wranglin' hearts —

"God, I wish I was put together," Nadia muttered, glancing down at herself like she might find evidence of it somewhere. "Must be the lighting in this place, tricking your eyes," she winked. At his question, she paused, grateful for the momentary reprieve as her glass of whiskey neat arrived. "Yeah, kinda," she said eventually, after a solid sip of her drink of course. "I grew up here. Left when I was a teenager though.. came back about six months ago." Her mouth tilted into something faintly amused agin as she glanced his way. "So technically, you're not wrong. Could be familiar, or you're just three drinks deep." She studied him then like she was trying to work out if he was familiar, too. But her memory (or lack thereof) wasn’t doing her any favours. "How about you? Born and raised?"

The tenseness in her body doesn't relax and she doesn't know if it ever will at this point. The years of running from her problems have only made it that she's carried them with her as opposed to dropping them and allowing other people to carry the weight of it. There isn't outrunning the thoughts and memories that haunt her but it's better than allowing someone in for them to judge just how bad it's gotten. How bad she's allowed it to get after all this time.

His words cut through any of her thoughts and she allowed her gaze to raise towards him. There's always been a lingering sense of comfort when it came to the blond haired man in front of her that she's refused to look into. He's capable of shutting things off for her and she's gone back for the sole reason that she hasn't found anything that can shut herself off without causing additional damage. The alcohol had worked for years until she no longer found herself able to stop, and it took more and more for her to get to the state she needed to be in to be able to fall into a stupor that wouldn't later haunt her. But with him, she'd allowed herself to relax into the touch and focus on the moment until it was all done. At least until she stood back long enough to realize that he was just another drug. What Kiraz didn't know was whether he was as dangerous as her last vice.

But he was right. She wanted the choice to be given to her. It was easier to be the one who followed than the one who lead. She didn't have to deal with the guilt of having fallen back into bed with someone who would satiate a need for a few hours. Then she'd go back home with the same demons and burden on her back.

"You're making it sound like you don't have a choice in all of this. What is it? Some kind of charity work for you? You'll hook up with me because you know it's something that I need in the moment? Spare me." Perhaps this was her attempt to force him into a decision. Maybe she was hoping he'd say something that would help her make up her mind or sway her in one way over the other. "I've always been honest." Her throat cleared. A lie. They both knew it. "Do you think we can keep doing this? It has to stop eventually." What she needed to figure out was whether tonight was the night it did. "It should have stopped a long time ago."

"Charity?" he recoils, as the word tastes strange coming on his tongue. Afterwards, a dry laugh escapes, brief yet humorless. "Jesus Christ, Kiraz."

He shakes his head, leaning back against the stool as though he needs the distance more than he needs to win whatever this is argument is between them. "You really think that's what I think of you?" His gaze settles on her again, steady and unflinching. "You think I go home with you because I feel sorry for you?" His jaw flexes. "You think I spent years getting tangled up with you because I'm doing some kind of community service?" The corner of his mouth twitches, but there isn't anything amused about it. "No."

He lets the word sit. "No. If I wanted charity work, I'd volunteer at the church. I don't do this because I pity you." His eyes drift toward her abandoned drink before returning to her face. "I do it because I want to." It's as simple and honest as that.

"Because sometimes I don't want to think about shit either. Sometimes I don't want to go home to an empty house and another night listening to my own head. Sometimes I want something easy. Something familiar. And yeah, sometimes that something's you." There's no shame in the admission. No romance either. Just two tired people and the truth sitting between them. "And maybe that's selfish. Hell, I know it is. But don't pretend like I've been sacrificing myself at the altar of you all these years." His thumb rubs absently against the side of his glass. "We've both gotten something out of it. And, whether we care to admit it or not, we've enjoyed ourselves doing it."

After next question lands: do you think we can keep doing this? All prior humor disappears entirely. His eyes drop to the floor for a moment. To the bar. To his hands. Anywhere but at her. Because that's the kicker, isn't it? It's not what night it is. Or the drink, or the temptation that sits between them. It's just.... them.

Slowly, his gaze lifts back to hers. "No." The answer comes quietly, and he hates it. "No, I don't."

His voice is rougher now. "I think we could. I think we want to." A sad smile ghosts over his mouth. "We're professionals at it, aren't we?"

He lets out a breath through his nose. "We keep finding each other. Keep scratching the itch. Keep disappearing afterward. Keep pretending we don't know exactly what the other one's doing." His head tilts slightly. "Eventually though, we'd wake up one day at fifty-five and realize we spent half our lives using each other as Novocaine."

His eyes soften then. "And I don't think either of us deserves that." She sure as hell doesn't. "It probably should've stopped a long time ago."

A beat passes. "But I don't think either of us was ready for that." His gaze stays on hers, searching her face with that same unbearable familiarity. "Maybe you're right though.... maybe it should end tonight."

Maybe a month ago, he would've have taken it. Maybe six months ago, he would've laughed, made some joke, and put another foot of distance between them before either of them could name what this thing has become. But tonight? Tonight when she steps back, something in him reacts before his brain can catch up. His hand around her waist tightens just enough to stop her retreat completely. It's not hard. Not possessive either. Just... unwilling to let her go. "Absolutely not," he murmurs, the words escaping alongside a quiet laugh from him. "You don't get to start somethin' and then scoot off when I finally catch up to it."

And God, isn't that the truth? Because she has no idea. No idea how long he's been trying to be good for her sake. No idea how many times he's reminded himself that she's Summer's little sister. His best friend's family. No idea how many conversations he's had with himself in the quiet of his truck, trying to explain away why her laugh sticks in his head or why seeing her name on his phone makes his day better. No idea how much easier it would've been if she'd stayed the kid who stole fries off his plate in their youth and rolled her eyes at him.

But she didn't. She grew up. And somewhere along the line, without permission or warning, she became this woman standing in front of him, glittering beneath string lights with flowers in her arms and a smile that makes him forget his own damn name. She became Lake. A girl he never could've pictured falling this unexpectedly for.

And now, he's so tired of pretending he doesn't know what that means. His eyes search hers, finding no fear there, or hesitation. Just brightness. A fondness he can't shake. And that same damn look that's been undoing him piece by piece.

A soft exhale leaves him. "You really think I'd rather be over there?" he jests quietly, nodding his head toward the crowd. "Than right here?" His thumb brushes lightly against her side, indicating. "Blue, I've hated every minute I've spent away from you tonight. Just so you know." The endearment slips out so naturally, he barely even notices it. But then her words come back to him.

You could've escaped at any point. And she's right. He could have. He could've said no to the dance, could've skipped the flowers, could've stopped answering late-night calls, stopped lingering after conversations, stopped finding reasons to see her. He could've protected himself. Protected the uncomplicated version of his life.

But he never did. Why? Because every single time, he chose her. And maybe that's the answer. Maybe it always has been.

His gaze drops briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes, giving her every opportunity in the world to stop him before he crosses a line he can't undo. "You know what the worst part is?" he asks her softly, smiling to himself. "I don't even mind the trouble anymore." A beat. "Think I'm kinda crazy about it." Crazy about you, he adds.

The words don't make it out of his mouth though. They don't have to. Because somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Hank gives up the last little bit of resistance he's been carrying. He finally closes the distance between them. It isn't rushed. It's not some overwhelming collision. It's not meant to be. It's just a quiet surrender. It's one hand resting securely at her waist, while the other slides up to gently cradle the back of her neck as he kisses her.

Soft, tender, like something he's been wanting for far too long. Longer than he wants to admit. Like he's still half convinced he'll wake up and realize he imagined all of this or it's just a dream. Her standing front and center.

Soon the music fades, the crowd disappears, and for one beautiful, terrifying second, Summer Sheridan's little sister isn't Summer's little sister anymore. She's just Lake. His Lake. And when he finally pulls back, his forehead resting lightly against hers, Hank lets out a quiet, borderline breathless, disbelieving laugh. "Well," his eyes remain closed for a second. "There goes my reputation." Granted, he's smiling. Actually smiling. And if she asked him to keep dancing, to hold her here all night, hell... he probably would. No matter what trouble it costed him.

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.