Hi! First of all, thank you for sending me down Jon Bernthal rabbit hole. Love your Fury fics for him and have just watched both Accountant movies
May I request something domestic with Brax and mercenary!reader? Like a rare moment of normalcy or maybe even redaer meeting Chris... Whatever you like most! I just want to see this teddy bear (no, he's a dog) of a man in some cozy situation
Hey! Sooo I guess you're welcome? I regret nothing 🥰🥰🥰 Also here's 10k words of backstory for your request, but there is some fluff and domesticity sprinkled in, I promise! Hope you like it, that request really inspired the ridiculous in me.
“Ghost Protocol” (Braxton x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — When Batu put a hit on you, Braxton did the only thing that made sense to him—he made you and your hacking his problem. Suddenly you had a handler and a "work wife" and "work husband" joke started to circulate.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — One of these days, I'll learn the definition of 'fluff' and won't cut to credits so abruptly. I tried my very best here. Hope this story is not too crack-y or whatever the term is, though it probably is quite ridiculous in places. That can't be helped, unless you replace me with AI I guess (please don't, I love writing even when I hate it). As always any mistakes here are mine, English is not my first language and I'm prone to repetitions.
WORD COUNT — 12,487
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Braxton stood in the center of the client’s living room, rolling his shoulders and taking one more critical look around. The space was a showroom for ego and reeked of new money—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay, pristine kitchen, and a white leather sectional that looked like it would stain if you looked at it wrong. Then, in the very center of it, a slab of marble serving as a coffee table with a single, perfectly placed art book. Never opened.
“Alright, team, how we doin’?” Braxton checked his earpiece. “Rico, how’s that red wire, blue wire lookin’?”
“Dunno know, Brax, this thing’s two shades of fucked up,” Rico muttered, yanking at a bundle of cables. “Who puts silk wallpaper in a place they’re gonna do wiring?”
“Same guy who thinks a panic room behind a fake Warhol makes him clever.”
“How you know is fake?” Levan grumbled, brow furrowed in concentration.
Braxton didn’t. He opted not to answer.
He crossed to the window instead and watched for a moment as Levan—the giant who’d defected from some paramilitary group Braxton never asked about—mounted a second camera in the crown molding.
“How ‘bout it, Legs, you gettin’ the feed yet?” Braxton asked, smirking slightly since he already knew the nickname had pissed you off twice already—and that was only today.
The comm in his ear crackled with static, then he heard the faint sound of keyboard clatter from wherever you had set up shop this week. If Braxton had to guess, it was probably some windowless room with seven monitors and a signal jammer propped at every doorway.
“C’mon, genius, talk to me.”
“Stop calling me that,” you replied.
“But you are a genius, don’t be so modest.”
“You know damn well what I meant.”
Braxton looked straight into the camera and grinned. He couldn’t see you, in fact he had no idea what you looked like, but he imagined you were rolling your eyes right about now.
“Yeah, yeah, you in or not?”
You scoffed, offended at the very question. “Yes. And this guy’s security system is a joke. A toddler could breach it with a second gen iPad.”
“Whatever you say, darlin’.”
“I am saying it. It’s a joke. He didn’t even change his router password from ‘admin admin’.”
“Don’t doubt your expertise, Legs,” Braxton said, moving to examine a wall panel. He ran his fingers along the seam, feeling for inconsistencies. “Guy paid six figures for that system. Probably bragged about it at his country club too.”
You groaned, right in his ear. “Six figures for a system and the man thinks ‘password123’ for the camera control is gonna cut it.”
“So I’m guessin’ you got the cameras, sweetheart?”
“I’m in the cameras, the AC, the smart toilets—yes, he has those, and yes, they’re as ridiculous as you think. Also, that is not my name either.”
“Damn it, girl, no one can say that shit, what is that even? Psyduck?”
“Psithyrus,” you corrected.
“Yeah, that.” Braxton walked back to the kitchen. “What the fuck is it even?”
“Google it.”
“Nah.”
“Then consider it my stripper name. The concept should be more familiar.”
“Heh!” Braxton let out a humorless huff and checked the space between the fridge and the counter for any suspicious wiring. Then he opened that fridge and helped himself to an overpriced bottle of water. “Yeah, yeah, real funny.”
“You won’t start callin’ me by my name, might just flush that idiotic toilet under you repeatedly.”
“Tempting.” Despite himself, Braxton smiled. Just a little. “You do that to me, Legs, and we’re gonna have words. Real ones. Face to face.”
Back in the living room, Levan let out a long sigh. “We also hear you,” he informed them, his accent getting heavier with annoyance.
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll live, big guy.” Braxton turned his attention to Rico. “Kid, you find that access panel or not? Christ, we’re gonna be here all night.”
“Yeah, I found it,” Rico winced, “but I ain’t never seen a mess like this. Guy’s got his ethernet running parallel with the AC ducts. No shielding. It’s like he’s askin’ us to steal his data.”
Braxton snorted. “Yeah, probably hired his cousin who watched a YouTube video.” He moved to the window again, scanning the street below one more time. “Legs, you got all that?”
Braxton couldn’t see it, but he knew you were rolling your eyes even harder. He learned to look for those moments and exploit them.
“Yep.” You sighed. “The guy’s five minutes away, by the way. Want me to stall him?”
“Shit.” Braxton turned away from the window, already moving towards the front door, gun in hand. “Stall him? What’re you gonna do, hack his Tesla and drive him in circles?”
Braxton could hear the smirk in your voice. Or maybe he was just imagining it.
“I’m already in his car. Matter of fact, I’ve read all the texts from his mistress, too.”
“Yeah?” Braxton mounted the silencer quickly, ignoring the look Levan gave him for it. “Anythin’ good?”
“Depends how sick your taste is.” You paused for effect. “That lady’s good, though. Gives a whole different direction to that master and servant—”
“Nope.” Braxton winced. “Changed my mind. Never tell me anythin’ ever again.”
You laughed for real this time and goddamn, Braxton felt somewhat proud. Even if he paid for it with the mental image of their sixty-year-old target in a gimp suit.
“Fair enough,” you conceded. “Draining his battery then. He’s gonna have to stop at the charging station. Bought you half an hour minimum.”
Braxton just nodded. He was rarely impressed with people and tried not to make an exception for you.
“Atta girl.” He crouched next to Rico, eyeing the rat’s nest of cables. “Kid, you about done playing?”
“Almost.” Rico shook his head. “Just need to splice in the bypass. Another ninety seconds.”
“Make it sixty.” Braxton stood up and watched Levan mount the last hidden camera. “Alright, big man, what’s our status?”
“Final camera live,” Levan rumbled, “with thermal… how you say? Thermal shit.” He got down from the chair and carefully placed it back at the dining table. “But system is, I think, dumpster fire.”
Braxton frowned. “Meaning?”
“Badly done.” Levan shook his head. “This whole place. Sticks together with glue and spit.”
“Poetic.” Braxton moved back to the living room, scanning the placement of their gear. Everything needed to look like a professional security upgrade, not a covert surveillance operation. “Legs, how you doin’?”
“Can’t complain.” You slurped loudly in his ear. “Having a slushie.”
“You’re killin’ me here.” Braxton shook his head. “We’re on the fuckin’ clock, she’s havin’ a slushie.”
“It’s blue.”
“Legs, I invoiced you before so I know you’re not twelve.” All of a sudden Braxton whistled sharply. “Kid! Sixty seconds was two minutes ago. You makin’ progress or just makin’ me nervous?”
“Makin’ sure I don’t fry the whole grid,” Rico shot back. “Guy’s got his thermostat on the same circuit as the TV and that damn smart fridge.”
“In English?”
“I trip the wrong wire, his ice maker starts talkin’ to the feds.”
Braxton rubbed the back of his neck. “Jesus, you’re all stand-up comedians all of a sudden…”
“Almost done.”
“You were almost done five minutes ago, now you’re just playin’.”
Meanwhile, Levan lumbered over from the dining area and set up his toolbox on the ridiculously shiny kitchen counter. Braxton watched the cloud of drywall dust set down all around the tabletop.
“We look like real security team?” The big man gestured to their outfits—black polos with a fake company logo and cargo pants that were a little too clean to be genuine.
“Long as the client’s as dumb as his password,” Braxton grumbled.
He moved to the window again, looking down. A white Tesla crawled down the block, stopping at the corner.
“Alright! Show’s over. Rico?”
“Done!” The kid wrapped up the now-straight cables back behind the drywall cover.
Braxton tapped his earpiece. “Legs?”
“Sending him a perfectly legitimate invoice from a perfectly legitimate company e-mail. I called us Secure Home Solutions.” You took another long sip. “I even gave you a five-star Yelp review.”
“From who?”
“SatisfiedCustomer69. Very convincing.”
Braxton pinched the bridge of his nose, then moved to the front door and checked the peephole. “Alright. Move it everyone, show’s over. Walk like we belong here. Levan, you’re the supervisor—walk out first. Rico, you’re the apprentice, look tired.”
Rico picked up his thermos, then pointed at Braxton’s still perfectly styled hair. “And you?”
Braxton smirked. “Pretendin’ I really was doin’ a job that pays thirty bucks an hour.”
Meanwhile, you slurped the last of your slushie, dodged a brain freeze by a miracle, and checked the monitors. Four screens, four feeds from the client’s place. All running smoothly so far.
On monitor one, you had the entire layout of the open-spaced living room and kitchen. Monitor two showed the hallway. Levan filled the doorway as he lumbered out first, playing supervisor. The guy moved like a refrigerator with legs, but you had to admit you hadn’t seen him fuck up an install once.
Next, you pulled up the grainy footage from the security cam downstairs. The concierge was busy playing Candy Crush on his phone, just like nature intended. The last footage you checked was the underground parking lot where the client was still fussing over his Tesla.
“You’re clear,” you said, then checked the internal cam in the elevator. “Hurry, though. That idiot won’t be praying at his shrine to Elon all night long.”
All three of them got inside the elevator and stood there in what looked like an awkward silence. You zoomed in on the elevator footage before you could help yourself. There they all were, each exhausted in his own way. Except Braxton, who still looked like he’d rather be walking around naked than in all this polyester. You zoomed the camera on him as he adjusted his polo and you smirked.
The camera caught his profile—the broken nose, the stubble, the bored scowl. Then, all of a sudden, Braxton looked up and you physically recoiled from the monitor. He winked at the camera.
Like he knew.
“Bastard,” you muttered.
His smartass grin widened. “What’s that, sweetheart?”
You closed your eyes. Your mic was still on.
“Scrubbing the logs,” you grumbled. “You should be good, go through the main door like you’re supposed to be there. I’m gonna lose the visual, need to wipe this clean.”
It took you a couple minutes and then boom—it’s like the team was never there.
“Hey, Legs.” Braxton’s voice crackled through the comms. “You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” You leaned back in your chair. “Watching your dashing getaway. You walk like a guy who stole something.”
“Thought you were wiping the footage?”
You clicked your tongue, busted. “Educated guess.”
“Sure.” You could hear the van door slam through his feed. “Okay. You’re gonna grace us with your presence for the debrief, or is this a digital-only relationship?”
Braxton waited. Silence stretched for a while and you tried to figure out a good enough answer.
“C’mon, Legs. You gonna make me ask twice?”
“You already know the answer,” you said, suddenly serious. “I’ll check in later.”
You disconnected the call right then, like ripping off the bandaid—and you told yourself it was better this way anyway.
The hotel room might have been staged to be pristine—once—but it took Braxton exactly four hours to scatter his own flavor of chaos across every surface. There were two disassembled Glocks on the coffee table, a small pile of clothes by the bed, and a plate with a half-eaten room service burger getting cold on the desk. A bottle of Maker’s Mark, with the cap missing, was still on the bathroom countertop, right where Braxton had left it before he stepped in the shower.
The luxury suite’s windows showed the city downtown, glittering like in a well-balanced movie shot. Braxton walked up to the widows, towel wrapped loosely around his hips, like he couldn’t be bothered. He looked outside for a moment, then pulled the blackout curtains halfway. He couldn’t decide whether to watch the world or shut it out yet.
Then, his phone rang. One of the burners. He rummaged through his bag for the right one, then let it go three rings before picking up.
“Batu. Tell me something good.”
“Job’s clean,” Batu said, then got into a smoker’s coughing fit. Braxton winced and held the phone away from his ear for the duration of it.
“Client’s happy. Wire’s already movin’,” Batu said finally, wheezing.
Braxton grunted, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “And the other client?”
Batu chuckled darkly. “The other one’s even happier. Told me he got the login details from our little friend. That system of hers… I don’t understand it. But it works.”
“I’m sensin’ a ‘but’.”
“Yeah, well.” Batu paused and Braxton heard a lighter click. “Could say we got a problem.”
“Don’t say it.”
“She’s not here.”
“Where?”
Batu omitted the specifics. Instead, he took a long drag on his cigarette.
“It’s the fourth job. Fourth debrief she ghosts.” Papers shuffled on Batu’s end. “Makes clients nervous. Makes me nervous. Digital assets are still assets. Assets need handlers.”
Braxton paced to the window then back to the bathroom where he left the bottle. “You callin’ me to bitch ‘bout her? I’m not the handler here, Batu, got my hands full handlin’ my own shit.”
Batu exhaled smoke that crackled across the line. “You’re the one she talks to.”
Braxton paused in his tracks, forgot to pick the bottle, turned back to the bedroom and let out a heavy sigh. The towel was starting to slip. He didn’t bother yanking it higher.
“Client paid, data’s clean, nobody got shot. What’s the actual grievance here?”
“The grievance,” Batu said, voice dry, “is that she thinks she’s callin’ the shots. If she shows up on somebody else’s payroll, well, let’s just say ‘I told you so’ now to get that out of the way.”
Braxton’s jaw worked. Why the hell was he required for this talk?
“She’s not gonna flip. She’s too paranoid for that.” Braxton picked up a glass then rolled his eyes at being so distracted because he never picked up that bottle. “You want me to what here—track her down? Put a leash on her?”
“I want you to do what you do best, Braxton. Make a problem into not-my-problem.”
Braxton froze.
“Why the fuck would you put a hit on the best hacker we ever had?”
The words came out sharper than he meant. Braxton swore under his breath. He was getting too emotional about this.
He needed to drink more. Or less.
One of those.
“She’s not a problem.” Braxton did his best to sound convincing. Might have leaned a tad too much on the desperate side, though, because Batu laughed. Then coughed even more than before. Braxton wished him seven types of lung cancer.
“I’ll handle it,” Braxton decided.
“That’s cute,” Batu grumbled. “Handle it how?”
“By not handling it like you would.”
“That’s not an answer, Brax.” Batu took another long drag. “You think she’s irreplaceable. That’s dangerous thinking in our line of work.”
“You wanna waste the best digital asset we’ve got, be my guest. But you better find me someone as good as her for the next job.”
The line went quiet except for Batu’s breathing, raspy and wet.
“You callin’ the shots now, kid?”
Braxton stared out the window, wheels turning in his head. “Give me forty-eight hours.”
“You got twenty-four. And that’s only ‘cause you piss me off like you’re my own son.”
The call disconnected.
Braxton looked at the phone for exactly two seconds of calm, then hurled it at the wall. It bounced off of it, leaving a dent, and clattered to the carpet beside the bathroom door.
The towel finally gave up and pooled at his feet. Braxton stepped over it, walked naked to the desk, and pulled a laptop from his go-bag.
He dragged a hand down his mouth, waiting for the system to boot. “Okay, what the fuck…”
Because how would he even begin the search for someone who made smoke signals look traceable?
Braxton had worked three jobs with you so far, heard your snark in his ear and witnessed you perform online miracles. But witnessing wasn’t understanding. He could field-strip a weapon blindfolded, but didn’t have the first idea on how to locate a goddamn hacker.
And that unknown, that lack of any semblance of a plan pissed him off almost as much as your disappearing act did.
Until he remembered something.
He looked for Yelp, then searched for the fake company you had set up for their cover story.
“Okay, what was it? Secure… home solutions,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair. It was drying all sorts of frizzy, but he had no time to do anything about it now.
He loaded the Yelp page and scrolled through the contact information. Fake address, fake email, fake mobile number… But it looked real enough.
“No way this connects to anywhere but the local Golden Dragon bar,” Braxton muttered as he typed in the number on his other phone. The one by the wall was still on timeout.
“Come on, come on, you gotta know it’s me,” he muttered and got up then started pacing the room.
This was crossing a line, he knew. You two had a rhythm—he grumbled, you ghosted, he pretended to be mad, everyone got paid.
Three rings. Four. Braxton’s thumb hovered over the end call button when the line clicked—not to a voice, but to a mechanical whir, like an ancient dial-up modem.
“Welcome,” a synthesized voice chirped—female, saccharine, and obviously AI. “You’ve reached Secure Home Solutions. Your call is very important to us. Please hold while we redirect you to one of our operators.”
A pause. Then elevator music—actual fucking elevator music, the kind that made Braxton want to crawl out of his skin.
He put it on speaker and then just stared at his phone. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
The sheer amount of work you’ve put into the masquerade was impressive, though something told him it wasn’t so much your professionalism but genuine love of the game—the game being messing with people.
Then the music cut off. Silence. Braxton checked if it got disconnected, but it didn’t.
Then he heard your voice, real and as infuriating as it was this morning:
“Secure Home Solutions, this is Brandy.” Papers shuffled, some weird machine beeped in the background, and then Braxton heard crunching.
“Legs.”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you not to use that term. It’s highly unprofessional.”
He finally stopped pacing. Got himself two seconds to exhale.
“Legs.”
“Braxton.” You paused. “Well, what is it? You were watching ‘Casablanca’ and thought of me?”
“The…” He frowned, momentarily forgetting why the hell he called in the first place. The relief of having reached you was too great. “What?”
“It’s a… Ah, nevermind. It’s a Meg Ryan movie reference.” Then, more crunching sounds. “So… You feelin’ lonely on a Friday night? Wanted to call one of them 1-800 numbers instead?”
“The fuck… You’re eating popcorn while running a fake security company. On a Friday night.”
“Chips, actually. And it’s a very real fake company. We could’ve paid taxes and everything.”
Normally, it would’ve made him smile. He would’ve jumped head first into banter. But right now it dawned on him that he genuinely cared whether you lived or died.
“She’s eatin’ chips,” Braxton muttered to himself, then walked right back to where he left the bourbon. He remembered to pour himself that glass this time. “Goddamnit.”
The crunching stopped. For three seconds, there was only the hum of whatever server machinery you had running in the background.
“What’s wrong?”
Braxton scoffed and took a swig. “How do you know something’s wrong?”
“‘Cause it’s been three minutes and you only called me ‘Legs’ once, and now it sounds like you’re drinking.”
“Maybe I just needed a drink.”
Braxton didn’t know why he was deflecting exactly, but it was a complicated thing—breaking it to you that Batu had put a hit on you.
Finally, he landed on a half-truth:
“Batu’s talkin’ about handlers.”
“Handlers,” you repeated, like the word was something filthy. “Cute. But I’m not a unicorn, an escaped demon, or a criminal.”
Braxton laughed at that, even though it was short-lived. “Hate to break it to you, darlin’...”
“Okay. Sort of a criminal. Never killed anyone, though, I’m not good at that, so he can’t be that pressed about me.”
Braxton scoffed and sat down on the bed, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Listen to me. He’s tired of your ghosting. Fourth time, Legs. Makes people nervous.”
“Good.”
“No, no, not good.” Braxton closed his eyes, slowly feeling all that bourbon hitting him all at once. “You’re gettin’ paid to be reliable.”
“I am reliable.” Your voice came out sharper now. “The job was clean, the data was scrapped, the client’s happy, the other one is too. That’s the only metric that matters.”
“Yeah, Batu’s metric’s different.” Braxton let out a long-suffering sigh. “He’s not the kinda man who settles for the shorter straw.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, he’s got nothin’ on you. No face, no address, and it’s makin’ him twitchy. Makin’ him do stupid shit.”
You chuckled, like you couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing. “Tell him my face is proprietary information.”
“Jesus Christ, Psithyrus, this isn’t a joke!” Braxton raised his voice, completely out of arguments. “He’s givin’ me twenty-four hours to make you a problem that ain’t his.”
Your voice, when it came, sounded shocked:
“You said my name.”
“Pretty sure your parents didn’t name you after a goddamn bee.”
“And you Googled it.”
Braxton groaned. “You heard what I just said?”
Something shuffled on the other end again, then a door opened and closed. Braxton listened for exactly two seconds more before he spoke:
“Where are you right now?”
“Home.”
“And where’s home?”
You snorted. “Where’s yours?”
“Don’t have one.”
Neither of you spoke for a while. Personally, Braxton was appalled with himself for revealing something—anything—personal.
And then he heard you typing—fast, staccato bursts, not the idle click-clack of someone browsing.
He huffed in disbelief. “What’re you doin’?”
“None of your—”
“You better not say it’s none of my business, ‘cause this is me puttin’ my own ass on the line here.”
The call went quiet again. On both ends. Like neither wanted to acknowledge what just happened.
And your typing resumed.
“Listen to me,” Braxton tried again, suddenly feeling very tired, “whatever you’re tryin’ to do here, it better not involve leavin’ me to explain to a very pissed off Armenian why my bright idea backfired on me.”
“Oh, bet that never happened before,” you quipped.
“Jesus… Listen. You gotta give me somethin’ here. A meet. A dead drop. A fuckin’... Carrier pigeon.”
“I hate pigeons.”
“Good to know. Tell you what, I’ll make sure not to order any for both our funerals.”
You didn’t answer, not right away. Braxton closed his eyes again. “So how ‘bout it, Legs? I know it’s way past your bedtime—”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“Nah.” Braxton let out a short, sharp laugh. “Neither do I.”
Briefly, you just existed on the line together—both in their own flavor of personal anxiety. Just as Braxton slowly felt himself give up on this whole thing, he gave it one last desperate try:
“I’m not gonna let him touch you.”
You didn’t say anything, not at first, and he looked at the ceiling, mouthing silent curses, feeling like a complete idiot.
And yet, as if hell had frozen over, you finally spoke:
“I’ll text you the address.”
Braxton tried not to let the irony of sitting in a Chinese restaurant named “Golden Dragon” get to him too much. At least the place looked clean and didn’t smell like old grease.
He chose the table by the aquarium, not exactly hiding in any dark corners, but not leaving his ass exposed either. The waiter tried to take his order twice already, and each time Braxton said he was waiting for someone. Now the waiter was coming around for the third attempt and Braxton honestly got worried this would end up with him getting force-fed.
“Your friend, she’s coming soon?”
Braxton sighed and looked up at the man. He was smirking, the bastard, again holding out the two menus.
“Yeah. She’s comin’. Or not. Give me that,” Braxton grumbled and took the menus, then slapped them against the table. “You know what, why don’t you get me the egg rolls, how ‘bout that?”
The waiter scribbled something on the notepad, still smirking. “Six egg roll, ten minutes.”
Braxton could see why you chose this place. That was the thing about restaurants like that, it wouldn’t have mattered whether he chose two items from the menu or twenty. It would still be ten minutes.
Braxton drummed his fingers on the laminated menu, eyes tracking every person who walked through the front door. The aquarium behind him cast a bluish glow across his face and all of it seemed almost peaceful—had it not been a literal life or death sort of situation.
After ten minutes, the waiter appeared again, this time with a plate of egg rolls that looked surprisingly fresh.
“Six egg roll,” he announced, setting them down with a smug little flourish. “You friend, she is late.”
“She’s not my friend,” Braxton muttered, reaching for the sauce. “She’s a—”
Pain in my ass. A liability.
“—colleague.”
The waiter’s eyebrow lifted. “I see.”
He definitely didn’t see. He saw a guy who’d been stood up, and Braxton hated that he’d let himself be put in that position at all.
He was halfway through his second egg roll—greasy, but real good—when the door chimed. Braxton’s head came up, but it was just a delivery guy with a stack of takeout bags. Braxton forced himself to relax, took another bite, and checked his watch. Once or twice, he pulled out his burner phone, considered sending a text, then shoved it back in his pocket.
Last thing he needed was to look desperate.
But he was, wasn’t he. Because Batu wasn’t in the habit of bluffing, in fact the man hated gambling with a passion. And even though you were usually the smartest person in the room on assignments, Braxton wasn’t sure you understood the gravity of the situation.
Braxton had never even seen your face, not for the lack of trying, but he really, truly didn’t want to see it in a body bag that very first time.
The door chimed again. He didn’t even notice, too preoccupied by the darker side of his thoughts—until you walked up right to his table. The first thing Braxton noticed was the hair, because, well. It was hard not to. Then there were the glasses, a detail he somehow suspected would be there. You couldn’t stare at the screen all day and come out of it with 20/20 vision.
“You look taller on camera,” you said, then sat down in front of him.
And Braxton still stared. He wasn’t in the habit of staying quiet, but somehow he had nothing to say.
Until you snapped your fingers right in front of his face.
“Hello?” Then you leaned right back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Jesus, I’ve been called a robot before, didn’t realize there’d be two of us.”
“Didn’t know you were comin’,” he shot back, then just watched you reach for the egg roll across the table and take a big bite.
“Yeah, well,” you mumbled around the food, swallowed, “I wasn’t sure I was either. Then I figured, what the hell. Might as well see what a real-life dinosaur of this business looks like before you go extinct.”
Braxton leaned back, crossing his arms. Fuck walking around the hotel room with no towel on, this made him feel ten times more naked.
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
You shrugged, chewing. “Your problem-solving instincts are a bit dated.”
“Dated?”
“Walk around shootin’ your problems. Seems the boss is the same way. And I got no idea how to deal with people like that.”
Braxton’s eyebrows shot up and he let out a short, raspy laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe you. “Yeah, okay. You done testin’ me, girl? We gonna talk about the fact you’ve got a hit on your head?”
You took another bite. Swallowed. The playful glint in your eye vanished. Then you studied Braxton’s face for a long moment and nodded.
“Okay.”
He frowned, no less confused than before. “Okay, what?”
“Okay, I’ll let you buy me dinner.” You gestured to the egg rolls. “Can we get the fried rice? Wonton soup is really good, too.”
“Fuck me,” Braxton snorted, and it was a real laugh this time. “You got balls, Legs, I’ll give you that.”
Then he flagged the waiter. The man walked over, looking far too pleased with himself. Then Braxton noticed the recognition in the man’s eyes.
“Welcome back!” The waiter beamed at you. “So, you want wanton soup?”
“Hey, Shui.” You smiled but avoided eye contact. “Yeah. Wanton soup, please. Fried rice, extra tofu.”
“Hot lemon tea?” The waiter paused, a sort of insistent type of pause. “Is good for you.”
“Yeah, sure.” Your smile widened just so. “And tea.”
The waiter scribbled, glanced at Braxton, at the decimated egg rolls, then back at you. “He want the duck?”
“Yeah, he’ll have the number six. Can we get him a beer, too?”
Braxton’s eyes widened at the whole exchange, but he didn’t protest. When the waiter left, Braxton leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“I want the duck?”
“You do.” You wiped your hands on a napkin. “Desperately.”
Braxton looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Then he leaned back again. His jaw worked for a moment longer before he found the words.
“Listen to me, Legs. Batu doesn’t make idle threats,” he said finally. “He’s a nicotine-addicted killer. Mean when he really wants to be. So when he says twenty-four hours, he means twenty-four hours.”
“I know what he means.” You pushed the glasses up your nose. “I also know he’s not gonna move until he’s got confirmation. Right now, you’re the one keeping it on hold.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“It wasn’t a criticism.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“You’re panicking.”
“I don’t panic!”
“Your jaw’s doing that thing.” You gestured at his face.
“I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”
“Why?” You sat back, studying him again. “You can’t like me that much. People don’t like me. I know I’m just that way, same as you’re… Your way.”
Braxton just stared at you.
“That way,” he repeated.
“Yeah.” You shrugged. “Four jobs we did together. You’ve never seen my face. Always asked me questions, I never gave you any good answers. I pissed you off on purpose, sometimes just to see the… Yeah, there it is again.”
Braxton forced his jaw to relax.
Your order arrived.
You smiled at Shui, thanked him, then waited until he was out of earshot. Braxton said nothing. He didn’t touch his food, he just watched you slurp your soup.
“Listen to me,” he said finally. You didn’t look up.
“You think this is about you being difficult? It’s not. Batu’s got a file on you. Not a big one, but it’s there. Birth certificate—fake, I guess. Social—burned. Medical records—nonexistent. That’s fine. That’s what we all do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“You’re not flying solo here. You’re using the firm for some assurances while he’s got nothin’ on you. He’s not in the charity business, Legs, he’s in—”
“I’m a liability?”
“Nah.” He shook his head and this time he was sure. “I've watched you work four jobs and you haven’t fucked up once, which makes you a goddamn unicorn.”
He waited. You ate one wonton and kept looking away.
“You wanna know why I ghost?”
Braxton sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “Enlighten me.”
“Because the last time I let someone put a handler on me, he fucked up.”
“Fucked up how?” Braxton asked, though as soon as he said it, he realized he wouldn’t like the answer. He could see it in your eyes.
“I ended up in a government black site for eight months.”
It made Braxton straighten right up.
“You’re shittin’ me right now.”
“Oh, wish I was.” You winced. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
He just nodded. There were many things Braxton would make light of—but not that. So you both ate in silence, and worst of all was, he had to begrudgingly admit the duck really was good.
“So you got a plan?” you asked, breaking the silence. And for the first time since you sat down, you sounded like you’d actually listen to him.
“Workin’ on it,” he muttered.
After some time, he drained his beer and set it down hard enough to make you jump. “Okay.”
You pushed your glasses up your nose. He was right, they really were too big for your face.
“Okay?”
“Here’s the thing. Batu’s old school. Yes,” Braxton raised a hand before you could speak, “we both are. Save the ‘old man’ jokes for now.”
You huffed and crossed your arms over your chest, but didn’t protest more than that.
“Okay,” he agreed for you. “So. Batu doesn’t trust what he can’t touch, what he can’t put in a room and look in the eye.”
Braxton’s tone sharpened, gaining that special kind of authority you’ve heard many times before. You hated how much it calmed you down.
You nodded, not looking up from your plate. “So I invite him out for tea.”
“No.”
You frowned. “No?”
“You become my problem,” he conceded.
That got your attention. You finally looked at him. “What?”
“I tell Batu I’m your handler now. You report to me, I report to him. He gets his assurance, you don’t gotta… Be scared.” Braxton spread his hands. “Simple.”
You stared at him for a long moment, the look of pure disbelief. “That’s your plan? You’re going to… vouch for me? With the…” You gestured up and down at yourself, unsure what exactly you wanted to object to here.
Braxton looked away like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because…” He flagged Shui when he walked past your table. “Hey, can we get the check? Thanks.”
“Sure thing.” Shui started to stack the empty plates and gave you a knowing smile. “All good?”
“Yeah.” You forced a smile, but failed miserably.
“Okay.” Shui’s voice softened. “I bring your check now.”
Braxton watched the man walk away and his jaw tightened again. He could feel it, that same tic you’d pointed out. He forced himself to stop.
Then you nudged his boot with yours under the table and he frowned, brought back to reality.
You jutted your chin at him. “You were saying?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Listen, Batu’s an idiot if he thinks he can find someone better and—” He cut himself off, scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck it. Because I’m not lettin’ you die, okay? It’s a goddamn waste.”
“Waste?”
“I’m not letting him kill the person who can actually make my job easier instead of harder.”
You studied him again and Braxton could tell you didn’t believe him, not even a little.
“What’s the catch?”
“Catch is,” he replied, slower this time, “you don’t ghost me. You don’t vanish after jobs. You check in. Not ‘cause I say so, but ‘cause I need to know you’re not in a ditch somewhere.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And if I say no?”
“Fuck’s sake…” Braxton leaned back, looking up like the inspiration to get through to you would be hanging down from the ceiling. It made you smirk.
“Then get your affairs in order, Legs, don’t know what else I can do here.”
Shui came back with the check then. Braxton reached for his wallet and didn’t even look at the total—he just stacked two crisp hundreds together and handed them to him.
“I’ll bring the change,” Shui muttered.
“Keep it.” Braxton stood up and gestured towards you, already standing up. “You good?”
Shui’s brows shot up. He cleaned the rest of the dishes away and you were still sitting, mulling everything over. And panicking, despite your best efforts Braxton could tell this time.
“You’d do that?” you asked quietly when Shui left. “Just… Make me your problem?”
“Jesus, just said I would, didn’t I?”
You looked away from him, watching the aquarium. “This won’t end well.”
“Don’t care.” Braxton put his jacket on and handed you yours. “C’mon, Legs. Get up.”
You did. Then you snatched your jacket from him before he could touch you. “What are you asking me to do here?”
“Stay alive, how ‘bout that?”
You smirked. As you both walked out, Shui called after you: “You come back soon! Bring boyfriend too!”
Braxton shot you an offended look. And for the first time tonight, you laughed. He didn’t bother to think why exactly he was so relieved to hear it.
You shoved your hands in your pockets and followed Braxton wherever it was he started walking towards.
“So,” you said after a block. “This is the part where you ask what I drive.”
“Don’t care what you drive.”
“Good. ‘Cause I don’t drive.”
Braxton grimaced. “You don’t drive.”
“Nope.” You kept walking, backward now, facing him. “I take the bus. Or I walk. Or…” You trailed off. “My handler gives me a ride, sometimes. It’s an HR nightmare waiting to happen.”
Braxton’s frown deepened until he caught up. “Jesus.”
You looked up at him, and for a second he thought you might say something real now. Something that wouldn’t be a joke or a deflection. But you didn’t.
“Okay,” you decided and turned back around, facing the road again. “But I’m not sitting in the front seat. I get carsick.”
Braxton snorted. “How old are you?”
You scoffed, defensive. “How old are you?”
“Forty-one.”
You shot him an unamused look.
“Okay, forty-four.”
You stopped and now looked so profoundly done with him that Braxton had to laugh. “Fuck’s sake, you got a file on me, Legs?”
“Obviously,” you deadpanned.
“Yeah, alright,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Sorry I asked.”
You walked up to his car—black, nondescript, what you expected—and he opened the passenger door for you. You stared at it like it might bite.
“In,” he said.
So you got in.
As Braxton pulled into traffic, he glanced over. You were already doing something weird on your phone, he could tell.
“Legs,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Put the damn seatbelt on.”
You did. And Braxton couldn’t tell why you didn't even argue. Maybe you were too preoccupied with whatever nerd ritual you were performing there or… Maybe you started to trust him.
Wasn’t that a terrifying thought.
Braxton’s hotel room was… Exactly what you expected, too. You didn’t even bother being surprised.
“You live here?”
“Don’t live anywhere, Legs. That’s kinda the point.”
“Uh-huh.” You looked inside, but still didn’t move.
“In,” he said, then threw his jacket on the closest chair. “Or you gonna stand there all night?”
You sighed like he was asking you to swim through sewage, but you got inside and closed the door.
You stood just inside the doorway, like you were calculating exit routes. There weren’t any.
You arched a brow. “One bed.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” He rummaged through his bag to find his laptop, then remembered where he left it and walked up to the desk. “You’re not staying.”
“My last bus home was an hour ago.”
“You get the floor then.”
“This is you protecting me, huh?” You grinned and carefully put your jacket on the hanger by the door.
“I said I’d keep you alive, not comfortable.”
He pulled out the desk chair and spun it around, gesturing for you to sit. “Now, you’re gonna call him. Be… You know. Nice. Normal.”
You stared at the chair. Then at Braxton. “Can’t do both.”
Braxton sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. Be normal. The nice part was wishful thinking.”
“Uh-huh.” You dropped into the chair and helped yourself to his laptop, immediately executing some sort of commands. He wasn’t even sure what they did.
“He wants me to be normal,” you drawled. “With the man who just threatened to have me killed.”
Braxton poured himself a drink.
“Just… talk to him like you talk to me.”
You chuckled. “I don’t think you understand how badly that would go.”
Braxton pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus fucking Christ. Can you, for one minute—”
“Actually, no.” You pulled your knees up to your chest. It made you look about twelve. “That’s the thing. I am how I am. Don’t know how to be different. You don’t like it, fuck off. Let him kill me.”
Braxton felt himself losing it. There was only so much drama he could take.
“Sure.” He put the glass down with a loud clink. “You know what—”
“I don’t know how to be whatever it is you need me to be right now,” you interrupted, and goddamn if these big eyes looking right at him didn’t pin him in the spot harder than a throwing knife could.
“I know how to ghost. I know how to hide. I know how to piss people off until they leave me alone. I don’t know how to… Make nice with a crime boss so he’ll let me keep playing Skyrim.”
The words came out fast, almost frantic, and Braxton realized that was the real bit he had wondered so much about. Now that you said it, he didn’t feel equipped to help you.
“Skyrim,” he deadpanned.
“It’s a… Game about elves and dragons, but also a civil war with the—”
“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he winced, “alright, stop. Forget normal. Just be… Professional.”
“Professional.” You laughed, but it was hollow. “What the hell do I say?”
You looked up at him, and behind those glasses, your eyes were still wide and genuinely lost. Braxton hated how that made him feel.
So he pulled up another chair, sat down next to you. “You say: Batu. It’s Psithyrus. Braxton’s handling my integration. You’ll have your reports. We’re good.”
“That's it?”
“That's it.”
“And if he asks questions?”
“He won’t.”
“No?”
“No.” Braxton managed a small smile and reached back for his drink. “He doesn’t really give a shit. He wants to get his way, now he’s gettin’ it.”
A slow smile spread across your face. “That’s… Pretty insightful.”
“Got my moments, don’t I.”
You sighed and executed the video call app, then typed in the number from memory and hit call. Braxton tried not to be impressed.
It rang for a long time, but after a while, Batu’s gravelly voice came through:
“Braxton. You got something for me?”
You took a deep breath and switched the camera on. “Batu. It’s Psithyrus.”
Silence fell. You frowned. “Hello?”
“This a joke?” Batu rasped.
“No.” You shook your head. “Braxton’s… Handling it. Me. I mean… Things.” You closed your eyes for a moment, squeezing your fists so tight your knuckles went white. “You’ll have your reports. We’re good.”
Batu wasn’t impressed. You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell anyway.
“Thought you were supposed to be the ghost,” he rasped.
“Not anymore.”
“No?” Batu mocked. “Why not?”
Braxton could almost hear the gears turning in your head. But you didn’t mention the hit. Smart girl.
“I’ve been working on something,” you said fast. “A network of cyber keys for the bespoke private security firms, the kind rich idiots like to hire because the logo looks nice and the agents wear good suits. Doesn’t matter, point is, their service is usually shit, the firewall bypass is childplay. But I can’t do that hit alone.”
And this time Braxton couldn’t tell whether you were lying or not. Batu couldn’t either. He turned on his camera. Apparently the calculation between risk and reward came out in your favor.
“Why didn’t you say something, huh?”
Then, miracle of miracles, Braxton heard the lighter click. You weren’t out of the woods yet, but definitely not in danger of being eaten by the big bad wolf anymore. Smoking meant the crazy man was reconsidering.
You, apparently oblivious to the mood encyclopedia of Batu, just frowned, caught off guard. “I, uh… Don’t like bragging about something that’s not finished.”
Batu exhaled another lungful of smoke and immediately coughed, the sound carrying through the speakers like a death rattle.
“Fine,” he rasped. “You finish your… network. You report on it. He reports to me. And you report on every job.”
“Yeah, yes,” you said, your voice steadier than Braxton expected.
“Braxton,” Batu grunted, and Braxton leaned into the frame so the old man could see his face.
“Yeah.”
It felt like Batu would whip out his report card any second and ask why the neighbor's kid could get a B in English but not his idiot ass.
“Don’t know what you’re thinkin’ here and frankly I don’t give a fuck. But I see one more fuck up, it’s both your heads. Not just hers.”
“Okay.”
You shot Braxton a look, just a quick one. His voice was completely calm, like they were discussing delivering groceries.
Then the screen went black. You sat there for a moment, still staring at Braxton. Braxton downed the rest of his drink and tipped his glass towards you.
“Sure you don’t want anythin’?”
“Oh, no, now I definitely do,” you said quickly and let out a long, shuddering breath. Then you closed the laptop and watched him pour two drinks. “That was excruciating.”
“Nah, that? It was fine,” he shook his head, smirking. “He was in a good mood.”
“How can you tell?”
“I just can. My job’s to read people. Here.” He handed you the glass and you snatched it.
“A real glass-half-full guy, aren’t you?”
“Glass is broken and I’m bleeding, but sure.”
You laughed, despite the nerves, then looked at him, frowning. “You want to make a really bad toast, don’t you?”
He grinned. “Ah, c’mon, Legs. Let me.”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t mean it. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He clinked his glass against yours. “To your new leash.”
“You—!”
He chuckled to himself and took a big gulp. You sighed and took a sip. To his surprise, you didn’t even make a face or comment.
“Wouldn’t take you for a bourbon kinda girl.”
“I prefer cognac, actually,” you muttered.
“What the…” His grin widened. “Lookie here. What a snob.”
“It’s called ‘taste’.”
“Whatever you say, Legs.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it and just pointed. “That a Hugo Boss jacket I see on the bed there?”
“The…” He turned around, a little spooked. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Hypocrite.” You unfolded yourself from the chair, stretched, then wandered the room. Braxton watched you, but tensed when you picked his disassembled Glock parts like they were Legos.
“Put that down,” he said immediately.
“Why? It’s not loaded.”
“Still a gun.” He gestured at you with his glass. “And you’re still… You.”
You smirked, but stepped away. “You live like this everywhere?”
“I told you. Don’t live anywhere.”
“Right.” You kept wandering and this whole time Braxton’s dark eyes followed your every step. “So this is just… What? It’s how you avoid doing the dishes and your own laundry?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he muttered.
“Wish I could do that.”
You moved like someone who spent too much time in small spaces and he wondered about you.
“You wanna sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet?”
“Ah, but it’s not your carpet, is it?” You turned towards the window, looking outside as if the view could tell you something about him.
“Yeah. Well.” He set his glass down, suddenly serious. “You don’t have to stay,” he said finally. “Just leave me the number you’ll actually pick up and we’re good.”
You walked up to him and picked up your glass again.
And for once there was no smartass comeback stacked behind your teeth.
Braxton felt himself reading too much into it.
“Alright,” he decided, changing the subject. “Ground rules.”
You groaned. “Oh, here we go.”
“Don’t get cute. First—” He held up a finger. “You answer when I call. Not three hours later. Not after you’ve run it through seven million VPNs. You pick up.”
“And if I’m in the middle of—”
“No.” His voice cut through yours, sharp enough that you actually shut up. “You find a way. That’s how this business works.”
You chewed on it and finally nodded. “Fine. Next?”
“You don’t lie to me about where you are. I don’t need your address, nothin’ like that. I need a city. A state. Something I can tell Batu if he asks.”
“Why would he ask?”
“Because he’s a paranoid fuck who gets off on checking in. Give me something real enough to sound convincing.”
You nodded slowly. The fight was draining out of you and he kind of hated to see it.
“I hate talkin’ to people,” you muttered. “That’s kinda why I do what I do.”
“Okay, newsflash—I don’t care if you hate it. I don’t care if I make your skin crawl,” he lied. “You check in. Text. I don’t give a shit how, but you let me know you’re breathing.”
“Why?” you whispered, feeling like he had chipped away at your walls so consistently that they started crumbling down. “You don’t even know me, why do you care so much?”
“Ah, I don’t, do I?” Braxton laughed, but it came out rougher this time. “I know you named your goddamn computer ‘Ozzy’, which… Weird as it is, also tells me you don’t have the worst music taste.”
You stared at him for a moment, processing.
“See, I listen.” He shrugged, but it was too casual, too perfect. “You talk to your machines like they’re alive. Also know you run shit through seven proxies or VPNs, whatever that is, I don’t know why, but it’s always seven.” He smirked. “And you bitch about polyester like it’s the new form of torture.”
You blinked at him, stunned. “That’s… A strangely complete list there, Brax.”
“Yeah, don’t overthink it,” he muttered, looking away.
“Fine. Give me your phone.” You outstretched your hand and he obliged you.
“So,” you opened the contacts, “should I put myself as ‘pizza place’ or ‘work wife’?”
He frowned, genuinely confused. “What the hell is a ‘work wife’?”
You chuckled, incredulous. “I don’t even know how to explain it now without sounding like an absolute creep so I’m not gonna.”
“You don’t say.” Braxton leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Don’t get sentimental on me now. I’m not built for it.”
“Eh, neither am I.” You handed him the phone back, having put yourself as ‘work wife’ with a bunch of pink heart emojis. Braxton looked utterly appalled.
“Yeah, that’s… A whole lotta hearts there, Legs,” he grumbled.
You still looked at him like you expected him to argue so he just pocketed the phone back instead.
In the couple weeks since the Golden Dragon, you’d checked in exactly as promised—texts at random hours, deliberately brief and always sarcastic. Braxton pretended to be serious about it, but usually failed miserably.
Not to mention, you spammed him with memes he had trouble understanding on the daily. This morning you sent him another one, a picture of a cat knocking a wine glass off a table with the caption “me dealing with your attitude.”
He saved it.
Right now, you were browsing through some corporate ace’s email like it was the morning newspaper while Braxton whined in your ear.
“Legs, talk to me. Can’t stand in this damn office forever, someone’s gonna eventually figure I’m too pretty to be security .”
“And I told you,” you muttered, “the guy doesn’t store his email on the company server. What he does store, though, is his Spotify.” You scoffed. “Fucking K-Pop…”
Despite himself, Braxton grinned, scanning the closest entrypoint to the fancy corporate office. “You’re a menace.”
“Your menace, sir.”
Braxton snorted. “Don’t call me that.”
“Would you prefer ‘work husband’?”
“Christ, Legs, I told you to delete that.”
Rico, still elbows deep in the ethernet cables, reared his head from under the desk. “They got married?” He shot a confused look to Levan who just shook his head slowly, like a warning.
“Yeah, and I told you I got problem with authority,” you shot back, still furiously typing. “Best I can do is take your suggestions under advisement. And then ignore you.”
“You’re killin’ me here.” Braxton was still smirking. Then he glared at Rico. “You mind? It’s a private conversation.”
“You know we’re all on the same line here, right?” you interjected.
“Yeah, yeah,” Braxton muttered. “How we doin’ there, kid? And don’t give me any of that ‘ninety seconds’ shit again, I thought she gave you a manual this time.”
Rico’s frown deepened. “These… squiggles? You try to make sense of it, might as well be hieroglyphics.”
“Hey watch it,” Braxton warned. “That’s my wife you’re talkin’ about here.”
“Jesus, go easy on him.” You chuckled quietly. “He’s doing well.”
“Yeah, so proud of him,” Braxton deadpanned. “He’s like the son I never wanted.”
Rico flipped him off and went back to connecting the cables. This time his hands trembled less than before.
Levan just sighed. “Americans are weird.”
“Don’t you start.” Braxton adjusted his earpiece, lowering his voice. “Legs, you’re gonna give my team the wrong idea here.”
“It’s your fault you let this marriage joke run as far as it did, now here we are.”
Indeed, there you were. What started as a silly thing between you took on a life of its own. You came to learn that mercenary business was not at all as mysterious as everybody made it out to be.
And it definitely wasn’t as tight-lipped.
So far, all the bullshit about you and Braxton that you heard through the grapevine never failed to make you laugh. This week’s top story was still the rumor that you tied the knot in Vegas while Braxton held the Elvis impersonator at gunpoint.
“Yeah, you started it,” Braxton grumbled.
“Heh.” Levan let out a chuckle and checked his gun mag. “Heard you made Elvis cry.”
Rico popped his head up again, holding a cable like it was a dead snake. “So it’s true about Vegas?”
“Yes,” you said.
“No!” Braxton immediately countered.
You laughed in his ear, a real laugh this time, not the sarcastic huff he was used to.
“Fuck this, I’m—” Braxton cut himself off, took a breath. “Everybody focus, okay? Legs, you got what we needed yet or you just gonna run your mouth all day?”
“Almost there, dear.”
Rico snickered from under the desk. Braxton could practically hear your satisfied little grin. Or he could very well imagine.
“Finish with the goddamn cables, kid,” Braxton snapped. “Legs, how long we got to the next shift?”
“Seven minutes before the shift change, but I’d say like, ten.”
“Huh?”
“The other security guard is still on the toilet watching TikToks.”
“Wonderful.” Braxton issued a long-suffering sigh. “Still got eyes on the lobby?”
“Yes, you paranoid bastard, I got eyes on the lobby, on the bathrooms, on your ass…”
“Good to know.” Braxton checked his watch, shaking his head. “You done yet?”
“Just finished. Took a little longer because I had to reroute through… Actually, you know what, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“I made the computer do the thing.”
“Atta girl,” Levan laughed, a rare enough sound, and helped Rico up from under the desk.
Braxton rolled his eyes and carefully opened the door to the office. “Alright, everybody pack it up. Legs, you good to ride shotgun?”
“In the van or…?”
“No, in my fuckin’ spaceship.”
You laughed. “Oh, fuck you.”
“What else are husbands for?”
The comms clicked off and the three of them rushed to the elevators. Rico looked at Braxton, still holding his toolkit to his chest. “So you really are—”
“Say it.” Braxton glared again, this time making sure it was a truly terrifying thing to witness.
Rico went silent. The elevator arrived with a ding and they got in.
“You’re a lucky man,” Levan grunted, all of a sudden insightful. “Her, not very lucky.”
Braxton was lounging on the hotel room sofa, halfway through an overpriced protein bar, when his phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and winced.
Grundy.
He watched the thing ring for a moment, looking at the contact name flashing.
“You gonna get that?” you asked from your spot by the window, still crouched over the laptop like a very focused shrimp.
“Thought these things were noise-cancelling.” Braxton gestured to your headphones.
“Your old man ringtone could raise the dead.”
Braxton grumbled something and finally picked up. “What.”
“Hello, Braxton.”
Braxton stayed silent, looking away as if Christian could physically see him.
“We need to talk,” Christian continued.
Braxton rolled his eyes and deliberately chewed through a mouthful of the protein bar, hoping the sound was annoying.
“It concerns your personal security.” Christian still talked like he was reading through a monthly statement.
Braxton sat up straight, suddenly alarmed. “The fuck’re you on about?”
“The wedding.”
Braxton closed his eyes. “Fuck me,” he muttered.
“I ran the numbers. Four separate intelligence streams are reporting you married in Vegas.”
“The numbers,” Braxton repeated.
“Did you know your wife was wanted by the Interpol?”
Braxton blinked, slowly, then looked towards you. You had your music back on because you were slowly shaking your head. The Communards, if he had to guess.
“No,” Braxton muttered. “But what can I say, I got good taste.”
“Debatable,” Christian countered. “Which alias did you register under? Hello? Braxton, it’s important.”
“Which alias… Jesus fucking Christ, Christian—it’s a joke.” Braxton dragged a hand down his face. “She started it, then it sort of… Spiraled.”
“A joke.” Christian’s tone didn’t change, but Braxton could tell he wasn’t convinced. “Well, the business seems to be taking it seriously.”
“The what now?”
“Furthermore, I wasn’t invited.”
“What?” Braxton muttered.
“To the wedding,” Christian explained, as if that helped anything. “Or, the alleged wedding. I would have appreciated a courtesy call.”
“A courtesy—” Braxton stopped himself. “First of all, you don’t call me!”
“I am calling you right now.”
“No, I mean… Oh, Jesus, fuck, you know what I mean!”
For a moment, nobody spoke. And to Braxton’s dismay, he saw you slowly take off your headphones, giving him a look of concerned confusion.
“Chris.” Braxton sighed, looking for the right way to name whatever the hell he was feeling. “You think I got married and didn’t tell you?”
“Well, if you’re asking about the probability—”
“Christian. Christian.” Braxton leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I didn’t get married in Vegas. Didn’t get married anywhere. Didn’t hold Elvis at gunpoint, didn’t kidnap a Shaolin monk or a priest. I saved a crazy girl from a trigger-happy Armenian who signs my goddam paychecks.”
Christian went quiet and Braxton could tell he was mulling it over. He shot you one more glance and got up.
“Alright, listen,” he walked to the bathroom and locked the door, “this ain’t fair. You don’t call me, you don’t… Nothin’, and now you call me because what? What is it you want me to do here?”
“She’s there right now,” Christian said, completely ignoring that entire speech.
“What?”
“I heard you go to the other room.”
“It ain’t like that.”
“It is exactly like that.”
“It is exactly like that,” Braxton mocked him in a high-pitched voice.
“Stop doing that.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Braxton.”
“Braxton.”
“Fine. I don’t understand,” Christian finally admitted. “But next time, invite me to the fake wedding. I’ll bring a gift.”
Braxton sighed and shook his head, defeated. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
“I fail to see how—”
“Start with settin’ the date for meeting me and actually showing up, now how ‘bout that?”
Braxton winced as soon as the words escaped his mouth. He hated that. Hated letting himself get emotionally eviscerated by a phone call.
“We went camping last year,” Christian offered after a moment and Braxton could tell, even through the monotone, his brother was scrambling.
“Great, Chris. That’s great.” He leaned his forehead against the door and bumped it against it, once. Twice. “Unlimited goddamn money between us and you still do this shit.”
They both went quiet after that and Braxton honestly thought Christian hung up.
But no.
“I’m trying to understand,” Christian said.
Braxton sighed. “Well, stop trying to understand and just… I don’t know, listen to me?”
“I am listening,” Christian replied, confused. “And I know that it’s important. You definitely sound like it’s important.”
“You… You can’t keep auditing my life, okay?”
“I am auditing your life,” Christian confirmed. “How else am I supposed to keep tabs on you?”
Braxton opened his mouth, ready to fire back something that would burn the bridge for another six months, but then he chose not to. This was not what he wanted, not the words he kept waiting to hear, even after twenty years of silence. But maybe this was the best they could manage.
“Jesus.” Braxton laughed. “You sound like Dad.”
“Low blow.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.” Braxton banged his head against the door again, harder this time. “Forget it. Forget I called you.”
“You didn’t call me. I called you.”
“Even worse.”
Christian exhaled. It sounded vaguely nervous, though with him, it was hard to tell. “Braxton.”
“What?”
“I am happy for you.”
Braxton stood there, phone still pressed to his ear, feeling like a dog that just went ten rounds around the block chasing his own tail.
“Happy for me,” he repeated.
“I know you don’t want to tell me, so I won’t ask.”
“Alright, okay, you can ask,” Braxton said quickly, way too quickly for the grumbling tone he was trying to pull. “C’mon. Ask me.”
There was another moment of silence. Braxton hesitated between actually answering truthfully or hanging up.
“Tell me about her,” Christian said finally.
And for him, that was basically emotional.
Braxton let out a dry laugh. “She’s… A pain in my ass.”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Ha. Funny.” But Braxton smiled this time and it felt less painful. “She’s… Smart. Hates people. Kind of like you, actually.”
“Well, most hackers display some variety of anti-social beha—”
“No, nope, none of that, shut up,” Braxton grunted. “What else… Oh, yeah, and she’s mouthy. And I know she likes her laptop more than me.”
“You like her.”
Maybe Braxton was kidding himself, but he could have sworn Christian sounded softer now.
“I…” Braxton scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing the small bathroom. “Yeah. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’, Chris. She needed help. I helped. Now I’m…”
“Married.”
Christian let out this small chuckle then and Braxton knew he must have been hallucinating.
“Did you just make a joke?”
“I am capable of humor, Braxton.”
“Oh, I know you’re capable, okay, I know you are. You’re just savin’ the battery.”
“Does she know?” Christian asked.
“Know what?”
“About us. Dad. The whole…”
Braxton winced.
“What the hell, Chris? No! And she’s not gonna.”
“Braxton—”
“No, Chris. That’s not… That’s not part of this. I’m not gonna sit there with her, mixin’ trauma like it’s a goddamn cocktail party of ‘who went through more shit’.”
Christian paused, but then:
“Understood.”
Braxton leaned his back against the bathroom door, suddenly exhausted by all this. “You’re really not gonna give me shit about this?”
“I believe I am doing just that,” Christian corrected. “Just inefficiently.”
Braxton smiled despite his best efforts. “Okay. Good talk.”
“Take care of yourself, Braxton.”
“I probably won’t.”
He hung up and opened the door to find you standing right there, headphones still around your neck. You were looking right at him and he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Everything okay?” you asked.
“Yeah. Family shit.” Braxton stepped right past you, trying to put distance between you two. He needed a drink. He needed ten drinks.
“You got a real wife somewhere?”
Braxton shot you a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” you replied fast, too fast. “Just sounded intense in there.”
He didn’t know what to do with that so decided not to touch it. Just in case it blew up right in his face.
“Yeah,” he rasped, “it’s how he talks.”
“Oh.” You took the headphones off and threw them on the bed. “Your brother? The Accountant.”
Braxton’s frown deepened. You felt more and more comfortable around him. He slowly came to realize, the two of you would just.. Hang out these days. Like real people do. Sometimes there wouldn’t even be a job debrief involved.
Braxton clenched his teeth. “You been digging?”
“Please.” You rolled your eyes and sat back down in the armchair by the window. “Like I need to dig. The man’s a myth. Basically a folklore cryptid.”
“The what now?” he asked.
You smirked, looking far too pleased with yourself. “Your brother’s a ghost story contractors tell each other to feel better about their shitty hacking.”
“My brother,” Braxton grabbed the bourbon bottle from the dresser, “is not a fuckin’ ghost story.”
He poured himself a glass. Didn’t offer you one.
“Okay,” you said quietly, having realized you just stepped on one hell of a mine of a touchy subject.
“Okay?” Braxton looked down at you, still frowning. “That’s it?”
“Why, you want me to make you more uncomfortable?” You winced. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Goddamn it, Legs.” He shook his head and downed half his drink. “It’s already weird.”
“I disagree.” You opened the laptop again, obviously unaffected by whatever the hell was wrong with him. “Ugh. Can you hand me my…?” You pointed to the bed and Braxton rolled his eyes.
“You gotta stop throwin’ your shit around,” he muttered then moved to hand you your headphones.
“Why? You literally live in a hotel, not like I’m moving your favorite trinkets from the mantlepiece.”
“I don’t have trinkets.”
“I mean, kinda.” You typed something then pointed to the coffee table and Braxton’s chaotic little arsenal scattered on it.
“No, that’s… That’s different.”
“How?” You adjusted your glasses and smirked. “Oh, ‘cause it’s guns so it’s manly trinkets?”
Braxton’s eyes were still dark and stormy, but his mouth twitched. “You done?”
“Never.” You paused. “Unless I’m actually pissin’ you off, sometimes I can’t tell with people, in which case yes, I’m done.”
Braxton stared at you for a long moment after that, disarmed. “Nah,” he muttered. “You’re not pissin’ me off.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Couldn’t fool a blind man at a poker game right now,” he grumbled and set his glass down. “It’s just… Weird. This whole thing.”
“What whole thing?” you muttered, still typing.
He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This. Us. Whatever the fuck this is.”
You stopped typing. “You mean the fake marriage that somehow became a real… fake marriage?”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like everything’s a joke.”
You went quiet for a long, confused moment.
“But it is,” you said, then set the laptop and the headphones down. “Okay, see, this is why the human factor in relationships thoroughly fucking sucks.”
Braxton’s eyebrows shot up. “The human… What other relationships are we talking about here?”
“Well, if you were a hard drive for example, I could disassemble you top to bottom, take you apart right on that table and see the insides, but you’re not, so. I got no clue.”
A soft, incredulous laugh escaped him and you frowned, unsure what the hell was so funny. You’ve never seen that man smile like that—so unguarded.
“Jesus, that is the weirdest pick-up line I heard in my life, Legs.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Damn right I am.” He approached you, slowly, like he wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t bolt. “You can’t just… You can’t just say shit like that and expect people to know what you mean.”
“I don’t expect people to know what I mean,” you shot back, defensive now. You took a step back. “That’s why I don’t talk to people.”
“Yeah, well.” He stalked you like a tiger now. “You’re talkin’ to me now.”
“Unfortunately, since I think you completely misunderstood that last bit.”
“The one where you wanna take me apart on that table?” Braxton nodded, like that settled anything about it.
“I mean, I don’t…!” You frowned and then it dawned on you. “I mean. Is it too late to ask if you came with a manual in the box?”
He laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “No, darlin’. I’d probably be the model they recalled for bein’ defective.”
“You’re not fucking defective.” The words came out before you could stop them. “You’re just… You’re…”
“Yeah.” He was still grinning. “That’s one way to put it.”
Finally, he just shook his head and reached for you. “C’mere.”
You didn’t move. “Why?”
“‘Cause I’m askin’ you to. That enough?”
It really shouldn’t have been that hard, but it was. You froze. Finally he just closed the gap between you and was close enough for you to notice just how dark his eyes were, close enough to see the scar that cut through his left eyebrow, close enough for him to just lean in and kiss you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
Braxton kissed like everything else he did—direct, with a touch of overwhelming. But he made it easy for you. There was absolutely no hidden subtext you’d have to worry about.
So you didn’t pull back. Didn’t try to reconsider about seventy-nine times like you normally would.
When he finally broke the kiss, Braxton didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged.
“That answer your question?” he muttered.
You blinked up at him, lips parted, your mind miles away. “I didn’t ask a question.”
“Sure you did.” He smirked. “My answer’s ‘yes’.”
Some months passed and you were still ridiculously happy—something you never suspected could happen. Sure, Braxton lived in hotels and never settled down anywhere because his personal level of dysfunction told him he didn’t deserve it. You had been forced to settle down because your server farm required too much maintenance.
But you also hated cooking, cleaning, and picking out bedsheets. All of the things the hotel could take off your hands with a smile. So, all of a sudden, you never had to think about chores again. Ever.
Or at least as long as this thing between you and Braxton lasted. And something deep inside you desperately wished for it to last. It shouldn’t have worked out so well between you and yet it did. Two dysfunctional sections of code spliced in the middle got haphazardly glued together, and voilà—you were the most functional you’ve ever been.
Because the thing about Braxton was, he didn’t care about cooking, not really. He was not the kind to roam IKEA for hours choosing a bedding, he didn’t know what the hell a threadcount even was. There was no mess to clean or dinners to prep. In fact, the line between “hotel housekeeping” and “Braxton’s tolerance for squalor” was alarmingly thin.
The first time you realized this was working, you were elbows-deep in a server breach at 3 AM, and Braxton walked in from a job—with blood on his hands and a duffel full of guns.
He didn’t turn the main light on, just kissed the top of your head and left you to strain your eyesight even further. You did your best work half-blind after all. When he finally got out of the shower, he didn’t even bother with clothes or towels. He tossed you a protein bar with uncanny precision and you flinched, but took it. He collapsed next to you on the bed. You kept typing. He reached for your hand, annoyed at the lack of attention and it made you giggle.
“Can’t do this one-handed, you know,” you muttered, fingers tangled in his hair.
“Yeah, you’re gonna have to.” His face was buried in the pillow but you could tell he was smiling. That certain kind of self-assured grin that disarmed you every time.
“Tough day at the office, honey?” you quipped.
He grunted. You already learned his grunts. There was the ‘I’m annoyed’ grunt, the ‘I’m amused’ grunt, and the ‘I’m clocking that guy right there if he won’t stop talking to you.’
This was the middle one.
“You want room service?” he asked after a while.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s three am, I don’t want them to hate us.”
“Fair enough.” He sighed and turned on his side. “These rooms should really come with kitchens.”
You smirked. “I believe that’s called an apartment.”
“Yeah, well.” Braxton’s hand found your thigh under the laptop and stroked upwards, a possessive gesture that still made your stomach flip. “You wanna get an apartment?”
“No.” Your fingers froze over the keyboard. “What? Why?”
“Alright, okay,” he grumbled. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You made it weird.” You saved your progress and finally looked at him, noticing the way he looked at you. Just brazenly staring, like you were something to behold.
“Apartments come with leases and nosy neighbors,” you remarked then put the laptop down on the floor and snuggled up against him. He switched off the nightstand lamp.
“And questions,” Braxton begrudgingly agreed, then put his arm around you.
“Yeah.” You smiled. “Questions like: ‘Why does your boyfriend have a duffel bag full of assault rifles?’”
“Boyfriend?” He leaned back and you could tell he was still smirking. “You demoted me, Legs?”
You giggled and pulled him back into a tight embrace. “No.”
“Think you did.”
You sighed. “You can’t still call me your ‘work wife’ if we’re sleeping together, I’m pretty sure by now that’d be a full-blown affair.”
He was quiet for so long you thought he’d drifted off. But then he had another thought:
“We can get a house. Secure. Remote. Without any neighbors.”
A dangerous thought. The kind of thought that got people killed in your line of work.
“So a bunker.”
“Basically.”
“Romantic.”
“Yeah.” He squeezed your thigh again. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”
Then Braxton shifted, pulling you even closer, until your head tucked under his chin. And you let yourself consider these dangerous thoughts a little longer.
It's the night before the end of the world. How will you remember the final hours of life as you knew it?
Word Count: 2,876
You were never built to survive an apocalypse—at least, that’s what you’d tell anyone who brought the hypothetical up. Which seemed to be a weekly occurrence during your smoking sessions in old Hershel’s hayloft.
These what if scenarios always took a turn toward the convoluted the moment anyone declared themselves built for survival, so you thought it best to keep it simple: the second shit hit the fan, you’d already be on your way out. That answer never satisfied the masses. Or rather—Maggie, and the two musketeers you’d come to call your “friends” nowadays.
“Okay, sure, but how?” Jackie dragged out the last syllable, like it might coax a different response out of you than the first five times she’d asked.
“I already said it depends,” you replied, amused at how worked up your non-answers had gotten them.
“That depends is doin’ too much of the heavy liftin’,” Tony huffed, reaching across from you to get the joint Maggie was putting up for grabs. “Ya’ gotta acknowledge there’s more painful ways to go than others—and most importantly, I don’t think ya’ got it in you.”
“Questionin’ my suicidal tendencies now, Tony?”
“You could say that.”
He took a slow draw before passing the joint to Jackie, smoke spilling from his mouth in a steady, hypnotizing stream. Holding your gaze, he lifted two fingers to the side of his head.
“This thing we got up here’s hardwired to survive despite all odds. You get put in some crazy situation, ya’ go into default mode—and surprise, it ain’t killin’ yourself. ‘Less you’re sick in the head.” His eyes narrowed. “You sick in the head?”
You scoffed. “I don’t know. Maybe I am.”
“Shit,” he muttered. “You just might be, girl. But I know you got a mean streak in ya’. Just ain’t had the chance to let it out.”
You frowned, puzzled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just sayin’,” he continued, “someone who carries a gun on ’em at all times don’t smell like someone that’s lookin’ to die anytime soon.”
Jackie hummed in agreement. Maggie stiffened. Whatever bit of amusement you’d been holding onto faded.
“How’d you know that?” The question came out more like a demand.
“That little bag ya’ carry with you everywhere weighs suspiciously like a .38 Special,” Jackie chimed in. “Or is it a nine?”
“Oh, cut the crap, Jack,” Tony grimaced before turning to you, deliberately avoiding your stare. “Jack’s pop owns that gun shop down in Sharpsburg. Let’s just say client confidentiality ain’t exactly standard practice for him.”
“I mean, I was shocked to hear Miss Georgia Tech was lookin’ for a gun and didn’t even stop by to say hello ’fore skippin’ town again,” Jackie sang, humor lilting her voice.
“This ain’t about you, Jack,” Maggie snapped.
“I know, I know. Just left me wonderin’ who mama was plannin’ to scare off at nerd school to be buyin’ a whole Glock.” She laughed, glancing at Tony like she’d named the elephant in the room.
Tony dropped his eyes, picking at the floorboard beneath him.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with havin’ one,” he said finally. “We been keepin’ it to ourselves for months. Just curious, is all.”
You couldn’t tell if your anger was justified—or if you were more annoyed that your careful under-sharing had somehow turned into a full-blown interrogation.
“Aw, you don’t gotta say nothin’,” Jackie started. “We’re just pokin’—”
“It wasn’t for me.”
Silence.
“The gun,” you clarified. “It wasn’t for defendin’ myself.”
The room shifted, heavy as wet air, crickets and cicadas rushing in to fill the space where laughter had been. After a few beats, you couldn’t take it anymore, eyes fixing to find where the hell that joint had gone—at least then you’d have something to occupy yourself with while the rest of them processed whatever the fuck that was.
“I’m sorry,” Tony said at last.
You shook your head. The last thing you needed right now was pity.
“But, ma’am,” he added, pushing himself to his feet, hands on his hips, “I’m afraid you may be under arrest.”
You froze, incredulity creeping across your face.
“It’s illegal to purchase a firearm for a non-registered, unscreened individual in the state of Georgia.”
“Boy, what in the hell are you gettin’ at?” Maggie questioned, watching him exaggeratedly adjust his belt, widening his stance, sucking his teeth and looking around the room until his gaze fell on you again.
“Ma’am,” Tony said, dropping his voice into a gruff parody, “I’m gonna need you to stand up.”
“Officer, I think the hell not.”
“Failure to cooperate will result in detainment.”
“Oh, right,” your lip curled. “You mind showin’ me your badge?”
His eyes narrowed as he switched his weight from one leg to the other, before reaching up under his arm, flashing you with an invisible badge for a millisecond before shoving it back into an imaginary pocket. Georgia summers were too hot and sticky for jackets, even at night—so, imaginary jackets for the sake of drama would have to do.
And it sure did it.
You burst out laughing, Jackie and Maggie following close behind, and just like that, the moment passed.
“Yeah. ’Bout damn time,” he shrugged. “Can’t be livin’ off my old man’s VA money—not if I wanna get outta here anyway.”
He leaned over, brushing his fingers against yours as he took the joint from your hand.
You stared at the place his fingers had been before looking back up at him. “Officer Mendes?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned, sitting up straighter, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Pray tell,” you said dryly, “how are we thinkin’ ’bout passin’ that drug test with the little ganja addiction you got goin’ on?”
“Well, first of all, you can’t get addicted to this stuff and secondly—or rather, moreover, or should I say, additionally—”
“Tony,” Jackie groaned, flinging loose hay at him.
Unfazed, he continued. “I can drop this whenever I want.”
You raised your brows, an oh, really? written plainly across your face.
“Mhm,” Tony said, glancing down at the joint. “Just not today.”
He takes a hit, earning him a series of eye rolls and scoffs.
Whether or not anyone believed Tony could drop his dependency on weed and make a good cop became the finishing debate of the night.
If you were asked, you honestly couldn’t say. For all of Tony’s charm, there was something sharp beneath it—a prejudice, an absoluteness. He’d call it a mean streak. To you, it felt like the kind of thing that acted first and figured out if it was right later. Maybe you were confusing assertiveness for overconfidence. Maybe narcissism. Either way, you weren’t sure you wanted to be anywhere near Tony with a badge and a gun.
Soon enough, it was just you and Maggie left, legs swinging off the side of the loft as you watched your friends make their way down onto the dirt.
You leaned forward, craning your neck toward the farmhouse at the top of the hill. All the lights were off, the house looming and still as mist rolled in—signs that Hershel was asleep and wouldn’t scold the two of you for staying out so late, stinking like skunks.
He ran that farm and his girls like a ship. But even he could never quite tie you and Maggie down. These little escapades, sneaking friends onto the property in the dead of night, letting the sticky summer breeze slip through the gaps in the wood and settle on your skin—they gave you peace. A small taste of solace to appease the ache that had taken residence in your chest.
Life was full of ups and downs. A life without them was like a flatlined heart, your mother used to say like clockwork every time something went wrong—the highs and lows meant you were still alive. As time went on, things seemed to go wrong more often than not. If life was a beating heart, then the days, weeks, and months leading up to your mother’s death had been a fucking heart attack.
Smoke slipped from your mouth, smooth at first before catching in your throat. You coughed, a burning pain searing through your chest.
“Two months still ain’t enough, huh?” Maggie asked, roughly patting your back to let it all out.
“Just got in my head,” you croaked, amused despite yourself.
She nodded. “Probably for the best. Don’t wanna see you turn into a pothead like the rest of ’em.” Maggie nodded her head towards your guests who were clumsily making their way out through the field.
“They’re your friends.”
“They got mildly good pot and stayed ‘round while the rest of us left soon as we could.” She said plainly, hitting what remained of your shared joint before ashing it on the wood floor and flicking it onto the dirt below.
“And what?” you asked, a short, humorless laugh escaping you. “You think they’re less because of that?”
“No,” Maggie said quickly. “I just know you’re better than this.”
She turned toward you fully now, brows pinched together, eyes soft in that way you’d grown far too familiar with over the last couple months. A lecture was imminent.
“Maggs, don’t start—”
“—tell me you signed up for classes this fall.”
“Maggie—”
“Tell me,” she insisted, voice firm but pleading.
“I did!” you snapped, exasperation spilling over. “Okay? But that don’t mean I’m goin’.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” You turned on her, brows drawn tight, eyes sharp. “Because it’d be a waste of money if I just flunk out ’cause I’m in a funk.”
“But that’s the thing, girl—this ain’t a funk.” She gestured between the two of you. “Your momma died, and you haven’t talked to a soul about it. You think this—” she waved her hands vaguely through the air, “—is enough?”
You stayed quiet, lungs growing heavier with every breath.
“You gotta get back up and go talk to someone.”
“You think a shrink’s gonna fix me?” you scoffed. “That it? You think I don’t already know what they’d say?” You looked up toward the sky, fingers curling into exaggerated quotation marks. “‘Grief is a process.’ ‘Time will heal.’ ‘Keep busy, it’ll help you get over it.’” You let out a bitter laugh. “Bull. Shit.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong.”
“Oh, am I?”
“Yes.” Maggie shifted closer, reaching out to rest a hand on your arm. Muscle memory telling you to flinch, your heart making you stay. “Nobody’s tellin’ you to get over it. Truth is, I don’t think you ever will. I sure haven’t.”
You look down, a portrait of a woman in her mid-thirties sitting over a fireplace mantel, coming to mind. Josephine Greene had died from a terminal illness a couple of years after that picture was taken, survived by her husband, Herschel, and a then 5 year-old, Maggie.
“I was real young,” Maggie continued. “And folks don’t believe me when I say I got memories of her, but I do. No one tells you how hard it’s gonna be. How that shit sneaks up on you at the worst times. That black hole they leave behind once they’re gone.”
She looks off to the field again, catching a glimpse of headlights pulling off onto the road.
“That void ain’t goin’ nowhere,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry to tell you that. I wish I could. But you do learn how to live with it. You learn how to shrink it down and carry it in your pocket, ’cause gettin’ rid of it completely means forgettin’ them.”
Your eyes burned. You tilted your head back, staring up into the sky, fighting the sting of hot tears threatening to spill. You were exhausted of the pain, the constant burn behind your ribs, the migraines from crying too much and refusing to drink water, the racing thoughts that refused to let you sleep.
What if you’d been there?
What if you’d left the gun under her pillow, regardless of her protests?
“I get what you’re sayin’,” you said finally, voice tight. “And I appreciate it. I do. But you don’t know this kind of pain.” You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “The autopsy came back. You know that?”
Maggie shook her head slowly, her hand retreating from your arm, the warmth replaced by something cold and hollow.
“They thought the first blow to her head killed her,” you continued. “Said she wouldn’t’ve felt anything after that. But you know what the real cause of death was?”
Maggie’s shoulders curled inward as her arms wrapped around herself.
“Positional asphyxiation,” you said, the words tasting foul. “She was still alive when they put her in that trash bin, Maggie.” Your voice cracked. “She felt everything he did to her. Died gasping for air. That motherfucker took everything from me, and knowin’ he’s still out there, still breathin’—”
“He’s in federal prison—“
“He could be rottin’ in fucking Guantanamo,” you snapped. “He don’t deserve to fill his lungs with air if my momma can’t. This ain’t just grief, Maggie—it’s rage, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it!”
Your voice vanished into the night.
“If I could put a bullet in his head right now, I would,” you went on, chest heaving. “Maybe then I could go back to Atlanta, sit in lectures, pretend I ain’t different from all the other bitches there.”
“That ain’t the point either.”
A dry laugh slipped out. “Fuck, Maggie. If I learned anything these past couple months, it’s that there ain’t no point to any of it.”
That, finally, silenced her.
Her gaze dropped to the loose thread hanging from the sleeve of your shirt, fingers twitching like she might fix it if she could just figure out how. Her mind worked overtime, searching for something—anything—to pull you back from the edge. But every thought sounded like a broken record. Or worse, like Father Gilroy during Sunday mass.
Truth was, Maggie didn’t think she was built for this. But she realized soon after coming home for summer break that everyone else around you was even less prepared. Hershel would bury your head in a Bible. Shawn, as kind as he was, didn’t know the first thing about talking feelings. Beth was too young, too hopeful. And Annette—your blood aunt, Maggie’s stepmother—had tried at first, but she’d lost her sister too. She’d retreated into the church, devotion becoming her armor.
You’d tried it yourself. For about a month.
Maybe your heart hadn’t been in it. Maybe you just wanted an excuse to be near Annette, who looked so much like your mother it hurt. But after three weeks, you couldn’t keep pretending. Even you felt ashamed, faking faith in the house of God. There had to be a special place in hell for that kind of thing. You wouldn’t know—you’d never paid much attention in church anyway.
“I’m hurtin’ so bad, Maggie,” you sobbed, tears falling like boulders onto your lap. “And I know it ain’t gonna be like this forever, but I’m never gettin’ my life back. It’s gone. She’s gone.”
Your breathing hitched, the words choking off as your throat closed. Maggie pulled you into her chest, cradling your head as her fingers threaded through your hair.
“I know, baby,” she murmured, her own tears now rolling down her cheeks. “I know.”
She wasn’t made for this, but for you, she would be. Maybe she didn’t have the right words or the wisdom that came with age, but she’d be there. Every time. Letting you bleed the pain out one tear at a time until there was nothing left to cry.
As dawn crept in and the night’s critters quieted one by one, the two of you climbed down from the loft and began the slow walk back toward the house in a comfortable, fragile silence.
That night would stay with you in all its painful and monotonous glory. You never could’ve known how tightly you’d cling to the memory in the months to come. How badly you’d need it just to stay sane.
How badly you’d wish for the figure hastily cutting through the misty blue grass to just be a drunk. A man, disheveled and unsteady, that had lost his way.
You would convince yourself that this was punishment. Punishment for stepping foot in God’s temple while cursing His name. For the bloodlust you carried for the man who killed your mother. For mourning a life already lost while taking the rest for granted. For not doing enough.
Life as you knew it was taken from you the day your mother died.
And it was taken from everyone else on a hot August day.
late bloomer baddie finds herself at a crossroads with herself over (work) crush.
First time writing on here and Jonah was living rent free in my head.
“Is that a Cloud 9 employee tampering with the merchandise?” Jonah sarcastically jokes from around the corner. Startled, you quickly pull back the bottle and in the process feel a bit of lotion on the tip of your nose. Guilt stricken, you sheepishly look up and lock onto an already smiling Jonah. His infectious smile and attractive smiling lines put you at ease. “I was—uh just smelling it,” You blurt out as you screw the cap close trying to act casual. “How can I sell the product if I don’t know what Vanilla Cashmere smells like.” You scoff as you know Jonah wouldn’t report it, he was just poking fun at you.
Jonah listens to your excuse and watched his lips pursed like he was holding back his smile. “Totally! That makes total sense.” He perched his arm on the shelf to leans closer and with a finger swiftly wipes the lotion you completely forgot was on your nose. Slightly taken aback from the close distance and sudden touch, you jerk yourself back to create distance. Jonah lets out a low chuckle as he finds your reaction amusing before bringing his finger to smell the lotion. Without breaking eye contact, his eyebrows furrow together to pretend to be in deep concentration on the smell. Closing his eyes briefly before peeking through one eye to make sure he is still holding your attention, he cleared his throat to reveal his review. In anticipation, you raise your eyebrows slightly, giggling at his goofiness. “Y’know, it's very vanilla. There’s something there that I have to say is on the tip of my tongue,” he jokingly states while inching closer to you.
He shortens the distance between each other and breathes out a sigh as he locks eyes with you. “Oh it’s cashmere,” he said in a low voice. This was a Jonah you haven’t seen up close before. In the short three months that you’ve been working at Cloud 9, you have caught glimpses of his handsome features. Dark brown hair, the shadow of a beard, smile lines, and soft puppy green eyes. And here he was in front of you and felt drawn to him in a way that you can hear the thumping of heart in your ears.
You bite your bottom lip and feel your cheeks heat up as your gazes locked and something felt different.
“You are so cute,” Jonah comments and you turn your chin to look away when you feel his hands reach out to you to pull you in for a kiss. Mouths meeting in the middle in a crush of lips, you let out a soft grunt in surprise. As a reflex you clench your hands and feel his thumbs caress your cheek to remind you to let go and be in this moment with him. For a split second, you can feel yourself wanting to stay in this heat and closeness but you open your eyes. You pull yourself away from him and push onto his chest. “Y/N?” You hear him try to gauge where you mentally are as your panicked eyes quickly look at his confused face and the aisles around both of you.
“I’m sorry, Jonah.” You shake your head as you let your gaze fall to the floor fidgeting with your vest. Jonah is quick to repeat your name and try to reach out to touch you which makes things worse. You take another step back. “I am just sorry,” you awkwardly apologize as you can feel your cheeks burning up. You bump with the inventory on the shelves and hear a loud thud around you as you turn around to leave. You can’t stand yourself and the embarrassment you have caused. You have to get out of here and out of his sight. You don’t even turn back to look at him and just rush to the employee bathroom.
As soon as you close the stall door behind you, you immediately breakdown. Panic short breathing starts to flow out of you with oversimulated tears. No control over the state of your body and with the freedom of an empty bathroom allows you to just let it out. That was until the guilt of your overreaction came crawling and made you want to crawl out of your skin to find refuge in a dark hole somewhere. You’ve only ever confessed to your childhood friends the truth that is your lack of experience in romance. Which includes that you’ve never been kissed.
In all your 20s, you’ve gone longer than social expectations to be intimate with someone. People have reciprocated some sort of attraction towards you over the years, but you have always found a way to rationalize it and push your feelings and desire down. You aren’t worthy enough to hold someone’s attention in that way.
That doesn’t equate to the fact that you don’t feel anything, especially when it comes to Jonah. He has been such a good co-worker that you genuinely feel is a friend. His positive outlook was refreshing and when you needed a pick me up throughout a shift, it was essential. In addition to that, the casual picking at each other’s brain and debates that came from it was fun banter between tasks. It was all in good spirits to make the time pass by at work. However, you are not blind. His bright smile paired with his kind heart woke something in you that had you aching for more than just filler conversation and instead for a deeper connection. Yet, you wouldn’t dare to initiate something. You thought he wouldn’t either because he was just being nice to his co-worker.
You feel the thumping in your ears slowly subside and the numbing in your fingers thaw out to reach to your lips. The same lips that touched Jonah. You broke into a small smile and that same guilt from earlier that never escaped comes creeping up again because how are you expected to move forward from this? Pretending that nothing happened or just confessing the truth and perhaps getting away with not being emotionally available.
Work is just work and you should not mix your feelings into it. Then you hear your friend’s advice from your monthly dinner catch ups when you filled them in on your school girl crush on Jonah. “Everything you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear,” you mumbled to yourself. So, you straighten yourself out and step out of the bathroom to finish the next hour before ending your shift. Allowing yourself to use the time to think about your next steps and avoid any contact with Jonah in the meantime.
~
“We’ll still be able to make it to Trivia Night!” Cheyenne excitedly chimed to Mateo, who was putting on their coats and collecting their items a few lockers down from you.
Mateo noticed something in your demeanor was off but wasn’t extremely close enough to you to pry. Instead, he loudly asked Cheyenne, “Maybe Y/N would be up to joining us tonight?” He cheekily darted his eyes at Cheyenne, who followed his eyes to see you rushing to put your container of lunch away in your purse. Silently questioning Mateo’s motives, she goes over to you and extends the invitation. Your first instinct was to politely turn it down, but a distraction was needed, and some alcohol didn’t sound bad.
Cheyenne grabbed your phone to save her number in order to send you the address. As you wait for her, Jonah comes walking through the door. Without saying a word, he lowers his gaze to not look at you, he heads to his locker. The guilt of earlier forms bubbles in your stomach and makes you want to just blurt out the truth. But you weren’t alone and didn’t want to air it all out in front of your other co-workers.
“Okay!” Cheyenne excitedly squeaked out as she handed your phone back. “See you there at 10, which is like 30 minutes,” She adds, before waving an enthusiastic goodbye and joining Mateo at the entryway to leave. You muster a small smile and say goodbye.
Now, that leaves you alone with Jonah. You slowly turn around to see him closing shut his locker and ready to rush through the door. You were ready to tell him. He deserved to know. All this time, he’s been kind and respectful with you. He deserves to know, and as you watch him pass you by, you couldn’t even open your mouth to form the words to speak. So there he went, out the door.
You hurriedly chase after him and finally shout his name. He was in his car with his hand already on the door handle when he broke his silence. “Y/N,” he loudly called out to you an inflicting tone. “You know I would never,” he turned to look at you with pain in his eyes and looked around to see if there were other people close by before continuing to speak. “I thought you liked me and I would have never kissed you and have it be read as me forcing myself onto you.” You shut your eyes and relive the moment you push him off.
“Yes,” you cry out and realize the context. “I mean no….no, of course, I know that! Of course, I know that,” you let out the last part softly and reach out to touch his arm. His gaze follows your hand and Jonah pulls a step back. Furrowing his brows in reaction, you realize that you did hurt him. “It was a lot for me,” you add before blurting out softly, “That was just my first kiss.”
Your confession of the truth was out there. The silence of his reaction had you feeling bold enough to reach out to him. To your surprise, he holds it with his.
“I’ve never been kissed before, and I uh—I know it sounds dumb but I uh…I’m afraid of being bad at it.” Speaking out loud about your irrational thoughts felt like a weight coming off your shoulders. Although, your fingers slowly began to vibrate with a slight panic you said it aloud.
“I don’t have practice or prior experience despite my age—“ you were ready to just vomit the self deprecating reality that you find yourself to make light of it all when he interrupts you. “Stop it. You are fine,” he reassures you as he pulls onto your hand and lets you touch his cheek. Jonah leans into your warmth. He sees your vulnerability and notices how hard it must’ve been for you to open that door for him and he more than ready to enter.
His green eyes kindly meet yours, and he turned his head slightly to kiss your hand. “I’ve always liked you,” he confesses. “I also don’t mind taking things slow.” Jonah lightly admits as he shrugs and reliefs the slight worry you might still have. Chewing his lower lip, he boldly asks, “I would just like a redo or another chance to kiss you again?” Your lips twitched with excitement as you move your gaze to his lips before looking back at him.
“I would like that very much.” You are now the one leaning first to meet him and feel those same two hands up your face. He tasted tentatively with his tongue as he traced your bottom lips. You let out a soft repressed moan as you feel his thumb once again caress your cheek to remind you to relax. In the cold chilly autumn air, both of your breaths mingled together. Jonah slowly pulled back and the left side of his faint red lips turned upwards, creating a small smirk. Both of you study each other’s faces in the comforting silence. A whole new perspective for both of you.
“Do you maybe want to go to Trivia with me?” You were the first to break the silence and a low chuckle leaves from him. This new feeling that you don’t care to label it feels so nice, you think to yourself.
“Oh—I’m so down!” He puts a jokingly serious face before placing a kiss on your cheek and gets you out of your train of thought as he intertwines his fingers into yours.
Can I put in a request for Lalo Salamanca? I absolutely love him, and I feel that there aren't enough stories about him, and reading your crazy oneshot about him made me absolutely crazy for more.
HELD NOT HEEDED | LALO SALAMANCA
summary — after your wedding venue goes under new management, you and lalo meet with your wedding planner to try and amend the unfortunate landscaping predicament.
word count — 4.7k
warnings — 18+ MDNI, porn w/plot (spitting, fingering, f receiving oral, dirty talk), natural bodies with hair and curves, rusty spanish (sorry), age gap (lalo 44, reader 24), toxic & established relationship
author’s note — stargirl is the anthem when i write lalo. also sorry bc even with my new spanish reference material, i think it is still badly written. AND before someone asks, yes, i have started writing part 2.
part 1 | part 1.5 | part 2 coming soon
taglist: @rustnroll
a bride-to-be, all dolled up in the front seat of lalo's monte carlo, only expecting a day of dread upon meeting with your wedding planner. you had expressed your concerns to lalo well before today, being met with the same generic response: “why are you worried when you know i handle everything?” but, you didn't want lalo to take care of everything; you wanted him to understand.
for once, you wanted to have a voice because you had planned for a breathtaking venue, but even now you didn't have the ability to speak because lalo controlled how loud you were allowed to be.
“you brought the binder,” lalo opened the front door of the car for you, watching you fiddle with your handbag and the wedding scrapbook at your feet. “¿en serio, amor? (seriously)” He questioned, attempting to take it from you, but your grip was tight. he instead held the small of your back to guide you along the path to the outdoor venue.
“i needed it to compare it to the old photos,” you explained, leaning into his touch as you walked, your heels clicking against the pavement with your mind dedicated to the task at hand.
“you’re something else, amor,” lalo jokingly groaned. his stride slowed to catch yours easily, noticing you were trying to keep in line with him. “strange little bird, but, hell, you're pretty.”
you softly exhaled, no sense of the disdain you wanted to show, rather just acknowledging what he said. you looked down at your left hand, two rings gracing your ring finger and index finger respectively. the cartier band on your index finger was a gift; specifically given to you a full week after he threatened you with a gun. it wasn't an apology or even out of sympathy—it was to keep you on the line. he acted like he had done no wrong and could so easily mend your “overreaction” with a new piece of jewelry.
the ring, of course, was only gifted after three days of silence had been completed. lalo wanted to stew. you used to become upset over the silence, but now it was routine when he was annoyed. then it was the overly nice spiel that was always backhanded, and the gift.
there was one more thing, after the shiny ring, he handed you the phone. the cordless landline was sitting on his dresser next to his cologne. he gave you an extra privilege, one that you hadn't had in a very long time—the ability to call your parents. not always, only at certain times, and of course it was quick, but it was priceless. lalo explained that it was because he trusted you could behave after the last incident, which was true, you were overly cautious about how you spoke around him. a small part of you thought he might have only given you the permission to use the phone because he wanted you to slip up again.
your wedding was only a few short months away—four to be exact—the october air had cooled the summer humidity. although it was autumn, there were a few weird weeks of heat still trying to pass through. the breeze was strong today, cradling your wedding plans like they were gold even in the hard shell of the binder.
you were looking at the new gravel landscaping with a lackluster expression, wondering why anyone in their right mind would have pulled up the thick bedding of palms and the angel's trumpets. modernization seemed to have been the overarching theme of the letter, email, and call you and lalo received. modern seemed as though it was another term for blank and dull.
every step further to the area that would hold your ceremony made you tighten your hold on your binder. your wedding planner, blanca, stood where the seating would eventually be.
blanca put her arms out gently, almost in sympathy. “i know this isn’t what you want, but we have a few options,” she immediately spouted; she knew this was far from your vision of the perfect wedding.
you had brought that “stupid binder” as lalo called it, to every meeting you had with her. it should've been practically ingrained into the back of her eyelids.
“it's not what i expected,” you mumbled. you thought that through their many ways of notifying you that they had possibly scaled back the landscaping, but not completely uprooted everything.
“no, i know,” blanca said, rubbing your upper arm. “but we can fix it.”
“sure, in four months it'll be fixed,” you muttered sarcastically. the white and grey gravel was mocking you, and the paved bricks made it look like a mausoleum at a cemetery.
“sra. don't think like that. we have options and a blank canvas,” blanca tried to twist the situation into a positive one, which would've been wonderful if the venue was awful to begin with, but it wasn't—it was perfect.
lalo, despite his annoyance with your wedding planning, was the one who told you that you had full control over how the wedding would look. He was busy managing a stockpile of products and a multitude of people, and needed something to occupy your mind while he was away. He wanted to give you the satisfaction of thinking you had the power over something important, but in actuality, it would just be another party.
lalo snickered as you joined the woman. he was checking his cell phone, standing casually in the venue. “you should’ve heard her on the way over. she’s so worked up over nothing,” he shook his head frivolously. in literal terms, you were worked up over nothing—the lack of something for that matter, but figuratively it wasn't nothing.
“i want it to be full,” you gestured to the blank rocky spaces. “to have some life.”
“and it will be,” blanca assured you, while looking at lalo. “i think she’s worried the guests are going to think it's plain.” she seemed to be your voice of reason, but to lalo you were still being fussy.
“you think anyone is going to be looking at the plants?” lalo asked pacing the open space, taking his time to march upwards on the elevated platform that was the stage.
you opened the binder, the wedding planner huddling a bit closer to look at the various flora you had liked. “i think the plants looked nice,” you mumbled, peeking at the gravel again. it might have been for aesthetic, partially for the photos, but mostly it was for you. you wanted a full garden—varying colors and textures—something substantial.
“dios mío,” lalo exaggerated. “you and the plants. it never stops.” he slid his phone back in his pocket. “blanca, she has an addiction. there are plants hanging all over the sunroom.”
blanca gave a giggle while your cheeks flushed. “she knows what she likes,” blanca jokingly defended you.
you wanted the wedding flowers to remind you of the catalogs from your parents’ floral shop that you spent hours skimming through. you wanted the nostalgia of looking through your mother's event order forms for floral packages. you wanted it to be easy when you walked down the aisle to officially say goodbye to how life was before lalo. you needed a sense of comfort on what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life.
“everyone is going to be looking at you, amor.” he stood under the staged wedding arch, seemingly comfortable as he watched you hold the binder for the wedding planner. she was flipping through the pages and humming to herself. “you're going to be prettier than all those flowers anyway,” he stated, gesturing you over to his place with two fingers. he displaying his nicest person today. these were always the moments you craved.
you handed over the binder, joining lalo under the archway. a smirk spread across his face as he backed away. he framed you in the empty square he made with his fingers.
you had your hands folded in front of you, looking at blanca skimming your ideas, then at your fiancé, who was watching the breeze nip at the end of your dress as you stood in front of him.
“sra. salamanca, we can get some hedge walls to block this area, or maybe we can just get a few potted ferns to line the aisle,” blanca tilted her head, hoping to appease you with one of the options; none of them felt right.
you sighed deeply, trying to consider other ideas. “i mean i guess, but i don't feel like it's going to match anything else.”
you were currently wearing an expression of purse unhappiness, distaste, and displeasure. you were also trying to sort out your own solution. lalo was still watching you center stage for another moment before joining you, his slender fingers meeting your face.
“we could go for the modern,” blanca said, tapping your binder. “but only for the ceremony, not the reception, on the patio and in the ballroom we could bring in tons of arches and columns and wrap them with the vines you showed me.”
blanca’s offer was yet another let down. you tried to pull away from his touch, but lalo was firm.
“mira esa cara (look at that face),” lalo teased, shaking the bottom of your chin lightly between two of his fingers. “amorcito, you're wound up, and over what? some dirt?”
“well, no,” you mumbled, looking at blanca. “i mean…” you started again, but fell short.
“what if we take the silks we are using to border the outdoor patio, so we can cover the gardens? add a few columns out here and then it will be cohesive and then we can stick some palms in front of that?” blanca offered another suggestion.
you felt like you were falling flat again and with a tightness in your throat you could hardly speak.
“she doesn't like that idea,” lalo spoke up, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead, leaving you standing on the stage while he sauntered to blanca.
the wedding planner gave a faint smile, watching lalo take up for you so quickly.
“what do you want?” he asked, walking backwards from the stage, standing back acting like you had the room and power of enunciation while he was doing all of the work.
“i want it to look how it did before,” you answered, getting straight to the point, knowing your fiancé wouldn't settle for anything else.
“so, this is what we're going to do,” lalo began, pointing at blanca. “you tell the venue that they are going to redo all the flowers and those trees she likes for our wedding and then they can go and rip it all up again.”
“señor,” blanca addressed lalo skeptically.
“no, no, mi amor wants her plants and i have the money, so get her the plants,” he clasped his hands together. “that's your job to plan, right?” he asked, only being met with a slow nod from blanca.
“so then plan it right, and then i don't have to see this one throw a fit.” lalo chuckled looking back at you. “huh, amor? no more throwing a fit?”
if that was a fit then lalo had surely trained you well. you had barely spoken before he took charge of the conversation, and though you did like his idea you could only hope that the new managers of the venue would take kindly to his idea.
lalo had the windows cracked in the car, letting the natural breeze flow through the windows. he had his hand resting on your knee, pushing the speed limit just to hear the noise of the engine.
“amor, you've still got that look on your face,” lalo noted, having to speak a little louder because of the wind.
“i just want it to be pretty like before,” you slid the binder off of your lap, letting it mingle on the floorboard as it had before.
“i handled it,” lalo reminded you. he took care of it—verbally anyway. he'd probably be receiving some calls later in the week pertaining to his demands in which he would offer more than enough to cover the costs for you to get your way.
“i know, but—”
“but what? you couldn't have done that. why do you think i had someone else in my place at work today? i knew you would need me.” lalo slid his hand closer to the inside of your thigh.
you swallowed, only looking ahead, knowing that he was right. you wouldn't have gotten what you wanted unless lalo was there. you probably would've agreed with blanca or helped to come up with another idea that wouldn't have been within your vision completely.
“what did i tell you on our first date?” lalo prodded, nudging your leg a little more. his hand was securely in the gap between your legs, inching further upwards by the second.
you turned your head away from the windshield to look at him. your thighs tightening as his fingers rested at the meat of your thigh closest to your panty line.
the first date occurred precisely one month after your first meeting. you should've taken the signs then, but you were freshly nineteen and naive. you thought you had won the lottery because no one else was giving you the kind of attention he was. you still had a young spunk in you that lalo craved to manipulate. he didn't want you to be lifeless and numb, but rather refilled with a personality that would suit him and his life.
he had initially come into your family’s floral shop for a bouquet—specifically an apology bouquet—come to find out lalo wasn't very sorry. whatever poor girl he used to string along was receiving a gift just like you were accustomed to. then, week after week, he had a bad excuse as to why he kept needing to show up—“for his mama,” “purely business,” “they smell nice,” “i like who makes the bouquets.”
it wasn't just the flowers, because after the first time he was bringing a pastry, and then the next he had coffee, and before your first date it was simply asking your dress size because he wasn't going to let his date to a wine tasting featuring a popular local band to be underdressed.
and even now it wasn't just about the flowers or some silly wedding venue, it was about what was before him. you thought you were slick trying to upsell him with a custom bouquet, and he let you be because he was acting like he owned you before you even knew his name. you were playing into a game you didn't know had existed.
“well, huh? go on amor. i know you know it,” he encouraged you with a gentle prod with his fingers.
“you said you would take care of me,” you recited,
lalo shrugged, plucking at the fabric of your dress. “i belive it was ‘i will take care of everything,’” he corrected.
lalo did take care of everything which was probably the most comforting thing about him which was the easiest way to look at it because the real truth was that you had no other option than to allow him to take care of everything.
“thank you,” you rested your head against your hand, not wanting to press the issue any longer, at least not outwardly. lalo decided it was settled and that had to be enough for now.
you had made a beeline for the bedroom after taking off your shoes. lalo hadn’t made any room to follow you after he slipped off his own turquoise moccasins and left a kiss on your head.
you binder set open on the dresser as you removed your stacked necklaces. they were hanging next to your jewelry dish where you set your remorseless ring. it felt heavy and burdened because you weren't completely satisfied with the meeting with blanca. you were worried that four months from now you would be staring at extra silks and potted plants because lalo wouldn't tell you if the issue had been resolved the way he demanded.
you were so immersed in yourself and not your surroundings. you were brushing your eyelashes upwards with the back of your index finger while looking at the shimmery eyeshadow near your lower lash line.
the phone rang, although before you could back away from the mirror and grab it off the block either yolanda, the housekeeper, or your dearest fiancé picked it up first.
you sighed, now finding yourself staring at your open wedding binder. everything was pasted and folded together, organized just how you wanted it. if only the real-life situation could match what you were initially planning. it was was more disappointing than anything, having something you could finally control and then have it saved by the man who was always so quick to make it known that you were less than him.
you thought you were alone, although you should have known better, being under the same roof as lalo meant you would never have that luxury again. you were holding back a wall of emotion, trying to dab away the tears as they fell.
“amor,” lalo called out, making your hands shake more than they should have as you unclasped your right earring. the bedroom door opened and you were patting the underside of your eyes, though quicker this time.
“es tu papá (it's your dad),” lalo had the phone extended to you as he walked up behind you, teasingly pinching your ass just because it was there. his voice was light and happy, being able to turn on his quick charm was a deadly talent. “he wanted to ask you about his tie for the wedding—”
you were about to take the phone, though lalo's head was cocked as he caught your watery eyes.
he brought the phone back to his ear. “she'll call you back a little later she was about to get in the tub,” he smoothly covered, rubbing where he had pinched your bottom. “uh-huh, no i won't let her forget. bye now.”
with a quick beep, lalo placed the phone on top of your wedding plans.
“sorry,” you croaked, having to clear your throat. “i just got a little worked up.”
you began to reach for your phone although lalo was quick to pull you back against his chest. “is that right?” he asked with that same light voice he was using with your father, but maybe even a touch softer. “started worrying all over again?”
you nodded, a sniffle surfacing as you appreciated a calm moment between the two of you.
“amor,” lalo shushed you softly, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer. one of your hoop earrings was still dangling, the other sitting in your jewelry tray with your ring. “you know with all the worrying you do you’re going to make yourself sick.”
he tsked, brushing your hair back to see more of your face in the mirror. his cheek was next to yours pressed together as he studied your face. a slight pout was still sitting upon your lips. he took out your remaining earring, his breath hitting the side of your neck as he popped the hinge clasp open.
“how about you go finish that bottle of wine from last night while i finish up a quick call and then we'll spend some time together?” lalo wasn't going to take no for an answer. it was his idea after all. despite lalo's ability to control and find a solution to every problem, a glass of wine did sound nice.
his fingers were supporting the fabric near your zipper as he began to edge it downwards. slowly your body began to become exposed as the limp fabric of the dress kept falling until it was pooling at your feet. your eyes were still red and teary, but you were climbing down from the ledge of your upset.
he was placing kisses on the back of your shoulders as he undid the hooks on your strapless bra. your hands immediately went to your chest, watching each of his movements in the mirror ahead. it wasn't even overtly sexual. he was undressing you in a way that showed he cared with his surprisingly gentle touches and kisses.
“too much thinkin’ amorcito” lalo was tugging down your underwear, letting you hold onto him as you stepped out of the leg holes. “i don't like when you do all of that. it makes your pretty little head spin.”
he stepped away to fetch your robe that was hanging on the bathroom door. you looked at your feet as you slid your arms into the sleeves he was offering. he kissed your temple as he adjusted the sash around your waist.
he untucked your hair that was caught upon tying the robe and smirked. “see, there we go, already starting to look better.”
now wrapped in your robe like a security blanket you were sipping an overfilled glass of wine, leaning against the counter admiring your aloe plant on the windowsill. you didn't know how long you had been enjoying your glass of wine before lalo made himself known again, all you knew was that there was significantly less wine than what you started with.
“come'ere,” he directed. you left your wine sitting on the granite countertop to join him in the dining area.
lalo had moved the head seat from the kitchen table, patting the sturdy wood. you glanced at the chair and then at the surface of the table, a few faint scratches in its polished surface. he smirked rubbing the small tuft of hair under his bottom lip as you pulled yourself onto the dining table.
he had his hands cupping each side of your face. his eyes were dragging over you, taking more time than necessary to focus on your lips that were slightly parted. he nipped at your bottom lip, making you stiffen as he was engaging further in a kiss with simmering heat behind it. it deliberate and with just enough force behind it to make you gasp as he took one hand to pull you closer to the ledge of the table. he steadied you, feeling a bit of a shake as he did it. with his lips still connected to yours he was petting your cheek and pulling the sash of your robe loose.
your hand was weaseling its way to his jeans, only for him to stop you.
“that's how i know you're still thinking,” lalo mumbled against your mouth. “you’re worried about me and not about how much your pretty little pussy is askin’ to get eaten out.”
blush was riddling your face upon hearing lalo's blunt statement.
“so, stop thinking, lay back, and let me take care of everything.” there was a seriousness behind his eyes and you immediately obeyed his command without a second thought.
it was only a matter of seconds before lalo was on his knees. kneeling in front of you between your thighs was probably the most respect you would ever receive from him. your robe was parting further apart and he was wasting no time admiring your pussy.
“i was gone for two days, then spent all of yesterday getting organized so i could be with you today, and you…” lalo stopped himself to spread your legs a little wider, hungrily awaiting your swollen cunt. his fingertips were tracing your outer labia, making you stay even more still. your stomach was tight with anticipation as he pushed more of your robe away.
lalo to spit directly onto your core. you swallowed roughly as his fingers began tracing that same pattern again, only this time spreading his spit around.
“that's three days without me and your little pussy was missing me,” he continued his unfinished thought, now taking his thumb to your clit and rubbing continuous circles against it.
he spat again, pushing one finger and the saliva into your hole that was slick with arousal. you were already a mumbling mess because there was truth behind lalo's words. you had missed him because an empty house was somehow more terrifying than the man who owned it. disregarding lalo's bad qualities and having his disturbingly tender and sensual side was exactly what he wanted. he wanted to keep you crawling back—to keep relying on him.
“filthy little pussy, amor,” his grip tighted on your inner thigh, leaving a kiss next to his hold as he slid another finger into your throbbing walls. “just how i fuckin’ like it,” he praised, curling his digits just to see you squirm.
your back arched, trying to push yourself further onto his fingers to become more satisfied. lalo could see your desperation—hell—he could feel it gripping the life out of two of his fingers. you put your legs over his shoulders, trying to coerce him into bringing his mouth to your needy cunt.
lalo chuckled, his wide, handsome grin dawning on his face as your thighs jittered from the pleasure. “don’t let me do that to you again, yeah? letting you go that long without playing with you is just fuckin’ wrong,” even in his silent treatments lalo was fucking his anger into your pussy or mouth—quietly, but still getting the job done. he was taking accountability for his mistake for once, admitting he had been too harsh.
“mhm,” you whined in agreement, clutching your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palm. you didn't think you would forget that reminder.
lalo took his fingers halfway out, halting at the line of his second knuckle only to spit again, pushing them back inside again. you cut off your moan with a sharp gasp, at his re-entrance.
your slick arousal was not only on his fingers but falling into the palm of his hand. you were helplessly writhing against the dining table, your body begging for his mouth as his fingers were nested inside of you stimulating your g-spot. your mouth was parted, releasing a slurry of whiny pleas for just a little more.
“amor, you’re making me feel bad,” lalo snickered, crookedly smiling against your pussy as he removed his fingers. “acting like i haven't ever touched you before,” he teased, licking from your perineum to your clit in one swift motion. he gave a low groan, your pussy that he had made sloppy with his spit and quick fingering made it taste divine.
his shoulders hunched a bit more, forcing your thighs to stay apart with his hands and his head burying his face into your wet cunt. he was lapping at your spilling arousal, occasionally flicking his tongue against your hole.
his flattened tongue was against your clit, giving quick upward licks while you found your hands to his hair. you were instinctively trying to close your legs, only feeling a sore burn from even attempting because lalo's strong, veiny hands were holding their spot protectively. he wasn't leaving his meal.
he shook his head, deepening his position to taste you more. his tongue moving in around your slick folds, paying attention to every exposed he could find blindly, all while looking up at you—squirming and working towards your climax.
that was until he released one side of your thigh to use his thumb again. he was spitting on your clit, taking the dripping saliva to your cunt with his tongue while his thumb was satisfying your heated clit.
you were unraveling before him, so desperately trying to keep your legs open to keep receiving the oral stimulation. your toes were curling, moaning his name repeatedly as his thumb sped up and his mouth worked against your core.
your mouth fell open, though no sound was leaving as your orgasm rushed through your entire being, pulling his head closer to your center as your body tightened for a brief moment.
your chest heaved pathetically, finally releasing your grip from his greying hair as you came down from your high. your vision was still spotty, trying to gather yourself just a bit as lalo littered kisses on your leg.
“i know, amor,” lalo placed a kiss directly to your bush of pubic hair, your clit was puffy and red from the abundance of pleasure. “i know,” he repeated, his sweaty head laying against your thigh, consoling you the best way he knew how.
SUMMARY — It would be the summer of Deputy Walsh learning shit the hard way. First, never piss off people who got access to your lunch order. Second—the prettier the package, the sharper the tongue.
You, the newest temp at the precinct, were stuck dealing with Shane’s attitude, while Shane ultimately couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or drag you somewhere private.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — See, I told you it would be short and we are under 10k! So. It's short. Yes, it is. I just hope nobody ever expects me to write a drabble...
I hope this will make you smile at least once, maybe twice @death-in-a-tar0t-card (tried not to make Shane too goofy, but damn, the temptation was there).
WORD COUNT — 8,534
Masterlist
You thought it would be just another temping job. At least that’s what the regular admin told you right before she went on sick leave and left you alone at the circus.
By now you managed to gather that this was very much not a “Fast and Furious” type of town—even without the slowness of summertime counted in. And by all that was holy, that Georgia humidity really made you wonder if that temp position was even worth it.
Not to mention what conditions you had to work under—said conditions being Deputy Walsh’s moods.
Now, the fan above Shane’s desk struggled against the heat, rattling like a man about to breathe his last. It didn’t do shit except circulate the stale air.
Shane was leaning back in his chair, boots propped on the edge of his desk, fingers laced behind his head. He watched you rifle through that filing cabinet for the fifth time in ten minutes and you could tell you were somehow getting on his nerves.
Jesus Christ.
“You plannin’ on actually findin’ that DUI report today, sweetheart,” he drawled, “or we gonna play hide-and-seek all afternoon?”
You didn’t turn around, but he saw the way your shoulders tensed, the way your fingers fumbled just a fraction before you shoved the drawer closed—hard. The metal screeched in protest, loud enough that Rick glanced up from his own paperwork with a look towards Shane that said—Behave!
Shane scoffed and lowered his feet to the floor with a thud. He walked up to you and took the folder from your hands, then flipped through it.
And hell, he didn’t even know why he was doing this. Maybe it was the way you braced yourself when he got too close, like you expected him to bite. Maybe it was that stubborn frown you gave him when he questioned your abilities. Or maybe it was the August heat.
Whatever it was, it pissed him off.
Shane stepped back—slowly, like he was doing you a favor—and tapped the edge of the filing cabinet with two knuckles. “You know the alphabet, darlin’?”
And there it was. That glare you shot him that said—Fuck you.
“Yeah.” He smirked, the bastard. “’Cause I can sing it for you, if that’d help.”
You yanked the right drawer open with more force than necessary. “You’re bein’ an asshole.”
“And?”
“And,” you gave him your sweetest smiles, “remember I got access to your lunch orders, Deputy.”
Oh, he liked that. Way too much.
“Oh-ho! Sweetheart’s got spine!” Shane exclaimed, with a positively shit-eating grin on his face.
Rick groaned from his desk. “Jesus, Shane. You enjoy bein’ this much of a pain in the ass?”
Shane didn’t even glance at him, too busy enjoying being a massive pain in the ass.
The phone rang before you could retaliate, the shrill sound cutting through the tension. You snatched it up and the second you answered, your voice was all sugar—professional and polite:
“King County Sheriff’s Department.”
Shane scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned away. The contrast between sweet and spiteful was infuriating. He walked back to his desk, dropping into his chair hard enough to make it protest.
The fan above him rattled uselessly again, and he kicked at the leg of his desk, sending a pencil rolling to the floor. Rick shot him a look. Shane opted to ignore it.
“No, Mrs. Burnett… I mean, yes, of course we can send someone. Uh-huh…” You rolled your eyes again when you heard Shane making even more noise somewhere in the background. “Stolen begonias. Certainly.”
Shane’s boot hit the desk leg again—harder this time—just as you stressed the word “begonias” with that painfully patient customer-service lilt.
“Christ, Shane,” Rick muttered. “Forgot to take your nap today or somethin’?”
But Shane was too busy watching the way your fingers tapped an irritated rhythm against the desk. Frankly, he kind of admired your resolve. Even if he could see plain as day that calm in your voice was forced, you never broke character.
Just as you reassured Mrs. Burnett that yes, the King County Sheriff’s Department took floral theft very seriously, Shane leaned back in his chair again and hollered to you:
“Tell her we’ll bring the K-9 unit, sweetheart! Sniff out them dangerous horticultural criminals.”
Your grip on the receiver tightened as Mrs. Burnett’s voice squawked through the line, high-pitched and alarmed. Rick buried his face in his hands.
“No, no, Mrs. Burnett, of course no dogs.” You shot Shane a glare. “No, that was just my colleague being hilarious.”
Shane gave you an exaggerated, innocent smile that fooled absolutely no one.
Rick shook his head like he could physically push Shane’s bullshit out of his skull. “You’re gonna get us a complaint filed, man. Again.”
“Aww. What’s she gonna do, Rick? Call the cops?” Shane snorted at his own joke.
Finally, you hung up the phone with more force than necessary, the plastic clattering against the receiver. Shane’s smirk widened.
“Oh, I think it’s an emergency.” You nodded solemnly. “Better get that siren goin’, boys.”
“Lord help me,” Rick muttered, pushing back from his desk with a scrape of his chair. “I’ll radio Lowell to handle the begonia crisis. Least then I know it’ll actually get done without someone makin’ it worse.”
“Oh, come on, Rick. Where’s your sense of adventure? Maybe we’ll find a whole underground begonia black market.” Shane’s grin was pure trouble, the kind that made Rick want to strangle him. “Hell, might even get into a shootout with some rogue landscapers!”
Rick paused, halfway out the door. He shot you both a very strange look before finally stepping out, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “never wanted more kids”.
You watched Rick leave, then shot Shane that glare—the one he couldn’t quite figure out. Granted, you’ve been working here only for a week. But, if he was motivated (which he rarely tended to be) Shane could actually put his detective skills to good use.
You, however, were still a mystery and some part of him thoroughly enjoyed it.
“You know,” you mused, voice sweet as poison, “I could just accidentally lose your lunch order today. Wouldn’t that be a shame?”
Shane’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened. “Aw, darlin’, you wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” You looked at your nails, then arched a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”
“You playin’ hardball now, sweetheart?”
You just shrugged and damn if that didn’t interest him even more.
“Tell you what—you lose my lunch, I start ‘accidentally’ misplacin’ all your paperwork.” His grin widened. “Bet you fold before I do.”
The phone rang again, cutting through the standoff. You snatched up the receiver and this time your voice sounded even more high-pitched:
“King County Sheriff’s Department! How can I help you?”
Shane chuckled, shaking his head. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”
You noticed very quickly that every time someone came to file a complaint in person, Shane was somehow always… there. In the beginning, Rick tried to rein him in, but then mysteriously gave up. You had no idea what that was about exactly and frankly didn’t want to know. Their friendship was puzzling enough for you. The two of them couldn’t be any more different.
Now, Shane was pretending to pour himself the twelfth coffee of the day, while in reality he was just watching you take a witness statement. You were trying to handle yet another civilian with that sickeningly sweet voice and Shane honestly couldn’t decide if it was impressive or deeply annoying.
An old man was droning on about his neighbor’s dog barking too loud, and you—Christ—you were nodding like it was a goddamn federal case.
“Oh, Mr. Henderson, I completely understand,” you said, helping the man fill out the forms with a sympathetic tilt of your head. “We’ll send someone right over to check on that terrible disturbance. Deputy Walsh, are you available?”
Shane scoffed under his breath. “Gotta check my schedule.”
Jesus wept, the issues these people sometimes came to report never ceased to astonish him. But what really got under his skin was how effortlessly you switched gears—one second, you were all sugar for the public, the next tearing him a new one over a misplaced stapler.
Which was currently on house arrest. In the drawer. In his desk.
The old man finally shuffled out, and Shane sauntered over. “You ever get tired of bein’ that nice?” he asked. Then his smirk deepened when he noticed your face change as soon as you dropped the act.
“Depends,” you shot back, flipping a file shut.
“On what?”
“Oh, I dunno, Deputy Walsh,” you drawled, and the way you said his name and title sounded like an insult. He kind of liked it. “You’re a detective, ain’t you? So, go on. Detect.”
Oh, hell.
Shane chuckled, low and amused. He liked that retort way too much.
“Uh-huh.” He leaned in just enough to invade your space. “See, way I see it, you’re playin’ two roles. An’ somehow everyone’s buyin’ it.”
Your eyes narrowed at him, like you were weighing whether to snap at him or keep on pretending.
“Or,” you said, quieter, “maybe I just don’t waste my good manners on you, Deputy.”
That got a laugh out of him. “I think you got plenty of manners left in the tank, darlin’. Just gotta figure out what kinda currency gets ‘em.” He tapped his fingers against the mug. “So what’s the exchange rate? Chocolate?”
“I’m not five.” You rolled your eyes, but he didn’t miss the way your lips twitched.
You actually laughed at that one and Shane did a poor job at hiding his surprise. It wasn’t one of those mocking little chuckles you kept giving him either. Goddamn, at this point you really were gonna give him whiplash.
His smirk faltered for a second. “Well, hell. Ain’t that a first…”
He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough for you to miss it.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” you replied.
“Too late.”
You turned back to your paperwork just to avoid giving him the satisfaction. But damn if that smug grin of his wasn’t a little attractive. Meanwhile, Rick exhaled loudly from his desk and shot Shane another look that said—Really?
But Shane still seemed insufferably pleased with himself. Like he’d cracked some secret code.
You finally had the time to explore the town some more over the weekend. It wasn’t exactly charming as far as small towns went, but you supposed it was nice enough. There were some picturesque historic buildings peppered here and there along the main street, and to its credit all of the businesses you have seen so far were local. Since you had nothing better to do after your long walk, the dive bar on the corner seemed like a good idea to finish your day.
The place was exactly what you expected—dim lighting, the scent of old beer hanging in the air, and the low hum of classic rock playing just loud enough to drown out half the conversations in the room.
You slid onto a stool at the bar, ignoring the way the vinyl stuck slightly to your legs.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.
You hesitated for a moment, then chose one of the beers on the tap with all the confidence of knowing nothing about what you’d get.
The bartender poured your beer while glancing at you curiously.
“You’re new in town.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Just passing through,” you replied.
The answer wasn’t good enough, you could tell, so you just shot him your special customer service smile number three. You weren’t a local, this much was plain. But in a town like this your business was probably everybody’s business. You kept your answers to a minimum.
You turned to the side to watch the world go by while you drank. The beer was bitter, hoppy—not bad, but definitely an acquired taste.
“You working over at the station?”
Your shoulders tensed a bit and the bartender must have noticed that because he extended his hand and tried his best to look less imposing. For a burly man like him that was a bit comical.
“Name’s Jimmy. An’ relax, honey, it’s a small town. News travels faster’n a fart in church. Everyone here knows Evelyn’s havin’ her surgery tomorrow, we’re all prayin’ for her.”
“Oh. Yeah, she seemed like a nice lady,” you replied, then shook his hand and introduced yourself.
“Hm.” Jimmy’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Heard you been putting up with Walsh’s bullshit.”
“Oh, I dunno if I’d call it that.” You took a gulp of your beer. “Not the worst job I’ve had.”
“Really?” Jimmy’s eyes narrowed like he clearly knew something you didn’t. “Y’know they sent another girl there ‘fore you? She quit after a day.”
“Well,” you shrugged, “that explains the hourly rate then. They must’ve been desperate.”
Jimmy barked out a laugh and then poured himself a shot of what you assumed was bourbon. “Well, then cheers, darlin’. To mildly shit jobs.”
You smiled and raised your glass to that.
After a pleasant evening of watching strangers (and them in turn watching you), you decided one pint was more than enough. The sweltering Georgia heat didn’t let up even after sundown, so you definitely felt just the right amount of tipsy.
It was the kind of sticky-sweet Southern summer night that made even breathing feel lethargic so the way back to your hotel felt twice as long as it should have. You were halfway down the block when you spotted him—Shane, standing by his Jeep and smoking, his expression like a storm cloud.
No smirking. No running his mouth. He just stood there, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other gripping that cigarette like he was personally angry with it. There was something quieter about him and you honestly debated if you shouldn’t just walk on by and pretend you never saw him.
But then he noticed you. A muscle twitched in his cheek, but he didn’t speak. You honestly didn’t know what to do with it.
God only knew neither of you owed the other a conversation—but something about the way he was now gave you pause.
“Bad night?” you asked lightly. Yes, it was obvious, but pretending otherwise felt cruel.
Shane exhaled through his nose. “You could say that.”
His voice was rougher than usual. You waited. He didn’t elaborate.
Shane finished his cigarette and then, abruptly, he pointed toward the sidewalk ahead. “I’ll walk you.”
“Oh. No. You don’t have to.”
“Wouldn’t offer if I didn't mean it.”
It wasn’t even an offer, just a statement, and usually you’d take offence. But in this context it almost felt… protective. So you decided not to give him shit about it either.
There was no familiar humor there tonight, no “sweethearts”, just something tired underneath. You turned back towards the hotel and Shane fell into step beside you.
Shane was an overwhelming presence on a good day, but this time he seemed very different. He was tense, this much was clear, and you fought the urge to even look at him—like staring too long might set off a bomb.
It wasn’t until you passed under a brighter streetlight that you caught the faint bruising along his knuckles, and the way his shirt collar was slightly crooked, like someone yanked at it.
“Y’know,” you said, “if you punched someone, I won’t tell Rick.”
“Ain’t that sweet of you.” The sarcasm was weak at best, and there wasn’t even a trace of his usual smirk. “Naw. Just… bad company.”
“Well,” you said lightly, “if you need a witness for your inevitable assault charges, my rates are very reasonable. We could say you’ve been with me all evening, chasing away them pesky dogs from Mr. Henderson’s lawn.”
“Christ alive.” He shook his head and let out a short laugh. “Shoulda known you’d be a smartass even off the clock.”
“Oh, I’ll have you know, Deputy Walsh, I’m way worse off the clock.”
The hotel came into view. Shane slowed to a stop at the edge of the sidewalk, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place—somewhere between irritation and gratitude.
“Get inside,” he said finally, nodding toward the door. “Lock it.”
“Why?” You raised an eyebrow. “Are we planning on causing mayhem out here later, Deputy?”
“No.” His smirk was faint but there, just barely. “Just don’t feel like explainin’ to Rick why I let somethin’ happen to his new favorite secretary.”
“Oh?” You couldn’t resist poking at him just a little more. “Is that jealousy I hear?”
Shane scoffed. “Keep dreamin’, babygirl.”
“Ah, but you don’t wanna know what goes on in there, Deputy.” You tapped your temple with two fingers, smirking.
He tried to scoff again, but to your trained ears it sounded suspiciously more like a laugh. Good. You could almost feel him wrestling with whatever was eating at him tonight—whether to say something else or let it lie.
You shook your head, toying with your hotel key. “Just spit it out, Shane.”
That snapped him to attention, since you’ve never called him by his first name before. By the looks of it, he didn’t exactly hate it.
He rubbed the back of his neck like he was physically trying to push the words out. “You ever get the feelin’ you’re wastin’ your damn time?”
Well… It wasn’t what you expected. Not even close.
“All the time,” you admitted.
That seemed to catch him off guard.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You shrugged. “But then I remember I’m getting paid to deal with you, and it all feels a little better after a quick Sephora trip.”
He laughed, rough and surprised. “Goddamn, woman. You ever not got a comeback ready?”
“Eh… With you, it’s kinda easy.”
He shook his head, but the tension in him eased just a little. “You’re a pain in my ass, woman, d’ you know that?”
“And yet,” you said, grinning, “here you are. Walking me home like a gentleman.”
“Don’t push it.”
For a moment, it was almost comfortable. Until he remembered something, you could tell by how his eyes changed—suddenly that anger was back.
“Some people ain’t worth the breath it takes to argue with ‘em.”
You arched a brow and he quickly added:
“Not you.”
“Uh-huh…”
“Goddamn it—”
“Their loss, anyway,” you said simply.
He looked at you for a very long time, like you just handed him a new piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit with any of the other pieces he already had.
Then he jerked his chin toward the hotel door. “Go on. Before I change my mind about bein’ decent.”
You rolled your eyes, but started walking up the steps to the front door.
“Hey.”
You paused at the door, glancing back at him.
“Don’t go tellin’ anyone I was nice. Ruins my reputation.”
“Oh no!” You laughed. “We can’t have that.”
“Shut up…” He shook his head, suddenly a little softer around the edges.
You only laughed harder. “Your secret’s safe with me, Deputy.”
The following Monday morning was very different. When you came in, Shane was already there, fidgeting with the coffee machine—which wasn’t exactly unusual. But normally you’d have expected at least fifteen jabs and twenty “sweethearts” to have come your way.
Not today.
“Mornig,” you said.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at you with a frown, that line between his eyebrows even deeper than usual. Then he handed you a cup of coffee.
You blinked.
Shane had never made you coffee before. You had never even seen him be helpful to the general public in any way, shape or form. Well, maybe with the rare exception of Rick Grimes. Shane still gave him shit, just… In a slightly nicer way.
You took the mug cautiously, half-expecting it to be a trap.
“Uh… thanks?”
He just watched you, then let out a sharp sort of grunt and turned around to drop an ungodly amount of sugar in his own mug.
Rick, who had been watching this entire exchange with the kind of quiet amusement you had never seen in him before, finally spoke up. “Shane, you feelin’ alright?”
Shane shot him a glare. “Uh-huh.”
“You sure, partner?”
“I’m great.”
Meanwhile, you took a tentative sip of your coffee. It tasted… fine. In fact, there was nothing wrong with it.
“Did you poison this?” You immediately wanted to know.
That got a reaction. Shane’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “The hell kinda question is that?”
“A leading one, Deputy Walsh,” you said, taking another sip just to watch him bristle. “You’ve never done anything nice for me before. Matter of fact, I’m still waitin’ to get my stapler back.”
“Ain’t nice,” he muttered. “Just coffee.”
Rick coughed into his fist—badly hiding a laugh.
“You,” Shane pointed at him, “shut it.”
“Oh, I ain’t sayin’ anything,” Rick replied, enjoying himself way too much.
“So,” you said, “what’s the catch, Deputy?”
Shane scowled. “Ain’t a catch.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Christ, woman…” Shane clenched his jaw. “Drink the damn thing, don’t drink it, I don’t even care.”
You took another very exaggerated slurp. “And yet…”
“Just figured you’d need it after last night.”
That made you pause.
Rick’s eyebrows shot up. “Last night?”
Shane shot him a look. “Ain’t like that.”
You watched the exchange between them with no small amount of amusement. It was kind of fun—now that Shane got a taste of workplace bullying.
Rick leaned back in his chair, grinning from ear to ear. “Well, I’ll be damned…”
“Don’t push it, Rick.”
“Oh, I ain’t pushin’.” Rick cleared his throat and then pointed to his own empty cup. “So…?”
Shane ignored him, focusing instead on stirring his coffee with unnecessary force. “Just drink the damn coffee, woman.”
You smirked. “Oh, I am. And it’s good.”
That seemed to throw him off. He blinked, then scowled harder. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”
You pouted. “Aw. Really?”
Rick chuckled, shaking his head. “Lord help me, I think I like whatever the hell this is.”
“Yeah, that’s enough from you.” Shane shot him a glare. “You’re fired.”
“Can’t fire me, partner. We’re the same rank.”
“Then I’m quittin’.”
You laughed into your cup.
Shane pointed at you. “You—”
The phone rang, cutting him off. You snatched the receiver and this time didn’t even need to fake that chirping:
“King County Sheriff’s Department!”
Then your face fell. “An intruder...?”
Shane and Rick both straightened immediately, their playful banter forgotten.
Rick stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. “Where?”
Shane was already reaching for his car keys, the most cheerful you had ever seen him.
“Alright, Mrs. Calloway, you stay where you are,” you said to the receiver. “We’ll send someone right over.”
When Mrs. Calloway hung up, you scribbled down the rest of the address, your fingers tight around the pen. “Mrs. Calloway—her neighbor’s place across the street. She says she saw someone breakin’ in through the back window. Two men, black clothes, didn’t see a gun but said they were huge an’ had somethin’ like crowbars.
Shane was already moving, now definitely in a much better mood. “Alright, let’s roll.”
Two hours later, the biggest man you've ever seen was brought to the station in handcuffs. He was snarling insults at Shane, who only seemed to grin wider the more the man thrashed. The guy was massive—at least 6’5 and built like a damn linebacker—but it still looked like he was freshly out of a couple teeth and had a proper black eye forming across his left cheekbone.
His partner, a wiry little weasel of a man, was already being processed in the other room, whimpering about how he “ain’t gonna talk ‘bout the boss-man.”
But this one? Oh, he was pissed.
“Y’ain’t shit, cop!” the giant snarled, yanking against the cuffs hard enough to make the metal creak. “I’ll snap you in half soon as I get outta these!”
Shane, the absolute bastard, just grinned wider. “Calm down, sunshine! Could be we’re both retired when that happens so I ain’t gonna hold my breath.” He clapped the guy on the shoulder—hard—like they were old buddies.
The guy lunged at him, but Shane simply stepped to the side, laughing under his breath. “Easy there, killer. Save it for your cellmate.”
Rick, who had just locked up the other guy, looked at his partner with a sigh. “Shane, quit antagonizin’ him.”
“Me?” Shane, the picture of innocence, had the audacity to ask.
You snorted into your coffee.
The guy in cuffs whipped his head toward you, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck you laughin’ at, bitch?”
Shane’s grin vanished momentarily. Before anyone could react, he stepped between you and the perp, crowding into the guy’s space like he meant it—which was sort of a feat since Shane was so much shorter.
“Say that again, big guy,” Shane said, the angriest you had ever heard him. “Don’t think I heard that right.”
The perp sneered, running his tongue over his teeth before letting out a low chuckle. “I said—”
“Shit fire!” you jumped out of your seat and promptly spilled the rest of your coffee in the general vicinity of the perp.
“The fuck?!” the man roared.
“You lost your mind?!” Shane demanded to know.
But you stuck to your act and pointed to the faraway corner. “That was a rat! There. Right there!”
“Alright now. Show’s over.” Rick stepped between Shane and the perp, using the distraction to take the man to his cell.
Shane watched Rick haul the guy off, then turned back to you with a look that was equal parts exasperated and impressed. “A rat?”
You shrugged, wiping your hands on your pants. “Don’t look at me like that. You were hot ‘n’ ready to knock the rest of his teeth out.”
“Bullshit!”
“Even I know ya ain’t supposed to beat ‘em up after you already arrest ‘em.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else, y’ know that?”
Rick returned, looking at you with a curious expression. “Alright. I say that’s enough excitement for one day.”
Shane clapped him on the back—hard enough to make him stumble. “Come on now. Ain’t you havin’ fun?”
Rick shot him a glare. “No.”
You grinned at the exchange. “So… what’s the story with those two?”
Shane’s smirk returned full force. “Buncha idiots tryin’ to rob an old lady. Thought she had cash stashed in the walls or some shit.”
Rick sighed. “They were after her coin collection.”
“Coin collection?” You blinked. “That’s it?”
Shane laughed, low and rough. “Yep. Dumbasses thought they were gonna be rich.”
Rick sighed deeply. “And now we gotta deal with the paperwork.”
You decided to take pity on the man and reached for the forms. “Well, Deputy Walsh, since you’re feelin’ generous…”
He narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“You can help me fill these out and let your partner go home for family dinner.”
Shane groaned, dragging a hand down his face. But you could see he was smiling, if just a little. “Christ, woman, you drive a hard bargain.”
Rick wisely took a step back, retreating to the door with a smile and a quick nod towards you.
Shane snatched up a pen, clicking it aggressively. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, darlin’.”
You sighed. “Because you got to punch a guy?”
“Because I got to punch that guy.” He smirked, scribbling his signature with a flourish. “And he was askin’ for it.”
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue. Truth was, you didn’t mind this side of him—that easy confidence was kind of attractive.
Then he flipped the form back toward you and leaned in. “But… In the future, let me handle my own damn fights, sweetheart.”
You met his gaze and you both looked at each other a second or two too long for it to be casual.
“Next time I’m bringin’ an actual rat,” you decided. “Just in case the perps catch you in a bad mood or somethin’.”
Shane smirked, his dark eyes still fixed on you. “Whatever you say…”
The heat let up a little during the weekend and you decided to go on a walk through the nearby fields to watch the horses.
The air was still warm, but the oppressive humidity had eased up just enough to make being outside bearable. You’d found a quiet spot near the fence line where a few horses grazed lazily, their tails flicking at the occasional fly. The darkest of the bunch noticed you and walked up towards you, clearly expecting treats. You came prepared with a bag of carrots.
You stood there for a while, feeding the horses and trying to angle your phone just right to catch a good shot of them. Then you heard footsteps—someone was jogging down the dirt path that cut through the fields. You moved out of the way, fully expecting whoever it was to just move past you, but then he spoke:
“Didn’t take you for the outdoorsy type, darlin’.”
Shane. His shirt was damp with sweat and clinging to his broad frame. He slowed when he spotted you, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. His breathing was heavy, but controlled, as he came to a stop.
You shrugged. “Didn’t take you for the jogging type.”
He smirked. “Gotta stay in shape somehow. It’s a good route for a workout.”
“Because you like horses?” you asked, frowning.
He exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. “They’re alright. Uh, Rick likes them. Me, I prefer cars.”
The horse closest to you nudged your hand, urging you for more carrots.
Shane watched the interaction and you noticed his eyes were a little kinder, a little softer than usual.
“You got a way with ‘em,” he admitted after a moment.
“I got a bag of carrots,” you corrected him. “Here.”
Without any preamble you stuck one in Shane’s hand and nudged him towards the horses. He stared down at the carrot like it was an alien artefact.
“The hell am I supposed to do with this?”
You grinned. “Take a wild guess.”
He scoffed but didn’t argue, stepping closer to the fence. The nearest horse—a chestnut mare with a white blaze—sniffed the air, ears pricking forward. Shane hesitated, then held out the carrot like he was defusing a bomb.
The mare took it from his fingers with surprising gentleness, crunching loudly. Shane blinked, watching her.
“Now… Why am I, a city girl, teachin’ you ‘bout country living?” you teased.
He shot you a look but didn’t snap back. Instead, he reached for another carrot from your bag, this time offering it with a little more confidence. You watched, letting the horses be the judge of his character.
“She likes you,” you said after a moment.
Shane huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “She’s got bad taste then.”
The mare nudged his shoulder, searching for more. Shane exhaled sharply, but there was no real irritation in it. “Greedy thing, ain’t ya?”
The sun caught the sweat still drying on his skin and somehow you couldn’t tear your eyes away.
“Careful.” You grinned. “She’ll follow you home.”
“Yeah, well. Not the first time that happened.”
“A horse followed you home?”
Shane looked at you pointedly until you caught his innuendo.
“Oh.”
He winced. “Yeah.”
“Wait, so…” You hesitated. “That night when you walked me to the hotel. Was that a bad date too?”
Shane rolled his shoulders, as if trying to physically escape embarrassment. “Yeah. But don’t get all excited. Most of ‘em ain’t worth the walk.”
The chestnut mare huffed, lipping at his empty hand, and Shane absently patted her neck.
You snorted. “Well, that’s just sad.”
“Yeah?” He arched a brow, turning to face you fully now.
“Yeah,” you said. “If you’re gonna have strays followin’ you around, Shane, least they could do is be good company.”
That surprised him. He clearly expected a jab.
He made a low sound in his throat, half-amused. “You offerin’?”
You grinned. “Nah. I don’t follow anyone.”
That got a real laugh out of him—short and rough, but genuine. “Shoulda figured…”
“Figured what?” You walked up closer to him.
Shane looked at you, incredulous, then all of a sudden went poker-faced. “Don’t make me say it, woman.”
You stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the sweat and faint whiff of cologne clinging to him. Not the best concoction, but somehow not the worst.
“Just… out with it, Deputy,” you pressed.
Shane exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching like he was physically grinding his molars on the words. “You ain’t like most of ‘em. You’re…”
The admission was there between you now. No way to take it back.
“Well,” you said, “I’ve definitely never met a guy like you, that’s for damn sure.”
Shane’s lips twitched, something close to a real smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”
You shrugged, stepping back before you did something stupid—like reach for him. “Don’t get all excited, that wasn’t a compliment.”
“Ah, I think it was actually.” He watched you retreat, that familiar smirk finally creeping back. “Good to know, sweetheart.”
You rolled your eyes.
“You gonna keep feedin’ me to the horses,” he drawled, “or are you gonna let me walk you back?”
He was watching you—like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
“You’re starin’,” he pointed out.
You rolled your eyes. “And you’re sweaty.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t move, just kept watching you. “So what now, darlin’? We just stand here till one of us caves?”
You scoffed. “You wish.”
“Maybe I do.”
That honesty gave you pause. You weren’t used to any of this. And especially not men who actually meant what they said.
“Alright,” he said, stretching his arms like he was shaking off the moment. “I got a shower to take. You comin’ or what?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
Shane chuckled. He knew exactly what he was doing. “Back to town, woman. Unless you plannin’ on sleepin’ in the field.”
You huffed, falling into step beside him as he started down the dirt path.
“This don’t mean I caved,” you grumbled.
He grinned, extremely pleased with himself. “Naw, ‘course not.”
Shane kept his pace slow, matching yours without comment.
“You know,” you said after a while, “for a guy who hates small talk, you sure do a lot of… talking.”
He snorted. “Ain’t small talk if I mean it.”
You shot him a look. “You always mean everything you say?”
“Pretty much. Saves time.”
“Guess that makes you predictable,” you mused.
Shane scoffed. “The hell it does.”
“Uh-huh.” You grinned. “I could set my watch by your bad moods.”
He stopped walking so abruptly you took two extra steps before realizing. When you turned, he was just watching you, his gaze sharp again.
“You ain’t figured me out yet, sweetheart,” he said, voice low. “But I’ll give you this—you’re tryin’.”
You held his stare, refusing to back down. “Like hell I am!”
“Yeah, you are.” He took a step closer. “But I ain’t complainin’.”
You rolled your eyes, turning back toward the path before he could see you were blushing.
As you walked back to town, you noticed now and then that people were giving you looks. Well, mostly women were, so you pretty quickly surmised it was not because of you. The novelty of your presence had gotten the chance to wear off.
It was because of Shane and you, together. And, most probably, whatever the hell he was wearing did not help. Some women were doing their darndest to pretend not to look—but they still tracked Shane with narrowed eyes. And not just him. You. Together.
Shane, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. He walked with that same confidence, his damp shirt still clinging in places you would honestly prefer it didn’t cling to.
“You got a fan club, Deputy,” you muttered.
Shane followed your gaze and scoffed. “Christ. Buncha busybodies.”
“Uh-huh.” You smirked. “Or maybe they’re just shocked to see you voluntarily walkin’ with someone who ain’t Rick.”
His eyes darted to you. “You’re enjoyin’ this.”
“Hm. A little.”
Shane shook his head, exasperated, but you didn’t miss how the corner of his mouth twitched upward—despite his best efforts.
The newspaper landed on your desk with a quiet thump. You glanced up just in time to see Rick retreating to his desk with a cup of coffee—all casual, like he hadn’t just done something extremely weird.
The paper was folded open to the classifieds, several listings circled aggressively in red pen.
Rooms for Rent. Short-Term Leases Available. Quiet Neighborhood.
You stared at it for a long moment, then glanced towards Shane’s desk. He was elbows-deep in paperwork, scowling at some report, completely oblivious to Rick’s meddling.
Rick, meanwhile, had settled back into his chair, pretending to be engrossed in his own work. But you caught the way his eyes flicked toward you, then Shane—just once. Much like his partner, the man had the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
“You plannin’ on explainin’ this, Deputy Grimes?” you asked.
Rick didn’t even look up. “Nope.”
Shane’s head snapped up at that, eyes narrowing as he caught the tail end of the exchange. “The hell’s goin’ on?”
You held up the paper, shaking it slightly. “Your best friend’s got a side hustle in real estate.”
Shane squinted at the paper, then at Rick. “Huh?”
“Just thought she might wanna know her options, is all.”
“Options.” Shane repeated flatly.
“Since the temp job’s goin’ longer than expected and Evelyn’s still recovering.” Rick shrugged. “Wouldn’t want her stayin’ in that hotel forever.”
Shane opened his mouth, but you cut in before he could:
“You know what?” You folded the paper neatly and tucked it into your bag. “I do hate that hotel.”
Which was how Shane Walsh somehow got outmaneuvered and forced to go be your (very grumpy) chaperone at an apartment viewing.
As soon as you stepped inside, Shane, much to your amusement, immediately started poking around like he was inspecting a crime scene.
He crouched to check under the sink, muttering something about water pressure, then ran a finger along the windowsill—checking for condensation, apparently.
“You moonlight as a handyman, Deputy Walsh?” you asked, insanely entertained by his prodding and poking at the shower tiles.
Shane shot you a glare over his shoulder. “Just makin’ sure you ain’t gettin’ ripped off.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothin’. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were worried ‘bout me.”
“Shut up, woman.”
The landlord, an older man with a bushy mustache, watched Shane’s inspection with no less amusement. “Place is solid, Deputy. No need to worry.”
Shane grunted, unconvinced.
You exchanged a look with the landlord, who just chuckled and shook his head.
“So,” you said after a moment, “what’s the verdict, Deputy? You’re throwin’ the nice man in the slammer for real estate crimes?”
Shane turned the faucet off harder than necessary and shot you a glare. “Ain’t terrible.”
“Excellent.” You clapped your hands. “You can help me move my bags.”
“Like hell I am!”
Shane still helped you move your bags.
The whole time, he complained—loudly. About the stairs, about the broken wheel on your suitcase, and mostly about the fact that you apparently owned way too many books. But he still hauled every last thing for you and wouldn’t let you lift a finger even when you tried.
“You gonna actually unpack this shit, or just live outta cardboard like some kinda raccoon?” he grumbled, watching you stroll around the place.
You grinned, then mercifully tossed him a bottle of water. “Depends. You gonna stick around and supervise?”
He caught it one-handed. “Nah. Got better things to do than babysit.”
But he didn’t leave. Just watched you unpack the few belongings you had and mostly was just hanging out with you in silence. It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, in fact you were a little surprised how easily you got used to Shane just… Being there. With you.
“Alright, darlin’. You need anything else, or you good?”
You paused, considering. “You hungry?”
Shane hesitated, then pointed to the little kitchenette in the corner. “Sweetheart, I ain’t seen you unpack a single kitchen utensil. Not riskin’ your cooking.”
You just laughed and took out your phone. “So. Pizza?”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
When the pizza arrived, Shane paid before you could even reach for your wallet. You shot him a look.
He shrugged, already flipping the box open. “You’re buyin’ next time.”
There was something dangerously comfortable about the way he said next time—casual, like it was already a given. You let it slide, mostly because arguing with Shane about anything was a lost cause.
You both ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the occasional rustle of cardboard and Shane’s muttered curses when he burned his mouth on the cheese.
“You always inhale your food like that?” you asked.
He smirked. “Army habit.”
That explained... a lot, actually.
Shane wiped his hands on a napkin, then leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Alright. Now that you’re all moved in—”
“Barely.”
“—you gonna invite me over again, or do I gotta keep invitin’ myself?”
You smiled at him and this time made sure it was a kinder sort of smile. “Shane.”
His eyes flicked to you and for a moment you saw that hesitation in him, like he was bracing for a blow.
“Thank you. For today,” you said quickly. “An’ of course you’re invited, don’t be daft.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze for a second before meeting it again. “Yeah, well. Ain’t like I got much else goin’ on anyway.”
“Wow. I’m so flattered.”
That got a smirk out of him. “You should be.”
The silence settled again, just... easy.
Finally, Shane grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, slinging it over his shoulder. “Alright, darlin’, I’m out. You behave.”
“No promises.”
It was a particularly slow day at the station, even by this town’s standards. Rick was flipping through a case file with the kind of disinterest that suggested he’d read it three times already and retained no information.
You leaned against the edge of Shane’s desk. “So. Army stories.”
Shane didn’t even look up. “Nope.”
“Come on,” you pressed. “You can’t just be like this and not have some wild lore.”
That got his attention. “Be like what?”
You waved a hand vaguely in his direction. “You know. Like this.”
Rick, who had been pretending not to listen from his own desk, suddenly got very interested in this conversation.
Shane glared at him. “You got somethin’ to add, partner?”
Rick set his mug down, grinning. “Nah. Just thinkin’ about that time in basic when you—”
Shane’s jaw twitched. “Rick, I swear to God—”
But Rick was still grinning. “Easy, Shane. Just sayin’—you got stories.”
Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, then turned back to you. “Ain’t nothin’ interestin’. Just did my job.”
You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. So you’re tellin’ me you never did anything stupid? Never got in trouble?”
“Uh. No.” Shane spoke through gritted teeth. “That ain’t what I said.”
“Oh, he got in trouble. Plenty.”
Shane shot him another glare. “Rick.”
But Rick was already warming up to the story. “There was this one time in basic—Shane here decided he was gonna ‘improve’ the obstacle course.”
Shane groaned. “Jesus Christ, Rick.”
You were suddenly very interested. “Improve how?”
Rick’s grin widened. “By rewirin’ the damn thing after hours. Made the whole thing twice as hard. Drill sergeants were pissed—until they realized it actually worked.”
Shane muttered something under his breath and shook his head.
“So what happened?” you pressed.
Shane sighed, finally giving in. “Got my ass chewed out. Then they made me run the damn thing first to prove it could be done.”
You blinked. “And?”
He shrugged. “Did it.”
Rick chuckled. “Yeah, an’ then they promoted him to latrine duty for two months.”
“You just love tellin’ that story, don’t ya?”
Rick grinned, unbothered. “Gotta keep you humble, partner.”
You leaned in. “So, what else you got?”
Shane exhaled sharply through his nose. “Ain’t nothin’ else worth tellin’.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Rick mused. “There was that time at the base—”
“No.”
“—when you decided to arm wrestle some guy from Alabama—”
Shane groaned. “Jesus wept…”
“—and lost spectacularly.”
You burst out laughing. “Aww.”
Shane scowled. “Guy was built like a damn refrigerator.”
Rick nodded sagely. “You still took the bet.”
Shane threw his hands up. “Alright, that’s enough outta you, man. Go get another coffee.”
You were grinning now, thoroughly enjoying this. “You’ve got a real talent for makin’ friends, Deputy Walsh.”
Shane was shooting daggers at you, but there was something almost playful underneath it. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, darlin’.”
Rick was now looking far too pleased with himself. “See? Told you he had stories.”
Shane muttered something under his breath and snatched up a pen, pretending to focus on his paperwork.
In a small town like this one, hiding anything seemed downright impossible. You realized very quickly that after about three months everyone knew who you were, where you worked, where you came from, and—most importantly—that there was something going on between you and Shane.
Something neither of you managed to put a label on yet, because according to you there were no labels to be printed. The man hadn’t made a move, and well, neither have you. Still, your experience probably paled in comparison to the local American Gigolo.
You figured by this time Shane had dated half the female population in this county and one over, so you wondered why the hell the height of your supposed “fling” was eating pizza in your half-empty attic apartment or him “running into you” on his jogging route.
There was no “running into” here, you quite deliberately hung out with the horses nearly every weekend. Sometimes you’d just sit on the blanket near the paddock, just watching them play with each other and graze.
It was a nice Saturday morning and you were lounging on the grass—until a shadow fell over you.
“We gotta stop meetin’ like this, babygirl.”
You didn’t even look up. “Mornin’, Shane.”
Shane dropped down onto the blanket beside you, stretching his legs out with a grunt. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. You handed him a bottle of water.
“Yeah, well.” He grabbed it and took a long swig before handing it back. “It’s a good place to jog.”
One of the horses—a big dark gelding—walked over, sniffing at Shane’s hair before losing interest and wandering off.
“You just gonna sit out here all day?” Shane asked.
“Maybe.”
He smirked. “Boring.”
“Then…” You waved your hand towards the dirt path. “Go on.”
“Nah.” Shane leaned back on his elbows, tilting his face up toward the sun. “Think I’ll stay.”
“Suit yourself.” You sighed and lay down beside him.
The silence settled between you, easy and familiar. After a while, he shifted and you opened one eye to find him hovering over you.
“There a problem, officer?” you muttered.
Shane chuckled, his voice rough.
“You ever gonna tell me why you keep comin’ out here?” he asked after a minute.
You shrugged. “It’s a nice view.”
Shane snorted. “Uh-huh. Bullshit. You just like watchin’ me suffer through these damn jogs.”
You grinned. “Yeah. That’s what I said.”
Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head once he caught your meaning.
“You ever gonna make this easy?” he muttered.
“For you?” You tilted your head. “Naw.”
That got a laugh out of him. And you quite liked the sound of it.
“You ever think about leavin’ this place?” you asked suddenly.
Shane stilled for half a second before shrugging. “Nah. Got everything I need right here.”
“Even the begonia thieves?”
“Especially the begonia thieves.” His smirk was back, sharp as ever. “Why? You plannin’ on skippin’ town?”
You looked up at the sky, squinting from the sun. “I miss Atlanta sometimes.”
Shane didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly:
“You’d tell me if you were leavin’, right?”
You turned your head to look at him. His expression was… odd. Tense.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d tell you.”
He nodded, like that settled it.
“But I’m not leaving,” you said quickly. “I mean... I don’t want to. But Evelyn can’t stay sick forever I guess. I’d have to find another job. Or maybe they’ll send me to temp somewhere else.”
Shane bristled slightly at the mention of you leaving, but he covered it with a scoff. “Hell no. You ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You gonna arrest me?”
He leaned in closer. “That what you’re into? ‘Cause I can.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Wow. Shane Walsh, the romantic that you are…”
“Wasn’t tryin’ to be,” he grunted.
Before you could retort, he hooked two fingers in the collar of your shirt and yanked you forward. “Yeah, you ain’t leavin’,” he said, searching for something in your face. “Ain’t up for discussion.”
“That so?” You placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Ugh, you need a shower.”
That got him going alright. His smirk was diabolical. “Yeah? Your place’s closer.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. “You’re insufferable.”
Shane’s grin only widened. And then he kissed you—rough and impatient, like he’d been waiting too damn long.
There was little finesse to that kiss, it was intense. He gripped your arms to pull you closer with barely contained frustration.
You pushed back just enough to catch your breath. “You—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He grinned, too busy watching your mouth.
“Shower,” you reminded him pointedly.
“You’re presumptuous, woman.”
“Jesus Christ, you still can’t call me by my name?”
“Sweetheart?”
“Ugh…”
“Darlin’.”
Shane just laughed, but finally let you go—with obvious reluctance.
Later—much later—when your sheets were tangled beyond saving, Shane propped himself up on one elbow, watching you with his usual smirk.
But you weren’t about to let him off the hook.
“So you do know how to say my name,” you noted.
“Goddamn.” He shook his head, laughing. “That’s what you wanna say to me right now?”
“Well, I distinctly remember you sain’ it—”
“Quit it.”
“Twice.”
“Alright, that’s it.” He pushed your wrists down and stifled your giggle with a kiss. “You ain’t leavin’ this bed.”
“Oh really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And who’s gonna sort your paperwork, Deputy Walsh?”
His grin was all teeth. “Oh, I got somethin’ else for you to sort, sweetheart.”
You kicked at him halfheartedly. “Shut up.”
Shane caught your ankle, dragging you back with a laugh that rumbled through his chest. “Make me.”
The banter. The unraveling. The YEARNING BETWEEN THE LINESs???????????! YES LAWDDDDDDD
This was supposed to be a lil late night read to prep me for bed but that build up got me bouncing off the walls like ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Another banger from @houndofsevenhells
“No Honor Among Thieves (Or Assassins)” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 1/9)
SUMMARY — What happens when another killer steals your kill? With Braxton involved, probably just chaos. And insults. Now the two are stuck in the world’s most violent will-they-won’t-they. Spoiler: They will. Probably after someone gets shot. Again. Featuring: medically questionable wound-stitching as a form of foreplay and Brax’s inability to shut up, even when bleeding out.
WORD COUNT — 3,061
“Blood Loss & Brotherly Love: A Survival Guide” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 2/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”. Look, here’s the thing about waking up with no gun, no phone, and a bullet wound stitched like it was too good of a job for someone who hated your guts—at some point or another, you had to do a little bit of self-reflection. But Braxton would rather crawl through broken glass.
WORD COUNT — 3,272
“Blood Sugar” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 3/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”. While tracing an old contract, Christian uncovers that Braxton unknowingly eliminated one of the Brotherhood’s enemies years ago. With Justine’s assistance, they begin unravelling the truth behind Echo’s allegiance to the Brotherhood.
WORD COUNT — 2,080
“Welcome (Back) To Fight Club” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 4/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”. Braxton told himself that newfound obsession wasn’t personal. That it was just about unfinished business. Pride. Closure. Whatever. But the wondering…Jesus Christ, the wondering.
When all the jobs were done and tied up in a bow, and he was alone with his head again, the wondering and thinking about Echo clawed at the back of his head like a demonic possession.
WORD COUNT — 4,006
“No Grave Can Hold Her Down” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 5/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”.
See, Braxton knew everything about getting trained to be a super-soldier from the ripe age of seven. It wasn’t the only thing that left him profoundly fucked up. But what in the world must have happened to her to leave her like this?
WORD COUNT — 2,035
“Honey, I Escaped the Murder Cult” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 6/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”.
Braxton strongly suspected Echo didn’t trust him or his methods just yet, but he had no problem with showing off—and proving her wrong. He talked like a man born to lie and knew how to vanish without a trace. Well, maybe not like Echo. Her methods were still a mystery to him. But he knew enough to get paid the big bucks he did, so. There was that.
WORD COUNT — 2,035
“Nothin’ Personal” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 7/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”.
Braxton handled the car like he’d stolen it from a war zone—which, coincidentally, he had done many times before. But the way he drove was smooth, fast, and with the muscle memory of a guy who regularly drove an armored convoy through a desert under fire. Not much rattled him in general.
Except, maybe, that woman in the passenger seat right there.
WORD COUNT — 2,729
“Apocalypse (With Extra Bang)” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 8/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”.
“Try it,” she said. “See where I dump your body.”
Braxton grinned, sinking even lower in the seat. “Nah, not a ditch, that’s predictable. You’d get creative—feed me to a coyote, maybe.”
She smirked. Again. “You get more annoying? I leave you to scorpions. For lunch.”
A laugh rumbled in his chest, dulled with lack of sleep, but real. “So, ditch it is.”
WORD COUNT — 2,468
“Collateral Affection” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 9/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”.
Braxton comes to a world-shattering conclusion that maybe, somehow, he deserves to have a life.
WORD COUNT — 2,121
“And Then We Were Two” (Frank Castle x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — Years ago, Frank Castle pulled a broken girl out of hell. Now, she’s standing in front of him again—blood on her hands and a hit list in her pocket.
WORD COUNT — 4,129
“You Steal It, You Feed It” (Frank Castle x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — Frank decided to retire in an inconspicuous apartment somewhere in Brooklyn. Well, as much as a man like him even could. Normally, he minded his business at all times. Except tonight.
Tonight, he actually was busy. Had business. But no, there you were, crouched on the fire escape at asshat o’clock in the goddamn morning, right in his way—with a duffel bag, bolt cutters, and a look on your face like you were about to commit a felony no matter what.
WORD COUNT — 5,310
“Temporary Trouble” (Shane Walsh x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — It would be the summer of Deputy Walsh learning shit the hard way. First, never piss off people who got access to your lunch order. Second—the prettier the package, the sharper the tongue.
You, the newest temp at the precinct, were stuck dealing with Shane’s attitude, while Shane ultimately couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or drag you somewhere private.
WORD COUNT — 8,534
“Highway To Nowhere” (Shane Walsh x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — Shane Walsh was supposed to be the villain. And I said: bet.
The the wrong person lived, the wrong secrets got buried, and then you showed up—with a sharp mouth, and no patience for self-loathing.
Canon-divergent Season 2. Emotional carnage, redemption arcs, and everyone’s tired, including you.
WORD COUNT — 17,315
“Loose Cannons—A Series” (Dixon fem!Reader)
“Part 1—Robin Hood” (Shane Walsh x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — When you—the sharpshooting cousin of the Dixon brothers—join the Atlanta camp, tensions arise and changes creep in.
Daryl begins to step out of Merle’s shadow, and Merle struggles with the possibility of redemption. Shane sees another Dixon as a threat, Rick—as an opportunity. Now, survival isn’t just about the walkers.
WORD COUNT — 3,282
“Part 2—Unlikely Survivor”
WORD COUNT — 1,380
“Part 3—Peace Offering”
WORD COUNT — 4,735
“Part 4—Ain’t Dead Yet”
WORD COUNT — 4,190
“Part 5—No Such Thing as Luck”
WORD COUNT — 3,104
“Part 6—Nothing Left to Bury”
WORD COUNT — 5,966
“Part 7—Dead Quiet”
WORD COUNT — 2,459
“Dogs That Bite” (Grady Travis x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — Grady might have been foul-mouthed, but now he finally met his match. You, the new medic in camp, turned out to be way worse. More importantly, you didn’t give a damn about his tough-guy act and were determined to save him no matter what.
WORD COUNT — 8,384
Decided to make a taglist. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged.
SUMMARY — Grady might have been foul-mouthed, but now he finally met his match. You, the new medic in camp, turned out to be way worse. More importantly, you didn't give a damn about his tough-guy act and were determined to save him no matter what.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — Will I ever get tired of comparing the men I like to dogs? No, probably not. This fic was long in the making because I recently re-watched that film to hurt my own feelings and couldn't get this silly idea out of my head. So... Enjoy? I hope.
WORD COUNT — 8,384
Masterlist
Taglist
The bullet wasn’t just a graze. Grady had been playing it cool for the rest of the crew, but the longer they rode to camp, the more he felt that damn thing lodge harder and harder into his side.
“Now you hold on Grady, you hear me?” Bible kept telling him, in between Gordo’s “Fuck!” repeated steadily all the way to the base.
“Ain’t nothin’, quit fussin’,” Grady muttered, feeling more and more lightheaded with every time Fury hit a bump on the road.
Once they got him out of the tank, Grady hit the mud with a grunt, clutchin’ his side while the boys shouted over him. Don yelled for a medic, voice hoarse with urgency.
“Grady. Grady, fuck man! Look at me.” Bible tried to hoist him up, which only made the pain worse and Grady nearly fell on him, some two hundred pounds of bleeding Cajun deadweight.
Then, over the noise, came a voice Grady hadn’t heard before—sharp, female, cutting clean through the chaos. He blinked through the haze, and there you were on the far side of camp. Red Cross band on your arm, medical bag damn near dragging you into the mud.
“The fuck’s that?” Grady rasped, pointing.
You were screaming at the truck driver who’d just dumped you here, in the middle of their own private hell. You cursed like a dockhand, making the nearby soldiers turn their heads. Then you stomped straight into camp, bag slung on your shoulder.
The entire crew was already watching you go and so Don screamed for a medic one more time. You turned his way and, like a bloodhound, you caught sight of Grady bleeding out. Didn’t even pause—you stormed over, nearly shoving Don out of the way.
“Bullet still in?” you demanded to know.
“Uh… ‘S untellin’,” Grady grumbled, but then your hands were on him and you checked the back for the through-and-through.
Moments later, you already got a stretcher from who even knows where, and instructed Gordo and Bible how to move him.
Well, instructed being a relative word.
“Stop your prayin’ and move ‘im, dammit, or I’ll stitch your goddamn fool mouths shut first!” you snapped, thick Georgia twang rolling off your every word.
“Fuck me,” Gordo grunted.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bible muttered, still worried.
Don scoffed. “Now, wait just a goddamn minute—”
Grady let out a wheezing laugh, then groaned, head falling back. Figures. Leave it to him to get saved by a crazy Southerner. “Hey, Top,” he croaked, clutching at the man’s sleeve, “Naw, don’t leave me with the mad woman, ain’t—”
Grady groaned as the stretcher jostled under him, every bump sending fresh waves of pain through his side. He tried to focus on your face hovering above him. Didn’t seem fair, someone so goddamn pretty yelling at him like a drill sergeant.
“Fuckin’... hellcat,” Grady gritted out between clenched teeth, one hand gripping the stretcher rail so hard his knuckles went white. “Just stab me with whatever’s in that bag.” His laugh turned into a cough, the metallic tang of blood sharp on his tongue. Shit. That ain’t good.
“You two! Stop!” You noticed blood on his lips and immediately leaned over him, eyes sharp. “You. Soldier. Hey, look at me,” you ordered and Grady honestly didn’t know what to do with that.
Then you knelt beside him in the mud and got to work then and there. You opened that medical bag full of monstrous tools, opened up his shirt and got a packet of sulfa powder. For the first time in his life, Grady honestly wished the woman undressing him wasn’t so goddamn pretty, because he was losing what was left of his goddamn mind.
“You two! Get me a blood plasma from the medical and more sulfa powder.”
Don stood there and watched as you ordered his crew around with an odd expression.
Grady hissed through his teeth as you tore into his hide like it wasn’t attached to him. “Christ! Fuck! Bitch!”
You just shook your head. “Yeah, yeah, been called that since ‘40, ya ain’t special.”
“Yeah? An’ ya ever heard of gentle, woman?!”
“Shut your trap already, less you wanna cough up blood next,” you snapped at him, already packing the wound full of gauze and rummaging in there for the bullet.
Dying suddenly seemed secondary and Grady squinted up at you. “Ya from Georgia.”
“Savannah,” you muttered, not looking up as you pressed down on the wound to stop the bleeding, which resulted in Bible and Don having to hold Grady down so he wouldn’t lunge at you.
“ARGH—!” he roared. “Ya trynna kill me?!”
But you weren’t having it. “Save your breath—ain’t got time for your lip, soldier.”
In fact, your movements were sharp and precise, like you’ve done it a million times before. And, hells, you probably have. Grady couldn’t decide how to feel about that just yet.
Already high from blood loss, he barked a pained laugh. “Hell. Shoulda known. Only a Georgia peach’d talk to a man that way.”
You glared at him again. Your hands were already stained with his blood. “That you trynna flirt?”
Grady thought about it. You could tell—his frown deepened.
“Yeah, why not,” he grumbled. “It workin’?”
“Hell naw.” You laughed. “Be glad if I don’t leave the bullet in, Louisiana.”
“The fuck ya callin’ me that for?” Grady grunted roughly. “I’m from goddamn Arkansas.”
You shook your head. “Got lotsa fight left in ya, huh?”
“Damn right.” Grady just grinned, his teeth tinged with blood and tobacco stains. “Ain’t scared a’ you, sugar.”
“Oh, well. Reckon now you are.”
And then you jabbed… Whatever the fuck it was, it was in. Sharp as fuck. He screamed.
Now, Grady knew pain. He knew how to take a punch to the face, that’s for damn sure. How it felt to get your rotten tooth pulled out by a lousy town barber. Ever since he joined this hell, he even had to be stitched up a couple times.
But this… This, he couldn’t even describe.
Grady’s grin faltered, his whole body tensing. “Sonuvabitch—!” He sucked air through his teeth as you rummaged through his side.
“Ma’am…” Don exhaled, still watching that impromptu surgery closely. “That how y’all say hello down in Savannah or sumthin’?”
“Naw,” you drawled, unfazed. You leaned in and still dug for that bullet. “This here’s just me bein’ friendly. Hello’s the part where I don’t let your friend choke on his own blood, Sergeant.”
Goddamn, the pain got worse, but you—you were efficient, clinical, like Grady was a piece of broken machinery (the irony of which wasn’t lost on Don). He looked almost impressed.
Gordo finally came back with that plasma bag, then took one look at the surgery and walked away, shaking his head and muttering curses in Spanish.
“You,” you looked up at Bible, who was still nervously hovering and muttering prayers. “Get me morphine from my bag.”
Bible did. You told him how to fill up the syringe while you kept Grady from bleeding out. The needle felt like a jab of betrayal and Grady scowled harder. “You had morphine the whole time?!”
“Shut it, soldier.”
“Naw, fuck—”
Dark spots swam in his vision. The last thing Grady saw before his eyes fluttered shut was your lips, pressed thin in annoyance.
“Wake your ass up, Coon-Ass,” came the rough command, accompanied by a sharp smack against his leg—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to jolt him. His eyelids peeled open to the sight of the medical tent, moaning and groaning wounded all around him.
Don was standing over his bed and Grady cursed under his breath. “I ain’t dead?”
“Nah.” Don chuckled, that wry smirk on his lips. “Why? You sound disappointed.”
Grady groaned as he pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing at the sharp pull in his side. Everything around him smelled like blood and gangrene, a combination that turned his stomach worse than last week’s rations.
“No, no, don’t do that.” Don moved quickly and pushed Grady back down. “You pull them stitches out, it’ll be both our heads that devil woman’ll have for it.”
Grady squinted at Don’s tired face. “They got you playin’ nursemaid now, Top? War must be goin’ real bad.”
His attempt at humor fell flat when a fresh wave of pain lanced through him. Grady’s hand fumbled at the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs, fingers coming away clean—no fresh blood at least. That was something.
“Nurse Hellcat did one helluva job.” Don smirked, trying to lighten the situation. Grady knew that tone too well. “Even the doc said so.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Don looked more hopeful than last time Grady saw him—his blood staining half the tank.
“Why’s she here anyway?”
“Moved from 101st.”
“Planes?” Grady sounded a bit impressed. Don understood why.
Operating a tank was one thing—but flying a plane, now that was something. They’ve seen a lot of the 101st during their time in Germany. Each time they flew over to rain hellfire on the Nazis, Don could see that boyish glint in Grady’s eyes.
The canvas flap at the tent entrance rustled, and Grady’s head snapped up so fast he saw stars. For a second, he thought it might be you—but it was just some private delivering rations.
Grady slumped back against the thin pillow, suddenly exhausted. “Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than Don. “What now, huh? They gonna give ya ‘nother loader or what?”
“Who even knows.” Don sat down on the metal chair beside the bed. It was a rare moment of quiet—relative quiet—around them. They still amputated limbs in another tent over, but at least soldiers in recovery didn’t have to watch.
“How long they keepin’ me for?” Grady tried to sound gruff, but was doing a poor job of it.
The truth was, the cot felt too soft after months of tank steel, and the lack of artillery raining down on his ass was getting him real uneasy.
Don exhaled sharply through his nose. “Doc says ‘nother week, maybe two.” He paused, watching Grady’s face carefully. “Command ain’t decided on a replacement yet. Got no orders. Fury’s sittin’ idle ‘til you’re back or they find some poor bastard to throw in your spot.”
The idea of some green kid loading for his crew made Grady’s gut twist worse than the wound. “Two fuckin’ weeks?” he scoffed, pushing himself up again despite Don’s warning look. “Hell, I could load blindfolded right now. This ain’t nothin’.”
Then the tent flap rustled again, and this time Grady didn’t bother looking up—big mistake.
“That ‘nothin’’ took fifty-two stitches to close, soldier, and if you pop one, I swear to Christ I’ll throttle ya m’self!”
Grady huffed out a laugh, the pain in his side suddenly forgotten. “Ya will? I might oughta start bleedin’ on purpose.”
You walked up to Grady in two strides and… Then you just looked at him. Silent. Grady couldn’t explain it, but the way you got angrier and angrier sent a sick kind of thrill through him—better than morphine, that fire in your eyes.
“Your crew asked ‘bout you,” you told him, your voice much quieter now. “So I told ‘em not to worry. Don’t make me go back on my word, cowboy.” You nodded at Don, who was watching you closely. “Sergeant.”
“Ma’am.”
“You got yourself a colorful team.”
“So I’ve been told, ma’am.”
You jutted your chin towards Grady. “I ain’t gon’ berate a grown man like a child, Sergeant, but that don’t mean I don’t wanna.”
That made Don laugh—the genuine kind. Grady looked between you two, confusion etched deep into his face.
“They done told me some of what y’all do and the others said your loader’s entitled to be the way he is,” you said. “So I’ll ignore the lip.”
“Appreciate it, ma’am.”
“The—” Grady frowned, unsure if he should be insulted, because goddamn, you talked fast. “She’s got me all sortsa confused, Top.”
“She’s sayin’ you’re doin’ a good job, Coon-Ass.”
“Heh.” Grady grinned at you. “Damn right I am.”
You shook your head, exasperated. “Yeah, word’s even the Krauts piss themselves when they hear your tank’s comin’.”
“Impressed, sugar?”
“Watch it, cowboy. I ain’t nobody’s ‘sugar’.”
You noticed Grady moving again and you shot him a look. “I ain’t gonna be too hard on ya, less you give me a reason. And ya don’t wanna give me a reason.”
That got Grady all smug. “So what, you’re gon’ be real sweet, Georgia?”
“Don’t push it, soldier.”
“Name’s Grady,” he grumbled.
As for Don, he was watching that exchange with brows raised high.
He had seen men explode in rage before. Hell, he’d seen Grady cause plenty of it himself—Grady tended to have that effect on people. But this was different. Your anger was quiet and you had a mouth on you. That there was worse. Don could already tell it would make Grady want to poke you just to see what’d happen.
“Fifty-two stitches, huh?” Grady spoke again. His grin was all teeth, reckless, even as Don shot him a warning look. “What’s the matter, darlin’? Ain’t never had a patient thank you proper before?”
“You just… Get better, hm?” Don cleared his throat and stood abruptly, deciding that this here was not his problem.
Grady barely noticed him leave, too busy looking at you. Like so many times before in his life, he got that nagging feeling at the back of his head—like he should maybe shut his goddamn mouth.
But again, Grady had never been good at doing what he should. It’s how he had found himself on the front in the first place. First, Uncle Sam asked him real nice. Then threatened to throw his ass in Leavenworth if he wouldn’t go.
“So what, huh,” he moved on the cot, now getting irritated at the silence. “Ya gonna stand there glarin’ all fuckin’ day, Georgia?”
“Naw. But if ya don’t stop movin’ and rip those stitches, we’re gonna have a problem, Arkansas.”
Some of the others were looking up from their cots and Grady suddenly got uneasy. He didn’t much like people looking at him anyway.
He looked at you, all serious, then tried to sit up.
“Jesus, what’d I just say!” You rushed to his cot and pushed him back down.
Grady could almost taste the reckoning coming, and Christ help him, he wanted it. He’d seen men scream themselves hoarse in combat, but this anger of yours, it made his heart pound in a way no artillery barrage ever had. “Or what, are ya gon’ yell? Then yell, sugar, the hell,” he goaded, smirking.
“The fuck you starin’ at me for, huh?” He shouted at the private in the nearby cot.
The private gasped loud enough Grady nearly laughed—imagine thinking shock was still possible after Normandy.
You scowled. “I ain’t sewin’ ya back up if you keep tryin’ my patience.”
For a second Grady thought you might actually slap him, and damn if part of him didn’t hope for it. Anything.
“No?” Grady prodded. “So this here’s you tellin’ me I ain’t fit to wipe my own ass yet or what?”
The words tasted wrong even as he said them—he couldn’t help but being an ass even while half-hoping for scraps of human kindness.
“I seen soldiers rip out stitches to get attention before an’ I seen them do it to get sent back home,” you finally spoke, voice low. “So I will tell ya plain, soldier, ‘cause you might talk outta your ass, but you don’t seem too stupid. None of our boats are goin’ home anytime soon. Ya gotta learn how to survive inside your own head here.”
Grady felt something inside him twist. Whatever you felt towards him right then, it wasn’t anger anymore. Hell, it was something worse. Something that looked dangerously close to pity.
He opened his mouth, when the distant shouts for medics shook the tent canvas. Someone screamed outside and the strange spell between you shattered. You snapped to attention and rushed outside.
Grady lay back down, torn between relief and rage at being left behind. But like Don always said, war waited for no one—least of all a goddamn Arkansas dog, dumb enough to get himself sidelined by a lucky shot.
The outside was a cacophony of shouts. Grady closed his eyes, letting the noise wash over him like he did so many times before. He’d never been good at staying put. Never been good at much really, except loading shells and pissing people off. And right now, he wasn’t even fit for that.
It was dark when he woke up next, the recovery tent pitch-black save for one small gas lamp hanging above the entrance. Grady didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep. He slept well for the first time in four years of hell and while he should have enjoyed it, he couldn’t. Not really.
He wondered what time it was, if his crew was okay—and most importantly if he would get any more goddamn painkillers. His side was killing him. The morphine had worn off hours ago, leaving that hole in his side throbbing in pain.
A rustle at the tent flap made him turn his head. For a second, he thought it might be you, but it was just some fresh-faced orderly. The kid took one look at Grady’s scowl and kept walking.
“Yeah. Real brave bunch they got nursin’ now,” Grady muttered to no one in particular. He reached for the canteen beside his cot and winced as the movement pulled at his stitches. The water was warm and tasted like metal.
Outside, the camp was settling into that eerie half-quiet that came after chaos. The tent flap moved again and suddenly there you were.
“I’ll take over, Private. You can go,” you said, quiet. Probably mindful of all the other poor fucks around here, trying to sleep.
The boy couldn’t get out of the tent fast enough. You checked on all the serious cases first—amputated limbs, missing eyes, all the shebang.
Then you came up to Grady. You yanked at the blanket unceremoniously and checked his bandages.
Grady’s mouth went dry. He should’ve had some smartass remark ready, but he didn’t. He could see the dirt still smudged on your cheeks, the dried blood on your uniform. You’d been out there in the thick of it, while he’d been lying here like a useless deadweight. And your eyes held the same kind of resigned exhaustion he knew so goddamn well.
“Y’ wanna sit?” Grady jerked his chin to the metal chair next to his cot. “I ain’t gon’ run my mouth again, God’s honest.”
The words tasted pathetic as soon as he said them, but then, against all his expectations, you sat down with a deep sigh.
He could see the way your shoulders slumped—he had felt that same bone-deep weariness nearly every damn day.
“So… This thing gon’ kill me or what?” He gestured vaguely at his side.
You smiled, an exasperated type of smile. “You’ll live.”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded and reached for you, a little more eager. You saw that hand and slapped it away. Hard.
Seeing you get all annoyed again, Grady felt better.
“They really sendin’ a replacement loader?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. The question was just an excuse to fill the silence, to keep you there a little longer.
You didn’t answer right away, just rubbed at your eyes with the heel of your hand. “You really that eager to get back out there, cowboy?”
Grady looked away, suddenly unable to meet your gaze. But the nickname made him smirk. Not that he didn’t like his war name, but this one was something just for him. Something you made up on the spot and made him not want to answer to anything else.
“Ain’t ‘bout bein’ eager,” he muttered. “Just don’t like sittin’ ‘round while…”
He didn’t add the rest.
You wiped your palm against your thigh where you’d swatted Grady’s hand away, your mouth twisting in mild amusement despite yourself. “I asked. Command ain’t decided ‘bout replacements yet,” you admitted, voice hushed enough not to disturb sleeping patients.
Grady’s eyes darted to you, the faded lamplight illuminating the surprise on his face. “Ya asked ‘em?”
You leaned back in the chair and shrugged. “It was either this or watchin’ you try to rip them stitches out every damn hour.”
Grady looked smug. At this point you just let him have it.
“Your crew’s holdin’ down Fury with some private they dragged outta the clerk office. Kid looks ‘bout twelve.” You smirked, shaking your head.
Grady shifted on the cot, careful not to pull at his stitches this time—not with you watching him like that. “Hell, I was drinkin’ moonshine outta mason jars by twelve.”
“Stole a horse when I was ‘bout thirteen,” you murmured.
“Shit fire, Georgia.” Grady’s eyes went wide. “If this ain’t somethin’, I don’t know what is.”
His smirk widened at your admission—it was the first real thing you’d given him, something honest, just for him to know. At least that’s how he thought about it and you couldn’t stop him.
“You should be good for light duty in a week or so. ‘Less you rip those stitches horsin’ ‘round before then.” Your lips quirked despite the warning tone. “‘Course, reckon we both know ya ain’t got the sense God gave gravel…”
“The fuck’s light duty?” Grady frowned, confused like a child told he couldn’t play outside.
You didn’t answer right away, just studied him with those tired eyes that saw too damn much. Grady was suddenly deeply aware that Fury was out there with some greenhorn loading his shells—and here he was, while the war moved on without him.
“Could mean runnin’ messages,” you finally said, voice softer than he deserved.
“Goddamn,” he grunted. “Messages? Loadin’ that tank’s the most schoolin’ I ever seen.”
He could barely spell his own name without missing half the letters. All of a sudden the truth of it scraped against his pride.
You smiled, just barely, the kind of smile that made Grady want to poke at it until it turned real. “Could be helpin’ in the motor pool if you promise not to cuss out every private within earshot.”
“Ain’t promisin’ shit ‘bout my mouth.” Then you saw these wheels turning in his head and Grady licked his lips. “‘Less you wanna…”
“No.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He grinned. “Fine.”
“So you’ll behave?”
Grady shook his head. “Those grease monkeys got hands like goddamn waffles.”
“Waffles?”
Your confused frown made him grin harder. “Means drop more wrenches than they turn.”
You actually laughed at that and his chest did something very stupid at the sound. He wasn’t smooth, wasn’t charming—but stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery, that’s for damn sure.
“What kinda horse was it?” he asked, not ready to let you go just yet.
“Uh…” You let out a deep sigh and looked at him. “One of them spotted ones. Real beauty. Brown an’ white spots, black mane.”
Up close, you could see just how dark his eyes were. And his focus was fixed on you, entirely, the way he’d fixate on a jammed shell casing—like you were a problem he meant to solve with his teeth if he had to.
“Thirteen,” he muttered. “Bet you didn’t even look back.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Ain’t that right, Georgia?”
But you were quiet again. That uneasy feeling settled in his gut—the one that said he’d misread this whole dance between you.
Then, your eyes filled with a nostalgic look—for a moment, Grady could have sworn he was seeing the ghost of that wild-haired girl in the weary medic before him.
“Georgia,” he started, then faltered. What was he even asking for? More stories? More time?
“You want a book?” you asked him all of a sudden and Grady huffed.
“A book?” He frowned. “Like for what?”
Your brows shot up and you looked at him, incredulous. It took him a moment to catch on.
“Nah, ain’t much for readin’,” he grumbled, like he was admitting to something shameful.
“You gotta do somethin’,” you insisted. “It’s what I saw helps y’all recover. If you just sit an’ stay in your head, ain’t gonna get much better.”
Then you rummaged through your bag and got him some paper and a small pencil. “Draw somethin’, dunno.”
Grady looked almost disgusted at the notion. He glared at you and shook his head in disbelief. “The fuck fuckin’ backwards med camp d’ ya come from, woman?”
But he took that pencil anyway and rolled it between his thumb and index finger for a while, like it was a particularly interesting cigarette.
One thing about Grady was you never had to wonder what he was thinking. He would either tell you or his face would do it for him. Truth be told, you kind of enjoyed that candor.
But to see him the next day so focused on that piece of paper was unusual to say the least. He was hunched over it like it was some kind of tactical map, his big hands dwarfing the tiny pencil.
You almost didn’t want to interrupt.
He didn’t notice you approaching and you sneaked a glance at the page—an honestly not too bad attempt at Fury’s silhouette. The lines he drew were dark and bold, which was to be expected. He didn’t seem like a tiny, precise drawings kind of guy.
Grady looked at the page with the same stubbornness he applied to everything—from loading shells to this godforsaken drawing. He even managed to get a smear of graphite across his nose at some point, which made you smile a little.
“Looks like a damn soup can,” he muttered before you could say anything, scratching at the stubble along his jaw.
“Naw,” you argued. “You just gotta even out the edges.”
He let out an annoyed huff. “Ain’t you supposed to be stitchin’ people up, not playin’ schoolmarm?”
“Barrel’s longer than that,” you said, ignoring the question.
“Like you’d know,” he grumbled, but adjusted the sketch anyway. “Ain’t like y’ ever had to fix her.”
“Naw, but I had to fix you, cowboy, an’ that sure earned me some favors in Heaven for my patience.”
That actually made him laugh—a rough, surprised kind of sound. Then you reached into your bag and placed more mismatched sheets of paper on his cot. Grady stared at the paper, then at you.
“Ain’t no damn artist,” he grumbled, then raised both hands. “There’s one thing these’re good for. Eh,” he mused, “maybe three.”
You squinted at him, already knowing one of them would be something like squeezing women’s backsides. But then some other thought took him and you watched the way his shoulders hunched, defensive like a cornered dog.
Somehow it made your chest tighten and you sat down beside him. That brought him back. “Ain’t askin’ for no damn art, it’s just somethin’ to keep ya busy. Before they get you punchin’ orderlies all day long.”
His laugh was rough, but for a moment it made his actual age show—so much younger than what war had done to him.
“You do this for all your patients, Georgia?” he muttered. “Hand grown men crayons?”
“Wish I had crayons,” you sighed. “Add a bit of color to my day.”
Grady’s attention shifted to your face and an absurd thought struck him: you’d look good on paper. Wild hair and all. The realization sat uncomfortably in his chest.
He had only survived this long because he wouldn’t let himself want for nothing more than to survive the day. Get some food and some smokes if he could find it, that was good enough for him.
But now he had way too much time on his hands. And there you were, making him think things he shouldn’t.
“You ever think ‘bout… what you’ll do when this mess’s over?” he asked, very quietly.
Your eyes met and for a moment you stayed quiet.
Then—
“Easy. I’ll never see Germany again.”
“Naw, but…” The cot springs creaked as Grady shifted, suddenly needing space from your closeness. “Not like—not the bullshit. Like… ya could work at a normal hospital, I reckon.”
You thought about it and then shook your head. “No. I’d rather learn the typewriter, actually.”
“The typewriter?” He chewed on the word a bit, like it was foreign.
“Yeah. You?” you asked.
“War don’t exactly make me wanna make plans,” he grumbled. “Ain’t got none.”
“But you made me tell ya!” You shook your head in disbelief.
“Heh.” He grinned like the devil himself. “Guess I did.”
Grady stared at the sketch paper again and tilted his head. Truth was, the idea of you clicking away at some desk in a fancy dress made his stomach twist—that was a completely foreign territory. A different kind of world.
You plucked the pencil from his fingers before he could protest, turning it over in your hands. “We had one back home,” you said quietly. “Mama used it for church bulletins. Sounded like…” You tapped the pencil against the cot frame three times—clack, clack, clack.
You tossed the pencil back to him. “Alright, cowboy. Got real patients to tend. You seem good enough to me.”
Hells, if bleeding was all it took to get your attention then… But Grady decided against it. He picked up that damn pencil instead.
A week later, they cleared him for light duty. Every young private in the motor pool came to curse the command for it.
“Jesus, dumbass, that ain’t how ya torque a damn bolt—gimme that!” Grady snatched the wrench from the kid’s shaking hands, demonstrating the motion with exaggerated slowness. “See?”
Grady wiped his grease-streaked hands on his already painfully dirty shirt, watching the wide-eyed privates scrambling to keep up.
You had a slower day so you came around to lurk—you traded another nurse half your lipstick for her coffee stash, so now you had a good drink and a show.
Grady noticed you standing there and immediately turned his annoyance up a notch—performative as hell, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away.
“The hell’d ya want?” he snapped, wiping at the black grease across his forehead and succeeding only in smearing it worse. “Ain’t got better things to do, Georgia?”
You noticed he had rolled his sleeves past his elbows, revealing well-muscled forearms. He moved differently now. Still quick, still sharp enough to intimidate everyone around him. But there was a cautiousness that hadn’t been there before. Like he was holding himself back from fully inhabiting his own skin until he was cleared for combat.
You walked up to him and took a very exaggerated sip of your coffee. “Decided to come see for myself who’s been screamin’ all over camp.”
But then you looked around the tent and had to admit all looked to be in a good—if slightly terrified—order.
“I hear you’ve been a menace, cowboy,” you said.
Grady let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Sugar, this here’s me bein’ nice.”
You took another slow sip of coffee, looking at him. Grady noticed and rolled his shoulders with deliberate nonchalance.
“Ain’t my fault these greenhorns couldn’t tell a carburetor from a tire,” he muttered.
The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Grady thoroughly committed to being the loudest, most obnoxious bastard in any circumstances.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “You’re healin’ real good. Might be back with your crew by week’s end.”
“‘Bout damn time,” he grumbled.
Suddenly he was unable to meet your eyes. “They’re lettin’ you stay or you gettin’ a transfer outta here?”
“A transfer?” You snorted, shaking your head. “As if they’d let me. Nah, this here’s where I’ll be. Least until Hitler wises up and shoots his brains out.”
You studied Grady for a while and you could tell he didn’t much like it.
“What?” he grumbled, as if bracing for a fight.
“Nothin’.”
“Uh-huh.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Then what the hell’re ya starin’ at me for?”
He was healing, sure, but there was a restlessness in him you recognized—the kind that made men pick fights just to feel something other than useless.
“Just…” You sighed. “Don’t go gettin’ yourself shot again.”
“Can’t promise ya nuthin.” He grinned. “I’m mean an’ dumb. There sure’s a bullet with my name on it somewhere.”
You finished that coffee, suddenly wishing you had bartered for something stronger. “You ain’t dumb. And I ain’t patchin’ ya up just so you can bitch at me.”
As soon as you said it, something changed in the way he looked at you. Grady watched you, then just nodded toward the nearest busted truck. “C’mere. Show ya somethin’.”
He tugged you toward the shadowed side of the truck before you could protest. The sudden movement sent your empty coffee tin clattering to the dirt. “The hell—” you started, but his other hand came up to silence you, a rough palm pressing gently against your lips.
“Ain’t gonna bite,” he murmured, voice low. “Just… wanted to see if you’d follow.”
You remembered there were some rules and regulations that specifically stated how this was a spectacularly bad idea. Suddenly you couldn’t name even one.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and you pulled him closer. Grady lowered his hands and grabbed your ass without preamble, before ducking his head to kiss you.
That first kiss was a harsh one, like he was starving for it. But you didn’t mind one bit. Your head was swimming a little and you did your damndest not to make a sound. After a while, Grady slowed down, his lips brushing yours almost tentatively.
When he finally pulled back, you could tell he was waiting for you to bolt. But you didn’t move an inch.
Grady grinned, that smugness back in full force. “There. Now ya can remember which dog’s yours to patch up.”
You let out an incredulous, soft kind of chuckle and shook your head. “I don’t wanna see ya gettin’ shot ever again,” you said, quiet.
He lowered his eyes, suddenly all serious. “Georgia…”
“I know,” you said quickly. “I know. But I ain’t gonna pretend it’s not nice to steal a moment.”
For a long time, neither of you spoke. Grady watched your face closely, those dark eyes flickering between your lips and the medic’s armband on your sleeve.
Grady’s hand came up to run his fingers through your hair, lingering a heartbeat too long. “Shouldn’t’a done that,” he murmured, and you had no idea if he was talking to you or to himself.
“Too late now,” you murmured, completely disarming him.
You only held him tighter and now you actually let yourself embrace him. His whole body stiffened, obviously not used to any of whatever the hell this was. If he found a girl in any of them liberated towns, she’d usually be willing to sleep with him for cigarettes or a bar of chocolate. And he definitely wouldn’t get hugs after.
Grady stood frozen in your arms, breathing slowly. He hadn’t been held like this since… hell, probably since before the war. Maybe never.
“This ‘s some right nonsense,” he grunted.
You felt the exact moment he gave in—the way his shoulders dropped and his breathing slowed when he buried his face against your neck. His exhale shuddered out, hot and damp.
“Goddamn it, Georgia,” he said, quiet and angry.
And he held you tight now, unwilling to let go. When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “They clear me for duty, I’m gone by dawn.”
You looked up at him and you had nothing to say. What could you even tell him that would make this better?
“I know,” you said instead, then pulled him in for another kiss.
There were no sweet sendoffs out here on the front, and yet… You still stubbornly held out hope that there could be a happy ending. But you didn’t tell him that. You already knew he’d say you were smarter than that.
Grady’s hands tightened around you and he deepened the kiss with a roughness that bordered on desperation. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
Then he stepped back and swallowed hard, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Hell. Just… stay alive, will ya?”
“Me?” Your eyes widened. “I ain’t the one doin’ the fightin’.”
You just put together the pieces that were left.
Grady’s grip on your shoulders tightened like he was thinking the same. “Seen ‘nough medics catch stray bullets out there.”
He could see him wrestling with it—the urge to do something he had spent five years training himself absolutely not to do. You were both pretending you hadn’t gotten closer, on purpose at that, but you did.
If they were to drag Grady back to that tank, you had hours together at best. And you both still pretended you wanted to do nothing.
A small stupid part of you wanted to just laugh. Of all the men to get tangled up with...
Finally, Grady jerked his chin toward the motor pool where the privates were still keeping busy. “Best get back ‘fore they strip every damn engine for scrap.”
He took two steps before turning back abruptly. “You—” The words died in his throat. For once, the man who always had something to say came up empty.
All of a sudden, one of the medics from the next tent over appeared at the entrance. He whistled sharply to get your attention, jerking his thumb toward the surgical ward. Right. Duty called. You walked out and turned away from the motor pool, but not before catching Grady’s gaze one last time. He wasn’t grinning anymore.
War made liars of you all.
The medical truck jolted to a stop at the crossing, the stench of cordite and burning metal filling the air. You stepped out into carnage—smoldering tank husks, the acrid tang of spilled fuel, and the orange glow illuminating piles upon piles of dead SS soldiers.
Your boots sank into churned earth. It went muddy with blood. You scanned the wreckage, watching the crew of the other two American tanks being escorted to safety. One of them must have driven straight on the landmine, and the rest of it was still on fire. And then you saw it—Fury, her barrel still hot, sides marked with shell impacts, but otherwise intact. There was a smoldering carcass of a Nazi tied to its front.
They had stood their ground and held that crossing. Now your crew was sent here to pick up the pieces and for a second or two you kept wondering if you even could force yourself to focus.
Movement near the tank made your breath catch and you sprinted that way before anyone could stop you.
And then you saw him.
Grady was crouched beside a wounded private, pressing a filthy rag to the kid’s leg while barking something at Gordo.
Half of him was completely blackened with soot, one sleeve torn open to reveal a nasty burn. He hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy keeping the young boy in one piece. They’d stared down death and spat in its face. Again.
None of them looked victorious, though. Just numb.
“Oh, shit fire, cowboy,” you muttered, unable to come up with anything else.
Grady finally looked up, blinking in shock. “Georgia?”
Then the private whimpered and Grady adjusted his grip. “Quit squirming, Norman, or I’ll knock ya out proper!”
“Fuck… you,” Normal muttered, grinning wide.
Up close, you could see the fine tremor in Grady’s hands.
“I got it,” you said quickly and took out the gauze and the sulfa powder. “Don’t let nothin’ touch that burn,” you warned Grady, then pressed hard on the private’s wound. The boy, Norman, howled. But you held him firm.
“None of that. You survived this far, you’re gonna get through this, ya hear me?” You looked at him sharply, then watched Norman give you a terrified nod.
“Y-yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Breathe.”
Grady watched you scare the boy into surviving with a faint smirk on his lips. There was something very close to fondness flickering in his eyes for half a moment. Then he sat down in the mud, leaning against Fury, entirely exhausted.
“Y’ did good, War Machine.” Grady grinned weakly, watching Norman’s pale face. “Kid took shrapnel tryin’ to play hero.”
“Wasn’t playin’,” Norman muttered. “Just… did.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Grady waved his hand, then regretted it quickly. That burn really was nasty. “Reckon y’ saved both our hides.”
Grady watched your hands as you were moving swiftly with the bandages. “Helluva place for a reunion, Georgia,” he said with a humorless chuckle.
“Somethin’ like that,” you replied, breathless. But you smiled when he reached for you, pressing one soot-stained hand to your cheek.
Norman watched you both with an incredulous frown, eyes darting from Grady to you. “The hell kinda Cajun magic did ya pull to get a lady like her?”
Grady flicked his ear, his scowl back in place. “Watch it.”
“They got your sergeant back there,” you said, trying to change the subject. “He ain’t lookin’ too bad.”
As the stretcher bearers approached, Grady took a half-step back, watching you help Norman get on it. The kid was obviously in pain, but no longer bleeding. You very possibly just saved that leg.
Later on, you and the Fury boys were all packed in the medical van. It rattled along the dirt road, canvas walls trembling with every pothole. Grady sat stiffly on the bench, jaw clenched as you dabbed antiseptic on that angry red burn snaking up his arm. You could tell he was only half-lucid, exhausted like the rest of them.
“You keep on fussin’, I’m gonna think you like me, Georgia.”
The other crew members exchanged knowing smirks.
“Hold still, you,” you muttered, fingers gentle despite your tone. The van hit another bump, making Grady hiss as your hand slipped. “Sorry.”
“Sure you are,” he grumbled, teeth gritted.
But he reached for you, placing his palm on your thigh as you worked on dressing that burn. Bible immediately pretended to study the floor, and Gordo suddenly became very interested in his boots.
Don cleared his throat from the opposite bench, eyes sharp despite his own injuries. “Coon-Ass ever tell you ‘bout the time he got that other burn on his—”
“No,” Grady grunted, opening one eye. “We ain’t sharin’ no stories ‘bout me, Top.”
You could see his ears going pink even underneath all that black grime. The van went silent again. The grumble of the engine and the rustle of the bandage became the only sounds around you.
Then—
“Best job I ever had,” Gordo offered weakly and they all looked at each other.
Grady laughed first, then Bible, then all the rest.
“Best job I ever had,” Grady muttered, eyes closed, his cocky smirk back in full force now that he had you fussing over him.
Don let out a quiet, relieved sort of laugh, and you found yourself right in the middle of a joke you didn’t understand. But it didn’t matter one bit. You wrapped that bandage carefully around Grady’s arm and then let out a deep, heavy sigh.
“You okay there, Georgia?” Grady asked.
You just nodded, trying not to fall apart. Because how could you even tell him you had expected to find all of them dead at that crossing?
The rumble of nearby engines signaled your return to base. Voices erupted around you, medics sprinting to action and escorting the most heavily wounded. The entire camp greeted the survivors like heroes.
When the van stopped and the others moved out, Grady hesitated. “Georgia…” he started, voice rough.
You decided to make it easy for him and just pulled him in for a kiss.
“Hey!” One of the medics waved at you, but then saw you were busy back there and he grinned.
“She comin’?” One of the nurses asked impatiently.
“We can give them a minute,” the medic replied.
Meanwhile, Grady kissed you back with a determined grunt that betrayed how badly he’d been thinking of you. When you pulled away, he pulled you back in. He wasn’t ready to let go, perhaps never would be. You got yourself one mud-stained loyal hound.
The medic outside cleared his throat pointedly. You could see the exact moment reality set back in—Grady’s gaze flicking past you to the camp, to Don, to where Norman was being loaded onto a stretcher.
“Yeah, go on then,” Grady grunted, jerking his chin toward the triage tents. “Bet they got boys bleedin’ out that need you more’n I do.”
Grady jumped out first and then carefully helped you down from that van. He held your hand a minute longer, giving you one more reassuring squeeze.
“You gonna be okay?” you asked, smiling.
Grady chuckled, for a moment back to his usual cocky self again. “Naw, I ain’t that easy to kill, sugar.”
No, he really wasn’t. In fact, pretty much everything about him seemed solid. Easy. Maybe that’s why you liked him so much.
“Finally! Kissed the livin’ daylights outta your man yet?” One of the nurses, Judy, teased when you entered the triage tent.
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide that smile—even when you rushed to help her with another burn wound. “He ain’t my man,” you muttered.
“Oh, honey!” Judy chuckled. “If he ain’t yours, then butter my butt and call me a biscuit.”
The transport ship groaned underfoot as it cut through the Atlantic, the scent of sea salt a pleasant aroma after years and years spent in blood and mud. Somewhere below the deck, a harmonica started up with a wobbly rendition of “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”
Grady leaned against the railing, watching the coastline grow smaller and smaller through the morning haze. You moved closer to stand beside him. He didn’t look over, just put his arm around you. “Ain’t real yet,” he muttered, squinting at the distant shores fading away in the distance. “Keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up back in that damn tank.”
His breath was warm against your temple when he spoke again, voice rough. “You sure about this, Georgia? I ain’t… I ain’t much.”
You turned in his arms and looked up. Grady had faced down Panzers without flinching, and now apparently was sweating bullets at the thought of settling down.
“You can fix a tank. An’ draw one.” You shrugged. “Good enough for me, I reckon.”
Grady let out a huff, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, but I ain’t exactly what decent folk picture when their girl brings a man home.”
You arched one brow. “Uh-huh… And you think there’s a man back in Georgia who’d stand for my temper?”
“Heh.” He smirked. “Guess not. But a sweet li’l thing like you with a knocked-’round bastard like me—”
Before he could finish that thought, you pulled him by the shirt and pressed your lips to his for a quick kiss.
“I ain’t sweet,” you muttered, then kissed him again.
He let out a sharp huff through his nose, then just pulled you closer, resting his chin on top of your head. “Yeah, you are.”
“You gettin’ sentimental on me, cowboy?”
“Yeah,” he muttered into your hair, voice gone rough. “Gonna build you a house, Georgia. An’ we can get a dog.”
“One that ain’t mouthy like you, preferably.”
“Goddamn.” Grady snorted like he couldn’t quite believe you. “That’s how it’s gonna be?”
“Well, if ya jump now, reckon you could still make it back to Ger—”
You didn’t manage to finish, because he pulled you to him roughly and kissed you like he wanted to glue you together.
After he let you pull away, reluctantly, you just grinned at him madly. “Now who’s bein’ sweet?”
“Ain’t sweet.” Grady clicked his tongue once, grinning. “Just... plannin’.” The word came out awkward, unfamiliar.
“Last time you said you don’t make plans,” you reminded him.
“I lied.” His grin was all teeth.
He grinned even harder when you hit his arm in annoyance.
“Ya can plant a damn garden too,” he muttered. “Tomatoes. Corn. Whatever the hell else you like.”
“Yeah?” You tilted your head back to look at him again.
“Yeah. Ain’t promisin’ I won’t kill the plants,” he admitted. “But I’ll dig the holes real nice.”
“You best build us a bookshelf,” you decided. “Someone’s gotta stay literate in the family.”
Grady’s entire body stiffened at the word family.
“Might get a radio,” he added, like it was an afterthought. “So you ain’t stuck listenin’ to me grumble all day.”
You nudged him with your elbow. “What if I like your grumblin’?”
“Oh, darlin’.” He snorted and his arms tightened around you. “Yeah, now you’re lyin’.”
“You ain’t never caught me in a lie yet,” you drawled, stretching up on your tiptoes. “But I will say, if ya snore then we better build a doghouse out the back, too.”
That got his attention right quick—his whole face did this funny little twist between offense and amusement.
“The hell kinda—listen here, woman, I slept elbow-to-elbow with four other bastards in that tin can for two goddamn years and not once did—” He cut himself off when you started laughing, and the realization hit. “Eh, you’re pullin’ my leg…”
You laughed harder so he grabbed you by the hips and hoisted you up onto the railing suddenly enough to make you yelp—then he locked both arms around you, keeping you steady. “Yeah, guess I can make any noise ya like,” he muttered, leaning in until he nuzzled your neck.
Maybe it was the sunlight in your hair or the sea air making his head all hazy, but Grady just couldn’t stop looking at you.
“Alright,” he grumbled. “Gonna build ya a house so far out in the sticks, the only shit we’ll hear are the crickets and your smartass mouth. How’s that for a plan now?”
Then he kissed you before you could even think to argue.
pairings julian kaye x olivia (oc)
summary Julian tries to stay in control, but Cecilia, his new client, sees through him. Haunted by thoughts of Olivia, he struggles with desire and guilt, while she calmly insists on guiding him. A single, knowing smirk promises that the real game—inside his heart—is just beginning.
word count 5927
warnings sexual tension, some mild cursing, nothing too serious
A/N Thank you guys for being so patient and supportive! Seeing you enjoy my stuff really fuels me to do more and better. So thank you thank you thank you <333 Also, tell me what you think of Cecilia and happy reading :>
ps. there are some songs recommended in this chapter so you might give them a listen to enjoy the full experience and to be fully present in the story. The songs mentioned + some others that match the vibe of this chapter:
Outside Woman Blues by Cream
Love her madly by The Doors
Roadhouse blues by The Doors
The Spy by The Doors (some bias here are u can see)
Piece of my heart by Big Brothers & The Holding Company
The radio whispered with static, an irritating hiss like background noise from a channel that could never quite catch the signal at two in the morning. His hands rested on the wheel, steady, relaxed — the ritual of a man who had driven too many nights like this. Eyes forward, body controlled, but behind them, reels of film still played. Scenes of her. Olivia. He was tangled in her even now, and it exasperated him.
Julian sighed, running a hand through his hair, slick strands falling back into perfect place. He looked impeccable, as he was expected to — especially tonight, with five grand on the table. Lorenzo had chosen him for this job because he was the best. He was supposed to show that, prove that, no matter the years lost to prison and the futile promise he had made himself there: never to go back to old habits.
When he walked out of those gates, he told himself he’d start fresh. See if peace was something a man like him could ever touch. But Julian had never been built for peace. Not the quiet kind, not the soul-deep kind. That shit wasn’t for him. His world had always been noise. Queen’s raucous parties spilling over into dawn, strangers wandering in and out of the Aliso Canyon villa as if it were a train station — drugs, liquor, sex, chaos. Fights and betrayals, expensive suits, heavy cologne, the glare of Los Angeles burning into his bloodshot eyes at five in the morning.
That was his rhythm once. A life without discipline, without meaning.
He only found meaning when he met Michelle. For her, he tried to be better. For the stillness she gave him, he almost believed he could be. But when that shattered — when prison broke the pedestal he had built for himself and tore away even the illusion of being untouchable — he returned to the only world he knew. This time, though, it was sharpened by discipline, by scars he had no choice but to carry.
And now, he knew too well the difference between love and desire. He had lived it and even lost it. Still, the thought of it frightened him. Because desire was easy — quick, transactional, gone by morning. Love was costly, ruinous, and Julian Kaye was a man already indebted beyond measure.
The speedometer hovered at seventy as he curved along the mountain road, heading toward another client eager to drown her sorrows in his body. But even as the city lights thinned and the night opened around him, he couldn’t silence the question clawing at him:
What was Olivia to him?
Was it desire—the hunger to touch her, to break through the boundary she had drawn so firmly?
Or was it something else? Something closer to love, the kind he knew would demand more of him than he could ever afford to give.
Parking in front of the massive gilded gates, etched in Italianate patterns with tiny spires curling at the tips, Julian stepped out of the car feeling only slightly more at ease. The cold night air still slipped through his hair, though the convertible’s cover had been up. He didn’t mind—he needed it. Either the sting of cold in his pores, or a punch to the face, just to clear his head.
Straightening his suit jacket, he locked the car and walked toward the gates, which opened inward on their own. The path ahead was lined with lanterns, glowing like an entrance to a royal court. That told him everything: the house and the woman waiting inside would match the grandeur and the price.
His gaze flicked around as he moved forward—two small fountains flanking the path, perfectly trimmed shrubs, a cluster of apple trees off to the right, a gazebo closer to the villa, and a pool shimmering in shades of turquoise and deep sea green, the water glinting as though moonlight itself had fractured on its surface. He raised a brow, approving, then climbed the steps to the great mahogany door. It opened slowly, deliberately, to reveal her.
She must have been around fifty, though she didn’t look a day over forty. Long legs, blonde, hair curled just to the shoulders, her figure sculpted into elegance — Pilates with a personal trainer, no doubt. She wore a dark green satin robe trimmed with lace along the neckline and cuffs. Looking up into Julian’s bright, chocolaty eyes, she gave him a small smile.
Julian offered only a brief smile back, a soft, charming “Good evening,” before stepping inside. His gaze lingered, following the graceful balance of her form, then higher, to the golden curls bouncing lightly at the nape of her neck as she walked.
“Something to drink?” she asked.
“Whatever you’re having,” Julian replied, his attention drifting over the surroundings. The villa, like the gates, carried that Italian style — white marble floors veined with gold, walls painted in pale shades of blue and gilt, heavy carved wood furniture that screamed money.
“Cecilia Massio, right?”
“For about twelve years now, yes,” she replied with a small smirk, moving like a cat through the kitchen, pouring gin into two crystal glasses at the marble island. “I had a much more interesting name before I married Mr. Casablanca.”
Julian chuckled. “Casablanca, huh? Think I’d fit the part better?”
He dropped onto a burgundy velvet sofa in front of an unlit fireplace, tilting his head as he looked at her now with more interest than he’d allowed himself on the drive over.
“The difference,” Cecilia answered, carrying the glasses back, “is that I pay you, not the other way around. And you actually give me something worth the price.”
She extended him a glass, then curled herself onto the other corner of the sofa, folding her legs beneath her tall and supple frame. With one hand resting on the back of the couch and the other cradling her gin, Cecilia looked him over slowly, a satisfied quirk lifting her upper lip.
“Worth every penny.”
“You haven’t seen what every penny gets you yet,” Julian replied with a slow smile, raising his glass to hers.
“Then perhaps there’s a bonus waiting,” she murmured, clinking his glass gently, “if you’re as good as they say.”
Julian let out a soft huff and took a sip of the gin—it was sweet, probably mixed with a lighter tonic. His chocolate-brown eyes swept over Cecilia, studying how her slender frame eased into the seat, her expression carrying that devastating calm of a woman who knew his line of work inside and out. She held his gaze for a moment before, with a feline sort of grace, she set her glass down with a faint clink and slid closer to him.
He gave her a charming smile, mirrored the gesture by placing his drink on the table, and wrapped an arm around her waist to guide her onto his lap.
“What would you like to try tonight?” Julian asked, his nose grazing her slender neck as he inhaled the mix of her sweet perfume with notes of tobacco and musk.
Cecilia smiled faintly, her hand slipping behind his neck to pull him closer against her skin. She let him kiss the line of her throat before murmuring, “Wait.”
Julian stilled, pulling back to study her face seriously.
“I want to play pool…”
He raised a brow, silent for a few seconds, but Cecilia’s eyes stayed firm, unwavering. She slid gracefully off his lap and caught his hand, leading him into the next room—a side lounge designed like an old European bar. In the middle stood a massive table, billiard or snooker—he couldn’t quite tell—lit by three warm lamps hanging overhead. The rest of the room glowed in a reddish ambient light: a bar stretched along the left wall with tall stools, the walls dressed in Route 66 and Route 69 posters, vintage Harley Davidson photos, and Pop Art prints of half-naked women.
Following her steps, Julian trailed after her as she went to a shiny brown jukebox and connected her phone. It was a retro-style piece, modern enough to take her device. Above it, a framed message caught his eye: “The measure of love is when you love without measure.” He swallowed hard, the corner of his eye twitching as though in an involuntary smile.
In the background, The Doors began to play Roadhouse Blues. Cecilia appeared behind him, swaying with the rhythm, sliding her hands around his waist. Julian laughed softly, spinning on his heels to twirl her in time with the music. Her satin robe flowed like waves, the black lace at her sleeves highlighting every graceful movement. They laughed, they danced until their breaths grew heavy, and when the song finally faded, Julian leaned against the pool table, watching as Cecilia still moved, her steps carrying her toward the rack of cues.
The smile faded from his lips as he watched her. In that reddish glow, he didn’t see Cecilia anymore—he saw Olivia, caught in the neon haze outside her apartment, sitting in the passenger seat of his car. He saw her eyes light up at his every joke, felt again that dizzy spark when her touch brushed against him for the briefest moment. Julian tugged at his collar, undoing another button, the air suddenly thick and suffocating in his chest.
On the far side of the table, Cecilia lit a thick vanilla cigar, her red lips pursing around the smoke.
“Catch!” she called over the music, tossing him the green chalk for his cue.
Julian caught the chalk with a slightly clumsy motion—something unusual for him and his otherwise flawless reflexes. He murmured a quiet “thanks” and turned to rub it against the tip of the cue.
“Guess you weren’t much of a baseball player,” Cecilia teased with a faint smirk. She set her cigar down in a crystal ashtray on the billiard table and watched him, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
Julian didn’t laugh. He hadn’t caught her words the first time, and by the time he deciphered them, it was already too late to answer. He drew in a breath, turning back toward the table.
“Let’s play. If that’s what you want.”
He lifted his gaze to her across the table, only to find her already watching him—one hand on her hip, the other resting lightly on the cue. Cecilia cleared her throat.
“That’s what I want. But I don’t play for fun, darling.”
Then she leaned forward over the table, hips angled high, her back arching as she lined up her shot. With one sharp, fluid motion, she broke the triangle of balls, sending them scattering across the table —three sinking neatly into the pockets.
Julian’s brows rose in faint surprise.
He had competition.
Julian leaned against the table, twirling the cue lazily between his fingers as he studied her stance. “You play well,” he remarked, his tone curious now, softer than before. “Too well for this to be just… a hobby. Where’d you learn?”
Cecilia exhaled smoke slowly, eyes narrowing with something like amusement. “Let’s just say I’ve had practice.”
“That so?” Julian tilted his head, pushing further, not letting her deflect. “Practice with who?”
Her lips curved as she tapped ash into the tray. “With the man I married. We met in a place not so different from this — an old gambling bar off Sunset. He was at poker, I was at the billiard table. He came over, challenged me.” Her voice was a low purr, as if this was a far distant memory than she let it seem.
Julian’s brows lifted, interest flickering across his face. “And?”
Cecilia smirked, leaning in as though she were sharing a secret. “And we played. One game, then another. By the end of the night, I knew we weren’t just a match on the table.” She paused, eyes darkening, voice dipping into a more intimate register. “We fit in every game we tried after that.”
Julian let the words hang between them, the weight of her confession settling into the air like smoke. He smiled faintly, but it wasn’t his professional smile, not entirely. She knew the game, billiard and men’s games as well.
Julian circled the table slowly, cue resting against his shoulder, his gaze locked on the elegant curve of her body as she leaned forward to line up her next shot. Her silk robe shifted just enough to tease him, and he let out a low hum.
“You’ve got good form,” he said, voice smooth and deliberate. “But your grip’s off. You’re tightening too much here—”
Before she could answer, he stepped behind her, one hand brushing her hip as he adjusted her stance. His touch lingered longer than necessary, fingers pressing lightly into the silk at her waist. Cecilia’s breath caught, just barely, but she didn’t move away.
“Relax,” Julian murmured against her ear, guiding her arm. His voice was a low rasp. “It’s all about precision… not force.”
He bent with her, his chest brushing her back and his hand sliding down her arm until his fingers covered hers on the cue. With one fluid motion, he pressed her forward, leaning her across the table so that her body stretched over the green felt, curves accentuated under the soft red glow of the lamps.
“Now…” His lips ghosted near her temple, his breath warm. “You line it up like this—” His other hand steadied the small of her back, firm but gentle, as though he were both teacher and something more dangerous. He was the game and Cecilia could tell that.
She struck the ball, sending it cleanly into a corner pocket. The sharp clack echoed, but the sound was drowned out by the tension between their bodies and the next song playing in the background. Another The Door’s song, The Spy.
Julian chuckled low, letting his hand drag slowly from her hip to the edge of her thigh before withdrawing, feigning innocence. “See? Perfect.”
Cecilia turned her head just enough to catch his smirk and to see the flicker of something darker in his eyes.
She straightened slowly, a satisfied smile playing on her lips after her clean shot. But before she could move away, Julian stepped forward and trapped her effortlessly between the billiard table and his body. The cue nearly slipped from her hand at the sudden closeness.
Julian placed his palms firmly on the edge of the table, caging her in. His body pressed against her back, warm and unyielding, close enough for her to feel the steady rhythm of his breath—calm, yet laced with something dangerous. Tilting his head slightly, he studied her face from up close, the corner of his mouth lifting into a charm-soaked, razor-sharp smile.
“I like the way you play…” he murmured in a low tone, his gaze sliding down her neck before locking back on her eyes. “But tell me, Cecilia…”
He leaned in, lips brushing dangerously close to her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
“…do you also play for dares?
Cecilia didn’t flinch under his closeness. Instead, she placed both palms flat against Julian’s chest, her touch confident, as if she were measuring the steady beat of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his dark blue shirt. Her lips curved into that feline smile of hers, the kind that spoke of experience, of a woman who knew exactly how to turn the rules in her favor.
“I play for truths tonight. One ball in…” she murmured, her eyes glinting with mischief as she pushed him back just enough to look at him full-on, “…and the other tells one truth.”
The challenge lingered in the air like smoke, sweet and dangerous. She let her fingers trail down from his chest to his abdomen before stepping out from the cage of his arms, deliberately slow, like she was teaching him her own rhythm. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she chalked her cue again, all composure and control—though the promise in her gaze was far from innocent.
Julian lined up his shot with slow precision, his body leaning low across the table and his eyes fixed on the cue ball. He struck cleanly, sending one striped ball rolling into the middle pocket. Straightening, he let the faintest smirk tug at his mouth as his gaze returned to Cecilia.
“One truth,” he reminded her smoothly. “Tell me… what do you really do?”
She exhaled a smoky laugh, slipping the cigar back between her lips before answering. “I’m an accountant.” She tilted her head, waiting for his reaction.
His brow arched, a small piece of disbelief flickering in his eyes. “Oh? ”
Her smile widened as she leaned closer over the table, her voice dropping lower, velvet-wrapped steel. “Yes. What? Numbers don’t lie.” She paused as her smirk grew wider then, with a shrug so casual it almost stung, she added, “…but eventually, I became nothing more than a trophy wife. Unfortunately.”
The words lingered in the air, heavy with irony and an edge of bitterness, though she masked it quickly with another sip of gin. Her eyes caught his again, daring him to press further, daring him to see more than what she let slip. But Julian didn’t push. He nodded and took a sip from his drink as well.
He leaned casually against the table, cue in hand, watching her with a measured patience. He would wait; he always waited. The next move would be hers. Little did he know it was a move that would offer her a win.
Cecilia chalked her cue with slow deliberation, eyes meeting his across the table. Then, leaning slightly forward, she let the question slip, soft but heavy with intent, even before striking:
“Have you… loved before so much that you lost your head?”
Julian froze mid-motion, the cue gripped tighter in his hand. His mind stalled for the first time that night. Her gaze held him captive, not with touch this time, but with a precision sharper than any weapon. For a heartbeat, the pool hall, the music, the whole world fell away —Because he was reminded that she was indeed experienced and could see right through him. Yet, he didn’t have to lie.
Her question hung in the air, and for a moment Julian’s mind wavered. He was back in that memory he tried to bury: Michelle. The woman he had loved with everything, the one who had made him feel untouchable, alive. He had returned to her with his heart fully open, only to be rejected so completely that it shattered him into a million irretrievable pieces. He remembered the ache of walking away, the silence that followed, the empty apartment he came back to.
And then—like a lightning strike in the dark—Olivia’s face pushed through the fog of his thoughts. Her sweetness, her innocence, struck him with a force he couldn’t contain. The soft hazel of her eyes, the way she bit her lip unconsciously when she was nervous, the subtle rhythms of her laugh and breath—it made his chest tighten, made his blood hum in ways he had thought long dead. She was simple, unassuming, untouched by the chaos he carried, yet she had lodged herself in every nerve and thought.
For all the pain of the past, for all the women who had walked in and out of his life, Olivia was different. She made him ache not with memory, not with lust alone because she was unfamiliar of that, or so he thought, but with something fragile and alive, something he didn’t know he could dare to feel again.
Right in that moment, Piece of my heart by Big Brothers & The Holding Company started playing, like it was the right message on the right timing. Julian blinked, forcing his gaze back to the billiard table. Cecilia’s figure was there, elegant and teasing, cue in hand, waiting for him to move. But the weight of Olivia’s hazel eyes pressed against his skull, a persistent echo he couldn’t shake. Every laugh, every nervous lip bite, flickered in his mind like a spotlight he couldn’t turn off. Cecilia finally hummed, not even needing an answer. A small twitch of her lip played in the corner of her mouth. She knew the answer.
He chalked his cue again, deliberately slow and sharp, almost breaking it, letting the friction grind away some of the tension in his hands while doing nothing to ease the ache coiling in his chest. His body was here, pressed against the green felt, but his mind was miles away, imagining how he traced the delicate lines of Olivia’s face, the softness of her hands, the way she had trusted him on their walk in ways no one else ever had.
Cecilia’s voice cut through, a teasing lilt pulling him back. “Your turn,” she said, arching an eyebrow, smirk teasing, “or are you too distracted to play?”
Julian’s lips twitched, half a smile, half a scowl. The thought of Olivia burned under his skin, igniting every nerve. He exhaled, pressing his body into the familiar, practiced stance, cue poised, but the precision of his shot would have to survive a mind torn between desire, memory, and a longing he could hardly name. He missed.
For a man who prided himself on control, he realized, with an almost bitter awareness, that tonight he was losing more than just a game.
Julian shook his head and positioned himself again over the table. He suddenly felt tired.
“You’re distracted,” Cecilia murmured back, as if it was an answer to herself. Her gin glass balanced between two fingers and she made it look like she’d held that pose a thousand times before. Her green eyes, sharper than he expected, traced his face like she was peeling back layers he hadn’t meant to expose and for which he spent years building.
“I’m paying you to do whatever I please, including looking into my eyes and making me feel as if I’m your entire existence in this sole moment, but you—you’re not here. Not really.” She paused, so did the song. “Answer the question.” Her voice was not rushed, a soft purr and she offered him this understanding look. She knew.
Julian’s jaw tensed, his lips pulling into that polished smile he’d perfected years ago. “You’re imagining things,” he said, voice smooth but just tight enough to betray him.
“Am I?” Her smirk widened. “There’s someone in your head. I can see it in the way you exhale, the way you hold back. Whoever she is… she’s costing you tonight.”
For a fraction of a second, Olivia’s face flooded in again. Fuck.
Her soft skin, eyes that refused him, the citrus scent he still carried in his lungs. Julian’s hand closed harder around his glass, the gin suddenly too dry on his tongue as he forced a chuckle.
“Trust me,” he murmured, leaning closer to Cecilia now, hiding the hammering of his heart under a calm tone. He almost felt like his chest tightened, but his eyes never left hers. “No one costs me.”
But the heat crawling under his skin told him otherwise and an old fox knew these games far too well.
Cecilia scoffed softly, a low, amused sound that carried a lifetime of experience. She shook her head, letting the faintest smirk curl at the corner of her lips. “Oh, Julian…” she murmured, as though chastising a child, yet the warmth in her voice belied the sharpness in her green eyes. She knew this game too well, the man who loved too much, the heart stretched thin and left wanting.
Without breaking eye contact, she reached for his hand, curling her fingers around his wrist with gentle authority. Guiding him back from the billiard table, she nudged him lightly toward the bar. “Come on,” she said softly, almost coaxing, “you need another drink. Let me fix that for you.”
Julian’s chest tightened at the closeness, the casual intimacy of her touch igniting something he tried to ignore.
“Cecilia, look…,” he began but the woman shushed him. Just like she would shush a noisy kid who tried to do some explaining. He followed with a small frown, letting her lead, every nerve he had felt alive, raw under her knowing gaze. He hated it.
At the bar, Cecilia reached for the bottle of whiskey, her movements fluid and precise, as though she had rehearsed this moment countless times. Has she offered counseling to her other escorts? She poured slowly, letting the amber liquid catch the low red glow of the lamps. Then she turned slightly, sliding the glass toward him with a look that was equal parts empathy and challenge.
“I’ve been there, Julian,” she said quietly. “Loved too much… given too little. You can’t hide it, and I can see it. The right person isn’t here tonight, and you know it.”
Her words sank deep, but there was no accusation, only understanding. And Julian, who had spent years guarding every flicker of his heart, felt a flicker of something he hadn’t let himself admit in a long time: relief, perhaps?
“You’re not paying me to advise me.” He voiced a gruff tone and his eyes suddenly darkened.
“I’m paying to do whatever I please with you. Now shut up and listen.”
Julian let out a low, scoffing laugh, shaking his head just slightly. “Jesus Christ…” His chocolate-brown eyes flickered with amusement, though there was a subtle edge in his tone, a shield against the truth he didn’t want to admit.
Cecilia didn’t flinch. She leaned a little closer, green eyes unrelenting, lips curved in that dangerous, knowing smirk. “See, I don’t think I know,” she said softly, voice silk and steel. “I see it.”
Her gaze sharpened, tilting toward him like a cat sizing up its prey. “Tell me,” she murmured, a purr threaded into the words. “Who is she? The one in your head, the one who’s making your hands tremble and your smile tighter than usual tonight? Not to mention…Who did you imagine when you grabbed my thighs so lightly?” Her last question was a slower purr, so sensual in a way that made Julian swallow.
His jaw clenched and his fingers tightening around the glass, forcing a steady breath. He leaned back just slightly, letting the smirk mask the sudden rush of heat and the crack in his composure. “That’s none of your concern, Cecilia. I’m here to-” he said, smooth, controlled but he was cut off by her.
“I don’t care. You want the 5k? More? Answer.”
Cecilia only arched a brow, unshaken then she continued. “It is my concern,” she countered, tracing the edge of the bar with one finger, letting her voice drop even lower. “Because you cannot play the game properly if she’s in your head. And I need to know, Julian… is she worth it?”
Julian exhaled sharply, letting the glass slip slightly in his hand before catching it again, his polished mask cracking just enough to betray him. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flickering away from Cecilia’s unrelenting gaze as he wrestled with the truth clawing at him.
“She’s… different,” he admitted finally, voice low and uneven, almost foreign to his own ears. “Not like anyone else. Not just because of… her innocence, or the way she moves, or—” He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the words and failing. “It’s more complex than that. I don’t… I can’t even describe it properly.”
Cecilia leaned back slightly, sensing the rare fracture in him, a pause so fleeting yet so revealing. “Ah,” she murmured softly, almost a whisper. “That’s called feeling something you can’t control.”
Julian let out a humorless chuckle, tension tightening along his shoulders. “I’m not supposed to feel. Not for anyone. And yet…” His eyes drifted, distant, as if seeing her was suddenly impossible. “With her, it’s… it’s like everything else I’ve known is suddenly meaningless. And I barely, barely… know her.” His chest heaved slightly, his hand gripping the glass as if it could anchor him. Confusion twisted through his mind, pulling him in conflicting directions, the safety of control, the chaos of desire, and a sudden, undeniable ache for someone he shouldn’t want.
Julian’s gaze faltered, drifting toward the floor for a fraction of a second before snapping back to Cecilia, but the truth was already clawing its way to the surface. Olivia. The thought of her virginity, her untouched softness, the way the world seemed to have left her unscathed yet so quietly yearning for affection—it stirred something in him that was equal parts reverence and fire. He wanted to worship her, to give her the care and attention she deserved.
And yet the guilt was a stone in his chest. He could not, would not, want her merely for that. She was far more than a novelty, more than innocence to be coveted. She was alive, delicate yet fierce in her own way, and the weight of that knowledge pressed on him harder than any temptation. What did he really want from her?
The cocktail of longing and self-reproach made his hands tremble slightly, and he felt the need to escape, to collect the pieces of himself that threatened to betray his control.
“I… if you excuse me,” he muttered, almost mechanically, his polished voice a thin veneer over the chaos roiling inside him. Cecilia’s eyes followed him, sharp and knowing, but she let him pass without a word.
Julian excused himself under the pretense of freshening up, but the moment the bathroom door clicked shut, the mask slipped completely. He braced his hands on the pink marble sink, eyes dragging to the mirror where his reflection stared back. He felt older with ten years but he saw the usual—flawless suit, immaculate hair, the picture of control. Yet beneath it, he felt raw, as if Olivia had stripped him of the armor and stabbed him in his oldest wounds. Even that night. Even with another client.
He wanted to crawl out of his own skin, to silence the memory of her scent, her hesitant smile, the way she’d forbidden his touch and yet haunted every nerve in his body. For a man who made a living keeping desire and love in separate cages, she was blurring the bars. He, for the first time in years, felt himself losing the game.
Cecilia sank into one of the tall bar chairs, letting the soft leather cradle her as she regarded the quiet stillness Julian left behind. Her fingers traced the rim of her gin glass, slow, thoughtful movements that contrasted sharply with the turmoil she knew raged inside him.
She thought about him, about the way he had allowed himself—just for a fleeting moment—to become vulnerable. Not to her entirely, perhaps, but enough that she had glimpsed the man beneath the polish, the armor and his killing charm. She couldn’t blame him; no human could withstand the weight of their own heart unscathed. And Julian Kaye, as infuriatingly composed as he usually appeared, was human.
A faint, approving smile touched her lips as she contemplated the strange, complicated tangle of his mind. She could see the care he held in reserve, the respect for someone he dared not fully claim, yet could not ignore. Somehow, through all the smoke and that tension, as well as the unspoken rules of their world, she knew he was a good person. Somehow, in that fraction of a second, he had let her see it.
Cecilia leaned back with the glass in her hand, and exhaled slowly. The game had changed. For a moment, she felt the balance shift, and a thrill ran along her spine at the subtle power of that revelation.
Julian returned from the restroom, his composure restored just enough to pass as the polished man everyone expected him to be. His shirt was straight, hair in place, posture flawless. He grabbed the glass of whiskey in one hand, cue in the other, ready to resume the dance of service and seduction that had brought him here.
“Feeling better?” Cecilia asked lightly, her voice casual but her green eyes piercing. Julian offered a small, controlled smile and a subtle nod, stepping closer to the bar as if to pour her a drink, the gesture automatic, almost ritualistic.
But she shook her head, lifting her hand to stop him. “No,” she said softly, a trace of a smile tugging at her lips. “Tonight, it’s not about what you offer me. I want to help you instead.”
Julian froze mid-motion, the carefully constructed persona faltering once again. What was the deal with this woman? He frowned slightly, unsure if he had heard her correctly. “Help me?” he asked, voice low and cautious. He scoffed.
She leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the bar. She locked her eyes on his. “Long ago, I knew someone who needed guidance, someone who carried too much inside and didn’t know how to release it without losing themselves. I see a little of that in you.” Her words were gentle, but her gaze struck like precision steel.
Julian swallowed, caught between instinct and instinctive mistrust. He had come prepared to give, to perform, to seduce—but she wasn’t asking for that. She was offering something far rarer: understanding. But he felt this foreign battlefront confuse him even more. Another unusual client that turned everything upside down.
Julian shook his head subtly, lips pressing into a thin line. “I… I don’t need help,” he said firmly then offered one of his sweet deep chuckles. He lifted his glass slightly as if to punctuate his refusal.
Cecilia didn’t flinch. She leaned back just enough to appear relaxed, though her gaze remained sharp and unwavering. “You do,” she said softly, but with a weight that brooked no argument. “You’re carrying more than you think you should, and pretending otherwise won’t make it vanish. I can see it, Julian. And I won’t let you hide it tonight.”
He let out a humorless chuckle again, shaking his head. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t know what advice you’ve given your last escort but... I deal in control. I don’t… I don’t need hand-holding from anyone.”
She smiled faintly, the corner of her mouth tugging with the quiet authority of someone who had seen men far stronger than him crumble under the right pressure. “I’m not here to hold your hand,” she said softly. “I just know how to guide the ones who refuse to face what’s already in front of them. And I can tell you… that’s exactly what you need right now. Please…”
Julian’s jaw tensed, eyes narrowing for just a moment, but the heat under his skin, the ache in his chest, betrayed him. He wanted to resist, to retreat back into the armor of control he’d honed for years—but Cecilia’s insistence was calm, deliberate, and impossible to dismiss. Old experienced fox. She looked like one too.
He exhaled sharply, leaning back slightly, a tensioned smile ghosting his lips. “Fine,” he murmured, voice tight, “but only because you won’t let me say no and you pay me." He chuckled.
Cecilia’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smirk, the kind that promised patience, understanding, and an expertise born of experience. She leaned back in her tall chair, letting the dim light catch the gleam in her green eyes. “Good boy,” she murmured softly. “Now we can really begin.”
The weight of her presence, calm yet commanding, filled the space between them, a quiet assurance that what came next would be exactly what he needed.
A/N: Tonight, Part 5 from LMHYITD will be posted! I’m so sorry it took so long, life really did happen (and it fucked me) but i will make up for it! You will meet a very important character that will change the unchangeable. Stay tuned and thank you for waiting <3 I love you all!
⸻
“You’re distracted,” Cecilia murmured, her gin glass balanced between two fingers as if she’d held this pose a thousand times before. Her green eyes, sharper than he expected, traced his face like she was peeling back layers he hadn’t meant to expose and for which he spent years building.
“I’m paying you to do whatever I please, including looking into my eyes and making me feel as if I’m your entire existence in this sole moment, but you—you’re not here. Not really.” Her voice was not rushed, a soft purr and she offered him this look of understanding. She knew.
Julian’s jaw tensed, his lips pulling into that polished smile he’d perfected years ago. “You’re imagining things,” he said, voice smooth but just tight enough to betray him.
“Am I?” Her smirk widened. “There’s someone in your head. I can see it in the way you exhale, the way you hold back. Whoever she is… she’s costing you tonight.”
For a fraction of a second, Olivia’s face flooded in—her soft skin, eyes that refused him, the citrus scent he still carried in his lungs. Julian’s hand closed harder around his glass, the gin suddenly too dry on his tongue as he forced a chuckle.
“Trust me,” he murmured, leaning closer, hiding the hammering of his heart under a calm tone. He almost felt like his chest tightened, but his eyes never left hers. “No one costs me.”
But the heat crawling under his skin told him otherwise and an old fox knew these games far too well.
—
Julian excused himself under the pretense of freshening up, but the moment the bathroom door clicked shut, the mask slipped. He braced his hands on the pink marble sink, eyes dragging to the mirror where his reflection stared back. He felt older with ten years but he saw the usual—flawless suit, immaculate hair, the picture of control. Yet beneath it, he felt raw, as if Olivia had stripped him of the armor and stabbed him in his oldest wounds.
He wanted to crawl out of his own skin, to silence the memory of her scent, her hesitant smile, the way she’d forbidden his touch and yet haunted every nerve in his body. For a man who made a living keeping desire and love in separate cages, she was blurring the bars. He, for the first time in years, felt himself losing the game.
pairings julian kaye x olivia (oc)
summary After their quiet evening together, Olivia and Julian are left reeling in private. She’s haunted by his touch, his voice, and the comfort he made her feel, some feelings she believes she shouldn’t have. He tries to shake her from his thoughts, but in the shower, he finds himself craving what she never offered. They return to their routines, pretending nothing’s changed — but both know it has.
word count 2848
warnings This chapter contains some slight nsfw content. MDNI!! cursing, mature language, slow burn (once again)
AN. I am so sorry guys this took so long, life kinda happened. But here it is, a new chapter that will lead to so many complicated things >:)
The day slipped by in a blur, yet the memory of him clung to her like perfume on her coat. Olivia had spent the evening with an escort, a word that now felt absurdly clinical, laughably small in the shadow of the man who had walked her home, who had looked at her as if she were something rare and not easily understood but still managed to understand her completely. Nothing about him—or the night—had felt transactional. Julian Kaye had unraveled every expectation she’d so carefully constructed, and now she was left with the frayed threads of herself, unsure what to do with them.
She slipped the key into the lock with fingers trembling and the apartment welcomed her with its familiar silence, but tonight it felt altered somehow—too quiet and intimate. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she leaned back against it, the wood cool pressed against her spine. Her knees threatened mutiny, and she slid slowly down until she sat on the floor with her legs folded beneath her and her breath catching in her throat. She ran a hand over her face and groaned. It was as if her body had waited to fall apart until she was safely alone.
Images of him flooded her all at once—the way his eyes lingered, dark and quiet and knowing; the low rasp in his voice like something half-sanded and warm; the maddening calm in the way he moved, as though the world could not touch him unless he allowed it. He was in control even when he managed to give her own control to carry throughout their meeting. He was a balance.
She sighed again and closed her eyes. What was she even doing?
A soft thump and a delicate meow broke through her reverie. Salem, her cat, padded into the hall with the slow, deliberate grace only felines possessed—part curiosity, part disdain. She brushed her head once, sharply and possessive, against Olivia’s leg before sitting back on her haunches, tail flicking in slow judgment.
Olivia raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured, running a hand through her hair. Salem didn’t blink. She just stared, the way only cats could, as if she knew.
And she knew.
Olivia let out a soft groan and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, come on. It’s not what you think it is.”
Salem yawned, unamused, and settled beside her with an air of theatrical disappointment. Olivia shot her a sideways glance.
“Honestly,” she muttered. “I talk to you one time about my dating life, and you turn into some kind of Victorian chaperone.”
Salem’s ear twitched, unimpressed. Olivia sighed again, leaning her head back against the door, her gaze tracing the cracks in the ceiling trying to find her answers to anything, including Julian Kaye.
She let out a breathless laugh, almost pitiful and knelt forward to stroke the soft fur behind Salem’s ears. Her voice came out quieter than she intended, but the words carried weight, as though speaking them aloud might help unravel the knot forming beneath her ribs.
“What am I even going to do with this man?” she whispered.
The cat blinked up at her, unbothered and unreadable this time — much like Julian.
And in the quiet that followed, Olivia realized with a slow, growing ache: she already wanted to see him again. Damn it.
He hadn't tried to impress her with words or seduce her with practiced charm. No, it was subtler than that. It was the way he walked beside her in the park without filling the silence, how his eyes lingered without pressure, like he was studying a painting he didn’t want to ruin by touching. He was trained to do this but a small part from her mind wanted to believe he really did all that because he cared.
And yet he had touched her despite the rule, she wanted to believe it was by accident. He touched her not in the way Rita joked about or the way her nerves had feared. Just a gentle brush of his fingers against hers in the car, like an accident too perfect to be coincidence. Her skin still ached from it. It sure wasn’t lust, it was more of a quiet yearning to be seen again in the way he saw her. Just a normal woman who just wanted to talk to someone, be seen just as Olivia.
The woman rose from the floor and moved through the house in a haze, each step muffled by the thick fog of memory. Her fingers found the zipper of her dress, dragging it down with the slow resignation of someone peeling off a second skin. God, it was stuck to her skin by sweat despite the cold outside. The fabric slipped to the floor and she grabbed it, walked to the bathroom and threw it in her laundry basket.
The bathroom light was dim and warm. She turned on the water and waited until steam curled up before stepping in, letting the heat cascade over her body like something holy. She let out a soft groan as if she’d been holding her breath since the moment he brushed her hand in the car. His damn hand.
She closed her eyes. The water ran down on her shoulders, and in her mind, it became him.
Julian.
She imagined his hands, not urgent and so certain finding her waist, his fingers sinking into her hips like he was claiming her space. Not for dominance, but for learning her skin, her moles, her curves. She could almost feel the weight of his touch, the drag of his palm across the curve of her stomach and up to her breasts, the heat of his mouth just behind her ear. Her skin tingled with the echo of something that had never even happened.
Her breath hitched. Her hands clenched against her thighs when she almost let a soft moan escape her lips.
She leaned forward, bracing herself against the slick tile, forehead resting there as if in penance. Fuck.
What am I doing?
The water couldn’t drown the ache rising in her chest or the throbbing between her legs. It couldn’t wash away the fact that she was craving someone who should have been paid — paid — to be with her. He told her not to pay him but the initial idea of payment still lingered. A man who had likely touched a hundred women just the same. Whispered to them, charmed them, held them.
And now here she was, heart hammering beneath his ghost.
How fucking pathetic.
A sharp laugh escaped her lips, bitter and short-lived. She pressed her eyes shut and let the water burn hotter, as if it could sear him from her bloodstream and she swallowed hard.
She couldn’t fall for someone like Julian Kaye.
She couldn’t afford to.
Because she wasn’t the kind of woman men like him stayed for, and he wasn’t the kind of man who could love without leaving ruin behind.
---//---
Julian watched her disappear into the building, the soft click of the door muffled by the hum of the engine. She didn’t look back—of course she didn’t—and yet he found himself waiting, his tired eyes fixed on the entrance like it might open again and she’d come back for something she forgot. Something he forgot.
But the door stayed shut.
Still, he didn’t move. His hands remained on the wheel, knuckles loose but motionless, the car idling as the minutes stretched too long. His jaw tensed and he leaned back in his seat. A loud exhale followed, the breath slow and deliberate, like the kind he gave when things got too close to a reality he didn’t quite like.
Too close without even touching him properly. Just a brush of her hand.
The hand Liv touched by accident, he ran it through his hair, pushing it back the way he did when he was trying to reset something, either it was his posture, his thoughts or even the night itself. But Olivia lingered.
The citrus scent she left behind was still ghosting through the air, something soft, not like perfume. It clung to the fabric of the seat beside him.
Julian closed his eyes for a moment, just to sit in it. Let it fill the silence she’d left behind. It made no sense; the ache in his chest for a moment and for the simple reason she hadn’t even touched him properly. She hadn’t asked him for anything. She’d just... been there. Listening. Looking at him like he was a person, not a performance. Not a transaction. Johnny.
He shook his head sharply and opened his eyes. Snap out of it, he thought.
She was different, yes. But that didn’t mean he could afford to let the lines blur. He’d done this for too long and he knew better than to confuse silence for intimacy or kindness for something deeper. Especially from someone like her.
Especially someone so untouched by this world of his.
He shifted the car into gear, finally pulling away from the curb, the streetlights catching the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Still, as the city blurred past his windows and his body fell into the habitual rhythm of driving, one stubborn thought stayed with him.
He didn’t want her to pay him. Not now, not never. But that meant losing his rhythm. So what he was about to play was a dangerous game and he wasn’t sure what scared him more — the thought of seeing her again or the thought of not.
The door clicked shut behind him with a dull finality. Julian tossed his keys onto the counter, the metal clattering against the wood, sharp in the stillness. He kicked off his shoes without hesitation, two heavy thuds that echoed too loud in the quiet of his apartment.
And then, silence.
He stood there in the narrow hallway, the ambient light from the street casting pale gold stripes across the floorboards. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, exhaling.
Through the window at the end of the hall, the city softened beneath him. The streets of Los Angeles had begun to quiet, the noise thinning out and the edges of everything dissolving into cold air and artificial light. Cars passed with a soft hum while neon signs blinked in slow, exhausted rhythm. The world was winding down, folding in on itself. But not him.
Julian rubbed a hand down his face and turned away, methodical now. He didn’t have time for this, no room for sentiment.
He made his way into the bathroom, shedding his shirt on the way. The shower wasn’t for comfort in any way tonight or to ease the tension Olivia had unknowingly sewn into his muscles. It was a ritual. A rinse. A reset. He turned the knob sharply, steam beginning to rise before the water even hit the tiles.
His phone buzzed on the sink. He knew who it was. Another sigh. Fuck this shit.
He didn’t check it at first. Didn’t want to. But the second vibration tugged at his discipline and he reached for it with a hand still damp from the faucet.
Lorenzo: “5000. She’s expecting you at midnight. West Hollywood. Clean. Private. You in?”
It was a deal. High end. A good job.
He stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the reply and his jaw clenching. He knew what he’d say if he refused. “Turning down 5K, huh? Must’ve been one hell of a night, J. You’re my bro, I love you but I don’t run a charity. You start picking and choosing, I start looking elsewhere.”
So he decided to play the part because he was the part.
But his eyes drifted to his long fingers, where her fingers almost tangled with them. And suddenly, the quiet in the apartment felt heavier than usual.
He pursed his lips and sighed. Get your head on straight, Johnny.
His thumbs moved. “On my way.”
When he stepped into the shower, the water hit his skin like heat waking nerve endings long dulled by habit. It rolled down his shoulders, cutting rivers through the tight lines of his muscles, over the curve of his back, along the ridges of his abdomen, the places that had been studied by countless hands, countless women, all blurring into the same forgettable touch.
But this was different.
This time, it was her he felt. Her absence thickened the steam.
Julian pressed both palms against the cold tile, eyes closing as the cascade of water drowned out the noise of the city and yet Olivia’s silence still echoed louder in his head. Her curious eyes. The way she’d looked at him, like he was real. Like she was seeing something beneath the practiced charm and polish. She hadn't asked to touch him, and yet every fiber of his body remembered her as if she had.
He grabbed the bottle of shower gel and squeezed too much into his hand. It didn’t matter. He rubbed it over his skin with the same discipline he brought to every part of his life, but the second his fingers brushed over his stomach, his breath faltered. The water made trails over his abdomen, slow and slick and in that moment he imagined her fingers there instead.
Careful and trembling, maybe - or maybe not. Maybe more confident than she let on. He could see her biting her lip, eyes wide and curious. That shy hunger she didn’t know how to hide. Her touch would be hesitant at first, reverent. But then bolder. Wanting.
And God, he’d let her. He'd let her explore him like that.
He bit down on his bottom lip, hard. His hands moved slower now, dragging over his chest, his ribs and so much lower. His jaw clenched.
She’d forbidden him from touching her. He respected that so much. But there was something almost sacred about the way she guarded herself. It wasn’t prudishness. It was a strong choice. A line drawn, her own fortress built. And that, somehow, made him want her more, just like the forbidden fruit. To touch her and let her finally feel what it is to be wanted, respected, and even worshiped. He would’ve given her that, his worship. He didn’t want her just for the softness of her skin, not for the curve of her body, but for the permission he hadn’t been given. For the way she’d looked at him and still said no. She knew one way. And he knew how to stop there and show her the way.
And here he was, hard as hell, with nothing but steam and silence for company.
He exhaled, sharp and audible, head dropping forward as water rolled down the back of his neck and down to his face.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He wasn’t the type to crave. Not like this. Not after one evening or over someone who’d asked him only to talk. She hadn’t bought his body and she’d never even tried. Still, here he stood, painfully aware of every inch of himself, every breath he took, like it all somehow belonged to her now.
His hand stilled over his abdomen. He closed his eyes and let the water keep running, trying to drown her out. But Olivia was in his head.
On his hand.
Under his skin.
And no amount of hot water could rinse her away.
Eventually, he shut off the water. The silence that followed felt heavier than the steam. He stood there a moment longer, the last streams of heat tracing down his spine, clinging to the sharp angles of his frame. Then he stepped out and his breath came steady now, but it wasn’t calm. It was contained. He tried to contain himself.
The man in the mirror was familiar. Wet hair slicked back, droplets clinging to his collarbones, his chest still rising and falling with quiet control, his tattoos telling stories. He looked like Julian Kaye again. A man sculpted for desire. Paid for it. Prized for it.
So he did what he always did. Routine, precise. Shaving the faint shadow from his jaw. Moisturizer. Cologne, but not too much. He moved like he’d rehearsed it all his life.
By the time he slipped into the charcoal suit, it was as though he had never unraveled. The fabric hugged his frame with intent, his cuffs straight, his buttons lined up perfectly. He fastened his vintage gold watch with a flick of the wrist. Slid rings on the right fingers. Ran a comb through his dark hair until not a strand dared defy him.
He looked… perfect. Grounded. Untouchable.
That was the whole point after all.
As he walked to his car, he stood outside for a brief moment, keys in hand, his eyes drifting to the spot on the passenger seat where she’d been. The echo of her voice in his car, that tiny laugh she gave when she tried not to smile too much. The ghost of her hand, brushed against his.
Things got this bad, Frank?
It was only her voice, a figment of his troubled psyche, fractures of memories and recollections that he was struggling to keep from disappearing and yet, despite them being unaccompanied with images of the woman they belonged to, he could still sense the judgement in her tone, her eyes full of concern. “I’m trying, Karen-”
I want there to be an after for you.
“How can there be? You’re gone…”
|
After The Blip, Frank struggles to come to terms with Karen's death. But when Matt shows up one day, disclosing revelations he never thought possible, Frank must confront what is false and what is real, his own reality seemingly playing tricks on his mind. (Inspired by the trailer for Daredevil: Born Again released at Disney Expo 2024)
Tags: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm. References to Depression. Post-Blip. Angst with a Happy Ending
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