him directions and your flask because you were not cruel, then told him to leave because you were not a fool.

Night after night afterward, he returned to the porch with some new misery tucked under his tongue; a stone in his boot, dogs in the distance, fever in his head, a weakness in his knees, any excuse that might win him a chair by your fire.

You let him speak to the locked door until dawn thinned the trees and drove him away.

Then he came bleeding.

You think of it now when he brings the basin from the sideboard and sets it down too near you, close enough that his sleeve brushes your elbow.

That night he had sagged against your porch post with one hand pressed to his ribs, shirt torn, mouth trembling with a pain you later understood he had chosen for himself.

Mercy had gotten him across your threshold. Mercy, and your own hands, and the foolish human pity he had learned to pull from you like a thread from cloth. And after mercy came habit, then want, then the strange arrangement of a dead thing living in your house as if marriage vows had been exchanged under the kitchen rafters instead of hunger.

He mended fences after dusk, hauled feed in the bruised light before sunrise, kept his hat low and his hands busy, and in return he crawled into your bed each night because he begged so sweetly for it, and because his body never held heat unless he stole yours.

By the time you found him in the yard one night with one of your hens torn open between his hands, his mouth red and his fangs hooked deep into the limp, feathered body, you had already let him kiss you. You had already let him climb into your bed. You had already slapped him once for nearly putting those teeth in your throat while his cock was inside you, and watched him go rigid with hurt, hunger, shame, and pleasure all tangled together until he looked as ruined as any sinner caught at the altar.

His hand hovers over yours, not touching, but every part of him strains toward the blood.

“Remmick,” you warn.

“I know,” he says, though his voice has gone thin and ragged. “I know, I know, I only—”

“You only what?”

He looks from your hands to your face, and the lamplight makes something red move behind his eyes before he blinks it back.

His tongue touches the corner of his mouth. He looks wretched with wanting, dressed in the same shirt he wore to mend the smokehouse latch, the sleeves rolled past his forearms, his suspenders loose, his hair damp at the temples from the heat. There's dirt beneath his nails, a smear of dust along one cheekbone, and for all his sweetness around the house, for all the way he carries himself when he wants to seem harmless, the sight of blood has peeled him down to the thing you know he is.

“Please,” he whispers.

“You’ve had supper put in front of you.” You tilt your head, searching for any changes in his expression.

His eyes flick toward the plate with no interest at all. “That is supper for a livin' man.”

“And what are you?”

The question strikes him low. In the tremor that moves through his mouth, and in the way his gaze drops from your face to your fingers again. “Whatever you tell me to be.”

The answer is pretty, pathetic, and practiced only because every true thing in him has begun to sound like begging.

You lift your hand and let your bloodied fingers hover near his mouth, and his lips part.

The sight of it sends a slow warmth through you, power sinking into flesh.

He has torn through men, animals, God knows what else, and yet in your kitchen he waits for permission with his cock already swelling in his trousers because you might let him lick chicken blood from your hand.

“Open,” you tell him.

Remmick obeys with such speed that his shame seems to arrive after the hunger, following it across his face in a red wash. His mouth closes around two of your fingers, hot and wet, his tongue moving with careful greed over the dried blood.

He sucks gently at first, trying to make a show of restraint, but the effort fails as soon as the taste reaches him.

His lashes lower. His breath shudders. Drool gathers where your fingers press his lower lip, and the sound he makes around you is obscene, a low, grateful hum that vibrates through the bones of your hand.

You watch him take what you allow, watch the stain disappear from your knuckles, watch his hands grip the table because he knows better than to seize your wrist.

That lesson had taken several nights to settle into him, several bruises, several warnings, and the pleasure of it still lives in the way he trembles when you call him greedy.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, easing your fingers deeper until his throat works around the pressure. “Sitting here drooling over chicken blood like I starve you.”

His eyes lift, red flickering deep behind the brown, and the word filthy nearly finishes whatever restraint he has left.

His hips press once toward nothing. A thick shape pushes against the front of his trousers, plain beneath the lamplight, and when you glance down at it, he gives a muffled whine that turns wetter around your fingers.

You pull back slowly, but his mouth follows before he catches himself, lips chasing the taste, and then he does it: the smallest tilt of his head, the slightest flash of ragged fangs, an attempt to catch your thumb and nick the living blood beneath the skin.

Your palm cracks across his face before his teeth can close.

The blow rings through the kitchen and leaves him turned with one hand braced against the table, mouth open, cheek already flushing beneath the mark.

He breathes hard, almost panting. Shame folds through his expression, but pleasure rises with it, sick and immediate, his body betraying him so plainly that his eyes squeeze shut. His fingers flex against the wood as though he needs something to hold or he might sink to the floor.

“I told you not to bite me,” you say, quiet enough to make him listen.

Remmick nods quickly, his voice rough when he answers, “Yes.”

“You tried anyway.”

“I was only—” He stops himself because the lie would insult you more than the disobedience. His throat works, and the red print on his cheek deepens. “I wanted more.”

A slow look down his body makes him shift like he can hide what the slap has done to him. “And now look at you.”

His gaze drops, and you follow it without mercy. His cock strains against his trousers, obscene and thick beneath worn fabric, the front of him tented as plainly as if he had meant to show you. He looks down at himself and makes a sound that is almost pain.

“One little slap and you’re fit to spend in your pants.”

Humiliation bends his head, but it does not soften the hunger in him. If anything, it makes him worse.

His lashes flutter, his lips part, and a shine of spit gathers again at the corner of his mouth as though the slap has loosened something in him that hunger alone could not.

You take the clean side of your thumb and press it to the reddening mark on his cheek. He leans into the touch like a whipped dog seeking the same hand that struck him.

“You’ll fetch water so I can wash,” you say, letting your thumb drag once along his cheekbone. “Then you’ll go sit in the bedroom and wait for me. You will not touch yourself.”

His face twists with need. “I can’t—”

“You can.”

He nods slowly, too eager and too miserable and, when he turns for the pump, his gait is wrong with arousal, stiff through the hips, one hand hovering near the front of his trousers before he snatches it back like he remembers your command by pain alone.

By the time the basin is filled and your hands are clean, the water has turned a cloudy brown-red that seems to grieve him when you pour it out.

He watches the blood vanish into the yard through the back door, his jaw tight, his gaze hollowed by want, but he goes where you send him.

The boards in the hall complain under his steps, and you take your time with the kitchen because you know every ordinary sound will torment him. The knife is washed and dried. The wrapped chicken is set aside. The apron comes off stiff with blood and hangs from the nail by the door.

In the bathroom, you clean yourself with warmed water by lamplight, dragging the cloth over your arms, your throat, the sweat-slick hollow between your breasts, the places where blood had soaked through the cotton and touched skin.

The house is quieter there, close and damp, yet you know his hearing catches the water wrung from the cloth, the shift of your dress loosening, the soft fall of your stockings.

Letting him imagine is its own punishment, and you enjoy it more than you care to name.

The bedroom is dark except for the low lamp on the dresser and the moonless weight at the window when you finally step inside.

Remmick's sitting on the edge of the bed with his suspenders hanging loose, shirt open down the chest, hair damp at the temples from a sweat his body has no honest reason to make. One hand grips his thigh. The other is pressed over the bulge in his trousers, just holding himself through the fabric as if pressure alone might keep him from splitting apart.

His gaze lifts to you, then drops to the thin shift clinging to your freshly washed skin, and the sound that leaves him is half-starved.

“You touched yourself,” you say, crossing the room slowly.

“I held it,” he answers, breathless with the need to explain. “Only held it. It hurt.”

“Poor Remmick,” you say, and the false softness of it makes his hips twitch beneath his hand.

He stands before you reach him, crowding close but not quite touching until your eyes give him leave.

His hands settle at your waist with a tremor. His mouth lowers to your shoulder, kissing through the shift first, then nudging the loosened neckline aside to taste skin.

The kisses come wet and scattered, down your throat, along your jaw, over your cheek, each one leaving a shine behind. He is always too messy when want has burned through his manners, too open-mouthed, too eager, too grateful for anything your body allows him.

When you catch his chin and make him look at you, his pupils are wide, his lips swollen from biting back whines.

“I said not to touch yourself,” you remind him.

“I only held it,” he says, pleading already. “I swear, I only—Christ, I needed something.”

"Poor you," you repeat.

His hips push forward before he can stop them, the hard length of him grinding against your thigh. He chokes on the sound that follows and tries to pull back, but you keep him there with your hand on his jaw.

“You like being pitied?” you ask, letting your thumb rest at the corner of his mouth where spit has gathered. “You like being made small?”

The shame in him answers before he does, running down his throat in a swallow. “I like when you say anything to me.”

The answer is so bare that it would soften you on another night. It does soften you, somewhere deep and unwise, but you do not let it reach your hands.

You stroke your thumb over the red mark on his cheek, and he turns into the touch with such helpless hunger that your own body answers, heat blooming between your thighs.

“Get on your knees, then.”

Remmick sinks down so fast the floorboards creak beneath him, hands sliding to your calves, face tipped up with a hunger that looks nearly devotional.

Your back settles against the wardrobe as you gather your shift in one fist and lift it, the old wood cool and solid behind your shoulders.

When he leans forward, you raise one thigh over his shoulder, making room for him between your legs while his hands come up to steady you at the hips. He stops with his mouth hovering inches from you, breathing against your inner thighs while he waits, and the restraint costs him badly enough that his fingers dig into your skin before he catches himself and loosens his grip.

His eyes flick up for permission, and when you give it, he falls on you with a groan that nearly buckles the leg still planted beneath you. His mouth is hot, wet, and shameless, licking into you with the desperation of something denied too long.

He drags the muscle through your slickness, circles your clit, then sucks with enough care that his fangs never touch, though the danger of them stays present in every breath. Drool slips down his chin and cools against your thighs while his hands clutch under your shift, holding you open as he eats you like praise might be found there if he works hard enough for it.

Your fingers push into his hair and pull him closer, and he makes a grateful, muffled sound, tongue circling your clit before flattening, then dipping lower to taste where you are opening for him.

His nose presses against you. His fingers dig bruises into your hips. He breathes harshly through it, rutting once against nothing before he catches himself and stops, shaking with the effort.

“No,” you say, tightening your hand in his hair. “You don’t get to rub yourself on my floor like a dog.”

The words break a rough sound out of him, humiliation moving through him like fever, and he moans into your cunt as his tongue flattens against your clit again, then slips lower while two fingers stroke up the inside of your thigh.

Your free hand braces against the wardrobe, and he feels the shift of your weight, feels the way your raised thigh tightens over his shoulder. He always knows when he has done well, and he turns ravenous with the knowledge, licking you with long, desperate strokes until pleasure gathers low and heavy in your stomach.

“That’s better,” you say, breath thinning. “Good boy.”

The praise wrecks him worse than the insult. He pulls back just enough to gasp, “Again.”

You look down at him, at the wet shine all over his mouth and chin, at the way his eyes have gone glassy with need.

“Earn it.”

Remmick earns it with his tongue, with his mouth, with his fingers sliding up the inside of your thigh only after you nod.

When he presses two of them into you, they go slow at first, crooked carefully, finding the place that makes your breath catch. He watches your face as he does it, his mouth still working your clit, eyes almost fever-bright with the pleasure of being used.

The room thickens around you, close and hot, the lamp smoking faintly on the dresser, the quilt twisted on the bed behind him, the open window letting in all the wet green rot of summer.

You can hear his fingers moving in you, and you can hear him swallowing your pleasure as if he is starving for that too.

Your orgasm gathers, and he seems to sense it before you tell him, pressing deeper, sucking softer, giving you his mouth as steadily as he can while his own body shakes.

Pleasure rolls through you hard, making your hand fist in his hair, your thigh tightening over his shoulder as you bow against the wardrobe and come on his tongue.

He groans as if your pleasure hurts him sweetly. His fingers keep moving until you shove at his shoulder, oversensitive and breathless, and even then he kisses your inner thigh once, twice, wet open-mouthed kisses that beg forgiveness for stopping and permission to start again.

By the time you pull him up, Remmick’s mouth and chin are shining. His cock strains so heavily against his trousers that the fabric is damp at the front, and the sight of your pleasure on his face has made him glassy-eyed rather than proud.

He looks debased, beautiful, and miserable with restraint.

You rub your thumb over his slick lower lip, and he opens for it without instruction, tongue touching your skin with a shiver.

“You did that well,” you murmur.

Praise hits him harder than the slap. His eyes flutter, and his hands curl uselessly near your waist, not daring to grab. “Again,” he whispers, though it is unclear whether he means the praise, your mouth, or the chance to get between your thighs until he stops shaking.

“Bed,” you tell him, and he nearly stumbles in his hurry to obey.

The mattress gives under you with a familiar rope-and-frame complaint as you lie back, shift bunched around your hips.

He kisses you on the way down to it, or tries to. His mouth finds yours in broken, greedy attempts, too eager to be smooth.

You taste yourself on him, salt and heat beneath the faint copper memory of the chicken blood he had cleaned from your fingers.

He whimpers when your tongue touches his. He whimpers again when you bite his lower lip hard enough to warn him but not hard enough to bleed.

Remmick’s hands make poor work of his buttons. He is too aroused to be graceful, too eager to be quick, and by the time he gets his trousers open, his cock springs heavy and flushed into his palm.

He grips himself once by instinct, then snatches his hand away at the look you give him. The remorse on his face is immediate, but he doesn't cry; his eyes only shine, wet at the edges, his mouth tightening as he fights the ache.

When you finally part your thighs, the expression on his face changes so sharply it borders on pain as he climbs over you with care, one hand bracing near your head, the other gripping the base of his cock because even now, with permission, he's trying not to spend too soon.

The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and his face tightens as if the pleasure has teeth. He pushes in slowly because you told him once that you liked to feel him try not to lose himself, and he remembers the things that torment him.

When his hips finally settle flush against yours, his forehead drops near your collarbone with a low, broken moan.

“No teeth,” you remind him, turning his face away from your throat with two fingers at his jaw.

“No teeth,” he repeats, voice rough. “I know.”

“And no coming until I say.”

Remmick’s whole body tenses above you, then obeys by force of will alone.

He begins with slow strokes, dragging out of you almost to the tip before sinking back in, the rhythm careful and reverent until care becomes impossible.

His mouth moves everywhere it can safely go: your shoulder, your jaw, the curve of your breast through the shift, the place beneath your ear where he trembles from keeping his fangs away.

Each time his hunger gets too close, he turns his face aside and curses softly into the pillow.

The restraint makes him rougher through the hips, less polished, more desperate, and the bed starts to knock against the wall in a steady wooden pulse.

“You’re trying so hard,” you say, nails dragging down his back.

The praise makes him shudder, and one thin tear slips free despite his effort to hold it back. It cuts down the slapped cheek, catching the lamplight before disappearing near his jaw.

That's all he gives you at first, that single sign of being split too wide by pleasure, shame, and obedience. He doesn't fall apart the way he has before—he keeps moving, breathing hard through his nose, mouth open and wet, eyes fixed on your face because looking away would feel like failing.

“You like being kept like this,” you say, wrapping your legs higher around his waist. “Being made to wait. Being told no. Being put in your place.”

His hips stutter, eyes squeezing shut, and the next thrust goes deeper. “Yes.”

“Say it proper.”

“Yes,” he says again, hoarser, his hand fisting in the sheet beside your head. “I like it.”

“You like being treated like something that needs training.”

A sob catches in his throat. He thrusts harder, then whines when you tug his hair in warning.

“Careful,” you say. “Don’t get stupid now.”

“I am stupid,” he says, the words falling out in a rush, all dignity gone. “I’m stupid for it, I can’t think when you smell like this, when you open for me, when you look at me like that."

The answer pulls a sound from you before you can swallow it.

Remmick hears it and gives you that angle again, his body learning yours in the filthy, faithful way it always does.

The room fills with him: the slap of his hips, the damp heat of his mouth against your skin, the faint copper ghost of blood still hidden somewhere in his breath from your fingers.

Your hand slides between your bodies when the second climb starts, and the first touch of your fingers to your clit makes you tighten around him so suddenly that he chokes.

“Christ,” he gasps, eyes dropping to where your hand moves, hips rolling into you while your fingers rub tight circles over your clit.

His mouth hangs open, drool shining on his lower lip, and his cock jerks inside you each time your body clenches around him.

You touch yourself harder, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, using him and your own hand together until pleasure spreads hot and heavy through your belly.

Remmick's breathing turns ragged.

“That’s it,” you breathe, gripping his shoulder with your free hand. “Right there. Don’t change it.”

His jaw locks with the effort of keeping the pace.

The bedframe hits the wall harder, rain beginning at the window in a sudden silver rush, and the scent of wet earth rolls through the room with the smell of sweat and sex.

He drives into you exactly as ordered while your fingers work your clit, and the second orgasm breaks through you in a deep, pulsing wave.

Your back arches from the mattress, your thighs tightening around his hips, your cunt clenching hard around every inch of him.

Remmick makes a strangled sound and nearly follows, his rhythm collapsing into short, frantic thrusts before he catches himself.

“Not yet,” you say, still shaking from it, your hand leaving your clit to grip his face.

Agony flashes across him. His eyes go wet again, and this time the tears gather because he's too close, because your body is still gripping him, because obedience has become almost unbearable. “Please,” he says, the word cracked and low. “Please, please—I can’t hold it—”

“You can hold it until I tell you.”

His mouth trembles, but he nods, fucking you in broken strokes that keep him buried deep without letting him finish. Every muscle in him strains. His fangs show, not from threat but from the force of clenching his jaw, and he turns his face away from your neck as if the very sight of your pulse might break him.

You stroke his cheek, softer than before, and that gentleness ruins him more cleanly than cruelty.

“You did well,” you tell him.

The first true sob comes then, quiet and torn up, his face crumpling with relief before pleasure swallows it. “I tried.”

“I know.”

Remmick comes with a hoarse cry, hips driving in deep as his body bows over yours.

His cock pulses hard, filling you with heat while his breath breaks against your mouth. A few tears spill down his face at the force of it, not the endless weeping of earlier nights but something sharper, dragged out of him by release and the awful sweetness of permission.

He keeps whispering your name into the damp space between your mouths, each repetition less like speech and more like surrender.

You hold him through it, fingers in his hair, nails resting against the marks you left on his back, and his weight lowers carefully once the last tremor leaves him.

After the storm opens fully over the fields, the bedroom settles into a humid dark sweetened by rain through the window and the low smoke of the lamp.

Remmick stays buried in your warmth, softening by degrees, his face tucked near your collarbone without touching his teeth to your skin. The monster in him has not gone anywhere. It lies quiet under his skin, fed and chastened, listening to the blood in your throat with the same devotion he gives your voice.

You know what he is, what he had planned when he first crossed your threshold bleeding on purpose, what he could still make of you now that the house has accepted him.

He could turn you whenever he chose if you grew careless enough to let him.

He knows it too, and maybe that's why he clings to obedience so fiercely, why his mouth trembles when you stroke his hair, why the palm-mark on his cheek seems to comfort him as much as it shames him.

“You hit me hard,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin.

“You earned it.”

A faint shiver moves through him, and even spent, he presses closer, seeking your heat like an animal crawling toward a hearth. “I know.”

“If you try to bite me again, I’ll do worse.”

Remmick’s lips touch your shoulder in one careful, toothless kiss, and his answer comes low, reverent, and still a little hungry. “Yes, ma’am.”

Rain batters the sill, the pasture disappears beyond the dark glass, and the blood has long since been washed from your hands, though its memory remains in the damp shine of his mouth.

You let him lie there, half corpse and half supplicant, the devil you allowed inside because mercy had once looked too much like need.

When his arm tightens around your waist and his breath slows against your throat, you do not tell him to move.

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

dust kicked up into your face as the carriage slowed down, the horses easing to a stop. out in front of you stood your family’s new home; a rickety old thing but still a house nonetheless.

“this it?” your mother held a hand up to her forehead, shielding her squinted eyes from the sun’s rays beaming down. from what your father told you, it should’ve been nicer, but he had a tendency to sugarcoat.

“sure is. what y’all think? nice ain’t it?” your father said proudly. he jumped out of the partially tented carriage down onto the dusty ground below, and began pulling at the briefcases filled with your family’s belongings down next to him. 

it had been a long journey, travelling all the way from nevada to california. having grown up in nevada, that had been the only place you'd ever known, and the idea of leaving felt foreign to you. that was until your father lost his job after your township declared bankruptcy, forcing him to seek out better jobs somewhere else. he caught wind of jobs seeking bank clerks opening up around california, and that became the reason you were out here now. you felt emotional about leaving nevada at first, knowing you would miss your friends and the home you grew up in, but at the same time you felt excitement at the prospect of travelling.

"go help your daddy with the trunks" your mother huffed, trying to not let the annoyance seep out of her. you nodded and jumped down, smoothing your hands over your dress to remove the leftover dust that accumulated on your lap. you stood on the tips of your toes as you dragged the rest of the luggage down, making sure not to drop the heavy ones. 

your father helped you bring the luggage inside the home while your mother walked around the property, creating a mental list of all the things wrong with the house so her and your father could have something to argue about later. as you stood inside the front entrance of the home, you were pleasantly surprised with how well kept the interior was. it was fully furnished, wallpaper still fresh, all the utilities were up to date, and it was much larger than your previous home. 

"you like it, lil' lamb?" your father said coming up behind you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and kissing the top of your head. 

"yes papa, it's gorgeous" you wrapped your arm around his back and patted it. 

"i knew you would, unlike your mama...don't know why that woman gotta be so ungrateful sometimes. she ain't e'en the one workin'."

"don't pick on mama, she'll come 'round soon enough. she always do."

"you always right, lamb" he kisses your head once again, and goes out the door towards the carriage where your mother stood caressing the two horses. "i'mma take the carriage back to the railway station. you two be good, you hear?", he got back up onto the carriage and you waved from the porch.

"be safe, please" your mother told him stubbornly, even though the station in the nearby town was a 15 minute walk. you and her watched him ride away, kicking up another cloud of dust as he left. 

that night, you sat at the new dinner table with your family. your mother had prepared a potato stew that she used to make all time back home in an attempt to make a new place feel familiar. 

"when's your first day of work?" your mother asks as she sips her water.

"tomorrow. early mornin'" your father answers, sighing at the idea of waking up at the crack of dawn. your mother just hums in response. 

"pa, do we got any neighbours?" you ask curiously. when riding in, you hadn't seen many houses outside the nearby town which was odd considering you had an abundance of neighbours back home. 

"not many, i'm afraid. there's a man little ways away who got horses, and i'mma try to buy one off him tomorrow."

you nodded and continued to eat as you stared out the window, watching over the field as the sun dipped below the mountains.  

morning came, and your father was already gone. he left a few coins on the dinner table so your mother could go out and fetch some groceries, however she insisted you be the one to go out.

"don't wander too long now" she told you sternly as she held onto the list she made you, making sure not to let go until she knew you understood her.

"i'll be quick mama, i promise" you smiled and she let go, giving you a smile in return.

you made your way down the porch steps and onto the dirt below, beginning your trek towards the town. but before that, you would take a quick detour just to see who's living nearby. you were only 5 minutes into your walk before you came upon the next house. you could immediately tell this was the house your father had been talking about last night as you could see a paddock of horses not too far behind the house. you debated actually going over there, not knowing if it were safe or not, but your curiosity got the better of you. you crossed the barren road and began walking down the similar dusty pathway towards the home, basket in hand. the house had quite a similar build compared to yours except this one looked more lived in. you walked right up onto the porch and hesitated slightly before timidly knocking your knuckles against the door. a few moments past and there was no movement inside, so you knocked again, this time a little louder. still no response. you stopped trying and sighed before walking back down the steps again, ready to walk back towards the road until another idea came into your mind. you turned and peered around to the back of the house where the enclosure was, and decided whoever lived here may have been out there. if your mother and father could see you, they'd be cursing you for being so curious, but they couldn't see you so you didn't pay no mind to it. as you walked closer to the paddock, the whinnying of the horses became louder, and you realized there were a good amount of horses living out here. a whole bunch of them, all different colours. you should've turned back by now but you didn't, instead you continued walking towards the horses who were now aware of your presence and whinnying louder. you dropped your basket by your side and went right up to the fence, holding your hand out in hopes of petting one of the horses.

"ma'am?"

you heard a voice not too far behind you, making you recoil and turn to see who it was. it was a man, who you assumed was the one who lived here. he stood a couple metres away from you at the entrance of the stable with a pail of water in one hand and the other protecting his eyes from the sun. you ran to pick up your basket, feeling embarrassed that you even came over here in the first place.

"i'm so sorry, sir! i don't mean to intrude..." you say, voice shaking slightly. he smiles and walks over to you, placing the bucket down by the fence. you just watched him, waiting to be scolded. 

"i don't believe it's a wise decision to come pet horses on someone else's property" he says in a tone that sounds more playful than angry.

"i-i know sir, it was very silly of me. my family and i just moved in down the road, and my daddy told me he was going to buy a horse from here" you say shakily, a feeble attempt to defend yourself. the man just smiled like he connected the dots in his head.

"ah i see," he thinks about it while staring off, "yes, a man did come 'round here this morning lookin' for a horse. you tryin' buy one off me too?" he chuckles, now leaning up against the fence.

"oh no, sir. i'm meant to be walkin' into town to do some shoppin'. i tried knockin' on your door but there was no answer, and my curiosity got the best of me it seems...i'm sorry" you felt a little ashamed that you were still standing there and not back on that road again, thumbs twiddling on the handle of the basket.

"oh that's quite all right. you best be going now, don't want your mama thinkin' you lost" he moves off the fence and picks up the heavy pail again without a struggle.

"you right, thank you sir" you give him a small nod and begin to walk back.

"hold on now," you turn to face him again, "you ain't given me your name."

you hesitate for a second, but give it to him. he smiled like he'd remember it for the rest of his life.

you mumble a small goodbye before turning on your feet and speed walking away. it wasn't until you were on the road again before you realized you hadn't asked for his name in return. you slapped your palm on your forehead in frustration. the last thing you wanted to be known for was a girl without manners. you prayed the man didn't mind, but little did you know you would be seeing him again. 

a few days went by without any significant events; your father was settling into his new job, your mother was busy at work around the house, and you were left to your own devices although your mother made you help her most of the time. the horse your father bought would stay outside in a tiny makeshift paddock, and you would go out from time to time to pet her and refill her water. she was a large dark brown horse with black hair and the most beautiful black eyes. your father let you name her bessie. every time you looked at the horse, you thought of the neighbour. you wondered if he thought of you too, and if you would ever stumble back into his property. 

"i ain't teachin' no daughter o'mine how to ride a horse. ain't no damn way."

for days, you had been asking your father over and over again if he could teach you how to ride bessie, but every attempt was met with a hard no. his reasoning was that you could fall off and injure yourself, even though you insisted you'd be fine.

"papa, please! just this one thing, and i'll never ask you for anythin' again!" you said desperately as your father marched in through the door, exhausted from a hard day's work. he ignored your pleas, which made you huffed in displeasure. if your own father refused to teach you, then you would find someone else to do it. 

that's how you found yourself walking towards your neighbours' house. it was midday on a thursday when you showed up, and you hoped he would be home at this time. your excuse was that you were going to take a walk towards the general store in town, just so no one would be suspicious of your absence. you walked right up to the porch again and knocked, a little more confidently this time. this time, the man answered.

"you came back" he stated in amusement, pulling the hat off his head into his hands.

"were you expectin' me?"

"'just thought you would'a snuck into my property again" he chuckles, and you feel your face burn up as he makes fun of you.

"i...i came back to ask for your name.."

he pauses as if you just asked him something weird, but then remembers he never exchanged his name.

"roy. roy goode," he holds out his hand and you shake it, feeling how rough his palms were, "there, now we on track."

"nice to meet you, mr. goode" you smile politely.

"just roy, please. don't bother with the pleasantries."

you nod, not saying anything. you two stand there in silence for a moment before he asks, "'that all you came for? my name?"

"well, not really. see, i've been askin' my papa if he could teach me how to ride our horse, we named her bessie, and he won't budge, so..." you nervously asked him, fingers fidgeting with your dress and eyes glued to the ground.

"so...you askin' me to teach you?"

"mhm."

he ponders for a moment, weighing the pros and cons. on the one hand, he didn't mind teaching you. he'd taught horse riding before. but on the other, he wasn't looking for no trouble with your father in case he found out the neighbour was giving his daughter lessons without his permission.

"please! i promise i won't tell a soul.." you clasped your hands in a praying motion, "you're my last hope, roy."

'fuck it' he thought. 

"follow me" he said simply, placing the hat back on his head. he came out onto the porch and closed the door behind him. you followed him as he walked around back towards the stable, now filled with resting horses. you were grinning ear to ear as you watched him pull out a horse from one of the stalls, 

"here, boy" he gently tugs at the rope of the horses' bridle. roy led the horse into the paddock and motioned for you to follow him in. the horse whinnied as he slowly galloped around the enclosure. 

"we gone use my horse" roy stated as he shut the entrance of the fence.

"but...won't he prefer you ridin' him?" you felt intimidated by the fact that roy was making you practice with his horse instead of another one.

he reassures you, "it don't matter much which horse you ride. this heres' a kind horse, he'll warm up to you in no time."

roy walks over to the stationary horse, and you follow suit.

"now, here's what you'll do," he leans down slightly next to you, mouth near your ear like he was trying to tell you a secret, "you're gonna go up to him, and show him that you safe. then, i'll show you how to mount him, all right? go on, he don't bite."

you nod nervously and tread lightly towards the horse who seemed to be uninterested in you. he tried to back away but you put your hand out. the horse let you walk right up to him, and you began to stroke the horse, looking back at roy every few seconds for his approval.

roy walks up behind you. "good, now, i want you to hold onto his saddle here, and put your foot into the stirrup," you watched him as he did a small demonstration for you. 

he got down and watched you try to mount, albeit quite nervously, but he guided you through it. you managed to get up without irritating the horse, and shakily swung your opposite leg over the side.

"that's it, you got it" roy said, genuinely pleased that you haven't bailed yet.

"um, h-how do i get him to move? and also slow down?" without noticing what you did, the horse began to move slowly. all of a sudden, you felt ready to get off.

"you squeeze your legs against him, and tug on the reins to get him to stop" roy turned his body as he talked, keeping you in his vision as you went in circles around the paddock. 

"roy, i'm afraid!" you yelled, accidentally pressing your legs in more, to which the horse responded by trotting. 

"ain't nothin' to be afraid about, i'm here" his hand grazes your leg as you passed him, feeling slightly more confident with a professional by your side. you continue to let the horse trot around before squeezing a little more, resulting in the horse galloping. you shriek from the nerves and the change in pace, even if the horse wasn't going that fast. you tug on the reins and the horse comes to a stop. your body is suddenly yanked forward, you lose your balance and slip off the side of horse, falling right onto your behind. 

"woah there" roy says walking over to you. he holds out a steady hand and helps you to your feet. to your knowledge, you weren't injured, but you would certainly feel something when sitting down later. you dust the dirt off your dress. 

"well, how did i do?" you ask, expecting him to lie and say you were good.

"not too bad, i'm impressed. you sure you ain't rode a horse before?" he said, to which you laughed at him.

"i solemnly swear this my first time, sir" you put a hand to your heart.

"you best not be foolin' me, girl" he chuckles, and you feel a twinge of something deeper inside you. you didn't know what it was exactly -- but roy made you feel comfortable immediately.

"you ready to go again?"

"i'm afraid not, i'm expected to be home soon anyways.." you rub your arm disappointedly, eyes locked into the ground again.

"ah, no worries, then" he walks over to the horse and starts to lead him back to the stall.

"oh wait, roy!"

"what's that?" he stops in his tracks to look back at you

"i told my mama i was going to the general store as an excuse to come here, and if i come home empty handed..she might get suspicious of me..."

“all right, you stay there. i'mma get somethin' for you" he lets go of the horse and walks into the back door of his house, probably going to rummage around for something he can lend you. he comes back out with something tiny, and hands it to you. it was a ring.

"here, 'got this from the general store not too long back," you inspect the ring up close, "the metal ain't nothing special. your mama won't think you spent more than a dime on it."

"are you sure i can take this?" you say apprehensively.

"'course you can, just bring it with you when you come back for your next lesson" he smiles warmly at you, his blue eyes driving holes into your own. you smile meekly and nod, catching his hint that he wanted you to come back. 

"thank you, roy."

"pleasure's all mine. you walk back safely now" he tells you, continuing to lead his horse back towards the stable. you nod again and begin your walk back home. roy watched your figure disappear down the road, already anticipating your return.

back home, your mother was already in the kitchen fixing up dinner. she's stirring something in a pot when she turns around to look at you.

"awfully long time you been gone," she says very matter of fact, but not upset, just surprised. "what was it that you purchased?"

you walked right up to her and placed the ring in her palm. she took her attention off the stove as she looked at the ring, examining every detail. then, she smiled.

"my, this heres' a beautiful ring. how much?"

"ain't too expensive. man at the till gave me a discount for it, telling me i was too pretty to pay full price" you lied, but your mother bought the story. she continued to admire the ring before gently grabbing your hand and sliding it on your index finger. you would keep it on that same finger just as a reminder of roy's kind deed.

the next time you snuck out, your excuse was that you needed some exercise after being cooped up in the house all day. unbeknownst to your mother and father, you'd be off to your neighbour's house for another horse riding lesson. this time, you weren't afraid to walk around back, assuming roy would already be out there. and he was, standing shirtless in front of his drying rack. his back was facing you, and he clearly didn't notice you behind him. you wondered whether you should've moved back and pretended to walk in again at a better time, but you just stood there like your feet were nailed to the ground. you watched the way the muscles in his back flexed as he strung up a freshly washed shirt, and the way his suspenders hung loose on his hips. something inside you wanted to keep lurking but not before a little bit of dust blew near your nose, making you sneeze loudly. roy turned around immediately, the noise scaring him momentarily, and then he just chuckled.

"s-sorry!" you said wiping your nose, embarrassment flooding through your entire body.

"it ain't right to be creepin' up on folk like that, could'a gave me a goddamn heart attack" he just kept smiling, like it was more amusing to him than annoying.

now you were staring at his bare chest from the front. now, you weren't the type of girl to have a wandering eye, you were raised with manners after all, but you couldn't help but take a peek at his muscular frame. roy seemed to catch on that you were staring at his bare chest, seemingly forgetful of the fact that this could be read as indecent of him. you looked away, ashamed.

"i'm sorry, i wasn't expectin' you" he pulled a dry shirt off the rack and slipped it on, sensing your embarrassment for walking in on him. 

"no, i'm sorry. i should'a knocked. that was improper of me..."

"oh it don't mean nothin' to me" he chuckles. you awkwardly laugh along with him.

"i got you um.." you pulled at the ring that was still on your finger, and held it out to roy, "your ring, here."

he looked at it in your hand then shook his head. "nah, best you keep it. looks better on you than me anyways."

your face felt warm, the man only paid you a compliment. 

"oh no, i couldn't. it's yours."

"well, i just gave it to you. so keep it, now."

you smiled and slipped it back onto your index finger. "i'm here for our next lesson."

"i bet you are. give me a moment, i'll be right with you" roy said, flipping his hat onto his head before heading out to the stable. 

you walked over to the paddock gate and waited for roy to bring the horse out. it was the same horse as last time, his horse. he taught you a few more tricks this time, and how to better understand the way horse riding works. 

"you must be some kind'a horse whisperer, roy goode" you said jumping down from the saddle, more gracefully than last time when you fell. 

he smiles, "practice is all it is. at the pace you're goin', you might become one too", he smoothes a gentle hand over the horse's muzzle, eliciting a deep groan from the horse. you wondered what it would feel like if roy put his hand on your face like that, but then cancelled the thought immediately, unsure as to why you would think up something so ridiculous. 

you rode the horse two more times before you felt too fatigued to continue. you were pleased with how well you were progressing in such little time, to which roy told you you had a natural gift. he made you feel good in a way you couldn't put into words. sure, he was quite a handsome man to start with, but it was more than that, almost like his mere presence was enough to get you excited. it got to a point where you found yourself dreaming of him, and you would replay those dreams in your head throughout the day. you chalked it up to the fact that roy was the only other person you knew in this town, and that had to have been the reason for why you thought of him like that. you assumed roy didn't share the feeling. after all, you were just some silly neighbour girl who wanted to learn how to a ride a horse, which is why you suppressed your giddiness every time you came around, but deep down, you wished it was mutual. 

"now that i know how to ride...how you suppose i go about tellin' my daddy?"

you and roy were sitting on the steps of his back porch, munching on an apple that he let you have from the stable. you found it difficult to hold back your smile every time you glanced up at him, so you kept your eyes on the apple.

"you gotta prove to him that you're capable. if you can show him you can get up on a horse, well he just might change his mind."

"he just don't want me to get hurts, is all."

"'course he don't. i wouldn't want to see you get hurt neither."

a small smile breaks through, and he notices the way his words make you shift. you eat the apple down to the core and say your goodbyes to roy. he waves you off and you walk on, a big grin painted on your face. 

"wear somethin' nice tonight."

you were sat the dinner table eating lunch with your mother when she broke her chewing to talk. you just looked at her, and she continued, "your daddy told me he saw roy the neighbour in town today, told him he was grateful for the horse and asked him if he wanted to join us for supper tonight."

your chewing slowed down, a wave of nervousness taking over. 

"oh don't fret, baby. he's a nice man, i'm sure you'll take kindly to him" your mother continues to eat happily while you sit opposite her mentally malfunctioning. she didn't have a damn clue that you'd been seeing roy for days now. she was right though, you did take very kindly to him.

that same night, you sat fully dressed on the side of your bed staring into the mirror hung on your wall. you kept fiddling with your dress, making sure it fit right, and touching your hair almost every second, smoothing it over in some places and puffing it up in others. you just couldn't sit still. then you heard the front door open, your father's boisterous voice greeting whoever was down there. you closed your eyes and took a shaky deep breath in, then started towards the door. roy stood clad in a button up and a coat with your father being his usual polite self, hat held to his chest when he greeted your mother, though his attention was completely stolen when you came down around the corner with that same shy demeanour you always had. his gaze travelled over your figure, eyes softening as he watched you make your way towards him. the man oughta been slapped for the way he looked at you. 

"mr. goode, this heres' my lil lamb. she is my pride and joy," your father says warmly.

"a pleasure to meet you, mr. goode" you say all sweet and polite, knowing that he would appreciate you playing along.

he sticks out a hand, "oh pleasure's all mine. and please, call me roy." you shake his hand, and you could've sworn he made the handshake longer on purpose. his hand was warm against your own, rough and calloused contrary to your soft skin.

"you must be famished, roy. we got supper waitin' for you on the table" your mother kindly interjects, arm stretched out in the direction of the kitchen.

roy nods eagerly and follows your mother, you and your father follow behind. at the table, roy and your father both sat at the ends of the table while you and your mother sat opposite, a candle right in the middle. the table was so small, you could almost feel his knee touching yours. 

"so roy," your father speeds up his chewing in order to continue his sentence, "what's life like for you? you always lived here in california?"

"no sir, i was originally brought up in moses, new mexico. me and my brother did, but we had split up for a period. we had planned to come out to california together but he left on his own one day. then i spent some time in la belle, lookin' after some horses." he chuckles, but you could tell there was something else on his mind.

"i heard of some nefarious activity happenin' around them parts, you know anythin' 'bout that?" your father questions innocently, but you catch roy's expression drop for a moment.

"oh yes sir, i did. a bad group of men. i knew them. though, it ain't the type of story you wanna hear over supper" roy says sheepishly, clearly not wanting to get into the topic. your father only nods understandingly, not wanting to push.

you sat there silently eating wondering about what could've happened and who those men were. the idea of roy having a troubled life put you on edge. your mother sensed the tension and asked something else.

"you married, roy? if you don't mind my askin'."

roy looks up from his food at your mother, then smiles.

"no, ma'am. all's i got is me and my horses."

you bite the inside of your lip. you had a suspicion he lived alone, but him confirming it lifted some weight off your shoulders. you wouldn't dare fancy another woman's man. 

"that's a damn shame. handsome man like you should have all the ladies bangin' at your door" she giggles.

roy looks at you for a split second, and you can tell he thought of you. you were the only one at his door. 

"nothin' to worry over, you still young after all" your mother continues. 

"how you enjoyin' california, miss?" roy starts making conversation with you, his knee lightly bumping into yours. your face felt hot.

"o-oh it's very nice, thank you for asking...most days, i miss my old town, but this one's much nicer," you look at him, admiring the way his face looks when illuminated by the candle light, the orange-hued light softening his features. had your parents not been there, you surely would've leaned in to kiss him. "sometimes i pass by your house on my way to town, you sure got a nice set of horses..." you teased.

"why don't you stop over some time and get acquainted with 'em?" he looks at your lips for a brief moment, and you roll your bottom lip under your teeth.

"she been pesterin' me about learnin' to ride bessie lately, but she ain't been askin' no more" your father interrupts, grumbling with food still in his mouth. you furrow your brows in his direction.

"aw there ain't nothin' to worry about, sir. she'll come back 'round soon enough" he assures your father, and you bless him for not spilling your little secret. 

your family continued to have light conversation with roy until the last drop of food was gone. roy leaned back in his chair and held his hands over his stomach, a small whistle leaving his lips to signify he was full.

"i don't rightly know what you put in that soup ma'am, but it was real fine." he says to your mother.

"why, thank you, roy. it's my baby's favourite dish." she nodded towards you.

"your girl's got good taste."

you smiled at roy's compliment, even if it made your entire stomach twist. 'quit it' you thought to yourself, bothered by your own foolishness.

"well, i better be on my way now. thank you for the lovely meal, ma'am" roy stands and holds his hat to his chest again, nodding his head towards your mother who seemed to be enamoured by him. 

your father stands up and leads him to the doorway. he shook roy's hand as a goodbye and thanked him one last time for joining the family for dinner. you got up as well and stood next to your father, waiting for your chance to say goodbye. as roy was about to walk out, you speak again.

"wait," roy turns, hat already on his head, "i want him to see bessie before he leaves."

"be quick now, lamb" your father huffs, shooting an apologetic look to roy.

you walk out onto the dark porch and close the door behind you, now standing alone with roy. you silently motion for him to follow you, and you lead him towards the side of your house where bessie was. she seemed to immediately recognize roy, snorting softly at him. he caressed her muzzle.

"i missed you too, girl."

the hot californian sun had already left the sky, the only light source now being the moonlight and the slivers of warm light from the lanterns that hung on your front and back porch. bessie groaned as roy combed his fingers through her dark mane, the large animal folding under his touch. you thought about the possibility of bessie missing her stable with the other horses, a tinge of sadness washing over you.

"so, um...what did you think?" you mumble, staring off into the dark territory, fingers bunching at your dress anxiously. 

"lovely folks you got there. your mama's soup was mighty tasty, as well" he paused his combing to face you, elbows perched against the top of the homemade fence.

"it wasn't odd was it...to pretend you hadn't met me before?"

he chuckles, lacing his amusement through your anxiousness.

"ain't nothin' strange about it. had me thinkin' you was a different person with the way you looked tonight" his words meant to sound like a joke, but came off flirtatious. he noticed how he made your fingers curl harder around the delicate fabric of your dress, eyes desperate to look anywhere but at him.

"mama told me to wear this dress...helped me with my hair too."

roy just nodded, worried that his next words might take him too far.

"i better be taking my leave now" roy says, giving bessie one last pet before moving off the fence. you follow him to the front where you're both stood a little distant from the porch light.

"you have a goodnight, miss" he bows his head at you.

you say nothing but step closer towards him. with hands clasped behind your back, you plant a soft kiss against his cheek, making sure not to let your lips linger longer than they should've. you feel the gentle scrape of his facial hair against your lips as you pull away. his gaze is heavy, watching you with his mouth cracked open just in case you came in for seconds. you didn't though, you could hardly look back at him so you chose to walk away. roy watched you walk up the porch steps before he starting walking back himself, fingers lingering against his cheek as he replayed the feeling of your lips against him, imagining how your lips would feel all over him. you laid in bed that night wide awake overthinking. was that kiss unwarranted of you? did it make roy feel uneasy? maybe you would try to avoid him and see if he comes looking for you, or you would pretend you had never done such a thing. all the thinking made you sleepy, and you ended up dreaming of him anyways. 

a few days had passed since you'd seen roy. you hadn't stopped thinking about him by any means, but the idea of seeing him again intimidated you. your mother had sent you out again on another trip into town, and this time, you were able to successfully stay on the road without walking into roy's property. you were hauling back a heavy basket of groceries, almost out of sight of roy's house when you heard a whistle. you pretended like you didn't hear it until you saw roy walking off his porch in your direction. one part of you wanted to stroll on over and jump into his arms, the other wanted to run off, though your feet started moving on their own. you met him in the middle, arm aching from the heavy load. roy walked up to you with squinted eyes and a hand over his forehead. 

"knew that was you.”

"you got eyes like a damn hawk" you smile, trying to be normal.

"what you got there?" roy notices the heavy basket pulling your arm, and you look down at it.

"just some groceries my mama wanted, and some flower seeds as well. we been workin' on a garden the past few days."

"looks like it's killin' your arm there."

"oh it's terribly heavy."

roy reaches out to grab the basket from you, judging the weight of it. for a man like him, the basket weighed almost nothing compared to the horses he pulled. you shook your arm out, undoing the strain you had put on it for the last 10 minutes. 

"why don't you come inside and rest a lil' while? promise i won't keep you long."

you feel a slight flutter in your stomach when he invites you inside, and you immediately take up his offer despite your house only being another 5 minutes away. his home was smaller with less rooms, and more manly. it wasn't decorated very much, just the basic necessities. 

"come sit here" he led you to a small wooden bench with a fur rug draped over the back, and let you take a seat before setting your basket down on the dining table. he sat down right next to you and perched a leg over his knee, getting comfortable. all you could think about was that cheek kiss you gave him, and if it would ever be mentioned again. you bite your lip at the sudden silence between you two, fingers fiddling in your lap. 

"how come you fiddle with your fingers like that?" roy asked genuinely. your fingers froze.

"just...somethin' i've always done."

"you do it all the time?"

"only when nervous..."

"you tellin' me you nervous right now?" he exclaimed.

you said nothing, only glancing at him briefly with an embarrassed expression. you desperately wanted to change the subject, so you mentioned the only other thing on your mind.

"what happened in la belle?" only now when you said it, it sounded invasive.

roy paused and looked ahead, trying to find the honesty within him.

"well," he took a deep breath in, "when i was leavin' moses, i met a man named frank griffin. now, he taught me almost everythin' i know. man was like kin to me, took good care of me, but that don’t mean he was a saint. after i became aware of the evil he was causin’, i just couldn’t ignore it. i stayed ridin' around with his men for a long time before i decided i couldn’t do it no more. when i left his group, he didn't take so kindly to it. i stole from him for awhile, antagonizing him, all because i couldn’t kill the man. then he and his gang started chasing me, killin' people left and right. he done lynched a whole town after i left," you listened attentively, eyes wide open as he recounted the grisly details of his life. "he put a warrant out for my arrest, and after bein' in la belle for awhile, he caught up to me"

"then..." his story telling had you gripping onto every word.

"whole town had a shoot out, every woman armed with a gun. they killed his gang and i…” his breath hitched, exhaling shakily, “…i killed frank griffin" he looked at you when he spoke his last sentence, fully expecting a bad reaction from you. he hadn't ever uttered his crime out loud, not with the pure honesty he had right now. you just looked shocked, not even scared, but aghast. the roy you knew was sweet and virtuous, incapable of taking the life of another man, but here he was telling you his truth.

"oh, roy...that's one hell of a life you've lived."

he nods, remembering everything.

“i reckon you must be thinking differently of me now"

"n-no, actually...i think i may like you even more" you reply honestly, trailing off as you thought about it.

"and why's that?"

"because you brave, roy. you stood up to a man whom you trusted and believed in, but you made the right choice by eliminating the evil in this world, even if that man was special to you at one point,” he listens to you say the words he'd been dying to hear, the affirmation that he hadn't made a big mistake. "you ain't a bad person, roy. you ain't the man slinging his gun killin' innocent folk...you the man who is kind, who is patient...who taught his neighbour how to ride a horse" you huff out a tiny laugh at the end, and it makes roy smile. 

"you really think that 'bout me?"

"i do...and more" you mumble quietly, hiding your shy smile by looking down at your lap.

"that why you kissed my cheek the other night?"

you hid your face in your hands on instinct, whining in embarrassment. roy chuckled at how easy it was to tease you.

"you must'a hated it" your speech came out muffled as you talked into your palms.

"what makes you think that?" he shifts closer, but you stay put. your face was burning too hot to pull your hands away, so roy does it for you. 

"i dunno...maybe you don't feel the same as me" you keep looking at your lap, too bashful to make eye contact with him.

one of his hands hesitates near your face before softly caressing your cheek, letting his fingers run back into your hair. it catches you so off guard that you are unable to react. his hand finds your jaw, thumb against your cheek, and lifts it slightly to make you look at him. it only takes one look before your lips crash onto his, your own body moving before you could think. you instantly moaned into the kiss, not loudly, but as if you were starving for it. your hands came up to hold the back of his head, fingers curling through the shaggy sand coloured hair. roy let you take everything you needed from him, breath ragged from the intensity of the kiss, big hands squeezing into your waist over your dress. little noises kept spilling out of you, almost like the kiss itself was adjacent to making love. you shifted onto your knees, one hand splayed on roy's lap as you balanced yourself on the bench. he let out a groan when you put your weight down on him, your hand a little too close to where he was hardening. when you felt him growing beneath you, you jumped back in panic thinking it went too far. roy looked at you concerned, the taste of you deep rooted on his tongue. 

"you all right?" he leans forward but you lean back, straightening out your dress and standing back on your feet.

"u-um i better be on my way, my mama probably waitin' on me" you say in a hurry, grabbing your basket off the table and speed walking towards the door. roy jumps up in confusion as to why you were leaving in a rush.

"did i do somethin' wrong? hey-" he grips your shoulder, forcing you to turn around. you can't even face him. 

"ain't nothin' wrong...i just...thank you for letting me in. goodbye, now" you hurry out the door, releasing his grip from your shoulder. he didn't try to stop you, although it was hard to hold himself back.

you ran down that porch with the basket, not even caring how heavy it was. you just needed to get back home. truth was, you had never done anything with anyone. growing up, your parents were a little more strict on you, always keeping a watchful eye over the people you chose to be around, that including the boys from your town. your father believed them to be too rowdy for you, and you were forbidden from being alone with them. that didn't mean you never snuck a kiss here and there, but up until now, you had never really engaged in any sexual activities. you never felt comfortable enough with anyone to try it until roy came along. he made you feel more than comfortable, and you couldn't deny the spraining in your heart whenever the thought of him appeared in your mind. you stayed angry with yourself that you couldn't let yourself enjoy the moment, why you had to freak out as soon as things got more serious. you prayed roy wasn't hurt by your sudden change in attitude. knowing him, he had a lifetime of patience inside him, and he would be waiting for you when the time felt right. however, he didn't expect you to show up at his door that same night.  

you hadn't come prepared with words, only a lantern and that same shy, apologetic demeanour of yours that he’s become so fond of. he let you atone for your actions as you stood on his porch, tears welling up in your eyes, before he pulled you in by the arm and kissed you deeply. you told him you had snuck out after your parents fell asleep, and that the guilt of leaving him made it next to impossible to do anything. you were still in the same day dress, you hadn't even planned to change out of them, but here you were, back at roy's house where he was the one unbuttoning it. you guided you towards his bed, lips still on you, and helped you lay down as he stood in between your legs. you broke the kiss to speak.

"s-so you ain't mad?"

he kisses down your neck, the scrape of his facial hair making you whine. 

“at you?” he keeps kissing, “never.”

“s’just…when i felt you…it scared me..because i ain’t never done nothing before.”

roy peers up at you, blue eyes transfixed on you, then he just smiles. the same smile he always did that made you feel warm. 

“you gone be okay, i promise…unless you ain’t ready-”

“i’m ready, roy…please keep goin’” you interrupted him, hands coming up to hold his face. he continued to kiss down your collarbone without any talk back. 

he pulled down the sleeves of your dress from your shoulders, and you leaned upwards so he could slide it down, and lifted your hips so he could get it all the way off. all you had underneath was a simple cream coloured brassiere and underwear to match. when you noticed roy looking too hard, you pulled him down to kiss him. you wrapped your legs clad in your pristine knee high sunday socks around his hips, inviting him to press more of his weight down into you. with eyes closed, your shaky fingers moved to pull the bottom of his shirt up over his head, to which he tossed aside on top of your dress. you squeezed at the solid muscles of his arms as he loomed over you, imagining how hard he must work every day to stay in such shape. you suddenly became aware of how much your core was aching. it was almost a daily occurrence where you had to relieve yourself from all your thoughts of roy goode. the drawl of his southern accent whenever he spoke to you, the way his handsome face crinkled whenever he smiled, and the way he was so sweet on you like no other man could be. you thanked god over and over again for having to move out here. 

“roy, i’ve been needin’ you so bad, i can’t take it. make me feel good, please!” you couldn’t even speak properly, you were so pent up. 

roy listened as he undid your brassiere, your breasts falling free into his hands. he didn’t even know skin could be so soft. you bucked your hips up into him, catching a feeling of his bulge against your throbbing clit which made your head roll back in pleasure. roy moved his hands down to the fat of your hips, hooking his fingers into your underwear. he slowly pulled them down, revealing the thin trail of slick that stuck to you and the underwear. roy couldn’t rip his eyes off the sight of you, not until you slammed your thighs shut in embarrassment of how aroused you became.

“see, you askin’ me to make you feel good but you shuttin’ me out” he talks all sweet and gentle while running his hands up the sides of your thighs.

you let him spread you open with ease, and roy hums in satisfaction. 

“nobody ever touched you?”

you look away, “i never let no one near me like this…”

“i’m very honoured” he rubs his fingers through your sticky folds which makes you cry out softly from the coarseness of his skin, arching your back forwards. roy just watches as you melt like butter under his touch.

“take ‘em off, roy!” you dig the ball of your foot into his stockings and he undoes them with haste, freeing his cock from his cotton boxers. the mere girth of him made your core pulse. 

“you keep still, all right?” he mumbles lowly, guiding the head of his cock towards your entrance. 

you nod and watch him push in, the stretch of him immediately setting in. your eyes burn from the threat of tears as he goes inch by inch until his bushy pelvis is up against you. he groans as he bottoms out, and you tighten around him, reeling him in. he stays like that for a moment, just letting you get used to the sensation before starting his painfully slow thrusting, each time knocking into that sweet spot inside you. 

“r-roy…”

“i know, i know.”

“it’s s-”

he hushes you, thrusting a little harder.

“it’s a lot, i know. i’m gone take care of you now.”

and you let him. he holds your thighs against his abdomen, hands squeezing into the soft flesh. you weren’t sure where to put your hands, so you used them to prop you up slightly so you could get a better look at how good he was stretching you open. he was already completed coated in your slick from tip to base, you even got some on his bush. 

“faster” you whined out.

he started moving at a new pace, but it just wasn’t good enough for you, so you took matters into your own hands.

“l-let me get on top, roy.”

“you sure?”

“mhm! please!”

roy picked you up by the waist, still inside you, and slouched down on the bed sitting up. now you were in charge of the pace. you steadied your knees on either side of his thighs, socks rolling down slightly at your calf, and placed your hands on top of his chest. the way you looked on his lap could’ve made roy drool, his heavy lidded gaze entirely fixated on you. you started to bounce a little bit, and roy held his hands against your ass, steadying you. 

“you gone ride me like i taught you?” his lips mumbled against your collarbone, eyes peering straight up at you.

“o-oh yes sir!” his words made you clench around him, bouncing even harder.

“yeah? thinkin’ of me when you got up on that horse? wishin’ it was my cock you were bouncin’ on?”

“uh-huh!”

“naughty girl.”

your thighs were burning from the sheer force of your bouncing, but it was easy to ignore when his cock was splitting you open just right from this angle, even the grazing of his bush against your swollen clit was enough to put you in a trance. roy placed messy, open mouthed kisses against your neck, groans and whines falling from his lips. the way you rode him was damn near sinful, but that was neither a concern for you or him. 

“i-i need your help, sir! m’fallin’ off” you whimper breathlessly, hinting at the fact that the fatigue in your legs was starting to catch up to you.

“don’t worry, miss. i got you” he shifts underneath you, planting his feet onto the bed so he can start pistoning up into you. 

he sets an unforgiving pace that leaves you helpless on top of him, whimpers and cries falling out of you like tears. your eyes were rolling so far back into your skull you’d think they’d never come back down again.

“m-m’sorry sir… ‘was tryin’ my best!”

“shh, i’m gone help you.”

“i wanna be so good, sir!,” you squeal when he hits a different angle. “am i g-good?”

“don’t fret, miss. you always gone be-” he grunts, “my good girl.”

your release was dangerously close, and you could tell roy was almost there as well. the air between you two was hot and sticky, sweat resting on your skin like you were boiling from the inside out. you could feel his fingers leaving bruises based on how tight he was holding you. 

“roy, i’m so close! d-don’t stop” you cried into the nook of his shoulder, dropping your act. he was fucking you so good, you could barely hold your own head up.

roy responded by flipping you onto your back. he leaned over you with your legs up against him, feet on either side of his head, continuing to pound into you without mercy. it only took a few more thrusts and his pelvis bumping into your clit before you were crying out in pure pleasure. you trembled through your orgasm, hands gripping the sheets for dear life. in that moment, roy swore he hadn’t ever heard sounds more pretty than the ones you were making under him. his orgasm wasn’t far behind yours, and you could tell from the pitch of his whimpers. before he could cum, he pulled out, jerking himself a few times before spilling his warm, thick seed all over your pelvis. he let your legs fall out from under him, and you wrapped them around his lower back. you brought your shaky hands up to cradle his face and kissed him as if you were trying to tell him ‘i love you’ without words. 

“h-how was i? tell me the truth, roy…” you mumbled against his lip.

“perfect” he responded, huffing out a laugh, which made you laugh into the kiss.

“let’s get you cleaned up” roy leaned back to pull up his trousers which had pooled at his feet, and stuffed himself back into his boxers.

he moved towards the basin of clean water in the kitchen area and dampened a small cloth rag. he brought it over to where you were laying and sat down, wiping his release off of you. then he dipped his head down and took a long stripe up your folds with his tongue.

“roy—mmph!” you whined, hips bucking up again when his tongue brushed up against your overstimulated nub. you watched him shamelessly drink up your slick until he lifted his head again, arousal coating his lips and chin. 

“don’t mind me, i was just gettin’ a taste. now you all clean” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and uses the other side of the wet towel to clean his saliva off you, making sure not to scrape the delicate area. 

he helped you as you got dressed, doing up the buttons in the back for you, then slipped his own shirt back on. you sat side by side on the bed with your head leaned up against his shoulders, looking out into the black behind his windows.

“you think anybody noticed i snuck out?” you looked up at roy. he just shook his head.

“you more sneaky than you realize.”

“you think so?”

“oh, i know so.”

you just giggled, sending vibrations against roy's shoulder. you didn’t want to leave, not now. not ever. though, your parents surely would’ve noticed your absence in the morning. so you begrudgingly told roy that you had to leave, to which he just nodded silently and stood up.

“wait, roy…”

he turned to face you.

“take me home on your horse.”

he chuckled, telling you to grab a lantern. you jumped up excitedly and headed out the door towards the stable. he dressed his horse and got up, you following behind. you hugged your arms into his waist as the horse trotted out onto the road. the ride was brief, but the moment was everything to you. the horse slowed down out in front of your house, but you didn’t immediately get down, instead you hugged roy harder. 

“i take it you don’t wanna get down” he mumbles, head turning back slightly in your direction.

“don’t think i want to.”

“you gone see me tomorrow?” he questions, but it’s more of a statement. 

“mhm. and the next day, and the day after that, and everyday after that.”

“all right now, i’ll be waitin’ on you” he chuckles lowly.

you lean forward and plant one last kiss against his cheek, making sure to linger this time, before jumping down. he watches you walk back down towards your house, taking one last look at him on the porch before sneaking back inside as if you never left. he waits for a moment on the road, lantern in hand, as he gets used to the emptiness he now felt. roy had been loved in his life, not by many, but enough to make him turn out alright. though, this was different. it was effortless, easy to carry, but hurt like hell itself when it wasn’t around. he knew this type of love was only to be found once in a lifetime, and roy was damn sure he was going to do whatever it takes to keep this love for as long as he can have it. 

Roy looked at you then, suspicious at first, as if waiting for mockery. But when none came, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

And that was how it started.

Every evening after supper, you sat with him at the old wooden table inside the cabin. You’d write letters on scraps of paper while Roy leaned over them with fierce concentration.

“That’s an A,” you reminded him.

Roy frowned hard enough to scare most men. “Looks crooked.”

“All letters look crooked when you glare at them like that.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he learned. You taught him simple words first. Horse. Gun. River. Roy would repeat them under his breath until they stuck.

One night, after managing an entire sentence without help, he leaned back in his chair with a look of disbelief.

“I read that.”

“You did.”

“Huh.” A grin spread across his face, rare and warm. “Guess you’re a better teacher than I figured.”

“Oh? And what exactly did you figure?”

“That you’d lose patience after the third time I forgot the alphabet.”

You laughed. “I considered it.”

Roy shook his head, smiling into the lantern light.

A few days later, he woke you before sunrise.

“C’mon,” he said from the doorway. “Your turn.”

Half-asleep, you followed him outside where two horses waited saddled in the pale morning light.

You stopped short. “Absolutely not.”

Roy raised an eyebrow. “You taught me letters. Fair trade says I teach you horses.”

“I like the ground, Roy.”

“You’ll survive.”

“That’s easy for a man born in a saddle to say.”

He chuckled low in his throat and stepped closer, offering his hand. “I won’t let you fall.”

You looked at him for a moment — at the steady calm in his eyes, at the patience he rarely showed anyone else.

Then you took his hand.

The horse seemed enormous beneath you, muscles shifting with every nervous breath you took. Roy stood beside you, one hand resting lightly on the reins.

“Relax,” he said gently.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re holding the saddle like it insulted your mother.”

You glared down at him while he laughed openly this time.

As the horse began to move, panic flared in your chest. Instinctively, you grabbed Roy’s arm.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Feel the rhythm.”

“I feel death.”

“You’re doin’ fine.”

And somehow, with Roy walking beside you and the morning sun stretching gold across the fields, you believed him.

By the end of the lesson, you were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

Roy looked almost proud.

“See?” he said. “Told you I’d teach you.”

You crossed your arms. “And I told you that was an A, not an H, at least fifteen times.”

He smirked. “Guess we both got stubborn students.”

The wind carried your laughter across the open land, and for the first time in a long while, Roy Goode looked completely at peace.

The horses wandered lazily back toward the stable while the morning breeze stirred the tall grass around you. Your hands still trembled slightly from the ride, though whether from nerves or excitement, you weren’t entirely sure.

Roy took the reins from your fingers carefully, his knuckles brushing yours.

“You did good,” he said.

You scoffed. “I nearly slid off twice.”

“But you didn’t.”

There was that quiet confidence again — the kind that made you feel steadier just standing near him.

Roy tied the horse off and turned back toward you. For once, he seemed uncertain. His hand rested on the fence rail while his eyes searched your face like he was trying to read something harder than any words you’d taught him.

The air between you shifted.

You could hear the horses nearby, the creak of leather, the distant song of birds waking with the dawn. But all of it faded beneath the weight of the way Roy was looking at you now.

Carefully, almost like he feared you might pull away, Roy reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered against your cheek, rough and warm.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said quietly, “I’m liable to do somethin’ selfish.”

Your breath caught. “Maybe I’d let you.”

“C’mon,” he said quietly, taking your hand. “Let me take care of you awhile.”

And with the sunrise spilling gold across the ranch, Roy led you back toward the cabin, his fingers tightly intertwined with yours.

He gave you every chance to stop him, moving slowly enough for you to turn away if you wanted. But you didn’t.

You only looked at him, at the man who had spent so long believing he was less than everyone around him, and felt something tender ache inside your chest.

His lips met yours softly.

He crashed his lips against yours, the kiss tasting of salt and urgency. His tongue pushed deep, claiming your mouth with a hunger that bordered on violent, sucking your tongue into his as saliva bridged the gap between.

You let out a sharp moan, your fingers digging into the leather of his vest. He hoisted you up, you legs wrapping around his hips, the fabric of your skirts bunching up around your waist.

Roy groaned into your neck, his breath hot and ragged. He fumbled with the buttons of your bodice, ripping one loose in his haste.

He exposed your breasts to the cool air, his mouth immediately latching onto a nipple, sucking it hard and swirling his tongue around the peaking bud.

You arched your back, breath hitching as he shifted his weight, sliding you down the wall until you hit the floor with a soft thud.

He stripped his trousers off with frantic movements, his cock springing free, thick and pulsing with a heavy bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

He didn't waste time with finesse.

He parted your thighs, the sight of your dripping pussy, swollen and pink, making him growl. He guided his head to your opening, the wetness making a squelching sound as he pushed inside.

"God, you're so tight," Roy gasped, his voice breaking.

He slammed into you, a deep, guttural thrust that buried him to the hilt.

You shrieked, head hitting the floorboards, your internal muscles clenching around him in a rhythmic squeeze.

The sound of your bodies colliding became a wet, rhythmic shlicking, the air being pushed out of your lungs in short, sharp gasps.

He didn't stop, his balls slapping hard against your ass with every overzealous plunge.

He felt your cervix shudder under the impact, your walls milking him with a desperate intensity.

"Tell me," Roy panted, his face strained, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest.

"Was I a good student?"

"Yes," you sobbed, your nails drawing blood across his shoulders.

"Ye-e-s, you stubborn cowboy."

He accelerated, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic. The friction created a heat that felt like it would ignite the room.

He felt the build-up, a pressure in his loins that demanded release.

With one final, bone-deep shove, he let out a loud, guttural roar, his cock pulsing as he flooded you deep inside with thick, hot ropes of seed.

You collapsed beneath him, your own orgasm crashing over you in waves, your pussy twitching around him as you both shook with the afterglow.

One freezing morning, you stepped outside to find Bill waiting with your coat already warmed near the fire.

“Thought nurses deserved proper treatment,” he said smugly.

From somewhere behind him, Paddy called out, “Manipulation. That’s what that is.”

Bill pointed triumphantly. “Jealousy costs him a point.”

“No such rule exists.”

“It does now.”

The soldiers nearby erupted with laughter.

You tried ignoring them. Truly.

But it became impossible when medical deliveries began arriving suspiciously early because Paddy personally escorted them through the storm. Or when Bill started appearing during night shifts carrying sandwiches wrapped carefully in cloth because “you forget to eat.”

Neither man ever said outright what the competition meant.

They didn’t need to.

Everyone knew.

Especially after the scoreboard appeared.

Someone — likely Bill — had nailed a crooked wooden plank beside the mess hall with white painted tally marks.

FRASER — 12 MAYNE — 13

“One point ahead,” Bill muttered bitterly one evening, staring at the board while sipping tea beside you.

“You’re both ridiculous.”

“And yet he’s winning.”

Paddy emerged from the darkness carrying a medical supply crate over one shoulder.

“Correction,” he said calmly. “I am winning.”

Bill narrowed his eyes. “What’s in the crate?”

“Requested supplies for the nurse.”

“You’re inventing errands now.”

Paddy set the crate down beside you carefully, his expression softer when he looked at you than it ever was with anyone else.

“Long shift?” he asked quietly.

You nodded.

Without another word, he reached into his jacket and handed you a chocolate bar — probably traded from someone halfway across Britain.

Bill looked horrified.

“Oh, that’s dirty.”

Paddy smirked. “Fourteen.”

The camp roared with approval from nearby tents.

Bill pointed accusingly. “Bribery!”

“Strategic generosity.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

And both men immediately looked far too pleased about being the reason why.

You told yourself it was only amusement.

A ridiculous camp game between two impossible men with too much confidence and too little shame.

But the truth was harder to ignore when it came to Paddy Mayne.

Bill Fraser was easy to understand — loud laughter, crooked smiles, endless charm. Everyone adored Bill because he made sure they did.

Paddy was different.

He rarely smiled first. Rarely spoke unless he meant it. Men twice your size moved aside when he walked through camp, and not because he ordered them to. There was something dangerous about him even at rest, like a storm waiting behind stillness.

And yet—

You noticed the small things.

How he always carried wounded soldiers into the infirmary himself instead of calling for stretcher teams.

How he stood outside the medical tent during bombing raids without realizing he was doing it.

How carefully he handed you supplies despite those rough, bruised hands.

No one else seemed to see those things.

Or maybe they were too busy seeing the legend.

You certainly never let him see what you thought.

Whenever Paddy looked at you too long, you immediately found another task. Another patient. Another excuse.

Because surely this competition was only entertainment to him.

A game.

Men like Paddy Mayne didn’t look at women the way ordinary men did. They swept through life like wildfire — intense, reckless, untouchable.

You were not foolish enough to believe otherwise.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

Until your cousin cornered you outside headquarters.

“You’re staring again.”

You nearly dropped the stack of medical charts in your arms. “David!”

David Stirling leaned casually against the jeep beside him, looking entirely too amused.

“I was not staring.”

“At Mayne?”

“No.”

“Terrible liar.”

Heat rushed into your face. “There’s nothing going on.”

David studied you for a moment before his expression softened slightly.

“That’s exactly why I’m speaking to you.”

The distant sounds of shouting soldiers and engines filled the silence between you.

Then he sighed.

“You know Paddy isn’t your usual sort of man.”

You looked away instinctively toward the training field where soldiers moved through rain and mud.

Toward him.

Paddy stood near the trucks, sleeves rolled up, arguing with Bill over something while half the camp watched like it was theater.

“He’s difficult,” David continued carefully. “Brilliant. Loyal. But difficult. He doesn’t do things halfway.”

You tried to laugh lightly. “You’re making him sound terrifying.”

“He can be.”

That answer came too quickly.

Your fingers tightened around the charts.

David stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Men follow him because they’d walk into hell after him. But Paddy…” He paused. “Paddy burns hot. Sometimes people near him get burned too.”

You didn’t answer.

Because the worst part was—

You already knew.

You’d seen it in the fury behind his eyes during training fights. In the frightening calm he carried after missions. In the reckless way he drove vehicles far too fast through camp roads while grinning like death itself amused him.

And somehow none of it frightened you as much as it should have.

David noticed your silence immediately.

“Oh, this is worse than I thought.”

“There is no this.”

“Mm.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

Before you could respond, voices erupted nearby.

“Move aside!” Bill shouted dramatically. “Official business!”

You turned just in time to see Bill marching toward you carrying a tray with tea cups balanced badly in his hands.

Behind him walked Paddy with another supply crate resting on one shoulder.

Of course.

David looked between the two men approaching and muttered, “Christ, they’re still doing this?”

Bill stopped proudly in front of you. “Tea delivery for our favorite nurse.”

Paddy set the crate down beside your feet.

“Requested morphine stock,” he said simply, though you had never requested it from him personally.

Bill squinted suspiciously. “You’re trying to score points again.”

Paddy glanced at the scoreboard nailed beside the mess hall.

FRASER — 15 MAYNE — 16

“One point ahead,” Paddy said calmly.

Bill groaned. “I hate you.”

David, meanwhile, was staring directly at you now.

Watching far too carefully.

Because while Bill was talking, while soldiers laughed nearby, while the camp carried on around you—

Your eyes had gone automatically to Paddy.

And worse—

Paddy had noticed.

The moment stretched only a second too long.

But it was enough.

Paddy’s eyes locked onto yours across the muddy camp road, and instead of looking away like he usually did, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

Then he winked.

Small. Quick.

Certain.

Your stomach betrayed you instantly.

“Oh, no,” David muttered beside you.

You snapped your attention back to the medical charts in your hands as though they’d suddenly become fascinating literature.

Bill, oblivious as ever, was still arguing over the scoreboard.

“I’m tellin’ you, carrying boxes shouldn’t count double.”

“They were heavy boxes,” Paddy replied.

“That’s subjective!”

David looked between the three of you and sighed the sigh of a man witnessing disaster unfold in real time.

Then Bill turned toward him suddenly. “Actually— Stirling, come settle this properly.”

“I’m not getting involved.”

“You’re already involved. Come on.”

Bill hooked an arm around David’s shoulder and immediately started dragging him toward the motor pool.

“There’s absolutely corruption in this system,” Bill continued loudly. “I need an impartial witness.”

“You need psychiatric evaluation.”

Their voices faded gradually into the rain.

And just like that—

You were alone with Paddy.

Which somehow felt more dangerous than enemy fire.

Paddy remained leaning beside the supply crate, watching you with infuriating calm.

“You missed an inventory line,” he said finally.

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded toward the papers in your hands.

You looked down.

Sure enough, you’d written the same medication count twice.

Heat climbed immediately into your cheeks.

“That your fault?” you muttered.

A quiet laugh escaped him — low and rare enough to catch you completely off guard.

“You’re blaming me for your handwriting now?”

“You distracted me.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Silence.

Not awkward.

Worse.

Interested.

Paddy tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed entirely on you now.

“That right?”

You recovered too late. “I meant the competition. The constant nonsense.”

“Mhm.”

“You and Bill behaving like schoolboys.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “you keep watchin’.”

Your breath caught.

Up close, he always felt larger somehow — not just in size, but presence. Like the entire space bent around him without permission.

You forced yourself to keep your expression steady.

“I watch everyone in camp. I’m a nurse.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

Paddy studied you for a long moment, and there it was again — that unsettling feeling that he saw far more than he let on.

Then, quietly:

“You don’t look at everyone the way you look at me.”

Your pulse stumbled hard enough to hurt.

You should have denied it.

You should have laughed.

Instead, you asked the worst possible question.

“And how do I look at you?”

Something shifted in his expression then. Less teasing. More dangerous.

Like he was deciding whether to say something reckless.

Finally, Paddy glanced toward the direction David and Bill had disappeared.

“Your cousin’s right, you know.”

Your chest tightened.

“He warned you about me?”

You said nothing.

Paddy smiled faintly at that — because your silence confirmed everything.

“He thinks I’m trouble.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

The honesty startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.

Paddy’s gaze softened immediately at the sound.

And somehow that was far more frightening than his intensity ever was.

Because for the first time since arriving at camp, you realized something terrible:

This competition might have started as a game.

But Paddy Mayne was no longer playing one.

“You should decide tomorrow.”

You stared at him. “Decide what tomorrow?”

Paddy looked entirely too calm for a man saying insane things.

“The winner.”

A bark of laughter escaped you. “There’s a winner now?”

“There’s been a winner for days. Fraser’s just refusing to accept reality.”

“That scoreboard is not reality.”

“It’s statistically significant.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile.

Then Paddy added casually, “We’re boxing tomorrow.”

Your expression fell immediately.

“You’re what?”

“In the gym tent.”

“No.”

“Already arranged.”

“With who?”

“Fraser.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You arranged a boxing match over me?”

“That sounds primitive when you say it aloud.”

“Because it is primitive!”

Paddy had the audacity to look amused.

“He challenged me first.”

“Bill challenged everyone first. That means nothing.”

“He said winner gets final consideration.”

You pressed a hand against your forehead. “I cannot believe either of you.”

“Camp’s taking bets already.”

“Of course they are.”

The thought of the entire regiment crowded around a boxing ring while two grown men punched each other over your attention made your stomach twist with equal parts horror and embarrassment.

And beneath that—

Something warmer.

Something dangerous.

Because despite how ridiculous this all was… you already knew.

That was the problem.

You had known for days.

Maybe from the moment Paddy stood outside the infirmary during the air raid pretending he “just happened to be nearby.” Or when he quietly replaced your broken lantern without taking credit. Or when he listened to you speak — really listened — with that unsettling intensity that made the rest of the world disappear.

Bill made you laugh.

Paddy made you aware of yourself.

There was a difference.

A terrible one.

“You shouldn’t do this,” you said quietly.

Paddy’s expression shifted slightly at your tone.

“You worried about Fraser?”

“I’m worried about you two.”

“We’ve survived worse than a boxing match.”

“That is not comforting.”

A faint smile touched his mouth again.

Then he stepped closer — close enough that you could smell rain, leather, smoke.

“You know,” he said softly, “Fraser thinks he’s still got a chance.”

Your heartbeat quickened traitorously.

“And you?” you asked before thinking better of it.

Paddy held your gaze steadily.

“I think you decided already.”

Silence.

Not because he was wrong.

But because he wasn’t.

The realization must have shown somewhere on your face, because the teasing faded from his expression entirely.

For one suspended second, he looked almost careful with you.

Which was somehow the most dangerous thing yet.

“You don’t have to say it now,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow’s enough.”

Your throat felt suddenly tight.

“You sound very certain you’ll win.”

A low laugh rumbled from his chest.

“Oh, I probably won’t.”

That surprised you enough to blink.

“What?”

“Fraser’s quicker than me.” Paddy shrugged one shoulder. “Mean right hook too.”

“Then why agree to this?”

His eyes stayed fixed on yours.

Because this was never about boxing.

You understood it instantly.

The match wasn’t for camp entertainment. Wasn’t for pride. Wasn’t even truly about Bill.

Paddy simply wanted certainty.

An ending.

A choice spoken aloud.

And the worst part was—

You wanted that too.

By the next afternoon, the entire camp had transformed into a circus.

Someone had dragged crates into rows for seating. Soldiers crowded around the makeshift boxing ring Reg had hammered together from rope, tent stakes, and what looked suspiciously like stolen training equipment.

Rain threatened overhead, but not a single man intended to miss this.

Especially not after rumors spread that the winner would finally receive your answer.

You wanted to disappear.

Instead, you stood rigidly at the far left side of the ring, hands twisting nervously together while half the regiment watched with unbearable excitement.

“Five pounds on Fraser!”

“You’re an idiot, Mayne’ll kill him.”

“Ten says the nurse chooses neither and joins a convent.”

Laughter erupted around the camp.

You pressed your lips together, pretending not to hear any of it.

Then the crowd suddenly shifted.

Bill Fraser ducked through the ropes first to loud cheers, already grinning despite the bruise someone claimed Paddy had given him during “practice.”

Shirtless, sleeves gone, gloves slung casually over one shoulder — Bill looked infuriatingly confident.

He spotted you immediately.

And winked dramatically.

The surrounding soldiers howled.

You buried your face briefly in your hand.

Then came Paddy.

The noise changed the second he stepped into the ring.

Not louder.

Sharper.

Men straightened instinctively around him.

Paddy rolled his shoulders once as he climbed through the ropes, boxing wraps already around his scarred hands. Shirtless beneath the gray sky, he looked less like someone participating in camp entertainment and more like a man walking calmly toward violence he fully intended to enjoy.

Which, judging by the smug expression on his face—

He probably did.

Your pulse stumbled traitorously the moment his eyes found you.

And there it was again.

That look.

Certain. Steady. Like he already knew something no one else did.

Bill pointed across the ring at him. “You stop starin’ at her like that.”

Paddy didn’t even glance away from you. “Can’t help it.”

The camp exploded into shouting.

“Oh, Fraser’s finished!”

“Mayne’s playing dirty!”

“Someone get the nurse a cigarette!”

Your face burned hot enough to rival the bonfire nearby.

Reg climbed onto a crate beside the ring, raising both arms dramatically.

“Gentlemen!” he shouted. “And (y/n)!”

More laughter.

“This highly professional athletic event shall determine—”

“Get on with it!” someone yelled.

Reg pointed sternly toward the crowd. “No interruptions during official proceedings.”

“You stole these ropes from supply!”

“War requires sacrifice.”

Bill was laughing now, bouncing lightly on his feet while tightening his gloves.

Paddy, meanwhile, leaned lazily into his corner like he had all the time in the world.

Smug bastard.

And somehow that only made your nerves worse.

Because Bill looked hopeful.

Openly hopeful.

He kept glancing toward you with crooked smiles like this could still go his way if he fought hard enough.

But Paddy—

Paddy looked at you like the answer already belonged to him.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

You hated this.

Not the attention. Not the ridiculous competition.

No.

You hated knowing one of them was about to get hurt.

Because despite everything, Bill had been kind to you from the start. Easy company. Warm-hearted beneath all the dramatics.

And yet every time Paddy shifted his gaze toward you, the rest of the camp seemed to blur around the edges.

Reg raised one hand between the fighters.

“Rules are simple! No biting, no eye-gouging, and no murdering fellow officers before supper!”

Bill nodded solemnly.

Paddy looked mildly disappointed.

The crowd roared with laughter again.

Then—

Paddy glanced at you one last time before the match began.

And God help you, the smug expression on his face softened just slightly when he noticed how nervous you looked.

As though, even now—

He was more concerned about you than the fight itself.

The fight stopped being amusing almost immediately.

The first few punches had the crowd roaring with excitement — shouting, laughing, throwing around useless advice from outside the ropes.

But then Paddy landed a hit hard enough to snap Bill’s head sideways.

And suddenly the mood changed.

You stood frozen near the edge of the ring, hands clenched tightly against your skirt as the match blurred into motion and noise.

Bill was fast — faster than Paddy had warned you about. He dodged well, landed sharp hits to the ribs, even split Paddy’s lip open at one point to deafening cheers from the crowd.

But Paddy—

Paddy fought like something terrifying once provoked.

Every punch from him sounded different.

By the fourth round, Bill’s face was bloodied badly enough that your stomach turned.

“Jesus Christ,” someone muttered nearby.

Bill staggered backward after another brutal hit, barely catching himself against the ropes.

Paddy advanced immediately.

That frightened you more somehow.

“Come on, Fraser,” Paddy said evenly, breathing hard through the blood on his mouth. “Stay up.”

Bill lifted his gloves again stubbornly despite the exhaustion written all over him.

The crowd screamed encouragement from every direction.

But you saw it.

The hesitation.

The way Bill’s knees nearly buckled when Paddy drove another punch into his ribs.

Your chest tightened painfully.

This wasn’t a game anymore.

Paddy stepped forward again, ready to finish it—

“STOP!”

Your own voice shocked you.

The entire camp went silent.

You were already moving before you fully realized it, climbing through the ropes while soldiers stared openly around you.

Bill stood swaying slightly near the ropes, one eye darkening, blood running from his nose while he struggled to catch his breath.

And Paddy—

Paddy had gone perfectly still the moment you shouted.

You walked directly between them.

“Enough.”

Neither man argued.

That alone said everything.

You turned first toward Bill.

Up close, he looked exhausted beneath the grin he was trying unsuccessfully to maintain.

“Well,” he rasped, wiping blood from his mouth, “this feels promising for me somehow.”

A weak laugh escaped the crowd.

Your eyes burned unexpectedly.

Because despite the ridiculousness of all this, Bill had truly tried.

Not for pride.

For you.

Bill noticed your expression immediately and sighed softly.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, (y/n).”

You swallowed hard. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ve looked worse.”

“That is objectively false.”

He laughed painfully at that, then glanced past you toward Paddy.

And there it was.

Acceptance.

Bill shook his head once before looking back at you with tired understanding.

“Ah,” he murmured quietly.

Your heart dropped.

Because he knew.

Maybe he’d known longer than you had.

Bill straightened slowly despite the blood and bruises.

Then he lifted one glove weakly toward Paddy.

“You smug bastard,” he muttered.

Paddy’s busted lip twitched slightly.

Bill looked back at you one final time.

“He’s gone soft on you, by the way,” he said. “Which is honestly horrifying to witness.”

The crowd burst into laughter again, softer this time.

Your face flushed hot immediately.

Then Bill stepped backward toward the ropes, lifting both hands dramatically.

“I concede before Mayne caves my skull in completely.”

Cheers and shouting erupted instantly around camp.

But you barely heard any of it.

Because now you were standing alone in the center of the ring with Paddy.

Close enough to see the bruise forming along his jaw. Close enough to notice the blood on his mouth. Close enough to feel the heat still radiating off him from the fight.

And for the first time since this absurd competition started—

Paddy looked uncertain.

Not about winning.

About you.

The camp noise faded strangely around the edges as he searched your face.

Then, quieter than you expected from a man like him:

“You alright?”

You stared at him for a moment, almost offended by the question.

You alright?

As though he hadn’t just nearly beaten a man unconscious in front of half the regiment.

“Aside from the fact you fight like a lunatic?” you said breathlessly. “Perfectly fine.”

A few nearby soldiers snorted laughter.

Paddy ignored them completely.

His attention stayed fixed on you as he took another slow step forward.

Then another.

The crowd seemed to sense something changing because the shouting gradually died down into murmurs around the ring.

Even Bill, halfway out through the ropes with an ice pack pressed to his face, paused to watch.

Paddy stopped directly in front of you now.

Too close.

Your pulse fluttered wildly despite yourself.

Up close, the aftermath of the fight showed everywhere — bruising already darkening his ribs, sweat and rainwater running down his skin, blood split across his lower lip.

And still he looked unbearably calm.

“You shouldn’t have stepped between us,” he said quietly.

“I absolutely should have.”

“He wasn’t finished.”

“He was exhausted.”

“So was I.”

You blinked.

That answer surprised you enough that Paddy’s mouth twitched slightly despite the injury.

“You hide it better,” you muttered.

“Part of my charm.”

You rolled your eyes automatically, but relief was beginning to loosen the tightness in your chest now that the fight had stopped.

The crowd surrounding the ring watched shamelessly.

Someone whispered loudly, “This is better than the boxing.”

“Shut up,” another hissed immediately.

Paddy glanced briefly toward the spectators before returning his gaze to you.

Then his voice lowered just enough that it felt meant only for you.

“You know Fraser’s going to complain for the rest of his life if you don’t answer now.”

Your stomach dropped.

Right.

That.

The entire camp suddenly seemed very interested again.

You could practically feel dozens of soldiers leaning closer around the ring.

Bill cupped a hand around his mouth dramatically from outside the ropes.

“No pressure!”

Reg immediately shouted, “There’s immense pressure!”

You covered your face briefly with one hand.

Paddy laughed softly under his breath at your reaction — a real laugh this time, roughened by the fight and somehow far more intimate than all his teasing before.

Then his expression settled again.

Steady. Patient.

Waiting.

And somehow that terrified you more than the entire boxing match had.

Because this was the moment everything stopped being hypothetical.

The competition. The flirting. The stolen glances.

All of it led here.

Paddy looked at you like he would accept whatever answer you gave—

But the flicker of tension beneath that calm betrayed him.

For all his confidence, he wanted this.

Wanted you.

The realization made your heart ache unexpectedly.

Your gaze dropped briefly to the blood on his lip.

Without thinking, you reached up gently toward his face.

The entire camp collectively stopped breathing.

Your fingers brushed carefully against the cut at the corner of his mouth.

Paddy went completely still beneath your touch.

And God—

For such a dangerous man, he looked startlingly gentle when he looked at you.

“You’re bleeding,” you murmured softly.

His eyes never left yours.

“Occupational hazard.”

A helpless smile tugged at your mouth despite your nerves.

Behind you, Bill groaned dramatically.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, she’s choosing him.”

Bill’s miserable announcement sent the camp into immediate chaos.

Half the soldiers erupted into victorious shouting while the others groaned over lost bets.

“I told you Mayne had it!”

“Cooper, you owe me three pounds!”

“This is the worst day of my life!”

Reg climbed onto a crate again yelling, “Silence for the nurse’s official declaration!”

“No one asked you to moderate this!” Bill shouted back.

You were laughing now despite yourself — nervous, overwhelmed laughter that only worsened when every single person around the ring suddenly turned to stare at you expectantly.

Including Paddy.

Though unlike everyone else, he said nothing.

He simply watched you with that same unbearable intensity, bloodied and bruised and somehow still smug enough to make your heart race.

You inhaled slowly.

Then looked deliberately toward Bill first.

“Oh no,” Bill muttered.

The crowd leaned closer immediately.

You stepped toward him with exaggerated seriousness.

“Lieutenant Fraser.”

Bill straightened proudly despite the swelling on his face.

“Yes, (y/n)?”

“You are charming.”

Several soldiers nodded in agreement.

“You are thoughtful.”

Bill placed a hand over his heart dramatically.

“And very brave.”

“Correct.”

“But,” you continued carefully, “you also attempted to survive a boxing match against Paddy Mayne for my attention, which frankly raises concerns about your judgment.”

The camp exploded with laughter.

Bill looked wounded beyond the physical injuries now.

“Cruel,” he whispered.

You smiled fondly before stepping closer and pressing a quick kiss to his bruised cheek.

The crowd howled.

Bill looked momentarily like he might faint from happiness anyway.

Then you turned.

Toward Paddy.

The cheering softened strangely as you crossed the ring toward him.

Paddy hadn’t moved.

But the smugness was gone now.

For the first time since this ridiculous competition started, he looked genuinely uncertain.

As though all his confidence disappeared the second your answer became real.

You stopped directly in front of him.

Rain tapped softly against the canvas overhead while the entire camp waited in breathless silence.

Paddy’s voice came quieter now.

“You don’t have to make a spectacle of it.”

That earned a snort from Bill somewhere behind you.

Too late for that.

You folded your arms carefully, pretending to consider him critically.

“Well,” you said slowly, “there are several issues.”

Paddy raised an eyebrow.

“You are arrogant.”

“True.”

“Infuriating.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You frighten half the camp.”

“Only half?”

Laughter rippled around the ring again.

But your chest tightened because despite the teasing, your next words felt terrifyingly honest.

“And you make me nervous,” you admitted softly.

Paddy’s expression changed immediately at that.

Not smug. Not teasing.

Just attentive.

Like every part of him focused entirely on you.

You swallowed once before continuing.

“But you also carried medical crates through storms so my staff wouldn’t have to.”

Silence settled over the ring.

“You stand outside the infirmary during air raids pretending it’s coincidence.”

Paddy looked briefly away at that, almost embarrassed.

“And every time I’m exhausted,” you said quietly, “you somehow notice before anyone else does.”

The crowd had gone completely silent now.

Even Bill.

Your heart pounded hard enough to hurt as you reached for Paddy’s wrapped hand carefully.

His fingers curled instinctively around yours the second you touched him.

And suddenly the nerves disappeared.

Because the look on his face told you everything.

So you smiled.

Then announced loudly enough for the entire camp to hear:

“I choose the terrifying one.”

For one stunned second—

Absolute silence.

Then the camp erupted.

Men shouted, whistled, pounded against the ring ropes while Bill collapsed dramatically onto a crate yelling, “Betrayed by my own regiment!”

But you barely heard any of it.

Because Paddy was staring at you like the world had abruptly stopped turning.

And for all the chaos around him, all the shouting and laughter—

He looked almost disarmed.

Which might have been the most shocking thing anyone in camp had ever witnessed.

Slowly, disbelief giving way to something warmer, Paddy tilted his head slightly.

“The terrifying one?”

You smiled innocently. “Would you prefer I say emotionally concerning?”

The laugh that broke from him then was real and helpless and rare enough that nearby soldiers immediately started yelling in shock.

“Good God, she’s domesticated him!”

“Impossible!”

Paddy ignored every one of them.

His gaze stayed fixed on you as he stepped closer again, one bruised hand sliding carefully to your waist.

“You certain about this?” he asked quietly.

You looked up at him — at the busted lip, bruised jaw, storm-gray eyes.

At the man your cousin warned you about.

Then you squeezed his hand once.

“Yes.”

And the smile Paddy gave you after that looked nothing like victory.

It looked dangerously close to happiness.