wranglin' hearts —

Instead, he stays exactly where he is. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her. Close enough that every time she breathes, it drags his attention right back to her mouth again. And Christ, it’s becoming a problem. Because Lake looks at him like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him or what he's thinking.

His restraint frays another inch. “You have any idea,” he murmurs intimately, voice rougher than its ever been around her before, “how hard you’re makin’ it for me to keep bein’ the responsible one here?” There’s a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, but it’s strained by the honesty underneath his words.

His hand finally moves — slow enough that she can stop him if she wants to — resting lightly against her knee beneath the bar. Nothing super inappropriate. It's barely even possessive. But the second he touches her, his jaw tightens. Because that somehow makes it worse. Better? Hell, maybe it's both.

His thumb shifts once against her knee, absentmindedly, like he’s testing the reality of it. “You leaning in close, whispering things like that to me?” he whispers quietly, eyes locked on hers. “Feels like you’re tryin’ to see exactly where my breaking point is, if I'm bein' honest.” The most dangerous part? He's certain she's found it. And, he isn't the least bit upset about it. If anything, he sounds fascinated by the fact that she’s located it at all.

For a second he just watches her again, conflict written all over his face along with any restraint he’s barely hanging onto. Summer’s face flashes briefly through his mind. As if to represent every reason why this is so complicated. Or why they should slow down.

Hank exhales sharply through his nose as he tries to. But ultimately, gives in before he can talk himself out of it. His hand slides from her knee to the side of her leg, steadying her toward him as he leans in the rest of the way. It's not rushed, or sloppy but intentional.

Like, maybe he’s thought about kissing her for weeks now and finally ran out of reasons not to. His thumb brushes once along her skin. Hank knows that, if he goes in for the kill and kisses her here, he’s done for. Not because it would be bad. But, because it would be too easy to forget where they are. The bar’s already faded into background noise — the music's gone low, glasses clink somewhere far off, people move around them without either of them noticing anymore. Lake’s leaned in close enough that he can feel the warmth of her breath still when she talks, and every instinct in him is pulling toward her. Toward trouble. Toward more.

Jesus. “You really don’t play fair,” he mutters, giving in entirely. But there’s no heat behind it. If anything, he sounds halfway gone already. His eyes flick down to her mouth when she smiles at him — all soft and full of confidence and nervously curious at the same time — and for one dangerous second he nearly closes the distance anyway.

He wants to. God, does he want to. But instead, Hank retracts his hand to drag it down over his jaw while leaning back just enough to stop himself before his restraint snaps clean in half. His gaze stays fixed on her however, dark and conflicted and wanting in a way he’s stopped being able to hide.

Because this isn’t harmless anymore. Not to him. “C’mere,” he says quietly after a beat, standing before he can overthink it. He tosses enough cash on the bar to cover both their drinks and reaches for her hand almost instinctively once she slides off the stool beside him. His fingers wrap around hers— warm and solid, like he’s been trying not to do that for weeks now, too. “If I stay sittin’ here with you lookin’ at me like that any longer,” he whispers low enough for only her to hear, “I’m gonna do somethin' I can't take back in the middle of this bar.” His thumb brushes against the back of her hand once before he starts guiding her toward the door.

The night air outside hits cooler than before, but it doesn’t help much. Not when she’s walking beside him. Not when he can still feel the ghost of her knee pressed against his under the bar. What on earth was she doing to him?

The walk to his truck feels shorter this time. More charged. Hank opens the passenger side door for her automatically, one hand braced against the frame while she climbs in. For a second he just stands there, looking at her under the streetlights — pretty and flushed and entirely too tempting for his peace of mind. “You sure about this?” he asks quietly, before taking off. Not because he’s uncertain but, because he wants her answer to be sober and real.

an amused chuckle fell dryly off her tongue, her brows lifting in a note of surprise. "the comment section seems pretty torn." half of them agreed, the other half said it was an option, just not one they'd personally choose. another breath fell from her mouth as she thought about it — putty snobs. her eyes remained on the screen, even as she felt him nearly brush her shoulder. "really? it's not that hard?" she couldn't tell if he was being the kind of nice meant to encourage, or if he genuinely meant that the task at hand wasn't something she'd have to battle through. either way, she appreciated it.

mir clicked the button at the side of her phone and watched as the screen went black. she pocketed it with ease and watched him take a few steps ahead. she grinned at him and shrugged in between careful steps. "i don't know what i was thinking. one how-to video and i think i can fix anything." she rolled her eyes, the wave of confidence having fallen just shy of crashing into her. "thanks for taking pity on me," she countered, half-teasing, half-not. the veterinarian reached to meet his offering hand, the subtle brush of his skin against hers not having gone unnoticed. "well, i'm not sure i'd go that far, but it's a start." she held up the tub like a trophy and lowered it to rest against her hip. "it could be worse, i think? it's the size of a baseball," she continued on, like every detail mattered.

At her question, he glances over. "No, it really ain't that hard." The answer comes without hesitation. "Ugly the first time? Maybe. But hard? Nah." His eyes flick down to the container tucked against her hip. "Truth is, most people learn how to do stuff by messin' it up once. Sometimes twice if they're stubborn." The look he gives her suggests he's got a feeling which category she'd fall into.

Her mention of taking pity on her earns another huff of amusement. "That's what we're callin' this?" Hank shakes his head. "I was thinkin' neighborly public service. Save somebody from buyin' three hundred dollars worth of supplies for a ten-dollar repair." At the mention of the hole's size, Hank stops. A baseball.

"A baseball, you said?" One brow lifts. "See, now that's important information." His mouth twitches. "That's a hole. Before, I was picturin' somethin' the size of a thumbtack." He studies her for a second, clearly reassessing. "The follow-up question is how a baseball-sized hole ends up in your wall." The curiosity in his voice is obvious now, not judgmental. If anything, he sounds deeply entertained. "Because there's either a really good story attached to that...or a really bad one."

His gaze lingers on her a second longer than necessary before he starts moving again, a faint smile still pulling at the corner of his mouth. "And if you tell me somebody actually threw a baseball through it, I'm legally obligated to appreciate the irony. If you know, you know."

₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of character analysis/headcanon questions to learn more about your character and your partners'! writing/headcanon prompts requested by anonymous. feel free to edit these as you see fit.

Nadia was off duty for the night, from being a parent and from manning the motel, so you bet your ass she headed straight for On The Rocks, overdue for some drinks. She slowed near the bar at the sound of someone's voice, gaze flicking towards the lifted glass before settling properly on him. There was something too observant about the way he looked at her, and it made her wonder if she knew him, even once upon a time. A faint smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "That obvious?" she shrugged nonchalantly, slipping into the empty space beside him at the bar. "Not sure how easy it is to escape in this town." She flagged the bartender down with two fingers before looking back at the blond again, eyes narrowing slightly in playful suspicion. "Though I feel like your definition of an escape and mine might be very different." Her gaze dipped briefly to the drink in his hand, then back up, amusement settling on her features.

It was better now. Not perfect. She made it home without mysterious bruises and she usually got to a shower and clean teeth before sliding under the covers. But there was still the search for something to numb the pain until she hit the road once she realized that it was futile. She'd never outrun her problem, and deep down she knew it, but it didn't mean that she wouldn't try to do so every single time.

His words hit home and her grasp tightened on the glass in front of her as she fought back the demons that loomed over her shoulder. Therapy and the few times she went out for a drink usually quieted them for a few minutes, but they always returned with a vengeance. Most times she could control them but the sinking feeling that came with the harsh truth from Hank just propelled them to be louder.

"Fuck sakes," she pinched the bridge of her nose. "There goes any chance of having a damn buzz." Her gaze flicked towards him as she pushed the glass aside. It was best to remove temptation. She'd worked too hard to go back to that dark place even for a night. And often times, the avoidance of getting blackout drunk was what led her to other methods of quieting her surroundings. She swallowed hard and drummed her fingers against the hard surface, now trying to decipher whether going home with him was the right choice. Frankly, the anger that zipped through her veins was demanding a release and he seemed to be as good as any.

"You're going to have to walk away." Kiraz said as she peered ahead. Her tone held steady but her gaze was one that gave more away. She was fighting with her head and the desire to just succumb to the familiarity of the routine they once had. It was toxic, hellish, but it was one she knew. "No,—stay." She said while she dug into her purse "I'm actually going to go." The credit card was pulled from her wallet and placed upon the bar surface to signal she was ready to settle her tab and leave.

'Walk away. No, stay. I’m going to go.' His eyes close briefly at that, not out of frustration but out of something more tired than that. Like hearing someone try to outrun a fire while standing in gasoline. When her card hits the bar, his hand moves before he can think better of it. Not grabbing her. Or stopping her really, just settling over the card for a second before the bartender can take it. “Hey,” he says quietly. The word cuts in softer than anything else he’s said tonight.

He looks at her then—not at the sharp edges she throws up, or at the sarcasm, or at the version of herself she tries to weaponize before people can get too close. Just her. Those tired eyes, tight shoulders, the fingers drumming like she might crawl out of her own skin if she sits still for too long. “You don’t gotta make this so dramatic,” he murmurs. “You can just leave.” There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, sadder than amused. “I’ll survive. Promise.” Though, he doesn't move his hand from the card just yet. Instead, his gaze drifts over her face slowly, like he’s memorizing all the places the years between them have settled. Because beneath everything else—the history, the bad habits, the wreckage of whatever they’ve spent years doing to each other—there’s still something unbearably familiar about her. “But, you wanna know what I think?” he asks after a beat. His voice lowers. “I think you came in here tonight wanting somebody to make the choice for you so you wouldn't feel guilty.” His thumb taps lightly against the edge of the card once. “Go home. Stay. Drink. Don’t drink. Fall back into it. Don’t.” A quiet exhale leaves him. “Stay pissed because for once, I’m not gonna do that.”

Finally, he pulls his hand back. No longer keeping her there. No longer pushing her away either. Just letting the space exist between them. “If you go home tonight Kiraz,” he says evenly, “then go home because you actually want better for yourself. Not because you’re scared you’ll end up in my bed again.” His eyes hold hers steadily. “Though, if you stay?” A slight tilt of his head. “Then at least be honest about why. 'Beats lying to yourself.” The bartender reaches for her card. Hank leans back on the stool, hands finally lifting away completely, even if everything in his expression says letting her walk out that door might be the hardest decent thing he’s done in years.

He'd been a distraction much like the others. Just one that surfaced in her life more than she wanted, no matter the amount of ways or times she tried to avoid him.

Her chin settled into the meat of her palm as he spoke about his troubles with the store. The weight of it all upon his shoulders and the expectation to keep the small space alive in the midst of the looming threats from big companies trying to make this place better. "You learn that lesson the hard way, unfortunately. I saw the shop still had an open sign so seems like you haven't been doing such a bad job."

Not without stress or worry, certainly— but he'd succeeded thus far. That had to mean something.

Her head nodded at the last part, feeling more of that than she felt comfortable admitting tonight.

"Silence, both, depends on the night." She peered at him and sighed. "It's both tonight. I need silence." He was good at providing that. The temptation still lingered. "—but I'm starting to think I need to age out of my old ways."

The noise of the bar fills the space between them for a moment. Ice clinking somewhere down the counter. A bad country song humming low through blown speakers. Somebody laughing too loud in the back.

Then his eyes settle on her again. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Maybe you do.” There’s no mockery behind it. No challenge either. If anything, it sounds harder for him to admit than it should. His thumb drags once along the rim of his glass before he finally takes a drink, slower this time. “Problem is…” he starts, gaze flicking briefly toward the neon-lit bottles behind the bar, “people like us don’t usually change all at once. We just get tired enough of hurting ourselves that eventually something has to give.” A humorless smile ghosts across his mouth. “Or we get better at disguising it.”

He looks back at her then, and there’s something almost unfairly gentle in his expression. Like he remembers too much. Like he always will. “You know what the worst part is?” he asks, quietly. “I don’t even think the bad part was ever you.” There's a pause. “It was the way we used each other.” His jaw tightens faintly after he says it, like the honesty scraped something raw on its way out. “Like a mute button. Couple hours where neither of us had to hear our own heads.” He exhales, leaning back slightly on the stool. “And maybe that worked when we were twenty-something and stupid.” A glance toward her, faintly wry. “Now it just feels… sad.” For a second, his eyes drift over her face, and the rest of her, like he’s memorizing something he already knows he shouldn’t reach for.

“But silence isn’t the same thing as peace, Kiraz.” His voice lowers on her name. Softer. “You know that, right?” Another pause. “And I think if we go home together tonight, we’ll both pretend it’s peace for a few hours. And it'll feel good.” His gaze holds hers steadily now. “Then tomorrow morning you’ll disappear again, and I’ll let you, and neither of us will feel any less alone for it.”