Kelli

“He escaped,” Rick stated the obvious, but it was clear he felt tremendous relief. “You weren’t lyin’, Daryl. Your brother really is one crafty piece of work.”

“Don’t talk to me ‘bout my brother, cop,” Daryl spat out. “You ain’t excused, just ‘cause he escaped somehow.” 

Daryl crouched low, then stood up and pointed to the fire escape. “We go down. He left in a hurry, reckon maybe I can track somethin’. And grab the old man’s tools ‘fore he gets on our necks ‘bout it.”

Glenn packed up the toolbox and they all rushed down. Daryl crouched in the alley, looking at the ground for a moment like he would for deer hoofs. Then he silently pointed the group in the right direction.

“Went that way. But he ain’t alone,” he said, his jaw clenched.

“A struggle?” Rick asked.

“Nuh-uh.” Daryl shook his head. “See, there. Another set of prints. They walked together.”

Fuckin’ Merle. What did he get himself into this time?

They reached the next block, but before they could move forward, movement flickered in Daryl’s peripheral. A scrawny Mexican teen lunged at him from a busted storefront, knife flashing. Daryl barely had time to react before—

THWIP.

An arrow punched clean through the kid’s eye socket, snapping his head back. He dropped like a sack of bricks, dead before he hit the pavement.

Glenn stood beside Daryl, breathless. “Holy sh—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Daryl hissed, scanning the rooftops with wild eyes. 

“What?”

“Shh!” Daryl’s crossbow was up, finger tense on the trigger. “Ever seen an arrow go through a man’s eye from eighty yards away?” Daryl shook his head, voice low and tense. “Nobody does.”

Rick’s hand shot up, signaling for everyone to freeze. His grip tightened around his Colt Python when he looked down at that arrow. Then he was back to scanning the rooftops like a hawk. 

The precision, the distance—Daryl was right. This wasn’t some random shooter. 

“What now…” Rick muttered under his breath, half impressed, half wary.

T-Dog, wide-eyed, looked around in a slight panic. “Man, who the hell’s up there—Robin Hood?!” He glanced at the body, then back up at the buildings. 

Daryl didn’t answer, his whole body tense, ears straining. Then came the whistle—familiar, almost teasing. His heart kicked up a notch. 

No. Fucking. Way.

Rick caught the shift in Daryl’s expression. “You know who that is.”

“No,” Daryl spat out, obviously lying through his teeth.

T-Dog opened his mouth to speak, but Rick just shook his head sharply, still assessing the potential threat.

“There. That building. See that glint?” Rick whispered. “That there is a goddamn scope. Whoever that is, they’re not playin’. We can see them, but they can see us times ten. We stay put.”

Just then, two big guys came sprinting out of the alley, bats raised.

Another arrow moved faster than lightning. Right in the throat. The second attacker barely had time to register his buddy’s corpse before Daryl whipped around and slammed the butt of his crossbow into his temple, dropping him hard.

Silence. Just for a second.

“Wait!” Daryl hissed and stopped Rick before either of them moved.

Then—another soft, quiet whistle. Daryl froze. 

Part of a song he knew too well.

But Merle never really learned how to whistle.

Before Daryl or Rick could signal to action, a figure stepped into view on the fire escape across the street. You.

Daryl watched as you slowly raised a closed fist, then extended three fingers. The secret greeting you invented when you were kids. Way back when, every summer you and the rest of your cousins were running rampant all over the wilderness around Savannah.

At that moment, Daryl Dixon did something Rick had not yet had the questionable pleasure of witnessing.

He smiled.

His hand shot up and Daryl mimicked your gesture. After that you tried to show him something else, but he couldn’t quite make it out.

“Gimme that.” Daryl pointed to the rifle T-Dog was holding. They swapped weapons and Daryl looked at the building through the scope.

You made a series of quick hand signals: two fingers pointed at eyes, flat hand against throat, finger to lips. Watch out. Danger. Keep your trap shut.

You weren’t wrong. The group momentarily froze as distant moans carried on the wind—walkers. Undoubtedly drawn by the earlier commotion.

Daryl put the rifle down, then responded with his own sign—right palm and thumb curved like an inverted “c”. You alone?

You shook your head, then jerked a thumb over your shoulder. I got your back.

The message was clear—to Daryl alone.

“Okay, that is not any code I’ve ever seen,” Rick whispered, squinting at the building in the distance, extremely confused. 

“Ain't no way ya have. ‘S ours,” Daryl scoffed, then looked through the scope again. “Alright, movin’ out in that direction. She’s gonna cover our ass.”

“She?” Rick asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” Daryl swapped weapons with T-Dog again. “Got a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” Rick lied, then they followed Daryl’s lead.

“Who the hell is that?” T-Dog asked, already pointing his weapon at the closest walker.

Daryl didn’t say.

But cover their asses you did. As they ran through the street, you were clearing out the walkers strategically, to help them pass. After the coast was mostly clear, you ran towards them, jumping over the two rooftops.

You chose that spot well, the buildings weren’t that far apart. Daryl covered the group from the front and they somehow escaped the horde—then they reached a back alley. A dead end.

They looked around, frantically, until they heard someone sprinting down the metal fire escape. They stopped. Walkers didn’t sprint.

“Manhole!” you shouted.

Rick and T-Dog lifted it at once, Glenn climbed down first, then the rest followed.

You jumped down to the ground, skipping a couple steps, before grinning at Daryl like a maniac and disappearing down the sewer as well. Daryl pulled the cover back and the damp, reeking darkness swallowed you all. 

A light came from Glenn’s flickering flashlight, casting eerie shadows on the grime-coated walls. The stench of decay and stagnant water hung in the air.

“Oh, great.” Glenn sighed. “Why is it every time I come here, we end up in a smelly hole?!”

“Better a smelly hole than a walker munchin’ on your insides, or so the sayin’ goes,” you finally spoke, your voice full of amusement that didn’t really match the situation. “Ain’t that right, cuz?”

Daryl exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on his crossbow as he turned to face you. But it was no hallucination. There you were—older, harder, definitely taller. But your grin was just the same.

“Cousin?” T-Dog rolled his eyes. “Oh, great. Just what we need, more fuckin’ Dixons!”

You rushed to hug Daryl and he let you, with an exasperated huff. His hand was awkwardly hovering somewhere over your back. 

“The hell you doin’ here, girl?” Daryl asked.

Then Rick stepped forward, keeping his voice low but firm. “How are you here?”

“Been tryin’ to find my cousins since I left Savannah. Promised Daddy I would.”

Daryl’s eyes flickered to you. “Uncle Tommy’s—”

“He’s fine,” you cut him off. “Last time I saw ‘im.”

You turned to look at Rick. You clocked the uniform and your expression changed in an instant.

Sharper. More wary. You didn’t need to say what you thought about the police.

“Ah, ain’t that the sharp eye of the law.” You wiped the sweat from your brow, still smirking. “Y’ playin’ lawman or ya one of them?”

No nonsense, no discussion. Well, some discussion. But now Rick could very clearly see the family resemblance.

“I’m Rick Grimes. And yes, I was a deputy.” Rick extended his hand to you. You looked at it. 

“You the one who done left Merle to die there on that roof?” 

Rick paused, then just nodded. But he did look apologetic about it at least.

“Damn,” Glenn said. “Not one to beat around the bush, huh?”

“That was you with Merle. The rooftop.” Daryl interrupted, suddenly serious as a grave. “You talked to him?”

“Yep, exchanged war stories, everythin’,” you replied. “We should keep movin’.”

The rest of the group had a hard time assessing whether you were serious or not. But Daryl knew.

“So where is he?”

“Just where I left him.” You pointed to the left. “You fellas comin’? Wouldn’t blame ya if you won’t, Clint Eastwood, but don’t worry. Got Merle in a real good mood. For now.”

They started walking after you. Rick included.

“Merle in a good mood?” Daryl scoffed. “You sure he ain’t caught a heat stroke up on that roof?”

“Goddamn right he did. But I packed him full of sugar water. Well… Mostly hooch. But he’s fine.”

“That your idea of the first aid?” T-Dog whispered in disbelief. 

“He alive, ain’t he? This is nothin’,” you laughed. “You shoulda seen Merle huntin’ on his own the first time. Remember that?” You turned to Daryl.

He just nodded, but also smiled slightly at the memory. 

“The first wild pig he tried,” Daryl explained for the rest. “Nearly stomped ‘im to death.”

“An’ he walked it right off! Killed it, too.” You shook your head. “He’ll still try ‘n’ beat your ass, though,” you informed Rick.

“I don’t doubt it.” Rick let out a quiet chuckle and looked at Daryl. “Your family’s full of… character.”

Daryl rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “Yeah. Watch it. She’s good in a fight, but she’s real bad at shutting the hell up.”

The flickering flashlight beam bounced off the tunnel walls as you trudged through the sewage, the foul water sloshing with every step. 

Rick kept his voice steady, but his grip on his gun tightened. “So where exactly is Merle now?”

“Got a safehouse.” You ducked under a rusted support beam. “Thought he was a walker at first, the way he groaned. Almost gutted ‘im neck to dick.” You shouldered open a rusty door and went through it first. 

“Sun must’ve messed with his head. He thought I was your mother for a second.” You side-eyed Daryl, who just let out a chortle.

“Yeah, ain’t that sweet. He said anythin’ else?” T-Dog asked.

“Oh yeah.” Your smirk faded just a little. “Lot of yellin’ ‘bout handcuffs and cops and uh… betrayals. Then he passed out droolin’ like a happy baby.” You jerked your chin up at a ladder. “Up here.”

You led them up to the surface, then to an abandoned auto shop where you left Merle. Daryl rushed in first, he would hear no argument about it. His boots scuffed against the concrete as he moved toward the back office. The door was slightly ajar. He kicked it open, crossbow raised.

A stained mattress sat in the corner—and on it sat Merle Dixon, slightly sunburnt, but mostly intact. Unless you counted his wits. 

His eyes were glassy, but strangely alert. A half-empty bottle of… something dangled from his hand.

“Well shit,” Merle drawled, taking a swig. “The cavalry finally arrived. Took y’all long enough.” His bloodshot eyes locked onto Rick. “And look who it is—Officer Friendly his damn self.” 

Rick kept his hand near his sidearm but didn’t draw. “Merle.”

Merle’s grin was all teeth. “I’m gonna gut ya like the pig you are, ya hear me?”

“Now, Merle…” Rick hesitated. 

Merle wasn’t yelling this time. Or swinging. Just… Sitting there and informing Rick of his upcoming untimely demise. 

Rick would’ve honestly preferred if he yelled.

Then Daryl stepped between them. “I’ve been lookin’ all over for you, dumbass!”

Merle chuckled without any joy to it, taking another swig. “Happy to see me, little brother?”

“Been happier.”

Then both Daryl and Merle exchanged the same kind of half-smirk. Not quite affection, but also not quite not.

Glenn peeked in behind them, wrinkling his nose. “So... what now?”

Merle’s grin turned sharp. “Now? Now we settle some scores.” He struggled to his feet, swaying slightly. “Startin’ with that cop that left me to die!”

Rick’s hand twitched toward his gun again. “You were a threat to the group. I did what I had to.”

“And I do what I gotta do,” Merle slurred, stumbling forward and failing. “Shit…”

T-Dog sighed, rubbing his temple. “Man, can we not do this right now? Whole damn city’s crawlin’ with walkers.”

“Now you—” Merle was about to say something and then… Didn’t. 

“Sit your doped-up ass down!” You pinched Merle on the arm and somehow he knew exactly what you meant.

Rick and T-Dog exchanged a look. You crouched beside Merle and placed a pill in his hand. 

“Bitch.” He gave you a harsh look, but then swallowed whatever you gave him.

Meanwhile, Glenn’s eyes darted around the cluttered auto shop, not really interested in the Dixon family drama unfolding. His flashlight caught a pile of parts in the corner—belts, ignition coils, and...

He nudged T-Dog with his elbow and pointed at a dusty shelf.

“No way,” T-Dog whispered, moving toward it. There was a small, ancient can of WD-40, and next to it… Two mismatched radiator caps.

Glenn’s hand shot out to them, but then he looked to you as if unsure if that wasn’t your super-secret auto shop stash he was about to loot.

“Just take it,” you waved dismissively. “I ain’t even sure what the hell that there is.”

“Man, Dale’s gonna kiss us for this!” Glenn exclaimed, but then winced. “Uh. Hopefully not.”

Meanwhile, you had Merle by the shoulders, forcing him to sit back down with a thud. “Jesus, you’re heavy when you’re wasted,” you grunted.

Merle blinked up at you, the fight draining out of him just a little. “Since when you got so damn bossy?”

“Since always, stop yappin’,” you shot back, but there was no real bite to it. 

“Yeah, yeah, look at ya, boss girl. Just yesterday, five years old ‘n’ a pain in my ass, followin’ me wherever I went with this one in tow!” He waved his finger at Daryl. “Now… A bigger pain in my ass.”

Rick stayed out of it, but he looked cautiously optimistic. So far, it had been Daryl who was his brother’s keeper—very good at keeping Merle in check, but not quite like… this.

“Shut up, cuz.” You pulled out a canteen from one of the drawers and shoved it into his hand, taking away the bottle. “Drink. Water. Stay off the paint thinner.”

“Or what?” 

But he drank the water all the same.

Then you locked eyes with Merle and jerked your chin towards Rick. Unsure what that meant, Rick squared his shoulders again. 

Merle’s eyes followed yours… and he exhaled like an exasperated bear. Daryl watched you both, arms crossed, and then all three of you were in some sort of quiet stand-off. Something unspoken passed between you—some weird understanding that nobody else was privy to.

Then, miracle of miracles, Merle took another swig of water, grimaced, and sighed again. “This ain’t ya business, girl,” he muttered, but the murderous edge in his voice was gone. For now.

Rick exhaled slowly, his hand easing away from his gun. “We good?”

Merle’s menacing grin returned, but it was half-hearted. “Oh, we ain’t good, pig! But I’ll kill you later.”

“What if he says he’s sorry-like?” you interjected, already seeing that question made Merle happier than the hooch.

“I am sorry,” Rick said immediately.

“Huh… Yeah.” Your eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

“What?” Rick asked, already wary of your answer.

“Nothin’.” You pointed to Merle. “Merle. The pig’s sorry—”

“My name’s Rick.”

“You done nearly killed my kin so we ain’t friends. Merle?” you paused, expectantly.

“Ahh, fine!” Merle spat on the floor beside him. “Jesus Christ…”

“Great, I’ll take it.” Rick wiped sweat from his brow, his voice low but firm. “Now. About the plan. We can’t go back for the guns,” he said to T-Dog and Glenn. “Not with the walkers crawling all over that block. We should cut our losses, hit the van, and get the hell out.”

Daryl scoffed, kicking a loose spark plug across the floor. “So we just leave ‘em? After all this shit?”

“You got your brother back, isn’t that what you wanted?” Rick countered.

“Aw, I’m touched!” Merle sneered.

Rick exhaled. His gaze flicked to Merle, then you. “And here we got another problem. Camp’s stretched thin as it is.”

You bristled, arms crossed. “Shove it. Ain’t wantin’ no invite to yer fancy little gang, officer. I’m right good ‘ere, thanks.”

“Bullshit,” Daryl snapped. “You both comin’!”

Merle barked a laugh. “Oh, this oughta be good. Officer Friendly gonna let a couple Dixons waltz into his little utopia?”

“Technically I ain’t a Dixon,” you shrugged. “An’ I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, stop with the fuckin’ ‘this side of the tracks’ bullshit!” Merle groaned. “Yes, we know your grammaw went to college! Jesus!”

T-Dog pointed to you three and asked the million-dollar question:

“This what you want every day at camp, Rick? ‘Cause I ain’t explainin’ that to Shane!”

“Walker ain’t got him yet?” Merle asked, all hopeful.

“No.” Rick glared at him. “And I don’t know. But I do know Shane’s got enough on his plate.”

“Is he like… your king or somethin’?” you asked.

“What? No. He’s—” 

“Okay then, Shane can just go on and blow me, whate’er he is.” 

Merle howled with laughter. “Now that I’d pay good money to see!”

Rick dragged a hand down his face, the beginnings of a stress headache pulsing behind his eyes. “Nevermind. We don’t have room.”

Daryl threw his hands up. “She ain’t comin’ then I’m stayin’! Gladly let you bunch o’ pansies feed your damn selves!”

That landed, you could tell. Rick opened his mouth. Closed it. Nobody made a move.

But then Merle interjected, suddenly a little sobered up: 

“My bike.”

Silence fell. Then, that weird three-person stand-off again. Apparently the bike also had some history, one Rick was not at all interested to know.

Daryl’s head snapped to his brother, then, scowling, he pointed at Rick. “Fuck! Okay.” Then he pointed at you. “But she’s comin’ with us or—”

“Fine,” Rick interrupted, tired of this shit. “Let’s just go.”

“We’ve seen her aim,” Glenn offered, trying to smooth things over. “That’s somethin’, yeah?”

“Ha! Somethin’?” Merle stood up, with your help. “That’s One-Hand Tommy’s daughter! Her old man taught her shoot squirrels from sixty yards ‘fore she was nine!”

“Alright, Merle, they don’t need to know that,” you muttered.

“Why they called him One-Hand?” Glenn immediately wanted to know.

None of you said anything for a while.

“Ain’t no one knows why they called him that,” Daryl finally replied. “An’ I sure as hell never asked.”

“Why not?”

“If you knew her daddy’s look, you’d know why.”

Daryl took over supporting Merle, while you packed up your meager belongings. 

“Looks like I gotta be a citizen again, fuck me…” You rolled your eyes, then elbowed Merle. “But ain’t you glad I found ya, cuz?”

Tents are pitched in neat rows. Someone has even strung laundry between two trees like the world hasn’t ended — like this is camping, not survival.

Then Glenn brings you in.

He waves ahead before the car fully stops. “She’s not bit!” he calls, already half-smiling like he’s proud of what he found.

You step out slowly.

Every conversation dies.

You feel it immediately — the way a camp shifts when something unfamiliar enters it. Eyes narrow. Bodies straighten. Hands hover a little closer to holsters.

And then there’s him. Doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t offer water. Doesn’t introduce himself.

He stands planted, arms crossed over his chest, expression carved from stone.

“Where’d you find her?” he asks Glenn, but his eyes are already on you.

“Supply run,” Glenn answers. “She handled herself.”

Shane’s gaze sharpens at that.

“Name,” he says.

Not “What’s your name?” how inviting huh?

You give it to him.

“Your name? Detective?” you shoot at him

“Shane.”

He’s short with it and keeps the questions rolling. Completely ignoring the “Detective?” dig.

“Where were you before this?”

“Atlanta.”

“Family?”

You pause. “Dead.”

“How long on your own?”

“Too long.”

“Why alone?”

“ I just said all my family is dead. Isn’t that a good enough answer?”

The questions don’t come like curiosity. They come like crossfire.

He just sits there quietly. Letting the silence of your response sit there almost asking yourself. “Was it a good enough answer?”

You shift your weight. “You always this friendly?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“You bit?”

“No.”

“Show me.”

It’s not a request.

You hesitate — not because you’re hiding anything, but because of the tone. The assumption. The authority he hasn’t earned from you yet.

Still, you roll up your sleeves. Turn once.

Satisfied, he steps closer.

“What weapons you use?”

“Whatever works.”

“That’s not specific.”

“Should I ask you if you prefer tying your right shoe or your left shoe first? Because at the end of the day it doesn’t matter as long as your shoes are tied. Right? Like I said whatever is around. Whatever works.” You snap at him.

You let out a slow breath.

“You got a clipboard somewhere? you seem to have all of these questions memorized that I guarantee. You probably have them in a questionnaire that I could answer by myself.”

You’re starting to get tired with this aggressiveness and badgering.

The air tightens.

“I’m asking you questions for a reason,” he says.

“And I’m answering them,” you shoot back. “You just don’t like how.”

A few people glance over. You can feel it — the ripple.

Shane steps in front of you now, close enough that the rest of the camp blurs at the edges.

“You walked into a camp full of people I’m responsible for,” he says, voice low and controlled. “Kids. Families. People who trust me to keep them breathing.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

His eyes flash.

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”

Silence stretches between you — charged, sharp.

“You’re new,” he continues. “So until I know you’re not a threat, I ask questions.”

You study him — really study him.

He’s not panicking. Not wild. He’s deliberate. Guarded. Built like a wall that doesn’t intend to move.

“You think this,” you say slowly, gesturing between the two of you, “makes you easy to trust?”

Something flickers in his expression — brief, almost imperceptible.

“This isn’t about being easy,” he replies.

“It’s about control,” you correct.

His shoulders stiffen.

“It’s about protection.”

“You don’t protect people by intimidating them.”

The words hang there.

For a second, you think he might explode.

Instead, his voice drops — tight but steady.

“I don’t have the luxury of making strangers comfortable.”

“And I don’t have the luxury of trusting someone who acts like a firing squad with all these damn questions. I haven’t done anything wrong? Haven’t even given me a chance to prove myself yet?”

That lands.

He studies you like he’s trying to decide what you are — reckless, brave, stupid, honest.

“You wanna stay?” he asks finally.

“Yes.” You answer without hesitation. Telling enough. You have been alone for too long.

“Then you follow orders. You answer when I ask. And you pull your weight.”

You nod once.

“And you?” you say.

His brow furrows slightly. “What about me?”

“You decide if you’re gonna keep trying to scare me.”

You step around him before he can respond.

You feel his eyes on your back.

Not soft.

Not impressed.

But not dismissing you either.

Behind you, someone asks him quietly, “She gonna be trouble?” There’s a beat before he answers.

“She’s gonna be watched.”

You don’t look back.

Shane steps closer to you and said something to you the only you can hear nobody else can.

“ let me tell you something, you hurt anybody inside of this group? You so much move the wrong way that puts anybody in danger? You’re going to have to deal with me. You got that?”

He looks you dead in the eye seeing if there is any sense of guilt or fear.

You look back up at him.

His stare is intimidating. You’ll give him that, but you definable don’t show that on your face.

“Crystal. Clear.”

you brush past him going over to the opposite side of the cam. You set up to put your stuff down away from everyone else.

But you feel it. This isn’t the beginning of something warm. It’s the beginning of friction. Of clashing wills. And whether he likes it or not-You’re not intimidated. Not by the walkers .And not by Shane.

————————————————————————

You’re down by the water, sleeves rolled up, rinsing out the last of what’s in your pack. It’s quiet enough that you don’t hear him coming.

You should’ve.

“You keep scrubbing like that, you’re gonna tear it.”

You jump slightly, then glare over your shoulder at Shane.

“I don’t sneak,” he says evenly. “You weren’t paying attention.”

You turn back to the water. “What do you want?”

A pause.

“When I asked what weapon you used earlier,” he says, “it wasn’t me trying to grill you.”

You don’t respond.

“I needed to know if you can shoot.”

You glance at him. “That’s what the targets are for?”

You look over at the row of cans in boxes that are aligned with the tree line.

“That tells me you can hit something standing still,” he replies. “Doesn’t tell me if you’ve handled different guns. Or if you just got lucky.”

You sigh. “You could’ve just said that.”

“I did,” he says flatly. “You got defensive.”

You stop scrubbing for a second. “You were badgering me.”

“I was asking direct questions.” His tone stays calm. “There’s a difference.”

The lake water moves quietly between you.

“I’ve got people here who can’t afford me assuming you know what you’re doing,” he continues. “If you’re on a run and something happens, I need to know what I can hand you without hesitation.”

That part is simple. Logical. No ego attached.

“So yes,” he adds, “I asked because I needed to know if you can shoot.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“I can,” you say. “Revolver. Shotgun. I don’t spray and pray. I have good aim so I’m good with a rifle.”

He nods once. “Good.”

Silence settles again.

“You don’t have to come at people like they’re already a problem,” you say.

“I don’t,” he replies. “I come at them like they’re unknown.”

You shake your head slightly. “Feels the same.”

“Not to me.”

There’s no apology in it. Just fact.

You wring out your shirt and stand. “Next time, don’t hover.”

“I wasn’t hovering.”

“You were.”

A faint twitch hits the corner of his mouth. “You’re in my camp. I’m gonna know what you can do.”

“And you’re gonna keep sneaking up on me?”

“I’m not sneaking,” Shane replies evenly.

“You were right behind me.”

“You were distracted.”

You give him a look. “By laundry?”

“By your own head,” he corrects. “You didn’t clock me walking up. That’s on you.”

It’s not mocking. Not cruel. Just blunt.

You exhale through your nose. “Noted.”

He studies you for a second, then nods once like that’s enough.

“You said you’re good with a rifle too,” he adds.

“I am.”

“How far you comfortable shooting?”

“Depends on the scope.”

He considers that, then jerks his chin toward camp. “Alright.”

You wait.

“Tonight you take watch on top of the RV,” he says. “Higher vantage point.”

That catches your attention. “Thought you didn’t trust me.”

“I trust what I can verify,” he replies. “You say you’re steady with a rifle — we’ll see.”

Straightforward. No games.

“There’ll be one waiting up there for you,” he continues. “Loaded. Safety on. You don’t touch it till you’re in position.”

You nod. “Got it.”

“And don’t get complacent because it’s quiet,” he adds. “Quiet’s when people start drifting.”

You almost smile. “Distracted?”

He gives you a flat look. “Exactly.”

A beat passes between you.

“You put everyone through this?” you ask.

“Everyone who’s new.”

“And if I miss something?”

“Then I’ll know.”

No threat. Just information.

You hold his gaze for a second longer. “You always this direct?”

“Yes.”

You huff lightly. “Must make you real popular.”

“I’m not here to be popular.”

That, at least, you believe.

He steps back, already shifting into whatever comes next on his mental list.

“Sunset,” he says again. “Don’t be late.”

As he walks away, you realize something simple about Shane Walsh —

He doesn’t sneak up on people to scare them.

He does it to see who notices.

————————————————————————

The top of the RV gives you the best view of the tree line.

The rifle’s exactly where he said it would be — laid out clean, safety on. You check it anyway. Chamber. Scope. Position. Then you settle in, elbows braced against your knees, scanning the dark.

The camp below is quieter at night. Low voices. A baby fussing somewhere. Firelight flickering against canvas.

You hear the shift in metal before you see him.

Boot on ladder.

You don’t turn immediately.

“You gonna tell me you heard me coming?” Shane asks when he climbs up.

“I did.”

“Liar.”

You glance at him. “You’re loud.”

He steps over carefully and settles a few feet away, not crowding you. He looks out at the trees instead of at you.

“Thought you’d wanna be alone your first night,” he says.

“I was alone before this.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You adjust the rifle slightly. “Did I think I was gonna stay alone? Obviously not.”

He nods faintly.

“Well,” he says after a second, “don’t you enjoy the company?”

You look at him now.

“If it’s you?” you say evenly. “I’d rather be alone.”

The words hang there.

For a second, you expect the sharp response. The pride. The ego.

Instead, he goes quiet.

Not angry.

Just… still.

You turn your attention back to the tree line.

After a moment, he exhales.

“I’ve been hard on you,” he says.

That wasn’t what you expected.

“You think?” you reply.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck — a crack in the armor you hadn’t seen yet.

“This camp’s holding together by a thread,” he says. “I don’t get to ease people in. I don’t get to assume the best.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to assume the worst.”

He nods slightly at that.

“Fair.”

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Less edged.

“I shouldn’t have come at you like you already failed something,” he adds. “You didn’t.”

You glance at him.

It’s not dramatic. Not a big speech. Just straightforward.

“I don’t need you to like me,” he continues. “But I don’t need you thinking I’m out to get you either.”

You study his face in the low light. The tension is still there — it’s who he is — but it’s not aimed at you right now.

“I don’t think you’re out to get me,” you admit. “I think you don’t know how to not be in charge.”

A faint huff escapes him — almost a laugh.

“Probably.”

The trees stay still. No movement. No groans.

“You did good earlier,” he says, nodding toward the rifle. “Position’s solid. You’re steady.”

“Thought you didn’t compliment.”

“I don’t. Often.”

Another quiet beat.

“You don’t have to be a hardass every second,” you say.

He looks over at you then, expression softer than before.

“I know,” he replies.

And for the first time since you stepped into this camp—

He doesn’t look at you like a question mark.

He looks at you like someone he might actually let stand beside him.

The rehearsal room smelled faintly of resin and sweat, mirrors gleaming under fluorescent lights. Y/N’s shoes bit into her feet, ribbons cutting against her swollen ankles but she ignored it.

She had to.

Ballet wasn’t just a hobby it was survival and identity. The only thing that had ever made sense in her life. Her arms curved overhead, posture flawless even as her chest heaved. The music stopped, echoing into silence.

“Again,” the instructor barked, and Y/N swallowed back her exhaustion.

Scholarship or not, she couldn’t afford to falter.

Every misstep meant wasted hours and money and dreams.

Dreams were expensive.

Too expensive.

Her scholarship covered part of her tuition but the rest... rent, food and costumes not to mention her mom's medical bills fell on her shoulders. Her mother’s illness had devoured every spare dollar. Nights spent at the hospital, days dancing until her bones ached. The math didn’t add up, no matter how she twisted it. So she found a second job.

Not the kind she could proudly write on her resumé.

Not the kind she could tell her professors about.

A dimly lit club, velvet curtains heavy with the scent of smoke and perfume. The heels she had to wear, pinched harder than her ballet shoes. The music was bass-heavy, vibrating through the floorboards, through her chest, until it became a second heartbeat. She remembered the first time she walked on stage her palms slick with nerves, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Men lounged in shadowy booths, their eyes tracking her every move. For a brief, dizzy moment, she thought she might vomit but then the spotlight hit her. And the years of training took over. Every extension, every turn, every bend of her body carried the ghost of her ballet discipline.

She didn’t stumble. She danced. Not arabesques and adagios but movements that commanded attention, that coaxed dollar bills from wallets, that made her untouchable.

On stage, she wasn’t the girl struggling to pay tuition or the daughter praying her mother’s treatments would work. She wasn’t drowning in overdue bills or wondering if she could afford groceries that week.

She was art. Desire. Control. And the power of it the way men leaned forward, spellbound it was intoxicating.

Still, when the lights dimmed and the music cut out, reality always came rushing back. She’d change out of sequins into sweatpants, scrub off glitter with cheap makeup wipes, and count crumpled bills in the mirror’s reflection.

Sometimes it was enough to cover rent.

Sometimes it wasn’t.

Which was why, when a regular with too much money and not enough imagination leaned across the bar one night and said “I’ve got a charity gala next week. I need someone on my arm. You interested?”

She hesitated.

It wasn’t technically against the rules. Escorting wasn’t part of her job, but being “arm candy” wasn’t the same as sleeping with someone. At least, that’s what she told herself. He was offering five grand for one night. Five grand meant her mom’s medication was covered for another month.

So she said yes.

The gala was another world entirely. Crystal chandeliers glowed overhead, throwing fractured light across marble floors. Waiters in starched uniforms floated by with trays of champagne flutes. The air hummed with the sound of money laughter too sharp, conversations laced with deals and politics. Y/N felt the weight of eyes on her the moment she entered, silk dress clinging to every curve. She kept her smile fixed, her posture tall, pretending the room didn’t make her skin itch.

Her “date” placed a hand on the small of her back, not before at least asking for her permission, guiding her through introductions but she caught the way some women sneered. The way some men appraised her with thinly veiled hunger. They all knew. She wasn’t one of them. She was decoration, temporary and forgettable. She felt it that hook of a gaze, sharp and unrelenting. Across the room.

Tony Stark.

Not the playboy caricature splashed across tabloids nor the polished billionaire in a tailored suit. But a man whose attention felt different.

Curious. Sharp. Dangerous.

He wasn’t looking at her dress or her date. He was looking at her and for the first time all night, Y/N’s practiced smile faltered.

She slipped out onto the balcony with a glass of champagne she had no intention of drinking. The night air was cooler than the ballroom, sharp with city wind, and she breathed it in like oxygen after drowning. From here, the gala looked like a snow globe glittering lights, laughing people, all sealed away behind glass. She thought she was alone until a voice cut through the quiet.

“You look like someone plotting an escape route.”

She turned sharply.

Tony Stark leaned against the railing a few feet away, a half-empty tumbler of scotch in his hand. His tie was already loose, like he’d been bored of perfection hours ago. His eyes, though those were sharp, amused, locked on her as if he’d been watching her longer than she realized.

“I wasn’t plotting anything,” she said quickly.

“Sure you were,” Tony countered, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’ve got the look. Wide eyes, slightly tense shoulders, champagne glass untouched. That’s someone trying to survive the shark tank without being eaten alive.”

Her grip tightened around the glass. “And you? You look like someone who thinks he’s clever.”

“I am clever.” He tapped his temple lightly. “Ask anyone.”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t need to. I can spot a fraud from a mile away.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “And you sweetheart... are faking it better than anyone in that room.”

Her stomach twisted. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t belong here,” he said simply. Not cruelly, not condescending just like it was fact. “You’re too real for this crowd. Too alive. They’re cardboard cutouts with designer price tags. But you,” his gaze flicked over her, lingering not on her dress, but on her face, her posture. “You’ve got something else.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She hated how exposed she felt under that scrutiny. “Maybe I do belong here. Ever think of that?”

Tony arched a brow. “If you did, you wouldn’t be hiding out on the balcony.”

She opened her mouth to fire back, but the words tangled in her throat. He wasn’t wrong. “You should go back inside,” she muttered instead.

“Should I?” He tipped his glass toward her. “Or maybe I should stay out here with the only interesting person in the building.”

That earned a startled laugh from her. “You’re impossible.”

“Frequently.” He sipped his drink, eyes never leaving hers. “But you’re not denying it.”

She shook her head, trying to smother the smile tugging at her lips. She should walk away and rejoin her date, keep her walls intact. But instead, she stayed. Tony Stark was dangerous. Not because of his money, or his reputation but because he looked at her like she wasn’t just arm candy. She looked her like he could see through the silk and glitter straight to the bruised, desperate girl underneath. And that terrified her more than anything.

Her laugh faded into silence, carried away by the wind. For a few moments, they just stood there Tony sipping his scotch, her fiddling with the stem of her glass, pretending the city lights below were more interesting than his gaze.

“You know,” he said at last, voice softer now, “… people only hide out at events like this when they’re either bored out of their minds or when they’re carrying a weight too heavy for the dress code.”

Her fingers tightened around the glass. “Maybe it’s both.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t press. Just leaned back on the railing, watching her like she had all the time in the world to answer. And that God help her that was worse. Because silence made the truth bubble up.

“You’re observant,” she said, forcing a wry edge to her tone. “So maybe you’ve noticed I’m not exactly what’s the word... meant for this crowd.”

Tony’s mouth quirked. “Oh, I noticed.”

“And maybe,” she continued, her throat suddenly dry, “that’s because I don’t come from the kind of money that makes charity galas a casual Tuesday night.”

Something flickered in his eyes, curiosity sharpening. “Go on.”

She set her glass down on the railing before her shaking hands betrayed her. “I’m a dancer. Ballet. I’ve been training since I was little. Got into one of the best schools in the city on a scholarship. But scholarships don’t cover everything. Rent. Food. Costumes. And my mom-” Her voice cracked, just barely. “She’s sick. Hospital bills are… a lot.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and dangerous. She hadn’t planned to say any of that. She barely told her classmates, let alone a billionaire stranger. Tony didn’t interrupt. He just tilted his head, listening, his expression unreadable.

“So,” she whispered, the confession clawing its way out, “I picked up a second job.” She hesitated, shame burning in her chest. “Not the kind you brag about.”

“Try me,” Tony said gently.

Her heart pounded. She should lie, brush it off. But something about him those steady brown eyes, that maddening patience made her unravel.

“I’m an night dancer,” she admitted, each word like glass on her tongue. “At a club downtown. It pays better than being a waitress and it keeps the lights on. But…” She finally met his gaze, daring him to flinch, to laugh, to judge. “…that’s why I’m here tonight. A client wanted a pretty face on his arm.”

Silence stretched. The city roared faintly below them, traffic and sirens, but up here it was just her heartbeat and his quiet breathing. Then Tony set his glass aside and stepped closer, not enough to touch, just enough to make her feel seen.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said simply.

Her brows knit. “That’s it?”

“What'd you expect? A lecture? A halo and a pitchfork?” He shrugged. “You do what you have to do. Doesn’t make you any less of a dancer. Or a daughter. Just means you’ve got grit.”

Her throat tightened, the last of her defenses threatening to collapse. “You’re not… disgusted?”

“Disgusted?” He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, half the men in there throw away more money on bad cigars than you make breaking your back to survive. And they think they’re respectable. Me? I think you’re the most honest person in the building.”

For the first time all night, she let out a shaky breath that wasn’t held together by a smile. And Tony Stark arrogant, impossible Tony Stark looked at her like she was worth every secret she’d just spilled.

Three nights later, the club hummed with its usual rhythm low lights, throbbing bass and laughter muffled by velvet curtains. Y/N was already tired, muscles still raw from rehearsal earlier but exhaustion had become her constant companion. She was fixing her lipstick backstage when the manager poked his head in.

“Y/N,” he said, “got a private room request. Big spender. Asked for you by name.”

Her stomach dipped. Most of the regulars didn’t know her real name. But she nodded anyway, slipping her heels back on. Whoever it was, they’d be another hour, another paycheck and another bandage over the cracks in her life. The hallway to the private lounges felt endless. Her palms itched, nerves buzzing the way they always did before she walked into a room alone with a client. She braced herself smile ready, mask in place and pushed the door open. And froze.

Tony Stark sat in the plush leather chair, legs crossed, whiskey glass in hand like he owned the entire club. Which, knowing him, he might.

Her heart skipped, then sprinted. “Tony?”

“Hi, sweetheart.” His grin was lazy, dangerous, utterly self-assured. “Surprise.”

She shut the door quickly, pulse hammering in her ears. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Same thing everyone else is,” he said smoothly. “Paying for a little time with someone beautiful.”

“That’s not funny.” She folded her arms, heat rising in her cheeks.

“Who’s laughing?” He gestured at the chair across from him. “Sit. Unless you’d rather stand there glaring at me. I’ll pay for either.”

She hesitated, every instinct torn. This was her job. She was supposed to flirt and dance and keep the fantasy alive. But this was Tony Stark. He’d seen her without sequins and stage lights, seen her when she was just a girl with cracked shoes and hospital bills.

“You requested me,” she said slowly.

“Sure did.” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “I liked the balcony version of you. Figured I’d meet the stage version, too. For research.”

Her mouth fell open. “Research?”

“I’m a curious man.” His eyes gleamed, and for once, they weren’t teasing. They were searching. “I wanted to see the parts of you you don’t usually let people see. And I didn’t want to wait for another gala invitation to do it.”

Her throat tightened. “You paid for this?”

“Of course.” He leaned back, utterly relaxed. “I don’t like taking without giving.”

Something in her chest fluttered, traitorous. Most men came here to consume, to drain, to forget her name when the lights came on. But Tony damn him wasn’t like them. He wasn’t watching her like a body. He was watching her like a puzzle he wanted to solve.

She laughed, sharp to cover her nerves. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.” He set the glass down and spread his hands. “So, what happens now? Do you dance for me or do we skip the performance and just talk like last time?”

The air between them crackled, charged with something neither of them had named yet. And for the first time in her career, Y/N realized she wasn’t sure which option she wanted more. Y/N hesitated, caught between instinct and curiosity, before sinking into the chair opposite him. The plush leather swallowed her whole, but she sat rigid, arms crossed, like it was the only thing holding her together.

“So,” she said, tilting her chin, “what’s the real reason you’re here? Because I don’t buy the whole research excuse.”

Tony’s smirk softened. “Smart girl.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely. “I’m here because I don’t like the idea of you being in places like this. Because you don’t belong here.”

Her jaw tightened. “We’ve already been through this. You don’t get to decide where I belong.”

“True,” he admitted. “But I do get to decide what I want. And what I want is for you not to have to do this.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He sat back, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. “Let’s cut through the performance. You’re drowning. Tuition. Rent. Hospital bills. You’re breaking your body in two different worlds just to keep your head above water.” His gaze softened, but his voice stayed firm. “I don’t like watching people I care about sink.”

Her heart stuttered. “People you care about? Tony, you don’t even-”

“I know enough.” His eyes locked on hers, unflinching. “I know you’re the hardest-working person I’ve met in years. I know you’ve sacrificed more than anyone in that ballroom full of leeches. I know you’re worth more than sequins and cigarette smoke. And I knoe for a fact a tons of other girls would practically beg me to spend a minute with them... you get my time without asking...”

Her throat went dry. “So what, you’re offering to… what? Rescue me?”

“Not rescue,” he corrected gently. “Support. Partnership.” He drew in a breath, as if weighing every word. “Here’s my proposition. I’ll cover your tuition. Your rent. Your mom’s treatment. No more hospital bills keeping you awake at night, no more double shifts leaving you dead on your feet. In exchange…”

“In exchange?” She echoed warily.

“I get your company.” His lips quirked. “Dinners. Events. The occasional night in where you don’t have to wear heels or sequins. Just you. No strings. No sex. No touch unless you decide you want that. Just… you being around.”

Her chest ached with a mix of disbelief and longing. It sounded like a fantasy too neat, too easy. And yet Tony Stark didn’t look like he was joking.

“You want to be my…” She hesitated on the words, tasting them like something foreign. “Sugar daddy?”

“If that makes it easier to process, sure.” He spread his hands. “But really, I’d rather call it… giving you the space to breathe. Sugar daddy without the sugar.”

Y/N let out a shaky laugh, half in shock, half in defense. “You can’t just throw money at me and expect me to agree. That’s not how this works.”

“I’m not throwing money,” Tony said evenly. “I’m making an investment. In you. In your future. And trust me sweetheart, I know a good investment when I see one.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. No one had ever said that to her before. No one had ever looked at her and seen value beyond what she could provide in the moment. She wanted to say no. She wanted to keep her pride intact, to stand on her own. But the image of her mother hooked up to machines, the pile of unopened bills on her desk, the bone-deep exhaustion eating her alive those images screamed louder than her pride.

Tony leaned forward again, his voice low, steady. “Think about it. You don’t have to decide tonight. But know this when I say I’ll take care of something, I do. I don’t abandon people. Not ever.”

Her eyes burned, tears threatening to spill. She blinked them back furiously, refusing to break in front of him. “Why me?” she whispered.

For the first time, Tony’s smirk faded completely. His answer was simple, quiet, devastating. “Because I like who you are when no one’s watching.”

And suddenly in that small private room, surrounded by velvet and shadows, Y/N realized this wasn’t a client trying to buy her body. This was a man offering her a way out on her terms. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. She wanted to tell him no, to keep her dignity wrapped tight like a second skin. But she thought of her mom’s pale hands clutching hers in the hospital bed, of overdue bills hidden in her dance bag, of nights falling asleep in rehearsal clothes because she didn’t have the strength to change. And against all of that, Tony Stark’s offer glowed like a lifeline.

She exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

Tony stilled, the usual smug confidence replaced with a flicker of surprise. “Okay?”

“Yes.” She straightened her shoulders, finding her center like she did before every performance. “But I have conditions.”

His brows arched, and then inevitably he smirked. “Of course you do. Hit me.”

“First,” she said firmly, “this doesn’t change who I am. I’m still a ballerina and I’m still going to class... I’m still working my ass off every day. You don’t get to swoop in and turn me into some pampered doll who doesn’t dance anymore.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said easily, but his eyes gleamed with respect.

“Second,” she continued, “this is on my terms. If I say no to an event or a dinner or... anything then it’s no. You don’t get to buy my time like everyone else here does.”

Tony nodded, expression serious now. “Fair. I want your company, not your compliance.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed on. “Third… no secrets. If this is going to work I don’t want half-truths or guessing games. I can’t afford that.”

“Neither can I,” Tony said quietly. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “And for the record? I like you better when you’re telling me exactly what you want. It’s refreshing.”

The heat crept into her cheeks despite herself. She huffed, trying to mask it. “And fourth… I’m not sleeping with you.”

Tony’s smirk softened into something gentler, almost reverent. “Sweetheart, if you ever want that, it’ll be the best damn bonus of my life. But it’s not the price of admission.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was charged, alive, sparking with something neither of them had put a name to yet. Finally, she let out a breath. “Those are my conditions.”

Tony sat back, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Done. Done. Done and... done. All of them.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Congratulations you’ve just negotiated with Tony Stark and come out on top. That’s no small feat.”

Her lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“You won’t.” He held her gaze, steady and certain, and for the first time in months, she almost believed it.

Six months.

That’s how long it had been since she’d sat across from Tony Stark in a velvet-draped room and drawn her lines in the sand. Six months since she’d said yes, with conditions.

Six months since he’d surprised her by respecting every single one. And in that time, everything had changed.

The debt? Gone.

Hospital bills? Paid, without a single overdue notice haunting her mailbox.

Tuition? Covered so smoothly she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to juggle pennies and prayers.

For the first time in years, she was living instead of surviving. But it wasn’t the money that had her off balance. It was him.

Tony Stark infuriating, arrogant, sharp-tongued genius had somehow slipped past her defenses. At first, he was just company. Dinners that turned into debates. Gala nights where he whispered snide commentary about board members until she had to bite her lip to hide her laughter. Quiet evenings at his penthouse, where he let her sprawl on his couch, pointy shoes dangling off her feet, while he tinkered with some gadget and pretended not to watch her.

It was supposed to be safe. It was supposed to be simple. But somewhere between shared meals and late-night confessions, her heart had changed the rules without asking permission. And now she was in trouble.

It hit her one night after rehearsal. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of Tony’s living room, eating takeout straight from the container while still in her leotard and hair piled in a messy bun. Tony walked in from the kitchen, two glasses of wine in hand and froze for a second just watching her. The look on his face wasn’t casual. It wasn’t the amused indulgence he wore at parties or the smug grin he flashed at cameras. It was soft. Warm. Almost reverent. And her chest tightened so sharply she nearly dropped her fork.

Oh God.

She was in love with him.

The realization was like a spotlight turned inward, leaving her nowhere to hide. She’d fallen for the man who was supposed to be her arrangement. She’d let her guard down and now every smile, every glance or every gentle brush of his hand when he passed her something set her heart sprinting. Worse she had no idea how he felt.

What if this was still just business to him?

What if he liked her company but the second feelings got involved, he’d pull away?

What if she ruined everything the stability, her mom’s care, the chance to dance freely by saying too much?

But then again… what if she didn’t say anything and kept drowning in silence while her heart screamed every time he looked at her?

That night, curled up in bed at her tiny apartment, her phone buzzed. A message from Tony.

Tony: Big day tomorrow?

Y/N: Tech rehearsal. It’ll be late.

Tony: So I should bring food after? Chinese? Italian? Or something with enough carbs to fuel a small army of ballerinas?

Y/N: You don’t have to do that.

Tony: Sweetheart, I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.

She stared at the screen, her heart thudding, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

She wanted to type Tony, I think I’m in love with you.

Instead, she typed “Italian sounds good.”

And hated herself for it.

Now the feelings were everywhere.

In the way she caught herself staring too long when he loosened his tie.

In the way her laugh came easier when he was near.

In the way her mother, ever perceptive, had squeezed her hand during a hospital visit and said softly “You talk about him like he’s already yours.”

But he wasn’t. Not officially. Not safely. And the longer she kept it locked inside, the heavier it became.

The breaking point came a week later.

She’d had a brutal day hours of rehearsal, blisters bleeding through her shoes, corrections barked until her muscles trembled with exhaustion. By the time she dragged herself to Tony’s penthouse that evening, she was one thread away from snapping. He opened the door, expression lighting up at the sight of her, and something inside her just… cracked.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, stepping aside to let her in. “Long day?”

She dropped her dance bag on the floor with a dull thud. “You have no idea.” And before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out, raw and unguarded. “Tony, I can’t keep doing this. Not like this. Because it’s not just an arrangement anymore. Not for me.”

His smile faltered. “Y/N…”

Her chest heaved, the words clawing their way up from somewhere she’d buried them deep. “I tried, I really tried to keep it simple. To keep it clean. To keep it exactly what we said it would be.”

Her voice cracked and she pressed a trembling hand to her sternum, as if she could physically hold herself together. “But somewhere along the way, I-” She faltered, blinking hard against the burn in her eyes. “I lost the line. I crossed it and now I don’t know how to uncross it.”

Tony’s brows furrowed, his usual quick wit nowhere to be found. He took a step toward her, but she stumbled back, words spilling faster and frantic.

“I can’t Tony... I can’t just sit across from you at dinner and pretend I don’t feel like the ground shifts when you smile at me. I can’t watch you fix things in that ridiculous workshop and pretend I don’t love the way your hands move. I can’t hear you call me sweetheart and pretend it doesn’t undo me completely.” Her voice broke, raw and desperate. “I can’t do this arrangement anymore because it stopped being an arrangement for me a long time ago.”

Tears blurred her vision, hot trails slipping down her cheeks unchecked. She shook her head, choking out the truth like it was poison and salvation all at once. “I fell for you. God help me... I fell for you. And I don’t know what to do with that, because this was never supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be more than a lifeline, Tony. You weren’t supposed to become the only person I can’t imagine losing.”

Her chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, the silence that followed deafening. She braced herself for the worst polite refusal, awkward dismissal and maybe even anger. Anything but what she wanted.

Tony’s glass clicked sharply against the table as he set it down, the sound startling in the heavy quiet. He didn’t speak at first just moved toward her with a deliberate calm that sent her pulse into a frenzy. He missed the feeling of her hand on his chest.

When he finally reached her, his hands came up to cradle her face, thumbs swiping away the tears before she could duck her head. His gaze was molten, steady, unwavering.

“Do you have any idea,” he said, voice low and rough, “how hard it’s been not to tell you every damn day that I feel the same?”

Her breath caught, eyes flying wide. “What?”

He huffed a laugh half incredulous, half broken. “You think I’ve been hanging around for six months because I like your lasagna-ordering skills? Sweetheart, I’ve been in love with you since that night on the balcony when you told me. Do you know how rare it is for anyone to look me in the eye and say no? And do you know what it did to me when you did?”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Tony leaned closer, his forehead resting against hers, and for the first time she heard the tremor in his voice. “You undid me that night. And every night since. I thought if I kept it quiet, if I respected the rules, I could keep you. Because the idea of scaring you off of losing you was the one thing I couldn’t handle. Call it idiocy or love at first sigh... I don't know.”

A sob broke free from her throat, but his hands held her steady.

“So if you’re in love with me…”

His mouth curved into the softest, most vulnerable smile she’d ever seen on him. “Then you’ve just given me the only thing I’ve wanted for months.”

Her tears came harder now but they were different lighter and brighter, breaking into laughter between gasps.

“You’re serious?” She whispered, her voice trembling.

“Deadly,” he murmured, brushing his lips over her damp cheek. “And if you don’t let me kiss you right now, I might actually combust.”

His lips crushed against hers, rough and urgent at first as if making up for months of restraint. She responded immediately, arms wrapping around his neck pulling him closer and letting the tension of six months out. The kiss softened after a heartbeat, melting into something tender and reverent. He cupped her face, thumbs brushing over tears that hadn’t yet dried, and whispered against her lips, “You’re mine, in case you forgot.”

She gasped, pressing her forehead to his. “I… I can’t believe this. All of this.”

“You can,” he murmured, voice low, steady. “Because it’s real. Because I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Hands roamed gently, exploring curves she had always hidden under sequins and stage lights. No rush, no pressure just him, memorizing and learning her, showing her with every touch that she was cherished.

Her heart pounded as he kissed the line of her jaw, down her neck, each movement teasing drawing her out. Every breath she took was filled with him, every inch of skin remembered, every nerve alight with the fire of wanting.

When he finally laid her back on the soft rug in front of the fire, she felt completely seen, safe and unmade. She let herself melt into him, surrendering the last of her walls.

“I’ve wanted this,” Tony admitted between kisses, voice husky. “Every second since that balcony. But I wanted it to be yours, Y/N. Only yours.”

Tears slid down her cheeks again not from fear, not from guilt, but from relief. From finally letting someone in without compromise. “I never thought… I’d feel this safe with someone like you.”

“Like me?” He teased softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Sweetheart, I’m Tony Stark. Dangerous, reckless, infuriating Tony Stark. And you still let me in.”

Her laugh trembled against his chest, catching in little hiccups. “I don’t know why I did.”

“Because you’re in love with me,” he said simply. “And I’m in love with you. That’s reason enough.”

Hours passed like minutes.

Every touch, every whisper, every lingering kiss built something new trust and intimacy. A passion intertwined with care. There was no hurry, no games, only two people finally letting themselves exist fully in each other’s arms.

By the time the first light of dawn crept across the skyline, Y/N lay curled against him, tangled in his arms. Their breaths slow, their hearts finally quiet. The city beyond the window had no claim over them. The debt, the struggle, the masks they’d worn they were gone.

All that remained was them, raw, real, and fiercely alive.

And for the first time in months, Y/N smiled without fear, without hesitation, knowing that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

You usually wake up much slower than the regular person. This is mainly because of your job's demands, having to be in full focus the moment you step into the firehouse. Today, however, you quickly realize there won't be any time for that. The sun's already up, and you should've been up by 5:30AM.

It also dawns on you that there's someone in your bed. Wait what? There's someone in your bed, with their arm wrapped around your waist, and their front completely pressed to your back. You internally panic for a moment, before memories from last night begin flooding your mind.

Gorgeous eyes. A lot of flirting. A few drinks. And then, two times on the couch, and three in the bedroom. Oh. Right.

You couldn't wait to tell Hen all about it at work. She was the one who'd told you to get out there, after all. But first, you had to figure out how to get this stranger out of your bed. Or at least slip into the shower and hope he gets the hint and leaves while you're in there.

Your nose scrunches in concentration, as you pull his arm off of your waist slowly. He makes a noise in protest, but you pay it no mind. You quickly slip out of bed and bend down to grab your robe off of the floor. As you pull it closed quickly, you hear a breathy laugh from behind you.

You glance behind you immediately to meet the stranger in your bed's eyes, looking your practically half naked body up and down. He has an arm behind his head, and he seems to be enjoying the show. You frown to hide your immediate attraction to him. Yep, his eyes are still pretty gorgeous.

His smile immediately disappears as he seems to remember he might be late to something, a job, hopefully? He grabs his phone off of your nightstand and checks the time, disappointment marring his features. Maybe he was hoping for another round in the shower. Something you wouldn't have been completely opposed to.

No, you need to get him out of here!

Thankfully, he gets up and begins dressing, grabbing anything he can find off of the floor and throwing it on.

“Um, good morning,” he says quickly, “And um, thank you?”

You laugh at his apparent gratitude. If you're remembering correctly, you should be the one thanking him.

“You're welcome?” you reply, your voice laced with hesitancy “uh, if it helps, I don't usually do this either.”

He smiles, looking down, as he pulls his pants closed. His shirt's buttons are still open and he looks good enough to eat.

“Not sure that it does,” he says, “I'm really sorry. I'd stay, really. But I'm gonna be late. Which isn't what you want to be on your first day.”

You nod quickly, trying to seem as understanding as possible. He's unbelievably beautiful, but you really need to start getting ready so there's no room to talk.

“Uh, nope. It's no problem. I'm gonna head into the shower. And you won't be here when I come back,” you assert, hoping he gets the hint, “so goodbye...?”

You blank, realizing you don't even remember his name. Did you even catch it with all of the... Wow. You can't believe you slept with someone and can't even remember his name.

His mouth splits into a smile, “Eddie. It's Eddie. Goodbye. And, thanks again...”

He says your name, and you start feeling really bad. You nod anyway, and run into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you. You lock it, and wait until you hear the front door shut to turn on the water, dipping underneath it, and washing away whatever happened last night.

You're so glad you won't see him again.

The rest of your morning is going exceptionally normally. You head into the firehouse, walking alongside Hen. You can't keep your mouth closed, so you start gossiping about last night immediately, sparing many graphic details, but telling her the important stuff.

“It was great. And the best part's I don't have to let anyone down easy. What happened happened, and I don't have to deal with the consequences of it, because I have absolutely no idea who he is,” you say laughing.

“Yeah, you seem a lot less pent up. I'm glad my advice saved you,” she responds, wiggling her eyebrows.

You roll your eyes in her direction, “I wouldn't say saved.”

Cap's unusually cheery, loud greetings for everyone spare you from dealing with Hen with a thoroughly stroked ego. His abnormal attitude makes you snicker at him. Did he have a one night stand? Oh, god. Is that what you sound like?

“You are cheery?” Hen questions, stealing the question right off your lips.

“Why shouldn't I be?” Bobby asks.

“It's weird. Please stop,” you joke, sounding like a teenager embarrassed by her father.

“Yeah, what's going on with you?”

Buck interrupts what you're sure was going to be a very fascinating lie from Bobby, announcing his body fat's just dropped a half percent.

“Uh, congrats?” you offer, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Buck begins to mansplain what the scan he did's for, and chimney interrupts him.

“They measure the fat in your head?”

You laugh, crossing the circle to offer Chim a high-five, which he takes gladly.

Buck, however, isn't taking it as well, “See, that would be funny, but we're about a week away from submissions being due for the Hot Days, Smouldering Nights: Men of the LAFD Wall Calendar, and I'm already at my goal weight. So it seems like my head is clearly working perfectly.”

“Well, that title doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, does it?” you comment.

“Did you really have to use that whole title? You could just say the idiotic, reductive, sexist, calendar that insults the dignity of this organization, and furthers the myth that all firefighters are male,” Hen scolds, and you shoot her a wide grin.

Buck pauses, “Yeah, that's not any less words.”

Captain Nash seems to agree, “Hen, C'mon. It's for charity.”

“Oh no,” you lament.

“Bobby, you too?”

“Why not? They say a man is sexiest when he reaches 50.”

“Is that what they say? Oh, that's what they say?”

You grimace, “that can't be true.”

Chimney interjects with his own idea, “See I think you're all wrong, I think sorority houses all over this great nation are ready for a new Asian sex symbol. It's our time.”

“Hell, yeah. I'm betting on Chimney,” you say happily, dying to see where this goes.

Buck ignores you, “Well, I think it's great. I like that you're both going up for it.” He can't even manage sounding genuine.

“Ooh,” Cap begins, “because you don't think we have a chance...”

You hold back a laugh, simply living for this unfolding drama.

You tune them out for a moment and then hear Chimney going on about...

“Okay, that, is a beautiful man.”

“Where's the lie? And I like girls,” Hen comments, and that piques your interest.

You direct your gaze to where they're all looking and your jaw unhinges at the joint. This is a sight you're familiar with. Unfortunately.

Hen's smirking at you for all the wrong reasons. She thinks you find him attractive. And, God, you do. You proved just as much last night. But this can't be happening. Please, universe, no.

“Who the hell is that?” Buckley asks, jealousy lacing his tone.

Please not him. Please not him. Please not him.

“Eddie Diaz, new recruit,” Bobby says, “graduated top of his class just this week.”

You try your hardest to control yourself, but you find yourself gulping, and choking. What? You're choking. On your own spit.

You can't stop coughing loudly. Make it stop, please. Every pair of eyes in the station is on you, and you can feel your cheeks growing red, as you cough three more times.

You bend over, and Hen gives you three blows to the back, then you're standing up straight and breathing normally. Once they've checked in, and made sure you're alright Bobby begins talking all about your one-night-stand-turned-coworker’s achievements and assets.

You believe you might keel over and die.

Bobby starts insisting on introducing you all to him. Your fight-or-flight response begins to take over and you quickly excuse yourself to the bathroom, citing your choking earlier. Anything to avoid meeting this guy. Again. Fuck.

You stay in the bathroom for as long as you can, but eventually duty calls and the firehouse alarm blares. You make your way outside quickly, ducking into the firetruck.

You find yourself sitting face to face with the man you're desperately trying to avoid. So much for that.

His eyes come up to meet yours and you register the exact moment he pieces it together. You think you might keel over and die again.

You can see his chest rise and fall a little quicker than before. His eyes are fixed on your face, trailing down to your lips and back up to your eyes, and somewhere in the distance Hen starts introducing you to him, but you can tell he isn't listening either.

What the hell is up with his eyes? Are they sparkling? Is that possible?

Hen clears her throat very loudly and it startles the both of you into attention.

“Damn, did either of you even hear a thing I said?” she asks, with a knowing smile on her face.

You give Hen a look that screams 'Save me.' Thankfully, she understands, and redirects the conversation to ask Eddie if he knows anything about the firefighter calendar.

You mouth a 'thank you' to her, when you realize Eddie's finally taken his eyes off of you.

Your first call with new recruit proves to be easier than expected. He keeps his hands and eyes off of you, even on the ride back, a fact you're incredibly grateful for.

You manage to masterfully avoid him for the rest of your shift. You also manage to avoid telling Hen about the whole him-being-the-one-night-stand-you've-been-so-happy-to-avoid thing, by some miracle.

But, good things never last, and as you're getting ready to leave, he corners you. Literally. Into your own locker, of all things.

“Hey,” is all he says.

And you forget how to breathe. That's stupid. You're a grown woman, and a firefighter, who breathes every single day of her life, thank you very much. It's very, very difficult to breathe right now, though. When he has an arm (a very large arm, you note) resting against the open side of your locker, and the locker door's blocking the other, leaving you feeling completely helpless.

As you look up into his eyes, you can practically hear that one part in Angeleyes by ABBA play in your mind, and it's all so stupid.

Look into his angel eyes, one look and you're hypnotized.

You burst out laughing, naturally. And he looks at you like you've gone insane, which is completely valid. He has a small smile on his face, too, though, like your laugh might be easing his soul.

“Um...” you begin, clearing your throat and willing yourself to stop laughing, “Sorry, I just remembered a very funny joke.”

He nods at your explanation, his gaze following your smile as you duck your head to let out one last giggle.

You blink quickly and remember to finally ask why he's cornered you like this.

“So, what's up with this?” you question, looking at the arm trapping you with a slightly annoyed look.

He apologizes, and brings his arm close to his person, but doesn't move any farther away.

“You're good,” you justify, “So, what do you need?”

“Hey, I'm just going a little insane here,” he starts, “You're her. From last night. Right? 'Cause you share the same name, and face, and everything.”

You're glad he whispers the last part.

You nod in confirmation. Unfortunately, the next time you speak you both do it at the same time.

“You can just forget about it all,” you reassure.

“Will you go out with me?” he asks.

You blink rapidly at him, a frown overtaking your features. No, no, no. Oh, no.

He smiles awkwardly, looking away.

You huff a little, “Listen, Eddie. I'm sure you're great. I'm just not looking for anything serious right now.”

He nods in understanding, stepping away.

“Also, we have a pretty carefully curated dynamic here at the 118. Please don't ruin it. Not that you'd do it on purpose. Just don't take this rejection too seriously. We could always be friends,” you suggest.

“Well, I'll definitely try my hardest. At not ruining your dynamic,” he begins to walk away, “And the other thing.”

“What other thing?” you yell after him.

“Asking you out,” he smiles over his shoulder, “I'm not giving up that easy, hermosa.”

Hell no. Hell yes. You wanted nothing to do with this. You wanted everything to do with him.

You turn around and whisper shout 'what the fuck' at your locker, before slamming it shut. You're pretty sure you'll probably be downing a bottle of red wine as you set about cleaning him and his scent out of your house, and your bed tonight.

And you do.

A day later, Buckley offers you should train with him at the in-house gym to pass the time. It's a pretty slow day and you've come to tolerate him now that he isn't trying to get into your pants. So, you agree.

You're deep in your fourteenth, fifteenth? squat when you see Eddie staring at you through the mirror. Buckley's somewhere in the distance taking selfies. You narrow your eyes at Eddie in the mirror to make it abundantly clear that yes, you can see him, and no, he doesn't have your permission to stare.

He looks away, and at least he has the nerve to look a little abashed. You smile to yourself. He's pretty damn cute, if you say so yourself. But you can't get involved right now. He was just supposed to be meaningless sex. Amazing meaningless sex, but meaningless nonetheless.

You can hear him mention something about the lighting to Buck, and you laugh at how defensive Buckley gets. When Eddie pulls up his own pictures your curiosity is piqued and you take a look from the corner of your eye. You see he's noticed that though, and he's giving you a grin.

You roll your eyes when Eddie accidentally gets a rise out of Buck. It was true, everyone knew Buck was single now, but telling him to his face was uncalled for.

You focus on weights for the rest of your workout and try your best to ignore Eddie passing by the open gym a million times, and his eyes, which are subtly (not) fixed on you every single time.

The earth-quake happens a week later. Eddie's still persistent. He asks you out to dinner every other day, and insists he'll keep doing so until you say yes. You roll your eyes every time and reiterate that you really don't want anything serious right now. But it's more like ever. You're not a commitmentphobe, really. You just don't like being held down.

And dating a single dad isn't exactly your idea of free flying. It makes you like him more, somehow, the fact that he has a kid. He's responsible, and he seems like a pretty great father. But it also makes you 10 times more vigilant for him out in the field.

It's the reason why you're not happy about being assigned different areas of this hotel completely rocked by the 7.1 earthquake. Yep, the only reason. His kid seems to precious to orphan.

You try your best to focus on your work, though. This job's already daunting enough without having to worry about anyone else. That's another reason you can't afford to go out with him. You simply wouldn't be able to do your job. It'd be a mess.

You're glad when you save Jeff from underneath the rubble, and he gets to keep his leg. You're even happier to see Hen come out with Kat. But your heart soars, when you realize Eddie made it out okay.

When you get home, you decide to pull out your phone and text him. This is casual, you tell yourself. So very casual. I'm just checking up on a coworker, who I care about very deeply. Casually, of course.

Hey, your kid okay?

Yeah, he's alright. Thanks for asking. ;)

You laugh at his text. So stupid.

You decide to send another one, not wanting the conversation to end quite yet.

And you?

I'm okay. But I could've died today. How horrible would you feel if I had died and you hadn't gone out with me?

You're so full of yourself.

Go out with me? Next weekend? Please.

You find yourself typing before you can even think. It's getting kind of pathetic, honestly. And you'd feel pretty evil if you said no after the day you've both had.

Fine. You better make it worth my time.

Wouldn't dream of anything less. Goodnight.

Goodnight. To you and the kid.

After that, you can't get much sleep. You toss and turn, contemplating whether or not this is a bad idea. Hopefully not. You'll have to tell Hen eventually too. Ugh. You wonder why the hell you ever listen to her.

It isn't just the bad stuff on your mind, though. You're replaying every single interaction you've ever had with him like a drug who's high you can't get enough of. God help you.

“Are you… okay?” he asks. His eyes roam around the entryway, gently guiding you into the apartment so he can close the door.

That’s fair. You had been getting cold, goosebumps breaking out on your arms. You inch a little closer to him, trying to relish in the warmth radiating from his body. “Yep! We’re celebrating! Kinda. He should be back soon.”

“What are you kind of celebrating?” the stranger seems amused, echoing your words.

“My mom died. I feel bad for thinking she deserves it, and I also feel bad because I miss my mom. Parents are—they’re complicated.”

“Yeah, they—”

The door opens again.

“Eddie? I saw your car—”

“Buck!” you cheer.

“Buck,” Eddie greets.

You let out a loud gasp, interrupting them. “Wait, you’re Eddie?!” You turn back to the man who still has warm hands on your bare arms. You throw yourself against him, embracing him like you’re long-lost friends and not strangers who have just met five seconds ago. “Aw, you are as pretty as Buck says you are. How’s Chris?”

Eddie hesitates. “Chris is—”

“Oooookay.” Buck, face beginning to redden, scoops you away from Eddie. “Let’s get you in some clothes.”

“And more drinks.”

“Yeah, I got that too.”

“Thanks, Buck. You’re the best,” you say. You pad upstairs to his bedroom. Or, try to. Somehow, again, you trip.

“Whoa, okay—!” This time, Buck is the one that catches you before you face-plant onto the stairs.

“The stairs hate me,” you whine, sullen. Your mood’s tanked, a complete 180 from the joy you had expressed not five seconds ago.

“No. No, they don't, honey.”

“Yes, they do. They don’t want me. No one wants me.”

“That’s not true.” Buck cups your face, leaning down to face you. Even drunk, he doesn’t want you to entertain that possibility.

“Uh.” Eddie clears his throat.

When you both look up from your drunken pity party, you see Eddie holding out his jacket in your direction.

“Since the stairs hate you,” he offers.

You sniffle as Buck takes the jacket, wrapping it around your body. “Thank you,” you say wetly.

Eddie nods in acknowledgement.

“Thanks,” Buck says. He rubs your arms, then leads you to the couch, depositing you on it.

“Drink,” you call out in reminder.

“Yeah, I’ll get them.” He meets Eddie’s eyes, chin gesturing towards the kitchen.

They head off, and you promptly fall asleep on the couch.

2.

The second time you meet Eddie Diaz, you’re a little more clear-headed, though nursing a nauseating hangover. You groan before pasting on a smile. “Hi.”

“We’ve met,” Eddie says, thoroughly entertained by the turn of events. Not that he thinks you deserve what is sure to be a hangover of titanic proportions, but he’s tickled by your unlucky demise.

“So I’ve heard,” you say, scratching your nose in embarrassment. “Buck told me. Anyway, I promise, I’m a lot more composed than that. That was—humiliating. And I don’t really remember anything, so I do apologise if I said or did anything that might have offended you—”

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t say anything.”

“At least there’s that.” You take a sip of your coffee, grimacing. You definitely need it to remain awake, but you’re sure it’s going to go through you in an unpleasant way.

“So, how’d you two meet?”

“Library,” you say. Both your gazes gravitate to Buck—he’s chatting to the cashier by the register, ordering food for the three of you. “I was working. He wanted some help on some parenting books,” you say absently.

“Oh,” Eddie says. There’s something swarming in his stomach at the thought of Buck in the library, lost, looking for books on how to raise a kid. For Chris.

You gasp, jolting in your seat.

Eddie startles, looking around the café wildly, uncertain of your reaction.

“I’m not supposed to tell you that,” you say, covering your mouth.

He visibly relaxes, sinking against his seat again. “No? He tell you to keep it a secret from me?”

“No. It’s library privacy policy. Patrons are entitled to privacy when it comes to their borrowing history. I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

You nod, but your hand remains over your mouth. “Thank you.”

When Buck comes back, he sits beside you, one arm across the back of your chair. “They said it should only take another 20.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie reassures.

“But Chris—”

“Carla has him. And she’s sticking around for dinner if you two want to join.”

“I get to meet Chris?” you ask, uncertain. You didn’t think Eddie would be so willing to let strangers meet his son. Sure, you’re the partner of his best friend, but you’re essentially strangers. Hell, the first time you’ve met the guy, you were so drunk you didn’t remember. You think you behaviour screams irresponsible adult.

“Yeah. Any friend of Buck’s is a friend of Chris. He loves the guy.”

Buck ducks his head when you turn to look at him.

“You guys are so sweet,” you say.

Just as your food arrives, you feel your stomach gurgle. And not in the I’m starving way that you had been before you downed your coffee. It’s heavy, and you feel yourself begin to sweat.

“I… need to go,” you say quietly.

“What?” Buck furrows his brows, fork midway to his plate. “But the food just got here.”

“I know. You guys can have it. Or I can take it home. I just… I really need to go. I think it’s the hangover, I’m not really feeling well, and I—”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Eddie pipes in.

When you look at him, there’s genuine concern on his face, like he’s afraid he overstepped.

“What? No, you—” you start.

“I know Chris is my kid, and he’s technically Buck’s too, but it doesn’t have to mean anything if you’re not—”

“No, oh my God, that’s not—”

“I promise, I didn’t mean—”

“Guys, I think—”

“I need to use the bathroom!” you interrupt. Your face is hot. Your stomach is twisting. You avoid looking at either of the two men. And anyone else at the cafe. Just in case you were louder than necessary. You can’t really tell—your head is pounding. “I think mixing coffee with the hangover isn’t agreeing with my stomach, so I really need to use the bathroom. For a while. I was trying to make a tactful exit. It’s got nothing to do with meeting Chris, but I would love to. I’m so sorry.” Then you scamper off to the bathroom.

3.

You’re sure he’s an incredibly kind man, but you never want to see Eddie Diaz again.

“Baby,” Buck coos, bundling you up. He drops onto your couch, you situated on top of him. He’s facing the muted TV screen, while your legs are sprawled atop the seat cushions. His hand rub your legs.

“Noooooo,” you bemoan. “Dinner can’t happen. I’m going to combust into flames if I see him again.”

“Well, it’s lucky we’re both firefighters,” Buck teases, kissing your cheek.

You groan even louder. “I can never show my face in public again.”

“That’s a shame. It’s a really pretty face.”

“We’ll have to be hermits for the rest of our lives. I’m not going back out there.”

Buck feels something flutter in his stomach at the mention of rest of our lives. “Yeah?” He clears his throat when it comes out hoarser than he'd like. “And rob the world of two pretty faces?”

You tuck your face into his neck. Lips against soft skin, kissing him; you feel him shiver against you. “My baby’s head is so, so big. We’re lucky you’ve got a good heart, and you’re not some weird narcissist with an ego and an ugly personality.”

“You can thank Maddie for that.”

You hum, not wanting to verbally disagree. You’re sure his sister did a great job raising Buck, but you know he’s who he is due to himself. Maybe Maddie planted the seed, but Buck watered and bloomed the flower in spite of everything.

“Eddie says it’s okay, you know. That you don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“Oh my God, you talked to him?”

“Yeah, obviously.”

You hadn’t seen him after you had run for the bathroom. When you were done in the cubicles, you stayed by the sinks, texting Buck, demanding that he send Eddie away with his share of the food before you came out again. And if Eddie hadn’t left, you would have stayed in the café’s bathroom until closing time.

Eddie, obviously, had other commitments with Chris, so left easily. No hard feelings, according to what Buck relayed.

But still. You’re mortified. You may not remember what happened the first time you met him, but you distinctly recall prancing around Buck’s apartment, practically naked, getting drunker and drunker as the night went on. If Eddie came after that, well. Wasted you is something you typically try to avoid, but finding out your mother had passed away brought up complicated and ugly feelings you would have rather forgotten.

“I don’t want you moping around by yourself.”

“I don’t mope.”

Buck says your name warningly. He’s serious, and he rarely is.

You sniff. You know his heart is in the right place. “Okay.”

Dinner passes without incident, surprisingly for you. Christopher Diaz in an angel that absolutely adores his father and worships Buck. Carla is a gorgeous soul that loves her boys so much. But not once do they make you feel like an outsider.

The adults are a little more tactful, but Chris tugging you over to the couch to play games to help “cheer you up” clues you into the real reason for the dinner. You know that Buck didn’t want you moping alone, but surmise that Buck managed to rope Eddie, Christopher, and Carla into this too.

But it’s fine. You look over Chris’ head, watching the three of them converse as they clean up the kitchen. And as if Buck notices your gaze, he looks up from the plate he’s clearing, sending you a smile.

You smile back, feeling warm.

A week later, and another one of Buck’s days off brings you grocery shopping with him. And Eddie. Running errands with Buck is a usual occurrence. Completing errands with your boyfriend and his best friend, however, is not. They’d been trying to re-sync their grocery runs for a while, apparently.

Buck presses a kiss to your forehead, throwing a wave over his shoulder as he trudges through the pantry aisle, leaving you with the other half of the list. And Eddie.

“Sorry,” Eddie says. “If I knew you were spending the day together, I wouldn’t have tried to do this with Buck.”

“It’s okay,” you reassure. “Though, it seems like this is your thing to do together, and I’m the one intruding.”

Eddie snorts, shaking his head. “Not sure I want to know what that means.”

“It means, Diaz, one of us is third-wheeling and I’m pretty sure it’s not you.”

“No, c’mon—”

He’s interrupted by your name being called out. You whirl towards the voice, seeing—

“Oh no,” you let out.

“What?”

“My ex.”

“Oh. Awkward.”

“Extremely.” This is not your regular grocery store. You’re here because this is the one that Buck likes going with Eddie. Your local haunt did not include your ex, which was partly why you had chosen it when you first moved away from him.

“Hey!” Your ex, Ben, looms over you, pulling you into a hug that you make no effort to return.

“Hey,” you greet flatly.

“Did you move again? I don’t remember ever seeing you around here.”

“Um, no. I’m grocery shopping with my—boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Ben’s gaze slides toward Eddie, who’s awkwardly hovering near you. Ben sticks his hand out. “Ben.”

You’re quickly realising your mistake.

Eddie shakes his offered hand. “Eddie.”

You turn your head to meet Eddie’s gaze, mouthing please. You just need him to go along with it. The last thing you want is for Ben to overstay the chance meeting any further. Especially if Buck is going to come back with his share of the shopping and you’ve not started on your half.

Eddie has a tight smile on his face as he lets go of Ben’s hand.

You surreptitiously inch closer to Eddie’s side, and his arm easily slings over your shoulders. You definitely owe him one.

“How’s your mom?” Ben asks.

“She’s dead.” You paste on a smile.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. I figured. You weren’t at the funeral.”

“I thought—I mean, no one told me,” he says, defensively.

“Yeah. That tends to happen when no one wants to tell you things.”

“Are you still mad at me?” Ben asks, like he’s the poor victim of a wrongful grudge; like you should have forgiven him by now.

You blink at him. “Uh—yeah, dude. That’s what happens when you sleep with someone’s mom.”

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters under his breath. His hand squeezes your shoulder. There’s a concerned furrow between his brows. Parents are complicated, you had said. There’s complicated, and then there’s this, he thinks. A ‘kind of celebration’ seems ill-fitting and apt, all at once.

Ben’s eyes narrow at Eddie, attention drawn onto him. It makes something in you flare up—Eddie doesn’t need it, but you want to protect him from Ben and what experience tells you can be sharp, harsh words. “How long have you been seeing him for? Is he why you didn’t return my calls?”

“Are you stu—serious? Are you serious?” you ask.

Eddie ducks his head, clearing his throat to cover what you think sounds suspiciously like a laugh. His face is smoothed out when he looks up at Ben. “Come on, dude. I’m pretty sure your calls haven’t been going through for a different reason.” Eddie wouldn’t blame you if you were either ignoring them, or had already blocked Ben’s number.

Ben scowls at him. “Butt out, Edward. Mind your fucking business.”

“It’s Eddie. And it is my business. I’m literally the boyfriend.”

You suck in a breath, covering up your reaction by stepping forward. Eddie’s hand grazes against your arm as the weight slides off. “I think you should leave us alone. I don’t really want to talk to you.”

“You and your grudges.” Ben rolls his eyes. “You don’t even like your mom. Even before all of that happened. But no—everything always happens to you, and you’re always the victim, and it’s always someone else’s fault.”

“Go to Hell, Ben.”

“What happened to needing me? What happened to being desperate for me? You used to be all over me—” He grabs your arm when you try to walk away from his tirade.

“Get off—”

“Back off.” Eddie wrenches the guy away from you, standing between you and Ben.

Your heart thuds in your chest.

Ben’s gaze flickers between Eddie, and you behind him. “Enjoy the sloppy seconds. You’ll get bored, sooner than later.”

Eddie reaches behind him, his hand taking a hold of your wrist, taking a step backwards towards you. “Go fuck yourself, actually.” Without waiting for a response, he marches you both through the aisles, wounding through them until you lose sight of Ben.

“Sorry,” you finally say. “Sorry about saying you were my boyfriend.”

There’s a beat of silence as he lets go of your wrist. You pretend to investigate the shelves.

“Does Buck know about him?” Eddie asks.

“That he’s here? Probably not. That I have an ex that slept with my mom? Yeah. That was a third date story. Lucky you for finding out now.”

“Seems like a piece of work.”

You snort. “Yeah. Eight months of him on his best behaviour, until I got comfortable enough to let him meet my parents. It was like a flip switched, and I had no idea who this new person was.”

“How long ago was that?”

Taking a bottle of condiment of the shelf, your eyes scan over the ingredients on the back. “Two years ago, maybe? Really did a number on my ability to trust in potential partners.”

“At least you met Buck.”

You smile. “Yeah. It helps that my competition just died.”

He chokes on a sharp bark of laughter. “Jesus.”

Silence lapse between you two again.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. It’s—yeah. I’m okay.”

“Did he hurt you?”

You look up at him, seeing concern in his eyes. You shake your head. “No. He—he was mean, sometimes, but he never got physical like that before.”

“That’s the first time?”

“Yeah. He’s—mad, probably. I don’t know. I was fine forgetting about him.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Hey, there you guys are.” Buck’s voice pops in. His basket jostles, one of his arms resting on Eddie’s shoulders. “Did you even look for anything?” He eyes both your empty baskets.

“We got distracted. Funny story, actually,” you say. “You remember Ben?”

Buck frowns. “The one that slept with your mom?”

You nod. “He’s here, by the way. I may have told him Eddie was my boyfriend to get away from him.”

The only response is Buck laughing.

“Stop that. Stop laughing.” You, yourself, are trying not to laugh, attempting indignation at the situation. Trying to find solidarity in Eddie proves futile. Eddie has his lips pressed together, looking everywhere but you and Buck.

You feign stomping away, but really, you just need to get the grocery shopping done and get out of here. Hopefully without ever seeing Ben again.

“You’re always in situations,” Buck says between chuckles. He easily catches up to you with long strides.

“Me? Says the firefighter that’s always in situations.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you and Eddie say at the same time.

“Hah! See?” You share a fist bump with Eddie. “Situations. Eddie works with you and he still agrees with me.”

“That’s not fair.”

You look down at your list as Buck and Eddie continue bickering. Lettuce. Cucumbers. “Did you get the juice?” You start rifling through Buck’s basket.

“No, that was on yours.”

“Oh. It’s not written here, but I can get it.” You write out orange juice before you can forget.

“You’re in as many situations as I am, though,” Buck explains to Eddie. “We have the same calls.”

“I handle them better than you do,” Eddie says.

“He does,” you agree.

“You’re not even there,” Buck exclaims. How did he turn into the one being made fun of when it started with you?

“No, but I get enough texts about it.” You clear your throat, doing your best Buck impression. “Oh my God, Eddie lifted me up the wall today. The harness was so slack—he did all of the work. Some girls were flirting with Eddie and—”

“Ooookay!” Buck encircles his arm around your shoulders, planting a kiss on your lips to silence you. He snatches the list from between your fingers. “I’m going to do the rest of the shopping. See you. Love you.” He kisses your cheek and runs off.

You turn to Eddie, still grinning. His cheeks are red. “I told you I was third-wheeling you guys.”

4.

Your hips move against his hand, his fingers buried inside you. Bitten off gasps as you curl forwards, your forehead against his shoulder.

Buck hums, pressing kisses to your shoulder. “There you go.”

“Buck,” you whine.

He shushes you, even though he shifts, fingers moving in the exact right way that hits your—

“Ah, Buck, yes yes, there.”

“There?”

Even though you can’t see his face, you’re so sure there’s that smug little smirk on his face.

“Oh, please,” you beg. Your arms encircle his broad shoulders, trying to give yourself more leverage to fuck yourself on his fingers.

“Please what, baby?”

“I want to feel you inside me.”

“I am inside you.”

You whine, shaking your head. “I need your cock. Please.”

“You will, sweetheart. Just want you to come on my fingers, first. Get you all nice and ready for me.”

You let out something between a moan and another noise of protest. He had been quick to realise you liked coming even before he even got his cock in you. And who was he to say no to that, even with your impatience?

“That’s it. I got you.”

You know you’re straddling the line, hips moving at their own pace. Buck uses his other hand to lift your head, lips against your neck, kissing, sucking. You moan, feeling yourself clench around his fingers.

“C’mon, beautiful. I know you want to. I know you’ve been thinking about me filling you up all day.”

“Ohhh, Buck, yes, please. Please please.”

“Just come for me first, baby. Then I’ll give you what you want.”

There’s a sound in your throat, high and reedy and you feel it build in your stomach. You reach down, providing additional stimulation.

Buck nips at your neck, and you moan, grinding down into both yours and his fingers.

“That’s it, baby.”

You clench tightly around his fingers as you come. “Buck, Buck, yes yes, yes, oh my God, I’m coming.”

“There you go. God, you’re so beautiful,” Buck murmurs against your neck, his fingers still pumping inside you. An arm secured around your waist, weighing you down into his fingers. Your hips rolling, drawing out your orgasm.

You whine, gasping. You’re not sure who moves first, but your lips are crushed together. Wet, open-mouthed kisses. Your arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. You’re boneless with his fingers crooked inside, repetitive motion of fingers curling back and forth, rubbing that spot inside you.

“Buck,” you whimper. You bite at his neck, your form of retaliation to how sensitive he’s making you feel.

“I got you,” he says, chuckling at your defiance. It’s cute.

“Need you. Please.”

Buck removes his fingers from inside you, and you blindly reach down to jerk his cock. Once, twice.

Buck moans into another kiss, feeling a small semblance of relief. He’s so desperate to be inside you. His hands on your waist, effortlessly lifting you. Your hand guiding his length to your opening, slick and warm.

A slow, tortuous slide. You’re both moaning again—it feels heavenly, to finally have him inside you. He bottoms out. You rest your forehead against his cheek, slowly rolling your hips against him.

“Baby.” Buck’s fingers dig into your skin.

You need him, you want him to leave imprints of himself across your flesh. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too.”

“Fuck me, Buck.”

And he does. Arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place as he fucks up into your tight, warm heat. You’re gasping, breathless and so, so full of him. The only thing you can do is hold on.

Gasps, higher pitched noises released between you. He loves every one. He groans, low in his throat, forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“Hey, Buck—oh shit—”

“Eddie—!”

“Oh my—”

You didn’t even hear the door open. You instinctively turn towards the new voice—Eddie’s voice—but Buck’s hands grip your waist, rolling you both until your back meets the couch cushions. He’s looming over you, hiding you from view.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry—!” Eddie immediately pivots, ducking behind the wall of the entryway.

You and Buck are left staring at each other with wide-eyes. He climbs off of you as you harmlessly slap at Buck’s shoulder.

“Oh my God, do you guys have keys to each other’s places?” you hiss.

“Well, yeah.” Buck scrambles to get his clothes on. “One minute, Eddie!” he calls out.

“No!” Eddie yells back. “It’s okay! It can wait until tomorrow!”

“Too late for that, buddy!” you pipe in. You pick up a shirt, slipping it on before finding your underwear. You tuck yourself under the lone blanket on the couch. Buck had suggested taking your activities upstairs. You, however… are now regretting not listening to him.

“Sorry,” Eddie says, again, loud enough for both of you to hear.

Buck presses a kiss to your forehead before he darts out from behind the floating stairs.

“I’m sorry, I should have called,” you hear Eddie say in a low voice.

Your head thumps against the couch.

You could suffocate yourself under the blanket. That would save you from the embarrassment. Excellent plan.

5.

“What are you doing here?” you frown, jaw clenching, swallowing thickly.

“The hospital called me,” your dad says. He hovers near the door, having only taken a couple steps into the room. He doesn’t come any nearer; always distant.

You drop your head into a nod. “Emergency contact.”

“You forgot to update it.”

“Yeah. I did.” But you don’t even know who it would have been updated to. Your only other family is your father, even if he lives out of state.

The way he looks at you radiates disapproval.

“I didn’t end up here on purpose.” This time goes unspoken. You recall a previous hospital visitation from him in your teenage years, your mother oscillating between crying and screaming at you for your stupidity. How could you do this to me? You ungrateful child.

Your dad looks at you, weighing the world against what he sees. “I can’t tell with you, sometimes.”

Your eyes well with tears. You wonder what he sees. If he sees the same thing you do when you wake every morning, maybe that explains why he’s constantly disappointed.

You look away, staring at the blanket. “The doctors said I’ll be good to go tomorrow morning.”

“Good. I need to get back home. I travelled far to get here, you know?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“And you need to be more careful. Your mother is gone, now.”

“I know.”

“She wouldn’t like seeing you this way.”

“She wouldn’t care.”

And he doesn’t dispute it.

You let out a shuddering breath the same time the door closes behind him as he leaves. You lean into the pillows behind you, your good hand shakily covering your face as you cry.

You’re alone.

Tomorrow morning comes, and you’re released by the hospital. They sent you away with a sling for your fractured clavicle, and some ointment and additional dressing for the small burns on your side.

You know Buck’s a phone call away.

He’s triple texted you, and had attempted to call you once during the time of the incident, and another time whilst you were in the hospital. He still doesn’t know what happened. You hadn’t had a chance to call him, and no one else knew he existed in your life.

The phone’s pressed to your ear, the dial tone ringing.

“Hey.” He picks up after the third ring, voice breathless. “Are you okay? You disappeared.” There’s something cautious in his tone. You know you put it there.

Your last text to him was yesterday at the start of your lunch break. It wasn’t even a text—you laugh reacted to something that he had sent in the morning, intending to reply after getting your food. For all intents and purposes, you’ve ghosted him for 22 hours. You feel something in your chest squeeze.

“Can you come over? Or—or I can come over?”

“Are you okay?” he asks again, because you’re avoiding his question.

“I—no.” You suck in a breath. “Yes. Yes and no. There was a fire at work. I think the 133 got to us.”

“What? What happened? Where are you?”

“I’m at home. I just—I don’t know know if I want to be alone. My dad came by, in the hospital. He’s my emergency contact, so he’s the only person that knows what happened, and I just—”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll be there. Just sit tight.”

It simultaneously feels like the longest and shortest wait time. The drive between you isn’t a long one. Especially out of peak hour traffic, which it is, given that it’s almost 10 in the morning.

When you open the door, Buck cups your face between his palms, fingers ghosting over the bruises on your face. “Hey,” he whispers.

“Hi,” you croak out. You tuck yourself against his chest, and his arms gingerly wrap around you. He’s scared to hurt you.

“I got you.” And it sounds like a promise.

You get deposited on the couch, and Buck tries not to, you know he tries not to, but he can’t help but hover. He’s essentially waiting on you, hand and foot.

“Babe,” you say, slotting a palm against his cheek. “You don’t need to do this.”

“I want to.”

“I know. But you don’t need to. It’s okay.”

“I didn’t hear from you,” he whispers, a soft confession.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I just… I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know if you were…”

“Running away?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m right here.” You place your head against his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Sometime later, he asks if Eddie can come by. “Chris is doing dinner with friends, apparently. Eddie wanted to hang but if we’re here, then maybe he can come here instead.”

This wouldn’t be the first time Eddie visited your apartment. Or Chris. Since the grocery store incident, you’ve started hanging out as the weeks went on. Most of the time, it’s the three of you. Buck, somehow, and yet predictably, doesn’t know how to separate his time off between his best friend and partner.

Grocery shopping remains a Buck and Eddie adventure, since you didn’t want risk running into Ben. But you still did other things—lazy movie nights, pizza parties, board games; one accidental sleepover at Eddie’s place. The crick in your neck told you that couch was not made for two people to fall asleep on.

You find your social circle is incredibly small outside of coworkers and work acquaintances. The camaraderie at your work doesn’t quite hold a flame to the bonds between the 118, but that doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy the occasional outing.

“Yeah. Two birds, one stone. I don’t want you to use your day off to babysit me.”

“Hey, no, I’m not babysitting. I would have wanted to be with you, anyway.” He crowds into your space, kissing your forehead. “Okay?”

“You’re sweet.”

Buck hums before he pecks your lips. “I’ll do dinner for you guys.”

“Check the fridge. You might need to buy extra stuff.”

“Alright. I’ll handle it. You sit here and look pretty. Hey, look, you’re doing great already.”

You can’t help the grin, pulling him in for another kiss. “Says the pretty boy.”

“We can both be pretty. Okay—when Eddie gets here, you stay. I’ll get the door.”

“But—”

“You. Stay.” He takes the remote from the coffee table and places it in your hand.

You drop it onto your lap and flip him off. You hear his delighted laughter in response as he busies himself.

Eddie gets here late afternoon, after he drops off Chris with his friends for dinner. True to Buck’s words, you remain on the couch as he gets the door.

You hear them murmur out greetings before Eddie walks over. He squeezes your good shoulder, depositing himself next to you. “You feeling okay?”

“Getting restless.” You hand the remote over to Eddie, setting down the book that you started reading after deciding that you were losing interest in staring at a screen for a few hours.

“Collarbone?”

“Mm. And a few burns. Racking up the scars count.”

“Might be catching up to us.”

“I highly doubt it.”

“I just want to say—if I was a betting man, I would be winning,” Eddie whispers, conspiratorially.

“What?” You perk up. It sounds like gossip—Buck gossip, to be specific.

“He just got a bit mopey about you suddenly ghosted him. I, of course, had your back. Said you wouldn’t do that to him. Something probably happened to keep you away. I was thinking work related, though, not ‘get yourself into hospital’ related.”

“Aw, Eddie. That’s—thank you for not thinking I’m the worst person in the world.”

“Hey. It’s my job to keep him in check for you.”

You lounge on on the couch for until Buck remembers that they need to change your dressing.

“Bath first, and then we’ll get it changed.” He inspects it, lifting up your shirt. Specks of blood and pus seep through. It’s still sore.

Despite your protests that you have working legs (you have a limp. It’s not terrible—you’ve sprained your ankle before), they get you to the bathroom. Your bedroom sits opposite it.

Eddie walks in first, perched on the edge of the tub. He turns the taps on, waiting for the tub to fill. “C’mon. Get your clothes off and get in the bathtub.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Are you propositioning me, Diaz?” Deflection. You’ve learned its the 118’s greatest tactic against traumatic, life-altering events. “While my boyfriend’s in the other room?”

“No—”

“Yes,” Buck calls out. He hovers by the entryway to the bathroom, arms full of laundry he rummaged through your room for. Apparently, you can’t do them yourself. “If it gets you in the tub and cleaned up, then yes. Eddie has my permission to do what he needs.”

You roll your eyes, but it carries no heat. “Fuck you, Buckley.”

“In six to 12 weeks. When you’re recovered.” That Goddamn impish grin takes over his face.

A beat. “You asked my doctor?!”

“So did you.”

“You freak.”

“You like it.”

“Guys.” Eddie clears his throat, busying himself with the taps. He feels warm. It’s probably the steam curling up from the water. And definitely not because he’s thinking about that time he accidentally walked into Buck’s loft when you two were on the couch. Doing… Nope, no sir. He’s not going there today.

“Sorry,” you say, biting down on the smile that seems to take over your face every time you see Buck smile like that.

“Bathtub,” Buck says, and his tone brooks no arguments. Again, his voice is unusually serious and you find that you can never really disagree when he’s in this mood. Maybe he’s picked up on it, and he’s doing it purposefully just to watch you fold. You wouldn’t be surprised.

“I can do it myself. You don’t—thank you, but you don’t really need to be in here, Eddie.” You turn to where Eddie’s perched on the edge of the tub, turning the taps off.

Eddie’s gaze flits from you, to Buck.

You follow his attention, and see the tail end of a nod.

“Fine,” Eddie relents.

“Are you serious?” you demand, gobsmacked. Your eyes are darting between Buck and Eddie. “Why are you acting like he’s the boss of me? You don’t need to check with him to see if I can take a bath by myself—”

“We’re just worried about you.” Buck tries to calm you down.

“Oh, like the both of you’ve never done something this before?”

“That’s why we know you’re being incredibly stubborn when you don’t need to be.”

“We’re going to be outside,” Eddie interjects, before it can turn into another childish bickering match. To be fair, he finds it wholly entertaining, but he came here to help. You quarrelling with each other isn’t helping. “And periodically checking in on you.”

You let out a weighted sigh, while maintaining eye contact with Eddie. Then very obviously roll your eyes, just to let him know of your displeasure. “Fine.”

Eddie shakes his head exasperatedly, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face.

Without further prompting, you unbutton your pants with one hand.

“Oop—that’s my cue.” Eddie pivots on his feet and beelines for the door immediately.

Buck drapes a fresh towel on the towel rack. “We’re right outside, okay?” And his voice is softer. Quieter.

“Okay.”

“Let us know if you need help.” His blue eyes are imploring as he bends down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Please.”

“Okay.” Your resistance deflates, thumping your head against his chest. He’s worried. He has every right to be, you think. If the roles were reversed, you’d want to do the same for him.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too.”

Fifteen minutes later, with three check-ins from them, you’re done. It was like clockwork, and of course it was, because Eddie has a military background. It’s in the name that he’s militant about this kind of stuff.

“Buck, can you change my dressing?” You wander into the kitchen where you can smell him cooking.

He turns from where he’s stationed at the stove. “Eddie, can you take over?”

Eddie, who’s sitting at the counter space on his phone, looks up. “Uh—for the cooking?”

“No, don’t touch my cooking. For the dressing, Mr Medic.”

“Yeah, I can do that. C’mere.”

You draw closer to where he’s sitting, holding out the bag that you had been given on release, the ointment and dressing in there. When he takes it from you, you use your free hand to lift up your shirt. It sucks that you broke your clavicle on your dominant side. You think about trying to eat; you’d probably make a mess.

“Does it hurt?” Eddie asks, focused as he works.

“Kind of. Probably a four out of ten. Was at seven, before.”

“That’s good that it’s gone down. But you know it usually means you’re probably at a five or six?”

“But I said four.”

“People tend to downplay the pain chart.”

“Because it doesn’t really make sense. I don’t have a reference point for a 10.”

Quiet settles between you, and you focus on breathing, staring at a singular point on the wall as Eddie works. You can hear Buck clattering in the kitchen, and something soothes inside. You’re usually alone, but at this moment—right now, you’re not.

“Alright,” Eddie says. “Done.”

You lower your shirt. “Wow. You’re good at that.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mhm. Insane idea, but have you considered becoming a medic for the LAFD?”

Buck laughs from the stove.

“Funny. Real funny. I didn’t know you were dating a comedian, Buck,” Eddie says, shaking his head good-naturedly.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you? One of the best.” Buck sounds smug. And happy.

“Thanks,” you say softly, and Eddie nods at you in response.

“Food’s ready.” Buck carefully wraps an arm around your shoulders, and one hand on Eddie’s where he’s sitting down.

“I can set up.” Eddie tries to rise from the chair.

“No,” you say, stopping him. “You’re a guest. My mom will probably haunt me if she found out I let guests do anything in my house.”

“Hey,” Buck interjects. “I’m a guest.”

“Eh. Debatable, darling.”

“See if I ever cook for you again.”

“You will. He will,” Eddie says. “It’s the same at mine.”

“How come I’m always exempt from the house guest rule?” Still, he ushers you away when you try to get the utensils from the drawers.

“It’s what you get for being a token white man,” you say.

Eddie snorts out a laugh while Buck lets out a faux wounded noise.

You open the fridge, getting the jug of water.

“Oh, hey, let me get that.”

“I still have one good working arm. And I’m not weak.”

“Of course not.” Eddie takes the jug from you anyway.

Buck pulls out a chair. “Sit,” he says pointedly to you.

“Yeah, yeah.”

After dinner and your painkillers, you’re knocked out on the couch. The painkillers probably made you drowsy. You wake to Buck crouching in front of you, gently stroking your hair as you get your bearings.

“Hey,” he whispers.

You make a sleepy noise.

Buck thinks it’s adorable. “It’s getting late. We should go.”

You’re about to ask him to stay, but it registers—we, he said. And if Buck is in front of you. Then.

You jerk up. “Sorry—” You let out a sharp hiss as pain shoots through your side and collarbone.

“Whoa, hey—”

“Careful—”

Eddie. You fell asleep on Eddie. Your head was in his lap. You let out a groan as both Eddie and Buck help you sit up. Eddie repositions your sling as Buck checks the dressing.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You needed it,” is all Eddie says.

Buck checks your ankle as well. “Alright. See you in 24 hours.”

Eddie gently pats your shoulder before he gets up. “See you. Look after yourself.”

“Bye, Eddie,” both you and Buck chorus.

Buck takes Eddie’s spot, letting you lean against him.

“You can’t stay?” you whisper, even though you know the answer.

“My stuff’s at home, baby. I’ll bring some over after my shift. That way I can stay next time.”

You snuggle against him, his lips pressed to your temple.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Part 2 | Part 3.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

It’s honestly a little comical how different the two of you are, and you can’t help but wonder if Tommy did that on purpose. You know he was the one who set them up. Everyone in the dining hall was talking about it this morning. The latest, hottest piece of gossip, bouncing from table to table like a cruel game of telephone. 

He probably thinks he’s protecting his big brother, but you think he needs to mind his own fucking business. It’s not like he knows anything about your relationship, not really. Well. It’s not your relationship anymore, is it? And Tommy, along with everyone else in this town, blames you for that.

Poor Joel, dumped by the biggest bitch in Jackson, who took advantage of his kindness and patience for years, and broke his heart when all he did was love her. Selfish, cold, and uncaring. Nothing like the pretty, perky girl sitting next to him in the booth they’re sharing at Seth’s. 

If only they knew what really happened.

The bar is especially busy, even for a Saturday night, so you figure no one’ll notice you blatantly glaring at them. It’s not like you care, anyway. You’re feeling warm and loose, and maybe a little too tipsy for your own good, but tonight, you get to do whatever the fuck you want. 

Because Joel’s sitting ten feet away with his arm slung around another woman, and it hurts. 

It sucks way worse than him avoiding you since the last time you slept together, after all of the things you did and said on that couch. The things he said. You shoo away the thought with another swig of beer, wishing you were drinking something stronger. It's for the best. 

If you get any drunker, you’ll probably end up doing something stupid, and the last thing you need is to prove everyone right that he’s better off without you. But you can’t seem to shake the anger that’s starting to simmer below the surface. 

With the emotional toll this night has already taken, you kind of don’t want to. So, you surrender to it. Fuck him. He’s a piece of shit for parading his new girl around right in front of you, and for breaking off your agreement without so much as a word. 

If he wanted to see other people, he should’ve opened his mouth and used his big boy words. Then again, he’s always been terrible at that, so why are you surprised? 

Maybe he’ll fuck her tonight. Touch her all of the ways you like because that’s all he knows anymore. She’ll moan for him, soft and sweet, gentle in her affection, just like she’s touching him right now. But it won’t satisfy him, and when he’s panting on top of her, chasing that all-consuming release only you can give him, you know he’ll be pretending she's you. 

Asshole.

You’re still watching them, shooting daggers from your spot at the bar, when your wish from earlier is granted. Two overflowing shot glasses topped with lime are placed in front of you, and you look up to see a very attractive dark-haired, brown-eyed man smirking down at you.

"Looked a little lonely over here," he says in a raspy baritone even lower than Joel's. He clinks the top of your beer bottle with the bottom of his own. "Thought you could use some company, maybe another drink."

Well, he’s right. You could use some company, and you’d love another drink. There’s no harm in having a little fun, right? If Joel’s doing it, then there’s nothing stopping you.

"So, both of these are for me, then?" you smile coyly, reaching for one. He nods, his own smile widening.

"Could be. Can I join ya?" he gestures to the empty stool next to you. 

He has this cocky look on his face like he already knows you'll say yes, and in your inebriated state, you think it's kind of hot. It reminds you of Joel when you first met. How he knew exactly what he wanted and wouldn't give up until it was his. Until you were his.

You consider him for a moment. He’s young, maybe even younger than you, and obviously confident enough to make a move on you. Fleetingly, you think he might end up being that stupid thing you do tonight, but then you down one of the shots and decide you don't actually care. 

What turns out to be tequila burns the entire way down, and you immediately pick up a slice of lime. You’re hyperaware of the way his eyes lock onto your mouth as you suck on the sour fruit, lingering when a droplet of juice dribbles down your chin. 

It’s not a total surprise when he reaches up to thumb it away, but you are taken off guard by how strange it makes you feel. The pad of his finger is disappointingly smooth, no weathering or even a hint of a callus. You're not sure why that matters to you, but you can take a decent guess.

You chance a glance over at Joel's table and, of course, you have his full attention now. His entire body looks tense, from his hand clenched on the table to the prominent vein bulging angrily in his neck. 

Good. Now he knows how it feels.

Looking back up at your mystery guy, you run your tongue along your bottom lip, catching any remaining lime before you finally give him an answer. 

"Sure. Pop a squat, cowboy," you giggle. It doesn't even sound like you and feels wrong the second it passes your lips, but as long as Joel heard it, that's all that matters. "You got a name?"

He replies, but you're too busy keeping an eye on Joel in your peripheral to catch what he says. In the back of your mind, you think that’s probably a good thing. You'd rather not know, especially if you do end up taking him home. 

Mystery guy laughs at your noncommittal hum and you realize you’ve been caught. But he doesn’t seem upset. It’s clear he’s amused by your obvious interest elsewhere and that piques your curiosity. 

Any other guy here would’ve been pissed by your apathy, especially if they’d bothered to buy you a drink that you accepted, but apparently not this one.

He sits down on the stool next to you, pulling it close enough that his knee presses against yours. You unconsciously lean into him, your skin erupting in goosebumps despite your growing unease.

He's...baffling. A total enigma. You can’t figure out what his deal is or why he’s choosing to keep pursuing you when your eyes have been glued to another man all night. 

The thought of letting this continue long enough to find out is a little thrilling. Might as well see where this goes. If it escalates, you’re more than confident in your ability to care of yourself.

But it happens sooner than you expect. His hand finds the back of your stool and, then, his lips are suddenly right next to your cheek. You can feel the warmth of them as he tilts his head to whisper in your ear.

“Look, not try'na to overstep, but…,” his eyes dart to where Joel’s sitting, unreservedly ignoring his date. The poor thing barely notices, chattering away about something not nearly as important to him as watching you. His gaze returns to you, and you can feel him smirking. “You wanna make that guy you've been staring at all night jealous?"

That’s—wow. You didn’t see that one coming. He’s got a lot of audacity to assume that’s something you’d want, let alone offer…what? His services? 

But, then again, he isn’t wrong. Joel’s been the only thing on your mind since you walked into Seth’s tonight and saw him with her. He’s always on your mind if you’re being totally honest with yourself. It’s plain to see, obvious to every single person in this bar including the man himself.

You eye your mystery guy curiously for a second before nodding, your lips quirking into a small smirk. Maybe it’s time to prove to Joel and everyone else in this judgmental town that you’ve moved on, too. That you’re not the sad, bitter shrew that deserves to be alone.

"Yeah, actually, I do," you reply cautiously. But there's still one lingering question that has yet to be answered. "I just…why? I don’t get why you’re helping me. What are you getting out of this?”

He shrugs, and somehow you can just tell by the look in his eyes that there’s no hidden agenda. You’re not sure how you’re just noticing, but he has kind eyes. This whole time, he’s been nothing but patient and attentive, like Joel always was—...is? 

Was.

You almost wish you could fall for someone like this man instead of pathetically clinging to your past. Maybe you’ll at least get a friend out of this crazy night, if nothing else. But then you remember one, tiny problem with that idea.

“Can you tell me your name again? I promise you have my full attention this time,” you smile sheepishly. He chuckles good-naturedly and, again, doesn’t seem to hold it against you.

“It’s Jesse,” he says with a deep, southern drawl you should probably be more attracted to. “And let’s just say I know how it feels to want someone ya can’t have.”

You nod slowly, understanding perfectly. Except—you didn't realize up until this moment that that's exactly what you want. Someone you can't ever have. 

And it took seeing Joel with someone else, his body pressed up against a woman that isn't you, to realize it. Well, that fucking sucks.

You decide not to ask about Jesse's situation. It's not your business and, anyway, you're both trying to feel better about your circumstances, not worse. 

There’s a silent sense of camaraderie between you that tells you to throw caution to the wind. Tossing back the second shot, you turn your stool to face his, literally and figuratively turning your back on Joel. 

“It’s really nice to meet you, Jesse,” you murmur, and you genuinely mean it. He grins, leaning in slowly, still giving you time to back out if you want to, but you don't. 

Eat your heart out, Joel Miller. This one's for you.

"S'nice to meet you, too," he replies softly. 

Then, his lips are on yours. The kiss is wet and open-mouthed, and yet he handles you so delicately. He cradles your face in his hands as his tongue brushes against yours, and you moan softly into his mouth, letting your body get lost in the way he feels. And he feels so—

Much different than Joel. 

All you can think about is how much you miss Joel's rough touch, the way he'd thread his fingers through your hair and tug you into his mouth, nearly devouring you whole. Joel kissed you like every time might be the last, right up until it actually was. 

Fucking hell, why can't you just enjoy this without him ruining it for you?

You try to forget about it, about him, licking into Jesse's mouth a little more aggressively, and he groans, his body eager and responsive. It's probably more than you should be doing in public, sitting at a bar surrounded by people but, hell, you want them to see. 

They can say whatever they want about you. You're done giving a shit.

And, boy, will they have a lot to talk about after tonight. Joel makes sure of that. It happens so fast, you barely register that Jesse’s lips aren’t on yours anymore like they should be.

One moment, Jesse's hands are trailing down your sides to your waist, and the next, he's being forcibly dragged off you. Between you stands a broad, imposing figure ensuring you stay separated.

Your mind goes blank, and all you can do is watch in shock and disbelief as Joel lets loose on him, his words possessive and almost nonsensical. 

"The fuck you think you're doin' touchin' her like that? Y'need to learn how to keep your hands to yourself, kid, before ya get yourself in trouble," he grits out angrily. 

To his credit, Jesse stays cool and collected, but it’s not enough. There’s already a few pairs of eyes on you, drawn by the physical altercation, and it won’t be long before the rest of the bar notices the impending fight.

"Respectfully, sir, s'long as the lady consents, I'll put my hands wherever she wants," Jesse replies, standing his ground. He tries to move around him to return to your side, but Joel fixes him with a look that sends a shiver down your spine.

"S'that really a good idea?" Joel sounds menacing and looks even more so the longer the conversation continues. 

You’re still numb to everything unfolding in front of you and it’s not until Jesse’s next to you again, snaking an arm around your waist, that you finally come to. The reality of your situation hits you like a ton of bricks and now you’re mad. You open your mouth to retaliate, but Jesse cuts you off before you can get a word in.

“There a reason it wouldn’t be?” he turns the question back on Joel and you tense, anticipating a less-than-friendly answer. Jesse squeezes your hip in reassurance, but it does nothing to soothe your unease. He doesn’t know Joel like you do.

“Kid, do I look like I’m fuckin’ around? Take your hands off her and walk away. M'not gonna tell you again,” he all but growls, taking a threatening step forward. 

Neither of you back down. Jesse’s arm stays firm around you as your nails bite into your palm. It's taking everything you've got not to make a bigger scene than you already have.

You knew it. Since the breakup, you’ve been trying to reconcile this increasingly unfamiliar man with the Joel you gave your entire heart to all those years ago. With each passing month, the differences between the two become more and more obvious.

He's angrier now and has so much less patience. It's not that he's unkind. You know that no matter what his circumstances are, Joel will continue to be a good man. But he has a hair trigger, especially when it comes to you. 

And he wants. God, he always wants you. It’s not that you didn’t have an active sex life before everything fell apart. He just...fucks you differently now. Possessively and without restraint, like he needs to be sure you're satisfied enough to never need anyone else. The agreement to keep sleeping together was actually his idea. And it worked for a while—until it suddenly didn't. 

Now, you're forced to come face-to-face with that reality. Sitting at this bar, you spent the entirety of the night believing he'd decided he didn't want you anymore, that he was ready to find happiness in something simpler than sneaking around with his ex.

Except, it's starting to feel like maybe that's not as true as he made it seem. Like he never should've gone on this date in the first place.

"What the fuck, Joel?" you hiss, fighting to keep your volume under control. Not that it matters. The entire bar is staring at you, their eyes ping-ponging back and forth like they're watching a tennis match. "Back the fuck off. Now. This is none of your business."

"The hell it ain't my business. Some kid's runnin' his hands all over another man's girl and y'think that ain't my business?" 

His trembling hands clench into fists at his sides and, while you’re betting the rest of the bar thinks he’s preparing for a fight, that isn’t Joel. It might be you, though, if he keeps this up.

"Excuse me? And whose girl am I—yours? Because I'm pretty sure your girl is sitting over there in that booth. Or did you forget about your date?"

For a moment, he actually has the nerve to look ashamed, like he feels bad about leaving her all alone at their table and for humiliating her in front of all these people. He avoids her crestfallen gaze, likely not ready to face the hurt he’s caused. 

But it only lasts for a second before his eyes darken again, focused solely on you. As if Jesse, his pretty date, and everyone else in this bar disappeared, and it's just you and him. This conversation doesn't include them anymore. It's a private matter now.

"We're leavin'," he says with finality, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

He should know better. That's not how things work with you. You’re a fighter, a trait he’s always loved about you, even if your ire was directed at him. Back then, it rarely was.

"You're out of your mind if you think I'm leaving with you," you scoff bitterly. "Go back to your date, I'll go back to mine, and we can forget about this. All of it. We're done, Joel."

He shakes his head, mouth tipping down into a frown like he's thinking something over. Then, he huffs out a laugh. Like, an actual laugh, and you start to think maybe he really has lost his mind.

"Y'know, I really don't think we are, darlin'," he drawls dangerously. 

He's on you in an instant, his hand wrapped tightly around your arm as he drags you out of the bar. You briefly consider resisting, but he's moving too quickly. All of those shots you downed combined with the beer you drank earlier go straight to your head, and you're suddenly overwhelmingly distracted by the feeling of his skin on yours.

Fuck, it feels like it's been so long. In reality, you know it's only been a few weeks but, god, you missed it. His hands on your body, anywhere at all on your body. You'd hate how quickly you forget about Jesse if you could think about anything else but those familiar, rough fingertips.

The way they dig into you, reminiscent of how he'd squeeze your thighs or clutch your waist when he was making love to you.

...Wait, what? No...no, fuck. Why is he making this so difficult? Why—Christ...why can't you just leave each other alone? If he never planned on letting you go, he shouldn't have broken up with you. And if he still wanted you this badly...all he had to do was ask. You would've said yes in a heartbeat.

So, you let him steal you away, out into the brisk, wintry air that does little to cool your fury or the heat beginning to coil in your belly. The door shuts noisily behind you, and you immediately wrench your arm out of his grasp before he can say a word. It's your turn to talk now.

"What is wrong with you? You can't just...fuck, you can't do shit like this!" You're seething, practically shaking in your rage, and his expression doesn't look much different. 

"And you can? I dunno what the hell you were thinkin' gettin’ cozy with some goddamn kid, lettin’ him touch ya like that in front of the whole town," he reiterates harshly. He's starting to sound like a broken record. It's the only leverage he's got, and you both know it's flimsy at best.

"Some kid? Jesse's a fucking adult, clearly more mature than you," you bite back. "And it’s a bar, Joel. That's what people do at bars."

Joel scoffs, and you can tell he hates the way Jesse's name falls from your lips. Especially when those lips were on yours not even ten minutes ago. 

"And who are you to decide who can and can't touch me? You broke up with me," you continue resentfully. "You don't get a say anymore."

At that, his face becomes unreadable. He didn't need the reminder, and you know that, but it needed to be said for both of your sakes. Sometimes you think maybe he actually forgets it was his choice to give you up. That he didn't realize his decision would hurt you as much as it hurt him.

"So, what? You gonna take him home then, let him fuck ya?" He leans in close, so close you can feel his soft, graying curls against your temple and the coarse drag of his beard across your cheek. 

"Kiss ya here—," a finger trails delicately down the side of your neck to his spot above your collarbone, then continues down to where you've been aching for him for weeks, "—taste ya here." 

You slap his hand away before he can get any further, but your reaction only spurs him on. How could you forget? He likes that.

"Y'know he can't make ya feel as good as I do. Fuck you just how y'like it, make ya cum as hard as I do," he drawls confidently, almost smugly, in your ear. "Don't ya?"

It's less a question than a statement, because you both know he's right. Joel knows your body better than anyone ever has, maybe even better than you know it yourself. Just as much as you know his. And it's sort of funny. You were thinking the exact same thing about him with his date earlier.

"Sure, Joel. Just like you were gonna take that girl home, right?" You raise an eyebrow, turning your head so your lips graze his skin. "Pretty little thing like her, I bet she likes it slow and romantic. She’ll probably even stick around for a snuggle and some pillow talk. You'd love that.”

Even as you mock him, the sneer marring your face doesn’t quite meet your eyes, and the spiteful nature of your words tastes acrid as they pass your lips. He’s so good at that. Always able to bring out the worst in you to prove his point—that he’s no good for you.

But you stand firm, your chest pressed flush against his in a show of determination. You're still in control here, unlike Joel, whose fingers are twitching noticeably at his sides like he's just itching to get his hands on you again. 

"Maybe I would. Liked it with you, didn't I?" he murmurs wistfully, and that catches you completely off guard.

His words are almost too gentle to belong in this argument, and it doesn’t feel fair. What's worse, he looks like he means them. You’d prefer the fight, the aggression of the man who dragged you out of the bar. Not this. Not these traces of your Joel. 

You can already feel your resolve slipping, and the rapid thrum of your heartbeat tells you to let it. When his hands finally take their rightful place on your waist, he’s in control again.

The cool evening air is suddenly stifling, and you’re starting to feel like you’re suffocating, your thoughts a jumbled, heated haze of anger and fear and want. He squeezes hard enough to pull your hips into his and you unintentionally buck, allowing his hands to travel up your shirt. 

There's an intensity to his gaze, tinged with an unexpected tenderness. He almost looks...sated. Fulfilled, now that you're back in his arms. But not completely, not yet.

"You still haven't answered my question," he mutters. His hands splay across your ribcage, high enough for his thumbs to tease the undersides of your breasts.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, sliding your hands up his chest to push him away so you can catch your breath, but your body won't cooperate. It's been well-trained to crave his touch. Exhaling sharply through your nose, you fist his shirt and instead pull him impossibly closer.

"You asked a lot of questions tonight. You're gonna have to be a little more specific,” you pant heavily.

It's getting more difficult to think, now, with the warmth of his body against you, his thumbs shifting higher to stroke your stiffening nipples. He urges your hips forward again to meet his, and you can already feel him straining in his jeans.

You whimper helplessly, unable to curb the way your body's reacting to him, and the soft sound causes something in him to snap. He suddenly backs you up against the hard brick of the bar's exterior and begins to grind languidly into your stomach. 

"Y'really believe that boy can take care of a woman like you? Hm?" He interrogates you, his voice gravelly and uneven in your ear. "Tell me I'm the only one who can give you what ya need. Wanna hear ya say it."

Fuck, you can't lie to him. As much as you want to, it's just one more thing your body won't allow you to do. Not when he's working you up like this. 

"You're the only one," you moan around your admission. He's still crowding you into the wall, his hands greedily roaming your soft curves.

His eyes meet yours, darting quickly to your mouth before he leans in to kiss you passionately like he’s rewarding you. It only lasts for a second, one deliciously fleeting second, before he pulls away. You’re not sure why you let him. Or why you kissed back.

"Who's the only man who can make ya scream?" he demands a little more urgently.

"You, Joel,” you murmur obediently, your lips already parted and ready for your prize.

And he acquiesces—another insistent kiss that doesn’t last nearly long enough. This time, you chase him, but he jerks his head back. He still has one last question for you. Except, this time, he looks afraid of the answer. 

"Whose girl are ya?"

He whispers it so softly, you barely catch it over the whistling, nighttime breeze. As he brushes a few ruffled strands of hair behind your ear, you answer without hesitation. 

"Yours, Joel."

His entire body relaxes. Now, he's complete.

"Damn right, you are—"

Then, the front door bursts open next to you, and he's abruptly cut off. Joel is quick to tug you around the corner into the alleyway before anyone can spot you, but he's not fast enough to keep you from seeing who just left the bar.

Jesse.

And there it is. A shock to the system, enough to clear some of that smoky, nostalgic haze and bring you back to the present. But as everything hurtles back for the second time tonight, this time around, you can’t be mad because he’s right.

Of course, you're not Jesse's girl. As pathetic as it sounds, you'll always be Joel's because he’s the only one who can take care of you and give you what need. The only man who can make you scream. But that goes both ways.

Even though he’s been picking fights all night, he hasn’t raised his voice once. It's not the way he wins his battles. So, maybe it's time to remind Joel Miller that there is someone who can make him scream. But he isn't allowed to unless you say so.

It all feels eerily familiar—his fingers digging into your waist and your lips crashing into his hard enough to bruise. You lead him deeper into the alley, back to where the glow of the string lights above the bar can't reach you, before you separate from him. 

Neither of you wants to be the one to say it, but it needs to be heard. Here, in the dark, you can be his completely, but once you part ways and return to your empty beds, that's it. Just like last time. The reasons for your breakup are still very real, and that means your relationship can't be.

"Only here. Right, Joel?"   

He stays silent for a moment, his gaze filled with deep longing and sadness. It almost makes you want to take it back. Take him back. So, when he shakes his head and cups your cheeks, kissing you like this might be his last chance, you're not surprised in the slightest.

And after this whole night—this whole confusing, fucked-up night—you let him. Right now, he needs this. Maybe you do, too.

His lips taste like whiskey and relief, and you return his kiss with all of the passion and fervor he’s pouring into you. You’re both a little frantic in the way you touch each other, but as much as you don’t want it to, it makes perfect sense. 

Those few weeks without each other felt like years, and now that his hands are back on your body and his voice, deep and dulcet, is in your ear telling you how badly he wants you, you don’t want to let him go again.

You grind the heel of your hand into the front of his jeans and his responding groan pleases you more than it probably should. This. This is yours—his pleasure, his attention, him. They belong to you and you alone. Not his pretty, perky fucking date. 

The sudden possessiveness stuns you for a moment, but it's not enough to stop the feeling from consuming you. This must be how it feels for Joel. It's potent and feels so, so…right. You're starting to think you've felt this way for a while.

"I needed you, and you made me wait so fucking long," you gasp against his lips, and the fingers cradling your face tense. You’re still fisting his shirt, nearly hard enough to tear, and you wrench it up from where it’s tucked into his pants. 

"M'sorry, darlin', I know. I know I did,” he rasps back, following your lead and dropping his hands from your cheeks so he can unbuckle his jeans. “M'gonna make it up to ya. Tell me what you want, I’ll give it to ya.”

You want everything. Everything he has to give, you want it all. After everything you've been through, the hurt he caused you, you deserve it. And right now, what you want is for him to feel so good, he'll never go on a date with someone who isn't you ever again.

Sharp gravel bites into your bare skin as you drop to your knees in front of him. He's already so hard under all that heavy fabric and looks desperate above you. Just as desperate as you are for him to replace the flavor of Jesse's tequila and lime on your tongue with something saltier and headier, and undeniably Joel.

You hastily unbutton and unzip his jeans, not wasting any more of the precious time you have left together, before tugging them down just enough to free his cock and balls. He looks...fucking mouth-watering—flushed and red and leaking, and so goddamn thick. You wrap your hand around him and he sighs gratefully, dribbling precum onto your fingers.

"This is what I want," you finally reply, keeping your eyes locked on his as you lean forward to lick a broad line up his cock. He hisses in a breath through his teeth, his thighs already beginning to tremble, and you brace your hand on one. "But you're gonna be quiet, okay? I'm gonna suck your cock and you're not gonna make a single sound."

His expression darkens, but he agrees to your terms, nonetheless.

"Sure, darlin'. Whatever you say," he nods, gazing down at you with furrowed brows. He cradles your face in his hand and brushes his thumb along your cheekbone.

The affectionate gesture isn't lost on you, but this time you accept it. Instinctively leaning into his touch, you revel in it for a brief moment before his cock pulsing a frantic rhythm against your palm becomes an unignorable distraction. But a welcome one.

"That's my boy," you mumble against the tip. Just as a pained noise escapes his parted lips, you swallow him down as far as you can take him, purposely gagging yourself on him before you can dwell on the words that accidentally just tumbled out.

Your boy. Your boy. It echoes in your mind, ricocheting wildly and painfully like a bullet. Before you can take it back, maybe even to keep you from taking it back, he buries his fingers in your hair and holds you in place. You choke around him, trying your best to breathe through your nose, but in doing so, you take in a lungful of the heady musk at his base.

The familiarity of it all sends you reeling. He only gives you a second to adjust before he's fucking into your mouth and biting back a litany of needy sounds that rival your own wet, audible gagging. Your grip on his thigh tightens as your throat relaxes, allowing you to take him deeper, and you can feel yourself clenching around nothing every time he grazes the back of your throat. 

Tears stream down your cheeks and he wipes them away with a much too tender swipe of his thumb, even as he continues to force you up and down his cock. But you're too lost in your pleasure to notice anymore. So fucking good, you feel so, so good. But you need more, and you're not willing to pull off of him just yet.

Tugging down the front of your shirt, you roll a sensitive nipple between your fingers, and, god, that helps. You imagine they're Joel's and it amplifies the sensation, though your fingertips are still too smooth and delicate. Then, they're replaced by exactly what you've been yearning for all night. 

“You don’t even know how beautiful y'look like this,” he grits out, his fingers running through your hair with one hand and roughly cupping your breast with the other. His hips stutter, and you moan around him. “Fuckin’ perfect. How are ya so fuckin’ perfect?”

Beautiful. More beautiful than her? Well, you must be, because you’re the one here on your knees, choking on his cock, and she’s still sitting in the bar wondering if her date will ever come back. 

He won’t.

You preen without meaning to, your eyes blearily finding his while you drool around him, dripping saliva down his balls and onto your bare breasts. It's as if the visual alone has him thrusting into your mouth faster, pushing your limits only as much as he knows you can take. You must look like a wet dream right now, his wet dream, with your watery eyes and swollen, split-slick lips wrapped tightly around him.

Yet, he's remained so, so quiet this entire time, just like you told him to. Joel likes his sex loud, regardless of where you are and who might hear, so if he’s following your rules, that means something. 

It means he'll do whatever it takes to have you. The realization crashes over you like a bucket of ice water, and then you're pulling off of him. 

“You’ll give me anything, right? Anything I want?” your voice cracks around the question, wrecked from the effort of taking him. His hips chase your hand as you continue to pump him, matching his previous, unforgiving pace. 

“That ain’t a question, y’know I will,” he replies breathily and without hesitation. 

You gaze up at him, praying your eyes convey all of the need and anguish and hope you've felt since the last time you slept together. Since the last time you were his.

“Fuck me," and you won't accept anything less than his all. Not that half-assed shit he would've given her. "Fuck me."

He understands. His heart rate kicks up, thrumming wildly against the palm of your hand, and you know he does.

The growl that rumbles through his chest is nearly soundless but powerful. An entire night's worth of tension culminating in a single exhaled breath, just before he drags you up and spins you around, bending you over against the wall. 

Bracing yourself on the harsh brick, you rush to give him better access, arching your back as he tugs your pants and underwear down to your knees. A callused hand runs upward, following the notches of your spine, while his other spreads across your waist, pulling your hips back onto his so you can feel him, heavy and leaking against your bare ass.

God, he’s so close to where you need him now. His knuckles graze your skin as he grips the base, pumping himself before the blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance.

But then, for some godforsaken reason, you feel a wave of panic. Time suddenly feels like it's running out, worsening with every subtle movement he makes. The ticking clock of your and Joel's relationship, perpetually stuck at two minutes to midnight, has sprung to life and that terrifies you.

You don't want him to stop—fuck, you don't want him to stop, but you know neither of you will last long once he's inside you. The build-up was too intense and this entire night has you both wound up so tight, you could snap at any moment. 

You need to savor this. The way you failed to on your couch all those weeks ago, and might not get to ever again.

“Slow,” you tell him over your shoulder, and it's equal parts a command and a plea. If this is the last time, then you want to feel it. Every thick inch of him, while he still belongs to you. “Just…go slow.”

He nods, shifting forward almost imperceptibly so he can watch your lashes flutter as you brace for the stretch.

"Don't need’ta tell me. I know how ya like it," he replies gruffly.

He does. For now, you won’t overthink it or let yourself get lost in the nostalgia of his cock nestled inside you. You’ll just enjoy it. Sex with Joel has always been mind-blowing, and here, in a dirty alleyway, pressed up against the exterior of a bar, you bet it’ll be life-changing.

It stings like it always does when he breaches your entrance, no matter how wet you are for him. Together, you hiss in a sharp breath, mutually adjusting to the overwhelming stretch that quickly ebbs into something addictive.

"Tight as all goddamn hell," he mutters to himself, rocking into you languidly. He takes his time, relishing your walls enveloping him, mesmerized by the way you suck him in until he's buried to the hilt. 

"Would'ja look at that," he continues in awe, tracing where his cock is forcing you to yield to him. "Greedy fuckin' pussy, ain't she? M'not goin' anywhere, don't'chu worry. Gonna take care of ya...make ya feel so fuckin' good..."

He's starting to babble. Not good. Not good at all. 

Broad hands grip your ass, pulling your cheeks apart so he can see how tightly you’re gripping him, and it's too much. His hips buck, startling a pained whine out of you as he rams into that spot. The one deep inside you he can only reach when he’s fucking you from behind. Your cunt clenches, fighting to keep him there, and he growls low in his throat, hungry and territorial like a wild animal.

"There it is," he nudges it again, purposefully this time. You barely manage to bite back a sob as you gush messily around him. "Christ, honey, y'sure ya still want it slow? 'Cus it sure don't sound like it."

He's patronizing you. He knows exactly what he's doing—that's his spot. He also knows it makes you loud as fuck. But he wouldn’t. There’s no way he’d go back on his word, not after he promised he’d be discreet.

"Joel. Don't," you warn him shakily, but you're already too far gone to be intimidating. 

He pulls out until just the tip is still inside you, huffing out a distinctly calculated breath.

"Don't what? Don't make ya cum nice and loud on my cock? 'Fraid I can't do that, darlin'."

That's all the warning you get before he slams in hard. Your jaw drops, and you're positive you couldn't have stopped the wail punched out of your chest even if you'd tried.

Wrong. You’re wrong again, and you should’ve known better. It’s not the first time he’s gone back on his word, remember? Joel’s shitty lack of communication is why you’re here in the first place. Sure, he agreed to be quiet, but he never said anything about you.

He establishes a brutal pace that has you scrabbling against the wall for purchase and slapping a hand over your mouth in a futile attempt to muffle the desperate cries being forced from your body.

Please, don’t be outside. Please, please, Jesse. Don’t still be outside. 

But your luck's officially run out. 

Heavy mahogany crashes into solid brick, echoing down the alleyway, and a raucous group of people spills out onto the street, barely 30 feet from where your ass and tits are out for anyone to see. Then, the deep baritone of Jesse's voice cuts through the rest, and your blood immediately turns to ice. 

You're fucked. You're about to get caught and expose your secret to the entire town, except...Joel isn't stopping. Fuck, he's—

Yanking your entire body up and ripping your hand away from your mouth, rutting into you like he was just waiting for an audience. He snakes a hand up your stomach to palm at your chest, squeezing firmly to anchor himself as he fucks up into you with all the force he can muster.

And it turns you on so much, you finally stop caring. Fuck it. Fuck this town. Fuck everyone in that bar who made you feel like a goddamn pariah for months, crucifying you for the unforgivable sin of getting your heart broken. 

You hope his date's standing out there, too, so she can hear everything she'll never get to have. So they can all see that Joel Miller isn't the crushed, cruelly dumped old man they all thought he was.

Your moans ring out, loud and high-pitched, all but drowning out the messy slap of his hips into the drenched curve of your ass.

"That's it, darlin', let it all out," he chuckles darkly against the shell of your ear. Your next moan tapers into a drawn-out keen that he mimics, his thrusts getting shallow and sloppy. "S'for me, right? Let 'em know you're makin' all those pretty noises just for me."

Christ, you're close. And he's as close as you are, you can feel it. You turn your head, nodding jerkily into his shoulder.

"S'for you, Joel—mmph, just for you. Only for you," your words slur as he continues to bounce you on his cock. 

"Tell 'em you're mine, darlin’. Not just here," he pants raggedly, desperation coating his words. "Everywhere. You're mine everywhere."

The voices are getting closer, about to pass the mouth of the alley, and the ice in your veins quickly thaws, turning to molten lava. They'll definitely be able to able to hear you, but can they see you? For the umpteenth time tonight, you decide you really don't give a shit. You've got none left. You and Joel, that's all that matters now. 

His hand drops between your legs, thick fingers swirling tight, slick circles into your clit while he waits for you to confirm what he already knows. You've said it again and again—weeks ago, wrapped up in his arms, and earlier tonight, after the worst argument you've had since the breakup. 

And you’ll tell him again in this alley as you cum blindingly hard around his cock. Third time's the charm.

"Y-yours, Joel. I'm always yours."

His hips completely lose their rhythm, and he barely has time to breathe out his contentment before the violent convulsing of your cunt and contrasting serenity of your words send him hurtling over the edge.

"That's my girl."

He crashes his lips into yours, swallowing every noise you make as the group finally comes into view. Their drunken chattering and roughhousing aren't enough to draw your attention away from each other, but the depraved sounds of Joel continuing to fuck you through your release captures theirs almost immediately.

A few of them stop to squint into the darkness, trying their best to pinpoint what everyone already knows is happening further down the alley. As they inch closer, they can just barely make out two connected figures, and the wind carrying muffled gasps and labored breathing with it into the street all but confirms it.

"Y'all seein' this?" they whisper amongst themselves, but in the inebriated state they're in, they might as well be yelling.

And that's what pulls you and Joel back to reality. Shit. Shit. So, this is it, then. You tense in Joel's arms, waiting to get called out as the slutty girl who seduced her ex away from his date. Hell, they're not even wrong. You can feel his cum dribbling out of you, and can't help but think maybe you'd deserve it.

From where you're standing, you recognize each and every one of their faces under the string lights, and you know damn well that none of them can keep their mouths shut. Except...wait a second. They're still glancing back and forth between you and Joel in the shadows and each other. 

Oh. The fucking shadows. None of them can see shit. They have no clue who the hell they're looking at. Joel must've caught on around the same time you did, because now he's backing up, putting more distance between you and the looming crowd. Before they can get any closer, one of the younger guys cuts in front to block their path.

“C’mon, it's probably a couple’a teenagers. Just let ‘em be," he drawls, glancing back at you. Your eyes lock, and you're suddenly so grateful, you could cry. It's Jesse. He shoots you a wink before turning back to the group, shaking his head in mock admonishment. "Don't act like y'all weren't doin' the same damn thing at their age."

By some miracle, it fucking works. They all laugh in agreement, appeased by Jesse's quick thinking. One by one, they follow each other out of the alley and back onto the road to continue their original path home. Jesse lingers. 

"Glad y'all figured things out," he calls out over his shoulder, giving you privacy to tug your shirt back up. He clears his throat awkwardly before continuing, "Look, I, uh...distracted as many people as I could from comin' over here, but if y'all were gonna be that loud, maybe you should'a figured things out at home."

Jesse shakes his head again, chuckling to himself as he shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Anyway, y'all have a good night, now. Get home safe."

As he jogs away to catch up with the rest of the group, you start to laugh, too. You can’t help it. It feels cathartic, relieving some of the tension of this overly eventful night.

Joel’s body begins to shake behind you, his chest rumbling with what you realize is deep-bellied laughter. It gradually increases in volume as it melds seamlessly with yours; transitory, white clouds of condensation that intertwine, then dissipate.

You feel him slip out as he starts to soften, and then he turns you to face him, carefully crowding you into the wall. He kisses you again, this time slow and deliberate like you asked him to earlier. His tongue meets yours, gasps exchanged and treasured like you have all the time in the world. 

When he parts from you, it feels reluctant, but he stays close, whispering his next words against your lips.

“M’gonna get ya cleaned up, alright?” he mumbles, dropping his arm from around your waist to run his fingers up the cum leaking down your thighs. You shiver as they continue up, slipping his release back inside you. “Don’t…,” he continues, squeezing his eyes shut as his forehead drops to yours, “…just—don’t go anywhere. Please. I’ll be right back.”

Maybe he’s trying to protect himself from the response he anticipates you’ll give him, but that seems silly after everything you’ve been through tonight. You cup his cheek and thumb the coarse, trimmed hairs of his beard, willing him to open his eyes. He does, hesitantly, one then the other, and you offer him a soft smile.

“I’m not going anywhere, Joel.”

An intoxicating breath fans across your face, and the taut muscles in his neck and shoulders loosen. His lips match the soft quirk of your own and, then, brush fleetingly against your cheekbone as he backs away and disappears through a metal side door you didn't notice before. The moment it clicks shut, you slump against the wall. 

Christ. Your mind is simultaneously blank and racing a mile a minute. Taking a deep breath, you let your head thunk into solid, grounding brick while you wait for even a single coherent thought to take root. What now? What happens next? 

There's no coming back from tonight. You both made choices you'll have to answer for, but, for some reason, that doesn't seem so scary anymore. The clock is ticking, but there's time. Plenty of it.

You're still lost in your reverie when Joel gets back with a thick wad of damp paper towels. You snort at the idea of him suddenly appearing in Seth's kitchen and having to explain himself, but maybe the racket you kicked up right outside his door was explanation enough.

"Seth didn't give you any shit for stealing his stuff?" you ask as Joel drops to his knees and coaxes one of your legs over his shoulder.

The cold air has already started to leach the warmth from the paper towels, and they feel cool as he slides them along your soiled skin. He huffs out a laugh.

"Nah, the kitchen was empty. Think they're startin' to close up for the night." 

When he finishes your first thigh, he surprises you by leaning in to press a soft kiss against your freshly cleaned skin. He nips at you teasingly before starting on the next one.

You hum in response, threading your fingers through his hair and watching fondly as he pays careful attention to his task. He continues to wipe away his drying release, trailing his lips down your thigh as he goes, until he finishes at your knee.

He gazes up at you with a charmingly crooked grin, and that’s when it finally slips out. The single coherent thought you’ve been waiting for.

“I love you, Joel,” you murmur, brushing your fingertips across his cheek. 

His smile falters. Then, it drops completely and your heart shatters. You don’t understand. But that—no. No, it doesn’t make any fucking sense. After everything that’s happened, how could you have been wrong again?

Joel sighs, grimacing as he slowly gets back up. He braces himself on one knee, clearly aching more than he's letting on, but when you reach down to offer him a hand, he refuses your help.

“S’fine, I got it. Just…,” he gestures to your jeans, still hanging loosely around your knees. You pull them up, fighting not to feel humiliated as he rises to his full height. 

You search his eyes for…something. Anything. Any indication of what he’s feeling right now, but they’re blank. Cold and distant, just like they were the night he left you. 

No. He doesn’t get to do this to you again. Not after everything you’ve been through. Not without an explanation. Not if he doesn’t want to lose you forever.

“Tell me why you broke up with me."

For a long time, you genuinely believed you could live without knowing the truth, but somewhere along the line, it began to eat away at you. Now, you want the real reason. He owes you that, at the very least.

You wait while he either works himself up to it or tries to figure out what bullshit to tell you this time. Once his hands settle on his hips, you know with absolute certainty it's the latter.

“Darlin’…,” he starts wearily, but you shoot him a look that stops him in his tracks. He doesn't get to call you that right now, and he knows it. Pausing, he nods grimly before beginning again. "We already talked about this. I’m no good for ya. It was only a matter of time before ya woke up one day and realized it for yourself.”

There it is. That same bullshit reason. You scoff bitterly, not surprised in the slightest.

“What the fuck does that even mean, Joel? We were together for years. If that was gonna happen, don’t you think it would’ve already?" you counter angrily. 

You're trying not to get emotional. This can't be a repeat of what happened last time, but it's dragging up too many painful memories. It's always the same fight. You can't do this anymore.

"You know what? Fuck you," you seethe as your self-control slips completely. "Fuck you for making that decision for me. You had no right."

At your words, his face crumples and he has the nerve to look ashamed. Maybe even a little hurt. His pained expression makes your heart ache, yet a nastier part of you believes it's only fair that he feels this way, too. He sighs, his eyes dropping wistfully to his feet.

“I did what I thought was best," he mumbles quietly as if he doesn't want to be heard. It's hard for him to say this out loud, and you realize it's because he's finally telling you the truth. "I just…I thought you’d be happier with someone else, someone who could give ya a family. Kids. I gave you up so you could have the life ya always wanted."

You eye him incredulously. The life you always wanted? Sure, you and Joel had toyed with the idea of having a family once upon a time, but that was never a dealbreaker. He should've known that. He should've brought it up before deciding to destroy your life together over an idealized fantasy.

“Oh, here we go. Joel, the fucking savior. Mr. Fix-It, swooping in to save everyone and solve every problem," you hurl back venomously. But it was a cruel thing to say, and you immediately hate yourself for it.

Rationally, you know his intentions were kind. He probably even thought he was being selfless. But he hurt you, and, through your tunnel vision, that's all you can see. You push yourself off the wall, stalking closer to where he stands, still refusing to look at you.

"So what, you thought you’d dump me and I’d immediately shack up with some other asshole? Is that really what you think of me?”

His eyes shoot up to yours and his fingers begin to tap restlessly at his sides. Now, you've pissed him off. 

“Don't go puttin’ words in my mouth. That ain’t true and you fuckin’ know it," he all but growls, his body shaking with a turbulent combination of frustration and adrenaline.

You're starting to feel it, too. This conversation is overwhelming both of you, but he still hasn't told you everything. There's a piece missing, keeping all of his disjointed reasonings from adding up. He's holding back and it's time for him to stop.

“Then what is, Joel?" you plead with him to give you a definitive answer. One that finally explains why you had to lose everything. Ellie, your home. The love of your life. "What’s the truth?"

Then, everything he's kept bottled up inside and allowed to poison his happiness claws its way out as a single, unwavering statement. 

“I’m too fuckin’ old for you!”

The silence that follows his admission is deafening. You watch in shock as he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. He's never yelled like that before or looked so defeated. By something as innocuous as his age. 

It isn't something you'd ever considered, not before your relationship and never once during. But he did. His bottom lip starts to tremble as he turns and takes a few steps away from you.

“Every day, I’d watch ya…offerin’ to take more shifts, spendin’ time at the school with Ellie and the kids," he says softly, shaking his head as he works through his next words. "And every day, I’d feel it. My body givin’ out on me, more and more. My blood pressure’s up, my goddamn knees are creakin’. Couldn’t even fuckin’ stand up on my own just now." 

When he turns back to you, his eyes are wet with unshed tears. He feels too far, but you know you can't go to him, yet. He's not finished.

"You can do better than that. You deserve better than that," his voice cracks and your whole world blurs into a wash of colors. “You’re gonna outlive me by a mile. I’m an old man, darlin’. It wasn’t fair for me to keep ya.”

For a while, you just watch each other. Tears overflow and continuously spill down his cheeks and yours, but neither of you moves to wipe them away. 

None of this is fair. You're both miserable and heartbroken, perpetually yearning for a love you've told yourselves you can't have. Months ago, Joel made a choice for both of you. You won't make the same mistake he did.

"I didn't want fair, Joel. I wanted you. A life with you...," your face screws up as you fight back a sob, "...the rest of my life with you, however long that is."

Joel takes a tentative step forward, carefully reaching out to touch you, but stops himself before he can get too close. He looks afraid...of you. Scared of the consequences of allowing you back into his heart. 

A sob escapes your chest, then, and you wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly bitterly cold and wanting nothing more than for Joel to hold you. To tell you for the first time since the breakup that he loves you and, regardless of time, won't ever stop.

So, you cross the alleyway and cup his wet cheeks in your hands, wiping away his sadness and, hopefully, his fears. He melts into the poignant familiarity of your touch and it makes you brave. This time, you'll be brave enough for both of you.

"Don't I deserve that?" you whisper, close enough to share his next breath. He watches your lips, hanging onto your every word. "Don't you?" 

His eyes meet yours, and it finally happens. The moment Joel gives in and decides to let himself be happy. He nods slowly in your grasp, reaching up to cradle your hand on his cheek. 

"Dunno what I deserve, darlin'. Not after the things I've done and the hurt I put ya through. But if I'm...if this is really what ya want...," he hesitates, his voice thick with tears and, yet, still that full-bodied, twang that sounds like home. "I'm yours. 'Til my last breath, I'm yours."

He kisses you before either of you can start crying again, and it's all there. The love he kept under lock and key to protect you, released from the prison of his own making.

His kiss feels different again. There's no hunger or rush, and the possessiveness—the need to devour everything you have to give so there's nothing left for anyone else—is gone. He's sure, now, that there's no one else you'd rather give yourself to.

His arms circle your waist and he pulls you closer, crushing you into time-worn chambray and sullied denim as you continue to explore each other like a pair of horny teenagers. Two lovers learning to give and take for the first time. Time passes slowly in this space you've carved out for yourselves, even as the moon continues to rise in the night sky and floods the corridor with light. 

Then, noisily and as if right on cue, the last-call crowd stumbles from the bar and immediately catches what the previous group missed. You and Joel separate, dazed but unhurried, to find that it's them. 

It has to be fucking kismet that, of everyone in Jackson, the first to witness your reconciliation would be the biggest blabbermouths in the entire town. The same women who talked shit about you every day for months and constantly vied for Joel's attention, standing there with wide eyes and slack jaws.

Their varied expressions almost make you want to laugh, and you can't help but snort unattractively into Joel's shoulder. Half of them are glaring at you, and the rest look either devastated or genuinely surprised. Guess you were better at hiding your arrangement than you thought, not that it matters anymore. It's a relationship again, and everyone's about to know all about it. Joel clears his throat, drawing their attention back to him.

"Evenin', ladies. S'there somethin' we can help ya with?" he drawls, breaking out the Southern charm that endeared every single one of them to him in the first place.

They all shake their heads, looking a little too pleased with themselves once the initial shock wears off and they realize you've just given them the gossip of the century. After a few fake, high-pitched pleasantries, they slink away as quickly as they came, already chatting to themselves about some shit you'll definitely hear tomorrow at breakfast. You watch them go, feeling oddly liberated.

"Guess the cat's outta the bag, huh?" You wrap your arms loosely around his neck, still chuckling softly to yourself. Joel huffs out a laugh, too, bending down to kiss the crown of your head before nodding in agreement.

"'Fraid so," he muses, amusement and a hint of something lighter glinting in his eyes. 

You haven't seen him this relaxed in a long time. As he holds you in his arms, he leans a fraction of his weight on you to ease the night's strain on his back and knees, and it makes you feel needed. Relied on. That's new, Joel depending on you like this. Things are going to be different this time around, you can tell. They already are. 

You hum, ruminating on what awaits you after your first night back in your own bed, in your own home. What everyone will think and say—to your face and behind your back—when they find out you're back together. Though, the only opinions you give a shit about are Ellie, Tommy, and Maria's, anyway.

So, yeah, you're a lot of things right now: exhausted, yet relieved and so full of hope. But you're not afraid, the cat and the bag be damned.

"I'm not," you tell him honestly as you pull away. You let your hands trail from his shoulders, down his arms, until his hands are in yours. 

Tugging gently, you walk him backward out of the alley, away from the bar and plummeting winter chill, and any lingering, prying eyes. Even the moon and stars have no stake in what comes next. This moment, right here and now, belongs to you and Joel, alone.

"Take me home, Joel."

The light in his eyes burns brighter, amusement giving way to adoration and contentment. He's been waiting for this, to be given the privilege of keeping you safe and taking care of you the way he needs to—it's how he shows love. 

He slots his fingers between yours and leads you down the empty streets of Jackson. 

"Darlin', nothin' would make me happier."